And the roseate shadows of fading light

Softly clear steal over the sweet young face, Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night

With the guileless pride of a knightly race.

Her small hands lie clasped in a listless way
On the old Romance-which she holds on her knee-
Of Tristam, the bravest of knights in the fray,
And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea.

And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look
As she watches the dying embers fall:
Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book,
Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall.

What fancies I wonder are thronging her brain,
For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow!
Perhaps ah! me, how foolish and vain!

But I'd give my life to believe it so!

Well, whether I ever march home again
To offer my love and a stainless name,
Or whether I die at the head of my men-
I'll be true to the end all the same.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT OF '62

The wintry blast goes wailing by,
The snow is falling overhead;
I hear the lonely sentry's tread,
And distant watch-fires light the sky.

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom;
The soldiers cluster round the blaze
To talk of other Christmas days,
And softly speak of home and home.

My sabre swinging overhead

Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow, And memory leads me to the dead.

My thoughts go wandering to and fro,
Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then;
I see the low-browed home again,
The old hall wreathed with mistletoe.

And sweetly from the far off years
Comes borne the laughter faint and low,
The voices of the Long Ago!
My eyes are wet with tender tears.

I feel again the mother-kiss,

I see again the glad surprise
That lighted up the tranquil eyes

And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss,

As, rushing from the old hall-door,
She fondly clasped her wayward boy-
Her face all radiant with the joy
She felt to see him home once more.

My sabre swinging on the bough

Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow Aslant upon my saddened brow.

Those cheerful faces all are gone!

Asleep within the quiet graves

Where lies the snow in drifting wavesAnd I am sitting here alone.

There's not a comrade here to-night

But knows that loved ones far away On bended knees this night will pray: "God bring our darling from the fight."

But there are none to wish me back,
For me no yearning prayers arise.
The lips are mute and closed the eyes—
My home is in the bivouac.

In the Army of Northern Virginia.

JOHN PEGRAM*

Fell at the Head of his Division, February 6, 1865.
Etat XXXIII

What shall we say now of our gentle knight?
Or how express the measure of our woe
For him who rode the foremost in the fight,
Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?

Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell-
That good blade now lies fast within its sheath—
What can we do but point to where he fell,
And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death.

We sorrow not as those who have no hope,
For he was pure in heart as brave in deed-
God pardon us, if blind with tears we grope,

And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.

And yet O foolish and of little faith

We cannot choose but weep our useless tears—
We loved him so! we never dreamed that Death
Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.

Ah! dear bronzed face, so fearless and so bright!
As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe-
No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight,
The eager eyes-the flush on cheek and brow.
No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form
Amid the surging smoke with deaf'ning cheer—
No more shall soar above the iron storm

The ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.

Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away—
Our grand young leader smitten in the strife,
So swift to seize the chances of the fray,
And careless only of his noble life.

*Born in Petersburg, Virginia, January 24, 1832; killed near Hatcher's Run. He was a graduate of West Point, served on the frontier, and gained distinction in the Civil War as a cavalry leader. At the time of his death he had risen to the grade of major-general.

He is not dead but sleepeth! Well we know
The form that lies to-day beneath the sod
Shall rise what time the golden bugles blow
And pour their music through the courts of God.

And there amid our great heroic dead,

The war-worn sons of God whose work is done!—
His face shall shine, as they with stately tread
In grand review sweep past the jasper throne.

Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief
His days were here, yet rich in love and faith;
Lord, we believe, help Thou our unbelief,

And grant Thy servants such a life and death!
Bivouac on the Right of Petersburg, February 8, 1865.

ONLY A MEMORY*

"Old times, they cling, they cling."-Owen Meredith.

I

Still I can see her before me,

As in the days of old,

Her lips of serious sweetness,
Hair of the richest gold.

II

The rings on her dainty fingers,
Love in her tender eyes,

And the sweet young bosom heaving
With low delicious sighs.

III

Is it a wonder I love her?

That through long years of pain,
I still am true to the old love-

The love alas! in vain.

Howitzer Camp, Yorktown, September, 1861.

*Published in The Southern Literary Messenger, November, 1861, the editor prefacing it with: "Isn't this a little gem? Pity the soldier-poet should have cause to write it."

MARY GREENWAY MCCLELLAND

[1853-1895]

MA

JOHN MCLAREN MCBRYDE, Jr.

ARY GREENWAY MCCLELLAND was born August 5, 1853, in the straggling little village of Norwood (then called New Market), Nelson County, Virginia, on the James River, about forty miles below Lynchburg, and there spent the first six years of her life. Her parents then moved across the river into Buckingham County, and made their home in Elm Cottage, a picturesque old frame house nestled under the branches of a great spreading elm, and seated high on a bluff overlooking the river, with pretty, rich meadows lying along the banks of the muddy James. Connected with the outside world by only the private ferry and the slow-moving canal-boat, the family led necessarily a quiet, secluded life.

As there was no school in the neighborhood, the girl had to depend for her education solely on home training. Though her father, Thomas Stanhope McClelland, had been educated at Washington College, Lexington, Virginia, and at the University of Virginia (1829), he had no influence on her writings, and indeed rarely read any of her books. Her mother, however, a woman of unusual culture and literary taste, early perceived her young daughter's talent and took great care in educating her. From a small, wellselected library which she brought from Philadelphia to Virginia on her marriage, she read aloud to her two little girls, first simple tales of childhood, and then, as they grew older, she acquainted them with more serious stories. Of Scott's novels they were particularly fond, and from them Miss McClelland must have received no little inspiration.

At a very early age she began to read for herself and compose stories. Even before she could write, she was accustomed to relate to her admiring sister elaborate tales with complex incidents and many characters, and continue them from day to day with never flagging interest on the part of either useful listener or narrator. As soon as she could use a pencil she began to write short stories for the amusement of herself and of the family. In her mother, to whom she always read her manuscripts, she found ever a kind and judicious critic.