This is a modern-English version of War Poetry of the South, originally written by unknown author(s). It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book. 



War Poetry of the South.


Edited By
Edited By


William Gilmore Simms, LL. D.


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866,
By 
Richardson & Co.
Richardson & Co.


In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
In the Clerk's Office of the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York.


Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery,

540 Broadway.
Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery,

540 Broadway.


To

The Women of the South

I Inscribe This Volume
To

The Women of the South

I dedicate this book


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.
They may have lost a cause, but they've achieved something significant! They've demonstrated they are worthy of true manhood and will create a legacy that endures through the whims of time. They've shown they are deserving of the best womanhood, and in their descendants, they will leave a lineage that honors the lost cause and the mothers, sisters, and wives who have imparted such noble lessons of virtuous effort and feminine resilience.


W.G.S.
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.
Several reasons have motivated the editor of this volume in putting together its pages. It contributes to the national literature, which is believed to be worthy of it, and is also valuable for illustrating the level of mental and artistic development that has been achieved in a large part of the country, under conditions that greatly encourage talent and inspire expression through the intense emotions and creativity of individuals. While it has a regional character and reflects a mindset and sentiment that were at odds with national unity, now that the states have become one nation, this collection is just as much the property of everyone as the seized cannons that were used against it during the recent war. It belongs to the national literature and will be considered an essential part of it, just as the competing ballads of the cavaliers and roundheads are recognized by the English regarding their country's great civil conflict.


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.
The emotional writing of a people is just as important to the philosophical historian as the basic details of events in a nation’s history. This is crucial for the reputation of the Southern people, as it reflects their feelings, beliefs, ideas, and opinions—the motivations behind their actions and the goals they had in mind that justified the struggles they faced. It reveals how the public perceived the events, whether positive or negative; in this way, it is even more significant for the historian than a simple account of facts. The facts in history don’t always show the true spirit of the actions. However, in poetry and song, emotions often express themselves openly—displaying a passion that disregards pretense, using imagination and creativity that are both unreserved and powerful, unwilling to acknowledge any limits on expression, which shines or weeps with feelings that flow freely from the heart. With this understanding, we can also forgive the muse who, in her excitement, sometimes overlooks her craft.


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.
And yet, it is believed that the many pieces in this collection will reflect positively on the creativity and culture of the Southern people, and will be honorable, in line with their beliefs. They come from all the states of the former Southern Confederacy and will accurately show the sentiments and opinions that were generally shared throughout the region. The editor has had special advantages in putting this together. With extensive correspondence across most Southern states, he faced no challenges in gathering his material. Contributions have flooded in from all corners of the South, with many original publications having been carefully revised by the authors. It is a significant regret for him that the constraints of this volume have prevented him from doing justice to, and including, many pieces that truly deserve to be recorded. Some poems were simply too lengthy for his purposes; a considerable number were delayed by mail and other issues, arriving too late for publication. Several collections, particularly from Louisiana, North Carolina, and Texas, are missing for this reason. Many of these pieces stand out for their intensity, passion, and imaginative flair. In short, he has enough material to prepare another volume, similar to this one, which would be worthy of its companion. He is authorized by his publisher to say that if this volume is a success, he will gladly follow it up with a second volume of similar style, character, and length.


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.
The editor is pleased to have reviewed "Rebel Rhymes," edited by Mr. Moore, and "South Songs," by Mr. De Leon. He has also received a single issue of a periodical pamphlet called "The Southern Monthly," published in Memphis, TN, from a contributor. He hasn't seen any other publications like this, though he has heard about others and has looked for them without success. There might be more publications coming out; in such a vast area with a widely dispersed population like the South, it's virtually impossible for any one editor to cover everything thoroughly. Each region will need to contribute in its own time and as opportunities arise. There will be enough space for everyone, and I’m sure each will have its own reasons for recognition and appreciation.


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.
His own collections, gathered throughout the war mainly from newspapers in South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia, are extensive. Many of these have been left out of this collection, which he hopes will eventually be published in another form. He has identified the authorship of many of these pieces, but regrets that so many others, out of a sense of modesty, prefer to keep their names private. Hopefully, those names will be revealed in the future. He expresses his deepest gratitude to the many women who have generously contributed to this collection by sending original works and making copies.


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.
A large number of the pieces left out are of an elegiac nature. From this category, he could only include those dedicated to the most notable individuals who died in battle or those that display the higher qualities of poetry—freshness, thought, and imagination. However, many of the excluded pieces are quite deserving of preservation. Little attention has been given to the types of songs, like camp catches or marching ballads, that are so plentiful in Mr. Moore's "Rebel Rhymes." The most popular songs are rarely the ones that can claim true poetic merit. They rely on lively music and certain catchy phrases, and are seldom crafted with much focus on art or even appropriateness. Still, many of these should have been included in this volume if the editor had enough space. Both he and the publisher want to collect and compile these stray pieces in another publication. He will keep the manuscripts and copies of all unpublished works for this purpose, always respecting the wishes of their respective authors.


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.
At the end, he hopes that these poems will be seen not only as a great reflection of Southern thought but also as a true representation, if not a justification, of the feelings and beliefs behind their creation. These feelings and beliefs have supported their people through a war that has been unprecedented in its atrocities in modern times and have truly tested their endurance and their ability to create their own resources despite setbacks and various hardships.


W.G.S.
W.G.S.


Brooklyn, September 8, 1866.
Brooklyn, September 8, 1866.


Contents.



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.
Written during the meeting of the First Southern Congress, in 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!
Hasn't the morning come with extra light?

And won't evening call another star

Out of the vast night sky,

To mark this day in Heaven? Finally, we are

A nation among nations; and the world

Will soon see in many distant ports

      Another flag raised!

So, no matter what happens, whose approval do we need?

And, under God, whose thunder do we fear?

      Thank Him who placed us here

Under such a kind sky--even the sun

Is on our side; and all the breezes of the ocean

Do silent battle for us; and the Year,

And all the gentle daughters in her train,

March alongside us, and in our service wield

      Long spears of golden grain!

A yellow flower as her fairy shield,

June throws her blue banner to the wind,

    While in the order of their birth

Her sisters pass; and many a wide field

Grows white beneath their steps, until now, look

      Its endless sheets unfold

THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth

Rejoice! Beneath those soft, warm fleeces

      Our happy land shall rest

      In a peace as deep

  As if we lay surrounded by

Whole miles of Russian ice and Arctic storms!


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!
And what if, driven crazy by the wrongs they've done,

      Caught in their own betrayal,

      Made bold by their own fears,

      And joined with the one from long ago,

Who long ago, up in the North,

Established his evil rule and went to war with God--

What if, both crazy and blinded by their rage,

Our enemies threw down their challenge to us,

And stepped onto our land in defiance?

