Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1897-05-12

Mrs. Margaret j. Preston:
Past, the clash and clang of battle,
Past, the terrOrS, trials, fears,
Past, the deadly roar and rattle,
Yet, we meet in tears.
Not shout Of exultation
Breaks the silence, solemn, deep;
On the death bed of nation,
Is it strange we weep?
But the homage that we render
Softens with proud relief,
And joy supremel y tender,
Mingles with our grief.
For the heroes wrested from us,
Have not lived nor died in vain;
And their memOry's bow Of promise
Spans our years Of pain.
Countless eyes have conned their story
Countless hearts grown brave therepy; (;
Let us thank the God OF Glory,
We had such to die.
Where had been the church's honor,
When the overwhelming flood
Of her foes rushed fierce upon her,
But for Martyrs blood?
Where the lofty acclamatioes
O'er the wrench of thraldom's chain?
Where the grandeur of the nations,
But for patriots slain
Shall we then, in sad procession,
Heads low dropt upon the breast
Only bring our tears to freshen
Graves where heroes rest.
Let us rather as the laurel
Now we lay above the sod,
Learn their lives majestic moral,
Wait and trust in God.
At the conclusion of the hymn, th'
reading of which was warmly applauded
the president introduced as the orator o
the occasion, Mr.. William Banks, OF th'
Rock Hill Herald, who, after an enthn
siastic reception by the audience, SPOKE
as follows:
Mr.. President, gallant survivors of {
noble cause, ladies and gentlemen Al
low me to thank you for having con
ferred upon me this the greatest honor o.
nv life. the honor of addressing you OF
this sacred and sweetly solemn occasion
Mingled with the martial music OF sum
ter,s war drums, was milder, mellow
er. muffied note, a note suggesting home.
leaving and heartbreaking a note sug
costing the severing of those ties so dear
to the hearts of the south a note sugges
ting the robbing of southern homes OF
their first born sons; note suggesting
that mothers boy was to be snatched from
her arms by the demon Of war.
The rattle Of the musketry around the
"Old City by the Sea" infiamed the pa
triOtic impulses i'm each southron's heart
but the dull and distant booming OF the
cannon recalled him to the painful neces'
sity of home-leaving.
WAS it the fear of death was it desire
to escape the scanty fare and rough duties
of camplife which caused the young sol
dier to falter as he pressed, probably fol
the last time, the latch on the old gate al
the head of the lane ? No the very thought
is injustice to the gallant boys in gray
who marched SO steadfastly forward ever
into the jaws of death.
Next to God and mother, the southern
boy had been taught to love his sunny
land personitied by beautl'
full, soft-skinned, dreamy.eyed matron
whose royal robes OF white hau never
been stained save by the blood OF her sons
at Savannah, New Orleans and Churu'
busco. When then she beckoned to the
of the south to protect the
gauntlet which she had thrown at the
feet of the oppressor, why did he talter?
Yes. he faltered, because he was leaving
home, not on a picnic trolic as some de-
lighted to paint it, but with the sternness o
war and the rigidness Of death confront
ing him.
His heart is filled with anguish as with
ewes half blinded with tears he turns al
the head of the laue to get last glimpse
of the old homestead, where his happy
boyhood's hours had been spent. There
we're the roses clambering over the door
and peeping in the window, blushine
prettily at the lovesong of the summer
zephyrs. There was the little brook
down in the orchard. Many. happy hours
had he whiled away on its m0ssy banks
listening to the music of the mOckbird
and the woodthrush and thinking of the
little brown-eyed maiden in the cottage
Just beyond the clover patch. This was
the peaceful home from which he had
been summoned by the war drums. Oh
"Home, sweet home," soldier boy
where'er thy footsteps roam, thy heart
will ever turn to thy southern home.
Through his tears he can see his old
father, his noble head whitened with
care, his rugged frame bent with age.
Twas the same father whose strong hand
had guided his trembling steps in child
b hood, twas the same father whose love
for the Old South inspired the young
soldier to do and to die for Carolina.
Twas the same father who put his pal