il'ur the Banner of the South,] h
B V MOIXA.
Sighs my soul this lonely night.
Welcome sadness !
Vanished are my visions bright!
Stars are shining!
Winds are pining!
In the sky and o’er the son
Stars; but never
Does the starlight gladden me.
Stars! you nightly
Scattered o’er your azure dome :
While earth’s turning,
There you’re bunting—
Beacons of a better home.
Stars! you brighten
And you lighten
Many a heart-grief here below ;
But your gleaming,
And your beaming,
Cannot chase ;avay my \y.oe.
Stars ! you’re shining—
I am pining—
I am dark, but you are bright ;
Hanging o’er me |
And before me
Is a weight you cannot light.
Night of sorrow,
I may never, never sec,
Till upon me
And around me
Dawns a bright eternity.
And you’re crying,
Like a mourner o’er a tomb ;
Wliithe!r go s*o ?
Whither blow ye V
Wailing through the midnight gloom.
Like the voice of one in woe :
Winds so lonely,
Why thus moan ye ?
Say, what makes you sorrow so ‘i
Are you grieving
For your leaving
Scenes where all is fail* and gay ?
For the flowers
In their bowers
You have met with on your way ?
For fond faces,
For dear places,
That you’ve seen as on you swept,
Are you sighing ?
Are you crying ?
O’er the memories they have left ?
Far til is sleeping
While you’re sweeping
Through night’s solemn silence by;
How / love to heai' you sigh!
Men are dreaming,
Stars are gleaming,
In the far-off heaven’s blue ;
Midnight winds! 1 nigh with you !
• ude, da., May 31.« t, 1868.
[From the Southern Home Journal.]
'lie Southerner's Daughter,
AN INCIDENT OF TEE WAR.
A’.iipUt the beautiful scenery of the
A.h nandoah \ alley lies a little sheltered
n, so secluded that even the light and
ut the sun s rays scarcely penetrate
the leafy canopy above the heads of the
" o ateliers who have crossed its paths.
■ 1 oil ee sides it is bounded by wooded
1 eights, on the other, washed by a branch
ot the broad Shenandoah.
, Here, one evening, u small but. resolute
1 and of men, whose retreat had been cut
were concealed. They wore “ the
S’ ra y : ’ and the surrounding hills bristled
wuh the rifles of the Federals. In the
s l tmi s ;leuee that reigned, they could hear
; ' voices ot the distant pickets. Night
u j ls coming on, and the dark outline
A ( ' a( -k other's laces could hardly be
Of?' fcAfft heir midst.
“Let us climb the hill to the left
then, if compelled, fight, our way through.
To lie here would be to die the death of
the hunted beast.”
“Impossible,” exclaimed a comrade.
“ We should be overpowered and made
prisoners ; but could we not swim across
the stream ?”
“ No,” said another, who raised himself
from the ground and leaned upon his
elbow while he spoke ; “ there are troops
on tne other side, who would discern and
fire upon us ; better wait until morning,
the Yankees will not remain long in
their present quarters ;” and the weary
man sank down again to rest and sleep.
At last it was agreed that one of the
number should swim across the river, re
connoitre the opposite bank, then signal
to his companions to follow, if it were pos
sible to do so with safety.
Lots were cast, and the perilous task
fell upon the first speaker, a tall fine
looking man of middle age. lie grasped
the hand of each of his comrades, and
lifted his hat reverently, saying,
“ God protect my children if I fall”—
then plunged into the stream.
Major Courtney, as we must now call
him, reached the other side of the river
under shelter of some deeply over hanging
willows that fringed the shore. He heard
the distant roll of the drum ; it came
nearer, then a number of Union soldiers
passed by the friesdiy willows concealing
him from their view. Two of the men
untied their horses from a tree to which
they had been secured, then rode on to
join a large force which occupied a posi
tion higher up the river. From the few
words .Major Courtney overheard, he
gathered that at midnight they were
r I he Southerner’s home was within twen
ty miles of this spot. After some con
sideration 110 decided to walk the distance
and return early in the morning. To
give the concerted signal now, it would
be fraught with danger to his friends.