We will not back down, my brothers, but go forward

To confront them, led by the Lord of Hosts,

And shaded by the powerful spirits

Of Moultrie and Eutaw--who can defeat

Allies like these? Not just them,

      But every family and every friend

      Will help us; even the very ground,

And all the bountiful resources it gives us for our hard work,

And everything we love about our great land,

Will fight alongside us, through sea and shore,

      The heart of a woman and her hand,

Trees, fruit, flowers, and every force,

      Gentle, serious, or majestic;

      The winds will seem to protect us,

The hills will lend us

      Their strength and peace;

And in our hardened muscles we will combine

      The power 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!
Nor would we avoid the battlefield,

      Though we’re weak just as we’re strong;

Call upon the clashing elements around,

      And test what’s right and wrong!

On one side, beliefs that dare to teach

What Christ and Paul chose not to preach;

Codes based on a broken promise,

And charity that sharpens a knife’s edge;

Fair plans that leave the nearby poor

To starve and shiver at the schemer’s door,

While among the world’s most generous ranks,

He turns some vast philanthropy into profit;

Religion taking every human form

Except the pure and Christian faith that warms,

Where it’s either driven by vile fanaticism,

Or lost in vague philosophies,

Sullied with all the hypocrisy of the self-righteous,

And making rules that contradict the laws of Heaven!

And on the other side, disdain for filthy profit,

Unblemished honor, truth without a flaw,

Faith, justice, respect, and generous wealth,

And, for the poor and humble, laws that give,

Not the mean right to buy the right to live,

      But life, and home, and health!

To doubt the outcome would show lack of trust in God,

      Who, if He has decreed

That we must cross a redder sea

Than that which echoed Miriam’s holy joy,

      Will surely raise when needed

      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.
But let our fears—if we have any—be quiet,

And let’s focus on the future! If we could climb

Some grand mountain and see what’s to come,

The beautiful sight would fill

      Our eyes with happy tears!

Not just for the glories that the years

Will bring us; not for lands from coast to coast,

And riches, power, and peace, though those will come;

But for the distant people we will help,

And the quiet whispers of the world's suffering:

To provide work for the poor,

      All across this sad planet,

And to save the humblest homes from need and crime,

Is one of the many purposes for which

      God makes us great and wealthy!

The time may not yet be fully here

When everyone will recognize it, but the mark

By which we will be known in every land

Is that vast gulf that washes our Southern shore,

And through the cold, harsh ocean flows

Its warm currents, so that far-off Arctic shores

May sometimes feel on the gentle breeze

Strange tropical 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 save the South!

God save the South!

Her altars and homes--

  God save the South!

Now that the war is near--

Now that we prepare to fight--

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 be our shield!

At home or in the field,

Stretch Your arm over us,

  Strengthen and save!

Even if they're five to one,

Every father and son,

Strike until 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!
God make the truth

Stronger than force!

Millions would trample us

  Down in their pride.

Bring their legions low;

Roll back the ruthless enemy;

Let the arrogant oppressor 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!
Listen! Honor's call,

Calling everyone--

Calling all of us

  To the fight.

Sons of the South, rise up!

Fight until the brand breaks!

Fight for the sake of honor,

  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.
Rebels before

Were our fathers of the past;

Rebel, the proud title

  Washington had,

So why should we have the same

Name he took from disgrace;

Turning it into one of fame,

  Not hated anymore.


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.
War to the limit!

They are the ones guilty,

Who bind the free man

  To free the slave.

Get up, then, and undaunted,

Don’t put away the sword?

Until the last enemy 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, protect the South!

God, protect the South!

Wipe the tearful eyes that now

  Follow our way.

Let the light feet wander

Safely through the orange grove;

Keep the land we cherish

  Safe from all anger.


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!
God save the South!

God save the South!

Her altars and homes--

  God save the South!

For the harsh war is near,

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!
You can never get them back,

                         never! never!

Even if they fall along the path

                         of your efforts;

Even if their bodies cover the ground

That once welcomed their arrival,

And blood stains every doorstep

                         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!
They have stood up, every one of them

                         tough and fearless;

They disregard your curses and your ban

                          without concern.

Every hand is ready with a knife;

Every gun is set for conflict;

Every palm holds a life

                    noble and unmatched!


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.
You don't have blood like theirs

                    for the spilling,

In the veins of Cavaliers

                    was its essence.

You don't have such noble men

In your abolition place,

To march through enemy and marsh,

                    fearless.


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.
They might fall before the fire

                    of your armies,

Paid in gold for deadly work--

                    bought loyalty!

But for every drop you spill

You will leave a pile of dead;

And the vultures will be fed

                    in our lands.


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.
But the battle isn't always won by the strong,

                    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 defeat--

                    wrong's unaddressed.


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!
In the name of God! Amen!

  Stand up for our Southern rights;

On our side, Southern men,

  The God of battles fights!

Throw the invaders back--

  Reject their work of suffering--

The voice sounds like a brother,

  But the hands are those of an enemy.

They come with a marching army,

  Invading our homeland--

Stand up, Southerners! fight and win,

  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 singing our victory song,[1]

  Which declared us proud and free--

While breaking the heartstrings

  Of our nation's unity.

Sadly, it drifts away from us,

  Sighing over land and sea;

Until, silent on the poet's lips,

  It rests in his Southern grave.

Spirit and song are gone!

  Minstrel and music!

We mourn you, 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.
They’re waving our flag above us,

  With the tyrant's oppressive will;

With our blood, they’ve stained its colors,

  And they still call it holy.

With tearful eyes but steady hands,

  We’ll tear its stripes apart,

And throw them, like broken chains,

  That can’t restrain the heart.

But we’ll preserve our stars of glory,

  In the strength of the sacred sign

Of Him who has set 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!
Stand up, Southerners! Fight and win!

  Serious, strong, and confident!

The battle won’t last

  Longer than God allows. 

By the life that just yesterday

  Awoke with a baby's breath!

By the feet that, before morning, may

  March to a soldier’s death!

By the blood that cries out to heaven—

  Red on our land!

Stand up, Southerners! Fight and win,

  In the name of the Almighty God!


[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all
whose descendants are Confederates.
[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, from Baltimore; all of 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!
The deed is done! The die is cast;

The glorious Rubicon is crossed:

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.
Strong in the right, I see her stand

Where the ocean washes the sloping sand;

Her own Palmetto adorns the shore.


She turns aloft her flashing eye;

Radiant, her lonely star[1] on high

Shines clear amidst the darkening sky.
She looks up with her bright eye;

Shining, her lonely star up high

Glows brightly in the darkening sky.


