diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:31:55 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:31:55 -0700 |
| commit | e282493abb0e13ab009f73b5510d5a705f2bb467 (patch) | |
| tree | 2c97c45061541a64a1bc151ac7631db5a6983c69 /old | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/7wrpm10.txt | 15522 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/7wrpm10.zip | bin | 0 -> 181310 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8wrpm10.txt | 15522 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8wrpm10.zip | bin | 0 -> 181363 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8wrpm10h.htm | 15553 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8wrpm10h.zip | bin | 0 -> 195423 bytes |
6 files changed, 46597 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/7wrpm10.txt b/old/7wrpm10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4cb3ba0 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7wrpm10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15522 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of War Poetry of the South, by Various + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: War Poetry of the South + +Author: Various + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8648] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH + +Edited By + +William Gilmore Simms, LL. D. + + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, +By RICHARDSON & CO. + +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the +Southern District of New York. + +Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery, +540 Broadway. + + + +To + +The Women of the South + +I Inscribe This Volume + +They have lost a cause, but they have made a triumph! They have shown +themselves worthy of any manhood; and will leave a record which shall +survive all the caprices of time. They have proved themselves worthy of +the best womanhood, and, in their posterity, will leave no race which +shall be unworthy of the cause which is lost, or of the mothers, sisters +and wives, who have taught such noble lessons of virtuous effort, and +womanly endurance. + +W.G.S. + + + + +Preface. + + + +Several considerations have prompted the editor of this volume in the +compilation of its pages. It constitutes a contribution to the national +literature which is assumed to be not unworthy of it, and which is +otherwise valuable as illustrating the degree of mental and art +development which has been made, in a large section of the country, under +circumstances greatly calculated to stimulate talent and provoke +expression, through the higher utterances of passion and imagination. +Though sectional in its character, and indicative of a temper and a +feeling which were in conflict with nationality, yet, now that the States +of the Union have been resolved into one nation, this collection is +essentially as much the property of the whole as are the captured cannon +which were employed against it during the progress of the late war. It +belongs to the national literature, and will hereafter be regarded as +constituting a proper part of it, just as legitimately to be recognized by +the nation as are the rival ballads of the cavaliers and roundheads, by +the English, in the great civil conflict of their country. + +The emotional literature of a people is as necessary to the philosophical +historian as the mere details of events in the progress of a nation. This +is essential to the reputation of the Southern people, as illustrating +their feelings, sentiments, ideas, and opinions--the motives which +influenced their actions, and the objects which they had in contemplation, +and which seemed to them to justify the struggle in which they were +engaged. It shows with what spirit the popular mind regarded the course of +events, whether favorable or adverse; and, in this aspect, it is even of +more importance to the writer of history than any mere chronicle of facts. +The mere facts in a history do not always, or often, indicate the true +_animus_, of the action. But, in poetry and song, the emotional +nature is apt to declare itself without reserve--speaking out with a +passion which disdains subterfuge, and through media of imagination and +fancy, which are not only without reserve, but which are too coercive in +their own nature, too arbitrary in their influence, to acknowledge any +restraints upon that expression, which glows or weeps with emotions that +gush freely and freshly from the heart. With this persuasion, we can also +forgive the muse who, in her fervor, is sometimes forgetful of her art. + +And yet, it is believed that the numerous pieces of this volume will be +found creditable to the genius and culture of the Southern people, and +honorable, as in accordance with their convictions. They are derived from +all the States of the late Southern Confederacy, and will be found +truthfully to exhibit the sentiment and opinion prevailing more or less +generally throughout the whole. The editor has had special advantages in +making the compilation. Having a large correspondence in most of the +Southern States, he has found no difficulty in procuring his material. +Contributions have poured in upon him from all portions of the South; the +original publications having been, in a large number of cases, subjected +to the careful revision of the several authors. It is a matter of great +regret with him that the limits of the present volume have not suffered +him to do justice to, and find a place for, many of the pieces which fully +deserve to be put on record. Some of the poems were quite too long for his +purpose; a large number, delayed by the mails and other causes, were +received too late for publication. Several collections, from Louisiana, +North Carolina, and Texas, especially, are omitted for this reason. Many +of these pieces are distinguished by fire, force, passion, and a free play +of fancy. Briefly, his material would enable him to prepare another +volume, similar to the present, which would not be unworthy of its +companionship. He is authorized by his publisher to say that, in the event +of the popular success of the present volume, he will cheerfully follow up +its publication by a second, of like style, character, and dimensions. + +The editor has seen with pleasure the volume of "Rebel Rhymes" edited by +Mr. Moore, and of "South Songs," by Mr. De Leon. He has seen, besides, a +single number of a periodical pamphlet called "The Southern Monthly," +published at Memphis, Tenn. This has been supplied him by a contributor. +He has seen no other publications of this nature, though he has heard of +others, and has sought for them in vain. There may be others still +forthcoming; for, in so large a field, with a population so greatly +scattered as that of the South, it is a physical impossibility adequately +to do justice to the whole by any one editor; and each of the sections +must make its own contributions, in its own time, and according to its +several opportunities. There will be room enough for all; and each, I +doubt not, will possess its special claims to recognition and reward. + +His own collections, made during the progress of the war, from the +newspapers, chiefly, of South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia, were +copious. Of these, many have been omitted from this collection, which, he +trusts, will some day find another medium of publication. He has been able +to ascertain the authorship, in many cases, of these writings; but must +regret still that so many others, under a too fastidious delicacy, deny +that their names should be made known. It is to be hoped that they will +hereafter be supplied. To the numerous ladies who have so frankly and +generously contributed to this collection, by sending originals and making +copies, he begs to offer his most grateful acknowledgments. + +A large proportion of the pieces omitted are of elegiac character. Of this +class, he could find a place for such pieces only as were dedicated to the +most distinguished of the persons falling in battle, or such as are marked +by the higher characteristics of poetry--freshness, thought, and +imagination. But many of the omitted pieces are quite worthy of +preservation. Much space has not been given to that class of songs, camp +catches, or marching ballads, which are so numerous in the "Rebel Rhymes" +of Mr. Moore. The songs which are most popular are rarely such as may +claim poetical rank. They depend upon lively music and certain +spirit-stirring catchwords, and are rarely worked up with much regard +to art or even, propriety. Still, many of these should have found a place +in this volume, had adequate space been allowed the editor. It is his +desire, as well as that of the publisher, to collect and bind together +these fugitives in yet another publication. He will preserve the +manuscripts and copies of all unpublished pieces, with the view to this +object--keeping them always subject to the wishes of their several +writers. + +At the close, he must express the hope that these poems will be +recognized, not only as highly creditable to the Southern mind, but as +truly illustrative, if not justificatory of, that sentiment and opinion +with which they have been written; which sentiment and opinion have +sustained their people through a war unexampled in its horrors in modern +times, and which has fully tested their powers of endurance, as well as +their ability in creating their own resources, under all reverses, and +amidst every form of privation. + +W.G.S. + +Brooklyn, September 8, 1866. + + + + +Contents. + + + +Ethnogenesis, _Henry Timrod_ +God Save the South, _George H. Miles_ +"You can never win them back", _Catherine M. Warfield_ +The Southern Cross, _E. K. Blunt_ +South Carolina, _S. Henry Dickson_ +The New Star, _B. M. Anderson_ +The Irrepressible Conflict, _Tyrtaeus_ +The Southern Republic, _Olivia T. Thomas_ +"Is there then no Hope?", _Charleston Courier_ +The Fate of the Republic, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Voice of the South, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Oath of Freedom, _James Barron Hope_ +The Battle Cry of the South, _James R. Randall_ +Sonnet, _Charleston Mercury_ +Seventy-six and Sixty-one, _J. W. Overall_ +"Reddato Gladium", _Richmond Whig_ +"Nay, keep the Sword", _Richmond Whig_ +Coercion, _John R. Thompson_ +A Cry to Arms, _Henry Timrod_ +Jackson, the Alexandria Martyr, _W. H. Holcombe_ +The Martyr of Alexandria, _James W. Simmons_ +The Blessed Union, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Fire of Freedom, _Richmond paper_ +Hymn to the National Flag, _Mrs. M. J. Preston_ +Sonnet--moral of party, _Charleston Mercury_ +Our Faith in '61, _A. J. Requier_ +"Wouldst thou have me love thee?", _Alex. B. Meek_ +Enlisted to-day, _Anonymous_ +"My Maryland", _James R. Randall_ +The Boy Soldier, _Lady of Savannah_ +The good old cause, _John D. Phelan_ +Manassas, _Catherine M. Warfield_ +Virginia, _Ibid._ +The War-Christian's Thanksgiving, _S. Teackle Wallis_ +Sonnet, _Charleston Mercury_ +Marching to Death, _J. Herbert Sass_ +Charleston, _Henry Timrod_ +Charleston, _Paul H. Hayne_ +"Ye Men of Alabama", _Jno. D. Phelan_ +Nec temere, nec timida, _Annie C. Ketchum_ +Dixie, _Albert Pike_ +The Old Rifleman, _Frank Ticknor_ +Battle Hymn, _Charleston Mercury_ +Kentucky, she is sold, _J. R. Barrick_ +The Ship of State, _Charleston Mercury_ +"In his blanket on the ground," _Caroline H. Gervais_ +The Mountain Partisan, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Cameo Bracelet, _James R. Randall_ +Zollicoffer, _Henry L. Flash_ +Beauregard, _Catherine M. Warfield_ +South Carolina, _Gossypium_ +Carolina, _Henry Timrod_ +My Mother Land, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Joe Johnston, _Jno. R. Thompson_ +Over the River, _Jane T. H. Cross_ +The Confederacy, _Jane T. H. Cross_ +President Davis, _Jane T. H. Cross_ +The Rifleman's Fancy Shot, _Anonymous_ +"All quiet along the Potomac" +Prize Address, _Henry Timrod_ +The Battle of Richmond, _Geo. Herbert Sass_ +The Guerrillas, _S. Teackle Wallis_ +A Farewell to Pope, _Jno. R. Thompson_ +Sonnet--Public Prayer, _South Carolinian_ +Battle of Belmont, _J.A. Signaigo_ +Vicksburg, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Ballad of the War, _G.H. Sass_ +The two Armies, _Henry Timrod_ +The Legion of Honor, _H.L. Flash_ +Clouds in the West, _A.J. Requier_ +Georgia! My Georgia!, _Carrie B. Sinclair_ +Song of the Texan Rangers, _Anonymous_ +Kentucky required to yield her arms, _Anonymous_ +There's life in the old land yet, _J.B. Randall_ +"Tell the boys the War is ended," _Emily J. Moore_ +The Southern Cross, _St. George Tucker_ +England's Neutrality, _John R. Thompson_ +Close the Ranks, _J.L. O'Sullivan_ +The Sea-kings of the South, _Ed. G. Bruce_ +The Return, _Anonymous_ +Our Christmas Hymn, _J. Dickson Bruns_ +Charleston, _Miss E.B. Cheesborough_ +Gathering Song, _Annie Chambers Ketchum_ +Christmas, _Henry Timrod_ +A Prayer for Peace, _S. Teackle Wallis_ +The Band in the Pines, _Jno. Esten Cooke_ +At Fort Pillow, _James R. Randall_ +From the Rapidan, _Anonymous_ +Song of our Southland, _Mrs. Mary Ware_ +Sonnets, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Hospital Duties, _Charleston Courier_ +They cry Peace, Peace! _Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs_ +Ballad--"What! have ye thought?" _Charleston Mercury_ +Missing, _Anonymous_ +Ode--"Souls of Heroes," _Charleston Mercury_ +Jackson, _Henry L. Flash_ +Captain Maffit's Ballad, _Charleston Mercury_ +Melt the Bells, _F. T. Rockett_ +John Pelham, _James R. Randall_ +"Ye batteries of Beauregard," _J. R. Barrick_ +"When Peace returns," _Olivia T. Thomas_ +The Right above the Wrong, _J. W. Overall_ +Carmen Triumphale, _Henry Timrod_ +The Fiend Unbound, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Unknown Dead, _Henry Timrod_ +Ode--"Do ye quail?" _W. Gilmore Simms_ +Ode--"Our City by the Sea," _Ibid_. +The Lone Sentry, _J. R. Randall_ +My Soldier Brother, _Sallie E. Bollard_ +Seaweeds, _Annie Chambers Ketchum_ +The Salkehatchie, _Emily J. Moore_ +The Broken Mug, _Jno. Esten Cooke_ +Carolina, _Anna Peyre Dinnies_ +Our Martyrs, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Cleburne, _Mrs. M. A. Jennings_ +The Texan Marseillaise, _James Harris_ +"O, tempora! O, mores," _J. Dickson Bruns_ +Our Departed Comrades, _J. M. Shirer_ +No Land like Ours, _J. R. Barrick_ +The Angel of the Church, _W. Gilmore Simms_ +Ode--"Shell the old City," _Ibid_. +The Enemy shall never reach your City, _Charleston Mercury_ +War Waves, _Catherine G. Poyas_ +Old Moultrie, _Ibid_. +Only one killed, _Julia L. Keyes_ +Land of King Cotton, _J. A. Signaigo_ +If you love me, _Ibid_. +The Cotton Boll, _Henry Timrod_ +Battle of Charleston Harbor, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Fort Wagner, _W. Gilmore Simms_ +Sumter in Ruins, _Ibid_. +Morris Island, _Ibid_. +Promise of Spring, _South Carolinian_ +Spring, _Henry Timrod_ +Chickamauga, _Richmond Sentinel_ +In Memoriam--Bishop Polk, _Viola_ +Stonewall Jackson, _H. L. Flash_ +Stonewall Jackson--a Dirge, _Anonymous_ +Beaufort, _W. J. Grayson_ +The Empty Sleeve, _J. R. Bagby_ +Cotton Burners' Hymn, _Memphis Appeal_ +Reading the List, _Anonymous_ +His Last Words, _Anonymous_ +Charge of Hagood's Brigade, _J. Blythe Allston_ +Carolina, _Jno. A, Wagener_ +Savannah, _Alethea S. Burroughs_ +"Old Betsy," _John Killian_ +Awake! Arise! _G. W. Archer_ +Albert Sydney Johnston, _Mary Jervey_ +Eulogy of the Dead, _B. F. Porter_ +The Beaufort Exile, _Anonymous_ +Somebody's Darling, _Miss Maria LaCoste_ +John Pegram, _W. Gordon McGabe_ +Captives Going Home, _Anonymous_ +Heights of Mission Ridge, _J. A. Signaigo_ +Our Left at Manassas, _Anonymous_ +On to Richmond, _J. R. Thompson_ +Turner Ashby, _Ibid_. +Captain Latane, _Ibid_. +The Men, _Maurice Bell_ +The Rebel Soldier, _Kentucky Girl_ +Battle of Hampton Roads, _Ossian D. Gorman_ +"Is this a time to dance?" _Anonymous_ +The Maryland Line, _J. D, McCabe, Jr._ +I give my Soldier Boy a blade, _H. M. L._ +Sonnet--Avatar of Hell, _Anonymous_ +Stonewall Jackson's Way, _Anonymous_ +The Silent March, _Anonymous_ +Pro Memoria, _Ina M. Porter_ +Southern Homes in Ruins, _R. B. Vance_ +Rappahannock Army Song, _J. C. McLemore_ +Soldier in the Rain, _Julia L. Keyes_ +My Country, _W. D. Porter_ +After the Battle, _Miss Agnes Leonard_ +Our Confederate Dead, _Lady of Augusta_ +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie, _B. F. Porter_ +Song of Spring, _Jno. A. Wagener_ +What the Village Bell said, _Jno. C. McLemore_ +The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star, _A. P. Gray_ +Southern War Hymn, _Jno. A. Wagener_ +The Battle Rainbow, _J. R. Thompson_ +Stonewall Jackson, _Richmond Broadside_ +Dirge for Ashby, _Mrs. M. J. Preston_ +Sacrifice, _Charleston Mercury_ +Sonnet, _Ibid_. +Grave of A. Sydney Johnston, _J. B. Synott_ +"Not doubtful of your Fatherland," _Charleston Mercury_ +Only a Soldier's grave, _S. A. Jonas_ +The Guerrilla Martyrs, _Charleston Mercury_ +"Libera Nos, O Domine!" _James Barron Hope_ +The Knell shall sound once more, _Charleston Mercury_ +Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion, _Ina M. Porter_ +Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans, _Ibid_. +The Foe at the Gates--Charleston, _J. Dickson Bruns_ +Savannah Fallen, _Alethea S. Burroughs_ +Bull Run--A Parody, _Anonymous_ +"Stack Arms," _Jos. Blythe Allston_ +Doffing the Gray, _Lieutenant Falligant_ +In the Land where we were dreaming, _D. B. Lucas_ +Ballad--"Yes, build your Walls," _Charleston Mercury_ +The Lines around Petersburg, _Samuel Davis_ +All is gone, Fadette--_Memphis Appeal_ +Bowing her Head, _Savannah Broadside_ +The Confederate Flag, _Anna Peyre Dinnies_ +Ashes of Glory, _A. J. Requier_ + + + + + +War Poetry of the South + + + + +Ethnogenesis. + +By Henry Timrod, of S.C. + +Written during the meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery, +February, 1861. + + + +I. + + +Hath not the morning dawned with added light? +And shall not evening--call another star +Out of the infinite regions of the night, +To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are +A nation among nations; and the world +Shall soon behold in many a distant port + Another flag unfurled! +Now, come what may, whose favor need we court? +And, under God, whose thunder need we fear? + Thank Him who placed us here +Beneath so kind a sky--the very sun +Takes part with us; and on our errands run +All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain +Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year, +And all the gentle daughters in her train, +March in our ranks, and in our service wield + Long spears of golden grain! +A yellow blossom as her fairy shield, +June fling's her azure banner to the wind, + While in the order of their birth +Her sisters pass; and many an ample field +Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold + Its endless sheets unfold +THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth +Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm + Our happy land shall sleep + In a repose as deep + As if we lay intrenched behind +Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm! + + + +II. + + +And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought, + In their own treachery caught, + By their own fears made bold, + And leagued with him of old, +Who long since, in the limits of the North, +Set up his evil throne, and warred with God-- +What if, both mad and blinded in their rage, +Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage, +And with a hostile step profane our sod! +We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth +To meet them, marshalled by the Lord of Hosts, +And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts +Of Moultrie and of Eutaw--who shall foil +Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone, + But every stock and stone + Shall help us; but the very soil, +And all the generous wealth it gives to toil, +And all for which we love our noble land, +Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand, + The heart of woman, and her hand, +Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence, + Gentle, or grave, or grand; + The winds in our defence +Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend + Their firmness and their calm; +And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend + The strength of pine and palm! + + + +III. + + +Nor would we shun the battle-ground, + Though weak as we are strong; +Call up the clashing elements around, + And test the right and wrong! +On one side, creeds that dare to teach +What Christ and Paul refrained to preach; +Codes built upon a broken pledge, +And charity that whets a poniard's edge; +Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor +To starve and shiver at the schemer's door, +While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled, +He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; +Religion taking every mortal form +But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, +Where not to vile fanatic passion urged, +Or not in vague philosophies submerged, +Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, +And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven! +And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, +Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, +Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth, +And, for the poor and humble, laws which give, +Not the mean right to buy the right to live, + But life, and home, and health! +To doubt the end were want of trust in God, + Who, if he has decreed +That we must pass a redder sea +Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee, + Will surely raise at need + A Moses with his rod! + + + +IV. + + +But let our fears-if fears we have--be still, +And turn us to the future! Could we climb +Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, +The rapturous sight would fill + Our eyes with happy tears! +Not only for the glories which the years +Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, +And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; +But for the distant peoples we shall bless, +And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress: +For, to give labor to the poor, + The whole sad planet o'er, +And save from want and crime the humblest door, +Is one among--the many ends for which + God makes us great and rich! +The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe +When all shall own it, but the type +Whereby we shall be known in every land +Is that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand, +And through the cold, untempered ocean pours +Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores +May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze +Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas. + + + + +God Save the South. + +George H. Miles, of Baltimore. + + + +God save the South! +God save the South! +Her altars and firesides-- + God save the South! +Now that the war is nigh-- +Now that we arm to die-- +Chanting--our battle-cry, + Freedom or Death! + +God be our shield! +At home or a-field, +Stretch Thine arm over us, + Strengthen and save! +What though they're five to one, +Forward each sire and son, +Strike till the war is done, + Strike to the grave. + +God make the right +Stronger than might! +Millions would trample us + Down in their pride. +Lay, thou, their legions low; +Roll back the ruthless foe; +Let the proud spoiler know + God's on our side! + +Hark! honor's call, +Summoning all-- +Summoning all of us + Up to the strife. +Sons of the South, awake! +Strike till the brand shall break! +Strike for dear honor's sake, + Freedom and Life! + +Rebels before +Were our fathers of yore; +Rebel, the glorious name + Washington bore, +Why, then, be ours the same +Title he snatched from shame; +Making it first in fame, + Odious no more. + +War to the hilt! +Theirs be the guilt, +Who fetter the freeman + To ransom the slave. +Up, then, and undismayed, +Sheathe not the battle-blade? +Till the last foe is laid + Low in the grave. + +God save the South! +God save the South! +Dry the dim eyes that now + Follow our path. +Still let the light feet rove +Safe through the orange grove; +Still keep the land we love + Safe from all wrath. + +God save the South! +God save the South! +Her altars and firesides-- + God save the South! +For the rude war is nigh, +And we must win or die; +Chanting our battle-cry + Freedom or Death! + + + + +You Can Never Win Them Back. + +By Catherine M. Warfield. + + + +You can never win them back, + never! never! +Though they perish on the track + of your endeavor; +Though their corses strew the earth +That smiled upon their birth, +And blood pollutes each hearthstone + forever! + +They have risen, to a man + stern and fearless; +Of your curses and your ban + they are careless. +Every hand is on its knife; +Every gun is primed for strife; +Every palm contains a life + high and peerless! + +You have no such blood as theirs + for the shedding, +In the veins of Cavaliers + was its heading. +You have no such stately men +In your abolition den, +To march through foe and fen, + nothing dreading. + +They may fall before the fire + of your legions, +Paid in gold for murd'rous hire-- + bought allegiance! +But for every drop you shed +You shall leave a mound of dead; +And the vultures shall be fed + in our regions. + +But the battle to the strong + is not given, +While the Judge of right and wrong + sits in heaven! +And the God of David still +Guides each pebble by His will; +There are giants yet to kill-- + wrong's unshriven. + + + + +The Southern Cross. + +By E. K. Blunt. + + + +In the name of God! Amen! + Stand for our Southern rights; +On our side, Southern men, + The God of battles fights! +Fling the invaders far-- + Hurl back their work of woe-- +The voice is the voice of a brother, + But the hands are the hands of a foe. +They come with a trampling army, + Invading our native sod-- +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer, + In the name of the mighty God! + +They are singing _our_ song of triumph,[1] + Which proclaimed _us_ proud and free-- +While breaking away the heartstrings + Of our nation's harmony. +Sadly it floateth from us, + Sighing o'er land and wave; +Till, mute on the lips of the poet, + It sleeps in his Southern grave. +Spirit and song departed! + Minstrel and minstrelsy! +We mourn ye, heavy hearted,-- + But we will--we will be free! + +They are waving _our_ flag above us, + With the despot's tyrant will; +With our blood they have stained its colors, + And they call it holy still. +With tearful eyes, but steady hand, + We'll tear its stripes apart, +And fling them, like broken fetters, + That may not bind the heart. +But we'll save our stars of glory, + In the might of the sacred sign +Of Him who has fixed forever + One "Southern Cross" to shine. + +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer! + Solemn, and strong, and sure! +The fight shall not be longer + Than God shall bid endure. +By the life that but yesterday + Waked with the infant's breath! +By the feet which, ere morning, may + Tread to the soldier's death! +By the blood which cries to heaven-- + Crimson upon our sod! +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer, + In the name of the mighty God! + +[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all +whose descendants are Confederates. + + + + +South Carolina. + +December 20, 1860. + +S. Henry Dickson. + + + +The deed is done! the die is cast; +The glorious Rubicon is passed: +Hail, Carolina! free at last! + +Strong in the right, I see her stand +Where ocean laves the shelving sand; +Her own Palmetto decks the strand. + +She turns aloft her flashing eye; +Radiant, her lonely star[1] on high +Shines clear amidst the darkening sky. + +Silent, along those azure deeps +Its course her silver crescent keeps, +And in soft light the landscape steeps. + +Fling forth her banner to the gale! +Let all the hosts of earth assail,-- +Their fury and their force shall fail. + +Echoes the wide resounding shore, +With voice above th' Atlantic roar, +Her sons proclaim her free once more! + +Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State! +In numbers few, in daring great, +Thus to affront the frowns of fate! + +And while mad triumph rules the hour, +And thickening clouds of menace lower, +Bear back the tide of tyrant power. + +With steadfast courage, faltering never, +Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever: +Hail, Carolina! free forever! + +[1] The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon. + + + + +The New Star. + +By B.M. Anderson. + + + +Another star arisen; another flag unfurled; +Another name inscribed among the nations of the world; +Another mighty struggle 'gainst a tyrant's fell decree, +And again a burdened people have uprisen, and are free. + +The spirit of the fathers in the children liveth yet; +Liveth still the olden blood which dimmed the foreign bayonet; +And the fathers fought for freedom, and the sons for freedom fight; +Their God was with the fathers--and is still the God of right! + +Behold! the skies are darkened! A gloomy cloud hath lowered! +Shall it break before the sun of peace, or spread in rage impowered? +Shall we have the smile of friendship, or shall it be the blow? +Shall it be the right hand to the friend, or the red hand to the foe? + +In peacefulness we wish to live, but not in slavish fear; +In peacefulness we dare not die, dishonored on our bier. +To our allies of the Northern land we offer heart and hand, +But if they scorn our friendship--then the banner and the brand! + +Honor to the new-born nation! and honor to the brave! +A country freed from thraldom, or a soldier's honored grave. +Every step shall be contested; every rivulet run red, +And the invader, should he conquer, find the conquered in the dead. + +But victory shall follow where the sons of freedom go, +And the signal for the onset be the death-knell of the foe; +And hallowed shall the spot be where he was so bravely met, +And the star which yonder rises, rises never more to set. + + + + +The Irrepressible Conflict. + +Tyrtaeus.--_Charleston Mercury._ + + + +Then welcome be it, if indeed it be + The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come; + There will be mitigation of the doom, +If, battling to the last, our sires shall see +Their sons contending for the homes made free + In ancient conflict with the foreign foe! + If those who call us brethren strike the blow, + No common conflict shall the invader know! +War to the knife, and to the last, until + The sacred land we keep shall overflow +With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill, +Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave! +Aye, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave +May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave. + + + + +The Southern Republic. + +By Olivia Tully Thomas, of Mississippi. + + + +In the galaxy of nations, + A nation's flag's unfurled, +Transcending in its martial pride + The nations of the world. +Though born of war, baptized in blood, + Yet mighty from the time, +Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood-- + Dismembered, yet sublime. + +And braver heart, and bolder hand, + Ne'er formed a fabric fair +As Southern wisdom can command, + And Southern valor rear. +Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway, + Or recognize her birth, +The land blood-bought for Liberty + Will reign supreme on earth. + +Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave! + Thy sons are bold and free, +And pour life's crimson tide to save + Their birthright, Liberty! +Their fertile fields and sunny plains + That yield the wealth alone, +That's coveted for greedy gains + By despots-and a throne! + +Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn, + Thy altars desolate; +Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn + At war's relentless fate; +And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears, + Her homes will consecrate, +While more than brass or marble rears + The trophy of her great. + +Oh! land that boasts each gallant name + Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE, +And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame + Extends beyond the sea; +Far rather let thy plains become, + From gulf to mountain cave, +One honored sepulchre and tomb, + Than we the tyrant's slave! + +Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free, + Redeemed by blood and war; +Through agony and gloom we see + Thy hope--a glimmering star; +Thy banner, too, may proudly float, + A herald on the seas-- +Thy deeds of daring worlds remote + Will emulate and praise! + +But who can paint the impulse pure, + That thrills and nerves thy brave +To deeds of valor, that secure + The rights their fathers gave? +Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain, + Crowned with the warrior's wreath, +From beds of fame their proud refrain + Was "Liberty or Death!" + + + + +"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?" + +Charleston Courier. + + + +Is there, then, no hope for the nations? + Must the record of Time be the same? +And shall History, in all her narrations, + Still close each last chapter in shame? +Shall the valor which grew to be glorious, + Prove the shame, as the pride of a race: +And a people, for ages victorious, + Through the arts of the chapman, grow base? + +Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman, + Each strides o'er the scene and departs! +How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman, + How wondrous their virtues and arts! +Rude valor, at first, when beginning, + The nation through blood took its name; +Then the wisdom, which hourly winning + New heights in its march, rose to Fame! + +How noble the tale for long ages, + Blending Beauty with courage and might! +What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages, + Made eminent stars for each height! +While their people, with reverence ample. + Brought tribute of praise to the Great, +Whose wisdom and virtuous example, + Made virtue the pride of the State! + +Ours, too, was as noble a dawning, + With hopes of the Future as high: +Great men, each a star of the morning, + Taught us bravely to live and to die! +We fought the long fight with our foeman, + And through trial--well-borne--won a name, +Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman, + And worthy as lasting a fame! + +Shut the Book! We must open another! + O Southron! if taught by the Past, +Beware, when thou choosest a brother, + With what ally thy fortunes are cast! +Beware of all foreign alliance, + Of their pleadings and pleasings beware, +Better meet the old snake with defiance, + Than find in his charming a snare! + + + + +The Fate of the Republics. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years-- +Rear'd with such art and wisdom--by a race +Of giant sires, in virtue all compact, +Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals +Of public strength, and peoples capable +Of great conceptions for the common good, +And of enduring liberties, kept strong +Through purity;--tumbles and falls apart, +Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd +Within, without, by greed of avarice, +And vain ambition for supremacy. + +So fell the old Republics--Gentile and Jew, +Roman and Greek--such evermore the record; +Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed, +From conquest and from triumph, into fall! +The glory that we see exchanged for guilt +Might yet be glory. There were pride enough, +And emulous ambition to achieve,-- +Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment, +To do the work of States--and there were courage +And sense of public need, and public welfare,-- +And duty--in a brave but scattered few, +Throughout the States--had these been credited +To combat 'gainst the popular appetites. +But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught, +As lacking favor with the popular lusts! +They found reward in exile or in death! +And he alone who could debase his spirit, +And file his mind down to the basest nature +Grew capp'd with rule!-- + + So, with the lapse +From virtue, the great nation forfeits all +The pride with the security--the liberty, +With that prime modesty which keeps the heart +Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts +That wait upon Humanity, and teach +Humility, as best check and guaranty, +Against the wolfish greed of appetite! +Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom, +When peoples loathe to listen to the praise +Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims, +Eagerly set upon them to revile, +And banish from their councils! Worse than all +When the great man, succumbing to the mass, +Yields up his mind as a low instrument +To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:-- +Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe +Of place or profit, and makes sale of States +To Party! + + Thus and then are States subdued-- +'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts, +With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay; +Insolent, reckless of account as right,-- +While lust grows license, and tears off the robes +From justice; and makes right a thing of mock; +And puts a foolscap on the head of law, +And plucks the baton of authority +From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head. + +So rages still the irresponsible power, +Using the madden'd populace as hounds, +To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat. +The ancient history becomes the new-- +The ages move in circles, and the snake +Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth. +Thus still in all the past!--and man the same +In all the ages--a poor thing of passion, +Hot greed, and miserable vanity, +And all infirmities of lust and error, +Makes of himself the wretched instrument +To murder his own hope. + + So empires fall,-- +Past, present, and to come!-- + There is no hope +For nations or peoples, once they lapse from virtue +And fail in modest sense of what they are-- +Creatures of weakness, whose security +Lies in meek resting on the law of God, +And in that wise humility which pleads +Ever for his guardian watch and Government, +Though men may bear the open signs of rule. +Humility is safety! could men learn +The law, "_ne sutor ultra crepidam_," +And the sagacious cobbler, at his last, +Content himself with paring leather down +To heel and instep, nicely fitting parts, +In proper adaptation, to the foot, +We might have safety. + + Rightly to conceive +What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will +To this one measure only, is the whole +Of that grand rule, and wise necessity, +Which only gives us safety. + + Where a State, +Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds +Set for their progress, they must topple and fall +Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed +All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all +Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause! +The terrible conjunction of the event, +Close with the provocation, stands apart, +A social beacon in all histories; +And yet we take no heed, but still rush on, +Under mixed sway of greed and vanity, +And like the silly boy with his card-castle, +Precipitate to ruin as we build. + + + + +The Voice of the South. + +Tyrtaeus.--_Charleston Mercury._ + + + +'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave, +And fits but ill to be held by the slave; +And sad were the thought, if one of our band +Should give up the hope of so fair a land. + +But the hour has come, and the times that tried +The souls of men in our days of pride, +Return once more, and now for the brave, +To merit the boon which our fathers gave. + +And if there be one base spirit who stands +Now, in our peril, with folded hands, +Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought, +With the sword with which his old father fought. + +An oath sublime should the freeman take, +Still braving the fight and the felon stake,-- +The oath that his sires brought over the sea, +When they pledged their swords to Liberty! + +'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight, +They battled and bled in behalf of the right; +'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign, +And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine. + +We cannot forget, and we dare not forego, +The holy duty to them that we owe, +The duty that pledges the soul of the son +To keep the freedom his sire hath won. + +To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil +One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil, +One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare +Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share! + +Art ready for this, dear brother, who still +Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill? +Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear, +Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear? + +Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart, +Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part; +The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands, +And waits but the word for the flashing of brands! + +And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,--and thou +Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow; +And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves +Where Apala-chicola[1] glides through her groves. + +Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep, +The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep; +Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call, +To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall! + +Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves, +The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves, +That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth, +Would rob us of right without reason or ruth. + +Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong, +Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong? +Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls, +Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls. + +At last ye are wakened, all rising at length, +In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength; +And now let the struggle begin which shall see, +If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free. + +We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came, +To welcome the ruin, but never the shame; +To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right, +While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight. + +Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw +The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;-- +Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here, +To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear. + +Let those who defile and deface it, be sure, +No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure; +We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain, +With which they would fetter our free souls in vain. + +How goodly and bright were its links at the first! +How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst! +We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave, +But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave. + +[1] The reader will place the accent on the _ante-penultimate_, which +affords not only the most musical, but the correct pronunciation. + + + + +The Oath of Freedom. + +By James Barron Hope. + + + +_"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be +free."_ + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +By all the stars which burn on high-- +By the green earth--the mighty sea-- +By God's unshaken majesty, + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! + Let all the trumpets blow! + Mind, heart, and soul, + We spurn control + Attempted by a foe! + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +And, vainly now the Northmen try +To beat us down--in arms we stand +To strike for this our native land! + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, we thus resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +Our wives and children look on high, +Pray God to smile upon the right! +And bid us in the deadly fight + As freemen live or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +And ere we cease this battle-cry, +Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt, +On bayonet or sabre hilt! + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +Defiant let the banners fly, +Shake out their glories to the air, +And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +And to this oath the dead reply-- +Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts-- +These with us, and the God of hosts, + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + + + + +The Battle-Cry of the South. + +By James R. Randall. + + + +Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against +the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled +against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to +die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our +sanctuary.--_Maccabees I._ + +Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, + And the wail of the South wings forth; +Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, + And the vampires of the North? +Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, + Strike! with a ruthless hand-- +Strike! with the vengeance of the soul, + For your bright, beleaguered land! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,[1] + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare, + And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown-- +Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there + In the cliffs of the Father's frown: +Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light + Which the Sun of Justice gives-- +In the caves and sepulchres of night + Jehovah the Lord King lives! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Think of the dead by the Tennessee, + In their frozen shrouds of gore-- +Think of the mothers who shall see + Those darling eyes no more! +But better are they in a hero grave + Than the serfs of time and breath, +For they are the children of the brave, + And the cherubim of death! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Better the charnels of the West, + And a hecatomb of lives, +Than the foul invader as a guest + 'Mid your sisters and your wives-- +But a spirit lurketh in every maid, + Though, brothers, ye should quail, +To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade, + And the livid spike of Jael! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Brothers! I see you tramping by, + With the gladiator gaze, +And your shout is the Macedonian cry + Of the old, heroic days! +March on! with trumpet and with drum, + With rifle, pike, and dart, +And die--if even death must come-- + Upon your country's heart! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, + And the wail of the South wings forth; +Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, + And the vampires of the North? +Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, + Strike! with a ruthless hand-- +Strike! with the vengeance of the soul + For your bright, beleaguered land! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus. + + + + +Sonnet. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Democracy hath done its work of ill, + And, seeming freemen, never to be free, + While the poor people shout in vanity, +The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will. +How swift the abasement follows! But few years, + And we stood eminent. Great men were ours, + Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers! +How have we sunk below our proper spheres! +No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place, + The nimble marmozet and magpie men; + Creatures that only mock and mimic, when +They run astride the shoulders of the race; +Democracy, in vanity elate, +Clothing but sycophants in robes of state. + + + + +Seventy-Six and Sixty-One. + +By John W. Overall, of Louisiana. + + + +Ye spirits of the glorious dead! + Ye watchers in the sky! +Who sought the patriot's crimson bed, + With holy trust and high-- +Come, lend your inspiration now, + Come, fire each Southern son, +Who nobly fights for freemen's rights, + And shouts for sixty-one. + +Come, teach them how, on hill on glade, + Quick leaping from your side, +The lightning flash of sabres made + A red and flowing tide-- +How well ye fought, how bravely fell, + Beneath our burning sun; +And let the lyre, in strains of fire, + So speak of sixty-one. + +There's many a grave in all the land, + And many a crucifix, +Which tells how that heroic band + Stood firm in seventy-six-- +Ye heroes of the deathless past, + Your glorious race is run, +But from your dust springs freemen's trust, + And blows for sixty-one. + +We build our altars where you lie, + On many a verdant sod, +With sabres pointing to the sky, + And sanctified of God; +The smoke shall rise from every pile, + Till freedom's cause is won, +And every mouth throughout the South, + Shall shout for sixty-one! + + + + +"Reddato Gladium." + +Virginia to Winfield Scott. + + + +A voice is heard in Ramah! + High sounds are on the gale! +Notes to wake buried patriots! + Notes to strike traitors pale! +Wild notes of outraged feeling + Cry aloud and spare him not! +'Tis Virginia's strong appealing, + And she calls to Winfield Scott! + +Oh! chief among ten thousand! + Thou whom I loved so well, +Star that has set, as never yet + Since son of morning fell! +I call not in reviling, + Nor to speak thee what thou art; +I leave thee to thy death-bed, + And I leave thee to thy heart! + +But by every mortal hope, + And by every mortal fear; +By all that man deems sacred, + And that woman holds most dear; +Yea! by thy mother's honor, + And by thy father's grave, +By hell beneath, and heaven above, + Give back the sword I gave! + +Not since God's sword was planted + To guard life's heavenly tree, +Has ever blade been granted, + Like that bestowed on thee! +To pierce me with the steel I gave + To guard mine honor's shrine, +Not since Iscariot lived and died, + Was treason like to thine! + +Give back the sword! and sever + Our strong and mighty tie! +We part, and part forever, + To conquer or to die! +In sorrow, not in anger, + I speak the word, "We part!" +For I leave thee to thy death-bed, + And I leave thee to thy heart! + +Richmond Whig. + + + + +Nay, Keep the Sword. + +By Carrie Clifford. + + + +Nay, keep the sword which once we gave, + A token of our trust in thee; +The steel is true, the blade is keen-- + False as thou art it cannot be. + +We hailed thee as our glorious chief, + With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow; +Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue: + In whispers hushed we breathe it now. + +Yes, keep it till thy dying day; + Momentous ever let it be, +Of a great treasure once possessed-- + A people's love now lost to thee. + +Thy mother will not bow her head; + She bares her bosom to thee now; +But may the bright steel fail to wound-- + It is more merciful than thou. + +And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow, + Thousands of sons of this fair land +Will rise, and, in their anger just, + Will stay the rash act of thy hand. + +And when in terror thou shalt hear + Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry +And feel the weight of thy great crime, + Then fall upon thy sword and die. + +Those aged locks I'll not reproach, + Although upon a traitor's brow; +We've looked with reverence on them once, + We'll try and not revile them now. + +But her true sons and daughters pray, + That ere thy day of reckoning be, +Thy ingrate heart may feel the pain + To know thy mother once more free. + + + + +Coercion: A Poem for Then and Now. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +Who talks of coercion? who dares to deny + A resolute people the right to be free? +Let him blot out forever one star from the sky, + Or curb with his fetter the wave of the sea! + +Who prates of coercion? Can love be restored + To bosoms where only resentment may dwell? +Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword, + Or good-will among men be established by shell? + +Shame! shame!--that the statesman and trickster, forsooth, + Should have for a crisis no other recourse, +Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth, + Than the old _brutum fulmen_ of tyranny--force! + +From the holes where fraud, falsehood, and hate slink away-- + From the crypt in which error lies buried in chains-- +This foul apparition stalks forth to the day, + And would ravage the land which his presence profanes. + +Could you conquer us, men of the North--could you bring + Desolation and death on our homes as a flood-- +Can you hope the pure lily, affection, will spring + From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood? + +Could you brand us as villains and serfs, know ye not + What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar? +How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot! + How dearly the Pole loves his father, the Czar! + +But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun + Is a _nutrix leonum_, and suckles a race +Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one, + Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace. + +And well may the schemers in office beware + The swift retribution that waits upon crime, +When the lion, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair, + With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime. + +Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still, + Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends; +Nor join in a conflict accursed, that must fill + With ruin, the country on which it descends. + +But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage + The gods gave to all whom they wished to destroy, +You would act a new Iliad, to darken the age + With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy-- + +If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries, + When wisdom, humanity, justice implore, +You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes + Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar-- + +If there be to your malice no limit imposed, + And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod +The men upon whom you already have closed + Our goodly domain and the temples of God: + +To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold, + And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar; +We greet you, as greeted the Swiss, Charles the Bold-- + With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war! + +For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright, + Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide; +Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight, + With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride; + +And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past, + In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain; +While the sod of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast, + And give up its heroes to glory again. + + + + +A Cry to Arms. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side! + Ho! dwellers in the vales! +Ho! ye who by the chafing tide + Have roughened in the gales! +Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, + Lay by the bloodless spade; +Let desk, and case, and counter rot, + And burn your books of trade. + +The despot roves your fairest lands; + And till he flies or fears, +Your fields must grow but armed bands, + Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! +Give up to mildew and to rust + The useless tools of gain; +And feed your country's sacred dust + With floods of crimson rain! + +Come, with the weapons at your call-- + With musket, pike, or knife; +He wields the deadliest blade of all + Who lightest holds his life. +The arm that drives its unbought blows + With all a patriot's scorn, +Might brain a tyrant with a rose, + Or stab him with a thorn. + +Does any falter? let him turn + To some brave maiden's eyes, +And catch the holy fires that burn + In those sublunar skies. +Oh! could you like your women feel, + And in their spirit march, +A day might see your lines of steel + Beneath the victor's arch. + +What hope, O God! would not grow warm + When thoughts like these give cheer? +The lily calmly braves the storm, + And shall the palm-tree fear? +No! rather let its branches court + The rack that sweeps the plain; +And from the lily's regal port + Learn how to breast the strain! + +Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side! + Ho! dwellers in the vales! +Ho! ye who by the roaring tide + Have roughened in the gales! + +Come! flocking gayly to the fight + From forest, hill, and lake; +We battle for our country's right, + And for the lily's sake! + + + + +Jackson, The Alexandria Martyr. + +By Wm. H. Holcombe, M.D., of Virginia. + + + +'Twas not the private insult galled him most, +But public outrage of his country's flag, +To which his patriotic heart had pledged +Its faith as to a bride. The bold, proud chief, +Th' avenging host, and the swift-coming death +Appalled him not. Nor life with all its charms, +Nor home, nor wife, nor children could weigh down +The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy +The insolent invader. Ellsworth fell, +And Jackson perished 'mid the pack of wolves, +Befriended only by his own great heart +And God approving. More than Roman soul! +O type of our impetuous chivalry! +May this young nation ever boast her sons +A vast, and inconceivable multitude, +Standing like thee in her extremest van, +Self-poised and ready, in defence of rights +Or in revenge of wrongs, to dare and die! + + + + +The Martyr of Alexandria. + +By James W. Simmons, of Texas. + + + +Revealed, as in a lightning flash, + A hero stood! +The invading foe, the trumpet's crash, + Set up his blood. + +High o'er the sacred pile that bends + Those forms above, +Thy star, O Freedom! brightly blends + Its rays with love. + +The banner of a mighty race, + Serenely there, +Unfurls the genius of the place, + In haunted air. + +A vow is registered in Heaven! + Patriot! 'tis thine! +To guard those matchless colors, given + By hands divine. + +Jackson! thy spirit may not hear + Our wail ascend; +A nation gathers round thy bier, + And mourns its friend. + +The example is thy monument, + And organ tones +Thy name resound, with glory blent, + Prouder than thrones! + +And they whose loss hath been our gain, + A people's cares +Shall win their wounded hearts from pain, + And wipe their tears. + +When time shall set the captives free, + Now scathed by wrath, +Heirs of his immortality, + Bright be their path. + + + + +The Blessed Union--Epigram. + + + +Doubtless to some, with length of ears, + To gratify an ape's desire, +The blessed Union still endears;-- +The stripes, if not the stars, be theirs! +"Greek faith" they gave us eighty years, + And then--"Greek fire!" +But, better all their fires of scath +Than one hour's trust in Yankee faith! + + + + +The Fire of Freedom. + + + +The holy fire that nerved the Greek + To make his stand at Marathon, +Until the last red foeman's shriek + Proclaimed that freedom's fight was won, +Still lives unquenched--unquenchable: + Through every age its fires will burn-- +Lives in the hermit's lonely cell, + And springs from every storied urn. + +The hearthstone embers hold the spark + Where fell oppression's foot hath trod; +Through superstition's shadow dark + It flashes to the living God! +From Moscow's ashes springs the Russ; + In Warsaw, Poland lives again: +Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus, + Strikes liberty's electric chain! + +Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss; + Vainly the invader ever strives; +He finds _Sic Semper Tyrannis_ + In San Jacinto's bowie-knives! +Than these--than all--a holier fire + Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son! +Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire, + Strike for the grave of Washington! + +The Northern rabble arms for greed; + The hireling parson goads the train-- +In that foul crop from, bigot seed, + Old "Praise God Barebones" howls again! +We welcome them to "Southern lands," + We welcome them to "Southern slaves," +We welcome them "with bloody hands + To hospitable Southern graves!" + + + + +Hymn to the National Flag. + +By Mrs. M. J. Preston. + + + +Float aloft, thou stainless banner! + Azure cross and field of light; +Be thy brilliant stars the symbol + Of the pure and true and right. +Shelter freedom's holy cause-- +Liberty and sacred laws; +Guard the youngest of the nations-- + Keep her virgin honor bright. + +From Virginia's storied border, + Down to Tampa's furthest shore-- +From the blue Atlantic's clashings + To the Rio Grande's roar-- +Over many a crimson plain, +Where our martyred ones lie slain-- +Fling abroad thy blessed shelter, + Stream and mount and valley o'er. + +In thy cross of heavenly azure + Has our faith its emblem high; +In thy field of white, the hallow'd + Truth for which we'll dare and die; +In thy red, the patriot blood-- + Ah! the consecrated flood. +Lift thyself, resistless banner! + Ever fill our Southern sky! + +Flash with living, lightning motion + In the sight of all the brave! +Tell the price at which we purchased + Room and right for thee to wave +Freely in our God's free air, +Pure and proud and stainless fair, +Banner of the youngest nation-- + Banner we would die to save! + +Strike Thou for us! King of armies! + Grant us room in Thy broad world! +Loosen all the despot's fetters, + Back be all his legions hurled! +Give us peace and liberty, +Let the land we love be free-- +Then, oh! bright and stainless banner! + Never shall thy folds be furled! + + + + +Sonnet--Moral of Party + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +The moral of a party--if it be + That healthy States need parties, lies in this, + That we consider well what race it is, +And what the germ that first has made it free. +That germ must constitute the living tie + That binds its generations to the end, +Change measures if it need, or policy, + But neither break the principle, nor bend. +Each race hath its own nature--fixed, defined, + By Heaven, and if its principle be won, + Kept changeless as the progress of the sun, +It mocks at storm and rage, at sea and wind, +And grows to consummation, as the tree, +Matured, that ever grew in culture free. + + + + +Our Faith in '61. + +By A. J. Requier. + + + +"That governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers +from the consent of the governed: that whenever any form of government +becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter +or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on +such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as TO THEM SHALL +SEEM most likely to effect their safety and happiness."--[Declaration of +Independence, July 4, '76.] + + +Not yet one hundred years have flown + Since on this very spot, +The subjects of a sovereign throne-- + Liege-master of their lot-- +This high degree sped o'er the sea, + From council-board and tent, +"No earthly power can rule the free + But by their own consent!" + +For this, they fought as Saxons fight, + On bloody fields and long-- +Themselves the champions of the right, + And judges of the wrong; +For this their stainless knighthood wore + The branded rebel's name, +Until the starry cross they bore + Set all the skies aflame! + +And States co-equal and distinct + Outshone the western sun, +By one great charter interlinked-- + Not blended into one; +Whose graven key that high decree + The grand inscription lent, +"No earthly power can rule the free + But by their own consent!" + +Oh! sordid age! Oh! ruthless rage! + Oh! sacrilegious wrong! +A deed to blast the record page, + And snap the strings of song; +In that great charter's name, a band + By grovelling greed enticed, +Whose warrant is the grasping hand + Of creeds without a Christ-- + +States that have trampled every pledge + Its crystal code contains, +Now give their swords a keener edge + To harness it with chains-- +To make a bond of brotherhood + The sanction and the seal, +By which to arm a rabble brood + With fratricidal steel. + +Who, conscious that their cause is black, + In puling prose and rhyme, +Talk hatefully of love, and tack + Hypocrisy to crime; +Who smile and smite, engross the gorge + Or impotently frown; +And call us "rebels" with King George, + As if they wore his crown! + +Most venal of a venal race, + Who think you cheat the sky +With every pharisaic face + And simulated lie; +Round Freedom's lair, with weapons bare, + We greet the light divine +Of those who throned the goddess there, + And yet inspire the shrine! + +Our loved ones' graves are at our feet, + Their homesteads at our back-- +No belted Southron can retreat + With women on his track; +Peal, bannered host, the proud decree + Which from your fathers went, +"No earthly power can rule the free + But by their own consent!" + + + + +Wouldst Thou Have Me Love Thee. + +By Alex B. Meek. + + + +Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest, + With a woman's proudest heart, +Which shall ever hold thee nearest, + Shrined in its inmost heart? +Listen, then! My country's calling + On her sons to meet the foe! +Leave these groves of rose and myrtle; + Drop thy dreamy harp of love! +Like young Korner--scorn the turtle, + When the eagle screams above! + +Dost thou pause?--Let dastards dally-- + Do thou for thy country fight! +'Neath her noble emblem rally-- + "God, our country, and our right!" +Listen! now her trumpet's calling + On her sons to meet the foe! +Woman's heart is soft and tender, + But 'tis proud and faithful too: +Shall she be her land's defender? + Lover! Soldier! up and do! + +Seize thy father's ancient falchion, + Which once flashed as freedom's star! +Till sweet peace--the bow and halcyon, + Stilled the stormy strife of war. +Listen! now thy country's calling + On her sons to meet her foe! +Sweet is love in moonlight bowers! + Sweet the altar and the flame! +Sweet the spring-time with her flowers! + Sweeter far the patriot's name! + +Should the God who smiles above thee, + Doom thee to a soldier's grave, +Hearts will break, but fame will love thee, + Canonized among the brave! +Listen, then! thy country's calling + On her sons to meet the foe! +Rather would I view thee lying + On the last red field of strife, +'Mid thy country's heroes dying, + Than become a dastard's wife! + + + + +Enlisted To-Day. + + + +I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing, + And summer sends kisses by beautiful May-- +Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing, + And think--my boy Willie enlisted to-day. + +It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming, + I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine, +While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming + Of father, adown the street's indistinct line. + +It is many a year since my Harry departed, + To come back no more in the twilight or dawn; +And Robby grew weary of watching, and started + Alone on the journey his father had gone. + +It is many a year--and this afternoon sitting + At Robby's old window, I heard the band play, +And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting, + To recollect Willie is twenty to-day. + +And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning, + The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke, +I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning, + And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke: + +"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing, + They would trample the rights of the South in the dust; +The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going--" +He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh, say if I must!" + +I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking, + My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away, +And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking-- + Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day!" + +I sit in the window, and see the flags flying, + And drearily list to the roll of the drum, +And smother the pain in my heart that is lying, + And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb. + +I shall sit in the window when summer is lying + Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum +Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing, + And watch for the face of my darling to come. + +And if he should fall--his young life he has given + For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray +Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven + To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day. + + + + +My Maryland. + +Written at Pointe Coupee, LA., April 26, 1861. First Published in the New +Orleans Delta. + + + +The despot's heel is on thy shore, + Maryland! +His torch is at thy temple door, + Maryland! +Avenge the patriotic gore +That flecked the streets of Baltimore, +And be the battle-queen of yore, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Hark to an exiled son's appeal, + Maryland! +My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, + Maryland! +For life and death, for woe and weal, +Thy peerless chivalry reveal, +And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Thou wilt not cower in the dust, + Maryland! +Thy beaming sword shall never rust, + Maryland! + +Remember Carroll's sacred trust, +Remember Howard's warlike thrust, +And all thy slumberers with the just, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, + Maryland! +Come! with thy panoplied array, + Maryland! +With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, +With Watson's blood at Monterey, +With fearless Lowe and dashing May, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, + Maryland! +Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, + Maryland! +Come! to thine own heroic throng, +That stalks with Liberty along, +And ring thy dauntless Slogan-song, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, + Maryland! +Virginia should not call in vain, + Maryland! + +_She_ meets her sisters on the plain-- +"_Sic semper,_" 'tis the proud refrain +That baffles minions back amain, + Maryland! +Arise, in majesty again, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +I see the blush upon thy cheek, + Maryland! +For thou wast ever bravely meek, + Maryland! +But lo! there surges forth a shriek +From hill to hill, from creek to creek-- +Potomac calls to Chesapeake, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, + Maryland! +Thou wilt not crook to his control, + Maryland! +Better the fire upon thee roll, +Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, +Than crucifixion of the soul, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +I hear the distant thunder hum, + Maryland! +The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, + Maryland! + +She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb-- +Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! +She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come! + Maryland! My Maryland! + + + + +The Boy-Soldier. + +By a Lady of Savannah. + + + +He is acting o'er the battle, + With his cap and feather gay, +Singing out his soldier-prattle, + In a mockish manly way-- +With the boldest, bravest footstep, + Treading firmly up and down, +And his banner waving softly, + O'er his boyish locks of brown. + +And I sit beside him sewing, + With a busy heart and hand, +For the gallant soldiers going + To the far-off battle land-- +And I gaze upon my jewel, + In his baby spirit bold, +My little blue-eyed soldier, + Just a second summer old. + +Still a deep, deep well of feeling, + In my mother's heart is stirred, +And the tears come softly stealing + At each imitative word! +There's a struggle in my bosom, + For I love my darling boy-- +He's the gladness of my spirit, + He's the sunlight of my joy! +Yet I think upon my country, + And my spirit groweth bold-- +Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier + Were but twenty summers old! + +I would speed him to the battle-- + I would arm him for the fight; +I would give him to his country, + For his country's wrong and right! +I would nerve his hand with blessing + From the "God of battles" won-- +With His helmet and His armor, + I would cover o'er my son. + +Oh! I know there'd be a struggle, + For I love my darling boy; +He's the gladness of my spirit, + He's the sunlight of my joy! +Yet in thinking of my country, + Oh! my spirit groweth bold, +And I with my blue-eyed soldier + Were but twenty summers old! + + + + +The Good Old Cause. + +By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala. + + + +I. + + +Huzza! huzza! for the _Good Old Cause_, + 'Tis a stirring sound to hear, +For it tells of rights and liberties, + Our fathers bought so dear; +It brings up the _Jersey prison-ship_, + The spot where _Warren_ fell, +And the scaffold which echoes the dying words + Of _murdered Hayne's_ farewell. + + + +II. + + +The _Good Old Cause!_ it is still the same + Though age upon age may roll; +'Tis the cause of _the right_ against _the wrong_, + Burning bright in each generous soul; +'Tis the cause of all who claim to live + As freemen on Freedom's sod; +Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons, + By Tyranny's heel down-trod. + + + +III. + + +And whoever burns with a holy zeal, + To behold his country free, +And would sooner see her _baptized in blood_, + Than to bend the suppliant knee; +Must agree to follow her _White-Cross flag_, + Where the storms of battle roll, +_A soldier_--A SOLDIER!--with _arms in his hands_, + And the _love of the South in his soul!_ + + + +IV. + + +Come one, come all, at your country's call, + Let none remain behind, +But those too young, and those too old, + The feeble, the halt, the blind; +Let _every man_, whether rich or poor, + Who can carry a knapsack and gun, +Repair to the ranks of our Southern host, + 'Till the cause of the South is won. + + + +V. + + +But the son of the South, if such there be, + Who will shrink from the contest now, +From a love of ease, or the lust of gain, + Or through fear of the Yankee foe; +May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand, + As though it was soiled for aye, +And may every woman turn her cheek + From his craven lips away; +May his country's curse be on his head, + And may no man ever see, +A gentle bride by the traitor's side, + Or children about his knee. + + + +VI. + + +Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause, + 'Tis a stirring sound to hear; +For it tells of rights and liberties, + Our fathers bought so dear; +It summons our braves from their bloody graves. + To receive our fond applause, +And bids us tread in the steps of those + Who _died_ for the _Good Old Cause_. + + + + +Manassas. + +By Catherine M. Warfield. + + + +They have met at last--as storm-clouds + meet in heaven; +And the Northmen, back and bleeding, + have been driven: +And their thunders have been stilled, +And their leaders crushed or killed, +And their ranks, with terror thrilled, + rent and riven! + +Like the leaves of Vallambrosa + they are lying; +In the moonlight, in the midnight, + dead and dying: +Like those leaves before the gale, +Swept their legions, wild and pale; +While the host that made them quail + stood, defying. + +When aloft in morning sunlight + flags were flaunted, +And "swift vengeance on the rebel" + proudly vaunted: +Little did they think that night +Should close upon their shameful flight, +And rebels, victors in the fight, + stand undaunted. + +But peace to those who perished + in our passes! +Light be the earth above them! + green the grasses! +Long shall Northmen rue the day, +When they met our stern array, +And shrunk from battle's wild affray + at Manassas! + + + + +Virginia. + +By Catherine M. Warfield. + + + +Glorious Virginia! Freedom sprang +Light to her feet at thy trumpet's clang: +At the first sound of that clarion blast, +Foes like the chaff from the whirlwind passed-- +Passed to their doom: from that hour no more +Triumphs their cause by sea or shore. + +Glorious Virginia! noble the blood +That hath bathed thy fields in a crimson flood; +On many a wide-spread and sunny plain, +Like leaves of autumn thy dead have lain: +The Southron heart is their funeral urn! +The Southern slogan their requiem stern! + +Glorious Virginia! to thee, to thee +We lean, as the shoots to the parent tree; +Bending in awe at thy glance of might;-- +First in the council, first in the fight! +While our flag is fanned by the breath of fame, +Glorious Virginia! we'll bless thy name. + + + + +The War-Christian's Thanksgiving. + +Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States. + +By S. Teackle Wallis. + + + +Oh, God of battles! once again, + With banner, trump, and drum, +And garments in thy wine-press dyed, + To give Thee thanks we come. + +No goats or bullocks garlanded, + Unto thine altars go; +With brothers' blood, by brothers shed, + Our glad libations flow, + +From pest-house and from dungeon foul, + Where, maimed and torn, they die, +From gory trench and charnel-house, + Where, heap on heap, they lie. + +In every groan that yields a soul, + Each shriek a heart that rends, +With every breath of tainted air, + Our homage, Lord, ascends. + +We thank Thee for the sabre's gash, + The cannon's havoc wild; +We bless Thee for the widow's tears, + The want that starves her child! + +We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit + The torch, and fanned the flame; +That lust and rapine hunt their prey, + Kind Father, in Thy name! + +That, for the songs of idle joy + False angels sang of yore, +Thou sendest War on earth--ill-will + To men for evermore! + +We know that wisdom, truth, and right + To us and ours are given; +That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath, + To do the work of heaven. + +We know that plains and cities waste + Are pleasant in Thine eyes-- +Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate, + Thou lov'st a mourner's cries. + +Let not our weakness fall below + The measure of Thy will, +And while the press hath wine to bleed, + Oh, tread it with us still! + +Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught + Fond fools, of yore, to love; +Give us Thy vengeance as our own-- + Thy pity, hide above! + +Teach us to turn, with reeking hands, + The pages of Thy word, +And learn the blessed curses there, + On them that sheathe the sword. + +Where'er we tread may deserts spring, + 'Till none are left to slay; +And when the last red drop is shed, + We'll kneel again--and pray! + + + + +Sonnet. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Man makes his own dread fates, and these in turn +Create his tyrants. In our lust and passion, +Our appetite and ignorance, he springs. +The creature of our need as our desert, +The scourge that whips us for decaying virtue, +He chastens to reform us! Never yet, +In mortal life, did tyrant rise to power, +But in the people's worst infirmities +Of crime and greed. The creature of our vices, +The loathsome ulcer of our vicious moods, +He is decreed their proper punishment. + + + + +Marching to Death. + +By J. Herbert Sass, of South Carolina. + +1862. + + + +"The National Quarterly depicts a remarkable scene, which occurred some +years since on one of the British transport ships. The commander of the +troops on board, seeing that the vessel must soon sink, and that there was +no hope of saving his men, drew them up in order of battle, and, as in the +presence of a human enemy, bravely faced the doom that was before them. We +know of no more impressive illustration of the power of military +discipline in the presence of death." + + +I. + + +The last farewells are breathed by loving lips, +The last fond prayer for darling ones is said, +And o'er each heart stern sorrow's dark eclipse + Her sable pall hath spread. + + + +II. + + +Far, far beyond each anxious watcher's sight, +Baring her bosom to the wanton sea, +The lordly ship sweeps onward in her might, + Her tameless majesty. + + + +III. + + +Forth from his fortress in the western sky, +Flashing defiance on each crested wave, +Out glares the sun, with red and lowering eye, + Grand, even in his grave. + + + +IV. + + +Till, waxing bolder as his rays decline, +The clustering billows o'er his ramparts sweep, +Slow droops his banner--fades his light divine, + And darkness rules the deep. + + + +V. + + +Look once again!--Night's sombre shades have fled: +But the pale rays that glimmer from their sheath, +Serve but to show the blackness overhead, + And the wild void beneath. + + + +VI. + + +Mastless and helmless drifts the helpless bark; +Her pride, her majesty, her glory gone; +While o'er the waters broods the tempest dark, + And the wild winds howl on. + + + +VII. + + +But hark! amid the madness of the storm +There comes an echo o'er the surging wave; +Firm at its call the dauntless legions form, + The resolute and brave. + + + +VIII. + + +Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host, +In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck, +Calmly as though they knew not they were lost-- + Lost in that shattered wreck. + + + +IX. + + +Eight hundred men,--old England's tried and true, +Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done, +Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too, + And the last fight be won. + + + +X. + + +Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand; +No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring; +Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand, + "The king! God save the king!" + + + +XI. + + +Lower and lower sinks the fated bark, +Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave, +But loud outswells, across the waters dark, + The death-song of the brave. + + + +XII. + + +Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep; +Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring, +Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep, + "The king! God save the king!" + + + +XIII. + + +Oh thou! whoe'er thou art that reads this page, +Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith, +For all throughout our earthly pilgrimage, + We hold a tryst with death. + + + +XIV. + + +Not in the battle-field's tumultuous strife, +Not in the hour when vanquished foemen fly, +Not in the midst of bright and happy life, + Is it most hard to die. + + + +XV. + + +Greater the guerdon, holier the prize, +Of him who trusts, and waits in lowly mood; +Oh! learn how high, how holy courage lies + In patient fortitude. + + + + +Charleston. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Calm as that second summer which precedes + The first fall of the snow, +In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, + The city bides the foe. + +As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, + Her bolted thunders sleep-- +Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, + Looms o'er the solemn deep. + +No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur + To guard the holy strand; +But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, + Above the level sand. + +And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched. + Unseen, beside the flood-- +Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, + That wait and watch for blood. + +Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, + Walk grave and thoughtful men, +Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade + As lightly as the pen. + +And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim + Over a bleeding hound, +Seem each one to have caught the strength of him + Whose sword she sadly bound. + +Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, + Day patient following day, +Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, + Across her tranquil bay. + +Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands + And spicy Indian ports, +Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, + And summer to her courts. + +But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, + The only hostile smoke +Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, + From some frail, floating oak. + +Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, + And with an unscathed brow, +Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, + As fair and free as now? + +We know not; in the temple of the Fates + God has inscribed her doom; +And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits + The triumph or the tomb. + + + + +Charleston. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I. + + +What! still does the Mother of Treason uprear + Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea? +Unquelled by mistrust, and unblanched by a Fear, + Unbowed her proud head, and unbending her knee, + Calm, steadfast, and free? + + + +II. + + +Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your wrath, + Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;-- +But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path, + And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire + Of your fruitless desire. + + + +III. + + +Ringed round by her Brave, a fierce circlet of flame, + Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast; +She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, + And never, we swear, shall _your_ footsteps be pressed + Where her dead heroes rest! + + + +IV. + + +Her voice shook the Tyrant!--sublime from her tongue + Fell the accents of warning,--a Prophetess grand,-- +On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung, + _And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand_ + Broke the sleep of her land! + + + +V. + + +What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound will + The Fate that would trample her honor to earth,-- +The light in those deep eyes is luminous still + With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth, + Which illumine the Earth! + + + +VI. + + +And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved, + "Without fear or reproach," lifts her Banner on high; +He stands in the vanguard, majestic, unmoved, + And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh, + Vow, "'tis easy to die!" + + + +VII. + + +Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air! + The world's breath is hushed at the conflict! before +Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair-- + And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore, + We shall prize her the more! + + + +VIII. + + +And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes + To the height of her promise, the voices of yore, +From the storied Profound of past ages arise, + And the pomps of their magical music outpour + O'er the war-beaten shore. + + + +IX. + + +Then gird your brave Empress, O! Heroes, with flame + Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast, +She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, + And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed + Where her dead Martyrs rest! + + + + +"Ye Men of Alabama!" + +By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala. + + + +Air--"Ye Mariners of England." + + + +I. + + +Ye men of Alabama, + Awake, arise, awake! +And rend the coils asunder + Of this Abolition snake. +If another fold he fastens-- + If this final coil he plies-- +In the cold clasp of hate and power + Fair Alabama dies. + + + +II. + + +Though round your lower limbs and waist + His deadly coils I see, +Yet, yet, thank Heaven! your head and arms, + And good right hand, are free; +And in that hand there glistens-- + O God! what joy to feel!-- +A polished blade, full sharp and keen, + Of tempered State Rights steel. + + + +III. + + +Now, by the free-born sires + From whose brave loins ye sprung! +And by the noble mothers + At whose fond breasts ye hung! +And by your wives and daughters, + And by the ills they dread, +Drive deep that good Secession steel + Right through the Monster's head. + + + +IV. + + +This serpent Abolition + Has been coiling on for years; +We have reasoned, we have threatened, + We have begged almost with tears: +Now, away, away with Union, + Since on our Southern soil +The only _union_ left us + Is an anaconda's coil. + + + +V. + + +Brave little South Carolina + Will strike the self-same blow, +And Florida, and Georgia, + And Mississippi too; +And Arkansas, and Texas; + And at the death, I ween, +The head will fall beneath the blows + Of all the brave Fifteen. + + + +VI. + + +In this our day of trial, + Let feuds and factions cease, +Until above this howling storm + We see the sign of Peace. +Let Southern men, like brothers, + In solid phalanx stand, +And poise their spears, and lock their shields, + To guard their native land. + + + +VII. + + +The love that for the Union + Once in our bosoms beat, +From insult and from injury + Has turned to scorn and hate; +And the banner of Secession + To-day we lift on high, +Resolved, beneath that sacred flag, + To conquer, or TO DIE! + +Montgomery Advertiser, October, 1860. + + + + +Nec Temere, Nec Timide. + +By Annie Chambers Ketchum. + + + +Gentlemen of the South, + Gird on your glittering swords! +Darkly along our borders fair + Gather the Northern hordes. +Ruthless and fierce they come + At the fiery cannon's mouth, +To blast the glory of our land, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Ride forth in your stately pride, + Each bearing on his shield +Ensigns our fathers won of yore + On many a well-fought field! +Let this be your battle-cry, + Even to the cannon's mouth, +_Cor unum via una!_ Onward, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Brave knights of a knightly race, + Gordon, and Chambers, and Gray, +Show to the minions of the North + How Valor dares the fray! +Let them read on each stainless crest + At the belching cannon's mouth, +_Decori decus addit avito_, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Morrison, Douglas, Stuart, + Erskine, and Bradford, and West, +Your gauntlets on many a bloody field + Have stood the battle's test! +_Animo non astutia!_ + March to the cannon's mouth, +Heirs of the brave dead centuries! Onward, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Call forth your stalwart men, + Workers in brass and steel! +Bid the swart artisans come forth + At sound of the trumpet's peal! +Give them your war-cry, Erskine! + _Fight!_ to the cannon's mouth! +Bid the men _Forward!_ Douglas, _Forward!_ + Yeomanry of the South! + +Brave hunters! Ye have met + The fierce black bear in the fray; +Ye have trailed the panther night by night, + Ye have chased the fox by day! +Your prancing chargers pant + To dash at the gray wolf's mouth, +Your arms are sure of their quarry! Onward! + Gentlemen of the South! + +Fight! that the lowly serf + And the high-born lady still +May bide in their proud dependency, + Free subjects of your will! +Teach the base North how ill, + At the fiery cannon's mouth, +He fares who touches your household gods, + Gentlemen of the South! + +From mother, and wife, and child, + From faithful and happy slave, +Prayers for your sakes ascend to Him + Whose arm is strong to save! +We check the gathering tears, + Though ye go to the cannon's mouth; +_Dominus providebit!_ Onward, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Memphis Appeal. + + + + +Dixie. + +By Albert Pike. + + + +I. + + +Southrons, hear your Country call you! +Up! lest worse than death befall you! + To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! +Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted, +Let all hearts be now united! + To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! + Advance the flag; of Dixie! + Hurrah! hurrah! + For Dixie's land we'll take our stand, + To live or die for Dixie! + To arms! to arms! + And conquer peace for Dixie! + To arms! to arms! + And conquer peace for Dixie! + + + +II. + + +Hear the Northern thunders mutter! +Northern flags in South-winds flutter! + To arms! etc. +Send them back your fierce defiance! +Stamp upon the accursed alliance! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +III. + + +Fear no danger! shun no labor! +Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! + To arms! etc. +Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, +Let the odds make each heart bolder! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie, etc. + + + +IV. + + +How the South's great heart rejoices +At your cannon's ringing voices; + To arms! etc. +For faith betrayed and pledges broken, +Wrong inflicted, insults spoken. + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie, etc. + + + +V. + + +Strong as lions, swift as eagles, +Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! + To arms! etc. +Cut the unequal bonds asunder! +Let them hence each other plunder! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +VI. + + +Swear upon your Country's altar, +Never to submit or falter; + To arms! etc. +Till the spoilers are defeated, +Till the Lord's work is completed. + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +VII. + + +Halt not till our Federation +Secures among earth's Powers its station! + To arms! etc. +Then at peace, and crowned with glory, +Hear your children tell the story! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +VIII. + + +If the loved ones weep in sadness, +Victory soon shall bring them gladness; + To arms! etc. +Exultant pride soon banish sorrow; +Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + + +The Old Rifleman. + +By Frank Ticknor, of Georgia. + + + +Now bring me out my buckskin suit! + My pouch and powder, too! +We'll see if seventy-six can shoot + As sixteen used to do. + +Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright! + Our trigger quick and true! +As far, if not as _fine_ a sight, + As long ago we drew! + +And pick me out a trusty flint! + A real white and blue, +Perhaps 'twill win the _other_ tint + Before the hunt is through! + +Give boys your brass percussion caps! + Old "shut-pan" suits as well! +There's something in the _sparks:_ perhaps + There's something in the smell! + +We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed! + The red-skin Indian, too! +We've never thought to draw a bead + On Yanke-doodle-doo! + +But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart! + Those days are mostly done; +And now we must revive the art + Of shooting on the run! + +If Doodle must be meddling, why, + There's only this to do-- +Select the black spot in his eye, + And let the daylight through! + +And if he doesn't like the way + That Bess presents the view, +He'll maybe change his mind, and stay + Where the good Doodles do! + +Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, + Who kissed the Testament; +To keep the Constitution? No! + _To keep the Government!_ + +We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, + And take him half and half; +We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool, + And _miss_ him, if a calf! + +We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks + By which a war is won; +Especially how Seventy-six + Took Tories on the run. + + + + +Battle Hymn. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Lord of Hosts, that beholds us in battle, defending + The homes of our sires 'gainst the hosts of the foe, +Send us help on the wings of thy angels descending, + And shield from his terrors, and baffle his blow. +Warm the faith of our sons, till they flame as the iron, + Red-glowing from the fire-forge, kindled by zeal; +Make them forward to grapple the hordes that environ, + In the storm-rush of battle, through forests of steel! + +Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious + The martyr who falls in the front of the fight;-- +That the faith which is steadfast makes ever victorious + The arm which strikes boldly defending the right;-- +That the zeal, which is roused by the wrongs of a nation, + Is a war-horse that sweeps o'er the field as his own; +And the Faith, which is winged by the soul's approbation, + Is a warrior, in proof, that can ne'er be o'erthrown. + + + + +Kentucky, She Is Sold + +By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky. + + + +A tear for "the dark and bloody ground," + For the land of hills and caves; +Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep + Where the vandals tread their graves; +A sigh for the loss of her honored fame, + Dear won in the days of old; +Her ship is manned by a foreign crew, + For Kentucky, she is sold. + +The bones of her sons lie bleaching on + The plains of Tippecanoe, +On the field of Raisin her blood was shed, + As free as the summer's dew; +In Mexico her McRee and Clay + Were first of the brave and bold-- +A change has been in her bosom wrought, + For Kentucky, she is sold. + +Pride of the free, was that noble State, + And her banner still were so, +Had the iron heel of the despot not + Her prowess sunk so low; +Her valleys once were the freeman's home, + Her valor unbought with gold, +But now the pride of her life is fled, + For Kentucky, she is sold. + +Her brave would once have scorned to wear + The yoke that crushes her now, +And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread, + Would sullen have made her brow; +Her spirit yet will be wakened up, + And her saddened fate be told, +Her gallant sons to the world yet prove + That Kentucky is not sold. + + + + +Sonnet--The Ship of State. + + + +Here lie the peril and necessity + That need a race of giants--a great realm, + With not one noble leader at the helm; +And the great Ship of State still driving high, + 'Midst breakers, on a lee shore--to the rocks. + With ever and anon most terrible shocks-- +The crew aghast, and fear in every eye. +Yet is the gracious Providence still nigh; + And, if our cause be just, our hearts be true, + We shall save goodly ship and gallant crew, +Nor suffer shipwreck of our liberty! + It needs that as a people we arise, + With solemn purpose that even fate defies, +And brave all perils with unblenching eye! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +"In His Blanket on the Ground." + +By Caroline H. Gervais, Charleston. + + + +Weary, weary lies the soldier, + In his blanket on the ground +With no sweet "Good-night" to cheer him, + And no tender voice's sound, +Making music in the darkness, + Making light his toilsome hours, +Like a sunbeam in the forest, + Or a tomb wreathed o'er with flowers. + +Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful, + As his memories sadly roam +To the "cozy little parlor" + And the loved ones of his home; +And his waking and his dreaming + Softly braid themselves in one, +As the twilight is the mingling + Of the starlight and the sun. + +And when sleep descends upon him, + _Still_ his thought within his dream +Is of home, and friends, and loved ones, + And his busy fancies seem +To be _real_, as they wander + To his mother's cherished form. +As she gently said, in parting + "Thine in sunshine and in storm: +Thine in helpless childhood's morning, + And in boyhood's joyous time, +Thou must leave me now--_God_ watch thee + In thy manhood's ripened prime." + +Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms + Teeming thick within his brain, +His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered, + Come to greet his view again; +And he hears his trembling accents, + Like a clarion ringing high, +"Since _not mine_ are youth and strength, boy, + _Thou_ must victor prove, or die." + +Or perchance he hears a whisper + Of the faintest, faintest sigh, +Something deeper than word-spoken, + Something breathing of a tie +Near his soul as bounding heart-blood: + It is hers, that patient wife-- +And again that parting seemeth + Like the taking leave of life: +And her last kiss he remembers, + And the agonizing thrill, +And the "_Must you go?_" and answer, + "_I but know my Country's will._" + +Or the little children gather, +Half in wonder, round his knees; +And the faithful dog, mute, watchful, +In the mystic glass he sees; +And the voice of song, and pictures, +And the simplest homestead flowers, +Unforgotten, crowd before him +In the solemn midnight hours. + +Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander +To a sister's sweet caress, +And he feels her dear lips quiver +As his own they fondly press; +And he hears her proudly saying, +(Though sad tears are in her eyes), +"Brave men fall, but live in story, +_For the Hero never dies!_" + +Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes, +And his heart beats quicker now, +As he thinks of one who gave him, +Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow; +And, ah, fondly he remembers +He is _still_ her dearest care, +Even in his star-watched slumber +That she pleads for him in prayer. + +Oh, the soldier _will_ be dreaming, +Dreaming _often_ of us all, +(When the damp earth is his pillow, +And the snow and cold sleet fall), +Of the dear, familiar faces, +Of the cozy, curtained room, +Of the flitting of the shadows +In the twilight's pensive gloom. + +Or when summer suns burn o'er him, +Bringing drought and dread disease, +And the throes of wasting fever +Come his weary frame to seize-- +In the restless sleep of sickness, +Doomed, perchance, to martyr death, +Hear him whisper "_Home_"--sweet cadence, +With his quickened, labored breath. + +Then God bless him, bless the soldier, +And God nerve him for the fight; +May He lend his arm new prowess +To do battle for the right. +Let him feel that while he's dreaming +In his fitful slumber bound, +That we're praying--_God watch o'er him +In his blanket on the ground._ + + + + +The Mountain Partisan. + + + +I. + + +My rifle, pouch, and knife! + My steed! And then we part! +One loving kiss, dear wife, + One press of heart to heart! +Cling to me yet awhile, + But stay the sob, the tear! +Smile--only try to smile-- + And I go without a fear. + + + +II. + + +Our little cradled boy, + He sleeps--and in his sleep, +Smiles, with an angel joy, + Which tells thee not to weep. +I'll kneel beside, and kiss-- + He will not wake the while, +Thus dreaming of the bliss, + That bids thee, too, to smile. + + + +III. + + +Think not, dear wife, I go, + With a light thought at my heart +'Tis a pang akin to woe, + That fills me as we part; +But when the wolf was heard + To howl around our lot, +Thou know'st, dear mother-bird, + I slew him on the spot! + + + +IV. + + +Aye, panther, wolf, and bear, + Have perish'd 'neath my knife; +Why tremble, then, with fear, + When now I go, my wife? +Shall I not keep the peace, + That made our cottage dear; +And 'till these wolf-curs cease + Shall I be housing here? + + + +V. + + +One loving kiss, dear wife, + One press of heart to heart; +Then for the deadliest strife, + For freedom I depart! +I were of little worth, + Were these Yankee wolves left free +To ravage 'round our hearth, + And bring one grief to thee! + + + +VI. + + +God's blessing on thee, wife, + God's blessing on the young: +Pray for me through the strife, + And teach our infant's tongue. +Whatever haps in fight, + I shall be true to thee-- +To the home of our delight-- + To my people of the free. + + + + +The Cameo Bracelet. + +By James R. Randall, of Maryland. + + + +Eva sits on the ottoman there, +Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, +With just such a face, and just such an air, +As Esther upon her throne. + +She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed, + And I watch her fingers float and flow +Over the linen, as, thread by thread, + It flakes to her lap like snow. + +A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, + Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome, +Out of the tears of the amethyst, + And the wan Vesuvian foam. + +And full on the bauble-crest alway-- + A cameo image keen and fine-- +Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday, + And the lava-locks are thine! + +I thought of the war-wolves on our trail, + Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood; +Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil, + Drooped with a wizard flood + +Till the surly blaze through the iron bars + Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry-- +And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars + To the Column of July-- + +Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear, + And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown-- +For Eva was not on the ottoman there, + By the Psyche carved in stone. + +She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate, + With the incantation in her gaze, +A lip of scorn--an arm of hate-- + And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!" + +Eva, the vision was not wild, + When wreaked on the tyrants of the land-- +For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child, + With the dagger in your hand! + + + + +Zollicoffer. + +By H. L. Flash, of Alabama. + + + +First in the fight, and first in the arms + Of the white-winged angels of glory, +With the heart of the South at the feet of God, + And his wounds to tell the story: + +And the blood that flowed from his hero heart, + On the spot where he nobly perished, +Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament + In the holy cause he cherished. + +In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, + And, for his soul's sustaining, +The apocalyptic eyes of Christ-- + And nothing on earth remaining, + +But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, + A name in song and story, +And Fame to shout with her brazen voice, + "Died on the Field of Glory!" + + + + +Beauregard + +By Catharine A. Warfield, of Mississippi. + + + +Let the trumpet shout once more, + Beauregard! +Let the battle-thunders roar, + Beauregard! +And again by yonder sea, +Let the swords of all the free +Leap forth to fight with thee, + Beauregard! + +Old Sumter loves thy name, + Beauregard! +Grim Moultrie guards thy fame, + Beauregard! +Oh! first in Freedom's fight! +Oh! steadfast in the right! +Oh! brave and Christian Knight! + Beauregard! + +St. Michael with his host, + Beauregard! +Encamps by yonder coast, + Beauregard! +And the Demon's might shall quail, +And the Dragon's terrors fail, +Were he trebly clad in mail, + Beauregard! + +Not a leaf shall fall away, + Beauregard! +From the laurel won to-day, + Beauregard! +While the ocean breezes blow, +While the billows lapse and flow +O'er the Northman's bones below, + Beauregard! + +Let the trumpet shout once more, + Beauregard! +Let the battle-thunders roar, + Beauregard! +From the centre to the shore, +From the sea to the land's core +Thrills the echo, evermore, + Beauregard! + + + + +South Carolina. + + + + 1719. Colonial Revolution. + 1763. Colonial History--Progress, + 1776. American Revolution. + 1812-15. Second War with Great Britain + 1830-32. Nullification for State Rights. + 1835-40. Florida War. + 1847. Mexican War--Palmetto Regiment. + 1860-61. Secession, and Third War for Independence. + +My brave old Country! I have watched thee long +Still ever first to rise against the wrong; +To check the usurper in his giant stride, +And brave his terrors and abase his pride; +Foresee the insidious danger ere it rise, +And warn the heedless and inform the wise; +Scorning the lure, the bribe, the selfish game, +Which, through the office, still becomes the shame; +Thou stood'st aloof--superior to the fate +That would have wrecked thy freedom as a State. +In vain the despot's threat, his cunning lure; +Too proud thy spirit, and thy heart too pure; +Thou hadst no quest but freedom, and to be +In conscience well-assured, and people free. +The statesman's lore was thine, the patriot's aim, +These kept thee virtuous, and preserved thy fame; +The wisdom still for council, the brave voice, +That thrills a people till they all rejoice. +These were thy birthrights; and two centuries pass'd, +As, at the first, still find thee at the last; +Supreme in council, resolute in will, +Pure in thy purpose--independent still! + +The great good counsels, the examples brave, +Won from the past, not buried in its grave, +Still warm your soul with courage--still impar +Wisdom to virtue, valor to the heart! +Still first to check th' encroachment--to declare +"Thus far! no further, shall the assailant dare;" +Thou keep'st thy ermine white, thy State secure, +Thy fortunes prosperous, and thy freedom sure; +No glozing art deceives thee to thy bane; +The tempter and the usurper strive in vain! +Thy spear's first touch unfolds the fiendish form, +And first, with fearless breast, thou meet'st the storm; +Though hosts assail thee, thou thyself a host, +Prepar'st to meet the invader on the coast: +Thy generous sons contending which shall be +First in the phalanx, gathering by the sea; +No dastard fear appals them, as they teach +How best to hurl the bolt, or man the breach! + +Great Soul in little frame!--the hope of man +Exults, when such as thou art in the van! +Unshaken, unbeguiled, unslaved, unbought, +Thy fame shall brighten with each battle fought; +True to the examples of the past, thou'lt be, +For the long future, best security. + +Charleston Mercury. + +Gossypium. + + + + +Carolina. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +I. + + +The despot treads thy sacred sands, +Thy pines give shelter to his bands, +Thy sons stand by with idle hands, + Carolina! +He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, +He scorns the lances of thy palm; +Oh I who shall break thy craven calm, + Carolina! +Thy ancient fame is growing dim, +A spot is on thy garment's rim; +Give to the winds thy battle hymn, + Carolina! + + + +II. + + +Call on thy children of the hill, +Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, +Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, + Carolina! +Cite wealth and science, trade and art, +Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, +And pour thee through the people's heart, + Carolina! +Till even the coward spurns his fears, +And all thy fields, and fens, and meres, +Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears, + Carolina! + + + +III. + + +Hold up the glories of thy dead; +Say how thy elder children bled, +Arid point to Eutaw's battle-bed, + Carolina! +Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, +And what his dauntless breast defied; +How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died, + Carolina! +Cry! till thy summons, heard at last, +Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast, +Re-echoed from the haunted past, + Carolina! + + + +IV. + + +I hear a murmur, as of waves +That grope their way through sunless caves, +Like bodies struggling in their graves, + Carolina! +And now it deepens; slow and grand +It swells, as rolling to the land +An ocean broke upon the strand, + Carolina! +Shout! let it reach the startled Huns! +And roar with all thy festal guns! +It is the answer of thy sons, + Carolina! + + + +V. + + +They will not wait to hear thee call; +From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall +Resounds the voice of hut and hall, + Carolina! +No! thou hast not a stain, they say, +Or none save what the battle-day +Shall wash in seas of blood away, + Carolina! +Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part, +Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, +They shall not touch thy noble heart, + Carolina! + + + +VI. + + +Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall, +Ten times ten thousand men must fall; +Thy corpse may hearken to his call, + Carolina! +When by thy bier, in mournful throngs, +The women chant thy mortal wrongs, +'Twill be their own funereal songs, + Carolina! +From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod, +No helpless child shall look to God; +All shall be safe beneath thy sod, + Carolina! + + + +VII. + + +Girt with such wills to do and bear, +Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, +Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, + Carolina! +Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! +Front with thy ranks the threatening seas, +Like thine own proud armorial trees, + Carolina! +Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, +And roar the challenge from thy guns; +Then leave the future to thy sons, + Carolina! + + + + +My Mother-Land. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +_"Animis, Opibusque Parati."_ + +My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling +Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze, +The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas, +The imperious despot's power; +But long before that hour, +While yet, in false and vain imagining, +Thy sister nations would not own their foe, +And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low, +Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe +Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air; +While yet they paused in scorn, +Of fatal madness born,-- +Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd +With wondrous vision of the things to come, +Thou couldst not calmly rest +Secure and dumb-- +But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum +And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!" +"Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said; +"We see no threatening tempest overhead, +Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath +Will sweep away, or melt in watery death." + +"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom! +Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom +Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day, +Which shone o'er Charleston Bay-- +When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed-- +That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away +From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud, +Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long, +Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong. + +But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde +Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword, + Approach to desecrate +The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate-- +Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast +Their ashes to the blast-- +Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate +The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"-- +Against this ravening flood +Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood, + Oh! we, +Strong in the strength of God-supported might, +Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight, + Nor basely yield +To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field-- +But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be, +To make our fated land one vast Thermopylae! + + Death! What of Death?-- +Can he who once drew honorable breath + In liberty's pure sphere, + Foster a sensual fear, +When death and slavery meet him face to face, +Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace +Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there, +Black degradation, haunted by despair." + + Death! What of Death?-- +The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl +Across their portion of this earthly ball, +Share life and motion with us; would we strive +Like such to creep alive, +Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin +We still might keep our mortal breathings in? + +The very thought brings blushes to the cheek! +I hear all 'round about me murmurs run, +Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE +Soul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak: + +"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just! + Behold, we seek +Not merely to preserve for noble wives +The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives, +To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand, +And leave our sons their heirloom of command, + In generous perpetuity of trust; +Not only to defend those ancient laws, +Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire +Welded forevermore with freedom's cause, +And handed scathless down from sire to sire-- +Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ, +Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms, +(Though these had sure sufficed +To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)-- +But more than all, because embracing all, +Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon +Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep, +From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun + To him, that gallant Knight, +The youngest champion in the Senate hall, +Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate, +His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right, +Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep +Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1] + +"There's not a tone from out the teeming past, +Uplifted once in such a cause as ours, +Which does not smite our souls +In long reverberating thunder-rolls, +From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story. +Above the shouting, furious Persian mass, +Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers, +Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas +Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock; +And o'er the murmurous seas, +Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss, +(For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last), +Gome the clear accents of Miltiades, +Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock +Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis. + +"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart +Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus, +We look for proud exemplars; yet for us + It is enough to know +_Our fathers left us freemen_; let us show +The will to hold our lofty heritage, +The patient strength to act our fathers' part-- +Brothers on history's page, +We wait to write our autographs in gore, +To cast the morning brightness of our glory + Beyond our day and hope, +The narrow limit of _one_ age's scope, + On Time's remotest shore! + + "Yea! though our children's blood +Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood, +Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bear + The Ark that holds our shrined liberty, + Nearer, and yet more near +Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea. + + "At last, the conflict done, +The fadeless meed of final victory won-- +Behold! emerging from the rifted dark +Athwart a shining summit high in heaven, + That delegated Ark! +No more to be by vengeful tempests driven, +But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat +The congregated nations gladly gaze, +Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays +That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!" + +Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me +Its voice hath come, a passionate augury! +Methinks the very aspect of the world +Changed to the mystic music of its hope. +For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope +The stormy cloudland banners all are furled, + And softly borne above +Are brooding pinions of invisible love, + Distilling balm of rest and tender thought + From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought +O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams + Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams; + And universal nature, wheresoever +My vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river-- + Sleeps, like a happy child, + In slumber undefiled, +A premonition of sublimer days, + When war and warlike lays + At length shall cease, + Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace, + Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind-- + A prelude and a prophecy combined! + +[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of +course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle +and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate +of 1832, would be understood as _not_ pushing the comparison further +than the _first_ shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful +opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. +Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no +decisive advantage on either side. + + + + +Joe Johnston. + +By John R. Thompson. + + + +Once more to the breach for the land of the West! +And a leader we give of our bravest and best, + Of his State and his army the pride; +Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, + And gleams in the glaive at his side. + +For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright +As the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight, + Newly wrought in the forges of Spain; +And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right, + Will never be dimmed by a stain. + +He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind, +Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, + Where lie the fresh fields of his fame; +Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind, + Seem ever to whisper his name. + +The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, +And their motto a noble distinction confers-- + "Ever ready!" for friend or for foe-- +With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs + The large, manly heart of our JOE. + +We read that a former bold chief of the clan, +Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van, + On Shiloh's illustrious day; +And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man + The dark, bloody debt to repay. + +There is much to be done; if not glory to seek, +There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak + For crimes of a terrible dye; +While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak, + In a chorus rise up to the sky. + +For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, +That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men, + With his pack has returned to the spoil; +Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen, + And drive him again from your soil. + +Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true, +Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you + Our leader had never a doubt; +You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew, + The day that his bugles ring out. + +But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore, +Where now are the rifles that kept from your door + The wolf and the robber as well? +Of a truth, you have never been laggard before + To deal with a savage so fell. + +Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold? +Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold + Your lives than your freedom more dear? +Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, + Or basely take counsel of fear? + +We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land +Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand + That disgraces the dastard, the slave: +The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand, + Her own sons her own honor shall save! + +Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, +When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal, + And the torrents their sources unseal; +And this be the watchword of one and of all-- + "Remember the butcher, McNeil!" + +Then once more to the breach for the land of the West; +Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best; + Follow on where your leader you see; +One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed, + And the land of the West shall be free! + +[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently +presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, +1862.] + + + + +Over the River. + +By Jane T. H. Cross. + +Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861. + + + +We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars," + As one may hail a neighbor; +Now forward move! no fear of jars, + With nothing but free labor; +And we will mind our slaves and farm, +And never wish you any harm, + But greet you--_over the river_. + +The self-same language do we speak, + The same dear words we utter; +Then let's not make each other weak, + Nor 'gainst each other mutter; +But let each go his separate way, +And each will doff his hat, and say: + "I greet you--over the river!" + +Our flags, almost the same, unfurl, + And nod across the border; +Ohio's waves between them curl-- + _Our stripe's a little broader_; +May yours float out on every breeze, +And, _in our wake_, traverse all seas-- + We greet you--over the river! + +We part, as friends of years should part, + With pleasant words and wishes, +And no desire is in our heart + For Lincoln's loaves and fishes; +"Farewell," we wave you from afar, +We like you best--just where you are-- + And greet you--over the river! + + + + +The Confederacy. + +By Jane T. H. Cross. + +Published in the Southern Christian Advocated. + + + +Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood, + The pearly light of heaven was on her face; +Life's early joy was coursing in her blood; + A thing she was of beauty and of grace. + +She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth, + No voice of sympathy was heard to greet +The glory-beaming morning of her birth, + Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet. + +She stood, derided by her passing foes; + Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn; +Their rage in blackening billows round her rose-- + Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn. + +Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast, + She shakes them off in pure and holy ire, +As quietly as Paul, in ages past, + Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire. + +She bends not to her foes, nor to the world, + She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom; +But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled, + She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom. + +She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth, + She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye, +She asks of Thee her place upon the earth-- + For it is Thine to give or to deny. + +Oh, let _Thine_ eye but recognize her right! + Oh, let _Thy_ voice but justify her claim! +Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight, + And all their power is but an empty name, + +Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer! + Her robes are dripping with her children's blood; +Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare," + They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood." + +The anguish wraps her close around, like death, + Her children lie in heaps about her slain; +Before the world she bravely holds her breath, + Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain. + +But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed, + Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan-- +Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest! + For Thou hast called her!--is she not Thine own? + + + + +President Davis. + +By Jane T. H. Cross. + +Published in the New York News, 1865. + + + +The cell is lonely, and the night + Has filled it with a darker gloom; +The little rays of friendly light, + Which through each crack and chink found room +To press in with their noiseless feet, +All merciful and fleet, +And bring, like Noah's trembling dove, +God's silent messages of love-- + These, too, are gone, + Shut out, and gone, +And that great heart is left alone. + +Alone, with darkness and with woe, + Around him Freedom's temple lies, +Its arches crushed, its columns low, + The night-wind through its ruin sighs; +Rash, cruel hands that temple razed, +Then stood the world amazed! +And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds! +Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds; + And yet no groan + Is heard, no groan! +He suffers silently, alone. + +For all his bright and happy home, + He has that cell, so drear and dark, +The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome, + The clank of chains, for song of lark; +And for the grateful voice of friends-- +That voice which ever lends +Its charm where human hearts are found-- +He hears the key's dull, grating sound; + No heart is near, + No kind heart near, +No sigh of sympathy, no tear! + +Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good! + Unnumbered hearts on thee await, +By thee invisibly have stood, + Have crowded through thy prison-gate; +Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars, +Nor floating "stripes and stars," +Nor glittering gun or bayonet, +Can ever cause us to forget + Our faith to thee, + Our love to thee, +Thou glorious soul! thou strong! _thou free!_ + + + + +The Rifleman's "Fancy Shot." + + + +"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, + Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; +Ring me a ball on the glittering spot + That shines on his breast like an amulet." + +"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead; + There's music around when my barrel's in tune." +Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, + And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. + +"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch + From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood: +A button, a loop, or that luminous patch + That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." + +"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track, + When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette; +For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, + That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. + +"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold; + An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, +Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, + Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." + +"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket--'tis she! + My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon. +Was her husband. Hush, soldier!--'twas heaven's deer + We must bury him there, by the light of the moon. + +"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; + War is a virtue, and weakness a sin; +There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night: + Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!" + + + + +"All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night." + +By Lamar Fontaine. + + + +[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has +been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues +silent on the subject.] + + +"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" + Except here and there a stray picket +Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, + By a rifleman hid in the thicket. + +'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then + Will not count in the news of a battle; +Not an officer lost! only one of the men + Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. + +All quiet along the Potomac to-night! + Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; +And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, + And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming. + +A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind + Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping; +While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, + Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping. + +There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, + As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, +And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, + Far away, in the cot on the mountain. + +His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, + Grows gentle with memories tender, +As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, + And their mother--"may heaven defend her!" + +The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then-- + That night, when the love, yet unspoken, +Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows + Were pledged to be ever unbroken. + +Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, + He dashes off tears that are welling; +And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, + As if to keep down the heart's swelling. + +He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, + And his footstep is lagging and weary; +Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, + Towards the shades of the forest so dreary. + +Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? + Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? +It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!" + And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing. + +"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" + No sound save the rush of the river; +While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, + And the picket's off duty forever! + + + + +Address + +Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond. + +A Prize Poem.--By Henry Timrod. + + + + A FAIRY ring + +Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain-- +From whose weird circle every loathsome thing + And sight and sound of pain +Are banished, while about it in the air, +And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies, + Throng, in a vision fair +As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes, + Gleams of that unseen world +That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes + With starry wings unfurled, +Poised for a moment on such airy capes + As pierce the golden foam + Of sunset's silent main-- +Would image what in this enchanted dome, + Amid the night of war and death +In which the armed city draws its breath, + We have built up! +For though no wizard wand or magic cup + The spell hath wrought, +Within this charmed fane we ope the gates + Of that divinest fairy-land + Where, under loftier fates +Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand, +Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought. + +Shut for one happy evening from the flood +That roars around us, here you may behold-- + As if a desert way + Could blossom and unfold + A garden fresh with May-- +Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood, + Souls that upon the poet's page + Have lived from age to age, +And yet have never donned this mortal clay. + A golden strand +Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle + Where fair Miranda's smile +Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art + Had led unto her heart, +Which, like a bud that waited for the light, + Burst into bloom at sight! +Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes +As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand, + And prattles to the night. + Anon, a reverend form + With tattered robe and forehead bare, +That challenge all the torments of the air, + Goes by! +And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh, +While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear + The noble wreck of Lear +Reproach like things of life the ancient skies, + And commune with the storm! +Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, where +Wrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the Moor + Tells his strange story o'er, +The gentle Desdemona chastely lies, +Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. + Then through a hush like death + Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost! +And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath +Which is the trumpet to a countless host +Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep; + For while it calls to strife, +He pauses on the very brink of fact +To toy as with the shadow of an act, +And utter those wise saws that cut so deep + Into the core of life! + + Nor shall be wanting many a scene + Where forms of more familiar mien, +Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present + The world of every day, +Such as it whirls along the busy quay, +Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, +Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, +Or toils in attics dark the night away. +Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, +As in the round wherein our lives are pent; + Chance for a while shall seem to reign, +While goodness roves like guilt about the street, + And guilt looks innocent. + +But all at last shall vindicate the right. +Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, +Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight, +And fortune's general justice rendered plain. +Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth, +Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet, +Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth, +Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet. +As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth +A sudden beauty unexpected starts, +So you shall find some germs of hidden worth + Within the vilest hearts; +And now and then, when in those moods that turn +To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, +You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn + You've struck a spring of tears! + +But while we lead you thus from change to change, +Shall we not find within our ample range +Some type to elevate a people's heart-- +Some haro who shall teach a hero's part + In this distracted time? +Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell! +And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, +As if across the billows unenthralled, +Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, + Bid liberty rejoice! +Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand +The deeds which, more than their own awful mien, +Make every crag of Switzerland sublime! +And say to those whose feeble souls would lean +Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand, +That once a single mind sufficed to quell +The malice of a tyrant; let them know +That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow, +Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand, +But the whole spirit of a mighty land! + +Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day +Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red +With the large promise of the coming ray. +Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile +Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, +Let us among the charms of art awhile + Fleet the deep gloom away; +Nor yet forget that on each hand and head +Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray. + + + + +The Battle of Richmond. + +By George Herbert Sass, Charleston, S.C. + +"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was +it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and +the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them." +--Psalm, xliv. 3, 4. + + + +I. + + +Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land, +And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand; +For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry, +And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory! +Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave +To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave. + + + +II. + + +Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry, +Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky; +For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day, +And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray; +Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song, +The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong. + + + +III. + + +From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood, +From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood, +From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry, +And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye. +In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn; +In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on. + + + +IV. + + +Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now, +And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow; +But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone, +Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne; +And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land, +To burn and havoc and destroy--a fierce and ruthless band. + + + +V. + + +I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while +The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile; +And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see, +A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply; +And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum, +And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum. + + + +VI. + + +Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain, +With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train. +Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight, +And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light. +Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed, +And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast. + + + +VII. + + +I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors, +And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures, +And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread, +Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's tread +In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease, +And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze. + + + +VIII. + + +But far away another line is stretching dark and long, +Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng; +Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum, +And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come, +And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread, +And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head. + + + +IX. + + +They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood? +Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood. +Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won, +And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on. +Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man, +And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van. + + + +X. + + +They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track +Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back; +And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1] +And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee; +And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls, +The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls. + + + +XI. + + +They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon, +In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon; +And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast, +The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast: +"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life! +We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!" + + + +XII. + + +'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight! +And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right; +And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought, +For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought. +Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song-- +The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong. + +[1] Pronounced _Eujee_ + + + + +The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song. + +By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland. + + + +"Awake! and to horse, my brothers! + For the dawn is glimmering gray; +And hark! in the crackling brushwood + There are feet that tread this way. + +"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?" + "O God! I sicken to tell, +For the earth seems earth no longer, + And its sights are sights of hell! + +"There's rapine and fire and slaughter, + From the mountain down to the shore; +There's blood on the trampled harvest-- + There's blood on the homestead floor. + +"From the far-off conquered cities + Comes the voice of a stifled wail; +And the shrieks and moans of the houseless + Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale. + +"I've seen, from the smoking village + Our mothers and daughters fly; +I've seen where the little children + Sank down, in the furrows, to die. + +"On the banks of the battle-stained river + I stood, as the moonlight shone, +And it glared on the face of my brother, + As the sad wave swept him on. + +"Where my home was glad, are ashes, + And horror and shame had been there-- +For I found, on the fallen lintel, + This tress of my wife's torn hair. + +"They are turning the slave upon us, + And, with more than the fiend's worst art, +Have uncovered the fires of the savage + That slept in his untaught heart. + +"The ties to our hearths that bound him, + They have rent, with curses, away, +And maddened him, with their madness, + To be almost as brutal as they. + +"With halter and torch and Bible, + And hymns to the sound of the drum, +They preach the gospel of Murder, + And pray for Lust's kingdom to come. + +"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers! + Look up to the rising sun, +And ask of the God who shines there, + Whether deeds like these shall be done! + +"Wherever the vandal cometh, + Press home to his heart with your steel, +And when at his bosom you cannot, + Like the serpent, go strike at his heel! + +"Through thicket and wood go hunt him, + Creep up to his camp fireside, +And let ten of his corpses blacken + Where one of our brothers hath died. + +"In his fainting, foot-sore marches, + In his flight from the stricken fray, +In the snare of the lonely ambush, + The debts that we owe him pay, + +"In God's hand, alone, is judgment; + But He strikes with the hands of men, +And His blight would wither our manhood + If we smote not the smiter again. + +"By the graves where our fathers slumber, + By the shrines where our mothers prayed, +By our homes and hopes and freedom. + Let every man swear on his blade.-- + +"That he will not sheath nor stay it, + Till from point to heft it glow +With the flush of Almighty vengeance, + In the blood of the felon foe." + +They swore--and the answering sunlight + Leapt red from their lifted swords, +And the hate in their hearts made echo + To the wrath in their burning words. + +There's weeping in all New England, + And by Schuylkill's banks a knell, +And the widows there, and the orphans, + How the oath was kept can tell. + + + + +A Farewell to Pope. + +By John K. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line! +Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline-- +Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes, +Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes"-- +Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers, +His vanishing form from our gaze disappears; +Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope, +_Abiit, evasit, erupit_--John Pope. + +He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor, +Compeller of fate and controller of war, +_Videre et vincere_, simply to see, +And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee, +And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg _pere_, +With a monkeyish grin and beatified air, +"Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap," +As with eager attention he listened to Pope. + +He _came_--and the poultry was swept by his sword, +Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board; +He _saw_--at a distance, the rebels appear, +And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear; +He _conquered_--truth, decency, honor full soon, +Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon; +And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope. +Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope. + +He has left us his shining example to note, +And Stuart has captured his uniform coat; +But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall, +To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall; +While many may claim to deserve it, at least, +From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast, +None else, we can say, without risking the trope, +But himself can be parallel ever to Pope. + +Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire, +He gives new expression and force to _the lyre_; +But in one little matter they differ, the two, +And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true-- +While his verses gave great Alexaader his fame, +'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same; +And fate may decree that the end of a rope +Shall award yet his highest position to Pope. + + + + +Sonnet. + +On Reading a Proclamation for Public Prayer. + +South Carolinian. + + + +Oh! terrible, this prayer in the market-place, + These advertised humilities--decreed + By proclamation, that we may be freed, +And mercy find for once, and saving grace, +Even while we forfeit all that made the race + Worthy of Heavenly favor--and profess + Our faith and homage only through duress, +And dread of danger which we dare not face. + +All working that's done worthily is prayer-- + And honest thought is prayer--the wish, the will + To mend our ways, maintain our virtues still, +And, losing life, still keep our bosoms fair +In sight of God--with whom humility +And patient working can alone make free. + + + + +Battle of Belmont. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + +From the Memphis Appeal, Dec. 21, 1861. + + + +I. + + +Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God, +That He hath met the Southron's foe, and scourged him with his rod: +On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came, +And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame; +But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day, +Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay. + + + +II. + + +But the Vandals with presumption--for they came in all their might-- +Gave free vent unto their _feelings_, for they thought to win the + fight; +And they forced our little cohorts to the very river's brink, +With a breath between destruction and of life's remaining link: +When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth, +Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South. + + + +III. + + +There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high +That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die; +And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle's din, +Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win: +And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords, +Came destruction to the foeman--and the vengeance was the Lord's! + + + +IV. + + +When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry, +That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high! +It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that the Vandals' ears did + sting, +And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring; +And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won, +From the crackling of our rifles--_bravely_ then they had to run! + + + +V. + + +Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay, +And their great grandchildren's children will be shamed to name that day; +For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South +Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's booming mouth: +And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood, +For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman's blood. + + + +VI. + + +Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe, +And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow: +Like the ocean beating wildly 'gainst a prow of adamant, +Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant; +Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field, +Cheering on his noble comrades, ne'er unto the foe to yield! + + + +VII. + + +None e'er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime-- +Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time: +And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few: +"I have bravely fought them, mother--I have bravely fought for you!" +Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South, +And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth. + + + +VIII. + + +In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag, +Proudly to the breeze 'twas floating in defiance to our flag; +And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down, +They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown; +But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch, +Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch! + + + +IX. + + +And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death, +Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath; +But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high, +On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die; +But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three, +Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee! + + + +X. + + +Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be, +That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free; +That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky. +And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die; +For His fiat hath gone forth, e'en among the Hessian horde, +That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord. + + + +XI. + + +Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God, +That He hath met the Southron's foe and scourged him with His rod; +That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might, +And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight; +Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim, +We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name. + + + + +Vicksburg--A Ballad. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I. + + +For sixty days and upwards, + A storm of shell and shot +Rained 'round us in a flaming shower, + But still we faltered not! +"If the noble city perish," + Our grand young leader said, +"Let the only walls the foe shall scale + Be the ramparts of the dead!" + + + +II. + + +For sixty days and upwards + The eye of heaven waxed dim, +And even throughout God's holy morn, + O'er Christian's prayer and hymn, +Arose a hissing tumult, + As if the fiends of air +Strove to ingulf the voice of faith + In the shrieks of their despair. + + + +III. + + +There was wailing in the houses, + There was trembling on the marts, +While the tempest raged and thundered, + 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; +But the Lord, our shield, was with us, + And ere a month had sped +Our very women walked the streets + With scarce one throb of dread. + + + +IV. + + +And the little children gambolled-- + Their faces purely raised, +Just for a wondering moment, + As the huge bomb whirled and blazed! +Then turned with silvery laughter + To the sports which children love, +Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought, + That the good God watched above. + + + +V. + + +Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, + From scores of flame-clad ships, +And about us, denser, darker, + Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, +Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, + Like a type of doom, and ire, +Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues + Of forked and vengeful fire. + + + +VI. + + +But the unseen hands of angels + Those death-shafts turned aside, +And the dove of heavenly mercy + Ruled o'er the battle tide; +In the houses ceased the wailing, + And through the war-scarred marts +The people trode with the step of hope, + To the music in their hearts. + +Columbia, S.C., August 6, 1862. + + + + +A Ballad of the War. + +Published Originally in the Southern Field and Fireside, + +By George Herbert Sass, of Charleston, S.C. + + + +Watchman, what of the night? + Through the city's darkening street, +Silent and slow, the guardsmen go + On their long and lonely beat. + +Darkly, drearily down, + Falleth the wintry rain; +And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, + As it glides o'er town and plain. + +Beating against the windows, + The sleet falls heavy and chill, +And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, + As the blast shrieks loud and shrill. + +Silent is all without, + Save the sentry's challenge grim, +And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town, + And the sleeper's eyes are dim. + +Watchman, what of the night? + Hark! from the old church-tower +Rings loud and clear, on the misty air, + The chime of the midnight hour. + +But another sound breaks in, + A summons deep and rude, +The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum + Of a gathering multitude. + +And the dim and flickering torch + Sheds a red and lurid glare, +O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine + Faintly, yet sternly there. + +A low, deep voice is heard: + "Rest on your arms, my men." +Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, + And all is still again. + +Pale faces and tearful eyes + Gaze down on that grim array, +For a rumor hath spread that that column dread + Marcheth ere break of day. + +Marcheth against "the rebels," + Whose camp lies heavy and still, +Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat + On the brow of a distant hill. + +And the mother's heart grows faint, + As she thinks of her darling one, +Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, + Ere the long, dark night be done. + +Pallid and haggard, too, + Is the cheek of the fair young wife; +And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him + She loveth more than life. + +For fathers, husbands, sons, + Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, +And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, + And a bleeding country's right. + +And where their treasure is, + There is each loving heart; +And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze, + And the tears unbidden start. + +Is there none to warn the camp, + None from that anxious throng? +Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town-- + The way is dark and long. + +No _man_ is left behind, + None that is brave and true, +And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light + With menace stern shine through. + +Guarded is every street, + Brutal the hireling foe; +Is there one heart here will boldly dare + So brave a deed to do? + +Look! in her still, dark room, + Alone a woman kneels, +With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face, + And Sorrow's ruthless seals. + +Wrinkling her placid brow, + A matron, she, and fair, +Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak + Gemming her glossy hair. + +A moment in silent prayer + Her pale lips move, and then, +Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, + On her mission of love to men. + +She glideth upon her way, + Through the lonely, misty street, +Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread + Of the watchman on his beat. + +Onward, aye, onward still, + Far past the weary town, +Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, + And the heavy hands hang down. + +But bravely she struggles on, + Breasting the cold, dank rain, +And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill + Sweeps down upon the plain. + +Hark! far behind she hears + A dull and muffled tramp, +But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam + Shines out from the Southern camp. + +She hears the sentry's challenge, + Her work of love is done; +She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height + Hath a crown of glory won. + +Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, + Who saved from a ruthless foe +Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, + Three hundred years ago. + +And I've read in tales heroic + How a noble Scottish maid +Her own life gave, her king to save + From the foul assassin's blade. + +But if these, on the rolls of honor, + Shall live in lasting fame, +Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, + We'll write this matron's name. + +And when our fair-haired children + Shall cluster round our knee, +With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days + When we swore that we would be free, + +We'll tell them the thrilling story, + And we'll say to each childish heart, +"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need, + Be ready to do thy part." + + + + +The Two Armies. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Two armies stand enrolled beneath +The banner with the starry wreath: +One, facing battle, blight, and blast, +Through twice a hundred fields has passed; +Its deeds against a ruffian foe, +Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know, +Till every wind that sweeps the land +Goes, glory-laden, from the strand. + +The other, with a narrower scope, +Yet led by not less grand a hope, +Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, +And wears its fame with meeker grace. +Wives march beneath its glittering sign, +Fond mothers swell the lovely line: +And many a sweetheart hides her blush +In the young patriot's generous flush. + +No breeze of battle ever fanned +The colors of that tender band; +Its office is beside the bed, +Where throbs some sick or wounded head. +It does not court the soldier's tomb, +But plies the needle and the loom; +And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, +Supplies a struggling nation's needs. + +Nor is that army's gentle might +Unfelt amid the deadly fight; +It nerves the son's, the husband's hand, +It points the lover's fearless brand; +It thrills the languid, warms the cold, +Gives even new courage to the bold; +And sometimes lifts the veriest clod +To its own lofty trust in God. + +When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, +And bid this weary warfare cease, +Their several missions nobly done, +The triumph grasped, and freedom won, +Both armies, from their toils at rest, +Alike may claim the victor's crest, +But each shall see its dearest prize +Gleam softly from the other's eyes. + + + + +The Legion of Honor. + +By H.L. Flash. + + + +Why are we forever speaking + Of the warriors of old? +Men are fighting all around us, + Full as noble, full as bold. + +Ever working, ever striving, + Mind and muscle, heart and soul, +With the reins of judgment keeping + Passions under full control. + +Noble hearts are beating boldly + As they ever did on earth; +Swordless heroes are around us, + Striving ever from their birth. + +Tearing down the old abuses, + Building up the purer laws, +Scattering the dust of ages, + Searching out the hidden flaws. + +Acknowledging no "right divine" + In kings and princes from the rest; +In their creed he is the noblest + Who has worked and striven best. + +Decorations do not tempt them-- + Diamond stars they laugh to scorn-- +Each will wear a "Cross of Honor" + On the Resurrection morn. + +Warriors they in fields of wisdom-- + Like the noble Hebrew youth, +Striking down Goliath's error + With the God-blessed stone of truth. + +Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner, + Forward rush these volunteers, +Beating olden wrong away + From the fast advancing years. + +Contemporaries do not see them, + But the _coming_ times will say +(Speaking of the slandered present), + "There were heroes in that day." + +Why are we then idly lying + On the roses of our life, +While the noble-hearted struggle + In the world-redeeming strife. + +Let us rise and join the legion, + Ever foremost in the fray-- +Battling in the name of Progress + For the nobler, purer day. + + + + +Clouds in the West. + +By A. J. Requier, of Alabama. + + + +Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West + A manly shout for instant succor comes, +From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast, + With rage-indented drums! + +Who dare for child, wife, country--stream and strand, + Though but a fraction to the swarming foe, +There--at the flooded gateways of the land, + To stem a torrent's flow. + +To arms! brave sons of each embattled State, + Whose queenly standard is a Southern star: +Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate + On Freedom's victor-car! + +Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum + Of craven traffic for the mustering clan: +The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come + And prove yourself--a man. + +That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief + Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes-- +God! can you live to see a foreign thief + Contaminate its roses? + +Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave + Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan; +Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave, + Or claims to be a man! + +Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West + A manly shout for instant succor comes, +From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast. + With rage-indented drums! + +Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din, + Where still your battle-flags unbended wave, +Dying for what your fathers died to win + And you must fight to save. + +Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep, + Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar; +The very waves are marshalling on the deep, + While tempests tread the shore. + +Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land + Shall burial only yield a bandit foe; +Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand, + And strike the fated blow. + + + + +Georgia, My Georgia! + +By Carrie Bell Sinclair. + + + +Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar, +That sounds along thy sunny shore, +And thou shalt lie in chains no more, + My wounded, bleeding Georgia! +Then arm each youth and patriot sire, +Light up the patriotic fire, +And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire, + Who strike for thee, my Georgia + +On thee is laid oppression's hand, +Around thy altars foemen stand, +To scatter freedom's gallant band, + And lay thee low, my Georgia! +But thou hast noble sons, and brave, +The Stars and Bars above thee wave, +And here we'll make oppression's grave, + Upon the soil of Georgia! + +We bow at Liberty's fair shrine, +And kneel in holy love at thine, +And while above our stars still shine, + We'll strike for them and Georgia! + +Thy woods with victory shall resound, +Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned, +And peace shall spread her wings around + My own, my sunny Georgia! + +Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel +That Southern hearts, and Southern steel, +Will make them in submission kneel + Before the sons of Georgia! +And thou shalt see thy daughters, too, +With pride and patriotism true, +Arise with strength to dare and do, + Ere they shall conquer Georgia. + +Thy name shall be a name of pride-- +Thy heroes all have nobly died, +That thou mayst be the spotless bride + Of Liberty, my Georgia! +Then wave thy sword and banner high, +And louder raise the battle-cry, +'Till shouts of victory reach the sky, + And thou art free, my Georgia! + + + + +Song of the Texas Rangers. + + + +Air--_The Yellow Rose of Texas_. + + +The morning star is paling, + The camp-fires flicker low, +Our steeds are madly neighing, + For the bugle bids us go. +So put the foot in stirrup, + And shake the bridle free, +For to-day the Texas Rangers + Must cross the Tennessee, + +With Wharton for our leader, + We'll chase the dastard foe, +Till our horses bathe their fetlocks + In the deep blue Ohio. +Our men are from the prairies, + That roll broad and proud and free, +From the high and craggy mountains + To the murmuring Mexic' sea; +And their hearts are open as their plains, + Their thoughts as proudly brave +As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard, + Or the Gulf's resistless wave. + + Then quick! into the saddle, + And shake the bridle free, + To-day, with gallant Wharton, + We cross the Tennessee. + +'Tis joy to be a Ranger! + To fight for dear Southland; +'Tis joy to follow Wharton, + With his gallant, trusty band! +'Tis joy to see our Harrison, + Plunge like a meteor bright +Into the thickest of the fray, + And deal his deathly might. + + Oh! who'd not be a Ranger, + And follow Wharton's cry! + To battle for his country-- + And, if it needs be--die! + +By the Colorado's waters, + On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore, +On our soft green peaceful prairies + Are the homes we may see no more; +But in those homes our gentle wives, + And mothers with silv'ry hairs, +Are loving us with tender hearts, + And shielding us with prayers. + + So, trusting in our country's God, + We draw our stout, good brand, + For those we love at home, + Our altars and our land. + +Up, up with the crimson battle-flag-- + Let the blue pennon fly; +Our steeds are stamping proudly-- + They hear the battle-cry! +The thundering bomb, the bugle's call, + Proclaim the foe is near; +We strike for God and native land, + And all we hold most dear. + + Then spring into the saddle, + And shake the bridle free-- + For Wharton leads, through fire and blood, + For Home and Victory! + + + + +Kentucky Required to Yield Her Arms. + +By----Boone. + + + +Ho! will the despot trifle, + In dwellings of the free; +Kentuckians yield the rifle, + Kentuckians bend the knee! +With dastard fear of danger, + And trembling at the strife; +Kentucky, to the stranger, + Yield liberty for life! +Up! up! each gallant ranger, + With rifle and with knife! + +The bastard and the traitor, + The wolfcub and the snake, +The robber, swindler, hater, + Are in your homes--awake! +Nor let the cunning foeman + Despoil your liberty; +Yield weapon up to no man, + While ye can strike and see, +Awake, each gallant yeoman, + If still ye would be free! + +Aye, see to sight the rifle, + And smite with spear and knife, +Let no base cunning stifle + Each lesson of your life: +How won your gallant sires + The country which ye keep? +By soul, which still inspires + The soil on which ye weep! +Leap up! their spirit fires, + And rouse ye from your sleep! + +"What!" cry the sires so famous, + In Orleans' ancient field, +"Will ye, our children, shame us, + And to the despot yield? +What! each brave lesson stifle + We left to give you life? +Let apish despots trifle + With home and child and wife? +And yield, O shame! the rifle, + And sheathe, O shame! the knife?" + + + + +"There's Life in the Old Land Yet." + +First Published in the New Orleans Delta, about September 1, 1861. + + + +By blue Patapsco's billowy dash + The tyrant's war-shout comes, +Along with the cymbal's fitful clash + And the growl of his sullen drums; +We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills, + And we shall not forgive or forget-- +There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead, + We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred-- +We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread + Of the peerless Beauregard. +Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, + When the Southern braves are met; +There's faith in the victor's stainless sword, + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind + With the clank of an iron chain; +The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind + O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane; +And we--though we smite not--are not thralls, + We are piling a gory debt; +While down by McHenry's dungeon walls + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +Our women, have hung their harps away + And they scowl on your brutal bands, +While the nimble poignard dares the day + In their dear defiant hands; +They will strip their tresses to string our bows + Ere the Northern sun is set-- +There's faith in their unrelenting woes-- + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, + 'Tis vocal without noise; +It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains + From the blood of the Maryland boys. +That blood shall cry aloud and rise + With an everlasting threat-- +By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + + + + +Tell the Boys the War Is Ended. + +By Emily J. Moore. + + + +While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young +soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at +Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was +dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the +boys the war is ended." + + "Tell the boys the war is ended," +These were all the words he said; + "Tell the boys the war is ended," +In an instant more was dead. + +Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful + Was the smile upon his face, +While the pain, of late so fearful, + Had not left the slightest trace. + +"Tell the boys the war is ended," + And with heavenly visions bright +Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, + As his spirit took its flight. +"Tell the boys the war is ended," + "Grant, 0 God, it may be so," +Was the prayer which then ascended, + In a whisper deep, though low. + +"Tell the boys the war is ended," + And his warfare then was o'er, +As, by angel bands attended, + He departed from earth's shore. +Bursting shells and cannons roaring + Could not rouse him by their din; +He to better worlds was soaring, + Far from war, and pain, and sin. + + + + +"The Southern Cross." + +By St. George Tucker, of Virginia. + + + +Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm, +More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation? +Like the symbol of love and redemption its form, +As it points to the haven of hope for the nation. +How radiant each star, as the beacon afar, +Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war! +'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain +To light us to freedom and glory again! + +How peaceful and blest was America's soil, +'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon, +Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil +To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen. +Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel, +And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel! +And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, +To light us to freedom and glory again! + +'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope, +Like the sacred _Labarum_ that guided the Roman; +From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope, +'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen. +Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare +The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare! +While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, +To light us to freedom and glory again! + +And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied, +And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions, +Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride, +Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions! +With our front in the field, swearing never to yield, +Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield! +And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave, +As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave! + +Southern Literary Messenger. + + + + +England's Neutrality. + +A Parliamentary Debate. + +By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia. + + + +All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy, +Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy, +Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality, +And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality, + +Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission, +The _next_ debate in parliament on Southern Recognition; +They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see, +As truly as the _Times_' report, without the gift of prophecy. + +Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion, +But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion; +Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant +To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent. + +But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason, +As deaf as is the _Morning Post_, both in and out of season; +The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary, +And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory, + +"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering, +While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing-- +As, _par exemple_, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety, +That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society. + +"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em, +And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em; +If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?" +And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer. + +Enough of him--an abler man demands our close attention-- +The Maximus Apollo of strict _non_-intervention-- +With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone, +Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston: + +"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes +Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes +Where many an ancient mansion stood--what though the robber pillages +The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages. + +"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty, +Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!" +(And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is +Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)? + +"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish, +With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish; +Let universal ruin there become a sad reality: +We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality." + +Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages, +How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages? +Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude; +'Tis clear that _you_ have no concern in that divine beatitude. + +But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle, +Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell; +Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see, +And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy. + +"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water, +'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter; +The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs, +But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers. + +"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny, +We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many; +We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages, +And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages. + +"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson, +Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon; +To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"-- +(And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?) + +"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger, +'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger; +'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh! +Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho. + +"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not + bound her, +We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her; +We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan, +But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan. + +"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory, +To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story; +These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em, +But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem. + +"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation, +Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation, +Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory, +And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory. + +"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina, +And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah; +Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery +Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery. + +"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity, +May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city; +No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris, +'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.) + +"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles, +While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles; +And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality, +We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality." + +Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator, +When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur', +When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead, +Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede. + +But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it, +And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit, +Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality, +Without the help of Britain's arm, _in spite of_ her neutrality. + +Illustrated News. + + + + +Close the Ranks. + +By John L. O'Sullivan. + + + +The fell invader is before! + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +We'll hunt his legions from our shore, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Our wives, our children are behind, +Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind, +Their voices reach us on the wind, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +Are we to bend to slavish yoke? + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +We'll bend when bends our Southern oak. