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VOL. 11.
■ For the Banner of the South.]
At Arlington.
JJV JAMES K P.AXDALL.
The broken column, reared in air
To him who made our country great,
Can almost cast its shadow where
The victims of a grand despair,
Jn long, long ranks of death await
The last, loud trump, the Judgment Sun,
Which come for all, and, soon or late,
Will come for those at Arlington.
In that vast sepulchre repose
The thousands reaped from every fray,
The Men in Blue who once uprose
In battle-front to smite their foes —
The Spartan Bands who wore the Grey.
The combat o’er, the death-hug done,
In Summer blaze or Winter snows,
They keep the truce at Arlington.
And, almost lost in myriad graves
Os those who gained th’ unequal fight,
Are mounds that hide Confederate braves
Who reck not how the North wind raves,
In dazzling day or dimmest night,
o'er those who lost and those who won,
Death holds no parley which was right—
Jehovah judges Arlington!
The dead had rest; the dove of peace
Brooded o’er both with equal wings.
To both bad come that great surcease,
The last omnipotent release
From all the world’s delirious stings.
To bugle deaf and signal gun,
t They slept like heroes of old Greece
Beneath the glebe at Arlington.
And in the Spring’s benignant reign,
The sweet May woke her harp of pines.
Teaching her choir a thrilling strain
Os jubilee to land and main,
She danced in emerald down the lines.
Denying largess bright to none.
She saw no difference in the signs
That told who slept at Arlington.
gave her grasses and her showers
To all alike who dreamed in dust;
Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers
Amid the jasmine buds and flowers,
And piped with an impartial trust.—
bait's of the air and liberal sun !
Their guileless glees were kind and just
To frienc and foe at Arlington.
Aiul mid the generous Spring, there came
Some women of the land who strove
To make this funeral field of fame
Bricht as the May-god’s altar flame,
With rosy wreaths of mutual love.
! nmindful who had lost or won,
Ihey scorned the jargon of a name—
-No North, no South at Arlington.
Between their pious thought and God
Stood tiles of men with brutal steel;
be garlands placed on “Rebel sod' 1
, re ‘tripled in the common clod
T° die beneath the hireling’s heel,
baeing this triumph of the Hun,
1 'or Smoky Caesar gave no nod
0 keep the peace at Arlington.
•'vliovah judged, abashing man;
Bor, in the vigils of the night,
• o.' mighty storm-avengers ran
l, 'gether in one choral clan,
Pi ‘jerking wrong, rewarding right.
1 ‘' Ul g the wreaths from those who won,
‘ 'e tempest heaped them dewy-bright
- 1 hebel graves at Arlington !
A*d. w lien the morn came young and fair,
" I! ] !u °j Blushes ripe and red,
■u-oeep in sky-sent roses there,
lil Began her earliest prayer
So" ; n ° f V , e trium pßant Southern Dead.
(V.. I' e uai 'B and in the sun,
u. (. ause surv j ves t j ie tyrant’s tread
to wake at Arlington !
marisheal
ax IIUSH LOVE STORY.
BY W. S. TRENCH.
J. one evening in my
I | ate Pleasure grounds, after a day
Pv - ie '|V V T lab ° r in ie °® ce > when I
1 Perceived a pair of bright
A ,*j n ß' me through the leaves
' Lc 10 'N bushes with which the
wood abounds. I stopped immediately,
and asked who was there.
“Oh, indeed, your honor, it’s only me;
and I know it’s against the rules of the
office to come here. But shure wasn’t
I waiting at the office door all day, and
they wouldn’t let me in, because they
said I was well able to hold out still, and
wasn’t nigh so weak as many of the
creatures that was there. And that was
true enough; but then they didn’t know
I had ten miles to go home before night;
and so, as some said your honor was a
good man though some said not, I thought
I would just chance it for once, and may
be your honor would find time to speak
to a poor desolate orphan like me, even
though it is against the rules.”
‘‘The desolate orphan.” who now came
forward and exhibited not merely her
bright eyes, but her full form to my
view, was somewhat singular in her ap
pearance. She had but little of the origi
nal Celt in her features. Her beauty
was purely Spanish, of which I have seen
many perfect specimens in Tuosist and
around Kenmare: large, soft eyes, with
beautiful downy eyelashes, the mouth
well formed, and cheek of classic mould,
while the figure, perfect in its symmetry,
is erect and active, and exhibits a light
ness of step and grace of motion which
can rarely be attained but by constant
practice in walking over the mountains.
