The eyes of Zebulon Lee stared blankly
In the harsh LED light of his apartment,
His red hair hanging loosely about his bearded face,
Alone in Virginian Alexandria.
In the blink of an eye, he found he was not.
Saint John the Baptist:
These lights will make you go blind, you know.
Stranger, I feel that I have long been wandering
In a trackless waste.
You speak truly,
For your father Constantius risked much to find
The precious treasure you so glibly stow
On your countertop.
[Another visitor appears.]
But why should he concern himself with this,
This musty flesh? Look what trouble it has brought
To his life – His father is dead and the house of Lee
Is heaped with loathsome shame. Constantius
Believed in the power of a dead man’s hand
To unify his people, but found himself
Mocked and murdered by secret police.
What is your advice for the man, then, Herod?
Herod, yes. What course should he take?
There is only one sure path to power
In this world: Take it by force! Constantius,
Like Robert before him, wouldn’t stain his sword
With his enemies’ blood. Those they opposed
Remain as rulers, themselves now in ignominy.
Avenge them, pitiful young Lee, sitting weakly
On the floor! Take up sword and gun, knife and poison,
Kill those who humiliated your kinsmen,
And be the strong ruler they refused to be!
You speak with boldness, sir, as one who knows,
Rather than who shares a speculation.
But I, too, have read a little history,
And know what end awaits a governor
Whose rule is founded on seas of blood. You slew
Wife and sons, dozens of the Sanhedrin,
And fourteen-thousand young innocent babes,
That you might cling a little more securely
To your sweet power. What did it avail?
You died anyway, and mis’rably, hated by all.
Herod [Spits at Zebulon.]:
And who are you – Good King Alfred, reborn?
Going to lead the Southern people with prayers
And baubles to victory over the Northmen
From your little hovel, your own sad Athelney?
Who I am, or shall be, is no concern
Of yours. Be gone!
A curse fall upon you!
Zebulon [To St. John]:
You have been mighty quiet throughout, Stranger.
Evil has a way of defeating itself,
And yet at other times it persists.
For two hundred years, my people have had to wear
The Yankee yoke. My father believed the hand
Of St. Andrew would safeguard us, but he died,
And we are again unfree. Was his faith misplaced?
No Mr. Lee, not misplaced, simply unfulfilled.
The Adversary cannot thwart the will of God,
Only delay it. Now that you have shown yourself
Faithful, you must finish what your forefathers began.
A gathering of many thousands will soon take place
In the federal city before Lincoln’s temple
To stir up nationalistic fervor,
To strengthen the union that was dead
And yet lives again. Take with you St. Andrew’s relic,
Stand before the tyrant, asking God for help,
And you will see deliverance for your people.
Only know that fierce persecution awaits you,
If you go. But even so, the Gracious Lord
Will not abandon you.
Nor will I Him.
But tell me, Friend, ere I go, who you are.
I think we have met before, haven’t we?
When you go to give thanks to God after witnessing
His mighty acts, then you will know who speaks with you.
Zebulon, momentarily stunned to stillness
By this and all the day’s events, recollected himself
Quickly and prepared to go. Upon his chest
He strapped the reliquary of St. Andrew’s hand,
The bands forming the familiar Southern cross.
He found the words of St. John true: Beaten
By demons, stabbed by thieves, abused by soldiers
As he traveled to Lincoln’s shrine, the Lord Jesus
Sent an angel to heal him every time.
Now standing at the front of the crowd, blue eyes
Sparkling, he held aloft the holy hand,
And cried aloud, ‘Now, Lord, visit the South
With Your goodness through the prayers of St. Andrew,
St. Alfred, and all our holy intercessors!’
The words died away amidst many loud voices;
The words drifted away, but the dark clouds clabbered.
Terrible winds tore at the Memorial –
Bolt after bolt of lightning struck and smashed it –
Hailstones covered the rubble like an icy grave.
The sheltering crowds, in disbelief, hearkened
To the voice of Zebulon Lee: ‘The union
We have known will be no more. Go ye home,
And let your native States and regions be your countries
From this time onward.’ And this they freely did.
The Southern States, united under the headship
Of Zebulon Lee, bearer of the sacred relic,
Formed pacts of friendship with Christian countries
Across the world – both smaller folk like Serbia
And Hungary and great powers, Brazil
And Russia, who helped them stand upon their feet.
And it was decreed that no one would hold
Dixie’s high executive command who was unworthy
To be the keeper of St. Andrew’s mighty hand.
On the day appointed for a solemn thanksgiving
To God for His kindness towards the South,
All entered the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist
In the former District of Columbia,
Since returned to Maryland, now proudly
And righty bearing the name of Washington City.
As the procession of Zebulon Lee entered,
There, on the right side of the icon of the Savior,
Was the face of the Stranger, the Friend, who had appeared
To him so many days ago: the icon
Of St. John himself! With overflowing
Gratitude, without hesitation, he bowed low
Before him and kissed the image of that holy man,
Greatest born of woman, true in ev’ry age,
And led the congregation in a song of praise
To the great benefactor of the Southern land.
The End, and Glory to God!
