The Fairfield herald. [volume] (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1849-1876, 1868-07-08
Original Poetry.
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NY PAROLE.
by A SOUTH CAROLISIAN.

by soldier captured by Gen. Sherman ant
afterwards parolcd.
Where onco his busy city stood, tho coming
soldier sees
All ruin now, ohimneys, like half>burn
standing trees,
In sombre groups their places still maintain
to Heaven they look.
And seems to ask, "What record OH the pa
gcs Of the book
Where all the deeds Of mortal men, or bad
or good are writ?
Where reporting spirits come, where record
Is there on high no sentence yet, no flaming
bolt, no rod,
10 smitc the men who curse, and, if they
could would murder God?
a few sad ones from morn to oYc their lone
ly places keep,
One comfort left-Oh! what comfort now
it is TO aoeep!
Approach them not, for constant grief has
made them faint and weak,
Their sobs their story tell. their hearts arc
full, too full to speak.
He seeks his homo, his cherished garden
spot, once green and fair,
No tree to mark the place, all waste and de-
collation. there,
Ills starving, weeping wife and children
gone, he knows not where;
lie lifts his hards to Cod he VOWS, he calm
ly, cternuly swcars,
By all their wrongs, their shricks, their
floods Of buring tears.
10 hunt the demons down by day, by night,
with every BREATH
Wherc'cr they so, o'cr field or flood and to
> aho gates Of death.
RcviVing hope is now at home again,
lt,livcs, while ever lives determined men;
in VOWS like these can but think see
The life that is to make my country free
l hear, approve rejoice. applaud the whole,
But cannot strike. What sickness to my soul
Forever brings my loathcd, abhorred parole.
Is all now lost3 @, God forbid! spar, us
tho blow l seem
Amid the changes of somo wild, confused,
disastrous dream.
Are all the cherished hopes of frce.born
hearts forever acd?
A people slain, the youthful Sampson shorn,
and bound, and dead?
II cannot be? heroes cannot be changed to
craven men,
Like weary, wounded lions turning to their
mountain den;
They seek but rest, will rally soon and tako
the field again.
What If few score moves, q brief decade
Of 6eeting years?
The term is only long when filled with sor-
rows, griefs and tears.
'Trust not in ncsh," my Maker says, 'but
leave tho cause with me-"
"Tky will be donc," pray thou, if righ;, in
Sme thou shalt be free;
IF wrong, who darcs to hope for it? Who
Il - q
Not one, trust; blind as am, my shrink.
ing heart would sny, oh no
Teach me, o, God with all my heart to pray,
''Thy will be DONE"
That lesson learned aud all is we'll, for me
the field is won.
"To mo-" hear, "thy burden, heavy laden
soldier, bring,
know, ! feel thy grief, be of good cheer,
for am King,
Fret not thysclf, in faith and patience ever
bide my day,
/ have not said in vain, vengeance is Mine,
will repay"
What precious words from thee, O God !
hear!
Tho,'gh but worm, am, Thy constant
care,
This is my life, my hope, my vital breath,
II breaks my chain, aud from tho door of
Fails not at once tho pondcrous stone to
roll,
Restores to life my sick. my dying soul,
And takes the sting from my abhorred pa
role.
Talk not of death, It's not where pcstilence
in darkness walk,
Nor is 1t whore the famine wastes, nor where
tho moody sickness stalks,
'Tis not In Wonder smoky field whore ms
xious, fretting chargers neigh,
Il is not in the storm of war, it Is not in the
bloody fray,
It's nat where the battle was, nor where
tSS ground is rank and red, sf.
IL is not where in silence sleep tho ashes Of
tho gallant dead.
no death in these? whore then is death ?
DhI where?
IT'S in my heart my aching heart-'tis
there;
'Tis in tho sickness Of my fainling soul
find thy sting, @ death l find tho whole
OF thee embodied in my loathed parole.
stroll amid yon widespread field Of he
rocs' graves,
Rich with tho dauntess hearts OF lecatombs
of braves
pause, am lost in thought, when 10 ! their
mighty shades
In armor rise, and range themselves III vast
brigades;
And now In half reproaching words I hear
them ask,
What fellow-soldicr Of tho great pnfnished
task?
Say, have the ghastly wounds We wear been
borne In vain
Fcli wo for naught for less than nothing
were we slain?
Q God! to! Thee what answer shall mako
Hide me from me, my swelling heart must
break; th3
This, this is death, 'tis my undying dole,
The pains Of death are in my life, my soul
Are inmy foul, my loathed, abhorred parole
When stoops the sun, and trees and hills ir
lcngthoned shadows creep,
Ger grassy lawns my feet their wontcd