Classic Poem

They say that the Vandals will come.
I would not believe it till now;
But this horrible throbbing and hum
Is the tramp of their march drawing near
And the roll of their barbarous drum.
So let me remember my vow,
And hasten forth, robed for my bier,
To strike at the joy of their cheer,
To strike and leave some one dumb.

My lineage is gentle and old,
And my heart is virginal pure;
My hair is a girl's flossy gold
And my hand is of satiny gloss;
But no heart can more proudly endure
The anguish of honor's red cross;
No hand with the pistol is truer,
And I'll shoot the first Yankee as sure
As my name is Raven Van Ross.

She speeded forth into the night
And spied the dark column anigh;
She stood there in delicate white,
A maiden too lovely to die;
Too precious for aught but the sight
Of love, and the kiss of his mouth,
And the clasp of his yearning delight;
But maddened by echoes of fight
And the passionate blood of the South.

She shot. But no death-cry replied.
The column sent backward no ball.
It trampled on, massive and wide,
From curbstone to curbstone across,
Dumb, solemn and black as a pall;
Unknowing that close by its side,
Withdrawn from life's hyssop and gall,
Heart-broken, death-stricken, lay all
That remained of Raven Van Ross.