The comet. (Johnson City, Tenn.) 1884-1916, 1894-01-04

and in the hospitals as we're their
fathers, brothers, sons and lovers on
the bloody fields. She finds eulogy
enough in the plain truth OF history,
and this truth she tells in phrases that
will glow in American literature for
all time. Since the war closed no one
has attempted that which Mrs. Boyle
has 50 splendidly achieved. Lucid,
eloquent, intense, with an extraordi-
nary gift of metaphoric statement,
her patriotic purpose Eliminates and
glorifies her work. The South has
long waited the advent of poet who
might pay this panegyric to her cause
and her heroes-a panegyric which
would take its due place among the
masterpieces OF the country's litera-
ture. 1t has come at last, in "The
Other Side" From the heart of every
one to whom the cause was dear
will go out the most profound graft
tude to the author. Her poem will
live longer than the monuments of
bronze and marble which now mark
the graves of those who died for the
Confederacy, or which attest in public
places the affection of their country
men. That portion of the poem which
relates particularly to Jefferson Davis
is especially marked for its force, its
pathos, its justice and it's truthful re-
cital of the facts of history 1t is the
unutterably sad story of his imprison-
ment, his sublime courage under the
burden which he was left to bear alone,
his undaunted loyalty TO those whom
he had led in the struggle for indie.
pendence. 1t has remained for Mrs.
Boyle to place this picture before the
eyes OF posterity:
Four narrow walls for that wide eerie sweep,
That met the eagle Of the Southern plain
Anoisome Vapor for the spicy breath, -
cesseless grinding on the fe Iered brain;
A twilight where the darkness may not fall,
darkness where the light of peace is dead
a dawning mUated with thou sand fe ars.
midnight blacken,d vito silent dread;
The hideous toltdring of human eyes.
Unsleeping fixed well-schoOed unto their part
The gaze OF serpents on the wounded life,
That gloat yet dare not feed upon its heart.
Without the busy world must live, must move,
The pulse of Commerce beat within the gate
But still no echo filters through those walls,
Save messages Of caumny and hate.
Not even Truth may come, unless in shape
Warped like wrinkled crone. she pas'd her by
tSIo glare across the bari, lower wretch
| Than she who Often paused, 1.-The Naked Lie.
Humiliation, thou art here, thy scourge
Lies on the heart that bleeds unto thy rod;
Before thy shrine there kneels very king,
| Whose soul unconquered, looks unto his God
1t will make little difference what
else may be written of the South's eff
fort to break the chains that bound
her. Men may dispute as to the NOV
ing causes. There may be continued
contention as to responsibilities of in
dividuals, but this poem will stand, as
the beautiful and faithful presentation,
the attitude of the South at the begin
ming of the contest, and at the close.
There is no note of apology in it.
There is no begging of questions.
There is no observation of the essen
tial truth. The fog is cleared away.
The tale is told as it will be told cen
tury hence, when prejudice and pas
SION have been allayed, and the glory
of the Southern arms shall he regarded
as the heritage of all the people.