Tha.lh.an which, now stood before me
was a beautiful specimen of this perfect
Spanish type. She was clean and neat
in her person, though her clothes were
of the coarsest kind. Her gown, made
of the light gray flannel or l’reize manu
factured in the mountains where she
lived, was ciossed upon her bosom and
extended up to her neck. Her hair, as
black as jet, was neatly parted on her
forehead, and hung in careless folds
dewn her back. She had neither shoes
nor stockings, and her dress did not come
down to within seven or eight inches of
her feet. She wore no shawl, which is
common in the district, about her neck.
She held her head as erect as a startled
fawn. Her hands were clasped in an
attitude of wild supplication, and the
symmetry of her form was enhanced by
the unusual addition of a leather strap
buckled around her waist, which, though
neither new nor ornamental in itself, had
the effect of showing off’ h r naturally
beautiful figure to the best advantage.
The moment she appeared from behind
the holly bush she commenced her ora
tion. And talking with a volubility and
amount’of action which it would be im
possible to describe, her features became
animated, and the blood mounted to her
cheeks. In truth, I have rarely seen so
beautiful and so natural a girl. I think
she knew’ she was a beauty, and had
“chanced” a little of the success of her
visit upon that score, as well as upon my
goodness; bint there was no vanity or
coquetry in her manner —she was per
fectly natural and simple, and, as re
gards beauty, so intelligent a girl as she
was, could not possibly look at her reflec
tion in one of her own dark mountain
lakes, and not see that she was different
from her neighbors. She had watched
my countenance with the quickness of
an Irish peasant during the whole time
she was speaking; and, in fact, I felt
sure she had prolonged her statement for
that sole purpose, in order to form an
estimate of her success, or vary her line
of advance according as circumstances
revealed themselves. I saw this perfectly
at the time; but my interest in her viva
cious courage was so great, and my ad
miration of her beauty so impossible to
to conceal, that she saw in a moment,
though I had not yet spoken a word, that
she had won her point.
“Ah ! well I knew your honor had a
good and kind heart within you,” said
she, coming forward with graceful ani
mation, and under cover of her well
turned flattery. “And now, maybe, I'd
never have another opportunity, and oh !
just listen to me till I tell you wiiat 1
AUGUSTA, (LA., JULY 10, 1869.
have to say, for mine is a sore, sore
sorrow.”
In a moment her whole countenance—
almost her form, had changed. Her
courage—some of which she had evident
ly derived from her beauty—seemed to
have departed. Tears filled her eyes
as she looked down upon the ground and
even her form seemed to loose many inches
of its height. I could scarcely have
thought that the same human being was
before me as she now stood about to tell
her tale of sorrow.
“What is your name?” I asked, “and
where do you live ?”
“Mary Shea is my name,” said she,
“that is, my maiden name, and indeed
for that matter I am not married yet.”
“Married !” I exclaimed, “why you
seem scarcely seventeen years of age,”
“True for you,” replied she, “you
guessed it very right, as I’ll only be
seventeen next Shrovetide.”
‘And what is your ease ? what do you
want me to do ?’
“I’ll tell your honor that.” replied she.
resuming a moment a portion of her
previous animation. “What I want your
honor to do, is to put down Eugene’s
name in the books as tenant for the
little place I have up in the mountain.”
“And who is Eugene? and how came
you to have a litlc place of your own, and
you so young as you are ?”
“I’ll tell your honor al! about it,” she
replied: “the way of it all was this;” and
again, in a moment, her countenance
changed, her eyelids drooped, her form
seemed to lose its height, and with a
little hesitation as to where she should
begin, she commenced her tale of woe.
“The way of it all was this: Your
honor was not here in the “hungry year’
(a term frequently used among the Irish
peasantry to describe the famine), ‘but
them was terrible times.’ I was only a
little slip of a girl then—and sure for
that matter I’m not much more this
minute. But my father had a little
place upon the mountains, the same as
what I was now talking about. Well,
you see, he was an ould man, and my
mother was sick, and they had no other
child but me, and the place was very
small, and when the potatoes blackened,
sure they had none but God to look to.
