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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. 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