On reaching the place where the horses
had been fastened, he beheld a third.
The powerful instinct of self-preservation
was irresistible. Major Courtney un
loosed the animal, led him a short dis
tance, then mounted, and never drew
rein until arriving at his own dwelling
A summons brought his anxious wife
aud daughter to the door.
“ Thank God, my dear ones are safe,”
were the Major’s first words. The toil
worn man sat down between them, and
gladly p. l rtook of the welcome food they
hastily placed before him. He related
the story of his escape, and his anxiety to
place the promised signal on the river’s
bank early in the moi ning, saying to his
“ \ irginia, I must be astir by daybreak.
You are an early riser ; 1 depend upon
you to arouse me. I shall take a fresh
horse, and ride to Willows Creek.”
\ irginia had, while her father was
speaking, determined in her own iniud
what course to pursue. She kissed him,
bade him good night, and hastened to the
bedside of a young girl, who held a situa
tion in the household. Waking her from
her sleep, in a few words she told her of
the Major’s return and of his peril in the
woods ; then added,
“ Annie, you must assist me to take
my dear father’s place in the morning ;
he is worn out with fatigue and loss of
Annie Connolly’s father held a small
farm on the Major’s estate. She was de
voted to her young mistress, and protested
that she would accompany her. At last
Virginia consented, but they must leave
early, and be away before any of the
household had risen. Annie try to
sleep for a few hours, Virginia has
tened to her own room to prepare
a suitable toilet for her adventurous ride.
‘“| ie piaced ready a dark brown dress and
white sun-bonnet ; a colored sacque she
wouid borrow from Annie. She laid
down upon her bed, but dared not sleep.
STMV, rJ Tj IST XT] 6, 1368.
At last the first faint evidence of dawn
appeared. After bathing her face in cold
water, and fastening up the long dark
curls that floated round her neck, she
went to arouse her companion. The girl
started up at Her voice. They were soon
dressed, and stole softly down the stairs.
V irginia prepared their breakfast, while
Annie saddled the horses.
“ Miss A irginia, we must each carry a
basket ; we shall then appear as we were
going to sell farm produce.”
“ Well thought of, Annie; and let us
put in some cold meat and bread. When
the poor fellows cross the river they will
be glad to find a basket of provisions.”
The stables were some distance from
the house, so they rode off unheard.
Y irginia Courtney was only seventeen,
but she was a brave, high spirited girl,
fearless of danger; and she declared she
had never in her life enjoyed a ride so
much. Annie’s knowledge of the country
served them well, and by a cross-road the
distance was shortened a few miles. At
length they reached the river, dismount
ing, \ irginia tied her handkerchief to a
tree that grew close to the water’s edge.
1 hey tore off some of the branches and
leaves that it might be perceived, placed
their baskets at the foot of the tree, and
then hastened to mount their horses and
Major Courtney had, as Virginia right
ly conjectured, slept long aud souudly ;
but there was great consternation in tho
little household when the absence of the
two girls was discovered. The father
feit convinced that his child had gone to
supply his face; then admiration for his
brave daughter, and anxiety for Her safe
ty, in turn, occupied his mind.
At noon Virginia and Annie reached
their home, and received the congratula
tions of all but Philip Courtney, Vir
ginia s young brother, who declared he
would never forgive her for not informing
him of the intended ride.
Never mind, Philip,” she said, “there
will be plenty of time and opportunity for
you to distinguish yourself.”
“ I ought to have been called last night
when father came home. You and
mamma treat me as if I was a child, and
1 am almost fourteen.”
“ Well Phillip, you shall ride over to
morrow and see if my signal is gone,” and
so the matter was compromised.