Silent, along those azure deeps

Its course her silver crescent keeps,

And in soft light the landscape steeps.
Silent, along those blue depths

Its path her silver crescent follows,

And in soft light, the landscape glows.


Fling forth her banner to the gale!

Let all the hosts of earth assail,--

Their fury and their force shall fail.
Throw her banner to the wind!

Let all the armies of the world attack,--

Their anger and strength will fall short.


Echoes the wide resounding shore,

With voice above th' Atlantic roar,

Her sons proclaim her free once more!
Echoes the vast, booming shore,

With a voice above the Atlantic's roar,

Her sons declare her free once again!


Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State!

In numbers few, in daring great,

Thus to affront the frowns of fate!
Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State!

Few in number, great in courage,

Thus to confront the frowns of fate!


And while mad triumph rules the hour,

And thickening clouds of menace lower,

Bear back the tide of tyrant power.
And while crazy victory dominates the moment,

And darkening clouds of threat gather,

Push back the wave of oppressive power.


With steadfast courage, faltering never,

Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever:

Hail, Carolina! free forever!
With unwavering courage, never backing down,

Firmly determined, we break her chains:

Hail, Carolina! free forever!


[1] The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon.
[1] The flag displayed a star inside 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.
Another star has risen; another flag has been raised;

Another name has been added among the nations of the world;

Another fierce battle against a tyrant's cruel rule,

And once more, an oppressed people have risen up 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!
The spirit of the fathers lives on in the children;

The old blood that resisted the foreign bayonet still survives;

The fathers fought for freedom, and the sons fight for it too;

Their God was with the fathers—and is still the God of what’s 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?
Look! The skies are dark! A gloomy cloud has descended!

Will it break before the sun of peace, or spread in fierce anger?

Will we have the smile of friendship, or will it be a blow?

Will it be the right hand for the friend, or the bloody hand for the enemy?


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!
In peace, we want to live, but not in fear;

In peace, we can’t die, dishonored on our grave.

To our friends in the North, we extend our hearts and hands,

But if they reject our friendship—then it’s war and conflict!


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.
Honor to the new nation! And honor to the brave!

A country freed from oppression, or a soldier's honored grave.

Every step will be fought for; every stream stained red,

And the invader, if he wins, will find the conquered among 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.
But victory will follow wherever the sons of freedom go,

And the signal to begin will be the death-knell of the enemy;

And the place where he was bravely confronted will be hallowed,

And the star that rises over there will rise never to set again.


The Irrepressible Conflict.


Tyrtæus.--Charleston Mercury.


Then welcome be it, if indeed it be

  The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come;

  There will be mitigation of the doom,

If, battling to the last, our sires shall see

Their sons contending for the homes made free

  In ancient conflict with the foreign foe!

  If those who call us brethren strike the blow,

  No common conflict shall the invader know!

War to the knife, and to the last, until

  The sacred land we keep shall overflow

With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill,

Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave!

Aye, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave

May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave.
Then let it be welcomed, if it's truly

  The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come;

  There will be some easing of the fate,

If, fighting to the end, our ancestors see

Their children striving for the homes made free

  In the old struggle against the foreign enemy!

  If those who call us brothers deliver the blow,

  No shared conflict shall the invader experience!

War to the bitter end, and to the last, until

  The sacred land we protect shall be filled

With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill,

Or the last enemy finds their bloody grave!

Yes, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave

May fall, but you shall not enslave a single soul.


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.
In the galaxy of nations,

  A nation's flag's unfurled,

Standing tall in its pride

  Among the nations of the world.

Though born from war, forged in blood,

  Yet strong from the start,

Like a legendary phoenix, it rose up--

  Dismembered, yet beautiful.


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.
And a braver heart and bolder hand,

  Never created a fairer fabric

Than what Southern wisdom can command,

  And Southern courage can build.

Even if kingdoms refuse to acknowledge her power,

  Or recognize her origins,

The land fought for Liberty

  Will stand 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!
Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave!

  Your sons are bold and free,

And spill life’s blood to protect

  Their birthright, Liberty!

Their fertile fields and sunny plains

  That produce wealth alone,

That's desired for greedy gains

  By tyrants—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.
Proud country! fighting, suffering, torn,

  Your altars empty;

Your beautiful dark-eyed daughters grieve

  At war's unyielding fate;

And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears,

  Will sanctify her homes,

While more than bronze or marble stands

  The trophy of her greatness.


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!
Oh! land that celebrates every brave name

  Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE,

And countless heroic sons, whose fame

  Reaches far across the sea;

Far better let your plains become,

  From coast to mountain cave,

One respected burial site and tomb,

  Than for us to be 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!
Fair, favored land! You may be free,

  Redeemed by blood and war;

Through pain and darkness we see

  Your hope—a shining star;

Your banner, too, may proudly wave,

  A symbol on the seas—

Your brave deeds from distant worlds

  Will inspire and be praised!


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!"
But who can express the pure drive,

  That excites and energizes you

To acts of courage, that protect

  The rights your fathers earned?

Oh! Don't be sad, hearts; her unmatched sacrifice,

  Adorned with the warrior's crown,

From the heights of fame their proud cry

  Was "Freedom 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?
Is there really no hope for the nations?

  Will the story of Time always be the same?

And will History, in all her accounts,

  Still end each chapter in shame?

Will the courage that became glorious,

  Turn into the shame of a proud race:

And a people, who have been victorious for ages,

  Become low through the ways of merchants?


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!
Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman,

  Each walks onto the scene and leaves!

How brave their actions against the enemy,

  How amazing their qualities and skills!

Rough courage, at first, when starting,

  The nation earned its name through blood;

Then the wisdom, which daily gaining

  New heights in its journey, 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!
How noble the story for so many years,

  Mixing beauty with bravery and strength!

What heroes, what poets, and wise thinkers,

  Created shining stars for every peak!

While their people, with deep respect,

  Brought gifts of praise to the Great,

Whose wisdom and moral 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!
Ours was also a noble beginning,

  Filled with hopes for the future as high:

Great men, each a morning star,

  Taught us to live and die with courage!

We battled our enemies for a long time,

  And through challenges well-handled, we earned a name,

Not less glorious than that of the Greeks or Romans,

  And just as deserving of lasting 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!
Shut the Book! We need to open another!

  Oh Southerner! if you’ve learned from the Past,

Be careful when you choose a brother,

  With what ally your fate is tied!

Watch out for all foreign alliances,

  Be cautious of their arguments and flatteries,

It’s better to confront the old snake with defiance,

  Than to get caught in his deceiving charm!