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +On with the line of serried steel, +We all can die, we none can kneel +To crouch beneath the Northern heel. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +We kneel to God, and God alone. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +One heart in all--all hearts as one. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +For home, for country, truth and right, +We stand or fall in freedom's fight: +In such a cause the right is might. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +We're here from every southern home. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Fond, weeping voices bade us come. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks +The husband, brother, boy, and sire, +All burning with one holy fire-- +Our country's love our only hire. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +We cannot fail, we will not yield! + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Our bosoms are our country's shield. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +By Washington's immortal name, +By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame, +Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +By all we hope, by all we love, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +By home on earth, by Heaven above, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +By all the tears, and heart's blood shed, +By all our hosts of martyred dead, +We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +The front may fall, the rear succeed, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +We smile in triumph as we bleed, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Our Southern Cross above us waves, +Long shall it bless the sacred graves +Of those who died, but were not slaves. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + + + + +The Sea-Kings of the South. + +By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va. + + + +Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won, +From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston, +On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee, +Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free. + +The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm; +Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form; +And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train, +Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again. + +But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side--a broader field than the + plain, +Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main, +'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land, +For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand. + +For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree +Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea, +No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine, +Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line. + +The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar; +The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar. +Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball; +But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all. + +Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show +That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below. +The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore, +Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore. + +Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet! +One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet! +Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour; +But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore. + +See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream! +Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam! +Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on, +Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon. + +Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game! +From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came. +The catchers of the whale she caught; swift _Ariel_ overhauled; +And made _Hatteras_ know the hardest _blow_ that ever a tar + appalled. + +She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well. +To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell. +To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck, +With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck. + +In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop-- +Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop. +Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils, +She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils. + +And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career. +Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear; +The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll +Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole. + +Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing, +For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring. +All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight, +No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright. + +Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea; +The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be! +The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine +For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine! + +The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave +As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave, +As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor, +Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war. + +Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours, +Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers! +Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled + mouth, +And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH! + +Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863. + + + + +The Return. + + + +Three years! I wonder if she'll know me? + I limp a little, and I left one arm +At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown + As the plump chestnuts on my little farm: +And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs-- +But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers. + +The darling! how I long to see her! + My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace, +For I remember, after I had left, + A little Charlie came to take my place. +Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes-- +His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise! + +Surely, they will be at the corner watching! + I sent them word that I should come to-night: +The birds all know it, for they crowd around, + Twittering their welcome with a wild delight; +And that old robin, with a halting wing-- +I saved her life, three years ago last spring. + +Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming! + For, like the pilgrim of the long ago, +I've tugged, a weary burden at my back, + Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow; +Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast, +There I can roll my burden off, and rest. + + * * * * * + +When morning came, the early rising sun + Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping-- +Where a soft covering of bright green grass + Over two mounds was lightly creeping; +But waked him not: his was the rest eternal, +Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal. + + + + +Our Christmas Hymn. + +By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C. + + + +"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!" + The burden of the Advent song, +What time the love-charmed waves grew still + To hearken to the shining throng; +The wondering shepherds heard the strain + Who watched by night the slumbering fleece, +The deep skies echoed the refrain, + "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" + +And wise men hailed the promised sign, + And brought their birth-gifts from the East, +Dear to that Mother as the wine + That hallowed Cana's bridal feast; +But what to these are myrrh or gold, + And what Arabia's costliest gem, +Whose eyes the Child divine behold, + The blessed Babe of Bethlehem. + +"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" + They sing, the bright ones overhead; +And scarce the jubilant anthems cease + Ere Judah wails her first-born dead; +And Rama's wild, despairing cry + Fills with great dread the shuddering coast, +And Rachel hath but one reply, + "Bring back, bring back my loved and lost." + +So, down two thousand years of doom + That cry is borne on wailing winds, +But never star breaks through the gloom, + No cradled peace the watcher finds; +And still the Herodian steel is driven, + And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan, +And still the mute appeal to heaven + Man answers back with groan for groan. + +How shall we keep our Christmas tide? + With that dread past, its wounds agape, +Forever walking by our side, + A fearful shade, an awful shape; +Can any promise of the spring + Make green the faded autumn leaf? +Or who shall say that time will bring + Fair fruit to him who sows but grief? + +Wild bells! that shake the midnight air + With those dear tones that custom loves, +You wake no sounds of laughter here, + Nor mirth in all our silent groves; +On one broad waste, by hill or flood, + Of ravaged lands your music falls, +And where the happy homestead stood + The stars look down on roofless halls. + +At every board a vacant chair + Fills with quick tears some tender eye, +And at our maddest sports appear + Those well-loved forms that will not die. +We lift the glass, our hand is stayed-- + We jest, a spectre rises up-- +And weeping, though no word is said, + We kiss and pass the silent cup, + +And pledge the gallant friend who keeps + His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height, +And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps + Beneath Virginian snows to-night; +While, by the fire, she, musing, broods + On all that was and might have been, +If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods + Had never drunk that crimson stain. + +O happy Yules of buried years! + Could ye but come in wonted guise, +Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears, + When looking back through wistful eyes, +Would seem those chimes whose voices tell + His birth-night with melodious burst, +Who, sitting by Samaria's well, + Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst. + +Ah! yet I trust that all who weep, + Somewhere, at last, will surely find +His rest, if through dark ways they keep + The child-like faith, the prayerful mind; +And some far Christmas morn shall bring + From human ills a sweet release +To loving hearts, while angels sing + "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" + + + + +Charleston. + +Written for the Charleston Courier in 1863. + +By Miss E. B. Cheesborough. + + +Proudly she stands by the crystal sea, + With the fires of hate around her, +But a cordon of love as strong as fate, + With adamant links surround her. +Let them hurl their bolts through the azure sky, + And death-bearing missiles send her, +She finds in our God a mighty shield, + And in heaven a sure defender. + +Her past is a page of glory bright, + Her present a blaze of splendor, +You may turn o'er the leaves of the jewell'd tome, + You'll not find the word _surrender_; +For sooner than lay down her trusty arms, + She'd build her own funeral pyre, +And the flames that give her a martyr's fate + Will kindle her glory higher. + +How the demons glare as they see her stand + In majestic pride serenely, +And gnash with the impotent rage of hate, + Creeping up slowly, meanly; +While she cries, "Come forth from your covered dens, + All your hireling legions send me, +I'll bare my breast to a million swords, + Whilst God and my sons defend me." + +Oh, brave old town, o'er thy sacred form + Whilst the fiery rain is sweeping, +May He whose love is an armor strong + Embrace thee in tender keeping; +And when the red war-cloud has rolled away, + Anoint thee with holy chrism, +And sanctified, chastened, regenerate, true, + Thou surviv'st this fierce baptism. + + + + +Gathering Song. + +Air--Bonnie Blue Flag + +By Annie Chambers Ketchum. + + + +Come, brothers! rally for the right! + The bravest of the brave +Sends forth her ringing battle-cry + Beside the Atlantic wave! +She leads the way in honor's path! + Come, brothers, near and far, +Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag + That bears a single star! + +We've borne the Yankee trickery, + The Yankee gibe and sneer, +Till Yankee insolence and pride + Know neither shame nor fear; +But ready now with shot and steel + Their brazen front to mar, +We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag + That bears a single star! + +Now Georgia marches to the front, + And close beside her come +Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, + With pealing trump and drum! +Till, answering back from hill and glen + The rallying cry afar, +A NATION hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag + That bears a single star! + +By every stone in Charleston Bay, + By each beleaguered town, +We swear to rest not, night nor day, + But hunt the tyrants down! +Till, bathed in valor's holy blood + The gazing world afar +Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue + That bears the cross and star! + + + + +Christmas. + +By Henry Timrod, of South Carolina. + + + + How grace this hallowed day? +Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, +Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire + Round which the children play? + + Alas! for many a moon, +That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, +Mute as an obelisk of ice aglare + Beneath an Arctic noon. + + Shame to the foes that drown +Our psalms of worship with their impious drum. +The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb + In some far rustic town. + + There, let us think, they keep, +Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea +They've ushered in with old-world, English glee, + Some echoes in their sleep. + + How shall we grace the day? +With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, +And shout of happy children in the courts, + And tales of ghost and fay? + + Is there indeed a door +Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, +And all the merry round of Christmas joys, + Could enter as of yore? + + Would not some pallid face +Look in upon the banquet, calling up +Dread shapes of battle in the wassail cup, + And trouble all the place? + + How could we bear the mirth, +While some loved reveller of a year ago +Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, + In cold Virginian earth? + + How shall we grace the day? +Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn +The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born, + Employ us, while we pray! + + Pray for the peace which long +Hath left this tortured land, and haply now +Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow, + There hardly safe from wrong. + + Let every sacred fane +Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, +And, with the cloister and the tented sod, + Join in one solemn strain! + + With pomp of Roman form, +With the grave ritual brought from England's shore, +And with the simple faith which asks no more + Than that the heart be warm. + + He, who till time shall cease, +Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, +He died to give us peace, will not disdain + A prayer whose theme is--peace. + + Perhaps, ere yet the spring +Hath died into the summer, over all +The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall + Like some protecting wing. + + Oh, ponder what it means! +Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way! +Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, + And shape the coming scenes! + + Peace in the quiet dales, +Made rankly fertile by the blood of men; +Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, + Peace in the peopled vales! + + Peace in the crowded town, +Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, +Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, + Peace on the wind-swept down! + + Peace on the furthest seas, +Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, +Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams, + And peace in every breeze! + + Peace on the whirring marts, +Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, +Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes, + And peace in all our hearts! + + + + +A Prayer for Peace. + +By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland. + + + +Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace! +Unto our cry of anguish and despair +Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes, +Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe +Fill their poor urns with tears; from trampled plains, +Where the bright harvest Thou has sent us rots-- +The blood of them who should have garnered it +Calling to Thee--from fields of carnage, where +The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings +O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday +Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love +And common hopes and pride, all blasted now-- +Father of Mercies! not alone from these +Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone +Upon the battle's seared and desolate track, +Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God, +That Thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths, +And in the crowded streets and busy marts, +Where echo whispers not the far-off strife +That slays our loved ones; in the solemn halls +Of safe and quiet counsel--nay, beneath +The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee, +And 'mid their rising incense--God of Peace! +The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate +Hungering for gold and blood; Ambition, bred +Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts, +Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway +Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price +On human hecatombs, and sell and buy +Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests, +With white, anointed, supplicating hands, +From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee, +Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down +Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats +Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born, +Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth +Till Rachel hath no children left to slay. +The very name of Jesus, writ upon +Thy shrines beneath the spotless, outstretched wings, +Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid +With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires +That rise above them angry banners flout +The skies to which they point, amid the clang +Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise. + +All things once prized and honored are forgot: +The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee; +The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield; +The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word, +Which might be stifled, but could never wear +The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie; +All these are gone, and in their stead have come +The vices of the miser and the slave-- +Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power, +Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence, +Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope, +Save as begun in self, and ending there. +With vipers like to these, oh! blessed God! +Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more, +Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad, +To wake the midnight of our sorrowing +With tidings of good-will and peace to men; +And if the star, that through the darkness led +Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now, +Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist, +With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak +The unanswerable message of Thy will. + + Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us peace! +Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; Peace +On the red waters and their blighted shores; +Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts +That watch and bleed around them and within, +Peace for the homeless and the fatherless; +Peace for the captive on his weary way, +And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness; +For them that suffer, them that do the wrong +Sinning and sinned against.--O God! for all; +For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land-- +Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace! + + + + +The Band in the Pines. + +(Heard after Pelham Died.) + +By John Esten Cooke. + + + +Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! + Cease with your splendid call; +The living are brave and noble, + But the dead were bravest of all! + +They throng to the martial summons, + To the loud, triumphant strain; +And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends + Come to the heart again! + +They come with the ringing bugle, + And the deep drum's mellow roar; +Till the soul is faint with longing + For the hands we clasp no more! + +Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! + Or the heart will melt in tears, +For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, + And the voices of old years! + + + + +At Fort Pillow. + +First published in the Wilmington Journal, April 25, 1864. + + + +You shudder as you think upon + The carnage of the grim report, +The desolation when we won + The inner trenches of the fort. + +But there are deeds you may not know, + That scourge the pulses into strife; +Dark memories of deathless woe + Pointing the bayonet and knife. + +The house is ashes where I dwelt, + Beyond the mighty inland sea; +The tombstones shattered where I knelt, + By that old church at Pointe Coupee. + +The Yankee fiends, that came with fire, + Camped on the consecrated sod, +And trampled in the dust and mire + The Holy Eucharist of God! + +The spot where darling mother sleeps, + Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, +Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps, + To stall the horse of some dragoon. + +God! when I ponder that black day + It makes my frantic spirit wince; +I marched--with Longstreet--far away, + But have beheld the ravage since + +The tears are hot upon my face, + When thinking what bleak fate befell +The only sister of our race-- + A thing too horrible to tell. + +They say that, ere her senses fled, + She rescue of her brothers cried; +Then feebly bowed her stricken head, + Too pure to live thus--so she died. + +Two of those brothers heard no plea; + With their proud hearts forever still-- +John shrouded by the Tennessee, + And Arthur there at Malvern Hill. + +But I have heard it everywhere, + Vibrating like a passing knell; +'Tis as perpetual as the air, + And solemn as a funeral bell. + +By scorched lagoon and murky swamp + My wrath was never in the lurch; +I've killed the picket in his camp, + And many a pilot on his perch. + +With steady rifle, sharpened brand, + A week ago, upon my steed, +With Forrest and his warrior band, + I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed. + +You should have seen our leader go + Upon the battle's burning marge, +Swooping, like falcon, on the foe, + Heading the gray line's iron charge! + +All outcasts from our ruined marts, + We heard th' undying serpent hiss, +And in the desert of our hearts + The fatal spell of Nemesis. + +The Southern yell rang loud and high + The moment that we thundered in, +Smiting the demons hip and thigh, + Cleaving them to the very chin. + +My right arm bared for fiercer play, + The left one held the rein in slack; +In all the fury of the fray + I sought the white man, not the black. + +The dabbled clots of brain and gore + Across the swirling sabres ran; +To me each brutal visage bore + The front of one accursed man. + +Throbbing along the frenzied vein, + My blood seemed kindled into song-- +The death-dirge of the sacred slain, + The slogan of immortal wrong. + +It glared athwart the dripping glaves, + It blazed in each avenging eye-- +_The thought of desecrated graves, + And some lone sister's desperate cry!_ + + + + +From the Rapidan--1864. + + + +A low wind in the pines! + And a dull pain in the breast! +And oh! for the sigh of her lips and eyes-- + One touch of the hand I pressed! + +The slow, sad lowland wind, + It sighs through the livelong day, +While the splendid mountain breezes blow, + And the autumn is burning away. + +Here the pines sigh ever above, + And the broomstraw sighs below; +And far from the bare, bleak, windy fields + Comes the note of the drowsy crow. + +There the trees are crimson and gold, + Like the tints of a magical dawn, +And the slender form, in the dreamy days, + By the slow stream rambles on. + +Oh, day that weighs on the heart! + Oh, wind in the dreary pines! +Does she think on me 'mid the golden hours, + Past the mountain's long blue lines? + +The old house, lonely and still, + By the sad Shenandoah's waves, +Must be touched to-day by the sunshine's gleam, + As the spring flowers bloom on graves. + +Oh, sunshine, flitting and sad, + Oh, wind, that forever sighs! +The hall may be bright, but my life is dark + For the sunshine of her eyes! + + + + +Song of Our Glorious Southland. + +By Mrs. Mary Ware. + +From the Southern Field and Fireside. + + + +I. + + +Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, + The pride of the golden sun! +'Tis the fairest land of flowers + The eye e'er looked upon. + +Sing of her orange and myrtle + That glitter like gems above; +Sing of her dark-eyed maidens + As fair as a dream of love. + +Sing of her flowing rivers-- + How musical their sound! +Sing of her dark green forests, + The Indian hunting-ground. + +Sing of the noble nation + Fierce struggling to be free; +Sing of the brave who barter + Their lives for liberty! + + + +II. + + +Weep for the maid and matron + Who mourn their loved ones slain; +Sigh for the light departed, + Never to shine again: + +'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping, + That never will comfort know; +'Tis the wail of desolation, + The breaking of hearts in woe! + + + +III. + + +Ah! the blood of Abel crieth + For vengeance from the sod! +'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted + In the face of an angry God! + +Oh! brother of the Northland, + We plead from our father's grave; +We strike for our homes and altars, + He fought to build and save! + +A smouldering fire is burning, + The Southern heart is steeled-- +Perhaps 'twill break in dying, + But never will it yield. + + + + +Sonnet. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +Rise from your gory ashes stern and pale, +Ye martyred thousands! and with dreadful ire, +A voice of doom, a front of gloomy fire, +Rebuke those faithless souls, whose querulous wail +Disturbs your sacred sleep!--"The withering hail +Of battle, hunger, pestilence, despair, +Whatever of mortal anguish man may bear, +We bore unmurmuring! strengthened by the mail +Of a most holy purpose!--then we died!-- +Vex not our rest by cries of selfish pain, +But to the noblest measure of your powers +Endure the appointed trial! Griefs defied, +But launch their threatening thunderbolts in vain, +And angry storms pass by in gentlest showers!" + + + + +Hospital Duties. + +Charleston Courier. + + + +Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, + Turn the key on your jewels to-day, +And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses + Braid back in a serious way; +No more delicate gloves, no more laces, + No more trifling in boudoir or bower, +But come with your souls in your faces + To meet the stern wants of the hour. + +Look around. By the torchlight unsteady + The dead and the dying seem one-- +What! trembling and paling already, + Before your dear mission's begun? +These wounds are more precious than ghastly-- + Time presses her lips to each scar, +While she chants of that glory which vastly + Transcends all the horrors of war. + +Pause here by this bedside. How mellow + The light showers down on that brow! +Such a brave, brawny visage, poor fellow! + Some homestead is missing him now. +Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, + Some mother sits moaning distressed, +While the loved one lies faint but unfearing, + With the enemy's ball in his breast. + +Here's another--a lad--a mere stripling, + Picked up in the field almost dead, +With the blood through his sunny hair rippling + From the horrible gash in the head. +They say he was first in the action: + Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty: +He fought till he dropped with exhaustion + At the gates of our fair southern city. + +Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, + With a spirit transcending his years-- +Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, + And wet his pale lips with your tears. +Touch him gently; most sacred the duty + Of dressing that poor shattered hand! +God spare him to rise in his beauty, + And battle once more for his land! + +Pass on! it is useless to linger + While others are calling your care; +There is need for your delicate finger, + For your womanly sympathy there. +There are sick ones athirst for caressing, + There are dying ones raving at home, +There are wounds to be bound with a blessing, + And shrouds to make ready for some. + +They have gathered about you the harvest + Of death in its ghastliest view; +The nearest as well as the furthest + Is there with the traitor and true. +And crowned with your beautiful patience, + Made sunny with love at the heart, +You must balsam the wounds of the nations, + Nor falter nor shrink from your part. + +And the lips of the mother will bless you, + And angels, sweet-visaged and pale, +And the little ones run to caress you, + And the wives and the sisters cry hail! +But e'en if you drop down unheeded, + What matter? God's ways are the best: +You have poured out your life where 'twas needed, + And he will take care of the rest. + + + + +They Cry Peace, Peace, When There Is No Peace. + +By Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia. + + + +They are ringing peace on my heavy ear-- + No peace to my heavy heart! +They are ringing peace, I hear! I hear! + O God! how my hopes depart! + +They are ringing peace from the mountain side; + With a hollow voice it comes-- +They are ringing peace o'er the foaming tide, + And its echoes fill our homes. + +They are ringing peace, and the spring-time blooms + Like a garden fresh and fair; +But our martyrs sleep in their silent tombs-- + Do _they_ hear that sound--do they hear? + +They are ringing peace, and the battle-cry + And the bayonet's work are done, +And the armor bright they are laying by, + From the brave sire to the son. + +And the musket's clang, and the soldier's drill, + And the tattoo's nightly sound; +We shall hear no more, with a joyous thrill, + Peace, peace, they are ringing round! + +There are women, still as the stifled air + On the burning desert's track, +Not a cry of joy, not a welcome cheer-- + And their brave ones coming back! + +There are fair young heads in their morning pride, + Like the lilies pale they bow; +Just a memory left to the soldier's bride-- + Ah, God! sustain her now! + +There are martial steps that we may not hear! + There are forms we may not see! +Death's muster roll they have answered clear, + _They are free! thank God, they are free!_ + +Not a fetter fast, nor a prisoner's chain + For the noble army gone-- +No conqueror comes o'er the heavenly plain-- + Peace, _peace to the dead alone!_ + +They are ringing peace, but strangers tread + O'er the land where our fathers trod, +And our birthright joys, like a dream, have fled, + And _Thou!_ where art _Thou_, 0 God! + +They are ringing peace! _not here, not here,_ + Where the victor's mark is set; +Roll back to the North its mocking cheer-- + No peace to the Southland yet! + +We may sheathe the sword, and the rifle-gun + We may hang on the cottage wall, +And the bayonet brave, sharp duty done, + From, the soldier's arm it may fall. + +But peace!--no peace! till the same good sword, + Drawn out from its scabbard be, +And the wide world list to my country's word, + And the South! oh, the South, be free! + +Charleston Broadside. + + + + +Ballad--"What! Have Ye Thought?" + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +I. + + + What! have ye thought to pluck + Victory from chance and luck, +Triumph from clamorous shout, without a will? + Without the heart to brave + All peril to the grave, +And battle on its brink, unshrinking still? + + + +II. + + + And did ye dream success + Would still unvarying bless +Your arms, nor meet reverse in some dread field? + And shall an adverse hour + Make ye mistrust the power +Of virtue, in your souls, to make your enemy yield? + + + +III. + + + Oh! from this dreary sleep + Arise, and upward leap, +Nor let your hearts grow palsied with dismay! + Fling out your banner high, + Still challenging the sky, +While thousand strong arms bear it on its way. + + + +IV. + + + Forth, as a sacred band, + Sworn saviours of the land, +Chosen by God, the champions of the right! + And never doubt that _He_ + Who _made_ will _keep_ ye free, +If thus your souls resolve to triumph in the fight! + + + +V. + + + The felon foe, no more + Trampling the sacred shore, +Shall leave defiling footprint on the sod; + Where, desperate in the strife, + Reckless of wounds and life, +Ye brave your myriad foes beneath the eye of God! + + + +VI. + + + On brothers, comrades, men, + Rush to the field again; +Home, peace, love, safety--freedom--are the prize! + Strike! while an arm can bear + Weapon--and do not spare-- +Ye break a felon bond in every foe that dies! + + + + +Missing. + + + +In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook, + Where the May buds sprinkle the green old mound, +And the winds, and the birds, and the limpid brook, + Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound; +Who lies so still in the plushy moss, + With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, +Couched where the light and the shadows cross + Through the flickering fringe of the willow? + Who lies, alas! +So still, so chill, in the whispering grass? + +A soldier clad in the Zouave dress, + A bright-haired man, with his lips apart, +One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face, + And the other clutching his pulseless heart, +Lies here in the shadows, cool and dim, + His musket swept by a trailing bough, +With a careless grace in each quiet limb, + And a wound on his manly brow; + A wound, alas! +Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass. + +The violets peer from their dusky beds, + With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes; +The lilies quiver their shining heads, + Their pale lips full of a sad surprise; +And the lizard darts through the glistening fern-- + And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary; +Strange birds fly out, with a cry, to bathe + Their wings in the sunset glory; + While the shadows pass +O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass. + +God pity the bride who waits at home, + With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, +Dreaming the sweet old dreams of love, + While her lover is walking in Paradise; +God strengthen her heart as the days go by, + And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow, +Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind, + May breathe the tale of the hollow; + Alas! alas! +The secret is safe with the woodland grass. + + + + +Ode-"Souls of Heroes." + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won, +Still smile on the conflict so greatly begun; +Bring succor to comrade, to brother, to son + Now breasting the battle in ranks of the brave; +And the dastard that loiters, the conflict to shun, + Pursue him with scorn to the grave! + + + +II. + + +Pursue him with furies that goad to despair, +Hunt him out, where he crouches in crevice and lair, +Drive him forth, while the wife of his bosom cries--"There + Goes the coward that skulks, though his sister and wife +Tremble, nightly, in sleep, overshadowed by fear + Of a sacrifice dearer than life." + + + +III. + + +There are thousands that loiter, of historied claim, +Who boast of the heritage shrined in each name-- +Sting their souls to the quick, till they shrink from the shame + Which dishonors the names and the past of their boast; +Even now they may win the best guerdon of fame, + And retrieve the bright honors they've lost! + + + +IV. + + +Even now, while their country is torn in the toils, +While the wild boar is raging to raven the spoils, +While the boa is spreading around us the coils + Which would strangle the freedom our ancestors gave; +But each soul must be quickened until it o'er-boils, + Every muscle be corded to save! + + + +V. + + +Still the cause is the same which, in long ages gone, +Roused up your great sires, so gallantly known, +When, braving the tyrant, the sceptre and throne, + They rushed to the conflict, despising the odds; +Armed with bow, spear, and scythe, and with sling and with stone, + For their homes and their family gods! + + + +VI. + + +Shall we be less worthy the sacrifice grand, +The heritage noble we took at their hand, +The peace and the comfort, the fruits of the land; + And, sunk in a torpor as hopeless as base, +Recoil from the shock of the Sodomite band, + That would ruin the realm and the race? + + + +VII. + + +Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won, + Your toils are not closed in the deeds ye have done; +Touch the souls of each laggard and profligate son, + The greed and the sloth, and the cowardice shame; +Till we rise to complete the great work ye've begun, + And with freedom make conquest of fame! + + + + +Jackson. + +By H. L. Flash, of Galveston, Formerly of Mobile. + + + +Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, +Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, +Did kingly death, with his resistless might, + Lay the great leader low. + +His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke, +In the full sunshine of a peaceful town: +When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak + That propped our cause went down. + +Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, +Recalling all his grand heroic deeds, +Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, + And all the country bleeds. + +He entered not the nation's promised land, +At the red belching of the cannon's mouth: +But broke the house of bondage with his hand-- + The Moses of the South! + +O gracious God! not gainless in the loss; +A glorious sunbeam gilds the sternest frown; +And while his country staggers with the cross, + He rises with the crown! + +Mobile Advertiser and Register. + + + + +Captain Maffit's Ballad of the Sea. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +I. + + +Though winds are high and skies are dark, +And the stars scarce show us a meteor spark; +Yet buoyantly bounds our gallant barque, + Through billows that flash in a sea of blue; +We are coursing free, like the Viking shark, + And our prey, like him, pursue! + + + +II. + + +At each plunge of our prow we bare the graves, +Where, heedless of roar among winds and waves, +The dead have slept in their ocean caves, + Never once dreaming--as if no more +They hear, though the Storm-God ramps and raves + From the deeps to the rock-bound shore. + + + +III. + + +Brave sailors were they in the ancient times, +Heroes or pirates--men of all climes, +That had never an ear for the Sabbath chimes, + Never once called on the priest to be shriven; +They died with the courage that still sublimes, + And, haply, may fit for Heaven. + + + +IV. + + +Never once asking the when or why, +But ready, all hours, to battle and die, +They went into fight with a terrible cry, + Counting no odds, and, victors or slain, +Meeting fortune or fate, with an equal eye, + Defiant of death and pain. + + + +V. + + +Dread are the tales of the wondrous deep, +And well do the billows their secrets keep, +And sound should those savage old sailors sleep, + If sleep they may after such a life; +Where every dark passion, alert and aleap, + Made slumber itself a strife. + + + +VI. + + +What voices of horror, through storm and surge, +Sang in the perishing ear its dirge, +As, raging and rending, o'er Hell's black verge, + Each howling soul sank to its doom; +And what thunder-tones from the deeps emerge, + As yawns for its prey the tomb! + + + +VII. + + +We plough the same seas which the rovers trod, +But with better faith in the saving God, +And bear aloft and carry abroad + The starry cross, our sacred sign, +Which, never yet sullied by crime or fraud, + Makes light o'er the midnight brine. + + + +VIII. + + +And we rove not now on a lawless quest, +With passions foul in the hero's breast, +Moved by no greed at the fiend's behest, + Gloating in lust o'er a bloody prey; +But from tyrant robber the spoil to wrest, + And tear down his despot sway! + + + +IX. + + +'Gainst the spawn of Europe, and all the lands, +British and German--Norway's sands, +Dutchland and Irish--the hireling bands + Bought for butchery--recking no rede, +But, flocking like vultures, with felon hands, + To fatten the rage of greed. + + + +X. + + +With scath they traverse both land and sea, +And with sacred wrath we must make them flee; +Making the path of the nations free, + And planting peace in the heart of strife; +In the star of the cross, our liberty + Brings light to the world, and life! + + + +XI. + + +Let Christendom cower 'neath Stripes and Stars, +Cloaking her shame under legal bars, +Not too moral for traffic, but shirking wars, + While the Southern cross, floating topmast high. +Though torn, perchance, by a thousand scars, + Shall light up the midnight sky! + + + + +Melt the Bells. + +F. Y. Rockett.--Memphis Appeal. + + + +The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the +people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon. + + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +Still the tinkling on the plains, +And transmute the evening chimes +Into war's resounding rhymes, +That the invaders may be slain +By the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +That for years have called to prayer, +And, instead, the cannon's roar +Shall resound the valleys o'er, +That the foe may catch despair +From the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +Though it cost a tear to part +With the music they have made, +Where the friends we love are laid, +With pale cheek and silent heart, +'Neath the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +Into cannon, vast and grim, +And the foe shall feel the ire +From each heaving lungs of fire, +And we'll put our trust in Him +And the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +And when foes no more attack, +And the lightning cloud of war +Shall roll thunderless and far, +We will melt the cannon back +Into bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +And they'll peal a sweeter chime, +And remind of all the brave +Who have sunk to glory's grave, +And will sleep thro' coming time +'Neath the bells. + + + + +John Pelham. + +By James R. Randall. + + + +Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, + With all its gorgeous cheer; +In the bright April of historic life + Fell the great cannoneer. + +The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath + His bleeding country weeps-- +Hushed in the alabaster arms of death, + Our young Marcellus sleeps. + +Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome, + Curbing his chariot steeds; +The knightly scion of a Southern home + Dazzled the land with deeds. + +Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt, + The champion of the truth, +He bore his banner to the very front + Of our immortal youth. + +A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, + The fiery pang of shells-- +And there's a wail of immemorial woe + In Alabama dells. + +The pennon drops that led the sacred band + Along the crimson field; +The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand + Over the spotless shield. + +We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face + While 'round the lips and eyes, +Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace + Of a divine surprise. + +Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high! + Thy tears may soon be shed-- +Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, + Among the Southern dead. + +How must he smile on this dull world beneath, + Fevered with swift renown-- +He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath + Twining the victor's crown! + + + + +"Ye Batteries of Beauregard." + +By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky. + + + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall; +Bid the shock of your deep thunder + On their fleet in terror fall: +Rain your storm of leaden fury + On the black invading host-- +Teach them that their step shall never + Press on Carolina's coast. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + Sound the story of our wrong; +Let your tocsin wake the spirit + Of a people brave and strong; +Her proud names of old remember-- + Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene; +Swell the roll whose deeds of glory + Side by side with theirs are seen. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + From Savannah on them frown; +By the majesty of Heaven + Strike their "grand armada" down; +By the blood of many a freeman, + By each dear-bought battle-field, +By the hopes we fondly cherish, + Never ye the victory yield. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + All along our Southern coast, +Let, in after-time, your triumphs, + Be a nation's pride and boast; +Send each missile with a greeting + To the vile, ungodly crew; +Make them feel they ne'er can conquer + People to themselves so true. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + By the glories of the past, +By the memory of old Sumter, + Whose renown will ever last, +Speed upon their vaunted legions + Volleys thick of shot and shell, +Bid them welcome, in your glory, + To their own appointed hell. + + + + +"When Peace Returns." + +Published in the Granada Picket. + +By Olivia Tully Thomas. + + + +When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front," + And meek-eyed peace returning, +Has brightened hearts that long were wont + To sigh in grief and mourning-- +How blissful then will be the day + When, from the wars returning, +The weary soldier wends his way + To dear ones that are yearning, + +To clasp in true love's fond embrace, + To gaze with looks so tender +Upon the war-worn form and face + Of Liberty's defender; +To count with pride each cruel scar, + That mars the manly beauty, +Of him who proved so brave in war, + So beautiful in duty. + +When peace returns, throughout our land, + Glad shouts of welcome render +The gallant few of Freedom's band + Whose cry was "no surrender;" +Who battled bravely to be free + From tyranny's oppressions, +And won, for Southern chivalry, + The homage of all nations! + +And when, again, in Southern bowers + The ray of peace is shining, +Her maidens gather fairest flowers, + And honor's wreaths are twining, +To bind the brows victorious + On many a field so gory, +Whose names, renowned and glorious, + Shall live in song and story, + +Then will affection's tear be shed, + And pity, joy restraining, +For those, the lost, lamented dead, + Are all beyond our plaining; +They fell in manhood's prime and might; + And we should not weep the story +That tells of Fame, a sacred light, + Above each grave of glory! + + + + +The Right above the Wrong. + +By John W. Overall. + + + +In other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and free, +For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea; +They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song, +For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong. + +But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea, +The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea; +And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might, +That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right. + +The King sent over hireling hosts--the Briton, Hessian, Scot-- +And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot; +While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng, +And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place given to the Wrong. + +But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's sword was out, +With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's thunder-shout; +And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy + fight, +But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right! + +And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea, +To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free, +Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long, +And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong. + +And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew, +But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue; +For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight, +And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right! + +The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South, +To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon's mouth; +For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song, +Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong. + +But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool, +Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule; +We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night, +And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right. + + + + +Carmen Triumphale. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Go forth and bid the land rejoice, + Yet not too gladly, oh my song! + Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong +The solemn rapture of thy voice. + +Be nothing lightly done or said + This happy day! Our joy should flow + Accordant with the lofty woe +That wails above the noble dead. + +Let him whose brow and breast were calm + While yet the battle lay with God, + Look down upon the crimson sod +And gravely wear his mournful palm; + +And him, whose heart still weak from fear + Beats all too gayly for the time, + Know that intemperate glee is crime +While one dead hero claims a tear. + +Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill, + With sober joy, the troubled days; + A nation's hymn of grateful praise +May not be hushed for private ill. + +Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! + The mighty tidings far and nigh! + Ye cities! write them on the sky +In purple and in emerald fires! + +They came with many a haughty boast; + Their threats were heard on every breeze; + They darkened half the neighboring seas, +And swooped like vultures on the coast. + +False recreants in all knightly strife, + Their way was wet with woman's tears; + Behind them flamed the toil of years, +And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life. + +They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves; + God gave the dastards to our hands; + Their bones are bleaching on the sands, +Or mouldering slow in shallow graves. + +What though we hear about our path + The heavens with howls of vengeance rent; + The venom of their hate is spent; +We need not heed their fangless wrath. + +Meantime the stream they strove to chain + Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps + With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, +And rushes onward to the main; + +While down the swelling current glides + Our ship of state before the blast, + With streamers poured from every mast, +Her thunders roaring from her sides. + +Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, + Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! + Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, +And speed her to the ports of peace! + + + + +The Fiend Unbound. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +I. + + +No more, with glad and happy cheer, + And smiling face, doth Christmas come, +But usher'd in with sword and spear, + And beat of the barbarian drum! +No more, with ivy-circled brow, + And mossy beard all snowy white, +He comes to glad the children now, + With sweet and innocent delight. + + + +II. + + +The merry dance, the lavish feast, + The cheery welcome, all are o'er: +The music of the viol ceased, + The gleesome ring around the floor. +No glad communion greets the hour, + That welcomes in a Saviour's birth, +And Christmas, to a hostile power, + Yields all the sway that made its mirth. + + + +III. + + +The Church, like some deserted bride, + In trembling, at the Altar waits, +While, raging fierce on every side, + The foe is thundering at her gates. +No ivy green, nor glittering leaves, + Nor crimson berries, deck her walls: +But blood, red dripping from her eaves, + Along the sacred pavement falls. + + + +IV. + + +Her silver bells no longer chime + In summons to her sacred home; +Nor holy song at matin prime, + Proclaims the God within the dome. +Nor do the fireside's happy bands + Assemble fond, with greetings dear, +While Patriarch Christmas spreads his hands + To glad with gifts and crown with cheer. + + + +V. + + +In place of that beloved form, + Benignant, bland, and blessing all, +Comes one begirt with fire and storm, + The raging shell, the hissing ball! +Type of the Prince of Peace, no more, + Evoked by those who bear His name, +THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore, + Now hurls around Satanic flame. + + + +VI. + + +In hate,--evoked by kindred lands, + But late beslavering with caress, +Lo, Moloch, dripping crimson, stands, + And curses where he cannot bless. +He wings the bolt and hurls the spear, + A _demon loosed_, that rends in rage, +Sends havoc through the homes most dear, + And butchers youth and tramples age! + + + +VII. + + +With face of Fox--with glee that grins, + And apish arms, with fingers claw'd, +To snatch at all his brother wins, + And straight secrete, with stealth and fraud;-- +Lo! Mammon, kindred Demon, comes, + And lurks, as dreading ill, in rear; +He blows the trumpet, beats the drums, + Inflames the torch, and sharps the spear! + + + +VIII. + + +And furious, following in their train, + What hosts of lesser Demons rise; +Lust, Malice, Hunger, Greed and Gain, + Each raging for its special prize. +Too base for freedom, mean for toil, + And reckless all of just and right, +They rage in peaceful homes for spoil, + And where they cannot butcher, blight. + + + +IX. + + +A Serpent lie from every mouth, + Coils outward ever,--sworn to bless; +Yet, through the gardens of the South, + Still spreading evils numberless, +By locust swarms the fields are swept, + By frenzied hands the dwelling flames, +And virgin beds, where Beauty slept, + Polluted blush, from worst of shames. + + + +X. + + +The Dragon, chain'd for thousand years, + Hath burst his bonds and rages free;-- +Yet, patience, brethren, stay your fears;-- + Loosed for "a little season,"[1] he + +Will soon, beneath th' Ithuriel sword, + Of heavenly judgment, crush'd and driven, +Yield to the vengeance of the Lord, + And crouch beneath the wrath of Heaven! + + + +XI. + + +"A little season," and the Peace, + That now is foremost in your prayers, +Shall crown your harvest with increase, + And bless with smiles the home of tears; +Your wounds be healed; your noble sons, + Unhurt, unmutilated--free-- +Shall limber up their conquering guns, + In triumph grand of Liberty! + + + +XII. + + +A few more hours of mortal strife,-- + Of faith and patience, working still, +In struggle for the immortal life, + With all their soul, and strength, and will; +And, in the favor of the Lord, + And powerful grown by heavenly aid, +Your roof trees all shall be restored, + And ye shall triumph in their shade. + + + +[1] "1. And I saw an Angel come down from Heaven, having the key of the +bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand. + +"2. And he laid hold on the Dragon, that Old Serpent, which is the Devil +and Satan, and bound him a thousand years. + +"And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal +upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand +years should be fulfilled; and _after that he must be loosed a little +season_."--Rev. xx., v. 1-3. + + + + +The Unknown Dead. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +The rain is plashing on my sill, +But all the winds of Heaven are still; +And so, it falls with that dull sound +Which thrills us in the churchyard ground, +When the first spadeful drops like lead +Upon the coffin of the dead. +Beyond my streaming window-pane, +I cannot see the neighboring vane, +Yet from its old familiar tower +The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. +What strange and unsuspected link +Of feeling touched has made me think-- +While with a vacant soul and eye +I watch that gray and stony sky-- +Of nameless graves on battle plains, +Washed by a single winter's rains, +Where, some beneath Virginian hills, +And some by green Atlantic rills, +Some by the waters of the West, +A myriad unknown heroes rest? +Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see +Their flags in front of victory, +Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost +Pay for a battle nobly lost, +Claim from their monumental beds +The bitterest tears a nation sheds. +Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot, +By all save some fond few forgot-- +Lie the true martyrs of the fight, +Which strikes for freedom and for right. +Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, +The lofty faith that with them died, +No grateful page shall further tell +Than that so many bravely fell; +And we can only dimly guess +What worlds of all this world's distress, +What utter woe, despair, and dearth, +Their fate has brought to many a hearth. +Just such a sky as this should weep +Above them, always, where they sleep; +Yet, haply, at this very hour, +Their graves are like a lover's bower; +And Nature's self, with eyes unwet, +Oblivious of the crimson debt +To which she owes her April grace, +Laughs gayly o'er their burial place. + + + + +Ode--"Do Ye Quail?" + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Do ye quail but to hear, Carolinians, +The first foot-tramp of Tyranny's minions? +Have ye buckled on armor, and brandished the spear, +But to shrink with the trumpet's first peal on the ear? +Why your forts now embattled on headland and height, +Your sons all in armor, unless for the fight? +Did ye think the mere show of your guns on the wall, +And your shouts, would the souls of the heathen appal? +That his lusts and his appetites, greedy as Hell, +Led by Mammon and Moloch, would sink at a spell;-- +Nor strive, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the flesh +Should be torn from his jaws, while yet bleeding afresh. + + + +II. + + +For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!-- +To the death for your sacred dominions!-- +Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame, +Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame; +Your greybeards, with necks in the halter-- +Your virgins, defiled at the altar,-- +In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave, +Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave! +Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom! +How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom! +With the fiends in your streets howling paeans, +And the Beast o'er another Orleans! + + + +III. + + +Do ye quail, as on yon little islet +They have planted the feet that defile it? +Make its sands pure of taint, by the stroke of the sword, +And by torrents of blood in red sacrifice pour'd! +Doubts are Traitors, if once they persuade you to fear, +That the foe, in his foothold, is safe from your spear! +When the foot of pollution is set on your shores, +What sinew and soul should be stronger than yours? +By the fame--by the shame--of your sires, +Set on, though each freeman expires; +Better fall, grappling fast with the foe, to their graves, +Than groan in your fetters, the slaves of your slaves. + + + +IV. + + +The voice of your loud exultation +Hath rung, like a trump, through the nation, +How loudly, how proudly, of deeds to be done, +The blood of the sire in the veins of the son! +Old Moultrie and Sumter still keep at your gates, +And the foe in his foothold as patiently waits. +He asks, with a taunt, by your patience made bold, +If the hot spur of Percy grows suddenly cold-- +Makes merry with boasts of your city his own, +And the Chivalry fled, ere his trumpet is blown; +Upon them, O sons of the mighty of yore, +And fatten the sands with their Sodomite gore! + + + +V. + + +Where's the dastard that cowers and falters +In the sight of his hearthstones and altars? +With the faith of the free in the God of the brave, +Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save! +By the blue Heaven shining above ye, +By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye, +Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight, +And an aegis to shield and a weapon to smite! +Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not: +With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still. +To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians, +For your homes, and your sacred dominions. + + + + +Ode--"Our City by the Sea." + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Our city by the sea, + As the rebel city known, +With a soul and spirit free + As the waves that make her zone, +Stands in wait for the fate +From the angry arm of hate; +But she nothing fears the terror of his blow; +She hath garrisoned her walls, +And for every son that falls, +She will spread a thousand palls + For-the foe! + + + +II. + + +Old Moultrie at her gate, + Clad in arms and ancient fame. +Grimly watching, stands elate + To deliver bolt and flame! +Brave the band, at command, +To illumine sea and land +With a glory that shall honor days of yore; +And, as racers for their goals, +A thousand fiery souls, +While the drum of battle rolls, + Line the shore. + + + +III. + + +Lo! rising at his side, + As if emulous to share +His old historic pride, + The vast form of Sumter there! +Girt by waves, which he braves +Though the equinoctial raves, +As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep; +And, like tigers crouching round, +Are the tribute forts that bound +All the consecrated ground, + By the deep! + + + +IV. + + +It was calm, the April noon, + When, in iron-castled towers, +Our haughty foe came on, + With his aggregated powers; +All his might 'gainst the right, +Now embattled for the fight, +With Hell's hate and venom working in his heart; +A vast and dread array, +Glooming black upon the day, +Hell's passions all in play, + With Hell's art. + + + +V. + + +But they trouble not the souls + Of our Carolina host,[1] +And the drum of battle rolls, + While each hero seeks his post; +Firm, though few, sworn to do, +Their old city full in view, +The brave city of their sires and their dead; +There each freeman had his brood, +All the dear ones of his blood, +And he knew they watching stood, + In their dread! + + + +VI. + + +To the bare embattled height, + Then our gallant colonel sprung-- +"Bid them welcome to the fight," + Were the accents of his tongue-- +"Music! band, pour out--grand-- +The free song of Dixie Land! +Let it tell them we are joyful that they come! +Bid them welcome, drum and flute, +Nor be your cannon mute, +Give them chivalrous salute-- + To their doom!"[2] + + + +VII. + + +Out spoke an eager gun, + From the walls of Moultrie then; +And through clouds of sulph'rous dun, + Rose a shout of thousand men, +As the shot, hissing hot, +Goes in lightning to the spot-- +Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail; +Then roared the storm from all, +Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall-- +Bursting bomb and driving ball-- + Hell in hail! + + + +VIII. + + +Full a hundred cannon roared + The dread welcome to the foe, +And his felon spirit cowered, + As he crouched beneath the blow! +As each side opened wide +To the iron and the tide, +He lost his faith in armor and in art; +And, with the loss of faith, +Came the dread of wounds and scath-- +And the felon fear of death + Wrung his heart! + + + +IX. + + +Quenched then his foul desires; + In his mortal pain and fear, +How feeble grew his fires, + How stayed his fell career! +How each keel, made to reel +'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel, +Their turrets staggering wildly, to and fro, blind and lame; +Ironsides and iron roof, +Held no longer bullet-proof, +Steal away, shrink aloof, + In their shame! + + + +X. + + +But our lightnings follow fast, + With a vengeance sharp and hot; +Our bolts are on the blast, + And they rive with shell and shot! +Huge the form which they warm +With the hot breath of the storm; +Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck-- +They shiver as they fly, +While their leader, drifting nigh, +Sinks, choking with the cry-- + "Keokuk!" + + + +XI. + + +To the brave old city, joy! + For that the hostile race, +Commissioned to destroy, + Hath fled in sore disgrace! +That our sons, at their guns, +Have beat back the modern Huns-- +Have maintained their household fanes and their fires; +And free from taint and scath, +Have kept the fame and faith +(And will keep, through blood and death) + Of their sires! + + + +XII. + + +To the Lord of Hosts the glory, + For His the arm and might, +That have writ for us the story, + And have borne us through the fight! +His our shield in that field-- +Voice that bade us never yield; +Oh! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day? +His strength hath made us strong, +Cheered the right and crushed the wrong, +To His temple let us throng-- + PRAISE AND PRAY! + + +[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South +Carolina troops exclusively. + +[2] As the iron-clads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred +Rhett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where he remained, +ordered the band to strike up the national air of "Dixie;" and at the same +time, in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and regimental flags +were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen +guns. + + + + +The Lone Sentry. + +By James R. Randall. + + + +Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall +Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the +ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the +night. The officer of the day went to the general's tent, and said: + +"General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one but is asleep. +Shall I wake them?" + +"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp +to-night." + +And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel +for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when +glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all +unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers. + + +'Twas in the dying of the day, + The darkness grew so still; +The drowsy pipe of evening birds + Was hushed upon the hill; +Athwart the shadows of the vale + Slumbered the men of might, +And one lone sentry paced his rounds, + To watch the camp that night. + +A grave and solemn man was he, + With deep and sombre brow; +The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up + Some unaccomplished vow. +The wistful glance peered o'er the plains + Beneath the starry light-- +And with the murmured name of God, + He watched the camp that night. + +The Future opened unto him + Its grand and awful scroll: +Manassas and the Valley march + Came heaving o'er his soul-- +Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by + With that tremendous fight +Which gave him to the angel hosts + Who watched the camp that night. + +We mourn for him who died for us, + With one resistless moan; +While up the Valley of the Lord + He marches to the Throne! +He kept the faith of men and saints + Sublime, and pure, and bright-- +He sleeps--and all is well with him + Who watched the camp that night. + +Brothers! the Midnight of the Cause + Is shrouded in our fate; +The demon Goths pollute our halls + With fire, and lust, and hate. +Be strong--be valiant--be assured-- + Strike home for Heaven and Right! +_The soul of Jackson stalks abroad, + And guards the camp to-night!_ + + + + +To My Soldier Brother. + +By Sallie E. Ballard, of Texas. + + + +When softly gathering shades of ev'n +Creep o'er the prairies broad and green, +And countless stars bespangle heav'n, +And fringe the clouds with silv'ry sheen, +My fondest sigh to thee is giv'n, +My lonely wandering soldier boy; + And thoughts of thee + Steal over me +Like ev'ning shades, my soldier boy. + +My brother, though thou'rt far away, +And dangers hurtle round thy path, +And battle lightnings o'er thee play, +And thunders peal in awful wrath, +Think, whilst thou'rt in the hot affray, +Thy sister prays for thee, my boy. + If fondest prayer + Can shield thee there +Sweet angels guard my soldier boy. + +Thy proud young heart is beating high +To clash of arms and cannons' roar; +That firm-set lip and flashing eye +Tell how thy heart is brimming o'er. +Be free and live, be free or die; +Be that thy motto now, my boy; + And though thy name's + Unknown to fame's, +'Tis graven on my heart, my boy. + + + + +Sea-Weeds + +Written in Exile. + +By Annie Chambers Ketchum. + + + +Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart! + Beneath the citron-tree-- +Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep-- + I hear the Mexique Sea. + +While through the night rides in the spectral surf + Along the spectral sands, +And all the air vibrates, as if from harps + Touched by phantasmal hands. + +Bright in the moon the red pomegranate flowers + Lean to the Yucca's bells, +While with her chrism of dew, sad Midnight fills + The milk-white asphodels. + +Watching all night--as I have done before-- + I count the stars that set, +Each writing on my soul some memory deep + Of Pleasure or Regret; + +Till, wild with heart-break, toward the East I turn, + Waiting for dawn of day;-- +And chanting sea, and asphodel and star + Are faded, all, away. + +Only within my trembling, trembling hands-- + Brought unto me by thee-- +I clasp these beautiful and fragile things, + Bright sea-weeds from the sea, + +Fair bloom the flowers beneath these Northern skies, + Pure shine the stars by night, +And grandly sing the grand Atlantic waves + In thunder-throated might; + +But, as the sea-shell in her chambers keeps + The murmur of the sea, +So the deep-echoing memories of my home + Will not depart from me. + +Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things! + As I have seen them cast +Like a drowned woman's hair, along the beach, + When storms were over-past; + +Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashore + In Battle's storm and blight; +Would _they_ had died, like sea-weeds! Pray forgive me + But I must weep to-night. + +Tell me again, of Summer fields made fair + By Spring's precursing plough; +Of joyful reapers, gathering tear-sown harvests-- + Talk to me,--will you?--now! + + + + +The Salkehatchie. + +By Emily J. Moore. + + + +Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening +a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie. + + +The crystal streams, the pearly streams, + The streams in sunbeams flashing, +The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams, + The streams down mountains dashing, + Have been the theme + Of poets' dream, + And, in wild witching story, +Have been renowned for love's fond scenes, + Or some great deed of glory. + +The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed, + The Arno, silver-flowing, +The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan, + With poesy are glowing; + But I would praise + In artless lays, + A stream which well may match ye, +Though dark its waters glide along-- + The swampy Salkehatchie. + +'Tis not the beauty of its stream, + Which makes it so deserving +Of honor at the Muses' hands, + But 'tis the use it's serving, + And 'gainst a raid, + We hope its aid + Will ever prove efficient, +Its fords remain still overflowed, + In water ne'er deficient. + +If Vandal bands are held in check, + Their crossing thus prevented, +And we are spared the ravage wild + Their malice has invented, + Then we may well + In numbers tell + No other stream can match ye, +And grateful we shall ever be + To swampy Salkehatchie. + + + + +The Broken Mug. + +Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley +(so-called.) + +John Esten Cooke. + + + +My mug is broken, my heart is sad! + What woes can fate still hold in store! +The friend I cherished a thousand days + Is smashed to pieces on the floor! + Is shattered and to Limbo gone, + I'll see my Mug no more! + +Relic it was of joyous hours + Whose golden memories still allure-- +When coffee made of rye we drank, + And gray was all the dress we wore! + When we were paid some cents a month, + But never asked for more! + +In marches long, by day and night, + In raids, hot charges, shocks of war, +Strapped on the saddle at my back + This faithful comrade still I bore-- + This old companion, true and tried, + I'll never carry more! + +From the Rapidan to Gettysburg-- + "Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before-- +This friend went with the cavalry + And heard the jarring-cannon roar + In front of Cemetery Hill-- + Good heavens! how they did roar! + +Then back again, the foe behind, + Back to the "Old Virginia shore"-- +Some dead and wounded left--some holes + In flags, the sullen graybacks bore; + This mug had made the great campaign, + And we'd have gone once more! + +Alas! we never went again! + The red cross banner, slow but sure, +"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout + (Like the lover of Lenore) + A long, sad, lingering farewell-- + To taste its joys no more. + +But still we fought, and ate hard bread, + Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore! +And still this faithful friend remained-- + Riding behind me as before-- + The friend on march, in bivouac, + When others were no more. + +How oft we drove the horsemen blue + In Summer bright or Winter frore! +How oft before the Southern charge + Through field and wood the blue-birds tore! + Im "harmonized," but long to hear + The bugles ring once more. + +Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now, + Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure, +Congress will "reconstruct" us soon-- + But no gray people on _that_ floor! + I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long + To see those times once more! + +Gay days! the sun was brighter then, + And we were happy, though so poor! +That past comes back as I behold + My shattered friend upon the floor, + My splintered, useless, ruined mug, + From which I'll drink no more. + +How many lips I'll love for aye, + While heart and memory endure, +Have touched this broken cup and laughed-- + How they did laugh!--in days of yore! + Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream, + If they had been no more!" + +Dear comrades, dead this many a day, + I saw you weltering in your gore, +After those days, amid the pines + On the Rappahannock shore! + When the joy of life was much to me + But your warm hearts were more! + +Yours was the grand heroic nerve + That laughs amid the storm of war-- +Souls that "loved much" your native land, + Who fought and died therefor! + You gave your youth, your brains, your arms, + Your blood--you had no more! + +You lived and died true to your flag! + And now your wounds are healed--but sore +Are many hearts that think of you + Where you have "gone before." + Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms, + They are "whole" forevermore! + +Those lips this broken vessel touched, + His, too!--the man's we all adore-- +That cavalier of cavaliers, + Whose voice will ring no more-- + Whose plume will float amid the storm + Of battle never more! + +Not on this idle page I write + That name of names, shrined in the core +Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen, + Hush! words so cold and poor! + His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust, + His bugle sounds no more! + +Never was cavalier like ours! + Not Rupert in the years before! +And when his stern, hard work was done, + His griefs, joys, battles o'er-- + His mighty spirit rode the storm, + And led his men once more! + +He lies beneath his native sod, + Where violets spring, or frost is hoar: +He recks not--charging squadrons watch + His raven plume no more! + That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear, + That hand we'll touch no more! + +My foolish mirth is quenched in tears: + Poor fragments strewed upon the floor, +Ye are the types of nobler things + That find their use no more-- + Things glorious once, now trodden down-- + That makes us smile no more! + +Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts-- + Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure, +Beating his wings against the bars, + The prisoned eagle tried to soar! +Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still-- + Bread failed--we fought no more! + +Lies in the dust the shattered staff + That bore aloft on sea and shore, +That blazing flag, amid the storm! + And none are now so poor, + So poor to do it reverence, + Now when it flames no more! + +But it is glorious in the dust, + Sacred till Time shall be no more: +Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn-- + The dread "Rebellion's" o'er! + Furl the great flag--hide cross and star, + Thrust into darkness star and bar, + But look! across the ages far + It flames for evermore! + + + + +Carolina. + +By Anna Peyre Dinnies. + + + + In the hour of thy glory, + When thy name was far renowned, + When Sumter's glowing story + Thy bright escutcheon crowned; +Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine, +That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine. + + Exulting as I heard thee, + Of every lip the theme, + Prophetic visions stirred me, + In a hope-illumined dream: +A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won, +Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son. + + And now, when clouds arise, + And shadows round thee fall; + I lift to heaven my eyes, + Those visions to recall; +For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long, +Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong. + + Thy serried ranks of pine, + Thy live-oaks spreading wide, + Beneath the sunbeams shine, + In fadeless robes of pride; +Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth, +As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North. + + The deeds of other days, + Enacted by their sires, + Themes long of love and praise, + Have wakened high desires +In every heart that beats within thy proud domain, +To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again. + + Each heart the home of daring, + Each hand the foe of wrong, + They'll meet with haughty bearing, + The war-ship's thunder song; +And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore, +They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore. + + His feet may press their soil, + Or his numbers bear them down, + In his vandal raid for spoil, + His sordid soul to crown; +But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near, +When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear. + + A fearful time shall come, + When thy gathering bands unite, + And the larum-sounding drum + Calls to struggle for the Right; +"_Pro aris et pro focis_," from rank to rank shall fly, +As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die. + + Oh, then a tale of glory + Shall yet again be thine, + And the record of thy story + The Laurel shall entwine; +Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State! +Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great. + + + + +Our Martyrs. + +Bu Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I am sitting lone and weary + On the hearth of my darkened room, +And the low wind's _miserere_ + Makes sadder the midnight gloom; +There's a terror that's nameless nigh me-- + There's a phantom spell in the air, +And methinks that the dead glide by me, + And the breath of the grave's in my hair! + +'Tis a vision of ghastly faces, + All pallid, and worn with pain, +Where the splendor of manhood's graces + Give place to a gory stain; +In a wild and weird procession + They sweep by my startled eyes, +And stern with their fate's fruition, + Seem melting in blood-red skies. + +Have they come from the shores supernal, + Have they passed from the spirit's goal, +'Neath the veil of the life eternal, + To dawn on my shrinking soul? +Have they turned from the choiring angels, + Aghast at the woe and dearth +That war, with his dark evangels, + Hath wrought in the loved of earth? + +Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains + They lie, where the dew-mists weep, +And the murmur of mournful fountains + Breaks over their painful sleep; +On the breast of the lonely meadows, + Safe, safe from the despot's will, +They rest in the star-lit shadows, + And their brows are white and still! + +Alas! for the martyred heroes + Cut down at their golden prime, +In a strife with the brutal Neroes, + Who blacken the path of Time! +For them is the voice of wailing, + And the sweet blush-rose departs +From the cheeks of the maidens, paling + O'er the wreck of their broken hearts! + +And alas! for the vanished glory + Of a thousand household spells! +And alas! for the tearful story + Of the spirit's fond farewells! +By the flood, on the field, in the forest, + Our bravest have yielded breath, +But the shafts that have smitten sorest, + Were launched by a viewless death! + +Oh, Thou, that hast charms of healing, + Descend on a widowed land, +And bind o'er the wounds of feeling + The balms of Thy mystic hand! +Till the hearts that lament and languish, + Renewed by the touch divine, +From the depths of a mortal anguish + May rise to the calm of Thine! + + + + +Cleburne. + +By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama. + + + +"_Another star now shines on high._" + + +Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave +Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laurelled grave-- +Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set, +For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget. + +'Tis true thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head +Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead; +The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright +Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light. + +No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore, +No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more, +No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise, +For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies. + +Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless, deadened heart; +Calm, calm and sweet, 0 warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part, +And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine, +A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine. + +A long farewell--we give thee up, with all thy bright renown; +A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found. +Above thy grave a wail is heard--a nation mourns her dead; +A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled. + +A last farewell--how can we speak the bitter word farewell! +The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell. +Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might; +And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night. + +Selma Despatch, 1864. + + + + +The Texan Marseillaise. + +By James Haines, of Texas. + + + +Sons of the South, arouse to battle! + Gird on your armor for the fight! +The Northern Thugs with dread "War's rattle," + Pour on each vale, and glen, and height; +Meet them as Ocean meets in madness + The frail bark on the rocky shore, + When crested billows foam and roar, +And the wrecked crew go down in sadness. + Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves! + Scatter yon Vandal hordes! + Despots and bandits, fitting food + For vultures and your swords. + +Shall dastard tyrants march their legions + To crush the land of Jackson--Lee? +Shall freedom fly to other regions, + And sons of Yorktown bend the knee? +Or shall their "footprints' base pollution" + Of Southern soil, in blood be purged, + And every flying slave be scourged +Back to his snows in wild confusion? + Arm! Arm! &c. + +Vile despots, with their minions knavish, + Would drag us back to their embrace; +Will freemen brook a chain so slavish? + Will brave men take so low a place? +O, Heaven! for words--the loathing, scorning + We feel for such a Union's bands: + To paint with more than mortal hands, +And sound our loudest notes of warning. + Arm! Arm! &c. + +What! union with a race ignoring +The charter of our nation's birth! +Union with bastard slaves adoring +The fiend that chains them, to the earth! +No! we reply in tones of thunder-- +No! our staunch hills fling back the sound-- +No! our hoarse cannon echo round-- +No! evermore remain asunder! +Arm! Arm! &c. + +Southern Confederacy. + + + + +O, Tempora! O, Mores! + +By John Dickson Bruns, M. D. + + + +"Great Pan is dead!" so cried an airy tongue + To one who, drifting down Calabria's shore, +Heard the last knell, in starry midnight rung, + Of the old Oracles, dumb for evermore. + +A low wail ran along the shuddering deep, + And as, far off, its flaming accents died, +The awe-struck sailors, startled from their sleep, + Gazed, called aloud: no answering voice replied; + +Nor ever will--the angry Gods have fled, + Closed are the temples, mute are all the shrines, +The fires are quenched, Dodona's growth is dead, + The Sibyl's leaves are scattered to the winds. + +No mystic sentence will they bear again, + Which, sagely spelled, might ward a nation's doom; +But we have left us still some god-like men, + And some great voices pleading from the tomb. + +If we would heed them, they might save us yet, + Call up some gleams of manhood in our breasts, +Truth, valor, justice, teach us to forget + In a grand cause our selfish interests. + +But we have fallen on evil times indeed, + When public faith is but the common shame, +And private morals held an idiot's creed, + And old-world honesty an empty name. + +And lust, and greed, and gain are all our arts! + The simple lessons which our father's taught +Are scorned and jeered at; in our sordid marts + We sell the faith for which they toiled and fought. + +Each jostling each in the mad strife for gold, + The weaker trampled by the unrecking throng +Friends, honor, country lost, betrayed, or sold, + And lying blasphemies on every tongue. + +Cant for religion, sounding words for truth, + Fraud leads to fortune, gelt for guilt atones, +No care for hoary age or tender youth, + For widows' tears or helpless orphans' groans. + +The people rage, and work their own wild will, + They stone the prophets, drag their highest down, +And as they smite, with savage folly still + Smile at their work, those dead eyes wear no frown. + +The sage of "Drainfield"[1] tills a barren soil, + And reaps no harvest where he sowed the seed, +He has but exile for long years of toil; + Nor voice in council, though his children bleed. + +And never more shall "Redcliffs"[2] oaks rejoice, + Now bowed with grief above their master's bier; +Faction and party stilled that mighty voice, + Which yet could teach us wisdom, could we hear. + +And "Woodland's"[3] harp is mute: the gray, old man + Broods by his lonely hearth and weaves no song; +Or, if he sing, the note is sad and wan, + Like the pale face of one who's suffered long. + +So all earth's teachers have been overborne + By the coarse crowd, and fainting; droop or die; +They bear the cross, their bleeding brows the thorn, + And ever hear the clamor--"Crucify!" + +Oh, for a man with godlike heart and brain! + A god in stature, with a god's great will. +And fitted to the time, that not in vain + Be all the blood we're spilt and yet must spill. + +Oh, brothers! friends! shake off the Circean spell! + Rouse to the dangers of impending fate! +Grasp your keen swords, and all may yet be well-- + More gain, more pelf, and it will be, too late! + +Charleston Mercury [1864]. + +[1] The country-seat of R. Barnwell Rhett. + +[2] The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond. + +[3] The homestead of W. Gilmore Simms (destroyed by Sherman's army.) + + + + +Our Departed Comrades. + +By J. Marion Shirer. + + + +I am sitting alone by a fire + That glimmers on Sugar Loaf's height, +But before I to rest shall retire + And put out the fast fading light-- +While the lanterns of heaven are ling'ring + In silence all o'er the deep sea, +And loved ones at home are yet mingling + Their voices in converse of me-- +While yet the lone seabird is flying + So swiftly far o'er the rough wave, +And many fond mothers are sighing + For the noble, the true, and the brave; +Let me muse o'er the many departed + Who slumber on mountain and vale; +With the sadness which shrouds the lone-hearted, + Let me tell of my comrades a tale. +Far away in the green, lonely mountains, + Where the eagle makes bloody his beak, +In the mist, and by Gettysburg's fountains, + Our fallen companions now sleep! +Near Charleston, where Sumter still rises + In grandeur above the still wave, +And always at evening discloses + The fact that her inmates yet live-- +On islands, and fronting Savannah, + Where dark oaks overshadow the ground, +Round Macon and smoking Atlanta, + How many dead heroes are found! +And out on the dark swelling ocean, + Where vessels go, riding the waves, +How many, for love and devotion, + Now slumber in warriors' graves! +No memorials have yet been erected + To mark where these warriors lie. +All alone, save by angels protected, + They sleep 'neath the sea and the sky! +But think not that they are forgotten + By those who the carnage survive: +When their headboards will all have grown rotten, + And the night-winds have levelled their graves, +Then hundreds of sisters and mothers, + Whose freedom they perished to save, +And fathers, and empty-sleeved brothers, + Who surmounted the battle's red wave; +Will crowd from their homes in the Southward, + In search of the loved and the blest, +And, rejoicing, will soon return homeward + And lay our dear martyrs to rest. + + + + +No Land Like Ours. + +Published in the Montgomery Advertiser, January, 1863. + +By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky. + + + +Though other lands may boast of skies + Far deeper in their blue, +Where flowers, in Eden's pristine dyes, + Bloom with a richer hue; +And other nations pride in kings, + And worship lordly powers; +Yet every voice of nature sings, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other scenes, than such as grace + Our forests, fields, and plains, +May lend the earth a sweeter face + Where peace incessant reigns; +But dearest still to me the land + Where sunshine cheers the hours, +For God hath shown, with his own hand, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other streams may softer flow + In vales of classic bloom, +And rivers clear as crystal glow, + That wear no tinge of gloom; +Though other mountains lofty look, + And grand seem olden towers, +We see, as in an open book, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other nations boast of deeds + That live in old renown, +And other peoples cling to creeds + That coldly on us frown; +On pure religion, love, and law + Are based our ruling powers-- +The world but feels, with wondering awe, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other lands may boast their brave, +Whose deeds are writ in fame, +Their heroes ne'er such glory gave +As gilds our country's name; +Though others rush to daring deeds, +Where the darkening war-cloud lowers, +Here, each alike for freedom bleeds-- +There is no land like ours! + +Though other lands Napoleon +And Wellington adorn, +America, her Washington, +And later heroes born; +Yet Johnston, Jackson, Price, and Lee, +Bragg, Buckner, Morgan towers, +With Beauregard, and Hood, and Bee-- +There is no land like ours! + + + + +The Angel of the Church. + + + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +The enemy, from his camp on Morris Island, has, in frequent letters in +the Northern papers, avowed the object at which they aim their shells in +Charleston to be the spire of St. Michael's Church. Their _practice_ +shows that these avowals are true. Thus far, they have not succeeded in +their aim. Angels of the Churches, is a phrase applied by St. John in +reference to the Seven Churches of Asia. The Hebrews recognized an Angel +of the Church, in their language, "Sheliack-Zibbor," whose office may be +described as that of a watcher or guardian of the church. Daniel says, +iv. 13, "Behold, a watcher and a Holy one came down from Heaven." The +practice of naming churches after tutelary saints, originated, no doubt, +in the conviction that, where the church was pure, and the faith true, and +the congregation pious, these guardian angels, so chosen, would accept the +office assigned them. They were generally chosen from the Seraphim and +Cherubim--those who, according to St. Paul (1 Colossians xvi.), +represented thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers. According to +the Hebrew traditions, St. Michael was the head of the first order; +Gabriel, of the second; Uriel, of the third; and Raphael, of the fourth. +St. Michael is the warrior angel who led the hosts of the sky against the +powers of the princes of the air; who overthrew the dragon, and trampled +him under foot. The destruction of the Anaconda, in his hands, would be a +smaller undertaking. Assuming for our people a hope not less rational than +that of the people of Nineveh, we may reasonably build upon the +guardianship and protection of God, through his angels, "a great city of +sixty thousand souls," which has been for so long a season the subject of +his care. These notes will supply the adequate illustrations for the ode +which follows. + + + +I. + + +Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim + The temple of the living God; +Hurl iron bolt and seething flame + Through aisles which holiest feet have trod; +Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb, + And, raging with demoniac ire, +Send down, in sudden crash of doom, + That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire. + + + +II. + + +That spire, for full a hundred years,[1] + Hath been a people's point of sight; +That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears, + With strains well worthy Salem's height; +The sweet, clear music of its bells, + Made liquid soft in Southern air, +Still through the heart of memory swells, + And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer. + + + +III. + + +Along the shores for many a mile, + Long ere they owned a beacon-mark, +It caught arid kept the Day-God's smile, + The guide for every wandering bark;[2] +Averting from our homes the scaith + Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven, +The Pharos to the wandering faith, + It pointed every prayer to Heaven! + + + +IV. + + +Well may ye, felons of the time, + Still loathing all that's pure and free, +Add this to many a thousand crime + 'Gainst peace and sweet humanity: +Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame, + Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes, +But fitly turn your murderous aim + Against Jehovah's ancient domes. + + + +V. + + +Yet, though the grand old temple falls, + And downward sinks the lofty spire, +Our faith is stronger than our walls, + And soars above the storm and fire. +Ye shake no faith in souls made free + To tread the paths their fathers trod; +To fight and die for liberty, + Believing in the avenging God! + + + +VI. + + +Think not, though long his anger stays, + His justice sleeps--His wrath is spent; +The arm of vengeance but delays, + To make more dread the punishment! +Each impious hand that lights the torch + Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall; +And the bright Angel of the Church, + With seraph shield avert the ball! + + + +VII. + + +For still we deem, as taught of old, + That where the faith the altar builds, +God sends an angel from his fold, + Whose sleepless watch the temple shields, +And to his flock, with sweet accord, + Yields their fond choice, from THRONES and POWERS; +Thus, Michael, with his fiery sword + And golden shield, still champions ours! + + + +VIII. + + +And he who smote the dragon down, + And chained him thousand years of time, +Need never fear the boa's frown, + Though loathsome in his spite and slime. +He, from the topmost height, surveys + And guards the shrines our fathers gave; +And we, who sleep beneath his gaze, + May well believe his power to save! + + + +IX. + + +Yet, if it be that for our sin + Our angel's term of watch is o'er, +With proper prayer, true faith must win + The guardian watcher back once more I +Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer-- + In blood and sackcloth, if it need; +And still our spire shall rise in air, + Our temple, though our people bleed! + +[1] St.. Michael's Church was opened for divine worship, February 1, 1761 + +[2] "The height of this steeple makes it the principal land-mark for the +pilots."--Dalcjio (in 1819). + + + + +Ode--"Shell the Old City! Shell!" + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Shell the old city I shell! +Ye myrmidons of Hell; +Ye serve your master well, + With hellish arts! +Hurl down, with bolt and fire, +The grand old shrines, the spire; +But know, your demon ire +Subdues no hearts! + + + +II. + + +There, we defy ye still, +With sworn and resolute will; +Courage ye cannot kill + While we have breath! +Stone walls your bolts may break, +But, ere our souls ye shake, +Of the whole land we'll make + One realm of death! + + + +III. + + +Dear are our homes! our eyes +Weep at their sacrifice; +And, with each bolt that flies, + Each roof that falls, +The pang extorts the tear, +That things so precious, dear +To memory, love, and care, + Sink with our walls. + + + +IV. + + +Trophies of ancient time, +When, with great souls, sublime, +Opposing force and crime, + Our fathers fought; +Relics of golden hours, +When, for our shrines and bowers, +Genius, with magic powers, + Her triumphs wrought! + + + +V. + + +Each Sabbath-hallowed dome, +Each ancient family home, +The dear old southwest room, + All trellised round; +Where gay, bright summer vines, +Linked in fantastic twines +With the sun's blazing lines, + Rubied the ground! + + + +VI. + + +Homes, sacred to the past, +Which bore the hostile blast, +Though Spain, France, Britain cast + Their shot and shell! +Tombs of the mighty dead, +That in our battles bled, +When on our infant head + These furies fell! + + + +VII. + + +Halls which the foreign guest +Found of each charm possessed, +With cheer unstinted blessed, + And noblest grace; +Where, drawing to her side +The stranger, far and wide, +Frank courtesy took pride + To give him place! + + + +VIII. + + +The shaded walks--the bowers +Where, through long summer hours, +Young Love first proved his powers + To win the prize; +Where every tree has heard +Some vows of love preferred, +And, with his leaves unstirred, + Watch'd lips and eyes. + + + +IX. + + +Gardens of tropic blooms, +That, through the shaded rooms, +Sent Orient-winged perfumes + With dusk and dawn; +The grand old laurel, tall, +As sovereign over all, +And, from the porch and hall, + The verdant lawn. + + + +X. + + +Oh! when we think of these +Old homes, ancestral trees; +Where, in the sun and breeze, + At morn and even, +Was to enjoy the play +Of hearts at holiday, +And find, in blooms of May, + Foretaste of Heaven! + + + +XI. + + +Where, as we cast our eyes +On thing's of precious prize, +Trophies of good and wise, + Grand, noble, brave; +And think of these, so late +Sacred to soul and state, +Doomed, as the wreck of fate, + By fiend and slave!-- + + + +XII. + + +The inevitable pain, +Coursing through blood and brain, +Drives forth, like winter rain, + The bitter tear! +We cannot help but weep, +From depth of hearts that keep +The memories, dread and deep. + To vengeance dear! + + + +XIII. + + +Aye, for each tear we shed, +There shall be torrents red, +Not from the eye-founts fed, + But from the veins! +Bloody shall be the sweat, +Fiends, felons, that shall yet +Pay retribution's debt, + In torture's pains! + + + +XIV. + + +Our tears shall naught abate, +Of what we owe to hate-- +To the avenging fate-- + To earth and Heaven! +And, soon or late, the hour +Shall bring th' atoning power, +When, through the clouds that lower, + The storm-bolt's driven! + + + +XV. + + +Shell the old city--shell! +But, with each rooftree's knell, +Vows deep of vengeance fell, + Fire soul and eye! +With every tear that falls +Above our stricken walls +Each heart more fiercely calls, + "Avenge, or die!" + + + + +"The Enemy Shall Never Reach Your City." + +Andrew Jackson's Address to the People of New Orleans. + + + +I. + + +Never, while such as ye are in the breach, +Oh! brothers, sons, and Southrons--never! never! +Shall the foul enemy your city reach! +For souls and hearts are eager with endeavor; +And God's own sanction on your cause, makes holy +Each arm that strikes for home, however lowly!-- +And ye shall conquer by the rolling deep!-- +And ye shall conquer on the embattled steep!-- +And ye shall see Leviathan go down +A hundred fathoms, with a horrible cry +Of drowning wretches, in their agony-- +While Slaughter wades in gore along the sands, +And Terror flies with pleading, outstretched hands, +All speechless, but with glassy-staring eyes-- +Flying to Fate--and fated as he flies;-- +Seeking his refuge in the tossing wave, +That gives him, when the shark has fed, a grave! + + + +II. + + +Thus saith the Lord of Battles: "Shall it be, +That this great city, planted by the sea, +With threescore thousand souls--with fanes and spires +Reared by a race of unexampled sires-- +That I have watched, now twice a hundred years,[1] +Nursed through long infancy of hopes and fears, +Baptized in blood at seasons, oft in tears; +Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow +To greatness, with a progress firm but slow-- +That being the grand condition of duration-- +Until it spreads into the mighty nation! +And shall the usurper, insolent of power, +O'erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour! +And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will, +Say to its mighty heart--'Crouch, and be still! +My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate! +Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!'" + + + +III. + + +"No! He shall know--I am the Lord of war; +And all his mighty hosts but pigmies are! +His hellish engines, wrought for human woe, +His arts and vile inventions, and his power, +My arm shall bring to ruin, swift and low! +Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm-clouds lower, +And I will arm my people with a faith, +Shall make them free of fear, and free of scaith; +Arid they shall bear from me a smiting sword, +Edged with keen lightning, at whose stroke is poured +A torrent of destruction and swift wrath, +Sweeping--the insolent legions from their path! +The usurper shall be taught that none shall take-- +The right to punish and avenge from me: +And I will guard my City by the Sea, +And save its people for their fathers' sake!" + + + +IV. + + +Selah!--Oh I brothers, sons, and Southrons, rise; +To prayer: and lo! the wonder in the skies! +The sunbow spans your towers, even while the foe +Hurls his fell bolt, and rains his iron blow. +Toss'd by his shafts, the spray above yon height[1] +God's smile hath turned into a golden light; +Orange and purple-golden! In that sign +Find ye fit promise for that voice divine! +Hark! 'tis the thunder! Through the murky air, +The solemn roll goes echoing far and near! +Go forth, and unafraid! His shield is yours! +And the great spirits of your earlier day-- +Your fathers, hovering round your sacred shores-- +Will guard your bosoms through the unequal fray! +Hark to their voices, issuing through the gloom:[2] +"The cruel hosts that haunt you, march to doom: +Give them the vulture's rites--a naked tomb! +And, while ye bravely smite, with fierce endeavor, +The foe shall reach your city--never! never!" + + +[1] Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years +old. + +[2]In the late engagement of Fort Sumter, with the enemy's fleet, April +7th, the spray thrown above the walls by their enormous missiles, was +formed into a beautiful sunbow, seeing which, General Ripley, with the +piety of Constantine, exclaimed: "_In hoc signo vinces!_" + + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +War-Waves. + +By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston. + + + +What are the war-waves saying, + As they compass us around? +The dark, ensanguined billows, + With their deep and dirge-like sound? +Do they murmur of submission; + Do they call on us to bow +Our necks to the foe triumphant + Who is riding o'er us now? + +Never! No sound submissive + Comes from those waves sublime, +Or the low, mysterious voices + Attuned to their solemn chime! +For the hearts of our noble martyrs + Are the springs of its rich supply; +And those deeply mystic murmurs + Echo their dying cry! + +They bid us uplift our banner + Once more in the name of God; +And press to the goal of Freedom + By the paths our Fathers trod: +_They_ passed o'er their dying brothers; + From their pale lips caught the sigh-- +The _flame_ of their hearts heroic, + From the flash of each closing eye! + +Up! Up! for the time is pressing, + The red waves close around;-- +They will lift us on their billows + If our hearts are faithful found! +They will lift us high--exultant, + And the craven world shall see +The Ark of a ransomed people + Afloat on the crimson sea! + +Afloat, with her glorious banner-- + The cross on its field of red, +Its stars, and its white folds waving + In triumph at her head; +Emblem of all that's sacred + Heralding Faith to view; +Type of unblemished honor; + Symbol of all that's true! + +_Then_ what can those waves be singing + But an anthem grand, sublime, +As they bear for our martyred heroes + A wail to the coast of Time? +What else as they roll majestic + To the far-off shadowy shore, +To join the Eternal chorus + When Time shall be no more! + + + + +Old Moultrie. + + +By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston. + + + +All lovers of poetry will know in whose liquid gold I have dipped my brush +to illumine the picture. + + +The splendor falls on bannered walls + Of ancient Moultrie, great in story; +And flushes now, his scar-seamed brow, + With rays of golden glory! + Great in his old renown; + Great in the honor thrown + Around him by the foe, + Had sworn to lay him low! + +The glory falls--historic walls + Too weak to cover foes insulting, +Become a tower--a sheltering bower-- + A theme of joy exulting; + God, merciful and great, + Preserved the high estate + Of Moultrie, by His power + Through the fierce battle-hour! + +The splendor fell--his banners swell + Majestic forth to catch the shower; +Our own loved _blue_ receives anew + A rich immortal dower! + Adown the triple bars + Of its companion, spars + Of golden glory stream; + On seven-rayed circlet beam! + +The glory falls--but not on walls + Of Sumter deemed _the post of duty_; +A brilliant sphere, it circles clear + The harbor in its beauty; + Holding in its embrace + The city's queenly grace; + Stern battery and tower, + Of manly strength and power, + +But brightest falls on Moultrie's walls, + Forever there to rest in glory, +A hallowed light--on buttress height-- + Oh, fort, beloved and hoary! + Rest _there_ and tell that _faith_ + Shall never suffer scaith; + _Rest there_-and glow afar-- + _Hope's ever-burning star!_ + +Charleston Mercury + + + + +Only One Killed. + +By Julia L. Keyes, Montgomery, Ala. + + + +Only one killed--in company B, + 'Twas a trifling loss--one man! +A charge of the bold and dashing Lee-- +While merry enough it was, to see + The enemy, as he ran. + +Only one killed upon our side-- + Once more to the field they turn. +Quietly now the horsemen ride-- +And pause by the form of the one who died, + So bravely, as now we learn. + +Their grief for the comrade loved and true + For a time was unconcealed; +They saw the bullet had pierced him through +That his pain was brief--ah! very few + Die thus, on the battle-field. + +The news has gone to his home, afar-- + Of the short and gallant fight, +Of the noble deeds of the young La Var +Whose life went out as a falling star + In the skirmish of that night. + +"Only one killed! It was my son," + The widowed mother cried. +She turned but to clasp the sinking one, +Who heard not the words of the victory won, + But of him who had bravely died. + +Ah! death to her were a sweet relief, + The bride of a single year. +Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief, +Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf + Now trodden and brown and sere! + +But no, she must bear through coming life + Her burden of silent woe, +The aged mother and youthful wife +Must live through a nation's bloody strife, + Sighing, and waiting to go. + +Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars, + Are meeting no more to part, +They can smile once more through the crystal bars-- +Where never more will the woe of wars + O'ershadow the loving--heart. + +Field and Fireside. + + + + +Land of King Cotton.[1] + +Air--Red, White, and Blue. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + +From the Memphis Appeal, December 18, 1861. + + + +Oh! Dixie, dear land of King Cotton, + "The home of the brave and the free," +A nation by freedom begotten, + The terror of despots to be; +Wherever thy banner is streaming, + Base tyranny quails at thy feet, +And liberty's sunlight is beaming, + In splendor of majesty sweet. + +CHORUS.--Three cheers for our army so true, + Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee; + Beauregard and our Davis forever, + The pride of the brave and the free! + +When Liberty sounds her war-rattle, + Demanding her right and her due, +The first land that rallies to battle + Is Dixie, the shrine of the true; +Thick as leaves of the forest in summer, + Her brave sons will rise on each plain, +And then strike, until each Vandal comer + Lies dead on the soil he would stain. +CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc. + +May the names of the dead that we cherish, + Fill memory's cup to the brim; +May the laurels they've won never perish, + "Nor star of their glory grow dim;" +May the States of the South never sever, + But the champions of freedom e'er be; +May they flourish Confederate forever, + The boast of the brave and the free. +CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc. + +[1] "Land of King Cotton" was the favorite song of the Tennessee troops, +but especially of the Thirteenth and One Hundred and Fifty-fourth +regiments. + + + + +If You Love Me. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + + + +You have told me that you love me, + That you worship at my shrine; +That no purity above me + Can on earth be more divine. +Though the kind words you have spoken. + Sound to me most sweetly strange, +Will your pledges ne'er be broken? + Will there be in you no change? + +If you love me half so wildly-- + Half so madly as you say, +Listen to me, darling, mildly-- + Would you do aught I would pray? +If you would, then hear the thunder + Of our country's cannon speak! +While by war she's rent asunder, + Do not come my love to seek. + +If you love me, do not ponder, + Do not breathe what you would say, +Do not look at me with wonder, + Join your country in the fray. +Go! your aid and right hand lend her, + Breast the tyrant's angry blast: +Be her own and my defender-- + Strike for freedom to the last, + +Then I'll vow to love none other, + While you nobly dare and do; +As you're faithful to our mother, + So I'll faithful prove to you. +But return not while the thunder + Lives in one invading sword; +Strike the despot's hirelings under-- + Own no master but the Lord. + + + + +The Cotton Boll. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +While I recline +At ease beneath +This immemorial pine, +Small sphere!-- +By dusky fingers brought this morning here? +And shown with boastful smiles,-- +I turn thy cloven sheath, +Through which the soft white fibres peer, +That, with their gossamer bands, +Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, +And slowly, thread by thread, +Draw forth the folded strands, +Than which the trembling line, +By whose frail help yon startled spider fled +Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging bed, +Is scarce more fine; +And as the tangled skein +Unravels in my hands, +Betwixt me and the noonday light, +A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles +The landscape broadens on my sight, +As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell +Like that which, in the ocean shell, +With mystic sound, +Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, +And turns some city lane +Into the restless main, +With all his capes and isles! + +Yonder bird,-- +Which floats, as if at rest, +In those blue tracts above the thunder, where +No vapors cloud the stainless air, +And never sound is heard, +Unless at such rare time +When, from the City of the Blest, +Rings down some golden chime,-- +Sees not from his high place +So vast a cirque of summer space +As widens round me in one mighty field, +Which, rimmed by seas and sands, +Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams +Of gray Atlantic dawns; +And, broad as realms made up of many lands, +Is lost afar +Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns +Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams +Against the Evening Star! +And lo! +To the remotest point of sight, +Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, +The endless field is white; +And the whole landscape glows, +For many a shining league away, +With such accumulated light +As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day! +Nor lack there (for the vision grows, +And the small charm within my hands-- +More potent even than the fabled one, +Which oped whatever golden mystery +Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, +The curious ointment of the Arabian tale-- +Beyond all mortal sense +Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see +Beneath its simple influence, +As if, with Uriel's crown, +I stood in some great temple of the Sun, +And looked, as Uriel, down)-- +Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green +With all the common gifts of God, +For temperate airs and torrid sheen +Weave Edens of the sod; +Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold +Broad rivers wind their devious ways; +A hundred isles in their embraces fold +A hundred luminous bays; +And through yon purple haze +Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks cloud-crowned; +And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps, +An unknown forest girds them grandly round, +In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps! +Ye stars, which though unseen, yet with me gaze +Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth! +Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays +Above it, as to light a favorite hearth! +Ye clouds, that in your temples in the West +See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers! +And, you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast +Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers! +Bear witness with me in my song of praise, +And tell the world that, since the world began, +No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, +Or given a home to man! + +But these are charms already widely blown! +His be the meed whose pencil's trace +Hath touched our very swamps with grace, +And round whose tuneful way +All Southern laurels bloom; +The Poet of "The Woodlands," unto whom +Alike are known +The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, +And the soft west-wind's sighs; +But who shall utter all the debt, +0 Land! wherein all powers are met +That bind a people's heart, +The world doth owe thee at this day, +And which it never can repay, +Yet scarcely deigns to own! +Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing +The source wherefrom doth spring +That mighty commerce which, confined +To the mean channels of no selfish mart, +Goes out to every shore +Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships +That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips +In alien lands; +Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; +And gladdening rich and poor, +Doth gild Parisian domes, +Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes, +And only bounds its blessings by mankind! +In offices like these, thy mission lies, +My Country! and it shall not end +As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend +In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard +And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard +Thy hearthstones as a bulwark; make thee great +In white and bloodless state; +And, haply, as the years increase-- +Still working through its humbler reach +With that large wisdom which the ages teach-- +Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace! + +As men who labor in that mine +Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed +Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, +Hear the dull booming of the world of brine +Above them, and a mighty muffled roar +Of winds and waters, and yet toil calmly on, +And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, +Or carve a niche, or shape the arched roof; +So I, as calmly, weave my woof +Of song, chanting the days to come, +Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air +Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn +Wakes from its starry silence to the hum +Of many gathering armies. Still, +In that we sometimes hear, +Upon the Northern winds the voice of woe +Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know +The end must crown us, and a few brief years +Dry all our tears, +I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will +Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget +That there is much even Victory must regret. +And, therefore, not too long +From the great burden of our country's wrong +Delay our just release! + +And, if it may be, save +These sacred fields of peace +From stain of patriot or of hostile blood! +Oh, help us Lord! to roll the crimson flood +Back on its course, and, while our banners wing +Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling +To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave +Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate +The lenient future of his fate +There, where some rotting ships and trembling quays +Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas. + + + + +The Battle of Charleston Harbor. + +April 7th, 1863. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I. + + +Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, +The Northman's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay; +They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave, +Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave. + + + +II. + + +A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew +More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, +And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, +Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening Star! + + + +III. + + +Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, +The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, +So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, +They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes! + + + +IV. + + +Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, +Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold-- +They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely-echoing cheers, +And then--once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. + + + +V. + + +Onward--in sullen file, and slow, low glooming on the wave, +Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, +When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore, +Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore![1] + + + +VI. + + +Ha! brutal Corsairs! tho' ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, +Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail! +Ye strive the ruffian types of Might 'gainst law, and truth, and Right, +Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might! + + + +VII. + + +No empty boast! I for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, +Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire. +The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above. +Fight on! oh! knightly Gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love! + + + +VIII. + + +There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise, +To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' Death must give the prize-- +There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient Town, +A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down. + + + +IX. + + +The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps, +Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; +And ship by ship, raked, overborne, 'ere burned the sunset bloom, +Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb! + + + +X. + + +Oh! glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires, +Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires-- +Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless + sons, +And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's Angels near the guns! + + +[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun. + + + + +Fort Wagner. + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Glory unto the gallant boys who stood + At Wagner, and, unflinching, sought the van; +Dealing fierce blows, and shedding precious blood, + For homes as precious, and dear rights of man! +They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory;-- + Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat +The legend, which shall grow to themes for story, + Told through long ages, and forever sweet! + + + +II. + + +High honor to our youth--our sons and brothers, + Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand! +They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers, + But keep, through storm, the bulwarks of the land! +They feel that they _must_ conquer! Not to do it, + Were worse than death--perdition! Should they fail, +The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it, + The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail! + + + +III. + + +No! They must conquer in the breach or perish! + Assured, in the last consciousness of breath, +That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish + Their deeds, with honors that shall sweeten death! +They shall have trophies in long future hours, + And loving recollections, which shall be +Green, as the summer leaves, and fresh as flowers, + That, through all seasons, bloom eternally! + + + +IV. + + +Their memories shall be monuments, to rise + Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past; +Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies, + And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast! +A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted, + Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;-- +A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted, + When skies and seas around thee shook with fire! + + + +V. + + +And others as well chronicled shall be! + What though they fell with unrecorded name-- +They live among the archives of the free, + With proudest title to undying fame! +The unchisell'd marble under which they sleep, + Shall tell of heroes, fearless still of fate; +Not asking if their memories shall keep, + But if they nobly served, and saved, the State! + + + +VI. + + +For thee, young Fortress Wagner--thou shalt wear + Green laurels, worthy of the names that now, +Thy sister forts of Moultrie, Sumter, bear! + See that thou lift'st, for aye, as proud a brow! +And thou shalt be, to future generations, + A trophied monument; whither men shall come +In homage; and report to distant nations, +A SHRINE, which foes shall never make a TOMB! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Sumter in Ruins. + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Ye batter down the lion's den, + But yet the lordly beast g'oes free; +And ye shall hear his roar again, +From mountain height, from lowland glen, +From sandy shore and reedy fen-- +Where'er a band of freeborn men + Rears sacred shrines to liberty. + + + +II. + + +The serpent scales the eagle's nest, + And yet the royal bird, in air, +Triumphant wins the mountain's crest, +And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest, +And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast, +Till, like a storm-bolt from the west, + He strikes the invader in his lair. + + + +III. + + +What's loss of den, or nest, or home, + If, like the lion, free to go;-- +If, like the eagle, wing'd to roam, +We span the rock and breast the foam, +Still watchful for the hour of doom, +When, with the knell of thunder-boom, + We bound upon the serpent foe! + + + +IV. + + +Oh! noble sons of lion heart! + Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing! +What though your batter'd bulwarks part, +Your nest be spoiled by reptile art-- +Your souls, on wings of hate, shall start +For vengeance, and with lightning-dart, + Rend the foul serpent ere he sting! + + + +V. + + +Your battered den, your shattered nest, + Was but the lion's crouching-place;-- +It heard his roar, and bore his crest, +His, or the eagle's place of rest;-- +But not the soul in either breast! +This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd, + To save and to avenge their race! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Morris Island. + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +Oh! from the deeds well done, the blood well shed + In a good cause springs up to crown the land +With ever-during verdure, memory fed, + Wherever freedom rears one fearless band, +The genius, which makes sacred time and place, +Shaping the grand memorials of a race! + +The barren rock becomes a monument, + The sea-shore sands a shrine; +And each brave life, in desperate conflict spent, + Grows to a memory which prolongs a line! + +Oh! barren isle--oh! fruitless shore, + Oh! realm devoid of beauty--how the light +From glory's sun streams down for evermore, + Hallowing your ancient barrenness with bright! + +Brief dates, your lowly forts; but full of glory, + Worthy a life-long story; +Remembered, to be chronicled and read, + When all your gallant garrisons are dead; + And to be sung +While liberty and letters find a tongue! + +Taught by the grandsires at the ingle-blaze, + Through the long winter night; +Pored over, memoried well, in winter days, + While youthful admiration, with delight, +Hangs, breathless, o'er the tale, with silent praise; +Seasoning delight with wonder, as he reads +Of stubborn conflict and audacious deeds; + Watching the endurance of the free and brave, + Through the protracted struggle and close fight, +Contending for the lands they may not save, + Against the felon, and innumerous foe; +Still struggling, though each rampart proves a grave. + For home, and all that's dear to man below! + +Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow; + But still undaunted, with a martyr's might, + They make for man a new Thermopylae; +And, perishing for freedom, still go free! + Let but each humble islet of our coast +Thus join the terrible issue to the last; + And never shall the invader make his boast +Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply + He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast! + + + + +Promise of Spring. + + + + The sun-beguiling breeze, + From the soft Cuban seas, +With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers; + And lo! our city elms, + Have plumed with buds their helms, +And, with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers. + + The promise of the Spring, + Is in every glancing wing +That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the flight; + And mocking Winter's glooms, + Skies, air and earth grow blooms, +With change as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night! + + Ah! could our hearts but share + The promise rich and rare, +That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress, + That makes each innocent thing + Put on its bloom and wing, +Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless! + + But, alas for us, no more + Shall the coming hour rescore +The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls; + Even as the Spring appears, + Her smiling makes our tears, +While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls. + + Even as our zephyrs sing + That they bring us in the Spring, +Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight-- + We see the serpent crawl, + With his slimy coat o'er all, +And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight. + + We shudder at the blooms, + Which but serve to cover tombs-- +At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath; + Sad shapes look out from trees, + And in sky and earth and breeze, +We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death! + +South Carolinian. + + + + +Spring. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air +Which dwells with all things fair, +Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, +Is with us once again. + +Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns +Its fragrant lamps, and turns +Into a royal court with green festoons +The banks of dark lagoons. + +In the deep heart of every forest tree +The blood is all aglee, +And there's a look about the leafless bowers +As if they dreamed of flowers. + +Yet still on every side appears the hand +Of Winter in the land, +Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, +Flushed by the season's dawn; + +Or where, like those strange semblances we find +That age to childhood bind, +The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, +The brown of Autumn corn. + +As yet the turf is dark, although you know +That, not a span below, +A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, +And soon will burst their tomb. + +Already, here and there, on frailest stems +Appear some azure gems, +Small as might deck, upon a gala day, +The forehead of a fay. + +In gardens you may see, amid the dearth, +The crocus breaking earth; +And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, +The violet in its screen. + +But many gleams and shadows need must pass +Along the budding grass, +And weeks go by, before the enamored South +Shall kiss the rose's mouth. + +Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn +In the sweet airs of morn; +One almost looks to see the very street +Grow purple at his feet. + +At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by +And brings, you know not why, +A feeling as when eager crowds await +Before a palace gate. + +Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, +If from a beech's heart +A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say +"Behold me! I am May!" + +Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime +With such a blessed time! +Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath +Could hear the call of Death! + +Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake +The voice of wood and brake, +Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms +A million men to arms. + +There shall be deeper hues upon her plains +Than all her sunlight rains, +And every gladdening influence around +Can summon from the ground. + +Oh! standing on this desecrated mould, +Methinks that I behold, +Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, +Spring, kneeling on the sod, + +And calling with the voice of all her rills +Upon the ancient hills, +To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves +Who turn her meads to graves. + + + + +Chickmauga--"The Stream of Death." + +Richmond Senitnel. + + + +Chickamuga! Chickamauga! + O'er thy dark and turbid wave +Rolls the death-cry of the daring, + Rings the war-shout of the brave; +Round thy shore the red fires flashing, + Startling shot and screaming shell-- +Chickamauga, stream of battle, + Who thy fearful tale shall tell? + +Olden memories of horror, + Sown by scourge of deadly plague, +Long hath clothed thy circling forests + With a terror vast and vague; +Now to gather further vigor + From the phantoms grim with gore, +Hurried, by war's wilder carnage, + To their graves on thy lone shore. + +Long, with hearts subdued and saddened, + As th' oppressor's hosts moved on, +Fell the arms of freedom backward, + Till our hopes had almost flown; +Till outspoke stern valor's fiat-- + "_Here_ th' invading wave shall stay; +_Here_ shall cease the foe's proud progress; + _Here_ be crushed his grand array!" + +_Then_ their eager hearts all throbbing, + Backward flashed each battle-flag +Of the veteran corps of Longstreet, + And the sturdy troops of Bragg; +Fierce upon the foemen turning, + All their pent-up wrath breaks out +In the furious battle-clangor, + And the frenzied battle-shout. + +Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga, + Trembles all thy ghastly shore, +With the rude shock of the onset, + And the tumult's horrid roar; +As the Southern battle-giants + Hurl their bolts of death along, +Breckenridge, the iron-hearted, + Cheatham, chivalric and strong: + +Polk Preston--gallant Buckner, + Hill and Hindman, strong in might, +Cleburne, flower of manly valor, + Hood, the Ajax of the fight; +Benning, bold and hardy warrior, + Fearless, resolute Kershaw; +Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt, + Volley fierce and wild hurrah! + +At the volleys bleed their bodies, + At the fierce shout rise their souls, +While the fiery wave of vengeance + On their quailing column rolls; +And the parched throats of the stricken + Breathe for air the roaring flame, +Horrors of that hell foretasted, + Who shall ever dare to name! + +Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled, + Paid, upon that bloody field, +Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage + To the sword our heroes yield; +And who felt, by fiery trial, + That the men who will be free. +Though in conflict baffled often, + Ever will unconquered be! + +Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us, + Dealing desolation round, +Marking, with the tracks of ruin, + Many a rood of Southern ground; +Yet, whatever course they follow, + _Somewhere_ in their pathway flows, +Dark and deep, a Chickamauga, + _Stream of death_ to vandal foes! + +They have found it darkly flowing + By Manassas' famous plain, +And by rushing Shenandoah + Met the tide of woe again; +Chickahominy, immortal, + By the long, ensanguined fight, +Rappahannock, glorious river, + Twice renowned for matchless fight. + +Heed the story, dastard spoilers, + Mark the tale these waters tell, +Ponder well your fearful lesson, + And the doom that there befell; +Learn to shun the Southern vengeance, + Sworn upon the votive sword, +"_Every_ stream a Chickamauga + To the vile invading horde!" + + + + +In Memoriam + +Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General +Confederate States Army. + + + +Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done, + This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended: +There is no more--eternity begun, + Faith merged in sight--hope with fruition blended. + Peace, troubled soul! +The Warrior rests upon his bier, + Within his coffin calmly sleeping. + His requiem the cannon peals, + And heroes of a hundred fields + Their last sad watch are round him keeping. + +Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale + Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling; +Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale, + Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling. + Joy, sainted soul! +Back to her altar which he served, + The Holy Church her child is bringing. + The organ's wail then dies away, + And kneeling priests around him pray, + As _De Profundis_ they are singing. + +Bring all the trophies, that are owed + To him at once so great, so good. +His Bible and his well-used sword-- + His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!" +No! pure as when before his God, + He laid its spotless folds aside, +War's path of awful duty trod, + And on his country's altar died! + +Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State + Sustain in thee an equal loss; +But who would call thee from thy weight + Of glory, back to bear life's cross! +The Faith was kept--thy course was run, + Thy good fight finished; hence the word, +"Well done, oh! faithful child, well done, + Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!" + +No dull decay nor lingering pain, + By slow degrees, consumed thy health, +A glowing messenger of flame + Translated thee by fiery death! +And we who in one common grief + Are bending now beneath the rod, +In this sweet thought may find relief, + "Our holy father walked with God, +And is not--God has taken him!" + +Viola. + + + + +"Stonewall" Jackson + +By H. L. Flash. + + + +Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fight +Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, +Did kingly death, with his resistless might, +Lay the great leader low! + +His warrior soul its earthly shackles bore +In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; +When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oak +That propped our cause, went down. + +Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, +Recording all his grand heroic deeds, +Freedom herself is writhing with his wound, +And all the country bleeds. + +He entered not the nation's "Promised Land," +At the red belching of the cannon's mouth; +But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand-- +The Moses of the South! + +Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss: +A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown; +And while his country staggers with the cross-- +He rises with the crown! + + + + +"Stonewall" Jackson.--A Dirge. + + + +Go to thy rest, great chieftain! +In the zenith of thy fame; +With the proud heart stilled and frozen, +No foeman e'er could tame; +With the eye that met the battle +As the eagle's meets the sun, +Rayless-beneath its marble lid, +Repose-thou mighty one! + +Yet ill our cause could spare thee; +And harsh the blow of fate +That struck its staunchest pillar +From 'neath our dome of state. +Of thee, as of the Douglas, +We say, with Scotland's king, +"There is not one to take his place +In all the knightly ring." + +Thou wert the noblest captain +Of all that martial host +That front the haughty Northman, +And put to shame his boast. +Thou wert the strongest bulwark +To stay the tide of fight; +The name thy soldiers gave thee +Bore witness of thy might! + +But we may not weep above thee; +This is no time for tears! +Thou wouldst not brook their shedding, +Oh! saint among thy peers! +Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven, +Above us smiling spread, +Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief, +On the blood-stained path we tread! + +Not--while our homes in ashes +Lie smouldering on the sod! +Not--while our houseless women +Send up wild wails to God! +Not--while the mad fanatic +Strews ruin on his track! +_Dare_ any Southron give the rein +To feeling, and look back! + +No! Still the cry is "onward!" +This is no time for tears; +No I Still the word is "vengeance!" +Leave ruth for coming years. +We will snatch thy glorious banner +From thy dead and stiffening hand, +And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm, +We'll bear it through the land. + +And all who mark it streaming-- +Oh! soldier of the cross!-- +Shall gird them with a fresh resolve +Sternly to avenge our loss; +Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr, +Thy sacred mission shown, +Shalt lay the record of our wrongs +Before the Eternal throne! + + + + +Beaufort. + +By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina. + + + +Old home! what blessings late were yours; + The gifts of peace, the songs of joy! +Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores, + To ravage and destroy. + +The Northman comes no longer there, + With soft address and measured phrase, +With bated breath, and sainted air, + And simulated praise. + +He comes a vulture to his prey; + A wolf to raven in your streets: +Around on shining stream and bay + Gather his bandit fleets. + +They steal the pittance of the poor; + Pollute the precincts of the dead; +Despoil the widow of her store,-- + The orphan of his bread. + +Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood, + No Christian land has known before; +Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood, + To sweep them from the shore! + +Exiles from home, your people fly, + In adverse fortune's hardest school; +With swelling breast and flashing eye-- + They scorn the tyrant's rule! + +Away, from all their joys away, + The sports that active youth engage; +The scenes where childhood loves to play, + The resting-place of age. + +Away, from fertile field and farm; + The oak-fringed island-homes that seem +To sit like swans, with matchless charm, + On sea-born sound and stream. + +Away, from palm-environed coast, + The beach that ocean beats in vain; +The Royal Port, your pride and boast, + The loud-resounding main. + +Away, from orange groves that glow + With golden fruit or snowy flowers, +Roses that never cease to blow, + Myrtle and jasmine bowers. + +From these afar, the hoary bead + Of feeble age, the timid maid, +Mothers and nurslings, all have fled, + Of ruthless foes afraid. + +But, ready, with avenging hand, + By wood and fen, in ambush lie +Your sons, a stern, determined band, + Intent to do or die. + +Whene'er the foe advance to dare + The onset, urged by hate and wrath, +Still have they found, aghast with fear, + A Lion in the path. + +Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush, + Their shattered ranks to shield and save, +And learn how hard a task to crush + The spirit of the brave. + +Oh, God! Protector of the right, + The widows' stay, the orphans' friend, +Restrain the rage of lawless might, + The wronged and crushed defend! + +Be guide and helper, sword and shield! + From hill and vale, where'er they roam, +Bring back the yeoman to his field, + The exile to his home! + +Pastors and scattered flocks restore; + Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise; +And let their quivering lips once more + Rejoice in songs of praise! + + + + +The Empty Sleeve. + +By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia. + + + +Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see + The sleeve hanging loose at your side +The arm you lost was worth to me + Every Yankee that ever died. +But you don't mind it at all; + You swear you've a beautiful stump, +And laugh at that damnable ball-- + Tom, I knew you were always a trump. + +A good right arm, a nervy hand, + A wrist as strong as a sapling oak, +Buried deep in the Malverri sand-- + To laugh at that, is a sorry joke. +Never again your iron grip + Shall I feel in my shrinking palm-- +Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip; + All within is not so calm. + +Well! the arm is gone, it is true; + But the one that is nearest the heart +Is left--and that's as good as two; + Tom, old fellow, what makes you start? +Why, man, _she_ thinks that empty sleeve + A badge of honor; so do I, +And all of us:--I do believe + The fellow is going to cry! + +"She deserves a perfect man," you say; + "You were not worth her in your prime:" +Tom! the arm that has turned to clay, + Your whole body has made sublime; +For you have placed in the Malvern earth + The proof and pledge of a noble life-- +And the rest, henceforward of higher worth, + Will be dearer than all to your wife. + +I see the people in the street + Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes; +And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet + As homage shown in mute surmise. +Bravely your arm in battle strove, + Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it; +It has perished--but a nation's love + In proud remembrance will save it. + +Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith-- + You're a fool for staying so long-- +Woman's love you'll find no myth, + But a truth; living, tender, strong. +And when around her slender belt + Your left is clasped in fond embrace, +Your right will thrill, as if it felt, + In its grave, the usurper's place. + +As I look through the coming years, + I see a one-armed married man; +A little woman, with smiles and tears, + Is helping--as hard as she can +To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve, + Tie his cravat, and cut his food; +And I say, as these fancies I weave, + "That is Tom, and the woman he wooed." + +The years roll on, and then I see + A wedding picture, bright and fair; +I look closer, and its plain to me + That is Tom with the silver hair. +He gives away the lovely bride, + And the guests linger, loth to leave +The house of him in whom they pride-- + "Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve." + + + + +The Cotton-Burners' Hymn. + + + +"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, +was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the +last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--_Memphis +Appeal._ + + + +I. + +Lo! where Mississippi rolls + Oceanward its stream, +Upward mounting, folds on folds, + Flaming fire-tongues gleam; +'Tis the planters' grand oblation + On the altar of the nation; +'Tis a willing sacrifice-- +Let the golden incense rise-- +Pile the Cotton to the skies! + CHORUS--Lo! the sacrificial flame + Gilds the starry dome of night! + Nations! read the mute acclaim-- + 'Tis for liberty we fight! + Homes! Religion! Right! + + + +II. + + +Never such a golden light + Lit the vaulted sky; +Never sacrifice as bright, + Rose to God on high: +Thousands oxen, what were they +To the offering we pay? +And the brilliant holocaust-- +When the revolution's past-- +In the nation's songs will last! + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc. + + + +III. + + +Though the night be dark above, + Broken though the shield-- +Those who love us, those we love, + Bid us never yield: +Never! though our bravest bleed, +And the vultures on them feed; +Never! though the Serpents' race-- +Hissing hate and vile disgrace-- +By the million should menace! + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc. + + + +IV. + + +Pile the Cotton to the skies; + Lo! the Northmen gaze; +England! see our sacrifice-- + See the Cotton blaze! +God of nations! now to Thee, +Southrons bend th' imploring knee; +'Tis our country's hour of need-- +Hear the mothers intercede-- +Hear the little children plead! + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc. + + + + +Reading the List. + + + +"Is there any news of the war?" she said-- +"Only a list of the wounded and dead," + Was the man's reply, + Without lifting his eye + To the face of the woman standing by. +"'Tis the very thing--I want," she said; +"Read me a list of the wounded and dead." + +He read the list--'twas a sad array +Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray; + In the very midst, was a pause to tell + Of a gallant youth, who fought so well +That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?" +"The only son of the Widow Gray," + Was the proud reply + Of his Captain nigh. +What ails the woman standing near? +Her face has the ashen hue of fear! + +"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick! +Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!" + "Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say, + Killed outright on that fatal day." + But see, the woman has swooned away! + +Sadly she opened her eyes to the light; +Slowly recalled the events of the fight; +Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright! + It has cost me the life of my only son; + But the battle is fought, and the victory won; + The will of the Lord, let it be done!" + +God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, +And send from the halls of eternal day, +The light of His peace to illumine her way! + + + + +His Last Words. + + + +"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his +delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry +rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks--.' Here the sentence was left +unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he +murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest +under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any +expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away." + + +I. + + +Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees, +And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze; +Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there. +Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair! + + + +II. + + +Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before, +Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore; +So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze, +Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees. + + + +III. + + +Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark: +'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark. +Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease, +We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees. + + + +IV. + + +Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried, +And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide. +Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease, +There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees. + + + + +Charge of Hagood's Brigade. + +Weldon Railroad, August 21, 1864. + + + +The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after +the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade +as their most desperate encounter. + + +Scarce seven hundred men they stand + In tattered, rude array, +A remnant of that gallant band, +Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand +Of Morris' isle, with iron hand + 'Gainst Yankees' hated sway. + +SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims, +And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames, +And the dark battle on the streams + Of POCOTALIGO: +And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight, +And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height, +Whence, at the gray dawn of the light, + They rushed upon the foe. + +Tattered and torn those banners now, +But not less proud each lofty brow, + Untaught as yet to yield: +With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye, +Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly +Flecking with smoke the azure sky + On Weldon's fated field. + +Sweeps from the woods the bold array, +Not theirs to falter in the fray, +No men more sternly trained than they + To meet their deadly doom: +While, from a hundred throats agape, +A hundred sulphurous flames escape, +Round shot, and canister, and grape, + The thundering cannon's boom! + +Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash +Shrapnel and ball commingling clash, +And bursting shells, with lurid flash, + Their dazzled sight confound: +Trembles the earth beneath their feet, +Along their front a rattling sheet +Of leaden hail concentric meet, + And numbers strew the ground. + +On, o'er the dying and the dead, +O'er mangled limb and gory head, +With martial look, with martial tread, +March Hagood's men to bloody bed, + Honor their sole reward; +Himself doth lead their battle line, + Himself those banners guard. + +They win the height, those gallant few, +A fiercer struggle to renew, +Resolved as gallant men to do + Or sink in glory's shroud; +But scarcely gain its stubborn crest, +Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast, +An impious foe has dared to wrest + That banner proud. + +Upon him, Hagood, in thy might! +Flash on thy soul th' immortal light +Of those brave deeds that blazon bright + Our Southern Cross. +He dies. Unfurl its folds again, +Let it wave proudly o'er the plain; +The dying shall forget their pain, + Count not their loss. + +Then, rallying to your chieftain's call, +Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball +Hemmed in, as by a living wall, + Cleave back your way. +Those bannered deeds their souls inspire, +Borne, amid sheets of forked fire, +By the Two Hundred who retire + Of that array. + +Ah, Carolina! well the tear +May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear +In passion, o'er their tombless bier, + Thy fallen chivalry! +Malony, mirror of the brave, +And Sellers lie in glorious grave; +No prouder fate than theirs, who gave + Their lives for Liberty. + + + + +Carolina. + +April 14, 1861. + +By John A. Wagener, of S.C. + + + +Carolina! Carolina! + Noble name in State and story, + How I love thy truthful glory, + As I love the blue sky o'er ye, + Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Land of chivalry unfearing, +Daughters fair beyond comparing, +Sons of worth, and noble daring, +Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Soft thy clasp in loving greeting, +Plenteous board and kindly meeting, +All thy pulses nobly beating, +Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven, +Bold thy streams through forest riven, +Bright thy laurels, hero-given, +Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Holy name, and dear forever, +Never shall thy childen, never, +Fail to strike with grand endeavor, +Carolina evermore! + + + + +Savannah. + +By Alethea S. Burroughs. + + + +Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, +Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed! +Not like a lamb to slaughter led, +But with the lion's monarch tread, +Thou eomest to thy battle bed, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +Thine arm of flesh is girded strong; +The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong; +To thee, the triple cords belong, +Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong, +And spirit vaunted long, _too_ long! + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; +Only the martyrs' blood is there; +It gleams upon thy bosom bier, +It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, +And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +Thy clean white hand is opened wide +For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride; +The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side, +Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide, +Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers-- +Still at thy feet the old oak towers; +Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, +And things of beauty, love, and flowers +Are smiling o'er this land of ours, + My sunny home, Savannah! + +There is no film before thy sight-- +Thou seest woe, and death, and night-- +And blood upon thy banner bright; +But in thy full wrath's kindled might, +What carest _thou_ for woe, or night? + My rebel home, Savannah! + +Come--for the crown is on thy head! +Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed, +Not like a lamb to slaughter led, +But with the lion's monarch tread, +Oh! come unto thy battle bed, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + + + + +"Old Betsy." + +By John Killum. + + + +Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, + Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; +Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, + Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North. + +Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, + Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; +Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding + Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth. + +Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you, + When the fierce bear was cut down in his track-- +If at that moment she never deceived you, + Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack. + +Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping, + Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; +Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, + Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North. + + + + +Awake--Arise! + +By G. W. Archer, M. D. + + + +Sons of the South--awake--arise! + A million foes sweep down amain, +Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes, + And fire and rapine in their train, + Like savage Hun and merciless Dane! + "We come as brothers!" Trust them not! + By all that's dear in heaven and earth, + By every tie that hath its birth + Within your homes--around your hearth; +Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot, + Worse for the fair and sleek disguise-- +A traitor in a patriot's cloak! + "Your country's good + Demands your blood!" +Was it a fiend from hell that spoke? + +They point us to the Stripes and Stars; + (Our banner erst--the despot's now!) +But let not thoughts of by-gone wars, + When beat we back the common foe, + And felled them fast and shamed them so, +Divide us at this fearful hour; + But think of dungeons and of chains-- + Think of your violated fanes-- + Of your loved homestead's gory stains-- +Eternal thraldom for your dower! +No love of country fires their breasts-- +The fell fanatics fain would free + A grovelling race, + And in their place +Would fetter us with fiendish glee! + +Sons of the South--awake--awake! + And strike for rights full dear as those + For which our struggling sires did shake + Earth's proudest throne--while freedom rose, + Baptized in blood of braggart foes. +Awake--that hour hath come again! + Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne-- + Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown-- + Strike! in the name of Washington, +Who taught you once to rend the chain, + Smiles now from heaven upon our cause, +So like his own. His spirit moves + Through every fight, + And lends its might +To every heart that freedom loves. + +Ye beauteous of the sunny land! + Unmatched your charms in all the earth, +'Neath freedom's banner take your stand; + And, though ye strike not, prove your worth, + As wont in days of joy and mirth: +Lavish your praises on the brave-- + Pray when the battle fiercely lowers-- + Smile when the victory is ours-- + Frown on the wretch who basely cowers-- +Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave! + Lend thus your favors whilst we smite! +Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!-- + With woman's charms + To nerve their arms, +Oh! when have men their freedom lost! + + + + +General Albert Sidney Johnston. + +By Mary Jervy, of Charleston. + + + +In thickest fight triumphantly he fell, + While into victory's arms he led us on; +A death so glorious our grief should quell: + We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won. + +No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now, + No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame +Immortal honor rests upon his brow, + And noble memories cluster round his name. + +For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears, + To read the story of his touching fate; +How in his death the gallant soldier wears + The crown that came for earthly life too late. + +Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keep + The garlands green above his hero-grave; +Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep, + To tell him he is shrined among the brave! + + + + +Eulogy of the Dead. + +By B. F. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +_"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah._ + +Oh! weep not for the dead, +Whose blood, for freedom shed, +Is hallowed evermore! +Who on the battle-field +Gould die--but never yield! +Oh, bemoan them never more-- +They live immortal in their gore! + +Oh, what is it to die +Midst shouts of victory, +Our rights and homes defending! +Oh! what were fame and life +Gained in that basest strife +For tyrants' power contending, +Our country's bosom rending! + +Oh! dead of red Manassah! +Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray! +Oh! victors of the Richmond field! +Dead on your mother's breast, +You live in glorious rest; +Each on[1] his honored shield, +Immortal in each bloody field! + +Oh! sons of noble mothers! +Oh! youth of maiden lovers! +Oh! husbands of chaste wives! +Though asleep in beds of gore, +You return, oh! never more; +Still immortal are your lives! +Immortal mothers! lovers! wives! + +How blest is he who draws +His sword in freedom's cause! +Though dead on battle-field, +Forever to his tomb +Shall youthful heroes come, +Their hearts for freedom steeled, +And learn to die on battle-field. + +As at Thermopylae, +Grecian child of liberty; +Swears to despot ne'er to yield-- +Here, by our glorious dead, +Let's revenge the blood they've shed, +Or die on bloody field, +By the sons who scorned to yield! + +Oh! mothers! lovers! wives! +Oh! weep no more--our lives +Are our country's evermore! +More glorious in your graves, +Than if living Lincoln's slaves, +Ye will perish never more, +Martyred on our fields of gore! + +[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his +shield, said--"With it, or on it." + + + + +The Beaufort Exile's Lament. + + + +Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea, + And sing the sad wanderer's psalm-- +Ye women and children in exile that flee + From the land of the orange and palm. + +Lament for your homes, for the house of your God, + Now the haunt of the vile and the low; +Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod + By the foot of the Puritan foe! + +No longer for thee, when the sables of night + Are fading like shadows away, +Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light, + Praise God for the birth of a day. + +No longer for thee, when the rays are now full, + Do the oaks form an evergreen glade; +While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull + The cattle that rest in the shade. + +No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon + Silver o'er the green waves of the bay; +Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon + Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray. + +Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore, + And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng, +Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar, + The wild chant of the sacred boat-song. + +Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff, + The traveller would pause on his way; +And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh, + To list to the negro's rude lay. + +"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear + At the close of each solemn refrain; +'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year, + Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again. + +Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie, + Your daughters' mid strangers now roam; +Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh + O'er the days when they once had a _home_. + +"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone + Can those words sweep the chords of the soul, +And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone, + As the tide-waves of time backward roll. + +"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine, + Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul, +Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine-- + Will have gone home at last to their God! + + + + +Somebody's Darling. + +By Marie La Coste, of Georgia. + + + +Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, + Where the dead and the dying lay-- +Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, + Somebody's darling was borne one day-- +Somebody's darling, so young and so brave! + Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face-- +Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave-- + The lingering light of his boyhood's grace! + +Matted and damp are the curls of gold + Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, +Pale are the lips of delicate mould-- + Somebody's darling is dying now. +Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow + Brush his wandering waves of gold; +Cross his hands on his bosom now-- + Somebody's darling is still and cold. + +Kiss him once for somebody's sake, + Murmur a prayer soft and low-- +One bright curl from its fair mates take-- + They were somebody's pride you know. +Somebody's hand hath rested there; + Was it a mother's, soft and white? +Or have the lips of a sister fair-- + Been baptized in their waves of light? + +God knows best! He has somebody's love; + Somebody's heart enshrined him there-- +Somebody wafted his name above, + Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. +Somebody wept when he marched away, + Looking so handsome, brave, and grand! +Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay-- + Somebody clung to his parting hand. + +Somebody's watching and waiting for him, + Yearning to hold him again to her heart; +And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, + And the smiling child-like lips apart. +Tenderly bury the fair young dead-- + Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; +Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head-- + "Somebody's darling slumbers here." + + + + +John Pegram, + +Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, AEtat XXXIII. + +By W. Gordon McCabe. + + + +What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight, + Or how express the measure of our woe, +For him who rode the foremost in the fight, + Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe? + +Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?-- + That good blade now lies fast within its sheath; +What can we do but point to where he fell, + And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death? + +We sorrow not as those who have no hope; + For he was pure in heart as brave in deed-- +God pardon us, if blindly we should grope, + And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed. + +And yet--oh! foolish and of little faith! + We cannot choose but weep our useless tears; +We loved him so; we never dreamed that death + Would dare to touch him in his brave young years. + +Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright! + As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe-- +No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight, + The eager eyes--the flush on cheek and brow! + +No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form, + Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer; +No more shall soar above the iron storm, + Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear. + +Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away-- + Our grand young leader smitten in the strife! +So swift to seize the chances of the fray, + And careless only of his noble life. + +He is not dead, but sleepeth! well we know + The form that lies to-day beneath the sod, +Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow, + And pour their music through the courts of God. + +And there amid our great heroic dead-- + The war-worn sons of God, whose work is done-- +His face shall shine, as they with stately tread, + In grand review, sweep past the jasper throne. + +Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief + His days were here, yet rich in love and faith: +Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief, + And grant thy servants such a life and death! + + + + +Captives Going Home. + + + +No flaunting banners o'er them wave, + No arms flash back the sun's bright ray, +No shouting crowds around them throng, + No music cheers them on their way: +They're going home. By adverse fate + Compelled their trusty swords to sheathe; +True soldiers they, even though disarmed-- + Heroes, though robbed of victory's wreath. + +Brave Southrons! 'Tis with sorrowing hearts + We gaze upon them through our tears, +And sadly feel how vain were all + Their heroic deeds through weary years; +Yet 'mid their enemies they move + With firm, bold step and dauntless mien: +Oh, Liberty! in every age, + Such have thy chosen heroes been. + +Going home! Alas, to them the words + Bring visions fraught with gloom and woe: +Since last they saw those cherished homes + The legions of the invading foe +Have swept them, simoon-like, along, + Spreading destruction with the wind! +"They found a garden, but they left + A howling wilderness behind." + +Ah! in those desolated homes + To which the "fate of war has come," +Sad is the welcome--poor the feast-- + That waits the soldier's coming home; +Yet loving ones will round him throng, + With smiles more tender, if less gay, +And joy will brighten pallid cheeks + At sight of the dear boys in gray. + +Aye, give them welcome home, fair South, + For you they've made a deathless name; +Bright through all after-time will glow + The glorious record of their fame. +They made a nation. What, though soon + Its radiant sun has seemed to set; +The past has shown what they can do, + The future holds bright promise yet. + + + + +The Heights of Mission Ridge. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + + + +When the foes, in conflict heated, + Battled over road and bridge, +While Bragg sullenly retreated + From the heights of Mission Ridge-- +There, amid the pines and wildwood, + Two opposing colonels fell, +Who had schoolmates been in childhood, + And had loved each other well. + +There, amid the roar and rattle, + Facing Havoc's fiery breath, +Met the wounded two in battle, + In the agonies of death. +But they saw each other reeling + On the dead and dying men, +And the old time, full of feeling, + Came upon them once again. + +When that night the moon came creeping, + With its gold streaks, o'er the slain, +She beheld two soldiers, sleeping, + Free from every earthly pain. +Close beside the mountain heather, + Where the rocks obscure the sand, +They had died, it seems, together, + As they clasped each other's hand. + + + + +"Our Left at Manassas." + + + +From dawn to dark they stood, + That long midsummer's day! +While fierce and fast +The battle-blast + Swept rank on rank away! + +From dawn to dark, they fought + With legions swept and cleft, +While black and wide, +The battle-tide + Poured ever on our "Left!" + +They closed each ghastly gap! + They dressed each shattered rank +They knew, how well! +That Freedom fell + With that exhausted flank! + +"Oh! for a thousand men, + Like these that melt away!" +And down they came, +With steel and flame, + _Four thousand_ to the fray! + +They left the laggard train; + The panting steam might stay; +And down they came, +With steel and flame, + Head-foremost to the fray! + +Right through the blackest cloud + Their lightning-path they cleft! +Freedom and Fame +With triumph came + To our immortal Left. + +Ye! of your living, sure! + Ye! of your dead, bereft! +Honor the brave +Who died to save + _Your all_, upon our Left. + + + + +On to Richmond. + +After Southey's "March to Moscow." + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +Major-General Scott +An order had got + To push on the columns to Richmond; +For loudly went forth, +From all parts of the North, +The cry that an end of the war must be made +In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade: +Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay, +The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray; +The chivalrous Grow +Declared they were slow, +And therefore the order +To march from the border + And make an excursion to Richmond. +Major-General Scott +Most likely was not +Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot; +In his private opinion +The Ancient Dominion +Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot, + And the reason is easily noted; +Though this part of the earth +Had given him birth, +And medals and swords, +Inscribed with fine words, + It never for Winfield had voted. +Besides, you must know that our First of Commanders +Had sworn, quite as hard as the Army in Flanders, +With his finest of armies and proudest of navies, +To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis. +Then "forward the column," he said to McDowell; + And the Zouaves, with a shout, + Most fiercely cried out, +"To Richmond or h--ll" (I omit here the vowel), +And Winfield, he ordered his carriage and four, +A dashing turn-out, to be brought to the door, + For a pleasant excursion to Richmond. +Major-General Scott +Had there on the spot +A splendid array +To plunder and slay; +In the camp he might boast +Such a numerous host, +As he never had yet +In the battle-field set; +Every class and condition of Northern society +Were in for the trip, a most varied variety: +In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue, +"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue." +The buthiful boy + From the banks of the Shannon, +Was there to employ +His excellent cannon; +And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery. + The Zouaves and Hussars, + All the children of Mars, + There were barbers and cooks + And writers of books,-- +The _chef de cuisine_ with his French bills of fare, +And the artists to dress the young officers' hair. +And the scribblers all ready at once to prepare + An eloquent story + Of conquest and glory; +And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery, +Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train, +At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the _champagne_:" +While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, +There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do + On this pleasant excursion to Richmond. +In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action, +To crush out _instanter_ the traitorous faction. +In the press, and the mess, +They would hear nothing less +Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason, +And at once put an end to the insolent treason. +There was Greeley, +And Ely, +The bloodthirsty Grow, +And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau), +And that terrible Baker +Who would seize on the South, every acre, +And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or +Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur; +And with all this bold crew +Nothing would do, +While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, + But to march on directly to Richmond. + +Then the gallant McDowell +Drove madly the rowel + Of spur that had never been "won" by him, +In the flank of his steed, +To accomplish a deed, + Such as never before had been done by him; +And the battery called Sherman's + Was wheeled into line, +While the beer-drinking Germans, + From Neckar and Rhine, +With minie and yager, +Came on with a swagger, +Full of fury and lager, + (The day and the pageant were equally fine.) +Oh! the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, +Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view, + As the column pushed onward to Richmond. + +Ere the march was begun, +In a spirit of fun, +General Scott in a speech +Said this army should teach +The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey, +And just before dusk of the third or fourth day, + Should joyfully march into Richmond. + +He spoke of their drill +And their courage and skill, +And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave +O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave +In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air +At their morning parades on the Capitol Square. +But alack! and alas! +Mark what soon came to pass, + When this army, in spite of his flatteries, +Amid war's loudest thunder +Must stupidly blunder + Upon those accursed "masked batteries." +Then Beauregard came, +Like a tempest of flame, +To consume them in wrath +On their perilous path; +And Johnston bore down in a whirlwind to sweep + Their ranks from the field + Where their doom had been sealed, +As the storm rushes over the face of the deep; +While swift on the centre our President pressed. + And the foe might descry + In the glance of his eye +The light that once blazed upon Diomed's crest. +McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day. +When the Southrons you meet in their battle array; +To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel +'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel. +Oh! the generals were green and old Scott is now blue, +And a terrible business, McDowell, to you, + Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond. + +Richmond Whig. + + + + +Turner Ashby. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia + + + +To the brave all homage render, + Weep, ye skies of June! +With a radiance pure and tender, + Shine, oh saddened moon! + "Dead upon the field of glory," + Hero fit for song and story, + Lies our bold dragoon! + +Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, + Braver, knightlier foe +Never fought with Moor nor Paynim-- + Rode at Templestowe; + With a mien how high and joyous, + 'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us, +Went he forth we know. + +Never more, alas I shall sabre + Gleam around his crest; +Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, + Stilled his manly breast; + All unheard sweet nature's cadence, + Trump of fame and voice of maidens-- + Now he takes his rest. + +Earth, that all too soon hath bound him? + Gently wrap his clay; +Linger lovingly around him, + Light of dying day; + Softly fall the summer showers, + Birds and bees among the flowers + Make the gloom seem gay. + +There, throughout the coming ages, + When his sword is rust, +And his deeds in classic pages; + Mindful of her trust, + Shall Virginia, bending lowly, + Still a ceaseless vigil holy + Keep above his dust. + + + + +Captain Latane. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +The combat raged not long; but ours the day, + And through the hosts which compassed us around +Our little band rode proudly on its way, + Leaving one gallant spirit, glory crowned, +Unburied on the field he died to gain; +Single, of all his men, among the hostile slain! + +One moment at the battle's edge he stood, + Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair-- +The next, beheld him dabbled in his blood, + Prostrate in death; and yet in death how fair! +And thus he passed, through the red gates of strife, +From earthly crowns and palms, to an eternal life. + +A brother bore his body from the field, + And gave it into strangers' hands, who closed +His calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, + And tenderly the slender limbs composed; +Strangers, but _sisters, who, with Mary's love, +Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above._ + +A little girl strewed roses on his bier, + Pale roses--not more stainless than his soul, +Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, + That blossomed with good actions--brief, but whole. +The aged matron, with the faithful slave, +Approached with reverent steps the hero's lowly grave. + +No man of God might read the burial rite + Above the rebel--thus declared the foe, +Who blanched before him in the deadly fight; + But woman's voice, in accents soft and low, +Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read +Over his hallowed dust, the ritual for the dead! + +"'Tis sown in weakness; it is raised in power." + Softly the promise floated on the air, +Arid the sweet breathings of the sunset hour, + Come back responsive to the mourner's prayer. +Gently they laid him underneath the sod, +And left him with his fame, his country, and his God. + +We should not weep for him! His deeds endure; + So young, so beautiful, so brave--he died +As he would wish to die. The past secure, + Whatever yet of sorrow may betide +Those who still linger by the stormy shore; +Change cannot hurt him now, nor fortune reach him more. + +And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, + _Vitrix et vidua_, the conflict done, +Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear + That starts, as she recalls each martyr son; +No prouder memory her breast shall sway +Than thine--the early lost--lamented Lat-a-ne! + + + + +The Men. + +By Maurice Bell. + + + +In the dusk of the forest shade + A sallow and dusty group reclined; +Gallops a horseman up the glade-- + "Where will I your leader find? +Tidings I bring from the morning's scout-- + I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen." +"Well, sir, stay not hereabout, + Here are only a few of 'the men.' + +"Here no collar has bar or star, + No rich lacing adorns a sleeve; +Further on our officers are, + Let them your report receive. +Higher up, on the hill up there, + Overlooking this shady glen. +There are their quarters--don't stop here, + We are only some of 'the men.' + +"Yet stay, courier, if you bear + Tidings that the fight is near; +Tell them we're ready, and that where + They wish us to be we'll soon appear; +Tell them only to let us know + Where to form our ranks, and when; +And we'll teach the vaunting foe + That they've met a few of 'the men.' + +"We're _the men_, though our clothes are worn-- + We're _the men_, though we wear no lace-- +We're _the men_, who the foe hath torn, + And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace; +We're the men who have triumphed before-- + We're the men who will triumph again; +For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar, + And the clashing bayonets--'_we're the men_.' + +"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, + Of garments faded, and soiled and bare, +Yet who have for the 'stars and bars' + Praise, and homage, and dainty fare; +Mock the wearers and pass them on, + Refuse them kindly word--and then +Know, if your freedom is ever won + By human agents--_these are the men!_" + + + + +"A Rebel Soldier Killed in the Trenches before Petersburg, Va., April 15, +1865." + +By a Kentucky Girl. + + + +Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare +The inscription graved on the white card there. +'Tis a photograph, taken last Spring, they say, +Ere the smoke of battle had cleared away-- +Of a rebel soldier--just as he fell, +When his heart was pierced by a Union shell; +And his image was stamped by the sunbeam's ray, +As he lay in the trenches that April day. + +Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart + Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain, +As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art, + One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:-- +White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave, +Lone as the rocks those billows lave-- +Gray sky above--cold clay beneath-- +A gallant form lies stretched in death! + +With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay, + And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast: +Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray, + We might deem him taking a soldier's rest. +Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide-- +Too deeply pierced that wounded side; +Youth, hope, love, glory--manhood's pride-- +Have all in vain Death's bolt defied. + +His faithful carbine lies useless there, + As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward; +And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair + Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard-- +Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield, +No more to my sight be the battle revealed! +Oh fiercer than tempest--grim Hades as dread-- +On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead! + +The scene is changed: In a quiet room, + Far from the spot where the lone corse lies, +A mother kneels in the evening gloom + To offer her nightly sacrifice. +The noon is past, and the day is done, +She knows that the battle is lost or won-- +Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still! +The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill. + + + + +Battle of Hampton Roads. + +By Ossian D. Gorman. + + + +Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled + On placid waters 'neath the sun, +Like that on Hampton's watery plain, + The fatal morn the fight begun. +Far toward the silvery Sewell shores, + Below the guns of Craney Isle, +Were seen our fleet advancing fast, + Beneath the sun's auspicious smile. + +Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes + Of Newport camp spread dire alarms: +The Cumberland for fight prepares-- + The fierce marines now rush to arms. +The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er, + In quarters close begins her fire, +Nor fears the rushing hail of shot, + And deadly missiles swift and dire; +But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame, + And belching thunder long and loud, +Salutes the ship with bow austere, + And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud. + +The work is done. The frigate turns + In agonizing, doubtful poise-- +She sinks, she sinks! along the deck + Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise. +Engulfed beneath those placid waves + Disturbed by battle's onward surge, +The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps, + And whistling bombshells sing her dirge. + +The battle still is raging fierce: + The Congress, "high and dry" aground, +Maintains in vain her boasted power, + For now the gunboats flock around, +With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared, + And pour their lightning on the main, +While Merrimac, approaching fast + Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain. + +Meantime the Jamestown, gallant boat, + Engages strong redoubts at land-- +While Patrick Henry glides along, + To board the Congress, still astrand. +This done, we turn intently on + The Minnesota, which replies, +With whizzing shell to Teuser's gun, + Whose booming cleaves the distant skies. +The naval combat sounds anew; + The hostile fleets are not withdrawn, +Though night is closing earth and sea + In twilight's pale and mystic dawn. +Strange whistling noises fill the air; + The powdered smoke looks dark as night, +And deadly, lurid flames, pour forth + Their radiance on the missiles' flight; +Grand picture on the noisy waves! + The breezy zephyrs onward roam, +And echoing volleys float afar, + Disturbing Neptune's coral home. +The victory's ours, and let the world + Record Buchanan's[1] name with pride; +The _crew is brave, the banner bright_, + That ruled the day when Hutter[2] died. + +[1] Commander of the "Merrimac." + +[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry." + +Macon Daily Telegraph. + + + + +Is This a Time to Dance? + + + +The breath of evening' sweeps the plain, + And sheds its perfume in the dell, +But on its wings are sounds of pain, + Sad tones that drown the echo's swell; +And yet we hear a mirthful call, + Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance, +Gay music sounds in the joyous hall: + Oh God! is this a time to dance? + +Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed, + Float from the crimson battle-plain, +As if a mighty spirit cried + In awful agony and pain: +Our friends we know there suffering lay, + Our brothers, too, perchance, +And in reproachful accents say, + Loved ones, is this a time to dance? + +Oh, lift your festal robes on high! + The human gore that flows around +Will stain their hues with crimson dye; + And louder let your music sound +To drown the dying warrior's cry! + Let sparkling wine your joy enhance +Forget that _blood_ has tinged its dye, + And quicker urge the maniac dance. + +But stop! the floor beneath your feet + Gives back a _coffin's_ hollow moan, +And every strain of music sweet, + Wafts forth a _dying soldier's groan_. +Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear + Exposed to every battle's chance, +Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear, + To fright you from the heartless dance? + +Go, fling your festal robes away! + Go, don the mourner's sable veil! +Go, bow before your God, and pray! + If yet your prayers may aught avail. +Go, face the fearful form of Death! + And trembling meet his chilling glance, +And then, for once, with truthful breath, + Answer, _Is this a time to dance?_ + + + + +"The Maryland Line." + +By J.D. M'Cabe, Jr. + + + +The Maryland regiments in the Confederate army have adopted the title of +"The Maryland Line," which was so heroically sustained by their patriot +sires of the first Revolution, and which the deeds of Marylanders at +Manassas, show that the patriot Marylanders of this second Revolution are +worthy to bear. + + + +By old Potomac's rushing tide, + Our bayonets are gleaming; +And o'er the bounding waters wide + We gaze, while tears are streaming. +The distant hills of Maryland + Rise sadly up before us-- +And tyrant bands have chained our laud, + Our mother proud that bore us. + +Our proud old mother's queenly head + Is bowed in subjugation; +With her children's blood her soil is red, + And fiends in exultation +Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, + While her heart is torn with anguish; +Old mother, on famed Manassas' plains + Our vengeance did not languish. + +We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, + 'Mid shot and shell appalling; +We heard your voice as it upward gush'd, + From the Maryland life-blood falling. +No pity we knew! Did they mercy show + When they bound the mother that bore us? +But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe + Till they, shrieking, fled before us. + +We mourn for our brothers brave that fell + On that field so stern and gory; +But their spirits rose with our triumph yell + To the heavenly realms of glory. +And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-- + By their love so true and tender, +We'll keep the prize they would not yield, + We'll die, but we'll not surrender. + + + + +The Virginians of the Shenandoah Valley. + +"_Sic Jurat_." + +By Frank Ticknor, M.D., of Georgia. + + + +The knightliest of the knightly race + Who, since the clays of old, +Have kept the lamp of chivalry + Alight in hearts of gold; +The kindliest of the kindly band + Who rarely hated ease, +Yet rode with Smith around the land, + And Raleigh o'er the seas; + +Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, + Amid embattled foes, +And planted there, in valleys fair, + The lily and the rose; +Whose fragrance lives in many lands, + Whose beauty stars the earth, +And lights the hearths of thousand homes + With loveliness and worth,-- + +We feared they slept!--the sons who kept + The names of noblest sires, +And waked not, though the darkness crept + Around their vigil fires; +But still the Golden Horse-shoe Knights + Their "Old Dominion" keep: +The foe has found the enchanted ground, + But not a knight asleep. + +Torch-Hall, Georgia. + + + + +Sonnet.--The Avatar of Hell. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Six thousand years of commune, God with man,-- +Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots, +Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits! +The fiends rage now as when they first began! +Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still, +Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will! +The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt, +That, in the progress of the race, we stood, +Two thousand years of height above the flood +Before the day's experience sink and melt, +As frost beneath the fire! and what remains +Of all our grand ideals and great gains, +With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride, +While the meek Christ is hourly crucified! + +Pax. + + + + +"Stonewall" Jackson's Way. + + + +These verses, according to the newspaper account, _may_ have been +found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the +Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the _author_ of +them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things. + + +Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails; + Stir up the camp-fire bright; +No matter if the canteen fails, + We'll make a roaring night. +Here Shenandoah brawls along, +Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, +To swell the brigade's rousing song, + Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." + +We see him now--the old slouched hat + Cocked o'er his eye askew-- +The shrewd dry smile--the speech so pat, + So calm, so blunt, so true. +The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well: +Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell. +Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well + That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." + +Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off! + Old "Blue Light's" going to pray. +Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! + Attention! it's his way! +Appealing from his native sod +_In forma pauperis_ to God, +"Lay bare thine arm! Stretch forth thy rod! + Amen!" That's Stonewall's way. + +He's in the saddle now: Fall in! + Steady! The whole brigade! +Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win + His way out, ball and blade. +What matter if our shoes are worn? +What matter if our feet are torn? +Quick step! we're with him before dawn! + That's Stonewall Jackson's way! + +The sun's bright lances rout the mists + Of morning--and, by George! +Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, + Hemmed in an ugly gorge. +Pope and his Yankees, whipped before: +"Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; +"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score, + In Stonewall Jackson's way!" + +Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn, + For news of Stonewall's band! +Ah, widow! read--with eyes that burn, + That ring upon thy hand! + Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on: +Thy life shall not be all forlorn. +The foe had better ne'er been born, + That gets in Stonewall's way. + + + + +The Silent March. + + +On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep +by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed +voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers. + + +O'ercome with weariness and care, + The war-worn veteran lay +On the green turf of his native land, + And slumbered by the way; +The breeze that sighed across his brow, + And smoothed its deepened lines, +Fresh from his own loved mountain bore + The murmur of their pines; +And the glad sound of waters, + The blue rejoicing streams, +Whose sweet familiar tones were blent + With the music of his dreams: +They brought no sound of battle's din, + Shrill fife or clarion, +But only tenderest memories + Of his own fair Arlington. +While thus the chieftain slumbered, + Forgetful of his care, +The hollow tramp of thousands + Came sounding through the air. +With ringing spur and sabre, + And trampling feet they come, +Gay plume and rustling banner, + And fife, and trump, and drum; +But soon the foremost column + Sees where, beneath the shade, +In slumber, calm as childhood, + Their wearied chief is laid; +And down the line a murmur + From lip to lip there ran, +Until the stilly whisper + Had spread to rear from van; +And o'er the host a silence + As deep and sudden fell, +As though some mighty wizard + Had hushed them with a spell; +And every sound was muffled, + And every soldier's tread +Fell lightly as a mother's + 'Round her baby's cradle-bed; +And rank, and file, and column, + So softly by they swept, +It seemed a ghostly army + Had passed him as he slept; +But mightier than enchantment + Was that with magic move-- +The spell that hushed their voices-- + Deep reverence and love. + + + + +Pro Memoria. + +Air--There is rest for the weary. + +By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging + From her sad and wintry gloom, +Robes her torn and bleeding bosom + In her richest orient bloom: + +CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.) + For her weary sons are resting + By the Edenshore; + They have won the crown immortal, + And the cross of death is o'er! + Where the Oriflamme is burning + On the starlit Edenshore! + +Brightly still, in gorgeous glory, + God's great jewel lights our sky; +Look! upon the heart's white dial + There's a SHADOW flitting by! + +CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc. + +Homes are dark and hearts are weary, + Souls are numb with hopeless pain; +For the footfall on the threshold + Never more to sound again! + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, + Aye, for evermore! + We must win the crown immortal, + Follow where they led before, + Where the Oriflamme is burning + On the starlit Edenshore. + +Proudly, as our Southern forests + Meet the winter's shafts so keen: +Time-defying memories cluster + Round our hearts in living green. + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc. + +May our faltering voices mingle + In the angel-chanted psalm; +May our earthly chaplets linger + By the bright celestial palm. + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc. + +Crest to crest they bore our banner, + Side by side they fell asleep; +Hand in hand we scatter flowers, + Heart to heart we kneel and weep! + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc. + +When the May eternal dawneth + At the living God's behest, +We will quaff divine Nepenthe, + We will share the Soldier's rest. + +CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc. + +Where the shadows are uplifted + 'Neath the never-waning sun, +Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis! + We have lost, but ye have won! + +CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever, + Aye, for evermore! + Ye have won the crown immortal, + And the cross of death is o'er, + Where the Oriflamme is burning + On the starlit Edenshore! + + + + +The Southern Homes in Ruin. + +By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina. + + + +"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern +women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have +not burst above our _homesteads_--let us pray they never may." +--_Frank Leslie's Illustrated_. + + +Many a gray-haired sire has died, + As falls the oak, to rise no more, +Because his son, his prop, his pride, + Breathed out his last all red with gore. +No more on earth, at morn, at eve, + Shall age and youth, entwined as one-- +Nor father, son, for either grieve-- + Life's work, alas, for both is done! + +Many a mother's heart has bled + While gazing on her darling child, +As in its tiny eyes she read + The father's image, kind and mild; +For ne'er again his voice will cheer + The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; +Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, + Fast falling on the orphan's head! + +Many a little form will stray + Adown the glen and o'er the hill, +And watch, with wistful looks, the way + For him whose step is missing still; +And when the twilight steals apace + O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home, +And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face-- + The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!" + +And many a home's in ashes now, + Where joy was once a constant guest, +And mournful groups there are, I trow, + With neither house nor place of rest; +And blood is on the broken _sill_, + Where happy feet went to and fro, +And everywhere, by field and hill, + Are sickening sights and sounds of woe! + +There is a God who rules on high, + The widow's and the orphan's friend, +Who sees each tear and hears each sigh, + That these lone hearts to Him may send! +And when in wrath He tears away + The reasons vain which men indite, +The record book will plainest say + Who's in the wrong, and who is right. + + + + +"Rappahannock Army Song." + +By John C. M'Lemore. + + + +The toil of the march is over-- + The pack will be borne no more-- +For we've come for the help of Richmond, + From the Rappahannock's shore. +The foe is closing round us-- + We can hear his ravening cry; +So, ho! for fair old Richmond! + Like soldiers we'll do or die. +We have left the land that bore us, + Full many a league away, +And our mothers and sisters miss us, + As with tearful eyes they pray; +But _this_ will repress their weeping, + And still the rising sigh-- +For all, for fair old Richmond, + Have come to do or die. + +We have come to join our brothers + From the proud Dominion's vales, +And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier, + Tanned by the Tropic gales; +To greet them all full gladly, + With hand and beaming eye, +And to swear, for fair old Richmond, + We all will do or die. + +The fair Carolina sisters + Stand ready, lance in hand, +To fight as they did in an older war, + For the sake of their fatherland. +The glories of Sumter and Bethel + Have raised their fame full high, +But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond + They swear not to do or die. + +Zollicoffer looks down on his people, + And trusts to their hearts and arms, +To avenge the blood he has shed, + In the midst of the battle's alarms. +Alabamians, remember the past, + Be the "South at Manassas," their cry; +As onward for fair old Richmond, + They marched to do or die. + +Brave Bartow, from home on high, + Calls the Empire State to the front, +To bear once more as she has borne + With glory the battle's brunt. +Mississippians who know no surrender, + Bear the flag of the Chief on high; +For he, too, for fair old Richmond, + Has sworn to do or die. + +Fair land of my birth--sweet Florida-- + Your arm is weak, but your soul +Must tell of a purer, holier strength, + When the drums for the battle roll. +Look within, for your hope in the combat, + Nor think of your few with a sigh-- +If you win not for fair old Richmond, + At least you can bravely die. + +Onward all! Oh! band of brothers! + The beat of the long roll's heard! +And the hearts of the columns advancing, + By the sound of its music is stirred. +Onward all! and never return, + Till our foes from the Borders fly-- +To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond, + As those who could do or die. + +Richmond Enquirer. + + + + +The Soldier in the Rain. + +By Julia L. Keyes. + + + +Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound + Than it ever had before; +And the wind more plaintively whistles through + The crevices of the door. + +We know we are safe beneath our roof + From every drop that falls; +And we feel secure and blest, within + The shelter of our walls. + +Then why do we dread to hear the noise + Of the rapid, rushing rain-- +And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat + Through the blinds, on the window-pane? + +We think of the tents on the lowly ground, + Where our patriot soldiers lie; +And the sentry's bleak and lonely march, + 'Neath the dark and starless sky. + +And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those + Who brave for us yet more-- +And we wish this war, with its thousand ills + And griefs, was only o'er. + +We pray when the skies are bright and clear, + When the winds are soft and warm-- +But oh! we pray with an aching heart + 'Mid the winter's rain and storm. + +We fain would lift these mantling clouds + That shadow our sunny clime; +We can but wait--for we know there'll be + A day, in the coming time, + +When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood + Our land with softest light: +Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain + In the dreary winter's night. + + + + +My Country. + +By W. D. Porter, S. C. + + + +I. + +Go, read the stories of the great and free, + The nations on the long, bright roll of fame, +Whose noble rage has baffled the decree + Of tyrants to despoil their life and name; + + + +II. + + +Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes + Of robber despots, glorying in their might, +And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise, + The power of truth and sacredness of right: + + + +III. + + +Whose people, strong to suffer and endure, + In faith have wrestled till the blessing came, +And won through woes a victory doubly sure, + As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame. + + + +IV. + + +The purest virtue has been sorest tried, + Nor is there glory without patient toil; +And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride, + Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil. + + + +V. + + +My country! in this hour of trial sore, + When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate, +Brace thy great heart with courage to the core, + Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate! + + + +IV. + + +The world's bright eye is fixed upon thee still; + _Life, honor, fame_--these all are in the scale: +_Endure! endure! endure!_ with iron will, + And by the truth of heaven, thou shalt not fail! + +Patriot and Mountaineer. + + + + +"After the Battle." + +By Miss Agnes Leonard. + + + +I. + + +All day long the sun had wandered, + Through the slowly creeping hours, +And at last the stars were shining + Like some golden-petalled flowers +Scattered o'er the azure bosom + Of the glory-haunted night, +Flooding all the sky with grandeur, + Filling all the earth with light. + + + +II. + + +And the fair moon, with the sweet stars, + Gleamed amid the radiant spheres +Like "a pearl of great price" shining + Just as it had shone for years, +On the young land that had risen, + In her beauty and her might, +Like some gorgeous superstructure + Woven in the dreams of night: + + + +III. + + +With her "cities hung like jewels" + On her green and peaceful breast, +With her harvest fields of plenty, + And her quiet homes of rest. +But a change had fallen sadly + O'er the young and beauteous land, +Brothers on the field fought madly + That once wandered hand in hand. + + + +IV. + + +And "the hearts of distant mountains + Shuddered," with a fearful wonder, +As the echoes burst upon them + Of the cannon's awful thunder. +Through the long hours waged the battle + Till the setting of the sun +Dropped a seal upon the record, +That the day's mad work was done. + + + +V. + + +Thickly on the trampled grasses + Lay the battle's awful traces, +'Mid the blood-stained clover-blossoms + Lay the stark and ghastly faces, +With no mourners bending downward + O'er a costly funeral pall; +And the dying daylight softly, + With the starlight watched o'er all. + + + +VI. + + +And, where eager, joyous footsteps + Once perchance were wont to pass, +Ran a little streamlet making + One "blue fold in the dark grass;" +And where, from its hidden fountain, + Clear and bright the brooklet burst +Two had crawled, and each was bending + O'er to slake his burning thirst. + + + +VII. + + +Then beneath the solemn starlight + Of the radiant jewelled skies, +Both had turned, and were intently + Gazing in each other's eyes. +Both were solemnly forgiving-- + Hushed the pulse of passion's breath-- +Calmed the maddening thirst for battle, + By the chilling hand of death. + + + +VIII. + + +Then spoke one, in bitter anguish: + "God have pity on my wife, +And my children, in New Hampshire; + Orphans by this cruel strife." +And the other, leaning closer, + Underneath the solemn sky, +Bowed his head to hide the moisture + Gathering in his downcast eye: + + + +IX. + + +"_I've_ a wife and little daughter, + 'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom,"-- +Then his cry rang sharper, wilder, + "Oh, God! pity all their gloom." +And the wounded, in their death-hour, + Talking of the loved ones' woes, +Nearer drew unto each other, + Till they were no longer foes. + + + +X. + + +And the Georgian listened sadly + As the other tried to speak, +While the tears were dropping softly + O'er the pallor of his cheek: +"How she used to stand and listen, + Looking o'er the fields for me, +Waiting, till she saw me coming, + 'Neath the shadowy old plum-tree. +Never more I'll hear her laughter, + As she sees me at the gate, +And beneath the plum-tree's shadows, + All in vain for me she'll wait." + + + +XI. + + +Then the Georgian, speaking softly, + Said: "A brown-eyed little one +Used to wait among the roses, + For _me_, when the day was done; +And amid the early fragrance + Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet, +Up and down the old verandah + I would chase my darling's feet. +But on earth no more the beauty + Of her face my eye shall greet, +Nevermore I'll hear the music + Of those merry pattering feet-- +Ah, the solemn starlight, falling + On the far-off Georgia bloom, +Tells no tale unto my darling + Of her absent father's doom." + + + +XII. + + +Through the tears that rose between them + Both were trying grief to smother, +As they clasped each other's fingers + Whispering: _"Let's forgive each other."_ + + + +XIII. + + +When the morning sun was walking + "Up the gray stairs of the dawn," +And the crimson east was flushing + All the forehead of the morn, +Pitying skies were looking sadly + On the "once proud, happy land," +On the Southron and the Northman, + Holding fast each other's hand. +Fatherless the golden tresses, + Watching 'neath the old plum-tree; +Fatherless the little Georgian + Sporting in unconscious glee. + +Chicago Journal of Commerce, June, 1868. + + + + +Our Confederate Dead. + +What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier. + +By a Lady of Augusta, Geo. + + + +Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe + For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers; +And o'er your tomb a virgin's prayer I breathe, + To greet the pure moon and the April showers. + +I only know, I only care to know, + You died for me--for me and country bled; +A thousand Springs and wild December snow + Will weep for one of all the SOUTHERN DEAD. + +Perchance, some mother gazes up the skies, + Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave-- +Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes + Moisten the turf above your lowly grave. + +The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand + Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires, +Above the relics of a vanquished land + And light the torch of sanctifying fires. + +Your bed of honor has a rosy cope + To shimmer back the tributary stars; +And every petal glistens with a hope + Where Love hath blossomed in the disk of Mars. + +Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes + Bosomed amid the archangelic choir; +Not with the grumble of impetuous drums + Deepening the chorus of embattled ire. + +Above you shall the oak and cedar fling + Their giant plumage and protecting shade; +For you the song-bird pause upon his wing + And warble requiems ever undismayed. + +Farewell! And if your spirit wander near + To kiss this plant of unaspiring art-- +Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere, + As the libretto of a maiden's heart. + + + + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie + +By Benj. F. Pouter, of Alabama. + + + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie +That guard our Southern shores, +Whose standards brave the battle-storm +That round the border roars; +Your glorious sabres draw again, +And charge the invading foe; +Reap the columns deep +Where the battle tempests blow, +Where the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! +Though dark the tempest lower, +No arms will wear a tyrant's chains! +No dastard heart will cower! +Bright o'er the cloud the sign will rise, +To lead to victory; +While your swords reap his hordes, +Where the battle-tempests blow, +And the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! +Though Vicksburg's towers fall, +Here still are sacred rights to shield! +Your wives, your homes, your all! +With gleaming arms advance again, +Drive back the raging foe, +Nor yield your native field, +While the battle-tempests blow, +And the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +Our country needs no ramparts, +No batteries to shield! +Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong, +Breastworks that cannot yield! +The thunders of your battle-blades +Shall sweep the hated foe, +While their gore stains the shore, +Where the battle-tempests blow, +And the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +The spirits of your fathers +Shall rise from every grave! +Our country is their field of fame, +They nobly died to save! +Where Johnson, Jackson, Tilghman fell, +Your patriot hearts shall glow; +While you reap columns deep, +Through the armies of the foe, +Where the battle-storm is raging loud, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +The battle-flag of Dixie +On crimson field shall flame, +With azure cross, and silver stars, +To light her sons to fame! +When peace with olive-branch returns, +That flag's white folds shall glow, +Still bright on every height, +Where the storm has ceased to blow, +Where battle-tempests rage no more, +Nor bloody torrents flow. + +The battle-flag of Dixie +Shall long triumphant wave, +Where'er the storms of battle roar, +And victory crowns the brave! +The Cavaliers of Dixie! +In woman's songs shall glow +The fame of your name, +When the storm has ceased to blow, +When the battle-tempests rage no more, +Nor the bloody torrents flow. + + + + +Song of Spring, (1864.) + +By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina. + + + +Spring has come! Spring has come! + The brightening earth, the sparkling dew, + The bursting buds, the sky of blue, + The mocker's carol, in tree and hedge, + Proclaim anew Jehovah's pledge-- +"So long as man shall earth retain, +The seasons gone shall come again." + +Spring has come! Springs has come! + We have her here, in the balmy air, + In the blossoms that bourgeon without a care; + The violet bounds from her lowly bed, + And the jasmin flaunts with a lofty head; +All nature, in her baptismal dress, +Is abroad--to win, to soothe, and bless. + +Spring has come! Spring has come! + Yes, and eternal as the Lord, + Who spells her being at a word; + All blest but man, whose passions proud + Wrap Nature in her bloody shroud-- +His heart is winter to the core, +His spring, alas! shall come no more! + + + + +"What the Village Bell Said." + +By John C. M'Lemore, of South Carolina.[1] + + + +Full many a year in the village church, + Above the world have I made my home; +And happier there, than if I had hung + High up in the air in a golden dome; + For I have tolled + When the slow hearse rolled + Its burden sad to my door; + And each echo that woke, + With the solemn stroke, + Was a sigh from the heart of the poor. + +I know the great bell of the city spire + Is a far prouder one than such as I; +And its deafening stroke, compared with mine, + Is thunder compared with a sigh: + But the shattering note + Of his brazen throat, + As it swells on the Sabbath air, + Far oftener rings + For other things + Than a call to the house of prayer. + +Brave boy, I tolled when your father died, + And you wept while my tones pealed loud; +And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame, + Your mother dear, lay in her shroud: + And I sang in sweet tone + The angels might own, + When your sister you gave to your friend; + Oh! I rang with delight, + On that sweet summer night, + When they vowed they would love to the end! + +But a base foe comes from the regions of crime, + With a heart all hot with the flames of hell; +And the tones of the bell you have loved so long + No more on the air shall swell: + For the people's chief, + With his proud belief + That his country's cause is God's own, + Would change the song, + The hills have rung, + To the thunder's harsher tone. + +Then take me down from the village church, + Where in peace so long I have hung; +But I charge you, by all the loved and lost, + _Remember the songs I have sung._ + Remember the mound + Of holy ground, + Where your father and mother lie; + And swear by the love + For the dead above + To beat your foul foe or die. + +Then take me; but when (I charge you this) + You have come to the bloody field, +That the bell of God, to a cannon grown, + You will ne'er to the foeman yield. + By the love of the past, + Be that hour your last, + When the foe has reached this trust; + And make him a bed + Of patriot dead, + And let him sleep in this holy dust. + +[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines. + + + + +The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star. + +By A. P. Gray, of South Carolina. + + + +From the silver sands of a gleaming shore, + Where the wild sea-waves were breaking, +A lofty shoot from a twining root + Sprang forth as the dawn was waking; +And the crest, though fed by the sultry beam, + (And the shaft by the salt wave only,) +Spread green to the breeze of the curling seas, + And rose like a column lonely. + Then hail to the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + +As the sea-winds rustled the bladed crest, + And the sun to the noon rose higher, +A serpent came, with an eye of flame, + And coiled by the leafy pyre; +His ward he would keep by the lonely tree, + To guard it with constant devotion; +Oh, sharp was the fang, and the armed clang, + That pierced through the roar of the ocean, + And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + +And the day wore down to the twilight close, + The breeze died away from the billow; +Yet the wakeful clang of the rattles rang + Anon from the serpent's pillow; +When I saw through the night a gleaming star + O'er the branching summit growing, +Till the foliage green and the serpent's sheen + In the golden light were glowing, + That hung o'er the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + +By the standard cleave every loyal son, + When the drums' long roll shall rattle; +Let the folds stream high to the victor's eye; + Or sink in the shock of the battle. +Should triumph rest on the red field won, + With a victor's song let us hail it; +If the battle fail and the star grow pale, + Yet never in shame will we veil it, + But cherish the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + + + + +Southern War Hymn + +By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina. + + + +Arise! arise! with arm of might, + Sons of our sunny home! +Gird on the sword for the sacred fight, + For the battle-hour hath come! +Arise! for the felon foe draws nigh + In battle's dread array; +To the front, ye brave! let the coward fly, + 'Tis the hero that bides the fray! + +Strike hot and hard, my noble band, + With the arm of fight and fire; +Strike fast for God and Fatherland, + For mother, and wife, and sire. +Though thunders roar and lightnings flash, + Oh! Southrons, never fear, +Ye shall turn the bolt with the sabre's clash, + And the shaft with the steely spear. + +Bright blooms shall wave o'er the hero's grave, + While the craven finds no rest; +Thrice cursed the traitor, the slave, the knave, + While thrice is the hero blessed +To the front in the fight, ye Southrons, stand, + Brave spirits, with eagle eye, +And standing for God and for Fatherland, + Ye will gallantly do or die. + +Charleston Courier. + + + + +The Battle Rainbow. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +The poem which follows was written just after the Seven Days of Battle, +near Richmond, in 1862. It was suggested by the appearance of a rainbow, +the evening before the grand trial of strength between the contending +armies. This rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the +position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond. + + +The warm, weary day, was departing--the smile + Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased; +And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while + On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east. + +There our army--awaiting the terrible fight + Of the morrow--lay hopeful, and watching, and still; +Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white, + From river to river, o'er meadow and hill. + +While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky + Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun, +Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply; + And slept till the battle, the charge in each gun. + +When lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing! + Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold! +The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing + Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold. + +Blest omen of victory, symbol divine + Of peace after tumult, repose after pain; +How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign, + To eyes that should never behold it again! + +For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out, + And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air: +Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt, + Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair. + +Then a long week of glory and agony came-- + Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread; +When day unto day gave the record of fame, + And night unto night gave the list of its dead. + +We had triumphed--the foe had fled back to his ships-- + His standard in rags and his legions a wreck-- +But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips + Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check. + +Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release, + Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud; +Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace + To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed. + +But the promise was given--the beautiful arc, + With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned +The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark + Of the Infinite Love overarching the land: + +And that Love, shining richly and full as the day, + Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall, +On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display + Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all. + + + + +Stonewall Jackson. + +Mortally wounded--"_The Brigade must not know, sir._" + + + +"Who've ye got there?"--"Only a dying brother, + Hurt in the front just now." +"Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother + Where he was killed, and how." + +"Whom have you there?"--"A crippled courier, major, + Shot by mistake, we hear. +He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here: + Quick with him to the rear!" + +"Well, who comes next?"--"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; + Don't let the men find out. +It's STONEWALL!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir, + While there's a foe about." + +Whom have we _here_--shrouded in martial manner, + Crowned with a martyr's charm? +A grand dead hero, in a living banner, + Born of his heart and arm: + +The heart whereon his cause hung--see how clingeth + That banner to his bier! +The arm wherewith his cause struck--hark! how ringeth + His trumpet in their rear! + +What have we left? His glorious inspiration, + His prayers in council met. +Living, he laid the first stones of a nation; + And dead, he builds it yet. + + + + +Dirge for Ashby. + +By Mrs. M. J. Preston. + + + +Heard ye that thrilling word-- + Accent of dread-- +Fall, like a thunderbolt, + Bowing each head? +Over the battle dun, +Over each booming gun-- +Ashby, our bravest one! + Ashby is dead! + +Saw ye the veterans-- + Hearts that had known +Never a quail of fear, + Never a groan-- +Sob, though the fight they win, +Tears their stern eyes within-- +Ashby, our Paladin, + Ashby is dead! + +Dash, dash the tear away-- + Crush down the pain! +_Dulce et decus_, be + Fittest refrain! +Why should the dreary pall, +Round _him_, be flung at all? +Did not our hero fall + Gallantly slain! + +Catch the last words of cheer, + Dropt from his tongue; +Over the battle's din, + Let them be rung! +"Follow _me!_ follow _me!_" +Soldier, oh! could there be +Paean or dirge for thee, + Loftier sung? + +Bold as the lion's heart-- + Dauntlessly brave-- +Knightly as knightliest + Bayard might crave; +Sweet, with all Sydney's grace. +Tender as Hampden's face, +Who now shall fill the space, + Void by his grave? + +'Tis not one broken heart, + Wild with dismay-- +Crazed in her agony, + Weeps o'er his clay! +Ah! from a thousand eyes, +Flow the pure tears that rise-- +Widowed Virginia lies + Stricken to-day! + +Yet, charge as gallantly, + Ye, whom he led! +Jackson, the victor, still + Leads, at your head! +Heroes! be battle done +Bravelier, every one +Nerved by the thought alone-- + Ashby is dead! + + + + +Sacrifice. + + + +I. + + +Another victim for the sacrifice! + Oh! my own mother South, + How terrible this wail above thy youth, + Dying at the cannon's mouth,-- +And for no crime--no vice-- +No scheme of selfish greed--no avarice, +Or insolent ambition, seeking power;--. +But that, with resolute soul and will sublime, + They made their proud election to be free,-- +To leave a grand inheritance to time, + And to their sons and race, of liberty! + + + +II. + + +Oh! widow'd woman, sitting in thy weeds, + With thy young brood around thee, sad and lone, +Thy fancy sees thy hero where he bleeds, + And still thou hear'st his moan! +Dying he calls on thee--again--again! + With blessing and fond memories. Be of cheer; +He has not died--he did not bless--in vain: +For, in the eternal rounds of GOD, HE squares +The account with sorrowing hearts; and soothes the fears, +And leads the orphans home, and dries the widow's tears. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Sonnet. + +Written in 1864. + + + +What right to freedom when we are not free? + When all the passions goad us into lust; + When, for the worthless spoil we lick the dust, +And while one-half our people die, that we +May sit with peace and freedom 'neath our tree, +The other gloats for plunder and for spoil: +Bustles through daylight, vexes night with toil, +Cheats, swindles, lies and steals!--Shall such things be +Endowed with such grand boons as Liberty + Brings in her train of blessings? Should we pray + That such as these should still maintain the sway-- +These soulless, senseless, heartless enemies +Of all that's good and great, of all that's wise, +Worthy on earth, or in the Eternal Eyes! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Grave of A. Sydney Johnston. + +By J. B. Synnott. + + + +The Lone Star State secretes the clay + Of him who led on Shiloh's field, +Where mourning wives will stop to pray, + And maids a weeping tribute yield. + +In after time, when spleen and strife + Their madd'ning flame shall have expired, +The noble deeds that gemm'd this life + By Age and Youth will be admired. + +As o'er the stream the boatmen rove + By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring, +They'll show with moist'ning eye the grave + Where havoc spread her sable wing. + +There, 'neath the budding foliage green, + Ere Night evolved her dewy breath, +While Vict'ry smiled upon the scene, + Our Chieftain met the blow of death. + +Great men to come will bless the brave; + The soldier, bronzed in War's career, +Shall weave a chaplet o'er his grave, + While Mem'ry drops the glist'ning tear. + +Though envy wag her scorpion tongue, + The march of Time shall find his fame; +Where Bravery's loved and Glory's sung, + There children's lips shall lisp his name. + + + + +"Not Doubtful of Your Fatherland." + + + +I. + + +Not doubtful of your fatherland, + Or of the God who gave it; +On, Southrons! 'gainst the hireling band + That struggle to enslave it; + Ring boldly out + Your battle-shout, +Charge fiercely 'gainst these felon hordes: + One hour of strife + Is freedom's life, +And glory hangs upon your swords! + + + +II. + + +A thousand mothers' matron eyes, + Wives, sisters, daughters weeping, +Watch, where your virgin banner flies, + To battle fiercely sweeping: + Though science fails, + The steel prevails, +When hands that wield, own hearts of oak: + These, though the wall + Of stone may fall, +Grow stronger with each hostile stroke. + + + +III. + + +The faith that feels its cause as true, + The virtue to maintain it; +The soul to brave, the will to do,-- + These seek the fight, and gain it! + The precious prize + Before your eyes, +The all that life conceives of charm, + Home, freedom, life, + Child, sister, wife, +All rest upon your soul and arm! + + + +IV. + + +And what the foe, the felon race, + That seek your subjugation? +The scum of Europe, her disgrace. + The lepers of the nation. + And what the spoil + That tempts their toil, +The bait that goads them on to fight? + Lust, crime, and blood, + Each fiendish mood +That prompts and follows appetite. + + + +V. + + +Shall such prevail, and shall you fail, + Asserting cause so holy? +With souls of might, go, seek the fight, + And crush these wretches lowly. + On, with the cry, + To do or die, +As did, in darker days, your sires, + Nor stay the blow, + Till every foe, +Down stricken, in your path, expires! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Only a Soldier's Grave. + +By S. A. Jones, of Aberdeen, Mississippi. + + + +Only a soldier's grave! Pass by, +For soldiers, like other mortals, die. +Parents he had--they are far away; +No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay; +No brother comes, with a tearful eye: +It's only a soldier's grave--pass by. + +True, he was loving, and young, and brave, +Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave; +No proud recital of virtues known, +Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won; +No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;-- +Only a soldier's grave--pass by. + +Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight, +And he gave his life in the cause of right! +When his hope was high, and his youthful dream +As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream; +His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;-- +Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by. + +Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave, +Some one may seek him in hope to save! +Some of the dear ones, far away, +Would bear him home to his native clay: +'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh, +Find not the hillock, and pass him by. + + + + +The Guerilla Martyrs. + + + +I. + + +Ay, to the doom--the scaffold and the chain,-- + To all your cruel tortures, bear them on, +Ye foul and coward Hangmen;--but in vain!-- + Ye cannot touch the glory they have won-- +And win--thus yielding up the martyr's breath + For freedom!--Theirs is a triumphant death!-- +A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb + Still keeps some sacred fires;--that yet shall burst, +Even from the reeking ravage of their doom, + As glorious--ay, more glorious--than the first! +Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst! + 'Tis for a season only! There shall come +An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst; + When the dread vengeance of a century +Shall reap its harvest in a single day; + And ye shall howl in horror;--and, to die, +Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay; + But to be cruel and brutal, does not make +Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey + On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake +The unappeasable appetite ye wake, + In the hot blood of victims, that have been, +Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,-- + Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin! + + + +II. + +Ye slaughter,--do ye triumph? Ask your chains, + Ye Sodom-hearted butchers!--turn your eyes, +Where reeks yon bloody scaffold; and the pains, + Ungroaned, of a true martyr, ere he dies, +Attest the damned folly of your crime, + Now at its carnival! His spirit flies, +Unscathed by all your fires, through every clime, + Into the world's wide bosom. Thousands rise, +Prompt at its call, and principled to strike +The tyrants and the tyrannies alike!-- +Voices, that doom ye, speak in all your deeds, + And cry to heaven, arm earth, and kindle hell! +A host of freemen, where one martyr bleeds, + Spring from his place of doom, and make his knell +The toscin, to arouse a myriad race, +T'avenge Humanity's wrong, and wipe off man's disgrace! + + + +III. + + +We mourn not for our martyrs!--for they perish, + As the good perish, for a deathless faith: +Their glorious memories men will fondly cherish, + In terms and signs that shall ennoble death! +Their blood becomes a principle, to guide, + Onward, forever onward, in proud flow, +Restless, resistless, as the ocean tide, + The Spirit heaven yields freedom here below! +How should we mourn the martyrs, who arise, +Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;-- +And take their thrones, as slars; and o'er the night, + Shed a new glory; and to other souls, +Shine out with blessed guidance, and true light, + Which leads successive races to their goals! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +"Libera Nos, O Domine!" + +By James Barron Hope. + + + +What! ye hold yourselves as freemen? + Tyrants love just such as ye! +Go! abate your lofty manner! +Write upon the State's old banner, + "_A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!_" + +Sink before the federal altar, + Each one low, on bended knee, +Pray, with lips that sob and falter, +This prayer from the coward's psalter,-- + "_A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!_" + +But ye hold that quick repentance + In the Northern mind will be; +This repentance comes no sooner +Than the robbers did, at Luna! + "_A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!_" + +He repented _him_:--the Bishop + Gave him absolution free; +Poured upon him sacred chrism +In the pomp of his baptism. + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +He repented;--then he sickened! + Was he pining for the sea? +_In extremis_ was he shriven, +The viaticum was given, + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Then the old cathedral's choir + Took the plaintive minor key; +With the Host upraised before him, +Down the marble aisles they bore him; + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +While the bishop and the abbot-- + All the monks of high degree, +Chanting praise to the Madonna, +Came to do him Christian honor! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Now the _miserere's_ cadence, + Takes the voices of the sea; +As the music-billows quiver, +See the dead freebooter shiver! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Is it that these intonations + Thrill him thus from head to knee? +Lo, his cerements burst asunder! +'Tis a sight of fear and wonder! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Fierce, he stands before the bishop, + Dark as shape of Destinie. +Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,-- +Down the prelate goes--dead--falling! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Hastings lives! He was but feigning! + What! Repentant? Never he! +Down he smites the priests and friars, +And the city lights with fires! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Ah! the children and the maidens, + 'Tis in vain they strive to flee! +Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding, +Is no place for woman's pleading. + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Louder swells the frightful tumult-- + Pallid Death holds revelrie! +Dies the organ's mighty clamor, +By the horseman's iron hammer! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +So they thought that he'd repented! + Had they nailed him to the tree, +He had not deserved their pity, +And they had not--lost their city. + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +For the moral in this story, + Which is plain as truth can be: +If we trust the North's relenting, +We shall shriek-too late repenting-- + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ [1] + +[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's +History of Latin Christianity. + + + + +The Knell Shall Sound Once More. + + + +I know that the knell shall sound once more, + And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave; +And there shall be storm on the beaten shore, + And there shall be strife on the stormy wave; +And we shall wail, with a mighty wail, + And feel the keen sorrow through many years, +But shall not our banner at last prevail, + And our eyes be dried of tears? + +There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree, + And the nation whose course is long to run, +Must make, though in anguish still it be, + The tribute of many a noble son; +The roots of each mighty shaft must grow + In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts; +And to conquer the right from a bloody foe, + Brings a pang as when soul and body parts! + +But the blood and the pang are the need, alas! + To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays +The generations that rise, and pass + To the full fruition that crowns their days! +'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life: + And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care; +And the freedom sought must ever be bought + By the best blood-offerings, held most dear. + +Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first + To mount the red altar of sacrifice; +Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst, + Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!-- +The struggle may last for a thousand years, + And only with blood shall the field be bought; +But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears, + The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion + +By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +He sleeps upon Virginia's strand, +While comrades of the Legion stand +With arms reversed--a mournful band-- + Around his early bier! +His war-horse paws the shaking ground, +The volleys ring--they close around-- +And on the white brow, laurel-bound, + Falls many a soldier's tear. + +Up, stricken mourners! look on high, +Loud anthems rend the echoing sky, +Re-born where heroes never die-- + The warrior is at rest! +Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown; +Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down, +His plumes replaced by shining--crown, +The red cross on his breast! + +Though Gendron's arm is with the dust, +Let not his blood-stained weapon rust, +Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust, + Where Southern banners fly! +Some brave, who followed where he led-- +Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead, +To avenge each drop of blood he shed, + Or, like him, bravely die! + +He deemed a death for honor sweet.-- +And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet, +Our flag should be his winding-sheet, + Proud banner of the free! +Oh, let his honored form be laid +Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade; +His praises sung by Southern maid, + While flows the broad Santee! + +We come around his urn to twine +Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine, +Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine, + From skies deep-dyed and bright; +And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!-- +On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the field! +Or dead return on battered shield, + As martyrs for the right! + +Where camp-fires light the reddened sod, +The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God, +In Palmer's name, and by his blood, + They swell the battle-cry; +We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel, +'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel, +And menial hordes as suppliants kneel, + Or, terror-stricken, fly! + + + + +Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans. + +By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +Where murdered Mumford lies, +Bewailed in bitter sighs, +Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved, +Martyrs of Liberty, +Defenders of the Free! +Come, humbly nigh, +And learn to die! + +Ah, Freedom, on that day, +Turned fearfully away, +While pitying angels lingered near, +To gaze upon the sod, +Red with a martyr's blood; +And woman's tear +Fell on his bier! + +O God! that he should die +Beneath a Southern sky! +Upon a felon's gallows swung, +Murdered by tyrant hand,-- +While round a helpless band, +On Butler's name +Poured scorn and shame. + +But hark! loud paeans fly +From earth to vaulted sky, +He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne! +List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1] +Tolls far the martyr's knell! +Shout, Southrons, high, +Our battle cry! + +Come, all of Southern blood, +Come, kneel to Freedom's God! +Here at her crimsoned altar swear! +Accursed for evermore +The flag that Mumford tore, +And o'er his grave +Our colors wave! + + +[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God." +--_Oriental Legend._ + + + + +The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston. + +By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D. + + + +Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies, + Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; +Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, + Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate. + +Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel + Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give; +And in her hour of anguish let her feel + That ye can die whom she has taught to live. + +Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, + To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth; +That never villain hand on her be laid, + Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth. + +See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame, + As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath, +Her generous brow and bosom all aflame + At the bare thought of insult, worse than death. + +And stained and rent her snowy garments are; + The big drops gather on her pallid face, +Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar + The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace. + +And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers + And bitter tears, to every loving child +To stand between her and the doom she fears, + To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled! + +Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt! + And doubly damned who casts one look behind! +Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, + Up with her banner! give it to the wind. + +Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, + Till every ringing avenue repeat +The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide + Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet. + +Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come! + Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now +By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, + By every manly hope and filial vow, + +To save her proud soul from that loathed thrall + Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name; +Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, + Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame. + +From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled, + Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, +And thus, with paean sung and anthem rolled, + Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire. + +Gather around her sacred ashes then, + Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, +Die! as becomes a race of free-born men, + Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain. + +So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, + If not in life, at least by death, set free-- +And send her fame, through endless ages down, + The last grand holocaust of liberty. + + + + +Savannah Fallen. + +By Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia. + + + +I. + + +Bowing her head to the dust of the earth. + Smitten and stricken is she, +Light after light gone out from her hearth, + Son after son from her knee. +Bowing her head to the dust at her feet, + Weeping her beautiful slain, +Silence! keep silence, for aye in the street, + See! they are coming again. + + + +II. + + +Coming again, oh! glorious ones, + Wrapped in the flag of the free; +Queen of the South! bright crowns for thy sons, + Only the cypress for _thee!_ +Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum, + Marches, and requiems sweet; +Silence! keep silence! alas, how they come, + Oh! how they move through the street! + + + +III. + + +Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go, + Bearing the young and the brave, +Fair as the summer, but white as the snow + Bearing them down to the grave. +Some in the morning, and some in the noou, + Some in the hey-day of life; +Bower nor blossom, nor summer nor June, + Wooing them back to the strife. + + + +IV. + + +Some in the billow, afar, oh! afar, + Staining the waves with their blood; +One on the vessel's high deck, like a star, + Sinking in glory's bright-flood.[1] +Bowing her head to the dust of the earth, + Humbled but honored is she, +lighting the skies with the stars from her hearth, + Who shall her comforter be? + + + +V. + + +Bring her, oh! bring her the garments of woe, + Sackcloth and ashes for aye; +Winds of the South! oh, a requiem blow, + Sighing and sorrow to-day. +Sprinkle the showers from heaven's blue eyes + Wide o'er the green summer lea, +Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies, + Thou shalt her comforter be! + + +[1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the +"Water Witch." + + + + +Bull Run.--A Parody. + + + +I. + + +At Bull Run when the sun was low, +Each Southern face grew pale as snow, +While loud as jackdaws rose the crow + Of Yankees boasting terribly! + + + +II. + + +But Bull Run saw another sight, +When at the deepening shades of night, +Towards Fairfax Court-House rose the flight + Of Yankees running rapidly. + + + +III. + + +Then broke each corps with terror riven, +Then rushed the steeds from battle driven, +The men of battery Number Seven + Forsook their Red artillery! + + + +IV. + + +Still on McDowell's farthest left, +The roar of cannon strikes one deaf, +Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff + Contend for death or victory. + + + +V. + + +The panic thickens--off, ye brave! +Throw down your arms! your bacon save! +Waive, Washington, all scruples waive, + And fly, with all your chivalry! + + + + +"Stack Arms." + +Written in the Prison of Fort Delaware, Del., on Hearing of the +Surrender of General Lee. + +By Jos. Blyth Alston. + + + +"Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry + When, weary with the dusty tread +Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, + I sank upon my soldier bed, +And camly slept; the starry dome + Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, +And mingled with my dreams of home, + The thoughts of Peace and Liberty. + +"Stack Arms!" I've heard it, when the shout + Exulting, rang along our line, +Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, + Captured, dispersed; its tones divine +Then came to mine enraptured ear. + Guerdon of duty nobly done, +And glistened on my cheek the tear + Of grateful joy for victory won. + +"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow + And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, +A broken, murmuring wail of woe, + From manly hearts by anguish wrung. +Like victims of a midnight dream, + We move, we know not how nor why, +For life and hope but phantoms seem, + And it would be relief--to die! + + + + +Doffing the Gray. + +By Lieutenant Falligant, of Savannah, Geo. + + + +Off with your gray suits, boys-- + Off with your rebel gear-- +They smack too much of the cannons' peal, +The lightning flash of your deadly steel, + The terror of your spear. + +Their color is like the smoke + That curled o'er your battle-line; +They call to mind the yell that woke +When the dastard columns before you broke, + And their dead were your fatal sign. + +Off with the starry wreath, + Ye who have led our van; +To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death, +When we followed you over the gory heath, + Where we whipped them man to man. + +Down with the cross of stars-- + Too long hath it waved on high; +'Tis covered all over with battle scars, +But its gleam the Northern banner mars-- + 'Tis time to lay it by. + +Down with the vows we've made, + Down, with each memory-- +Down with the thoughts of our noble dead-- +Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid + And down with Liberty. + + + + +In the Land Where We Were Dreaming + +By D. B. Lucas, Esq., of Jefferson. + + + +Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as grand +As ever floated out of Faerie land; + Children were we in single faith, + But God-like children, whom, nor death, +Nor threat, nor danger drove from Honor's path, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render; +As violets, our women pure and tender; + And when they spoke, their voice did thrill + Until at eve, the whip-poor-will, +At morn the mocking-bird, were mute and still + In the land where we were dreaming. + +And we had graves that covered more of glory +Than ever tracked tradition's ancient story; + And in our dream we wove the thread + Of principles for which had bled +And suffered long our own immortal dead + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Though in our land we had both bond and free, +Both were content; and so God let them be;-- + 'Till envy coveted our land + And those fair fields our valor won: +But little recked we, for we still slept on, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew wild-- +Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field; + Crimson the moon; between the Twins + Barbed arrows fly, and then begins +Such strife as when disorder's Chaos reigns, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Down from her sun-lit heights smiled Liberty +And waved her cap in sign of Victory-- + The world approved, and everywhere + Except where growled the Russian bear, +The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer + In the land where we were dreaming. + +We fancied that a Government was ours-- +We challenged place among the world's great powers; + We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission, + Until so life-like grew our vision, +That he who dared to doubt but met derision + In the land where we were dreaming. + +We looked on high: a banner there was seen, +Whose field was blanched and spotless in its sheen-- + Chivalry's cross its Union bears, + And vet'rans swearing by their scars +Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars + In the land where we were dreaming. + +A hero came amongst us as we slept; +At first he lowly knelt--then rose and wept; + Then gathering up a thousand spears + He swept across the field of Mars; +Then bowed farewell and walked beyond the stars-- + In the land where we were dreaming. + +We looked again: another figure still +Gave hope, and nerved each individual will-- + Full of grandeur, clothed with power, + Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour +With stern, majestic sway--of strength a tower + In the land where we were dreaming. + +As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God, +Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, + Rome felt herself secure and free, + So, "Richmond's safe," we said, while we +Beheld a bronzed Hero--God-like Lee, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls-- +As wakes the mother when the infant falls-- + As starts the traveller when around + His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound-- +So woke our nation with a single bound + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Woe! woe is me! the startled mother cried-- +While we have slept our noble sons have died! + Woe! woe is me! how strange and sad, + That all our glorious vision's fled +And left us nothing real but the dead + In the land where we were dreaming. + +And are they really dead, our martyred slain? +No! dreamers! morn shall bid them rise again + From every vale--from every height + On which they _seemed_ to die for right-- +Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight + In the land where we were dreaming. + + + + +Ballad--"Yes, Build Your Walls." + + + +I. + + +Yes, build your walls of stone or sand, + But know, when all is builded--then, +The proper breastworks of the land + Are in a race of freeborn men! +The sons of sires, who knew, in life, + That, of all virtues, manhood first, +Still nursing peace, yet arms for strife, + And braves, for liberty, the worst! + + + +II. + + +What grand examples have been ours! + Oh! sons of Moultrie, Marion,--call +From mansions of the past, the powers, + That plucked ye from the despot's thrall! +Do Sumter, Rutledge, Gadsden, live? + Oh! for your City by the Sea, +They gladly gave, what men could give, + Blood, life, and toil, and made it free! + + + +III. + + +The grand inheritance, in trust + For children of your loins, must know +No taint of shame, no loss by lust, + Your own, or of the usurping foe! +Let not your sons, in future days, + The children now that bear your name, +Exulting in a grandsire's praise, + Droop o'er a father's grave in shame! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +The Lines Around Petersburg. + +By Samuel Davis, of North Carolina. + + + +"Such a sleep they sleep, +The men I loved!" + Tennyson. + + +Oh, silence, silence! now, when night is near, + And I am left alone, +Thou art so strange, so sad reposing here-- + And all so changed hath grown, +Where all was once exuberant with life + Through day and night, in deep and deadly strife. + +If I must weep, oh, tell me, is there not +Some plaintive story breathed into mine ear +By spirit-whispers from thy voiceless sphere, + Haunting this awful spot? +To my sad soul, more mutely eloquent +Than words of fame on sculptured monument +Outspeaks yon crumbling parapet, where lies +The broken gun, the idly rusting ball, +Mute tokens of an ill-starred enterprise! +Rude altars reared for costly sacrifice! +Vast work of hero-hands left in thy fall! + +Where are they now, that fearless brotherhood, + Who marshalled here, + That fearful year, +In pain and peril, yet undaunted stood,-- +Though Death rode fiercest on the battle-storm +And earth lay strewn with many a glorious form? +Where are they now, who, when the strife was done, +With kindly greeting 'round the camp-fire met,-- +And made an hour of mirth, from triumphs won, +Repay the day's stern toil, when the slow sun had set? + +Where are they?-- +Let the nameless grave declare,-- +In strange unwonted hillocks--frequent seen! +Alas I who knows how much lies buried there!-- +What worlds, of love, and all that might have been! +The rest are scattered now, we know not where; +And Life to each a new employment brings; +But still they seem to gather round me here, +To whom these places were familiar things! +Wide sundered now, by mountain and by stream, +Once brothers--still a brotherhood they seem;-- +More firm united, since a common woe +Hath brought to common hopes their overthrow! + +Brave souls and true;--in toil and danger tried,-- +I see them still as in those glorious years, +When strong, and battling bravely side by side, +All crowned their deeds with praise,--and some with tears +'Tis done! the sword is sheathed; the banner furled, +No sound where late the crashing missile whirled-- +The dead alone possess the battle-plain; +The living turn them to life's cares again. + +Oh, Silence! blessed dreams upon thee wait; +here Thought and Feeling ope their precious store, +And Memory, gathering from the spoils of Fate +Love's scattered treasures, brings them back once more! + So let me often dream, + As up the brightening stream + Of olden Time, thought gently leads me on, +Seeking those better days, lost, lost, alas! and gone! + + + + +All Is Gone. + +Fadette.--Memphis Appeal. + + + +Sister, hark! Atween the trees cometh naught but summer breeze? + All is gone-- +Summer breezes come and go. Hope doth never wander so-- +No, nor evermore doth Woe. + +Sister, look! Adown the lane treadeth only April rain? + All is gone-- +Through the tangled hedge-rows green glimmer thus the sunbeam's sheen, +Dropping from cloud-rifts between? + +Sister, hark! the very air heavy on my heart doth bear-- + All is gone!-- +E'en the birds that chirped erewhile for the frowning sun to smile, +Hush at that drum near the stile. + +Sister, pray!--it is the foe! On thy knees--aye, very low-- + All is gone, +And the proud South on her knees to a mongrel race like these-- +But the dead sleep 'neath the trees. + +See--they come--their banners flare gayly in our gloomy air-- + All is gone-- +Flashed our Southern Cross all night--naught but a meteoric light +In a moment lost to sight? + +Aye, so gay--the brave array--marching from no battle fray-- + All is gone,-- +Yet who vaunteth, of your host, maketh he but little boast +If he think on battles most. + +On they wind, behind the wood. Dost remember once we stood-- + All is gone-- +All but memory, of those days--but we've stood here while the haze +Of the battle met the blaze. + +Of the sun adown yon hill. Charge on charge--I hear them still.-- + All is gone!-- +Yet I hear the echoing crash--see the sabres gleam and flash-- +See one gallant headlong dash. + +One, amid the battle-wreck, restive plunged his charger black-- + All is gone-- +Whirrs the partridge there--didst see where he rode so +recklessly? +Once he turned and waved to me. + +"Ah," thou saidst, "the smoke is dark, scarce can I our banner mark"-- + All is gone-- +All but memory; yet I see, darksome howsoever it be, +How to death--to death--rode he. + +Not a star he proudly bore, but a sword all dripping gore-- + All is gone-- +Dashes on our little band like yon billow on the strand-- +Like yon strand unmoved they stand. + +For their serried ranks are strong: thousands upon thousands throng-- + All is gone, +And the handful, true and brave, spent, like yonder dying wave, +Fall back slowly from that grave. + +Low our banner drooped--and fell. Back he spurs, mid shot and shell-- + All _was_ gone, +But he waves it high--and then, on--we sweep them from the glen-- +But he ne'er rode back again. + +Ah, I smiled to see him go. How my cheek with pride did glow! + All is gone-- +All, of pride or hope, for me--but that evening, hopefully +Stood I at the gate with thee, + +Sister, when at twilight gray marched our soldiers back this way-- + All is gone-- +In the woods rang many a cheer--how we smiled! I did not fear +Till--at last was borne a bier. + +Sweetest sister, dost thou weep? Hush! he only fell asleep-- + All is gone-- +And'twere better he had died--free, whatever us betide-- +Our galling chains untried. + +We were leaning on the gate. Dost remember, it grew late-- + All is gone-- +Yet I see the stars so pale--see the shadows down the vale-- +Hear the whip-poor-will's far wail, + +As if all were in a dream. Through yon pines the moon did gleam-- + All is gone-- +On that banner-pall of death--on that red sword without sheath-- +And--I knew who lay beneath. + +Did I speak? I thought I said, let me look upon your dead-- + All is gone--- +Was I cold? I did not weep. Tears are spray from founts not deep-- +My heart lies in frozen sleep. + +Sister, pray for me. Thine eyes gleam like God's own midnight skies-- + All is gone-- +Tuneless are my spirit's chords. I but look up, like the birds, +And trust Christ to say the words. + + + + +Bowing Her Head. + + + +Her head is bowed downwards; so pensive her air, + As she looks on the ground with her pale, solemn face, +It were hard to decide whether faith or despair, + Whether anguish or trust, in her heart holds a place. + +Her hair was all gold in the sun's joyous light, + Her brow was as smooth as the soft, placid sea: +But the furrows of care came with shadows of night, + And the gold silvered pale when the light left the lea. + +Her lips slightly parted, deep thought in her eye, + While sorrow cuts seams in her forehead so fair; +Her bosom heaves gently, she stifles a sigh, + And just moistens her lid with the dews of a tear. + +Why droops she thus earthward--why bends she? Oh, see! + There are gyves on her limbs! see her manacled hand! +She is loaded with chains; but her spirit is free-- + Free to love and to mourn for her desolate land. + +Her jailer, though cunning, lacks wit to devise + How to fetter her thoughts, as her limbs he has done; +The eagle that's snatched from his flight to the skies, + From the bars of his cage may still gaze at the sun. + +No sound does she utter; all voiceless her pains; + The wounds of her spirit with pride she conceals; +She is dumb to her shearers; the clank of her chains + And the throbs of her heart only tell what she feels. + +She looks sadly around her; now sombre the scene! + How thick the deep shadows that darken her view! +The black embers of homes where the earth was so green, + And the smokes of her wreck where the heavens shone blue. + +Her daughters bereaved of all succor but God, + Her bravest sons perished--the light of her eyes; +But oppression's sharp heel does not cut 'neath the sod, + And she knows that the chains cannot bind in the skies. + +She thinks of the vessel she aided to build, + Of all argosies richest that floated the seas; +Compacted so strong, framed by architects skilled, + Or to dare the wild storm, or to sail to the breeze. + +The balmiest winds blowing soft where she steers, + The favor of heaven illuming her path-- +She might sail as she pleased to the mild summer airs, + And avoid the dread regions of tempest and wrath. + +But the crew quarrelled soon o'er the cargo she bore; + 'Twas adjusted unfairly, the cavillers said; +And the anger of men marred the peace that of yore + Spread a broad path of glory and sunshine ahead. + +There were seams in her planks--there were spots on her flag-- + So the fanatics said, as they seized on her helm; +And from soft summer seas, turned her prow where the crag + And the wild breakers rose the good ship to overwhelm. + +Then the South, though true love to the vessel she bore, + Since she first laid its keel in the days that were gone-- +Saw it plunge madly on to the wild billows' roar, + And rush to destruction and ruin forlorn. + +So she passed from the decks, in the faith of her heart + That justice and God her protectors would be; +Not dashed like a frail, fragile spar, without chart, + In the fury and foam of the wild raging sea. + +The life-boat that hung by the stout vessel's side + She seized, and embarked on the wide, trackless main, +In the faith that she'd reach, making virtue her guide, + The haven the mother-ship failed to attain + +But the crew rose in wrath, and they swore by their might + They would sink the brave boat that did buffet the sea, +For daring to seek, by her honor and right, + A new port from the storms, a new home for the free. + +So they crushed the brave boat; all forbearance they lost; + They littered with ruins the ocean so wild-- +Till the hulk of the parent ship, beaten and tossed, + Drifted prone on the flood by the wreck of the child. + +And the bold rower, loaded with fetters and chains, + In the gloom of her heart sings the proud vessel's dirge; +Half forgets, in its wreck, all the pangs of her pains, + As she sees its stout parts floating loose in the surge. + +Savannah Broadside. + + + + +The Confederate Flag + +By Anna Feyre Dinnies, of Louisiana. + + + +Take that banner down,'tis weary, +Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, + Furl it, hide it, let it rest; +For there's not a man to wave it-- +For there's not a soul to lave it +In the blood that heroes gave it. + Furl it, hide it, let it rest. + +Take that banner down,'tis tattered; +Broken is its staff, and shattered; +And the valiant hearts are scattered + Over whom it floated high. +Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it-- +Hard to think there's none to hold it-- +Hard that those, who once unrolled it, + Now must furl it with a sigh. + +Furl that banner, furl it sadly; +Once six millions hailed it gladly, +And three hundred thousand, madly, + Swore it should forever wave-- +Swore that foeman's sword should never +Hearts like theirs entwined dissever-- +That their flag should float forever + O'er their freedom or their grave! + +Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, +And the hearts that fondly clasped it, + Cold and dead are lying low; +And that banner--it is trailing, +While around it sounds the wailing + Of its people in their woe; +For, though conquered, they adore it, +Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, +Weep for those who fell before it-- +Oh! how wildly they deplore it, + Now to furl and fold it so! + +Furl that banner; true 'tis gory, +But 'tis wreathed around with glory, +And'twill live in song and story, + Though its folds are in the dust; +For its fame, on brightest pages-- +Sung by poets, penned by sages-- +Shall go sounding down to ages-- + Furl its folds though now we must. + +Furl that banner-softly, slowly; +Furl it gently, it is holy, + For it droops above the dead. +Touch it not, unfurl it never, +Let it droop there, furled forever, + For its people's hopes are fled. + + + + +Ashes of Glory. + +A. J. Requier. + + + +Fold up the gorgeous silken sun, + By bleeding martyrs blest, +And heap the laurels it has won + Above its place of rest. + +No trumpet's note need harshly blare-- + No drum funereal roll-- +Nor trailing sables drape the bier + That frees a dauntless soul! + +It lived with Lee, and decked his brow + From Fate's empyreal Palm: +It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now-- + As spotless and as calm. + +It was outnumbered--not outdone; + And they shall shuddering tell, +Who struck the blow, its latest gun + Flashed ruin as it fell. + +Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze + That smote the victor tar, +With death across the heaving seas + Of fiery Trafalgar; + +Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom + Their knightly deeds have starred; +Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume, + Nor peerless-born Bayard; + +Not all that antique fables feign, + And Orient dreams disgorge; +Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain, + And Lion of St. George, + +Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still + Thy crimson glory shines +Beyond the lengthened shades that fill + Their proudest kingly lines. + +Sleep! in thine own historic night,-- + And be thy blazoned scroll, +_A warrior's Banner takes its flight, + To greet the warrior's soul!_ + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of War Poetry of the South, by Various + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH *** + +This file should be named 7wrpm10.txt or 7wrpm10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7wrpm11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7wrpm10a.txt + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/7wrpm10.zip b/old/7wrpm10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0fb8842 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7wrpm10.zip diff --git a/old/8wrpm10.txt b/old/8wrpm10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca90511 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8wrpm10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15522 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of War Poetry of the South, by Various + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: War Poetry of the South + +Author: Various + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8648] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH + +Edited By + +William Gilmore Simms, LL. D. + + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, +By RICHARDSON & CO. + +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the +Southern District of New York. + +Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery, +540 Broadway. + + + +To + +The Women of the South + +I Inscribe This Volume + +They have lost a cause, but they have made a triumph! They have shown +themselves worthy of any manhood; and will leave a record which shall +survive all the caprices of time. They have proved themselves worthy of +the best womanhood, and, in their posterity, will leave no race which +shall be unworthy of the cause which is lost, or of the mothers, sisters +and wives, who have taught such noble lessons of virtuous effort, and +womanly endurance. + +W.G.S. + + + + +Preface. + + + +Several considerations have prompted the editor of this volume in the +compilation of its pages. It constitutes a contribution to the national +literature which is assumed to be not unworthy of it, and which is +otherwise valuable as illustrating the degree of mental and art +development which has been made, in a large section of the country, under +circumstances greatly calculated to stimulate talent and provoke +expression, through the higher utterances of passion and imagination. +Though sectional in its character, and indicative of a temper and a +feeling which were in conflict with nationality, yet, now that the States +of the Union have been resolved into one nation, this collection is +essentially as much the property of the whole as are the captured cannon +which were employed against it during the progress of the late war. It +belongs to the national literature, and will hereafter be regarded as +constituting a proper part of it, just as legitimately to be recognized by +the nation as are the rival ballads of the cavaliers and roundheads, by +the English, in the great civil conflict of their country. + +The emotional literature of a people is as necessary to the philosophical +historian as the mere details of events in the progress of a nation. This +is essential to the reputation of the Southern people, as illustrating +their feelings, sentiments, ideas, and opinions--the motives which +influenced their actions, and the objects which they had in contemplation, +and which seemed to them to justify the struggle in which they were +engaged. It shows with what spirit the popular mind regarded the course of +events, whether favorable or adverse; and, in this aspect, it is even of +more importance to the writer of history than any mere chronicle of facts. +The mere facts in a history do not always, or often, indicate the true +_animus_, of the action. But, in poetry and song, the emotional +nature is apt to declare itself without reserve--speaking out with a +passion which disdains subterfuge, and through media of imagination and +fancy, which are not only without reserve, but which are too coercive in +their own nature, too arbitrary in their influence, to acknowledge any +restraints upon that expression, which glows or weeps with emotions that +gush freely and freshly from the heart. With this persuasion, we can also +forgive the muse who, in her fervor, is sometimes forgetful of her art. + +And yet, it is believed that the numerous pieces of this volume will be +found creditable to the genius and culture of the Southern people, and +honorable, as in accordance with their convictions. They are derived from +all the States of the late Southern Confederacy, and will be found +truthfully to exhibit the sentiment and opinion prevailing more or less +generally throughout the whole. The editor has had special advantages in +making the compilation. Having a large correspondence in most of the +Southern States, he has found no difficulty in procuring his material. +Contributions have poured in upon him from all portions of the South; the +original publications having been, in a large number of cases, subjected +to the careful revision of the several authors. It is a matter of great +regret with him that the limits of the present volume have not suffered +him to do justice to, and find a place for, many of the pieces which fully +deserve to be put on record. Some of the poems were quite too long for his +purpose; a large number, delayed by the mails and other causes, were +received too late for publication. Several collections, from Louisiana, +North Carolina, and Texas, especially, are omitted for this reason. Many +of these pieces are distinguished by fire, force, passion, and a free play +of fancy. Briefly, his material would enable him to prepare another +volume, similar to the present, which would not be unworthy of its +companionship. He is authorized by his publisher to say that, in the event +of the popular success of the present volume, he will cheerfully follow up +its publication by a second, of like style, character, and dimensions. + +The editor has seen with pleasure the volume of "Rebel Rhymes" edited by +Mr. Moore, and of "South Songs," by Mr. De Leon. He has seen, besides, a +single number of a periodical pamphlet called "The Southern Monthly," +published at Memphis, Tenn. This has been supplied him by a contributor. +He has seen no other publications of this nature, though he has heard of +others, and has sought for them in vain. There may be others still +forthcoming; for, in so large a field, with a population so greatly +scattered as that of the South, it is a physical impossibility adequately +to do justice to the whole by any one editor; and each of the sections +must make its own contributions, in its own time, and according to its +several opportunities. There will be room enough for all; and each, I +doubt not, will possess its special claims to recognition and reward. + +His own collections, made during the progress of the war, from the +newspapers, chiefly, of South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia, were +copious. Of these, many have been omitted from this collection, which, he +trusts, will some day find another medium of publication. He has been able +to ascertain the authorship, in many cases, of these writings; but must +regret still that so many others, under a too fastidious delicacy, deny +that their names should be made known. It is to be hoped that they will +hereafter be supplied. To the numerous ladies who have so frankly and +generously contributed to this collection, by sending originals and making +copies, he begs to offer his most grateful acknowledgments. + +A large proportion of the pieces omitted are of elegiac character. Of this +class, he could find a place for such pieces only as were dedicated to the +most distinguished of the persons falling in battle, or such as are marked +by the higher characteristics of poetry--freshness, thought, and +imagination. But many of the omitted pieces are quite worthy of +preservation. Much space has not been given to that class of songs, camp +catches, or marching ballads, which are so numerous in the "Rebel Rhymes" +of Mr. Moore. The songs which are most popular are rarely such as may +claim poetical rank. They depend upon lively music and certain +spirit-stirring catchwords, and are rarely worked up with much regard +to art or even, propriety. Still, many of these should have found a place +in this volume, had adequate space been allowed the editor. It is his +desire, as well as that of the publisher, to collect and bind together +these fugitives in yet another publication. He will preserve the +manuscripts and copies of all unpublished pieces, with the view to this +object--keeping them always subject to the wishes of their several +writers. + +At the close, he must express the hope that these poems will be +recognized, not only as highly creditable to the Southern mind, but as +truly illustrative, if not justificatory of, that sentiment and opinion +with which they have been written; which sentiment and opinion have +sustained their people through a war unexampled in its horrors in modern +times, and which has fully tested their powers of endurance, as well as +their ability in creating their own resources, under all reverses, and +amidst every form of privation. + +W.G.S. + +Brooklyn, September 8, 1866. + + + + +Contents. + + + +Ethnogenesis, _Henry Timrod_ +God Save the South, _George H. Miles_ +"You can never win them back", _Catherine M. Warfield_ +The Southern Cross, _E. K. Blunt_ +South Carolina, _S. Henry Dickson_ +The New Star, _B. M. Anderson_ +The Irrepressible Conflict, _Tyrtæus_ +The Southern Republic, _Olivia T. Thomas_ +"Is there then no Hope?", _Charleston Courier_ +The Fate of the Republic, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Voice of the South, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Oath of Freedom, _James Barron Hope_ +The Battle Cry of the South, _James R. Randall_ +Sonnet, _Charleston Mercury_ +Seventy-six and Sixty-one, _J. W. Overall_ +"Reddato Gladium", _Richmond Whig_ +"Nay, keep the Sword", _Richmond Whig_ +Coercion, _John R. Thompson_ +A Cry to Arms, _Henry Timrod_ +Jackson, the Alexandria Martyr, _W. H. Holcombe_ +The Martyr of Alexandria, _James W. Simmons_ +The Blessed Union, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Fire of Freedom, _Richmond paper_ +Hymn to the National Flag, _Mrs. M. J. Preston_ +Sonnet--moral of party, _Charleston Mercury_ +Our Faith in '61, _A. J. Requier_ +"Wouldst thou have me love thee?", _Alex. B. Meek_ +Enlisted to-day, _Anonymous_ +"My Maryland", _James R. Randall_ +The Boy Soldier, _Lady of Savannah_ +The good old cause, _John D. Phelan_ +Manassas, _Catherine M. Warfield_ +Virginia, _Ibid._ +The War-Christian's Thanksgiving, _S. Teackle Wallis_ +Sonnet, _Charleston Mercury_ +Marching to Death, _J. Herbert Sass_ +Charleston, _Henry Timrod_ +Charleston, _Paul H. Hayne_ +"Ye Men of Alabama", _Jno. D. Phelan_ +Nec temere, nec timida, _Annie C. Ketchum_ +Dixie, _Albert Pike_ +The Old Rifleman, _Frank Ticknor_ +Battle Hymn, _Charleston Mercury_ +Kentucky, she is sold, _J. R. Barrick_ +The Ship of State, _Charleston Mercury_ +"In his blanket on the ground," _Caroline H. Gervais_ +The Mountain Partisan, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Cameo Bracelet, _James R. Randall_ +Zollicoffer, _Henry L. Flash_ +Beauregard, _Catherine M. Warfield_ +South Carolina, _Gossypium_ +Carolina, _Henry Timrod_ +My Mother Land, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Joe Johnston, _Jno. R. Thompson_ +Over the River, _Jane T. H. Cross_ +The Confederacy, _Jane T. H. Cross_ +President Davis, _Jane T. H. Cross_ +The Rifleman's Fancy Shot, _Anonymous_ +"All quiet along the Potomac" +Prize Address, _Henry Timrod_ +The Battle of Richmond, _Geo. Herbert Sass_ +The Guerrillas, _S. Teackle Wallis_ +A Farewell to Pope, _Jno. R. Thompson_ +Sonnet--Public Prayer, _South Carolinian_ +Battle of Belmont, _J.A. Signaigo_ +Vicksburg, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Ballad of the War, _G.H. Sass_ +The two Armies, _Henry Timrod_ +The Legion of Honor, _H.L. Flash_ +Clouds in the West, _A.J. Requier_ +Georgia! My Georgia!, _Carrie B. Sinclair_ +Song of the Texan Rangers, _Anonymous_ +Kentucky required to yield her arms, _Anonymous_ +There's life in the old land yet, _J.B. Randall_ +"Tell the boys the War is ended," _Emily J. Moore_ +The Southern Cross, _St. George Tucker_ +England's Neutrality, _John R. Thompson_ +Close the Ranks, _J.L. O'Sullivan_ +The Sea-kings of the South, _Ed. G. Bruce_ +The Return, _Anonymous_ +Our Christmas Hymn, _J. Dickson Bruns_ +Charleston, _Miss E.B. Cheesborough_ +Gathering Song, _Annie Chambers Ketchum_ +Christmas, _Henry Timrod_ +A Prayer for Peace, _S. Teackle Wallis_ +The Band in the Pines, _Jno. Esten Cooke_ +At Fort Pillow, _James R. Randall_ +From the Rapidan, _Anonymous_ +Song of our Southland, _Mrs. Mary Ware_ +Sonnets, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Hospital Duties, _Charleston Courier_ +They cry Peace, Peace! _Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs_ +Ballad--"What! have ye thought?" _Charleston Mercury_ +Missing, _Anonymous_ +Ode--"Souls of Heroes," _Charleston Mercury_ +Jackson, _Henry L. Flash_ +Captain Maffit's Ballad, _Charleston Mercury_ +Melt the Bells, _F. T. Rockett_ +John Pelham, _James R. Randall_ +"Ye batteries of Beauregard," _J. R. Barrick_ +"When Peace returns," _Olivia T. Thomas_ +The Right above the Wrong, _J. W. Overall_ +Carmen Triumphale, _Henry Timrod_ +The Fiend Unbound, _Charleston Mercury_ +The Unknown Dead, _Henry Timrod_ +Ode--"Do ye quail?" _W. Gilmore Simms_ +Ode--"Our City by the Sea," _Ibid_. +The Lone Sentry, _J. R. Randall_ +My Soldier Brother, _Sallie E. Bollard_ +Seaweeds, _Annie Chambers Ketchum_ +The Salkehatchie, _Emily J. Moore_ +The Broken Mug, _Jno. Esten Cooke_ +Carolina, _Anna Peyre Dinnies_ +Our Martyrs, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Cleburne, _Mrs. M. A. Jennings_ +The Texan Marseillaise, _James Harris_ +"O, tempora! O, mores," _J. Dickson Bruns_ +Our Departed Comrades, _J. M. Shirer_ +No Land like Ours, _J. R. Barrick_ +The Angel of the Church, _W. Gilmore Simms_ +Ode--"Shell the old City," _Ibid_. +The Enemy shall never reach your City, _Charleston Mercury_ +War Waves, _Catherine G. Poyas_ +Old Moultrie, _Ibid_. +Only one killed, _Julia L. Keyes_ +Land of King Cotton, _J. A. Signaigo_ +If you love me, _Ibid_. +The Cotton Boll, _Henry Timrod_ +Battle of Charleston Harbor, _Paul H. Hayne_ +Fort Wagner, _W. Gilmore Simms_ +Sumter in Ruins, _Ibid_. +Morris Island, _Ibid_. +Promise of Spring, _South Carolinian_ +Spring, _Henry Timrod_ +Chickamauga, _Richmond Sentinel_ +In Memoriam--Bishop Polk, _Viola_ +Stonewall Jackson, _H. L. Flash_ +Stonewall Jackson--a Dirge, _Anonymous_ +Beaufort, _W. J. Grayson_ +The Empty Sleeve, _J. R. Bagby_ +Cotton Burners' Hymn, _Memphis Appeal_ +Reading the List, _Anonymous_ +His Last Words, _Anonymous_ +Charge of Hagood's Brigade, _J. Blythe Allston_ +Carolina, _Jno. A, Wagener_ +Savannah, _Alethea S. Burroughs_ +"Old Betsy," _John Killian_ +Awake! Arise! _G. W. Archer_ +Albert Sydney Johnston, _Mary Jervey_ +Eulogy of the Dead, _B. F. Porter_ +The Beaufort Exile, _Anonymous_ +Somebody's Darling, _Miss Maria LaCoste_ +John Pegram, _W. Gordon McGabe_ +Captives Going Home, _Anonymous_ +Heights of Mission Ridge, _J. A. Signaigo_ +Our Left at Manassas, _Anonymous_ +On to Richmond, _J. R. Thompson_ +Turner Ashby, _Ibid_. +Captain Latanè, _Ibid_. +The Men, _Maurice Bell_ +The Rebel Soldier, _Kentucky Girl_ +Battle of Hampton Roads, _Ossian D. Gorman_ +"Is this a time to dance?" _Anonymous_ +The Maryland Line, _J. D, McCabe, Jr._ +I give my Soldier Boy a blade, _H. M. L._ +Sonnet--Avatar of Hell, _Anonymous_ +Stonewall Jackson's Way, _Anonymous_ +The Silent March, _Anonymous_ +Pro Memoria, _Ina M. Porter_ +Southern Homes in Ruins, _R. B. Vance_ +Rappahannock Army Song, _J. C. McLemore_ +Soldier in the Rain, _Julia L. Keyes_ +My Country, _W. D. Porter_ +After the Battle, _Miss Agnes Leonard_ +Our Confederate Dead, _Lady of Augusta_ +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie, _B. F. Porter_ +Song of Spring, _Jno. A. Wagener_ +What the Village Bell said, _Jno. C. McLemore_ +The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star, _A. P. Gray_ +Southern War Hymn, _Jno. A. Wagener_ +The Battle Rainbow, _J. R. Thompson_ +Stonewall Jackson, _Richmond Broadside_ +Dirge for Ashby, _Mrs. M. J. Preston_ +Sacrifice, _Charleston Mercury_ +Sonnet, _Ibid_. +Grave of A. Sydney Johnston, _J. B. Synott_ +"Not doubtful of your Fatherland," _Charleston Mercury_ +Only a Soldier's grave, _S. A. Jonas_ +The Guerrilla Martyrs, _Charleston Mercury_ +"Libera Nos, O Domine!" _James Barron Hope_ +The Knell shall sound once more, _Charleston Mercury_ +Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion, _Ina M. Porter_ +Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans, _Ibid_. +The Foe at the Gates--Charleston, _J. Dickson Bruns_ +Savannah Fallen, _Alethea S. Burroughs_ +Bull Run--A Parody, _Anonymous_ +"Stack Arms," _Jos. Blythe Allston_ +Doffing the Gray, _Lieutenant Falligant_ +In the Land where we were dreaming, _D. B. Lucas_ +Ballad--"Yes, build your Walls," _Charleston Mercury_ +The Lines around Petersburg, _Samuel Davis_ +All is gone, Fadette--_Memphis Appeal_ +Bowing her Head, _Savannah Broadside_ +The Confederate Flag, _Anna Peyre Dinnies_ +Ashes of Glory, _A. J. Requier_ + + + + + +War Poetry of the South + + + + +Ethnogenesis. + +By Henry Timrod, of S.C. + +Written during the meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery, +February, 1861. + + + +I. + + +Hath not the morning dawned with added light? +And shall not evening--call another star +Out of the infinite regions of the night, +To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are +A nation among nations; and the world +Shall soon behold in many a distant port + Another flag unfurled! +Now, come what may, whose favor need we court? +And, under God, whose thunder need we fear? + Thank Him who placed us here +Beneath so kind a sky--the very sun +Takes part with us; and on our errands run +All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain +Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year, +And all the gentle daughters in her train, +March in our ranks, and in our service wield + Long spears of golden grain! +A yellow blossom as her fairy shield, +June fling's her azure banner to the wind, + While in the order of their birth +Her sisters pass; and many an ample field +Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold + Its endless sheets unfold +THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth +Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm + Our happy land shall sleep + In a repose as deep + As if we lay intrenched behind +Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm! + + + +II. + + +And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought, + In their own treachery caught, + By their own fears made bold, + And leagued with him of old, +Who long since, in the limits of the North, +Set up his evil throne, and warred with God-- +What if, both mad and blinded in their rage, +Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage, +And with a hostile step profane our sod! +We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth +To meet them, marshalled by the Lord of Hosts, +And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts +Of Moultrie and of Eutaw--who shall foil +Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone, + But every stock and stone + Shall help us; but the very soil, +And all the generous wealth it gives to toil, +And all for which we love our noble land, +Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand, + The heart of woman, and her hand, +Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence, + Gentle, or grave, or grand; + The winds in our defence +Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend + Their firmness and their calm; +And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend + The strength of pine and palm! + + + +III. + + +Nor would we shun the battle-ground, + Though weak as we are strong; +Call up the clashing elements around, + And test the right and wrong! +On one side, creeds that dare to teach +What Christ and Paul refrained to preach; +Codes built upon a broken pledge, +And charity that whets a poniard's edge; +Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor +To starve and shiver at the schemer's door, +While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled, +He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; +Religion taking every mortal form +But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, +Where not to vile fanatic passion urged, +Or not in vague philosophies submerged, +Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, +And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven! +And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, +Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, +Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth, +And, for the poor and humble, laws which give, +Not the mean right to buy the right to live, + But life, and home, and health! +To doubt the end were want of trust in God, + Who, if he has decreed +That we must pass a redder sea +Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee, + Will surely raise at need + A Moses with his rod! + + + +IV. + + +But let our fears-if fears we have--be still, +And turn us to the future! Could we climb +Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, +The rapturous sight would fill + Our eyes with happy tears! +Not only for the glories which the years +Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, +And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; +But for the distant peoples we shall bless, +And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress: +For, to give labor to the poor, + The whole sad planet o'er, +And save from want and crime the humblest door, +Is one among--the many ends for which + God makes us great and rich! +The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe +When all shall own it, but the type +Whereby we shall be known in every land +Is that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand, +And through the cold, untempered ocean pours +Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores +May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze +Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas. + + + + +God Save the South. + +George H. Miles, of Baltimore. + + + +God save the South! +God save the South! +Her altars and firesides-- + God save the South! +Now that the war is nigh-- +Now that we arm to die-- +Chanting--our battle-cry, + Freedom or Death! + +God be our shield! +At home or a-field, +Stretch Thine arm over us, + Strengthen and save! +What though they're five to one, +Forward each sire and son, +Strike till the war is done, + Strike to the grave. + +God make the right +Stronger than might! +Millions would trample us + Down in their pride. +Lay, thou, their legions low; +Roll back the ruthless foe; +Let the proud spoiler know + God's on our side! + +Hark! honor's call, +Summoning all-- +Summoning all of us + Up to the strife. +Sons of the South, awake! +Strike till the brand shall break! +Strike for dear honor's sake, + Freedom and Life! + +Rebels before +Were our fathers of yore; +Rebel, the glorious name + Washington bore, +Why, then, be ours the same +Title he snatched from shame; +Making it first in fame, + Odious no more. + +War to the hilt! +Theirs be the guilt, +Who fetter the freeman + To ransom the slave. +Up, then, and undismayed, +Sheathe not the battle-blade? +Till the last foe is laid + Low in the grave. + +God save the South! +God save the South! +Dry the dim eyes that now + Follow our path. +Still let the light feet rove +Safe through the orange grove; +Still keep the land we love + Safe from all wrath. + +God save the South! +God save the South! +Her altars and firesides-- + God save the South! +For the rude war is nigh, +And we must win or die; +Chanting our battle-cry + Freedom or Death! + + + + +You Can Never Win Them Back. + +By Catherine M. Warfield. + + + +You can never win them back, + never! never! +Though they perish on the track + of your endeavor; +Though their corses strew the earth +That smiled upon their birth, +And blood pollutes each hearthstone + forever! + +They have risen, to a man + stern and fearless; +Of your curses and your ban + they are careless. +Every hand is on its knife; +Every gun is primed for strife; +Every palm contains a life + high and peerless! + +You have no such blood as theirs + for the shedding, +In the veins of Cavaliers + was its heading. +You have no such stately men +In your abolition den, +To march through foe and fen, + nothing dreading. + +They may fall before the fire + of your legions, +Paid in gold for murd'rous hire-- + bought allegiance! +But for every drop you shed +You shall leave a mound of dead; +And the vultures shall be fed + in our regions. + +But the battle to the strong + is not given, +While the Judge of right and wrong + sits in heaven! +And the God of David still +Guides each pebble by His will; +There are giants yet to kill-- + wrong's unshriven. + + + + +The Southern Cross. + +By E. K. Blunt. + + + +In the name of God! Amen! + Stand for our Southern rights; +On our side, Southern men, + The God of battles fights! +Fling the invaders far-- + Hurl back their work of woe-- +The voice is the voice of a brother, + But the hands are the hands of a foe. +They come with a trampling army, + Invading our native sod-- +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer, + In the name of the mighty God! + +They are singing _our_ song of triumph,[1] + Which proclaimed _us_ proud and free-- +While breaking away the heartstrings + Of our nation's harmony. +Sadly it floateth from us, + Sighing o'er land and wave; +Till, mute on the lips of the poet, + It sleeps in his Southern grave. +Spirit and song departed! + Minstrel and minstrelsy! +We mourn ye, heavy hearted,-- + But we will--we will be free! + +They are waving _our_ flag above us, + With the despot's tyrant will; +With our blood they have stained its colors, + And they call it holy still. +With tearful eyes, but steady hand, + We'll tear its stripes apart, +And fling them, like broken fetters, + That may not bind the heart. +But we'll save our stars of glory, + In the might of the sacred sign +Of Him who has fixed forever + One "Southern Cross" to shine. + +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer! + Solemn, and strong, and sure! +The fight shall not be longer + Than God shall bid endure. +By the life that but yesterday + Waked with the infant's breath! +By the feet which, ere morning, may + Tread to the soldier's death! +By the blood which cries to heaven-- + Crimson upon our sod! +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer, + In the name of the mighty God! + +[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all +whose descendants are Confederates. + + + + +South Carolina. + +December 20, 1860. + +S. Henry Dickson. + + + +The deed is done! the die is cast; +The glorious Rubicon is passed: +Hail, Carolina! free at last! + +Strong in the right, I see her stand +Where ocean laves the shelving sand; +Her own Palmetto decks the strand. + +She turns aloft her flashing eye; +Radiant, her lonely star[1] on high +Shines clear amidst the darkening sky. + +Silent, along those azure deeps +Its course her silver crescent keeps, +And in soft light the landscape steeps. + +Fling forth her banner to the gale! +Let all the hosts of earth assail,-- +Their fury and their force shall fail. + +Echoes the wide resounding shore, +With voice above th' Atlantic roar, +Her sons proclaim her free once more! + +Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State! +In numbers few, in daring great, +Thus to affront the frowns of fate! + +And while mad triumph rules the hour, +And thickening clouds of menace lower, +Bear back the tide of tyrant power. + +With steadfast courage, faltering never, +Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever: +Hail, Carolina! free forever! + +[1] The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon. + + + + +The New Star. + +By B.M. Anderson. + + + +Another star arisen; another flag unfurled; +Another name inscribed among the nations of the world; +Another mighty struggle 'gainst a tyrant's fell decree, +And again a burdened people have uprisen, and are free. + +The spirit of the fathers in the children liveth yet; +Liveth still the olden blood which dimmed the foreign bayonet; +And the fathers fought for freedom, and the sons for freedom fight; +Their God was with the fathers--and is still the God of right! + +Behold! the skies are darkened! A gloomy cloud hath lowered! +Shall it break before the sun of peace, or spread in rage impowered? +Shall we have the smile of friendship, or shall it be the blow? +Shall it be the right hand to the friend, or the red hand to the foe? + +In peacefulness we wish to live, but not in slavish fear; +In peacefulness we dare not die, dishonored on our bier. +To our allies of the Northern land we offer heart and hand, +But if they scorn our friendship--then the banner and the brand! + +Honor to the new-born nation! and honor to the brave! +A country freed from thraldom, or a soldier's honored grave. +Every step shall be contested; every rivulet run red, +And the invader, should he conquer, find the conquered in the dead. + +But victory shall follow where the sons of freedom go, +And the signal for the onset be the death-knell of the foe; +And hallowed shall the spot be where he was so bravely met, +And the star which yonder rises, rises never more to set. + + + + +The Irrepressible Conflict. + +Tyrtæus.--_Charleston Mercury._ + + + +Then welcome be it, if indeed it be + The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come; + There will be mitigation of the doom, +If, battling to the last, our sires shall see +Their sons contending for the homes made free + In ancient conflict with the foreign foe! + If those who call us brethren strike the blow, + No common conflict shall the invader know! +War to the knife, and to the last, until + The sacred land we keep shall overflow +With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill, +Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave! +Aye, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave +May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave. + + + + +The Southern Republic. + +By Olivia Tully Thomas, of Mississippi. + + + +In the galaxy of nations, + A nation's flag's unfurled, +Transcending in its martial pride + The nations of the world. +Though born of war, baptized in blood, + Yet mighty from the time, +Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood-- + Dismembered, yet sublime. + +And braver heart, and bolder hand, + Ne'er formed a fabric fair +As Southern wisdom can command, + And Southern valor rear. +Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway, + Or recognize her birth, +The land blood-bought for Liberty + Will reign supreme on earth. + +Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave! + Thy sons are bold and free, +And pour life's crimson tide to save + Their birthright, Liberty! +Their fertile fields and sunny plains + That yield the wealth alone, +That's coveted for greedy gains + By despots-and a throne! + +Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn, + Thy altars desolate; +Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn + At war's relentless fate; +And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears, + Her homes will consecrate, +While more than brass or marble rears + The trophy of her great. + +Oh! land that boasts each gallant name + Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE, +And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame + Extends beyond the sea; +Far rather let thy plains become, + From gulf to mountain cave, +One honored sepulchre and tomb, + Than we the tyrant's slave! + +Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free, + Redeemed by blood and war; +Through agony and gloom we see + Thy hope--a glimmering star; +Thy banner, too, may proudly float, + A herald on the seas-- +Thy deeds of daring worlds remote + Will emulate and praise! + +But who can paint the impulse pure, + That thrills and nerves thy brave +To deeds of valor, that secure + The rights their fathers gave? +Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain, + Crowned with the warrior's wreath, +From beds of fame their proud refrain + Was "Liberty or Death!" + + + + +"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?" + +Charleston Courier. + + + +Is there, then, no hope for the nations? + Must the record of Time be the same? +And shall History, in all her narrations, + Still close each last chapter in shame? +Shall the valor which grew to be glorious, + Prove the shame, as the pride of a race: +And a people, for ages victorious, + Through the arts of the chapman, grow base? + +Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman, + Each strides o'er the scene and departs! +How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman, + How wondrous their virtues and arts! +Rude valor, at first, when beginning, + The nation through blood took its name; +Then the wisdom, which hourly winning + New heights in its march, rose to Fame! + +How noble the tale for long ages, + Blending Beauty with courage and might! +What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages, + Made eminent stars for each height! +While their people, with reverence ample. + Brought tribute of praise to the Great, +Whose wisdom and virtuous example, + Made virtue the pride of the State! + +Ours, too, was as noble a dawning, + With hopes of the Future as high: +Great men, each a star of the morning, + Taught us bravely to live and to die! +We fought the long fight with our foeman, + And through trial--well-borne--won a name, +Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman, + And worthy as lasting a fame! + +Shut the Book! We must open another! + O Southron! if taught by the Past, +Beware, when thou choosest a brother, + With what ally thy fortunes are cast! +Beware of all foreign alliance, + Of their pleadings and pleasings beware, +Better meet the old snake with defiance, + Than find in his charming a snare! + + + + +The Fate of the Republics. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years-- +Rear'd with such art and wisdom--by a race +Of giant sires, in virtue all compact, +Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals +Of public strength, and peoples capable +Of great conceptions for the common good, +And of enduring liberties, kept strong +Through purity;--tumbles and falls apart, +Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd +Within, without, by greed of avarice, +And vain ambition for supremacy. + +So fell the old Republics--Gentile and Jew, +Roman and Greek--such evermore the record; +Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed, +From conquest and from triumph, into fall! +The glory that we see exchanged for guilt +Might yet be glory. There were pride enough, +And emulous ambition to achieve,-- +Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment, +To do the work of States--and there were courage +And sense of public need, and public welfare,-- +And duty--in a brave but scattered few, +Throughout the States--had these been credited +To combat 'gainst the popular appetites. +But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught, +As lacking favor with the popular lusts! +They found reward in exile or in death! +And he alone who could debase his spirit, +And file his mind down to the basest nature +Grew capp'd with rule!-- + + So, with the lapse +From virtue, the great nation forfeits all +The pride with the security--the liberty, +With that prime modesty which keeps the heart +Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts +That wait upon Humanity, and teach +Humility, as best check and guaranty, +Against the wolfish greed of appetite! +Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom, +When peoples loathe to listen to the praise +Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims, +Eagerly set upon them to revile, +And banish from their councils! Worse than all +When the great man, succumbing to the mass, +Yields up his mind as a low instrument +To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:-- +Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe +Of place or profit, and makes sale of States +To Party! + + Thus and then are States subdued-- +'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts, +With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay; +Insolent, reckless of account as right,-- +While lust grows license, and tears off the robes +From justice; and makes right a thing of mock; +And puts a foolscap on the head of law, +And plucks the baton of authority +From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head. + +So rages still the irresponsible power, +Using the madden'd populace as hounds, +To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat. +The ancient history becomes the new-- +The ages move in circles, and the snake +Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth. +Thus still in all the past!--and man the same +In all the ages--a poor thing of passion, +Hot greed, and miserable vanity, +And all infirmities of lust and error, +Makes of himself the wretched instrument +To murder his own hope. + + So empires fall,-- +Past, present, and to come!-- + There is no hope +For nations or peoples, once they lapse from virtue +And fail in modest sense of what they are-- +Creatures of weakness, whose security +Lies in meek resting on the law of God, +And in that wise humility which pleads +Ever for his guardian watch and Government, +Though men may bear the open signs of rule. +Humility is safety! could men learn +The law, "_ne sutor ultra crepidam_," +And the sagacious cobbler, at his last, +Content himself with paring leather down +To heel and instep, nicely fitting parts, +In proper adaptation, to the foot, +We might have safety. + + Rightly to conceive +What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will +To this one measure only, is the whole +Of that grand rule, and wise necessity, +Which only gives us safety. + + Where a State, +Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds +Set for their progress, they must topple and fall +Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed +All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all +Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause! +The terrible conjunction of the event, +Close with the provocation, stands apart, +A social beacon in all histories; +And yet we take no heed, but still rush on, +Under mixed sway of greed and vanity, +And like the silly boy with his card-castle, +Precipitate to ruin as we build. + + + + +The Voice of the South. + +Tyrtæus.--_Charleston Mercury._ + + + +'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave, +And fits but ill to be held by the slave; +And sad were the thought, if one of our band +Should give up the hope of so fair a land. + +But the hour has come, and the times that tried +The souls of men in our days of pride, +Return once more, and now for the brave, +To merit the boon which our fathers gave. + +And if there be one base spirit who stands +Now, in our peril, with folded hands, +Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought, +With the sword with which his old father fought. + +An oath sublime should the freeman take, +Still braving the fight and the felon stake,-- +The oath that his sires brought over the sea, +When they pledged their swords to Liberty! + +'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight, +They battled and bled in behalf of the right; +'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign, +And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine. + +We cannot forget, and we dare not forego, +The holy duty to them that we owe, +The duty that pledges the soul of the son +To keep the freedom his sire hath won. + +To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil +One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil, +One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare +Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share! + +Art ready for this, dear brother, who still +Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill? +Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear, +Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear? + +Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart, +Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part; +The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands, +And waits but the word for the flashing of brands! + +And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,--and thou +Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow; +And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves +Where Apala-chicola[1] glides through her groves. + +Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep, +The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep; +Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call, +To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall! + +Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves, +The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves, +That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth, +Would rob us of right without reason or ruth. + +Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong, +Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong? +Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls, +Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls. + +At last ye are wakened, all rising at length, +In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength; +And now let the struggle begin which shall see, +If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free. + +We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came, +To welcome the ruin, but never the shame; +To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right, +While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight. + +Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw +The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;-- +Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here, +To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear. + +Let those who defile and deface it, be sure, +No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure; +We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain, +With which they would fetter our free souls in vain. + +How goodly and bright were its links at the first! +How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst! +We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave, +But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave. + +[1] The reader will place the accent on the _ante-penultimate_, which +affords not only the most musical, but the correct pronunciation. + + + + +The Oath of Freedom. + +By James Barron Hope. + + + +_"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be +free."_ + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +By all the stars which burn on high-- +By the green earth--the mighty sea-- +By God's unshaken majesty, + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! + Let all the trumpets blow! + Mind, heart, and soul, + We spurn control + Attempted by a foe! + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +And, vainly now the Northmen try +To beat us down--in arms we stand +To strike for this our native land! + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, we thus resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +Our wives and children look on high, +Pray God to smile upon the right! +And bid us in the deadly fight + As freemen live or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +And ere we cease this battle-cry, +Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt, +On bayonet or sabre hilt! + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +Defiant let the banners fly, +Shake out their glories to the air, +And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + +Born free, thus we resolve to live: + By Heaven we will be free! +And to this oath the dead reply-- +Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts-- +These with us, and the God of hosts, + We will be free or die! + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc. + + + + +The Battle-Cry of the South. + +By James R. Randall. + + + +Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against +the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled +against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to +die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our +sanctuary.--_Maccabees I._ + +Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, + And the wail of the South wings forth; +Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, + And the vampires of the North? +Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, + Strike! with a ruthless hand-- +Strike! with the vengeance of the soul, + For your bright, beleaguered land! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,[1] + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare, + And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown-- +Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there + In the cliffs of the Father's frown: +Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light + Which the Sun of Justice gives-- +In the caves and sepulchres of night + Jehovah the Lord King lives! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Think of the dead by the Tennessee, + In their frozen shrouds of gore-- +Think of the mothers who shall see + Those darling eyes no more! +But better are they in a hero grave + Than the serfs of time and breath, +For they are the children of the brave, + And the cherubim of death! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Better the charnels of the West, + And a hecatomb of lives, +Than the foul invader as a guest + 'Mid your sisters and your wives-- +But a spirit lurketh in every maid, + Though, brothers, ye should quail, +To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade, + And the livid spike of Jael! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Brothers! I see you tramping by, + With the gladiator gaze, +And your shout is the Macedonian cry + Of the old, heroic days! +March on! with trumpet and with drum, + With rifle, pike, and dart, +And die--if even death must come-- + Upon your country's heart! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, + And the wail of the South wings forth; +Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, + And the vampires of the North? +Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, + Strike! with a ruthless hand-- +Strike! with the vengeance of the soul + For your bright, beleaguered land! + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, + And a craven is he who flees-- + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, + And the God of the Maccabees! + +[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus. + + + + +Sonnet. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Democracy hath done its work of ill, + And, seeming freemen, never to be free, + While the poor people shout in vanity, +The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will. +How swift the abasement follows! But few years, + And we stood eminent. Great men were ours, + Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers! +How have we sunk below our proper spheres! +No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place, + The nimble marmozet and magpie men; + Creatures that only mock and mimic, when +They run astride the shoulders of the race; +Democracy, in vanity elate, +Clothing but sycophants in robes of state. + + + + +Seventy-Six and Sixty-One. + +By John W. Overall, of Louisiana. + + + +Ye spirits of the glorious dead! + Ye watchers in the sky! +Who sought the patriot's crimson bed, + With holy trust and high-- +Come, lend your inspiration now, + Come, fire each Southern son, +Who nobly fights for freemen's rights, + And shouts for sixty-one. + +Come, teach them how, on hill on glade, + Quick leaping from your side, +The lightning flash of sabres made + A red and flowing tide-- +How well ye fought, how bravely fell, + Beneath our burning sun; +And let the lyre, in strains of fire, + So speak of sixty-one. + +There's many a grave in all the land, + And many a crucifix, +Which tells how that heroic band + Stood firm in seventy-six-- +Ye heroes of the deathless past, + Your glorious race is run, +But from your dust springs freemen's trust, + And blows for sixty-one. + +We build our altars where you lie, + On many a verdant sod, +With sabres pointing to the sky, + And sanctified of God; +The smoke shall rise from every pile, + Till freedom's cause is won, +And every mouth throughout the South, + Shall shout for sixty-one! + + + + +"Reddato Gladium." + +Virginia to Winfield Scott. + + + +A voice is heard in Ramah! + High sounds are on the gale! +Notes to wake buried patriots! + Notes to strike traitors pale! +Wild notes of outraged feeling + Cry aloud and spare him not! +'Tis Virginia's strong appealing, + And she calls to Winfield Scott! + +Oh! chief among ten thousand! + Thou whom I loved so well, +Star that has set, as never yet + Since son of morning fell! +I call not in reviling, + Nor to speak thee what thou art; +I leave thee to thy death-bed, + And I leave thee to thy heart! + +But by every mortal hope, + And by every mortal fear; +By all that man deems sacred, + And that woman holds most dear; +Yea! by thy mother's honor, + And by thy father's grave, +By hell beneath, and heaven above, + Give back the sword I gave! + +Not since God's sword was planted + To guard life's heavenly tree, +Has ever blade been granted, + Like that bestowed on thee! +To pierce me with the steel I gave + To guard mine honor's shrine, +Not since Iscariot lived and died, + Was treason like to thine! + +Give back the sword! and sever + Our strong and mighty tie! +We part, and part forever, + To conquer or to die! +In sorrow, not in anger, + I speak the word, "We part!" +For I leave thee to thy death-bed, + And I leave thee to thy heart! + +Richmond Whig. + + + + +Nay, Keep the Sword. + +By Carrie Clifford. + + + +Nay, keep the sword which once we gave, + A token of our trust in thee; +The steel is true, the blade is keen-- + False as thou art it cannot be. + +We hailed thee as our glorious chief, + With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow; +Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue: + In whispers hushed we breathe it now. + +Yes, keep it till thy dying day; + Momentous ever let it be, +Of a great treasure once possessed-- + A people's love now lost to thee. + +Thy mother will not bow her head; + She bares her bosom to thee now; +But may the bright steel fail to wound-- + It is more merciful than thou. + +And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow, + Thousands of sons of this fair land +Will rise, and, in their anger just, + Will stay the rash act of thy hand. + +And when in terror thou shalt hear + Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry +And feel the weight of thy great crime, + Then fall upon thy sword and die. + +Those aged locks I'll not reproach, + Although upon a traitor's brow; +We've looked with reverence on them once, + We'll try and not revile them now. + +But her true sons and daughters pray, + That ere thy day of reckoning be, +Thy ingrate heart may feel the pain + To know thy mother once more free. + + + + +Coercion: A Poem for Then and Now. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +Who talks of coercion? who dares to deny + A resolute people the right to be free? +Let him blot out forever one star from the sky, + Or curb with his fetter the wave of the sea! + +Who prates of coercion? Can love be restored + To bosoms where only resentment may dwell? +Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword, + Or good-will among men be established by shell? + +Shame! shame!--that the statesman and trickster, forsooth, + Should have for a crisis no other recourse, +Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth, + Than the old _brutum fulmen_ of tyranny--force! + +From the holes where fraud, falsehood, and hate slink away-- + From the crypt in which error lies buried in chains-- +This foul apparition stalks forth to the day, + And would ravage the land which his presence profanes. + +Could you conquer us, men of the North--could you bring + Desolation and death on our homes as a flood-- +Can you hope the pure lily, affection, will spring + From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood? + +Could you brand us as villains and serfs, know ye not + What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar? +How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot! + How dearly the Pole loves his father, the Czar! + +But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun + Is a _nutrix leonum_, and suckles a race +Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one, + Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace. + +And well may the schemers in office beware + The swift retribution that waits upon crime, +When the lion, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair, + With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime. + +Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still, + Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends; +Nor join in a conflict accursed, that must fill + With ruin, the country on which it descends. + +But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage + The gods gave to all whom they wished to destroy, +You would act a new Iliad, to darken the age + With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy-- + +If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries, + When wisdom, humanity, justice implore, +You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes + Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar-- + +If there be to your malice no limit imposed, + And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod +The men upon whom you already have closed + Our goodly domain and the temples of God: + +To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold, + And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar; +We greet you, as greeted the Swiss, Charles the Bold-- + With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war! + +For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright, + Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide; +Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight, + With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride; + +And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past, + In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain; +While the sod of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast, + And give up its heroes to glory again. + + + + +A Cry to Arms. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side! + Ho! dwellers in the vales! +Ho! ye who by the chafing tide + Have roughened in the gales! +Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, + Lay by the bloodless spade; +Let desk, and case, and counter rot, + And burn your books of trade. + +The despot roves your fairest lands; + And till he flies or fears, +Your fields must grow but armed bands, + Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! +Give up to mildew and to rust + The useless tools of gain; +And feed your country's sacred dust + With floods of crimson rain! + +Come, with the weapons at your call-- + With musket, pike, or knife; +He wields the deadliest blade of all + Who lightest holds his life. +The arm that drives its unbought blows + With all a patriot's scorn, +Might brain a tyrant with a rose, + Or stab him with a thorn. + +Does any falter? let him turn + To some brave maiden's eyes, +And catch the holy fires that burn + In those sublunar skies. +Oh! could you like your women feel, + And in their spirit march, +A day might see your lines of steel + Beneath the victor's arch. + +What hope, O God! would not grow warm + When thoughts like these give cheer? +The lily calmly braves the storm, + And shall the palm-tree fear? +No! rather let its branches court + The rack that sweeps the plain; +And from the lily's regal port + Learn how to breast the strain! + +Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side! + Ho! dwellers in the vales! +Ho! ye who by the roaring tide + Have roughened in the gales! + +Come! flocking gayly to the fight + From forest, hill, and lake; +We battle for our country's right, + And for the lily's sake! + + + + +Jackson, The Alexandria Martyr. + +By Wm. H. Holcombe, M.D., of Virginia. + + + +'Twas not the private insult galled him most, +But public outrage of his country's flag, +To which his patriotic heart had pledged +Its faith as to a bride. The bold, proud chief, +Th' avenging host, and the swift-coming death +Appalled him not. Nor life with all its charms, +Nor home, nor wife, nor children could weigh down +The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy +The insolent invader. Ellsworth fell, +And Jackson perished 'mid the pack of wolves, +Befriended only by his own great heart +And God approving. More than Roman soul! +O type of our impetuous chivalry! +May this young nation ever boast her sons +A vast, and inconceivable multitude, +Standing like thee in her extremest van, +Self-poised and ready, in defence of rights +Or in revenge of wrongs, to dare and die! + + + + +The Martyr of Alexandria. + +By James W. Simmons, of Texas. + + + +Revealed, as in a lightning flash, + A hero stood! +The invading foe, the trumpet's crash, + Set up his blood. + +High o'er the sacred pile that bends + Those forms above, +Thy star, O Freedom! brightly blends + Its rays with love. + +The banner of a mighty race, + Serenely there, +Unfurls the genius of the place, + In haunted air. + +A vow is registered in Heaven! + Patriot! 'tis thine! +To guard those matchless colors, given + By hands divine. + +Jackson! thy spirit may not hear + Our wail ascend; +A nation gathers round thy bier, + And mourns its friend. + +The example is thy monument, + And organ tones +Thy name resound, with glory blent, + Prouder than thrones! + +And they whose loss hath been our gain, + A people's cares +Shall win their wounded hearts from pain, + And wipe their tears. + +When time shall set the captives free, + Now scathed by wrath, +Heirs of his immortality, + Bright be their path. + + + + +The Blessed Union--Epigram. + + + +Doubtless to some, with length of ears, + To gratify an ape's desire, +The blessed Union still endears;-- +The stripes, if not the stars, be theirs! +"Greek faith" they gave us eighty years, + And then--"Greek fire!" +But, better all their fires of scath +Than one hour's trust in Yankee faith! + + + + +The Fire of Freedom. + + + +The holy fire that nerved the Greek + To make his stand at Marathon, +Until the last red foeman's shriek + Proclaimed that freedom's fight was won, +Still lives unquenched--unquenchable: + Through every age its fires will burn-- +Lives in the hermit's lonely cell, + And springs from every storied urn. + +The hearthstone embers hold the spark + Where fell oppression's foot hath trod; +Through superstition's shadow dark + It flashes to the living God! +From Moscow's ashes springs the Russ; + In Warsaw, Poland lives again: +Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus, + Strikes liberty's electric chain! + +Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss; + Vainly the invader ever strives; +He finds _Sic Semper Tyrannis_ + In San Jacinto's bowie-knives! +Than these--than all--a holier fire + Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son! +Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire, + Strike for the grave of Washington! + +The Northern rabble arms for greed; + The hireling parson goads the train-- +In that foul crop from, bigot seed, + Old "Praise God Barebones" howls again! +We welcome them to "Southern lands," + We welcome them to "Southern slaves," +We welcome them "with bloody hands + To hospitable Southern graves!" + + + + +Hymn to the National Flag. + +By Mrs. M. J. Preston. + + + +Float aloft, thou stainless banner! + Azure cross and field of light; +Be thy brilliant stars the symbol + Of the pure and true and right. +Shelter freedom's holy cause-- +Liberty and sacred laws; +Guard the youngest of the nations-- + Keep her virgin honor bright. + +From Virginia's storied border, + Down to Tampa's furthest shore-- +From the blue Atlantic's clashings + To the Rio Grande's roar-- +Over many a crimson plain, +Where our martyred ones lie slain-- +Fling abroad thy blessed shelter, + Stream and mount and valley o'er. + +In thy cross of heavenly azure + Has our faith its emblem high; +In thy field of white, the hallow'd + Truth for which we'll dare and die; +In thy red, the patriot blood-- + Ah! the consecrated flood. +Lift thyself, resistless banner! + Ever fill our Southern sky! + +Flash with living, lightning motion + In the sight of all the brave! +Tell the price at which we purchased + Room and right for thee to wave +Freely in our God's free air, +Pure and proud and stainless fair, +Banner of the youngest nation-- + Banner we would die to save! + +Strike Thou for us! King of armies! + Grant us room in Thy broad world! +Loosen all the despot's fetters, + Back be all his legions hurled! +Give us peace and liberty, +Let the land we love be free-- +Then, oh! bright and stainless banner! + Never shall thy folds be furled! + + + + +Sonnet--Moral of Party + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +The moral of a party--if it be + That healthy States need parties, lies in this, + That we consider well what race it is, +And what the germ that first has made it free. +That germ must constitute the living tie + That binds its generations to the end, +Change measures if it need, or policy, + But neither break the principle, nor bend. +Each race hath its own nature--fixed, defined, + By Heaven, and if its principle be won, + Kept changeless as the progress of the sun, +It mocks at storm and rage, at sea and wind, +And grows to consummation, as the tree, +Matured, that ever grew in culture free. + + + + +Our Faith in '61. + +By A. J. Requier. + + + +"That governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers +from the consent of the governed: that whenever any form of government +becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter +or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on +such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as TO THEM SHALL +SEEM most likely to effect their safety and happiness."--[Declaration of +Independence, July 4, '76.] + + +Not yet one hundred years have flown + Since on this very spot, +The subjects of a sovereign throne-- + Liege-master of their lot-- +This high degree sped o'er the sea, + From council-board and tent, +"No earthly power can rule the free + But by their own consent!" + +For this, they fought as Saxons fight, + On bloody fields and long-- +Themselves the champions of the right, + And judges of the wrong; +For this their stainless knighthood wore + The branded rebel's name, +Until the starry cross they bore + Set all the skies aflame! + +And States co-equal and distinct + Outshone the western sun, +By one great charter interlinked-- + Not blended into one; +Whose graven key that high decree + The grand inscription lent, +"No earthly power can rule the free + But by their own consent!" + +Oh! sordid age! Oh! ruthless rage! + Oh! sacrilegious wrong! +A deed to blast the record page, + And snap the strings of song; +In that great charter's name, a band + By grovelling greed enticed, +Whose warrant is the grasping hand + Of creeds without a Christ-- + +States that have trampled every pledge + Its crystal code contains, +Now give their swords a keener edge + To harness it with chains-- +To make a bond of brotherhood + The sanction and the seal, +By which to arm a rabble brood + With fratricidal steel. + +Who, conscious that their cause is black, + In puling prose and rhyme, +Talk hatefully of love, and tack + Hypocrisy to crime; +Who smile and smite, engross the gorge + Or impotently frown; +And call us "rebels" with King George, + As if they wore his crown! + +Most venal of a venal race, + Who think you cheat the sky +With every pharisaic face + And simulated lie; +Round Freedom's lair, with weapons bare, + We greet the light divine +Of those who throned the goddess there, + And yet inspire the shrine! + +Our loved ones' graves are at our feet, + Their homesteads at our back-- +No belted Southron can retreat + With women on his track; +Peal, bannered host, the proud decree + Which from your fathers went, +"No earthly power can rule the free + But by their own consent!" + + + + +Wouldst Thou Have Me Love Thee. + +By Alex B. Meek. + + + +Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest, + With a woman's proudest heart, +Which shall ever hold thee nearest, + Shrined in its inmost heart? +Listen, then! My country's calling + On her sons to meet the foe! +Leave these groves of rose and myrtle; + Drop thy dreamy harp of love! +Like young Korner--scorn the turtle, + When the eagle screams above! + +Dost thou pause?--Let dastards dally-- + Do thou for thy country fight! +'Neath her noble emblem rally-- + "God, our country, and our right!" +Listen! now her trumpet's calling + On her sons to meet the foe! +Woman's heart is soft and tender, + But 'tis proud and faithful too: +Shall she be her land's defender? + Lover! Soldier! up and do! + +Seize thy father's ancient falchion, + Which once flashed as freedom's star! +Till sweet peace--the bow and halcyon, + Stilled the stormy strife of war. +Listen! now thy country's calling + On her sons to meet her foe! +Sweet is love in moonlight bowers! + Sweet the altar and the flame! +Sweet the spring-time with her flowers! + Sweeter far the patriot's name! + +Should the God who smiles above thee, + Doom thee to a soldier's grave, +Hearts will break, but fame will love thee, + Canonized among the brave! +Listen, then! thy country's calling + On her sons to meet the foe! +Rather would I view thee lying + On the last red field of strife, +'Mid thy country's heroes dying, + Than become a dastard's wife! + + + + +Enlisted To-Day. + + + +I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing, + And summer sends kisses by beautiful May-- +Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing, + And think--my boy Willie enlisted to-day. + +It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming, + I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine, +While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming + Of father, adown the street's indistinct line. + +It is many a year since my Harry departed, + To come back no more in the twilight or dawn; +And Robby grew weary of watching, and started + Alone on the journey his father had gone. + +It is many a year--and this afternoon sitting + At Robby's old window, I heard the band play, +And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting, + To recollect Willie is twenty to-day. + +And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning, + The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke, +I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning, + And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke: + +"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing, + They would trample the rights of the South in the dust; +The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going--" +He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh, say if I must!" + +I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking, + My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away, +And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking-- + Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day!" + +I sit in the window, and see the flags flying, + And drearily list to the roll of the drum, +And smother the pain in my heart that is lying, + And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb. + +I shall sit in the window when summer is lying + Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum +Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing, + And watch for the face of my darling to come. + +And if he should fall--his young life he has given + For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray +Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven + To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day. + + + + +My Maryland. + +Written at Pointe Coupee, LA., April 26, 1861. First Published in the New +Orleans Delta. + + + +The despot's heel is on thy shore, + Maryland! +His torch is at thy temple door, + Maryland! +Avenge the patriotic gore +That flecked the streets of Baltimore, +And be the battle-queen of yore, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Hark to an exiled son's appeal, + Maryland! +My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, + Maryland! +For life and death, for woe and weal, +Thy peerless chivalry reveal, +And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Thou wilt not cower in the dust, + Maryland! +Thy beaming sword shall never rust, + Maryland! + +Remember Carroll's sacred trust, +Remember Howard's warlike thrust, +And all thy slumberers with the just, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, + Maryland! +Come! with thy panoplied array, + Maryland! +With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, +With Watson's blood at Monterey, +With fearless Lowe and dashing May, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, + Maryland! +Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, + Maryland! +Come! to thine own heroic throng, +That stalks with Liberty along, +And ring thy dauntless Slogan-song, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, + Maryland! +Virginia should not call in vain, + Maryland! + +_She_ meets her sisters on the plain-- +"_Sic semper,_" 'tis the proud refrain +That baffles minions back amain, + Maryland! +Arise, in majesty again, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +I see the blush upon thy cheek, + Maryland! +For thou wast ever bravely meek, + Maryland! +But lo! there surges forth a shriek +From hill to hill, from creek to creek-- +Potomac calls to Chesapeake, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, + Maryland! +Thou wilt not crook to his control, + Maryland! +Better the fire upon thee roll, +Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, +Than crucifixion of the soul, + Maryland! My Maryland! + +I hear the distant thunder hum, + Maryland! +The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, + Maryland! + +She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb-- +Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! +She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come! + Maryland! My Maryland! + + + + +The Boy-Soldier. + +By a Lady of Savannah. + + + +He is acting o'er the battle, + With his cap and feather gay, +Singing out his soldier-prattle, + In a mockish manly way-- +With the boldest, bravest footstep, + Treading firmly up and down, +And his banner waving softly, + O'er his boyish locks of brown. + +And I sit beside him sewing, + With a busy heart and hand, +For the gallant soldiers going + To the far-off battle land-- +And I gaze upon my jewel, + In his baby spirit bold, +My little blue-eyed soldier, + Just a second summer old. + +Still a deep, deep well of feeling, + In my mother's heart is stirred, +And the tears come softly stealing + At each imitative word! +There's a struggle in my bosom, + For I love my darling boy-- +He's the gladness of my spirit, + He's the sunlight of my joy! +Yet I think upon my country, + And my spirit groweth bold-- +Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier + Were but twenty summers old! + +I would speed him to the battle-- + I would arm him for the fight; +I would give him to his country, + For his country's wrong and right! +I would nerve his hand with blessing + From the "God of battles" won-- +With His helmet and His armor, + I would cover o'er my son. + +Oh! I know there'd be a struggle, + For I love my darling boy; +He's the gladness of my spirit, + He's the sunlight of my joy! +Yet in thinking of my country, + Oh! my spirit groweth bold, +And I with my blue-eyed soldier + Were but twenty summers old! + + + + +The Good Old Cause. + +By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala. + + + +I. + + +Huzza! huzza! for the _Good Old Cause_, + 'Tis a stirring sound to hear, +For it tells of rights and liberties, + Our fathers bought so dear; +It brings up the _Jersey prison-ship_, + The spot where _Warren_ fell, +And the scaffold which echoes the dying words + Of _murdered Hayne's_ farewell. + + + +II. + + +The _Good Old Cause!_ it is still the same + Though age upon age may roll; +'Tis the cause of _the right_ against _the wrong_, + Burning bright in each generous soul; +'Tis the cause of all who claim to live + As freemen on Freedom's sod; +Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons, + By Tyranny's heel down-trod. + + + +III. + + +And whoever burns with a holy zeal, + To behold his country free, +And would sooner see her _baptized in blood_, + Than to bend the suppliant knee; +Must agree to follow her _White-Cross flag_, + Where the storms of battle roll, +_A soldier_--A SOLDIER!--with _arms in his hands_, + And the _love of the South in his soul!_ + + + +IV. + + +Come one, come all, at your country's call, + Let none remain behind, +But those too young, and those too old, + The feeble, the halt, the blind; +Let _every man_, whether rich or poor, + Who can carry a knapsack and gun, +Repair to the ranks of our Southern host, + 'Till the cause of the South is won. + + + +V. + + +But the son of the South, if such there be, + Who will shrink from the contest now, +From a love of ease, or the lust of gain, + Or through fear of the Yankee foe; +May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand, + As though it was soiled for aye, +And may every woman turn her cheek + From his craven lips away; +May his country's curse be on his head, + And may no man ever see, +A gentle bride by the traitor's side, + Or children about his knee. + + + +VI. + + +Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause, + 'Tis a stirring sound to hear; +For it tells of rights and liberties, + Our fathers bought so dear; +It summons our braves from their bloody graves. + To receive our fond applause, +And bids us tread in the steps of those + Who _died_ for the _Good Old Cause_. + + + + +Manassas. + +By Catherine M. Warfield. + + + +They have met at last--as storm-clouds + meet in heaven; +And the Northmen, back and bleeding, + have been driven: +And their thunders have been stilled, +And their leaders crushed or killed, +And their ranks, with terror thrilled, + rent and riven! + +Like the leaves of Vallambrosa + they are lying; +In the moonlight, in the midnight, + dead and dying: +Like those leaves before the gale, +Swept their legions, wild and pale; +While the host that made them quail + stood, defying. + +When aloft in morning sunlight + flags were flaunted, +And "swift vengeance on the rebel" + proudly vaunted: +Little did they think that night +Should close upon their shameful flight, +And rebels, victors in the fight, + stand undaunted. + +But peace to those who perished + in our passes! +Light be the earth above them! + green the grasses! +Long shall Northmen rue the day, +When they met our stern array, +And shrunk from battle's wild affray + at Manassas! + + + + +Virginia. + +By Catherine M. Warfield. + + + +Glorious Virginia! Freedom sprang +Light to her feet at thy trumpet's clang: +At the first sound of that clarion blast, +Foes like the chaff from the whirlwind passed-- +Passed to their doom: from that hour no more +Triumphs their cause by sea or shore. + +Glorious Virginia! noble the blood +That hath bathed thy fields in a crimson flood; +On many a wide-spread and sunny plain, +Like leaves of autumn thy dead have lain: +The Southron heart is their funeral urn! +The Southern slogan their requiem stern! + +Glorious Virginia! to thee, to thee +We lean, as the shoots to the parent tree; +Bending in awe at thy glance of might;-- +First in the council, first in the fight! +While our flag is fanned by the breath of fame, +Glorious Virginia! we'll bless thy name. + + + + +The War-Christian's Thanksgiving. + +Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States. + +By S. Teackle Wallis. + + + +Oh, God of battles! once again, + With banner, trump, and drum, +And garments in thy wine-press dyed, + To give Thee thanks we come. + +No goats or bullocks garlanded, + Unto thine altars go; +With brothers' blood, by brothers shed, + Our glad libations flow, + +From pest-house and from dungeon foul, + Where, maimed and torn, they die, +From gory trench and charnel-house, + Where, heap on heap, they lie. + +In every groan that yields a soul, + Each shriek a heart that rends, +With every breath of tainted air, + Our homage, Lord, ascends. + +We thank Thee for the sabre's gash, + The cannon's havoc wild; +We bless Thee for the widow's tears, + The want that starves her child! + +We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit + The torch, and fanned the flame; +That lust and rapine hunt their prey, + Kind Father, in Thy name! + +That, for the songs of idle joy + False angels sang of yore, +Thou sendest War on earth--ill-will + To men for evermore! + +We know that wisdom, truth, and right + To us and ours are given; +That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath, + To do the work of heaven. + +We know that plains and cities waste + Are pleasant in Thine eyes-- +Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate, + Thou lov'st a mourner's cries. + +Let not our weakness fall below + The measure of Thy will, +And while the press hath wine to bleed, + Oh, tread it with us still! + +Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught + Fond fools, of yore, to love; +Give us Thy vengeance as our own-- + Thy pity, hide above! + +Teach us to turn, with reeking hands, + The pages of Thy word, +And learn the blessed curses there, + On them that sheathe the sword. + +Where'er we tread may deserts spring, + 'Till none are left to slay; +And when the last red drop is shed, + We'll kneel again--and pray! + + + + +Sonnet. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Man makes his own dread fates, and these in turn +Create his tyrants. In our lust and passion, +Our appetite and ignorance, he springs. +The creature of our need as our desert, +The scourge that whips us for decaying virtue, +He chastens to reform us! Never yet, +In mortal life, did tyrant rise to power, +But in the people's worst infirmities +Of crime and greed. The creature of our vices, +The loathsome ulcer of our vicious moods, +He is decreed their proper punishment. + + + + +Marching to Death. + +By J. Herbert Sass, of South Carolina. + +1862. + + + +"The National Quarterly depicts a remarkable scene, which occurred some +years since on one of the British transport ships. The commander of the +troops on board, seeing that the vessel must soon sink, and that there was +no hope of saving his men, drew them up in order of battle, and, as in the +presence of a human enemy, bravely faced the doom that was before them. We +know of no more impressive illustration of the power of military +discipline in the presence of death." + + +I. + + +The last farewells are breathed by loving lips, +The last fond prayer for darling ones is said, +And o'er each heart stern sorrow's dark eclipse + Her sable pall hath spread. + + + +II. + + +Far, far beyond each anxious watcher's sight, +Baring her bosom to the wanton sea, +The lordly ship sweeps onward in her might, + Her tameless majesty. + + + +III. + + +Forth from his fortress in the western sky, +Flashing defiance on each crested wave, +Out glares the sun, with red and lowering eye, + Grand, even in his grave. + + + +IV. + + +Till, waxing bolder as his rays decline, +The clustering billows o'er his ramparts sweep, +Slow droops his banner--fades his light divine, + And darkness rules the deep. + + + +V. + + +Look once again!--Night's sombre shades have fled: +But the pale rays that glimmer from their sheath, +Serve but to show the blackness overhead, + And the wild void beneath. + + + +VI. + + +Mastless and helmless drifts the helpless bark; +Her pride, her majesty, her glory gone; +While o'er the waters broods the tempest dark, + And the wild winds howl on. + + + +VII. + + +But hark! amid the madness of the storm +There comes an echo o'er the surging wave; +Firm at its call the dauntless legions form, + The resolute and brave. + + + +VIII. + + +Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host, +In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck, +Calmly as though they knew not they were lost-- + Lost in that shattered wreck. + + + +IX. + + +Eight hundred men,--old England's tried and true, +Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done, +Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too, + And the last fight be won. + + + +X. + + +Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand; +No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring; +Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand, + "The king! God save the king!" + + + +XI. + + +Lower and lower sinks the fated bark, +Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave, +But loud outswells, across the waters dark, + The death-song of the brave. + + + +XII. + + +Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep; +Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring, +Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep, + "The king! God save the king!" + + + +XIII. + + +Oh thou! whoe'er thou art that reads this page, +Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith, +For all throughout our earthly pilgrimage, + We hold a tryst with death. + + + +XIV. + + +Not in the battle-field's tumultuous strife, +Not in the hour when vanquished foemen fly, +Not in the midst of bright and happy life, + Is it most hard to die. + + + +XV. + + +Greater the guerdon, holier the prize, +Of him who trusts, and waits in lowly mood; +Oh! learn how high, how holy courage lies + In patient fortitude. + + + + +Charleston. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Calm as that second summer which precedes + The first fall of the snow, +In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, + The city bides the foe. + +As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, + Her bolted thunders sleep-- +Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, + Looms o'er the solemn deep. + +No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur + To guard the holy strand; +But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, + Above the level sand. + +And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched. + Unseen, beside the flood-- +Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, + That wait and watch for blood. + +Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, + Walk grave and thoughtful men, +Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade + As lightly as the pen. + +And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim + Over a bleeding hound, +Seem each one to have caught the strength of him + Whose sword she sadly bound. + +Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, + Day patient following day, +Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, + Across her tranquil bay. + +Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands + And spicy Indian ports, +Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, + And summer to her courts. + +But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, + The only hostile smoke +Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, + From some frail, floating oak. + +Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, + And with an unscathed brow, +Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, + As fair and free as now? + +We know not; in the temple of the Fates + God has inscribed her doom; +And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits + The triumph or the tomb. + + + + +Charleston. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I. + + +What! still does the Mother of Treason uprear + Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea? +Unquelled by mistrust, and unblanched by a Fear, + Unbowed her proud head, and unbending her knee, + Calm, steadfast, and free? + + + +II. + + +Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your wrath, + Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;-- +But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path, + And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire + Of your fruitless desire. + + + +III. + + +Ringed round by her Brave, a fierce circlet of flame, + Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast; +She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, + And never, we swear, shall _your_ footsteps be pressed + Where her dead heroes rest! + + + +IV. + + +Her voice shook the Tyrant!--sublime from her tongue + Fell the accents of warning,--a Prophetess grand,-- +On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung, + _And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand_ + Broke the sleep of her land! + + + +V. + + +What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound will + The Fate that would trample her honor to earth,-- +The light in those deep eyes is luminous still + With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth, + Which illumine the Earth! + + + +VI. + + +And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved, + "Without fear or reproach," lifts her Banner on high; +He stands in the vanguard, majestic, unmoved, + And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh, + Vow, "'tis easy to die!" + + + +VII. + + +Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air! + The world's breath is hushed at the conflict! before +Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair-- + And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore, + We shall prize her the more! + + + +VIII. + + +And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes + To the height of her promise, the voices of yore, +From the storied Profound of past ages arise, + And the pomps of their magical music outpour + O'er the war-beaten shore. + + + +IX. + + +Then gird your brave Empress, O! Heroes, with flame + Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast, +She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, + And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed + Where her dead Martyrs rest! + + + + +"Ye Men of Alabama!" + +By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala. + + + +Air--"Ye Mariners of England." + + + +I. + + +Ye men of Alabama, + Awake, arise, awake! +And rend the coils asunder + Of this Abolition snake. +If another fold he fastens-- + If this final coil he plies-- +In the cold clasp of hate and power + Fair Alabama dies. + + + +II. + + +Though round your lower limbs and waist + His deadly coils I see, +Yet, yet, thank Heaven! your head and arms, + And good right hand, are free; +And in that hand there glistens-- + O God! what joy to feel!