Southern Verse Vol. VII & VIII (Nov. & Dec. 2024)
Written By Various
My apologies for missing November, I hope to make it up to you, dear reader, with a larger selection to end the year. Many poems about the joyous Christmas season. Also, I am happy to announce the Virginia Gentry debut of Christopher Davidson! Please enjoy. — J.R. Dunmore
On a Farm Off 81 By Christopher Davidson (@WatchmansRest on X.com) The ascending of the sun, a sky-sign in heaven Sets shining the narrow fields of November’s Shenandoah: Great God has ordained in Grandeur unfathomable To transfigure the twilight and drag the sun to dawn. The moon He makes to tarry, the crickets still to croon, Their modest tune is merry, yet mercilessly scorned. Distant now the drum of steel and solder Raking on the roadside, rushing and passing And loosing the leaves that latch to red trees, Kills the slow quiet and crushes the peace. I hear the moaning of metal, a monument to loss: No better a standard The Burning could ask Than frenzied flames that follow the command Of Almighty Man, like that cavalcade of cannon Shunned since old Sheridan so shattered the land. The mist on the mountains and the smoke of the muskets And the ghosts of gray-men together come and go. The silence of songbirds and the sound of freight-trucks Would spurn the coming Spring: it shall not long be so. Heroes (unfinished) By J.R. Dunmore Where are the heroes once lauded and loved Beasts desecrate their sacred place Men who gave all they could for us For our indifference we're disgraced Yet called to action each one of us To fight the hordes, that wicked race Those who would destroy what we love To laugh in death's own evil face Christmas By Henry Timrod How grace this hallowed day? Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire Round which the children play? Alas! for many a moon, That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, Mute as an obelisk of ice, aglare Beneath an Arctic noon. Shame to the foes that drown Our psalms of worship with their impious drum, The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb In some far rustic town. There, let us think, they keep, Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea They’ve ushered in with old-world, English glee, Some echoes in their sleep. How shall we grace the day? With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, And shout of happy children in the courts, And tales of ghost and fay? Is there indeed a door, Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, And all the merry round of Christmas joys, Could enter as of yore? Would not some pallid face Look in upon the banquet, calling up Dread shapes of battles in the wassail cup, And trouble all the place? How could we bear the mirth, While some loved reveler of a year ago Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, In cold Virginian earth? How shall we grace the day? Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn The Prince of Peace—the Prince of Peace was born, Employ us, while we pray! Pray for the peace which long Hath left this tortured land, and haply now Holds its white court on some far mountain’s brow, There hardly safe from wrong! Let every sacred fane Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, And, with the cloister and the tented sod, Join in one solemn strain! With pomp of Roman form, With the grave ritual brought from England’s shore, And with the simple faith which asks no more Than that the heart be warm! He, who, till time shall cease, Will watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, He died to give us peace, may not disdain A prayer whose theme is—peace. Perhaps ere yet the Spring Hath died into the Summer, over all The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall, Like some protecting wing. Oh, ponder what it means! Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way! Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, And shape the coming scenes! Peace in the quiet dales, Made rankly fertile by the blood of men, Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, Peace in the peopled vales! Peace in the crowded town, Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, Peace on the wind-swept down! Peace on the farthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace wheresoe’er our starry garland gleams, And peace in every breeze! Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace, in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts! The Bivouac In The Snow By Margaret Junkin Preston Halt!--the march is over, Day is almost done; Loose the cumbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun. Chilled and wet and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amidst the snow. Round the bright blaze gather, Heed not sleet or cold; Ye are Spartan soldiers, Stout and brave and bold. Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow. Shivering, 'midst the darkness, Christian men are found, There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground-- Pleading for their country, In its hour of woe-- For the soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow. Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife, Dreaming of their dear ones-- Home, and child, and wife-- Tentless they are lying, While the fires burn low-- Lying in their blankets 'Midst December's snow. Christmas Night Of '62 By William Gordon McCabe 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 between 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 lightened 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 cherished faces all are gone! Asleep within the quiet graves Where lies the snow in drifting waves,-- And I am sitting here alone. There's not a comrade here to-night But knows that loved ones far away On bended knee 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. Santa Claus By Mary A. M'Crimmon 'Twas colder than Zero on Christmas eve night, When far off in Lapland, the great "Northern Light" In streams of wild beauty illuminated the skies, Like joy when it sparkles from innocent eyes. Old Santa Claus, seeing the hour at hand When children get sleepy all over the land, Put eight tiny reindeer to one little sleigh, And seizing a bundle, he started away -- For over the mountain and over the snow, As light as a feather and swift as a roe. At last on our chimney he drew up his team, And stole out as silent and soft as a dream, Lest hearing the footsteps on top of the house, The children, all sleeping as "snug as a mouse," Might wake up and catch him with pockets and hat Stuffed full of nice candy, and much more than that -- Nuts, raisins and apples, and all sorts of toys -- Exactly the thing for the girls and the boys. As a light as a feather he came down the flue, That seemed to grow wider to let him get through; And there in the corner, all ranged in a row, Were four little stockings, as white as the snow. He smiled when he saw them, and winked his old eye, But waited a moment and then passed them by, To peep through the curtains of two little beds, Where, wrapped in sweet slumber, lay four little heads; And he read in the faces of each little pair, Who'd acted the wisest throughout the past year. If one had been naughty, and told a white fib -- Another got angry and tore up her bib -- If he had his parents neglected to mind, Or she to her playmates been rude or unkind, From them he'd have taken to give to the rest, For "Santa Claus" always gave most to the best. But these little fellows, it seems, had done well, For how much he gave them I hardly can tell -- To one he gave candy, a drum, and an apple; Another a pony -- a beautiful dapple -- Birds, baskets and dollies, with sweet flaxen curls, Fruits, flowers and ribbons he left for the girls -- If either was slighted, I cannot tell which, For all received something -- and no one a switch. "Good night, little darlings," old Santa then said, And shaking with laughter, he turned from the bed, And mounting the chimney, he started to go Far over the mountain and over the snow. This happened one Christmas. I'm sorry to write, Our ports are blockaded, and Santa, to-night, Will hardly get down here; for if he should start, The Yankees would get him unless he was "smart." They beat all the men in creation to run And if they could get him, they'd think it fine fun To put him in prison, and steal the nice toys He started to bring to our girls and boys. But try not to mind it -- tell over your jokes -- Be gay and be cheerful, like other good folks; For if you remember to be good and kind, OId Santa next Christmas will bear it in mind.