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.
Thus, the amazing structure built over a thousand years—

Crafted with skill and wisdom—by a race

Of great ancestors, unified in virtue,

Selfless and devoted; holding high ideals

Of public strength, and communities capable

Of great ideas for the common good,

And of lasting freedoms, maintained strong

Through integrity;—crumbles and falls apart,

Lacking the glue of virtue; and attacked

From within and without by greed for wealth,

And empty ambition for power.


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 fell the old Republics—Gentile and Jew,

Roman and Greek—such has always been the record;

Mixed glory and shame, always sliding into greed,

From conquest and triumph into downfall!

The glory we see traded for guilt

Could still be glory. There was enough pride,

And ambition to strive for more,—

Both noble qualities when paired with gifts,

To do the work of States—and there was courage

And a sense of public need, and public welfare,—

And duty—in a brave but scattered few,

Throughout the States—had these been recognized

To fight against the common cravings.

But these were ridiculed and set aside as worthless,

As they didn’t align with the popular desires!

They found their reward in exile or death!

And only he who could lower his spirit,

And dull his mind to the lowest nature

Wore the crown of power!


                          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!
So, with the decline

From virtue, the great nation loses all

The pride that comes with security--the liberty,

With that essential modesty that keeps the heart

Upright, in humble submission, to the doubts

That come with being human, and teach

Humility, as the best check and safeguard,

Against the ravenous greed of desire!

Worst of all signs, signaling impending doom,

When people refuse to listen to the praise

Of their great leaders; and, envious of rightful claims,

Eagerly set out to criticize,

And push them out of their councils! Worse than all

When the great leader, bowing to the masses,

Gives up his thoughts as a low tool

To common hands, to be manipulated:--

Succeeds to the ordinary temptation, the clever bribe

Of position or gain, and sells out 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 then, states are brought under control—

Until one huge central tyranny rises up,

With a shiny exterior but weak foundation;

Arrogant, careless of what’s fair or just,—

While desire becomes unchecked and strips away

The garments of justice; turning right into a joke;

And places a fool's cap on the head of the law,

And takes the authority's staff

From his right hand, shattering it over 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 the reckless power still rages,

Using the angry crowd like hunting dogs,

To chase down freedom where she tries to hide.

Ancient history becomes the new—

The ages move in cycles, and the snake

Always ends up with its tail in its own mouth.

Thus it has always been in the past!—and man is the same

Throughout the ages—a pitiful creature of passion,

Burning greed, and pathetic vanity,

And all the weaknesses of desire and mistakes,

Turns himself into the miserable tool

To destroy 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.
So empires fall—

Past, present, and future!—

There’s no hope

For nations or people once they lose their virtues

And forget what they truly are—

Weak beings whose safety

Rests in humbly following God’s law,

And that wise humility which always asks

For His protective watch and guidance,

Even if people show clear signs of authority.

Humility is safety! If only people could understand

The saying, "ne sutor ultra crepidam,"

And the wise cobbler, at his craft,

Be satisfied with trimming leather

To fit the heel and instep, perfectly shaped

To the foot,

We might find 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.
Rightly understanding

What's right, and keeping our desires

In check to this one standard only, is the essence

Of that great principle, and wise requirement,

Which ultimately ensures our 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.
Where a state,

Or a group of states or peoples, exceeds the limits

Set for their progress, they must collapse and fall

Into that abyss of destruction that has swallowed

All ancient empires, states, republics; all

Dying, in the same way, from the same reason!

The dreadful mix of the event,

Combined with the provocation, stands out,

A warning in all histories;

And yet we pay no attention, just keep rushing on,

Under the combined influence of greed and vanity,

And like the foolish kid with his card castle,

We tumble into ruin as we build.


The Voice of the South.


Tyrtæus.--Charleston Mercury.


'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave,

And fits but ill to be held by the slave;

And sad were the thought, if one of our band

Should give up the hope of so fair a land.
It was a generous gift our ancestors gave,

And it doesn't fit for a slave to hold;

And it would be unfortunate to think that one of us

Would give up hope for such a beautiful 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.
But the time has come, and the moments that tested

The hearts of men in our times of pride,

Have returned once again, and now for the brave,

To earn the gift that our ancestors 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.
And if there's one cowardly spirit who stands

Now, in our danger, with hands folded,

Let his grave be made in the ground right away,

With the sword his old father used in battle.


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!
A noble oath a free person should take,

Still facing the battle and the criminal's stake,--

The oath that their ancestors brought across the sea,

When they pledged their swords to Freedom!


'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.
It was a good oath, and in Heaven's sight,

They fought and bled for what was right;

It was blessed by God with the holiest mark,

And sealed with the blood of your ancestors 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.
We can’t forget, and we can’t ignore,

The sacred responsibility we have toward them,

The responsibility that promises the heart of the son

To protect the freedom his father has secured.


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!
To let no arrogant offender ruin

Any right of our homes, or any part of our land,

To take away any privilege we have, or even dare

To take a blessing that we should 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?
Art ready for this, dear brother, who still  
Keeps Washington's bones on Vernon's hill?  
Are you ready for this, dear brother, whose ear,  
Should ever hear the voices of Mecklenburg?


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!
You’re ready, I know, my dearest brother,

Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do your part;

The sword and the rifle shine brightly in your hands,

And just wait for the word to draw the weapons!


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.
And you, by Savannah's wide valleys,--and you

Where the Black Warrior whispers the promise in echoes;

And you, youngest child of our ancestors, who wanders

Where Apala-chicola 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!
Nor will Tennessee hesitate, when a voice from the heights,

The great South will call her sons from their rest;

Nor will Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet sounds,

To take 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.
Oh, sound, to wake the dead from their graves,

The will that would push us out for our slaves,

That, through deceit that lacks courage, and arguments that lack truth,

Would take away our rights without reason or mercy.


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.
Do you hear, brave Creole, as fearless as you are strong,

Isn’t it time to fight against the infamous wrong?

You feel it, I know, deep in your souls,

Valiant people, through whose valley the great river flows.


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.
At last you are awake, all finally rising,

In the heat of pride, in the fullness of strength;

And now let the struggle begin that will show,

If the son, like the father, 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.
We are devoted to the State, from our forefathers who came,

To embrace the downfall, but never the disgrace;

To give up not an inch of our land, nor a right,

As long as our spirit and our sword are ready 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.
Then, brothers, let's unite our hands and hearts as we take up

The shining sword of justice, based on the law;--

Here is where our fathers wrote the record, and here,

We pledge to defend that record with the sword.



Let those who tarnish and destroy it be warned,

We will no longer tolerate their wrongs or their deceit;

We will break every link of the chain,

That they use to try to bind 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.
How beautiful and bright its chains were at first!