The following day a party of Confede
rate soldiers passed Major Courtney’s
house on their way to join the army at
Richmond. A few I niou prisoners were
with them, among the number, one se
verely wounded. Fainting with exhaus
tion and loss ot blood, he begged them to
lay him down in the court-yard. They,
thinking lie was dying, placed him there
and went on their way. Y irginia brought
him wine, then, preparing lint and band
ages, besought Diuah, an old Degress,
wiio was looked upon as surgeon to the
establishment, to go and attend to his
wounds. Dinah pronounced her patient’s
case to be hopeless, but had a bed pre
pared for him in the basement, where she
Mould visit him with greater convenience.
She was never so happy as when attend
ing to the sick ; and the more desperate
the case, the more satisfaction Aunt
Dinah appeared to receive.
Ihe next morning Major Courtney
would leave his home, and endeavor to re
join the troops from whom he aud his
comrades had been separated. It might
be long before he returned. Before part
ing from his family, he visited his pris
oner to inquire his name and regiment.
He found him dressed and lying on the
bed, and scarcely recognized in the hand
some young man before him the pallid,
almost lifeless one of the previous day.
'* 1 am glad to hear from your nurse
that you are in less pain this morning,”
said the Southerner.
“ 1 thank you, Major Courtney, as I
understand that to be your uame. A
comfortable bed in place of the damp
ground, with the fresh, cool bandages
have greatly restored me. The wound
in my right arm is, I fear, beyond Dinah’s |
skill, as the ball will have to be extract- j
ed. I was so unfortunate as to lose my !
horse; then, not being able to keep up
with my party, fell, as you saw, into the
enemy’s hands, and they gave me too
warm a reception.”
“ How came you to lose your horse ;
was he killed ?”
“ No, Major, I had secured him, as I
thought, to a tree; two of my comrades
brought oil theirs. I was detained on
business with the Sergeant—then, when
I went in search of mine, he ,s gone.”
A shadow crossed the Major’s brow.
“ What color is your horse ?”
“ A dark gray.”
“He is safe in my stable. Some other
time I will tell you how ho found his way
here ; at present, sir, consider yourself
not my prisoner, but my guest. I shall
leave orders that you are supplied with
everything you wish. In the meantime,
a surgeon shall attend to your wounded
A little timid knock sounded at the
“ Papa, will you give the gentleman
this fruit ? It is fresh gathered.”
“ Ha ! is that you, my runaway ?”
A smile lighted up the stern features
of the father, as he stooped to kiss the
fair brow of his child.
“ Virginia, in my absence you will see
to the comforts of—” ..
u Captain Osborn*', sir, is my name.”
—“ To Captain Osborne being pro
vided with all lie may require. Most
probably he will be here when I come
He saluted the Federal officer, and
taking his daughter’s hand, left the apart
ment. The door closed; Osborn fell
back upon the bed from which he had
risen. It appeared to him as if, with
Virginia, the sunshine had vanished
from the room.
In a few weeks, Captain Osborne was
the favorite of the household. He played
checkers with Mrs. Courtney, every de
scription of game with Philip, and read
poetry with A irginia. The young officer
was remarkably handsome ; she liked his
society, perhaps, too; a warm feeling en
tered her heart; but if it did she deter
mined to crush it. Her pride was stronger
than her love.
Osborne had now, by the successful
treatment of the surgeon and Aunt
Dinah, almost recovered from the injuries
he met with at the hands of the Confede
rate soldiers ; but while that cure was
effected, lie received another wound be
yond the art of surgeon or nurse to heal.
The daily intercourse with Virginia had
so fascinated him that he looked forward
with regret to tire day that would part
them—probably forever. They had read
the same books, selected the same pas
sages for admiration, and on all subjects
but one shared the sarin! opinion ; that
one was not named by either. To win so
lovely a being was surely worth an ef
fort; and fate at last assisted him in the
opportunity he had sought.
A letter arrived from Major Courtney.