-- +A polished blade, full sharp and keen, + Of tempered State Rights steel. + + + +III. + + +Now, by the free-born sires + From whose brave loins ye sprung! +And by the noble mothers + At whose fond breasts ye hung! +And by your wives and daughters, + And by the ills they dread, +Drive deep that good Secession steel + Right through the Monster's head. + + + +IV. + + +This serpent Abolition + Has been coiling on for years; +We have reasoned, we have threatened, + We have begged almost with tears: +Now, away, away with Union, + Since on our Southern soil +The only _union_ left us + Is an anaconda's coil. + + + +V. + + +Brave little South Carolina + Will strike the self-same blow, +And Florida, and Georgia, + And Mississippi too; +And Arkansas, and Texas; + And at the death, I ween, +The head will fall beneath the blows + Of all the brave Fifteen. + + + +VI. + + +In this our day of trial, + Let feuds and factions cease, +Until above this howling storm + We see the sign of Peace. +Let Southern men, like brothers, + In solid phalanx stand, +And poise their spears, and lock their shields, + To guard their native land. + + + +VII. + + +The love that for the Union + Once in our bosoms beat, +From insult and from injury + Has turned to scorn and hate; +And the banner of Secession + To-day we lift on high, +Resolved, beneath that sacred flag, + To conquer, or TO DIE! + +Montgomery Advertiser, October, 1860. + + + + +Nec Temere, Nec Timide. + +By Annie Chambers Ketchum. + + + +Gentlemen of the South, + Gird on your glittering swords! +Darkly along our borders fair + Gather the Northern hordes. +Ruthless and fierce they come + At the fiery cannon's mouth, +To blast the glory of our land, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Ride forth in your stately pride, + Each bearing on his shield +Ensigns our fathers won of yore + On many a well-fought field! +Let this be your battle-cry, + Even to the cannon's mouth, +_Cor unum via una!_ Onward, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Brave knights of a knightly race, + Gordon, and Chambers, and Gray, +Show to the minions of the North + How Valor dares the fray! +Let them read on each stainless crest + At the belching cannon's mouth, +_Decori decus addit avito_, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Morrison, Douglas, Stuart, + Erskine, and Bradford, and West, +Your gauntlets on many a bloody field + Have stood the battle's test! +_Animo non astutia!_ + March to the cannon's mouth, +Heirs of the brave dead centuries! Onward, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Call forth your stalwart men, + Workers in brass and steel! +Bid the swart artisans come forth + At sound of the trumpet's peal! +Give them your war-cry, Erskine! + _Fight!_ to the cannon's mouth! +Bid the men _Forward!_ Douglas, _Forward!_ + Yeomanry of the South! + +Brave hunters! Ye have met + The fierce black bear in the fray; +Ye have trailed the panther night by night, + Ye have chased the fox by day! +Your prancing chargers pant + To dash at the gray wolf's mouth, +Your arms are sure of their quarry! Onward! + Gentlemen of the South! + +Fight! that the lowly serf + And the high-born lady still +May bide in their proud dependency, + Free subjects of your will! +Teach the base North how ill, + At the fiery cannon's mouth, +He fares who touches your household gods, + Gentlemen of the South! + +From mother, and wife, and child, + From faithful and happy slave, +Prayers for your sakes ascend to Him + Whose arm is strong to save! +We check the gathering tears, + Though ye go to the cannon's mouth; +_Dominus providebit!_ Onward, + Gentlemen of the South! + +Memphis Appeal. + + + + +Dixie. + +By Albert Pike. + + + +I. + + +Southrons, hear your Country call you! +Up! lest worse than death befall you! + To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! +Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted, +Let all hearts be now united! + To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! + Advance the flag; of Dixie! + Hurrah! hurrah! + For Dixie's land we'll take our stand, + To live or die for Dixie! + To arms! to arms! + And conquer peace for Dixie! + To arms! to arms! + And conquer peace for Dixie! + + + +II. + + +Hear the Northern thunders mutter! +Northern flags in South-winds flutter! + To arms! etc. +Send them back your fierce defiance! +Stamp upon the accursed alliance! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +III. + + +Fear no danger! shun no labor! +Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! + To arms! etc. +Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, +Let the odds make each heart bolder! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie, etc. + + + +IV. + + +How the South's great heart rejoices +At your cannon's ringing voices; + To arms! etc. +For faith betrayed and pledges broken, +Wrong inflicted, insults spoken. + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie, etc. + + + +V. + + +Strong as lions, swift as eagles, +Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! + To arms! etc. +Cut the unequal bonds asunder! +Let them hence each other plunder! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +VI. + + +Swear upon your Country's altar, +Never to submit or falter; + To arms! etc. +Till the spoilers are defeated, +Till the Lord's work is completed. + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +VII. + + +Halt not till our Federation +Secures among earth's Powers its station! + To arms! etc. +Then at peace, and crowned with glory, +Hear your children tell the story! + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + +VIII. + + +If the loved ones weep in sadness, +Victory soon shall bring them gladness; + To arms! etc. +Exultant pride soon banish sorrow; +Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. + To arms! etc. + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. + + + + +The Old Rifleman. + +By Frank Ticknor, of Georgia. + + + +Now bring me out my buckskin suit! + My pouch and powder, too! +We'll see if seventy-six can shoot + As sixteen used to do. + +Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright! + Our trigger quick and true! +As far, if not as _fine_ a sight, + As long ago we drew! + +And pick me out a trusty flint! + A real white and blue, +Perhaps 'twill win the _other_ tint + Before the hunt is through! + +Give boys your brass percussion caps! + Old "shut-pan" suits as well! +There's something in the _sparks:_ perhaps + There's something in the smell! + +We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed! + The red-skin Indian, too! +We've never thought to draw a bead + On Yanke-doodle-doo! + +But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart! + Those days are mostly done; +And now we must revive the art + Of shooting on the run! + +If Doodle must be meddling, why, + There's only this to do-- +Select the black spot in his eye, + And let the daylight through! + +And if he doesn't like the way + That Bess presents the view, +He'll maybe change his mind, and stay + Where the good Doodles do! + +Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, + Who kissed the Testament; +To keep the Constitution? No! + _To keep the Government!_ + +We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, + And take him half and half; +We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool, + And _miss_ him, if a calf! + +We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks + By which a war is won; +Especially how Seventy-six + Took Tories on the run. + + + + +Battle Hymn. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Lord of Hosts, that beholds us in battle, defending + The homes of our sires 'gainst the hosts of the foe, +Send us help on the wings of thy angels descending, + And shield from his terrors, and baffle his blow. +Warm the faith of our sons, till they flame as the iron, + Red-glowing from the fire-forge, kindled by zeal; +Make them forward to grapple the hordes that environ, + In the storm-rush of battle, through forests of steel! + +Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious + The martyr who falls in the front of the fight;-- +That the faith which is steadfast makes ever victorious + The arm which strikes boldly defending the right;-- +That the zeal, which is roused by the wrongs of a nation, + Is a war-horse that sweeps o'er the field as his own; +And the Faith, which is winged by the soul's approbation, + Is a warrior, in proof, that can ne'er be o'erthrown. + + + + +Kentucky, She Is Sold + +By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky. + + + +A tear for "the dark and bloody ground," + For the land of hills and caves; +Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep + Where the vandals tread their graves; +A sigh for the loss of her honored fame, + Dear won in the days of old; +Her ship is manned by a foreign crew, + For Kentucky, she is sold. + +The bones of her sons lie bleaching on + The plains of Tippecanoe, +On the field of Raisin her blood was shed, + As free as the summer's dew; +In Mexico her McRee and Clay + Were first of the brave and bold-- +A change has been in her bosom wrought, + For Kentucky, she is sold. + +Pride of the free, was that noble State, + And her banner still were so, +Had the iron heel of the despot not + Her prowess sunk so low; +Her valleys once were the freeman's home, + Her valor unbought with gold, +But now the pride of her life is fled, + For Kentucky, she is sold. + +Her brave would once have scorned to wear + The yoke that crushes her now, +And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread, + Would sullen have made her brow; +Her spirit yet will be wakened up, + And her saddened fate be told, +Her gallant sons to the world yet prove + That Kentucky is not sold. + + + + +Sonnet--The Ship of State. + + + +Here lie the peril and necessity + That need a race of giants--a great realm, + With not one noble leader at the helm; +And the great Ship of State still driving high, + 'Midst breakers, on a lee shore--to the rocks. + With ever and anon most terrible shocks-- +The crew aghast, and fear in every eye. +Yet is the gracious Providence still nigh; + And, if our cause be just, our hearts be true, + We shall save goodly ship and gallant crew, +Nor suffer shipwreck of our liberty! + It needs that as a people we arise, + With solemn purpose that even fate defies, +And brave all perils with unblenching eye! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +"In His Blanket on the Ground." + +By Caroline H. Gervais, Charleston. + + + +Weary, weary lies the soldier, + In his blanket on the ground +With no sweet "Good-night" to cheer him, + And no tender voice's sound, +Making music in the darkness, + Making light his toilsome hours, +Like a sunbeam in the forest, + Or a tomb wreathed o'er with flowers. + +Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful, + As his memories sadly roam +To the "cozy little parlor" + And the loved ones of his home; +And his waking and his dreaming + Softly braid themselves in one, +As the twilight is the mingling + Of the starlight and the sun. + +And when sleep descends upon him, + _Still_ his thought within his dream +Is of home, and friends, and loved ones, + And his busy fancies seem +To be _real_, as they wander + To his mother's cherished form. +As she gently said, in parting + "Thine in sunshine and in storm: +Thine in helpless childhood's morning, + And in boyhood's joyous time, +Thou must leave me now--_God_ watch thee + In thy manhood's ripened prime." + +Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms + Teeming thick within his brain, +His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered, + Come to greet his view again; +And he hears his trembling accents, + Like a clarion ringing high, +"Since _not mine_ are youth and strength, boy, + _Thou_ must victor prove, or die." + +Or perchance he hears a whisper + Of the faintest, faintest sigh, +Something deeper than word-spoken, + Something breathing of a tie +Near his soul as bounding heart-blood: + It is hers, that patient wife-- +And again that parting seemeth + Like the taking leave of life: +And her last kiss he remembers, + And the agonizing thrill, +And the "_Must you go?_" and answer, + "_I but know my Country's will._" + +Or the little children gather, +Half in wonder, round his knees; +And the faithful dog, mute, watchful, +In the mystic glass he sees; +And the voice of song, and pictures, +And the simplest homestead flowers, +Unforgotten, crowd before him +In the solemn midnight hours. + +Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander +To a sister's sweet caress, +And he feels her dear lips quiver +As his own they fondly press; +And he hears her proudly saying, +(Though sad tears are in her eyes), +"Brave men fall, but live in story, +_For the Hero never dies!_" + +Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes, +And his heart beats quicker now, +As he thinks of one who gave him, +Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow; +And, ah, fondly he remembers +He is _still_ her dearest care, +Even in his star-watched slumber +That she pleads for him in prayer. + +Oh, the soldier _will_ be dreaming, +Dreaming _often_ of us all, +(When the damp earth is his pillow, +And the snow and cold sleet fall), +Of the dear, familiar faces, +Of the cozy, curtained room, +Of the flitting of the shadows +In the twilight's pensive gloom. + +Or when summer suns burn o'er him, +Bringing drought and dread disease, +And the throes of wasting fever +Come his weary frame to seize-- +In the restless sleep of sickness, +Doomed, perchance, to martyr death, +Hear him whisper "_Home_"--sweet cadence, +With his quickened, labored breath. + +Then God bless him, bless the soldier, +And God nerve him for the fight; +May He lend his arm new prowess +To do battle for the right. +Let him feel that while he's dreaming +In his fitful slumber bound, +That we're praying--_God watch o'er him +In his blanket on the ground._ + + + + +The Mountain Partisan. + + + +I. + + +My rifle, pouch, and knife! + My steed! And then we part! +One loving kiss, dear wife, + One press of heart to heart! +Cling to me yet awhile, + But stay the sob, the tear! +Smile--only try to smile-- + And I go without a fear. + + + +II. + + +Our little cradled boy, + He sleeps--and in his sleep, +Smiles, with an angel joy, + Which tells thee not to weep. +I'll kneel beside, and kiss-- + He will not wake the while, +Thus dreaming of the bliss, + That bids thee, too, to smile. + + + +III. + + +Think not, dear wife, I go, + With a light thought at my heart +'Tis a pang akin to woe, + That fills me as we part; +But when the wolf was heard + To howl around our lot, +Thou know'st, dear mother-bird, + I slew him on the spot! + + + +IV. + + +Aye, panther, wolf, and bear, + Have perish'd 'neath my knife; +Why tremble, then, with fear, + When now I go, my wife? +Shall I not keep the peace, + That made our cottage dear; +And 'till these wolf-curs cease + Shall I be housing here? + + + +V. + + +One loving kiss, dear wife, + One press of heart to heart; +Then for the deadliest strife, + For freedom I depart! +I were of little worth, + Were these Yankee wolves left free +To ravage 'round our hearth, + And bring one grief to thee! + + + +VI. + + +God's blessing on thee, wife, + God's blessing on the young: +Pray for me through the strife, + And teach our infant's tongue. +Whatever haps in fight, + I shall be true to thee-- +To the home of our delight-- + To my people of the free. + + + + +The Cameo Bracelet. + +By James R. Randall, of Maryland. + + + +Eva sits on the ottoman there, +Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, +With just such a face, and just such an air, +As Esther upon her throne. + +She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed, + And I watch her fingers float and flow +Over the linen, as, thread by thread, + It flakes to her lap like snow. + +A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, + Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome, +Out of the tears of the amethyst, + And the wan Vesuvian foam. + +And full on the bauble-crest alway-- + A cameo image keen and fine-- +Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday, + And the lava-locks are thine! + +I thought of the war-wolves on our trail, + Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood; +Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil, + Drooped with a wizard flood + +Till the surly blaze through the iron bars + Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry-- +And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars + To the Column of July-- + +Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear, + And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown-- +For Eva was not on the ottoman there, + By the Psyche carved in stone. + +She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate, + With the incantation in her gaze, +A lip of scorn--an arm of hate-- + And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!" + +Eva, the vision was not wild, + When wreaked on the tyrants of the land-- +For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child, + With the dagger in your hand! + + + + +Zollicoffer. + +By H. L. Flash, of Alabama. + + + +First in the fight, and first in the arms + Of the white-winged angels of glory, +With the heart of the South at the feet of God, + And his wounds to tell the story: + +And the blood that flowed from his hero heart, + On the spot where he nobly perished, +Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament + In the holy cause he cherished. + +In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, + And, for his soul's sustaining, +The apocalyptic eyes of Christ-- + And nothing on earth remaining, + +But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, + A name in song and story, +And Fame to shout with her brazen voice, + "Died on the Field of Glory!" + + + + +Beauregard + +By Catharine A. Warfield, of Mississippi. + + + +Let the trumpet shout once more, + Beauregard! +Let the battle-thunders roar, + Beauregard! +And again by yonder sea, +Let the swords of all the free +Leap forth to fight with thee, + Beauregard! + +Old Sumter loves thy name, + Beauregard! +Grim Moultrie guards thy fame, + Beauregard! +Oh! first in Freedom's fight! +Oh! steadfast in the right! +Oh! brave and Christian Knight! + Beauregard! + +St. Michael with his host, + Beauregard! +Encamps by yonder coast, + Beauregard! +And the Demon's might shall quail, +And the Dragon's terrors fail, +Were he trebly clad in mail, + Beauregard! + +Not a leaf shall fall away, + Beauregard! +From the laurel won to-day, + Beauregard! +While the ocean breezes blow, +While the billows lapse and flow +O'er the Northman's bones below, + Beauregard! + +Let the trumpet shout once more, + Beauregard! +Let the battle-thunders roar, + Beauregard! +From the centre to the shore, +From the sea to the land's core +Thrills the echo, evermore, + Beauregard! + + + + +South Carolina. + + + + 1719. Colonial Revolution. + 1763. Colonial History--Progress, + 1776. American Revolution. + 1812-15. Second War with Great Britain + 1830-32. Nullification for State Rights. + 1835-40. Florida War. + 1847. Mexican War--Palmetto Regiment. + 1860-61. Secession, and Third War for Independence. + +My brave old Country! I have watched thee long +Still ever first to rise against the wrong; +To check the usurper in his giant stride, +And brave his terrors and abase his pride; +Foresee the insidious danger ere it rise, +And warn the heedless and inform the wise; +Scorning the lure, the bribe, the selfish game, +Which, through the office, still becomes the shame; +Thou stood'st aloof--superior to the fate +That would have wrecked thy freedom as a State. +In vain the despot's threat, his cunning lure; +Too proud thy spirit, and thy heart too pure; +Thou hadst no quest but freedom, and to be +In conscience well-assured, and people free. +The statesman's lore was thine, the patriot's aim, +These kept thee virtuous, and preserved thy fame; +The wisdom still for council, the brave voice, +That thrills a people till they all rejoice. +These were thy birthrights; and two centuries pass'd, +As, at the first, still find thee at the last; +Supreme in council, resolute in will, +Pure in thy purpose--independent still! + +The great good counsels, the examples brave, +Won from the past, not buried in its grave, +Still warm your soul with courage--still impar +Wisdom to virtue, valor to the heart! +Still first to check th' encroachment--to declare +"Thus far! no further, shall the assailant dare;" +Thou keep'st thy ermine white, thy State secure, +Thy fortunes prosperous, and thy freedom sure; +No glozing art deceives thee to thy bane; +The tempter and the usurper strive in vain! +Thy spear's first touch unfolds the fiendish form, +And first, with fearless breast, thou meet'st the storm; +Though hosts assail thee, thou thyself a host, +Prepar'st to meet the invader on the coast: +Thy generous sons contending which shall be +First in the phalanx, gathering by the sea; +No dastard fear appals them, as they teach +How best to hurl the bolt, or man the breach! + +Great Soul in little frame!--the hope of man +Exults, when such as thou art in the van! +Unshaken, unbeguiled, unslaved, unbought, +Thy fame shall brighten with each battle fought; +True to the examples of the past, thou'lt be, +For the long future, best security. + +Charleston Mercury. + +Gossypium. + + + + +Carolina. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +I. + + +The despot treads thy sacred sands, +Thy pines give shelter to his bands, +Thy sons stand by with idle hands, + Carolina! +He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, +He scorns the lances of thy palm; +Oh I who shall break thy craven calm, + Carolina! +Thy ancient fame is growing dim, +A spot is on thy garment's rim; +Give to the winds thy battle hymn, + Carolina! + + + +II. + + +Call on thy children of the hill, +Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, +Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, + Carolina! +Cite wealth and science, trade and art, +Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, +And pour thee through the people's heart, + Carolina! +Till even the coward spurns his fears, +And all thy fields, and fens, and meres, +Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears, + Carolina! + + + +III. + + +Hold up the glories of thy dead; +Say how thy elder children bled, +Arid point to Eutaw's battle-bed, + Carolina! +Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, +And what his dauntless breast defied; +How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died, + Carolina! +Cry! till thy summons, heard at last, +Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast, +Re-echoed from the haunted past, + Carolina! + + + +IV. + + +I hear a murmur, as of waves +That grope their way through sunless caves, +Like bodies struggling in their graves, + Carolina! +And now it deepens; slow and grand +It swells, as rolling to the land +An ocean broke upon the strand, + Carolina! +Shout! let it reach the startled Huns! +And roar with all thy festal guns! +It is the answer of thy sons, + Carolina! + + + +V. + + +They will not wait to hear thee call; +From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall +Resounds the voice of hut and hall, + Carolina! +No! thou hast not a stain, they say, +Or none save what the battle-day +Shall wash in seas of blood away, + Carolina! +Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part, +Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, +They shall not touch thy noble heart, + Carolina! + + + +VI. + + +Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall, +Ten times ten thousand men must fall; +Thy corpse may hearken to his call, + Carolina! +When by thy bier, in mournful throngs, +The women chant thy mortal wrongs, +'Twill be their own funereal songs, + Carolina! +From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod, +No helpless child shall look to God; +All shall be safe beneath thy sod, + Carolina! + + + +VII. + + +Girt with such wills to do and bear, +Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, +Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, + Carolina! +Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! +Front with thy ranks the threatening seas, +Like thine own proud armorial trees, + Carolina! +Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, +And roar the challenge from thy guns; +Then leave the future to thy sons, + Carolina! + + + + +My Mother-Land. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +_"Animis, Opibusque Parati."_ + +My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling +Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze, +The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas, +The imperious despot's power; +But long before that hour, +While yet, in false and vain imagining, +Thy sister nations would not own their foe, +And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low, +Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe +Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air; +While yet they paused in scorn, +Of fatal madness born,-- +Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd +With wondrous vision of the things to come, +Thou couldst not calmly rest +Secure and dumb-- +But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum +And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!" +"Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said; +"We see no threatening tempest overhead, +Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath +Will sweep away, or melt in watery death." + +"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom! +Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom +Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day, +Which shone o'er Charleston Bay-- +When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed-- +That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away +From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud, +Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long, +Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong. + +But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde +Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword, + Approach to desecrate +The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate-- +Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast +Their ashes to the blast-- +Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate +The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"-- +Against this ravening flood +Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood, + Oh! we, +Strong in the strength of God-supported might, +Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight, + Nor basely yield +To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field-- +But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be, +To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ! + + Death! What of Death?-- +Can he who once drew honorable breath + In liberty's pure sphere, + Foster a sensual fear, +When death and slavery meet him face to face, +Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace +Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there, +Black degradation, haunted by despair." + + Death! What of Death?-- +The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl +Across their portion of this earthly ball, +Share life and motion with us; would we strive +Like such to creep alive, +Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin +We still might keep our mortal breathings in? + +The very thought brings blushes to the cheek! +I hear all 'round about me murmurs run, +Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE +Soul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak: + +"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just! + Behold, we seek +Not merely to preserve for noble wives +The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives, +To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand, +And leave our sons their heirloom of command, + In generous perpetuity of trust; +Not only to defend those ancient laws, +Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire +Welded forevermore with freedom's cause, +And handed scathless down from sire to sire-- +Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ, +Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms, +(Though these had sure sufficed +To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)-- +But more than all, because embracing all, +Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon +Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep, +From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun + To him, that gallant Knight, +The youngest champion in the Senate hall, +Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate, +His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right, +Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep +Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1] + +"There's not a tone from out the teeming past, +Uplifted once in such a cause as ours, +Which does not smite our souls +In long reverberating thunder-rolls, +From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story. +Above the shouting, furious Persian mass, +Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers, +Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas +Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock; +And o'er the murmurous seas, +Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss, +(For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last), +Gome the clear accents of Miltiades, +Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock +Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis. + +"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart +Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus, +We look for proud exemplars; yet for us + It is enough to know +_Our fathers left us freemen_; let us show +The will to hold our lofty heritage, +The patient strength to act our fathers' part-- +Brothers on history's page, +We wait to write our autographs in gore, +To cast the morning brightness of our glory + Beyond our day and hope, +The narrow limit of _one_ age's scope, + On Time's remotest shore! + + "Yea! though our children's blood +Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood, +Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bear + The Ark that holds our shrined liberty, + Nearer, and yet more near +Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea. + + "At last, the conflict done, +The fadeless meed of final victory won-- +Behold! emerging from the rifted dark +Athwart a shining summit high in heaven, + That delegated Ark! +No more to be by vengeful tempests driven, +But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat +The congregated nations gladly gaze, +Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays +That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!" + +Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me +Its voice hath come, a passionate augury! +Methinks the very aspect of the world +Changed to the mystic music of its hope. +For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope +The stormy cloudland banners all are furled, + And softly borne above +Are brooding pinions of invisible love, + Distilling balm of rest and tender thought + From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought +O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams + Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams; + And universal nature, wheresoever +My vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river-- + Sleeps, like a happy child, + In slumber undefiled, +A premonition of sublimer days, + When war and warlike lays + At length shall cease, + Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace, + Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind-- + A prelude and a prophecy combined! + +[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of +course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle +and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate +of 1832, would be understood as _not_ pushing the comparison further +than the _first_ shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful +opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. +Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no +decisive advantage on either side. + + + + +Joe Johnston. + +By John R. Thompson. + + + +Once more to the breach for the land of the West! +And a leader we give of our bravest and best, + Of his State and his army the pride; +Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, + And gleams in the glaive at his side. + +For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright +As the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight, + Newly wrought in the forges of Spain; +And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right, + Will never be dimmed by a stain. + +He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind, +Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, + Where lie the fresh fields of his fame; +Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind, + Seem ever to whisper his name. + +The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, +And their motto a noble distinction confers-- + "Ever ready!" for friend or for foe-- +With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs + The large, manly heart of our JOE. + +We read that a former bold chief of the clan, +Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van, + On Shiloh's illustrious day; +And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man + The dark, bloody debt to repay. + +There is much to be done; if not glory to seek, +There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak + For crimes of a terrible dye; +While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak, + In a chorus rise up to the sky. + +For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, +That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men, + With his pack has returned to the spoil; +Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen, + And drive him again from your soil. + +Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true, +Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you + Our leader had never a doubt; +You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew, + The day that his bugles ring out. + +But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore, +Where now are the rifles that kept from your door + The wolf and the robber as well? +Of a truth, you have never been laggard before + To deal with a savage so fell. + +Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold? +Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold + Your lives than your freedom more dear? +Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, + Or basely take counsel of fear? + +We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land +Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand + That disgraces the dastard, the slave: +The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand, + Her own sons her own honor shall save! + +Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, +When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal, + And the torrents their sources unseal; +And this be the watchword of one and of all-- + "Remember the butcher, McNeil!" + +Then once more to the breach for the land of the West; +Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best; + Follow on where your leader you see; +One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed, + And the land of the West shall be free! + +[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently +presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, +1862.] + + + + +Over the River. + +By Jane T. H. Cross. + +Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861. + + + +We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars," + As one may hail a neighbor; +Now forward move! no fear of jars, + With nothing but free labor; +And we will mind our slaves and farm, +And never wish you any harm, + But greet you--_over the river_. + +The self-same language do we speak, + The same dear words we utter; +Then let's not make each other weak, + Nor 'gainst each other mutter; +But let each go his separate way, +And each will doff his hat, and say: + "I greet you--over the river!" + +Our flags, almost the same, unfurl, + And nod across the border; +Ohio's waves between them curl-- + _Our stripe's a little broader_; +May yours float out on every breeze, +And, _in our wake_, traverse all seas-- + We greet you--over the river! + +We part, as friends of years should part, + With pleasant words and wishes, +And no desire is in our heart + For Lincoln's loaves and fishes; +"Farewell," we wave you from afar, +We like you best--just where you are-- + And greet you--over the river! + + + + +The Confederacy. + +By Jane T. H. Cross. + +Published in the Southern Christian Advocated. + + + +Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood, + The pearly light of heaven was on her face; +Life's early joy was coursing in her blood; + A thing she was of beauty and of grace. + +She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth, + No voice of sympathy was heard to greet +The glory-beaming morning of her birth, + Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet. + +She stood, derided by her passing foes; + Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn; +Their rage in blackening billows round her rose-- + Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn. + +Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast, + She shakes them off in pure and holy ire, +As quietly as Paul, in ages past, + Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire. + +She bends not to her foes, nor to the world, + She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom; +But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled, + She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom. + +She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth, + She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye, +She asks of Thee her place upon the earth-- + For it is Thine to give or to deny. + +Oh, let _Thine_ eye but recognize her right! + Oh, let _Thy_ voice but justify her claim! +Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight, + And all their power is but an empty name, + +Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer! + Her robes are dripping with her children's blood; +Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare," + They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood." + +The anguish wraps her close around, like death, + Her children lie in heaps about her slain; +Before the world she bravely holds her breath, + Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain. + +But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed, + Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan-- +Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest! + For Thou hast called her!--is she not Thine own? + + + + +President Davis. + +By Jane T. H. Cross. + +Published in the New York News, 1865. + + + +The cell is lonely, and the night + Has filled it with a darker gloom; +The little rays of friendly light, + Which through each crack and chink found room +To press in with their noiseless feet, +All merciful and fleet, +And bring, like Noah's trembling dove, +God's silent messages of love-- + These, too, are gone, + Shut out, and gone, +And that great heart is left alone. + +Alone, with darkness and with woe, + Around him Freedom's temple lies, +Its arches crushed, its columns low, + The night-wind through its ruin sighs; +Rash, cruel hands that temple razed, +Then stood the world amazed! +And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds! +Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds; + And yet no groan + Is heard, no groan! +He suffers silently, alone. + +For all his bright and happy home, + He has that cell, so drear and dark, +The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome, + The clank of chains, for song of lark; +And for the grateful voice of friends-- +That voice which ever lends +Its charm where human hearts are found-- +He hears the key's dull, grating sound; + No heart is near, + No kind heart near, +No sigh of sympathy, no tear! + +Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good! + Unnumbered hearts on thee await, +By thee invisibly have stood, + Have crowded through thy prison-gate; +Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars, +Nor floating "stripes and stars," +Nor glittering gun or bayonet, +Can ever cause us to forget + Our faith to thee, + Our love to thee, +Thou glorious soul! thou strong! _thou free!_ + + + + +The Rifleman's "Fancy Shot." + + + +"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, + Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; +Ring me a ball on the glittering spot + That shines on his breast like an amulet." + +"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead; + There's music around when my barrel's in tune." +Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, + And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. + +"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch + From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood: +A button, a loop, or that luminous patch + That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." + +"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track, + When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette; +For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, + That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. + +"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold; + An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, +Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, + Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." + +"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket--'tis she! + My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon. +Was her husband. Hush, soldier!--'twas heaven's deer + We must bury him there, by the light of the moon. + +"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; + War is a virtue, and weakness a sin; +There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night: + Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!" + + + + +"All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night." + +By Lamar Fontaine. + + + +[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has +been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues +silent on the subject.] + + +"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" + Except here and there a stray picket +Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, + By a rifleman hid in the thicket. + +'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then + Will not count in the news of a battle; +Not an officer lost! only one of the men + Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. + +All quiet along the Potomac to-night! + Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; +And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, + And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming. + +A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind + Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping; +While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, + Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping. + +There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, + As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, +And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, + Far away, in the cot on the mountain. + +His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, + Grows gentle with memories tender, +As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, + And their mother--"may heaven defend her!" + +The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then-- + That night, when the love, yet unspoken, +Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows + Were pledged to be ever unbroken. + +Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, + He dashes off tears that are welling; +And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, + As if to keep down the heart's swelling. + +He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, + And his footstep is lagging and weary; +Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, + Towards the shades of the forest so dreary. + +Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? + Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? +It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!" + And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing. + +"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" + No sound save the rush of the river; +While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, + And the picket's off duty forever! + + + + +Address + +Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond. + +A Prize Poem.--By Henry Timrod. + + + + A FAIRY ring + +Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain-- +From whose weird circle every loathsome thing + And sight and sound of pain +Are banished, while about it in the air, +And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies, + Throng, in a vision fair +As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes, + Gleams of that unseen world +That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes + With starry wings unfurled, +Poised for a moment on such airy capes + As pierce the golden foam + Of sunset's silent main-- +Would image what in this enchanted dome, + Amid the night of war and death +In which the armed city draws its breath, + We have built up! +For though no wizard wand or magic cup + The spell hath wrought, +Within this charmed fane we ope the gates + Of that divinest fairy-land + Where, under loftier fates +Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand, +Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought. + +Shut for one happy evening from the flood +That roars around us, here you may behold-- + As if a desert way + Could blossom and unfold + A garden fresh with May-- +Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood, + Souls that upon the poet's page + Have lived from age to age, +And yet have never donned this mortal clay. + A golden strand +Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle + Where fair Miranda's smile +Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art + Had led unto her heart, +Which, like a bud that waited for the light, + Burst into bloom at sight! +Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes +As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand, + And prattles to the night. + Anon, a reverend form + With tattered robe and forehead bare, +That challenge all the torments of the air, + Goes by! +And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh, +While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear + The noble wreck of Lear +Reproach like things of life the ancient skies, + And commune with the storm! +Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, where +Wrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the Moor + Tells his strange story o'er, +The gentle Desdemona chastely lies, +Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. + Then through a hush like death + Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost! +And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath +Which is the trumpet to a countless host +Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep; + For while it calls to strife, +He pauses on the very brink of fact +To toy as with the shadow of an act, +And utter those wise saws that cut so deep + Into the core of life! + + Nor shall be wanting many a scene + Where forms of more familiar mien, +Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present + The world of every day, +Such as it whirls along the busy quay, +Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, +Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, +Or toils in attics dark the night away. +Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, +As in the round wherein our lives are pent; + Chance for a while shall seem to reign, +While goodness roves like guilt about the street, + And guilt looks innocent. + +But all at last shall vindicate the right. +Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, +Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight, +And fortune's general justice rendered plain. +Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth, +Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet, +Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth, +Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet. +As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth +A sudden beauty unexpected starts, +So you shall find some germs of hidden worth + Within the vilest hearts; +And now and then, when in those moods that turn +To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, +You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn + You've struck a spring of tears! + +But while we lead you thus from change to change, +Shall we not find within our ample range +Some type to elevate a people's heart-- +Some haro who shall teach a hero's part + In this distracted time? +Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell! +And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, +As if across the billows unenthralled, +Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, + Bid liberty rejoice! +Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand +The deeds which, more than their own awful mien, +Make every crag of Switzerland sublime! +And say to those whose feeble souls would lean +Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand, +That once a single mind sufficed to quell +The malice of a tyrant; let them know +That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow, +Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand, +But the whole spirit of a mighty land! + +Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day +Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red +With the large promise of the coming ray. +Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile +Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, +Let us among the charms of art awhile + Fleet the deep gloom away; +Nor yet forget that on each hand and head +Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray. + + + + +The Battle of Richmond. + +By George Herbert Sass, Charleston, S.C. + +"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was +it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and +the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them." +--Psalm, xliv. 3, 4. + + + +I. + + +Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land, +And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand; +For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry, +And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory! +Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave +To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave. + + + +II. + + +Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry, +Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky; +For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day, +And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray; +Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song, +The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong. + + + +III. + + +From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood, +From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood, +From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry, +And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye. +In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn; +In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on. + + + +IV. + + +Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now, +And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow; +But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone, +Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne; +And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land, +To burn and havoc and destroy--a fierce and ruthless band. + + + +V. + + +I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while +The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile; +And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see, +A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply; +And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum, +And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum. + + + +VI. + + +Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain, +With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train. +Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight, +And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light. +Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed, +And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast. + + + +VII. + + +I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors, +And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures, +And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread, +Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's tread +In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease, +And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze. + + + +VIII. + + +But far away another line is stretching dark and long, +Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng; +Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum, +And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come, +And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread, +And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head. + + + +IX. + + +They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood? +Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood. +Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won, +And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on. +Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man, +And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van. + + + +X. + + +They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track +Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back; +And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1] +And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee; +And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls, +The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls. + + + +XI. + + +They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon, +In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon; +And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast, +The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast: +"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life! +We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!" + + + +XII. + + +'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight! +And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right; +And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought, +For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought. +Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song-- +The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong. + +[1] Pronounced _Eujee_ + + + + +The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song. + +By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland. + + + +"Awake! and to horse, my brothers! + For the dawn is glimmering gray; +And hark! in the crackling brushwood + There are feet that tread this way. + +"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?" + "O God! I sicken to tell, +For the earth seems earth no longer, + And its sights are sights of hell! + +"There's rapine and fire and slaughter, + From the mountain down to the shore; +There's blood on the trampled harvest-- + There's blood on the homestead floor. + +"From the far-off conquered cities + Comes the voice of a stifled wail; +And the shrieks and moans of the houseless + Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale. + +"I've seen, from the smoking village + Our mothers and daughters fly; +I've seen where the little children + Sank down, in the furrows, to die. + +"On the banks of the battle-stained river + I stood, as the moonlight shone, +And it glared on the face of my brother, + As the sad wave swept him on. + +"Where my home was glad, are ashes, + And horror and shame had been there-- +For I found, on the fallen lintel, + This tress of my wife's torn hair. + +"They are turning the slave upon us, + And, with more than the fiend's worst art, +Have uncovered the fires of the savage + That slept in his untaught heart. + +"The ties to our hearths that bound him, + They have rent, with curses, away, +And maddened him, with their madness, + To be almost as brutal as they. + +"With halter and torch and Bible, + And hymns to the sound of the drum, +They preach the gospel of Murder, + And pray for Lust's kingdom to come. + +"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers! + Look up to the rising sun, +And ask of the God who shines there, + Whether deeds like these shall be done! + +"Wherever the vandal cometh, + Press home to his heart with your steel, +And when at his bosom you cannot, + Like the serpent, go strike at his heel! + +"Through thicket and wood go hunt him, + Creep up to his camp fireside, +And let ten of his corpses blacken + Where one of our brothers hath died. + +"In his fainting, foot-sore marches, + In his flight from the stricken fray, +In the snare of the lonely ambush, + The debts that we owe him pay, + +"In God's hand, alone, is judgment; + But He strikes with the hands of men, +And His blight would wither our manhood + If we smote not the smiter again. + +"By the graves where our fathers slumber, + By the shrines where our mothers prayed, +By our homes and hopes and freedom. + Let every man swear on his blade.-- + +"That he will not sheath nor stay it, + Till from point to heft it glow +With the flush of Almighty vengeance, + In the blood of the felon foe." + +They swore--and the answering sunlight + Leapt red from their lifted swords, +And the hate in their hearts made echo + To the wrath in their burning words. + +There's weeping in all New England, + And by Schuylkill's banks a knell, +And the widows there, and the orphans, + How the oath was kept can tell. + + + + +A Farewell to Pope. + +By John K. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line! +Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline-- +Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes, +Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes"-- +Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers, +His vanishing form from our gaze disappears; +Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope, +_Abiit, evasit, erupit_--John Pope. + +He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor, +Compeller of fate and controller of war, +_Videre et vincere_, simply to see, +And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee, +And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg _pére_, +With a monkeyish grin and beatified air, +"Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap," +As with eager attention he listened to Pope. + +He _came_--and the poultry was swept by his sword, +Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board; +He _saw_--at a distance, the rebels appear, +And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear; +He _conquered_--truth, decency, honor full soon, +Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon; +And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope. +Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope. + +He has left us his shining example to note, +And Stuart has captured his uniform coat; +But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall, +To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall; +While many may claim to deserve it, at least, +From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast, +None else, we can say, without risking the trope, +But himself can be parallel ever to Pope. + +Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire, +He gives new expression and force to _the lyre_; +But in one little matter they differ, the two, +And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true-- +While his verses gave great Alexaader his fame, +'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same; +And fate may decree that the end of a rope +Shall award yet his highest position to Pope. + + + + +Sonnet. + +On Reading a Proclamation for Public Prayer. + +South Carolinian. + + + +Oh! terrible, this prayer in the market-place, + These advertised humilities--decreed + By proclamation, that we may be freed, +And mercy find for once, and saving grace, +Even while we forfeit all that made the race + Worthy of Heavenly favor--and profess + Our faith and homage only through duress, +And dread of danger which we dare not face. + +All working that's done worthily is prayer-- + And honest thought is prayer--the wish, the will + To mend our ways, maintain our virtues still, +And, losing life, still keep our bosoms fair +In sight of God--with whom humility +And patient working can alone make free. + + + + +Battle of Belmont. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + +From the Memphis Appeal, Dec. 21, 1861. + + + +I. + + +Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God, +That He hath met the Southron's foe, and scourged him with his rod: +On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came, +And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame; +But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day, +Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay. + + + +II. + + +But the Vandals with presumption--for they came in all their might-- +Gave free vent unto their _feelings_, for they thought to win the + fight; +And they forced our little cohorts to the very river's brink, +With a breath between destruction and of life's remaining link: +When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth, +Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South. + + + +III. + + +There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high +That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die; +And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle's din, +Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win: +And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords, +Came destruction to the foeman--and the vengeance was the Lord's! + + + +IV. + + +When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry, +That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high! +It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that the Vandals' ears did + sting, +And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring; +And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won, +From the crackling of our rifles--_bravely_ then they had to run! + + + +V. + + +Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay, +And their great grandchildren's children will be shamed to name that day; +For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South +Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's booming mouth: +And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood, +For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman's blood. + + + +VI. + + +Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe, +And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow: +Like the ocean beating wildly 'gainst a prow of adamant, +Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant; +Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field, +Cheering on his noble comrades, ne'er unto the foe to yield! + + + +VII. + + +None e'er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime-- +Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time: +And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few: +"I have bravely fought them, mother--I have bravely fought for you!" +Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South, +And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth. + + + +VIII. + + +In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag, +Proudly to the breeze 'twas floating in defiance to our flag; +And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down, +They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown; +But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch, +Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch! + + + +IX. + + +And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death, +Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath; +But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high, +On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die; +But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three, +Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee! + + + +X. + + +Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be, +That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free; +That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky. +And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die; +For His fiat hath gone forth, e'en among the Hessian horde, +That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord. + + + +XI. + + +Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God, +That He hath met the Southron's foe and scourged him with His rod; +That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might, +And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight; +Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim, +We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name. + + + + +Vicksburg--A Ballad. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I. + + +For sixty days and upwards, + A storm of shell and shot +Rained 'round us in a flaming shower, + But still we faltered not! +"If the noble city perish," + Our grand young leader said, +"Let the only walls the foe shall scale + Be the ramparts of the dead!" + + + +II. + + +For sixty days and upwards + The eye of heaven waxed dim, +And even throughout God's holy morn, + O'er Christian's prayer and hymn, +Arose a hissing tumult, + As if the fiends of air +Strove to ingulf the voice of faith + In the shrieks of their despair. + + + +III. + + +There was wailing in the houses, + There was trembling on the marts, +While the tempest raged and thundered, + 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; +But the Lord, our shield, was with us, + And ere a month had sped +Our very women walked the streets + With scarce one throb of dread. + + + +IV. + + +And the little children gambolled-- + Their faces purely raised, +Just for a wondering moment, + As the huge bomb whirled and blazed! +Then turned with silvery laughter + To the sports which children love, +Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought, + That the good God watched above. + + + +V. + + +Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, + From scores of flame-clad ships, +And about us, denser, darker, + Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, +Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, + Like a type of doom, and ire, +Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues + Of forked and vengeful fire. + + + +VI. + + +But the unseen hands of angels + Those death-shafts turned aside, +And the dove of heavenly mercy + Ruled o'er the battle tide; +In the houses ceased the wailing, + And through the war-scarred marts +The people trode with the step of hope, + To the music in their hearts. + +Columbia, S.C., August 6, 1862. + + + + +A Ballad of the War. + +Published Originally in the Southern Field and Fireside, + +By George Herbert Sass, of Charleston, S.C. + + + +Watchman, what of the night? + Through the city's darkening street, +Silent and slow, the guardsmen go + On their long and lonely beat. + +Darkly, drearily down, + Falleth the wintry rain; +And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, + As it glides o'er town and plain. + +Beating against the windows, + The sleet falls heavy and chill, +And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, + As the blast shrieks loud and shrill. + +Silent is all without, + Save the sentry's challenge grim, +And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town, + And the sleeper's eyes are dim. + +Watchman, what of the night? + Hark! from the old church-tower +Rings loud and clear, on the misty air, + The chime of the midnight hour. + +But another sound breaks in, + A summons deep and rude, +The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum + Of a gathering multitude. + +And the dim and flickering torch + Sheds a red and lurid glare, +O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine + Faintly, yet sternly there. + +A low, deep voice is heard: + "Rest on your arms, my men." +Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, + And all is still again. + +Pale faces and tearful eyes + Gaze down on that grim array, +For a rumor hath spread that that column dread + Marcheth ere break of day. + +Marcheth against "the rebels," + Whose camp lies heavy and still, +Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat + On the brow of a distant hill. + +And the mother's heart grows faint, + As she thinks of her darling one, +Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, + Ere the long, dark night be done. + +Pallid and haggard, too, + Is the cheek of the fair young wife; +And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him + She loveth more than life. + +For fathers, husbands, sons, + Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, +And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, + And a bleeding country's right. + +And where their treasure is, + There is each loving heart; +And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze, + And the tears unbidden start. + +Is there none to warn the camp, + None from that anxious throng? +Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town-- + The way is dark and long. + +No _man_ is left behind, + None that is brave and true, +And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light + With menace stern shine through. + +Guarded is every street, + Brutal the hireling foe; +Is there one heart here will boldly dare + So brave a deed to do? + +Look! in her still, dark room, + Alone a woman kneels, +With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face, + And Sorrow's ruthless seals. + +Wrinkling her placid brow, + A matron, she, and fair, +Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak + Gemming her glossy hair. + +A moment in silent prayer + Her pale lips move, and then, +Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, + On her mission of love to men. + +She glideth upon her way, + Through the lonely, misty street, +Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread + Of the watchman on his beat. + +Onward, aye, onward still, + Far past the weary town, +Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, + And the heavy hands hang down. + +But bravely she struggles on, + Breasting the cold, dank rain, +And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill + Sweeps down upon the plain. + +Hark! far behind she hears + A dull and muffled tramp, +But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam + Shines out from the Southern camp. + +She hears the sentry's challenge, + Her work of love is done; +She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height + Hath a crown of glory won. + +Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, + Who saved from a ruthless foe +Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, + Three hundred years ago. + +And I've read in tales heroic + How a noble Scottish maid +Her own life gave, her king to save + From the foul assassin's blade. + +But if these, on the rolls of honor, + Shall live in lasting fame, +Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, + We'll write this matron's name. + +And when our fair-haired children + Shall cluster round our knee, +With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days + When we swore that we would be free, + +We'll tell them the thrilling story, + And we'll say to each childish heart, +"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need, + Be ready to do thy part." + + + + +The Two Armies. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Two armies stand enrolled beneath +The banner with the starry wreath: +One, facing battle, blight, and blast, +Through twice a hundred fields has passed; +Its deeds against a ruffian foe, +Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know, +Till every wind that sweeps the land +Goes, glory-laden, from the strand. + +The other, with a narrower scope, +Yet led by not less grand a hope, +Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, +And wears its fame with meeker grace. +Wives march beneath its glittering sign, +Fond mothers swell the lovely line: +And many a sweetheart hides her blush +In the young patriot's generous flush. + +No breeze of battle ever fanned +The colors of that tender band; +Its office is beside the bed, +Where throbs some sick or wounded head. +It does not court the soldier's tomb, +But plies the needle and the loom; +And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, +Supplies a struggling nation's needs. + +Nor is that army's gentle might +Unfelt amid the deadly fight; +It nerves the son's, the husband's hand, +It points the lover's fearless brand; +It thrills the languid, warms the cold, +Gives even new courage to the bold; +And sometimes lifts the veriest clod +To its own lofty trust in God. + +When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, +And bid this weary warfare cease, +Their several missions nobly done, +The triumph grasped, and freedom won, +Both armies, from their toils at rest, +Alike may claim the victor's crest, +But each shall see its dearest prize +Gleam softly from the other's eyes. + + + + +The Legion of Honor. + +By H.L. Flash. + + + +Why are we forever speaking + Of the warriors of old? +Men are fighting all around us, + Full as noble, full as bold. + +Ever working, ever striving, + Mind and muscle, heart and soul, +With the reins of judgment keeping + Passions under full control. + +Noble hearts are beating boldly + As they ever did on earth; +Swordless heroes are around us, + Striving ever from their birth. + +Tearing down the old abuses, + Building up the purer laws, +Scattering the dust of ages, + Searching out the hidden flaws. + +Acknowledging no "right divine" + In kings and princes from the rest; +In their creed he is the noblest + Who has worked and striven best. + +Decorations do not tempt them-- + Diamond stars they laugh to scorn-- +Each will wear a "Cross of Honor" + On the Resurrection morn. + +Warriors they in fields of wisdom-- + Like the noble Hebrew youth, +Striking down Goliath's error + With the God-blessed stone of truth. + +Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner, + Forward rush these volunteers, +Beating olden wrong away + From the fast advancing years. + +Contemporaries do not see them, + But the _coming_ times will say +(Speaking of the slandered present), + "There were heroes in that day." + +Why are we then idly lying + On the roses of our life, +While the noble-hearted struggle + In the world-redeeming strife. + +Let us rise and join the legion, + Ever foremost in the fray-- +Battling in the name of Progress + For the nobler, purer day. + + + + +Clouds in the West. + +By A. J. Requier, of Alabama. + + + +Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West + A manly shout for instant succor comes, +From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast, + With rage-indented drums! + +Who dare for child, wife, country--stream and strand, + Though but a fraction to the swarming foe, +There--at the flooded gateways of the land, + To stem a torrent's flow. + +To arms! brave sons of each embattled State, + Whose queenly standard is a Southern star: +Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate + On Freedom's victor-car! + +Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum + Of craven traffic for the mustering clan: +The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come + And prove yourself--a man. + +That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief + Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes-- +God! can you live to see a foreign thief + Contaminate its roses? + +Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave + Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan; +Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave, + Or claims to be a man! + +Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West + A manly shout for instant succor comes, +From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast. + With rage-indented drums! + +Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din, + Where still your battle-flags unbended wave, +Dying for what your fathers died to win + And you must fight to save. + +Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep, + Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar; +The very waves are marshalling on the deep, + While tempests tread the shore. + +Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land + Shall burial only yield a bandit foe; +Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand, + And strike the fated blow. + + + + +Georgia, My Georgia! + +By Carrie Bell Sinclair. + + + +Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar, +That sounds along thy sunny shore, +And thou shalt lie in chains no more, + My wounded, bleeding Georgia! +Then arm each youth and patriot sire, +Light up the patriotic fire, +And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire, + Who strike for thee, my Georgia + +On thee is laid oppression's hand, +Around thy altars foemen stand, +To scatter freedom's gallant band, + And lay thee low, my Georgia! +But thou hast noble sons, and brave, +The Stars and Bars above thee wave, +And here we'll make oppression's grave, + Upon the soil of Georgia! + +We bow at Liberty's fair shrine, +And kneel in holy love at thine, +And while above our stars still shine, + We'll strike for them and Georgia! + +Thy woods with victory shall resound, +Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned, +And peace shall spread her wings around + My own, my sunny Georgia! + +Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel +That Southern hearts, and Southern steel, +Will make them in submission kneel + Before the sons of Georgia! +And thou shalt see thy daughters, too, +With pride and patriotism true, +Arise with strength to dare and do, + Ere they shall conquer Georgia. + +Thy name shall be a name of pride-- +Thy heroes all have nobly died, +That thou mayst be the spotless bride + Of Liberty, my Georgia! +Then wave thy sword and banner high, +And louder raise the battle-cry, +'Till shouts of victory reach the sky, + And thou art free, my Georgia! + + + + +Song of the Texas Rangers. + + + +Air--_The Yellow Rose of Texas_. + + +The morning star is paling, + The camp-fires flicker low, +Our steeds are madly neighing, + For the bugle bids us go. +So put the foot in stirrup, + And shake the bridle free, +For to-day the Texas Rangers + Must cross the Tennessee, + +With Wharton for our leader, + We'll chase the dastard foe, +Till our horses bathe their fetlocks + In the deep blue Ohio. +Our men are from the prairies, + That roll broad and proud and free, +From the high and craggy mountains + To the murmuring Mexic' sea; +And their hearts are open as their plains, + Their thoughts as proudly brave +As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard, + Or the Gulf's resistless wave. + + Then quick! into the saddle, + And shake the bridle free, + To-day, with gallant Wharton, + We cross the Tennessee. + +'Tis joy to be a Ranger! + To fight for dear Southland; +'Tis joy to follow Wharton, + With his gallant, trusty band! +'Tis joy to see our Harrison, + Plunge like a meteor bright +Into the thickest of the fray, + And deal his deathly might. + + Oh! who'd not be a Ranger, + And follow Wharton's cry! + To battle for his country-- + And, if it needs be--die! + +By the Colorado's waters, + On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore, +On our soft green peaceful prairies + Are the homes we may see no more; +But in those homes our gentle wives, + And mothers with silv'ry hairs, +Are loving us with tender hearts, + And shielding us with prayers. + + So, trusting in our country's God, + We draw our stout, good brand, + For those we love at home, + Our altars and our land. + +Up, up with the crimson battle-flag-- + Let the blue pennon fly; +Our steeds are stamping proudly-- + They hear the battle-cry! +The thundering bomb, the bugle's call, + Proclaim the foe is near; +We strike for God and native land, + And all we hold most dear. + + Then spring into the saddle, + And shake the bridle free-- + For Wharton leads, through fire and blood, + For Home and Victory! + + + + +Kentucky Required to Yield Her Arms. + +By----Boone. + + + +Ho! will the despot trifle, + In dwellings of the free; +Kentuckians yield the rifle, + Kentuckians bend the knee! +With dastard fear of danger, + And trembling at the strife; +Kentucky, to the stranger, + Yield liberty for life! +Up! up! each gallant ranger, + With rifle and with knife! + +The bastard and the traitor, + The wolfcub and the snake, +The robber, swindler, hater, + Are in your homes--awake! +Nor let the cunning foeman + Despoil your liberty; +Yield weapon up to no man, + While ye can strike and see, +Awake, each gallant yeoman, + If still ye would be free! + +Aye, see to sight the rifle, + And smite with spear and knife, +Let no base cunning stifle + Each lesson of your life: +How won your gallant sires + The country which ye keep? +By soul, which still inspires + The soil on which ye weep! +Leap up! their spirit fires, + And rouse ye from your sleep! + +"What!" cry the sires so famous, + In Orleans' ancient field, +"Will ye, our children, shame us, + And to the despot yield? +What! each brave lesson stifle + We left to give you life? +Let apish despots trifle + With home and child and wife? +And yield, O shame! the rifle, + And sheathe, O shame! the knife?" + + + + +"There's Life in the Old Land Yet." + +First Published in the New Orleans Delta, about September 1, 1861. + + + +By blue Patapsco's billowy dash + The tyrant's war-shout comes, +Along with the cymbal's fitful clash + And the growl of his sullen drums; +We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills, + And we shall not forgive or forget-- +There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead, + We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred-- +We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread + Of the peerless Beauregard. +Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, + When the Southern braves are met; +There's faith in the victor's stainless sword, + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind + With the clank of an iron chain; +The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind + O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane; +And we--though we smite not--are not thralls, + We are piling a gory debt; +While down by McHenry's dungeon walls + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +Our women, have hung their harps away + And they scowl on your brutal bands, +While the nimble poignard dares the day + In their dear defiant hands; +They will strip their tresses to string our bows + Ere the Northern sun is set-- +There's faith in their unrelenting woes-- + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + +There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, + 'Tis vocal without noise; +It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains + From the blood of the Maryland boys. +That blood shall cry aloud and rise + With an everlasting threat-- +By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, + "There's life in the Old Land yet!" + + + + +Tell the Boys the War Is Ended. + +By Emily J. Moore. + + + +While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young +soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at +Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was +dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the +boys the war is ended." + + "Tell the boys the war is ended," +These were all the words he said; + "Tell the boys the war is ended," +In an instant more was dead. + +Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful + Was the smile upon his face, +While the pain, of late so fearful, + Had not left the slightest trace. + +"Tell the boys the war is ended," + And with heavenly visions bright +Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, + As his spirit took its flight. +"Tell the boys the war is ended," + "Grant, 0 God, it may be so," +Was the prayer which then ascended, + In a whisper deep, though low. + +"Tell the boys the war is ended," + And his warfare then was o'er, +As, by angel bands attended, + He departed from earth's shore. +Bursting shells and cannons roaring + Could not rouse him by their din; +He to better worlds was soaring, + Far from war, and pain, and sin. + + + + +"The Southern Cross." + +By St. George Tucker, of Virginia. + + + +Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm, +More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation? +Like the symbol of love and redemption its form, +As it points to the haven of hope for the nation. +How radiant each star, as the beacon afar, +Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war! +'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain +To light us to freedom and glory again! + +How peaceful and blest was America's soil, +'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon, +Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil +To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen. +Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel, +And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel! +And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, +To light us to freedom and glory again! + +'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope, +Like the sacred _Labarum_ that guided the Roman; +From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope, +'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen. +Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare +The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare! +While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, +To light us to freedom and glory again! + +And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied, +And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions, +Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride, +Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions! +With our front in the field, swearing never to yield, +Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield! +And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave, +As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave! + +Southern Literary Messenger. + + + + +England's Neutrality. + +A Parliamentary Debate. + +By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia. + + + +All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy, +Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy, +Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality, +And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality, + +Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission, +The _next_ debate in parliament on Southern Recognition; +They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see, +As truly as the _Times_' report, without the gift of prophecy. + +Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion, +But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion; +Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant +To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent. + +But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason, +As deaf as is the _Morning Post_, both in and out of season; +The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary, +And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory, + +"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering, +While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing-- +As, _par exemple_, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety, +That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society. + +"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em, +And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em; +If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?" +And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer. + +Enough of him--an abler man demands our close attention-- +The Maximus Apollo of strict _non_-intervention-- +With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone, +Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston: + +"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes +Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes +Where many an ancient mansion stood--what though the robber pillages +The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages. + +"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty, +Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!" +(And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is +Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)? + +"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish, +With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish; +Let universal ruin there become a sad reality: +We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality." + +Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages, +How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages? +Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude; +'Tis clear that _you_ have no concern in that divine beatitude. + +But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle, +Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell; +Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see, +And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy. + +"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water, +'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter; +The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs, +But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers. + +"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny, +We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many; +We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages, +And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages. + +"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson, +Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon; +To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"-- +(And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?) + +"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger, +'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger; +'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh! +Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho. + +"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not + bound her, +We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her; +We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan, +But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan. + +"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory, +To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story; +These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em, +But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem. + +"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation, +Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation, +Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory, +And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory. + +"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina, +And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah; +Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery +Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery. + +"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity, +May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city; +No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris, +'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.) + +"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles, +While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles; +And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality, +We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality." + +Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator, +When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur', +When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead, +Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede. + +But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it, +And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit, +Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality, +Without the help of Britain's arm, _in spite of_ her neutrality. + +Illustrated News. + + + + +Close the Ranks. + +By John L. O'Sullivan. + + + +The fell invader is before! + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +We'll hunt his legions from our shore, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Our wives, our children are behind, +Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind, +Their voices reach us on the wind, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +Are we to bend to slavish yoke? + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +We'll bend when bends our Southern oak. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +On with the line of serried steel, +We all can die, we none can kneel +To crouch beneath the Northern heel. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +We kneel to God, and God alone. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +One heart in all--all hearts as one. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +For home, for country, truth and right, +We stand or fall in freedom's fight: +In such a cause the right is might. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +We're here from every southern home. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Fond, weeping voices bade us come. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks +The husband, brother, boy, and sire, +All burning with one holy fire-- +Our country's love our only hire. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +We cannot fail, we will not yield! + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Our bosoms are our country's shield. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +By Washington's immortal name, +By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame, +Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +By all we hope, by all we love, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +By home on earth, by Heaven above, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +By all the tears, and heart's blood shed, +By all our hosts of martyred dead, +We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + +The front may fall, the rear succeed, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +We smile in triumph as we bleed, + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! +Our Southern Cross above us waves, +Long shall it bless the sacred graves +Of those who died, but were not slaves. + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! + + + + +The Sea-Kings of the South. + +By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va. + + + +Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won, +From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston, +On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee, +Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free. + +The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm; +Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form; +And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train, +Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again. + +But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side--a broader field than the + plain, +Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main, +'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land, +For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand. + +For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree +Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea, +No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine, +Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line. + +The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar; +The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar. +Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball; +But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all. + +Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show +That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below. +The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore, +Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore. + +Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet! +One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet! +Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour; +But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore. + +See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream! +Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam! +Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on, +Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon. + +Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game! +From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came. +The catchers of the whale she caught; swift _Ariel_ overhauled; +And made _Hatteras_ know the hardest _blow_ that ever a tar + appalled. + +She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well. +To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell. +To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck, +With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck. + +In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop-- +Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop. +Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils, +She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils. + +And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career. +Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear; +The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll +Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole. + +Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing, +For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring. +All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight, +No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright. + +Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea; +The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be! +The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine +For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine! + +The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave +As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave, +As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor, +Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war. + +Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours, +Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers! +Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled + mouth, +And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH! + +Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863. + + + + +The Return. + + + +Three years! I wonder if she'll know me? + I limp a little, and I left one arm +At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown + As the plump chestnuts on my little farm: +And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs-- +But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers. + +The darling! how I long to see her! + My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace, +For I remember, after I had left, + A little Charlie came to take my place. +Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes-- +His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise! + +Surely, they will be at the corner watching! + I sent them word that I should come to-night: +The birds all know it, for they crowd around, + Twittering their welcome with a wild delight; +And that old robin, with a halting wing-- +I saved her life, three years ago last spring. + +Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming! + For, like the pilgrim of the long ago, +I've tugged, a weary burden at my back, + Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow; +Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast, +There I can roll my burden off, and rest. + + * * * * * + +When morning came, the early rising sun + Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping-- +Where a soft covering of bright green grass + Over two mounds was lightly creeping; +But waked him not: his was the rest eternal, +Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal. + + + + +Our Christmas Hymn. + +By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C. + + + +"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!" + The burden of the Advent song, +What time the love-charmed waves grew still + To hearken to the shining throng; +The wondering shepherds heard the strain + Who watched by night the slumbering fleece, +The deep skies echoed the refrain, + "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" + +And wise men hailed the promised sign, + And brought their birth-gifts from the East, +Dear to that Mother as the wine + That hallowed Cana's bridal feast; +But what to these are myrrh or gold, + And what Arabia's costliest gem, +Whose eyes the Child divine behold, + The blessed Babe of Bethlehem. + +"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" + They sing, the bright ones overhead; +And scarce the jubilant anthems cease + Ere Judah wails her first-born dead; +And Rama's wild, despairing cry + Fills with great dread the shuddering coast, +And Rachel hath but one reply, + "Bring back, bring back my loved and lost." + +So, down two thousand years of doom + That cry is borne on wailing winds, +But never star breaks through the gloom, + No cradled peace the watcher finds; +And still the Herodian steel is driven, + And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan, +And still the mute appeal to heaven + Man answers back with groan for groan. + +How shall we keep our Christmas tide? + With that dread past, its wounds agape, +Forever walking by our side, + A fearful shade, an awful shape; +Can any promise of the spring + Make green the faded autumn leaf? +Or who shall say that time will bring + Fair fruit to him who sows but grief? + +Wild bells! that shake the midnight air + With those dear tones that custom loves, +You wake no sounds of laughter here, + Nor mirth in all our silent groves; +On one broad waste, by hill or flood, + Of ravaged lands your music falls, +And where the happy homestead stood + The stars look down on roofless halls. + +At every board a vacant chair + Fills with quick tears some tender eye, +And at our maddest sports appear + Those well-loved forms that will not die. +We lift the glass, our hand is stayed-- + We jest, a spectre rises up-- +And weeping, though no word is said, + We kiss and pass the silent cup, + +And pledge the gallant friend who keeps + His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height, +And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps + Beneath Virginian snows to-night; +While, by the fire, she, musing, broods + On all that was and might have been, +If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods + Had never drunk that crimson stain. + +O happy Yules of buried years! + Could ye but come in wonted guise, +Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears, + When looking back through wistful eyes, +Would seem those chimes whose voices tell + His birth-night with melodious burst, +Who, sitting by Samaria's well, + Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst. + +Ah! yet I trust that all who weep, + Somewhere, at last, will surely find +His rest, if through dark ways they keep + The child-like faith, the prayerful mind; +And some far Christmas morn shall bring + From human ills a sweet release +To loving hearts, while angels sing + "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" + + + + +Charleston. + +Written for the Charleston Courier in 1863. + +By Miss E. B. Cheesborough. + + +Proudly she stands by the crystal sea, + With the fires of hate around her, +But a cordon of love as strong as fate, + With adamant links surround her. +Let them hurl their bolts through the azure sky, + And death-bearing missiles send her, +She finds in our God a mighty shield, + And in heaven a sure defender. + +Her past is a page of glory bright, + Her present a blaze of splendor, +You may turn o'er the leaves of the jewell'd tome, + You'll not find the word _surrender_; +For sooner than lay down her trusty arms, + She'd build her own funeral pyre, +And the flames that give her a martyr's fate + Will kindle her glory higher. + +How the demons glare as they see her stand + In majestic pride serenely, +And gnash with the impotent rage of hate, + Creeping up slowly, meanly; +While she cries, "Come forth from your covered dens, + All your hireling legions send me, +I'll bare my breast to a million swords, + Whilst God and my sons defend me." + +Oh, brave old town, o'er thy sacred form + Whilst the fiery rain is sweeping, +May He whose love is an armor strong + Embrace thee in tender keeping; +And when the red war-cloud has rolled away, + Anoint thee with holy chrism, +And sanctified, chastened, regenerate, true, + Thou surviv'st this fierce baptism. + + + + +Gathering Song. + +Air--Bonnie Blue Flag + +By Annie Chambers Ketchum. + + + +Come, brothers! rally for the right! + The bravest of the brave +Sends forth her ringing battle-cry + Beside the Atlantic wave! +She leads the way in honor's path! + Come, brothers, near and far, +Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag + That bears a single star! + +We've borne the Yankee trickery, + The Yankee gibe and sneer, +Till Yankee insolence and pride + Know neither shame nor fear; +But ready now with shot and steel + Their brazen front to mar, +We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag + That bears a single star! + +Now Georgia marches to the front, + And close beside her come +Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, + With pealing trump and drum! +Till, answering back from hill and glen + The rallying cry afar, +A NATION hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag + That bears a single star! + +By every stone in Charleston Bay, + By each beleaguered town, +We swear to rest not, night nor day, + But hunt the tyrants down! +Till, bathed in valor's holy blood + The gazing world afar +Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue + That bears the cross and star! + + + + +Christmas. + +By Henry Timrod, of South Carolina. + + + + How grace this hallowed day? +Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, +Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire + Round which the children play? + + Alas! for many a moon, +That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, +Mute as an obelisk of ice aglare + Beneath an Arctic noon. + + Shame to the foes that drown +Our psalms of worship with their impious drum. +The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb + In some far rustic town. + + There, let us think, they keep, +Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea +They've ushered in with old-world, English glee, + Some echoes in their sleep. + + How shall we grace the day? +With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, +And shout of happy children in the courts, + And tales of ghost and fay? + + Is there indeed a door +Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, +And all the merry round of Christmas joys, + Could enter as of yore? + + Would not some pallid face +Look in upon the banquet, calling up +Dread shapes of battle in the wassail cup, + And trouble all the place? + + How could we bear the mirth, +While some loved reveller of a year ago +Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, + In cold Virginian earth? + + How shall we grace the day? +Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn +The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born, + Employ us, while we pray! + + Pray for the peace which long +Hath left this tortured land, and haply now +Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow, + There hardly safe from wrong. + + Let every sacred fane +Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, +And, with the cloister and the tented sod, + Join in one solemn strain! + + With pomp of Roman form, +With the grave ritual brought from England's shore, +And with the simple faith which asks no more + Than that the heart be warm. + + He, who till time shall cease, +Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, +He died to give us peace, will not disdain + A prayer whose theme is--peace. + + Perhaps, ere yet the spring +Hath died into the summer, over all +The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall + Like some protecting wing. + + Oh, ponder what it means! +Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way! +Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, + And shape the coming scenes! + + Peace in the quiet dales, +Made rankly fertile by the blood of men; +Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, + Peace in the peopled vales! + + Peace in the crowded town, +Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, +Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, + Peace on the wind-swept down! + + Peace on the furthest seas, +Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, +Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams, + And peace in every breeze! + + Peace on the whirring marts, +Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, +Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes, + And peace in all our hearts! + + + + +A Prayer for Peace. + +By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland. + + + +Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace! +Unto our cry of anguish and despair +Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes, +Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe +Fill their poor urns with tears; from trampled plains, +Where the bright harvest Thou has sent us rots-- +The blood of them who should have garnered it +Calling to Thee--from fields of carnage, where +The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings +O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday +Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love +And common hopes and pride, all blasted now-- +Father of Mercies! not alone from these +Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone +Upon the battle's seared and desolate track, +Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God, +That Thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths, +And in the crowded streets and busy marts, +Where echo whispers not the far-off strife +That slays our loved ones; in the solemn halls +Of safe and quiet counsel--nay, beneath +The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee, +And 'mid their rising incense--God of Peace! +The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate +Hungering for gold and blood; Ambition, bred +Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts, +Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway +Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price +On human hecatombs, and sell and buy +Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests, +With white, anointed, supplicating hands, +From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee, +Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down +Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats +Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born, +Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth +Till Rachel hath no children left to slay. +The very name of Jesus, writ upon +Thy shrines beneath the spotless, outstretched wings, +Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid +With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires +That rise above them angry banners flout +The skies to which they point, amid the clang +Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise. + +All things once prized and honored are forgot: +The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee; +The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield; +The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word, +Which might be stifled, but could never wear +The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie; +All these are gone, and in their stead have come +The vices of the miser and the slave-- +Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power, +Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence, +Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope, +Save as begun in self, and ending there. +With vipers like to these, oh! blessed God! +Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more, +Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad, +To wake the midnight of our sorrowing +With tidings of good-will and peace to men; +And if the star, that through the darkness led +Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now, +Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist, +With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak +The unanswerable message of Thy will. + + Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us peace! +Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; Peace +On the red waters and their blighted shores; +Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts +That watch and bleed around them and within, +Peace for the homeless and the fatherless; +Peace for the captive on his weary way, +And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness; +For them that suffer, them that do the wrong +Sinning and sinned against.--O God! for all; +For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land-- +Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace! + + + + +The Band in the Pines. + +(Heard after Pelham Died.) + +By John Esten Cooke. + + + +Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! + Cease with your splendid call; +The living are brave and noble, + But the dead were bravest of all! + +They throng to the martial summons, + To the loud, triumphant strain; +And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends + Come to the heart again! + +They come with the ringing bugle, + And the deep drum's mellow roar; +Till the soul is faint with longing + For the hands we clasp no more! + +Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! + Or the heart will melt in tears, +For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, + And the voices of old years! + + + + +At Fort Pillow. + +First published in the Wilmington Journal, April 25, 1864. + + + +You shudder as you think upon + The carnage of the grim report, +The desolation when we won + The inner trenches of the fort. + +But there are deeds you may not know, + That scourge the pulses into strife; +Dark memories of deathless woe + Pointing the bayonet and knife. + +The house is ashes where I dwelt, + Beyond the mighty inland sea; +The tombstones shattered where I knelt, + By that old church at Pointe Coupee. + +The Yankee fiends, that came with fire, + Camped on the consecrated sod, +And trampled in the dust and mire + The Holy Eucharist of God! + +The spot where darling mother sleeps, + Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, +Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps, + To stall the horse of some dragoon. + +God! when I ponder that black day + It makes my frantic spirit wince; +I marched--with Longstreet--far away, + But have beheld the ravage since + +The tears are hot upon my face, + When thinking what bleak fate befell +The only sister of our race-- + A thing too horrible to tell. + +They say that, ere her senses fled, + She rescue of her brothers cried; +Then feebly bowed her stricken head, + Too pure to live thus--so she died. + +Two of those brothers heard no plea; + With their proud hearts forever still-- +John shrouded by the Tennessee, + And Arthur there at Malvern Hill. + +But I have heard it everywhere, + Vibrating like a passing knell; +'Tis as perpetual as the air, + And solemn as a funeral bell. + +By scorched lagoon and murky swamp + My wrath was never in the lurch; +I've killed the picket in his camp, + And many a pilot on his perch. + +With steady rifle, sharpened brand, + A week ago, upon my steed, +With Forrest and his warrior band, + I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed. + +You should have seen our leader go + Upon the battle's burning marge, +Swooping, like falcon, on the foe, + Heading the gray line's iron charge! + +All outcasts from our ruined marts, + We heard th' undying serpent hiss, +And in the desert of our hearts + The fatal spell of Nemesis. + +The Southern yell rang loud and high + The moment that we thundered in, +Smiting the demons hip and thigh, + Cleaving them to the very chin. + +My right arm bared for fiercer play, + The left one held the rein in slack; +In all the fury of the fray + I sought the white man, not the black. + +The dabbled clots of brain and gore + Across the swirling sabres ran; +To me each brutal visage bore + The front of one accursed man. + +Throbbing along the frenzied vein, + My blood seemed kindled into song-- +The death-dirge of the sacred slain, + The slogan of immortal wrong. + +It glared athwart the dripping glaves, + It blazed in each avenging eye-- +_The thought of desecrated graves, + And some lone sister's desperate cry!_ + + + + +From the Rapidan--1864. + + + +A low wind in the pines! + And a dull pain in the breast! +And oh! for the sigh of her lips and eyes-- + One touch of the hand I pressed! + +The slow, sad lowland wind, + It sighs through the livelong day, +While the splendid mountain breezes blow, + And the autumn is burning away. + +Here the pines sigh ever above, + And the broomstraw sighs below; +And far from the bare, bleak, windy fields + Comes the note of the drowsy crow. + +There the trees are crimson and gold, + Like the tints of a magical dawn, +And the slender form, in the dreamy days, + By the slow stream rambles on. + +Oh, day that weighs on the heart! + Oh, wind in the dreary pines! +Does she think on me 'mid the golden hours, + Past the mountain's long blue lines? + +The old house, lonely and still, + By the sad Shenandoah's waves, +Must be touched to-day by the sunshine's gleam, + As the spring flowers bloom on graves. + +Oh, sunshine, flitting and sad, + Oh, wind, that forever sighs! +The hall may be bright, but my life is dark + For the sunshine of her eyes! + + + + +Song of Our Glorious Southland. + +By Mrs. Mary Ware. + +From the Southern Field and Fireside. + + + +I. + + +Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, + The pride of the golden sun! +'Tis the fairest land of flowers + The eye e'er looked upon. + +Sing of her orange and myrtle + That glitter like gems above; +Sing of her dark-eyed maidens + As fair as a dream of love. + +Sing of her flowing rivers-- + How musical their sound! +Sing of her dark green forests, + The Indian hunting-ground. + +Sing of the noble nation + Fierce struggling to be free; +Sing of the brave who barter + Their lives for liberty! + + + +II. + + +Weep for the maid and matron + Who mourn their loved ones slain; +Sigh for the light departed, + Never to shine again: + +'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping, + That never will comfort know; +'Tis the wail of desolation, + The breaking of hearts in woe! + + + +III. + + +Ah! the blood of Abel crieth + For vengeance from the sod! +'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted + In the face of an angry God! + +Oh! brother of the Northland, + We plead from our father's grave; +We strike for our homes and altars, + He fought to build and save! + +A smouldering fire is burning, + The Southern heart is steeled-- +Perhaps 'twill break in dying, + But never will it yield. + + + + +Sonnet. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +Rise from your gory ashes stern and pale, +Ye martyred thousands! and with dreadful ire, +A voice of doom, a front of gloomy fire, +Rebuke those faithless souls, whose querulous wail +Disturbs your sacred sleep!--"The withering hail +Of battle, hunger, pestilence, despair, +Whatever of mortal anguish man may bear, +We bore unmurmuring! strengthened by the mail +Of a most holy purpose!--then we died!-- +Vex not our rest by cries of selfish pain, +But to the noblest measure of your powers +Endure the appointed trial! Griefs defied, +But launch their threatening thunderbolts in vain, +And angry storms pass by in gentlest showers!" + + + + +Hospital Duties. + +Charleston Courier. + + + +Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, + Turn the key on your jewels to-day, +And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses + Braid back in a serious way; +No more delicate gloves, no more laces, + No more trifling in boudoir or bower, +But come with your souls in your faces + To meet the stern wants of the hour. + +Look around. By the torchlight unsteady + The dead and the dying seem one-- +What! trembling and paling already, + Before your dear mission's begun? +These wounds are more precious than ghastly-- + Time presses her lips to each scar, +While she chants of that glory which vastly + Transcends all the horrors of war. + +Pause here by this bedside. How mellow + The light showers down on that brow! +Such a brave, brawny visage, poor fellow! + Some homestead is missing him now. +Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, + Some mother sits moaning distressed, +While the loved one lies faint but unfearing, + With the enemy's ball in his breast. + +Here's another--a lad--a mere stripling, + Picked up in the field almost dead, +With the blood through his sunny hair rippling + From the horrible gash in the head. +They say he was first in the action: + Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty: +He fought till he dropped with exhaustion + At the gates of our fair southern city. + +Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, + With a spirit transcending his years-- +Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, + And wet his pale lips with your tears. +Touch him gently; most sacred the duty + Of dressing that poor shattered hand! +God spare him to rise in his beauty, + And battle once more for his land! + +Pass on! it is useless to linger + While others are calling your care; +There is need for your delicate finger, + For your womanly sympathy there. +There are sick ones athirst for caressing, + There are dying ones raving at home, +There are wounds to be bound with a blessing, + And shrouds to make ready for some. + +They have gathered about you the harvest + Of death in its ghastliest view; +The nearest as well as the furthest + Is there with the traitor and true. +And crowned with your beautiful patience, + Made sunny with love at the heart, +You must balsam the wounds of the nations, + Nor falter nor shrink from your part. + +And the lips of the mother will bless you, + And angels, sweet-visaged and pale, +And the little ones run to caress you, + And the wives and the sisters cry hail! +But e'en if you drop down unheeded, + What matter? God's ways are the best: +You have poured out your life where 'twas needed, + And he will take care of the rest. + + + + +They Cry Peace, Peace, When There Is No Peace. + +By Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia. + + + +They are ringing peace on my heavy ear-- + No peace to my heavy heart! +They are ringing peace, I hear! I hear! + O God! how my hopes depart! + +They are ringing peace from the mountain side; + With a hollow voice it comes-- +They are ringing peace o'er the foaming tide, + And its echoes fill our homes. + +They are ringing peace, and the spring-time blooms + Like a garden fresh and fair; +But our martyrs sleep in their silent tombs-- + Do _they_ hear that sound--do they hear? + +They are ringing peace, and the battle-cry + And the bayonet's work are done, +And the armor bright they are laying by, + From the brave sire to the son. + +And the musket's clang, and the soldier's drill, + And the tattoo's nightly sound; +We shall hear no more, with a joyous thrill, + Peace, peace, they are ringing round! + +There are women, still as the stifled air + On the burning desert's track, +Not a cry of joy, not a welcome cheer-- + And their brave ones coming back! + +There are fair young heads in their morning pride, + Like the lilies pale they bow; +Just a memory left to the soldier's bride-- + Ah, God! sustain her now! + +There are martial steps that we may not hear! + There are forms we may not see! +Death's muster roll they have answered clear, + _They are free! thank God, they are free!_ + +Not a fetter fast, nor a prisoner's chain + For the noble army gone-- +No conqueror comes o'er the heavenly plain-- + Peace, _peace to the dead alone!_ + +They are ringing peace, but strangers tread + O'er the land where our fathers trod, +And our birthright joys, like a dream, have fled, + And _Thou!_ where art _Thou_, 0 God! + +They are ringing peace! _not here, not here,_ + Where the victor's mark is set; +Roll back to the North its mocking cheer-- + No peace to the Southland yet! + +We may sheathe the sword, and the rifle-gun + We may hang on the cottage wall, +And the bayonet brave, sharp duty done, + From, the soldier's arm it may fall. + +But peace!--no peace! till the same good sword, + Drawn out from its scabbard be, +And the wide world list to my country's word, + And the South! oh, the South, be free! + +Charleston Broadside. + + + + +Ballad--"What! Have Ye Thought?" + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +I. + + + What! have ye thought to pluck + Victory from chance and luck, +Triumph from clamorous shout, without a will? + Without the heart to brave + All peril to the grave, +And battle on its brink, unshrinking still? + + + +II. + + + And did ye dream success + Would still unvarying bless +Your arms, nor meet reverse in some dread field? + And shall an adverse hour + Make ye mistrust the power +Of virtue, in your souls, to make your enemy yield? + + + +III. + + + Oh! from this dreary sleep + Arise, and upward leap, +Nor let your hearts grow palsied with dismay! + Fling out your banner high, + Still challenging the sky, +While thousand strong arms bear it on its way. + + + +IV. + + + Forth, as a sacred band, + Sworn saviours of the land, +Chosen by God, the champions of the right! + And never doubt that _He_ + Who _made_ will _keep_ ye free, +If thus your souls resolve to triumph in the fight! + + + +V. + + + The felon foe, no more + Trampling the sacred shore, +Shall leave defiling footprint on the sod; + Where, desperate in the strife, + Reckless of wounds and life, +Ye brave your myriad foes beneath the eye of God! + + + +VI. + + + On brothers, comrades, men, + Rush to the field again; +Home, peace, love, safety--freedom--are the prize! + Strike! while an arm can bear + Weapon--and do not spare-- +Ye break a felon bond in every foe that dies! + + + + +Missing. + + + +In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook, + Where the May buds sprinkle the green old mound, +And the winds, and the birds, and the limpid brook, + Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound; +Who lies so still in the plushy moss, + With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, +Couched where the light and the shadows cross + Through the flickering fringe of the willow? + Who lies, alas! +So still, so chill, in the whispering grass? + +A soldier clad in the Zouave dress, + A bright-haired man, with his lips apart, +One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face, + And the other clutching his pulseless heart, +Lies here in the shadows, cool and dim, + His musket swept by a trailing bough, +With a careless grace in each quiet limb, + And a wound on his manly brow; + A wound, alas! +Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass. + +The violets peer from their dusky beds, + With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes; +The lilies quiver their shining heads, + Their pale lips full of a sad surprise; +And the lizard darts through the glistening fern-- + And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary; +Strange birds fly out, with a cry, to bathe + Their wings in the sunset glory; + While the shadows pass +O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass. + +God pity the bride who waits at home, + With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, +Dreaming the sweet old dreams of love, + While her lover is walking in Paradise; +God strengthen her heart as the days go by, + And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow, +Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind, + May breathe the tale of the hollow; + Alas! alas! +The secret is safe with the woodland grass. + + + + +Ode-"Souls of Heroes." + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won, +Still smile on the conflict so greatly begun; +Bring succor to comrade, to brother, to son + Now breasting the battle in ranks of the brave; +And the dastard that loiters, the conflict to shun, + Pursue him with scorn to the grave! + + + +II. + + +Pursue him with furies that goad to despair, +Hunt him out, where he crouches in crevice and lair, +Drive him forth, while the wife of his bosom cries--"There + Goes the coward that skulks, though his sister and wife +Tremble, nightly, in sleep, overshadowed by fear + Of a sacrifice dearer than life." + + + +III. + + +There are thousands that loiter, of historied claim, +Who boast of the heritage shrined in each name-- +Sting their souls to the quick, till they shrink from the shame + Which dishonors the names and the past of their boast; +Even now they may win the best guerdon of fame, + And retrieve the bright honors they've lost! + + + +IV. + + +Even now, while their country is torn in the toils, +While the wild boar is raging to raven the spoils, +While the boa is spreading around us the coils + Which would strangle the freedom our ancestors gave; +But each soul must be quickened until it o'er-boils, + Every muscle be corded to save! + + + +V. + + +Still the cause is the same which, in long ages gone, +Roused up your great sires, so gallantly known, +When, braving the tyrant, the sceptre and throne, + They rushed to the conflict, despising the odds; +Armed with bow, spear, and scythe, and with sling and with stone, + For their homes and their family gods! + + + +VI. + + +Shall we be less worthy the sacrifice grand, +The heritage noble we took at their hand, +The peace and the comfort, the fruits of the land; + And, sunk in a torpor as hopeless as base, +Recoil from the shock of the Sodomite band, + That would ruin the realm and the race? + + + +VII. + + +Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won, + Your toils are not closed in the deeds ye have done; +Touch the souls of each laggard and profligate son, + The greed and the sloth, and the cowardice shame; +Till we rise to complete the great work ye've begun, + And with freedom make conquest of fame! + + + + +Jackson. + +By H. L. Flash, of Galveston, Formerly of Mobile. + + + +Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, +Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, +Did kingly death, with his resistless might, + Lay the great leader low. + +His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke, +In the full sunshine of a peaceful town: +When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak + That propped our cause went down. + +Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, +Recalling all his grand heroic deeds, +Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, + And all the country bleeds. + +He entered not the nation's promised land, +At the red belching of the cannon's mouth: +But broke the house of bondage with his hand-- + The Moses of the South! + +O gracious God! not gainless in the loss; +A glorious sunbeam gilds the sternest frown; +And while his country staggers with the cross, + He rises with the crown! + +Mobile Advertiser and Register. + + + + +Captain Maffit's Ballad of the Sea. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +I. + + +Though winds are high and skies are dark, +And the stars scarce show us a meteor spark; +Yet buoyantly bounds our gallant barque, + Through billows that flash in a sea of blue; +We are coursing free, like the Viking shark, + And our prey, like him, pursue! + + + +II. + + +At each plunge of our prow we bare the graves, +Where, heedless of roar among winds and waves, +The dead have slept in their ocean caves, + Never once dreaming--as if no more +They hear, though the Storm-God ramps and raves + From the deeps to the rock-bound shore. + + + +III. + + +Brave sailors were they in the ancient times, +Heroes or pirates--men of all climes, +That had never an ear for the Sabbath chimes, + Never once called on the priest to be shriven; +They died with the courage that still sublimes, + And, haply, may fit for Heaven. + + + +IV. + + +Never once asking the when or why, +But ready, all hours, to battle and die, +They went into fight with a terrible cry, + Counting no odds, and, victors or slain, +Meeting fortune or fate, with an equal eye, + Defiant of death and pain. + + + +V. + + +Dread are the tales of the wondrous deep, +And well do the billows their secrets keep, +And sound should those savage old sailors sleep, + If sleep they may after such a life; +Where every dark passion, alert and aleap, + Made slumber itself a strife. + + + +VI. + + +What voices of horror, through storm and surge, +Sang in the perishing ear its dirge, +As, raging and rending, o'er Hell's black verge, + Each howling soul sank to its doom; +And what thunder-tones from the deeps emerge, + As yawns for its prey the tomb! + + + +VII. + + +We plough the same seas which the rovers trod, +But with better faith in the saving God, +And bear aloft and carry abroad + The starry cross, our sacred sign, +Which, never yet sullied by crime or fraud, + Makes light o'er the midnight brine. + + + +VIII. + + +And we rove not now on a lawless quest, +With passions foul in the hero's breast, +Moved by no greed at the fiend's behest, + Gloating in lust o'er a bloody prey; +But from tyrant robber the spoil to wrest, + And tear down his despot sway! + + + +IX. + + +'Gainst the spawn of Europe, and all the lands, +British and German--Norway's sands, +Dutchland and Irish--the hireling bands + Bought for butchery--recking no rede, +But, flocking like vultures, with felon hands, + To fatten the rage of greed. + + + +X. + + +With scath they traverse both land and sea, +And with sacred wrath we must make them flee; +Making the path of the nations free, + And planting peace in the heart of strife; +In the star of the cross, our liberty + Brings light to the world, and life! + + + +XI. + + +Let Christendom cower 'neath Stripes and Stars, +Cloaking her shame under legal bars, +Not too moral for traffic, but shirking wars, + While the Southern cross, floating topmast high. +Though torn, perchance, by a thousand scars, + Shall light up the midnight sky! + + + + +Melt the Bells. + +F. Y. Rockett.--Memphis Appeal. + + + +The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the +people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon. + + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +Still the tinkling on the plains, +And transmute the evening chimes +Into war's resounding rhymes, +That the invaders may be slain +By the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +That for years have called to prayer, +And, instead, the cannon's roar +Shall resound the valleys o'er, +That the foe may catch despair +From the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +Though it cost a tear to part +With the music they have made, +Where the friends we love are laid, +With pale cheek and silent heart, +'Neath the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +Into cannon, vast and grim, +And the foe shall feel the ire +From each heaving lungs of fire, +And we'll put our trust in Him +And the bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +And when foes no more attack, +And the lightning cloud of war +Shall roll thunderless and far, +We will melt the cannon back +Into bells. + +Melt the bells, melt the bells, +And they'll peal a sweeter chime, +And remind of all the brave +Who have sunk to glory's grave, +And will sleep thro' coming time +'Neath the bells. + + + + +John Pelham. + +By James R. Randall. + + + +Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, + With all its gorgeous cheer; +In the bright April of historic life + Fell the great cannoneer. + +The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath + His bleeding country weeps-- +Hushed in the alabaster arms of death, + Our young Marcellus sleeps. + +Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome, + Curbing his chariot steeds; +The knightly scion of a Southern home + Dazzled the land with deeds. + +Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt, + The champion of the truth, +He bore his banner to the very front + Of our immortal youth. + +A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, + The fiery pang of shells-- +And there's a wail of immemorial woe + In Alabama dells. + +The pennon drops that led the sacred band + Along the crimson field; +The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand + Over the spotless shield. + +We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face + While 'round the lips and eyes, +Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace + Of a divine surprise. + +Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high! + Thy tears may soon be shed-- +Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, + Among the Southern dead. + +How must he smile on this dull world beneath, + Fevered with swift renown-- +He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath + Twining the victor's crown! + + + + +"Ye Batteries of Beauregard." + +By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky. + + + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall; +Bid the shock of your deep thunder + On their fleet in terror fall: +Rain your storm of leaden fury + On the black invading host-- +Teach them that their step shall never + Press on Carolina's coast. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + Sound the story of our wrong; +Let your tocsin wake the spirit + Of a people brave and strong; +Her proud names of old remember-- + Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene; +Swell the roll whose deeds of glory + Side by side with theirs are seen. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + From Savannah on them frown; +By the majesty of Heaven + Strike their "grand armada" down; +By the blood of many a freeman, + By each dear-bought battle-field, +By the hopes we fondly cherish, + Never ye the victory yield. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + All along our Southern coast, +Let, in after-time, your triumphs, + Be a nation's pride and boast; +Send each missile with a greeting + To the vile, ungodly crew; +Make them feel they ne'er can conquer + People to themselves so true. + +"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" + By the glories of the past, +By the memory of old Sumter, + Whose renown will ever last, +Speed upon their vaunted legions + Volleys thick of shot and shell, +Bid them welcome, in your glory, + To their own appointed hell. + + + + +"When Peace Returns." + +Published in the Granada Picket. + +By Olivia Tully Thomas. + + + +When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front," + And meek-eyed peace returning, +Has brightened hearts that long were wont + To sigh in grief and mourning-- +How blissful then will be the day + When, from the wars returning, +The weary soldier wends his way + To dear ones that are yearning, + +To clasp in true love's fond embrace, + To gaze with looks so tender +Upon the war-worn form and face + Of Liberty's defender; +To count with pride each cruel scar, + That mars the manly beauty, +Of him who proved so brave in war, + So beautiful in duty. + +When peace returns, throughout our land, + Glad shouts of welcome render +The gallant few of Freedom's band + Whose cry was "no surrender;" +Who battled bravely to be free + From tyranny's oppressions, +And won, for Southern chivalry, + The homage of all nations! + +And when, again, in Southern bowers + The ray of peace is shining, +Her maidens gather fairest flowers, + And honor's wreaths are twining, +To bind the brows victorious + On many a field so gory, +Whose names, renowned and glorious, + Shall live in song and story, + +Then will affection's tear be shed, + And pity, joy restraining, +For those, the lost, lamented dead, + Are all beyond our plaining; +They fell in manhood's prime and might; + And we should not weep the story +That tells of Fame, a sacred light, + Above each grave of glory! + + + + +The Right above the Wrong. + +By John W. Overall. + + + +In other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and free, +For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea; +They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song, +For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong. + +But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea, +The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea; +And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might, +That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right. + +The King sent over hireling hosts--the Briton, Hessian, Scot-- +And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot; +While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng, +And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place given to the Wrong. + +But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's sword was out, +With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's thunder-shout; +And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy + fight, +But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right! + +And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea, +To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free, +Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long, +And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong. + +And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew, +But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue; +For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight, +And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right! + +The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South, +To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon's mouth; +For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song, +Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong. + +But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool, +Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule; +We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night, +And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right. + + + + +Carmen Triumphale. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Go forth and bid the land rejoice, + Yet not too gladly, oh my song! + Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong +The solemn rapture of thy voice. + +Be nothing lightly done or said + This happy day! Our joy should flow + Accordant with the lofty woe +That wails above the noble dead. + +Let him whose brow and breast were calm + While yet the battle lay with God, + Look down upon the crimson sod +And gravely wear his mournful palm; + +And him, whose heart still weak from fear + Beats all too gayly for the time, + Know that intemperate glee is crime +While one dead hero claims a tear. + +Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill, + With sober joy, the troubled days; + A nation's hymn of grateful praise +May not be hushed for private ill. + +Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! + The mighty tidings far and nigh! + Ye cities! write them on the sky +In purple and in emerald fires! + +They came with many a haughty boast; + Their threats were heard on every breeze; + They darkened half the neighboring seas, +And swooped like vultures on the coast. + +False recreants in all knightly strife, + Their way was wet with woman's tears; + Behind them flamed the toil of years, +And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life. + +They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves; + God gave the dastards to our hands; + Their bones are bleaching on the sands, +Or mouldering slow in shallow graves. + +What though we hear about our path + The heavens with howls of vengeance rent; + The venom of their hate is spent; +We need not heed their fangless wrath. + +Meantime the stream they strove to chain + Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps + With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, +And rushes onward to the main; + +While down the swelling current glides + Our ship of state before the blast, + With streamers poured from every mast, +Her thunders roaring from her sides. + +Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, + Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! + Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, +And speed her to the ports of peace! + + + + +The Fiend Unbound. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +I. + + +No more, with glad and happy cheer, + And smiling face, doth Christmas come, +But usher'd in with sword and spear, + And beat of the barbarian drum! +No more, with ivy-circled brow, + And mossy beard all snowy white, +He comes to glad the children now, + With sweet and innocent delight. + + + +II. + + +The merry dance, the lavish feast, + The cheery welcome, all are o'er: +The music of the viol ceased, + The gleesome ring around the floor. +No glad communion greets the hour, + That welcomes in a Saviour's birth, +And Christmas, to a hostile power, + Yields all the sway that made its mirth. + + + +III. + + +The Church, like some deserted bride, + In trembling, at the Altar waits, +While, raging fierce on every side, + The foe is thundering at her gates. +No ivy green, nor glittering leaves, + Nor crimson berries, deck her walls: +But blood, red dripping from her eaves, + Along the sacred pavement falls. + + + +IV. + + +Her silver bells no longer chime + In summons to her sacred home; +Nor holy song at matin prime, + Proclaims the God within the dome. +Nor do the fireside's happy bands + Assemble fond, with greetings dear, +While Patriarch Christmas spreads his hands + To glad with gifts and crown with cheer. + + + +V. + + +In place of that beloved form, + Benignant, bland, and blessing all, +Comes one begirt with fire and storm, + The raging shell, the hissing ball! +Type of the Prince of Peace, no more, + Evoked by those who bear His name, +THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore, + Now hurls around Satanic flame. + + + +VI. + + +In hate,--evoked by kindred lands, + But late beslavering with caress, +Lo, Moloch, dripping crimson, stands, + And curses where he cannot bless. +He wings the bolt and hurls the spear, + A _demon loosed_, that rends in rage, +Sends havoc through the homes most dear, + And butchers youth and tramples age! + + + +VII. + + +With face of Fox--with glee that grins, + And apish arms, with fingers claw'd, +To snatch at all his brother wins, + And straight secrete, with stealth and fraud;-- +Lo! Mammon, kindred Demon, comes, + And lurks, as dreading ill, in rear; +He blows the trumpet, beats the drums, + Inflames the torch, and sharps the spear! + + + +VIII. + + +And furious, following in their train, + What hosts of lesser Demons rise; +Lust, Malice, Hunger, Greed and Gain, + Each raging for its special prize. +Too base for freedom, mean for toil, + And reckless all of just and right, +They rage in peaceful homes for spoil, + And where they cannot butcher, blight. + + + +IX. + + +A Serpent lie from every mouth, + Coils outward ever,--sworn to bless; +Yet, through the gardens of the South, + Still spreading evils numberless, +By locust swarms the fields are swept, + By frenzied hands the dwelling flames, +And virgin beds, where Beauty slept, + Polluted blush, from worst of shames. + + + +X. + + +The Dragon, chain'd for thousand years, + Hath burst his bonds and rages free;-- +Yet, patience, brethren, stay your fears;-- + Loosed for "a little season,"[1] he + +Will soon, beneath th' Ithuriel sword, + Of heavenly judgment, crush'd and driven, +Yield to the vengeance of the Lord, + And crouch beneath the wrath of Heaven! + + + +XI. + + +"A little season," and the Peace, + That now is foremost in your prayers, +Shall crown your harvest with increase, + And bless with smiles the home of tears; +Your wounds be healed; your noble sons, + Unhurt, unmutilated--free-- +Shall limber up their conquering guns, + In triumph grand of Liberty! + + + +XII. + + +A few more hours of mortal strife,-- + Of faith and patience, working still, +In struggle for the immortal life, + With all their soul, and strength, and will; +And, in the favor of the Lord, + And powerful grown by heavenly aid, +Your roof trees all shall be restored, + And ye shall triumph in their shade. + + + +[1] "1. And I saw an Angel come down from Heaven, having the key of the +bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand. + +"2. And he laid hold on the Dragon, that Old Serpent, which is the Devil +and Satan, and bound him a thousand years. + +"And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal +upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand +years should be fulfilled; and _after that he must be loosed a little +season_."--Rev. xx., v. 1-3. + + + + +The Unknown Dead. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +The rain is plashing on my sill, +But all the winds of Heaven are still; +And so, it falls with that dull sound +Which thrills us in the churchyard ground, +When the first spadeful drops like lead +Upon the coffin of the dead. +Beyond my streaming window-pane, +I cannot see the neighboring vane, +Yet from its old familiar tower +The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. +What strange and unsuspected link +Of feeling touched has made me think-- +While with a vacant soul and eye +I watch that gray and stony sky-- +Of nameless graves on battle plains, +Washed by a single winter's rains, +Where, some beneath Virginian hills, +And some by green Atlantic rills, +Some by the waters of the West, +A myriad unknown heroes rest? +Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see +Their flags in front of victory, +Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost +Pay for a battle nobly lost, +Claim from their monumental beds +The bitterest tears a nation sheds. +Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot, +By all save some fond few forgot-- +Lie the true martyrs of the fight, +Which strikes for freedom and for right. +Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, +The lofty faith that with them died, +No grateful page shall further tell +Than that so many bravely fell; +And we can only dimly guess +What worlds of all this world's distress, +What utter woe, despair, and dearth, +Their fate has brought to many a hearth. +Just such a sky as this should weep +Above them, always, where they sleep; +Yet, haply, at this very hour, +Their graves are like a lover's bower; +And Nature's self, with eyes unwet, +Oblivious of the crimson debt +To which she owes her April grace, +Laughs gayly o'er their burial place. + + + + +Ode--"Do Ye Quail?" + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Do ye quail but to hear, Carolinians, +The first foot-tramp of Tyranny's minions? +Have ye buckled on armor, and brandished the spear, +But to shrink with the trumpet's first peal on the ear? +Why your forts now embattled on headland and height, +Your sons all in armor, unless for the fight? +Did ye think the mere show of your guns on the wall, +And your shouts, would the souls of the heathen appal? +That his lusts and his appetites, greedy as Hell, +Led by Mammon and Moloch, would sink at a spell;-- +Nor strive, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the flesh +Should be torn from his jaws, while yet bleeding afresh. + + + +II. + + +For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!-- +To the death for your sacred dominions!-- +Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame, +Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame; +Your greybeards, with necks in the halter-- +Your virgins, defiled at the altar,-- +In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave, +Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave! +Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom! +How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom! +With the fiends in your streets howling pæans, +And the Beast o'er another Orleans! + + + +III. + + +Do ye quail, as on yon little islet +They have planted the feet that defile it? +Make its sands pure of taint, by the stroke of the sword, +And by torrents of blood in red sacrifice pour'd! +Doubts are Traitors, if once they persuade you to fear, +That the foe, in his foothold, is safe from your spear! +When the foot of pollution is set on your shores, +What sinew and soul should be stronger than yours? +By the fame--by the shame--of your sires, +Set on, though each freeman expires; +Better fall, grappling fast with the foe, to their graves, +Than groan in your fetters, the slaves of your slaves. + + + +IV. + + +The voice of your loud exultation +Hath rung, like a trump, through the nation, +How loudly, how proudly, of deeds to be done, +The blood of the sire in the veins of the son! +Old Moultrie and Sumter still keep at your gates, +And the foe in his foothold as patiently waits. +He asks, with a taunt, by your patience made bold, +If the hot spur of Percy grows suddenly cold-- +Makes merry with boasts of your city his own, +And the Chivalry fled, ere his trumpet is blown; +Upon them, O sons of the mighty of yore, +And fatten the sands with their Sodomite gore! + + + +V. + + +Where's the dastard that cowers and falters +In the sight of his hearthstones and altars? +With the faith of the free in the God of the brave, +Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save! +By the blue Heaven shining above ye, +By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye, +Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight, +And an ægis to shield and a weapon to smite! +Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not: +With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still. +To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians, +For your homes, and your sacred dominions. + + + + +Ode--"Our City by the Sea." + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Our city by the sea, + As the rebel city known, +With a soul and spirit free + As the waves that make her zone, +Stands in wait for the fate +From the angry arm of hate; +But she nothing fears the terror of his blow; +She hath garrisoned her walls, +And for every son that falls, +She will spread a thousand palls + For-the foe! + + + +II. + + +Old Moultrie at her gate, + Clad in arms and ancient fame. +Grimly watching, stands elate + To deliver bolt and flame! +Brave the band, at command, +To illumine sea and land +With a glory that shall honor days of yore; +And, as racers for their goals, +A thousand fiery souls, +While the drum of battle rolls, + Line the shore. + + + +III. + + +Lo! rising at his side, + As if emulous to share +His old historic pride, + The vast form of Sumter there! +Girt by waves, which he braves +Though the equinoctial raves, +As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep; +And, like tigers crouching round, +Are the tribute forts that bound +All the consecrated ground, + By the deep! + + + +IV. + + +It was calm, the April noon, + When, in iron-castled towers, +Our haughty foe came on, + With his aggregated powers; +All his might 'gainst the right, +Now embattled for the fight, +With Hell's hate and venom working in his heart; +A vast and dread array, +Glooming black upon the day, +Hell's passions all in play, + With Hell's art. + + + +V. + + +But they trouble not the souls + Of our Carolina host,[1] +And the drum of battle rolls, + While each hero seeks his post; +Firm, though few, sworn to do, +Their old city full in view, +The brave city of their sires and their dead; +There each freeman had his brood, +All the dear ones of his blood, +And he knew they watching stood, + In their dread! + + + +VI. + + +To the bare embattled height, + Then our gallant colonel sprung-- +"Bid them welcome to the fight," + Were the accents of his tongue-- +"Music! band, pour out--grand-- +The free song of Dixie Land! +Let it tell them we are joyful that they come! +Bid them welcome, drum and flute, +Nor be your cannon mute, +Give them chivalrous salute-- + To their doom!"[2] + + + +VII. + + +Out spoke an eager gun, + From the walls of Moultrie then; +And through clouds of sulph'rous dun, + Rose a shout of thousand men, +As the shot, hissing hot, +Goes in lightning to the spot-- +Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail; +Then roared the storm from all, +Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall-- +Bursting bomb and driving ball-- + Hell in hail! + + + +VIII. + + +Full a hundred cannon roared + The dread welcome to the foe, +And his felon spirit cowered, + As he crouched beneath the blow! +As each side opened wide +To the iron and the tide, +He lost his faith in armor and in art; +And, with the loss of faith, +Came the dread of wounds and scath-- +And the felon fear of death + Wrung his heart! + + + +IX. + + +Quenched then his foul desires; + In his mortal pain and fear, +How feeble grew his fires, + How stayed his fell career! +How each keel, made to reel +'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel, +Their turrets staggering wildly, to and fro, blind and lame; +Ironsides and iron roof, +Held no longer bullet-proof, +Steal away, shrink aloof, + In their shame! + + + +X. + + +But our lightnings follow fast, + With a vengeance sharp and hot; +Our bolts are on the blast, + And they rive with shell and shot! +Huge the form which they warm +With the hot breath of the storm; +Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck-- +They shiver as they fly, +While their leader, drifting nigh, +Sinks, choking with the cry-- + "Keokuk!" + + + +XI. + + +To the brave old city, joy! + For that the hostile race, +Commissioned to destroy, + Hath fled in sore disgrace! +That our sons, at their guns, +Have beat back the modern Huns-- +Have maintained their household fanes and their fires; +And free from taint and scath, +Have kept the fame and faith +(And will keep, through blood and death) + Of their sires! + + + +XII. + + +To the Lord of Hosts the glory, + For His the arm and might, +That have writ for us the story, + And have borne us through the fight! +His our shield in that field-- +Voice that bade us never yield; +Oh! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day? +His strength hath made us strong, +Cheered the right and crushed the wrong, +To His temple let us throng-- + PRAISE AND PRAY! + + +[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South +Carolina troops exclusively. + +[2] As the iron-clads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred +Rhett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where he remained, +ordered the band to strike up the national air of "Dixie;" and at the same +time, in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and regimental flags +were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen +guns. + + + + +The Lone Sentry. + +By James R. Randall. + + + +Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall +Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the +ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the +night. The officer of the day went to the general's tent, and said: + +"General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one but is asleep. +Shall I wake them?" + +"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp +to-night." + +And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel +for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when +glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all +unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers. + + +'Twas in the dying of the day, + The darkness grew so still; +The drowsy pipe of evening birds + Was hushed upon the hill; +Athwart the shadows of the vale + Slumbered the men of might, +And one lone sentry paced his rounds, + To watch the camp that night. + +A grave and solemn man was he, + With deep and sombre brow; +The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up + Some unaccomplished vow. +The wistful glance peered o'er the plains + Beneath the starry light-- +And with the murmured name of God, + He watched the camp that night. + +The Future opened unto him + Its grand and awful scroll: +Manassas and the Valley march + Came heaving o'er his soul-- +Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by + With that tremendous fight +Which gave him to the angel hosts + Who watched the camp that night. + +We mourn for him who died for us, + With one resistless moan; +While up the Valley of the Lord + He marches to the Throne! +He kept the faith of men and saints + Sublime, and pure, and bright-- +He sleeps--and all is well with him + Who watched the camp that night. + +Brothers! the Midnight of the Cause + Is shrouded in our fate; +The demon Goths pollute our halls + With fire, and lust, and hate. +Be strong--be valiant--be assured-- + Strike home for Heaven and Right! +_The soul of Jackson stalks abroad, + And guards the camp to-night!_ + + + + +To My Soldier Brother. + +By Sallie E. Ballard, of Texas. + + + +When softly gathering shades of ev'n +Creep o'er the prairies broad and green, +And countless stars bespangle heav'n, +And fringe the clouds with silv'ry sheen, +My fondest sigh to thee is giv'n, +My lonely wandering soldier boy; + And thoughts of thee + Steal over me +Like ev'ning shades, my soldier boy. + +My brother, though thou'rt far away, +And dangers hurtle round thy path, +And battle lightnings o'er thee play, +And thunders peal in awful wrath, +Think, whilst thou'rt in the hot affray, +Thy sister prays for thee, my boy. + If fondest prayer + Can shield thee there +Sweet angels guard my soldier boy. + +Thy proud young heart is beating high +To clash of arms and cannons' roar; +That firm-set lip and flashing eye +Tell how thy heart is brimming o'er. +Be free and live, be free or die; +Be that thy motto now, my boy; + And though thy name's + Unknown to fame's, +'Tis graven on my heart, my boy. + + + + +Sea-Weeds + +Written in Exile. + +By Annie Chambers Ketchum. + + + +Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart! + Beneath the citron-tree-- +Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep-- + I hear the Mexique Sea. + +While through the night rides in the spectral surf + Along the spectral sands, +And all the air vibrates, as if from harps + Touched by phantasmal hands. + +Bright in the moon the red pomegranate flowers + Lean to the Yucca's bells, +While with her chrism of dew, sad Midnight fills + The milk-white asphodels. + +Watching all night--as I have done before-- + I count the stars that set, +Each writing on my soul some memory deep + Of Pleasure or Regret; + +Till, wild with heart-break, toward the East I turn, + Waiting for dawn of day;-- +And chanting sea, and asphodel and star + Are faded, all, away. + +Only within my trembling, trembling hands-- + Brought unto me by thee-- +I clasp these beautiful and fragile things, + Bright sea-weeds from the sea, + +Fair bloom the flowers beneath these Northern skies, + Pure shine the stars by night, +And grandly sing the grand Atlantic waves + In thunder-throated might; + +But, as the sea-shell in her chambers keeps + The murmur of the sea, +So the deep-echoing memories of my home + Will not depart from me. + +Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things! + As I have seen them cast +Like a drowned woman's hair, along the beach, + When storms were over-past; + +Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashore + In Battle's storm and blight; +Would _they_ had died, like sea-weeds! Pray forgive me + But I must weep to-night. + +Tell me again, of Summer fields made fair + By Spring's precursing plough; +Of joyful reapers, gathering tear-sown harvests-- + Talk to me,--will you?--now! + + + + +The Salkehatchie. + +By Emily J. Moore. + + + +Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening +a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie. + + +The crystal streams, the pearly streams, + The streams in sunbeams flashing, +The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams, + The streams down mountains dashing, + Have been the theme + Of poets' dream, + And, in wild witching story, +Have been renowned for love's fond scenes, + Or some great deed of glory. + +The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed, + The Arno, silver-flowing, +The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan, + With poesy are glowing; + But I would praise + In artless lays, + A stream which well may match ye, +Though dark its waters glide along-- + The swampy Salkehatchie. + +'Tis not the beauty of its stream, + Which makes it so deserving +Of honor at the Muses' hands, + But 'tis the use it's serving, + And 'gainst a raid, + We hope its aid + Will ever prove efficient, +Its fords remain still overflowed, + In water ne'er deficient. + +If Vandal bands are held in check, + Their crossing thus prevented, +And we are spared the ravage wild + Their malice has invented, + Then we may well + In numbers tell + No other stream can match ye, +And grateful we shall ever be + To swampy Salkehatchie. + + + + +The Broken Mug. + +Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley +(so-called.) + +John Esten Cooke. + + + +My mug is broken, my heart is sad! + What woes can fate still hold in store! +The friend I cherished a thousand days + Is smashed to pieces on the floor! + Is shattered and to Limbo gone, + I'll see my Mug no more! + +Relic it was of joyous hours + Whose golden memories still allure-- +When coffee made of rye we drank, + And gray was all the dress we wore! + When we were paid some cents a month, + But never asked for more! + +In marches long, by day and night, + In raids, hot charges, shocks of war, +Strapped on the saddle at my back + This faithful comrade still I bore-- + This old companion, true and tried, + I'll never carry more! + +From the Rapidan to Gettysburg-- + "Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before-- +This friend went with the cavalry + And heard the jarring-cannon roar + In front of Cemetery Hill-- + Good heavens! how they did roar! + +Then back again, the foe behind, + Back to the "Old Virginia shore"-- +Some dead and wounded left--some holes + In flags, the sullen graybacks bore; + This mug had made the great campaign, + And we'd have gone once more! + +Alas! we never went again! + The red cross banner, slow but sure, +"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout + (Like the lover of Lenore) + A long, sad, lingering farewell-- + To taste its joys no more. + +But still we fought, and ate hard bread, + Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore! +And still this faithful friend remained-- + Riding behind me as before-- + The friend on march, in bivouac, + When others were no more. + +How oft we drove the horsemen blue + In Summer bright or Winter frore! +How oft before the Southern charge + Through field and wood the blue-birds tore! + Im "harmonized," but long to hear + The bugles ring once more. + +Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now, + Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure, +Congress will "reconstruct" us soon-- + But no gray people on _that_ floor! + I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long + To see those times once more! + +Gay days! the sun was brighter then, + And we were happy, though so poor! +That past comes back as I behold + My shattered friend upon the floor, + My splintered, useless, ruined mug, + From which I'll drink no more. + +How many lips I'll love for aye, + While heart and memory endure, +Have touched this broken cup and laughed-- + How they did laugh!--in days of yore! + Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream, + If they had been no more!" + +Dear comrades, dead this many a day, + I saw you weltering in your gore, +After those days, amid the pines + On the Rappahannock shore! + When the joy of life was much to me + But your warm hearts were more! + +Yours was the grand heroic nerve + That laughs amid the storm of war-- +Souls that "loved much" your native land, + Who fought and died therefor! + You gave your youth, your brains, your arms, + Your blood--you had no more! + +You lived and died true to your flag! + And now your wounds are healed--but sore +Are many hearts that think of you + Where you have "gone before." + Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms, + They are "whole" forevermore! + +Those lips this broken vessel touched, + His, too!