The thunderous billows are hurled on the rocks;
And our Valley becomes, amid Spring's softest breath,
The valley, alas! of the shadow of death.
The crash of the onset,--the plunge and the roll,
Reach down to the depth of each patriot's soul;
It quivers--for since it is human, it must;
But never a tremor of doubt or distrust,
Once blanches the cheek, or is wrung from the mouth,
Or lurks in the eye of the sons of the South.

What need for dismay? Let the live surges roar,
And leap in their fury, our fastnesses o'er,
And threaten our beautiful Valley to fill
With rapine and ruin more terrible still:
What fear we?--See Jackson! his sword in his hand,
Like the stern rocks around him, immovable stand,--
The wisdom, the skill and the strength that he boasts,
Sought ever from him who is Leader of Hosts:
--He speaks in the name of his God:--lo! the tide,--
The red sea of battle, is seen to divide;
The pathway of victory cleaves the dark flood;--
And the foe is o'erwhelmed in a deluge of blood!
The spirit of Alice no longer is bowed
By the troubles, and tumults, and terrors, that crowd
So closely around her:--the willow's lithe form
Bends meekly to meet the wild rush of the storm.

Yet pale as Cassandra, unconscious of joy,
With visions of Greeks at the gates of her Troy,
All day she has waited and watched on the lawn,