How ugly and vile they became with their cursed use!

We wore it with pride when it honored the brave,

But we tear it apart when it’s only fit for a slave.


[1] The reader will place the accent on the ante-penultimate, which
affords not only the most musical, but the correct pronunciation.
[1] The reader will emphasize the ante-penultimate, which provides not only the most musical but also the correct pronunciation.


The Oath of Freedom.


By James Barron Hope.


"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be
free."
"Freedom is always achieved where there is an unstoppable desire 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, so we choose to live:

  By Heaven, we will be free!

By all the stars shining above--

By the green earth and the mighty sea--

By God's unwavering majesty,

  We will be free or die!

    So let the drums roll!

      Let all the trumpets play!

         With mind, heart, and soul,

         We reject control

      From any enemy!


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, so we choose to live:

  By Heaven, we will be free!

And now the Northerners, in vain, try

To bring us down--armed, we stand

To fight for our homeland!

  We will be free or die!

    So let the drums 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, we choose to live:

  By God, we will be free!

Our wives and children look up,

Praying for God's favor on what's right!

And ask us in the fierce battle

  To live or die as free people!

    So let the drums 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, we choose to live this way:

  With God's help, we will be free!

And before we stop this battle cry,

May all our blood, our family's spill,

On bayonet or sword's hilt!

  We will be free or die!

    Then let the drums 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, so we choose to live:

  By God, we will be free!

With defiance, let the flags wave,

Reveal their greatness to the wind,

And, kneeling, brothers, let’s pledge

  We will be free or die!

    Then let the drums all play! 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.
Born free, so we choose to live:

  By Heaven, we will be free!

And to this oath, the dead respond--

Our brave fathers' sacred spirits--

These with us, and the God of armies,

  We will be free or die!

    Then let the drums 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.
Get ready and be courageous, and make sure you're prepared for the morning, so you can fight against these nations that have gathered to destroy us and our sanctuary. It’s better for us to die in battle than to witness the suffering 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!
Brothers! The storm clouds are dark,

  And the cries from the South are rising;

Will you bow to the fierce tornado's destruction,

  And the predators from the North?

Fight! You can achieve a martyr's purpose,

  Fight! with an unyielding spirit--

Fight! with the fury of your heart,

  For your bright, besieged homeland!

    To arms! To arms! The South needs support,

      And a coward is he who runs away--

    For you wield 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!
Get up! even though the stars shine harshly,

  And the moon wears a crown of fury--

Brothers! there’s a blessing waiting for us

  In the shadows of the Father’s displeasure:

Get up! you deserve the amazing light

  That the Sun of Justice offers--

In the caves and tombs of darkness

  God, the Lord King, is alive!

    To arms! to arms! for the South needs support,

      And only a coward runs away--

    For you hold the sword of the Lion’s Cub,

      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!
Think of the dead by the Tennessee,

  In their frozen shrouds of blood--

Think of the mothers who will see

  Those sweet eyes no more!

But they’re better off in a hero’s grave

  Than the slaves of time and breath,

For they are the children of the brave,

  And the angels of death!

    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,

      And a coward is he who flees--

    For you 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!
Better the burial grounds of the West,

  And a sacrifice of lives,

Than the disgusting invader as a guest

  Among your sisters and your wives--

But a spirit hides in every woman,

  Though, brothers, you should tremble,

To sharpen a Judith's fierce blade,

  And the deadly spike of Jael!

    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,

      And a coward is he who runs--

    For you 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! I see you marching by,

  With the fierce attitude of a gladiator,

And your shout is the Macedonian cry

  From the old, heroic days!

Keep going! with trumpet and drum,

  With rifle, pike, and spear,

And die--if death must come--

  For the sake of your country!

    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,

      And only a coward would run--

    For you 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!
Brothers! the storm clouds are dark,

  And the cries from the South are rising;

Will you bow down to the fierce tornado's destruction,

  And the predators from the North?

Fight! you can achieve a martyr's purpose,

  Fight! with a fierce resolve--

Fight! with the fury of your spirit

  For your shining, besieged land!

    To arms! to arms! for the South needs aid,

      And a coward is anyone who runs--

    For you have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,

      And the God of the Maccabees!


[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus.
The last name 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.
Democracy has done its damage,

  And while people seem free, they’re not really free,

  As the poor cheer in pride,

The demagogue prevails over what the people want.

How quickly the disgrace follows! Just a few years,

  And we were standing tall. We had great leaders,

  Of strict virtue, and armed with the strongest powers!

How have we fallen below where we should be!

No heroes, no virtues, no real men! Instead,

  We have the flashy little monkeys and showy types;

  Creatures that just mock and imitate, as they

Straddle the backs of the people;

Democracy, in foolish pride,

Dressing only sycophants in government robes.


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.
You spirits of the glorious dead!

  You watchers in the sky!

Who sought the patriot's rightful place,

  With holy trust and pride—

Come, lend your inspiration now,

  Come, ignite each Southern son,

Who bravely fights for freedom's rights,

  And cheers 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.
Come, show them how, on the hill and in the glade,

  Quickly leaping from your side,

The flash of sabers created

  A red and flowing tide—

How well you fought, how bravely you fell,

  Beneath our blazing sun;

And let the lyre, in fiery tones,

  So tell the tale 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.
There's a lot of graves all over the land,

  And plenty of crucifixes,

That tell how that brave group

  Stood strong in seventy-six--

You heroes of the timeless past,

  Your glorious journey is complete,

But from your ashes rises the trust of free people,

  And inspires 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!
We set up our altars where you rest,

  On many a green patch,

With swords pointing to the sky,

  And blessed by God;

The smoke will rise from every pile,

  Until freedom's fight is won,

And every voice in the South,

  Will cheer 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!
A voice is heard in Ramah!

  Loud sounds are carried by the wind!

Notes to wake up buried heroes!

  Notes to make traitors go pale!

Wild notes of intense emotion

  Cry out and don’t hold back!

This is Virginia's strong plea,

  And she’s calling for 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!
Oh! chief among ten thousand!

  You whom I loved so much,

Star that has set, like never before

  Since the morning star fell!

I’m not calling out to insult you,

  Nor to define you by what you are;

I leave you to your deathbed,

  And I leave you to your 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!
But by every human hope,

  And by every human fear;

By all that people consider sacred,

  And that women cherish most;

Yes! by your mother's honor,

  And by your father's grave,

By hell below, and heaven above,

  Return 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!
Not since God's sword was set

  To protect the tree of life,

Has any blade been given,

  Like the one you hold!

To stab me with the steel I gave

  To defend my honor's place,

Not since Iscariot lived and died,

  Was treason like yours!