--the man's we all adore-- +That cavalier of cavaliers, + Whose voice will ring no more-- + Whose plume will float amid the storm + Of battle never more! + +Not on this idle page I write + That name of names, shrined in the core +Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen, + Hush! words so cold and poor! + His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust, + His bugle sounds no more! + +Never was cavalier like ours! + Not Rupert in the years before! +And when his stern, hard work was done, + His griefs, joys, battles o'er-- + His mighty spirit rode the storm, + And led his men once more! + +He lies beneath his native sod, + Where violets spring, or frost is hoar: +He recks not--charging squadrons watch + His raven plume no more! + That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear, + That hand we'll touch no more! + +My foolish mirth is quenched in tears: + Poor fragments strewed upon the floor, +Ye are the types of nobler things + That find their use no more-- + Things glorious once, now trodden down-- + That makes us smile no more! + +Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts-- + Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure, +Beating his wings against the bars, + The prisoned eagle tried to soar! +Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still-- + Bread failed--we fought no more! + +Lies in the dust the shattered staff + That bore aloft on sea and shore, +That blazing flag, amid the storm! + And none are now so poor, + So poor to do it reverence, + Now when it flames no more! + +But it is glorious in the dust, + Sacred till Time shall be no more: +Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn-- + The dread "Rebellion's" o'er! + Furl the great flag--hide cross and star, + Thrust into darkness star and bar, + But look! across the ages far + It flames for evermore! + + + + +Carolina. + +By Anna Peyre Dinnies. + + + + In the hour of thy glory, + When thy name was far renowned, + When Sumter's glowing story + Thy bright escutcheon crowned; +Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine, +That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine. + + Exulting as I heard thee, + Of every lip the theme, + Prophetic visions stirred me, + In a hope-illumined dream: +A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won, +Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son. + + And now, when clouds arise, + And shadows round thee fall; + I lift to heaven my eyes, + Those visions to recall; +For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long, +Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong. + + Thy serried ranks of pine, + Thy live-oaks spreading wide, + Beneath the sunbeams shine, + In fadeless robes of pride; +Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth, +As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North. + + The deeds of other days, + Enacted by their sires, + Themes long of love and praise, + Have wakened high desires +In every heart that beats within thy proud domain, +To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again. + + Each heart the home of daring, + Each hand the foe of wrong, + They'll meet with haughty bearing, + The war-ship's thunder song; +And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore, +They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore. + + His feet may press their soil, + Or his numbers bear them down, + In his vandal raid for spoil, + His sordid soul to crown; +But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near, +When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear. + + A fearful time shall come, + When thy gathering bands unite, + And the larum-sounding drum + Calls to struggle for the Right; +"_Pro aris et pro focis_," from rank to rank shall fly, +As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die. + + Oh, then a tale of glory + Shall yet again be thine, + And the record of thy story + The Laurel shall entwine; +Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State! +Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great. + + + + +Our Martyrs. + +Bu Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I am sitting lone and weary + On the hearth of my darkened room, +And the low wind's _miserere_ + Makes sadder the midnight gloom; +There's a terror that's nameless nigh me-- + There's a phantom spell in the air, +And methinks that the dead glide by me, + And the breath of the grave's in my hair! + +'Tis a vision of ghastly faces, + All pallid, and worn with pain, +Where the splendor of manhood's graces + Give place to a gory stain; +In a wild and weird procession + They sweep by my startled eyes, +And stern with their fate's fruition, + Seem melting in blood-red skies. + +Have they come from the shores supernal, + Have they passed from the spirit's goal, +'Neath the veil of the life eternal, + To dawn on my shrinking soul? +Have they turned from the choiring angels, + Aghast at the woe and dearth +That war, with his dark evangels, + Hath wrought in the loved of earth? + +Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains + They lie, where the dew-mists weep, +And the murmur of mournful fountains + Breaks over their painful sleep; +On the breast of the lonely meadows, + Safe, safe from the despot's will, +They rest in the star-lit shadows, + And their brows are white and still! + +Alas! for the martyred heroes + Cut down at their golden prime, +In a strife with the brutal Neroes, + Who blacken the path of Time! +For them is the voice of wailing, + And the sweet blush-rose departs +From the cheeks of the maidens, paling + O'er the wreck of their broken hearts! + +And alas! for the vanished glory + Of a thousand household spells! +And alas! for the tearful story + Of the spirit's fond farewells! +By the flood, on the field, in the forest, + Our bravest have yielded breath, +But the shafts that have smitten sorest, + Were launched by a viewless death! + +Oh, Thou, that hast charms of healing, + Descend on a widowed land, +And bind o'er the wounds of feeling + The balms of Thy mystic hand! +Till the hearts that lament and languish, + Renewed by the touch divine, +From the depths of a mortal anguish + May rise to the calm of Thine! + + + + +Cleburne. + +By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama. + + + +"_Another star now shines on high._" + + +Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave +Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laurelled grave-- +Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set, +For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget. + +'Tis true thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head +Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead; +The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright +Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light. + +No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore, +No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more, +No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise, +For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies. + +Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless, deadened heart; +Calm, calm and sweet, 0 warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part, +And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine, +A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine. + +A long farewell--we give thee up, with all thy bright renown; +A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found. +Above thy grave a wail is heard--a nation mourns her dead; +A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled. + +A last farewell--how can we speak the bitter word farewell! +The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell. +Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might; +And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night. + +Selma Despatch, 1864. + + + + +The Texan Marseillaise. + +By James Haines, of Texas. + + + +Sons of the South, arouse to battle! + Gird on your armor for the fight! +The Northern Thugs with dread "War's rattle," + Pour on each vale, and glen, and height; +Meet them as Ocean meets in madness + The frail bark on the rocky shore, + When crested billows foam and roar, +And the wrecked crew go down in sadness. + Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves! + Scatter yon Vandal hordes! + Despots and bandits, fitting food + For vultures and your swords. + +Shall dastard tyrants march their legions + To crush the land of Jackson--Lee? +Shall freedom fly to other regions, + And sons of Yorktown bend the knee? +Or shall their "footprints' base pollution" + Of Southern soil, in blood be purged, + And every flying slave be scourged +Back to his snows in wild confusion? + Arm! Arm! &c. + +Vile despots, with their minions knavish, + Would drag us back to their embrace; +Will freemen brook a chain so slavish? + Will brave men take so low a place? +O, Heaven! for words--the loathing, scorning + We feel for such a Union's bands: + To paint with more than mortal hands, +And sound our loudest notes of warning. + Arm! Arm! &c. + +What! union with a race ignoring +The charter of our nation's birth! +Union with bastard slaves adoring +The fiend that chains them, to the earth! +No! we reply in tones of thunder-- +No! our staunch hills fling back the sound-- +No! our hoarse cannon echo round-- +No! evermore remain asunder! +Arm! Arm! &c. + +Southern Confederacy. + + + + +O, Tempora! O, Mores! + +By John Dickson Bruns, M. D. + + + +"Great Pan is dead!" so cried an airy tongue + To one who, drifting down Calabria's shore, +Heard the last knell, in starry midnight rung, + Of the old Oracles, dumb for evermore. + +A low wail ran along the shuddering deep, + And as, far off, its flaming accents died, +The awe-struck sailors, startled from their sleep, + Gazed, called aloud: no answering voice replied; + +Nor ever will--the angry Gods have fled, + Closed are the temples, mute are all the shrines, +The fires are quenched, Dodona's growth is dead, + The Sibyl's leaves are scattered to the winds. + +No mystic sentence will they bear again, + Which, sagely spelled, might ward a nation's doom; +But we have left us still some god-like men, + And some great voices pleading from the tomb. + +If we would heed them, they might save us yet, + Call up some gleams of manhood in our breasts, +Truth, valor, justice, teach us to forget + In a grand cause our selfish interests. + +But we have fallen on evil times indeed, + When public faith is but the common shame, +And private morals held an idiot's creed, + And old-world honesty an empty name. + +And lust, and greed, and gain are all our arts! + The simple lessons which our father's taught +Are scorned and jeered at; in our sordid marts + We sell the faith for which they toiled and fought. + +Each jostling each in the mad strife for gold, + The weaker trampled by the unrecking throng +Friends, honor, country lost, betrayed, or sold, + And lying blasphemies on every tongue. + +Cant for religion, sounding words for truth, + Fraud leads to fortune, gelt for guilt atones, +No care for hoary age or tender youth, + For widows' tears or helpless orphans' groans. + +The people rage, and work their own wild will, + They stone the prophets, drag their highest down, +And as they smite, with savage folly still + Smile at their work, those dead eyes wear no frown. + +The sage of "Drainfield"[1] tills a barren soil, + And reaps no harvest where he sowed the seed, +He has but exile for long years of toil; + Nor voice in council, though his children bleed. + +And never more shall "Redcliffs"[2] oaks rejoice, + Now bowed with grief above their master's bier; +Faction and party stilled that mighty voice, + Which yet could teach us wisdom, could we hear. + +And "Woodland's"[3] harp is mute: the gray, old man + Broods by his lonely hearth and weaves no song; +Or, if he sing, the note is sad and wan, + Like the pale face of one who's suffered long. + +So all earth's teachers have been overborne + By the coarse crowd, and fainting; droop or die; +They bear the cross, their bleeding brows the thorn, + And ever hear the clamor--"Crucify!" + +Oh, for a man with godlike heart and brain! + A god in stature, with a god's great will. +And fitted to the time, that not in vain + Be all the blood we're spilt and yet must spill. + +Oh, brothers! friends! shake off the Circean spell! + Rouse to the dangers of impending fate! +Grasp your keen swords, and all may yet be well-- + More gain, more pelf, and it will be, too late! + +Charleston Mercury [1864]. + +[1] The country-seat of R. Barnwell Rhett. + +[2] The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond. + +[3] The homestead of W. Gilmore Simms (destroyed by Sherman's army.) + + + + +Our Departed Comrades. + +By J. Marion Shirer. + + + +I am sitting alone by a fire + That glimmers on Sugar Loaf's height, +But before I to rest shall retire + And put out the fast fading light-- +While the lanterns of heaven are ling'ring + In silence all o'er the deep sea, +And loved ones at home are yet mingling + Their voices in converse of me-- +While yet the lone seabird is flying + So swiftly far o'er the rough wave, +And many fond mothers are sighing + For the noble, the true, and the brave; +Let me muse o'er the many departed + Who slumber on mountain and vale; +With the sadness which shrouds the lone-hearted, + Let me tell of my comrades a tale. +Far away in the green, lonely mountains, + Where the eagle makes bloody his beak, +In the mist, and by Gettysburg's fountains, + Our fallen companions now sleep! +Near Charleston, where Sumter still rises + In grandeur above the still wave, +And always at evening discloses + The fact that her inmates yet live-- +On islands, and fronting Savannah, + Where dark oaks overshadow the ground, +Round Macon and smoking Atlanta, + How many dead heroes are found! +And out on the dark swelling ocean, + Where vessels go, riding the waves, +How many, for love and devotion, + Now slumber in warriors' graves! +No memorials have yet been erected + To mark where these warriors lie. +All alone, save by angels protected, + They sleep 'neath the sea and the sky! +But think not that they are forgotten + By those who the carnage survive: +When their headboards will all have grown rotten, + And the night-winds have levelled their graves, +Then hundreds of sisters and mothers, + Whose freedom they perished to save, +And fathers, and empty-sleeved brothers, + Who surmounted the battle's red wave; +Will crowd from their homes in the Southward, + In search of the loved and the blest, +And, rejoicing, will soon return homeward + And lay our dear martyrs to rest. + + + + +No Land Like Ours. + +Published in the Montgomery Advertiser, January, 1863. + +By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky. + + + +Though other lands may boast of skies + Far deeper in their blue, +Where flowers, in Eden's pristine dyes, + Bloom with a richer hue; +And other nations pride in kings, + And worship lordly powers; +Yet every voice of nature sings, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other scenes, than such as grace + Our forests, fields, and plains, +May lend the earth a sweeter face + Where peace incessant reigns; +But dearest still to me the land + Where sunshine cheers the hours, +For God hath shown, with his own hand, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other streams may softer flow + In vales of classic bloom, +And rivers clear as crystal glow, + That wear no tinge of gloom; +Though other mountains lofty look, + And grand seem olden towers, +We see, as in an open book, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other nations boast of deeds + That live in old renown, +And other peoples cling to creeds + That coldly on us frown; +On pure religion, love, and law + Are based our ruling powers-- +The world but feels, with wondering awe, + There is no land like ours! + +Though other lands may boast their brave, +Whose deeds are writ in fame, +Their heroes ne'er such glory gave +As gilds our country's name; +Though others rush to daring deeds, +Where the darkening war-cloud lowers, +Here, each alike for freedom bleeds-- +There is no land like ours! + +Though other lands Napoleon +And Wellington adorn, +America, her Washington, +And later heroes born; +Yet Johnston, Jackson, Price, and Lee, +Bragg, Buckner, Morgan towers, +With Beauregard, and Hood, and Bee-- +There is no land like ours! + + + + +The Angel of the Church. + + + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +The enemy, from his camp on Morris Island, has, in frequent letters in +the Northern papers, avowed the object at which they aim their shells in +Charleston to be the spire of St. Michael's Church. Their _practice_ +shows that these avowals are true. Thus far, they have not succeeded in +their aim. Angels of the Churches, is a phrase applied by St. John in +reference to the Seven Churches of Asia. The Hebrews recognized an Angel +of the Church, in their language, "Sheliack-Zibbor," whose office may be +described as that of a watcher or guardian of the church. Daniel says, +iv. 13, "Behold, a watcher and a Holy one came down from Heaven." The +practice of naming churches after tutelary saints, originated, no doubt, +in the conviction that, where the church was pure, and the faith true, and +the congregation pious, these guardian angels, so chosen, would accept the +office assigned them. They were generally chosen from the Seraphim and +Cherubim--those who, according to St. Paul (1 Colossians xvi.), +represented thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers. According to +the Hebrew traditions, St. Michael was the head of the first order; +Gabriel, of the second; Uriel, of the third; and Raphael, of the fourth. +St. Michael is the warrior angel who led the hosts of the sky against the +powers of the princes of the air; who overthrew the dragon, and trampled +him under foot. The destruction of the Anaconda, in his hands, would be a +smaller undertaking. Assuming for our people a hope not less rational than +that of the people of Nineveh, we may reasonably build upon the +guardianship and protection of God, through his angels, "a great city of +sixty thousand souls," which has been for so long a season the subject of +his care. These notes will supply the adequate illustrations for the ode +which follows. + + + +I. + + +Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim + The temple of the living God; +Hurl iron bolt and seething flame + Through aisles which holiest feet have trod; +Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb, + And, raging with demoniac ire, +Send down, in sudden crash of doom, + That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire. + + + +II. + + +That spire, for full a hundred years,[1] + Hath been a people's point of sight; +That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears, + With strains well worthy Salem's height; +The sweet, clear music of its bells, + Made liquid soft in Southern air, +Still through the heart of memory swells, + And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer. + + + +III. + + +Along the shores for many a mile, + Long ere they owned a beacon-mark, +It caught arid kept the Day-God's smile, + The guide for every wandering bark;[2] +Averting from our homes the scaith + Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven, +The Pharos to the wandering faith, + It pointed every prayer to Heaven! + + + +IV. + + +Well may ye, felons of the time, + Still loathing all that's pure and free, +Add this to many a thousand crime + 'Gainst peace and sweet humanity: +Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame, + Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes, +But fitly turn your murderous aim + Against Jehovah's ancient domes. + + + +V. + + +Yet, though the grand old temple falls, + And downward sinks the lofty spire, +Our faith is stronger than our walls, + And soars above the storm and fire. +Ye shake no faith in souls made free + To tread the paths their fathers trod; +To fight and die for liberty, + Believing in the avenging God! + + + +VI. + + +Think not, though long his anger stays, + His justice sleeps--His wrath is spent; +The arm of vengeance but delays, + To make more dread the punishment! +Each impious hand that lights the torch + Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall; +And the bright Angel of the Church, + With seraph shield avert the ball! + + + +VII. + + +For still we deem, as taught of old, + That where the faith the altar builds, +God sends an angel from his fold, + Whose sleepless watch the temple shields, +And to his flock, with sweet accord, + Yields their fond choice, from THRONES and POWERS; +Thus, Michael, with his fiery sword + And golden shield, still champions ours! + + + +VIII. + + +And he who smote the dragon down, + And chained him thousand years of time, +Need never fear the boa's frown, + Though loathsome in his spite and slime. +He, from the topmost height, surveys + And guards the shrines our fathers gave; +And we, who sleep beneath his gaze, + May well believe his power to save! + + + +IX. + + +Yet, if it be that for our sin + Our angel's term of watch is o'er, +With proper prayer, true faith must win + The guardian watcher back once more I +Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer-- + In blood and sackcloth, if it need; +And still our spire shall rise in air, + Our temple, though our people bleed! + +[1] St.. Michael's Church was opened for divine worship, February 1, 1761 + +[2] "The height of this steeple makes it the principal land-mark for the +pilots."--Dalcjio (in 1819). + + + + +Ode--"Shell the Old City! Shell!" + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Shell the old city I shell! +Ye myrmidons of Hell; +Ye serve your master well, + With hellish arts! +Hurl down, with bolt and fire, +The grand old shrines, the spire; +But know, your demon ire +Subdues no hearts! + + + +II. + + +There, we defy ye still, +With sworn and resolute will; +Courage ye cannot kill + While we have breath! +Stone walls your bolts may break, +But, ere our souls ye shake, +Of the whole land we'll make + One realm of death! + + + +III. + + +Dear are our homes! our eyes +Weep at their sacrifice; +And, with each bolt that flies, + Each roof that falls, +The pang extorts the tear, +That things so precious, dear +To memory, love, and care, + Sink with our walls. + + + +IV. + + +Trophies of ancient time, +When, with great souls, sublime, +Opposing force and crime, + Our fathers fought; +Relics of golden hours, +When, for our shrines and bowers, +Genius, with magic powers, + Her triumphs wrought! + + + +V. + + +Each Sabbath-hallowed dome, +Each ancient family home, +The dear old southwest room, + All trellised round; +Where gay, bright summer vines, +Linked in fantastic twines +With the sun's blazing lines, + Rubied the ground! + + + +VI. + + +Homes, sacred to the past, +Which bore the hostile blast, +Though Spain, France, Britain cast + Their shot and shell! +Tombs of the mighty dead, +That in our battles bled, +When on our infant head + These furies fell! + + + +VII. + + +Halls which the foreign guest +Found of each charm possessed, +With cheer unstinted blessed, + And noblest grace; +Where, drawing to her side +The stranger, far and wide, +Frank courtesy took pride + To give him place! + + + +VIII. + + +The shaded walks--the bowers +Where, through long summer hours, +Young Love first proved his powers + To win the prize; +Where every tree has heard +Some vows of love preferred, +And, with his leaves unstirred, + Watch'd lips and eyes. + + + +IX. + + +Gardens of tropic blooms, +That, through the shaded rooms, +Sent Orient-winged perfumes + With dusk and dawn; +The grand old laurel, tall, +As sovereign over all, +And, from the porch and hall, + The verdant lawn. + + + +X. + + +Oh! when we think of these +Old homes, ancestral trees; +Where, in the sun and breeze, + At morn and even, +Was to enjoy the play +Of hearts at holiday, +And find, in blooms of May, + Foretaste of Heaven! + + + +XI. + + +Where, as we cast our eyes +On thing's of precious prize, +Trophies of good and wise, + Grand, noble, brave; +And think of these, so late +Sacred to soul and state, +Doomed, as the wreck of fate, + By fiend and slave!-- + + + +XII. + + +The inevitable pain, +Coursing through blood and brain, +Drives forth, like winter rain, + The bitter tear! +We cannot help but weep, +From depth of hearts that keep +The memories, dread and deep. + To vengeance dear! + + + +XIII. + + +Aye, for each tear we shed, +There shall be torrents red, +Not from the eye-founts fed, + But from the veins! +Bloody shall be the sweat, +Fiends, felons, that shall yet +Pay retribution's debt, + In torture's pains! + + + +XIV. + + +Our tears shall naught abate, +Of what we owe to hate-- +To the avenging fate-- + To earth and Heaven! +And, soon or late, the hour +Shall bring th' atoning power, +When, through the clouds that lower, + The storm-bolt's driven! + + + +XV. + + +Shell the old city--shell! +But, with each rooftree's knell, +Vows deep of vengeance fell, + Fire soul and eye! +With every tear that falls +Above our stricken walls +Each heart more fiercely calls, + "Avenge, or die!" + + + + +"The Enemy Shall Never Reach Your City." + +Andrew Jackson's Address to the People of New Orleans. + + + +I. + + +Never, while such as ye are in the breach, +Oh! brothers, sons, and Southrons--never! never! +Shall the foul enemy your city reach! +For souls and hearts are eager with endeavor; +And God's own sanction on your cause, makes holy +Each arm that strikes for home, however lowly!-- +And ye shall conquer by the rolling deep!-- +And ye shall conquer on the embattled steep!-- +And ye shall see Leviathan go down +A hundred fathoms, with a horrible cry +Of drowning wretches, in their agony-- +While Slaughter wades in gore along the sands, +And Terror flies with pleading, outstretched hands, +All speechless, but with glassy-staring eyes-- +Flying to Fate--and fated as he flies;-- +Seeking his refuge in the tossing wave, +That gives him, when the shark has fed, a grave! + + + +II. + + +Thus saith the Lord of Battles: "Shall it be, +That this great city, planted by the sea, +With threescore thousand souls--with fanes and spires +Reared by a race of unexampled sires-- +That I have watched, now twice a hundred years,[1] +Nursed through long infancy of hopes and fears, +Baptized in blood at seasons, oft in tears; +Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow +To greatness, with a progress firm but slow-- +That being the grand condition of duration-- +Until it spreads into the mighty nation! +And shall the usurper, insolent of power, +O'erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour! +And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will, +Say to its mighty heart--'Crouch, and be still! +My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate! +Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!'" + + + +III. + + +"No! He shall know--I am the Lord of war; +And all his mighty hosts but pigmies are! +His hellish engines, wrought for human woe, +His arts and vile inventions, and his power, +My arm shall bring to ruin, swift and low! +Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm-clouds lower, +And I will arm my people with a faith, +Shall make them free of fear, and free of scaith; +Arid they shall bear from me a smiting sword, +Edged with keen lightning, at whose stroke is poured +A torrent of destruction and swift wrath, +Sweeping--the insolent legions from their path! +The usurper shall be taught that none shall take-- +The right to punish and avenge from me: +And I will guard my City by the Sea, +And save its people for their fathers' sake!" + + + +IV. + + +Selah!--Oh I brothers, sons, and Southrons, rise; +To prayer: and lo! the wonder in the skies! +The sunbow spans your towers, even while the foe +Hurls his fell bolt, and rains his iron blow. +Toss'd by his shafts, the spray above yon height[1] +God's smile hath turned into a golden light; +Orange and purple-golden! In that sign +Find ye fit promise for that voice divine! +Hark! 'tis the thunder! Through the murky air, +The solemn roll goes echoing far and near! +Go forth, and unafraid! His shield is yours! +And the great spirits of your earlier day-- +Your fathers, hovering round your sacred shores-- +Will guard your bosoms through the unequal fray! +Hark to their voices, issuing through the gloom:[2] +"The cruel hosts that haunt you, march to doom: +Give them the vulture's rites--a naked tomb! +And, while ye bravely smite, with fierce endeavor, +The foe shall reach your city--never! never!" + + +[1] Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years +old. + +[2]In the late engagement of Fort Sumter, with the enemy's fleet, April +7th, the spray thrown above the walls by their enormous missiles, was +formed into a beautiful sunbow, seeing which, General Ripley, with the +piety of Constantine, exclaimed: "_In hoc signo vinces!_" + + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +War-Waves. + +By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston. + + + +What are the war-waves saying, + As they compass us around? +The dark, ensanguined billows, + With their deep and dirge-like sound? +Do they murmur of submission; + Do they call on us to bow +Our necks to the foe triumphant + Who is riding o'er us now? + +Never! No sound submissive + Comes from those waves sublime, +Or the low, mysterious voices + Attuned to their solemn chime! +For the hearts of our noble martyrs + Are the springs of its rich supply; +And those deeply mystic murmurs + Echo their dying cry! + +They bid us uplift our banner + Once more in the name of God; +And press to the goal of Freedom + By the paths our Fathers trod: +_They_ passed o'er their dying brothers; + From their pale lips caught the sigh-- +The _flame_ of their hearts heroic, + From the flash of each closing eye! + +Up! Up! for the time is pressing, + The red waves close around;-- +They will lift us on their billows + If our hearts are faithful found! +They will lift us high--exultant, + And the craven world shall see +The Ark of a ransomed people + Afloat on the crimson sea! + +Afloat, with her glorious banner-- + The cross on its field of red, +Its stars, and its white folds waving + In triumph at her head; +Emblem of all that's sacred + Heralding Faith to view; +Type of unblemished honor; + Symbol of all that's true! + +_Then_ what can those waves be singing + But an anthem grand, sublime, +As they bear for our martyred heroes + A wail to the coast of Time? +What else as they roll majestic + To the far-off shadowy shore, +To join the Eternal chorus + When Time shall be no more! + + + + +Old Moultrie. + + +By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston. + + + +All lovers of poetry will know in whose liquid gold I have dipped my brush +to illumine the picture. + + +The splendor falls on bannered walls + Of ancient Moultrie, great in story; +And flushes now, his scar-seamed brow, + With rays of golden glory! + Great in his old renown; + Great in the honor thrown + Around him by the foe, + Had sworn to lay him low! + +The glory falls--historic walls + Too weak to cover foes insulting, +Become a tower--a sheltering bower-- + A theme of joy exulting; + God, merciful and great, + Preserved the high estate + Of Moultrie, by His power + Through the fierce battle-hour! + +The splendor fell--his banners swell + Majestic forth to catch the shower; +Our own loved _blue_ receives anew + A rich immortal dower! + Adown the triple bars + Of its companion, spars + Of golden glory stream; + On seven-rayed circlet beam! + +The glory falls--but not on walls + Of Sumter deemed _the post of duty_; +A brilliant sphere, it circles clear + The harbor in its beauty; + Holding in its embrace + The city's queenly grace; + Stern battery and tower, + Of manly strength and power, + +But brightest falls on Moultrie's walls, + Forever there to rest in glory, +A hallowed light--on buttress height-- + Oh, fort, beloved and hoary! + Rest _there_ and tell that _faith_ + Shall never suffer scaith; + _Rest there_-and glow afar-- + _Hope's ever-burning star!_ + +Charleston Mercury + + + + +Only One Killed. + +By Julia L. Keyes, Montgomery, Ala. + + + +Only one killed--in company B, + 'Twas a trifling loss--one man! +A charge of the bold and dashing Lee-- +While merry enough it was, to see + The enemy, as he ran. + +Only one killed upon our side-- + Once more to the field they turn. +Quietly now the horsemen ride-- +And pause by the form of the one who died, + So bravely, as now we learn. + +Their grief for the comrade loved and true + For a time was unconcealed; +They saw the bullet had pierced him through +That his pain was brief--ah! very few + Die thus, on the battle-field. + +The news has gone to his home, afar-- + Of the short and gallant fight, +Of the noble deeds of the young La Var +Whose life went out as a falling star + In the skirmish of that night. + +"Only one killed! It was my son," + The widowed mother cried. +She turned but to clasp the sinking one, +Who heard not the words of the victory won, + But of him who had bravely died. + +Ah! death to her were a sweet relief, + The bride of a single year. +Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief, +Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf + Now trodden and brown and sere! + +But no, she must bear through coming life + Her burden of silent woe, +The aged mother and youthful wife +Must live through a nation's bloody strife, + Sighing, and waiting to go. + +Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars, + Are meeting no more to part, +They can smile once more through the crystal bars-- +Where never more will the woe of wars + O'ershadow the loving--heart. + +Field and Fireside. + + + + +Land of King Cotton.[1] + +Air--Red, White, and Blue. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + +From the Memphis Appeal, December 18, 1861. + + + +Oh! Dixie, dear land of King Cotton, + "The home of the brave and the free," +A nation by freedom begotten, + The terror of despots to be; +Wherever thy banner is streaming, + Base tyranny quails at thy feet, +And liberty's sunlight is beaming, + In splendor of majesty sweet. + +CHORUS.--Three cheers for our army so true, + Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee; + Beauregard and our Davis forever, + The pride of the brave and the free! + +When Liberty sounds her war-rattle, + Demanding her right and her due, +The first land that rallies to battle + Is Dixie, the shrine of the true; +Thick as leaves of the forest in summer, + Her brave sons will rise on each plain, +And then strike, until each Vandal comer + Lies dead on the soil he would stain. +CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc. + +May the names of the dead that we cherish, + Fill memory's cup to the brim; +May the laurels they've won never perish, + "Nor star of their glory grow dim;" +May the States of the South never sever, + But the champions of freedom e'er be; +May they flourish Confederate forever, + The boast of the brave and the free. +CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc. + +[1] "Land of King Cotton" was the favorite song of the Tennessee troops, +but especially of the Thirteenth and One Hundred and Fifty-fourth +regiments. + + + + +If You Love Me. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + + + +You have told me that you love me, + That you worship at my shrine; +That no purity above me + Can on earth be more divine. +Though the kind words you have spoken. + Sound to me most sweetly strange, +Will your pledges ne'er be broken? + Will there be in you no change? + +If you love me half so wildly-- + Half so madly as you say, +Listen to me, darling, mildly-- + Would you do aught I would pray? +If you would, then hear the thunder + Of our country's cannon speak! +While by war she's rent asunder, + Do not come my love to seek. + +If you love me, do not ponder, + Do not breathe what you would say, +Do not look at me with wonder, + Join your country in the fray. +Go! your aid and right hand lend her, + Breast the tyrant's angry blast: +Be her own and my defender-- + Strike for freedom to the last, + +Then I'll vow to love none other, + While you nobly dare and do; +As you're faithful to our mother, + So I'll faithful prove to you. +But return not while the thunder + Lives in one invading sword; +Strike the despot's hirelings under-- + Own no master but the Lord. + + + + +The Cotton Boll. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +While I recline +At ease beneath +This immemorial pine, +Small sphere!-- +By dusky fingers brought this morning here? +And shown with boastful smiles,-- +I turn thy cloven sheath, +Through which the soft white fibres peer, +That, with their gossamer bands, +Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, +And slowly, thread by thread, +Draw forth the folded strands, +Than which the trembling line, +By whose frail help yon startled spider fled +Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging bed, +Is scarce more fine; +And as the tangled skein +Unravels in my hands, +Betwixt me and the noonday light, +A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles +The landscape broadens on my sight, +As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell +Like that which, in the ocean shell, +With mystic sound, +Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, +And turns some city lane +Into the restless main, +With all his capes and isles! + +Yonder bird,-- +Which floats, as if at rest, +In those blue tracts above the thunder, where +No vapors cloud the stainless air, +And never sound is heard, +Unless at such rare time +When, from the City of the Blest, +Rings down some golden chime,-- +Sees not from his high place +So vast a cirque of summer space +As widens round me in one mighty field, +Which, rimmed by seas and sands, +Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams +Of gray Atlantic dawns; +And, broad as realms made up of many lands, +Is lost afar +Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns +Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams +Against the Evening Star! +And lo! +To the remotest point of sight, +Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, +The endless field is white; +And the whole landscape glows, +For many a shining league away, +With such accumulated light +As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day! +Nor lack there (for the vision grows, +And the small charm within my hands-- +More potent even than the fabled one, +Which oped whatever golden mystery +Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, +The curious ointment of the Arabian tale-- +Beyond all mortal sense +Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see +Beneath its simple influence, +As if, with Uriel's crown, +I stood in some great temple of the Sun, +And looked, as Uriel, down)-- +Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green +With all the common gifts of God, +For temperate airs and torrid sheen +Weave Edens of the sod; +Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold +Broad rivers wind their devious ways; +A hundred isles in their embraces fold +A hundred luminous bays; +And through yon purple haze +Vast mountains lift their pluméd peaks cloud-crowned; +And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps, +An unknown forest girds them grandly round, +In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps! +Ye stars, which though unseen, yet with me gaze +Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth! +Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays +Above it, as to light a favorite hearth! +Ye clouds, that in your temples in the West +See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers! +And, you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast +Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers! +Bear witness with me in my song of praise, +And tell the world that, since the world began, +No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, +Or given a home to man! + +But these are charms already widely blown! +His be the meed whose pencil's trace +Hath touched our very swamps with grace, +And round whose tuneful way +All Southern laurels bloom; +The Poet of "The Woodlands," unto whom +Alike are known +The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, +And the soft west-wind's sighs; +But who shall utter all the debt, +0 Land! wherein all powers are met +That bind a people's heart, +The world doth owe thee at this day, +And which it never can repay, +Yet scarcely deigns to own! +Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing +The source wherefrom doth spring +That mighty commerce which, confined +To the mean channels of no selfish mart, +Goes out to every shore +Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships +That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips +In alien lands; +Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; +And gladdening rich and poor, +Doth gild Parisian domes, +Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes, +And only bounds its blessings by mankind! +In offices like these, thy mission lies, +My Country! and it shall not end +As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend +In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard +And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard +Thy hearthstones as a bulwark; make thee great +In white and bloodless state; +And, haply, as the years increase-- +Still working through its humbler reach +With that large wisdom which the ages teach-- +Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace! + +As men who labor in that mine +Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed +Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, +Hear the dull booming of the world of brine +Above them, and a mighty muffled roar +Of winds and waters, and yet toil calmly on, +And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, +Or carve a niche, or shape the archéd roof; +So I, as calmly, weave my woof +Of song, chanting the days to come, +Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air +Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn +Wakes from its starry silence to the hum +Of many gathering armies. Still, +In that we sometimes hear, +Upon the Northern winds the voice of woe +Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know +The end must crown us, and a few brief years +Dry all our tears, +I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will +Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget +That there is much even Victory must regret. +And, therefore, not too long +From the great burden of our country's wrong +Delay our just release! + +And, if it may be, save +These sacred fields of peace +From stain of patriot or of hostile blood! +Oh, help us Lord! to roll the crimson flood +Back on its course, and, while our banners wing +Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling +To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave +Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate +The lenient future of his fate +There, where some rotting ships and trembling quays +Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas. + + + + +The Battle of Charleston Harbor. + +April 7th, 1863. + +By Paul H. Hayne. + + + +I. + + +Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, +The Northman's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay; +They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave, +Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave. + + + +II. + + +A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew +More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, +And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, +Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening Star! + + + +III. + + +Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, +The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, +So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, +They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes! + + + +IV. + + +Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, +Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold-- +They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely-echoing cheers, +And then--once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. + + + +V. + + +Onward--in sullen file, and slow, low glooming on the wave, +Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, +When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore, +Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore![1] + + + +VI. + + +Ha! brutal Corsairs! tho' ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, +Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail! +Ye strive the ruffian types of Might 'gainst law, and truth, and Right, +Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might! + + + +VII. + + +No empty boast! I for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, +Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire. +The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above. +Fight on! oh! knightly Gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love! + + + +VIII. + + +There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise, +To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' Death must give the prize-- +There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient Town, +A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down. + + + +IX. + + +The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps, +Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; +And ship by ship, raked, overborne, 'ere burned the sunset bloom, +Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb! + + + +X. + + +Oh! glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires, +Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires-- +Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless + sons, +And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's Angels near the guns! + + +[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun. + + + + +Fort Wagner. + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Glory unto the gallant boys who stood + At Wagner, and, unflinching, sought the van; +Dealing fierce blows, and shedding precious blood, + For homes as precious, and dear rights of man! +They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory;-- + Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat +The legend, which shall grow to themes for story, + Told through long ages, and forever sweet! + + + +II. + + +High honor to our youth--our sons and brothers, + Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand! +They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers, + But keep, through storm, the bulwarks of the land! +They feel that they _must_ conquer! Not to do it, + Were worse than death--perdition! Should they fail, +The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it, + The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail! + + + +III. + + +No! They must conquer in the breach or perish! + Assured, in the last consciousness of breath, +That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish + Their deeds, with honors that shall sweeten death! +They shall have trophies in long future hours, + And loving recollections, which shall be +Green, as the summer leaves, and fresh as flowers, + That, through all seasons, bloom eternally! + + + +IV. + + +Their memories shall be monuments, to rise + Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past; +Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies, + And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast! +A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted, + Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;-- +A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted, + When skies and seas around thee shook with fire! + + + +V. + + +And others as well chronicled shall be! + What though they fell with unrecorded name-- +They live among the archives of the free, + With proudest title to undying fame! +The unchisell'd marble under which they sleep, + Shall tell of heroes, fearless still of fate; +Not asking if their memories shall keep, + But if they nobly served, and saved, the State! + + + +VI. + + +For thee, young Fortress Wagner--thou shalt wear + Green laurels, worthy of the names that now, +Thy sister forts of Moultrie, Sumter, bear! + See that thou lift'st, for aye, as proud a brow! +And thou shalt be, to future generations, + A trophied monument; whither men shall come +In homage; and report to distant nations, +A SHRINE, which foes shall never make a TOMB! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Sumter in Ruins. + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +I. + + +Ye batter down the lion's den, + But yet the lordly beast g'oes free; +And ye shall hear his roar again, +From mountain height, from lowland glen, +From sandy shore and reedy fen-- +Where'er a band of freeborn men + Rears sacred shrines to liberty. + + + +II. + + +The serpent scales the eagle's nest, + And yet the royal bird, in air, +Triumphant wins the mountain's crest, +And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest, +And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast, +Till, like a storm-bolt from the west, + He strikes the invader in his lair. + + + +III. + + +What's loss of den, or nest, or home, + If, like the lion, free to go;-- +If, like the eagle, wing'd to roam, +We span the rock and breast the foam, +Still watchful for the hour of doom, +When, with the knell of thunder-boom, + We bound upon the serpent foe! + + + +IV. + + +Oh! noble sons of lion heart! + Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing! +What though your batter'd bulwarks part, +Your nest be spoiled by reptile art-- +Your souls, on wings of hate, shall start +For vengeance, and with lightning-dart, + Rend the foul serpent ere he sting! + + + +V. + + +Your battered den, your shattered nest, + Was but the lion's crouching-place;-- +It heard his roar, and bore his crest, +His, or the eagle's place of rest;-- +But not the soul in either breast! +This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd, + To save and to avenge their race! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Morris Island. + +By W. Gilmore Simms. + + + +Oh! from the deeds well done, the blood well shed + In a good cause springs up to crown the land +With ever-during verdure, memory fed, + Wherever freedom rears one fearless band, +The genius, which makes sacred time and place, +Shaping the grand memorials of a race! + +The barren rock becomes a monument, + The sea-shore sands a shrine; +And each brave life, in desperate conflict spent, + Grows to a memory which prolongs a line! + +Oh! barren isle--oh! fruitless shore, + Oh! realm devoid of beauty--how the light +From glory's sun streams down for evermore, + Hallowing your ancient barrenness with bright! + +Brief dates, your lowly forts; but full of glory, + Worthy a life-long story; +Remembered, to be chronicled and read, + When all your gallant garrisons are dead; + And to be sung +While liberty and letters find a tongue! + +Taught by the grandsires at the ingle-blaze, + Through the long winter night; +Pored over, memoried well, in winter days, + While youthful admiration, with delight, +Hangs, breathless, o'er the tale, with silent praise; +Seasoning delight with wonder, as he reads +Of stubborn conflict and audacious deeds; + Watching the endurance of the free and brave, + Through the protracted struggle and close fight, +Contending for the lands they may not save, + Against the felon, and innumerous foe; +Still struggling, though each rampart proves a grave. + For home, and all that's dear to man below! + +Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow; + But still undaunted, with a martyr's might, + They make for man a new Thermopylæ; +And, perishing for freedom, still go free! + Let but each humble islet of our coast +Thus join the terrible issue to the last; + And never shall the invader make his boast +Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply + He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast! + + + + +Promise of Spring. + + + + The sun-beguiling breeze, + From the soft Cuban seas, +With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers; + And lo! our city elms, + Have plumed with buds their helms, +And, with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers. + + The promise of the Spring, + Is in every glancing wing +That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the flight; + And mocking Winter's glooms, + Skies, air and earth grow blooms, +With change as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night! + + Ah! could our hearts but share + The promise rich and rare, +That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress, + That makes each innocent thing + Put on its bloom and wing, +Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless! + + But, alas for us, no more + Shall the coming hour rescore +The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls; + Even as the Spring appears, + Her smiling makes our tears, +While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls. + + Even as our zephyrs sing + That they bring us in the Spring, +Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight-- + We see the serpent crawl, + With his slimy coat o'er all, +And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight. + + We shudder at the blooms, + Which but serve to cover tombs-- +At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath; + Sad shapes look out from trees, + And in sky and earth and breeze, +We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death! + +South Carolinian. + + + + +Spring. + +By Henry Timrod. + + + +Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air +Which dwells with all things fair, +Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, +Is with us once again. + +Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns +Its fragrant lamps, and turns +Into a royal court with green festoons +The banks of dark lagoons. + +In the deep heart of every forest tree +The blood is all aglee, +And there's a look about the leafless bowers +As if they dreamed of flowers. + +Yet still on every side appears the hand +Of Winter in the land, +Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, +Flushed by the season's dawn; + +Or where, like those strange semblances we find +That age to childhood bind, +The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, +The brown of Autumn corn. + +As yet the turf is dark, although you know +That, not a span below, +A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, +And soon will burst their tomb. + +Already, here and there, on frailest stems +Appear some azure gems, +Small as might deck, upon a gala day, +The forehead of a fay. + +In gardens you may see, amid the dearth, +The crocus breaking earth; +And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, +The violet in its screen. + +But many gleams and shadows need must pass +Along the budding grass, +And weeks go by, before the enamored South +Shall kiss the rose's mouth. + +Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn +In the sweet airs of morn; +One almost looks to see the very street +Grow purple at his feet. + +At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by +And brings, you know not why, +A feeling as when eager crowds await +Before a palace gate. + +Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, +If from a beech's heart +A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say +"Behold me! I am May!" + +Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime +With such a blessed time! +Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath +Could hear the call of Death! + +Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake +The voice of wood and brake, +Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms +A million men to arms. + +There shall be deeper hues upon her plains +Than all her sunlight rains, +And every gladdening influence around +Can summon from the ground. + +Oh! standing on this desecrated mould, +Methinks that I behold, +Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, +Spring, kneeling on the sod, + +And calling with the voice of all her rills +Upon the ancient hills, +To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves +Who turn her meads to graves. + + + + +Chickmauga--"The Stream of Death." + +Richmond Senitnel. + + + +Chickamuga! Chickamauga! + O'er thy dark and turbid wave +Rolls the death-cry of the daring, + Rings the war-shout of the brave; +Round thy shore the red fires flashing, + Startling shot and screaming shell-- +Chickamauga, stream of battle, + Who thy fearful tale shall tell? + +Olden memories of horror, + Sown by scourge of deadly plague, +Long hath clothed thy circling forests + With a terror vast and vague; +Now to gather further vigor + From the phantoms grim with gore, +Hurried, by war's wilder carnage, + To their graves on thy lone shore. + +Long, with hearts subdued and saddened, + As th' oppressor's hosts moved on, +Fell the arms of freedom backward, + Till our hopes had almost flown; +Till outspoke stern valor's fiat-- + "_Here_ th' invading wave shall stay; +_Here_ shall cease the foe's proud progress; + _Here_ be crushed his grand array!" + +_Then_ their eager hearts all throbbing, + Backward flashed each battle-flag +Of the veteran corps of Longstreet, + And the sturdy troops of Bragg; +Fierce upon the foemen turning, + All their pent-up wrath breaks out +In the furious battle-clangor, + And the frenzied battle-shout. + +Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga, + Trembles all thy ghastly shore, +With the rude shock of the onset, + And the tumult's horrid roar; +As the Southern battle-giants + Hurl their bolts of death along, +Breckenridge, the iron-hearted, + Cheatham, chivalric and strong: + +Polk Preston--gallant Buckner, + Hill and Hindman, strong in might, +Cleburne, flower of manly valor, + Hood, the Ajax of the fight; +Benning, bold and hardy warrior, + Fearless, resolute Kershaw; +Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt, + Volley fierce and wild hurrah! + +At the volleys bleed their bodies, + At the fierce shout rise their souls, +While the fiery wave of vengeance + On their quailing column rolls; +And the parched throats of the stricken + Breathe for air the roaring flame, +Horrors of that hell foretasted, + Who shall ever dare to name! + +Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled, + Paid, upon that bloody field, +Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage + To the sword our heroes yield; +And who felt, by fiery trial, + That the men who will be free. +Though in conflict baffled often, + Ever will unconquered be! + +Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us, + Dealing desolation round, +Marking, with the tracks of ruin, + Many a rood of Southern ground; +Yet, whatever course they follow, + _Somewhere_ in their pathway flows, +Dark and deep, a Chickamauga, + _Stream of death_ to vandal foes! + +They have found it darkly flowing + By Manassas' famous plain, +And by rushing Shenandoah + Met the tide of woe again; +Chickahominy, immortal, + By the long, ensanguined fight, +Rappahannock, glorious river, + Twice renowned for matchless fight. + +Heed the story, dastard spoilers, + Mark the tale these waters tell, +Ponder well your fearful lesson, + And the doom that there befell; +Learn to shun the Southern vengeance, + Sworn upon the votive sword, +"_Every_ stream a Chickamauga + To the vile invading horde!" + + + + +In Memoriam + +Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General +Confederate States Army. + + + +Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done, + This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended: +There is no more--eternity begun, + Faith merged in sight--hope with fruition blended. + Peace, troubled soul! +The Warrior rests upon his bier, + Within his coffin calmly sleeping. + His requiem the cannon peals, + And heroes of a hundred fields + Their last sad watch are round him keeping. + +Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale + Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling; +Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale, + Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling. + Joy, sainted soul! +Back to her altar which he served, + The Holy Church her child is bringing. + The organ's wail then dies away, + And kneeling priests around him pray, + As _De Profundis_ they are singing. + +Bring all the trophies, that are owed + To him at once so great, so good. +His Bible and his well-used sword-- + His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!" +No! pure as when before his God, + He laid its spotless folds aside, +War's path of awful duty trod, + And on his country's altar died! + +Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State + Sustain in thee an equal loss; +But who would call thee from thy weight + Of glory, back to bear life's cross! +The Faith was kept--thy course was run, + Thy good fight finished; hence the word, +"Well done, oh! faithful child, well done, + Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!" + +No dull decay nor lingering pain, + By slow degrees, consumed thy health, +A glowing messenger of flame + Translated thee by fiery death! +And we who in one common grief + Are bending now beneath the rod, +In this sweet thought may find relief, + "Our holy father walked with God, +And is not--God has taken him!" + +Viola. + + + + +"Stonewall" Jackson + +By H. L. Flash. + + + +Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fight +Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, +Did kingly death, with his resistless might, +Lay the great leader low! + +His warrior soul its earthly shackles bore +In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; +When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oak +That propped our cause, went down. + +Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, +Recording all his grand heroic deeds, +Freedom herself is writhing with his wound, +And all the country bleeds. + +He entered not the nation's "Promised Land," +At the red belching of the cannon's mouth; +But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand-- +The Moses of the South! + +Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss: +A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown; +And while his country staggers with the cross-- +He rises with the crown! + + + + +"Stonewall" Jackson.--A Dirge. + + + +Go to thy rest, great chieftain! +In the zenith of thy fame; +With the proud heart stilled and frozen, +No foeman e'er could tame; +With the eye that met the battle +As the eagle's meets the sun, +Rayless-beneath its marble lid, +Repose-thou mighty one! + +Yet ill our cause could spare thee; +And harsh the blow of fate +That struck its staunchest pillar +From 'neath our dome of state. +Of thee, as of the Douglas, +We say, with Scotland's king, +"There is not one to take his place +In all the knightly ring." + +Thou wert the noblest captain +Of all that martial host +That front the haughty Northman, +And put to shame his boast. +Thou wert the strongest bulwark +To stay the tide of fight; +The name thy soldiers gave thee +Bore witness of thy might! + +But we may not weep above thee; +This is no time for tears! +Thou wouldst not brook their shedding, +Oh! saint among thy peers! +Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven, +Above us smiling spread, +Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief, +On the blood-stained path we tread! + +Not--while our homes in ashes +Lie smouldering on the sod! +Not--while our houseless women +Send up wild wails to God! +Not--while the mad fanatic +Strews ruin on his track! +_Dare_ any Southron give the rein +To feeling, and look back! + +No! Still the cry is "onward!" +This is no time for tears; +No I Still the word is "vengeance!" +Leave ruth for coming years. +We will snatch thy glorious banner +From thy dead and stiffening hand, +And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm, +We'll bear it through the land. + +And all who mark it streaming-- +Oh! soldier of the cross!-- +Shall gird them with a fresh resolve +Sternly to avenge our loss; +Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr, +Thy sacred mission shown, +Shalt lay the record of our wrongs +Before the Eternal throne! + + + + +Beaufort. + +By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina. + + + +Old home! what blessings late were yours; + The gifts of peace, the songs of joy! +Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores, + To ravage and destroy. + +The Northman comes no longer there, + With soft address and measured phrase, +With bated breath, and sainted air, + And simulated praise. + +He comes a vulture to his prey; + A wolf to raven in your streets: +Around on shining stream and bay + Gather his bandit fleets. + +They steal the pittance of the poor; + Pollute the precincts of the dead; +Despoil the widow of her store,-- + The orphan of his bread. + +Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood, + No Christian land has known before; +Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood, + To sweep them from the shore! + +Exiles from home, your people fly, + In adverse fortune's hardest school; +With swelling breast and flashing eye-- + They scorn the tyrant's rule! + +Away, from all their joys away, + The sports that active youth engage; +The scenes where childhood loves to play, + The resting-place of age. + +Away, from fertile field and farm; + The oak-fringed island-homes that seem +To sit like swans, with matchless charm, + On sea-born sound and stream. + +Away, from palm-environed coast, + The beach that ocean beats in vain; +The Royal Port, your pride and boast, + The loud-resounding main. + +Away, from orange groves that glow + With golden fruit or snowy flowers, +Roses that never cease to blow, + Myrtle and jasmine bowers. + +From these afar, the hoary bead + Of feeble age, the timid maid, +Mothers and nurslings, all have fled, + Of ruthless foes afraid. + +But, ready, with avenging hand, + By wood and fen, in ambush lie +Your sons, a stern, determined band, + Intent to do or die. + +Whene'er the foe advance to dare + The onset, urged by hate and wrath, +Still have they found, aghast with fear, + A Lion in the path. + +Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush, + Their shattered ranks to shield and save, +And learn how hard a task to crush + The spirit of the brave. + +Oh, God! Protector of the right, + The widows' stay, the orphans' friend, +Restrain the rage of lawless might, + The wronged and crushed defend! + +Be guide and helper, sword and shield! + From hill and vale, where'er they roam, +Bring back the yeoman to his field, + The exile to his home! + +Pastors and scattered flocks restore; + Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise; +And let their quivering lips once more + Rejoice in songs of praise! + + + + +The Empty Sleeve. + +By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia. + + + +Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see + The sleeve hanging loose at your side +The arm you lost was worth to me + Every Yankee that ever died. +But you don't mind it at all; + You swear you've a beautiful stump, +And laugh at that damnable ball-- + Tom, I knew you were always a trump. + +A good right arm, a nervy hand, + A wrist as strong as a sapling oak, +Buried deep in the Malverri sand-- + To laugh at that, is a sorry joke. +Never again your iron grip + Shall I feel in my shrinking palm-- +Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip; + All within is not so calm. + +Well! the arm is gone, it is true; + But the one that is nearest the heart +Is left--and that's as good as two; + Tom, old fellow, what makes you start? +Why, man, _she_ thinks that empty sleeve + A badge of honor; so do I, +And all of us:--I do believe + The fellow is going to cry! + +"She deserves a perfect man," you say; + "You were not worth her in your prime:" +Tom! the arm that has turned to clay, + Your whole body has made sublime; +For you have placed in the Malvern earth + The proof and pledge of a noble life-- +And the rest, henceforward of higher worth, + Will be dearer than all to your wife. + +I see the people in the street + Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes; +And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet + As homage shown in mute surmise. +Bravely your arm in battle strove, + Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it; +It has perished--but a nation's love + In proud remembrance will save it. + +Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith-- + You're a fool for staying so long-- +Woman's love you'll find no myth, + But a truth; living, tender, strong. +And when around her slender belt + Your left is clasped in fond embrace, +Your right will thrill, as if it felt, + In its grave, the usurper's place. + +As I look through the coming years, + I see a one-armed married man; +A little woman, with smiles and tears, + Is helping--as hard as she can +To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve, + Tie his cravat, and cut his food; +And I say, as these fancies I weave, + "That is Tom, and the woman he wooed." + +The years roll on, and then I see + A wedding picture, bright and fair; +I look closer, and its plain to me + That is Tom with the silver hair. +He gives away the lovely bride, + And the guests linger, loth to leave +The house of him in whom they pride-- + "Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve." + + + + +The Cotton-Burners' Hymn. + + + +"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, +was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the +last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--_Memphis +Appeal._ + + + +I. + +Lo! where Mississippi rolls + Oceanward its stream, +Upward mounting, folds on folds, + Flaming fire-tongues gleam; +'Tis the planters' grand oblation + On the altar of the nation; +'Tis a willing sacrifice-- +Let the golden incense rise-- +Pile the Cotton to the skies! + CHORUS--Lo! the sacrificial flame + Gilds the starry dome of night! + Nations! read the mute acclaim-- + 'Tis for liberty we fight! + Homes! Religion! Right! + + + +II. + + +Never such a golden light + Lit the vaulted sky; +Never sacrifice as bright, + Rose to God on high: +Thousands oxen, what were they +To the offering we pay? +And the brilliant holocaust-- +When the revolution's past-- +In the nation's songs will last! + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc. + + + +III. + + +Though the night be dark above, + Broken though the shield-- +Those who love us, those we love, + Bid us never yield: +Never! though our bravest bleed, +And the vultures on them feed; +Never! though the Serpents' race-- +Hissing hate and vile disgrace-- +By the million should menace! + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc. + + + +IV. + + +Pile the Cotton to the skies; + Lo! the Northmen gaze; +England! see our sacrifice-- + See the Cotton blaze! +God of nations! now to Thee, +Southrons bend th' imploring knee; +'Tis our country's hour of need-- +Hear the mothers intercede-- +Hear the little children plead! + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc. + + + + +Reading the List. + + + +"Is there any news of the war?" she said-- +"Only a list of the wounded and dead," + Was the man's reply, + Without lifting his eye + To the face of the woman standing by. +"'Tis the very thing--I want," she said; +"Read me a list of the wounded and dead." + +He read the list--'twas a sad array +Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray; + In the very midst, was a pause to tell + Of a gallant youth, who fought so well +That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?" +"The only son of the Widow Gray," + Was the proud reply + Of his Captain nigh. +What ails the woman standing near? +Her face has the ashen hue of fear! + +"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick! +Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!" + "Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say, + Killed outright on that fatal day." + But see, the woman has swooned away! + +Sadly she opened her eyes to the light; +Slowly recalled the events of the fight; +Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright! + It has cost me the life of my only son; + But the battle is fought, and the victory won; + The will of the Lord, let it be done!" + +God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, +And send from the halls of eternal day, +The light of His peace to illumine her way! + + + + +His Last Words. + + + +"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his +delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry +rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks--.' Here the sentence was left +unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he +murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest +under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any +expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away." + + +I. + + +Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees, +And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze; +Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there. +Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair! + + + +II. + + +Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before, +Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore; +So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze, +Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees. + + + +III. + + +Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark: +'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark. +Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease, +We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees. + + + +IV. + + +Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried, +And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide. +Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease, +There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees. + + + + +Charge of Hagood's Brigade. + +Weldon Railroad, August 21, 1864. + + + +The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after +the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade +as their most desperate encounter. + + +Scarce seven hundred men they stand + In tattered, rude array, +A remnant of that gallant band, +Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand +Of Morris' isle, with iron hand + 'Gainst Yankees' hated sway. + +SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims, +And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames, +And the dark battle on the streams + Of POCOTALIGO: +And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight, +And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height, +Whence, at the gray dawn of the light, + They rushed upon the foe. + +Tattered and torn those banners now, +But not less proud each lofty brow, + Untaught as yet to yield: +With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye, +Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly +Flecking with smoke the azure sky + On Weldon's fated field. + +Sweeps from the woods the bold array, +Not theirs to falter in the fray, +No men more sternly trained than they + To meet their deadly doom: +While, from a hundred throats agape, +A hundred sulphurous flames escape, +Round shot, and canister, and grape, + The thundering cannon's boom! + +Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash +Shrapnel and ball commingling clash, +And bursting shells, with lurid flash, + Their dazzled sight confound: +Trembles the earth beneath their feet, +Along their front a rattling sheet +Of leaden hail concentric meet, + And numbers strew the ground. + +On, o'er the dying and the dead, +O'er mangled limb and gory head, +With martial look, with martial tread, +March Hagood's men to bloody bed, + Honor their sole reward; +Himself doth lead their battle line, + Himself those banners guard. + +They win the height, those gallant few, +A fiercer struggle to renew, +Resolved as gallant men to do + Or sink in glory's shroud; +But scarcely gain its stubborn crest, +Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast, +An impious foe has dared to wrest + That banner proud. + +Upon him, Hagood, in thy might! +Flash on thy soul th' immortal light +Of those brave deeds that blazon bright + Our Southern Cross. +He dies. Unfurl its folds again, +Let it wave proudly o'er the plain; +The dying shall forget their pain, + Count not their loss. + +Then, rallying to your chieftain's call, +Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball +Hemmed in, as by a living wall, + Cleave back your way. +Those bannered deeds their souls inspire, +Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire, +By the Two Hundred who retire + Of that array. + +Ah, Carolina! well the tear +May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear +In passion, o'er their tombless bier, + Thy fallen chivalry! +Malony, mirror of the brave, +And Sellers lie in glorious grave; +No prouder fate than theirs, who gave + Their lives for Liberty. + + + + +Carolina. + +April 14, 1861. + +By John A. Wagener, of S.C. + + + +Carolina! Carolina! + Noble name in State and story, + How I love thy truthful glory, + As I love the blue sky o'er ye, + Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Land of chivalry unfearing, +Daughters fair beyond comparing, +Sons of worth, and noble daring, +Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Soft thy clasp in loving greeting, +Plenteous board and kindly meeting, +All thy pulses nobly beating, +Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven, +Bold thy streams through forest riven, +Bright thy laurels, hero-given, +Carolina evermore! + +Carolina! Carolina! +Holy name, and dear forever, +Never shall thy childen, never, +Fail to strike with grand endeavor, +Carolina evermore! + + + + +Savannah. + +By Alethea S. Burroughs. + + + +Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, +Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed! +Not like a lamb to slaughter led, +But with the lion's monarch tread, +Thou eomest to thy battle bed, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +Thine arm of flesh is girded strong; +The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong; +To thee, the triple cords belong, +Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong, +And spirit vaunted long, _too_ long! + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; +Only the martyrs' blood is there; +It gleams upon thy bosom bier, +It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, +And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +Thy clean white hand is opened wide +For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride; +The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side, +Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide, +Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + +What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers-- +Still at thy feet the old oak towers; +Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, +And things of beauty, love, and flowers +Are smiling o'er this land of ours, + My sunny home, Savannah! + +There is no film before thy sight-- +Thou seest woe, and death, and night-- +And blood upon thy banner bright; +But in thy full wrath's kindled might, +What carest _thou_ for woe, or night? + My rebel home, Savannah! + +Come--for the crown is on thy head! +Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed, +Not like a lamb to slaughter led, +But with the lion's monarch tread, +Oh! come unto thy battle bed, + Savannah! oh, Savannah! + + + + +"Old Betsy." + +By John Killum. + + + +Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, + Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; +Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, + Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North. + +Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, + Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; +Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding + Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth. + +Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you, + When the fierce bear was cut down in his track-- +If at that moment she never deceived you, + Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack. + +Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping, + Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; +Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, + Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North. + + + + +Awake--Arise! + +By G. W. Archer, M. D. + + + +Sons of the South--awake--arise! + A million foes sweep down amain, +Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes, + And fire and rapine in their train, + Like savage Hun and merciless Dane! + "We come as brothers!" Trust them not! + By all that's dear in heaven and earth, + By every tie that hath its birth + Within your homes--around your hearth; +Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot, + Worse for the fair and sleek disguise-- +A traitor in a patriot's cloak! + "Your country's good + Demands your blood!" +Was it a fiend from hell that spoke? + +They point us to the Stripes and Stars; + (Our banner erst--the despot's now!) +But let not thoughts of by-gone wars, + When beat we back the common foe, + And felled them fast and shamed them so, +Divide us at this fearful hour; + But think of dungeons and of chains-- + Think of your violated fanes-- + Of your loved homestead's gory stains-- +Eternal thraldom for your dower! +No love of country fires their breasts-- +The fell fanatics fain would free + A grovelling race, + And in their place +Would fetter us with fiendish glee! + +Sons of the South--awake--awake! + And strike for rights full dear as those + For which our struggling sires did shake + Earth's proudest throne--while freedom rose, + Baptized in blood of braggart foes. +Awake--that hour hath come again! + Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne-- + Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown-- + Strike! in the name of Washington, +Who taught you once to rend the chain, + Smiles now from heaven upon our cause, +So like his own. His spirit moves + Through every fight, + And lends its might +To every heart that freedom loves. + +Ye beauteous of the sunny land! + Unmatched your charms in all the earth, +'Neath freedom's banner take your stand; + And, though ye strike not, prove your worth, + As wont in days of joy and mirth: +Lavish your praises on the brave-- + Pray when the battle fiercely lowers-- + Smile when the victory is ours-- + Frown on the wretch who basely cowers-- +Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave! + Lend thus your favors whilst we smite! +Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!-- + With woman's charms + To nerve their arms, +Oh! when have men their freedom lost! + + + + +General Albert Sidney Johnston. + +By Mary Jervy, of Charleston. + + + +In thickest fight triumphantly he fell, + While into victory's arms he led us on; +A death so glorious our grief should quell: + We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won. + +No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now, + No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame +Immortal honor rests upon his brow, + And noble memories cluster round his name. + +For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears, + To read the story of his touching fate; +How in his death the gallant soldier wears + The crown that came for earthly life too late. + +Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keep + The garlands green above his hero-grave; +Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep, + To tell him he is shrined among the brave! + + + + +Eulogy of the Dead. + +By B. F. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +_"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah._ + +Oh! weep not for the dead, +Whose blood, for freedom shed, +Is hallowed evermore! +Who on the battle-field +Gould die--but never yield! +Oh, bemoan them never more-- +They live immortal in their gore! + +Oh, what is it to die +Midst shouts of victory, +Our rights and homes defending! +Oh! what were fame and life +Gained in that basest strife +For tyrants' power contending, +Our country's bosom rending! + +Oh! dead of red Manassah! +Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray! +Oh! victors of the Richmond field! +Dead on your mother's breast, +You live in glorious rest; +Each on[1] his honored shield, +Immortal in each bloody field! + +Oh! sons of noble mothers! +Oh! youth of maiden lovers! +Oh! husbands of chaste wives! +Though asleep in beds of gore, +You return, oh! never more; +Still immortal are your lives! +Immortal mothers! lovers! wives! + +How blest is he who draws +His sword in freedom's cause! +Though dead on battle-field, +Forever to his tomb +Shall youthful heroes come, +Their hearts for freedom steeled, +And learn to die on battle-field. + +As at Thermopylæ, +Grecian child of liberty; +Swears to despot ne'er to yield-- +Here, by our glorious dead, +Let's revenge the blood they've shed, +Or die on bloody field, +By the sons who scorned to yield! + +Oh! mothers! lovers! wives! +Oh! weep no more--our lives +Are our country's evermore! +More glorious in your graves, +Than if living Lincoln's slaves, +Ye will perish never more, +Martyred on our fields of gore! + +[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his +shield, said--"With it, or on it." + + + + +The Beaufort Exile's Lament. + + + +Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea, + And sing the sad wanderer's psalm-- +Ye women and children in exile that flee + From the land of the orange and palm. + +Lament for your homes, for the house of your God, + Now the haunt of the vile and the low; +Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod + By the foot of the Puritan foe! + +No longer for thee, when the sables of night + Are fading like shadows away, +Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light, + Praise God for the birth of a day. + +No longer for thee, when the rays are now full, + Do the oaks form an evergreen glade; +While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull + The cattle that rest in the shade. + +No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon + Silver o'er the green waves of the bay; +Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon + Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray. + +Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore, + And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng, +Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar, + The wild chant of the sacred boat-song. + +Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff, + The traveller would pause on his way; +And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh, + To list to the negro's rude lay. + +"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear + At the close of each solemn refrain; +'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year, + Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again. + +Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie, + Your daughters' mid strangers now roam; +Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh + O'er the days when they once had a _home_. + +"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone + Can those words sweep the chords of the soul, +And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone, + As the tide-waves of time backward roll. + +"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine, + Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul, +Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine-- + Will have gone home at last to their God! + + + + +Somebody's Darling. + +By Marie La Coste, of Georgia. + + + +Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, + Where the dead and the dying lay-- +Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, + Somebody's darling was borne one day-- +Somebody's darling, so young and so brave! + Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face-- +Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave-- + The lingering light of his boyhood's grace! + +Matted and damp are the curls of gold + Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, +Pale are the lips of delicate mould-- + Somebody's darling is dying now. +Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow + Brush his wandering waves of gold; +Cross his hands on his bosom now-- + Somebody's darling is still and cold. + +Kiss him once for somebody's sake, + Murmur a prayer soft and low-- +One bright curl from its fair mates take-- + They were somebody's pride you know. +Somebody's hand hath rested there; + Was it a mother's, soft and white? +Or have the lips of a sister fair-- + Been baptized in their waves of light? + +God knows best! He has somebody's love; + Somebody's heart enshrined him there-- +Somebody wafted his name above, + Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. +Somebody wept when he marched away, + Looking so handsome, brave, and grand! +Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay-- + Somebody clung to his parting hand. + +Somebody's watching and waiting for him, + Yearning to hold him again to her heart; +And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, + And the smiling child-like lips apart. +Tenderly bury the fair young dead-- + Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; +Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head-- + "Somebody's darling slumbers here." + + + + +John Pegram, + +Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, Ætat XXXIII. + +By W. Gordon McCabe. + + + +What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight, + Or how express the measure of our woe, +For him who rode the foremost in the fight, + Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe? + +Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?-- + That good blade now lies fast within its sheath; +What can we do but point to where he fell, + And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death? + +We sorrow not as those who have no hope; + For he was pure in heart as brave in deed-- +God pardon us, if blindly we should grope, + And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed. + +And yet--oh! foolish and of little faith! + We cannot choose but weep our useless tears; +We loved him so; we never dreamed that death + Would dare to touch him in his brave young years. + +Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright! + As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe-- +No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight, + The eager eyes--the flush on cheek and brow! + +No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form, + Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer; +No more shall soar above the iron storm, + Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear. + +Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away-- + Our grand young leader smitten in the strife! +So swift to seize the chances of the fray, + And careless only of his noble life. + +He is not dead, but sleepeth! well we know + The form that lies to-day beneath the sod, +Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow, + And pour their music through the courts of God. + +And there amid our great heroic dead-- + The war-worn sons of God, whose work is done-- +His face shall shine, as they with stately tread, + In grand review, sweep past the jasper throne. + +Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief + His days were here, yet rich in love and faith: +Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief, + And grant thy servants such a life and death! + + + + +Captives Going Home. + + + +No flaunting banners o'er them wave, + No arms flash back the sun's bright ray, +No shouting crowds around them throng, + No music cheers them on their way: +They're going home. By adverse fate + Compelled their trusty swords to sheathe; +True soldiers they, even though disarmed-- + Heroes, though robbed of victory's wreath. + +Brave Southrons! 'Tis with sorrowing hearts + We gaze upon them through our tears, +And sadly feel how vain were all + Their heroic deeds through weary years; +Yet 'mid their enemies they move + With firm, bold step and dauntless mien: +Oh, Liberty! in every age, + Such have thy chosen heroes been. + +Going home! Alas, to them the words + Bring visions fraught with gloom and woe: +Since last they saw those cherished homes + The legions of the invading foe +Have swept them, simoon-like, along, + Spreading destruction with the wind! +"They found a garden, but they left + A howling wilderness behind." + +Ah! in those desolated homes + To which the "fate of war has come," +Sad is the welcome--poor the feast-- + That waits the soldier's coming home; +Yet loving ones will round him throng, + With smiles more tender, if less gay, +And joy will brighten pallid cheeks + At sight of the dear boys in gray. + +Aye, give them welcome home, fair South, + For you they've made a deathless name; +Bright through all after-time will glow + The glorious record of their fame. +They made a nation. What, though soon + Its radiant sun has seemed to set; +The past has shown what they can do, + The future holds bright promise yet. + + + + +The Heights of Mission Ridge. + +By J. Augustine Signaigo. + + + +When the foes, in conflict heated, + Battled over road and bridge, +While Bragg sullenly retreated + From the heights of Mission Ridge-- +There, amid the pines and wildwood, + Two opposing colonels fell, +Who had schoolmates been in childhood, + And had loved each other well. + +There, amid the roar and rattle, + Facing Havoc's fiery breath, +Met the wounded two in battle, + In the agonies of death. +But they saw each other reeling + On the dead and dying men, +And the old time, full of feeling, + Came upon them once again. + +When that night the moon came creeping, + With its gold streaks, o'er the slain, +She beheld two soldiers, sleeping, + Free from every earthly pain. +Close beside the mountain heather, + Where the rocks obscure the sand, +They had died, it seems, together, + As they clasped each other's hand. + + + + +"Our Left at Manassas." + + + +From dawn to dark they stood, + That long midsummer's day! +While fierce and fast +The battle-blast + Swept rank on rank away! + +From dawn to dark, they fought + With legions swept and cleft, +While black and wide, +The battle-tide + Poured ever on our "Left!" + +They closed each ghastly gap! + They dressed each shattered rank +They knew, how well! +That Freedom fell + With that exhausted flank! + +"Oh! for a thousand men, + Like these that melt away!" +And down they came, +With steel and flame, + _Four thousand_ to the fray! + +They left the laggard train; + The panting steam might stay; +And down they came, +With steel and flame, + Head-foremost to the fray! + +Right through the blackest cloud + Their lightning-path they cleft! +Freedom and Fame +With triumph came + To our immortal Left. + +Ye! of your living, sure! + Ye! of your dead, bereft! +Honor the brave +Who died to save + _Your all_, upon our Left. + + + + +On to Richmond. + +After Southey's "March to Moscow." + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +Major-General Scott +An order had got + To push on the columns to Richmond; +For loudly went forth, +From all parts of the North, +The cry that an end of the war must be made +In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade: +Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay, +The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray; +The chivalrous Grow +Declared they were slow, +And therefore the order +To march from the border + And make an excursion to Richmond. +Major-General Scott +Most likely was not +Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot; +In his private opinion +The Ancient Dominion +Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot, + And the reason is easily noted; +Though this part of the earth +Had given him birth, +And medals and swords, +Inscribed with fine words, + It never for Winfield had voted. +Besides, you must know that our First of Commanders +Had sworn, quite as hard as the Army in Flanders, +With his finest of armies and proudest of navies, +To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis. +Then "forward the column," he said to McDowell; + And the Zouaves, with a shout, + Most fiercely cried out, +"To Richmond or h--ll" (I omit here the vowel), +And Winfield, he ordered his carriage and four, +A dashing turn-out, to be brought to the door, + For a pleasant excursion to Richmond. +Major-General Scott +Had there on the spot +A splendid array +To plunder and slay; +In the camp he might boast +Such a numerous host, +As he never had yet +In the battle-field set; +Every class and condition of Northern society +Were in for the trip, a most varied variety: +In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue, +"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue." +The buthiful boy + From the banks of the Shannon, +Was there to employ +His excellent cannon; +And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery. + The Zouaves and Hussars, + All the children of Mars, + There were barbers and cooks + And writers of books,-- +The _chef de cuisine_ with his French bills of fare, +And the artists to dress the young officers' hair. +And the scribblers all ready at once to prepare + An eloquent story + Of conquest and glory; +And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery, +Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train, +At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the _champagne_:" +While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, +There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do + On this pleasant excursion to Richmond. +In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action, +To crush out _instanter_ the traitorous faction. +In the press, and the mess, +They would hear nothing less +Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason, +And at once put an end to the insolent treason. +There was Greeley, +And Ely, +The bloodthirsty Grow, +And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau), +And that terrible Baker +Who would seize on the South, every acre, +And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or +Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur; +And with all this bold crew +Nothing would do, +While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, + But to march on directly to Richmond. + +Then the gallant McDowell +Drove madly the rowel + Of spur that had never been "won" by him, +In the flank of his steed, +To accomplish a deed, + Such as never before had been done by him; +And the battery called Sherman's + Was wheeled into line, +While the beer-drinking Germans, + From Neckar and Rhine, +With minie and yager, +Came on with a swagger, +Full of fury and lager, + (The day and the pageant were equally fine.) +Oh! the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, +Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view, + As the column pushed onward to Richmond. + +Ere the march was begun, +In a spirit of fun, +General Scott in a speech +Said this army should teach +The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey, +And just before dusk of the third or fourth day, + Should joyfully march into Richmond. + +He spoke of their drill +And their courage and skill, +And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave +O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave +In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air +At their morning parades on the Capitol Square. +But alack! and alas! +Mark what soon came to pass, + When this army, in spite of his flatteries, +Amid war's loudest thunder +Must stupidly blunder + Upon those accursed "masked batteries." +Then Beauregard came, +Like a tempest of flame, +To consume them in wrath +On their perilous path; +And Johnston bore down in a whirlwind to sweep + Their ranks from the field + Where their doom had been sealed, +As the storm rushes over the face of the deep; +While swift on the centre our President pressed. + And the foe might descry + In the glance of his eye +The light that once blazed upon Diomed's crest. +McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day. +When the Southrons you meet in their battle array; +To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel +'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel. +Oh! the generals were green and old Scott is now blue, +And a terrible business, McDowell, to you, + Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond. + +Richmond Whig. + + + + +Turner Ashby. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia + + + +To the brave all homage render, + Weep, ye skies of June! +With a radiance pure and tender, + Shine, oh saddened moon! + "Dead upon the field of glory," + Hero fit for song and story, + Lies our bold dragoon! + +Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, + Braver, knightlier foe +Never fought with Moor nor Paynim-- + Rode at Templestowe; + With a mien how high and joyous, + 'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us, +Went he forth we know. + +Never more, alas I shall sabre + Gleam around his crest; +Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, + Stilled his manly breast; + All unheard sweet nature's cadence, + Trump of fame and voice of maidens-- + Now he takes his rest. + +Earth, that all too soon hath bound him? + Gently wrap his clay; +Linger lovingly around him, + Light of dying day; + Softly fall the summer showers, + Birds and bees among the flowers + Make the gloom seem gay. + +There, throughout the coming ages, + When his sword is rust, +And his deeds in classic pages; + Mindful of her trust, + Shall Virginia, bending lowly, + Still a ceaseless vigil holy + Keep above his dust. + + + + +Captain Latane. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +The combat raged not long; but ours the day, + And through the hosts which compassed us around +Our little band rode proudly on its way, + Leaving one gallant spirit, glory crowned, +Unburied on the field he died to gain; +Single, of all his men, among the hostile slain! + +One moment at the battle's edge he stood, + Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair-- +The next, beheld him dabbled in his blood, + Prostrate in death; and yet in death how fair! +And thus he passed, through the red gates of strife, +From earthly crowns and palms, to an eternal life. + +A brother bore his body from the field, + And gave it into strangers' hands, who closed +His calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, + And tenderly the slender limbs composed; +Strangers, but _sisters, who, with Mary's love, +Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above._ + +A little girl strewed roses on his bier, + Pale roses--not more stainless than his soul, +Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, + That blossomed with good actions--brief, but whole. +The aged matron, with the faithful slave, +Approached with reverent steps the hero's lowly grave. + +No man of God might read the burial rite + Above the rebel--thus declared the foe, +Who blanched before him in the deadly fight; + But woman's voice, in accents soft and low, +Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read +Over his hallowed dust, the ritual for the dead! + +"'Tis sown in weakness; it is raised in power." + Softly the promise floated on the air, +Arid the sweet breathings of the sunset hour, + Come back responsive to the mourner's prayer. +Gently they laid him underneath the sod, +And left him with his fame, his country, and his God. + +We should not weep for him! His deeds endure; + So young, so beautiful, so brave--he died +As he would wish to die. The past secure, + Whatever yet of sorrow may betide +Those who still linger by the stormy shore; +Change cannot hurt him now, nor fortune reach him more. + +And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, + _Vitrix et vidua_, the conflict done, +Shall raise her mailéd hand to wipe the tear + That starts, as she recalls each martyr son; +No prouder memory her breast shall sway +Than thine--the early lost--lamented Lat-a-nè! + + + + +The Men. + +By Maurice Bell. + + + +In the dusk of the forest shade + A sallow and dusty group reclined; +Gallops a horseman up the glade-- + "Where will I your leader find? +Tidings I bring from the morning's scout-- + I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen." +"Well, sir, stay not hereabout, + Here are only a few of 'the men.' + +"Here no collar has bar or star, + No rich lacing adorns a sleeve; +Further on our officers are, + Let them your report receive. +Higher up, on the hill up there, + Overlooking this shady glen. +There are their quarters--don't stop here, + We are only some of 'the men.' + +"Yet stay, courier, if you bear + Tidings that the fight is near; +Tell them we're ready, and that where + They wish us to be we'll soon appear; +Tell them only to let us know + Where to form our ranks, and when; +And we'll teach the vaunting foe + That they've met a few of 'the men.' + +"We're _the men_, though our clothes are worn-- + We're _the men_, though we wear no lace-- +We're _the men_, who the foe hath torn, + And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace; +We're the men who have triumphed before-- + We're the men who will triumph again; +For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar, + And the clashing bayonets--'_we're the men_.' + +"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, + Of garments faded, and soiled and bare, +Yet who have for the 'stars and bars' + Praise, and homage, and dainty fare; +Mock the wearers and pass them on, + Refuse them kindly word--and then +Know, if your freedom is ever won + By human agents--_these are the men!_" + + + + +"A Rebel Soldier Killed in the Trenches before Petersburg, Va., April 15, +1865." + +By a Kentucky Girl. + + + +Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare +The inscription graved on the white card there. +'Tis a photograph, taken last Spring, they say, +Ere the smoke of battle had cleared away-- +Of a rebel soldier--just as he fell, +When his heart was pierced by a Union shell; +And his image was stamped by the sunbeam's ray, +As he lay in the trenches that April day. + +Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart + Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain, +As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art, + One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:-- +White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave, +Lone as the rocks those billows lave-- +Gray sky above--cold clay beneath-- +A gallant form lies stretched in death! + +With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay, + And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast: +Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray, + We might deem him taking a soldier's rest. +Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide-- +Too deeply pierced that wounded side; +Youth, hope, love, glory--manhood's pride-- +Have all in vain Death's bolt defied. + +His faithful carbine lies useless there, + As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward; +And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair + Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard-- +Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield, +No more to my sight be the battle revealed! +Oh fiercer than tempest--grim Hades as dread-- +On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead! + +The scene is changed: In a quiet room, + Far from the spot where the lone corse lies, +A mother kneels in the evening gloom + To offer her nightly sacrifice. +The noon is past, and the day is done, +She knows that the battle is lost or won-- +Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still! +The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill. + + + + +Battle of Hampton Roads. + +By Ossian D. Gorman. + + + +Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled + On placid waters 'neath the sun, +Like that on Hampton's watery plain, + The fatal morn the fight begun. +Far toward the silvery Sewell shores, + Below the guns of Craney Isle, +Were seen our fleet advancing fast, + Beneath the sun's auspicious smile. + +Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes + Of Newport camp spread dire alarms: +The Cumberland for fight prepares-- + The fierce marines now rush to arms. +The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er, + In quarters close begins her fire, +Nor fears the rushing hail of shot, + And deadly missiles swift and dire; +But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame, + And belching thunder long and loud, +Salutes the ship with bow austere, + And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud. + +The work is done. The frigate turns + In agonizing, doubtful poise-- +She sinks, she sinks! along the deck + Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise. +Engulfed beneath those placid waves + Disturbed by battle's onward surge, +The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps, + And whistling bombshells sing her dirge. + +The battle still is raging fierce: + The Congress, "high and dry" aground, +Maintains in vain her boasted power, + For now the gunboats flock around, +With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared, + And pour their lightning on the main, +While Merrimac, approaching fast + Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain. + +Meantime the Jamestown, gallant boat, + Engages strong redoubts at land-- +While Patrick Henry glides along, + To board the Congress, still astrand. +This done, we turn intently on + The Minnesota, which replies, +With whizzing shell to Teuser's gun, + Whose booming cleaves the distant skies. +The naval combat sounds anew; + The hostile fleets are not withdrawn, +Though night is closing earth and sea + In twilight's pale and mystic dawn. +Strange whistling noises fill the air; + The powdered smoke looks dark as night, +And deadly, lurid flames, pour forth + Their radiance on the missiles' flight; +Grand picture on the noisy waves! + The breezy zephyrs onward roam, +And echoing volleys float afar, + Disturbing Neptune's coral home. +The victory's ours, and let the world + Record Buchanan's[1] name with pride; +The _crew is brave, the banner bright_, + That ruled the day when Hutter[2] died. + +[1] Commander of the "Merrimac." + +[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry." + +Macon Daily Telegraph. + + + + +Is This a Time to Dance? + + + +The breath of evening' sweeps the plain, + And sheds its perfume in the dell, +But on its wings are sounds of pain, + Sad tones that drown the echo's swell; +And yet we hear a mirthful call, + Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance, +Gay music sounds in the joyous hall: + Oh God! is this a time to dance? + +Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed, + Float from the crimson battle-plain, +As if a mighty spirit cried + In awful agony and pain: +Our friends we know there suffering lay, + Our brothers, too, perchance, +And in reproachful accents say, + Loved ones, is this a time to dance? + +Oh, lift your festal robes on high! + The human gore that flows around +Will stain their hues with crimson dye; + And louder let your music sound +To drown the dying warrior's cry! + Let sparkling wine your joy enhance +Forget that _blood_ has tinged its dye, + And quicker urge the maniac dance. + +But stop! the floor beneath your feet + Gives back a _coffin's_ hollow moan, +And every strain of music sweet, + Wafts forth a _dying soldier's groan_. +Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear + Exposed to every battle's chance, +Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear, + To fright you from the heartless dance? + +Go, fling your festal robes away! + Go, don the mourner's sable veil! +Go, bow before your God, and pray! + If yet your prayers may aught avail. +Go, face the fearful form of Death! + And trembling meet his chilling glance, +And then, for once, with truthful breath, + Answer, _Is this a time to dance?_ + + + + +"The Maryland Line." + +By J.D. M'Cabe, Jr. + + + +The Maryland regiments in the Confederate army have adopted the title of +"The Maryland Line," which was so heroically sustained by their patriot +sires of the first Revolution, and which the deeds of Marylanders at +Manassas, show that the patriot Marylanders of this second Revolution are +worthy to bear. + + + +By old Potomac's rushing tide, + Our bayonets are gleaming; +And o'er the bounding waters wide + We gaze, while tears are streaming. +The distant hills of Maryland + Rise sadly up before us-- +And tyrant bands have chained our laud, + Our mother proud that bore us. + +Our proud old mother's queenly head + Is bowed in subjugation; +With her children's blood her soil is red, + And fiends in exultation +Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, + While her heart is torn with anguish; +Old mother, on famed Manassas' plains + Our vengeance did not languish. + +We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, + 'Mid shot and shell appalling; +We heard your voice as it upward gush'd, + From the Maryland life-blood falling. +No pity we knew! Did they mercy show + When they bound the mother that bore us? +But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe + Till they, shrieking, fled before us. + +We mourn for our brothers brave that fell + On that field so stern and gory; +But their spirits rose with our triumph yell + To the heavenly realms of glory. +And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-- + By their love so true and tender, +We'll keep the prize they would not yield, + We'll die, but we'll not surrender. + + + + +The Virginians of the Shenandoah Valley. + +"_Sic Jurat_." + +By Frank Ticknor, M.D., of Georgia. + + + +The knightliest of the knightly race + Who, since the clays of old, +Have kept the lamp of chivalry + Alight in hearts of gold; +The kindliest of the kindly band + Who rarely hated ease, +Yet rode with Smith around the land, + And Raleigh o'er the seas; + +Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, + Amid embattled foes, +And planted there, in valleys fair, + The lily and the rose; +Whose fragrance lives in many lands, + Whose beauty stars the earth, +And lights the hearths of thousand homes + With loveliness and worth,-- + +We feared they slept!--the sons who kept + The names of noblest sires, +And waked not, though the darkness crept + Around their vigil fires; +But still the Golden Horse-shoe Knights + Their "Old Dominion" keep: +The foe has found the enchanted ground, + But not a knight asleep. + +Torch-Hall, Georgia. + + + + +Sonnet.--The Avatar of Hell. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + +Six thousand years of commune, God with man,-- +Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots, +Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits! +The fiends rage now as when they first began! +Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still, +Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will! +The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt, +That, in the progress of the race, we stood, +Two thousand years of height above the flood +Before the day's experience sink and melt, +As frost beneath the fire! and what remains +Of all our grand ideals and great gains, +With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride, +While the meek Christ is hourly crucified! + +Pax. + + + + +"Stonewall" Jackson's Way. + + + +These verses, according to the newspaper account, _may_ have been +found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the +Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the _author_ of +them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things. + + +Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails; + Stir up the camp-fire bright; +No matter if the canteen fails, + We'll make a roaring night. +Here Shenandoah brawls along, +Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, +To swell the brigade's rousing song, + Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." + +We see him now--the old slouched hat + Cocked o'er his eye askew-- +The shrewd dry smile--the speech so pat, + So calm, so blunt, so true. +The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well: +Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell. +Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well + That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." + +Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off! + Old "Blue Light's" going to pray. +Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! + Attention! it's his way! +Appealing from his native sod +_In forma pauperis_ to God, +"Lay bare thine arm! Stretch forth thy rod! + Amen!" That's Stonewall's way. + +He's in the saddle now: Fall in! + Steady! The whole brigade! +Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win + His way out, ball and blade. +What matter if our shoes are worn? +What matter if our feet are torn? +Quick step! we're with him before dawn! + That's Stonewall Jackson's way! + +The sun's bright lances rout the mists + Of morning--and, by George! +Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, + Hemmed in an ugly gorge. +Pope and his Yankees, whipped before: +"Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; +"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score, + In Stonewall Jackson's way!" + +Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn, + For news of Stonewall's band! +Ah, widow! read--with eyes that burn, + That ring upon thy hand! + Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on: +Thy life shall not be all forlorn. +The foe had better ne'er been born, + That gets in Stonewall's way. + + + + +The Silent March. + + +On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep +by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed +voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers. + + +O'ercome with weariness and care, + The war-worn veteran lay +On the green turf of his native land, + And slumbered by the way; +The breeze that sighed across his brow, + And smoothed its deepened lines, +Fresh from his own loved mountain bore + The murmur of their pines; +And the glad sound of waters, + The blue rejoicing streams, +Whose sweet familiar tones were blent + With the music of his dreams: +They brought no sound of battle's din, + Shrill fife or clarion, +But only tenderest memories + Of his own fair Arlington. +While thus the chieftain slumbered, + Forgetful of his care, +The hollow tramp of thousands + Came sounding through the air. +With ringing spur and sabre, + And trampling feet they come, +Gay plume and rustling banner, + And fife, and trump, and drum; +But soon the foremost column + Sees where, beneath the shade, +In slumber, calm as childhood, + Their wearied chief is laid; +And down the line a murmur + From lip to lip there ran, +Until the stilly whisper + Had spread to rear from van; +And o'er the host a silence + As deep and sudden fell, +As though some mighty wizard + Had hushed them with a spell; +And every sound was muffled, + And every soldier's tread +Fell lightly as a mother's + 'Round her baby's cradle-bed; +And rank, and file, and column, + So softly by they swept, +It seemed a ghostly army + Had passed him as he slept; +But mightier than enchantment + Was that with magic move-- +The spell that hushed their voices-- + Deep reverence and love. + + + + +Pro Memoria. + +Air--There is rest for the weary. + +By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging + From her sad and wintry gloom, +Robes her torn and bleeding bosom + In her richest orient bloom: + +CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.) + For her weary sons are resting + By the Edenshore; + They have won the crown immortal, + And the cross of death is o'er! + Where the Oriflamme is burning + On the starlit Edenshore! + +Brightly still, in gorgeous glory, + God's great jewel lights our sky; +Look! upon the heart's white dial + There's a SHADOW flitting by! + +CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc. + +Homes are dark and hearts are weary, + Souls are numb with hopeless pain; +For the footfall on the threshold + Never more to sound again! + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, + Aye, for evermore! + We must win the crown immortal, + Follow where they led before, + Where the Oriflamme is burning + On the starlit Edenshore. + +Proudly, as our Southern forests + Meet the winter's shafts so keen: +Time-defying memories cluster + Round our hearts in living green. + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc. + +May our faltering voices mingle + In the angel-chanted psalm; +May our earthly chaplets linger + By the bright celestial palm. + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc. + +Crest to crest they bore our banner, + Side by side they fell asleep; +Hand in hand we scatter flowers, + Heart to heart we kneel and weep! + +CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc. + +When the May eternal dawneth + At the living God's behest, +We will quaff divine Nepenthe, + We will share the Soldier's rest. + +CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc. + +Where the shadows are uplifted + 'Neath the never-waning sun, +Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis! + We have lost, but ye have won! + +CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever, + Aye, for evermore! + Ye have won the crown immortal, + And the cross of death is o'er, + Where the Oriflamme is burning + On the starlit Edenshore! + + + + +The Southern Homes in Ruin. + +By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina. + + + +"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern +women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have +not burst above our _homesteads_--let us pray they never may." +--_Frank Leslie's Illustrated_. + + +Many a gray-haired sire has died, + As falls the oak, to rise no more, +Because his son, his prop, his pride, + Breathed out his last all red with gore. +No more on earth, at morn, at eve, + Shall age and youth, entwined as one-- +Nor father, son, for either grieve-- + Life's work, alas, for both is done! + +Many a mother's heart has bled + While gazing on her darling child, +As in its tiny eyes she read + The father's image, kind and mild; +For ne'er again his voice will cheer + The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; +Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, + Fast falling on the orphan's head! + +Many a little form will stray + Adown the glen and o'er the hill, +And watch, with wistful looks, the way + For him whose step is missing still; +And when the twilight steals apace + O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home, +And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face-- + The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!" + +And many a home's in ashes now, + Where joy was once a constant guest, +And mournful groups there are, I trow, + With neither house nor place of rest; +And blood is on the broken _sill_, + Where happy feet went to and fro, +And everywhere, by field and hill, + Are sickening sights and sounds of woe! + +There is a God who rules on high, + The widow's and the orphan's friend, +Who sees each tear and hears each sigh, + That these lone hearts to Him may send! +And when in wrath He tears away + The reasons vain which men indite, +The record book will plainest say + Who's in the wrong, and who is right. + + + + +"Rappahannock Army Song." + +By John C. M'Lemore. + + + +The toil of the march is over-- + The pack will be borne no more-- +For we've come for the help of Richmond, + From the Rappahannock's shore. +The foe is closing round us-- + We can hear his ravening cry; +So, ho! for fair old Richmond! + Like soldiers we'll do or die. +We have left the land that bore us, + Full many a league away, +And our mothers and sisters miss us, + As with tearful eyes they pray; +But _this_ will repress their weeping, + And still the rising sigh-- +For all, for fair old Richmond, + Have come to do or die. + +We have come to join our brothers + From the proud Dominion's vales, +And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier, + Tanned by the Tropic gales; +To greet them all full gladly, + With hand and beaming eye, +And to swear, for fair old Richmond, + We all will do or die. + +The fair Carolina sisters + Stand ready, lance in hand, +To fight as they did in an older war, + For the sake of their fatherland. +The glories of Sumter and Bethel + Have raised their fame full high, +But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond + They swear not to do or die. + +Zollicoffer looks down on his people, + And trusts to their hearts and arms, +To avenge the blood he has shed, + In the midst of the battle's alarms. +Alabamians, remember the past, + Be the "South at Manassas," their cry; +As onward for fair old Richmond, + They marched to do or die. + +Brave Bartow, from home on high, + Calls the Empire State to the front, +To bear once more as she has borne + With glory the battle's brunt. +Mississippians who know no surrender, + Bear the flag of the Chief on high; +For he, too, for fair old Richmond, + Has sworn to do or die. + +Fair land of my birth--sweet Florida-- + Your arm is weak, but your soul +Must tell of a purer, holier strength, + When the drums for the battle roll. +Look within, for your hope in the combat, + Nor think of your few with a sigh-- +If you win not for fair old Richmond, + At least you can bravely die. + +Onward all! Oh! band of brothers! + The beat of the long roll's heard! +And the hearts of the columns advancing, + By the sound of its music is stirred. +Onward all! and never return, + Till our foes from the Borders fly-- +To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond, + As those who could do or die. + +Richmond Enquirer. + + + + +The Soldier in the Rain. + +By Julia L. Keyes. + + + +Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound + Than it ever had before; +And the wind more plaintively whistles through + The crevices of the door. + +We know we are safe beneath our roof + From every drop that falls; +And we feel secure and blest, within + The shelter of our walls. + +Then why do we dread to hear the noise + Of the rapid, rushing rain-- +And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat + Through the blinds, on the window-pane? + +We think of the tents on the lowly ground, + Where our patriot soldiers lie; +And the sentry's bleak and lonely march, + 'Neath the dark and starless sky. + +And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those + Who brave for us yet more-- +And we wish this war, with its thousand ills + And griefs, was only o'er. + +We pray when the skies are bright and clear, + When the winds are soft and warm-- +But oh! we pray with an aching heart + 'Mid the winter's rain and storm. + +We fain would lift these mantling clouds + That shadow our sunny clime; +We can but wait--for we know there'll be + A day, in the coming time, + +When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood + Our land with softest light: +Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain + In the dreary winter's night. + + + + +My Country. + +By W. D. Porter, S. C. + + + +I. + +Go, read the stories of the great and free, + The nations on the long, bright roll of fame, +Whose noble rage has baffled the decree + Of tyrants to despoil their life and name; + + + +II. + + +Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes + Of robber despots, glorying in their might, +And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise, + The power of truth and sacredness of right: + + + +III. + + +Whose people, strong to suffer and endure, + In faith have wrestled till the blessing came, +And won through woes a victory doubly sure, + As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame. + + + +IV. + + +The purest virtue has been sorest tried, + Nor is there glory without patient toil; +And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride, + Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil. + + + +V. + + +My country! in this hour of trial sore, + When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate, +Brace thy great heart with courage to the core, + Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate! + + + +IV. + + +The world's bright eye is fixed upon thee still; + _Life, honor, fame_--these all are in the scale: +_Endure! endure! endure!_ with iron will, + And by the truth of heaven, thou shalt not fail! + +Patriot and Mountaineer. + + + + +"After the Battle." + +By Miss Agnes Leonard. + + + +I. + + +All day long the sun had wandered, + Through the slowly creeping hours, +And at last the stars were shining + Like some golden-petalled flowers +Scattered o'er the azure bosom + Of the glory-haunted night, +Flooding all the sky with grandeur, + Filling all the earth with light. + + + +II. + + +And the fair moon, with the sweet stars, + Gleamed amid the radiant spheres +Like "a pearl of great price" shining + Just as it had shone for years, +On the young land that had risen, + In her beauty and her might, +Like some gorgeous superstructure + Woven in the dreams of night: + + + +III. + + +With her "cities hung like jewels" + On her green and peaceful breast, +With her harvest fields of plenty, + And her quiet homes of rest. +But a change had fallen sadly + O'er the young and beauteous land, +Brothers on the field fought madly + That once wandered hand in hand. + + + +IV. + + +And "the hearts of distant mountains + Shuddered," with a fearful wonder, +As the echoes burst upon them + Of the cannon's awful thunder. +Through the long hours waged the battle + Till the setting of the sun +Dropped a seal upon the record, +That the day's mad work was done. + + + +V. + + +Thickly on the trampled grasses + Lay the battle's awful traces, +'Mid the blood-stained clover-blossoms + Lay the stark and ghastly faces, +With no mourners bending downward + O'er a costly funeral pall; +And the dying daylight softly, + With the starlight watched o'er all. + + + +VI. + + +And, where eager, joyous footsteps + Once perchance were wont to pass, +Ran a little streamlet making + One "blue fold in the dark grass;" +And where, from its hidden fountain, + Clear and bright the brooklet burst +Two had crawled, and each was bending + O'er to slake his burning thirst. + + + +VII. + + +Then beneath the solemn starlight + Of the radiant jewelled skies, +Both had turned, and were intently + Gazing in each other's eyes. +Both were solemnly forgiving-- + Hushed the pulse of passion's breath-- +Calmed the maddening thirst for battle, + By the chilling hand of death. + + + +VIII. + + +Then spoke one, in bitter anguish: + "God have pity on my wife, +And my children, in New Hampshire; + Orphans by this cruel strife." +And the other, leaning closer, + Underneath the solemn sky, +Bowed his head to hide the moisture + Gathering in his downcast eye: + + + +IX. + + +"_I've_ a wife and little daughter, + 'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom,"-- +Then his cry rang sharper, wilder, + "Oh, God! pity all their gloom." +And the wounded, in their death-hour, + Talking of the loved ones' woes, +Nearer drew unto each other, + Till they were no longer foes. + + + +X. + + +And the Georgian listened sadly + As the other tried to speak, +While the tears were dropping softly + O'er the pallor of his cheek: +"How she used to stand and listen, + Looking o'er the fields for me, +Waiting, till she saw me coming, + 'Neath the shadowy old plum-tree. +Never more I'll hear her laughter, + As she sees me at the gate, +And beneath the plum-tree's shadows, + All in vain for me she'll wait." + + + +XI. + + +Then the Georgian, speaking softly, + Said: "A brown-eyed little one +Used to wait among the roses, + For _me_, when the day was done; +And amid the early fragrance + Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet, +Up and down the old verandah + I would chase my darling's feet. +But on earth no more the beauty + Of her face my eye shall greet, +Nevermore I'll hear the music + Of those merry pattering feet-- +Ah, the solemn starlight, falling + On the far-off Georgia bloom, +Tells no tale unto my darling + Of her absent father's doom." + + + +XII. + + +Through the tears that rose between them + Both were trying grief to smother, +As they clasped each other's fingers + Whispering: _"Let's forgive each other."_ + + + +XIII. + + +When the morning sun was walking + "Up the gray stairs of the dawn," +And the crimson east was flushing + All the forehead of the morn, +Pitying skies were looking sadly + On the "once proud, happy land," +On the Southron and the Northman, + Holding fast each other's hand. +Fatherless the golden tresses, + Watching 'neath the old plum-tree; +Fatherless the little Georgian + Sporting in unconscious glee. + +Chicago Journal of Commerce, June, 1868. + + + + +Our Confederate Dead. + +What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier. + +By a Lady of Augusta, Geo. + + + +Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe + For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers; +And o'er your tomb a virgin's prayer I breathe, + To greet the pure moon and the April showers. + +I only know, I only care to know, + You died for me--for me and country bled; +A thousand Springs and wild December snow + Will weep for one of all the SOUTHERN DEAD. + +Perchance, some mother gazes up the skies, + Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave-- +Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes + Moisten the turf above your lowly grave. + +The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand + Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires, +Above the relics of a vanquished land + And light the torch of sanctifying fires. + +Your bed of honor has a rosy cope + To shimmer back the tributary stars; +And every petal glistens with a hope + Where Love hath blossomed in the disk of Mars. + +Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes + Bosomed amid the archangelic choir; +Not with the grumble of impetuous drums + Deepening the chorus of embattled ire. + +Above you shall the oak and cedar fling + Their giant plumage and protecting shade; +For you the song-bird pause upon his wing + And warble requiems ever undismayed. + +Farewell! And if your spirit wander near + To kiss this plant of unaspiring art-- +Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere, + As the libretto of a maiden's heart. + + + + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie + +By Benj. F. Pouter, of Alabama. + + + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie +That guard our Southern shores, +Whose standards brave the battle-storm +That round the border roars; +Your glorious sabres draw again, +And charge the invading foe; +Reap the columns deep +Where the battle tempests blow, +Where the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! +Though dark the tempest lower, +No arms will wear a tyrant's chains! +No dastard heart will cower! +Bright o'er the cloud the sign will rise, +To lead to victory; +While your swords reap his hordes, +Where the battle-tempests blow, +And the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! +Though Vicksburg's towers fall, +Here still are sacred rights to shield! +Your wives, your homes, your all! +With gleaming arms advance again, +Drive back the raging foe, +Nor yield your native field, +While the battle-tempests blow, +And the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +Our country needs no ramparts, +No batteries to shield! +Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong, +Breastworks that cannot yield! +The thunders of your battle-blades +Shall sweep the hated foe, +While their gore stains the shore, +Where the battle-tempests blow, +And the iron hail in floods descends, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +The spirits of your fathers +Shall rise from every grave! +Our country is their field of fame, +They nobly died to save! +Where Johnson, Jackson, Tilghman fell, +Your patriot hearts shall glow; +While you reap columns deep, +Through the armies of the foe, +Where the battle-storm is raging loud, +And the bloody torrents flow. + +The battle-flag of Dixie +On crimson field shall flame, +With azure cross, and silver stars, +To light her sons to fame! +When peace with olive-branch returns, +That flag's white folds shall glow, +Still bright on every height, +Where the storm has ceased to blow, +Where battle-tempests rage no more, +Nor bloody torrents flow. + +The battle-flag of Dixie +Shall long triumphant wave, +Where'er the storms of battle roar, +And victory crowns the brave! +The Cavaliers of Dixie! +In woman's songs shall glow +The fame of your name, +When the storm has ceased to blow, +When the battle-tempests rage no more, +Nor the bloody torrents flow. + + + + +Song of Spring, (1864.) + +By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina. + + + +Spring has come! Spring has come! + The brightening earth, the sparkling dew, + The bursting buds, the sky of blue, + The mocker's carol, in tree and hedge, + Proclaim anew Jehovah's pledge-- +"So long as man shall earth retain, +The seasons gone shall come again." + +Spring has come! Springs has come! + We have her here, in the balmy air, + In the blossoms that bourgeon without a care; + The violet bounds from her lowly bed, + And the jasmin flaunts with a lofty head; +All nature, in her baptismal dress, +Is abroad--to win, to soothe, and bless. + +Spring has come! Spring has come! + Yes, and eternal as the Lord, + Who spells her being at a word; + All blest but man, whose passions proud + Wrap Nature in her bloody shroud-- +His heart is winter to the core, +His spring, alas! shall come no more! + + + + +"What the Village Bell Said." + +By John C. M'Lemore, of South Carolina.[1] + + + +Full many a year in the village church, + Above the world have I made my home; +And happier there, than if I had hung + High up in the air in a golden dome; + For I have tolled + When the slow hearse rolled + Its burden sad to my door; + And each echo that woke, + With the solemn stroke, + Was a sigh from the heart of the poor. + +I know the great bell of the city spire + Is a far prouder one than such as I; +And its deafening stroke, compared with mine, + Is thunder compared with a sigh: + But the shattering note + Of his brazen throat, + As it swells on the Sabbath air, + Far oftener rings + For other things + Than a call to the house of prayer. + +Brave boy, I tolled when your father died, + And you wept while my tones pealed loud; +And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame, + Your mother dear, lay in her shroud: + And I sang in sweet tone + The angels might own, + When your sister you gave to your friend; + Oh! I rang with delight, + On that sweet summer night, + When they vowed they would love to the end! + +But a base foe comes from the regions of crime, + With a heart all hot with the flames of hell; +And the tones of the bell you have loved so long + No more on the air shall swell: + For the people's chief, + With his proud belief + That his country's cause is God's own, + Would change the song, + The hills have rung, + To the thunder's harsher tone. + +Then take me down from the village church, + Where in peace so long I have hung; +But I charge you, by all the loved and lost, + _Remember the songs I have sung._ + Remember the mound + Of holy ground, + Where your father and mother lie; + And swear by the love + For the dead above + To beat your foul foe or die. + +Then take me; but when (I charge you this) + You have come to the bloody field, +That the bell of God, to a cannon grown, + You will ne'er to the foeman yield. + By the love of the past, + Be that hour your last, + When the foe has reached this trust; + And make him a bed + Of patriot dead, + And let him sleep in this holy dust. + +[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines. + + + + +The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star. + +By A. P. Gray, of South Carolina. + + + +From the silver sands of a gleaming shore, + Where the wild sea-waves were breaking, +A lofty shoot from a twining root + Sprang forth as the dawn was waking; +And the crest, though fed by the sultry beam, + (And the shaft by the salt wave only,) +Spread green to the breeze of the curling seas, + And rose like a column lonely. + Then hail to the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + +As the sea-winds rustled the bladed crest, + And the sun to the noon rose higher, +A serpent came, with an eye of flame, + And coiled by the leafy pyre; +His ward he would keep by the lonely tree, + To guard it with constant devotion; +Oh, sharp was the fang, and the arméd clang, + That pierced through the roar of the ocean, + And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + +And the day wore down to the twilight close, + The breeze died away from the billow; +Yet the wakeful clang of the rattles rang + Anon from the serpent's pillow; +When I saw through the night a gleaming star + O'er the branching summit growing, +Till the foliage green and the serpent's sheen + In the golden light were glowing, + That hung o'er the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + +By the standard cleave every loyal son, + When the drums' long roll shall rattle; +Let the folds stream high to the victor's eye; + Or sink in the shock of the battle. +Should triumph rest on the red field won, + With a victor's song let us hail it; +If the battle fail and the star grow pale, + Yet never in shame will we veil it, + But cherish the tree, the Palmetto tree, + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free. + + + + +Southern War Hymn + +By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina. + + + +Arise! arise! with arm of might, + Sons of our sunny home! +Gird on the sword for the sacred fight, + For the battle-hour hath come! +Arise! for the felon foe draws nigh + In battle's dread array; +To the front, ye brave! let the coward fly, + 'Tis the hero that bides the fray! + +Strike hot and hard, my noble band, + With the arm of fight and fire; +Strike fast for God and Fatherland, + For mother, and wife, and sire. +Though thunders roar and lightnings flash, + Oh! Southrons, never fear, +Ye shall turn the bolt with the sabre's clash, + And the shaft with the steely spear. + +Bright blooms shall wave o'er the hero's grave, + While the craven finds no rest; +Thrice cursed the traitor, the slave, the knave, + While thrice is the hero blessed +To the front in the fight, ye Southrons, stand, + Brave spirits, with eagle eye, +And standing for God and for Fatherland, + Ye will gallantly do or die. + +Charleston Courier. + + + + +The Battle Rainbow. + +By John R. Thompson, of Virginia. + + + +The poem which follows was written just after the Seven Days of Battle, +near Richmond, in 1862. It was suggested by the appearance of a rainbow, +the evening before the grand trial of strength between the contending +armies. This rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the +position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond. + + +The warm, weary day, was departing--the smile + Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased; +And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while + On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east. + +There our army--awaiting the terrible fight + Of the morrow--lay hopeful, and watching, and still; +Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white, + From river to river, o'er meadow and hill. + +While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky + Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun, +Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply; + And slept till the battle, the charge in each gun. + +When lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing! + Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold! +The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing + Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold. + +Blest omen of victory, symbol divine + Of peace after tumult, repose after pain; +How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign, + To eyes that should never behold it again! + +For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out, + And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air: +Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt, + Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair. + +Then a long week of glory and agony came-- + Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread; +When day unto day gave the record of fame, + And night unto night gave the list of its dead. + +We had triumphed--the foe had fled back to his ships-- + His standard in rags and his legions a wreck-- +But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips + Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check. + +Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release, + Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud; +Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace + To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed. + +But the promise was given--the beautiful arc, + With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned +The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark + Of the Infinite Love overarching the land: + +And that Love, shining richly and full as the day, + Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall, +On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display + Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all. + + + + +Stonewall Jackson. + +Mortally wounded--"_The Brigade must not know, sir._" + + + +"Who've ye got there?"--"Only a dying brother, + Hurt in the front just now." +"Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother + Where he was killed, and how." + +"Whom have you there?"--"A crippled courier, major, + Shot by mistake, we hear. +He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here: + Quick with him to the rear!" + +"Well, who comes next?"--"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; + Don't let the men find out. +It's STONEWALL!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir, + While there's a foe about." + +Whom have we _here_--shrouded in martial manner, + Crowned with a martyr's charm? +A grand dead hero, in a living banner, + Born of his heart and arm: + +The heart whereon his cause hung--see how clingeth + That banner to his bier! +The arm wherewith his cause struck--hark! how ringeth + His trumpet in their rear! + +What have we left? His glorious inspiration, + His prayers in council met. +Living, he laid the first stones of a nation; + And dead, he builds it yet. + + + + +Dirge for Ashby. + +By Mrs. M. J. Preston. + + + +Heard ye that thrilling word-- + Accent of dread-- +Fall, like a thunderbolt, + Bowing each head? +Over the battle dun, +Over each booming gun-- +Ashby, our bravest one! + Ashby is dead! + +Saw ye the veterans-- + Hearts that had known +Never a quail of fear, + Never a groan-- +Sob, though the fight they win, +Tears their stern eyes within-- +Ashby, our Paladin, + Ashby is dead! + +Dash, dash the tear away-- + Crush down the pain! +_Dulce et decus_, be + Fittest refrain! +Why should the dreary pall, +Round _him_, be flung at all? +Did not our hero fall + Gallantly slain! + +Catch the last words of cheer, + Dropt from his tongue; +Over the battle's din, + Let them be rung! +"Follow _me!_ follow _me!_" +Soldier, oh! could there be +Pæan or dirge for thee, + Loftier sung? + +Bold as the lion's heart-- + Dauntlessly brave-- +Knightly as knightliest + Bayard might crave; +Sweet, with all Sydney's grace. +Tender as Hampden's face, +Who now shall fill the space, + Void by his grave? + +'Tis not one broken heart, + Wild with dismay-- +Crazed in her agony, + Weeps o'er his clay! +Ah! from a thousand eyes, +Flow the pure tears that rise-- +Widowed Virginia lies + Stricken to-day! + +Yet, charge as gallantly, + Ye, whom he led! +Jackson, the victor, still + Leads, at your head! +Heroes! be battle done +Bravelier, every one +Nerved by the thought alone-- + Ashby is dead! + + + + +Sacrifice. + + + +I. + + +Another victim for the sacrifice! + Oh! my own mother South, + How terrible this wail above thy youth, + Dying at the cannon's mouth,-- +And for no crime--no vice-- +No scheme of selfish greed--no avarice, +Or insolent ambition, seeking power;--. +But that, with resolute soul and will sublime, + They made their proud election to be free,-- +To leave a grand inheritance to time, + And to their sons and race, of liberty! + + + +II. + + +Oh! widow'd woman, sitting in thy weeds, + With thy young brood around thee, sad and lone, +Thy fancy sees thy hero where he bleeds, + And still thou hear'st his moan! +Dying he calls on thee--again--again! + With blessing and fond memories. Be of cheer; +He has not died--he did not bless--in vain: +For, in the eternal rounds of GOD, HE squares +The account with sorrowing hearts; and soothes the fears, +And leads the orphans home, and dries the widow's tears. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Sonnet. + +Written in 1864. + + + +What right to freedom when we are not free? + When all the passions goad us into lust; + When, for the worthless spoil we lick the dust, +And while one-half our people die, that we +May sit with peace and freedom 'neath our tree, +The other gloats for plunder and for spoil: +Bustles through daylight, vexes night with toil, +Cheats, swindles, lies and steals!--Shall such things be +Endowed with such grand boons as Liberty + Brings in her train of blessings? Should we pray + That such as these should still maintain the sway-- +These soulless, senseless, heartless enemies +Of all that's good and great, of all that's wise, +Worthy on earth, or in the Eternal Eyes! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Grave of A. Sydney Johnston. + +By J. B. Synnott. + + + +The Lone Star State secretes the clay + Of him who led on Shiloh's field, +Where mourning wives will stop to pray, + And maids a weeping tribute yield. + +In after time, when spleen and strife + Their madd'ning flame shall have expired, +The noble deeds that gemm'd this life + By Age and Youth will be admired. + +As o'er the stream the boatmen rove + By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring, +They'll show with moist'ning eye the grave + Where havoc spread her sable wing. + +There, 'neath the budding foliage green, + Ere Night evolved her dewy breath, +While Vict'ry smiled upon the scene, + Our Chieftain met the blow of death. + +Great men to come will bless the brave; + The soldier, bronzed in War's career, +Shall weave a chaplet o'er his grave, + While Mem'ry drops the glist'ning tear. + +Though envy wag her scorpion tongue, + The march of Time shall find his fame; +Where Bravery's loved and Glory's sung, + There children's lips shall lisp his name. + + + + +"Not Doubtful of Your Fatherland." + + + +I. + + +Not doubtful of your fatherland, + Or of the God who gave it; +On, Southrons! 'gainst the hireling band + That struggle to enslave it; + Ring boldly out + Your battle-shout, +Charge fiercely 'gainst these felon hordes: + One hour of strife + Is freedom's life, +And glory hangs upon your swords! + + + +II. + + +A thousand mothers' matron eyes, + Wives, sisters, daughters weeping, +Watch, where your virgin banner flies, + To battle fiercely sweeping: + Though science fails, + The steel prevails, +When hands that wield, own hearts of oak: + These, though the wall + Of stone may fall, +Grow stronger with each hostile stroke. + + + +III. + + +The faith that feels its cause as true, + The virtue to maintain it; +The soul to brave, the will to do,-- + These seek the fight, and gain it! + The precious prize + Before your eyes, +The all that life conceives of charm, + Home, freedom, life, + Child, sister, wife, +All rest upon your soul and arm! + + + +IV. + + +And what the foe, the felon race, + That seek your subjugation? +The scum of Europe, her disgrace. + The lepers of the nation. + And what the spoil + That tempts their toil, +The bait that goads them on to fight? + Lust, crime, and blood, + Each fiendish mood +That prompts and follows appetite. + + + +V. + + +Shall such prevail, and shall you fail, + Asserting cause so holy? +With souls of might, go, seek the fight, + And crush these wretches lowly. + On, with the cry, + To do or die, +As did, in darker days, your sires, + Nor stay the blow, + Till every foe, +Down stricken, in your path, expires! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Only a Soldier's Grave. + +By S. A. Jones, of Aberdeen, Mississippi. + + + +Only a soldier's grave! Pass by, +For soldiers, like other mortals, die. +Parents he had--they are far away; +No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay; +No brother comes, with a tearful eye: +It's only a soldier's grave--pass by. + +True, he was loving, and young, and brave, +Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave; +No proud recital of virtues known, +Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won; +No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;-- +Only a soldier's grave--pass by. + +Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight, +And he gave his life in the cause of right! +When his hope was high, and his youthful dream +As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream; +His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;-- +Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by. + +Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave, +Some one may seek him in hope to save! +Some of the dear ones, far away, +Would bear him home to his native clay: +'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh, +Find not the hillock, and pass him by. + + + + +The Guerilla Martyrs. + + + +I. + + +Ay, to the doom--the scaffold and the chain,-- + To all your cruel tortures, bear them on, +Ye foul and coward Hangmen;--but in vain!-- + Ye cannot touch the glory they have won-- +And win--thus yielding up the martyr's breath + For freedom!--Theirs is a triumphant death!-- +A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb + Still keeps some sacred fires;--that yet shall burst, +Even from the reeking ravage of their doom, + As glorious--ay, more glorious--than the first! +Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst! + 'Tis for a season only! There shall come +An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst; + When the dread vengeance of a century +Shall reap its harvest in a single day; + And ye shall howl in horror;--and, to die, +Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay; + But to be cruel and brutal, does not make +Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey + On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake +The unappeasable appetite ye wake, + In the hot blood of victims, that have been, +Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,-- + Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin! + + + +II. + +Ye slaughter,--do ye triumph? Ask your chains, + Ye Sodom-hearted butchers!--turn your eyes, +Where reeks yon bloody scaffold; and the pains, + Ungroaned, of a true martyr, ere he dies, +Attest the damned folly of your crime, + Now at its carnival! His spirit flies, +Unscathed by all your fires, through every clime, + Into the world's wide bosom. Thousands rise, +Prompt at its call, and principled to strike +The tyrants and the tyrannies alike!-- +Voices, that doom ye, speak in all your deeds, + And cry to heaven, arm earth, and kindle hell! +A host of freemen, where one martyr bleeds, + Spring from his place of doom, and make his knell +The toscin, to arouse a myriad race, +T'avenge Humanity's wrong, and wipe off man's disgrace! + + + +III. + + +We mourn not for our martyrs!--for they perish, + As the good perish, for a deathless faith: +Their glorious memories men will fondly cherish, + In terms and signs that shall ennoble death! +Their blood becomes a principle, to guide, + Onward, forever onward, in proud flow, +Restless, resistless, as the ocean tide, + The Spirit heaven yields freedom here below! +How should we mourn the martyrs, who arise, +Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;-- +And take their thrones, as slars; and o'er the night, + Shed a new glory; and to other souls, +Shine out with blessed guidance, and true light, + Which leads successive races to their goals! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +"Libera Nos, O Domine!" + +By James Barron Hope. + + + +What! ye hold yourselves as freemen? + Tyrants love just such as ye! +Go! abate your lofty manner! +Write upon the State's old banner, + "_A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!_" + +Sink before the federal altar, + Each one low, on bended knee, +Pray, with lips that sob and falter, +This prayer from the coward's psalter,-- + "_A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!_" + +But ye hold that quick repentance + In the Northern mind will be; +This repentance comes no sooner +Than the robbers did, at Luna! + "_A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!_" + +He repented _him_:--the Bishop + Gave him absolution free; +Poured upon him sacred chrism +In the pomp of his baptism. + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +He repented;--then he sickened! + Was he pining for the sea? +_In extremis_ was he shriven, +The viaticum was given, + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Then the old cathedral's choir + Took the plaintive minor key; +With the Host upraised before him, +Down the marble aisles they bore him; + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +While the bishop and the abbot-- + All the monks of high degree, +Chanting praise to the Madonna, +Came to do him Christian honor! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Now the _miserere's_ cadence, + Takes the voices of the sea; +As the music-billows quiver, +See the dead freebooter shiver! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Is it that these intonations + Thrill him thus from head to knee? +Lo, his cerements burst asunder! +'Tis a sight of fear and wonder! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Fierce, he stands before the bishop, + Dark as shape of Destinie. +Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,-- +Down the prelate goes--dead--falling! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Hastings lives! He was but feigning! + What! Repentant? Never he! +Down he smites the priests and friars, +And the city lights with fires! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Ah! the children and the maidens, + 'Tis in vain they strive to flee! +Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding, +Is no place for woman's pleading. + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +Louder swells the frightful tumult-- + Pallid Death holds revelrie! +Dies the organ's mighty clamor, +By the horseman's iron hammer! + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +So they thought that he'd repented! + Had they nailed him to the tree, +He had not deserved their pity, +And they had not--lost their city. + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ + +For the moral in this story, + Which is plain as truth can be: +If we trust the North's relenting, +We shall shriek-too late repenting-- + _"A furore Normanorum, + Libera nos, O Domine!"_ [1] + +[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's +History of Latin Christianity. + + + + +The Knell Shall Sound Once More. + + + +I know that the knell shall sound once more, + And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave; +And there shall be storm on the beaten shore, + And there shall be strife on the stormy wave; +And we shall wail, with a mighty wail, + And feel the keen sorrow through many years, +But shall not our banner at last prevail, + And our eyes be dried of tears? + +There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree, + And the nation whose course is long to run, +Must make, though in anguish still it be, + The tribute of many a noble son; +The roots of each mighty shaft must grow + In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts; +And to conquer the right from a bloody foe, + Brings a pang as when soul and body parts! + +But the blood and the pang are the need, alas! + To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays +The generations that rise, and pass + To the full fruition that crowns their days! +'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life: + And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care; +And the freedom sought must ever be bought + By the best blood-offerings, held most dear. + +Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first + To mount the red altar of sacrifice; +Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst, + Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!-- +The struggle may last for a thousand years, + And only with blood shall the field be bought; +But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears, + The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought. + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion + +By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +He sleeps upon Virginia's strand, +While comrades of the Legion stand +With arms reversed--a mournful band-- + Around his early bier! +His war-horse paws the shaking ground, +The volleys ring--they close around-- +And on the white brow, laurel-bound, + Falls many a soldier's tear. + +Up, stricken mourners! look on high, +Loud anthems rend the echoing sky, +Re-born where heroes never die-- + The warrior is at rest! +Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown; +Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down, +His plumes replaced by shining--crown, +The red cross on his breast! + +Though Gendron's arm is with the dust, +Let not his blood-stained weapon rust, +Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust, + Where Southern banners fly! +Some brave, who followed where he led-- +Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead, +To avenge each drop of blood he shed, + Or, like him, bravely die! + +He deemed a death for honor sweet.-- +And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet, +Our flag should be his winding-sheet, + Proud banner of the free! +Oh, let his honored form be laid +Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade; +His praises sung by Southern maid, + While flows the broad Santee! + +We come around his urn to twine +Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine, +Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine, + From skies deep-dyed and bright; +And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!-- +On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the field! +Or dead return on battered shield, + As martyrs for the right! + +Where camp-fires light the reddened sod, +The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God, +In Palmer's name, and by his blood, + They swell the battle-cry; +We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel, +'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel, +And menial hordes as suppliants kneel, + Or, terror-stricken, fly! + + + + +Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans. + +By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama. + + + +Where murdered Mumford lies, +Bewailed in bitter sighs, +Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved, +Martyrs of Liberty, +Defenders of the Free! +Come, humbly nigh, +And learn to die! + +Ah, Freedom, on that day, +Turned fearfully away, +While pitying angels lingered near, +To gaze upon the sod, +Red with a martyr's blood; +And woman's tear +Fell on his bier! + +O God! that he should die +Beneath a Southern sky! +Upon a felon's gallows swung, +Murdered by tyrant hand,-- +While round a helpless band, +On Butler's name +Poured scorn and shame. + +But hark! loud pæans fly +From earth to vaulted sky, +He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne! +List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1] +Tolls far the martyr's knell! +Shout, Southrons, high, +Our battle cry! + +Come, all of Southern blood, +Come, kneel to Freedom's God! +Here at her crimsoned altar swear! +Accursed for evermore +The flag that Mumford tore, +And o'er his grave +Our colors wave! + + +[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God." +--_Oriental Legend._ + + + + +The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston. + +By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D. + + + +Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies, + Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; +Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, + Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate. + +Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel + Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give; +And in her hour of anguish let her feel + That ye can die whom she has taught to live. + +Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, + To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth; +That never villain hand on her be laid, + Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth. + +See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame, + As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath, +Her generous brow and bosom all aflame + At the bare thought of insult, worse than death. + +And stained and rent her snowy garments are; + The big drops gather on her pallid face, +Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar + The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace. + +And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers + And bitter tears, to every loving child +To stand between her and the doom she fears, + To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled! + +Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt! + And doubly damned who casts one look behind! +Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, + Up with her banner! give it to the wind. + +Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, + Till every ringing avenue repeat +The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide + Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet. + +Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come! + Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now +By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, + By every manly hope and filial vow, + +To save her proud soul from that loathéd thrall + Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name; +Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, + Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame. + +From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled, + Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, +And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled, + Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire. + +Gather around her sacred ashes then, + Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, +Die! as becomes a race of free-born men, + Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain. + +So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, + If not in life, at least by death, set free-- +And send her fame, through endless ages down, + The last grand holocaust of liberty. + + + + +Savannah Fallen. + +By Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia. + + + +I. + + +Bowing her head to the dust of the earth. + Smitten and stricken is she, +Light after light gone out from her hearth, + Son after son from her knee. +Bowing her head to the dust at her feet, + Weeping her beautiful slain, +Silence! keep silence, for aye in the street, + See! they are coming again. + + + +II. + + +Coming again, oh! glorious ones, + Wrapped in the flag of the free; +Queen of the South! bright crowns for thy sons, + Only the cypress for _thee!_ +Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum, + Marches, and requiems sweet; +Silence! keep silence! alas, how they come, + Oh! how they move through the street! + + + +III. + + +Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go, + Bearing the young and the brave, +Fair as the summer, but white as the snow + Bearing them down to the grave. +Some in the morning, and some in the noou, + Some in the hey-day of life; +Bower nor blossom, nor summer nor June, + Wooing them back to the strife. + + + +IV. + + +Some in the billow, afar, oh! afar, + Staining the waves with their blood; +One on the vessel's high deck, like a star, + Sinking in glory's bright-flood.[1] +Bowing her head to the dust of the earth, + Humbled but honored is she, +lighting the skies with the stars from her hearth, + Who shall her comforter be? + + + +V. + + +Bring her, oh! bring her the garments of woe, + Sackcloth and ashes for aye; +Winds of the South! oh, a requiem blow, + Sighing and sorrow to-day. +Sprinkle the showers from heaven's blue eyes + Wide o'er the green summer lea, +Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies, + Thou shalt her comforter be! + + +[1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the +"Water Witch." + + + + +Bull Run.--A Parody. + + + +I. + + +At Bull Run when the sun was low, +Each Southern face grew pale as snow, +While loud as jackdaws rose the crow + Of Yankees boasting terribly! + + + +II. + + +But Bull Run saw another sight, +When at the deepening shades of night, +Towards Fairfax Court-House rose the flight + Of Yankees running rapidly. + + + +III. + + +Then broke each corps with terror riven, +Then rushed the steeds from battle driven, +The men of battery Number Seven + Forsook their Red artillery! + + + +IV. + + +Still on McDowell's farthest left, +The roar of cannon strikes one deaf, +Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff + Contend for death or victory. + + + +V. + + +The panic thickens--off, ye brave! +Throw down your arms! your bacon save! +Waive, Washington, all scruples waive, + And fly, with all your chivalry! + + + + +"Stack Arms." + +Written in the Prison of Fort Delaware, Del., on Hearing of the +Surrender of General Lee. + +By Jos. Blyth Alston. + + + +"Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry + When, weary with the dusty tread +Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, + I sank upon my soldier bed, +And camly slept; the starry dome + Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, +And mingled with my dreams of home, + The thoughts of Peace and Liberty. + +"Stack Arms!" I've heard it, when the shout + Exulting, rang along our line, +Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, + Captured, dispersed; its tones divine +Then came to mine enraptured ear. + Guerdon of duty nobly done, +And glistened on my cheek the tear + Of grateful joy for victory won. + +"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow + And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, +A broken, murmuring wail of woe, + From manly hearts by anguish wrung. +Like victims of a midnight dream, + We move, we know not how nor why, +For life and hope but phantoms seem, + And it would be relief--to die! + + + + +Doffing the Gray. + +By Lieutenant Falligant, of Savannah, Geo. + + + +Off with your gray suits, boys-- + Off with your rebel gear-- +They smack too much of the cannons' peal, +The lightning flash of your deadly steel, + The terror of your spear. + +Their color is like the smoke + That curled o'er your battle-line; +They call to mind the yell that woke +When the dastard columns before you broke, + And their dead were your fatal sign. + +Off with the starry wreath, + Ye who have led our van; +To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death, +When we followed you over the gory heath, + Where we whipped them man to man. + +Down with the cross of stars-- + Too long hath it waved on high; +'Tis covered all over with battle scars, +But its gleam the Northern banner mars-- + 'Tis time to lay it by. + +Down with the vows we've made, + Down, with each memory-- +Down with the thoughts of our noble dead-- +Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid + And down with Liberty. + + + + +In the Land Where We Were Dreaming + +By D. B. Lucas, Esq., of Jefferson. + + + +Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as grand +As ever floated out of Faerie land; + Children were we in single faith, + But God-like children, whom, nor death, +Nor threat, nor danger drove from Honor's path, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render; +As violets, our women pure and tender; + And when they spoke, their voice did thrill + Until at eve, the whip-poor-will, +At morn the mocking-bird, were mute and still + In the land where we were dreaming. + +And we had graves that covered more of glory +Than ever tracked tradition's ancient story; + And in our dream we wove the thread + Of principles for which had bled +And suffered long our own immortal dead + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Though in our land we had both bond and free, +Both were content; and so God let them be;-- + 'Till envy coveted our land + And those fair fields our valor won: +But little recked we, for we still slept on, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew wild-- +Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field; + Crimson the moon; between the Twins + Barbed arrows fly, and then begins +Such strife as when disorder's Chaos reigns, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Down from her sun-lit heights smiled Liberty +And waved her cap in sign of Victory-- + The world approved, and everywhere + Except where growled the Russian bear, +The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer + In the land where we were dreaming. + +We fancied that a Government was ours-- +We challenged place among the world's great powers; + We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission, + Until so life-like grew our vision, +That he who dared to doubt but met derision + In the land where we were dreaming. + +We looked on high: a banner there was seen, +Whose field was blanched and spotless in its sheen-- + Chivalry's cross its Union bears, + And vet'rans swearing by their scars +Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars + In the land where we were dreaming. + +A hero came amongst us as we slept; +At first he lowly knelt--then rose and wept; + Then gathering up a thousand spears + He swept across the field of Mars; +Then bowed farewell and walked beyond the stars-- + In the land where we were dreaming. + +We looked again: another figure still +Gave hope, and nerved each individual will-- + Full of grandeur, clothed with power, + Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour +With stern, majestic sway--of strength a tower + In the land where we were dreaming. + +As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God, +Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, + Rome felt herself secure and free, + So, "Richmond's safe," we said, while we +Beheld a bronzed Hero--God-like Lee, + In the land where we were dreaming. + +As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls-- +As wakes the mother when the infant falls-- + As starts the traveller when around + His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound-- +So woke our nation with a single bound + In the land where we were dreaming. + +Woe! woe is me! the startled mother cried-- +While we have slept our noble sons have died! + Woe! woe is me! how strange and sad, + That all our glorious vision's fled +And left us nothing real but the dead + In the land where we were dreaming. + +And are they really dead, our martyred slain? +No! dreamers! morn shall bid them rise again + From every vale--from every height + On which they _seemed_ to die for right-- +Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight + In the land where we were dreaming. + + + + +Ballad--"Yes, Build Your Walls." + + + +I. + + +Yes, build your walls of stone or sand, + But know, when all is builded--then, +The proper breastworks of the land + Are in a race of freeborn men! +The sons of sires, who knew, in life, + That, of all virtues, manhood first, +Still nursing peace, yet arms for strife, + And braves, for liberty, the worst! + + + +II. + + +What grand examples have been ours! + Oh! sons of Moultrie, Marion,--call +From mansions of the past, the powers, + That plucked ye from the despot's thrall! +Do Sumter, Rutledge, Gadsden, live? + Oh! for your City by the Sea, +They gladly gave, what men could give, + Blood, life, and toil, and made it free! + + + +III. + + +The grand inheritance, in trust + For children of your loins, must know +No taint of shame, no loss by lust, + Your own, or of the usurping foe! +Let not your sons, in future days, + The children now that bear your name, +Exulting in a grandsire's praise, + Droop o'er a father's grave in shame! + +Charleston Mercury. + + + + +The Lines Around Petersburg. + +By Samuel Davis, of North Carolina. + + + +"Such a sleep they sleep, +The men I loved!" + Tennyson. + + +Oh, silence, silence! now, when night is near, + And I am left alone, +Thou art so strange, so sad reposing here-- + And all so changed hath grown, +Where all was once exuberant with life + Through day and night, in deep and deadly strife. + +If I must weep, oh, tell me, is there not +Some plaintive story breathed into mine ear +By spirit-whispers from thy voiceless sphere, + Haunting this awful spot? +To my sad soul, more mutely eloquent +Than words of fame on sculptured monument +Outspeaks yon crumbling parapet, where lies +The broken gun, the idly rusting ball, +Mute tokens of an ill-starred enterprise! +Rude altars reared for costly sacrifice! +Vast work of hero-hands left in thy fall! + +Where are they now, that fearless brotherhood, + Who marshalled here, + That fearful year, +In pain and peril, yet undaunted stood,-- +Though Death rode fiercest on the battle-storm +And earth lay strewn with many a glorious form? +Where are they now, who, when the strife was done, +With kindly greeting 'round the camp-fire met,-- +And made an hour of mirth, from triumphs won, +Repay the day's stern toil, when the slow sun had set? + +Where are they?-- +Let the nameless grave declare,-- +In strange unwonted hillocks--frequent seen! +Alas I who knows how much lies buried there!-- +What worlds, of love, and all that might have been! +The rest are scattered now, we know not where; +And Life to each a new employment brings; +But still they seem to gather round me here, +To whom these places were familiar things! +Wide sundered now, by mountain and by stream, +Once brothers--still a brotherhood they seem;-- +More firm united, since a common woe +Hath brought to common hopes their overthrow! + +Brave souls and true;--in toil and danger tried,-- +I see them still as in those glorious years, +When strong, and battling bravely side by side, +All crowned their deeds with praise,--and some with tears +'Tis done! the sword is sheathed; the banner furled, +No sound where late the crashing missile whirled-- +The dead alone possess the battle-plain; +The living turn them to life's cares again. + +Oh, Silence! blessed dreams upon thee wait; +here Thought and Feeling ope their precious store, +And Memory, gathering from the spoils of Fate +Love's scattered treasures, brings them back once more! + So let me often dream, + As up the brightening stream + Of olden Time, thought gently leads me on, +Seeking those better days, lost, lost, alas! and gone! + + + + +All Is Gone. + +Fadette.--Memphis Appeal. + + + +Sister, hark! Atween the trees cometh naught but summer breeze? + All is gone-- +Summer breezes come and go. Hope doth never wander so-- +No, nor evermore doth Woe. + +Sister, look! Adown the lane treadeth only April rain? + All is gone-- +Through the tangled hedge-rows green glimmer thus the sunbeam's sheen, +Dropping from cloud-rifts between? + +Sister, hark! the very air heavy on my heart doth bear-- + All is gone!-- +E'en the birds that chirped erewhile for the frowning sun to smile, +Hush at that drum near the stile. + +Sister, pray!--it is the foe! On thy knees--aye, very low-- + All is gone, +And the proud South on her knees to a mongrel race like these-- +But the dead sleep 'neath the trees. + +See--they come--their banners flare gayly in our gloomy air-- + All is gone-- +Flashed our Southern Cross all night--naught but a meteoric light +In a moment lost to sight? + +Aye, so gay--the brave array--marching from no battle fray-- + All is gone,-- +Yet who vaunteth, of your host, maketh he but little boast +If he think on battles most. + +On they wind, behind the wood. Dost remember once we stood-- + All is gone-- +All but memory, of those days--but we've stood here while the haze +Of the battle met the blaze. + +Of the sun adown yon hill. Charge on charge--I hear them still.-- + All is gone!-- +Yet I hear the echoing crash--see the sabres gleam and flash-- +See one gallant headlong dash. + +One, amid the battle-wreck, restive plunged his charger black-- + All is gone-- +Whirrs the partridge there--didst see where he rode so +recklessly? +Once he turned and waved to me. + +"Ah," thou saidst, "the smoke is dark, scarce can I our banner mark"-- + All is gone-- +All but memory; yet I see, darksome howsoever it be, +How to death--to death--rode he. + +Not a star he proudly bore, but a sword all dripping gore-- + All is gone-- +Dashes on our little band like yon billow on the strand-- +Like yon strand unmoved they stand. + +For their serried ranks are strong: thousands upon thousands throng-- + All is gone, +And the handful, true and brave, spent, like yonder dying wave, +Fall back slowly from that grave. + +Low our banner drooped--and fell. Back he spurs, mid shot and shell-- + All _was_ gone, +But he waves it high--and then, on--we sweep them from the glen-- +But he ne'er rode back again. + +Ah, I smiled to see him go. How my cheek with pride did glow! + All is gone-- +All, of pride or hope, for me--but that evening, hopefully +Stood I at the gate with thee, + +Sister, when at twilight gray marched our soldiers back this way-- + All is gone-- +In the woods rang many a cheer--how we smiled! I did not fear +Till--at last was borne a bier. + +Sweetest sister, dost thou weep? Hush! he only fell asleep-- + All is gone-- +And'twere better he had died--free, whatever us betide-- +Our galling chains untried. + +We were leaning on the gate. Dost remember, it grew late-- + All is gone-- +Yet I see the stars so pale--see the shadows down the vale-- +Hear the whip-poor-will's far wail, + +As if all were in a dream. Through yon pines the moon did gleam-- + All is gone-- +On that banner-pall of death--on that red sword without sheath-- +And--I knew who lay beneath. + +Did I speak? I thought I said, let me look upon your dead-- + All is gone--- +Was I cold? I did not weep. Tears are spray from founts not deep-- +My heart lies in frozen sleep. + +Sister, pray for me. Thine eyes gleam like God's own midnight skies-- + All is gone-- +Tuneless are my spirit's chords. I but look up, like the birds, +And trust Christ to say the words. + + + + +Bowing Her Head. + + + +Her head is bowed downwards; so pensive her air, + As she looks on the ground with her pale, solemn face, +It were hard to decide whether faith or despair, + Whether anguish or trust, in her heart holds a place. + +Her hair was all gold in the sun's joyous light, + Her brow was as smooth as the soft, placid sea: +But the furrows of care came with shadows of night, + And the gold silvered pale when the light left the lea. + +Her lips slightly parted, deep thought in her eye, + While sorrow cuts seams in her forehead so fair; +Her bosom heaves gently, she stifles a sigh, + And just moistens her lid with the dews of a tear. + +Why droops she thus earthward--why bends she? Oh, see! + There are gyves on her limbs! see her manacled hand! +She is loaded with chains; but her spirit is free-- + Free to love and to mourn for her desolate land. + +Her jailer, though cunning, lacks wit to devise + How to fetter her thoughts, as her limbs he has done; +The eagle that's snatched from his flight to the skies, + From the bars of his cage may still gaze at the sun. + +No sound does she utter; all voiceless her pains; + The wounds of her spirit with pride she conceals; +She is dumb to her shearers; the clank of her chains + And the throbs of her heart only tell what she feels. + +She looks sadly around her; now sombre the scene! + How thick the deep shadows that darken her view! +The black embers of homes where the earth was so green, + And the smokes of her wreck where the heavens shone blue. + +Her daughters bereaved of all succor but God, + Her bravest sons perished--the light of her eyes; +But oppression's sharp heel does not cut 'neath the sod, + And she knows that the chains cannot bind in the skies. + +She thinks of the vessel she aided to build, + Of all argosies richest that floated the seas; +Compacted so strong, framed by architects skilled, + Or to dare the wild storm, or to sail to the breeze. + +The balmiest winds blowing soft where she steers, + The favor of heaven illuming her path-- +She might sail as she pleased to the mild summer airs, + And avoid the dread regions of tempest and wrath. + +But the crew quarrelled soon o'er the cargo she bore; + 'Twas adjusted unfairly, the cavillers said; +And the anger of men marred the peace that of yore + Spread a broad path of glory and sunshine ahead. + +There were seams in her planks--there were spots on her flag-- + So the fanatics said, as they seized on her helm; +And from soft summer seas, turned her prow where the crag + And the wild breakers rose the good ship to overwhelm. + +Then the South, though true love to the vessel she bore, + Since she first laid its keel in the days that were gone-- +Saw it plunge madly on to the wild billows' roar, + And rush to destruction and ruin forlorn. + +So she passed from the decks, in the faith of her heart + That justice and God her protectors would be; +Not dashed like a frail, fragile spar, without chart, + In the fury and foam of the wild raging sea. + +The life-boat that hung by the stout vessel's side + She seized, and embarked on the wide, trackless main, +In the faith that she'd reach, making virtue her guide, + The haven the mother-ship failed to attain + +But the crew rose in wrath, and they swore by their might + They would sink the brave boat that did buffet the sea, +For daring to seek, by her honor and right, + A new port from the storms, a new home for the free. + +So they crushed the brave boat; all forbearance they lost; + They littered with ruins the ocean so wild-- +Till the hulk of the parent ship, beaten and tossed, + Drifted prone on the flood by the wreck of the child. + +And the bold rower, loaded with fetters and chains, + In the gloom of her heart sings the proud vessel's dirge; +Half forgets, in its wreck, all the pangs of her pains, + As she sees its stout parts floating loose in the surge. + +Savannah Broadside. + + + + +The Confederate Flag + +By Anna Feyre Dinnies, of Louisiana. + + + +Take that banner down,'tis weary, +Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, + Furl it, hide it, let it rest; +For there's not a man to wave it-- +For there's not a soul to lave it +In the blood that heroes gave it. + Furl it, hide it, let it rest. + +Take that banner down,'tis tattered; +Broken is its staff, and shattered; +And the valiant hearts are scattered + Over whom it floated high. +Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it-- +Hard to think there's none to hold it-- +Hard that those, who once unrolled it, + Now must furl it with a sigh. + +Furl that banner, furl it sadly; +Once six millions hailed it gladly, +And three hundred thousand, madly, + Swore it should forever wave-- +Swore that foeman's sword should never +Hearts like theirs entwined dissever-- +That their flag should float forever + O'er their freedom or their grave! + +Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, +And the hearts that fondly clasped it, + Cold and dead are lying low; +And that banner--it is trailing, +While around it sounds the wailing + Of its people in their woe; +For, though conquered, they adore it, +Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, +Weep for those who fell before it-- +Oh! how wildly they deplore it, + Now to furl and fold it so! + +Furl that banner; true 'tis gory, +But 'tis wreathed around with glory, +And'twill live in song and story, + Though its folds are in the dust; +For its fame, on brightest pages-- +Sung by poets, penned by sages-- +Shall go sounding down to ages-- + Furl its folds though now we must. + +Furl that banner-softly, slowly; +Furl it gently, it is holy, + For it droops above the dead. +Touch it not, unfurl it never, +Let it droop there, furled forever, + For its people's hopes are fled. + + + + +Ashes of Glory. + +A. J. Requier. + + + +Fold up the gorgeous silken sun, + By bleeding martyrs blest, +And heap the laurels it has won + Above its place of rest. + +No trumpet's note need harshly blare-- + No drum funereal roll-- +Nor trailing sables drape the bier + That frees a dauntless soul! + +It lived with Lee, and decked his brow + From Fate's empyreal Palm: +It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now-- + As spotless and as calm. + +It was outnumbered--not outdone; + And they shall shuddering tell, +Who struck the blow, its latest gun + Flashed ruin as it fell. + +Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze + That smote the victor tar, +With death across the heaving seas + Of fiery Trafalgar; + +Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom + Their knightly deeds have starred; +Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume, + Nor peerless-born Bayard; + +Not all that antique fables feign, + And Orient dreams disgorge; +Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain, + And Lion of St. George, + +Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still + Thy crimson glory shines +Beyond the lengthened shades that fill + Their proudest kingly lines. + +Sleep! in thine own historic night,-- + And be thy blazoned scroll, +_A warrior's Banner takes its flight, + To greet the warrior's soul!_ + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of War Poetry of the South, by Various + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH *** + +This file should be named 8wrpm10.txt or 8wrpm10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8wrpm11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8wrpm10a.txt + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/8wrpm10.zip b/old/8wrpm10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ea80e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8wrpm10.zip diff --git a/old/8wrpm10h.htm b/old/8wrpm10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..993c4e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8wrpm10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15553 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" ?> +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> + +<html> + +<head> +<title>War Poetry of the South, Edited by William Gilmore Simms</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + h1,h2,h3,h4 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-variant: small-caps } + h1 { margin-top: 2em } + .smallcaps { font-variant: small-caps } + img { border-style: none } + --> +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of War Poetry of the South, by Various + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: War Poetry of the South + +Author: Various + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8648] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>War Poetry of the South.</h1> + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">Edited By</p> + +<h2>William Gilmore Simms, LL. D.</h2> + + +<h4>Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, +By <span class="smallcaps">Richardson & Co.</span></h4> + +<p align="center">In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the +Southern District of New York.</p> + +<p align="center">Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery,<br /> +540 Broadway.</p> + + + +<p align="center">To<br /> +The Women of the South<br /> +I Inscribe This Volume</p> + +<p>They have lost a cause, but they have made a triumph! They have shown +themselves worthy of any manhood; and will leave a record which shall +survive all the caprices of time. They have proved themselves worthy of +the best womanhood, and, in their posterity, will leave no race which +shall be unworthy of the cause which is lost, or of the mothers, sisters +and wives, who have taught such noble lessons of virtuous effort, and +womanly endurance.</p> + +<p>W.G.S.</p> + + + + +<h1>Preface.</h1> + + + +<p>Several considerations have prompted the editor of this volume in the +compilation of its pages. It constitutes a contribution to the national +literature which is assumed to be not unworthy of it, and which is +otherwise valuable as illustrating the degree of mental and art +development which has been made, in a large section of the country, under +circumstances greatly calculated to stimulate talent and provoke +expression, through the higher utterances of passion and imagination. +Though sectional in its character, and indicative of a temper and a +feeling which were in conflict with nationality, yet, now that the States +of the Union have been resolved into one nation, this collection is +essentially as much the property of the whole as are the captured cannon +which were employed against it during the progress of the late war. It +belongs to the national literature, and will hereafter be regarded as +constituting a proper part of it, just as legitimately to be recognized by +the nation as are the rival ballads of the cavaliers and roundheads, by +the English, in the great civil conflict of their country.</p> + +<p>The emotional literature of a people is as necessary to the philosophical +historian as the mere details of events in the progress of a nation. This +is essential to the reputation of the Southern people, as illustrating +their feelings, sentiments, ideas, and opinions--the motives which +influenced their actions, and the objects which they had in contemplation, +and which seemed to them to justify the struggle in which they were +engaged. It shows with what spirit the popular mind regarded the course of +events, whether favorable or adverse; and, in this aspect, it is even of +more importance to the writer of history than any mere chronicle of facts. +The mere facts in a history do not always, or often, indicate the true +<i>animus</i>, of the action. But, in poetry and song, the emotional +nature is apt to declare itself without reserve--speaking out with a +passion which disdains subterfuge, and through media of imagination and +fancy, which are not only without reserve, but which are too coercive in +their own nature, too arbitrary in their influence, to acknowledge any +restraints upon that expression, which glows or weeps with emotions that +gush freely and freshly from the heart. With this persuasion, we can also +forgive the muse who, in her fervor, is sometimes forgetful of her art.</p> + +<p>And yet, it is believed that the numerous pieces of this volume will be +found creditable to the genius and culture of the Southern people, and +honorable, as in accordance with their convictions. They are derived from +all the States of the late Southern Confederacy, and will be found +truthfully to exhibit the sentiment and opinion prevailing more or less +generally throughout the whole. The editor has had special advantages in +making the compilation. Having a large correspondence in most of the +Southern States, he has found no difficulty in procuring his material. +Contributions have poured in upon him from all portions of the South; the +original publications having been, in a large number of cases, subjected +to the careful revision of the several authors. It is a matter of great +regret with him that the limits of the present volume have not suffered +him to do justice to, and find a place for, many of the pieces which fully +deserve to be put on record. Some of the poems were quite too long for his +purpose; a large number, delayed by the mails and other causes, were +received too late for publication. Several collections, from Louisiana, +North Carolina, and Texas, especially, are omitted for this reason. Many +of these pieces are distinguished by fire, force, passion, and a free play +of fancy. Briefly, his material would enable him to prepare another +volume, similar to the present, which would not be unworthy of its +companionship. He is authorized by his publisher to say that, in the event +of the popular success of the present volume, he will cheerfully follow up +its publication by a second, of like style, character, and dimensions.</p> + +<p>The editor has seen with pleasure the volume of "Rebel Rhymes" edited by +Mr. Moore, and of "South Songs," by Mr. De Leon. He has seen, besides, a +single number of a periodical pamphlet called "The Southern Monthly," +published at Memphis, Tenn. This has been supplied him by a contributor. +He has seen no other publications of this nature, though he has heard of +others, and has sought for them in vain. There may be others still +forthcoming; for, in so large a field, with a population so greatly +scattered as that of the South, it is a physical impossibility adequately +to do justice to the whole by any one editor; and each of the sections +must make its own contributions, in its own time, and according to its +several opportunities. There will be room enough for all; and each, I +doubt not, will possess its special claims to recognition and reward.</p> + +<p>His own collections, made during the progress of the war, from the +newspapers, chiefly, of South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia, were +copious. Of these, many have been omitted from this collection, which, he +trusts, will some day find another medium of publication. He has been able +to ascertain the authorship, in many cases, of these writings; but must +regret still that so many others, under a too fastidious delicacy, deny +that their names should be made known. It is to be hoped that they will +hereafter be supplied. To the numerous ladies who have so frankly and +generously contributed to this collection, by sending originals and making +copies, he begs to offer his most grateful acknowledgments.</p> + +<p>A large proportion of the pieces omitted are of elegiac character. Of this +class, he could find a place for such pieces only as were dedicated to the +most distinguished of the persons falling in battle, or such as are marked +by the higher characteristics of poetry--freshness, thought, and +imagination. But many of the omitted pieces are quite worthy of +preservation. Much space has not been given to that class of songs, camp +catches, or marching ballads, which are so numerous in the "Rebel Rhymes" +of Mr. Moore. The songs which are most popular are rarely such as may +claim poetical rank. They depend upon lively music and certain +spirit-stirring catchwords, and are rarely worked up with much regard +to art or even, propriety. Still, many of these should have found a place +in this volume, had adequate space been allowed the editor. It is his +desire, as well as that of the publisher, to collect and bind together +these fugitives in yet another publication. He will preserve the +manuscripts and copies of all unpublished pieces, with the view to this +object--keeping them always subject to the wishes of their several +writers.</p> + +<p>At the close, he must express the hope that these poems will be +recognized, not only as highly creditable to the Southern mind, but as +truly illustrative, if not justificatory of, that sentiment and opinion +with which they have been written; which sentiment and opinion have +sustained their people through a war unexampled in its horrors in modern +times, and which has fully tested their powers of endurance, as well as +their ability in creating their own resources, under all reverses, and +amidst every form of privation.</p> + +<p>W.G.S.</p> + +<p>Brooklyn, September 8, 1866.</p> + + + + +<h1>Contents.</h1> + + +<ul> + <li><a href="#1">Ethnogenesis</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#2">God Save the South</a>, <i>George H. Miles</i></li> + <li><a href="#3">"You can never win them back"</a>, <i>Catherine M. Warfield</i></li> + <li><a href="#4">The Southern Cross</a>, <i>E. K. Blunt</i></li> + <li><a href="#5">South Carolina</a>, <i> S. Henry Dickson</i></li> + <li><a href="#6">The New Star</a>, <i>B. M. Anderson</i></li> + <li><a href="#7">The Irrepressible Conflict</a>, <i>Tyrtæus</i></li> + <li><a href="#8">The Southern Republic</a>, <i>Olivia T. Thomas</i></li> + <li><a href="#9">"Is there then no Hope?"</a>, <i>Charleston Courier</i></li> + <li><a href="#10">The Fate of the Republic</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#11">The Voice of the South</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#12">The Oath of Freedom</a>, <i>James Barron Hope</i></li> + <li><a href="#13">The Battle Cry of the South</a>, <i>James R. Randall</i></li> + <li><a href="#14">Sonnet</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#15">Seventy-six and Sixty-one</a>, <i>J. W. Overall</i></li> + <li><a href="#16">"Reddato Gladium"</a>, <i>Richmond Whig</i></li> + <li><a href="#17">"Nay, keep the Sword"</a>, <i>Richmond Whig</i></li> + <li><a href="#18">Coercion</a>, <i>John R. Thompson</i></li> + <li><a href="#19">A Cry to Arms</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#20">Jackson, the Alexandria Martyr</a>, <i>W. H. Holcombe</i></li> + <li><a href="#21">The Martyr of Alexandria</a>, <i>James W. Simmons</i></li> + <li><a href="#22">The Blessed Union</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#23">The Fire of Freedom</a>, <i>Richmond paper</i></li> + <li><a href="#24">Hymn to the National Flag</a>, <i>Mrs. M. J. Preston</i></li> + <li><a href="#25">Sonnet--moral of party</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#26">Our Faith in '61</a>, <i>A. J. Requier</i></li> + <li><a href="#27">"Wouldst thou have me love thee?"</a>, <i>Alex. B. Meek</i></li> + <li><a href="#28">Enlisted to-day</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#29">"My Maryland"</a>, <i>James R. Randall</i></li> + <li><a href="#30">The Boy Soldier</a>, <i>Lady of Savannah</i></li> + <li><a href="#31">The good old cause</a>, <i>John D. Phelan</i></li> + <li><a href="#32">Manassas</a>, <i>Catherine M. Warfield</i></li> + <li><a href="#33">Virginia</a>, <i>Ibid.</i></li> + <li><a href="#34">The War-Christian's Thanksgiving</a>, <i>S. Teackle Wallis</i></li> + <li><a href="#35">Sonnet</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#36">Marching to Death</a>, <i>J. Herbert Sass</i></li> + <li><a href="#37">Charleston</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#38">Charleston</a>, <i>Paul H. Hayne</i></li> + <li><a href="#39">"Ye Men of Alabama"</a>, <i>Jno. D. Phelan</i></li> + <li><a href="#40">Nec temere, nec timida</a>, <i>Annie C. Ketchum</i></li> + <li><a href="#41">Dixie</a>, <i>Albert Pike</i></li> + <li><a href="#42">The Old Rifleman</a>, <i>Frank Ticknor</i></li> + <li><a href="#43">Battle Hymn</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#44">Kentucky, she is sold</a>, <i>J. R. Barrick</i></li> + <li><a href="#45">The Ship of State</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#46">"In his blanket on the ground,"</a> <i>Caroline H. Gervais</i></li> + <li><a href="#47">The Mountain Partisan</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#48">The Cameo Bracelet</a>, <i>James R. Randall</i></li> + <li><a href="#49">Zollicoffer</a>, <i>Henry L. Flash</i></li> + <li><a href="#50">Beauregard</a>, <i>Catherine M. Warfield</i></li> + <li><a href="#51">South Carolina</a>, <i>Gossypium</i></li> + <li><a href="#52">Carolina</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#53">My Mother Land</a>, <i>Paul H. Hayne</i></li> + <li><a href="#54">Joe Johnston</a>, <i>Jno. R. Thompson</i></li> + <li><a href="#55">Over the River</a>, <i>Jane T. H. Cross</i></li> + <li><a href="#56">The Confederacy</a>, <i>Jane T. H. Cross</i></li> + <li><a href="#57">President Davis</a>, <i>Jane T. H. Cross</i></li> + <li><a href="#58">The Rifleman's Fancy Shot</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#59">"All quiet along the Potomac"</a></li> + <li><a href="#60">Prize Address</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#61">The Battle of Richmond</a>, <i>Geo. Herbert Sass</i></li> + <li><a href="#62">The Guerrillas</a>, <i>S. Teackle Wallis</i></li> + <li><a href="#63">A Farewell to Pope</a>, <i>Jno. R. Thompson</i></li> + <li><a href="#64">Sonnet--Public Prayer</a>, <i>South Carolinian</i></li> + <li><a href="#65">Battle of Belmont</a>, <i>J.A. Signaigo</i></li> + <li><a href="#66">Vicksburg</a>, <i>Paul H. Hayne</i></li> + <li><a href="#67">Ballad of the War</a>, <i>G.H. Sass</i></li> + <li><a href="#68">The two Armies</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#69">The Legion of Honor</a>, <i>H.L. Flash</i></li> + <li><a href="#70">Clouds in the West</a>, <i>A.J. Requier</i></li> + <li><a href="#71">Georgia! My Georgia!</a>, <i>Carrie B. Sinclair</i></li> + <li><a href="#72">Song of the Texan Rangers</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#73">Kentucky required to yield her arms</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#74">There's life in the old land yet</a>, <i>J.B. Randall</i></li> + <li><a href="#75">"Tell the boys the War is ended,"</a> <i>Emily J. Moore</i></li> + <li><a href="#76">The Southern Cross</a>, <i>St. George Tucker</i></li> + <li><a href="#77">England's Neutrality</a>, <i>John R. Thompson</i></li> + <li><a href="#78">Close the Ranks</a>, <i>J.L. O'Sullivan</i></li> + <li><a href="#79">The Sea-kings of the South</a>, <i>Ed. G. Bruce</i></li> + <li><a href="#80">The Return</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#81">Our Christmas Hymn</a>, <i>J. Dickson Bruns</i></li> + <li><a href="#82">Charleston</a>, <i>Miss E.B. Cheesborough</i></li> + <li><a href="#83">Gathering Song</a>, <i>Annie Chambers Ketchum</i></li> + <li><a href="#84">Christmas</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#85">A Prayer for Peace</a>, <i>S. Teackle Wallis</i></li> + <li><a href="#86">The Band in the Pines</a>, <i>Jno. Esten Cooke</i></li> + <li><a href="#87">At Fort Pillow</a>, <i>James R. Randall</i></li> + <li><a href="#88">From the Rapidan</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#89">Song of our Southland</a>, <i>Mrs. Mary Ware</i></li> + <li><a href="#90">Sonnets</a>, <i>Paul H. Hayne</i></li> + <li><a href="#91">Hospital Duties</a>, <i>Charleston Courier</i></li> + <li><a href="#92">They cry Peace, Peace!</a>, <i>Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs</i></li> + <li><a href="#93">Ballad--"What! have ye thought?"</a> <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#94">Missing</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#95">Ode--"Souls of Heroes,"</a> <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#96">Jackson</a>, <i>Henry L. Flash</i></li> + <li><a href="#97">Captain Maffit's Ballad</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#98">Melt the Bells</a>, <i>F. T. Rockett</i></li> + <li><a href="#99">John Pelham</a>, <i>James R. Randall</i></li> + <li><a href="#100">"Ye batteries of Beauregard,"</a> <i>J. R. Barrick</i></li> + <li><a href="#101">"When Peace returns,"</a> <i>Olivia T. Thomas</i></li> + <li><a href="#102">The Right above the Wrong</a>, <i>J. W. Overall</i></li> + <li><a href="#103">Carmen Triumphale</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#104">The Fiend Unbound</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#105">The Unknown Dead</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#106">Ode--"Do ye quail?"</a> <i>W. Gilmore Simms</i></li> + <li><a href="#107">Ode--"Our City by the Sea,"</a> <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#108">The Lone Sentry</a>, <i>J. R. Randall</i></li> + <li><a href="#109">My Soldier Brother</a>, <i>Sallie E. Bollard</i></li> + <li><a href="#110">Seaweeds</a>, <i>Annie Chambers Ketchum</i></li> + <li><a href="#111">The Salkehatchie</a>, <i>Emily J. Moore</i></li> + <li><a href="#112">The Broken Mug</a>, <i>Jno. Esten Cooke</i></li> + <li><a href="#113">Carolina</a>, <i>Anna Peyre Dinnies</i></li> + <li><a href="#114">Our Martyrs</a>, <i>Paul H. Hayne</i></li> + <li><a href="#115">Cleburne</a>, <i>Mrs. M. A. Jennings</i></li> + <li><a href="#116">The Texan Marseillaise</a>, <i>James Harris</i></li> + <li><a href="#117">"O, tempora! O, mores,"</a> <i>J. Dickson Bruns</i></li> + <li><a href="#118">Our Departed Comrades</a>, <i>J. M. Shirer</i></li> + <li><a href="#119">No Land like Ours</a>, <i>J. R. Barrick</i></li> + <li><a href="#120">The Angel of the Church</a>, <i>W. Gilmore Simms</i></li> + <li><a href="#121">Ode--"Shell the old City,"</a> <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#122">The Enemy shall never reach your City</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#123">War Waves</a>, <i>Catherine G. Poyas</i></li> + <li><a href="#124">Old Moultrie</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#125">Only one killed</a>, <i>Julia L. Keyes</i></li> + <li><a href="#126">Land of King Cotton</a>, <i>J. A. Signaigo</i></li> + <li><a href="#127">If you love me</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#128">The Cotton Boll</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#129">Battle of Charleston Harbor</a>, <i>Paul H. Hayne</i></li> + <li><a href="#130">Fort Wagner</a>, <i>W. Gilmore Simms</i></li> + <li><a href="#131">Sumter in Ruins</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#132">Morris Island</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#133">Promise of Spring</a>, <i>South Carolinian</i></li> + <li><a href="#134">Spring</a>, <i>Henry Timrod</i></li> + <li><a href="#135">Chickamauga</a>, <i>Richmond Sentinel</i></li> + <li><a href="#136">In Memoriam--Bishop Polk</a>, <i>Viola</i></li> + <li><a href="#137">Stonewall Jackson</a>, <i>H. L. Flash</i></li> + <li><a href="#138">Stonewall Jackson--a Dirge</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#139">Beaufort</a>, <i>W. J. Grayson</i></li> + <li><a href="#140">The Empty Sleeve</a>, <i>J. R. Bagby</i></li> + <li><a href="#141">Cotton Burners' Hymn</a>, <i>Memphis Appeal</i></li> + <li><a href="#142">Reading the List</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#143">His Last Words</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#144">Charge of Hagood's Brigade</a>, <i>J. Blythe Allston</i></li> + <li><a href="#145">Carolina</a>, <i>Jno. A, Wagener</i></li> + <li><a href="#146">Savannah</a>, <i>Alethea S. Burroughs</i></li> + <li><a href="#147">"Old Betsy,"</a> <i>John Killian</i></li> + <li><a href="#148">Awake! Arise!</a> <i>G. W. Archer</i></li> + <li><a href="#149">Albert Sydney Johnston</a>, <i>Mary Jervey</i></li> + <li><a href="#150">Eulogy of the Dead</a>, <i>B. F. Porter</i></li> + <li><a href="#151">The Beaufort Exile</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#152">Somebody's Darling</a>, <i>Miss Maria LaCoste</i></li> + <li><a href="#153">John Pegram</a>, <i>W. Gordon McGabe</i></li> + <li><a href="#154">Captives Going Home</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#155">Heights of Mission Ridge</a>, <i>J. A. Signaigo</i></li> + <li><a href="#156">Our Left at Manassas</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#157">On to Richmond</a>, <i>J. R. Thompson</i></li> + <li><a href="#158">Turner Ashby</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#159">Captain Latanè</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#160">The Men</a>, <i>Maurice Bell</i></li> + <li><a href="#161">The Rebel Soldier</a>, <i>Kentucky Girl</i></li> + <li><a href="#162">Battle of Hampton Roads</a>, <i>Ossian D. Gorman</i></li> + <li><a href="#163">"Is this a time to dance?"</a> <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#164">The Maryland Line</a>, <i>J. D, McCabe, Jr.</i></li> + <li><a href="#165">I give my Soldier Boy a blade</a>, <i>H. M. L.</i></li> + <li><a href="#166">Sonnet--Avatar of Hell</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#167">Stonewall Jackson's Way</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#168">The Silent March</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#169">Pro Memoria</a>, <i>Ina M. Porter</i></li> + <li><a href="#170">Southern Homes in Ruins</a>, <i>R. B. Vance</i></li> + <li><a href="#171">Rappahannock Army Song</a>, <i>J. C. McLemore</i></li> + <li><a href="#172">Soldier in the Rain</a>, <i>Julia L. Keyes</i></li> + <li><a href="#173">My Country</a>, <i>W. D. Porter</i></li> + <li><a href="#174">After the Battle</a>, <i>Miss Agnes Leonard</i></li> + <li><a href="#175">Our Confederate Dead</a>, <i>Lady of Augusta</i></li> + <li><a href="#176">Ye Cavaliers of Dixie</a>, <i>B. F. Porter</i></li> + <li><a href="#177">Song of Spring</a>, <i>Jno. A. Wagener</i></li> + <li><a href="#178">What the Village Bell said</a>, <i>Jno. C. McLemore</i></li> + <li><a href="#179">The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star</a>, <i>A. P. Gray</i></li> + <li><a href="#180">Southern War Hymn</a>, <i>Jno. A. Wagener</i></li> + <li><a href="#181">The Battle Rainbow</a>, <i>J. R. Thompson</i></li> + <li><a href="#182">Stonewall Jackson</a>, <i>Richmond Broadside</i></li> + <li><a href="#183">Dirge for Ashby</a>, <i>Mrs. M. J. Preston</i></li> + <li><a href="#184">Sacrifice</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#185">Sonnet</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#186">Grave of A. Sydney Johnston</a>, <i>J. B. Synott</i></li> + <li><a href="#187">"Not doubtful of your Fatherland,"</a> <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#188">Only a Soldier's grave</a>, <i>S. A. Jonas</i></li> + <li><a href="#189">The Guerrilla Martyrs</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#190">"Libera Nos, O Domine!"</a> <i>James Barron Hope</i></li> + <li><a href="#191">The Knell shall sound once more</a>, <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#192">Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion</a>, <i>Ina M. Porter</i></li> + <li><a href="#193">Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans</a>, <i>Ibid</i>.</li> + <li><a href="#194">The Foe at the Gates--Charleston</a>, <i>J. Dickson Bruns</i></li> + <li><a href="#195">Savannah Fallen</a>, <i>Alethea S. Burroughs</i></li> + <li><a href="#196">Bull Run--A Parody</a>, <i>Anonymous</i></li> + <li><a href="#197">"Stack Arms,"</a> <i>Jos. Blythe Allston</i></li> + <li><a href="#198">Doffing the Gray</a>, <i>Lieutenant Falligant</i></li> + <li><a href="#199">In the Land where we were dreaming</a>, <i>D. B. Lucas</i></li> + <li><a href="#200">Ballad--"Yes, build your Walls,"</a> <i>Charleston Mercury</i></li> + <li><a href="#201">The Lines around Petersburg</a>, <i>Samuel Davis</i></li> + <li><a href="#202">All is gone</a>, Fadette--<i>Memphis Appeal</i></li> + <li><a href="#203">Bowing her Head</a>, <i>Savannah Broadside</i></li> + <li><a href="#204">The Confederate Flag</a>, <i>Anna Peyre Dinnies</i></li> + <li><a href="#205">Ashes of Glory</a>, <i>A. J. Requier</i></li> +</ul> + + + + +<h1>War Poetry of the South</h1> + + + + +<h1><a name="1"></a>Ethnogenesis.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod, of S.C.</h2> + +<p align="center">Written during the meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery, +February, 1861.</p> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Hath not the morning dawned with added light?<br /> +And shall not evening--call another star<br /> +Out of the infinite regions of the night,<br /> +To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are<br /> +A nation among nations; and the world<br /> +Shall soon behold in many a distant port<br /> + Another flag unfurled!<br /> +Now, come what may, whose favor need we court?<br /> +And, under God, whose thunder need we fear?<br /> + Thank Him who placed us here<br /> +Beneath so kind a sky--the very sun<br /> +Takes part with us; and on our errands run<br /> +All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain<br /> +Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year,<br /> +And all the gentle daughters in her train,<br /> +March in our ranks, and in our service wield<br /> + Long spears of golden grain!<br /> +A yellow blossom as her fairy shield,<br /> +June fling's her azure banner to the wind,<br /> + While in the order of their birth<br /> +Her sisters pass; and many an ample field<br /> +Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold<br /> + Its endless sheets unfold<br /> +THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth<br /> +Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm<br /> + Our happy land shall sleep<br /> + In a repose as deep<br /> + As if we lay intrenched behind<br /> +Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought,<br /> + In their own treachery caught,<br /> + By their own fears made bold,<br /> + And leagued with him of old,<br /> +Who long since, in the limits of the North,<br /> +Set up his evil throne, and warred with God--<br /> +What if, both mad and blinded in their rage,<br /> +Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage,<br /> +And with a hostile step profane our sod!<br /> +We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth<br /> +To meet them, marshalled by the Lord of Hosts,<br /> +And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts<br /> +Of Moultrie and of Eutaw--who shall foil<br /> +Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone,<br /> + But every stock and stone<br /> + Shall help us; but the very soil,<br /> +And all the generous wealth it gives to toil,<br /> +And all for which we love our noble land,<br /> +Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand,<br /> + The heart of woman, and her hand,<br /> +Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence,<br /> + Gentle, or grave, or grand;<br /> + The winds in our defence<br /> +Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend<br /> + Their firmness and their calm;<br /> +And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend<br /> + The strength of pine and palm!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Nor would we shun the battle-ground,<br /> + Though weak as we are strong;<br /> +Call up the clashing elements around,<br /> + And test the right and wrong!<br /> +On one side, creeds that dare to teach<br /> +What Christ and Paul refrained to preach;<br /> +Codes built upon a broken pledge,<br /> +And charity that whets a poniard's edge;<br /> +Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor<br /> +To starve and shiver at the schemer's door,<br /> +While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled,<br /> +He turns some vast philanthropy to gold;<br /> +Religion taking every mortal form<br /> +But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm,<br /> +Where not to vile fanatic passion urged,<br /> +Or not in vague philosophies submerged,<br /> +Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven,<br /> +And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven!<br /> +And on the other, scorn of sordid gain,<br /> +Unblemished honor, truth without a stain,<br /> +Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth,<br /> +And, for the poor and humble, laws which give,<br /> +Not the mean right to buy the right to live,<br /> + But life, and home, and health!<br /> +To doubt the end were want of trust in God,<br /> + Who, if he has decreed<br /> +That we must pass a redder sea<br /> +Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee,<br /> + Will surely raise at need<br /> + A Moses with his rod!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>But let our fears-if fears we have--be still,<br /> +And turn us to the future! Could we climb<br /> +Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time,<br /> +The rapturous sight would fill<br /> + Our eyes with happy tears!<br /> +Not only for the glories which the years<br /> +Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea,<br /> +And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be;<br /> +But for the distant peoples we shall bless,<br /> +And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress:<br /> +For, to give labor to the poor,<br /> + The whole sad planet o'er,<br /> +And save from want and crime the humblest door,<br /> +Is one among--the many ends for which<br /> + God makes us great and rich!<br /> +The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe<br /> +When all shall own it, but the type<br /> +Whereby we shall be known in every land<br /> +Is that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand,<br /> +And through the cold, untempered ocean pours<br /> +Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores<br /> +May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze<br /> +Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="2"></a>God Save the South.</h1> + +<h2>George H. Miles, of Baltimore.</h2> + + + +<p>God save the South!<br /> +God save the South!<br /> +Her altars and firesides--<br /> + God save the South!<br /> +Now that the war is nigh--<br /> +Now that we arm to die--<br /> +Chanting--our battle-cry,<br /> + Freedom or Death!</p> + +<p>God be our shield!<br /> +At home or a-field,<br /> +Stretch Thine arm over us,<br /> + Strengthen and save!<br /> +What though they're five to one,<br /> +Forward each sire and son,<br /> +Strike till the war is done,<br /> + Strike to the grave.</p> + +<p>God make the right<br /> +Stronger than might!<br /> +Millions would trample us<br /> + Down in their pride.<br /> +Lay, thou, their legions low;<br /> +Roll back the ruthless foe;<br /> +Let the proud spoiler know<br /> + God's on our side!</p> + +<p>Hark! honor's call,<br /> +Summoning all--<br /> +Summoning all of us<br /> + Up to the strife.<br /> +Sons of the South, awake!<br /> +Strike till the brand shall break!<br /> +Strike for dear honor's sake,<br /> + Freedom and Life!</p> + +<p>Rebels before<br /> +Were our fathers of yore;<br /> +Rebel, the glorious name<br /> + Washington bore,<br /> +Why, then, be ours the same<br /> +Title he snatched from shame;<br /> +Making it first in fame,<br /> + Odious no more.</p> + +<p>War to the hilt!<br /> +Theirs be the guilt,<br /> +Who fetter the freeman<br /> + To ransom the slave.<br /> +Up, then, and undismayed,<br /> +Sheathe not the battle-blade?<br /> +Till the last foe is laid<br /> + Low in the grave.</p> + +<p>God save the South!<br /> +God save the South!<br /> +Dry the dim eyes that now<br /> + Follow our path.<br /> +Still let the light feet rove<br /> +Safe through the orange grove;<br /> +Still keep the land we love<br /> + Safe from all wrath.</p> + +<p>God save the South!<br /> +God save the South!<br /> +Her altars and firesides--<br /> + God save the South!<br /> +For the rude war is nigh,<br /> +And we must win or die;<br /> +Chanting our battle-cry<br /> + Freedom or Death!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="3"></a>You Can Never Win Them Back.</h1> + +<h2>By Catherine M. Warfield.</h2> + + + +<p>You can never win them back,<br /> + never! never!<br /> +Though they perish on the track<br /> + of your endeavor;<br /> +Though their corses strew the earth<br /> +That smiled upon their birth,<br /> +And blood pollutes each hearthstone<br /> + forever!</p> + +<p>They have risen, to a man<br /> + stern and fearless;<br /> +Of your curses and your ban<br /> + they are careless.<br /> +Every hand is on its knife;<br /> +Every gun is primed for strife;<br /> +Every palm contains a life<br /> + high and peerless!</p> + +<p>You have no such blood as theirs<br /> + for the shedding,<br /> +In the veins of Cavaliers<br /> + was its heading.<br /> +You have no such stately men<br /> +In your abolition den,<br /> +To march through foe and fen,<br /> + nothing dreading.</p> + +<p>They may fall before the fire<br /> + of your legions,<br /> +Paid in gold for murd'rous hire--<br /> + bought allegiance!<br /> +But for every drop you shed<br /> +You shall leave a mound of dead;<br /> +And the vultures shall be fed<br /> + in our regions.</p> + +<p>But the battle to the strong<br /> + is not given,<br /> +While the Judge of right and wrong<br /> + sits in heaven!<br /> +And the God of David still<br /> +Guides each pebble by His will;<br /> +There are giants yet to kill--<br /> + wrong's unshriven.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="4"></a>The Southern Cross.</h1> + +<h2>By E. K. Blunt.</h2> + + + +<p>In the name of God! Amen!<br /> + Stand for our Southern rights;<br /> +On our side, Southern men,<br /> + The God of battles fights!<br /> +Fling the invaders far--<br /> + Hurl back their work of woe--<br /> +The voice is the voice of a brother,<br /> + But the hands are the hands of a foe.<br /> +They come with a trampling army,<br /> + Invading our native sod--<br /> +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer,<br /> + In the name of the mighty God!</p> + +<p>They are singing <i>our</i> song of triumph,[1]<br /> + Which proclaimed <i>us</i> proud and free--<br /> +While breaking away the heartstrings<br /> + Of our nation's harmony.<br /> +Sadly it floateth from us,<br /> + Sighing o'er land and wave;<br /> +Till, mute on the lips of the poet,<br /> + It sleeps in his Southern grave.<br /> +Spirit and song departed!<br /> + Minstrel and minstrelsy!<br /> +We mourn ye, heavy hearted,--<br /> + But we will--we will be free!</p> + +<p>They are waving <i>our</i> flag above us,<br /> + With the despot's tyrant will;<br /> +With our blood they have stained its colors,<br /> + And they call it holy still.<br /> +With tearful eyes, but steady hand,<br /> + We'll tear its stripes apart,<br /> +And fling them, like broken fetters,<br /> + That may not bind the heart.<br /> +But we'll save our stars of glory,<br /> + In the might of the sacred sign<br /> +Of Him who has fixed forever<br /> + One "Southern Cross" to shine.</p> + +<p>Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer!<br /> + Solemn, and strong, and sure!<br /> +The fight shall not be longer<br /> + Than God shall bid endure.<br /> +By the life that but yesterday<br /> + Waked with the infant's breath!<br /> +By the feet which, ere morning, may<br /> + Tread to the soldier's death!<br /> +By the blood which cries to heaven--<br /> + Crimson upon our sod!<br /> +Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer,<br /> + In the name of the mighty God!</p> + +<p>[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all +whose descendants are Confederates.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="5"></a>South Carolina.</h1> + +<h2>December 20, 1860.</h2> + +S. Henry Dickson. + + + +<p>The deed is done! the die is cast;<br /> +The glorious Rubicon is passed:<br /> +Hail, Carolina! free at last!</p> + +<p>Strong in the right, I see her stand<br /> +Where ocean laves the shelving sand;<br /> +Her own Palmetto decks the strand.</p> + +<p>She turns aloft her flashing eye;<br /> +Radiant, her lonely star[1] on high<br /> +Shines clear amidst the darkening sky.</p> + +<p>Silent, along those azure deeps<br /> +Its course her silver crescent keeps,<br /> +And in soft light the landscape steeps.</p> + +<p>Fling forth her banner to the gale!<br /> +Let all the hosts of earth assail,--<br /> +Their fury and their force shall fail.</p> + +<p>Echoes the wide resounding shore,<br /> +With voice above th' Atlantic roar,<br /> +Her sons proclaim her free once more!</p> + +<p>Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State!<br /> +In numbers few, in daring great,<br /> +Thus to affront the frowns of fate!</p> + +<p>And while mad triumph rules the hour,<br /> +And thickening clouds of menace lower,<br /> +Bear back the tide of tyrant power.</p> + +<p>With steadfast courage, faltering never,<br /> +Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever:<br /> +Hail, Carolina! free forever!</p> + +<p>[1] The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="6"></a>The New Star.</h1> + +<h2>By B.M. Anderson.</h2> + + + +<p>Another star arisen; another flag unfurled;<br /> +Another name inscribed among the nations of the world;<br /> +Another mighty struggle 'gainst a tyrant's fell decree,<br /> +And again a burdened people have uprisen, and are free.</p> + +<p>The spirit of the fathers in the children liveth yet;<br /> +Liveth still the olden blood which dimmed the foreign bayonet;<br /> +And the fathers fought for freedom, and the sons for freedom fight;<br /> +Their God was with the fathers--and is still the God of right!</p> + +<p>Behold! the skies are darkened! A gloomy cloud hath lowered!<br /> +Shall it break before the sun of peace, or spread in rage impowered?<br /> +Shall we have the smile of friendship, or shall it be the blow?<br /> +Shall it be the right hand to the friend, or the red hand to the foe?</p> + +<p>In peacefulness we wish to live, but not in slavish fear;<br /> +In peacefulness we dare not die, dishonored on our bier.<br /> +To our allies of the Northern land we offer heart and hand,<br /> +But if they scorn our friendship--then the banner and the brand!</p> + +<p>Honor to the new-born nation! and honor to the brave!<br /> +A country freed from thraldom, or a soldier's honored grave.<br /> +Every step shall be contested; every rivulet run red,<br /> +And the invader, should he conquer, find the conquered in the dead.</p> + +<p>But victory shall follow where the sons of freedom go,<br /> +And the signal for the onset be the death-knell of the foe;<br /> +And hallowed shall the spot be where he was so bravely met,<br /> +And the star which yonder rises, rises never more to set.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="7"></a>The Irrepressible Conflict.</h1> + +<h2>Tyrtæus.--<i>Charleston Mercury.</i></h2> + + + +<p>Then welcome be it, if indeed it be<br /> + The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come;<br /> + There will be mitigation of the doom,<br /> +If, battling to the last, our sires shall see<br /> +Their sons contending for the homes made free<br /> + In ancient conflict with the foreign foe!<br /> + If those who call us brethren strike the blow,<br /> + No common conflict shall the invader know!<br /> +War to the knife, and to the last, until<br /> + The sacred land we keep shall overflow<br /> +With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill,<br /> +Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave!<br /> +Aye, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave<br /> +May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="8"></a>The Southern Republic.</h1> + +<h2>By Olivia Tully Thomas, of Mississippi.</h2> + + + +<p>In the galaxy of nations,<br /> + A nation's flag's unfurled,<br /> +Transcending in its martial pride<br /> + The nations of the world.<br /> +Though born of war, baptized in blood,<br /> + Yet mighty from the time,<br /> +Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood--<br /> + Dismembered, yet sublime.</p> + +<p>And braver heart, and bolder hand,<br /> + Ne'er formed a fabric fair<br /> +As Southern wisdom can command,<br /> + And Southern valor rear.<br /> +Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway,<br /> + Or recognize her birth,<br /> +The land blood-bought for Liberty<br /> + Will reign supreme on earth.</p> + +<p>Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave!<br /> + Thy sons are bold and free,<br /> +And pour life's crimson tide to save<br /> + Their birthright, Liberty!<br /> +Their fertile fields and sunny plains<br /> + That yield the wealth alone,<br /> +That's coveted for greedy gains<br /> + By despots-and a throne!</p> + +<p>Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn,<br /> + Thy altars desolate;<br /> +Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn<br /> + At war's relentless fate;<br /> +And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears,<br /> + Her homes will consecrate,<br /> +While more than brass or marble rears<br /> + The trophy of her great.</p> + +<p>Oh! land that boasts each gallant name<br /> + Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE,<br /> +And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame<br /> + Extends beyond the sea;<br /> +Far rather let thy plains become,<br /> + From gulf to mountain cave,<br /> +One honored sepulchre and tomb,<br /> + Than we the tyrant's slave!</p> + +<p>Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free,<br /> + Redeemed by blood and war;<br /> +Through agony and gloom we see<br /> + Thy hope--a glimmering star;<br /> +Thy banner, too, may proudly float,<br /> + A herald on the seas--<br /> +Thy deeds of daring worlds remote<br /> + Will emulate and praise!</p> + +<p>But who can paint the impulse pure,<br /> + That thrills and nerves thy brave<br /> +To deeds of valor, that secure<br /> + The rights their fathers gave?<br /> +Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain,<br /> + Crowned with the warrior's wreath,<br /> +From beds of fame their proud refrain<br /> + Was "Liberty or Death!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="9"></a>"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?"</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Courier.</h2> + + + +<p>Is there, then, no hope for the nations?<br /> + Must the record of Time be the same?<br /> +And shall History, in all her narrations,<br /> + Still close each last chapter in shame?<br /> +Shall the valor which grew to be glorious,<br /> + Prove the shame, as the pride of a race:<br /> +And a people, for ages victorious,<br /> + Through the arts of the chapman, grow base?</p> + +<p>Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman,<br /> + Each strides o'er the scene and departs!<br /> +How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman,<br /> + How wondrous their virtues and arts!<br /> +Rude valor, at first, when beginning,<br /> + The nation through blood took its name;<br /> +Then the wisdom, which hourly winning<br /> + New heights in its march, rose to Fame!</p> + +<p>How noble the tale for long ages,<br /> + Blending Beauty with courage and might!<br /> +What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages,<br /> + Made eminent stars for each height!<br /> +While their people, with reverence ample.<br /> + Brought tribute of praise to the Great,<br /> +Whose wisdom and virtuous example,<br /> + Made virtue the pride of the State!</p> + +<p>Ours, too, was as noble a dawning,<br /> + With hopes of the Future as high:<br /> +Great men, each a star of the morning,<br /> + Taught us bravely to live and to die!<br /> +We fought the long fight with our foeman,<br /> + And through trial--well-borne--won a name,<br /> +Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman,<br /> + And worthy as lasting a fame!</p> + +<p>Shut the Book! We must open another!<br /> + O Southron! if taught by the Past,<br /> +Beware, when thou choosest a brother,<br /> + With what ally thy fortunes are cast!<br /> +Beware of all foreign alliance,<br /> + Of their pleadings and pleasings beware,<br /> +Better meet the old snake with defiance,<br /> + Than find in his charming a snare!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="10"></a>The Fate of the Republics.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<p>Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years--<br /> +Rear'd with such art and wisdom--by a race<br /> +Of giant sires, in virtue all compact,<br /> +Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals<br /> +Of public strength, and peoples capable<br /> +Of great conceptions for the common good,<br /> +And of enduring liberties, kept strong<br /> +Through purity;--tumbles and falls apart,<br /> +Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd<br /> +Within, without, by greed of avarice,<br /> +And vain ambition for supremacy.</p> + +<p>So fell the old Republics--Gentile and Jew,<br /> +Roman and Greek--such evermore the record;<br /> +Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed,<br /> +From conquest and from triumph, into fall!<br /> +The glory that we see exchanged for guilt<br /> +Might yet be glory. There were pride enough,<br /> +And emulous ambition to achieve,--<br /> +Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment,<br /> +To do the work of States--and there were courage<br /> +And sense of public need, and public welfare,--<br /> +And duty--in a brave but scattered few,<br /> +Throughout the States--had these been credited<br /> +To combat 'gainst the popular appetites.<br /> +But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught,<br /> +As lacking favor with the popular lusts!<br /> +They found reward in exile or in death!<br /> +And he alone who could debase his spirit,<br /> +And file his mind down to the basest nature<br /> +Grew capp'd with rule!--</p> + +<p> So, with the lapse<br /> +From virtue, the great nation forfeits all<br /> +The pride with the security--the liberty,<br /> +With that prime modesty which keeps the heart<br /> +Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts<br /> +That wait upon Humanity, and teach<br /> +Humility, as best check and guaranty,<br /> +Against the wolfish greed of appetite!<br /> +Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom,<br /> +When peoples loathe to listen to the praise<br /> +Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims,<br /> +Eagerly set upon them to revile,<br /> +And banish from their councils! Worse than all<br /> +When the great man, succumbing to the mass,<br /> +Yields up his mind as a low instrument<br /> +To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:--<br /> +Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe<br /> +Of place or profit, and makes sale of States<br /> +To Party!</p> + +<p> Thus and then are States subdued--<br /> +'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts,<br /> +With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay;<br /> +Insolent, reckless of account as right,--<br /> +While lust grows license, and tears off the robes<br /> +From justice; and makes right a thing of mock;<br /> +And puts a foolscap on the head of law,<br /> +And plucks the baton of authority<br /> +From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head.</p> + +<p>So rages still the irresponsible power,<br /> +Using the madden'd populace as hounds,<br /> +To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat.<br /> +The ancient history becomes the new--<br /> +The ages move in circles, and the snake<br /> +Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth.<br /> +Thus still in all the past!--and man the same<br /> +In all the ages--a poor thing of passion,<br /> +Hot greed, and miserable vanity,<br /> +And all infirmities of lust and error,<br /> +Makes of himself the wretched instrument<br /> +To murder his own hope.</p> + +<p> So empires fall,--<br /> +Past, present, and to come!--<br /> + There is no hope<br /> +For nations or peoples, once they lapse from virtue<br /> +And fail in modest sense of what they are--<br /> +Creatures of weakness, whose security<br /> +Lies in meek resting on the law of God,<br /> +And in that wise humility which pleads<br /> +Ever for his guardian watch and Government,<br /> +Though men may bear the open signs of rule.<br /> +Humility is safety! could men learn<br /> +The law, "<i>ne sutor ultra crepidam</i>,"<br /> +And the sagacious cobbler, at his last,<br /> +Content himself with paring leather down<br /> +To heel and instep, nicely fitting parts,<br /> +In proper adaptation, to the foot,<br /> +We might have safety.</p> + +<p> Rightly to conceive<br /> +What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will<br /> +To this one measure only, is the whole<br /> +Of that grand rule, and wise necessity,<br /> +Which only gives us safety.</p> + +<p> Where a State,<br /> +Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds<br /> +Set for their progress, they must topple and fall<br /> +Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed<br /> +All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all<br /> +Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause!<br /> +The terrible conjunction of the event,<br /> +Close with the provocation, stands apart,<br /> +A social beacon in all histories;<br /> +And yet we take no heed, but still rush on,<br /> +Under mixed sway of greed and vanity,<br /> +And like the silly boy with his card-castle,<br /> +Precipitate to ruin as we build.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="11"></a>The Voice of the South.</h1> + +<h2>Tyrtæus.--<i>Charleston Mercury.</i></h2> + + + +<p>'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave,<br /> +And fits but ill to be held by the slave;<br /> +And sad were the thought, if one of our band<br /> +Should give up the hope of so fair a land.</p> + +<p>But the hour has come, and the times that tried<br /> +The souls of men in our days of pride,<br /> +Return once more, and now for the brave,<br /> +To merit the boon which our fathers gave.</p> + +<p>And if there be one base spirit who stands<br /> +Now, in our peril, with folded hands,<br /> +Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought,<br /> +With the sword with which his old father fought.</p> + +<p>An oath sublime should the freeman take,<br /> +Still braving the fight and the felon stake,--<br /> +The oath that his sires brought over the sea,<br /> +When they pledged their swords to Liberty!</p> + +<p>'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight,<br /> +They battled and bled in behalf of the right;<br /> +'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign,<br /> +And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine.</p> + +<p>We cannot forget, and we dare not forego,<br /> +The holy duty to them that we owe,<br /> +The duty that pledges the soul of the son<br /> +To keep the freedom his sire hath won.</p> + +<p>To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil<br /> +One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil,<br /> +One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare<br /> +Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share!</p> + +<p>Art ready for this, dear brother, who still<br /> +Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill?<br /> +Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear,<br /> +Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear?</p> + +<p>Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart,<br /> +Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part;<br /> +The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands,<br /> +And waits but the word for the flashing of brands!</p> + +<p>And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,--and thou<br /> +Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow;<br /> +And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves<br /> +Where Apala-chicola[1] glides through her groves.</p> + +<p>Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep,<br /> +The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep;<br /> +Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call,<br /> +To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall!</p> + +<p>Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves,<br /> +The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves,<br /> +That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth,<br /> +Would rob us of right without reason or ruth.</p> + +<p>Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong,<br /> +Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong?<br /> +Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls,<br /> +Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls.</p> + +<p>At last ye are wakened, all rising at length,<br /> +In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength;<br /> +And now let the struggle begin which shall see,<br /> +If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free.</p> + +<p>We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came,<br /> +To welcome the ruin, but never the shame;<br /> +To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right,<br /> +While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight.</p> + +<p>Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw<br /> +The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;--<br /> +Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here,<br /> +To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear.<br /> +<br /> +Let those who defile and deface it, be sure,<br /> +No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure;<br /> +We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain,<br /> +With which they would fetter our free souls in vain.</p> + +<p>How goodly and bright were its links at the first!<br /> +How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst!<br /> +We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave,<br /> +But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave.</p> + +<p>[1] The reader will place the accent on the <i>ante-penultimate</i>, which +affords not only the most musical, but the correct pronunciation.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="12"></a>The Oath of Freedom.</h1> + +<h2>By James Barron Hope.</h2> + + + +<p><i>"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be +free."</i></p> + +<p>Born free, thus we resolve to live:<br /> + By Heaven we will be free!<br /> +By all the stars which burn on high--<br /> +By the green earth--the mighty sea--<br /> +By God's unshaken majesty,<br /> + We will be free or die!<br /> + Then let the drums all roll!<br /> + Let all the trumpets blow!<br /> + Mind, heart, and soul,<br /> + We spurn control<br /> + Attempted by a foe!</p> + +<p>Born free, thus we resolve to live:<br /> + By Heaven we will be free!<br /> +And, vainly now the Northmen try<br /> +To beat us down--in arms we stand<br /> +To strike for this our native land!<br /> + We will be free or die!<br /> + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Born free, we thus resolve to live:<br /> + By Heaven we will be free!<br /> +Our wives and children look on high,<br /> +Pray God to smile upon the right!<br /> +And bid us in the deadly fight<br /> + As freemen live or die!<br /> + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Born free, thus we resolve to live:<br /> + By Heaven we will be free!<br /> +And ere we cease this battle-cry,<br /> +Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt,<br /> +On bayonet or sabre hilt!<br /> + We will be free or die!<br /> + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Born free, thus we resolve to live:<br /> + By Heaven we will be free!<br /> +Defiant let the banners fly,<br /> +Shake out their glories to the air,<br /> +And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear<br /> + We will be free or die!<br /> + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Born free, thus we resolve to live:<br /> + By Heaven we will be free!<br /> +And to this oath the dead reply--<br /> +Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts--<br /> +These with us, and the God of hosts,<br /> + We will be free or die!<br /> + Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="13"></a>The Battle-Cry of the South.</h1> + +<h2>By James R. Randall.</h2> + + + +<p>Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against +the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled +against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to +die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our +sanctuary.--<i>Maccabees I.</i></p> + +<p>Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black,<br /> + And the wail of the South wings forth;<br /> +Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack,<br /> + And the vampires of the North?<br /> +Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal,<br /> + Strike! with a ruthless hand--<br /> +Strike! with the vengeance of the soul,<br /> + For your bright, beleaguered land!<br /> + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,<br /> + And a craven is he who flees--<br /> + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,[1]<br /> + And the God of the Maccabees!</p> + +<p>Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare,<br /> + And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown--<br /> +Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there<br /> + In the cliffs of the Father's frown:<br /> +Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light<br /> + Which the Sun of Justice gives--<br /> +In the caves and sepulchres of night<br /> + Jehovah the Lord King lives!<br /> + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,<br /> + And a craven is he who flees--<br /> + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,<br /> + And the God of the Maccabees!</p> + +<p>Think of the dead by the Tennessee,<br /> + In their frozen shrouds of gore--<br /> +Think of the mothers who shall see<br /> + Those darling eyes no more!<br /> +But better are they in a hero grave<br /> + Than the serfs of time and breath,<br /> +For they are the children of the brave,<br /> + And the cherubim of death!<br /> + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,<br /> + And a craven is he who flees--<br /> + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,<br /> + And the God of the Maccabees!</p> + +<p>Better the charnels of the West,<br /> + And a hecatomb of lives,<br /> +Than the foul invader as a guest<br /> + 'Mid your sisters and your wives--<br /> +But a spirit lurketh in every maid,<br /> + Though, brothers, ye should quail,<br /> +To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade,<br /> + And the livid spike of Jael!<br /> + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,<br /> + And a craven is he who flees--<br /> + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,<br /> + And the God of the Maccabees!</p> + +<p>Brothers! I see you tramping by,<br /> + With the gladiator gaze,<br /> +And your shout is the Macedonian cry<br /> + Of the old, heroic days!<br /> +March on! with trumpet and with drum,<br /> + With rifle, pike, and dart,<br /> +And die--if even death must come--<br /> + Upon your country's heart!<br /> + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,<br /> + And a craven is he who flees--<br /> + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,<br /> + And the God of the Maccabees!</p> + +<p>Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black,<br /> + And the wail of the South wings forth;<br /> +Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack,<br /> + And the vampires of the North?<br /> +Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal,<br /> + Strike! with a ruthless hand--<br /> +Strike! with the vengeance of the soul<br /> + For your bright, beleaguered land!<br /> + To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,<br /> + And a craven is he who flees--<br /> + For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,<br /> + And the God of the Maccabees!</p> + +<p>[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="14"></a>Sonnet.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<p>Democracy hath done its work of ill,<br /> + And, seeming freemen, never to be free,<br /> + While the poor people shout in vanity,<br /> +The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will.<br /> +How swift the abasement follows! But few years,<br /> + And we stood eminent. Great men were ours,<br /> + Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers!<br /> +How have we sunk below our proper spheres!<br /> +No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place,<br /> + The nimble marmozet and magpie men;<br /> + Creatures that only mock and mimic, when<br /> +They run astride the shoulders of the race;<br /> +Democracy, in vanity elate,<br /> +Clothing but sycophants in robes of state.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="15"></a>Seventy-Six and Sixty-One.</h1> + +<h2>By John W. Overall, of Louisiana.</h2> + + + +<p>Ye spirits of the glorious dead!<br /> + Ye watchers in the sky!<br /> +Who sought the patriot's crimson bed,<br /> + With holy trust and high--<br /> +Come, lend your inspiration now,<br /> + Come, fire each Southern son,<br /> +Who nobly fights for freemen's rights,<br /> + And shouts for sixty-one.</p> + +<p>Come, teach them how, on hill on glade,<br /> + Quick leaping from your side,<br /> +The lightning flash of sabres made<br /> + A red and flowing tide--<br /> +How well ye fought, how bravely fell,<br /> + Beneath our burning sun;<br /> +And let the lyre, in strains of fire,<br /> + So speak of sixty-one.</p> + +<p>There's many a grave in all the land,<br /> + And many a crucifix,<br /> +Which tells how that heroic band<br /> + Stood firm in seventy-six--<br /> +Ye heroes of the deathless past,<br /> + Your glorious race is run,<br /> +But from your dust springs freemen's trust,<br /> + And blows for sixty-one.</p> + +<p>We build our altars where you lie,<br /> + On many a verdant sod,<br /> +With sabres pointing to the sky,<br /> + And sanctified of God;<br /> +The smoke shall rise from every pile,<br /> + Till freedom's cause is won,<br /> +And every mouth throughout the South,<br /> + Shall shout for sixty-one!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="16"></a>"Reddato Gladium."</h1> + +<h2>Virginia to Winfield Scott.</h2> + + + +<p>A voice is heard in Ramah!<br /> + High sounds are on the gale!<br /> +Notes to wake buried patriots!<br /> + Notes to strike traitors pale!<br /> +Wild notes of outraged feeling<br /> + Cry aloud and spare him not!<br /> +'Tis Virginia's strong appealing,<br /> + And she calls to Winfield Scott!</p> + +<p>Oh! chief among ten thousand!<br /> + Thou whom I loved so well,<br /> +Star that has set, as never yet<br /> + Since son of morning fell!<br /> +I call not in reviling,<br /> + Nor to speak thee what thou art;<br /> +I leave thee to thy death-bed,<br /> + And I leave thee to thy heart!</p> + +<p>But by every mortal hope,<br /> + And by every mortal fear;<br /> +By all that man deems sacred,<br /> + And that woman holds most dear;<br /> +Yea! by thy mother's honor,<br /> + And by thy father's grave,<br /> +By hell beneath, and heaven above,<br /> + Give back the sword I gave!</p> + +<p>Not since God's sword was planted<br /> + To guard life's heavenly tree,<br /> +Has ever blade been granted,<br /> + Like that bestowed on thee!<br /> +To pierce me with the steel I gave<br /> + To guard mine honor's shrine,<br /> +Not since Iscariot lived and died,<br /> + Was treason like to thine!</p> + +<p>Give back the sword! and sever<br /> + Our strong and mighty tie!<br /> +We part, and part forever,<br /> + To conquer or to die!<br /> +In sorrow, not in anger,<br /> + I speak the word, "We part!"<br /> +For I leave thee to thy death-bed,<br /> + And I leave thee to thy heart!</p> + +<p>Richmond Whig.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="17"></a>Nay, Keep the Sword.</h1> + +<h2>By Carrie Clifford.</h2> + + + +<p>Nay, keep the sword which once we gave,<br /> + A token of our trust in thee;<br /> +The steel is true, the blade is keen--<br /> + False as thou art it cannot be.</p> + +<p>We hailed thee as our glorious chief,<br /> + With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow;<br /> +Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue:<br /> + In whispers hushed we breathe it now.</p> + +<p>Yes, keep it till thy dying day;<br /> + Momentous ever let it be,<br /> +Of a great treasure once possessed--<br /> + A people's love now lost to thee.</p> + +<p>Thy mother will not bow her head;<br /> + She bares her bosom to thee now;<br /> +But may the bright steel fail to wound--<br /> + It is more merciful than thou.</p> + +<p>And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow,<br /> + Thousands of sons of this fair land<br /> +Will rise, and, in their anger just,<br /> + Will stay the rash act of thy hand.</p> + +<p>And when in terror thou shalt hear<br /> + Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry<br /> +And feel the weight of thy great crime,<br /> + Then fall upon thy sword and die.</p> + +<p>Those aged locks I'll not reproach,<br /> + Although upon a traitor's brow;<br /> +We've looked with reverence on them once,<br /> + We'll try and not revile them now.</p> + +<p>But her true sons and daughters pray,<br /> + That ere thy day of reckoning be,<br /> +Thy ingrate heart may feel the pain<br /> + To know thy mother once more free.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="18"></a>Coercion: A Poem for Then and Now.</h1> + +<h2>By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.</h2> + + + +<p>Who talks of coercion? who dares to deny<br /> + A resolute people the right to be free?<br /> +Let him blot out forever one star from the sky,<br /> + Or curb with his fetter the wave of the sea!</p> + +<p>Who prates of coercion? Can love be restored<br /> + To bosoms where only resentment may dwell?<br /> +Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword,<br /> + Or good-will among men be established by shell?</p> + +<p>Shame! shame!--that the statesman and trickster, forsooth,<br /> + Should have for a crisis no other recourse,<br /> +Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth,<br /> + Than the old <i>brutum fulmen</i> of tyranny--force!</p> + +<p>From the holes where fraud, falsehood, and hate slink away--<br /> + From the crypt in which error lies buried in chains--<br /> +This foul apparition stalks forth to the day,<br /> + And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.</p> + +<p>Could you conquer us, men of the North--could you bring<br /> + Desolation and death on our homes as a flood--<br /> +Can you hope the pure lily, affection, will spring<br /> + From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood?</p> + +<p>Could you brand us as villains and serfs, know ye not<br /> + What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar?<br /> +How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot!<br /> + How dearly the Pole loves his father, the Czar!</p> + +<p>But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun<br /> + Is a <i>nutrix leonum</i>, and suckles a race<br /> +Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one,<br /> + Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace.</p> + +<p>And well may the schemers in office beware<br /> + The swift retribution that waits upon crime,<br /> +When the lion, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair,<br /> + With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime.</p> + +<p>Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still,<br /> + Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends;<br /> +Nor join in a conflict accursed, that must fill<br /> + With ruin, the country on which it descends.</p> + +<p>But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage<br /> + The gods gave to all whom they wished to destroy,<br /> +You would act a new Iliad, to darken the age<br /> + With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy--</p> + +<p>If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries,<br /> + When wisdom, humanity, justice implore,<br /> +You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes<br /> + Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar--</p> + +<p>If there be to your malice no limit imposed,<br /> + And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod<br /> +The men upon whom you already have closed<br /> + Our goodly domain and the temples of God:</p> + +<p>To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold,<br /> + And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar;<br /> +We greet you, as greeted the Swiss, Charles the Bold--<br /> + With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war!</p> + +<p>For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright,<br /> + Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide;<br /> +Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight,<br /> + With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride;</p> + +<p>And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past,<br /> + In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain;<br /> +While the sod of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast,<br /> + And give up its heroes to glory again.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="19"></a>A Cry to Arms.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<p>Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side!<br /> + Ho! dwellers in the vales!<br /> +Ho! ye who by the chafing tide<br /> + Have roughened in the gales!<br /> +Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,<br /> + Lay by the bloodless spade;<br /> +Let desk, and case, and counter rot,<br /> + And burn your books of trade.</p> + +<p>The despot roves your fairest lands;<br /> + And till he flies or fears,<br /> +Your fields must grow but armed bands,<br /> + Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!<br /> +Give up to mildew and to rust<br /> + The useless tools of gain;<br /> +And feed your country's sacred dust<br /> + With floods of crimson rain!</p> + +<p>Come, with the weapons at your call--<br /> + With musket, pike, or knife;<br /> +He wields the deadliest blade of all<br /> + Who lightest holds his life.<br /> +The arm that drives its unbought blows<br /> + With all a patriot's scorn,<br /> +Might brain a tyrant with a rose,<br /> + Or stab him with a thorn.</p> + +<p>Does any falter? let him turn<br /> + To some brave maiden's eyes,<br /> +And catch the holy fires that burn<br /> + In those sublunar skies.<br /> +Oh! could you like your women feel,<br /> + And in their spirit march,<br /> +A day might see your lines of steel<br /> + Beneath the victor's arch.</p> + +<p>What hope, O God! would not grow warm<br /> + When thoughts like these give cheer?<br /> +The lily calmly braves the storm,<br /> + And shall the palm-tree fear?<br /> +No! rather let its branches court<br /> + The rack that sweeps the plain;<br /> +And from the lily's regal port<br /> + Learn how to breast the strain!</p> + +<p>Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side!<br /> + Ho! dwellers in the vales!<br /> +Ho! ye who by the roaring tide<br /> + Have roughened in the gales!</p> + +<p>Come! flocking gayly to the fight<br /> + From forest, hill, and lake;<br /> +We battle for our country's right,<br /> + And for the lily's sake!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="20"></a>Jackson, The Alexandria Martyr.</h1> + +<h2>By Wm. H. Holcombe, M.D., of Virginia.</h2> + + + +<p>'Twas not the private insult galled him most,<br /> +But public outrage of his country's flag,<br /> +To which his patriotic heart had pledged<br /> +Its faith as to a bride. The bold, proud chief,<br /> +Th' avenging host, and the swift-coming death<br /> +Appalled him not. Nor life with all its charms,<br /> +Nor home, nor wife, nor children could weigh down<br /> +The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy<br /> +The insolent invader. Ellsworth fell,<br /> +And Jackson perished 'mid the pack of wolves,<br /> +Befriended only by his own great heart<br /> +And God approving. More than Roman soul!<br /> +O type of our impetuous chivalry!<br /> +May this young nation ever boast her sons<br /> +A vast, and inconceivable multitude,<br /> +Standing like thee in her extremest van,<br /> +Self-poised and ready, in defence of rights<br /> +Or in revenge of wrongs, to dare and die!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="21"></a>The Martyr of Alexandria.</h1> + +<h2>By James W. Simmons, of Texas.</h2> + + + +<p>Revealed, as in a lightning flash,<br /> + A hero stood!<br /> +The invading foe, the trumpet's crash,<br /> + Set up his blood.</p> + +<p>High o'er the sacred pile that bends<br /> + Those forms above,<br /> +Thy star, O Freedom! brightly blends<br /> + Its rays with love.</p> + +<p>The banner of a mighty race,<br /> + Serenely there,<br /> +Unfurls the genius of the place,<br /> + In haunted air.</p> + +<p>A vow is registered in Heaven!<br /> + Patriot! 'tis thine!<br /> +To guard those matchless colors, given<br /> + By hands divine.</p> + +<p>Jackson! thy spirit may not hear<br /> + Our wail ascend;<br /> +A nation gathers round thy bier,<br /> + And mourns its friend.</p> + +<p>The example is thy monument,<br /> + And organ tones<br /> +Thy name resound, with glory blent,<br /> + Prouder than thrones!</p> + +<p>And they whose loss hath been our gain,<br /> + A people's cares<br /> +Shall win their wounded hearts from pain,<br /> + And wipe their tears.</p> + +<p>When time shall set the captives free,<br /> + Now scathed by wrath,<br /> +Heirs of his immortality,<br /> + Bright be their path.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="22"></a>The Blessed Union--Epigram.</h1> + + + +<p>Doubtless to some, with length of ears,<br /> + To gratify an ape's desire,<br /> +The blessed Union still endears;--<br /> +The stripes, if not the stars, be theirs!<br /> +"Greek faith" they gave us eighty years,<br /> + And then--"Greek fire!"<br /> +But, better all their fires of scath<br /> +Than one hour's trust in Yankee faith!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="23"></a>The Fire of Freedom.</h1> + + + +<p>The holy fire that nerved the Greek<br /> + To make his stand at Marathon,<br /> +Until the last red foeman's shriek<br /> + Proclaimed that freedom's fight was won,<br /> +Still lives unquenched--unquenchable:<br /> + Through every age its fires will burn--<br /> +Lives in the hermit's lonely cell,<br /> + And springs from every storied urn.</p> + +<p>The hearthstone embers hold the spark<br /> + Where fell oppression's foot hath trod;<br /> +Through superstition's shadow dark<br /> + It flashes to the living God!<br /> +From Moscow's ashes springs the Russ;<br /> + In Warsaw, Poland lives again:<br /> +Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus,<br /> + Strikes liberty's electric chain!</p> + +<p>Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss;<br /> + Vainly the invader ever strives;<br /> +He finds <i>Sic Semper Tyrannis</i><br /> + In San Jacinto's bowie-knives!<br /> +Than these--than all--a holier fire<br /> + Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son!<br /> +Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire,<br /> + Strike for the grave of Washington!</p> + +<p>The Northern rabble arms for greed;<br /> + The hireling parson goads the train--<br /> +In that foul crop from, bigot seed,<br /> + Old "Praise God Barebones" howls again!<br /> +We welcome them to "Southern lands,"<br /> + We welcome them to "Southern slaves,"<br /> +We welcome them "with bloody hands<br /> + To hospitable Southern graves!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="24"></a>Hymn to the National Flag.</h1> + +<h2>By Mrs. M. J. Preston.</h2> + + + +<p>Float aloft, thou stainless banner!<br /> + Azure cross and field of light;<br /> +Be thy brilliant stars the symbol<br /> + Of the pure and true and right.<br /> +Shelter freedom's holy cause--<br /> +Liberty and sacred laws;<br /> +Guard the youngest of the nations--<br /> + Keep her virgin honor bright.</p> + +<p>From Virginia's storied border,<br /> + Down to Tampa's furthest shore--<br /> +From the blue Atlantic's clashings<br /> + To the Rio Grande's roar--<br /> +Over many a crimson plain,<br /> +Where our martyred ones lie slain--<br /> +Fling abroad thy blessed shelter,<br /> + Stream and mount and valley o'er.</p> + +<p>In thy cross of heavenly azure<br /> + Has our faith its emblem high;<br /> +In thy field of white, the hallow'd<br /> + Truth for which we'll dare and die;<br /> +In thy red, the patriot blood--<br /> + Ah! the consecrated flood.<br /> +Lift thyself, resistless banner!<br /> + Ever fill our Southern sky!</p> + +<p>Flash with living, lightning motion<br /> + In the sight of all the brave!<br /> +Tell the price at which we purchased<br /> + Room and right for thee to wave<br /> +Freely in our God's free air,<br /> +Pure and proud and stainless fair,<br /> +Banner of the youngest nation--<br /> + Banner we would die to save!<br /> +<br /> +Strike Thou for us! King of armies!<br /> + Grant us room in Thy broad world!<br /> +Loosen all the despot's fetters,<br /> + Back be all his legions hurled!<br /> +Give us peace and liberty,<br /> +Let the land we love be free--<br /> +Then, oh! bright and stainless banner!<br /> + Never shall thy folds be furled!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="25"></a>Sonnet--Moral of Party</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<p>The moral of a party--if it be<br /> + That healthy States need parties, lies in this,<br /> + That we consider well what race it is,<br /> +And what the germ that first has made it free.<br /> +That germ must constitute the living tie<br /> + That binds its generations to the end,<br /> +Change measures if it need, or policy,<br /> + But neither break the principle, nor bend.<br /> +Each race hath its own nature--fixed, defined,<br /> + By Heaven, and if its principle be won,<br /> + Kept changeless as the progress of the sun,<br /> +It mocks at storm and rage, at sea and wind,<br /> +And grows to consummation, as the tree,<br /> +Matured, that ever grew in culture free.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="26"></a>Our Faith in '61.</h1> + +<h2>By A. J. Requier.</h2> + + + +<p>"That governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers +from the consent of the governed: that whenever any form of government +becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter +or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on +such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as TO THEM SHALL +SEEM most likely to effect their safety and happiness."--[Declaration of +Independence, July 4, '76.]</p> + + +<p>Not yet one hundred years have flown<br /> + Since on this very spot,<br /> +The subjects of a sovereign throne--<br /> + Liege-master of their lot--<br /> +This high degree sped o'er the sea,<br /> + From council-board and tent,<br /> +"No earthly power can rule the free<br /> + But by their own consent!"</p> + +<p>For this, they fought as Saxons fight,<br /> + On bloody fields and long--<br /> +Themselves the champions of the right,<br /> + And judges of the wrong;<br /> +For this their stainless knighthood wore<br /> + The branded rebel's name,<br /> +Until the starry cross they bore<br /> + Set all the skies aflame!</p> + +<p>And States co-equal and distinct<br /> + Outshone the western sun,<br /> +By one great charter interlinked--<br /> + Not blended into one;<br /> +Whose graven key that high decree<br /> + The grand inscription lent,<br /> +"No earthly power can rule the free<br /> + But by their own consent!"</p> + +<p>Oh! sordid age! Oh! ruthless rage!<br /> + Oh! sacrilegious wrong!<br /> +A deed to blast the record page,<br /> + And snap the strings of song;<br /> +In that great charter's name, a band<br /> + By grovelling greed enticed,<br /> +Whose warrant is the grasping hand<br /> + Of creeds without a Christ--</p> + +<p>States that have trampled every pledge<br /> + Its crystal code contains,<br /> +Now give their swords a keener edge<br /> + To harness it with chains--<br /> +To make a bond of brotherhood<br /> + The sanction and the seal,<br /> +By which to arm a rabble brood<br /> + With fratricidal steel.</p> + +<p>Who, conscious that their cause is black,<br /> + In puling prose and rhyme,<br /> +Talk hatefully of love, and tack<br /> + Hypocrisy to crime;<br /> +Who smile and smite, engross the gorge<br /> + Or impotently frown;<br /> +And call us "rebels" with King George,<br /> + As if they wore his crown!</p> + +<p>Most venal of a venal race,<br /> + Who think you cheat the sky<br /> +With every pharisaic face<br /> + And simulated lie;<br /> +Round Freedom's lair, with weapons bare,<br /> + We greet the light divine<br /> +Of those who throned the goddess there,<br /> + And yet inspire the shrine!</p> + +<p>Our loved ones' graves are at our feet,<br /> + Their homesteads at our back--<br /> +No belted Southron can retreat<br /> + With women on his track;<br /> +Peal, bannered host, the proud decree<br /> + Which from your fathers went,<br /> +"No earthly power can rule the free<br /> + But by their own consent!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="27"></a>Wouldst Thou Have Me Love Thee.</h1> + +<h2>By Alex B. Meek.</h2> + + + +<p>Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest,<br /> + With a woman's proudest heart,<br /> +Which shall ever hold thee nearest,<br /> + Shrined in its inmost heart?<br /> +Listen, then! My country's calling<br /> + On her sons to meet the foe!<br /> +Leave these groves of rose and myrtle;<br /> + Drop thy dreamy harp of love!<br /> +Like young Korner--scorn the turtle,<br /> + When the eagle screams above!</p> + +<p>Dost thou pause?--Let dastards dally--<br /> + Do thou for thy country fight!<br /> +'Neath her noble emblem rally--<br /> + "God, our country, and our right!"<br /> +Listen! now her trumpet's calling<br /> + On her sons to meet the foe!<br /> +Woman's heart is soft and tender,<br /> + But 'tis proud and faithful too:<br /> +Shall she be her land's defender?<br /> + Lover! Soldier! up and do!</p> + +<p>Seize thy father's ancient falchion,<br /> + Which once flashed as freedom's star!<br /> +Till sweet peace--the bow and halcyon,<br /> + Stilled the stormy strife of war.<br /> +Listen! now thy country's calling<br /> + On her sons to meet her foe!<br /> +Sweet is love in moonlight bowers!<br /> + Sweet the altar and the flame!<br /> +Sweet the spring-time with her flowers!<br /> + Sweeter far the patriot's name!</p> + +<p>Should the God who smiles above thee,<br /> + Doom thee to a soldier's grave,<br /> +Hearts will break, but fame will love thee,<br /> + Canonized among the brave!<br /> +Listen, then! thy country's calling<br /> + On her sons to meet the foe!<br /> +Rather would I view thee lying<br /> + On the last red field of strife,<br /> +'Mid thy country's heroes dying,<br /> + Than become a dastard's wife!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="28"></a>Enlisted To-Day.</h1> + + + +<p>I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing,<br /> + And summer sends kisses by beautiful May--<br /> +Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing,<br /> + And think--my boy Willie enlisted to-day.</p> + +<p>It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming,<br /> + I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine,<br /> +While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming<br /> + Of father, adown the street's indistinct line.</p> + +<p>It is many a year since my Harry departed,<br /> + To come back no more in the twilight or dawn;<br /> +And Robby grew weary of watching, and started<br /> + Alone on the journey his father had gone.</p> + +<p>It is many a year--and this afternoon sitting<br /> + At Robby's old window, I heard the band play,<br /> +And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting,<br /> + To recollect Willie is twenty to-day.</p> + +<p>And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning,<br /> + The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke,<br /> +I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning,<br /> + And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke:</p> + +<p>"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing,<br /> + They would trample the rights of the South in the dust;<br /> +The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going--"<br /> +He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh, say if I must!"</p> + +<p>I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking,<br /> + My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away,<br /> +And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking--<br /> + Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day!"</p> + +<p>I sit in the window, and see the flags flying,<br /> + And drearily list to the roll of the drum,<br /> +And smother the pain in my heart that is lying,<br /> + And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb.</p> + +<p>I shall sit in the window when summer is lying<br /> + Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum<br /> +Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing,<br /> + And watch for the face of my darling to come.</p> + +<p>And if he should fall--his young life he has given<br /> + For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray<br /> +Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven<br /> + To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="29"></a>My Maryland.</h1> + + + +<p>Written at Pointe Coupee, LA., April 26, 1861. First Published in the New +Orleans Delta.</p> + + +<p>The despot's heel is on thy shore,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +His torch is at thy temple door,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Avenge the patriotic gore<br /> +That flecked the streets of Baltimore,<br /> +And be the battle-queen of yore,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>Hark to an exiled son's appeal,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +My Mother-State, to thee I kneel,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +For life and death, for woe and weal,<br /> +Thy peerless chivalry reveal,<br /> +And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>Thou wilt not cower in the dust,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Thy beaming sword shall never rust,<br /> + Maryland!</p> + +<p>Remember Carroll's sacred trust,<br /> +Remember Howard's warlike thrust,<br /> +And all thy slumberers with the just,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Come! with thy panoplied array,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,<br /> +With Watson's blood at Monterey,<br /> +With fearless Lowe and dashing May,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Come! to thine own heroic throng,<br /> +That stalks with Liberty along,<br /> +And ring thy dauntless Slogan-song,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Virginia should not call in vain,<br /> + Maryland!</p> + +<p><i>She</i> meets her sisters on the plain--<br /> +"<i>Sic semper,</i>" 'tis the proud refrain<br /> +That baffles minions back amain,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Arise, in majesty again,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>I see the blush upon thy cheek,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +For thou wast ever bravely meek,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +But lo! there surges forth a shriek<br /> +From hill to hill, from creek to creek--<br /> +Potomac calls to Chesapeake,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Thou wilt not crook to his control,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +Better the fire upon thee roll,<br /> +Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,<br /> +Than crucifixion of the soul,<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + +<p>I hear the distant thunder hum,<br /> + Maryland!<br /> +The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum,<br /> + Maryland!</p> + +<p>She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb--<br /> +Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!<br /> +She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come!<br /> + Maryland! My Maryland!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="30"></a>The Boy-Soldier.</h1> + +<h2>By a Lady of Savannah.</h2> + + + +<p>He is acting o'er the battle,<br /> + With his cap and feather gay,<br /> +Singing out his soldier-prattle,<br /> + In a mockish manly way--<br /> +With the boldest, bravest footstep,<br /> + Treading firmly up and down,<br /> +And his banner waving softly,<br /> + O'er his boyish locks of brown.</p> + +<p>And I sit beside him sewing,<br /> + With a busy heart and hand,<br /> +For the gallant soldiers going<br /> + To the far-off battle land--<br /> +And I gaze upon my jewel,<br /> + In his baby spirit bold,<br /> +My little blue-eyed soldier,<br /> + Just a second summer old.</p> + +<p>Still a deep, deep well of feeling,<br /> + In my mother's heart is stirred,<br /> +And the tears come softly stealing<br /> + At each imitative word!<br /> +There's a struggle in my bosom,<br /> + For I love my darling boy--<br /> +He's the gladness of my spirit,<br /> + He's the sunlight of my joy!<br /> +Yet I think upon my country,<br /> + And my spirit groweth bold--<br /> +Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier<br /> + Were but twenty summers old!</p> + +<p>I would speed him to the battle--<br /> + I would arm him for the fight;<br /> +I would give him to his country,<br /> + For his country's wrong and right!<br /> +I would nerve his hand with blessing<br /> + From the "God of battles" won--<br /> +With His helmet and His armor,<br /> + I would cover o'er my son.</p> + +<p>Oh! I know there'd be a struggle,<br /> + For I love my darling boy;<br /> +He's the gladness of my spirit,<br /> + He's the sunlight of my joy!<br /> +Yet in thinking of my country,<br /> + Oh! my spirit groweth bold,<br /> +And I with my blue-eyed soldier<br /> + Were but twenty summers old!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="31"></a>The Good Old Cause.</h1> + +<h2>By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Huzza! huzza! for the <i>Good Old Cause</i>,<br /> + 'Tis a stirring sound to hear,<br /> +For it tells of rights and liberties,<br /> + Our fathers bought so dear;<br /> +It brings up the <i>Jersey prison-ship</i>,<br /> + The spot where <i>Warren</i> fell,<br /> +And the scaffold which echoes the dying words<br /> + Of <i>murdered Hayne's</i> farewell.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>The <i>Good Old Cause!</i> it is still the same<br /> + Though age upon age may roll;<br /> +'Tis the cause of <i>the right</i> against <i>the wrong</i>,<br /> + Burning bright in each generous soul;<br /> +'Tis the cause of all who claim to live<br /> + As freemen on Freedom's sod;<br /> +Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons,<br /> + By Tyranny's heel down-trod.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>And whoever burns with a holy zeal,<br /> + To behold his country free,<br /> +And would sooner see her <i>baptized in blood</i>,<br /> + Than to bend the suppliant knee;<br /> +Must agree to follow her <i>White-Cross flag</i>,<br /> + Where the storms of battle roll,<br /> +<i>A soldier</i>--A SOLDIER!--with <i>arms in his hands</i>,<br /> + And the <i>love of the South in his soul!</i></p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Come one, come all, at your country's call,<br /> + Let none remain behind,<br /> +But those too young, and those too old,<br /> + The feeble, the halt, the blind;<br /> +Let <i>every man</i>, whether rich or poor,<br /> + Who can carry a knapsack and gun,<br /> +Repair to the ranks of our Southern host,<br /> + 'Till the cause of the South is won.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>But the son of the South, if such there be,<br /> + Who will shrink from the contest now,<br /> +From a love of ease, or the lust of gain,<br /> + Or through fear of the Yankee foe;<br /> +May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand,<br /> + As though it was soiled for aye,<br /> +And may every woman turn her cheek<br /> + From his craven lips away;<br /> +May his country's curse be on his head,<br /> + And may no man ever see,<br /> +A gentle bride by the traitor's side,<br /> + Or children about his knee.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause,<br /> + 'Tis a stirring sound to hear;<br /> +For it tells of rights and liberties,<br /> + Our fathers bought so dear;<br /> +It summons our braves from their bloody graves.<br /> + To receive our fond applause,<br /> +And bids us tread in the steps of those<br /> + Who <i>died</i> for the <i>Good Old Cause</i>.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="32"></a>Manassas.</h1> + +<h2>By Catherine M. Warfield.</h2> + + + +<p>They have met at last--as storm-clouds<br /> + meet in heaven;<br /> +And the Northmen, back and bleeding,<br /> + have been driven:<br /> +And their thunders have been stilled,<br /> +And their leaders crushed or killed,<br /> +And their ranks, with terror thrilled,<br /> + rent and riven!</p> + +<p>Like the leaves of Vallambrosa<br /> + they are lying;<br /> +In the moonlight, in the midnight,<br /> + dead and dying:<br /> +Like those leaves before the gale,<br /> +Swept their legions, wild and pale;<br /> +While the host that made them quail<br /> + stood, defying.</p> + +<p>When aloft in morning sunlight<br /> + flags were flaunted,<br /> +And "swift vengeance on the rebel"<br /> + proudly vaunted:<br /> +Little did they think that night<br /> +Should close upon their shameful flight,<br /> +And rebels, victors in the fight,<br /> + stand undaunted.</p> + +<p>But peace to those who perished<br /> + in our passes!<br /> +Light be the earth above them!<br /> + green the grasses!<br /> +Long shall Northmen rue the day,<br /> +When they met our stern array,<br /> +And shrunk from battle's wild affray<br /> + at Manassas!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="33"></a>Virginia.</h1> + +<h2>By Catherine M. Warfield.</h2> + + + +<p>Glorious Virginia! Freedom sprang<br /> +Light to her feet at thy trumpet's clang:<br /> +At the first sound of that clarion blast,<br /> +Foes like the chaff from the whirlwind passed--<br /> +Passed to their doom: from that hour no more<br /> +Triumphs their cause by sea or shore.</p> + +<p>Glorious Virginia! noble the blood<br /> +That hath bathed thy fields in a crimson flood;<br /> +On many a wide-spread and sunny plain,<br /> +Like leaves of autumn thy dead have lain:<br /> +The Southron heart is their funeral urn!<br /> +The Southern slogan their requiem stern!</p> + +<p>Glorious Virginia! to thee, to thee<br /> +We lean, as the shoots to the parent tree;<br /> +Bending in awe at thy glance of might;--<br /> +First in the council, first in the fight!<br /> +While our flag is fanned by the breath of fame,<br /> +Glorious Virginia! we'll bless thy name.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="34"></a>The War-Christian's Thanksgiving.</h1> + +<h2>Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States.</h2> + +By S. Teackle Wallis. + + + +<p>Oh, God of battles! once again,<br /> + With banner, trump, and drum,<br /> +And garments in thy wine-press dyed,<br /> + To give Thee thanks we come.</p> + +<p>No goats or bullocks garlanded,<br /> + Unto thine altars go;<br /> +With brothers' blood, by brothers shed,<br /> + Our glad libations flow,</p> + +<p>From pest-house and from dungeon foul,<br /> + Where, maimed and torn, they die,<br /> +From gory trench and charnel-house,<br /> + Where, heap on heap, they lie.</p> + +<p>In every groan that yields a soul,<br /> + Each shriek a heart that rends,<br /> +With every breath of tainted air,<br /> + Our homage, Lord, ascends.</p> + +<p>We thank Thee for the sabre's gash,<br /> + The cannon's havoc wild;<br /> +We bless Thee for the widow's tears,<br /> + The want that starves her child!</p> + +<p>We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit<br /> + The torch, and fanned the flame;<br /> +That lust and rapine hunt their prey,<br /> + Kind Father, in Thy name!</p> + +<p>That, for the songs of idle joy<br /> + False angels sang of yore,<br /> +Thou sendest War on earth--ill-will<br /> + To men for evermore!</p> + +<p>We know that wisdom, truth, and right<br /> + To us and ours are given;<br /> +That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath,<br /> + To do the work of heaven.</p> + +<p>We know that plains and cities waste<br /> + Are pleasant in Thine eyes--<br /> +Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate,<br /> + Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.</p> + +<p>Let not our weakness fall below<br /> + The measure of Thy will,<br /> +And while the press hath wine to bleed,<br /> + Oh, tread it with us still!</p> + +<p>Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught<br /> + Fond fools, of yore, to love;<br /> +Give us Thy vengeance as our own--<br /> + Thy pity, hide above!</p> + +<p>Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,<br /> + The pages of Thy word,<br /> +And learn the blessed curses there,<br /> + On them that sheathe the sword.</p> + +<p>Where'er we tread may deserts spring,<br /> + 'Till none are left to slay;<br /> +And when the last red drop is shed,<br /> + We'll kneel again--and pray!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="35"></a>Sonnet.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<p>Man makes his own dread fates, and these in turn<br /> +Create his tyrants. In our lust and passion,<br /> +Our appetite and ignorance, he springs.<br /> +The creature of our need as our desert,<br /> +The scourge that whips us for decaying virtue,<br /> +He chastens to reform us! Never yet,<br /> +In mortal life, did tyrant rise to power,<br /> +But in the people's worst infirmities<br /> +Of crime and greed. The creature of our vices,<br /> +The loathsome ulcer of our vicious moods,<br /> +He is decreed their proper punishment.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="36"></a>Marching to Death.</h1> + +<h2>By J. Herbert Sass, of South Carolina.</h2> + +1862. + + +<p>"The National Quarterly depicts a remarkable scene, which occurred some +years since on one of the British transport ships. The commander of the +troops on board, seeing that the vessel must soon sink, and that there was +no hope of saving his men, drew them up in order of battle, and, as in the +presence of a human enemy, bravely faced the doom that was before them. We +know of no more impressive illustration of the power of military +discipline in the presence of death."</p> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>The last farewells are breathed by loving lips,<br /> +The last fond prayer for darling ones is said,<br /> +And o'er each heart stern sorrow's dark eclipse<br /> + Her sable pall hath spread.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Far, far beyond each anxious watcher's sight,<br /> +Baring her bosom to the wanton sea,<br /> +The lordly ship sweeps onward in her might,<br /> + Her tameless majesty.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Forth from his fortress in the western sky,<br /> +Flashing defiance on each crested wave,<br /> +Out glares the sun, with red and lowering eye,<br /> + Grand, even in his grave.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Till, waxing bolder as his rays decline,<br /> +The clustering billows o'er his ramparts sweep,<br /> +Slow droops his banner--fades his light divine,<br /> + And darkness rules the deep.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Look once again!--Night's sombre shades have fled:<br /> +But the pale rays that glimmer from their sheath,<br /> +Serve but to show the blackness overhead,<br /> + And the wild void beneath.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Mastless and helmless drifts the helpless bark;<br /> +Her pride, her majesty, her glory gone;<br /> +While o'er the waters broods the tempest dark,<br /> + And the wild winds howl on.</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>But hark! amid the madness of the storm<br /> +There comes an echo o'er the surging wave;<br /> +Firm at its call the dauntless legions form,<br /> + The resolute and brave.</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host,<br /> +In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck,<br /> +Calmly as though they knew not they were lost--<br /> + Lost in that shattered wreck.</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>Eight hundred men,--old England's tried and true,<br /> +Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done,<br /> +Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too,<br /> + And the last fight be won.</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand;<br /> +No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring;<br /> +Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand,<br /> + "The king! God save the king!"</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>Lower and lower sinks the fated bark,<br /> +Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave,<br /> +But loud outswells, across the waters dark,<br /> + The death-song of the brave.</p> + + + +<h3>XII.</h3> + + +<p>Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep;<br /> +Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring,<br /> +Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep,<br /> + "The king! God save the king!"</p> + + + +<h3>XIII.</h3> + + +<p>Oh thou! whoe'er thou art that reads this page,<br /> +Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith,<br /> +For all throughout our earthly pilgrimage,<br /> + We hold a tryst with death.</p> + + + +<h3>XIV.</h3> + + +<p>Not in the battle-field's tumultuous strife,<br /> +Not in the hour when vanquished foemen fly,<br /> +Not in the midst of bright and happy life,<br /> + Is it most hard to die.</p> + + + +<h3>XV.</h3> + + +<p>Greater the guerdon, holier the prize,<br /> +Of him who trusts, and waits in lowly mood;<br /> +Oh! learn how high, how holy courage lies<br /> + In patient fortitude.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="37"></a>Charleston.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<p>Calm as that second summer which precedes<br /> + The first fall of the snow,<br /> +In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,<br /> + The city bides the foe.</p> + +<p>As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud,<br /> + Her bolted thunders sleep--<br /> +Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,<br /> + Looms o'er the solemn deep.</p> + +<p>No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur<br /> + To guard the holy strand;<br /> +But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war,<br /> + Above the level sand.</p> + +<p>And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched.<br /> + Unseen, beside the flood--<br /> +Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched,<br /> + That wait and watch for blood.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,<br /> + Walk grave and thoughtful men,<br /> +Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade<br /> + As lightly as the pen.</p> + +<p>And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim<br /> + Over a bleeding hound,<br /> +Seem each one to have caught the strength of him<br /> + Whose sword she sadly bound.</p> + +<p>Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,<br /> + Day patient following day,<br /> +Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome,<br /> + Across her tranquil bay.</p> + +<p>Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands<br /> + And spicy Indian ports,<br /> +Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,<br /> + And summer to her courts.</p> + +<p>But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,<br /> + The only hostile smoke<br /> +Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine,<br /> + From some frail, floating oak.</p> + +<p>Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles,<br /> + And with an unscathed brow,<br /> +Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles,<br /> + As fair and free as now?</p> + +<p>We know not; in the temple of the Fates<br /> + God has inscribed her doom;<br /> +And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits<br /> + The triumph or the tomb.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="38"></a>Charleston.</h1> + +<h2>By Paul H. Hayne.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>What! still does the Mother of Treason uprear<br /> + Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea?<br /> +Unquelled by mistrust, and unblanched by a Fear,<br /> + Unbowed her proud head, and unbending her knee,<br /> + Calm, steadfast, and free?</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your wrath,<br /> + Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;--<br /> +But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path,<br /> + And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire<br /> + Of your fruitless desire.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Ringed round by her Brave, a fierce circlet of flame,<br /> + Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast;<br /> +She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,<br /> + And never, we swear, shall <i>your</i> footsteps be pressed<br /> + Where her dead heroes rest!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Her voice shook the Tyrant!--sublime from her tongue<br /> + Fell the accents of warning,--a Prophetess grand,--<br /> +On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung,<br /> + <i>And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand</i><br /> + Broke the sleep of her land!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound will<br /> + The Fate that would trample her honor to earth,--<br /> +The light in those deep eyes is luminous still<br /> + With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth,<br /> + Which illumine the Earth!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved,<br /> + "Without fear or reproach," lifts her Banner on high;<br /> +He stands in the vanguard, majestic, unmoved,<br /> + And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh,<br /> + Vow, "'tis easy to die!"</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air!<br /> + The world's breath is hushed at the conflict! before<br /> +Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair--<br /> + And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore,<br /> + We shall prize her the more!</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes<br /> + To the height of her promise, the voices of yore,<br /> +From the storied Profound of past ages arise,<br /> + And the pomps of their magical music outpour<br /> + O'er the war-beaten shore.</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>Then gird your brave Empress, O! Heroes, with flame<br /> + Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast,<br /> +She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,<br /> + And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed<br /> + Where her dead Martyrs rest!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="39"></a>"Ye Men of Alabama!"</h1> + +<h2>By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.</h2> + + + +Air--"Ye Mariners of England." + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Ye men of Alabama,<br /> + Awake, arise, awake!<br /> +And rend the coils asunder<br /> + Of this Abolition snake.<br /> +If another fold he fastens--<br /> + If this final coil he plies--<br /> +In the cold clasp of hate and power<br /> + Fair Alabama dies.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Though round your lower limbs and waist<br /> + His deadly coils I see,<br /> +Yet, yet, thank Heaven! your head and arms,<br /> + And good right hand, are free;<br /> +And in that hand there glistens--<br /> + O God! what joy to feel!--<br /> +A polished blade, full sharp and keen,<br /> + Of tempered State Rights steel.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Now, by the free-born sires<br /> + From whose brave loins ye sprung!<br /> +And by the noble mothers<br /> + At whose fond breasts ye hung!<br /> +And by your wives and daughters,<br /> + And by the ills they dread,<br /> +Drive deep that good Secession steel<br /> + Right through the Monster's head.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>This serpent Abolition<br /> + Has been coiling on for years;<br /> +We have reasoned, we have threatened,<br /> + We have begged almost with tears:<br /> +Now, away, away with Union,<br /> + Since on our Southern soil<br /> +The only <i>union</i> left us<br /> + Is an anaconda's coil.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Brave little South Carolina<br /> + Will strike the self-same blow,<br /> +And Florida, and Georgia,<br /> + And Mississippi too;<br /> +And Arkansas, and Texas;<br /> + And at the death, I ween,<br /> +The head will fall beneath the blows<br /> + Of all the brave Fifteen.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>In this our day of trial,<br /> + Let feuds and factions cease,<br /> +Until above this howling storm<br /> + We see the sign of Peace.<br /> +Let Southern men, like brothers,<br /> + In solid phalanx stand,<br /> +And poise their spears, and lock their shields,<br /> + To guard their native land.</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>The love that for the Union<br /> + Once in our bosoms beat,<br /> +From insult and from injury<br /> + Has turned to scorn and hate;<br /> +And the banner of Secession<br /> + To-day we lift on high,<br /> +Resolved, beneath that sacred flag,<br /> + To conquer, or TO DIE!</p> + +Montgomery Advertiser, October, 1860. + + + + +<h1><a name="40"></a>Nec Temere, Nec Timide.</h1> + +<h2>By Annie Chambers Ketchum.</h2> + + + +<p>Gentlemen of the South,<br /> + Gird on your glittering swords!<br /> +Darkly along our borders fair<br /> + Gather the Northern hordes.<br /> +Ruthless and fierce they come<br /> + At the fiery cannon's mouth,<br /> +To blast the glory of our land,<br /> + Gentlemen of the South!</p> + +<p>Ride forth in your stately pride,<br /> + Each bearing on his shield<br /> +Ensigns our fathers won of yore<br /> + On many a well-fought field!<br /> +Let this be your battle-cry,<br /> + Even to the cannon's mouth,<br /> +<i>Cor unum via una!</i> Onward,<br /> + Gentlemen of the South!</p> + +<p>Brave knights of a knightly race,<br /> + Gordon, and Chambers, and Gray,<br /> +Show to the minions of the North<br /> + How Valor dares the fray!<br /> +Let them read on each stainless crest<br /> + At the belching cannon's mouth,<br /> +<i>Decori decus addit avito</i>,<br /> + Gentlemen of the South!</p> + +<p>Morrison, Douglas, Stuart,<br /> + Erskine, and Bradford, and West,<br /> +Your gauntlets on many a bloody field<br /> + Have stood the battle's test!<br /> +<i>Animo non astutia!</i><br /> + March to the cannon's mouth,<br /> +Heirs of the brave dead centuries! Onward,<br /> + Gentlemen of the South!</p> + +<p>Call forth your stalwart men,<br /> + Workers in brass and steel!<br /> +Bid the swart artisans come forth<br /> + At sound of the trumpet's peal!<br /> +Give them your war-cry, Erskine!<br /> + <i>Fight!</i> to the cannon's mouth!<br /> +Bid the men <i>Forward!</i> Douglas, <i>Forward!</i><br /> + Yeomanry of the South!</p> + +<p>Brave hunters! Ye have met<br /> + The fierce black bear in the fray;<br /> +Ye have trailed the panther night by night,<br /> + Ye have chased the fox by day!<br /> +Your prancing chargers pant<br /> + To dash at the gray wolf's mouth,<br /> +Your arms are sure of their quarry! Onward!<br /> + Gentlemen of the South!</p> + +<p>Fight! that the lowly serf<br /> + And the high-born lady still<br /> +May bide in their proud dependency,<br /> + Free subjects of your will!<br /> +Teach the base North how ill,<br /> + At the fiery cannon's mouth,<br /> +He fares who touches your household gods,<br /> + Gentlemen of the South!</p> + +<p>From mother, and wife, and child,<br /> + From faithful and happy slave,<br /> +Prayers for your sakes ascend to Him<br /> + Whose arm is strong to save!<br /> +We check the gathering tears,<br /> + Though ye go to the cannon's mouth;<br /> +<i>Dominus providebit!</i> Onward,<br /> + Gentlemen of the South!</p> + +<p>Memphis Appeal.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="41"></a>Dixie.</h1> + +<h2>By Albert Pike.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Southrons, hear your Country call you!<br /> +Up! lest worse than death befall you!<br /> + To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!<br /> +Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,<br /> +Let all hearts be now united!<br /> + To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!<br /> + Advance the flag; of Dixie!<br /> + Hurrah! hurrah!<br /> + For Dixie's land we'll take our stand,<br /> + To live or die for Dixie!<br /> + To arms! to arms!<br /> + And conquer peace for Dixie!<br /> + To arms! to arms!<br /> + And conquer peace for Dixie!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Hear the Northern thunders mutter!<br /> +Northern flags in South-winds flutter!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> +Send them back your fierce defiance!<br /> +Stamp upon the accursed alliance!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Fear no danger! shun no labor!<br /> +Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> +Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,<br /> +Let the odds make each heart bolder!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> + Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>How the South's great heart rejoices<br /> +At your cannon's ringing voices;<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> +For faith betrayed and pledges broken,<br /> +Wrong inflicted, insults spoken.<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> + Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Strong as lions, swift as eagles,<br /> +Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> +Cut the unequal bonds asunder!<br /> +Let them hence each other plunder!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Swear upon your Country's altar,<br /> +Never to submit or falter;<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> +Till the spoilers are defeated,<br /> +Till the Lord's work is completed.<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>Halt not till our Federation<br /> +Secures among earth's Powers its station!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> +Then at peace, and crowned with glory,<br /> +Hear your children tell the story!<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>If the loved ones weep in sadness,<br /> +Victory soon shall bring them gladness;<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> +Exultant pride soon banish sorrow;<br /> +Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.<br /> + To arms! etc.<br /> + Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="42"></a>The Old Rifleman.</h1> + +<h2>By Frank Ticknor, of Georgia.</h2> + + + +<p>Now bring me out my buckskin suit!<br /> + My pouch and powder, too!<br /> +We'll see if seventy-six can shoot<br /> + As sixteen used to do.</p> + +<p>Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright!<br /> + Our trigger quick and true!<br /> +As far, if not as <i>fine</i> a sight,<br /> + As long ago we drew!</p> + +<p>And pick me out a trusty flint!<br /> + A real white and blue,<br /> +Perhaps 'twill win the <i>other</i> tint<br /> + Before the hunt is through!</p> + +<p>Give boys your brass percussion caps!<br /> + Old "shut-pan" suits as well!<br /> +There's something in the <i>sparks:</i> perhaps<br /> + There's something in the smell!</p> + +<p>We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed!<br /> + The red-skin Indian, too!<br /> +We've never thought to draw a bead<br /> + On Yanke-doodle-doo!</p> + +<p>But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart!<br /> + Those days are mostly done;<br /> +And now we must revive the art<br /> + Of shooting on the run!</p> + +<p>If Doodle must be meddling, why,<br /> + There's only this to do--<br /> +Select the black spot in his eye,<br /> + And let the daylight through!</p> + +<p>And if he doesn't like the way<br /> + That Bess presents the view,<br /> +He'll maybe change his mind, and stay<br /> + Where the good Doodles do!</p> + +<p>Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know,<br /> + Who kissed the Testament;<br /> +To keep the Constitution? No!<br /> + <i>To keep the Government!</i></p> + +<p>We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool,<br /> + And take him half and half;<br /> +We'll aim to <i>hit</i> him, if a fool,<br /> + And <i>miss</i> him, if a calf!</p> + +<p>We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks<br /> + By which a war is won;<br /> +Especially how Seventy-six<br /> + Took Tories on the run.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="43"></a>Battle Hymn.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<p>Lord of Hosts, that beholds us in battle, defending<br /> + The homes of our sires 'gainst the hosts of the foe,<br /> +Send us help on the wings of thy angels descending,<br /> + And shield from his terrors, and baffle his blow.<br /> +Warm the faith of our sons, till they flame as the iron,<br /> + Red-glowing from the fire-forge, kindled by zeal;<br /> +Make them forward to grapple the hordes that environ,<br /> + In the storm-rush of battle, through forests of steel!<br /> +<br /> +Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious<br /> + The martyr who falls in the front of the fight;--<br /> +That the faith which is steadfast makes ever victorious<br /> + The arm which strikes boldly defending the right;--<br /> +That the zeal, which is roused by the wrongs of a nation,<br /> + Is a war-horse that sweeps o'er the field as his own;<br /> +And the Faith, which is winged by the soul's approbation,<br /> + Is a warrior, in proof, that can ne'er be o'erthrown.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="44"></a>Kentucky, She Is Sold</h1> + +<h2>By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.</h2> + + + +<p>A tear for "the dark and bloody ground,"<br /> + For the land of hills and caves;<br /> +Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep<br /> + Where the vandals tread their graves;<br /> +A sigh for the loss of her honored fame,<br /> + Dear won in the days of old;<br /> +Her ship is manned by a foreign crew,<br /> + For Kentucky, she is sold.</p> + +<p>The bones of her sons lie bleaching on<br /> + The plains of Tippecanoe,<br /> +On the field of Raisin her blood was shed,<br /> + As free as the summer's dew;<br /> +In Mexico her McRee and Clay<br /> + Were first of the brave and bold--<br /> +A change has been in her bosom wrought,<br /> + For Kentucky, she is sold.</p> + +<p>Pride of the free, was that noble State,<br /> + And her banner still were so,<br /> +Had the iron heel of the despot not<br /> + Her prowess sunk so low;<br /> +Her valleys once were the freeman's home,<br /> + Her valor unbought with gold,<br /> +But now the pride of her life is fled,<br /> + For Kentucky, she is sold.</p> + +<p>Her brave would once have scorned to wear<br /> + The yoke that crushes her now,<br /> +And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread,<br /> + Would sullen have made her brow;<br /> +Her spirit yet will be wakened up,<br /> + And her saddened fate be told,<br /> +Her gallant sons to the world yet prove<br /> + That Kentucky is not sold.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="45"></a>Sonnet--The Ship of State.</h1> + + + +<p>Here lie the peril and necessity<br /> + That need a race of giants--a great realm,<br /> + With not one noble leader at the helm;<br /> +And the great Ship of State still driving high,<br /> + 'Midst breakers, on a lee shore--to the rocks.<br /> + With ever and anon most terrible shocks--<br /> +The crew aghast, and fear in every eye.<br /> +Yet is the gracious Providence still nigh;<br /> + And, if our cause be just, our hearts be true,<br /> + We shall save goodly ship and gallant crew,<br /> +Nor suffer shipwreck of our liberty!<br /> + It needs that as a people we arise,<br /> + With solemn purpose that even fate defies,<br /> +And brave all perils with unblenching eye!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="46"></a>"In His Blanket on the Ground."</h1> + +<h2>By Caroline H. Gervais, Charleston.</h2> + + + +<p>Weary, weary lies the soldier,<br /> + In his blanket on the ground<br /> +With no sweet "Good-night" to cheer him,<br /> + And no tender voice's sound,<br /> +Making music in the darkness,<br /> + Making light his toilsome hours,<br /> +Like a sunbeam in the forest,<br /> + Or a tomb wreathed o'er with flowers.</p> + +<p>Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful,<br /> + As his memories sadly roam<br /> +To the "cozy little parlor"<br /> + And the loved ones of his home;<br /> +And his waking and his dreaming<br /> + Softly braid themselves in one,<br /> +As the twilight is the mingling<br /> + Of the starlight and the sun.</p> + +<p>And when sleep descends upon him,<br /> + <i>Still</i> his thought within his dream<br /> +Is of home, and friends, and loved ones,<br /> + And his busy fancies seem<br /> +To be <i>real</i>, as they wander<br /> + To his mother's cherished form.<br /> +As she gently said, in parting<br /> + "Thine in sunshine and in storm:<br /> +Thine in helpless childhood's morning,<br /> + And in boyhood's joyous time,<br /> +Thou must leave me now--<i>God</i> watch thee<br /> + In thy manhood's ripened prime."</p> + +<p>Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms<br /> + Teeming thick within his brain,<br /> +His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered,<br /> + Come to greet his view again;<br /> +And he hears his trembling accents,<br /> + Like a clarion ringing high,<br /> +"Since <i>not mine</i> are youth and strength, boy,<br /> + <i>Thou</i> must victor prove, or die."</p> + +<p>Or perchance he hears a whisper<br /> + Of the faintest, faintest sigh,<br /> +Something deeper than word-spoken,<br /> + Something breathing of a tie<br /> +Near his soul as bounding heart-blood:<br /> + It is hers, that patient wife--<br /> +And again that parting seemeth<br /> + Like the taking leave of life:<br /> +And her last kiss he remembers,<br /> + And the agonizing thrill,<br /> +And the "<i>Must you go?</i>" and answer,<br /> + "<i>I but know my Country's will.</i>"</p> + +<p>Or the little children gather,<br /> +Half in wonder, round his knees;<br /> +And the faithful dog, mute, watchful,<br /> +In the mystic glass he sees;<br /> +And the voice of song, and pictures,<br /> +And the simplest homestead flowers,<br /> +Unforgotten, crowd before him<br /> +In the solemn midnight hours.</p> + +<p>Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander<br /> +To a sister's sweet caress,<br /> +And he feels her dear lips quiver<br /> +As his own they fondly press;<br /> +And he hears her proudly saying,<br /> +(Though sad tears are in her eyes),<br /> +"Brave men fall, but live in story,<br /> +<i>For the Hero never dies!</i>"</p> + +<p>Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes,<br /> +And his heart beats quicker now,<br /> +As he thinks of one who gave him,<br /> +Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow;<br /> +And, ah, fondly he remembers<br /> +He is <i>still</i> her dearest care,<br /> +Even in his star-watched slumber<br /> +That she pleads for him in prayer.</p> + +<p>Oh, the soldier <i>will</i> be dreaming,<br /> +Dreaming <i>often</i> of us all,<br /> +(When the damp earth is his pillow,<br /> +And the snow and cold sleet fall),<br /> +Of the dear, familiar faces,<br /> +Of the cozy, curtained room,<br /> +Of the flitting of the shadows<br /> +In the twilight's pensive gloom.</p> + +<p>Or when summer suns burn o'er him,<br /> +Bringing drought and dread disease,<br /> +And the throes of wasting fever<br /> +Come his weary frame to seize--<br /> +In the restless sleep of sickness,<br /> +Doomed, perchance, to martyr death,<br /> +Hear him whisper "<i>Home</i>"--sweet cadence,<br /> +With his quickened, labored breath.</p> + +<p>Then God bless him, bless the soldier,<br /> +And God nerve him for the fight;<br /> +May He lend his arm new prowess<br /> +To do battle for the right.<br /> +Let him feel that while he's dreaming<br /> +In his fitful slumber bound,<br /> +That we're praying--<i>God watch o'er him<br /> +In his blanket on the ground.</i></p> + + + + +<h1><a name="47"></a>The Mountain Partisan.</h1> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>My rifle, pouch, and knife!<br /> + My steed! And then we part!<br /> +One loving kiss, dear wife,<br /> + One press of heart to heart!<br /> +Cling to me yet awhile,<br /> + But stay the sob, the tear!<br /> +Smile--only try to smile--<br /> + And I go without a fear.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Our little cradled boy,<br /> + He sleeps--and in his sleep,<br /> +Smiles, with an angel joy,<br /> + Which tells thee not to weep.<br /> +I'll kneel beside, and kiss--<br /> + He will not wake the while,<br /> +Thus dreaming of the bliss,<br /> + That bids thee, too, to smile.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Think not, dear wife, I go,<br /> + With a light thought at my heart<br /> +'Tis a pang akin to woe,<br /> + That fills me as we part;<br /> +But when the wolf was heard<br /> + To howl around our lot,<br /> +Thou know'st, dear mother-bird,<br /> + I slew him on the spot!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Aye, panther, wolf, and bear,<br /> + Have perish'd 'neath my knife;<br /> +Why tremble, then, with fear,<br /> + When now I go, my wife?<br /> +Shall I not keep the peace,<br /> + That made our cottage dear;<br /> +And 'till these wolf-curs cease<br /> + Shall I be housing here?</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>One loving kiss, dear wife,<br /> + One press of heart to heart;<br /> +Then for the deadliest strife,<br /> + For freedom I depart!<br /> +I were of little worth,<br /> + Were these Yankee wolves left free<br /> +To ravage 'round our hearth,<br /> + And bring one grief to thee!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>God's blessing on thee, wife,<br /> + God's blessing on the young:<br /> +Pray for me through the strife,<br /> + And teach our infant's tongue.<br /> +Whatever haps in fight,<br /> + I shall be true to thee--<br /> +To the home of our delight--<br /> + To my people of the free.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="48"></a>The Cameo Bracelet.</h1> + +<h2>By James R. Randall, of Maryland.</h2> + + + +<p>Eva sits on the ottoman there,<br /> + Sits by a Psyche carved in stone,<br /> +With just such a face, and just such an air,<br /> + As Esther upon her throne.</p> + +<p>She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed,<br /> + And I watch her fingers float and flow<br /> +Over the linen, as, thread by thread,<br /> + It flakes to her lap like snow.</p> + +<p>A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist,<br /> + Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome,<br /> +Out of the tears of the amethyst,<br /> + And the wan Vesuvian foam.</p> + +<p>And full on the bauble-crest alway--<br /> + A cameo image keen and fine--<br /> +Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday,<br /> + And the lava-locks are thine!</p> + +<p>I thought of the war-wolves on our trail,<br /> + Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood;<br /> +Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil,<br /> + Drooped with a wizard flood</p> + +<p>Till the surly blaze through the iron bars<br /> + Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry--<br /> +And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars<br /> + To the Column of July--</p> + +<p>Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear,<br /> + And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown--<br /> +For Eva was not on the ottoman there,<br /> + By the Psyche carved in stone.</p> + +<p>She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate,<br /> + With the incantation in her gaze,<br /> +A lip of scorn--an arm of hate--<br /> + And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!"</p> + +<p>Eva, the vision was not wild,<br /> + When wreaked on the tyrants of the land--<br /> +For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child,<br /> + With the dagger in your hand!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="49"></a>Zollicoffer.</h1> + +<h2>By H. L. Flash, of Alabama.</h2> + + + +<p>First in the fight, and first in the arms<br /> + Of the white-winged angels of glory,<br /> +With the heart of the South at the feet of God,<br /> + And his wounds to tell the story:</p> + +<p>And the blood that flowed from his hero heart,<br /> + On the spot where he nobly perished,<br /> +Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament<br /> + In the holy cause he cherished.</p> + +<p>In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed,<br /> + And, for his soul's sustaining,<br /> +The apocalyptic eyes of Christ--<br /> + And nothing on earth remaining,</p> + +<p>But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,<br /> + A name in song and story,<br /> +And Fame to shout with her brazen voice,<br /> + "Died on the Field of Glory!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="50"></a>Beauregard</h1> + +<h2>By Catharine A. Warfield, of Mississippi.</h2> + + + +<p>Let the trumpet shout once more,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +Let the battle-thunders roar,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +And again by yonder sea,<br /> +Let the swords of all the free<br /> +Leap forth to fight with thee,<br /> + Beauregard!</p> + +<p>Old Sumter loves thy name,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +Grim Moultrie guards thy fame,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +Oh! first in Freedom's fight!<br /> +Oh! steadfast in the right!<br /> +Oh! brave and Christian Knight!<br /> + Beauregard!</p> + +<p>St. Michael with his host,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +Encamps by yonder coast,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +And the Demon's might shall quail,<br /> +And the Dragon's terrors fail,<br /> +Were he trebly clad in mail,<br /> + Beauregard!</p> + +<p>Not a leaf shall fall away,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +From the laurel won to-day,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +While the ocean breezes blow,<br /> +While the billows lapse and flow<br /> +O'er the Northman's bones below,<br /> + Beauregard!</p> + +<p>Let the trumpet shout once more,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +Let the battle-thunders roar,<br /> + Beauregard!<br /> +From the centre to the shore,<br /> +From the sea to the land's core<br /> +Thrills the echo, evermore,<br /> + Beauregard!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="51"></a>South Carolina.</h1> + + + +<p> 1719. Colonial Revolution.<br /> + 1763. Colonial History--Progress,<br /> + 1776. American Revolution.<br /> + 1812-15. Second War with Great Britain<br /> + 1830-32. Nullification for State Rights.<br /> + 1835-40. Florida War.<br /> + 1847. Mexican War--Palmetto Regiment.<br /> + 1860-61. Secession, and Third War for Independence.</p> + +<p>My brave old Country! I have watched thee long<br /> +Still ever first to rise against the wrong;<br /> +To check the usurper in his giant stride,<br /> +And brave his terrors and abase his pride;<br /> +Foresee the insidious danger ere it rise,<br /> +And warn the heedless and inform the wise;<br /> +Scorning the lure, the bribe, the selfish game,<br /> +Which, through the office, still becomes the shame;<br /> +Thou stood'st aloof--superior to the fate<br /> +That would have wrecked thy freedom as a State.<br /> +In vain the despot's threat, his cunning lure;<br /> +Too proud thy spirit, and thy heart too pure;<br /> +Thou hadst no quest but freedom, and to be<br /> +In conscience well-assured, and people free.<br /> +The statesman's lore was thine, the patriot's aim,<br /> +These kept thee virtuous, and preserved thy fame;<br /> +The wisdom still for council, the brave voice,<br /> +That thrills a people till they all rejoice.<br /> +These were thy birthrights; and two centuries pass'd,<br /> +As, at the first, still find thee at the last;<br /> +Supreme in council, resolute in will,<br /> +Pure in thy purpose--independent still!</p> + +<p>The great good counsels, the examples brave,<br /> +Won from the past, not buried in its grave,<br /> +Still warm your soul with courage--still impar<br /> +Wisdom to virtue, valor to the heart!<br /> +Still first to check th' encroachment--to declare<br /> +"Thus far! no further, shall the assailant dare;"<br /> +Thou keep'st thy ermine white, thy State secure,<br /> +Thy fortunes prosperous, and thy freedom sure;<br /> +No glozing art deceives thee to thy bane;<br /> +The tempter and the usurper strive in vain!<br /> +Thy spear's first touch unfolds the fiendish form,<br /> +And first, with fearless breast, thou meet'st the storm;<br /> +Though hosts assail thee, thou thyself a host,<br /> +Prepar'st to meet the invader on the coast:<br /> +Thy generous sons contending which shall be<br /> +First in the phalanx, gathering by the sea;<br /> +No dastard fear appals them, as they teach<br /> +How best to hurl the bolt, or man the breach!</p> + +<p>Great Soul in little frame!--the hope of man<br /> +Exults, when such as thou art in the van!<br /> +Unshaken, unbeguiled, unslaved, unbought,<br /> +Thy fame shall brighten with each battle fought;<br /> +True to the examples of the past, thou'lt be,<br /> +For the long future, best security.</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + +<p>Gossypium.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="52"></a>Carolina.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>The despot treads thy sacred sands,<br /> +Thy pines give shelter to his bands,<br /> +Thy sons stand by with idle hands,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,<br /> +He scorns the lances of thy palm;<br /> +Oh I who shall break thy craven calm,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Thy ancient fame is growing dim,<br /> +A spot is on thy garment's rim;<br /> +Give to the winds thy battle hymn,<br /> + Carolina!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Call on thy children of the hill,<br /> +Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,<br /> +Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Cite wealth and science, trade and art,<br /> +Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,<br /> +And pour thee through the people's heart,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Till even the coward spurns his fears,<br /> +And all thy fields, and fens, and meres,<br /> +Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears,<br /> + Carolina!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Hold up the glories of thy dead;<br /> +Say how thy elder children bled,<br /> +Arid point to Eutaw's battle-bed,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Tell how the patriot's soul was tried,<br /> +And what his dauntless breast defied;<br /> +How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Cry! till thy summons, heard at last,<br /> +Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast,<br /> +Re-echoed from the haunted past,<br /> + Carolina!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>I hear a murmur, as of waves<br /> +That grope their way through sunless caves,<br /> +Like bodies struggling in their graves,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +And now it deepens; slow and grand<br /> +It swells, as rolling to the land<br /> +An ocean broke upon the strand,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Shout! let it reach the startled Huns!<br /> +And roar with all thy festal guns!<br /> +It is the answer of thy sons,<br /> + Carolina!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>They will not wait to hear thee call;<br /> +From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall<br /> +Resounds the voice of hut and hall,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +No! thou hast not a stain, they say,<br /> +Or none save what the battle-day<br /> +Shall wash in seas of blood away,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part,<br /> +Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,<br /> +They shall not touch thy noble heart,<br /> + Carolina!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall,<br /> +Ten times ten thousand men must fall;<br /> +Thy corpse may hearken to his call,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +When by thy bier, in mournful throngs,<br /> +The women chant thy mortal wrongs,<br /> +'Twill be their own funereal songs,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod,<br /> +No helpless child shall look to God;<br /> +All shall be safe beneath thy sod,<br /> + Carolina!</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>Girt with such wills to do and bear,<br /> +Assured in right, and mailed in prayer,<br /> +Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!<br /> +Front with thy ranks the threatening seas,<br /> +Like thine own proud armorial trees,<br /> + Carolina!<br /> +Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,<br /> +And roar the challenge from thy guns;<br /> +Then leave the future to thy sons,<br /> + Carolina!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="53"></a>My Mother-Land.</h1> + +<h2>By Paul H. Hayne.</h2> + + + +<p><i>"Animis, Opibusque Parati."</i></p> + +<p>My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling<br /> +Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze,<br /> +The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas,<br /> +The imperious despot's power;<br /> +But long before that hour,<br /> +While yet, in false and vain imagining,<br /> +Thy sister nations would not own their foe,<br /> +And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low,<br /> +Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe<br /> +Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air;<br /> +While yet they paused in scorn,<br /> +Of fatal madness born,--<br /> +Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd<br /> +With wondrous vision of the things to come,<br /> +Thou couldst not calmly rest<br /> +Secure and dumb--<br /> +But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum<br /> +And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!"<br /> +"Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said;<br /> +"We see no threatening tempest overhead,<br /> +Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath<br /> +Will sweep away, or melt in watery death."</p> + +<p>"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom!<br /> +Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom<br /> +Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day,<br /> +Which shone o'er Charleston Bay--<br /> +When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed--<br /> +That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away<br /> +From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud,<br /> +Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long,<br /> +Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong.</p> + +<p>But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde<br /> +Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword,<br /> + Approach to desecrate<br /> +The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate--<br /> +Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast<br /> +Their ashes to the blast--<br /> +Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate<br /> +The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"--<br /> +Against this ravening flood<br /> +Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood,<br /> + Oh! we,<br /> +Strong in the strength of God-supported might,<br /> +Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight,<br /> + Nor basely yield<br /> +To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field--<br /> +But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be,<br /> +To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ!</p> + +<p> Death! What of Death?--<br /> +Can he who once drew honorable breath<br /> + In liberty's pure sphere,<br /> + Foster a sensual fear,<br /> +When death and slavery meet him face to face,<br /> +Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace<br /> +Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there,<br /> +Black degradation, haunted by despair."</p> + +<p> Death! What of Death?--<br /> +The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl<br /> +Across their portion of this earthly ball,<br /> +Share life and motion with us; would we strive<br /> +Like such to creep alive,<br /> +Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin<br /> +We still might keep our mortal breathings in?</p> + +<p>The very thought brings blushes to the cheek!<br /> +I hear all 'round about me murmurs run,<br /> +Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE<br /> +Soul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak:</p> + +<p>"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just!<br /> + Behold, we seek<br /> +Not merely to preserve for noble wives<br /> +The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives,<br /> +To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand,<br /> +And leave our sons their heirloom of command,<br /> + In generous perpetuity of trust;<br /> +Not only to defend those ancient laws,<br /> +Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire<br /> +Welded forevermore with freedom's cause,<br /> +And handed scathless down from sire to sire--<br /> +Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ,<br /> +Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms,<br /> +(Though these had sure sufficed<br /> +To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)--<br /> +But more than all, because embracing all,<br /> +Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon<br /> +Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep,<br /> +From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun<br /> + To him, that gallant Knight,<br /> +The youngest champion in the Senate hall,<br /> +Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate,<br /> +His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right,<br /> +Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep<br /> +Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1]</p> + +<p>"There's not a tone from out the teeming past,<br /> +Uplifted once in such a cause as ours,<br /> +Which does not smite our souls<br /> +In long reverberating thunder-rolls,<br /> +From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story.<br /> +Above the shouting, furious Persian mass,<br /> +Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers,<br /> +Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas<br /> +Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock;<br /> +And o'er the murmurous seas,<br /> +Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss,<br /> +(For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last),<br /> +Gome the clear accents of Miltiades,<br /> +Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock<br /> +Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis.</p> + +<p>"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart<br /> +Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus,<br /> +We look for proud exemplars; yet for us<br /> + It is enough to know<br /> +<i>Our fathers left us freemen</i>; let us show<br /> +The will to hold our lofty heritage,<br /> +The patient strength to act our fathers' part--<br /> +Brothers on history's page,<br /> +We wait to write our autographs in gore,<br /> +To cast the morning brightness of our glory<br /> + Beyond our day and hope,<br /> +The narrow limit of <i>one</i> age's scope,<br /> + On Time's remotest shore!</p> + +<p> "Yea! though our children's blood<br /> +Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood,<br /> +Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bear<br /> + The Ark that holds our shrined liberty,<br /> + Nearer, and yet more near<br /> +Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea.</p> + +<p> "At last, the conflict done,<br /> +The fadeless meed of final victory won--<br /> +Behold! emerging from the rifted dark<br /> +Athwart a shining summit high in heaven,<br /> + That delegated Ark!<br /> +No more to be by vengeful tempests driven,<br /> +But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat<br /> +The congregated nations gladly gaze,<br /> +Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays<br /> +That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!"</p> + +<p>Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me<br /> +Its voice hath come, a passionate augury!<br /> +Methinks the very aspect of the world<br /> +Changed to the mystic music of its hope.<br /> +For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope<br /> +The stormy cloudland banners all are furled,<br /> + And softly borne above<br /> +Are brooding pinions of invisible love,<br /> + Distilling balm of rest and tender thought<br /> + From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought<br /> +O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams<br /> + Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams;<br /> + And universal nature, wheresoever<br /> +My vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river--<br /> + Sleeps, like a happy child,<br /> + In slumber undefiled,<br /> +A premonition of sublimer days,<br /> + When war and warlike lays<br /> + At length shall cease,<br /> + Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace,<br /> + Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind--<br /> + A prelude and a prophecy combined!</p> + +<p>[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of +course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle +and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate +of 1832, would be understood as <i>not</i> pushing the comparison further +than the <i>first</i> shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful +opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. +Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no +decisive advantage on either side.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="54"></a>Joe Johnston.</h1> + +<h2>By John R. Thompson.</h2> + + + +<p>Once more to the breach for the land of the West!<br /> +And a leader we give of our bravest and best,<br /> + Of his State and his army the pride;<br /> +Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest,<br /> + And gleams in the glaive at his side.</p> + +<p>For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright<br /> +As the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight,<br /> + Newly wrought in the forges of Spain;<br /> +And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right,<br /> + Will never be dimmed by a stain.</p> + +<p>He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind,<br /> +Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined,<br /> + Where lie the fresh fields of his fame;<br /> +Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind,<br /> + Seem ever to whisper his name.</p> + +<p>The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs,<br /> +And their motto a noble distinction confers--<br /> + "Ever ready!" for friend or for foe--<br /> +With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs<br /> + The large, manly heart of our JOE.</p> + +<p>We read that a former bold chief of the clan,<br /> +Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van,<br /> + On Shiloh's illustrious day;<br /> +And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man<br /> + The dark, bloody debt to repay.</p> + +<p>There is much to be done; if not glory to seek,<br /> +There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak<br /> + For crimes of a terrible dye;<br /> +While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak,<br /> + In a chorus rise up to the sky.</p> + +<p>For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den,<br /> +That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men,<br /> + With his pack has returned to the spoil;<br /> +Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen,<br /> + And drive him again from your soil.</p> + +<p>Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true,<br /> +Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you<br /> + Our leader had never a doubt;<br /> +You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew,<br /> + The day that his bugles ring out.</p> + +<p>But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore,<br /> +Where now are the rifles that kept from your door<br /> + The wolf and the robber as well?<br /> +Of a truth, you have never been laggard before<br /> + To deal with a savage so fell.</p> + +<p>Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold?<br /> +Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold<br /> + Your lives than your freedom more dear?<br /> +Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold,<br /> + Or basely take counsel of fear?</p> + +<p>We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land<br /> +Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand<br /> + That disgraces the dastard, the slave:<br /> +The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand,<br /> + Her own sons her own honor shall save!</p> + +<p>Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call,<br /> +When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal,<br /> + And the torrents their sources unseal;<br /> +And this be the watchword of one and of all--<br /> + "Remember the butcher, McNeil!"</p> + +<p>Then once more to the breach for the land of the West;<br /> +Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best;<br /> + Follow on where your leader you see;<br /> +One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed,<br /> + And the land of the West shall be free!</p> + +<p>[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently +presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, +1862.]</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="55"></a>Over the River.</h1> + +<h2>By Jane T. H. Cross.</h2> + +<h3>Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861.</h3> + + + +<p>We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars,"<br /> + As one may hail a neighbor;<br /> +Now forward move! no fear of jars,<br /> + With nothing but free labor;<br /> +And we will mind our slaves and farm,<br /> +And never wish you any harm,<br /> + But greet you--<i>over the river</i>.</p> + +<p>The self-same language do we speak,<br /> + The same dear words we utter;<br /> +Then let's not make each other weak,<br /> + Nor 'gainst each other mutter;<br /> +But let each go his separate way,<br /> +And each will doff his hat, and say:<br /> + "I greet you--over the river!"</p> + +<p>Our flags, almost the same, unfurl,<br /> + And nod across the border;<br /> +Ohio's waves between them curl--<br /> + <i>Our stripe's a little broader</i>;<br /> +May yours float out on every breeze,<br /> +And, <i>in our wake</i>, traverse all seas--<br /> + We greet you--over the river!</p> + +<p>We part, as friends of years should part,<br /> + With pleasant words and wishes,<br /> +And no desire is in our heart<br /> + For Lincoln's loaves and fishes;<br /> +"Farewell," we wave you from afar,<br /> +We like you best--just where you are--<br /> + And greet you--over the river!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="56"></a>The Confederacy.</h1> + +<h2>By Jane T. H. Cross.</h2> + +<h3>Published in the Southern Christian Advocated.</h3> + + + +<p>Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood,<br /> + The pearly light of heaven was on her face;<br /> +Life's early joy was coursing in her blood;<br /> + A thing she was of beauty and of grace.</p> + +<p>She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth,<br /> + No voice of sympathy was heard to greet<br /> +The glory-beaming morning of her birth,<br /> + Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.</p> + +<p>She stood, derided by her passing foes;<br /> + Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn;<br /> +Their rage in blackening billows round her rose--<br /> + Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.</p> + +<p>Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast,<br /> + She shakes them off in pure and holy ire,<br /> +As quietly as Paul, in ages past,<br /> + Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.</p> + +<p>She bends not to her foes, nor to the world,<br /> + She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom;<br /> +But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled,<br /> + She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom.</p> + +<p>She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth,<br /> + She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye,<br /> +She asks of Thee her place upon the earth--<br /> + For it is Thine to give or to deny.</p> + +<p>Oh, let <i>Thine</i> eye but recognize her right!<br /> + Oh, let <i>Thy</i> voice but justify her claim!<br /> +Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight,<br /> + And all their power is but an empty name,</p> + +<p>Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer!<br /> + Her robes are dripping with her children's blood;<br /> +Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare,"<br /> + They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood."</p> + +<p>The anguish wraps her close around, like death,<br /> + Her children lie in heaps about her slain;<br /> +Before the world she bravely holds her breath,<br /> + Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain.</p> + +<p>But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed,<br /> + Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan--<br /> +Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest!<br /> + For Thou hast called her!--is she not Thine own?</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="57"></a>President Davis.</h1> + +<h2>By Jane T. H. Cross.</h2> + +<h3>Published in the New York News, 1865.</h3> + + + +<p>The cell is lonely, and the night<br /> + Has filled it with a darker gloom;<br /> +The little rays of friendly light,<br /> + Which through each crack and chink found room<br /> +To press in with their noiseless feet,<br /> +All merciful and fleet,<br /> +And bring, like Noah's trembling dove,<br /> +God's silent messages of love--<br /> + These, too, are gone,<br /> + Shut out, and gone,<br /> +And that great heart is left alone.</p> + +<p>Alone, with darkness and with woe,<br /> + Around him Freedom's temple lies,<br /> +Its arches crushed, its columns low,<br /> + The night-wind through its ruin sighs;<br /> +Rash, cruel hands that temple razed,<br /> +Then stood the world amazed!<br /> +And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds!<br /> +Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds;<br /> + And yet no groan<br /> + Is heard, no groan!<br /> +He suffers silently, alone.</p> + +<p>For all his bright and happy home,<br /> + He has that cell, so drear and dark,<br /> +The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome,<br /> + The clank of chains, for song of lark;<br /> +And for the grateful voice of friends--<br /> +That voice which ever lends<br /> +Its charm where human hearts are found--<br /> +He hears the key's dull, grating sound;<br /> + No heart is near,<br /> + No kind heart near,<br /> +No sigh of sympathy, no tear!</p> + +<p>Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good!<br /> + Unnumbered hearts on thee await,<br /> +By thee invisibly have stood,<br /> + Have crowded through thy prison-gate;<br /> +Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars,<br /> +Nor floating "stripes and stars,"<br /> +Nor glittering gun or bayonet,<br /> +Can ever cause us to forget<br /> + Our faith to thee,<br /> + Our love to thee,<br /> +Thou glorious soul! thou strong! <i>thou free!</i></p> + + + + +<h1><a name="58"></a>The Rifleman's "Fancy Shot."</h1> + + + +<p>"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot,<br /> + Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;<br /> +Ring me a ball on the glittering spot<br /> + That shines on his breast like an amulet."</p> + +<p>"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead;<br /> + There's music around when my barrel's in tune."<br /> +Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped,<br /> + And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.</p> + +<p>"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch<br /> + From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood:<br /> +A button, a loop, or that luminous patch<br /> + That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."</p> + +<p>"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track,<br /> + When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette;<br /> +For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,<br /> + That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.</p> + +<p>"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold;<br /> + An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,<br /> +Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,<br /> + Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."</p> + +<p>"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket--'tis she!<br /> + My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon.<br /> +Was her husband. Hush, soldier!--'twas heaven's deer<br /> + We must bury him there, by the light of the moon.</p> + +<p>"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite;<br /> + War is a virtue, and weakness a sin;<br /> +There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night:<br /> + Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="59"></a>"All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night."</h1> + +<h2>By Lamar Fontaine.</h2> + + + +<p>[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has +been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues +silent on the subject.]</p> + + +<p>"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"<br /> + Except here and there a stray picket<br /> +Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,<br /> + By a rifleman hid in the thicket.</p> + +<p>'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then<br /> + Will not count in the news of a battle;<br /> +Not an officer lost! only one of the men<br /> + Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.</p> + +<p>All quiet along the Potomac to-night!<br /> + Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;<br /> +And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,<br /> + And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.</p> + +<p>A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind<br /> + Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;<br /> +While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,<br /> + Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.</p> + +<p>There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,<br /> + As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,<br /> +And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed,<br /> + Far away, in the cot on the mountain.</p> + +<p>His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,<br /> + Grows gentle with memories tender,<br /> +As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,<br /> + And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"</p> + +<p>The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then--<br /> + That night, when the love, yet unspoken,<br /> +Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows<br /> + Were pledged to be ever unbroken.</p> + +<p>Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,<br /> + He dashes off tears that are welling;<br /> +And gathers his gun closer up to his breast,<br /> + As if to keep down the heart's swelling.</p> + +<p>He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,<br /> + And his footstep is lagging and weary;<br /> +Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,<br /> + Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.</p> + +<p>Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?<br /> + Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?<br /> +It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"<br /> + And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.</p> + +<p>"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"<br /> + No sound save the rush of the river;<br /> +While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,<br /> + And the picket's off duty forever!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="60"></a>Address</h1> + +<h2>Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond.</h2> + +<h3>A Prize Poem.--By Henry Timrod.</h3> + + + +<p> A FAIRY ring</p> + +<p>Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain--<br /> +From whose weird circle every loathsome thing<br /> + And sight and sound of pain<br /> +Are banished, while about it in the air,<br /> +And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies,<br /> + Throng, in a vision fair<br /> +As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes,<br /> + Gleams of that unseen world<br /> +That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes<br /> + With starry wings unfurled,<br /> +Poised for a moment on such airy capes<br /> + As pierce the golden foam<br /> + Of sunset's silent main--<br /> +Would image what in this enchanted dome,<br /> + Amid the night of war and death<br /> +In which the armed city draws its breath,<br /> + We have built up!<br /> +For though no wizard wand or magic cup<br /> + The spell hath wrought,<br /> +Within this charmed fane we ope the gates<br /> + Of that divinest fairy-land<br /> + Where, under loftier fates<br /> +Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand,<br /> +Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought.</p> + +<p>Shut for one happy evening from the flood<br /> +That roars around us, here you may behold--<br /> + As if a desert way<br /> + Could blossom and unfold<br /> + A garden fresh with May--<br /> +Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood,<br /> + Souls that upon the poet's page<br /> + Have lived from age to age,<br /> +And yet have never donned this mortal clay.<br /> + A golden strand<br /> +Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle<br /> + Where fair Miranda's smile<br /> +Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art<br /> + Had led unto her heart,<br /> +Which, like a bud that waited for the light,<br /> + Burst into bloom at sight!<br /> +Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes<br /> +As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand,<br /> + And prattles to the night.<br /> + Anon, a reverend form<br /> + With tattered robe and forehead bare,<br /> +That challenge all the torments of the air,<br /> + Goes by!<br /> +And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh,<br /> +While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear<br /> + The noble wreck of Lear<br /> +Reproach like things of life the ancient skies,<br /> + And commune with the storm!<br /> +Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, where<br /> +Wrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the Moor<br /> + Tells his strange story o'er,<br /> +The gentle Desdemona chastely lies,<br /> +Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh.<br /> + Then through a hush like death<br /> + Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost!<br /> +And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath<br /> +Which is the trumpet to a countless host<br /> +Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep;<br /> + For while it calls to strife,<br /> +He pauses on the very brink of fact<br /> +To toy as with the shadow of an act,<br /> +And utter those wise saws that cut so deep<br /> + Into the core of life!</p> + +<p> Nor shall be wanting many a scene<br /> + Where forms of more familiar mien,<br /> +Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present<br /> + The world of every day,<br /> +Such as it whirls along the busy quay,<br /> +Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall,<br /> +Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall,<br /> +Or toils in attics dark the night away.<br /> +Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet,<br /> +As in the round wherein our lives are pent;<br /> + Chance for a while shall seem to reign,<br /> +While goodness roves like guilt about the street,<br /> + And guilt looks innocent.</p> + +<p>But all at last shall vindicate the right.<br /> +Crime shall be meted with its proper pain,<br /> +Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight,<br /> +And fortune's general justice rendered plain.<br /> +Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth,<br /> +Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet,<br /> +Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth,<br /> +Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet.<br /> +As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth<br /> +A sudden beauty unexpected starts,<br /> +So you shall find some germs of hidden worth<br /> + Within the vilest hearts;<br /> +And now and then, when in those moods that turn<br /> +To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers,<br /> +You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn<br /> + You've struck a spring of tears!</p> + +<p>But while we lead you thus from change to change,<br /> +Shall we not find within our ample range<br /> +Some type to elevate a people's heart--<br /> +Some haro who shall teach a hero's part<br /> + In this distracted time?<br /> +Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell!<br /> +And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice,<br /> +As if across the billows unenthralled,<br /> +Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called,<br /> + Bid liberty rejoice!<br /> +Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand<br /> +The deeds which, more than their own awful mien,<br /> +Make every crag of Switzerland sublime!<br /> +And say to those whose feeble souls would lean<br /> +Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand,<br /> +That once a single mind sufficed to quell<br /> +The malice of a tyrant; let them know<br /> +That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow,<br /> +Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand,<br /> +But the whole spirit of a mighty land!</p> + +<p>Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day<br /> +Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red<br /> +With the large promise of the coming ray.<br /> +Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile<br /> +Amid the terrors of the wildest fray,<br /> +Let us among the charms of art awhile<br /> + Fleet the deep gloom away;<br /> +Nor yet forget that on each hand and head<br /> +Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="61"></a>The Battle of Richmond.</h1> + +<h2>By George Herbert Sass, Charleston, S.C.</h2> + + + +<p>"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was +it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and +the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them."--Psalm, xliv. 3, 4.</p> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land,<br /> +And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand;<br /> +For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry,<br /> +And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory!<br /> +Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave<br /> +To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry,<br /> +Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky;<br /> +For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day,<br /> +And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray;<br /> +Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song,<br /> +The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood,<br /> +From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood,<br /> +From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry,<br /> +And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye.<br /> +In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn;<br /> +In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now,<br /> +And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow;<br /> +But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone,<br /> +Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne;<br /> +And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land,<br /> +To burn and havoc and destroy--a fierce and ruthless band.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while<br /> +The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile;<br /> +And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see,<br /> +A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply;<br /> +And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum,<br /> +And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain,<br /> +With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train.<br /> +Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight,<br /> +And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light.<br /> +Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed,<br /> +And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast.</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors,<br /> +And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures,<br /> +And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread,<br /> +Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's tread<br /> +In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease,<br /> +And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>But far away another line is stretching dark and long,<br /> +Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng;<br /> +Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum,<br /> +And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come,<br /> +And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread,<br /> +And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood?<br /> +Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood.<br /> +Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won,<br /> +And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on.<br /> +Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man,<br /> +And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track<br /> +Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;<br /> +And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1]<br /> +And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee;<br /> +And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls,<br /> +The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls.</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon,<br /> +In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon;<br /> +And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast,<br /> +The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast:<br /> +"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life!<br /> +We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"</p> + + + +<h3>XII.</h3> + + +<p>'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight!<br /> +And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right;<br /> +And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought,<br /> +For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought.<br /> +Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song--<br /> +The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.</p> + +<p>[1] Pronounced <i>Eujee</i></p> + + + + +<h1><a name="62"></a>The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song.</h1> + +<h2>By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.</h2> + + + +<p>"Awake! and to horse, my brothers!<br /> + For the dawn is glimmering gray;<br /> +And hark! in the crackling brushwood<br /> + There are feet that tread this way.</p> + +<p>"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?"<br /> + "O God! I sicken to tell,<br /> +For the earth seems earth no longer,<br /> + And its sights are sights of hell!</p> + +<p>"There's rapine and fire and slaughter,<br /> + From the mountain down to the shore;<br /> +There's blood on the trampled harvest--<br /> + There's blood on the homestead floor.</p> + +<p>"From the far-off conquered cities<br /> + Comes the voice of a stifled wail;<br /> +And the shrieks and moans of the houseless<br /> + Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale.</p> + +<p>"I've seen, from the smoking village<br /> + Our mothers and daughters fly;<br /> +I've seen where the little children<br /> + Sank down, in the furrows, to die.</p> + +<p>"On the banks of the battle-stained river<br /> + I stood, as the moonlight shone,<br /> +And it glared on the face of my brother,<br /> + As the sad wave swept him on.</p> + +<p>"Where my home was glad, are ashes,<br /> + And horror and shame had been there--<br /> +For I found, on the fallen lintel,<br /> + This tress of my wife's torn hair.</p> + +<p>"They are turning the slave upon us,<br /> + And, with more than the fiend's worst art,<br /> +Have uncovered the fires of the savage<br /> + That slept in his untaught heart.</p> + +<p>"The ties to our hearths that bound him,<br /> + They have rent, with curses, away,<br /> +And maddened him, with their madness,<br /> + To be almost as brutal as they.</p> + +<p>"With halter and torch and Bible,<br /> + And hymns to the sound of the drum,<br /> +They preach the gospel of Murder,<br /> + And pray for Lust's kingdom to come.</p> + +<p>"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers!