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I VOL. I. il'ur the Banner of the South,] h AT NIGHT, B V MOIXA. Dreary! weary! Weary! dreary! Sighs my soul this lonely night. Farewell gladness! Welcome sadness ! Vanished are my visions bright! Stars are shining! Winds are pining! In the sky and o’er the son Shine forever Stars; but never Does the starlight gladden me. Stars! you nightly Sparkle brightly, 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, Whose to-morrow I may never, never sec, Till upon me And around me Dawns a bright eternity. TTt'ndsyou’re sighing. 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. Chanting lowly, Softly, slowly, 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; On forever, Pausing never— How / love to heai' you sigh! Men are dreaming, Stars are gleaming, In the far-off heaven’s blue ; Bosom aching. Musing, waking, 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 discerned. 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 to march. 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 daughter : “ \ 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 sleep.” 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 return home. 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 arm.” A little timid knock sounded at the door. “ 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 again.” 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 jected. 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 manly sentiments. “ 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 again. 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 receive it. “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 powerful love. 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. TsTo. 12.