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!
Give back the sword! and break

  Our strong and powerful bond!

We separate, and separate for good,

  To conquer or to die!

In sadness, not in anger,

  I say the words, "We part!"

For I leave you to your deathbed,

  And I leave you to your heart!


Richmond Whig.
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.
No, keep the sword we once gave you,

  A symbol of our trust in you;

The steel is strong, the blade is sharp--

  As false as you are, 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.
We called you our amazing leader,

  With laurel wreaths we placed on your head;

Your name once spread from person to person:

  In quiet whispers, we speak 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.
Yes, hold on to it until your last day;

  Let it always be significant,

Of a great treasure once owned--

  A people's love now gone from you.


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.
Your mother will not bow her head;

  She shows her heart to you now;

But may the sharp steel fail to hurt--

  It is more merciful than you.


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 before you strike the deadly blow,

  Thousands of sons of this beautiful land

Will rise, and, in their rightful anger,

  Will stop the reckless act of your 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.
And when in fear you hear

  Your deadly acts of revenge cry out

And feel the burden of your terrible crime,

  Then fall on your 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.
I won't blame those aged locks,

  Even though they belong to a traitor;

We once admired them,

  So let's try not to speak ill of 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.
But her true sons and daughters pray,

  That before your day of reckoning comes,

Your ungrateful heart may feel the pain

  Of knowing your mother is free once again.


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 talks about coercion? Who has the audacity to deny

  A determined people the right to be free?

Let him erase one star from the sky forever,

  Or restrain the waves of the sea with his chains!


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?
Who talks about force? Can love be brought back

  To hearts where only bitterness lives?

Can peace on earth be declared with a weapon,

  Or can good will among people be created by violence?


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!
Shame! Shame!—that the politician and deceiver, truly,

  Should have for a crisis no other option,

Beneath the bright dawn of light and 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.
From the places where deceit, lies, and hate hide away--

  From the tomb where mistakes are trapped in chains--

This ugly ghost emerges into the daylight,

  And wants to destroy the land that his presence defiles.


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 defeat us, men of the North—could you bring

  Destruction and death to our homes like a flood—

Can you expect the pure lily, love, to grow

  From ashes that are soaked and stained 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!
Could you label us as villains and servants, don't you know

  What intense, quiet hatred lies beneath the scar?

How loyal Venice is to Hapsburg, I know!

  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.
But it's good to remember that this sunny land

  Is a nutrix leonum, and nurtures a people

Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and united as one,

  Who won’t tolerate oppression and don’t know 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.
And the people in power should really watch out

  For the quick payback that comes with their crimes,

When the lion, RESISTANCE, jumps out from his den,

  With a rage that makes his revenge truly magnificent.


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.
Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still,

  Though brothers no longer, we would gladly be friends;

Nor join in a cursed conflict that must bring

  Destruction to the land it falls upon.


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--
But if you were struck blind and driven mad with the rage

  That the gods gave to everyone they wanted to ruin,

You would create a new Iliad, darkening the age

  With horrors beyond what we've heard about 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, as deaf as a snake to the cries,

  When wisdom, humanity, justice plead,

You would have our proud eagle feed on the eyes

  Of those who have taught him so greatly 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:
If there are no limits to your spite,

  And you plan to reign with power in the future

Over the people you've already taken control of

  Our beautiful land and the houses of worship:


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!
To the breeze, then unfurl your dishonored banner,

  And, at once, let the alarm sound from afar;

We greet you, as the Swiss greeted 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;
For the courage that stays strong on our land, always shining,

  Will draw inspiration from the earth and the waves;

Our sons, undaunted, will head out to battle,

  With the smile of the lovely, the sweet 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.
And the bugle will send its echoes through the past,

  In the trenches of Yorktown to awaken the fallen;

While the ground of King's Mountain will stir at the sound,

  And release its heroes to glory once more.


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.
Hey! lumberjacks of the mountains!

  Hey! folks living in the valleys!

Hey! you who have toughened by the crashing waves

  In the fierce winds!

Leave the barn and cattle, leave family and home,

  Put down the bloodless spade;

Let the desk, and case, and counter decay,

  And burn your business books.


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!
The tyrant wanders through your beautiful lands;

  And until he leaves or is scared,

Your fields must only grow armed forces,

  Your harvests be collections of spears!

Give up to rot and decay

  The useless tools for profit;

And nourish your country's sacred soil

  With streams of red 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.
Come, with whatever weapons you have—

  With musket, pike, or knife;

The one who carries the deadliest weapon

  Is the one who values their life the least.

The arm that delivers its free strikes

  With all the anger of a patriot,

Could take down 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.
Does anyone hesitate? Let them look

  Into a brave maiden's eyes,

And catch the holy fires that burn

  In those earthly skies.

Oh! If you could feel like your women do,

  And march in their spirit,

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!
What hope, O God! wouldn’t get fired up

  When thoughts like these bring joy?

The lily stands strong against the storm,

  And should the palm tree be afraid?

No! Instead, let its branches welcome

  The winds that sweep the plain;

And from the lily’s royal stance

  Learn how to face 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!
Hey! woodcutters of the mountains!

  Hey! residents of the valleys!

Hey! you who by the crashing waves

  Have braved the storms!


Come! flocking gayly to the fight

  From forest, hill, and lake;

We battle for our country's right,

  And for the lily's sake!
Come! Gathering cheerfully for the fight

  From the forest, hill, and lake;

We're fighting for our country's rights,

  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!
It wasn't the private insult that bothered him the most,

But the public outrage against his country's flag,

To which his patriotic heart had devoted

Its loyalty like a bride. The bold, proud leader,

The avenging army, and the swift approach of death

Didn’t frighten him. Nor did life with all its charms,

Nor home, nor wife, nor children weigh down

The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy

The arrogant invader. Ellsworth fell,

And Jackson perished among the wolves,

Sustained only by his own great heart

And God’s approval. More than a Roman spirit!

O symbol of our impetuous bravery!

May this young nation always take pride in her sons

A vast, unimaginable multitude,

Standing like you at her greatest frontline,

Self-assured and ready, to defend rights

Or avenge wrongs, to dare and to 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.
Revealed, like a flash of lightning,

  A hero stood!

The invading enemy, the sound of the trumpet,

  Awoke his fury.


High o'er the sacred pile that bends

  Those forms above,

Thy star, O Freedom! brightly blends

  Its rays with love.
High above the sacred structure that bows

  Those figures above,

Your star, O Freedom! shines brightly as it mixes

  Its rays with love.


The banner of a mighty race,

  Serenely there,

Unfurls the genius of the place,

  In haunted air.
The flag of a powerful people,

  Calmly flies there,

Showcasing the brilliance of the area,

  In the eerie atmosphere.


