Page:Southern Life in Southern Literature.djvu/270

252 The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood Poured o er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels. No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note s appealing, So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred The hidden founts of feeling. Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage neath the live-oak trees, The cabin by the prairie. Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved ones stand before him. As fades the iris after rain, In April s tearful weather, The vision vanished, as the strain And daylight died together. But memory, waked by music s art Expressed in simplest numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee s heart, Made light the Rebel s slumbers. And fair the form of music shines, That bright, celestial creature, Who still, mid war s embattled lines, Gave this one touch of Nature.