“Father’ says I, “I fear ye’ll die, and
mother too, if ye don’t get something to
ate.” “True for ye, child,” says father
“but where are we to get it ? The great
God has rotted the potatoes in the
ground, and what other support had we
all; and sure the neighbors are bad off
as we are.” Mother said nothing, she,
looked at father and me, she kissed me
once or twice, as if to wish me good-by;
and when I got up in the morning, I
found her sitting in her clothes beside
the fire, quite dead and stiff'—not a
month after the potatoes had blackened.
Well, ye see we lived far up iu the
mountains, and no meal or anything
could be got there, except what I
brought myself, and it was ten long
miles from Kenmare. “But still, said 1,
“I won’t let father die if I can help it !”
So we had a few hives of honey which
the gentlemen liked, because the bees
made it all on the heather; and I used to
slip over to Kenmare now and then,
with a hive, and bring back a little meal
to father —we had no cow, as the place
was too small to rear one. And I won’t
tell your honor a lie when I say that
sorra ha’porth we had to live on, except
just the few hives of honey; and I knew
when they were out, and I had no money
to buy meal, we might just lie down and
die. However, I said nothing to father
about this, for I was only a slip of a
girl, but I thought it for all that Woll,
sure enough after a time the honey was
all sold, and I smothered the last be I
had, though in troth I was sorry to do so,
as I had reared them all myself, and I
think they knew me, as they never once
stung me, though I used to sit close to
the hive watching them. However 1
knew it was better for them to die than
father; so [ had to smother them; and I
went down to Kenmare with a sorrowful
heart, and got 15s for the hive. Well,
with that I fed father and myself for
another weary month, and when the meal
was out, father says to me: ‘Mary, dear,
I it’s no use striving any longer against
the hunger. I can’t stand it. I’m weak
and faint, and not able to go out to pub
lic works, and I might as well Hie in the
house as on the roads; and now mind,
Mary dear, when I die, bary me beside
your mother in the-garden, and don’t be
making any noise about it—calling a
wake or a funeral, for all has enough to
do these hard times for themselves.”
“Oil, father, dear, don’t talk that way,”
says I. “11l just go out and see if I can’t
get something that will keep the life in
ye yet.” So father said nothing, but
just lay down on the bed, as if to .wait till
I came home. Weli, I had some strength
in me yet. And as Eugene and I had
known each other since we were little
children, I thought I would just go to
him and see if he could help me. But
when I went to his house he was far
away on the public works. So I had no
more heart nor strength to go any farther,
and I had enough to do to get home But
oh ! sorrow came heavy on them; for as I
called on father as I came in to ask him
if God had sent him any food, he did not
answer; and when I came to his bed, and
put my hand upon his forehead, I found
that lie was dead and cold, and I was
left alone in the world.”
Here the poor girl's voice failed; and
commencing to weep bitterly, she turned
her head away. I found the tears rising
in my own eyes too, but endeavoring to
turn her thoughts from this sad scene, 1
said:
“You have mentioned Eugene once or
twice—who is Eugene?”
She dried her eyes in a moment; and,
resuming the natural vivacity of her
manner, she called aloud to someone
who was evidently near at hand:
“Eugene! where are you, Eugene?
I wouldn’t wander if he was here this
minu e 1”
And, truly enough, lie was; for slowly
emtrging from the same holly bush
where I had observed the young dam
sel’s eyes in the first instance, came a
tall, good-looking youth, clean and fair,
with a cheek as smooth and free from
beard as a woman's. He was about nine
teen or twenty years of age, and as bash
ful as a youth detected under such cir
cumstances —though she bad evidently
hid him there herself—could be.
“Don’t be afeared, Eugene,” cried the
damsel —“don’t be afeared. The gentle
man isn't angry. Come and spake to
him this minute—he is shy, your honor,”
said she, turning to me in a conciliatory
voice, as if excusing and patronizing her
lover, over whom she evidently consider
ed she had great advantage in facility
of speech and general knowledge of the
world—-“he is shy and doesn’t know how
to spake to a gentleman; and 1 hope
you’ll excuse him; but he is a good kind
boy for all that, and well able to become
a teuant for the little place, if you wili
only put his name in the book.”