This poem is the conclusion to Constantius Lee, which you can read here.
The Synaxis of Banned Confederates
There is a funny little word that is suddenly meaningful for Dixie: synaxis. It is an ancient Greek word that translates to ‘a gathering’. On some Church calendars, there are several celebratory memorial synaxes: the Synaxis of the 70 Apostles (4 Jan.), the Synaxis of St John the Baptist (7 Jan.), and so on. We, as Southerners, should add a new synaxis of this kind to our yearly calendars, in light of what the uS military has decided to do with its base names, etc.: The Synaxis of Banned Confederates.
The Pentagon has provided us with the names to include in our Synaxis, via a report from Newsmax:
‘The USS Chancellorsville, a guided-missile cruiser named for a Civil War battle the confederates won, and the USNS Maury, an oceanographic survey ship named for confederate naval Cmdr. Matthew Fontaine Maury, are the two naval ships affected.
‘The nine Army bases affected are: Fort Bragg, North Carolina; Fort Polk, Louisiana; Fort Benning, Georgia; Fort Gordon, Georgia; Fort A.P. Hill, Virginia; Fort Hood, Texas; Fort Pickett, Virginia; Fort Rucker, Alabama; and Fort Lee, Virginia.’
For clarity, they are, with the days they reposed,
-Commander Matthew Maury (1 Feb.)
-Gen Braxton Bragg (27 Sept.)
-Gen Leonidas Polk (14 June)
-Gen Henry Benning (10 July)
-Gen John Gordon (9 Jan.)
-Gen A. P. Hill (2 April)
-Gen John Bell Hood (30 Aug.)
-Gen George Pickett (30 July)
-Col Edmund Rucker (13 April)
General Robert E. Lee (who reposed on 12 Oct.), we feel, needs no introduction.
There are, of course, many more who could be named, but these will suffice for this Gathering, given that they are the ones singled out in the report. Serious consideration should be given for other synaxes, though, like a Synaxis of the 12 Southerners who wrote I’ll Take My Stand, which could be held on the book’s original day of publication – November 12th.
And we know just what day to celebrate this Synaxis: June 9th, the day a typical New England shrew, Senator Elizabeth Warren, proposed this genocidal scrubbing of anything Southern from the US military’s consciousness in 2020.
On this day, let us heartily celebrate the memory and achievements of these Confederate ancestors of ours, and pray for the peaceful rest of their souls with the righteous (as well as on the individual days of the repose of each, as we are able).
We should also include St Columba of Iona in these goings-on, asking him to pray for our ancestors and for Southrons living and not yet living, for his Feast Day is also on the 9th of June, he who did so much to bring our forefathers in Ireland, Scotland, and England to the Christian Faith.
This attack on memory, virtue, etc., is undoubtedly unseemly and dangerous, but there is a positive side to it (as others have pointed out): No longer will the names and reputations of our Southern forebears be defamed by being dragged into the Federal regime’s unlawful wars with all their atrocities, nor through all the sexual perversity and depravity that the woke Pentagon is now imposing on its soldiers and sailors in the name of diversity and inclusion. Let them drag the names of those they revere – Lincoln, Emerson, Susan B. Anthony, Sheridan, Hillary Clinton, and all the rest of that strange, disreputable lot – through the blood and the mud instead.
However, there is one name that Southerners should insist be removed from a place: the name of George Washington from Washington, D. C. General Washington is too fine a gentleman to be associated with that vipers’ nest. The District can no doubt find a more suitable name, perhaps their latest overseas puppet, Zelensky. Aside from the massive financial and military aid to the corrupt neo-Nazi Kiev government, the D. C. Establishment has just recently created ‘Ukrainian Independence Park’ in the middle of the city; and some loopy Congressmen want to place his bust in the US House. The new name ‘Zelensky, D. C.’ would simply close the loop.
If the un-Christian globalist types in D. C. are determined to wipe out the memories of our Southern ancestors, we must be more determined to preserve them, honor them, and pass them on to future generations. It is essential, then, to observe Confederate Memorial Day when it comes round each year in the various Southern States, but with each new action of the Yankees/globalists to purge Southern history and culture, we must make a new effort of our own to counteract it. Hence, our new Synaxis for the banned boys in grey.
(Our thanks to an anonymous tipster for the Newsmax link.)
Family in the Future Tense
The first cold morning of fall in Louisiana
Sends my memory far away to Oklahoma,
To the cavernous den that you added to your house, Uncle Ken.
The icy air resting on the rock-strewn hills outside
Bites into the thin skin of mortal flesh, but the hearth inside
Glows with a wood fire, offering its warm benediction.
Within this little cosmos, you are all here, my family!
The love that surrounds us is from the Paraclete, surely,
And warms us better than the hearth, no cold malice within.
Here, in the awful, joyful stillness of your presence,
Vision becomes prophetic, brought into the future tense,
This precious room a faint foreseeing of our kinhouse in Heaven.
Walt Garlington is a chemical engineer turned writer (and, when able, a planter). He makes his home in Louisiana and is editor of the 'Confiteri: A Southern Perspective' web site.