A vow is registered in Heaven!

  Patriot! 'tis thine!

To guard those matchless colors, given

  By hands divine.
A vow is noted in Heaven!

  Patriot! It's yours!

To protect those unmatched colors, given

  By divine hands.


Jackson! thy spirit may not hear

  Our wail ascend;

A nation gathers round thy bier,

  And mourns its friend.
Jackson! Your spirit may not hear

  Our cries rise up;

A nation gathers around your grave,

  And mourns its friend.


The example is thy monument,

  And organ tones

Thy name resound, with glory blent,

  Prouder than thrones!
The example is your monument,

  And organ sounds

Your name echo, mixed with glory,

  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.
And those who have lost, which has benefited us,

  The concerns of the people

Will heal their hurt hearts,

  And dry their tears.


When time shall set the captives free,

  Now scathed by wrath,

Heirs of his immortality,

  Bright be their path.
When the time comes to free the captives,

  Now burned by anger,

Heirs of his immortality,

  May their path shine bright.


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!
Doubtless to some, with long ears,

  To satisfy an ape's desire,

The blessed Union is still cherished;--

The stripes, if not the stars, belong to them!

"Greek faith" was given to us eighty years ago,

  And then--"Greek fire!"

But, better all their destructive fires

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 sacred fire that inspired the Greek

  To stand strong at Marathon,

Until the last enemy's scream

  Announced that the fight for freedom was won,

Still endures—unputdownable:

  Through every age its flames will blaze—

Lives in the hermit's solitary cell,

  And rises from every legendary 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!
The hearthstone embers hold the spark

  Where oppression's foot has trod;

Through the dark shadow of superstition

  It flashes to the living God!

From Moscow's ashes rises the Russ;

  In Warsaw, Poland lives again:

Schamyl, on the 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!
Tell's freedom beacon shines on the Swiss;

  The invader struggles in vain;

He finds Sic Semper Tyrannis

  In the Bowie knives of San Jacinto!

More than these—more than all—there's a holier fire

  Now igniting your soul, Virginia's son!

So fight for your wife, child, and aging father,

  Fight 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!"
The Northern mob is gearing up for greed;

  The hired priest stirs the crowd--

In that rotten harvest from, bigot roots,

  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.
Fly high, you spotless banner!

  Blue cross and field of light;

Let your shining stars be the symbol

  Of what is pure, true, and right.

Protect freedom's sacred cause—

Liberty and the law;

Safeguard the youngest of nations—

  Keep her honor shining 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.
From Virginia's historic border,

  Down to Tampa's farthest shore—

From the blue Atlantic's waves

  To the roar of the Rio Grande—

Across many a crimson plain,

Where our fallen heroes remain—

Spread your blessed shelter wide,

  Over stream, mountain, and valley.


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!
In your cross of heavenly blue

  Is where our faith stands proud and high;

In your field of white, the sacred

  Truth for which we’ll fight and die;

In your red, the blood of patriots--

  Ah! the holy flood.

Rise up, unstoppable banner!

  Always 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!
Flash with living, lightning motion

  In the sight of all the brave!

Tell the price we paid for

  Room and right for you to wave

Freely in our God’s free air,

Pure and proud and stainless fair,

Banner of the youngest nation--

  A banner we would die to save!



Strike for us! King of armies!

  Grant us space in Your vast world!

Loosen all the tyrant’s chains,

  Send all his legions back!

Give us peace and liberty,

Let the land we love be free--

Then, oh! bright and stainless banner!

  Never shall your 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.
The essence of a political party—if it's true

  That thriving nations need parties, boils down to this,

  That we carefully consider what race it is,

And what foundation first made it free.

That foundation must create the living connection

  That links its generations to the end,

Changing methods if necessary, or policies,

  But neither breaking the principle nor bending it.

Each race has its own nature—steady, defined,

  By a higher power, and if its principle is secured,

  Kept constant like the progress of the sun,

It withstands storms and fury, at sea and in the wind,

And develops fully, like a tree,

Matured and always growing in a free environment.


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.]
"Governments are created by people to get their fair authority from the approval of those they govern. When any government fails to achieve this purpose, the people have the right to change or get rid of it and set up a new government based on principles they believe will best ensure 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!"
Not quite a hundred years have passed

  Since right here,

The subjects of a ruling throne--

  Their master of fate--

This high status crossed the ocean,

  From council and camp,

"No earthly power can control the free

  Without their own agreement!"


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!
For this, they fought like Saxons do,

  On bloody fields and for a long time--

They saw themselves as champions of what's right,

  And judges of what's wrong;

For this, their noble knighthood carried

  The branded rebel's name,

Until the starry cross they carried

  Set all the skies on fire!


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!"
And states that are equal and separate

  Outshone the western sun,

By one great charter connected--

  Not mixed into one;

Whose engraved key that high decree

  The grand inscription gave,

"No earthly power can rule the free

  Except 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--
Oh! dirty age! Oh! relentless anger!

  Oh! disrespectful wrong!

An act to ruin the history page,

  And break the strings of song;

In the name of that great charter, a group

  Enticed by greedy motives,

Whose authority is the greedy hand

  Of beliefs without a Savior--


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.
States that have broken every promise

  Its clear code holds,

Now sharpen their swords even more

  To bind it with chains--

To create a brotherhood

  The approval and the mark,

By which to equip a chaotic group

  With deadly weapons against each other.


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!
Who, aware that their cause is unjust,

  In whiny prose and verse,

Speak bitterly of love, and attach

  Hypocrisy to wrongdoing;

Who smile while they strike, choke with rage

  Or helplessly scowl;

And label us "rebels" alongside 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!
Most corrupt of a corrupt group,

  Who think you fool the heavens

With every hypocritical face

  And fake deceit;

Around Freedom's home, with weapons drawn,

  We welcome the divine light

Of those who placed the goddess there,

  And still 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!"
Our loved ones' graves are at our feet,

  Their homes behind us--

No Southern soldier can escape

  With women on his tail;

Sound the call, bannered army, the proud declaration

  That came from your ancestors,

"No earthly power can control the free

  Without their own agreement!"


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!
Would you have me love you, dearest,

  With a woman's proudest heart,

Which will always hold you closest,

  Held in its innermost heart?

Listen, then! My country is calling

  On her sons to face the enemy!

Leave these groves of roses and myrtles;

  Put down your dreamy harp of love!

Like young Korner—ignore 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!
Do you hesitate?—Let cowards procrastinate—

  You fight for your country!

Gather under her noble banner—

  "God, our country, and our rights!"

Listen! Her trumpet is calling

  On her sons to face the enemy!