Enclosed was a note for Captain Osborne,
relieving him from his parole—explaining
the cause of his horse being missing on
the night of the Major’s escape, and re
gretting the inconvenience and danger
to which he had consequently been sub
The young officer handed the letter to
Virginia. He watched her expressive
countenance as she perused it, and mis
took the tears that started to her eyes for
regret at his departure. They were in
admiration of her father’s generous and
“ Dear Virginia,” he hastily exclaimed,
“ wince that day when I lay wounded
well nigh unto death, the sweet minis
tering angel I then beheld has been the
first one in my thoughts, will be the last
while my heart throbs. Home, friends,
all alike uucared so—and, great God I
the cause for which I have fought almost
forgotten while I lingered here. Tell
me, dearest, have you no return to make
for such love as mine ?”
“ Hush, hush ! I may not listen to you,”
answered Y irginia, the crimson blush
which his warmth had called forth leav
ing her cheek pale in her deep emotion.
“ The Southern girl cannot exchange
words ol love with the enemy of her land.
Our paths are widely separated. In an
other cause I have lived, and in it I will die
—it is my faith. Go now, Captain Os
borne ; I rejoice that you have recovered
-—that you are spared to your friends.”
“\irginia,” lie pleaded, “give me
some hope before tfe part. When the
war is ended, friend and foe may then be
united. Your father is a brave, noble
gentleman. If I ask from him the hand
of his child—”
“He would say,” proudly interrupted
Virginia, “ that the Southerner’s daugh
ter could never marry with the soldier of
the Union !”
“Farewell, then, Miss Courtney ; my
bright dream is over. Come, my good
sword, we have been too long parted.”
He endeavored to buckle it cm his arm
still in the sling.
“Stay, Captain Osborne,” said Vir
ginia ; “ I will send Phillip to assist you.
See, he is returning from a ride. He will
also bring out your horse. Good-bye !”
Her voice softened. He took her
hand, and kissed it warmly.
. “ God hlpjaa you, Virginia, sweet South
ern flower—farewell!” ■
And so they parted, never to meet
About this time the two armies alter
nately had the mastery. The Federals
had been successful, but the tide of war
now turned to the Confederate army.
Many weeks passed away since Major
Courtney left his family ; frequently had
he been in some peril and harassing duty;
all the time very far distant from them.
Now a suspension of hostilities took
place, and the Major obtained leave of
absence to visit his home. He was ac
companied by a friend, Captain Ilazelton,
one of the. party who lay concealed in the
wooded glen, and it was he, who on reach
ing the bank of the river, first seized the
welcome signal, Virginia's handkerchief
—there was her name embroidered on it.
He had carried' it with him ever since,
and now proudly displayed his prize.
The blushing girl held out her hand to
“No, Miss Courtney,” said he, “after
the Bonnie Blue Blag, I value this hand
kerchief. Your father has often named
his brave young daughter who periled her
life that he, toil-worn and weary, might
snatch a few hours’ repose.”
Captain Ilazelton was some years older
than his rival, the Federal officer, but lie,
too, though dauntless in the field, was
subdued, and fell an easy victim to all
The temporary truce ended, the two
friends returned to the army, but before
departing, Ilazelton solicited from Major
and Mrs. Courtney tho hand of their
child, \ irginia’s consent was more diffi
cult to obtain. She had no wish to leave
the happy fi. me from which she had never
been separated. At length he gained it,
conditionally, that he would watch over
her dear father’s safety.
The war was finally ended before the
two officers returned. Captain Ilazelton
had then fairly earned his promised re
ward, Virginia’s hand, by having at the
hazard of his own life, sought for among
the dead and dying, and carried off* the
battle field the wounded Major, conveying
him in safety to his home.
Virginia is now married. So devoted
a daughter could not fail to make a true
and loving wife. Her husband regards
her with affectionate pride, as, in their
choice circle ot admiring friends, he will
sometimes relate how a few scattered
Confederate soldiers were rescued in their
lonely retreat by the determination and
courage of the “ Southerner > Daughter.'
Careless shepherds make many a feast
for the wolf.