<br /> + Look up to the rising sun,<br /> +And ask of the God who shines there,<br /> + Whether deeds like these shall be done!</p> + +<p>"Wherever the vandal cometh,<br /> + Press home to his heart with your steel,<br /> +And when at his bosom you cannot,<br /> + Like the serpent, go strike at his heel!</p> + +<p>"Through thicket and wood go hunt him,<br /> + Creep up to his camp fireside,<br /> +And let ten of his corpses blacken<br /> + Where one of our brothers hath died.</p> + +<p>"In his fainting, foot-sore marches,<br /> + In his flight from the stricken fray,<br /> +In the snare of the lonely ambush,<br /> + The debts that we owe him pay,</p> + +<p>"In God's hand, alone, is judgment;<br /> + But He strikes with the hands of men,<br /> +And His blight would wither our manhood<br /> + If we smote not the smiter again.</p> + +<p>"By the graves where our fathers slumber,<br /> + By the shrines where our mothers prayed,<br /> +By our homes and hopes and freedom.<br /> + Let every man swear on his blade.--</p> + +<p>"That he will not sheath nor stay it,<br /> + Till from point to heft it glow<br /> +With the flush of Almighty vengeance,<br /> + In the blood of the felon foe."</p> + +<p>They swore--and the answering sunlight<br /> + Leapt red from their lifted swords,<br /> +And the hate in their hearts made echo<br /> + To the wrath in their burning words.</p> + +<p>There's weeping in all New England,<br /> + And by Schuylkill's banks a knell,<br /> +And the widows there, and the orphans,<br /> + How the oath was kept can tell.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="63"></a>A Farewell to Pope.</h1> + +<h2>By John K. Thompson, of Virginia.</h2> + + + +<p>"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line!<br /> +Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline--<br /> +Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes,<br /> +Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes"--<br /> +Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers,<br /> +His vanishing form from our gaze disappears;<br /> +Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope,<br /> +<i>Abiit, evasit, erupit</i>--John Pope.</p> + +<p>He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor,<br /> +Compeller of fate and controller of war,<br /> +<i>Videre et vincere</i>, simply to see,<br /> +And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee,<br /> +And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg <i>pére</i>,<br /> +With a monkeyish grin and beatified air,<br /> +"Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap,"<br /> +As with eager attention he listened to Pope.</p> + +<p>He <i>came</i>--and the poultry was swept by his sword,<br /> +Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board;<br /> +He <i>saw</i>--at a distance, the rebels appear,<br /> +And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear;<br /> +He <i>conquered</i>--truth, decency, honor full soon,<br /> +Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon;<br /> +And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope.<br /> +Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope.</p> + +<p>He has left us his shining example to note,<br /> +And Stuart has captured his uniform coat;<br /> +But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall,<br /> +To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall;<br /> +While many may claim to deserve it, at least,<br /> +From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast,<br /> +None else, we can say, without risking the trope,<br /> +But himself can be parallel ever to Pope.</p> + +<p>Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire,<br /> +He gives new expression and force to <i>the lyre</i>;<br /> +But in one little matter they differ, the two,<br /> +And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true--<br /> +While his verses gave great Alexaader his fame,<br /> +'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same;<br /> +And fate may decree that the end of a rope<br /> +Shall award yet his highest position to Pope.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="64"></a>Sonnet.</h1> + +<h2>On Reading a Proclamation for Public Prayer.</h2> + +<h3>South Carolinian.</h3> + + + +<p>Oh! terrible, this prayer in the market-place,<br /> + These advertised humilities--decreed<br /> + By proclamation, that we may be freed,<br /> +And mercy find for once, and saving grace,<br /> +Even while we forfeit all that made the race<br /> + Worthy of Heavenly favor--and profess<br /> + Our faith and homage only through duress,<br /> +And dread of danger which we dare not face.</p> + +<p>All working that's done worthily is prayer--<br /> + And honest thought is prayer--the wish, the will<br /> + To mend our ways, maintain our virtues still,<br /> +And, losing life, still keep our bosoms fair<br /> +In sight of God--with whom humility<br /> +And patient working can alone make free.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="65"></a>Battle of Belmont.</h1> + +<h2>By J. Augustine Signaigo.</h2> + +<h3>From the Memphis Appeal, Dec. 21, 1861.</h3> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God,<br /> +That He hath met the Southron's foe, and scourged him with his rod:<br /> +On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came,<br /> +And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame;<br /> +But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day,<br /> +Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>But the Vandals with presumption--for they came in all their might--<br /> +Gave free vent unto their <i>feelings</i>, for they thought to win the fight;<br /> +And they forced our little cohorts to the very river's brink,<br /> +With a breath between destruction and of life's remaining link:<br /> +When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth,<br /> +Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high<br /> +That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die;<br /> +And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle's din,<br /> +Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win:<br /> +And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords,<br /> +Came destruction to the foeman--and the vengeance was the Lord's!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry,<br /> +That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high!<br /> +It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that the Vandals' ears did sting,<br /> +And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring;<br /> +And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won,<br /> +From the crackling of our rifles--<i>bravely</i> then they had to run!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay,<br /> +And their great grandchildren's children will be shamed to name that day;<br /> +For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South<br /> +Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's booming mouth:<br /> +And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood,<br /> +For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman's blood.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe,<br /> +And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow:<br /> +Like the ocean beating wildly 'gainst a prow of adamant,<br /> +Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant;<br /> +Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field,<br /> +Cheering on his noble comrades, ne'er unto the foe to yield!</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>None e'er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime--<br /> +Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time:<br /> +And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few:<br /> +"I have bravely fought them, mother--I have bravely fought for you!"<br /> +Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South,<br /> +And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth.</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag,<br /> +Proudly to the breeze 'twas floating in defiance to our flag;<br /> +And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down,<br /> +They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown;<br /> +But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch,<br /> +Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch!</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death,<br /> +Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath;<br /> +But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high,<br /> +On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die;<br /> +But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three,<br /> +Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee!</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be,<br /> +That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free;<br /> +That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky.<br /> +And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die;<br /> +For His fiat hath gone forth, e'en among the Hessian horde,<br /> +That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord.</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God,<br /> +That He hath met the Southron's foe and scourged him with His rod;<br /> +That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might,<br /> +And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight;<br /> +Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim,<br /> +We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="66"></a>Vicksburg--A Ballad.</h1> + +<h2>By Paul H. Hayne.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>For sixty days and upwards,<br /> + A storm of shell and shot<br /> +Rained 'round us in a flaming shower,<br /> + But still we faltered not!<br /> +"If the noble city perish,"<br /> + Our grand young leader said,<br /> +"Let the only walls the foe shall scale<br /> + Be the ramparts of the dead!"</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>For sixty days and upwards<br /> + The eye of heaven waxed dim,<br /> +And even throughout God's holy morn,<br /> + O'er Christian's prayer and hymn,<br /> +Arose a hissing tumult,<br /> + As if the fiends of air<br /> +Strove to ingulf the voice of faith<br /> + In the shrieks of their despair.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>There was wailing in the houses,<br /> + There was trembling on the marts,<br /> +While the tempest raged and thundered,<br /> + 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts;<br /> +But the Lord, our shield, was with us,<br /> + And ere a month had sped<br /> +Our very women walked the streets<br /> + With scarce one throb of dread.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>And the little children gambolled--<br /> + Their faces purely raised,<br /> +Just for a wondering moment,<br /> + As the huge bomb whirled and blazed!<br /> +Then turned with silvery laughter<br /> + To the sports which children love,<br /> +Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought,<br /> + That the good God watched above.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,<br /> + From scores of flame-clad ships,<br /> +And about us, denser, darker,<br /> + Grew the conflict's wild eclipse,<br /> +Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,<br /> + Like a type of doom, and ire,<br /> +Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues<br /> + Of forked and vengeful fire.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>But the unseen hands of angels<br /> + Those death-shafts turned aside,<br /> +And the dove of heavenly mercy<br /> + Ruled o'er the battle tide;<br /> +In the houses ceased the wailing,<br /> + And through the war-scarred marts<br /> +The people trode with the step of hope,<br /> + To the music in their hearts.</p> + +<p>Columbia, S.C., August 6, 1862.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="67"></a>A Ballad of the War.</h1> + +<h2>Published Originally in the Southern Field and Fireside,</h2> + +<h3>By George Herbert Sass, of Charleston, S.C.</h3> + + + +<p>Watchman, what of the night?<br /> + Through the city's darkening street,<br /> +Silent and slow, the guardsmen go<br /> + On their long and lonely beat.</p> + +<p>Darkly, drearily down,<br /> + Falleth the wintry rain;<br /> +And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed,<br /> + As it glides o'er town and plain.</p> + +<p>Beating against the windows,<br /> + The sleet falls heavy and chill,<br /> +And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire,<br /> + As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.</p> + +<p>Silent is all without,<br /> + Save the sentry's challenge grim,<br /> +And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town,<br /> + And the sleeper's eyes are dim.</p> + +<p>Watchman, what of the night?<br /> + Hark! from the old church-tower<br /> +Rings loud and clear, on the misty air,<br /> + The chime of the midnight hour.</p> + +<p>But another sound breaks in,<br /> + A summons deep and rude,<br /> +The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum<br /> + Of a gathering multitude.</p> + +<p>And the dim and flickering torch<br /> + Sheds a red and lurid glare,<br /> +O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine<br /> + Faintly, yet sternly there.</p> + +<p>A low, deep voice is heard:<br /> + "Rest on your arms, my men."<br /> +Then the muskets clank through each serried rank,<br /> + And all is still again.</p> + +<p>Pale faces and tearful eyes<br /> + Gaze down on that grim array,<br /> +For a rumor hath spread that that column dread<br /> + Marcheth ere break of day.</p> + +<p>Marcheth against "the rebels,"<br /> + Whose camp lies heavy and still,<br /> +Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat<br /> + On the brow of a distant hill.</p> + +<p>And the mother's heart grows faint,<br /> + As she thinks of her darling one,<br /> +Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky,<br /> + Ere the long, dark night be done.</p> + +<p>Pallid and haggard, too,<br /> + Is the cheek of the fair young wife;<br /> +And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him<br /> + She loveth more than life.</p> + +<p>For fathers, husbands, sons,<br /> + Are the "rebels" the foe would smite,<br /> +And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear,<br /> + And a bleeding country's right.</p> + +<p>And where their treasure is,<br /> + There is each loving heart;<br /> +And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze,<br /> + And the tears unbidden start.</p> + +<p>Is there none to warn the camp,<br /> + None from that anxious throng?<br /> +Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town--<br /> + The way is dark and long.</p> + +<p>No <i>man</i> is left behind,<br /> + None that is brave and true,<br /> +And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light<br /> + With menace stern shine through.</p> + +<p>Guarded is every street,<br /> + Brutal the hireling foe;<br /> +Is there one heart here will boldly dare<br /> + So brave a deed to do?</p> + +<p>Look! in her still, dark room,<br /> + Alone a woman kneels,<br /> +With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face,<br /> + And Sorrow's ruthless seals.</p> + +<p>Wrinkling her placid brow,<br /> + A matron, she, and fair,<br /> +Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak<br /> + Gemming her glossy hair.</p> + +<p>A moment in silent prayer<br /> + Her pale lips move, and then,<br /> +Through the dreary night, like an angel bright,<br /> + On her mission of love to men.</p> + +<p>She glideth upon her way,<br /> + Through the lonely, misty street,<br /> +Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread<br /> + Of the watchman on his beat.</p> + +<p>Onward, aye, onward still,<br /> + Far past the weary town,<br /> +Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees,<br /> + And the heavy hands hang down.</p> + +<p>But bravely she struggles on,<br /> + Breasting the cold, dank rain,<br /> +And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill<br /> + Sweeps down upon the plain.</p> + +<p>Hark! far behind she hears<br /> + A dull and muffled tramp,<br /> +But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam<br /> + Shines out from the Southern camp.</p> + +<p>She hears the sentry's challenge,<br /> + Her work of love is done;<br /> +She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height<br /> + Hath a crown of glory won.</p> + +<p>Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden,<br /> + Who saved from a ruthless foe<br /> +Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown,<br /> + Three hundred years ago.</p> + +<p>And I've read in tales heroic<br /> + How a noble Scottish maid<br /> +Her own life gave, her king to save<br /> + From the foul assassin's blade.</p> + +<p>But if these, on the rolls of honor,<br /> + Shall live in lasting fame,<br /> +Oh, close beside, in grateful pride,<br /> + We'll write this matron's name.</p> + +<p>And when our fair-haired children<br /> + Shall cluster round our knee,<br /> +With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days<br /> + When we swore that we would be free,<br /> +<br /> +We'll tell them the thrilling story,<br /> + And we'll say to each childish heart,<br /> +"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need,<br /> + Be ready to do thy part."</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="68"></a>The Two Armies.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<p>Two armies stand enrolled beneath<br /> +The banner with the starry wreath:<br /> +One, facing battle, blight, and blast,<br /> +Through twice a hundred fields has passed;<br /> +Its deeds against a ruffian foe,<br /> +Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know,<br /> +Till every wind that sweeps the land<br /> +Goes, glory-laden, from the strand.</p> + +<p>The other, with a narrower scope,<br /> +Yet led by not less grand a hope,<br /> +Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place,<br /> +And wears its fame with meeker grace.<br /> +Wives march beneath its glittering sign,<br /> +Fond mothers swell the lovely line:<br /> +And many a sweetheart hides her blush<br /> +In the young patriot's generous flush.</p> + +<p>No breeze of battle ever fanned<br /> +The colors of that tender band;<br /> +Its office is beside the bed,<br /> +Where throbs some sick or wounded head.<br /> +It does not court the soldier's tomb,<br /> +But plies the needle and the loom;<br /> +And, by a thousand peaceful deeds,<br /> +Supplies a struggling nation's needs.</p> + +<p>Nor is that army's gentle might<br /> +Unfelt amid the deadly fight;<br /> +It nerves the son's, the husband's hand,<br /> +It points the lover's fearless brand;<br /> +It thrills the languid, warms the cold,<br /> +Gives even new courage to the bold;<br /> +And sometimes lifts the veriest clod<br /> +To its own lofty trust in God.</p> + +<p>When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace,<br /> +And bid this weary warfare cease,<br /> +Their several missions nobly done,<br /> +The triumph grasped, and freedom won,<br /> +Both armies, from their toils at rest,<br /> +Alike may claim the victor's crest,<br /> +But each shall see its dearest prize<br /> +Gleam softly from the other's eyes.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="69"></a>The Legion of Honor.</h1> + +By H.L. Flash. + + + +<p>Why are we forever speaking<br /> + Of the warriors of old?<br /> +Men are fighting all around us,<br /> + Full as noble, full as bold.</p> + +<p>Ever working, ever striving,<br /> + Mind and muscle, heart and soul,<br /> +With the reins of judgment keeping<br /> + Passions under full control.</p> + +<p>Noble hearts are beating boldly<br /> + As they ever did on earth;<br /> +Swordless heroes are around us,<br /> + Striving ever from their birth.</p> + +<p>Tearing down the old abuses,<br /> + Building up the purer laws,<br /> +Scattering the dust of ages,<br /> + Searching out the hidden flaws.</p> + +<p>Acknowledging no "right divine"<br /> + In kings and princes from the rest;<br /> +In their creed he is the noblest<br /> + Who has worked and striven best.</p> + +<p>Decorations do not tempt them--<br /> + Diamond stars they laugh to scorn--<br /> +Each will wear a "Cross of Honor"<br /> + On the Resurrection morn.</p> + +<p>Warriors they in fields of wisdom--<br /> + Like the noble Hebrew youth,<br /> +Striking down Goliath's error<br /> + With the God-blessed stone of truth.</p> + +<p>Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner,<br /> + Forward rush these volunteers,<br /> +Beating olden wrong away<br /> + From the fast advancing years.</p> + +<p>Contemporaries do not see them,<br /> + But the <i>coming</i> times will say<br /> +(Speaking of the slandered present),<br /> + "There were heroes in that day."</p> + +<p>Why are we then idly lying<br /> + On the roses of our life,<br /> +While the noble-hearted struggle<br /> + In the world-redeeming strife.</p> + +<p>Let us rise and join the legion,<br /> + Ever foremost in the fray--<br /> +Battling in the name of Progress<br /> + For the nobler, purer day.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="70"></a>Clouds in the West.</h1> + +<h2>By A. J. Requier, of Alabama.</h2> + + + +<p>Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West<br /> + A manly shout for instant succor comes,<br /> +From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast,<br /> + With rage-indented drums!</p> + +<p>Who dare for child, wife, country--stream and strand,<br /> + Though but a fraction to the swarming foe,<br /> +There--at the flooded gateways of the land,<br /> + To stem a torrent's flow.</p> + +<p>To arms! brave sons of each embattled State,<br /> + Whose queenly standard is a Southern star:<br /> +Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate<br /> + On Freedom's victor-car!</p> + +<p>Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum<br /> + Of craven traffic for the mustering clan:<br /> +The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come<br /> + And prove yourself--a man.</p> + +<p>That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief<br /> + Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes--<br /> +God! can you live to see a foreign thief<br /> + Contaminate its roses?</p> + +<p>Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave<br /> + Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan;<br /> +Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave,<br /> + Or claims to be a man!</p> + +<p>Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West<br /> + A manly shout for instant succor comes,<br /> +From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast.<br /> + With rage-indented drums!</p> + +<p>Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din,<br /> + Where still your battle-flags unbended wave,<br /> +Dying for what your fathers died to win<br /> + And you must fight to save.</p> + +<p>Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep,<br /> + Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar;<br /> +The very waves are marshalling on the deep,<br /> + While tempests tread the shore.</p> + +<p>Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land<br /> + Shall burial only yield a bandit foe;<br /> +Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand,<br /> + And strike the fated blow.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="71"></a>Georgia, My Georgia!</h1> + +<h2>By Carrie Bell Sinclair.</h2> + + + +<p>Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar,<br /> +That sounds along thy sunny shore,<br /> +And thou shalt lie in chains no more,<br /> + My wounded, bleeding Georgia!<br /> +Then arm each youth and patriot sire,<br /> +Light up the patriotic fire,<br /> +And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire,<br /> + Who strike for thee, my Georgia</p> + +<p>On thee is laid oppression's hand,<br /> +Around thy altars foemen stand,<br /> +To scatter freedom's gallant band,<br /> + And lay thee low, my Georgia!<br /> +But thou hast noble sons, and brave,<br /> +The Stars and Bars above thee wave,<br /> +And here we'll make oppression's grave,<br /> + Upon the soil of Georgia!</p> + +<p>We bow at Liberty's fair shrine,<br /> +And kneel in holy love at thine,<br /> +And while above our stars still shine,<br /> + We'll strike for them and Georgia!</p> + +<p>Thy woods with victory shall resound,<br /> +Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned,<br /> +And peace shall spread her wings around<br /> + My own, my sunny Georgia!</p> + +<p>Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel<br /> +That Southern hearts, and Southern steel,<br /> +Will make them in submission kneel<br /> + Before the sons of Georgia!<br /> +And thou shalt see thy daughters, too,<br /> +With pride and patriotism true,<br /> +Arise with strength to dare and do,<br /> + Ere they shall conquer Georgia.</p> + +<p>Thy name shall be a name of pride--<br /> +Thy heroes all have nobly died,<br /> +That thou mayst be the spotless bride<br /> + Of Liberty, my Georgia!<br /> +Then wave thy sword and banner high,<br /> +And louder raise the battle-cry,<br /> +'Till shouts of victory reach the sky,<br /> + And thou art free, my Georgia!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="72"></a>Song of the Texas Rangers.</h1> + + + +<p>Air--<i>The Yellow Rose of Texas</i>.</p> + + +<p>The morning star is paling,<br /> + The camp-fires flicker low,<br /> +Our steeds are madly neighing,<br /> + For the bugle bids us go.<br /> +So put the foot in stirrup,<br /> + And shake the bridle free,<br /> +For to-day the Texas Rangers<br /> + Must cross the Tennessee,</p> + +<p>With Wharton for our leader,<br /> + We'll chase the dastard foe,<br /> +Till our horses bathe their fetlocks<br /> + In the deep blue Ohio.<br /> +Our men are from the prairies,<br /> + That roll broad and proud and free,<br /> +From the high and craggy mountains<br /> + To the murmuring Mexic' sea;<br /> +And their hearts are open as their plains,<br /> + Their thoughts as proudly brave<br /> +As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard,<br /> + Or the Gulf's resistless wave.</p> + +<p> Then quick! into the saddle,<br /> + And shake the bridle free,<br /> + To-day, with gallant Wharton,<br /> + We cross the Tennessee.</p> + +<p>'Tis joy to be a Ranger!<br /> + To fight for dear Southland;<br /> +'Tis joy to follow Wharton,<br /> + With his gallant, trusty band!<br /> +'Tis joy to see our Harrison,<br /> + Plunge like a meteor bright<br /> +Into the thickest of the fray,<br /> + And deal his deathly might.</p> + +<p> Oh! who'd not be a Ranger,<br /> + And follow Wharton's cry!<br /> + To battle for his country--<br /> + And, if it needs be--die!</p> + +<p>By the Colorado's waters,<br /> + On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore,<br /> +On our soft green peaceful prairies<br /> + Are the homes we may see no more;<br /> +But in those homes our gentle wives,<br /> + And mothers with silv'ry hairs,<br /> +Are loving us with tender hearts,<br /> + And shielding us with prayers.</p> + +<p> So, trusting in our country's God,<br /> + We draw our stout, good brand,<br /> + For those we love at home,<br /> + Our altars and our land.</p> + +<p>Up, up with the crimson battle-flag--<br /> + Let the blue pennon fly;<br /> +Our steeds are stamping proudly--<br /> + They hear the battle-cry!<br /> +The thundering bomb, the bugle's call,<br /> + Proclaim the foe is near;<br /> +We strike for God and native land,<br /> + And all we hold most dear.</p> + +<p> Then spring into the saddle,<br /> + And shake the bridle free--<br /> + For Wharton leads, through fire and blood,<br /> + For Home and Victory!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="73"></a>Kentucky Required to Yield Her Arms.</h1> + +<h2>By----Boone.</h2> + + + +<p>Ho! will the despot trifle,<br /> + In dwellings of the free;<br /> +Kentuckians yield the rifle,<br /> + Kentuckians bend the knee!<br /> +With dastard fear of danger,<br /> + And trembling at the strife;<br /> +Kentucky, to the stranger,<br /> + Yield liberty for life!<br /> +Up! up! each gallant ranger,<br /> + With rifle and with knife!</p> + +<p>The bastard and the traitor,<br /> + The wolfcub and the snake,<br /> +The robber, swindler, hater,<br /> + Are in your homes--awake!<br /> +Nor let the cunning foeman<br /> + Despoil your liberty;<br /> +Yield weapon up to no man,<br /> + While ye can strike and see,<br /> +Awake, each gallant yeoman,<br /> + If still ye would be free!</p> + +<p>Aye, see to sight the rifle,<br /> + And smite with spear and knife,<br /> +Let no base cunning stifle<br /> + Each lesson of your life:<br /> +How won your gallant sires<br /> + The country which ye keep?<br /> +By soul, which still inspires<br /> + The soil on which ye weep!<br /> +Leap up! their spirit fires,<br /> + And rouse ye from your sleep!</p> + +<p>"What!" cry the sires so famous,<br /> + In Orleans' ancient field,<br /> +"Will ye, our children, shame us,<br /> + And to the despot yield?<br /> +What! each brave lesson stifle<br /> + We left to give you life?<br /> +Let apish despots trifle<br /> + With home and child and wife?<br /> +And yield, O shame! the rifle,<br /> + And sheathe, O shame! the knife?"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="74"></a>"There's Life in the Old Land Yet."</h1> + +<h2>First Published in the New Orleans Delta, about September 1, 1861.</h2> + + + +<p>By blue Patapsco's billowy dash<br /> + The tyrant's war-shout comes,<br /> +Along with the cymbal's fitful clash<br /> + And the growl of his sullen drums;<br /> +We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills,<br /> + And we shall not forgive or forget--<br /> +There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills,<br /> + "There's life in the Old Land yet!"</p> + +<p>Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead,<br /> + We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred--<br /> +We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread<br /> + Of the peerless Beauregard.<br /> +Then woe to your vile, polluting horde,<br /> + When the Southern braves are met;<br /> +There's faith in the victor's stainless sword,<br /> + "There's life in the Old Land yet!"</p> + +<p>Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind<br /> + With the clank of an iron chain;<br /> +The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind<br /> + O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;<br /> +And we--though we smite not--are not thralls,<br /> + We are piling a gory debt;<br /> +While down by McHenry's dungeon walls<br /> + "There's life in the Old Land yet!"</p> + +<p>Our women, have hung their harps away<br /> + And they scowl on your brutal bands,<br /> +While the nimble poignard dares the day<br /> + In their dear defiant hands;<br /> +They will strip their tresses to string our bows<br /> + Ere the Northern sun is set--<br /> +There's faith in their unrelenting woes--<br /> + "There's life in the Old Land yet!"</p> + +<p>There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,<br /> + 'Tis vocal without noise;<br /> +It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains<br /> + From the blood of the Maryland boys.<br /> +That blood shall cry aloud and rise<br /> + With an everlasting threat--<br /> +By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,<br /> + "There's life in the Old Land yet!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="75"></a>Tell the Boys the War Is Ended.</h1> + +<h2>By Emily J. Moore.</h2> + + + +<p>While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young +soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at +Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was +dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the +boys the war is ended."</p> + +<p> "Tell the boys the war is ended,"<br /> +These were all the words he said;<br /> + "Tell the boys the war is ended,"<br /> +In an instant more was dead.</p> + +<p>Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful<br /> + Was the smile upon his face,<br /> +While the pain, of late so fearful,<br /> + Had not left the slightest trace.</p> + +<p>"Tell the boys the war is ended,"<br /> + And with heavenly visions bright<br /> +Thoughts of comrades loved were blended,<br /> + As his spirit took its flight.<br /> +"Tell the boys the war is ended,"<br /> + "Grant, 0 God, it may be so,"<br /> +Was the prayer which then ascended,<br /> + In a whisper deep, though low.</p> + +<p>"Tell the boys the war is ended,"<br /> + And his warfare then was o'er,<br /> +As, by angel bands attended,<br /> + He departed from earth's shore.<br /> +Bursting shells and cannons roaring<br /> + Could not rouse him by their din;<br /> +He to better worlds was soaring,<br /> + Far from war, and pain, and sin.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="76"></a>"The Southern Cross."</h1> + +<h2>By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.</h2> + + + +<p>Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm,<br /> +More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?<br /> +Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,<br /> +As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.<br /> +How radiant each star, as the beacon afar,<br /> +Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war!<br /> +'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain<br /> +To light us to freedom and glory again!</p> + +<p>How peaceful and blest was America's soil,<br /> +'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,<br /> +Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil<br /> +To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.<br /> +Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel,<br /> +And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel!<br /> +And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,<br /> +To light us to freedom and glory again!</p> + +<p>'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope,<br /> +Like the sacred <i>Labarum</i> that guided the Roman;<br /> +From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope,<br /> +'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen.<br /> +Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare<br /> +The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare!<br /> +While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,<br /> +To light us to freedom and glory again!</p> + +<p>And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied,<br /> +And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions,<br /> +Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride,<br /> +Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions!<br /> +With our front in the field, swearing never to yield,<br /> +Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield!<br /> +And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave,<br /> +As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!</p> + +<p>Southern Literary Messenger.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="77"></a>England's Neutrality.</h1> + +<h2>A Parliamentary Debate.</h2> + +<h3>By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia.</h3> + + + +<p>All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy,<br /> +Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy,<br /> +Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality,<br /> +And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality,</p> + +<p>Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission,<br /> +The <i>next</i> debate in parliament on Southern Recognition;<br /> +They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see,<br /> +As truly as the <i>Times</i>' report, without the gift of prophecy.</p> + +<p>Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion,<br /> +But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion;<br /> +Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant<br /> +To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent.</p> + +<p>But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason,<br /> +As deaf as is the <i>Morning Post</i>, both in and out of season;<br /> +The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary,<br /> +And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory,</p> + +<p>"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering,<br /> +While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing--<br /> +As, <i>par exemple</i>, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety,<br /> +That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society.</p> + +<p>"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em,<br /> +And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em;<br /> +If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?"<br /> +And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer.</p> + +<p>Enough of him--an abler man demands our close attention--<br /> +The Maximus Apollo of strict <i>non</i>-intervention--<br /> +With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone,<br /> +Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston:</p> + +<p>"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes<br /> +Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes<br /> +Where many an ancient mansion stood--what though the robber pillages<br /> +The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages.</p> + +<p>"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty,<br /> +Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!"<br /> +(And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is<br /> +Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)?</p> + +<p>"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish,<br /> +With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish;<br /> +Let universal ruin there become a sad reality:<br /> +We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."</p> + +<p>Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages,<br /> +How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages?<br /> +Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude;<br /> +'Tis clear that <i>you</i> have no concern in that divine beatitude.</p> + +<p>But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle,<br /> +Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell;<br /> +Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see,<br /> +And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy.</p> + +<p>"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water,<br /> +'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter;<br /> +The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs,<br /> +But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers.</p> + +<p>"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny,<br /> +We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many;<br /> +We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages,<br /> +And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages.</p> + +<p>"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson,<br /> +Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon;<br /> +To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"--<br /> +(And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?)</p> + +<p>"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger,<br /> +'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger;<br /> +'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh!<br /> +Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho.</p> + +<p>"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not<br /> + bound her,<br /> +We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her;<br /> +We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan,<br /> +But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan.</p> + +<p>"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory,<br /> +To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story;<br /> +These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em,<br /> +But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem.</p> + +<p>"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation,<br /> +Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation,<br /> +Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory,<br /> +And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory.</p> + +<p>"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina,<br /> +And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah;<br /> +Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery<br /> +Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery.</p> + +<p>"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity,<br /> +May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city;<br /> +No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris,<br /> +'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.)</p> + +<p>"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles,<br /> +While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles;<br /> +And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality,<br /> +We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."</p> + +<p>Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator,<br /> +When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur',<br /> +When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead,<br /> +Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede.</p> + +<p>But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it,<br /> +And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit,<br /> +Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality,<br /> +Without the help of Britain's arm, <i>in spite of</i> her neutrality.</p> + +<p>Illustrated News.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="78"></a>Close the Ranks.</h1> + +<h2>By John L. O'Sullivan.</h2> + + + +<p>The fell invader is before!<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +We'll hunt his legions from our shore,<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +Our wives, our children are behind,<br /> +Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind,<br /> +Their voices reach us on the wind,<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!</p> + +<p>Are we to bend to slavish yoke?<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +We'll bend when bends our Southern oak.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +On with the line of serried steel,<br /> +We all can die, we none can kneel<br /> +To crouch beneath the Northern heel.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!</p> + +<p>We kneel to God, and God alone.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +One heart in all--all hearts as one.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +For home, for country, truth and right,<br /> +We stand or fall in freedom's fight:<br /> +In such a cause the right is might.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!</p> + +<p>We're here from every southern home.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +Fond, weeping voices bade us come.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks<br /> +The husband, brother, boy, and sire,<br /> +All burning with one holy fire--<br /> +Our country's love our only hire.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!</p> + +<p>We cannot fail, we will not yield!<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +Our bosoms are our country's shield.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +By Washington's immortal name,<br /> +By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame,<br /> +Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same,<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!</p> + +<p>By all we hope, by all we love,<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +By home on earth, by Heaven above,<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +By all the tears, and heart's blood shed,<br /> +By all our hosts of martyred dead,<br /> +We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!</p> + +<p>The front may fall, the rear succeed,<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +We smile in triumph as we bleed,<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!<br /> +Our Southern Cross above us waves,<br /> +Long shall it bless the sacred graves<br /> +Of those who died, but were not slaves.<br /> + Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="79"></a>The Sea-Kings of the South.</h1> + +<h2>By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va.</h2> + + + +<p>Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won,<br /> +From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston,<br /> +On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee,<br /> +Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free.</p> + +<p>The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm;<br /> +Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form;<br /> +And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train,<br /> +Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again.</p> + +<p>But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side--a broader field than the plain,<br /> +Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main,<br /> +'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land,<br /> +For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand.</p> + +<p>For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree<br /> +Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea,<br /> +No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine,<br /> +Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line.</p> + +<p>The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar;<br /> +The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar.<br /> +Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball;<br /> +But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all.</p> + +<p>Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show<br /> +That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below.<br /> +The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore,<br /> +Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore.</p> + +<p>Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet!<br /> +One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet!<br /> +Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour;<br /> +But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore.</p> + +<p>See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream!<br /> +Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam!<br /> +Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on,<br /> +Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon.</p> + +<p>Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game!<br /> +From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came.<br /> +The catchers of the whale she caught; swift <i>Ariel</i> overhauled;<br /> +And made <i>Hatteras</i> know the hardest <i>blow</i> that ever a tar appalled.</p> + +<p>She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well.<br /> +To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell.<br /> +To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck,<br /> +With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck.</p> + +<p>In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop--<br /> +Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop.<br /> +Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils,<br /> +She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils.</p> + +<p>And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career.<br /> +Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear;<br /> +The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll<br /> +Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole.</p> + +<p>Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing,<br /> +For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring.<br /> +All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight,<br /> +No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright.</p> + +<p>Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea;<br /> +The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be!<br /> +The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine<br /> +For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine!</p> + +<p>The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave<br /> +As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave,<br /> +As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor,<br /> +Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war.</p> + +<p>Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours,<br /> +Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers!<br /> +Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled mouth,<br /> +And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH!</p> + +<p>Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="80"></a>The Return.</h1> + + + +<p>Three years! I wonder if she'll know me?<br /> + I limp a little, and I left one arm<br /> +At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown<br /> + As the plump chestnuts on my little farm:<br /> +And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs--<br /> +But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers.</p> + +<p>The darling! how I long to see her!<br /> + My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace,<br /> +For I remember, after I had left,<br /> + A little Charlie came to take my place.<br /> +Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes--<br /> +His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise!</p> + +<p>Surely, they will be at the corner watching!<br /> + I sent them word that I should come to-night:<br /> +The birds all know it, for they crowd around,<br /> + Twittering their welcome with a wild delight;<br /> +And that old robin, with a halting wing--<br /> +I saved her life, three years ago last spring.</p> + +<p>Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming!<br /> + For, like the pilgrim of the long ago,<br /> +I've tugged, a weary burden at my back,<br /> + Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow;<br /> +Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast,<br /> +There I can roll my burden off, and rest.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>When morning came, the early rising sun<br /> + Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping--<br /> +Where a soft covering of bright green grass<br /> + Over two mounds was lightly creeping;<br /> +But waked him not: his was the rest eternal,<br /> +Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="81"></a>Our Christmas Hymn.</h1> + +<h2>By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C.</h2> + + + +<p>"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!"<br /> + The burden of the Advent song,<br /> +What time the love-charmed waves grew still<br /> + To hearken to the shining throng;<br /> +The wondering shepherds heard the strain<br /> + Who watched by night the slumbering fleece,<br /> +The deep skies echoed the refrain,<br /> + "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"</p> + +<p>And wise men hailed the promised sign,<br /> + And brought their birth-gifts from the East,<br /> +Dear to that Mother as the wine<br /> + That hallowed Cana's bridal feast;<br /> +But what to these are myrrh or gold,<br /> + And what Arabia's costliest gem,<br /> +Whose eyes the Child divine behold,<br /> + The blessed Babe of Bethlehem.</p> + +<p>"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"<br /> + They sing, the bright ones overhead;<br /> +And scarce the jubilant anthems cease<br /> + Ere Judah wails her first-born dead;<br /> +And Rama's wild, despairing cry<br /> + Fills with great dread the shuddering coast,<br /> +And Rachel hath but one reply,<br /> + "Bring back, bring back my loved and lost."</p> + +<p>So, down two thousand years of doom<br /> + That cry is borne on wailing winds,<br /> +But never star breaks through the gloom,<br /> + No cradled peace the watcher finds;<br /> +And still the Herodian steel is driven,<br /> + And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan,<br /> +And still the mute appeal to heaven<br /> + Man answers back with groan for groan.</p> + +<p>How shall we keep our Christmas tide?<br /> + With that dread past, its wounds agape,<br /> +Forever walking by our side,<br /> + A fearful shade, an awful shape;<br /> +Can any promise of the spring<br /> + Make green the faded autumn leaf?<br /> +Or who shall say that time will bring<br /> + Fair fruit to him who sows but grief?</p> + +<p>Wild bells! that shake the midnight air<br /> + With those dear tones that custom loves,<br /> +You wake no sounds of laughter here,<br /> + Nor mirth in all our silent groves;<br /> +On one broad waste, by hill or flood,<br /> + Of ravaged lands your music falls,<br /> +And where the happy homestead stood<br /> + The stars look down on roofless halls.</p> + +<p>At every board a vacant chair<br /> + Fills with quick tears some tender eye,<br /> +And at our maddest sports appear<br /> + Those well-loved forms that will not die.<br /> +We lift the glass, our hand is stayed--<br /> + We jest, a spectre rises up--<br /> +And weeping, though no word is said,<br /> + We kiss and pass the silent cup,</p> + +<p>And pledge the gallant friend who keeps<br /> + His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height,<br /> +And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps<br /> + Beneath Virginian snows to-night;<br /> +While, by the fire, she, musing, broods<br /> + On all that was and might have been,<br /> +If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods<br /> + Had never drunk that crimson stain.</p> + +<p>O happy Yules of buried years!<br /> + Could ye but come in wonted guise,<br /> +Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears,<br /> + When looking back through wistful eyes,<br /> +Would seem those chimes whose voices tell<br /> + His birth-night with melodious burst,<br /> +Who, sitting by Samaria's well,<br /> + Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst.</p> + +<p>Ah! yet I trust that all who weep,<br /> + Somewhere, at last, will surely find<br /> +His rest, if through dark ways they keep<br /> + The child-like faith, the prayerful mind;<br /> +And some far Christmas morn shall bring<br /> + From human ills a sweet release<br /> +To loving hearts, while angels sing<br /> + "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="82"></a>Charleston.</h1> + +<h2>Written for the Charleston Courier in 1863.</h2> + +<h3>By Miss E. B. Cheesborough.</h3> + + + +<p>Proudly she stands by the crystal sea,<br /> + With the fires of hate around her,<br /> +But a cordon of love as strong as fate,<br /> + With adamant links surround her.<br /> +Let them hurl their bolts through the azure sky,<br /> + And death-bearing missiles send her,<br /> +She finds in our God a mighty shield,<br /> + And in heaven a sure defender.</p> + +<p>Her past is a page of glory bright,<br /> + Her present a blaze of splendor,<br /> +You may turn o'er the leaves of the jewell'd tome,<br /> + You'll not find the word <i>surrender</i>;<br /> +For sooner than lay down her trusty arms,<br /> + She'd build her own funeral pyre,<br /> +And the flames that give her a martyr's fate<br /> + Will kindle her glory higher.</p> + +<p>How the demons glare as they see her stand<br /> + In majestic pride serenely,<br /> +And gnash with the impotent rage of hate,<br /> + Creeping up slowly, meanly;<br /> +While she cries, "Come forth from your covered dens,<br /> + All your hireling legions send me,<br /> +I'll bare my breast to a million swords,<br /> + Whilst God and my sons defend me."</p> + +<p>Oh, brave old town, o'er thy sacred form<br /> + Whilst the fiery rain is sweeping,<br /> +May He whose love is an armor strong<br /> + Embrace thee in tender keeping;<br /> +And when the red war-cloud has rolled away,<br /> + Anoint thee with holy chrism,<br /> +And sanctified, chastened, regenerate, true,<br /> + Thou surviv'st this fierce baptism.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="83"></a>Gathering Song.</h1> + +<h2>Air--Bonnie Blue Flag</h2> + +<h3>By Annie Chambers Ketchum.</h3> + + + +<p>Come, brothers! rally for the right!<br /> + The bravest of the brave<br /> +Sends forth her ringing battle-cry<br /> + Beside the Atlantic wave!<br /> +She leads the way in honor's path!<br /> + Come, brothers, near and far,<br /> +Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag<br /> + That bears a single star!</p> + +<p>We've borne the Yankee trickery,<br /> + The Yankee gibe and sneer,<br /> +Till Yankee insolence and pride<br /> + Know neither shame nor fear;<br /> +But ready now with shot and steel<br /> + Their brazen front to mar,<br /> +We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag<br /> + That bears a single star!</p> + +<p>Now Georgia marches to the front,<br /> + And close beside her come<br /> +Her sisters by the Mexique Sea,<br /> + With pealing trump and drum!<br /> +Till, answering back from hill and glen<br /> + The rallying cry afar,<br /> +A NATION hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag<br /> + That bears a single star!</p> + +<p>By every stone in Charleston Bay,<br /> + By each beleaguered town,<br /> +We swear to rest not, night nor day,<br /> + But hunt the tyrants down!<br /> +Till, bathed in valor's holy blood<br /> + The gazing world afar<br /> +Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue<br /> + That bears the cross and star!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="84"></a>Christmas.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod, of South Carolina.</h2> + + + +<p> How grace this hallowed day?<br /> +Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,<br /> +Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire<br /> + Round which the children play?</p> + +<p> Alas! for many a moon,<br /> +That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air,<br /> +Mute as an obelisk of ice aglare<br /> + Beneath an Arctic noon.</p> + +<p> Shame to the foes that drown<br /> +Our psalms of worship with their impious drum.<br /> +The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb<br /> + In some far rustic town.</p> + +<p> There, let us think, they keep,<br /> +Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea<br /> +They've ushered in with old-world, English glee,<br /> + Some echoes in their sleep.<br /> +<br /> + How shall we grace the day?<br /> +With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports,<br /> +And shout of happy children in the courts,<br /> + And tales of ghost and fay?</p> + +<p> Is there indeed a door<br /> +Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise,<br /> +And all the merry round of Christmas joys,<br /> + Could enter as of yore?</p> + +<p> Would not some pallid face<br /> +Look in upon the banquet, calling up<br /> +Dread shapes of battle in the wassail cup,<br /> + And trouble all the place?</p> + +<p> How could we bear the mirth,<br /> +While some loved reveller of a year ago<br /> +Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,<br /> + In cold Virginian earth?</p> + +<p> How shall we grace the day?<br /> +Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn<br /> +The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born,<br /> + Employ us, while we pray!</p> + +<p> Pray for the peace which long<br /> +Hath left this tortured land, and haply now<br /> +Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow,<br /> + There hardly safe from wrong.</p> + +<p> Let every sacred fane<br /> +Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God,<br /> +And, with the cloister and the tented sod,<br /> + Join in one solemn strain!</p> + +<p> With pomp of Roman form,<br /> +With the grave ritual brought from England's shore,<br /> +And with the simple faith which asks no more<br /> + Than that the heart be warm.</p> + +<p> He, who till time shall cease,<br /> +Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vain,<br /> +He died to give us peace, will not disdain<br /> + A prayer whose theme is--peace.</p> + +<p> Perhaps, ere yet the spring<br /> +Hath died into the summer, over all<br /> +The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall<br /> + Like some protecting wing.</p> + +<p> Oh, ponder what it means!<br /> +Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way!<br /> +Oh, give the vision and the fancy play,<br /> + And shape the coming scenes!</p> + +<p> Peace in the quiet dales,<br /> +Made rankly fertile by the blood of men;<br /> +Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen,<br /> + Peace in the peopled vales!</p> + +<p> Peace in the crowded town,<br /> +Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain,<br /> +Peace in the highway and the flowery lane,<br /> + Peace on the wind-swept down!</p> + +<p> Peace on the furthest seas,<br /> +Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams,<br /> +Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams,<br /> + And peace in every breeze!</p> + +<p> Peace on the whirring marts,<br /> +Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams,<br /> +Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes,<br /> + And peace in all our hearts!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="85"></a>A Prayer for Peace.</h1> + +<h2>By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.</h2> + + + +<p>Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace!<br /> +Unto our cry of anguish and despair<br /> +Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes,<br /> +Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe<br /> +Fill their poor urns with tears; from trampled plains,<br /> +Where the bright harvest Thou has sent us rots--<br /> +The blood of them who should have garnered it<br /> +Calling to Thee--from fields of carnage, where<br /> +The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings<br /> +O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday<br /> +Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love<br /> +And common hopes and pride, all blasted now--<br /> +Father of Mercies! not alone from these<br /> +Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone<br /> +Upon the battle's seared and desolate track,<br /> +Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God,<br /> +That Thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths,<br /> +And in the crowded streets and busy marts,<br /> +Where echo whispers not the far-off strife<br /> +That slays our loved ones; in the solemn halls<br /> +Of safe and quiet counsel--nay, beneath<br /> +The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee,<br /> +And 'mid their rising incense--God of Peace!<br /> +The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate<br /> +Hungering for gold and blood; Ambition, bred<br /> +Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts,<br /> +Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway<br /> +Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price<br /> +On human hecatombs, and sell and buy<br /> +Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests,<br /> +With white, anointed, supplicating hands,<br /> +From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee,<br /> +Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down<br /> +Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats<br /> +Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born,<br /> +Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth<br /> +Till Rachel hath no children left to slay.<br /> +The very name of Jesus, writ upon<br /> +Thy shrines beneath the spotless, outstretched wings,<br /> +Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid<br /> +With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires<br /> +That rise above them angry banners flout<br /> +The skies to which they point, amid the clang<br /> +Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise.</p> + +<p>All things once prized and honored are forgot:<br /> +The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee;<br /> +The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield;<br /> +The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word,<br /> +Which might be stifled, but could never wear<br /> +The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie;<br /> +All these are gone, and in their stead have come<br /> +The vices of the miser and the slave--<br /> +Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power,<br /> +Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence,<br /> +Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope,<br /> +Save as begun in self, and ending there.<br /> +With vipers like to these, oh! blessed God!<br /> +Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more,<br /> +Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad,<br /> +To wake the midnight of our sorrowing<br /> +With tidings of good-will and peace to men;<br /> +And if the star, that through the darkness led<br /> +Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now,<br /> +Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist,<br /> +With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak<br /> +The unanswerable message of Thy will.</p> + +<p> Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us peace!<br /> +Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; Peace<br /> +On the red waters and their blighted shores;<br /> +Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts<br /> +That watch and bleed around them and within,<br /> +Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;<br /> +Peace for the captive on his weary way,<br /> +And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness;<br /> +For them that suffer, them that do the wrong<br /> +Sinning and sinned against.--O God! for all;<br /> +For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land--<br /> +Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="86"></a>The Band in the Pines.</h1> + +<h2>(Heard after Pelham Died.)</h2> + +<h3>By John Esten Cooke.</h3> + + + +<p>Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease!<br /> + Cease with your splendid call;<br /> +The living are brave and noble,<br /> + But the dead were bravest of all!</p> + +<p>They throng to the martial summons,<br /> + To the loud, triumphant strain;<br /> +And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends<br /> + Come to the heart again!</p> + +<p>They come with the ringing bugle,<br /> + And the deep drum's mellow roar;<br /> +Till the soul is faint with longing<br /> + For the hands we clasp no more!</p> + +<p>Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease!<br /> + Or the heart will melt in tears,<br /> +For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips,<br /> + And the voices of old years!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="87"></a>At Fort Pillow.</h1> + +<h2>First published in the Wilmington Journal, April 25, 1864.</h2> + + + +<p>You shudder as you think upon<br /> + The carnage of the grim report,<br /> +The desolation when we won<br /> + The inner trenches of the fort.</p> + +<p>But there are deeds you may not know,<br /> + That scourge the pulses into strife;<br /> +Dark memories of deathless woe<br /> + Pointing the bayonet and knife.</p> + +<p>The house is ashes where I dwelt,<br /> + Beyond the mighty inland sea;<br /> +The tombstones shattered where I knelt,<br /> + By that old church at Pointe Coupee.</p> + +<p>The Yankee fiends, that came with fire,<br /> + Camped on the consecrated sod,<br /> +And trampled in the dust and mire<br /> + The Holy Eucharist of God!</p> + +<p>The spot where darling mother sleeps,<br /> + Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon,<br /> +Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps,<br /> + To stall the horse of some dragoon.</p> + +<p>God! when I ponder that black day<br /> + It makes my frantic spirit wince;<br /> +I marched--with Longstreet--far away,<br /> + But have beheld the ravage since</p> + +<p>The tears are hot upon my face,<br /> + When thinking what bleak fate befell<br /> +The only sister of our race--<br /> + A thing too horrible to tell.</p> + +<p>They say that, ere her senses fled,<br /> + She rescue of her brothers cried;<br /> +Then feebly bowed her stricken head,<br /> + Too pure to live thus--so she died.</p> + +<p>Two of those brothers heard no plea;<br /> + With their proud hearts forever still--<br /> +John shrouded by the Tennessee,<br /> + And Arthur there at Malvern Hill.</p> + +<p>But I have heard it everywhere,<br /> + Vibrating like a passing knell;<br /> +'Tis as perpetual as the air,<br /> + And solemn as a funeral bell.</p> + +<p>By scorched lagoon and murky swamp<br /> + My wrath was never in the lurch;<br /> +I've killed the picket in his camp,<br /> + And many a pilot on his perch.</p> + +<p>With steady rifle, sharpened brand,<br /> + A week ago, upon my steed,<br /> +With Forrest and his warrior band,<br /> + I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.</p> + +<p>You should have seen our leader go<br /> + Upon the battle's burning marge,<br /> +Swooping, like falcon, on the foe,<br /> + Heading the gray line's iron charge!</p> + +<p>All outcasts from our ruined marts,<br /> + We heard th' undying serpent hiss,<br /> +And in the desert of our hearts<br /> + The fatal spell of Nemesis.</p> + +<p>The Southern yell rang loud and high<br /> + The moment that we thundered in,<br /> +Smiting the demons hip and thigh,<br /> + Cleaving them to the very chin.</p> + +<p>My right arm bared for fiercer play,<br /> + The left one held the rein in slack;<br /> +In all the fury of the fray<br /> + I sought the white man, not the black.</p> + +<p>The dabbled clots of brain and gore<br /> + Across the swirling sabres ran;<br /> +To me each brutal visage bore<br /> + The front of one accursed man.</p> + +<p>Throbbing along the frenzied vein,<br /> + My blood seemed kindled into song--<br /> +The death-dirge of the sacred slain,<br /> + The slogan of immortal wrong.</p> + +<p>It glared athwart the dripping glaves,<br /> + It blazed in each avenging eye--<br /> +<i>The thought of desecrated graves,<br /> + And some lone sister's desperate cry!</i></p> + + + + +<h1><a name="88"></a>From the Rapidan--1864.</h1> + + + +<p>A low wind in the pines!<br /> + And a dull pain in the breast!<br /> +And oh! for the sigh of her lips and eyes--<br /> + One touch of the hand I pressed!</p> + +<p>The slow, sad lowland wind,<br /> + It sighs through the livelong day,<br /> +While the splendid mountain breezes blow,<br /> + And the autumn is burning away.</p> + +<p>Here the pines sigh ever above,<br /> + And the broomstraw sighs below;<br /> +And far from the bare, bleak, windy fields<br /> + Comes the note of the drowsy crow.</p> + +<p>There the trees are crimson and gold,<br /> + Like the tints of a magical dawn,<br /> +And the slender form, in the dreamy days,<br /> + By the slow stream rambles on.</p> + +<p>Oh, day that weighs on the heart!<br /> + Oh, wind in the dreary pines!<br /> +Does she think on me 'mid the golden hours,<br /> + Past the mountain's long blue lines?</p> + +<p>The old house, lonely and still,<br /> + By the sad Shenandoah's waves,<br /> +Must be touched to-day by the sunshine's gleam,<br /> + As the spring flowers bloom on graves.</p> + +<p>Oh, sunshine, flitting and sad,<br /> + Oh, wind, that forever sighs!<br /> +The hall may be bright, but my life is dark<br /> + For the sunshine of her eyes!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="89"></a>Song of Our Glorious Southland.</h1> + +<h2>By Mrs. Mary Ware.</h2> + +<h3>From the Southern Field and Fireside.</h3> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Oh, sing of our glorious Southland,<br /> + The pride of the golden sun!<br /> +'Tis the fairest land of flowers<br /> + The eye e'er looked upon.</p> + +<p>Sing of her orange and myrtle<br /> + That glitter like gems above;<br /> +Sing of her dark-eyed maidens<br /> + As fair as a dream of love.</p> + +<p>Sing of her flowing rivers--<br /> + How musical their sound!<br /> +Sing of her dark green forests,<br /> + The Indian hunting-ground.</p> + +<p>Sing of the noble nation<br /> + Fierce struggling to be free;<br /> +Sing of the brave who barter<br /> + Their lives for liberty!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Weep for the maid and matron<br /> + Who mourn their loved ones slain;<br /> +Sigh for the light departed,<br /> + Never to shine again:</p> + +<p>'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping,<br /> + That never will comfort know;<br /> +'Tis the wail of desolation,<br /> + The breaking of hearts in woe!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Ah! the blood of Abel crieth<br /> + For vengeance from the sod!<br /> +'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted<br /> + In the face of an angry God!</p> + +<p>Oh! brother of the Northland,<br /> + We plead from our father's grave;<br /> +We strike for our homes and altars,<br /> + He fought to build and save!</p> + +<p>A smouldering fire is burning,<br /> + The Southern heart is steeled--<br /> +Perhaps 'twill break in dying,<br /> + But never will it yield.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="90"></a>Sonnet.</h1> + +<h2>By Paul H. Hayne.</h2> + + + +<p>Rise from your gory ashes stern and pale,<br /> +Ye martyred thousands! and with dreadful ire,<br /> +A voice of doom, a front of gloomy fire,<br /> +Rebuke those faithless souls, whose querulous wail<br /> +Disturbs your sacred sleep!--"The withering hail<br /> +Of battle, hunger, pestilence, despair,<br /> +Whatever of mortal anguish man may bear,<br /> +We bore unmurmuring! strengthened by the mail<br /> +Of a most holy purpose!--then we died!--<br /> +Vex not our rest by cries of selfish pain,<br /> +But to the noblest measure of your powers<br /> +Endure the appointed trial! Griefs defied,<br /> +But launch their threatening thunderbolts in vain,<br /> +And angry storms pass by in gentlest showers!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="91"></a>Hospital Duties.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Courier.</h2> + + + +<p>Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,<br /> + Turn the key on your jewels to-day,<br /> +And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses<br /> + Braid back in a serious way;<br /> +No more delicate gloves, no more laces,<br /> + No more trifling in boudoir or bower,<br /> +But come with your souls in your faces<br /> + To meet the stern wants of the hour.</p> + +<p>Look around. By the torchlight unsteady<br /> + The dead and the dying seem one--<br /> +What! trembling and paling already,<br /> + Before your dear mission's begun?<br /> +These wounds are more precious than ghastly--<br /> + Time presses her lips to each scar,<br /> +While she chants of that glory which vastly<br /> + Transcends all the horrors of war.</p> + +<p>Pause here by this bedside. How mellow<br /> + The light showers down on that brow!<br /> +Such a brave, brawny visage, poor fellow!<br /> + Some homestead is missing him now.<br /> +Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing,<br /> + Some mother sits moaning distressed,<br /> +While the loved one lies faint but unfearing,<br /> + With the enemy's ball in his breast.</p> + +<p>Here's another--a lad--a mere stripling,<br /> + Picked up in the field almost dead,<br /> +With the blood through his sunny hair rippling<br /> + From the horrible gash in the head.<br /> +They say he was first in the action:<br /> + Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty:<br /> +He fought till he dropped with exhaustion<br /> + At the gates of our fair southern city.</p> + +<p>Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city,<br /> + With a spirit transcending his years--<br /> +Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,<br /> + And wet his pale lips with your tears.<br /> +Touch him gently; most sacred the duty<br /> + Of dressing that poor shattered hand!<br /> +God spare him to rise in his beauty,<br /> + And battle once more for his land!</p> + +<p>Pass on! it is useless to linger<br /> + While others are calling your care;<br /> +There is need for your delicate finger,<br /> + For your womanly sympathy there.<br /> +There are sick ones athirst for caressing,<br /> + There are dying ones raving at home,<br /> +There are wounds to be bound with a blessing,<br /> + And shrouds to make ready for some.</p> + +<p>They have gathered about you the harvest<br /> + Of death in its ghastliest view;<br /> +The nearest as well as the furthest<br /> + Is there with the traitor and true.<br /> +And crowned with your beautiful patience,<br /> + Made sunny with love at the heart,<br /> +You must balsam the wounds of the nations,<br /> + Nor falter nor shrink from your part.</p> + +<p>And the lips of the mother will bless you,<br /> + And angels, sweet-visaged and pale,<br /> +And the little ones run to caress you,<br /> + And the wives and the sisters cry hail!<br /> +But e'en if you drop down unheeded,<br /> + What matter? God's ways are the best:<br /> +You have poured out your life where 'twas needed,<br /> + And he will take care of the rest.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="92"></a>They Cry Peace, Peace, When There Is No Peace.</h1> + +<h2>By Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia.</h2> + + + +<p>They are ringing peace on my heavy ear--<br /> + No peace to my heavy heart!<br /> +They are ringing peace, I hear! I hear!<br /> + O God! how my hopes depart!</p> + +<p>They are ringing peace from the mountain side;<br /> + With a hollow voice it comes--<br /> +They are ringing peace o'er the foaming tide,<br /> + And its echoes fill our homes.</p> + +<p>They are ringing peace, and the spring-time blooms<br /> + Like a garden fresh and fair;<br /> +But our martyrs sleep in their silent tombs--<br /> + Do <i>they</i> hear that sound--do they hear?</p> + +<p>They are ringing peace, and the battle-cry<br /> + And the bayonet's work are done,<br /> +And the armor bright they are laying by,<br /> + From the brave sire to the son.</p> + +<p>And the musket's clang, and the soldier's drill,<br /> + And the tattoo's nightly sound;<br /> +We shall hear no more, with a joyous thrill,<br /> + Peace, peace, they are ringing round!</p> + +<p>There are women, still as the stifled air<br /> + On the burning desert's track,<br /> +Not a cry of joy, not a welcome cheer--<br /> + And their brave ones coming back!</p> + +<p>There are fair young heads in their morning pride,<br /> + Like the lilies pale they bow;<br /> +Just a memory left to the soldier's bride--<br /> + Ah, God! sustain her now!</p> + +<p>There are martial steps that we may not hear!<br /> + There are forms we may not see!<br /> +Death's muster roll they have answered clear,<br /> + <i>They are free! thank God, they are free!</i></p> + +<p>Not a fetter fast, nor a prisoner's chain<br /> + For the noble army gone--<br /> +No conqueror comes o'er the heavenly plain--<br /> + Peace, <i>peace to the dead alone!</i></p> + +<p>They are ringing peace, but strangers tread<br /> + O'er the land where our fathers trod,<br /> +And our birthright joys, like a dream, have fled,<br /> + And <i>Thou!</i> where art <i>Thou</i>, 0 God!</p> + +<p>They are ringing peace! <i>not here, not here,</i><br /> + Where the victor's mark is set;<br /> +Roll back to the North its mocking cheer--<br /> + No peace to the Southland yet!</p> + +<p>We may sheathe the sword, and the rifle-gun<br /> + We may hang on the cottage wall,<br /> +And the bayonet brave, sharp duty done,<br /> + From, the soldier's arm it may fall.</p> + +<p>But peace!--no peace! till the same good sword,<br /> + Drawn out from its scabbard be,<br /> +And the wide world list to my country's word,<br /> + And the South! oh, the South, be free!</p> + +<p>Charleston Broadside.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="93"></a>Ballad--"What! Have Ye Thought?"</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p> What! have ye thought to pluck<br /> + Victory from chance and luck,<br /> +Triumph from clamorous shout, without a will?<br /> + Without the heart to brave<br /> + All peril to the grave,<br /> +And battle on its brink, unshrinking still?</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p> And did ye dream success<br /> + Would still unvarying bless<br /> +Your arms, nor meet reverse in some dread field?<br /> + And shall an adverse hour<br /> + Make ye mistrust the power<br /> +Of virtue, in your souls, to make your enemy yield?</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p> Oh! from this dreary sleep<br /> + Arise, and upward leap,<br /> +Nor let your hearts grow palsied with dismay!<br /> + Fling out your banner high,<br /> + Still challenging the sky,<br /> +While thousand strong arms bear it on its way.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p> Forth, as a sacred band,<br /> + Sworn saviours of the land,<br /> +Chosen by God, the champions of the right!<br /> + And never doubt that <i>He</i><br /> + Who <i>made</i> will <i>keep</i> ye free,<br /> +If thus your souls resolve to triumph in the fight!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p> The felon foe, no more<br /> + Trampling the sacred shore,<br /> +Shall leave defiling footprint on the sod;<br /> + Where, desperate in the strife,<br /> + Reckless of wounds and life,<br /> +Ye brave your myriad foes beneath the eye of God!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p> On brothers, comrades, men,<br /> + Rush to the field again;<br /> +Home, peace, love, safety--freedom--are the prize!<br /> + Strike! while an arm can bear<br /> + Weapon--and do not spare--<br /> +Ye break a felon bond in every foe that dies!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="94"></a>Missing.</h1> + + + +<p>In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook,<br /> + Where the May buds sprinkle the green old mound,<br /> +And the winds, and the birds, and the limpid brook,<br /> + Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound;<br /> +Who lies so still in the plushy moss,<br /> + With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow,<br /> +Couched where the light and the shadows cross<br /> + Through the flickering fringe of the willow?<br /> + Who lies, alas!<br /> +So still, so chill, in the whispering grass?</p> + +<p>A soldier clad in the Zouave dress,<br /> + A bright-haired man, with his lips apart,<br /> +One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face,<br /> + And the other clutching his pulseless heart,<br /> +Lies here in the shadows, cool and dim,<br /> + His musket swept by a trailing bough,<br /> +With a careless grace in each quiet limb,<br /> + And a wound on his manly brow;<br /> + A wound, alas!<br /> +Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass.</p> + +<p>The violets peer from their dusky beds,<br /> + With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes;<br /> +The lilies quiver their shining heads,<br /> + Their pale lips full of a sad surprise;<br /> +And the lizard darts through the glistening fern--<br /> + And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary;<br /> +Strange birds fly out, with a cry, to bathe<br /> + Their wings in the sunset glory;<br /> + While the shadows pass<br /> +O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass.</p> + +<p>God pity the bride who waits at home,<br /> + With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes,<br /> +Dreaming the sweet old dreams of love,<br /> + While her lover is walking in Paradise;<br /> +God strengthen her heart as the days go by,<br /> + And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow,<br /> +Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind,<br /> + May breathe the tale of the hollow;<br /> + Alas! alas!<br /> +The secret is safe with the woodland grass.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="95"></a>Ode-"Souls of Heroes."</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<p>Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won,<br /> +Still smile on the conflict so greatly begun;<br /> +Bring succor to comrade, to brother, to son<br /> + Now breasting the battle in ranks of the brave;<br /> +And the dastard that loiters, the conflict to shun,<br /> + Pursue him with scorn to the grave!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Pursue him with furies that goad to despair,<br /> +Hunt him out, where he crouches in crevice and lair,<br /> +Drive him forth, while the wife of his bosom cries--"There<br /> + Goes the coward that skulks, though his sister and wife<br /> +Tremble, nightly, in sleep, overshadowed by fear<br /> + Of a sacrifice dearer than life."</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>There are thousands that loiter, of historied claim,<br /> +Who boast of the heritage shrined in each name--<br /> +Sting their souls to the quick, till they shrink from the shame<br /> + Which dishonors the names and the past of their boast;<br /> +Even now they may win the best guerdon of fame,<br /> + And retrieve the bright honors they've lost!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Even now, while their country is torn in the toils,<br /> +While the wild boar is raging to raven the spoils,<br /> +While the boa is spreading around us the coils<br /> + Which would strangle the freedom our ancestors gave;<br /> +But each soul must be quickened until it o'er-boils,<br /> + Every muscle be corded to save!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Still the cause is the same which, in long ages gone,<br /> +Roused up your great sires, so gallantly known,<br /> +When, braving the tyrant, the sceptre and throne,<br /> + They rushed to the conflict, despising the odds;<br /> +Armed with bow, spear, and scythe, and with sling and with stone,<br /> + For their homes and their family gods!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Shall we be less worthy the sacrifice grand,<br /> +The heritage noble we took at their hand,<br /> +The peace and the comfort, the fruits of the land;<br /> + And, sunk in a torpor as hopeless as base,<br /> +Recoil from the shock of the Sodomite band,<br /> + That would ruin the realm and the race?</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won,<br /> + Your toils are not closed in the deeds ye have done;<br /> +Touch the souls of each laggard and profligate son,<br /> + The greed and the sloth, and the cowardice shame;<br /> +Till we rise to complete the great work ye've begun,<br /> + And with freedom make conquest of fame!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="96"></a>Jackson.</h1> + +<h2>By H. L. Flash, of Galveston, Formerly of Mobile.</h2> + + + +<p>Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight,<br /> +Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,<br /> +Did kingly death, with his resistless might,<br /> + Lay the great leader low.</p> + +<p>His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke,<br /> +In the full sunshine of a peaceful town:<br /> +When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak<br /> + That propped our cause went down.</p> + +<p>Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,<br /> +Recalling all his grand heroic deeds,<br /> +Freedom herself is writhing with the wound,<br /> + And all the country bleeds.</p> + +<p>He entered not the nation's promised land,<br /> +At the red belching of the cannon's mouth:<br /> +But broke the house of bondage with his hand--<br /> + The Moses of the South!</p> + +<p>O gracious God! not gainless in the loss;<br /> +A glorious sunbeam gilds the sternest frown;<br /> +And while his country staggers with the cross,<br /> + He rises with the crown!</p> + +<p>Mobile Advertiser and Register.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="97"></a>Captain Maffit's Ballad of the Sea.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Though winds are high and skies are dark,<br /> +And the stars scarce show us a meteor spark;<br /> +Yet buoyantly bounds our gallant barque,<br /> + Through billows that flash in a sea of blue;<br /> +We are coursing free, like the Viking shark,<br /> + And our prey, like him, pursue!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>At each plunge of our prow we bare the graves,<br /> +Where, heedless of roar among winds and waves,<br /> +The dead have slept in their ocean caves,<br /> + Never once dreaming--as if no more<br /> +They hear, though the Storm-God ramps and raves<br /> + From the deeps to the rock-bound shore.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Brave sailors were they in the ancient times,<br /> +Heroes or pirates--men of all climes,<br /> +That had never an ear for the Sabbath chimes,<br /> + Never once called on the priest to be shriven;<br /> +They died with the courage that still sublimes,<br /> + And, haply, may fit for Heaven.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Never once asking the when or why,<br /> +But ready, all hours, to battle and die,<br /> +They went into fight with a terrible cry,<br /> + Counting no odds, and, victors or slain,<br /> +Meeting fortune or fate, with an equal eye,<br /> + Defiant of death and pain.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Dread are the tales of the wondrous deep,<br /> +And well do the billows their secrets keep,<br /> +And sound should those savage old sailors sleep,<br /> + If sleep they may after such a life;<br /> +Where every dark passion, alert and aleap,<br /> + Made slumber itself a strife.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>What voices of horror, through storm and surge,<br /> +Sang in the perishing ear its dirge,<br /> +As, raging and rending, o'er Hell's black verge,<br /> + Each howling soul sank to its doom;<br /> +And what thunder-tones from the deeps emerge,<br /> + As yawns for its prey the tomb!</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>We plough the same seas which the rovers trod,<br /> +But with better faith in the saving God,<br /> +And bear aloft and carry abroad<br /> + The starry cross, our sacred sign,<br /> +Which, never yet sullied by crime or fraud,<br /> + Makes light o'er the midnight brine.</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>And we rove not now on a lawless quest,<br /> +With passions foul in the hero's breast,<br /> +Moved by no greed at the fiend's behest,<br /> + Gloating in lust o'er a bloody prey;<br /> +But from tyrant robber the spoil to wrest,<br /> + And tear down his despot sway!</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>'Gainst the spawn of Europe, and all the lands,<br /> +British and German--Norway's sands,<br /> +Dutchland and Irish--the hireling bands<br /> + Bought for butchery--recking no rede,<br /> +But, flocking like vultures, with felon hands,<br /> + To fatten the rage of greed.</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>With scath they traverse both land and sea,<br /> +And with sacred wrath we must make them flee;<br /> +Making the path of the nations free,<br /> + And planting peace in the heart of strife;<br /> +In the star of the cross, our liberty<br /> + Brings light to the world, and life!</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>Let Christendom cower 'neath Stripes and Stars,<br /> +Cloaking her shame under legal bars,<br /> +Not too moral for traffic, but shirking wars,<br /> + While the Southern cross, floating topmast high.<br /> +Though torn, perchance, by a thousand scars,<br /> + Shall light up the midnight sky!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="98"></a>Melt the Bells.</h1> + +<h2>F. Y. Rockett.--Memphis Appeal.</h2> + + + +<p>The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the +people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon.</p> + + +<p>Melt the bells, melt the bells,<br /> +Still the tinkling on the plains,<br /> +And transmute the evening chimes<br /> +Into war's resounding rhymes,<br /> +That the invaders may be slain<br /> +By the bells.</p> + +<p>Melt the bells, melt the bells,<br /> +That for years have called to prayer,<br /> +And, instead, the cannon's roar<br /> +Shall resound the valleys o'er,<br /> +That the foe may catch despair<br /> +From the bells.</p> + +<p>Melt the bells, melt the bells,<br /> +Though it cost a tear to part<br /> +With the music they have made,<br /> +Where the friends we love are laid,<br /> +With pale cheek and silent heart,<br /> +'Neath the bells.</p> + +<p>Melt the bells, melt the bells,<br /> +Into cannon, vast and grim,<br /> +And the foe shall feel the ire<br /> +From each heaving lungs of fire,<br /> +And we'll put our trust in Him<br /> +And the bells.</p> + +<p>Melt the bells, melt the bells,<br /> +And when foes no more attack,<br /> +And the lightning cloud of war<br /> +Shall roll thunderless and far,<br /> +We will melt the cannon back<br /> +Into bells.</p> + +<p>Melt the bells, melt the bells,<br /> +And they'll peal a sweeter chime,<br /> +And remind of all the brave<br /> +Who have sunk to glory's grave,<br /> +And will sleep thro' coming time<br /> +'Neath the bells.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="99"></a>John Pelham.</h1> + +<h2>By James R. Randall.</h2> + + + +<p>Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,<br /> + With all its gorgeous cheer;<br /> +In the bright April of historic life<br /> + Fell the great cannoneer.</p> + +<p>The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath<br /> + His bleeding country weeps--<br /> +Hushed in the alabaster arms of death,<br /> + Our young Marcellus sleeps.</p> + +<p>Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome,<br /> + Curbing his chariot steeds;<br /> +The knightly scion of a Southern home<br /> + Dazzled the land with deeds.</p> + +<p>Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt,<br /> + The champion of the truth,<br /> +He bore his banner to the very front<br /> + Of our immortal youth.</p> + +<p>A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,<br /> + The fiery pang of shells--<br /> +And there's a wail of immemorial woe<br /> + In Alabama dells.</p> + +<p>The pennon drops that led the sacred band<br /> + Along the crimson field;<br /> +The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand<br /> + Over the spotless shield.</p> + +<p>We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face<br /> + While 'round the lips and eyes,<br /> +Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace<br /> + Of a divine surprise.</p> + +<p>Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high!<br /> + Thy tears may soon be shed--<br /> +Think of thy boy with princes of the sky,<br /> + Among the Southern dead.</p> + +<p>How must he smile on this dull world beneath,<br /> + Fevered with swift renown--<br /> +He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath<br /> + Twining the victor's crown!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="100"></a>"Ye Batteries of Beauregard."</h1> + +<h2>By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.</h2> + + + +<p>"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"<br /> + Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall;<br /> +Bid the shock of your deep thunder<br /> + On their fleet in terror fall:<br /> +Rain your storm of leaden fury<br /> + On the black invading host--<br /> +Teach them that their step shall never<br /> + Press on Carolina's coast.</p> + +<p>"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"<br /> + Sound the story of our wrong;<br /> +Let your tocsin wake the spirit<br /> + Of a people brave and strong;<br /> +Her proud names of old remember--<br /> + Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene;<br /> +Swell the roll whose deeds of glory<br /> + Side by side with theirs are seen.</p> + +<p>"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"<br /> + From Savannah on them frown;<br /> +By the majesty of Heaven<br /> + Strike their "grand armada" down;<br /> +By the blood of many a freeman,<br /> + By each dear-bought battle-field,<br /> +By the hopes we fondly cherish,<br /> + Never ye the victory yield.</p> + +<p>"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"<br /> + All along our Southern coast,<br /> +Let, in after-time, your triumphs,<br /> + Be a nation's pride and boast;<br /> +Send each missile with a greeting<br /> + To the vile, ungodly crew;<br /> +Make them feel they ne'er can conquer<br /> + People to themselves so true.</p> + +<p>"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"<br /> + By the glories of the past,<br /> +By the memory of old Sumter,<br /> + Whose renown will ever last,<br /> +Speed upon their vaunted legions<br /> + Volleys thick of shot and shell,<br /> +Bid them welcome, in your glory,<br /> + To their own appointed hell.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="101"></a>"When Peace Returns."</h1> + +<h2>Published in the Granada Picket.</h2> + +<h3>By Olivia Tully Thomas.</h3> + + + +<p>When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front,"<br /> + And meek-eyed peace returning,<br /> +Has brightened hearts that long were wont<br /> + To sigh in grief and mourning--<br /> +How blissful then will be the day<br /> + When, from the wars returning,<br /> +The weary soldier wends his way<br /> + To dear ones that are yearning,</p> + +<p>To clasp in true love's fond embrace,<br /> + To gaze with looks so tender<br /> +Upon the war-worn form and face<br /> + Of Liberty's defender;<br /> +To count with pride each cruel scar,<br /> + That mars the manly beauty,<br /> +Of him who proved so brave in war,<br /> + So beautiful in duty.</p> + +<p>When peace returns, throughout our land,<br /> + Glad shouts of welcome render<br /> +The gallant few of Freedom's band<br /> + Whose cry was "no surrender;"<br /> +Who battled bravely to be free<br /> + From tyranny's oppressions,<br /> +And won, for Southern chivalry,<br /> + The homage of all nations!</p> + +<p>And when, again, in Southern bowers<br /> + The ray of peace is shining,<br /> +Her maidens gather fairest flowers,<br /> + And honor's wreaths are twining,<br /> +To bind the brows victorious<br /> + On many a field so gory,<br /> +Whose names, renowned and glorious,<br /> + Shall live in song and story,</p> + +<p>Then will affection's tear be shed,<br /> + And pity, joy restraining,<br /> +For those, the lost, lamented dead,<br /> + Are all beyond our plaining;<br /> +They fell in manhood's prime and might;<br /> + And we should not weep the story<br /> +That tells of Fame, a sacred light,<br /> + Above each grave of glory!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="102"></a>The Right above the Wrong.</h1> + +<h2>By John W. Overall.</h2> + + + +<p>In other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and free,<br /> +For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea;<br /> +They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song,<br /> +For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong.</p> + +<p>But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea,<br /> +The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea;<br /> +And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might,<br /> +That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right.</p> + +<p>The King sent over hireling hosts--the Briton, Hessian, Scot--<br /> +And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot;<br /> +While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng,<br /> +And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place given to the Wrong.</p> + +<p>But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's sword was out,<br /> +With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's thunder-shout;<br /> +And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight,<br /> +But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right!</p> + +<p>And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea,<br /> +To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free,<br /> +Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long,<br /> +And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong.</p> + +<p>And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew,<br /> +But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue;<br /> +For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight,<br /> +And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right!</p> + +<p>The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South,<br /> +To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon's mouth;<br /> +For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song,<br /> +Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong.</p> + +<p>But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool,<br /> +Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule;<br /> +We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night,<br /> +And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="103"></a>Carmen Triumphale.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<p>Go forth and bid the land rejoice,<br /> + Yet not too gladly, oh my song!<br /> + Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong<br /> +The solemn rapture of thy voice.</p> + +<p>Be nothing lightly done or said<br /> + This happy day! Our joy should flow<br /> + Accordant with the lofty woe<br /> +That wails above the noble dead.</p> + +<p>Let him whose brow and breast were calm<br /> + While yet the battle lay with God,<br /> + Look down upon the crimson sod<br /> +And gravely wear his mournful palm;</p> + +<p>And him, whose heart still weak from fear<br /> + Beats all too gayly for the time,<br /> + Know that intemperate glee is crime<br /> +While one dead hero claims a tear.</p> + +<p>Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill,<br /> + With sober joy, the troubled days;<br /> + A nation's hymn of grateful praise<br /> +May not be hushed for private ill.</p> + +<p>Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires!<br /> + The mighty tidings far and nigh!<br /> + Ye cities! write them on the sky<br /> +In purple and in emerald fires!</p> + +<p>They came with many a haughty boast;<br /> + Their threats were heard on every breeze;<br /> + They darkened half the neighboring seas,<br /> +And swooped like vultures on the coast.</p> + +<p>False recreants in all knightly strife,<br /> + Their way was wet with woman's tears;<br /> + Behind them flamed the toil of years,<br /> +And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life.</p> + +<p>They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves;<br /> + God gave the dastards to our hands;<br /> + Their bones are bleaching on the sands,<br /> +Or mouldering slow in shallow graves.</p> + +<p>What though we hear about our path<br /> + The heavens with howls of vengeance rent;<br /> + The venom of their hate is spent;<br /> +We need not heed their fangless wrath.</p> + +<p>Meantime the stream they strove to chain<br /> + Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps<br /> + With broadening breast, and mightier deeps,<br /> +And rushes onward to the main;</p> + +<p>While down the swelling current glides<br /> + Our ship of state before the blast,<br /> + With streamers poured from every mast,<br /> +Her thunders roaring from her sides.</p> + +<p>Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease,<br /> + Hang out thy rainbow on the sea!<br /> + Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee,<br /> +And speed her to the ports of peace!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="104"></a>The Fiend Unbound.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>No more, with glad and happy cheer,<br /> + And smiling face, doth Christmas come,<br /> +But usher'd in with sword and spear,<br /> + And beat of the barbarian drum!<br /> +No more, with ivy-circled brow,<br /> + And mossy beard all snowy white,<br /> +He comes to glad the children now,<br /> + With sweet and innocent delight.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>The merry dance, the lavish feast,<br /> + The cheery welcome, all are o'er:<br /> +The music of the viol ceased,<br /> + The gleesome ring around the floor.<br /> +No glad communion greets the hour,<br /> + That welcomes in a Saviour's birth,<br /> +And Christmas, to a hostile power,<br /> + Yields all the sway that made its mirth.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>The Church, like some deserted bride,<br /> + In trembling, at the Altar waits,<br /> +While, raging fierce on every side,<br /> + The foe is thundering at her gates.<br /> +No ivy green, nor glittering leaves,<br /> + Nor crimson berries, deck her walls:<br /> +But blood, red dripping from her eaves,<br /> + Along the sacred pavement falls.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Her silver bells no longer chime<br /> + In summons to her sacred home;<br /> +Nor holy song at matin prime,<br /> + Proclaims the God within the dome.<br /> +Nor do the fireside's happy bands<br /> + Assemble fond, with greetings dear,<br /> +While Patriarch Christmas spreads his hands<br /> + To glad with gifts and crown with cheer.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>In place of that beloved form,<br /> + Benignant, bland, and blessing all,<br /> +Comes one begirt with fire and storm,<br /> + The raging shell, the hissing ball!<br /> +Type of the Prince of Peace, no more,<br /> + Evoked by those who bear His name,<br /> +THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore,<br /> + Now hurls around Satanic flame.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>In hate,--evoked by kindred lands,<br /> + But late beslavering with caress,<br /> +Lo, Moloch, dripping crimson, stands,<br /> + And curses where he cannot bless.<br /> +He wings the bolt and hurls the spear,<br /> + A <i>demon loosed</i>, that rends in rage,<br /> +Sends havoc through the homes most dear,<br /> + And butchers youth and tramples age!</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>With face of Fox--with glee that grins,<br /> + And apish arms, with fingers claw'd,<br /> +To snatch at all his brother wins,<br /> + And straight secrete, with stealth and fraud;--<br /> +Lo! Mammon, kindred Demon, comes,<br /> + And lurks, as dreading ill, in rear;<br /> +He blows the trumpet, beats the drums,<br /> + Inflames the torch, and sharps the spear!</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>And furious, following in their train,<br /> + What hosts of lesser Demons rise;<br /> +Lust, Malice, Hunger, Greed and Gain,<br /> + Each raging for its special prize.<br /> +Too base for freedom, mean for toil,<br /> + And reckless all of just and right,<br /> +They rage in peaceful homes for spoil,<br /> + And where they cannot butcher, blight.</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>A Serpent lie from every mouth,<br /> + Coils outward ever,--sworn to bless;<br /> +Yet, through the gardens of the South,<br /> + Still spreading evils numberless,<br /> +By locust swarms the fields are swept,<br /> + By frenzied hands the dwelling flames,<br /> +And virgin beds, where Beauty slept,<br /> + Polluted blush, from worst of shames.</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>The Dragon, chain'd for thousand years,<br /> + Hath burst his bonds and rages free;--<br /> +Yet, patience, brethren, stay your fears;--<br /> + Loosed for "a little season,"[1] he<br /> +Will soon, beneath th' Ithuriel sword,<br /> + Of heavenly judgment, crush'd and driven,<br /> +Yield to the vengeance of the Lord,<br /> + And crouch beneath the wrath of Heaven!</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>"A little season," and the Peace,<br /> + That now is foremost in your prayers,<br /> +Shall crown your harvest with increase,<br /> + And bless with smiles the home of tears;<br /> +Your wounds be healed; your noble sons,<br /> + Unhurt, unmutilated--free--<br /> +Shall limber up their conquering guns,<br /> + In triumph grand of Liberty!</p> + + + +<h3>XII.</h3> + + +<p>A few more hours of mortal strife,--<br /> + Of faith and patience, working still,<br /> +In struggle for the immortal life,<br /> + With all their soul, and strength, and will;<br /> +And, in the favor of the Lord,<br /> + And powerful grown by heavenly aid,<br /> +Your roof trees all shall be restored,<br /> + And ye shall triumph in their shade.</p> + + + +<p>[1] "1. And I saw an Angel come down from Heaven, having the key of the +bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand.</p> + +<p>"2. And he laid hold on the Dragon, that Old Serpent, which is the Devil +and Satan, and bound him a thousand years.</p> + +<p>"And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal +upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand +years should be fulfilled; and <i>after that he must be loosed a little +season</i>."--Rev. xx., v. 1-3.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="105"></a>The Unknown Dead.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<p>The rain is plashing on my sill,<br /> +But all the winds of Heaven are still;<br /> +And so, it falls with that dull sound<br /> +Which thrills us in the churchyard ground,<br /> +When the first spadeful drops like lead<br /> +Upon the coffin of the dead.<br /> +Beyond my streaming window-pane,<br /> +I cannot see the neighboring vane,<br /> +Yet from its old familiar tower<br /> +The bell comes, muffled, through the shower.<br /> +What strange and unsuspected link<br /> +Of feeling touched has made me think--<br /> +While with a vacant soul and eye<br /> +I watch that gray and stony sky--<br /> +Of nameless graves on battle plains,<br /> +Washed by a single winter's rains,<br /> +Where, some beneath Virginian hills,<br /> +And some by green Atlantic rills,<br /> +Some by the waters of the West,<br /> +A myriad unknown heroes rest?<br /> +Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see<br /> +Their flags in front of victory,<br /> +Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost<br /> +Pay for a battle nobly lost,<br /> +Claim from their monumental beds<br /> +The bitterest tears a nation sheds.<br /> +Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot,<br /> +By all save some fond few forgot--<br /> +Lie the true martyrs of the fight,<br /> +Which strikes for freedom and for right.<br /> +Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,<br /> +The lofty faith that with them died,<br /> +No grateful page shall further tell<br /> +Than that so many bravely fell;<br /> +And we can only dimly guess<br /> +What worlds of all this world's distress,<br /> +What utter woe, despair, and dearth,<br /> +Their fate has brought to many a hearth.<br /> +Just such a sky as this should weep<br /> +Above them, always, where they sleep;<br /> +Yet, haply, at this very hour,<br /> +Their graves are like a lover's bower;<br /> +And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,<br /> +Oblivious of the crimson debt<br /> +To which she owes her April grace,<br /> +Laughs gayly o'er their burial place.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="106"></a>Ode--"Do Ye Quail?"</h1> + +<h2>By W. Gilmore Simms.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Do ye quail but to hear, Carolinians,<br /> +The first foot-tramp of Tyranny's minions?<br /> +Have ye buckled on armor, and brandished the spear,<br /> +But to shrink with the trumpet's first peal on the ear?<br /> +Why your forts now embattled on headland and height,<br /> +Your sons all in armor, unless for the fight?<br /> +Did ye think the mere show of your guns on the wall,<br /> +And your shouts, would the souls of the heathen appal?<br /> +That his lusts and his appetites, greedy as Hell,<br /> +Led by Mammon and Moloch, would sink at a spell;--<br /> +Nor strive, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the flesh<br /> +Should be torn from his jaws, while yet bleeding afresh.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!--<br /> +To the death for your sacred dominions!--<br /> +Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame,<br /> +Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame;<br /> +Your greybeards, with necks in the halter--<br /> +Your virgins, defiled at the altar,--<br /> +In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave,<br /> +Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave!<br /> +Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom!<br /> +How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom!<br /> +With the fiends in your streets howling pæans,<br /> +And the Beast o'er another Orleans!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Do ye quail, as on yon little islet<br /> +They have planted the feet that defile it?<br /> +Make its sands pure of taint, by the stroke of the sword,<br /> +And by torrents of blood in red sacrifice pour'd!<br /> +Doubts are Traitors, if once they persuade you to fear,<br /> +That the foe, in his foothold, is safe from your spear!<br /> +When the foot of pollution is set on your shores,<br /> +What sinew and soul should be stronger than yours?<br /> +By the fame--by the shame--of your sires,<br /> +Set on, though each freeman expires;<br /> +Better fall, grappling fast with the foe, to their graves,<br /> +Than groan in your fetters, the slaves of your slaves.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>The voice of your loud exultation<br /> +Hath rung, like a trump, through the nation,<br /> +How loudly, how proudly, of deeds to be done,<br /> +The blood of the sire in the veins of the son!<br /> +Old Moultrie and Sumter still keep at your gates,<br /> +And the foe in his foothold as patiently waits.<br /> +He asks, with a taunt, by your patience made bold,<br /> +If the hot spur of Percy grows suddenly cold--<br /> +Makes merry with boasts of your city his own,<br /> +And the Chivalry fled, ere his trumpet is blown;<br /> +Upon them, O sons of the mighty of yore,<br /> +And fatten the sands with their Sodomite gore!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Where's the dastard that cowers and falters<br /> +In the sight of his hearthstones and altars?<br /> +With the faith of the free in the God of the brave,<br /> +Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save!<br /> +By the blue Heaven shining above ye,<br /> +By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye,<br /> +Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight,<br /> +And an ægis to shield and a weapon to smite!<br /> +Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not:<br /> +With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still.<br /> +To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians,<br /> +For your homes, and your sacred dominions.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="107"></a>Ode--"Our City by the Sea."</h1> + +<h2>By W. Gilmore Simms.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Our city by the sea,<br /> + As the rebel city known,<br /> +With a soul and spirit free<br /> + As the waves that make her zone,<br /> +Stands in wait for the fate<br /> +From the angry arm of hate;<br /> +But she nothing fears the terror of his blow;<br /> +She hath garrisoned her walls,<br /> +And for every son that falls,<br /> +She will spread a thousand palls<br /> + For-the foe!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Old Moultrie at her gate,<br /> + Clad in arms and ancient fame.<br /> +Grimly watching, stands elate<br /> + To deliver bolt and flame!<br /> +Brave the band, at command,<br /> +To illumine sea and land<br /> +With a glory that shall honor days of yore;<br /> +And, as racers for their goals,<br /> +A thousand fiery souls,<br /> +While the drum of battle rolls,<br /> + Line the shore.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Lo! rising at his side,<br /> + As if emulous to share<br /> +His old historic pride,<br /> + The vast form of Sumter there!<br /> +Girt by waves, which he braves<br /> +Though the equinoctial raves,<br /> +As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep;<br /> +And, like tigers crouching round,<br /> +Are the tribute forts that bound<br /> +All the consecrated ground,<br /> + By the deep!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>It was calm, the April noon,<br /> + When, in iron-castled towers,<br /> +Our haughty foe came on,<br /> + With his aggregated powers;<br /> +All his might 'gainst the right,<br /> +Now embattled for the fight,<br /> +With Hell's hate and venom working in his heart;<br /> +A vast and dread array,<br /> +Glooming black upon the day,<br /> +Hell's passions all in play,<br /> + With Hell's art.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>But they trouble not the souls<br /> + Of our Carolina host,[1]<br /> +And the drum of battle rolls,<br /> + While each hero seeks his post;<br /> +Firm, though few, sworn to do,<br /> +Their old city full in view,<br /> +The brave city of their sires and their dead;<br /> +There each freeman had his brood,<br /> +All the dear ones of his blood,<br /> +And he knew they watching stood,<br /> + In their dread!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>To the bare embattled height,<br /> + Then our gallant colonel sprung--<br /> +"Bid them welcome to the fight,"<br /> + Were the accents of his tongue--<br /> +"Music! band, pour out--grand--<br /> +The free song of Dixie Land!<br /> +Let it tell them we are joyful that they come!<br /> +Bid them welcome, drum and flute,<br /> +Nor be your cannon mute,<br /> +Give them chivalrous salute--<br /> + To their doom!"[2]</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>Out spoke an eager gun,<br /> + From the walls of Moultrie then;<br /> +And through clouds of sulph'rous dun,<br /> + Rose a shout of thousand men,<br /> +As the shot, hissing hot,<br /> +Goes in lightning to the spot--<br /> +Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail;<br /> +Then roared the storm from all,<br /> +Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall--<br /> +Bursting bomb and driving ball--<br /> + Hell in hail!</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>Full a hundred cannon roared<br /> + The dread welcome to the foe,<br /> +And his felon spirit cowered,<br /> + As he crouched beneath the blow!<br /> +As each side opened wide<br /> +To the iron and the tide,<br /> +He lost his faith in armor and in art;<br /> +And, with the loss of faith,<br /> +Came the dread of wounds and scath--<br /> +And the felon fear of death<br /> + Wrung his heart!</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>Quenched then his foul desires;<br /> + In his mortal pain and fear,<br /> +How feeble grew his fires,<br /> + How stayed his fell career!<br /> +How each keel, made to reel<br /> +'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel,<br /> +Their turrets staggering wildly, to and fro, blind and lame;<br /> +Ironsides and iron roof,<br /> +Held no longer bullet-proof,<br /> +Steal away, shrink aloof,<br /> + In their shame!</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>But our lightnings follow fast,<br /> + With a vengeance sharp and hot;<br /> +Our bolts are on the blast,<br /> + And they rive with shell and shot!<br /> +Huge the form which they warm<br /> +With the hot breath of the storm;<br /> +Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck--<br /> +They shiver as they fly,<br /> +While their leader, drifting nigh,<br /> +Sinks, choking with the cry--<br /> + "Keokuk!"</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>To the brave old city, joy!<br /> + For that the hostile race,<br /> +Commissioned to destroy,<br /> + Hath fled in sore disgrace!<br /> +That our sons, at their guns,<br /> +Have beat back the modern Huns--<br /> +Have maintained their household fanes and their fires;<br /> +And free from taint and scath,<br /> +Have kept the fame and faith<br /> +(And will keep, through blood and death)<br /> + Of their sires!</p> + + + +<h3>XII.</h3> + + +<p>To the Lord of Hosts the glory,<br /> + For His the arm and might,<br /> +That have writ for us the story,<br /> + And have borne us through the fight!<br /> +His our shield in that field--<br /> +Voice that bade us never yield;<br /> +Oh! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day?<br /> +His strength hath made us strong,<br /> +Cheered the right and crushed the wrong,<br /> +To His temple let us throng--<br /> + PRAISE AND PRAY!</p> + + +<p>[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South +Carolina troops exclusively.</p> + +<p>[2] As the iron-clads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred +Rhett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where he remained, +ordered the band to strike up the national air of "Dixie;" and at the same +time, in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and regimental flags +were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen +guns.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="108"></a>The Lone Sentry.</h1> + +<h2>By James R. Randall.</h2> + + + +<p>Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall +Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the +ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the +night. The officer of the day went to the general's tent, and said:</p> + +<p>"General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one but is asleep. +Shall I wake them?"</p> + +<p>"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp +to-night."</p> + +<p>And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel +for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when +glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all +unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers.</p> + + +<p>'Twas in the dying of the day,<br /> + The darkness grew so still;<br /> +The drowsy pipe of evening birds<br /> + Was hushed upon the hill;<br /> +Athwart the shadows of the vale<br /> + Slumbered the men of might,<br /> +And one lone sentry paced his rounds,<br /> + To watch the camp that night.</p> + +<p>A grave and solemn man was he,<br /> + With deep and sombre brow;<br /> +The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up<br /> + Some unaccomplished vow.<br /> +The wistful glance peered o'er the plains<br /> + Beneath the starry light--<br /> +And with the murmured name of God,<br /> + He watched the camp that night.</p> + +<p>The Future opened unto him<br /> + Its grand and awful scroll:<br /> +Manassas and the Valley march<br /> + Came heaving o'er his soul--<br /> +Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by<br /> + With that tremendous fight<br /> +Which gave him to the angel hosts<br /> + Who watched the camp that night.</p> + +<p>We mourn for him who died for us,<br /> + With one resistless moan;<br /> +While up the Valley of the Lord<br /> + He marches to the Throne!<br /> +He kept the faith of men and saints<br /> + Sublime, and pure, and bright--<br /> +He sleeps--and all is well with him<br /> + Who watched the camp that night.</p> + +<p>Brothers! the Midnight of the Cause<br /> + Is shrouded in our fate;<br /> +The demon Goths pollute our halls<br /> + With fire, and lust, and hate.<br /> +Be strong--be valiant--be assured--<br /> + Strike home for Heaven and Right!<br /> +<i>The soul of Jackson stalks abroad,<br /> + And guards the camp to-night!</i></p> + + + + +<h1><a name="109"></a>To My Soldier Brother.</h1> + +<h2>By Sallie E. Ballard, of Texas.</h2> + + + +<p>When softly gathering shades of ev'n<br /> +Creep o'er the prairies broad and green,<br /> +And countless stars bespangle heav'n,<br /> +And fringe the clouds with silv'ry sheen,<br /> +My fondest sigh to thee is giv'n,<br /> +My lonely wandering soldier boy;<br /> + And thoughts of thee<br /> + Steal over me<br /> +Like ev'ning shades, my soldier boy.</p> + +<p>My brother, though thou'rt far away,<br /> +And dangers hurtle round thy path,<br /> +And battle lightnings o'er thee play,<br /> +And thunders peal in awful wrath,<br /> +Think, whilst thou'rt in the hot affray,<br /> +Thy sister prays for thee, my boy.<br /> + If fondest prayer<br /> + Can shield thee there<br /> +Sweet angels guard my soldier boy.</p> + +<p>Thy proud young heart is beating high<br /> +To clash of arms and cannons' roar;<br /> +That firm-set lip and flashing eye<br /> +Tell how thy heart is brimming o'er.<br /> +Be free and live, be free or die;<br /> +Be that thy motto now, my boy;<br /> + And though thy name's<br /> + Unknown to fame's,<br /> +'Tis graven on my heart, my boy.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="110"></a>Sea-Weeds</h1> + +<h2>Written in Exile.</h2> + +<h3>By Annie Chambers Ketchum.</h3> + + + +<p>Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart!<br /> + Beneath the citron-tree--<br /> +Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep--<br /> + I hear the Mexique Sea.</p> + +<p>While through the night rides in the spectral surf<br /> + Along the spectral sands,<br /> +And all the air vibrates, as if from harps<br /> + Touched by phantasmal hands.</p> + +<p>Bright in the moon the red pomegranate flowers<br /> + Lean to the Yucca's bells,<br /> +While with her chrism of dew, sad Midnight fills<br /> + The milk-white asphodels.</p> + +<p>Watching all night--as I have done before--<br /> + I count the stars that set,<br /> +Each writing on my soul some memory deep<br /> + Of Pleasure or Regret;</p> + +<p>Till, wild with heart-break, toward the East I turn,<br /> + Waiting for dawn of day;--<br /> +And chanting sea, and asphodel and star<br /> + Are faded, all, away.</p> + +<p>Only within my trembling, trembling hands--<br /> + Brought unto me by thee--<br /> +I clasp these beautiful and fragile things,<br /> + Bright sea-weeds from the sea,</p> + +<p>Fair bloom the flowers beneath these Northern skies,<br /> + Pure shine the stars by night,<br /> +And grandly sing the grand Atlantic waves<br /> + In thunder-throated might;</p> + +<p>But, as the sea-shell in her chambers keeps<br /> + The murmur of the sea,<br /> +So the deep-echoing memories of my home<br /> + Will not depart from me.</p> + +<p>Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things!<br /> + As I have seen them cast<br /> +Like a drowned woman's hair, along the beach,<br /> + When storms were over-past;</p> + +<p>Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashore<br /> + In Battle's storm and blight;<br /> +Would <i>they</i> had died, like sea-weeds! Pray forgive me<br /> + But I must weep to-night.</p> + +<p>Tell me again, of Summer fields made fair<br /> + By Spring's precursing plough;<br /> +Of joyful reapers, gathering tear-sown harvests--<br /> + Talk to me,--will you?--now!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="111"></a>The Salkehatchie.</h1> + +<h2>By Emily J. Moore.</h2> + + + +<p>Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening +a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie.</p> + + +<p>The crystal streams, the pearly streams,<br /> + The streams in sunbeams flashing,<br /> +The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams,<br /> + The streams down mountains dashing,<br /> + Have been the theme<br /> + Of poets' dream,<br /> + And, in wild witching story,<br /> +Have been renowned for love's fond scenes,<br /> + Or some great deed of glory.</p> + +<p>The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,<br /> + The Arno, silver-flowing,<br /> +The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,<br /> + With poesy are glowing;<br /> + But I would praise<br /> + In artless lays,<br /> + A stream which well may match ye,<br /> +Though dark its waters glide along--<br /> + The swampy Salkehatchie.</p> + +<p>'Tis not the beauty of its stream,<br /> + Which makes it so deserving<br /> +Of honor at the Muses' hands,<br /> + But 'tis the use it's serving,<br /> + And 'gainst a raid,<br /> + We hope its aid<br /> + Will ever prove efficient,<br /> +Its fords remain still overflowed,<br /> + In water ne'er deficient.</p> + +<p>If Vandal bands are held in check,<br /> + Their crossing thus prevented,<br /> +And we are spared the ravage wild<br /> + Their malice has invented,<br /> + Then we may well<br /> + In numbers tell<br /> + No other stream can match ye,<br /> +And grateful we shall ever be<br /> + To swampy Salkehatchie.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="112"></a>The Broken Mug.</h1> + +<h2>Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley +(so-called.)</h2> + +<h3>John Esten Cooke.</h3> + + + +<p>My mug is broken, my heart is sad!<br /> + What woes can fate still hold in store!<br /> +The friend I cherished a thousand days<br /> + Is smashed to pieces on the floor!<br /> + Is shattered and to Limbo gone,<br /> + I'll see my Mug no more!</p> + +<p>Relic it was of joyous hours<br /> + Whose golden memories still allure--<br /> +When coffee made of rye we drank,<br /> + And gray was all the dress we wore!<br /> + When we were paid some cents a month,<br /> + But never asked for more!</p> + +<p>In marches long, by day and night,<br /> + In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,<br /> +Strapped on the saddle at my back<br /> + This faithful comrade still I bore--<br /> + This old companion, true and tried,<br /> + I'll never carry more!</p> + +<p>From the Rapidan to Gettysburg--<br /> + "Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before--<br /> +This friend went with the cavalry<br /> + And heard the jarring-cannon roar<br /> + In front of Cemetery Hill--<br /> + Good heavens! how they did roar!</p> + +<p>Then back again, the foe behind,<br /> + Back to the "Old Virginia shore"--<br /> +Some dead and wounded left--some holes<br /> + In flags, the sullen graybacks bore;<br /> + This mug had made the great campaign,<br /> + And we'd have gone once more!</p> + +<p>Alas! we never went again!<br /> + The red cross banner, slow but sure,<br /> +"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout<br /> + (Like the lover of Lenore)<br /> + A long, sad, lingering farewell--<br /> + To taste its joys no more.</p> + +<p>But still we fought, and ate hard bread,<br /> + Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore!<br /> +And still this faithful friend remained--<br /> + Riding behind me as before--<br /> + The friend on march, in bivouac,<br /> + When others were no more.</p> + +<p>How oft we drove the horsemen blue<br /> + In Summer bright or Winter frore!<br /> +How oft before the Southern charge<br /> + Through field and wood the blue-birds tore!<br /> + Im "harmonized," but long to hear<br /> + The bugles ring once more.</p> + +<p>Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now,<br /> + Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure,<br /> +Congress will "reconstruct" us soon--<br /> + But no gray people on <i>that</i> floor!<br /> + I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long<br /> + To see those times once more!</p> + +<p>Gay days! the sun was brighter then,<br /> + And we were happy, though so poor!<br /> +That past comes back as I behold<br /> + My shattered friend upon the floor,<br /> + My splintered, useless, ruined mug,<br /> + From which I'll drink no more.</p> + +<p>How many lips I'll love for aye,<br /> + While heart and memory endure,<br /> +Have touched this broken cup and laughed--<br /> + How they did laugh!--in days of yore!<br /> + Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream,<br /> + If they had been no more!"</p> + +<p>Dear comrades, dead this many a day,<br /> + I saw you weltering in your gore,<br /> +After those days, amid the pines<br /> + On the Rappahannock shore!<br /> + When the joy of life was much to me<br /> + But your warm hearts were more!</p> + +<p>Yours was the grand heroic nerve<br /> + That laughs amid the storm of war--<br /> +Souls that "loved much" your native land,<br /> + Who fought and died therefor!<br /> + You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,<br /> + Your blood--you had no more!</p> + +<p>You lived and died true to your flag!<br /> + And now your wounds are healed--but sore<br /> +Are many hearts that think of you<br /> + Where you have "gone before."<br /> + Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms,<br /> + They are "whole" forevermore!</p> + +<p>Those lips this broken vessel touched,<br /> + His, too!--the man's we all adore--<br /> +That cavalier of cavaliers,<br /> + Whose voice will ring no more--<br /> + Whose plume will float amid the storm<br /> + Of battle never more!</p> + +<p>Not on this idle page I write<br /> + That name of names, shrined in the core<br /> +Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen,<br /> + Hush! words so cold and poor!<br /> + His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,<br /> + His bugle sounds no more!</p> + +<p>Never was cavalier like ours!<br /> + Not Rupert in the years before!<br /> +And when his stern, hard work was done,<br /> + His griefs, joys, battles o'er--<br /> + His mighty spirit rode the storm,<br /> + And led his men once more!</p> + +<p>He lies beneath his native sod,<br /> + Where violets spring, or frost is hoar:<br /> +He recks not--charging squadrons watch<br /> + His raven plume no more!<br /> + That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,<br /> + That hand we'll touch no more!</p> + +<p>My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:<br /> + Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,<br /> +Ye are the types of nobler things<br /> + That find their use no more--<br /> + Things glorious once, now trodden down--<br /> + That makes us smile no more!</p> + +<p>Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts--<br /> + Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,<br /> +Beating his wings against the bars,<br /> + The prisoned eagle tried to soar!<br /> +Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still--<br /> + Bread failed--we fought no more!</p> + +<p>Lies in the dust the shattered staff<br /> + That bore aloft on sea and shore,<br /> +That blazing flag, amid the storm!<br /> + And none are now so poor,<br /> + So poor to do it reverence,<br /> + Now when it flames no more!</p> + +<p>But it is glorious in the dust,<br /> + Sacred till Time shall be no more:<br /> +Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn--<br /> + The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!<br /> + Furl the great flag--hide cross and star,<br /> + Thrust into darkness star and bar,<br /> + But look! across the ages far<br /> + It flames for evermore!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="113"></a>Carolina.</h1> + +<h2>By Anna Peyre Dinnies.</h2> + + + +<p> In the hour of thy glory,<br /> + When thy name was far renowned,<br /> + When Sumter's glowing story<br /> + Thy bright escutcheon crowned;<br /> +Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine,<br /> +That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine.</p> + +<p> Exulting as I heard thee,<br /> + Of every lip the theme,<br /> + Prophetic visions stirred me,<br /> + In a hope-illumined dream:<br /> +A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won,<br /> +Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son.</p> + +<p> And now, when clouds arise,<br /> + And shadows round thee fall;<br /> + I lift to heaven my eyes,<br /> + Those visions to recall;<br /> +For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long,<br /> +Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong.</p> + +<p> Thy serried ranks of pine,<br /> + Thy live-oaks spreading wide,<br /> + Beneath the sunbeams shine,<br /> + In fadeless robes of pride;<br /> +Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth,<br /> +As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North.</p> + +<p> The deeds of other days,<br /> + Enacted by their sires,<br /> + Themes long of love and praise,<br /> + Have wakened high desires<br /> +In every heart that beats within thy proud domain,<br /> +To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again.</p> + +<p> Each heart the home of daring,<br /> + Each hand the foe of wrong,<br /> + They'll meet with haughty bearing,<br /> + The war-ship's thunder song;<br /> +And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore,<br /> +They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore.</p> + +<p> His feet may press their soil,<br /> + Or his numbers bear them down,<br /> + In his vandal raid for spoil,<br /> + His sordid soul to crown;<br /> +But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near,<br /> +When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear.<br /> +<br /> + A fearful time shall come,<br /> + When thy gathering bands unite,<br /> + And the larum-sounding drum<br /> + Calls to struggle for the Right;<br /> +"<i>Pro aris et pro focis</i>," from rank to rank shall fly,<br /> +As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die.</p> + +<p> Oh, then a tale of glory<br /> + Shall yet again be thine,<br /> + And the record of thy story<br /> + The Laurel shall entwine;<br /> +Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State!<br /> +Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="114"></a>Our Martyrs.</h1> + +<h2>Bu Paul H. Hayne.</h2> + + + +<p>I am sitting lone and weary<br /> + On the hearth of my darkened room,<br /> +And the low wind's <i>miserere</i><br /> + Makes sadder the midnight gloom;<br /> +There's a terror that's nameless nigh me--<br /> + There's a phantom spell in the air,<br /> +And methinks that the dead glide by me,<br /> + And the breath of the grave's in my hair!</p> + +<p>'Tis a vision of ghastly faces,<br /> + All pallid, and worn with pain,<br /> +Where the splendor of manhood's graces<br /> + Give place to a gory stain;<br /> +In a wild and weird procession<br /> + They sweep by my startled eyes,<br /> +And stern with their fate's fruition,<br /> + Seem melting in blood-red skies.</p> + +<p>Have they come from the shores supernal,<br /> + Have they passed from the spirit's goal,<br /> +'Neath the veil of the life eternal,<br /> + To dawn on my shrinking soul?<br /> +Have they turned from the choiring angels,<br /> + Aghast at the woe and dearth<br /> +That war, with his dark evangels,<br /> + Hath wrought in the loved of earth?</p> + +<p>Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains<br /> + They lie, where the dew-mists weep,<br /> +And the murmur of mournful fountains<br /> + Breaks over their painful sleep;<br /> +On the breast of the lonely meadows,<br /> + Safe, safe from the despot's will,<br /> +They rest in the star-lit shadows,<br /> + And their brows are white and still!</p> + +<p>Alas! for the martyred heroes<br /> + Cut down at their golden prime,<br /> +In a strife with the brutal Neroes,<br /> + Who blacken the path of Time!<br /> +For them is the voice of wailing,<br /> + And the sweet blush-rose departs<br /> +From the cheeks of the maidens, paling<br /> + O'er the wreck of their broken hearts!</p> + +<p>And alas! for the vanished glory<br /> + Of a thousand household spells!<br /> +And alas! for the tearful story<br /> + Of the spirit's fond farewells!<br /> +By the flood, on the field, in the forest,<br /> + Our bravest have yielded breath,<br /> +But the shafts that have smitten sorest,<br /> + Were launched by a viewless death!</p> + +<p>Oh, Thou, that hast charms of healing,<br /> + Descend on a widowed land,<br /> +And bind o'er the wounds of feeling<br /> + The balms of Thy mystic hand!<br /> +Till the hearts that lament and languish,<br /> + Renewed by the touch divine,<br /> +From the depths of a mortal anguish<br /> + May rise to the calm of Thine!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="115"></a>Cleburne.</h1> + +<h2>By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama.</h2> + + + +<p>"<i>Another star now shines on high.</i>"</p> + + +<p>Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave<br /> +Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laurelled grave--<br /> +Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set,<br /> +For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.</p> + +<p>'Tis true thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head<br /> +Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead;<br /> +The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright<br /> +Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.</p> + +<p>No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore,<br /> +No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more,<br /> +No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise,<br /> +For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.</p> + +<p>Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless, deadened heart;<br /> +Calm, calm and sweet, 0 warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part,<br /> +And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine,<br /> +A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.</p> + +<p>A long farewell--we give thee up, with all thy bright renown;<br /> +A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found.<br /> +Above thy grave a wail is heard--a nation mourns her dead;<br /> +A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled.</p> + +<p>A last farewell--how can we speak the bitter word farewell!<br /> +The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell.<br /> +Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might;<br /> +And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night.</p> + +<p>Selma Despatch, 1864.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="116"></a>The Texan Marseillaise.</h1> + +<h2>By James Haines, of Texas.</h2> + + + +<p>Sons of the South, arouse to battle!<br /> + Gird on your armor for the fight!<br /> +The Northern Thugs with dread "War's rattle,"<br /> + Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;<br /> +Meet them as Ocean meets in madness<br /> + The frail bark on the rocky shore,<br /> + When crested billows foam and roar,<br /> +And the wrecked crew go down in sadness.<br /> + Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!<br /> + Scatter yon Vandal hordes!<br /> + Despots and bandits, fitting food<br /> + For vultures and your swords.</p> + +<p>Shall dastard tyrants march their legions<br /> + To crush the land of Jackson--Lee?<br /> +Shall freedom fly to other regions,<br /> + And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?<br /> +Or shall their "footprints' base pollution"<br /> + Of Southern soil, in blood be purged,<br /> + And every flying slave be scourged<br /> +Back to his snows in wild confusion?<br /> + Arm! Arm! &c.</p> + +<p>Vile despots, with their minions knavish,<br /> + Would drag us back to their embrace;<br /> +Will freemen brook a chain so slavish?<br /> + Will brave men take so low a place?<br /> +O, Heaven! for words--the loathing, scorning<br /> + We feel for such a Union's bands:<br /> + To paint with more than mortal hands,<br /> +And sound our loudest notes of warning.<br /> + Arm! Arm! &c.</p> + +<p>What! union with a race ignoring<br /> +The charter of our nation's birth!<br /> +Union with bastard slaves adoring<br /> +The fiend that chains them, to the earth!<br /> +No! we reply in tones of thunder--<br /> +No! our staunch hills fling back the sound--<br /> +No! our hoarse cannon echo round--<br /> +No! evermore remain asunder!<br /> +Arm! Arm! &c.</p> + +<p>Southern Confederacy.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="117"></a>O, Tempora! O, Mores!</h1> + +<h2>By John Dickson Bruns, M. D.</h2> + + + +<p>"Great Pan is dead!" so cried an airy tongue<br /> + To one who, drifting down Calabria's shore,<br /> +Heard the last knell, in starry midnight rung,<br /> + Of the old Oracles, dumb for evermore.</p> + +<p>A low wail ran along the shuddering deep,<br /> + And as, far off, its flaming accents died,<br /> +The awe-struck sailors, startled from their sleep,<br /> + Gazed, called aloud: no answering voice replied;</p> + +<p>Nor ever will--the angry Gods have fled,<br /> + Closed are the temples, mute are all the shrines,<br /> +The fires are quenched, Dodona's growth is dead,<br /> + The Sibyl's leaves are scattered to the winds.</p> + +<p>No mystic sentence will they bear again,<br /> + Which, sagely spelled, might ward a nation's doom;<br /> +But we have left us still some god-like men,<br /> + And some great voices pleading from the tomb.</p> + +<p>If we would heed them, they might save us yet,<br /> + Call up some gleams of manhood in our breasts,<br /> +Truth, valor, justice, teach us to forget<br /> + In a grand cause our selfish interests.</p> + +<p>But we have fallen on evil times indeed,<br /> + When public faith is but the common shame,<br /> +And private morals held an idiot's creed,<br /> + And old-world honesty an empty name.</p> + +<p>And lust, and greed, and gain are all our arts!<br /> + The simple lessons which our father's taught<br /> +Are scorned and jeered at; in our sordid marts<br /> + We sell the faith for which they toiled and fought.</p> + +<p>Each jostling each in the mad strife for gold,<br /> + The weaker trampled by the unrecking throng<br /> +Friends, honor, country lost, betrayed, or sold,<br /> + And lying blasphemies on every tongue.</p> + +<p>Cant for religion, sounding words for truth,<br /> + Fraud leads to fortune, gelt for guilt atones,<br /> +No care for hoary age or tender youth,<br /> + For widows' tears or helpless orphans' groans.</p> + +<p>The people rage, and work their own wild will,<br /> + They stone the prophets, drag their highest down,<br /> +And as they smite, with savage folly still<br /> + Smile at their work, those dead eyes wear no frown.</p> + +<p>The sage of "Drainfield"[1] tills a barren soil,<br /> + And reaps no harvest where he sowed the seed,<br /> +He has but exile for long years of toil;<br /> + Nor voice in council, though his children bleed.</p> + +<p>And never more shall "Redcliffs"[2] oaks rejoice,<br /> + Now bowed with grief above their master's bier;<br /> +Faction and party stilled that mighty voice,<br /> + Which yet could teach us wisdom, could we hear.</p> + +<p>And "Woodland's"[3] harp is mute: the gray, old man<br /> + Broods by his lonely hearth and weaves no song;<br /> +Or, if he sing, the note is sad and wan,<br /> + Like the pale face of one who's suffered long.</p> + +<p>So all earth's teachers have been overborne<br /> + By the coarse crowd, and fainting; droop or die;<br /> +They bear the cross, their bleeding brows the thorn,<br /> + And ever hear the clamor--"Crucify!"</p> + +<p>Oh, for a man with godlike heart and brain!<br /> + A god in stature, with a god's great will.<br /> +And fitted to the time, that not in vain<br /> + Be all the blood we're spilt and yet must spill.</p> + +<p>Oh, brothers! friends! shake off the Circean spell!<br /> + Rouse to the dangers of impending fate!<br /> +Grasp your keen swords, and all may yet be well--<br /> + More gain, more pelf, and it will be, too late!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury [1864].</p> + +<p>[1] The country-seat of R. Barnwell Rhett.</p> + +<p>[2] The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond.</p> + +<p>[3] The homestead of W. Gilmore Simms (destroyed by Sherman's army.)</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="118"></a>Our Departed Comrades.</h1> + +<h2>By J. Marion Shirer.</h2> + + + +<p>I am sitting alone by a fire<br /> + That glimmers on Sugar Loaf's height,<br /> +But before I to rest shall retire<br /> + And put out the fast fading light--<br /> +While the lanterns of heaven are ling'ring<br /> + In silence all o'er the deep sea,<br /> +And loved ones at home are yet mingling<br /> + Their voices in converse of me--<br /> +While yet the lone seabird is flying<br /> + So swiftly far o'er the rough wave,<br /> +And many fond mothers are sighing<br /> + For the noble, the true, and the brave;<br /> +Let me muse o'er the many departed<br /> + Who slumber on mountain and vale;<br /> +With the sadness which shrouds the lone-hearted,<br /> + Let me tell of my comrades a tale.<br /> +Far away in the green, lonely mountains,<br /> + Where the eagle makes bloody his beak,<br /> +In the mist, and by Gettysburg's fountains,<br /> + Our fallen companions now sleep!<br /> +Near Charleston, where Sumter still rises<br /> + In grandeur above the still wave,<br /> +And always at evening discloses<br /> + The fact that her inmates yet live--<br /> +On islands, and fronting Savannah,<br /> + Where dark oaks overshadow the ground,<br /> +Round Macon and smoking Atlanta,<br /> + How many dead heroes are found!<br /> +And out on the dark swelling ocean,<br /> + Where vessels go, riding the waves,<br /> +How many, for love and devotion,<br /> + Now slumber in warriors' graves!<br /> +No memorials have yet been erected<br /> + To mark where these warriors lie.<br /> +All alone, save by angels protected,<br /> + They sleep 'neath the sea and the sky!<br /> +But think not that they are forgotten<br /> + By those who the carnage survive:<br /> +When their headboards will all have grown rotten,<br /> + And the night-winds have levelled their graves,<br /> +Then hundreds of sisters and mothers,<br /> + Whose freedom they perished to save,<br /> +And fathers, and empty-sleeved brothers,<br /> + Who surmounted the battle's red wave;<br /> +Will crowd from their homes in the Southward,<br /> + In search of the loved and the blest,<br /> +And, rejoicing, will soon return homeward<br /> + And lay our dear martyrs to rest.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="119"></a>No Land Like Ours.</h1> + +<h2>Published in the Montgomery Advertiser, January, 1863.</h2> + +<h3>By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.</h3> + + + +<p>Though other lands may boast of skies<br /> + Far deeper in their blue,<br /> +Where flowers, in Eden's pristine dyes,<br /> + Bloom with a richer hue;<br /> +And other nations pride in kings,<br /> + And worship lordly powers;<br /> +Yet every voice of nature sings,<br /> + There is no land like ours!</p> + +<p>Though other scenes, than such as grace<br /> + Our forests, fields, and plains,<br /> +May lend the earth a sweeter face<br /> + Where peace incessant reigns;<br /> +But dearest still to me the land<br /> + Where sunshine cheers the hours,<br /> +For God hath shown, with his own hand,<br /> + There is no land like ours!</p> + +<p>Though other streams may softer flow<br /> + In vales of classic bloom,<br /> +And rivers clear as crystal glow,<br /> + That wear no tinge of gloom;<br /> +Though other mountains lofty look,<br /> + And grand seem olden towers,<br /> +We see, as in an open book,<br /> + There is no land like ours!</p> + +<p>Though other nations boast of deeds<br /> + That live in old renown,<br /> +And other peoples cling to creeds<br /> + That coldly on us frown;<br /> +On pure religion, love, and law<br /> + Are based our ruling powers--<br /> +The world but feels, with wondering awe,<br /> + There is no land like ours!<br /> +<br /> +Though other lands may boast their brave,<br /> +Whose deeds are writ in fame,<br /> +Their heroes ne'er such glory gave<br /> +As gilds our country's name;<br /> +Though others rush to daring deeds,<br /> +Where the darkening war-cloud lowers,<br /> +Here, each alike for freedom bleeds--<br /> +There is no land like ours!</p> + +<p>Though other lands Napoleon<br /> +And Wellington adorn,<br /> +America, her Washington,<br /> +And later heroes born;<br /> +Yet Johnston, Jackson, Price, and Lee,<br /> +Bragg, Buckner, Morgan towers,<br /> +With Beauregard, and Hood, and Bee--<br /> +There is no land like ours!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="120"></a>The Angel of the Church.</h1> + +<h2>By W. Gilmore Simms.</h2> + + + +<p>The enemy, from his camp on Morris Island, has, in frequent letters in +the Northern papers, avowed the object at which they aim their shells in +Charleston to be the spire of St. Michael's Church. Their <i>practice</i> +shows that these avowals are true. Thus far, they have not succeeded in +their aim. Angels of the Churches, is a phrase applied by St. John in +reference to the Seven Churches of Asia. The Hebrews recognized an Angel +of the Church, in their language, "Sheliack-Zibbor," whose office may be +described as that of a watcher or guardian of the church. Daniel says, +iv. 13, "Behold, a watcher and a Holy one came down from Heaven." The +practice of naming churches after tutelary saints, originated, no doubt, +in the conviction that, where the church was pure, and the faith true, and +the congregation pious, these guardian angels, so chosen, would accept the +office assigned them. They were generally chosen from the Seraphim and +Cherubim--those who, according to St. Paul (1 Colossians xvi.), +represented thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers. According to +the Hebrew traditions, St. Michael was the head of the first order; +Gabriel, of the second; Uriel, of the third; and Raphael, of the fourth. +St. Michael is the warrior angel who led the hosts of the sky against the +powers of the princes of the air; who overthrew the dragon, and trampled +him under foot. The destruction of the Anaconda, in his hands, would be a +smaller undertaking. Assuming for our people a hope not less rational than +that of the people of Nineveh, we may reasonably build upon the +guardianship and protection of God, through his angels, "a great city of +sixty thousand souls," which has been for so long a season the subject of +his care. These notes will supply the adequate illustrations for the ode +which follows.</p> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim<br /> + The temple of the living God;<br /> +Hurl iron bolt and seething flame<br /> + Through aisles which holiest feet have trod;<br /> +Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb,<br /> + And, raging with demoniac ire,<br /> +Send down, in sudden crash of doom,<br /> + That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>That spire, for full a hundred years,[1]<br /> + Hath been a people's point of sight;<br /> +That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears,<br /> + With strains well worthy Salem's height;<br /> +The sweet, clear music of its bells,<br /> + Made liquid soft in Southern air,<br /> +Still through the heart of memory swells,<br /> + And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Along the shores for many a mile,<br /> + Long ere they owned a beacon-mark,<br /> +It caught arid kept the Day-God's smile,<br /> + The guide for every wandering bark;[2]<br /> +Averting from our homes the scaith<br /> + Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven,<br /> +The Pharos to the wandering faith,<br /> + It pointed every prayer to Heaven!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Well may ye, felons of the time,<br /> + Still loathing all that's pure and free,<br /> +Add this to many a thousand crime<br /> + 'Gainst peace and sweet humanity:<br /> +Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame,<br /> + Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes,<br /> +But fitly turn your murderous aim<br /> + Against Jehovah's ancient domes.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Yet, though the grand old temple falls,<br /> + And downward sinks the lofty spire,<br /> +Our faith is stronger than our walls,<br /> + And soars above the storm and fire.<br /> +Ye shake no faith in souls made free<br /> + To tread the paths their fathers trod;<br /> +To fight and die for liberty,<br /> + Believing in the avenging God!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Think not, though long his anger stays,<br /> + His justice sleeps--His wrath is spent;<br /> +The arm of vengeance but delays,<br /> + To make more dread the punishment!<br /> +Each impious hand that lights the torch<br /> + Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall;<br /> +And the bright Angel of the Church,<br /> + With seraph shield avert the ball!</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>For still we deem, as taught of old,<br /> + That where the faith the altar builds,<br /> +God sends an angel from his fold,<br /> + Whose sleepless watch the temple shields,<br /> +And to his flock, with sweet accord,<br /> + Yields their fond choice, from THRONES and POWERS;<br /> +Thus, Michael, with his fiery sword<br /> + And golden shield, still champions ours!</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>And he who smote the dragon down,<br /> + And chained him thousand years of time,<br /> +Need never fear the boa's frown,<br /> + Though loathsome in his spite and slime.<br /> +He, from the topmost height, surveys<br /> + And guards the shrines our fathers gave;<br /> +And we, who sleep beneath his gaze,<br /> + May well believe his power to save!</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>Yet, if it be that for our sin<br /> + Our angel's term of watch is o'er,<br /> +With proper prayer, true faith must win<br /> + The guardian watcher back once more I<br /> +Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer--<br /> + In blood and sackcloth, if it need;<br /> +And still our spire shall rise in air,<br /> + Our temple, though our people bleed!</p> + +<p>[1] St.. Michael's Church was opened for divine worship, February 1, 1761</p> + +<p>[2] "The height of this steeple makes it the principal land-mark for the +pilots."--Dalcjio (in 1819).</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="121"></a>Ode--"Shell the Old City! Shell!"</h1> + +<h2>By W. Gilmore Simms.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Shell the old city I shell!<br /> +Ye myrmidons of Hell;<br /> +Ye serve your master well,<br /> + With hellish arts!<br /> +Hurl down, with bolt and fire,<br /> +The grand old shrines, the spire;<br /> +But know, your demon ire<br /> +Subdues no hearts!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>There, we defy ye still,<br /> +With sworn and resolute will;<br /> +Courage ye cannot kill<br /> + While we have breath!<br /> +Stone walls your bolts may break,<br /> +But, ere our souls ye shake,<br /> +Of the whole land we'll make<br /> + One realm of death!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Dear are our homes! our eyes<br /> +Weep at their sacrifice;<br /> +And, with each bolt that flies,<br /> + Each roof that falls,<br /> +The pang extorts the tear,<br /> +That things so precious, dear<br /> +To memory, love, and care,<br /> + Sink with our walls.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Trophies of ancient time,<br /> +When, with great souls, sublime,<br /> +Opposing force and crime,<br /> + Our fathers fought;<br /> +Relics of golden hours,<br /> +When, for our shrines and bowers,<br /> +Genius, with magic powers,<br /> + Her triumphs wrought!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Each Sabbath-hallowed dome,<br /> +Each ancient family home,<br /> +The dear old southwest room,<br /> + All trellised round;<br /> +Where gay, bright summer vines,<br /> +Linked in fantastic twines<br /> +With the sun's blazing lines,<br /> + Rubied the ground!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Homes, sacred to the past,<br /> +Which bore the hostile blast,<br /> +Though Spain, France, Britain cast<br /> + Their shot and shell!<br /> +Tombs of the mighty dead,<br /> +That in our battles bled,<br /> +When on our infant head<br /> + These furies fell!</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>Halls which the foreign guest +Found of each charm possessed, +With cheer unstinted blessed, + And noblest grace; +Where, drawing to her side +The stranger, far and wide, +Frank courtesy took pride + To give him place!</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>The shaded walks--the bowers<br /> +Where, through long summer hours,<br /> +Young Love first proved his powers<br /> + To win the prize;<br /> +Where every tree has heard<br /> +Some vows of love preferred,<br /> +And, with his leaves unstirred,<br /> + Watch'd lips and eyes.</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>Gardens of tropic blooms,<br /> +That, through the shaded rooms,<br /> +Sent Orient-winged perfumes<br /> + With dusk and dawn;<br /> +The grand old laurel, tall,<br /> +As sovereign over all,<br /> +And, from the porch and hall,<br /> + The verdant lawn.</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>Oh! when we think of these<br /> +Old homes, ancestral trees;<br /> +Where, in the sun and breeze,<br /> + At morn and even,<br /> +Was to enjoy the play<br /> +Of hearts at holiday,<br /> +And find, in blooms of May,<br /> + Foretaste of Heaven!</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>Where, as we cast our eyes<br /> +On thing's of precious prize,<br /> +Trophies of good and wise,<br /> + Grand, noble, brave;<br /> +And think of these, so late<br /> +Sacred to soul and state,<br /> +Doomed, as the wreck of fate,<br /> + By fiend and slave!--</p> + + + +<h3>XII.</h3> + + +<p>The inevitable pain,<br /> +Coursing through blood and brain,<br /> +Drives forth, like winter rain,<br /> + The bitter tear!<br /> +We cannot help but weep,<br /> +From depth of hearts that keep<br /> +The memories, dread and deep.<br /> + To vengeance dear!</p> + + + +<h3>XIII.</h3> + + +<p>Aye, for each tear we shed,<br /> +There shall be torrents red,<br /> +Not from the eye-founts fed,<br /> + But from the veins!<br /> +Bloody shall be the sweat,<br /> +Fiends, felons, that shall yet<br /> +Pay retribution's debt,<br /> + In torture's pains!</p> + + + +<h3>XIV.</h3> + + +<p>Our tears shall naught abate,<br /> +Of what we owe to hate--<br /> +To the avenging fate--<br /> + To earth and Heaven!<br /> +And, soon or late, the hour<br /> +Shall bring th' atoning power,<br /> +When, through the clouds that lower,<br /> + The storm-bolt's driven!</p> + + + +<h3>XV.</h3> + + +<p>Shell the old city--shell!<br /> +But, with each rooftree's knell,<br /> +Vows deep of vengeance fell,<br /> + Fire soul and eye!<br /> +With every tear that falls<br /> +Above our stricken walls<br /> +Each heart more fiercely calls,<br /> + "Avenge, or die!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="122"></a>"The Enemy Shall Never Reach Your City."</h1> + +<h2>Andrew Jackson's Address to the People of New Orleans.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Never, while such as ye are in the breach,<br /> +Oh! brothers, sons, and Southrons--never! never!<br /> +Shall the foul enemy your city reach!<br /> +For souls and hearts are eager with endeavor;<br /> +And God's own sanction on your cause, makes holy<br /> +Each arm that strikes for home, however lowly!--<br /> +And ye shall conquer by the rolling deep!--<br /> +And ye shall conquer on the embattled steep!--<br /> +And ye shall see Leviathan go down<br /> +A hundred fathoms, with a horrible cry<br /> +Of drowning wretches, in their agony--<br /> +While Slaughter wades in gore along the sands,<br /> +And Terror flies with pleading, outstretched hands,<br /> +All speechless, but with glassy-staring eyes--<br /> +Flying to Fate--and fated as he flies;--<br /> +Seeking his refuge in the tossing wave,<br /> +That gives him, when the shark has fed, a grave!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Thus saith the Lord of Battles: "Shall it be,<br /> +That this great city, planted by the sea,<br /> +With threescore thousand souls--with fanes and spires<br /> +Reared by a race of unexampled sires--<br /> +That I have watched, now twice a hundred years,[1]<br /> +Nursed through long infancy of hopes and fears,<br /> +Baptized in blood at seasons, oft in tears;<br /> +Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow<br /> +To greatness, with a progress firm but slow--<br /> +That being the grand condition of duration--<br /> +Until it spreads into the mighty nation!<br /> +And shall the usurper, insolent of power,<br /> +O'erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour!<br /> +And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will,<br /> +Say to its mighty heart--'Crouch, and be still!<br /> +My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate!<br /> +Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!'</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>"No! He shall know--I am the Lord of war;<br /> +And all his mighty hosts but pigmies are!<br /> +His hellish engines, wrought for human woe,<br /> +His arts and vile inventions, and his power,<br /> +My arm shall bring to ruin, swift and low!<br /> +Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm-clouds lower,<br /> +And I will arm my people with a faith,<br /> +Shall make them free of fear, and free of scaith;<br /> +Arid they shall bear from me a smiting sword,<br /> +Edged with keen lightning, at whose stroke is poured<br /> +A torrent of destruction and swift wrath,<br /> +Sweeping--the insolent legions from their path!<br /> +The usurper shall be taught that none shall take--<br /> +The right to punish and avenge from me:<br /> +And I will guard my City by the Sea,<br /> +And save its people for their fathers' sake!"</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Selah!--Oh I brothers, sons, and Southrons, rise;<br /> +To prayer: and lo! the wonder in the skies!<br /> +The sunbow spans your towers, even while the foe<br /> +Hurls his fell bolt, and rains his iron blow.<br /> +Toss'd by his shafts, the spray above yon height[1]<br /> +God's smile hath turned into a golden light;<br /> +Orange and purple-golden! In that sign<br /> +Find ye fit promise for that voice divine!<br /> +Hark! 'tis the thunder! Through the murky air,<br /> +The solemn roll goes echoing far and near!<br /> +Go forth, and unafraid! His shield is yours!<br /> +And the great spirits of your earlier day--<br /> +Your fathers, hovering round your sacred shores--<br /> +Will guard your bosoms through the unequal fray!<br /> +Hark to their voices, issuing through the gloom:[2]<br /> +"The cruel hosts that haunt you, march to doom:<br /> +Give them the vulture's rites--a naked tomb!<br /> +And, while ye bravely smite, with fierce endeavor,<br /> +The foe shall reach your city--never! never!"</p> + + +<p>[1] Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years +old.</p> + +<p>[2]In the late engagement of Fort Sumter, with the enemy's fleet, April +7th, the spray thrown above the walls by their enormous missiles, was +formed into a beautiful sunbow, seeing which, General Ripley, with the +piety of Constantine, exclaimed: "<i>In hoc signo vinces!</i>"</p> + + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="123"></a>War-Waves.</h1> + +<h2>By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston.</h2> + + + +<p>What are the war-waves saying,<br /> + As they compass us around?<br /> +The dark, ensanguined billows,<br /> + With their deep and dirge-like sound?<br /> +Do they murmur of submission;<br /> + Do they call on us to bow<br /> +Our necks to the foe triumphant<br /> + Who is riding o'er us now?</p> + +<p>Never! No sound submissive<br /> + Comes from those waves sublime,<br /> +Or the low, mysterious voices<br /> + Attuned to their solemn chime!<br /> +For the hearts of our noble martyrs<br /> + Are the springs of its rich supply;<br /> +And those deeply mystic murmurs<br /> + Echo their dying cry!</p> + +<p>They bid us uplift our banner<br /> + Once more in the name of God;<br /> +And press to the goal of Freedom<br /> + By the paths our Fathers trod:<br /> +<i>They</i> passed o'er their dying brothers;<br /> + From their pale lips caught the sigh--<br /> +The <i>flame</i> of their hearts heroic,<br /> + From the flash of each closing eye!</p> + +<p>Up! Up! for the time is pressing,<br /> + The red waves close around;--<br /> +They will lift us on their billows<br /> + If our hearts are faithful found!<br /> +They will lift us high--exultant,<br /> + And the craven world shall see<br /> +The Ark of a ransomed people<br /> + Afloat on the crimson sea!</p> + +<p>Afloat, with her glorious banner--<br /> + The cross on its field of red,<br /> +Its stars, and its white folds waving<br /> + In triumph at her head;<br /> +Emblem of all that's sacred<br /> + Heralding Faith to view;<br /> +Type of unblemished honor;<br /> + Symbol of all that's true!</p> + +<p><i>Then</i> what can those waves be singing<br /> + But an anthem grand, sublime,<br /> +As they bear for our martyred heroes<br /> + A wail to the coast of Time?<br /> +What else as they roll majestic<br /> + To the far-off shadowy shore,<br /> +To join the Eternal chorus<br /> + When Time shall be no more!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="124"></a>Old Moultrie.</h1> + +<h2>By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston.</h2> + + + +<p>All lovers of poetry will know in whose liquid gold I have dipped my brush +to illumine the picture.</p> + + +<p>The splendor falls on bannered walls<br /> + Of ancient Moultrie, great in story;<br /> +And flushes now, his scar-seamed brow,<br /> + With rays of golden glory!<br /> + Great in his old renown;<br /> + Great in the honor thrown<br /> + Around him by the foe,<br /> + Had sworn to lay him low!</p> + +<p>The glory falls--historic walls<br /> + Too weak to cover foes insulting,<br /> +Become a tower--a sheltering bower--<br /> + A theme of joy exulting;<br /> + God, merciful and great,<br /> + Preserved the high estate<br /> + Of Moultrie, by His power<br /> + Through the fierce battle-hour!</p> + +<p>The splendor fell--his banners swell<br /> + Majestic forth to catch the shower;<br /> +Our own loved <i>blue</i> receives anew<br /> + A rich immortal dower!<br /> + Adown the triple bars<br /> + Of its companion, spars<br /> + Of golden glory stream;<br /> + On seven-rayed circlet beam!</p> + +<p>The glory falls--but not on walls<br /> + Of Sumter deemed <i>the post of duty</i>;<br /> +A brilliant sphere, it circles clear<br /> + The harbor in its beauty;<br /> + Holding in its embrace<br /> + The city's queenly grace;<br /> + Stern battery and tower,<br /> + Of manly strength and power,</p> + +<p>But brightest falls on Moultrie's walls,<br /> + Forever there to rest in glory,<br /> +A hallowed light--on buttress height--<br /> + Oh, fort, beloved and hoary!<br /> + Rest <i>there</i> and tell that <i>faith</i><br /> + Shall never suffer scaith;<br /> + <i>Rest there</i>-and glow afar--<br /> + <i>Hope's ever-burning star!</i></p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="125"></a>Only One Killed.</h1> + +<h2>By Julia L. Keyes, Montgomery, Ala.</h2> + + + +<p>Only one killed--in company B,<br /> + 'Twas a trifling loss--one man!<br /> +A charge of the bold and dashing Lee--<br /> +While merry enough it was, to see<br /> + The enemy, as he ran.</p> + +<p>Only one killed upon our side--<br /> + Once more to the field they turn.<br /> +Quietly now the horsemen ride--<br /> +And pause by the form of the one who died,<br /> + So bravely, as now we learn.</p> + +<p>Their grief for the comrade loved and true<br /> + For a time was unconcealed;<br /> +They saw the bullet had pierced him through<br /> +That his pain was brief--ah! very few<br /> + Die thus, on the battle-field.</p> + +<p>The news has gone to his home, afar--<br /> + Of the short and gallant fight,<br /> +Of the noble deeds of the young La Var<br /> +Whose life went out as a falling star<br /> + In the skirmish of that night.</p> + +<p>"Only one killed! It was my son,"<br /> + The widowed mother cried.<br /> +She turned but to clasp the sinking one,<br /> +Who heard not the words of the victory won,<br /> + But of him who had bravely died.</p> + +<p>Ah! death to her were a sweet relief,<br /> + The bride of a single year.<br /> +Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief,<br /> +Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf<br /> + Now trodden and brown and sere!</p> + +<p>But no, she must bear through coming life<br /> + Her burden of silent woe,<br /> +The aged mother and youthful wife<br /> +Must live through a nation's bloody strife,<br /> + Sighing, and waiting to go.</p> + +<p>Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars,<br /> + Are meeting no more to part,<br /> +They can smile once more through the crystal bars--<br /> +Where never more will the woe of wars<br /> + O'ershadow the loving--heart.</p> + +<p>Field and Fireside.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="126"></a>Land of King Cotton.[1]</h1> + +<h2>Air--Red, White, and Blue.</h2> + +<h3>By J. Augustine Signaigo.</h3> + +<h4>From the Memphis Appeal, December 18, 1861.</h4> + + + +<p>Oh! Dixie, dear land of King Cotton,<br /> + "The home of the brave and the free,"<br /> +A nation by freedom begotten,<br /> + The terror of despots to be;<br /> +Wherever thy banner is streaming,<br /> + Base tyranny quails at thy feet,<br /> +And liberty's sunlight is beaming,<br /> + In splendor of majesty sweet.</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--Three cheers for our army so true,<br /> + Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee;<br /> + Beauregard and our Davis forever,<br /> + The pride of the brave and the free!</p> + +<p>When Liberty sounds her war-rattle,<br /> + Demanding her right and her due,<br /> +The first land that rallies to battle<br /> + Is Dixie, the shrine of the true;<br /> +Thick as leaves of the forest in summer,<br /> + Her brave sons will rise on each plain,<br /> +And then strike, until each Vandal comer<br /> + Lies dead on the soil he would stain.<br /> +CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc.</p> + +<p>May the names of the dead that we cherish,<br /> + Fill memory's cup to the brim;<br /> +May the laurels they've won never perish,<br /> + "Nor star of their glory grow dim;"<br /> +May the States of the South never sever,<br /> + But the champions of freedom e'er be;<br /> +May they flourish Confederate forever,<br /> + The boast of the brave and the free.<br /> +CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc.</p> + +<p>[1] "Land of King Cotton" was the favorite song of the Tennessee troops, +but especially of the Thirteenth and One Hundred and Fifty-fourth +regiments.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="127"></a>If You Love Me.</h1> + +<h2>By J. Augustine Signaigo.</h2> + + + +<p>You have told me that you love me,<br /> + That you worship at my shrine;<br /> +That no purity above me<br /> + Can on earth be more divine.<br /> +Though the kind words you have spoken.<br /> + Sound to me most sweetly strange,<br /> +Will your pledges ne'er be broken?<br /> + Will there be in you no change?</p> + +<p>If you love me half so wildly--<br /> + Half so madly as you say,<br /> +Listen to me, darling, mildly--<br /> + Would you do aught I would pray?<br /> +If you would, then hear the thunder<br /> + Of our country's cannon speak!<br /> +While by war she's rent asunder,<br /> + Do not come my love to seek.</p> + +<p>If you love me, do not ponder,<br /> + Do not breathe what you would say,<br /> +Do not look at me with wonder,<br /> + Join your country in the fray.<br /> +Go! your aid and right hand lend her,<br /> + Breast the tyrant's angry blast:<br /> +Be her own and my defender--<br /> + Strike for freedom to the last,</p> + +<p>Then I'll vow to love none other,<br /> + While you nobly dare and do;<br /> +As you're faithful to our mother,<br /> + So I'll faithful prove to you.<br /> +But return not while the thunder<br /> + Lives in one invading sword;<br /> +Strike the despot's hirelings under--<br /> + Own no master but the Lord.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="128"></a>The Cotton Boll.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<p>While I recline<br /> +At ease beneath<br /> +This immemorial pine,<br /> +Small sphere!--<br /> +By dusky fingers brought this morning here?<br /> +And shown with boastful smiles,--<br /> +I turn thy cloven sheath,<br /> +Through which the soft white fibres peer,<br /> +That, with their gossamer bands,<br /> +Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands,<br /> +And slowly, thread by thread,<br /> +Draw forth the folded strands,<br /> +Than which the trembling line,<br /> +By whose frail help yon startled spider fled<br /> +Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging bed,<br /> +Is scarce more fine;<br /> +And as the tangled skein<br /> +Unravels in my hands,<br /> +Betwixt me and the noonday light,<br /> +A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles<br /> +The landscape broadens on my sight,<br /> +As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell<br /> +Like that which, in the ocean shell,<br /> +With mystic sound,<br /> +Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round,<br /> +And turns some city lane<br /> +Into the restless main,<br /> +With all his capes and isles!</p> + +<p>Yonder bird,--<br /> +Which floats, as if at rest,<br /> +In those blue tracts above the thunder, where<br /> +No vapors cloud the stainless air,<br /> +And never sound is heard,<br /> +Unless at such rare time<br /> +When, from the City of the Blest,<br /> +Rings down some golden chime,--<br /> +Sees not from his high place<br /> +So vast a cirque of summer space<br /> +As widens round me in one mighty field,<br /> +Which, rimmed by seas and sands,<br /> +Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams<br /> +Of gray Atlantic dawns;<br /> +And, broad as realms made up of many lands,<br /> +Is lost afar<br /> +Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns<br /> +Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams<br /> +Against the Evening Star!<br /> +And lo!<br /> +To the remotest point of sight,<br /> +Although I gaze upon no waste of snow,<br /> +The endless field is white;<br /> +And the whole landscape glows,<br /> +For many a shining league away,<br /> +With such accumulated light<br /> +As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day!<br /> +Nor lack there (for the vision grows,<br /> +And the small charm within my hands--<br /> +More potent even than the fabled one,<br /> +Which oped whatever golden mystery<br /> +Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale,<br /> +The curious ointment of the Arabian tale--<br /> +Beyond all mortal sense<br /> +Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see<br /> +Beneath its simple influence,<br /> +As if, with Uriel's crown,<br /> +I stood in some great temple of the Sun,<br /> +And looked, as Uriel, down)--<br /> +Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green<br /> +With all the common gifts of God,<br /> +For temperate airs and torrid sheen<br /> +Weave Edens of the sod;<br /> +Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold<br /> +Broad rivers wind their devious ways;<br /> +A hundred isles in their embraces fold<br /> +A hundred luminous bays;<br /> +And through yon purple haze<br /> +Vast mountains lift their pluméd peaks cloud-crowned;<br /> +And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps,<br /> +An unknown forest girds them grandly round,<br /> +In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps!<br /> +Ye stars, which though unseen, yet with me gaze<br /> +Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth!<br /> +Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays<br /> +Above it, as to light a favorite hearth!<br /> +Ye clouds, that in your temples in the West<br /> +See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers!<br /> +And, you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast<br /> +Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers!<br /> +Bear witness with me in my song of praise,<br /> +And tell the world that, since the world began,<br /> +No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays,<br /> +Or given a home to man!</p> + +<p>But these are charms already widely blown!<br /> +His be the meed whose pencil's trace<br /> +Hath touched our very swamps with grace,<br /> +And round whose tuneful way<br /> +All Southern laurels bloom;<br /> +The Poet of "The Woodlands," unto whom<br /> +Alike are known<br /> +The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone,<br /> +And the soft west-wind's sighs;<br /> +But who shall utter all the debt,<br /> +0 Land! wherein all powers are met<br /> +That bind a people's heart,<br /> +The world doth owe thee at this day,<br /> +And which it never can repay,<br /> +Yet scarcely deigns to own!<br /> +Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing<br /> +The source wherefrom doth spring<br /> +That mighty commerce which, confined<br /> +To the mean channels of no selfish mart,<br /> +Goes out to every shore<br /> +Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships<br /> +That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips<br /> +In alien lands;<br /> +Joins with a delicate web remotest strands;<br /> +And gladdening rich and poor,<br /> +Doth gild Parisian domes,<br /> +Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes,<br /> +And only bounds its blessings by mankind!<br /> +In offices like these, thy mission lies,<br /> +My Country! and it shall not end<br /> +As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend<br /> +In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard<br /> +And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard<br /> +Thy hearthstones as a bulwark; make thee great<br /> +In white and bloodless state;<br /> +And, haply, as the years increase--<br /> +Still working through its humbler reach<br /> +With that large wisdom which the ages teach--<br /> +Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace!</p> + +<p>As men who labor in that mine<br /> +Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed<br /> +Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead,<br /> +Hear the dull booming of the world of brine<br /> +Above them, and a mighty muffled roar<br /> +Of winds and waters, and yet toil calmly on,<br /> +And split the rock, and pile the massive ore,<br /> +Or carve a niche, or shape the archéd roof;<br /> +So I, as calmly, weave my woof<br /> +Of song, chanting the days to come,<br /> +Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air<br /> +Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn<br /> +Wakes from its starry silence to the hum<br /> +Of many gathering armies. Still,<br /> +In that we sometimes hear,<br /> +Upon the Northern winds the voice of woe<br /> +Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know<br /> +The end must crown us, and a few brief years<br /> +Dry all our tears,<br /> +I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will<br /> +Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget<br /> +That there is much even Victory must regret.<br /> +And, therefore, not too long<br /> +From the great burden of our country's wrong<br /> +Delay our just release!</p> + +<p>And, if it may be, save<br /> +These sacred fields of peace<br /> +From stain of patriot or of hostile blood!<br /> +Oh, help us Lord! to roll the crimson flood<br /> +Back on its course, and, while our banners wing<br /> +Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling<br /> +To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave<br /> +Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate<br /> +The lenient future of his fate<br /> +There, where some rotting ships and trembling quays<br /> +Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="129"></a>The Battle of Charleston Harbor.</h1> + +<h2>April 7th, 1863.</h2> + +<h3>By Paul H. Hayne.</h3> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day,<br /> +The Northman's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay;<br /> +They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave,<br /> +Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew<br /> +More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue,<br /> +And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar,<br /> +Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening Star!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands,<br /> +The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands,<br /> +So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise,<br /> +They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold,<br /> +Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold--<br /> +They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely-echoing cheers,<br /> +And then--once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Onward--in sullen file, and slow, low glooming on the wave,<br /> +Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,<br /> +When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore,<br /> +Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore![1]</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>Ha! brutal Corsairs! tho' ye come thrice-cased in iron mail,<br /> +Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail!<br /> +Ye strive the ruffian types of Might 'gainst law, and truth, and Right,<br /> +Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>No empty boast! I for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher,<br /> +Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire.<br /> +The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above.<br /> +Fight on! oh! knightly Gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love!</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise,<br /> +To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' Death must give the prize--<br /> +There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient Town,<br /> +A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down.</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps,<br /> +Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps;<br /> +And ship by ship, raked, overborne, 'ere burned the sunset bloom,<br /> +Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb!</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>Oh! glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires,<br /> +Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires--<br /> +Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons,<br /> +And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's Angels near the guns!</p> + +<p> +[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="130"></a>Fort Wagner.</h1> + +<h2>By W. Gilmore Simms.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Glory unto the gallant boys who stood<br /> + At Wagner, and, unflinching, sought the van;<br /> +Dealing fierce blows, and shedding precious blood,<br /> + For homes as precious, and dear rights of man!<br /> +They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory;--<br /> + Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat<br /> +The legend, which shall grow to themes for story,<br /> + Told through long ages, and forever sweet!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>High honor to our youth--our sons and brothers,<br /> + Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand!<br /> +They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers,<br /> + But keep, through storm, the bulwarks of the land!<br /> +They feel that they <i>must</i> conquer! Not to do it,<br /> + Were worse than death--perdition! Should they fail,<br /> +The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it,<br /> + The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>No! They must conquer in the breach or perish!<br /> + Assured, in the last consciousness of breath,<br /> +That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish<br /> + Their deeds, with honors that shall sweeten death!<br /> +They shall have trophies in long future hours,<br /> + And loving recollections, which shall be<br /> +Green, as the summer leaves, and fresh as flowers,<br /> + That, through all seasons, bloom eternally!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Their memories shall be monuments, to rise<br /> + Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past;<br /> +Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies,<br /> + And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast!<br /> +A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted,<br /> + Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;--<br /> +A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted,<br /> + When skies and seas around thee shook with fire!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>And others as well chronicled shall be!<br /> + What though they fell with unrecorded name--<br /> +They live among the archives of the free,<br /> + With proudest title to undying fame!<br /> +The unchisell'd marble under which they sleep,<br /> + Shall tell of heroes, fearless still of fate;<br /> +Not asking if their memories shall keep,<br /> + But if they nobly served, and saved, the State!</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>For thee, young Fortress Wagner--thou shalt wear<br /> + Green laurels, worthy of the names that now,<br /> +Thy sister forts of Moultrie, Sumter, bear!<br /> + See that thou lift'st, for aye, as proud a brow!<br /> +And thou shalt be, to future generations,<br /> + A trophied monument; whither men shall come<br /> +In homage; and report to distant nations,<br /> +A SHRINE, which foes shall never make a TOMB!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="131"></a>Sumter in Ruins.</h1> + +<h2>By W. Gilmore Simms.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Ye batter down the lion's den,<br /> + But yet the lordly beast g'oes free;<br /> +And ye shall hear his roar again,<br /> +From mountain height, from lowland glen,<br /> +From sandy shore and reedy fen--<br /> +Where'er a band of freeborn men<br /> + Rears sacred shrines to liberty.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>The serpent scales the eagle's nest,<br /> + And yet the royal bird, in air,<br /> +Triumphant wins the mountain's crest,<br /> +And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest,<br /> +And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast,<br /> +Till, like a storm-bolt from the west,<br /> + He strikes the invader in his lair.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>What's loss of den, or nest, or home,<br /> + If, like the lion, free to go;--<br /> +If, like the eagle, wing'd to roam,<br /> +We span the rock and breast the foam,<br /> +Still watchful for the hour of doom,<br /> +When, with the knell of thunder-boom,<br /> + We bound upon the serpent foe!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Oh! noble sons of lion heart!<br /> + Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing!<br /> +What though your batter'd bulwarks part,<br /> +Your nest be spoiled by reptile art--<br /> +Your souls, on wings of hate, shall start<br /> +For vengeance, and with lightning-dart,<br /> + Rend the foul serpent ere he sting!</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Your battered den, your shattered nest,<br /> + Was but the lion's crouching-place;--<br /> +It heard his roar, and bore his crest,<br /> +His, or the eagle's place of rest;--<br /> +But not the soul in either breast!<br /> +This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd,<br /> + To save and to avenge their race!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="132"></a>Morris Island.</h1> + +<h2>By W. Gilmore Simms.</h2> + + + +<p>Oh! from the deeds well done, the blood well shed<br /> + In a good cause springs up to crown the land<br /> +With ever-during verdure, memory fed,<br /> + Wherever freedom rears one fearless band,<br /> +The genius, which makes sacred time and place,<br /> +Shaping the grand memorials of a race!</p> + +<p>The barren rock becomes a monument,<br /> + The sea-shore sands a shrine;<br /> +And each brave life, in desperate conflict spent,<br /> + Grows to a memory which prolongs a line!</p> + +<p>Oh! barren isle--oh! fruitless shore,<br /> + Oh! realm devoid of beauty--how the light<br /> +From glory's sun streams down for evermore,<br /> + Hallowing your ancient barrenness with bright!</p> + +<p>Brief dates, your lowly forts; but full of glory,<br /> + Worthy a life-long story;<br /> +Remembered, to be chronicled and read,<br /> + When all your gallant garrisons are dead;<br /> + And to be sung<br /> +While liberty and letters find a tongue!</p> + +<p>Taught by the grandsires at the ingle-blaze,<br /> + Through the long winter night;<br /> +Pored over, memoried well, in winter days,<br /> + While youthful admiration, with delight,<br /> +Hangs, breathless, o'er the tale, with silent praise;<br /> +Seasoning delight with wonder, as he reads<br /> +Of stubborn conflict and audacious deeds;<br /> + Watching the endurance of the free and brave,<br /> + Through the protracted struggle and close fight,<br /> +Contending for the lands they may not save,<br /> + Against the felon, and innumerous foe;<br /> +Still struggling, though each rampart proves a grave.<br /> + For home, and all that's dear to man below!</p> + +<p>Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow;<br /> + But still undaunted, with a martyr's might,<br /> + They make for man a new Thermopylæ;<br /> +And, perishing for freedom, still go free!<br /> + Let but each humble islet of our coast<br /> +Thus join the terrible issue to the last;<br /> + And never shall the invader make his boast<br /> +Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply<br /> + He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="133"></a>Promise of Spring.</h1> + + + +<p> The sun-beguiling breeze,<br /> + From the soft Cuban seas,<br /> +With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers;<br /> + And lo! our city elms,<br /> + Have plumed with buds their helms,<br /> +And, with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers.</p> + +<p> The promise of the Spring,<br /> + Is in every glancing wing<br /> +That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the flight;<br /> + And mocking Winter's glooms,<br /> + Skies, air and earth grow blooms,<br /> +With change as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night!</p> + +<p> Ah! could our hearts but share<br /> + The promise rich and rare,<br /> +That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress,<br /> + That makes each innocent thing<br /> + Put on its bloom and wing,<br /> +Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless!</p> + +<p> But, alas for us, no more<br /> + Shall the coming hour rescore<br /> +The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls;<br /> + Even as the Spring appears,<br /> + Her smiling makes our tears,<br /> +While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.</p> + +<p> Even as our zephyrs sing<br /> + That they bring us in the Spring,<br /> +Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight--<br /> + We see the serpent crawl,<br /> + With his slimy coat o'er all,<br /> +And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.</p> + +<p> We shudder at the blooms,<br /> + Which but serve to cover tombs--<br /> +At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath;<br /> + Sad shapes look out from trees,<br /> + And in sky and earth and breeze,<br /> +We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!</p> + +<p>South Carolinian.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="134"></a>Spring.</h1> + +<h2>By Henry Timrod.</h2> + + + +<p>Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air<br /> +Which dwells with all things fair,<br /> +Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,<br /> +Is with us once again.</p> + +<p>Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns<br /> +Its fragrant lamps, and turns<br /> +Into a royal court with green festoons<br /> +The banks of dark lagoons.</p> + +<p>In the deep heart of every forest tree<br /> +The blood is all aglee,<br /> +And there's a look about the leafless bowers<br /> +As if they dreamed of flowers.</p> + +<p>Yet still on every side appears the hand<br /> +Of Winter in the land,<br /> +Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,<br /> +Flushed by the season's dawn;</p> + +<p>Or where, like those strange semblances we find<br /> +That age to childhood bind,<br /> +The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,<br /> +The brown of Autumn corn.</p> + +<p>As yet the turf is dark, although you know<br /> +That, not a span below,<br /> +A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,<br /> +And soon will burst their tomb.</p> + +<p>Already, here and there, on frailest stems<br /> +Appear some azure gems,<br /> +Small as might deck, upon a gala day,<br /> +The forehead of a fay.</p> + +<p>In gardens you may see, amid the dearth,<br /> +The crocus breaking earth;<br /> +And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,<br /> +The violet in its screen.</p> + +<p>But many gleams and shadows need must pass<br /> +Along the budding grass,<br /> +And weeks go by, before the enamored South<br /> +Shall kiss the rose's mouth.</p> + +<p>Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn<br /> +In the sweet airs of morn;<br /> +One almost looks to see the very street<br /> +Grow purple at his feet.</p> + +<p>At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by<br /> +And brings, you know not why,<br /> +A feeling as when eager crowds await<br /> +Before a palace gate.</p> + +<p>Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,<br /> +If from a beech's heart<br /> +A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say<br /> +"Behold me! I am May!"</p> + +<p>Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime<br /> +With such a blessed time!<br /> +Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath<br /> +Could hear the call of Death!</p> + +<p>Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake<br /> +The voice of wood and brake,<br /> +Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms<br /> +A million men to arms.</p> + +<p>There shall be deeper hues upon her plains<br /> +Than all her sunlight rains,<br /> +And every gladdening influence around<br /> +Can summon from the ground.</p> + +<p>Oh! standing on this desecrated mould,<br /> +Methinks that I behold,<br /> +Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,<br /> +Spring, kneeling on the sod,</p> + +<p>And calling with the voice of all her rills<br /> +Upon the ancient hills,<br /> +To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves<br /> +Who turn her meads to graves.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="135"></a>Chickmauga--"The Stream of Death."</h1> + +<h2>Richmond Senitnel.</h2> + + + +<p>Chickamuga! Chickamauga!<br /> + O'er thy dark and turbid wave<br /> +Rolls the death-cry of the daring,<br /> + Rings the war-shout of the brave;<br /> +Round thy shore the red fires flashing,<br /> + Startling shot and screaming shell--<br /> +Chickamauga, stream of battle,<br /> + Who thy fearful tale shall tell?</p> + +<p>Olden memories of horror,<br /> + Sown by scourge of deadly plague,<br /> +Long hath clothed thy circling forests<br /> + With a terror vast and vague;<br /> +Now to gather further vigor<br /> + From the phantoms grim with gore,<br /> +Hurried, by war's wilder carnage,<br /> + To their graves on thy lone shore.</p> + +<p>Long, with hearts subdued and saddened,<br /> + As th' oppressor's hosts moved on,<br /> +Fell the arms of freedom backward,<br /> + Till our hopes had almost flown;<br /> +Till outspoke stern valor's fiat--<br /> + "<i>Here</i> th' invading wave shall stay;<br /> +<i>Here</i> shall cease the foe's proud progress;<br /> + <i>Here</i> be crushed his grand array!"</p> + +<p><i>Then</i> their eager hearts all throbbing,<br /> + Backward flashed each battle-flag<br /> +Of the veteran corps of Longstreet,<br /> + And the sturdy troops of Bragg;<br /> +Fierce upon the foemen turning,<br /> + All their pent-up wrath breaks out<br /> +In the furious battle-clangor,<br /> + And the frenzied battle-shout.</p> + +<p>Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga,<br /> + Trembles all thy ghastly shore,<br /> +With the rude shock of the onset,<br /> + And the tumult's horrid roar;<br /> +As the Southern battle-giants<br /> + Hurl their bolts of death along,<br /> +Breckenridge, the iron-hearted,<br /> + Cheatham, chivalric and strong:</p> + +<p>Polk Preston--gallant Buckner,<br /> + Hill and Hindman, strong in might,<br /> +Cleburne, flower of manly valor,<br /> + Hood, the Ajax of the fight;<br /> +Benning, bold and hardy warrior,<br /> + Fearless, resolute Kershaw;<br /> +Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt,<br /> + Volley fierce and wild hurrah!</p> + +<p>At the volleys bleed their bodies,<br /> + At the fierce shout rise their souls,<br /> +While the fiery wave of vengeance<br /> + On their quailing column rolls;<br /> +And the parched throats of the stricken<br /> + Breathe for air the roaring flame,<br /> +Horrors of that hell foretasted,<br /> + Who shall ever dare to name!</p> + +<p>Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled,<br /> + Paid, upon that bloody field,<br /> +Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage<br /> + To the sword our heroes yield;<br /> +And who felt, by fiery trial,<br /> + That the men who will be free.<br /> +Though in conflict baffled often,<br /> + Ever will unconquered be!</p> + +<p>Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,<br /> + Dealing desolation round,<br /> +Marking, with the tracks of ruin,<br /> + Many a rood of Southern ground;<br /> +Yet, whatever course they follow,<br /> + <i>Somewhere</i> in their pathway flows,<br /> +Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,<br /> + <i>Stream of death</i> to vandal foes!</p> + +<p>They have found it darkly flowing<br /> + By Manassas' famous plain,<br /> +And by rushing Shenandoah<br /> + Met the tide of woe again;<br /> +Chickahominy, immortal,<br /> + By the long, ensanguined fight,<br /> +Rappahannock, glorious river,<br /> + Twice renowned for matchless fight.</p> + +<p>Heed the story, dastard spoilers,<br /> + Mark the tale these waters tell,<br /> +Ponder well your fearful lesson,<br /> + And the doom that there befell;<br /> +Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,<br /> + Sworn upon the votive sword,<br /> +"<i>Every</i> stream a Chickamauga<br /> + To the vile invading horde!"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="136"></a>In Memoriam</h1> + +<h2>Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General +Confederate States Army.</h2> + + + +<p>Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done,<br /> + This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended:<br /> +There is no more--eternity begun,<br /> + Faith merged in sight--hope with fruition blended.<br /> + Peace, troubled soul!<br /> +The Warrior rests upon his bier,<br /> + Within his coffin calmly sleeping.<br /> + His requiem the cannon peals,<br /> + And heroes of a hundred fields<br /> + Their last sad watch are round him keeping.</p> + +<p>Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale<br /> + Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling;<br /> +Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale,<br /> + Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling.<br /> + Joy, sainted soul!<br /> +Back to her altar which he served,<br /> + The Holy Church her child is bringing.<br /> + The organ's wail then dies away,<br /> + And kneeling priests around him pray,<br /> + As <i>De Profundis</i> they are singing.</p> + +<p>Bring all the trophies, that are owed<br /> + To him at once so great, so good.<br /> +His Bible and his well-used sword--<br /> + His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!"<br /> +No! pure as when before his God,<br /> + He laid its spotless folds aside,<br /> +War's path of awful duty trod,<br /> + And on his country's altar died!</p> + +<p>Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State<br /> + Sustain in thee an equal loss;<br /> +But who would call thee from thy weight<br /> + Of glory, back to bear life's cross!<br /> +The Faith was kept--thy course was run,<br /> + Thy good fight finished; hence the word,<br /> +"Well done, oh! faithful child, well done,<br /> + Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!"</p> + +<p>No dull decay nor lingering pain,<br /> + By slow degrees, consumed thy health,<br /> +A glowing messenger of flame<br /> + Translated thee by fiery death!<br /> +And we who in one common grief<br /> + Are bending now beneath the rod,<br /> +In this sweet thought may find relief,<br /> + "Our holy father walked with God,<br /> +And is not--God has taken him!"</p> + +<p>Viola.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="137"></a>"Stonewall" Jackson</h1> + +<h2>By H. L. Flash.</h2> + + + +<p>Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fight<br /> +Not in the rush upon the vandal foe,<br /> +Did kingly death, with his resistless might,<br /> +Lay the great leader low!</p> + +<p>His warrior soul its earthly shackles bore<br /> +In the full sunshine of a peaceful town;<br /> +When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oak<br /> +That propped our cause, went down.</p> + +<p>Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,<br /> +Recording all his grand heroic deeds,<br /> +Freedom herself is writhing with his wound,<br /> +And all the country bleeds.</p> + +<p>He entered not the nation's "Promised Land,"<br /> +At the red belching of the cannon's mouth;<br /> +But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand--<br /> +The Moses of the South!</p> + +<p>Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss:<br /> +A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown;<br /> +And while his country staggers with the cross--<br /> +He rises with the crown!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="138"></a>"Stonewall" Jackson.--A Dirge.</h1> + + + +<p>Go to thy rest, great chieftain!<br /> +In the zenith of thy fame;<br /> +With the proud heart stilled and frozen,<br /> +No foeman e'er could tame;<br /> +With the eye that met the battle<br /> +As the eagle's meets the sun,<br /> +Rayless-beneath its marble lid,<br /> +Repose-thou mighty one!</p> + +<p>Yet ill our cause could spare thee;<br /> +And harsh the blow of fate<br /> +That struck its staunchest pillar<br /> +From 'neath our dome of state.<br /> +Of thee, as of the Douglas,<br /> +We say, with Scotland's king,<br /> +"There is not one to take his place<br /> +In all the knightly ring."</p> + +<p>Thou wert the noblest captain<br /> +Of all that martial host<br /> +That front the haughty Northman,<br /> +And put to shame his boast.<br /> +Thou wert the strongest bulwark<br /> +To stay the tide of fight;<br /> +The name thy soldiers gave thee<br /> +Bore witness of thy might!</p> + +<p>But we may not weep above thee;<br /> +This is no time for tears!<br /> +Thou wouldst not brook their shedding,<br /> +Oh! saint among thy peers!<br /> +Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven,<br /> +Above us smiling spread,<br /> +Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief,<br /> +On the blood-stained path we tread!</p> + +<p>Not--while our homes in ashes<br /> +Lie smouldering on the sod!<br /> +Not--while our houseless women<br /> +Send up wild wails to God!<br /> +Not--while the mad fanatic<br /> +Strews ruin on his track!<br /> +<i>Dare</i> any Southron give the rein<br /> +To feeling, and look back!</p> + +<p>No! Still the cry is "onward!"<br /> +This is no time for tears;<br /> +No I Still the word is "vengeance!"<br /> +Leave ruth for coming years.<br /> +We will snatch thy glorious banner<br /> +From thy dead and stiffening hand,<br /> +And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm,<br /> +We'll bear it through the land.</p> + +<p>And all who mark it streaming--<br /> +Oh! soldier of the cross!--<br /> +Shall gird them with a fresh resolve<br /> +Sternly to avenge our loss;<br /> +Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr,<br /> +Thy sacred mission shown,<br /> +Shalt lay the record of our wrongs<br /> +Before the Eternal throne!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="139"></a>Beaufort.</h1> + +<h2>By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina.</h2> + + + +<p>Old home! what blessings late were yours;<br /> + The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!<br /> +Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores,<br /> + To ravage and destroy.</p> + +<p>The Northman comes no longer there,<br /> + With soft address and measured phrase,<br /> +With bated breath, and sainted air,<br /> + And simulated praise.</p> + +<p>He comes a vulture to his prey;<br /> + A wolf to raven in your streets:<br /> +Around on shining stream and bay<br /> + Gather his bandit fleets.</p> + +<p>They steal the pittance of the poor;<br /> + Pollute the precincts of the dead;<br /> +Despoil the widow of her store,--<br /> + The orphan of his bread.</p> + +<p>Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood,<br /> + No Christian land has known before;<br /> +Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood,<br /> + To sweep them from the shore!</p> + +<p>Exiles from home, your people fly,<br /> + In adverse fortune's hardest school;<br /> +With swelling breast and flashing eye--<br /> + They scorn the tyrant's rule!</p> + +<p>Away, from all their joys away,<br /> + The sports that active youth engage;<br /> +The scenes where childhood loves to play,<br /> + The resting-place of age.</p> + +<p>Away, from fertile field and farm;<br /> + The oak-fringed island-homes that seem<br /> +To sit like swans, with matchless charm,<br /> + On sea-born sound and stream.</p> + +<p>Away, from palm-environed coast,<br /> + The beach that ocean beats in vain;<br /> +The Royal Port, your pride and boast,<br /> + The loud-resounding main.</p> + +<p>Away, from orange groves that glow<br /> + With golden fruit or snowy flowers,<br /> +Roses that never cease to blow,<br /> + Myrtle and jasmine bowers.</p> + +<p>From these afar, the hoary bead<br /> + Of feeble age, the timid maid,<br /> +Mothers and nurslings, all have fled,<br /> + Of ruthless foes afraid.</p> + +<p>But, ready, with avenging hand,<br /> + By wood and fen, in ambush lie<br /> +Your sons, a stern, determined band,<br /> + Intent to do or die.</p> + +<p>Whene'er the foe advance to dare<br /> + The onset, urged by hate and wrath,<br /> +Still have they found, aghast with fear,<br /> + A Lion in the path.</p> + +<p>Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush,<br /> + Their shattered ranks to shield and save,<br /> +And learn how hard a task to crush<br /> + The spirit of the brave.</p> + +<p>Oh, God! Protector of the right,<br /> + The widows' stay, the orphans' friend,<br /> +Restrain the rage of lawless might,<br /> + The wronged and crushed defend!</p> + +<p>Be guide and helper, sword and shield!<br /> + From hill and vale, where'er they roam,<br /> +Bring back the yeoman to his field,<br /> + The exile to his home!</p> + +<p>Pastors and scattered flocks restore;<br /> + Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise;<br /> +And let their quivering lips once more<br /> + Rejoice in songs of praise!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="140"></a>The Empty Sleeve.</h1> + +By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia. + + + +<p>Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see<br /> + The sleeve hanging loose at your side<br /> +The arm you lost was worth to me<br /> + Every Yankee that ever died.<br /> +But you don't mind it at all;<br /> + You swear you've a beautiful stump,<br /> +And laugh at that damnable ball--<br /> + Tom, I knew you were always a trump.</p> + +<p>A good right arm, a nervy hand,<br /> + A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,<br /> +Buried deep in the Malverri sand--<br /> + To laugh at that, is a sorry joke.<br /> +Never again your iron grip<br /> + Shall I feel in my shrinking palm--<br /> +Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip;<br /> + All within is not so calm.</p> + +<p>Well! the arm is gone, it is true;<br /> + But the one that is nearest the heart<br /> +Is left--and that's as good as two;<br /> + Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?<br /> +Why, man, <i>she</i> thinks that empty sleeve<br /> + A badge of honor; so do I,<br /> +And all of us:--I do believe<br /> + The fellow is going to cry!</p> + +<p>"She deserves a perfect man," you say;<br /> + "You were not worth her in your prime:"<br /> +Tom! the arm that has turned to clay,<br /> + Your whole body has made sublime;<br /> +For you have placed in the Malvern earth<br /> + The proof and pledge of a noble life--<br /> +And the rest, henceforward of higher worth,<br /> + Will be dearer than all to your wife.</p> + +<p>I see the people in the street<br /> + Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes;<br /> +And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet<br /> + As homage shown in mute surmise.<br /> +Bravely your arm in battle strove,<br /> + Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it;<br /> +It has perished--but a nation's love<br /> + In proud remembrance will save it.</p> + +<p>Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith--<br /> + You're a fool for staying so long--<br /> +Woman's love you'll find no myth,<br /> + But a truth; living, tender, strong.<br /> +And when around her slender belt<br /> + Your left is clasped in fond embrace,<br /> +Your right will thrill, as if it felt,<br /> + In its grave, the usurper's place.</p> + +<p>As I look through the coming years,<br /> + I see a one-armed married man;<br /> +A little woman, with smiles and tears,<br /> + Is helping--as hard as she can<br /> +To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve,<br /> + Tie his cravat, and cut his food;<br /> +And I say, as these fancies I weave,<br /> + "That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."</p> + +<p>The years roll on, and then I see<br /> + A wedding picture, bright and fair;<br /> +I look closer, and its plain to me<br /> + That is Tom with the silver hair.<br /> +He gives away the lovely bride,<br /> + And the guests linger, loth to leave<br /> +The house of him in whom they pride--<br /> + "Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="141"></a>The Cotton-Burners' Hymn.</h1> + + + +<p>"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, +was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the +last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--<i>Memphis +Appeal.</i></p> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<p>Lo! where Mississippi rolls<br /> + Oceanward its stream,<br /> +Upward mounting, folds on folds,<br /> + Flaming fire-tongues gleam;<br /> +'Tis the planters' grand oblation<br /> + On the altar of the nation;<br /> +'Tis a willing sacrifice--<br /> +Let the golden incense rise--<br /> +Pile the Cotton to the skies!<br /> + CHORUS--Lo! the sacrificial flame<br /> + Gilds the starry dome of night!<br /> + Nations! read the mute acclaim--<br /> + 'Tis for liberty we fight!<br /> + Homes! Religion! Right!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Never such a golden light<br /> + Lit the vaulted sky;<br /> +Never sacrifice as bright,<br /> + Rose to God on high:<br /> +Thousands oxen, what were they<br /> +To the offering we pay?<br /> +And the brilliant holocaust--<br /> +When the revolution's past--<br /> +In the nation's songs will last!<br /> + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Though the night be dark above,<br /> + Broken though the shield--<br /> +Those who love us, those we love,<br /> + Bid us never yield:<br /> +Never! though our bravest bleed,<br /> +And the vultures on them feed;<br /> +Never! though the Serpents' race--<br /> +Hissing hate and vile disgrace--<br /> +By the million should menace!<br /> + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Pile the Cotton to the skies;<br /> + Lo! the Northmen gaze;<br /> +England! see our sacrifice--<br /> + See the Cotton blaze!<br /> +God of nations! now to Thee,<br /> +Southrons bend th' imploring knee;<br /> +'Tis our country's hour of need--<br /> +Hear the mothers intercede--<br /> +Hear the little children plead!<br /> + CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="142"></a>Reading the List.</h1> + + + +<p>"Is there any news of the war?" she said--<br /> +"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"<br /> + Was the man's reply,<br /> + Without lifting his eye<br /> + To the face of the woman standing by.<br /> +"'Tis the very thing--I want," she said;<br /> +"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."</p> + +<p>He read the list--'twas a sad array<br /> +Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;<br /> + In the very midst, was a pause to tell<br /> + Of a gallant youth, who fought so well<br /> +That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?"<br /> +"The only son of the Widow Gray,"<br /> + Was the proud reply<br /> + Of his Captain nigh.<br /> +What ails the woman standing near?<br /> +Her face has the ashen hue of fear!</p> + +<p>"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!<br /> +Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!"<br /> + "Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say,<br /> + Killed outright on that fatal day."<br /> + But see, the woman has swooned away!</p> + +<p>Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;<br /> +Slowly recalled the events of the fight;<br /> +Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright!<br /> + It has cost me the life of my only son;<br /> + But the battle is fought, and the victory won;<br /> + The will of the Lord, let it be done!"</p> + +<p>God pity the cheerless Widow Gray,<br /> +And send from the halls of eternal day,<br /> +The light of His peace to illumine her way!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="143"></a>His Last Words.</h1> + + + +<p>"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his +delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry +rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks--.' Here the sentence was left +unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he +murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest +under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any +expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away."</p> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees,<br /> +And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze;<br /> +Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there.<br /> +Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before,<br /> +Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore;<br /> +So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze,<br /> +Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark:<br /> +'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark.<br /> +Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease,<br /> +We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried,<br /> +And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide.<br /> +Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease,<br /> +There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="144"></a>Charge of Hagood's Brigade.</h1> + +<h2>Weldon Railroad, August 21, 1864.</h2> + + + +<p>The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after +the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade +as their most desperate encounter.</p> + + +<p>Scarce seven hundred men they stand<br /> + In tattered, rude array,<br /> +A remnant of that gallant band,<br /> +Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand<br /> +Of Morris' isle, with iron hand<br /> + 'Gainst Yankees' hated sway.</p> + +<p>SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims,<br /> +And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames,<br /> +And the dark battle on the streams<br /> + Of POCOTALIGO:<br /> +And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight,<br /> +And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height,<br /> +Whence, at the gray dawn of the light,<br /> + They rushed upon the foe.</p> + +<p>Tattered and torn those banners now,<br /> +But not less proud each lofty brow,<br /> + Untaught as yet to yield:<br /> +With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye,<br /> +Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly<br /> +Flecking with smoke the azure sky<br /> + On Weldon's fated field.</p> + +<p>Sweeps from the woods the bold array,<br /> +Not theirs to falter in the fray,<br /> +No men more sternly trained than they<br /> + To meet their deadly doom:<br /> +While, from a hundred throats agape,<br /> +A hundred sulphurous flames escape,<br /> +Round shot, and canister, and grape,<br /> + The thundering cannon's boom!</p> + +<p>Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash<br /> +Shrapnel and ball commingling clash,<br /> +And bursting shells, with lurid flash,<br /> + Their dazzled sight confound:<br /> +Trembles the earth beneath their feet,<br /> +Along their front a rattling sheet<br /> +Of leaden hail concentric meet,<br /> + And numbers strew the ground.</p> + +<p>On, o'er the dying and the dead,<br /> +O'er mangled limb and gory head,<br /> +With martial look, with martial tread,<br /> +March Hagood's men to bloody bed,<br /> + Honor their sole reward;<br /> +Himself doth lead their battle line,<br /> + Himself those banners guard.</p> + +<p>They win the height, those gallant few,<br /> +A fiercer struggle to renew,<br /> +Resolved as gallant men to do<br /> + Or sink in glory's shroud;<br /> +But scarcely gain its stubborn crest,<br /> +Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast,<br /> +An impious foe has dared to wrest<br /> + That banner proud.</p> + +<p>Upon him, Hagood, in thy might!<br /> +Flash on thy soul th' immortal light<br /> +Of those brave deeds that blazon bright<br /> + Our Southern Cross.<br /> +He dies. Unfurl its folds again,<br /> +Let it wave proudly o'er the plain;<br /> +The dying shall forget their pain,<br /> + Count not their loss.</p> + +<p>Then, rallying to your chieftain's call,<br /> +Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball<br /> +Hemmed in, as by a living wall,<br /> + Cleave back your way.<br /> +Those bannered deeds their souls inspire,<br /> +Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire,<br /> +By the Two Hundred who retire<br /> + Of that array.</p> + +<p>Ah, Carolina! well the tear<br /> +May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear<br /> +In passion, o'er their tombless bier,<br /> + Thy fallen chivalry!<br /> +Malony, mirror of the brave,<br /> +And Sellers lie in glorious grave;<br /> +No prouder fate than theirs, who gave<br /> + Their lives for Liberty.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="145"></a>Carolina.</h1> + +<h2>April 14, 1861.</h2> + +<h3>By John A. Wagener, of S.C.</h3> + + + +<p>Carolina! Carolina!<br /> + Noble name in State and story,<br /> + How I love thy truthful glory,<br /> + As I love the blue sky o'er ye,<br /> + Carolina evermore!</p> + +<p>Carolina! Carolina!<br /> +Land of chivalry unfearing,<br /> +Daughters fair beyond comparing,<br /> +Sons of worth, and noble daring,<br /> +Carolina evermore!</p> + +<p>Carolina! Carolina!<br /> +Soft thy clasp in loving greeting,<br /> +Plenteous board and kindly meeting,<br /> +All thy pulses nobly beating,<br /> +Carolina evermore!</p> + +<p>Carolina! Carolina!<br /> +Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven,<br /> +Bold thy streams through forest riven,<br /> +Bright thy laurels, hero-given,<br /> +Carolina evermore!</p> + +<p>Carolina! Carolina!<br /> +Holy name, and dear forever,<br /> +Never shall thy childen, never,<br /> +Fail to strike with grand endeavor,<br /> +Carolina evermore!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="146"></a>Savannah.</h1> + +<h2>By Alethea S. Burroughs.</h2> + + + +<p>Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,<br /> +Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!<br /> +Not like a lamb to slaughter led,<br /> +But with the lion's monarch tread,<br /> +Thou eomest to thy battle bed,<br /> + Savannah! oh, Savannah!</p> + +<p>Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;<br /> +The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;<br /> +To thee, the triple cords belong,<br /> +Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong,<br /> +And spirit vaunted long, <i>too</i> long!<br /> + Savannah! oh, Savannah!</p> + +<p>No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;<br /> +Only the martyrs' blood is there;<br /> +It gleams upon thy bosom bier,<br /> +It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,<br /> +And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,<br /> + Savannah! oh, Savannah!</p> + +<p>Thy clean white hand is opened wide<br /> +For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;<br /> +The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,<br /> +Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,<br /> +Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,<br /> + Savannah! oh, Savannah!</p> + +<p>What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers--<br /> +Still at thy feet the old oak towers;<br /> +Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,<br /> +And things of beauty, love, and flowers<br /> +Are smiling o'er this land of ours,<br /> + My sunny home, Savannah!</p> + +<p>There is no film before thy sight--<br /> +Thou seest woe, and death, and night--<br /> +And blood upon thy banner bright;<br /> +But in thy full wrath's kindled might,<br /> +What carest <i>thou</i> for woe, or night?<br /> + My rebel home, Savannah!</p> + +<p>Come--for the crown is on thy head!<br /> +Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed,<br /> +Not like a lamb to slaughter led,<br /> +But with the lion's monarch tread,<br /> +Oh! come unto thy battle bed,<br /> + Savannah! oh, Savannah!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="147"></a>"Old Betsy."</h1> + +<h2>By John Killum.</h2> + + + +<p>Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping,<br /> + Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth;<br /> +Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,<br /> + Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.</p> + +<p>Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding,<br /> + Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South;<br /> +Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding<br /> + Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.</p> + +<p>Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you,<br /> + When the fierce bear was cut down in his track--<br /> +If at that moment she never deceived you,<br /> + Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.</p> + +<p>Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping,<br /> + Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth;<br /> +Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,<br /> + Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="148"></a>Awake--Arise!</h1> + +<h2>By G. W. Archer, M. D.</h2> + + + +<p>Sons of the South--awake--arise!<br /> + A million foes sweep down amain,<br /> +Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes,<br /> + And fire and rapine in their train,<br /> + Like savage Hun and merciless Dane!<br /> + "We come as brothers!" Trust them not!<br /> + By all that's dear in heaven and earth,<br /> + By every tie that hath its birth<br /> + Within your homes--around your hearth;<br /> +Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot,<br /> + Worse for the fair and sleek disguise--<br /> +A traitor in a patriot's cloak!<br /> + "Your country's good<br /> + Demands your blood!"<br /> +Was it a fiend from hell that spoke?</p> + +<p>They point us to the Stripes and Stars;<br /> + (Our banner erst--the despot's now!)<br /> +But let not thoughts of by-gone wars,<br /> + When beat we back the common foe,<br /> + And felled them fast and shamed them so,<br /> +Divide us at this fearful hour;<br /> + But think of dungeons and of chains--<br /> + Think of your violated fanes--<br /> + Of your loved homestead's gory stains--<br /> +Eternal thraldom for your dower!<br /> +No love of country fires their breasts--<br /> +The fell fanatics fain would free<br /> + A grovelling race,<br /> + And in their place<br /> +Would fetter us with fiendish glee!</p> + +<p>Sons of the South--awake--awake!<br /> + And strike for rights full dear as those<br /> + For which our struggling sires did shake<br /> + Earth's proudest throne--while freedom rose,<br /> + Baptized in blood of braggart foes.<br /> +Awake--that hour hath come again!<br /> + Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne--<br /> + Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown--<br /> + Strike! in the name of Washington,<br /> +Who taught you once to rend the chain,<br /> + Smiles now from heaven upon our cause,<br /> +So like his own. His spirit moves<br /> + Through every fight,<br /> + And lends its might<br /> +To every heart that freedom loves.</p> + +<p>Ye beauteous of the sunny land!<br /> + Unmatched your charms in all the earth,<br /> +'Neath freedom's banner take your stand;<br /> + And, though ye strike not, prove your worth,<br /> + As wont in days of joy and mirth:<br /> +Lavish your praises on the brave--<br /> + Pray when the battle fiercely lowers--<br /> + Smile when the victory is ours--<br /> + Frown on the wretch who basely cowers--<br /> +Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave!<br /> + Lend thus your favors whilst we smite!<br /> +Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!--<br /> + With woman's charms<br /> + To nerve their arms,<br /> +Oh! when have men their freedom lost!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="149"></a>General Albert Sidney Johnston.</h1> + +<h2>By Mary Jervy, of Charleston.</h2> + + + +<p>In thickest fight triumphantly he fell,<br /> + While into victory's arms he led us on;<br /> +A death so glorious our grief should quell:<br /> + We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.</p> + +<p>No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now,<br /> + No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame<br /> +Immortal honor rests upon his brow,<br /> + And noble memories cluster round his name.</p> + +<p>For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears,<br /> + To read the story of his touching fate;<br /> +How in his death the gallant soldier wears<br /> + The crown that came for earthly life too late.</p> + +<p>Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keep<br /> + The garlands green above his hero-grave;<br /> +Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep,<br /> + To tell him he is shrined among the brave!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="150"></a>Eulogy of the Dead.</h1> + +<h2>By B. F. Porter, of Alabama.</h2> + + + +<p><i>"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah.</i></p> + +<p>Oh! weep not for the dead,<br /> +Whose blood, for freedom shed,<br /> +Is hallowed evermore!<br /> +Who on the battle-field<br /> +Gould die--but never yield!<br /> +Oh, bemoan them never more--<br /> +They live immortal in their gore!</p> + +<p>Oh, what is it to die<br /> +Midst shouts of victory,<br /> +Our rights and homes defending!<br /> +Oh! what were fame and life<br /> +Gained in that basest strife<br /> +For tyrants' power contending,<br /> +Our country's bosom rending!</p> + +<p>Oh! dead of red Manassah!<br /> +Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray!<br /> +Oh! victors of the Richmond field!<br /> +Dead on your mother's breast,<br /> +You live in glorious rest;<br /> +Each on[1] his honored shield,<br /> +Immortal in each bloody field!</p> + +<p>Oh! sons of noble mothers!<br /> +Oh! youth of maiden lovers!<br /> +Oh! husbands of chaste wives!<br /> +Though asleep in beds of gore,<br /> +You return, oh! never more;<br /> +Still immortal are your lives!<br /> +Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!</p> + +<p>How blest is he who draws<br /> +His sword in freedom's cause!<br /> +Though dead on battle-field,<br /> +Forever to his tomb<br /> +Shall youthful heroes come,<br /> +Their hearts for freedom steeled,<br /> +And learn to die on battle-field.</p> + +<p>As at Thermopylæ,<br /> +Grecian child of liberty;<br /> +Swears to despot ne'er to yield--<br /> +Here, by our glorious dead,<br /> +Let's revenge the blood they've shed,<br /> +Or die on bloody field,<br /> +By the sons who scorned to yield!</p> + +<p>Oh! mothers! lovers! wives!<br /> +Oh! weep no more--our lives<br /> +Are our country's evermore!<br /> +More glorious in your graves,<br /> +Than if living Lincoln's slaves,<br /> +Ye will perish never more,<br /> +Martyred on our fields of gore!</p> + +<p>[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his +shield, said--"With it, or on it."</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="151"></a>The Beaufort Exile's Lament.</h1> + + + +<p>Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea,<br /> + And sing the sad wanderer's psalm--<br /> +Ye women and children in exile that flee<br /> + From the land of the orange and palm.</p> + +<p>Lament for your homes, for the house of your God,<br /> + Now the haunt of the vile and the low;<br /> +Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod<br /> + By the foot of the Puritan foe!</p> + +<p>No longer for thee, when the sables of night<br /> + Are fading like shadows away,<br /> +Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light,<br /> + Praise God for the birth of a day.</p> + +<p>No longer for thee, when the rays are now full,<br /> + Do the oaks form an evergreen glade;<br /> +While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull<br /> + The cattle that rest in the shade.</p> + +<p>No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon<br /> + Silver o'er the green waves of the bay;<br /> +Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon<br /> + Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray.</p> + +<p>Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore,<br /> + And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng,<br /> +Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar,<br /> + The wild chant of the sacred boat-song.</p> + +<p>Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff,<br /> + The traveller would pause on his way;<br /> +And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh,<br /> + To list to the negro's rude lay.</p> + +<p>"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear<br /> + At the close of each solemn refrain;<br /> +'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year,<br /> + Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again.</p> + +<p>Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie,<br /> + Your daughters' mid strangers now roam;<br /> +Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh<br /> + O'er the days when they once had a <i>home</i>.</p> + +<p>"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone<br /> + Can those words sweep the chords of the soul,<br /> +And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone,<br /> + As the tide-waves of time backward roll.</p> + +<p>"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine,<br /> + Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul,<br /> +Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine--<br /> + Will have gone home at last to their God!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="152"></a>Somebody's Darling.</h1> + +<h2>By Marie La Coste, of Georgia.</h2> + + + +<p>Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,<br /> + Where the dead and the dying lay--<br /> +Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,<br /> + Somebody's darling was borne one day--<br /> +Somebody's darling, so young and so brave!<br /> + Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face--<br /> +Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave--<br /> + The lingering light of his boyhood's grace!</p> + +<p>Matted and damp are the curls of gold<br /> + Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,<br /> +Pale are the lips of delicate mould--<br /> + Somebody's darling is dying now.<br /> +Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow<br /> + Brush his wandering waves of gold;<br /> +Cross his hands on his bosom now--<br /> + Somebody's darling is still and cold.</p> + +<p>Kiss him once for somebody's sake,<br /> + Murmur a prayer soft and low--<br /> +One bright curl from its fair mates take--<br /> + They were somebody's pride you know.<br /> +Somebody's hand hath rested there;<br /> + Was it a mother's, soft and white?<br /> +Or have the lips of a sister fair--<br /> + Been baptized in their waves of light?</p> + +<p>God knows best! He has somebody's love;<br /> + Somebody's heart enshrined him there--<br /> +Somebody wafted his name above,<br /> + Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.<br /> +Somebody wept when he marched away,<br /> + Looking so handsome, brave, and grand!<br /> +Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay--<br /> + Somebody clung to his parting hand.</p> + +<p>Somebody's watching and waiting for him,<br /> + Yearning to hold him again to her heart;<br /> +And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,<br /> + And the smiling child-like lips apart.<br /> +Tenderly bury the fair young dead--<br /> + Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;<br /> +Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head--<br /> + "Somebody's darling slumbers here."</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="153"></a>John Pegram,</h1> + +<h2>Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, Ætat XXXIII.</h2> + +<h3>By W. Gordon McCabe.</h3> + + + +<p>What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight,<br /> + Or how express the measure of our woe,<br /> +For him who rode the foremost in the fight,<br /> + Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?</p> + +<p>Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?--<br /> + That good blade now lies fast within its sheath;<br /> +What can we do but point to where he fell,<br /> + And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death?</p> + +<p>We sorrow not as those who have no hope;<br /> + For he was pure in heart as brave in deed--<br /> +God pardon us, if blindly we should grope,<br /> + And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.</p> + +<p>And yet--oh! foolish and of little faith!<br /> + We cannot choose but weep our useless tears;<br /> +We loved him so; we never dreamed that death<br /> + Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.</p> + +<p>Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright!<br /> + As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe--<br /> +No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight,<br /> + The eager eyes--the flush on cheek and brow!</p> + +<p>No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form,<br /> + Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer;<br /> +No more shall soar above the iron storm,<br /> + Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.</p> + +<p>Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away--<br /> + Our grand young leader smitten in the strife!<br /> +So swift to seize the chances of the fray,<br /> + And careless only of his noble life.</p> + +<p>He is not dead, but sleepeth! well we know<br /> + The form that lies to-day beneath the sod,<br /> +Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow,<br /> + And pour their music through the courts of God.</p> + +<p>And there amid our great heroic dead--<br /> + The war-worn sons of God, whose work is done--<br /> +His face shall shine, as they with stately tread,<br /> + In grand review, sweep past the jasper throne.</p> + +<p>Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief<br /> + His days were here, yet rich in love and faith:<br /> +Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief,<br /> + And grant thy servants such a life and death!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="154"></a>Captives Going Home.</h1> + + + +<p>No flaunting banners o'er them wave,<br /> + No arms flash back the sun's bright ray,<br /> +No shouting crowds around them throng,<br /> + No music cheers them on their way:<br /> +They're going home. By adverse fate<br /> + Compelled their trusty swords to sheathe;<br /> +True soldiers they, even though disarmed--<br /> + Heroes, though robbed of victory's wreath.</p> + +<p>Brave Southrons! 'Tis with sorrowing hearts<br /> + We gaze upon them through our tears,<br /> +And sadly feel how vain were all<br /> + Their heroic deeds through weary years;<br /> +Yet 'mid their enemies they move<br /> + With firm, bold step and dauntless mien:<br /> +Oh, Liberty! in every age,<br /> + Such have thy chosen heroes been.</p> + +<p>Going home! Alas, to them the words<br /> + Bring visions fraught with gloom and woe:<br /> +Since last they saw those cherished homes<br /> + The legions of the invading foe<br /> +Have swept them, simoon-like, along,<br /> + Spreading destruction with the wind!<br /> +"They found a garden, but they left<br /> + A howling wilderness behind."</p> + +<p>Ah! in those desolated homes<br /> + To which the "fate of war has come,"<br /> +Sad is the welcome--poor the feast--<br /> + That waits the soldier's coming home;<br /> +Yet loving ones will round him throng,<br /> + With smiles more tender, if less gay,<br /> +And joy will brighten pallid cheeks<br /> + At sight of the dear boys in gray.</p> + +<p>Aye, give them welcome home, fair South,<br /> + For you they've made a deathless name;<br /> +Bright through all after-time will glow<br /> + The glorious record of their fame.<br /> +They made a nation. What, though soon<br /> + Its radiant sun has seemed to set;<br /> +The past has shown what they can do,<br /> + The future holds bright promise yet.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="155"></a>The Heights of Mission Ridge.</h1> + +<h2>By J. Augustine Signaigo.</h2> + + + +<p>When the foes, in conflict heated,<br /> + Battled over road and bridge,<br /> +While Bragg sullenly retreated<br /> + From the heights of Mission Ridge--<br /> +There, amid the pines and wildwood,<br /> + Two opposing colonels fell,<br /> +Who had schoolmates been in childhood,<br /> + And had loved each other well.</p> + +<p>There, amid the roar and rattle,<br /> + Facing Havoc's fiery breath,<br /> +Met the wounded two in battle,<br /> + In the agonies of death.<br /> +But they saw each other reeling<br /> + On the dead and dying men,<br /> +And the old time, full of feeling,<br /> + Came upon them once again.</p> + +<p>When that night the moon came creeping,<br /> + With its gold streaks, o'er the slain,<br /> +She beheld two soldiers, sleeping,<br /> + Free from every earthly pain.<br /> +Close beside the mountain heather,<br /> + Where the rocks obscure the sand,<br /> +They had died, it seems, together,<br /> + As they clasped each other's hand.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="156"></a>"Our Left at Manassas."</h1> + + + +<p>From dawn to dark they stood,<br /> + That long midsummer's day!<br /> +While fierce and fast<br /> +The battle-blast<br /> + Swept rank on rank away!</p> + +<p>From dawn to dark, they fought<br /> + With legions swept and cleft,<br /> +While black and wide,<br /> +The battle-tide<br /> + Poured ever on our "Left!"</p> + +<p>They closed each ghastly gap!<br /> + They dressed each shattered rank<br /> +They knew, how well!<br /> +That Freedom fell<br /> + With that exhausted flank!</p> + +<p>"Oh! for a thousand men,<br /> + Like these that melt away!"<br /> +And down they came,<br /> +With steel and flame,<br /> + <i>Four thousand</i> to the fray!</p> + +<p>They left the laggard train;<br /> + The panting steam might stay;<br /> +And down they came,<br /> +With steel and flame,<br /> + Head-foremost to the fray!</p> + +<p>Right through the blackest cloud<br /> + Their lightning-path they cleft!<br /> +Freedom and Fame<br /> +With triumph came<br /> + To our immortal Left.</p> + +<p>Ye! of your living, sure!<br /> + Ye! of your dead, bereft!<br /> +Honor the brave<br /> +Who died to save<br /> + <i>Your all</i>, upon our Left.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="157"></a>On to Richmond.</h1> + +<h2>After Southey's "March to Moscow."</h2> + +<h3>By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.</h3> + + + +<p>Major-General Scott<br /> +An order had got<br /> + To push on the columns to Richmond;<br /> +For loudly went forth,<br /> +From all parts of the North,<br /> +The cry that an end of the war must be made<br /> +In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade:<br /> +Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay,<br /> +The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray;<br /> +The chivalrous Grow<br /> +Declared they were slow,<br /> +And therefore the order<br /> +To march from the border<br /> + And make an excursion to Richmond.<br /> +Major-General Scott<br /> +Most likely was not<br /> +Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot;<br /> +In his private opinion<br /> +The Ancient Dominion<br /> +Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot,<br /> + And the reason is easily noted;<br /> +Though this part of the earth<br /> +Had given him birth,<br /> +And medals and swords,<br /> +Inscribed with fine words,<br /> + It never for Winfield had voted.<br /> +Besides, you must know that our First of Commanders<br /> +Had sworn, quite as hard as the Army in Flanders,<br /> +With his finest of armies and proudest of navies,<br /> +To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis.<br /> +Then "forward the column," he said to McDowell;<br /> + And the Zouaves, with a shout,<br /> + Most fiercely cried out,<br /> +"To Richmond or h--ll" (I omit here the vowel),<br /> +And Winfield, he ordered his carriage and four,<br /> +A dashing turn-out, to be brought to the door,<br /> + For a pleasant excursion to Richmond.<br /> +Major-General Scott<br /> +Had there on the spot<br /> +A splendid array<br /> +To plunder and slay;<br /> +In the camp he might boast<br /> +Such a numerous host,<br /> +As he never had yet<br /> +In the battle-field set;<br /> +Every class and condition of Northern society<br /> +Were in for the trip, a most varied variety:<br /> +In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue,<br /> +"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue."<br /> +The buthiful boy<br /> + From the banks of the Shannon,<br /> +Was there to employ<br /> +His excellent cannon;<br /> +And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery.<br /> + The Zouaves and Hussars,<br /> + All the children of Mars,<br /> + There were barbers and cooks<br /> + And writers of books,--<br /> +The <i>chef de cuisine</i> with his French bills of fare,<br /> +And the artists to dress the young officers' hair.<br /> +And the scribblers all ready at once to prepare<br /> + An eloquent story<br /> + Of conquest and glory;<br /> +And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery,<br /> +Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train,<br /> +At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the <i>champagne</i>:"<br /> +While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,<br /> +There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do<br /> + On this pleasant excursion to Richmond.<br /> +In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action,<br /> +To crush out <i>instanter</i> the traitorous faction.<br /> +In the press, and the mess,<br /> +They would hear nothing less<br /> +Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason,<br /> +And at once put an end to the insolent treason.<br /> +There was Greeley,<br /> +And Ely,<br /> +The bloodthirsty Grow,<br /> +And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau),<br /> +And that terrible Baker<br /> +Who would seize on the South, every acre,<br /> +And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or<br /> +Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur;<br /> +And with all this bold crew<br /> +Nothing would do,<br /> +While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,<br /> + But to march on directly to Richmond.</p> + +<p>Then the gallant McDowell<br /> +Drove madly the rowel<br /> + Of spur that had never been "won" by him,<br /> +In the flank of his steed,<br /> +To accomplish a deed,<br /> + Such as never before had been done by him;<br /> +And the battery called Sherman's<br /> + Was wheeled into line,<br /> +While the beer-drinking Germans,<br /> + From Neckar and Rhine,<br /> +With minie and yager,<br /> +Came on with a swagger,<br /> +Full of fury and lager,<br /> + (The day and the pageant were equally fine.)<br /> +Oh! the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,<br /> +Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view,<br /> + As the column pushed onward to Richmond.</p> + +<p>Ere the march was begun,<br /> +In a spirit of fun,<br /> +General Scott in a speech<br /> +Said this army should teach<br /> +The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey,<br /> +And just before dusk of the third or fourth day,<br /> + Should joyfully march into Richmond.</p> + +<p>He spoke of their drill<br /> +And their courage and skill,<br /> +And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave<br /> +O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave<br /> +In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air<br /> +At their morning parades on the Capitol Square.<br /> +But alack! and alas!<br /> +Mark what soon came to pass,<br /> + When this army, in spite of his flatteries,<br /> +Amid war's loudest thunder<br /> +Must stupidly blunder<br /> + Upon those accursed "masked batteries."<br /> +Then Beauregard came,<br /> +Like a tempest of flame,<br /> +To consume them in wrath<br /> +On their perilous path;<br /> +And Johnston bore down in a whirlwind to sweep<br /> + Their ranks from the field<br /> + Where their doom had been sealed,<br /> +As the storm rushes over the face of the deep;<br /> +While swift on the centre our President pressed.<br /> + And the foe might descry<br /> + In the glance of his eye<br /> +The light that once blazed upon Diomed's crest.<br /> +McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day.<br /> +When the Southrons you meet in their battle array;<br /> +To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel<br /> +'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel.<br /> +Oh! the generals were green and old Scott is now blue,<br /> +And a terrible business, McDowell, to you,<br /> + Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.</p> + +<p>Richmond Whig.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="158"></a>Turner Ashby.</h1> + +<h2>By John R. Thompson, of Virginia</h2> + + + +<p>To the brave all homage render,<br /> + Weep, ye skies of June!<br /> +With a radiance pure and tender,<br /> + Shine, oh saddened moon!<br /> + "Dead upon the field of glory,"<br /> + Hero fit for song and story,<br /> + Lies our bold dragoon!</p> + +<p>Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,<br /> + Braver, knightlier foe<br /> +Never fought with Moor nor Paynim--<br /> + Rode at Templestowe;<br /> + With a mien how high and joyous,<br /> + 'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us,<br /> +Went he forth we know.</p> + +<p>Never more, alas I shall sabre<br /> + Gleam around his crest;<br /> +Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor,<br /> + Stilled his manly breast;<br /> + All unheard sweet nature's cadence,<br /> + Trump of fame and voice of maidens--<br /> + Now he takes his rest.</p> + +<p>Earth, that all too soon hath bound him?<br /> + Gently wrap his clay;<br /> +Linger lovingly around him,<br /> + Light of dying day;<br /> + Softly fall the summer showers,<br /> + Birds and bees among the flowers<br /> + Make the gloom seem gay.</p> + +<p>There, throughout the coming ages,<br /> + When his sword is rust,<br /> +And his deeds in classic pages;<br /> + Mindful of her trust,<br /> + Shall Virginia, bending lowly,<br /> + Still a ceaseless vigil holy<br /> + Keep above his dust.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="159"></a>Captain Latane.</h1> + +<h2>By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.</h2> + + + +<p>The combat raged not long; but ours the day,<br /> + And through the hosts which compassed us around<br /> +Our little band rode proudly on its way,<br /> + Leaving one gallant spirit, glory crowned,<br /> +Unburied on the field he died to gain;<br /> +Single, of all his men, among the hostile slain!</p> + +<p>One moment at the battle's edge he stood,<br /> + Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair--<br /> +The next, beheld him dabbled in his blood,<br /> + Prostrate in death; and yet in death how fair!<br /> +And thus he passed, through the red gates of strife,<br /> +From earthly crowns and palms, to an eternal life.</p> + +<p>A brother bore his body from the field,<br /> + And gave it into strangers' hands, who closed<br /> +His calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed,<br /> + And tenderly the slender limbs composed;<br /> +Strangers, but <i>sisters, who, with Mary's love,<br /> +Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above.</i></p> + +<p>A little girl strewed roses on his bier,<br /> + Pale roses--not more stainless than his soul,<br /> +Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,<br /> + That blossomed with good actions--brief, but whole.<br /> +The aged matron, with the faithful slave,<br /> +Approached with reverent steps the hero's lowly grave.</p> + +<p>No man of God might read the burial rite<br /> + Above the rebel--thus declared the foe,<br /> +Who blanched before him in the deadly fight;<br /> + But woman's voice, in accents soft and low,<br /> +Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read<br /> +Over his hallowed dust, the ritual for the dead!</p> + +<p>"'Tis sown in weakness; it is raised in power."<br /> + Softly the promise floated on the air,<br /> +Arid the sweet breathings of the sunset hour,<br /> + Come back responsive to the mourner's prayer.<br /> +Gently they laid him underneath the sod,<br /> +And left him with his fame, his country, and his God.</p> + +<p>We should not weep for him! His deeds endure;<br /> + So young, so beautiful, so brave--he died<br /> +As he would wish to die. The past secure,<br /> + Whatever yet of sorrow may betide<br /> +Those who still linger by the stormy shore;<br /> +Change cannot hurt him now, nor fortune reach him more.</p> + +<p>And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,<br /> + <i>Vitrix et vidua</i>, the conflict done,<br /> +Shall raise her mailéd hand to wipe the tear<br /> + That starts, as she recalls each martyr son;<br /> +No prouder memory her breast shall sway<br /> +Than thine--the early lost--lamented Lat-a-nè!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="160"></a>The Men.</h1> + +<h2>By Maurice Bell.</h2> + + + +<p>In the dusk of the forest shade<br /> + A sallow and dusty group reclined;<br /> +Gallops a horseman up the glade--<br /> + "Where will I your leader find?<br /> +Tidings I bring from the morning's scout--<br /> + I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen."<br /> +"Well, sir, stay not hereabout,<br /> + Here are only a few of 'the men.'</p> + +<p>"Here no collar has bar or star,<br /> + No rich lacing adorns a sleeve;<br /> +Further on our officers are,<br /> + Let them your report receive.<br /> +Higher up, on the hill up there,<br /> + Overlooking this shady glen.<br /> +There are their quarters--don't stop here,<br /> + We are only some of 'the men.'</p> + +<p>"Yet stay, courier, if you bear<br /> + Tidings that the fight is near;<br /> +Tell them we're ready, and that where<br /> + They wish us to be we'll soon appear;<br /> +Tell them only to let us know<br /> + Where to form our ranks, and when;<br /> +And we'll teach the vaunting foe<br /> + That they've met a few of 'the men.'</p> + +<p>"We're <i>the men</i>, though our clothes are worn--<br /> + We're <i>the men</i>, though we wear no lace--<br /> +We're <i>the men</i>, who the foe hath torn,<br /> + And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace;<br /> +We're the men who have triumphed before--<br /> + We're the men who will triumph again;<br /> +For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar,<br /> + And the clashing bayonets--'<i>we're the men</i>.'</p> + +<p>"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars,<br /> + Of garments faded, and soiled and bare,<br /> +Yet who have for the 'stars and bars'<br /> + Praise, and homage, and dainty fare;<br /> +Mock the wearers and pass them on,<br /> + Refuse them kindly word--and then<br /> +Know, if your freedom is ever won<br /> + By human agents--<i>these are the men!</i>"</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="161"></a>"A Rebel Soldier Killed in the Trenches before Petersburg, Va., April 15, +1865."</h1> + +<h2>By a Kentucky Girl.</h2> + + + +<p>Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare<br /> +The inscription graved on the white card there.<br /> +'Tis a photograph, taken last Spring, they say,<br /> +Ere the smoke of battle had cleared away--<br /> +Of a rebel soldier--just as he fell,<br /> +When his heart was pierced by a Union shell;<br /> +And his image was stamped by the sunbeam's ray,<br /> +As he lay in the trenches that April day.</p> + +<p>Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart<br /> + Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain,<br /> +As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art,<br /> + One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:--<br /> +White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave,<br /> +Lone as the rocks those billows lave--<br /> +Gray sky above--cold clay beneath--<br /> +A gallant form lies stretched in death!</p> + +<p>With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay,<br /> + And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast:<br /> +Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray,<br /> + We might deem him taking a soldier's rest.<br /> +Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide--<br /> +Too deeply pierced that wounded side;<br /> +Youth, hope, love, glory--manhood's pride--<br /> +Have all in vain Death's bolt defied.</p> + +<p>His faithful carbine lies useless there,<br /> + As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward;<br /> +And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair<br /> + Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard--<br /> +Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield,<br /> +No more to my sight be the battle revealed!<br /> +Oh fiercer than tempest--grim Hades as dread--<br /> +On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead!</p> + +<p>The scene is changed: In a quiet room,<br /> + Far from the spot where the lone corse lies,<br /> +A mother kneels in the evening gloom<br /> + To offer her nightly sacrifice.<br /> +The noon is past, and the day is done,<br /> +She knows that the battle is lost or won--<br /> +Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still!<br /> +The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="162"></a>Battle of Hampton Roads.</h1> + +<h2>By Ossian D. Gorman.</h2> + + + +<p>Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled<br /> + On placid waters 'neath the sun,<br /> +Like that on Hampton's watery plain,<br /> + The fatal morn the fight begun.<br /> +Far toward the silvery Sewell shores,<br /> + Below the guns of Craney Isle,<br /> +Were seen our fleet advancing fast,<br /> + Beneath the sun's auspicious smile.</p> + +<p>Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes<br /> + Of Newport camp spread dire alarms:<br /> +The Cumberland for fight prepares--<br /> + The fierce marines now rush to arms.<br /> +The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er,<br /> + In quarters close begins her fire,<br /> +Nor fears the rushing hail of shot,<br /> + And deadly missiles swift and dire;<br /> +But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame,<br /> + And belching thunder long and loud,<br /> +Salutes the ship with bow austere,<br /> + And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud.</p> + +<p>The work is done. The frigate turns<br /> + In agonizing, doubtful poise--<br /> +She sinks, she sinks! along the deck<br /> + Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise.<br /> +Engulfed beneath those placid waves<br /> + Disturbed by battle's onward surge,<br /> +The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps,<br /> + And whistling bombshells sing her dirge.</p> + +<p>The battle still is raging fierce:<br /> + The Congress, "high and dry" aground,<br /> +Maintains in vain her boasted power,<br /> + For now the gunboats flock around,<br /> +With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared,<br /> + And pour their lightning on the main,<br /> +While Merrimac, approaching fast<br /> + Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain.</p> + +<p>Meantime the Jamestown, gallant boat,<br /> + Engages strong redoubts at land--<br /> +While Patrick Henry glides along,<br /> + To board the Congress, still astrand.<br /> +This done, we turn intently on<br /> + The Minnesota, which replies,<br /> +With whizzing shell to Teuser's gun,<br /> + Whose booming cleaves the distant skies.<br /> +The naval combat sounds anew;<br /> + The hostile fleets are not withdrawn,<br /> +Though night is closing earth and sea<br /> + In twilight's pale and mystic dawn.<br /> +Strange whistling noises fill the air;<br /> + The powdered smoke looks dark as night,<br /> +And deadly, lurid flames, pour forth<br /> + Their radiance on the missiles' flight;<br /> +Grand picture on the noisy waves!<br /> + The breezy zephyrs onward roam,<br /> +And echoing volleys float afar,<br /> + Disturbing Neptune's coral home.<br /> +The victory's ours, and let the world<br /> + Record Buchanan's[1] name with pride;<br /> +The <i>crew is brave, the banner bright</i>,<br /> + That ruled the day when Hutter[2] died.</p> + +<p>[1] Commander of the "Merrimac."</p> + +<p>[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry."</p> + +<p>Macon Daily Telegraph.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="163"></a>Is This a Time to Dance?</h1> + + + +<p>The breath of evening' sweeps the plain,<br /> + And sheds its perfume in the dell,<br /> +But on its wings are sounds of pain,<br /> + Sad tones that drown the echo's swell;<br /> +And yet we hear a mirthful call,<br /> + Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance,<br /> +Gay music sounds in the joyous hall:<br /> + Oh God! is this a time to dance?</p> + +<p>Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed,<br /> + Float from the crimson battle-plain,<br /> +As if a mighty spirit cried<br /> + In awful agony and pain:<br /> +Our friends we know there suffering lay,<br /> + Our brothers, too, perchance,<br /> +And in reproachful accents say,<br /> + Loved ones, is this a time to dance?</p> + +<p>Oh, lift your festal robes on high!<br /> + The human gore that flows around<br /> +Will stain their hues with crimson dye;<br /> + And louder let your music sound<br /> +To drown the dying warrior's cry!<br /> + Let sparkling wine your joy enhance<br /> +Forget that <i>blood</i> has tinged its dye,<br /> + And quicker urge the maniac dance.</p> + +<p>But stop! the floor beneath your feet<br /> + Gives back a <i>coffin's</i> hollow moan,<br /> +And every strain of music sweet,<br /> + Wafts forth a <i>dying soldier's groan</i>.<br /> +Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear<br /> + Exposed to every battle's chance,<br /> +Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear,<br /> + To fright you from the heartless dance?</p> + +<p>Go, fling your festal robes away!<br /> + Go, don the mourner's sable veil!<br /> +Go, bow before your God, and pray!<br /> + If yet your prayers may aught avail.<br /> +Go, face the fearful form of Death!<br /> + And trembling meet his chilling glance,<br /> +And then, for once, with truthful breath,<br /> + Answer, <i>Is this a time to dance?</i></p> + + + + +<h1><a name="164"></a>"The Maryland Line."</h1> + +<h2>By J.D. M'Cabe, Jr.</h2> + + + +<p>The Maryland regiments in the Confederate army have adopted the title of +"The Maryland Line," which was so heroically sustained by their patriot +sires of the first Revolution, and which the deeds of Marylanders at +Manassas, show that the patriot Marylanders of this second Revolution are +worthy to bear.</p> + + + +<p>By old Potomac's rushing tide,<br /> + Our bayonets are gleaming;<br /> +And o'er the bounding waters wide<br /> + We gaze, while tears are streaming.<br /> +The distant hills of Maryland<br /> + Rise sadly up before us--<br /> +And tyrant bands have chained our laud,<br /> + Our mother proud that bore us.</p> + +<p>Our proud old mother's queenly head<br /> + Is bowed in subjugation;<br /> +With her children's blood her soil is red,<br /> + And fiends in exultation<br /> +Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains,<br /> + While her heart is torn with anguish;<br /> +Old mother, on famed Manassas' plains<br /> + Our vengeance did not languish.</p> + +<p>We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed,<br /> + 'Mid shot and shell appalling;<br /> +We heard your voice as it upward gush'd,<br /> + From the Maryland life-blood falling.<br /> +No pity we knew! Did they mercy show<br /> + When they bound the mother that bore us?<br /> +But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe<br /> + Till they, shrieking, fled before us.</p> + +<p>We mourn for our brothers brave that fell<br /> + On that field so stern and gory;<br /> +But their spirits rose with our triumph yell<br /> + To the heavenly realms of glory.<br /> +And their bodies rest on the hard-won field--<br /> + By their love so true and tender,<br /> +We'll keep the prize they would not yield,<br /> + We'll die, but we'll not surrender.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="165"></a>The Virginians of the Shenandoah Valley.</h1> + +<h2>"<i>Sic Jurat</i>."</h2> + +<h3>By Frank Ticknor, M.D., of Georgia.</h3> + + + +<p>The knightliest of the knightly race<br /> + Who, since the clays of old,<br /> +Have kept the lamp of chivalry<br /> + Alight in hearts of gold;<br /> +The kindliest of the kindly band<br /> + Who rarely hated ease,<br /> +Yet rode with Smith around the land,<br /> + And Raleigh o'er the seas;</p> + +<p>Who climbed the blue Virginia hills,<br /> + Amid embattled foes,<br /> +And planted there, in valleys fair,<br /> + The lily and the rose;<br /> +Whose fragrance lives in many lands,<br /> + Whose beauty stars the earth,<br /> +And lights the hearths of thousand homes<br /> + With loveliness and worth,--</p> + +<p>We feared they slept!--the sons who kept<br /> + The names of noblest sires,<br /> +And waked not, though the darkness crept<br /> + Around their vigil fires;<br /> +But still the Golden Horse-shoe Knights<br /> + Their "Old Dominion" keep:<br /> +The foe has found the enchanted ground,<br /> + But not a knight asleep.</p> + +<p>Torch-Hall, Georgia.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="166"></a>Sonnet.--The Avatar of Hell.</h1> + +<h2>Charleston Mercury.</h2> + + + +<p>Six thousand years of commune, God with man,--<br /> +Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots,<br /> +Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits!<br /> +The fiends rage now as when they first began!<br /> +Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still,<br /> +Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will!<br /> +The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt,<br /> +That, in the progress of the race, we stood,<br /> +Two thousand years of height above the flood<br /> +Before the day's experience sink and melt,<br /> +As frost beneath the fire! and what remains<br /> +Of all our grand ideals and great gains,<br /> +With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride,<br /> +While the meek Christ is hourly crucified!</p> + +<p>Pax.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="167"></a>"Stonewall" Jackson's Way.</h1> + + + +<p>These verses, according to the newspaper account, <i>may</i> have been +found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the +Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the <i>author</i> of +them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things.</p> + + +<p>Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails;<br /> + Stir up the camp-fire bright;<br /> +No matter if the canteen fails,<br /> + We'll make a roaring night.<br /> +Here Shenandoah brawls along,<br /> +Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,<br /> +To swell the brigade's rousing song,<br /> + Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."</p> + +<p>We see him now--the old slouched hat<br /> + Cocked o'er his eye askew--<br /> +The shrewd dry smile--the speech so pat,<br /> + So calm, so blunt, so true.<br /> +The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well:<br /> +Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell.<br /> +Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well<br /> + That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."</p> + +<p>Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!<br /> + Old "Blue Light's" going to pray.<br /> +Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!<br /> + Attention! it's his way!<br /> +Appealing from his native sod<br /> +<i>In forma pauperis</i> to God,<br /> +"Lay bare thine arm! Stretch forth thy rod!<br /> + Amen!" That's Stonewall's way.</p> + +<p>He's in the saddle now: Fall in!<br /> + Steady! The whole brigade!<br /> +Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win<br /> + His way out, ball and blade.<br /> +What matter if our shoes are worn?<br /> +What matter if our feet are torn?<br /> +Quick step! we're with him before dawn!<br /> + That's Stonewall Jackson's way!</p> + +<p>The sun's bright lances rout the mists<br /> + Of morning--and, by George!<br /> +Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,<br /> + Hemmed in an ugly gorge.<br /> +Pope and his Yankees, whipped before:<br /> +"Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;<br /> +"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score,<br /> + In Stonewall Jackson's way!"</p> + +<p>Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn,<br /> + For news of Stonewall's band!<br /> +Ah, widow! read--with eyes that burn,<br /> + That ring upon thy hand!<br /> + Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on:<br /> +Thy life shall not be all forlorn.<br /> +The foe had better ne'er been born,<br /> + That gets in Stonewall's way.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="168"></a>The Silent March.</h1> + + + +<p>On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep +by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed +voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers.</p> + + +<p>O'ercome with weariness and care,<br /> + The war-worn veteran lay<br /> +On the green turf of his native land,<br /> + And slumbered by the way;<br /> +The breeze that sighed across his brow,<br /> + And smoothed its deepened lines,<br /> +Fresh from his own loved mountain bore<br /> + The murmur of their pines;<br /> +And the glad sound of waters,<br /> + The blue rejoicing streams,<br /> +Whose sweet familiar tones were blent<br /> + With the music of his dreams:<br /> +They brought no sound of battle's din,<br /> + Shrill fife or clarion,<br /> +But only tenderest memories<br /> + Of his own fair Arlington.<br /> +While thus the chieftain slumbered,<br /> + Forgetful of his care,<br /> +The hollow tramp of thousands<br /> + Came sounding through the air.<br /> +With ringing spur and sabre,<br /> + And trampling feet they come,<br /> +Gay plume and rustling banner,<br /> + And fife, and trump, and drum;<br /> +But soon the foremost column<br /> + Sees where, beneath the shade,<br /> +In slumber, calm as childhood,<br /> + Their wearied chief is laid;<br /> +And down the line a murmur<br /> + From lip to lip there ran,<br /> +Until the stilly whisper<br /> + Had spread to rear from van;<br /> +And o'er the host a silence<br /> + As deep and sudden fell,<br /> +As though some mighty wizard<br /> + Had hushed them with a spell;<br /> +And every sound was muffled,<br /> + And every soldier's tread<br /> +Fell lightly as a mother's<br /> + 'Round her baby's cradle-bed;<br /> +And rank, and file, and column,<br /> + So softly by they swept,<br /> +It seemed a ghostly army<br /> + Had passed him as he slept;<br /> +But mightier than enchantment<br /> + Was that with magic move--<br /> +The spell that hushed their voices--<br /> + Deep reverence and love.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="169"></a>Pro Memoria.</h1> + +<h2>Air--There is rest for the weary.</h2> + +<h3>By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.</h3> + + + +<p>Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging<br /> + From her sad and wintry gloom,<br /> +Robes her torn and bleeding bosom<br /> + In her richest orient bloom:</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.)<br /> + For her weary sons are resting<br /> + By the Edenshore;<br /> + They have won the crown immortal,<br /> + And the cross of death is o'er!<br /> + Where the Oriflamme is burning<br /> + On the starlit Edenshore!</p> + +<p>Brightly still, in gorgeous glory,<br /> + God's great jewel lights our sky;<br /> +Look! upon the heart's white dial<br /> + There's a SHADOW flitting by!</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc.</p> + +<p>Homes are dark and hearts are weary,<br /> + Souls are numb with hopeless pain;<br /> +For the footfall on the threshold<br /> + Never more to sound again!</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever,<br /> + Aye, for evermore!<br /> + We must win the crown immortal,<br /> + Follow where they led before,<br /> + Where the Oriflamme is burning<br /> + On the starlit Edenshore.</p> + +<p>Proudly, as our Southern forests<br /> + Meet the winter's shafts so keen:<br /> +Time-defying memories cluster<br /> + Round our hearts in living green.</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.</p> + +<p>May our faltering voices mingle<br /> + In the angel-chanted psalm;<br /> +May our earthly chaplets linger<br /> + By the bright celestial palm.</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.</p> + +<p>Crest to crest they bore our banner,<br /> + Side by side they fell asleep;<br /> +Hand in hand we scatter flowers,<br /> + Heart to heart we kneel and weep!</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.</p> + +<p>When the May eternal dawneth<br /> + At the living God's behest,<br /> +We will quaff divine Nepenthe,<br /> + We will share the Soldier's rest.</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc.</p> + +<p>Where the shadows are uplifted<br /> + 'Neath the never-waning sun,<br /> +Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis!<br /> + We have lost, but ye have won!</p> + +<p>CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever,<br /> + Aye, for evermore!<br /> + Ye have won the crown immortal,<br /> + And the cross of death is o'er,<br /> + Where the Oriflamme is burning<br /> + On the starlit Edenshore!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="170"></a>The Southern Homes in Ruin.</h1> + +<h2>By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina.</h2> + + + +<p>"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern +women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have +not burst above our <i>homesteads</i>--let us pray they never may."--<i>Frank Leslie's Illustrated</i>.</p> + + +<p>Many a gray-haired sire has died,<br /> + As falls the oak, to rise no more,<br /> +Because his son, his prop, his pride,<br /> + Breathed out his last all red with gore.<br /> +No more on earth, at morn, at eve,<br /> + Shall age and youth, entwined as one--<br /> +Nor father, son, for either grieve--<br /> + Life's work, alas, for both is done!</p> + +<p>Many a mother's heart has bled<br /> + While gazing on her darling child,<br /> +As in its tiny eyes she read<br /> + The father's image, kind and mild;<br /> +For ne'er again his voice will cheer<br /> + The widowed heart, which mourns him dead;<br /> +Nor kisses dry the scalding tear,<br /> + Fast falling on the orphan's head!</p> + +<p>Many a little form will stray<br /> + Adown the glen and o'er the hill,<br /> +And watch, with wistful looks, the way<br /> + For him whose step is missing still;<br /> +And when the twilight steals apace<br /> + O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home,<br /> +And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face--<br /> + The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"</p> + +<p>And many a home's in ashes now,<br /> + Where joy was once a constant guest,<br /> +And mournful groups there are, I trow,<br /> + With neither house nor place of rest;<br /> +And blood is on the broken <i>sill</i>,<br /> + Where happy feet went to and fro,<br /> +And everywhere, by field and hill,<br /> + Are sickening sights and sounds of woe!</p> + +<p>There is a God who rules on high,<br /> + The widow's and the orphan's friend,<br /> +Who sees each tear and hears each sigh,<br /> + That these lone hearts to Him may send!<br /> +And when in wrath He tears away<br /> + The reasons vain which men indite,<br /> +The record book will plainest say<br /> + Who's in the wrong, and who is right.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="171"></a>"Rappahannock Army Song."</h1> + +<h2>By John C. M'Lemore.</h2> + + + +<p>The toil of the march is over--<br /> + The pack will be borne no more--<br /> +For we've come for the help of Richmond,<br /> + From the Rappahannock's shore.<br /> +The foe is closing round us--<br /> + We can hear his ravening cry;<br /> +So, ho! for fair old Richmond!<br /> + Like soldiers we'll do or die.</p> + +<p>We have left the land that bore us,<br /> + Full many a league away,<br /> +And our mothers and sisters miss us,<br /> + As with tearful eyes they pray;<br /> +But <i>this</i> will repress their weeping,<br /> + And still the rising sigh--<br /> +For all, for fair old Richmond,<br /> + Have come to do or die.</p> + +<p>We have come to join our brothers<br /> + From the proud Dominion's vales,<br /> +And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier,<br /> + Tanned by the Tropic gales;<br /> +To greet them all full gladly,<br /> + With hand and beaming eye,<br /> +And to swear, for fair old Richmond,<br /> + We all will do or die.</p> + +<p>The fair Carolina sisters<br /> + Stand ready, lance in hand,<br /> +To fight as they did in an older war,<br /> + For the sake of their fatherland.<br /> +The glories of Sumter and Bethel<br /> + Have raised their fame full high,<br /> +But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond<br /> + They swear not to do or die.</p> + +<p>Zollicoffer looks down on his people,<br /> + And trusts to their hearts and arms,<br /> +To avenge the blood he has shed,<br /> + In the midst of the battle's alarms.<br /> +Alabamians, remember the past,<br /> + Be the "South at Manassas," their cry;<br /> +As onward for fair old Richmond,<br /> + They marched to do or die.</p> + +<p>Brave Bartow, from home on high,<br /> + Calls the Empire State to the front,<br /> +To bear once more as she has borne<br /> + With glory the battle's brunt.<br /> +Mississippians who know no surrender,<br /> + Bear the flag of the Chief on high;<br /> +For he, too, for fair old Richmond,<br /> + Has sworn to do or die.</p> + +<p>Fair land of my birth--sweet Florida--<br /> + Your arm is weak, but your soul<br /> +Must tell of a purer, holier strength,<br /> + When the drums for the battle roll.<br /> +Look within, for your hope in the combat,<br /> + Nor think of your few with a sigh--<br /> +If you win not for fair old Richmond,<br /> + At least you can bravely die.</p> + +<p>Onward all! Oh! band of brothers!<br /> + The beat of the long roll's heard!<br /> +And the hearts of the columns advancing,<br /> + By the sound of its music is stirred.<br /> +Onward all! and never return,<br /> + Till our foes from the Borders fly--<br /> +To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond,<br /> + As those who could do or die.</p> + +<p>Richmond Enquirer.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="172"></a>The Soldier in the Rain.</h1> + +<h2>By Julia L. Keyes.</h2> + + + +<p>Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound<br /> + Than it ever had before;<br /> +And the wind more plaintively whistles through<br /> + The crevices of the door.</p> + +<p>We know we are safe beneath our roof<br /> + From every drop that falls;<br /> +And we feel secure and blest, within<br /> + The shelter of our walls.</p> + +<p>Then why do we dread to hear the noise<br /> + Of the rapid, rushing rain--<br /> +And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat<br /> + Through the blinds, on the window-pane?</p> + +<p>We think of the tents on the lowly ground,<br /> + Where our patriot soldiers lie;<br /> +And the sentry's bleak and lonely march,<br /> + 'Neath the dark and starless sky.</p> + +<p>And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those<br /> + Who brave for us yet more--<br /> +And we wish this war, with its thousand ills<br /> + And griefs, was only o'er.</p> + +<p>We pray when the skies are bright and clear,<br /> + When the winds are soft and warm--<br /> +But oh! we pray with an aching heart<br /> + 'Mid the winter's rain and storm.</p> + +<p>We fain would lift these mantling clouds<br /> + That shadow our sunny clime;<br /> +We can but wait--for we know there'll be<br /> + A day, in the coming time,</p> + +<p>When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood<br /> + Our land with softest light:<br /> +Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain<br /> + In the dreary winter's night.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="173"></a>My Country.</h1> + +<h2>By W. D. Porter, S. C.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<p>Go, read the stories of the great and free, + The nations on the long, bright roll of fame, +Whose noble rage has baffled the decree + Of tyrants to despoil their life and name;</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes<br /> + Of robber despots, glorying in their might,<br /> +And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise,<br /> + The power of truth and sacredness of right:</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Whose people, strong to suffer and endure,<br /> + In faith have wrestled till the blessing came,<br /> +And won through woes a victory doubly sure,<br /> + As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>The purest virtue has been sorest tried,<br /> + Nor is there glory without patient toil;<br /> +And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride,<br /> + Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>My country! in this hour of trial sore,<br /> + When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate,<br /> +Brace thy great heart with courage to the core,<br /> + Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>The world's bright eye is fixed upon thee still;<br /> + <i>Life, honor, fame</i>--these all are in the scale:<br /> +<i>Endure! endure! endure!</i> with iron will,<br /> + And by the truth of heaven, thou shalt not fail!</p> + +<p>Patriot and Mountaineer.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="174"></a>"After the Battle."</h1> + +<h2>By Miss Agnes Leonard.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>All day long the sun had wandered,<br /> + Through the slowly creeping hours,<br /> +And at last the stars were shining<br /> + Like some golden-petalled flowers<br /> +Scattered o'er the azure bosom<br /> + Of the glory-haunted night,<br /> +Flooding all the sky with grandeur,<br /> + Filling all the earth with light.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>And the fair moon, with the sweet stars,<br /> + Gleamed amid the radiant spheres<br /> +Like "a pearl of great price" shining<br /> + Just as it had shone for years,<br /> +On the young land that had risen,<br /> + In her beauty and her might,<br /> +Like some gorgeous superstructure<br /> + Woven in the dreams of night:</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>With her "cities hung like jewels"<br /> + On her green and peaceful breast,<br /> +With her harvest fields of plenty,<br /> + And her quiet homes of rest.<br /> +But a change had fallen sadly<br /> + O'er the young and beauteous land,<br /> +Brothers on the field fought madly<br /> + That once wandered hand in hand.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>And "the hearts of distant mountains<br /> + Shuddered," with a fearful wonder,<br /> +As the echoes burst upon them<br /> + Of the cannon's awful thunder.<br /> +Through the long hours waged the battle<br /> + Till the setting of the sun<br /> +Dropped a seal upon the record,<br /> +That the day's mad work was done.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Thickly on the trampled grasses<br /> + Lay the battle's awful traces,<br /> +'Mid the blood-stained clover-blossoms<br /> + Lay the stark and ghastly faces,<br /> +With no mourners bending downward<br /> + O'er a costly funeral pall;<br /> +And the dying daylight softly,<br /> + With the starlight watched o'er all.</p> + + + +<h3>VI.</h3> + + +<p>And, where eager, joyous footsteps<br /> + Once perchance were wont to pass,<br /> +Ran a little streamlet making<br /> + One "blue fold in the dark grass;"<br /> +And where, from its hidden fountain,<br /> + Clear and bright the brooklet burst<br /> +Two had crawled, and each was bending<br /> + O'er to slake his burning thirst.</p> + + + +<h3>VII.</h3> + + +<p>Then beneath the solemn starlight<br /> + Of the radiant jewelled skies,<br /> +Both had turned, and were intently<br /> + Gazing in each other's eyes.<br /> +Both were solemnly forgiving--<br /> + Hushed the pulse of passion's breath--<br /> +Calmed the maddening thirst for battle,<br /> + By the chilling hand of death.</p> + + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + + +<p>Then spoke one, in bitter anguish:<br /> + "God have pity on my wife,<br /> +And my children, in New Hampshire;<br /> + Orphans by this cruel strife."<br /> +And the other, leaning closer,<br /> + Underneath the solemn sky,<br /> +Bowed his head to hide the moisture<br /> + Gathering in his downcast eye:</p> + + + +<h3>IX.</h3> + + +<p>"<i>I've</i> a wife and little daughter,<br /> + 'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom,"--<br /> +Then his cry rang sharper, wilder,<br /> + "Oh, God! pity all their gloom."<br /> +And the wounded, in their death-hour,<br /> + Talking of the loved ones' woes,<br /> +Nearer drew unto each other,<br /> + Till they were no longer foes.</p> + + + +<h3>X.</h3> + + +<p>And the Georgian listened sadly<br /> + As the other tried to speak,<br /> +While the tears were dropping softly<br /> + O'er the pallor of his cheek:<br /> +"How she used to stand and listen,<br /> + Looking o'er the fields for me,<br /> +Waiting, till she saw me coming,<br /> + 'Neath the shadowy old plum-tree.<br /> +Never more I'll hear her laughter,<br /> + As she sees me at the gate,<br /> +And beneath the plum-tree's shadows,<br /> + All in vain for me she'll wait."</p> + + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + + +<p>Then the Georgian, speaking softly,<br /> + Said: "A brown-eyed little one<br /> +Used to wait among the roses,<br /> + For <i>me</i>, when the day was done;<br /> +And amid the early fragrance<br /> + Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet,<br /> +Up and down the old verandah<br /> + I would chase my darling's feet.<br /> +But on earth no more the beauty<br /> + Of her face my eye shall greet,<br /> +Nevermore I'll hear the music<br /> + Of those merry pattering feet--<br /> +Ah, the solemn starlight, falling<br /> + On the far-off Georgia bloom,<br /> +Tells no tale unto my darling<br /> + Of her absent father's doom."</p> + + + +<h3>XII.</h3> + + +<p>Through the tears that rose between them<br /> + Both were trying grief to smother,<br /> +As they clasped each other's fingers<br /> + Whispering: <i>"Let's forgive each other."</i></p> + + + +<h3>XIII.</h3> + + +<p>When the morning sun was walking<br /> + "Up the gray stairs of the dawn,"<br /> +And the crimson east was flushing<br /> + All the forehead of the morn,<br /> +Pitying skies were looking sadly<br /> + On the "once proud, happy land,"<br /> +On the Southron and the Northman,<br /> + Holding fast each other's hand.<br /> +Fatherless the golden tresses,<br /> + Watching 'neath the old plum-tree;<br /> +Fatherless the little Georgian<br /> + Sporting in unconscious glee.</p> + +<p>Chicago Journal of Commerce, June, 1868.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="175"></a>Our Confederate Dead.</h1> + +<h2>What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier.</h2> + +<h3>By a Lady of Augusta, Geo.</h3> + + + +<p>Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe<br /> + For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers;<br /> +And o'er your tomb a virgin's prayer I breathe,<br /> + To greet the pure moon and the April showers.</p> + +<p>I only know, I only care to know,<br /> + You died for me--for me and country bled;<br /> +A thousand Springs and wild December snow<br /> + Will weep for one of all the SOUTHERN DEAD.</p> + +<p>Perchance, some mother gazes up the skies,<br /> + Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave--<br /> +Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes<br /> + Moisten the turf above your lowly grave.</p> + +<p>The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand<br /> + Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires,<br /> +Above the relics of a vanquished land<br /> + And light the torch of sanctifying fires.</p> + +<p>Your bed of honor has a rosy cope<br /> + To shimmer back the tributary stars;<br /> +And every petal glistens with a hope<br /> + Where Love hath blossomed in the disk of Mars.</p> + +<p>Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes<br /> + Bosomed amid the archangelic choir;<br /> +Not with the grumble of impetuous drums<br /> + Deepening the chorus of embattled ire.</p> + +<p>Above you shall the oak and cedar fling<br /> + Their giant plumage and protecting shade;<br /> +For you the song-bird pause upon his wing<br /> + And warble requiems ever undismayed.</p> + +<p>Farewell! And if your spirit wander near<br /> + To kiss this plant of unaspiring art--<br /> +Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere,<br /> + As the libretto of a maiden's heart.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="176"></a>Ye Cavaliers of Dixie</h1> + +<h2>By Benj. F. Pouter, of Alabama.</h2> + + + +<p>Ye Cavaliers of Dixie<br /> +That guard our Southern shores,<br /> +Whose standards brave the battle-storm<br /> +That round the border roars;<br /> +Your glorious sabres draw again,<br /> +And charge the invading foe;<br /> +Reap the columns deep<br /> +Where the battle tempests blow,<br /> +Where the iron hail in floods descends,<br /> +And the bloody torrents flow.</p> + +<p>Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!<br /> +Though dark the tempest lower,<br /> +No arms will wear a tyrant's chains!<br /> +No dastard heart will cower!<br /> +Bright o'er the cloud the sign will rise,<br /> +To lead to victory;<br /> +While your swords reap his hordes,<br /> +Where the battle-tempests blow,<br /> +And the iron hail in floods descends,<br /> +And the bloody torrents flow.</p> + +<p>Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!<br /> +Though Vicksburg's towers fall,<br /> +Here still are sacred rights to shield!<br /> +Your wives, your homes, your all!<br /> +With gleaming arms advance again,<br /> +Drive back the raging foe,<br /> +Nor yield your native field,<br /> +While the battle-tempests blow,<br /> +And the iron hail in floods descends,<br /> +And the bloody torrents flow.</p> + +<p>Our country needs no ramparts,<br /> +No batteries to shield!<br /> +Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong,<br /> +Breastworks that cannot yield!<br /> +The thunders of your battle-blades<br /> +Shall sweep the hated foe,<br /> +While their gore stains the shore,<br /> +Where the battle-tempests blow,<br /> +And the iron hail in floods descends,<br /> +And the bloody torrents flow.</p> + +<p>The spirits of your fathers<br /> +Shall rise from every grave!<br /> +Our country is their field of fame,<br /> +They nobly died to save!<br /> +Where Johnson, Jackson, Tilghman fell,<br /> +Your patriot hearts shall glow;<br /> +While you reap columns deep,<br /> +Through the armies of the foe,<br /> +Where the battle-storm is raging loud,<br /> +And the bloody torrents flow.</p> + +<p>The battle-flag of Dixie<br /> +On crimson field shall flame,<br /> +With azure cross, and silver stars,<br /> +To light her sons to fame!<br /> +When peace with olive-branch returns,<br /> +That flag's white folds shall glow,<br /> +Still bright on every height,<br /> +Where the storm has ceased to blow,<br /> +Where battle-tempests rage no more,<br /> +Nor bloody torrents flow.</p> + +<p>The battle-flag of Dixie<br /> +Shall long triumphant wave,<br /> +Where'er the storms of battle roar,<br /> +And victory crowns the brave!<br /> +The Cavaliers of Dixie!<br /> +In woman's songs shall glow<br /> +The fame of your name,<br /> +When the storm has ceased to blow,<br /> +When the battle-tempests rage no more,<br /> +Nor the bloody torrents flow.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="177"></a>Song of Spring, (1864.)</h1> + +<h2>By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.</h2> + + + +<p>Spring has come! Spring has come!<br /> + The brightening earth, the sparkling dew,<br /> + The bursting buds, the sky of blue,<br /> + The mocker's carol, in tree and hedge,<br /> + Proclaim anew Jehovah's pledge--<br /> +"So long as man shall earth retain,<br /> +The seasons gone shall come again."</p> + +<p>Spring has come! Springs has come!<br /> + We have her here, in the balmy air,<br /> + In the blossoms that bourgeon without a care;<br /> + The violet bounds from her lowly bed,<br /> + And the jasmin flaunts with a lofty head;<br /> +All nature, in her baptismal dress,<br /> +Is abroad--to win, to soothe, and bless.</p> + +<p>Spring has come! Spring has come!<br /> + Yes, and eternal as the Lord,<br /> + Who spells her being at a word;<br /> + All blest but man, whose passions proud<br /> + Wrap Nature in her bloody shroud--<br /> +His heart is winter to the core,<br /> +His spring, alas! shall come no more!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="178"></a>"What the Village Bell Said."</h1> + +<h2>By John C. M'Lemore, of South Carolina.[1]</h2> + + + +<p>Full many a year in the village church,<br /> + Above the world have I made my home;<br /> +And happier there, than if I had hung<br /> + High up in the air in a golden dome;<br /> + For I have tolled<br /> + When the slow hearse rolled<br /> + Its burden sad to my door;<br /> + And each echo that woke,<br /> + With the solemn stroke,<br /> + Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.</p> + +<p>I know the great bell of the city spire<br /> + Is a far prouder one than such as I;<br /> +And its deafening stroke, compared with mine,<br /> + Is thunder compared with a sigh:<br /> + But the shattering note<br /> + Of his brazen throat,<br /> + As it swells on the Sabbath air,<br /> + Far oftener rings<br /> + For other things<br /> + Than a call to the house of prayer.</p> + +<p>Brave boy, I tolled when your father died,<br /> + And you wept while my tones pealed loud;<br /> +And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame,<br /> + Your mother dear, lay in her shroud:<br /> + And I sang in sweet tone<br /> + The angels might own,<br /> + When your sister you gave to your friend;<br /> + Oh! I rang with delight,<br /> + On that sweet summer night,<br /> + When they vowed they would love to the end!</p> + +<p>But a base foe comes from the regions of crime,<br /> + With a heart all hot with the flames of hell;<br /> +And the tones of the bell you have loved so long<br /> + No more on the air shall swell:<br /> + For the people's chief,<br /> + With his proud belief<br /> + That his country's cause is God's own,<br /> + Would change the song,<br /> + The hills have rung,<br /> + To the thunder's harsher tone.</p> + +<p>Then take me down from the village church,<br /> + Where in peace so long I have hung;<br /> +But I charge you, by all the loved and lost,<br /> + <i>Remember the songs I have sung.</i><br /> + Remember the mound<br /> + Of holy ground,<br /> + Where your father and mother lie;<br /> + And swear by the love<br /> + For the dead above<br /> + To beat your foul foe or die.</p> + +<p>Then take me; but when (I charge you this)<br /> + You have come to the bloody field,<br /> +That the bell of God, to a cannon grown,<br /> + You will ne'er to the foeman yield.<br /> + By the love of the past,<br /> + Be that hour your last,<br /> + When the foe has reached this trust;<br /> + And make him a bed<br /> + Of patriot dead,<br /> + And let him sleep in this holy dust.</p> + +<p>[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="179"></a>The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star.</h1> + +<h2>By A. P. Gray, of South Carolina.</h2> + + + +<p>From the silver sands of a gleaming shore,<br /> + Where the wild sea-waves were breaking,<br /> +A lofty shoot from a twining root<br /> + Sprang forth as the dawn was waking;<br /> +And the crest, though fed by the sultry beam,<br /> + (And the shaft by the salt wave only,)<br /> +Spread green to the breeze of the curling seas,<br /> + And rose like a column lonely.<br /> + Then hail to the tree, the Palmetto tree,<br /> + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.</p> + +<p>As the sea-winds rustled the bladed crest,<br /> + And the sun to the noon rose higher,<br /> +A serpent came, with an eye of flame,<br /> + And coiled by the leafy pyre;<br /> +His ward he would keep by the lonely tree,<br /> + To guard it with constant devotion;<br /> +Oh, sharp was the fang, and the arméd clang,<br /> + That pierced through the roar of the ocean,<br /> + And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree,<br /> + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.</p> + +<p>And the day wore down to the twilight close,<br /> + The breeze died away from the billow;<br /> +Yet the wakeful clang of the rattles rang<br /> + Anon from the serpent's pillow;<br /> +When I saw through the night a gleaming star<br /> + O'er the branching summit growing,<br /> +Till the foliage green and the serpent's sheen<br /> + In the golden light were glowing,<br /> + That hung o'er the tree, the Palmetto tree,<br /> + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.</p> + +<p>By the standard cleave every loyal son,<br /> + When the drums' long roll shall rattle;<br /> +Let the folds stream high to the victor's eye;<br /> + Or sink in the shock of the battle.<br /> +Should triumph rest on the red field won,<br /> + With a victor's song let us hail it;<br /> +If the battle fail and the star grow pale,<br /> + Yet never in shame will we veil it,<br /> + But cherish the tree, the Palmetto tree,<br /> + Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="180"></a>Southern War Hymn</h1> + +<h2>By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.</h2> + + + +<p>Arise! arise! with arm of might,<br /> + Sons of our sunny home!<br /> +Gird on the sword for the sacred fight,<br /> + For the battle-hour hath come!<br /> +Arise! for the felon foe draws nigh<br /> + In battle's dread array;<br /> +To the front, ye brave! let the coward fly,<br /> + 'Tis the hero that bides the fray!</p> + +<p>Strike hot and hard, my noble band,<br /> + With the arm of fight and fire;<br /> +Strike fast for God and Fatherland,<br /> + For mother, and wife, and sire.<br /> +Though thunders roar and lightnings flash,<br /> + Oh! Southrons, never fear,<br /> +Ye shall turn the bolt with the sabre's clash,<br /> + And the shaft with the steely spear.</p> + +<p>Bright blooms shall wave o'er the hero's grave,<br /> + While the craven finds no rest;<br /> +Thrice cursed the traitor, the slave, the knave,<br /> + While thrice is the hero blessed<br /> +To the front in the fight, ye Southrons, stand,<br /> + Brave spirits, with eagle eye,<br /> +And standing for God and for Fatherland,<br /> + Ye will gallantly do or die.</p> + +<p>Charleston Courier.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="181"></a>The Battle Rainbow.</h1> + +<h2>By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.</h2> + + + +<p>The poem which follows was written just after the Seven Days of Battle, +near Richmond, in 1862. It was suggested by the appearance of a rainbow, +the evening before the grand trial of strength between the contending +armies. This rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the +position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond.</p> + + +<p>The warm, weary day, was departing--the smile<br /> + Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased;<br /> +And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while<br /> + On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east.</p> + +<p>There our army--awaiting the terrible fight<br /> + Of the morrow--lay hopeful, and watching, and still;<br /> +Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white,<br /> + From river to river, o'er meadow and hill.</p> + +<p>While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky<br /> + Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun,<br /> +Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply;<br /> + And slept till the battle, the charge in each gun.</p> + +<p>When lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing!<br /> + Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold!<br /> +The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing<br /> + Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold.</p> + +<p>Blest omen of victory, symbol divine<br /> + Of peace after tumult, repose after pain;<br /> +How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign,<br /> + To eyes that should never behold it again!</p> + +<p>For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out,<br /> + And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air:<br /> +Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt,<br /> + Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair.</p> + +<p>Then a long week of glory and agony came--<br /> + Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread;<br /> +When day unto day gave the record of fame,<br /> + And night unto night gave the list of its dead.</p> + +<p>We had triumphed--the foe had fled back to his ships--<br /> + His standard in rags and his legions a wreck--<br /> +But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips<br /> + Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check.</p> + +<p>Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release,<br /> + Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud;<br /> +Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace<br /> + To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed.</p> + +<p>But the promise was given--the beautiful arc,<br /> + With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned<br /> +The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark<br /> + Of the Infinite Love overarching the land:</p> + +<p>And that Love, shining richly and full as the day,<br /> + Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall,<br /> +On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display<br /> + Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="182"></a>Stonewall Jackson.</h1> + +<h2>Mortally wounded--"<i>The Brigade must not know, sir.</i>"</h2> + + + +<p>"Who've ye got there?"--"Only a dying brother,<br /> + Hurt in the front just now."<br /> +"Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother<br /> + Where he was killed, and how."</p> + +<p>"Whom have you there?"--"A crippled courier, major,<br /> + Shot by mistake, we hear.<br /> +He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here:<br /> + Quick with him to the rear!"</p> + +<p>"Well, who comes next?"--"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir;<br /> + Don't let the men find out.<br /> +It's STONEWALL!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir,<br /> + While there's a foe about."</p> + +<p>Whom have we <i>here</i>--shrouded in martial manner,<br /> + Crowned with a martyr's charm?<br /> +A grand dead hero, in a living banner,<br /> + Born of his heart and arm:</p> + +<p>The heart whereon his cause hung--see how clingeth<br /> + That banner to his bier!<br /> +The arm wherewith his cause struck--hark! how ringeth<br /> + His trumpet in their rear!</p> + +<p>What have we left? His glorious inspiration,<br /> + His prayers in council met.<br /> +Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;<br /> + And dead, he builds it yet.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="183"></a>Dirge for Ashby.</h1> + +<h2>By Mrs. M. J. Preston.</h2> + + + +<p>Heard ye that thrilling word--<br /> + Accent of dread--<br /> +Fall, like a thunderbolt,<br /> + Bowing each head?<br /> +Over the battle dun,<br /> +Over each booming gun--<br /> +Ashby, our bravest one!<br /> + Ashby is dead!</p> + +<p>Saw ye the veterans--<br /> + Hearts that had known<br /> +Never a quail of fear,<br /> + Never a groan--<br /> +Sob, though the fight they win,<br /> +Tears their stern eyes within--<br /> +Ashby, our Paladin,<br /> + Ashby is dead!</p> + +<p>Dash, dash the tear away--<br /> + Crush down the pain!<br /> +<i>Dulce et decus</i>, be<br /> + Fittest refrain!<br /> +Why should the dreary pall,<br /> +Round <i>him</i>, be flung at all?<br /> +Did not our hero fall<br /> + Gallantly slain!</p> + +<p>Catch the last words of cheer,<br /> + Dropt from his tongue;<br /> +Over the battle's din,<br /> + Let them be rung!<br /> +"Follow <i>me!</i> follow <i>me!</i>"<br /> +Soldier, oh! could there be<br /> +Pæan or dirge for thee,<br /> + Loftier sung?</p> + +<p>Bold as the lion's heart--<br /> + Dauntlessly brave--<br /> +Knightly as knightliest<br /> + Bayard might crave;<br /> +Sweet, with all Sydney's grace.<br /> +Tender as Hampden's face,<br /> +Who now shall fill the space,<br /> + Void by his grave?</p> + +<p>'Tis not one broken heart,<br /> + Wild with dismay--<br /> +Crazed in her agony,<br /> + Weeps o'er his clay!<br /> +Ah! from a thousand eyes,<br /> +Flow the pure tears that rise--<br /> +Widowed Virginia lies<br /> + Stricken to-day!</p> + +<p>Yet, charge as gallantly,<br /> + Ye, whom he led!<br /> +Jackson, the victor, still<br /> + Leads, at your head!<br /> +Heroes! be battle done<br /> +Bravelier, every one<br /> +Nerved by the thought alone--<br /> + Ashby is dead!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="184"></a>Sacrifice.</h1> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Another victim for the sacrifice!<br /> + Oh! my own mother South,<br /> + How terrible this wail above thy youth,<br /> + Dying at the cannon's mouth,--<br /> +And for no crime--no vice--<br /> +No scheme of selfish greed--no avarice,<br /> +Or insolent ambition, seeking power;--.<br /> +But that, with resolute soul and will sublime,<br /> + They made their proud election to be free,--<br /> +To leave a grand inheritance to time,<br /> + And to their sons and race, of liberty!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Oh! widow'd woman, sitting in thy weeds,<br /> + With thy young brood around thee, sad and lone,<br /> +Thy fancy sees thy hero where he bleeds,<br /> + And still thou hear'st his moan!<br /> +Dying he calls on thee--again--again!<br /> + With blessing and fond memories. Be of cheer;<br /> +He has not died--he did not bless--in vain:<br /> +For, in the eternal rounds of GOD, HE squares<br /> +The account with sorrowing hearts; and soothes the fears,<br /> +And leads the orphans home, and dries the widow's tears.</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="185"></a>Sonnet.</h1> + +<h2>Written in 1864.</h2> + + + +<p>What right to freedom when we are not free?<br /> + When all the passions goad us into lust;<br /> + When, for the worthless spoil we lick the dust,<br /> +And while one-half our people die, that we<br /> +May sit with peace and freedom 'neath our tree,<br /> +The other gloats for plunder and for spoil:<br /> +Bustles through daylight, vexes night with toil,<br /> +Cheats, swindles, lies and steals!--Shall such things be<br /> +Endowed with such grand boons as Liberty<br /> + Brings in her train of blessings? Should we pray<br /> + That such as these should still maintain the sway--<br /> +These soulless, senseless, heartless enemies<br /> +Of all that's good and great, of all that's wise,<br /> +Worthy on earth, or in the Eternal Eyes!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="186"></a>Grave of A. Sydney Johnston.</h1> + +By J. B. Synnott. + + + +<p>The Lone Star State secretes the clay<br /> + Of him who led on Shiloh's field,<br /> +Where mourning wives will stop to pray,<br /> + And maids a weeping tribute yield.</p> + +<p>In after time, when spleen and strife<br /> + Their madd'ning flame shall have expired,<br /> +The noble deeds that gemm'd this life<br /> + By Age and Youth will be admired.</p> + +<p>As o'er the stream the boatmen rove<br /> + By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring,<br /> +They'll show with moist'ning eye the grave<br /> + Where havoc spread her sable wing.</p> + +<p>There, 'neath the budding foliage green,<br /> + Ere Night evolved her dewy breath,<br /> +While Vict'ry smiled upon the scene,<br /> + Our Chieftain met the blow of death.</p> + +<p>Great men to come will bless the brave;<br /> + The soldier, bronzed in War's career,<br /> +Shall weave a chaplet o'er his grave,<br /> + While Mem'ry drops the glist'ning tear.</p> + +<p>Though envy wag her scorpion tongue,<br /> + The march of Time shall find his fame;<br /> +Where Bravery's loved and Glory's sung,<br /> + There children's lips shall lisp his name.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="187"></a>"Not Doubtful of Your Fatherland."</h1> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Not doubtful of your fatherland,<br /> + Or of the God who gave it;<br /> +On, Southrons! 'gainst the hireling band<br /> + That struggle to enslave it;<br /> + Ring boldly out<br /> + Your battle-shout,<br /> +Charge fiercely 'gainst these felon hordes:<br /> + One hour of strife<br /> + Is freedom's life,<br /> +And glory hangs upon your swords!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>A thousand mothers' matron eyes,<br /> + Wives, sisters, daughters weeping,<br /> +Watch, where your virgin banner flies,<br /> + To battle fiercely sweeping:<br /> + Though science fails,<br /> + The steel prevails,<br /> +When hands that wield, own hearts of oak:<br /> + These, though the wall<br /> + Of stone may fall,<br /> +Grow stronger with each hostile stroke.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>The faith that feels its cause as true,<br /> + The virtue to maintain it;<br /> +The soul to brave, the will to do,--<br /> + These seek the fight, and gain it!<br /> + The precious prize<br /> + Before your eyes,<br /> +The all that life conceives of charm,<br /> + Home, freedom, life,<br /> + Child, sister, wife,<br /> +All rest upon your soul and arm!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>And what the foe, the felon race,<br /> + That seek your subjugation?<br /> +The scum of Europe, her disgrace.<br /> + The lepers of the nation.<br /> + And what the spoil<br /> + That tempts their toil,<br /> +The bait that goads them on to fight?<br /> + Lust, crime, and blood,<br /> + Each fiendish mood<br /> +That prompts and follows appetite.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Shall such prevail, and shall you fail,<br /> + Asserting cause so holy?<br /> +With souls of might, go, seek the fight,<br /> + And crush these wretches lowly.<br /> + On, with the cry,<br /> + To do or die,<br /> +As did, in darker days, your sires,<br /> + Nor stay the blow,<br /> + Till every foe,<br /> +Down stricken, in your path, expires!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="188"></a>Only a Soldier's Grave.</h1> + +<h2>By S. A. Jones, of Aberdeen, Mississippi.</h2> + + + +<p>Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,<br /> +For soldiers, like other mortals, die.<br /> +Parents he had--they are far away;<br /> +No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;<br /> +No brother comes, with a tearful eye:<br /> +It's only a soldier's grave--pass by.</p> + +<p>True, he was loving, and young, and brave,<br /> +Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;<br /> +No proud recital of virtues known,<br /> +Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won;<br /> +No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;--<br /> +Only a soldier's grave--pass by.</p> + +<p>Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,<br /> +And he gave his life in the cause of right!<br /> +When his hope was high, and his youthful dream<br /> +As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;<br /> +His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;--<br /> +Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by.</p> + +<p>Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave,<br /> +Some one may seek him in hope to save!<br /> +Some of the dear ones, far away,<br /> +Would bear him home to his native clay:<br /> +'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,<br /> +Find not the hillock, and pass him by.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="189"></a>The Guerilla Martyrs.</h1> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Ay, to the doom--the scaffold and the chain,--<br /> + To all your cruel tortures, bear them on,<br /> +Ye foul and coward Hangmen;--but in vain!--<br /> + Ye cannot touch the glory they have won--<br /> +And win--thus yielding up the martyr's breath<br /> + For freedom!--Theirs is a triumphant death!--<br /> +A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb<br /> + Still keeps some sacred fires;--that yet shall burst,<br /> +Even from the reeking ravage of their doom,<br /> + As glorious--ay, more glorious--than the first!<br /> +Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst!<br /> + 'Tis for a season only! There shall come<br /> +An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst;<br /> + When the dread vengeance of a century<br /> +Shall reap its harvest in a single day;<br /> + And ye shall howl in horror;--and, to die,<br /> +Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay;<br /> + But to be cruel and brutal, does not make<br /> +Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey<br /> + On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake<br /> +The unappeasable appetite ye wake,<br /> + In the hot blood of victims, that have been,<br /> +Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,--<br /> + Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Ye slaughter,--do ye triumph? Ask your chains,<br /> + Ye Sodom-hearted butchers!--turn your eyes,<br /> +Where reeks yon bloody scaffold; and the pains,<br /> + Ungroaned, of a true martyr, ere he dies,<br /> +Attest the damned folly of your crime,<br /> + Now at its carnival! His spirit flies,<br /> +Unscathed by all your fires, through every clime,<br /> + Into the world's wide bosom. Thousands rise,<br /> +Prompt at its call, and principled to strike<br /> +The tyrants and the tyrannies alike!--<br /> +Voices, that doom ye, speak in all your deeds,<br /> + And cry to heaven, arm earth, and kindle hell!<br /> +A host of freemen, where one martyr bleeds,<br /> + Spring from his place of doom, and make his knell<br /> +The toscin, to arouse a myriad race,<br /> +T'avenge Humanity's wrong, and wipe off man's disgrace!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>We mourn not for our martyrs!--for they perish,<br /> + As the good perish, for a deathless faith:<br /> +Their glorious memories men will fondly cherish,<br /> + In terms and signs that shall ennoble death!<br /> +Their blood becomes a principle, to guide,<br /> + Onward, forever onward, in proud flow,<br /> +Restless, resistless, as the ocean tide,<br /> + The Spirit heaven yields freedom here below!<br /> +How should we mourn the martyrs, who arise,<br /> +Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;--<br /> +And take their thrones, as slars; and o'er the night,<br /> + Shed a new glory; and to other souls,<br /> +Shine out with blessed guidance, and true light,<br /> + Which leads successive races to their goals!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="190"></a>"Libera Nos, O Domine!"</h1> + +<h2>By James Barron Hope.</h2> + + + +<p>What! ye hold yourselves as freemen?<br /> + Tyrants love just such as ye!<br /> +Go! abate your lofty manner!<br /> +Write upon the State's old banner,<br /> + "<i>A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!</i>"</p> + +<p>Sink before the federal altar,<br /> + Each one low, on bended knee,<br /> +Pray, with lips that sob and falter,<br /> +This prayer from the coward's psalter,--<br /> + "<i>A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!</i>"</p> + +<p>But ye hold that quick repentance<br /> + In the Northern mind will be;<br /> +This repentance comes no sooner<br /> +Than the robbers did, at Luna!<br /> + "<i>A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!</i>"</p> + +<p>He repented <i>him</i>:--the Bishop<br /> + Gave him absolution free;<br /> +Poured upon him sacred chrism<br /> +In the pomp of his baptism.<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>He repented;--then he sickened!<br /> + Was he pining for the sea?<br /> +<i>In extremis</i> was he shriven,<br /> +The viaticum was given,<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>Then the old cathedral's choir<br /> + Took the plaintive minor key;<br /> +With the Host upraised before him,<br /> +Down the marble aisles they bore him;<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>While the bishop and the abbot--<br /> + All the monks of high degree,<br /> +Chanting praise to the Madonna,<br /> +Came to do him Christian honor!<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>Now the <i>miserere's</i> cadence,<br /> + Takes the voices of the sea;<br /> +As the music-billows quiver,<br /> +See the dead freebooter shiver!<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>Is it that these intonations<br /> + Thrill him thus from head to knee?<br /> +Lo, his cerements burst asunder!<br /> +'Tis a sight of fear and wonder!<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>Fierce, he stands before the bishop,<br /> + Dark as shape of Destinie.<br /> +Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,--<br /> +Down the prelate goes--dead--falling!<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>Hastings lives! He was but feigning!<br /> + What! Repentant? Never he!<br /> +Down he smites the priests and friars,<br /> +And the city lights with fires!<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>Ah! the children and the maidens,<br /> + 'Tis in vain they strive to flee!<br /> +Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding,<br /> +Is no place for woman's pleading.<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>Louder swells the frightful tumult--<br /> + Pallid Death holds revelrie!<br /> +Dies the organ's mighty clamor,<br /> +By the horseman's iron hammer!<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>So they thought that he'd repented!<br /> + Had they nailed him to the tree,<br /> +He had not deserved their pity,<br /> +And they had not--lost their city.<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i></p> + +<p>For the moral in this story,<br /> + Which is plain as truth can be:<br /> +If we trust the North's relenting,<br /> +We shall shriek-too late repenting--<br /> + <i>"A furore Normanorum,<br /> + Libera nos, O Domine!"</i> [1]</p> + +<p>[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's +History of Latin Christianity.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="191"></a>The Knell Shall Sound Once More.</h1> + + + +<p>I know that the knell shall sound once more,<br /> + And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave;<br /> +And there shall be storm on the beaten shore,<br /> + And there shall be strife on the stormy wave;<br /> +And we shall wail, with a mighty wail,<br /> + And feel the keen sorrow through many years,<br /> +But shall not our banner at last prevail,<br /> + And our eyes be dried of tears?</p> + +<p>There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree,<br /> + And the nation whose course is long to run,<br /> +Must make, though in anguish still it be,<br /> + The tribute of many a noble son;<br /> +The roots of each mighty shaft must grow<br /> + In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts;<br /> +And to conquer the right from a bloody foe,<br /> + Brings a pang as when soul and body parts!</p> + +<p>But the blood and the pang are the need, alas!<br /> + To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays<br /> +The generations that rise, and pass<br /> + To the full fruition that crowns their days!<br /> +'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life:<br /> + And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care;<br /> +And the freedom sought must ever be bought<br /> + By the best blood-offerings, held most dear.</p> + +<p>Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first<br /> + To mount the red altar of sacrifice;<br /> +Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst,<br /> + Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!--<br /> +The struggle may last for a thousand years,<br /> + And only with blood shall the field be bought;<br /> +But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears,<br /> + The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought.</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="192"></a>Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion</h1> + +<h2>By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.</h2> + + + +<p>He sleeps upon Virginia's strand,<br /> +While comrades of the Legion stand<br /> +With arms reversed--a mournful band--<br /> + Around his early bier!<br /> +His war-horse paws the shaking ground,<br /> +The volleys ring--they close around--<br /> +And on the white brow, laurel-bound,<br /> + Falls many a soldier's tear.</p> + +<p>Up, stricken mourners! look on high,<br /> +Loud anthems rend the echoing sky,<br /> +Re-born where heroes never die--<br /> + The warrior is at rest!<br /> +Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown;<br /> +Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down,<br /> +His plumes replaced by shining--crown,<br /> +The red cross on his breast!</p> + +<p>Though Gendron's arm is with the dust,<br /> +Let not his blood-stained weapon rust,<br /> +Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust,<br /> + Where Southern banners fly!<br /> +Some brave, who followed where he led--<br /> +Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead,<br /> +To avenge each drop of blood he shed,<br /> + Or, like him, bravely die!</p> + +<p>He deemed a death for honor sweet.--<br /> +And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet,<br /> +Our flag should be his winding-sheet,<br /> + Proud banner of the free!<br /> +Oh, let his honored form be laid<br /> +Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade;<br /> +His praises sung by Southern maid,<br /> + While flows the broad Santee!</p> + +<p>We come around his urn to twine<br /> +Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine,<br /> +Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine,<br /> + From skies deep-dyed and bright;<br /> +And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!--<br /> +On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the field!<br /> +Or dead return on battered shield,<br /> + As martyrs for the right!</p> + +<p>Where camp-fires light the reddened sod,<br /> +The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God,<br /> +In Palmer's name, and by his blood,<br /> + They swell the battle-cry;<br /> +We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel,<br /> +'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel,<br /> +And menial hordes as suppliants kneel,<br /> + Or, terror-stricken, fly!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="193"></a>Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans.</h1> + +<h2>By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.</h2> + + + +<p>Where murdered Mumford lies,<br /> +Bewailed in bitter sighs,<br /> +Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved,<br /> +Martyrs of Liberty,<br /> +Defenders of the Free!<br /> +Come, humbly nigh,<br /> +And learn to die!</p> + +<p>Ah, Freedom, on that day,<br /> +Turned fearfully away,<br /> +While pitying angels lingered near,<br /> +To gaze upon the sod,<br /> +Red with a martyr's blood;<br /> +And woman's tear<br /> +Fell on his bier!</p> + +<p>O God! that he should die<br /> +Beneath a Southern sky!<br /> +Upon a felon's gallows swung,<br /> +Murdered by tyrant hand,--<br /> +While round a helpless band,<br /> +On Butler's name<br /> +Poured scorn and shame.</p> + +<p>But hark! loud pæans fly<br /> +From earth to vaulted sky,<br /> +He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!<br /> +List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1]<br /> +Tolls far the martyr's knell!<br /> +Shout, Southrons, high,<br /> +Our battle cry!</p> + +<p>Come, all of Southern blood,<br /> +Come, kneel to Freedom's God!<br /> +Here at her crimsoned altar swear!<br /> +Accursed for evermore<br /> +The flag that Mumford tore,<br /> +And o'er his grave<br /> +Our colors wave!</p> + + +<p>[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God."--<i>Oriental Legend.</i></p> + + + + +<h1><a name="194"></a>The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston.</h1> + +<h2>By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D.</h2> + + + +<p>Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies,<br /> + Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;<br /> +Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,<br /> + Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.</p> + +<p>Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel<br /> + Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;<br /> +And in her hour of anguish let her feel<br /> + That ye can die whom she has taught to live.</p> + +<p>Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade,<br /> + To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;<br /> +That never villain hand on her be laid,<br /> + Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.</p> + +<p>See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame,<br /> + As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath,<br /> +Her generous brow and bosom all aflame<br /> + At the bare thought of insult, worse than death.</p> + +<p>And stained and rent her snowy garments are;<br /> + The big drops gather on her pallid face,<br /> +Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar<br /> + The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace.</p> + +<p>And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers<br /> + And bitter tears, to every loving child<br /> +To stand between her and the doom she fears,<br /> + To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled!</p> + +<p>Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!<br /> + And doubly damned who casts one look behind!<br /> +Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout,<br /> + Up with her banner! give it to the wind.</p> + +<p>Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,<br /> + Till every ringing avenue repeat<br /> +The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide<br /> + Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.</p> + +<p>Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!<br /> + Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now<br /> +By the sweet memories of your childhood's home,<br /> + By every manly hope and filial vow,</p> + +<p>To save her proud soul from that loathéd thrall<br /> + Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name;<br /> +Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,<br /> + Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame.</p> + +<p>From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled,<br /> + Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,<br /> +And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,<br /> + Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.</p> + +<p>Gather around her sacred ashes then,<br /> + Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,<br /> +Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,<br /> + Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.</p> + +<p>So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,<br /> + If not in life, at least by death, set free--<br /> +And send her fame, through endless ages down,<br /> + The last grand holocaust of liberty.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="195"></a>Savannah Fallen.</h1> + +<h2>By Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia.</h2> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Bowing her head to the dust of the earth.<br /> + Smitten and stricken is she,<br /> +Light after light gone out from her hearth,<br /> + Son after son from her knee.<br /> +Bowing her head to the dust at her feet,<br /> + Weeping her beautiful slain,<br /> +Silence! keep silence, for aye in the street,<br /> + See! they are coming again.</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>Coming again, oh! glorious ones,<br /> + Wrapped in the flag of the free;<br /> +Queen of the South! bright crowns for thy sons,<br /> + Only the cypress for <i>thee!</i><br /> +Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum,<br /> + Marches, and requiems sweet;<br /> +Silence! keep silence! alas, how they come,<br /> + Oh! how they move through the street!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go,<br /> + Bearing the young and the brave,<br /> +Fair as the summer, but white as the snow<br /> + Bearing them down to the grave.<br /> +Some in the morning, and some in the noou,<br /> + Some in the hey-day of life;<br /> +Bower nor blossom, nor summer nor June,<br /> + Wooing them back to the strife.</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Some in the billow, afar, oh! afar,<br /> + Staining the waves with their blood;<br /> +One on the vessel's high deck, like a star,<br /> + Sinking in glory's bright-flood.[1]<br /> +Bowing her head to the dust of the earth,<br /> + Humbled but honored is she,<br /> +lighting the skies with the stars from her hearth,<br /> + Who shall her comforter be?</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>Bring her, oh! bring her the garments of woe,<br /> + Sackcloth and ashes for aye;<br /> +Winds of the South! oh, a requiem blow,<br /> + Sighing and sorrow to-day.<br /> +Sprinkle the showers from heaven's blue eyes<br /> + Wide o'er the green summer lea,<br /> +Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies,<br /> + Thou shalt her comforter be!</p> + + +<p>[1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the +"Water Witch."</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="196"></a>Bull Run.--A Parody.</h1> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>At Bull Run when the sun was low,<br /> +Each Southern face grew pale as snow,<br /> +While loud as jackdaws rose the crow<br /> + Of Yankees boasting terribly!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>But Bull Run saw another sight,<br /> +When at the deepening shades of night,<br /> +Towards Fairfax Court-House rose the flight<br /> + Of Yankees running rapidly.</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>Then broke each corps with terror riven,<br /> +Then rushed the steeds from battle driven,<br /> +The men of battery Number Seven<br /> + Forsook their Red artillery!</p> + + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + + +<p>Still on McDowell's farthest left,<br /> +The roar of cannon strikes one deaf,<br /> +Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff<br /> + Contend for death or victory.</p> + + + +<h3>V.</h3> + + +<p>The panic thickens--off, ye brave!<br /> +Throw down your arms! your bacon save!<br /> +Waive, Washington, all scruples waive,<br /> + And fly, with all your chivalry!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="197"></a>"Stack Arms."</h1> + +<h2>Written in the Prison of Fort Delaware, Del., on Hearing of the +Surrender of General Lee.</h2> + +<h3>By Jos. Blyth Alston.</h3> + + + +<p>"Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry<br /> + When, weary with the dusty tread<br /> +Of marching troops, as night drew nigh,<br /> + I sank upon my soldier bed,<br /> +And camly slept; the starry dome<br /> + Of heaven's blue arch my canopy,<br /> +And mingled with my dreams of home,<br /> + The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.</p> + +<p>"Stack Arms!" I've heard it, when the shout<br /> + Exulting, rang along our line,<br /> +Of foes hurled back in bloody rout,<br /> + Captured, dispersed; its tones divine<br /> +Then came to mine enraptured ear.<br /> + Guerdon of duty nobly done,<br /> +And glistened on my cheek the tear<br /> + Of grateful joy for victory won.</p> + +<p>"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow<br /> + And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue,<br /> +A broken, murmuring wail of woe,<br /> + From manly hearts by anguish wrung.<br /> +Like victims of a midnight dream,<br /> + We move, we know not how nor why,<br /> +For life and hope but phantoms seem,<br /> + And it would be relief--to die!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="198"></a>Doffing the Gray.</h1> + +<h2>By Lieutenant Falligant, of Savannah, Geo.</h2> + + + +<p>Off with your gray suits, boys--<br /> + Off with your rebel gear--<br /> +They smack too much of the cannons' peal,<br /> +The lightning flash of your deadly steel,<br /> + The terror of your spear.</p> + +<p>Their color is like the smoke<br /> + That curled o'er your battle-line;<br /> +They call to mind the yell that woke<br /> +When the dastard columns before you broke,<br /> + And their dead were your fatal sign.</p> + +<p>Off with the starry wreath,<br /> + Ye who have led our van;<br /> +To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death,<br /> +When we followed you over the gory heath,<br /> + Where we whipped them man to man.</p> + +<p>Down with the cross of stars--<br /> + Too long hath it waved on high;<br /> +'Tis covered all over with battle scars,<br /> +But its gleam the Northern banner mars--<br /> + 'Tis time to lay it by.</p> + +<p>Down with the vows we've made,<br /> + Down, with each memory--<br /> +Down with the thoughts of our noble dead--<br /> +Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid<br /> + And down with Liberty.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="199"></a>In the Land Where We Were Dreaming</h1> + +<h2>By D. B. Lucas, Esq., of Jefferson.</h2> + + + +<p>Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as grand<br /> +As ever floated out of Faerie land;<br /> + Children were we in single faith,<br /> + But God-like children, whom, nor death,<br /> +Nor threat, nor danger drove from Honor's path,<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render;<br /> +As violets, our women pure and tender;<br /> + And when they spoke, their voice did thrill<br /> + Until at eve, the whip-poor-will,<br /> +At morn the mocking-bird, were mute and still<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>And we had graves that covered more of glory<br /> +Than ever tracked tradition's ancient story;<br /> + And in our dream we wove the thread<br /> + Of principles for which had bled<br /> +And suffered long our own immortal dead<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>Though in our land we had both bond and free,<br /> +Both were content; and so God let them be;--<br /> + 'Till envy coveted our land<br /> + And those fair fields our valor won:<br /> +But little recked we, for we still slept on,<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew wild--<br /> +Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field;<br /> + Crimson the moon; between the Twins<br /> + Barbed arrows fly, and then begins<br /> +Such strife as when disorder's Chaos reigns,<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>Down from her sun-lit heights smiled Liberty<br /> +And waved her cap in sign of Victory--<br /> + The world approved, and everywhere<br /> + Except where growled the Russian bear,<br /> +The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>We fancied that a Government was ours--<br /> +We challenged place among the world's great powers;<br /> + We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission,<br /> + Until so life-like grew our vision,<br /> +That he who dared to doubt but met derision<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>We looked on high: a banner there was seen,<br /> +Whose field was blanched and spotless in its sheen--<br /> + Chivalry's cross its Union bears,<br /> + And vet'rans swearing by their scars<br /> +Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>A hero came amongst us as we slept;<br /> +At first he lowly knelt--then rose and wept;<br /> + Then gathering up a thousand spears<br /> + He swept across the field of Mars;<br /> +Then bowed farewell and walked beyond the stars--<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>We looked again: another figure still<br /> +Gave hope, and nerved each individual will--<br /> + Full of grandeur, clothed with power,<br /> + Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour<br /> +With stern, majestic sway--of strength a tower<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God,<br /> +Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood,<br /> + Rome felt herself secure and free,<br /> + So, "Richmond's safe," we said, while we<br /> +Beheld a bronzed Hero--God-like Lee,<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls--<br /> +As wakes the mother when the infant falls--<br /> + As starts the traveller when around<br /> + His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound--<br /> +So woke our nation with a single bound<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>Woe! woe is me! the startled mother cried--<br /> +While we have slept our noble sons have died!<br /> + Woe! woe is me! how strange and sad,<br /> + That all our glorious vision's fled<br /> +And left us nothing real but the dead<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + +<p>And are they really dead, our martyred slain?<br /> +No! dreamers! morn shall bid them rise again<br /> + From every vale--from every height<br /> + On which they <i>seemed</i> to die for right--<br /> +Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight<br /> + In the land where we were dreaming.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="200"></a>Ballad--"Yes, Build Your Walls."</h1> + + + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>Yes, build your walls of stone or sand,<br /> + But know, when all is builded--then,<br /> +The proper breastworks of the land<br /> + Are in a race of freeborn men!<br /> +The sons of sires, who knew, in life,<br /> + That, of all virtues, manhood first,<br /> +Still nursing peace, yet arms for strife,<br /> + And braves, for liberty, the worst!</p> + + + +<h3>II.</h3> + + +<p>What grand examples have been ours!<br /> + Oh! sons of Moultrie, Marion,--call<br /> +From mansions of the past, the powers,<br /> + That plucked ye from the despot's thrall!<br /> +Do Sumter, Rutledge, Gadsden, live?<br /> + Oh! for your City by the Sea,<br /> +They gladly gave, what men could give,<br /> + Blood, life, and toil, and made it free!</p> + + + +<h3>III.</h3> + + +<p>The grand inheritance, in trust<br /> + For children of your loins, must know<br /> +No taint of shame, no loss by lust,<br /> + Your own, or of the usurping foe!<br /> +Let not your sons, in future days,<br /> + The children now that bear your name,<br /> +Exulting in a grandsire's praise,<br /> + Droop o'er a father's grave in shame!</p> + +<p>Charleston Mercury.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="201"></a>The Lines Around Petersburg.</h1> + +<h2>By Samuel Davis, of North Carolina.</h2> + + + +<p>"Such a sleep they sleep,<br /> +The men I loved!"<br /> + Tennyson.</p> + + +<p>Oh, silence, silence! now, when night is near,<br /> + And I am left alone,<br /> +Thou art so strange, so sad reposing here--<br /> + And all so changed hath grown,<br /> +Where all was once exuberant with life<br /> + Through day and night, in deep and deadly strife.</p> + +<p>If I must weep, oh, tell me, is there not<br /> +Some plaintive story breathed into mine ear<br /> +By spirit-whispers from thy voiceless sphere,<br /> + Haunting this awful spot?<br /> +To my sad soul, more mutely eloquent<br /> +Than words of fame on sculptured monument<br /> +Outspeaks yon crumbling parapet, where lies<br /> +The broken gun, the idly rusting ball,<br /> +Mute tokens of an ill-starred enterprise!<br /> +Rude altars reared for costly sacrifice!<br /> +Vast work of hero-hands left in thy fall!</p> + +<p>Where are they now, that fearless brotherhood,<br /> + Who marshalled here,<br /> + That fearful year,<br /> +In pain and peril, yet undaunted stood,--<br /> +Though Death rode fiercest on the battle-storm<br /> +And earth lay strewn with many a glorious form?<br /> +Where are they now, who, when the strife was done,<br /> +With kindly greeting 'round the camp-fire met,--<br /> +And made an hour of mirth, from triumphs won,<br /> +Repay the day's stern toil, when the slow sun had set?</p> + +<p>Where are they?--<br /> +Let the nameless grave declare,--<br /> +In strange unwonted hillocks--frequent seen!<br /> +Alas I who knows how much lies buried there!--<br /> +What worlds, of love, and all that might have been!<br /> +The rest are scattered now, we know not where;<br /> +And Life to each a new employment brings;<br /> +But still they seem to gather round me here,<br /> +To whom these places were familiar things!<br /> +Wide sundered now, by mountain and by stream,<br /> +Once brothers--still a brotherhood they seem;--<br /> +More firm united, since a common woe<br /> +Hath brought to common hopes their overthrow!</p> + +<p>Brave souls and true;--in toil and danger tried,--<br /> +I see them still as in those glorious years,<br /> +When strong, and battling bravely side by side,<br /> +All crowned their deeds with praise,--and some with tears<br /> +'Tis done! the sword is sheathed; the banner furled,<br /> +No sound where late the crashing missile whirled--<br /> +The dead alone possess the battle-plain;<br /> +The living turn them to life's cares again.</p> + +<p>Oh, Silence! blessed dreams upon thee wait;<br /> +here Thought and Feeling ope their precious store,<br /> +And Memory, gathering from the spoils of Fate<br /> +Love's scattered treasures, brings them back once more!<br /> + So let me often dream,<br /> + As up the brightening stream<br /> + Of olden Time, thought gently leads me on,<br /> +Seeking those better days, lost, lost, alas! and gone!</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="202"></a>All Is Gone.</h1> + +<h2>Fadette.--Memphis Appeal.</h2> + + + +<p>Sister, hark! Atween the trees cometh naught but summer breeze?<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +Summer breezes come and go. Hope doth never wander so--<br /> +No, nor evermore doth Woe.</p> + +<p>Sister, look! Adown the lane treadeth only April rain?<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +Through the tangled hedge-rows green glimmer thus the sunbeam's sheen,<br /> +Dropping from cloud-rifts between?</p> + +<p>Sister, hark! the very air heavy on my heart doth bear--<br /> + All is gone!--<br /> +E'en the birds that chirped erewhile for the frowning sun to smile,<br /> +Hush at that drum near the stile.</p> + +<p>Sister, pray!--it is the foe! On thy knees--aye, very low--<br /> + All is gone,<br /> +And the proud South on her knees to a mongrel race like these--<br /> +But the dead sleep 'neath the trees.</p> + +<p>See--they come--their banners flare gayly in our gloomy air--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +Flashed our Southern Cross all night--naught but a meteoric light<br /> +In a moment lost to sight?</p> + +<p>Aye, so gay--the brave array--marching from no battle fray--<br /> + All is gone,--<br /> +Yet who vaunteth, of your host, maketh he but little boast<br /> +If he think on battles most.</p> + +<p>On they wind, behind the wood. Dost remember once we stood--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +All but memory, of those days--but we've stood here while the haze<br /> +Of the battle met the blaze.</p> + +<p>Of the sun adown yon hill. Charge on charge--I hear them still.--<br /> + All is gone!--<br /> +Yet I hear the echoing crash--see the sabres gleam and flash--<br /> +See one gallant headlong dash.</p> + +<p>One, amid the battle-wreck, restive plunged his charger black--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +Whirrs the partridge there--didst see where he rode so<br /> +recklessly?<br /> +Once he turned and waved to me.</p> + +<p>"Ah," thou saidst, "the smoke is dark, scarce can I our banner mark"--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +All but memory; yet I see, darksome howsoever it be,<br /> +How to death--to death--rode he.</p> + +<p>Not a star he proudly bore, but a sword all dripping gore--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +Dashes on our little band like yon billow on the strand--<br /> +Like yon strand unmoved they stand.</p> + +<p>For their serried ranks are strong: thousands upon thousands throng--<br /> + All is gone,<br /> +And the handful, true and brave, spent, like yonder dying wave,<br /> +Fall back slowly from that grave.</p> + +<p>Low our banner drooped--and fell. Back he spurs, mid shot and shell--<br /> + All <i>was</i> gone,<br /> +But he waves it high--and then, on--we sweep them from the glen--<br /> +But he ne'er rode back again.</p> + +<p>Ah, I smiled to see him go. How my cheek with pride did glow!<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +All, of pride or hope, for me--but that evening, hopefully<br /> +Stood I at the gate with thee,</p> + +<p>Sister, when at twilight gray marched our soldiers back this way--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +In the woods rang many a cheer--how we smiled! I did not fear<br /> +Till--at last was borne a bier.</p> + +<p>Sweetest sister, dost thou weep? Hush! he only fell asleep--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +And'twere better he had died--free, whatever us betide--<br /> +Our galling chains untried.</p> + +<p>We were leaning on the gate. Dost remember, it grew late--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +Yet I see the stars so pale--see the shadows down the vale--<br /> +Hear the whip-poor-will's far wail,</p> + +<p>As if all were in a dream. Through yon pines the moon did gleam--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +On that banner-pall of death--on that red sword without sheath--<br /> +And--I knew who lay beneath.<br /> +<br /> +Did I speak? I thought I said, let me look upon your dead--<br /> + All is gone---<br /> +Was I cold? I did not weep. Tears are spray from founts not deep--<br /> +My heart lies in frozen sleep.</p> + +<p>Sister, pray for me. Thine eyes gleam like God's own midnight skies--<br /> + All is gone--<br /> +Tuneless are my spirit's chords. I but look up, like the birds,<br /> +And trust Christ to say the words.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="203"></a>Bowing Her Head.</h1> + + + +<p>Her head is bowed downwards; so pensive her air,<br /> + As she looks on the ground with her pale, solemn face,<br /> +It were hard to decide whether faith or despair,<br /> + Whether anguish or trust, in her heart holds a place.</p> + +<p>Her hair was all gold in the sun's joyous light,<br /> + Her brow was as smooth as the soft, placid sea:<br /> +But the furrows of care came with shadows of night,<br /> + And the gold silvered pale when the light left the lea.</p> + +<p>Her lips slightly parted, deep thought in her eye,<br /> + While sorrow cuts seams in her forehead so fair;<br /> +Her bosom heaves gently, she stifles a sigh,<br /> + And just moistens her lid with the dews of a tear.</p> + +<p>Why droops she thus earthward--why bends she? Oh, see!<br /> + There are gyves on her limbs! see her manacled hand!<br /> +She is loaded with chains; but her spirit is free--<br /> + Free to love and to mourn for her desolate land.</p> + +<p>Her jailer, though cunning, lacks wit to devise<br /> + How to fetter her thoughts, as her limbs he has done;<br /> +The eagle that's snatched from his flight to the skies,<br /> + From the bars of his cage may still gaze at the sun.</p> + +<p>No sound does she utter; all voiceless her pains;<br /> + The wounds of her spirit with pride she conceals;<br /> +She is dumb to her shearers; the clank of her chains<br /> + And the throbs of her heart only tell what she feels.</p> + +<p>She looks sadly around her; now sombre the scene!<br /> + How thick the deep shadows that darken her view!<br /> +The black embers of homes where the earth was so green,<br /> + And the smokes of her wreck where the heavens shone blue.</p> + +<p>Her daughters bereaved of all succor but God,<br /> + Her bravest sons perished--the light of her eyes;<br /> +But oppression's sharp heel does not cut 'neath the sod,<br /> + And she knows that the chains cannot bind in the skies.</p> + +<p>She thinks of the vessel she aided to build,<br /> + Of all argosies richest that floated the seas;<br /> +Compacted so strong, framed by architects skilled,<br /> + Or to dare the wild storm, or to sail to the breeze.</p> + +<p>The balmiest winds blowing soft where she steers,<br /> + The favor of heaven illuming her path--<br /> +She might sail as she pleased to the mild summer airs,<br /> + And avoid the dread regions of tempest and wrath.</p> + +<p>But the crew quarrelled soon o'er the cargo she bore;<br /> + 'Twas adjusted unfairly, the cavillers said;<br /> +And the anger of men marred the peace that of yore<br /> + Spread a broad path of glory and sunshine ahead.</p> + +<p>There were seams in her planks--there were spots on her flag--<br /> + So the fanatics said, as they seized on her helm;<br /> +And from soft summer seas, turned her prow where the crag<br /> + And the wild breakers rose the good ship to overwhelm.</p> + +<p>Then the South, though true love to the vessel she bore,<br /> + Since she first laid its keel in the days that were gone--<br /> +Saw it plunge madly on to the wild billows' roar,<br /> + And rush to destruction and ruin forlorn.</p> + +<p>So she passed from the decks, in the faith of her heart<br /> + That justice and God her protectors would be;<br /> +Not dashed like a frail, fragile spar, without chart,<br /> + In the fury and foam of the wild raging sea.</p> + +<p>The life-boat that hung by the stout vessel's side<br /> + She seized, and embarked on the wide, trackless main,<br /> +In the faith that she'd reach, making virtue her guide,<br /> + The haven the mother-ship failed to attain</p> + +<p>But the crew rose in wrath, and they swore by their might<br /> + They would sink the brave boat that did buffet the sea,<br /> +For daring to seek, by her honor and right,<br /> + A new port from the storms, a new home for the free.</p> + +<p>So they crushed the brave boat; all forbearance they lost;<br /> + They littered with ruins the ocean so wild--<br /> +Till the hulk of the parent ship, beaten and tossed,<br /> + Drifted prone on the flood by the wreck of the child.</p> + +<p>And the bold rower, loaded with fetters and chains,<br /> + In the gloom of her heart sings the proud vessel's dirge;<br /> +Half forgets, in its wreck, all the pangs of her pains,<br /> + As she sees its stout parts floating loose in the surge.</p> + +<p>Savannah Broadside.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="204"></a>The Confederate Flag</h1> + +<h2>By Anna Feyre Dinnies, of Louisiana.</h2> + + + +<p>Take that banner down,'tis weary,<br /> +Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary,<br /> + Furl it, hide it, let it rest;<br /> +For there's not a man to wave it--<br /> +For there's not a soul to lave it<br /> +In the blood that heroes gave it.<br /> + Furl it, hide it, let it rest.</p> + +<p>Take that banner down,'tis tattered;<br /> +Broken is its staff, and shattered;<br /> +And the valiant hearts are scattered<br /> + Over whom it floated high.<br /> +Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it--<br /> +Hard to think there's none to hold it--<br /> +Hard that those, who once unrolled it,<br /> + Now must furl it with a sigh.</p> + +<p>Furl that banner, furl it sadly;<br /> +Once six millions hailed it gladly,<br /> +And three hundred thousand, madly,<br /> + Swore it should forever wave--<br /> +Swore that foeman's sword should never<br /> +Hearts like theirs entwined dissever--<br /> +That their flag should float forever<br /> + O'er their freedom or their grave!</p> + +<p>Furl it, for the hands that grasped it,<br /> +And the hearts that fondly clasped it,<br /> + Cold and dead are lying low;<br /> +And that banner--it is trailing,<br /> +While around it sounds the wailing<br /> + Of its people in their woe;<br /> +For, though conquered, they adore it,<br /> +Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,<br /> +Weep for those who fell before it--<br /> +Oh! how wildly they deplore it,<br /> + Now to furl and fold it so!</p> + +<p>Furl that banner; true 'tis gory,<br /> +But 'tis wreathed around with glory,<br /> +And'twill live in song and story,<br /> + Though its folds are in the dust;<br /> +For its fame, on brightest pages--<br /> +Sung by poets, penned by sages--<br /> +Shall go sounding down to ages--<br /> + Furl its folds though now we must.</p> + +<p>Furl that banner-softly, slowly;<br /> +Furl it gently, it is holy,<br /> + For it droops above the dead.<br /> +Touch it not, unfurl it never,<br /> +Let it droop there, furled forever,<br /> + For its people's hopes are fled.</p> + + + + +<h1><a name="205"></a>Ashes of Glory.</h1> + +<h2>A. J. Requier.</h2> + + + +<p>Fold up the gorgeous silken sun,<br /> + By bleeding martyrs blest,<br /> +And heap the laurels it has won<br /> + Above its place of rest.<br /> +<br /> +No trumpet's note need harshly blare--<br /> + No drum funereal roll--<br /> +Nor trailing sables drape the bier<br /> + That frees a dauntless soul!</p> + +<p>It lived with Lee, and decked his brow<br /> + From Fate's empyreal Palm:<br /> +It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now--<br /> + As spotless and as calm.</p> + +<p>It was outnumbered--not outdone;<br /> + And they shall shuddering tell,<br /> +Who struck the blow, its latest gun<br /> + Flashed ruin as it fell.</p> + +<p>Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze<br /> + That smote the victor tar,<br /> +With death across the heaving seas<br /> + Of fiery Trafalgar;</p> + +<p>Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom<br /> + Their knightly deeds have starred;<br /> +Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume,<br /> + Nor peerless-born Bayard;</p> + +<p>Not all that antique fables feign,<br /> + And Orient dreams disgorge;<br /> +Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain,<br /> + And Lion of St. George,</p> + +<p>Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still<br /> + Thy crimson glory shines<br /> +Beyond the lengthened shades that fill<br /> + Their proudest kingly lines.</p> + +<p>Sleep! in thine own historic night,--<br /> + And be thy blazoned scroll,<br /> +<i>A warrior's Banner takes its flight,<br /> + To greet the warrior's soul!</i></p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of War Poetry of the South, by Various + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH *** + +This file should be named 8wrpm10h.htm or 8wrpm10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8wrpm11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8wrpm10ah.htm + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart hart@pobox.com + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + + + +</pre> + +</body> diff --git a/old/8wrpm10h.zip b/old/8wrpm10h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca7a82c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8wrpm10h.zip |