“Well, but,” I urged, “if I put his
name down in the book he will be the
tenant, and not you; and how would that
answer your purpose?”
“Oh sure, your honor, that would be
all the same; we would get married at
once, and we would have the little place
between us, as I feel lonesome in it all
by myself.”
“And so you and Eugene really want
to mary, and set up house upon a place
only worth 7s. Gd. a year—cabin, moun
tain land, garden and all?”
“Well, indeed, your honor, I don’t see
what better we could do. You see
Eugene and I have known each other
a long time now, and all the the neigh
bors know we love each other very much
—and why wouldn’t 11 ve, him, poor boy,
when it was himself that saved my
life ?”
j “How did he save your life?” I asked,
j “Well, you see, I was telling you all
about it,’ she resumed, “when you asked
for Eugene, and I had to present him to
| your honor. But, sure enough, it was
; Eugene, and no one else, that saved my
life, that night I was telling you of when
father died. I found him cold and stiff
in the bed when I came home; and I had
nothing in the house myself-—no meat,
nor bread, nor potatoes, nor a ha’porth;
so I just sat down on the beside near
him, and—God forgive me !—I prayed
that he would take me, too; for I was
helpless and sorrowful, and weak and
downhearted with hunger. And then I
began to cry; and I thought of mother,
how she had died, and how father was
dead, and no one bury him. ‘And,’
thinks I,‘ if I die too, the cabin will make
a decant little grave over us all, and no
one will know anything about it.’ So I
was crying on, thinking of all these
things, and wandering how it all came
about, when I heard a footstep at the
door, and guessed at once it was Eugene’s.
So he never said a word to me at first,
but he sat himself down beside me. And
after a little he says, ‘What is it, Mary
dear?” ‘Oh, Eugene,’ says I, ‘mother is
dead, and now father is dead; there he is
before jou, and I am going to die
too, for I’m broken-hearted, and have
nothing to eat.’ ‘Eat this,’ said Eugene,
and he pulled an elegant loaf out of his
pocket—‘l guessed ye came up to look
for me to-day; and when I came home
from the works and mother gave me my
supper, I just put it in my pocket as I
wasn’t hungry myself, and came off with
it to you. So cat it, Mary dear ; for I
could not eat it if a basket full of bread
was before me ! Well, I knew the poor
boy had stinted himself to give it to me;
but I was well nigh gone, so I just gave
him a loving look, and says I: ‘Eugene,
dear, I know well how it is; but I’ll eat
it for all that for your sake, and for fear
I'd die before your face.’ And so I did
‘and now, Mary,’ says he, ‘come home
with me, and mother will take care of
you for a bit; and in the morning I’ll
come out myself and bury father for you.’
And so he did —the brave boy that he is
shy as he looks before you honor now.
And we dug the grave between us, and
put father into it just as he was —for we
had no coffin--where would we get one
that year? and we laid him beside
mother. And when the great day comes,
sure they’ll both rise together as well as
if they were in a coffin of gold !”
Again she began to weep; but it was
of short continuance this time.
“And now, won’t you put Eugene’s
name in the book? and we’ll go live there
again, for it’s hard to keep him away,
and he is always pressing me to go
with him to the priest. And we have
put anew coat of thatch upon the little
cabin, and maybe God would be good to
us, and the bees would thrivs, ami the
hungry year may never come on us
again”
“Weil, Mary, I have heard ail you
had to say, and I would gladly do any
thing in my power to serve you and
Eugene, but I cannot bear the thought
of a handsome girl like you, and a fine,
manly boy like him, settling down for
life on this miserable patch on the side
of a barren mountain. lam thinking it
would be far better to try yoar fortune
in America together, anil go out like
the other emigrants, so many of whom
were pressing to get their names down
to-day.”
Mary was silent for a little. At last
she said :
“Well, your honor, I often thought it
would be better, shure enough, to try
our fortune in America, than to marry
and settle on that small patch of barren
land, where my little place is—but I
couldn't bear to think of going' out on
charity as a pauper. I never g t poor
relief IT m the workhouse, and I wouldn t
wish to go to America with the likes of
No. 17.