A woman's heart is soft and gentle,

  But it's also proud and loyal:

Will she be her land's protector?

  Lover! Soldier! Rise and act!


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!
Grab your father's old sword,

  Which once shone like a symbol of freedom!

Until sweet peace—the bow and calm—

  Quieted the fierce battles of war.

Listen! Now your country is calling

  On her sons to face her enemy!

Love is sweet in moonlit gardens!

  Sweet is the altar and the flame!

Sweet is springtime with its flowers!

  But sweeter by far is 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!
Should the God who smiles down on you,

  Condemn you to a soldier's grave,

Hearts will break, but fame will honor you,

  Sainthood among the brave!

Listen, then! your country is calling

  To her sons to face the enemy!

I would rather see you lying

  On the last bloody field of battle,

Among your country's heroes dying,

  Than be the wife of a coward!


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.
I know the sun is shining, and the lilacs are blooming,

  And summer is sending kisses through lovely May--

Oh! to see all the treasures that spring is giving,

  And think--my boy Willie signed up today.


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 feels like just yesterday at twilight, softly humming,

  I rocked him to sleep with his cheek resting against mine,

While Robby, the four-year-old, waited for the arrival

  Of Dad, down the street's blurry 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’s been many years since my Harry left,

  Never to return in the twilight or dawn;

And Robby got tired of waiting, and set out

  Alone on the journey his father had taken.


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.
It’s been many years—and this afternoon, sitting

  At Robby’s old window, I heard the band play,

And suddenly stopped daydreaming over my knitting,

  To remember that Willie is twenty today.


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:
And that, standing next to him on this gentle May morning,

  The sun turning his cigar smoke into gold,

I noticed a subtle warning in his kind eyes and lips,

  And held back the tears as he spoke eagerly:


"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!"
"Dear mom, you know how these Northmen are boasting,

  They would crush the rights of the South into the ground;

The guys are all fired up; and they wish I were going--"

He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh, just tell me if I have to!"


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 smiled at the boy, even though my heart felt like it was breaking,

  My eyes filled with tears, so I looked away,

And answered him, "Willie, it's good that you're awake--

  Go, do as your father would ask you to, today!"


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 sit by the window, watching the flags wave,

  And I listen sadly to the sound of the drum,

And I stifle the pain that's heavy in my heart,

  And I tell all the fears inside me to be quiet.


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.
I’ll sit by the window when summer spreads out

  Across the fields, and the buzzing of the honeybee

Soothe the rose on the porch from her anxious sighs,

  And wait for the face of my love to appear.


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.
And if he should fall, he has given his young life

  For the sake of freedom; and as for me, I will pray

Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven

  To meet the dear boy who enlisted today.


My Maryland.


Written at Pointe Coupee, LA., April 26, 1861. First Published in the New
Orleans Delta.
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!
The tyrant's foot is on your land,

                                 Maryland!

His flame is at your front door,

                                 Maryland!

Get revenge for the blood of patriots

That stained the streets of Baltimore,

And be the battle-queen of the past,

                 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!
Listen to an exiled son’s plea,

                                 Maryland!

My Mother State, I bow to you,

                                 Maryland!

In life and death, in sorrow and joy,

Show your unmatched bravery,

And wrap your beautiful limbs in steel,

                 Maryland! My Maryland!


Thou wilt not cower in the dust,

                                 Maryland!

Thy beaming sword shall never rust,

                                 Maryland!
You will not cower in the dust,

                                 Maryland!

Your shining sword will never rust,

                                 Maryland!


Remember Carroll's sacred trust,

Remember Howard's warlike thrust,

And all thy slumberers with the just,

              Maryland! My Maryland!
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,

Remember Howard's battle push,

And all your sleepers with the righteous,

              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! It's the red dawn of the day,

                              Maryland!

Come! With your armored display,

                              Maryland!

With Ringgold's spirit for the fight,

With Watson's blood at Monterey,

With fearless Lowe and daring 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!
Come! Your shield is bright and strong,

                              Maryland!

Come! Your hesitation is holding you back,

                              Maryland!

Come! Join your own heroic group,

That walks with Liberty alongside,

And sing your fearless Slogan-song,

              Maryland! My Maryland!


Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain,

                              Maryland!

Virginia should not call in vain,

                              Maryland!
Dear Mom! break the tyrant's chains,

                              Maryland!

Virginia shouldn't reach out 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!
She meets her sisters on the plain--

"Sic semper," it's the proud refrain

That confuses the minions back again,

                                 Maryland!

Rise, in majesty once more,

                 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!
I see the blush on your cheek,

                                 Maryland!

For you have always been bravely humble,

                                 Maryland!

But look! there's a cry rising up

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!
You will not pay the Vandal toll,

                                 Maryland!

You will not bend to his control,

                                 Maryland!

Better for the fire to roll over you,

Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,

Than the crucifixion of the soul,

                 Maryland! My Maryland!


I hear the distant thunder hum,

                                 Maryland!

The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum,

                                 Maryland!
I hear the far-off sound of thunder,

                                 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!
She’s not dead, nor deaf, nor mute—

Hooray! She rejects the Northern trash!

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.
He is strutting over the battlefield,

  In his fancy hat and feather,

Shouting his soldier talk,

  In a playful, manly way--

With the boldest, bravest step,

  Walking confidently back and forth,

And his flag fluttering gently,

  Over his youthful brown hair.


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.
And I sit next to him sewing,

  With a busy heart and hands,

For the brave soldiers heading

  To the distant battlegrounds--

And I look at my treasure,

  In his bold little spirit,

My little blue-eyed soldier,

  Just a year and a half 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!
Still a deep, deep well of emotion,

  In my mother's heart is stirred,

And the tears come gently flowing

  At each imitative word!

There's a struggle in my chest,

  For I love my darling boy--

He's the happiness of my spirit,

  He's the sunlight of my joy!

Yet I think about my country,

  And my spirit grows bold--

Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier

  Were just 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.
I would rush him to the battle--

  I would gear him up for the fight;

I would offer him to his country,

  For his country's justice and wrongs!

I would strengthen his hand with blessings

  From the "God of battles" won--

With His helmet and His armor,

  I would protect 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!
Oh! I know it would be a challenge,

  Because I love my sweet boy;

He's the happiness of my heart,

  He's the light of my joy!

But when I think of my country,

  Oh! my spirit grows strong,

And I with my blue-eyed soldier

  Were just 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.
Hooray! Hooray! for the Good Old Cause,

  It's an inspiring sound to hear,

Because it speaks of rights and freedoms,

  Our ancestors fought for so dearly;

It reminds us of the Jersey prison ship,

  The place where Warren fell,

And the scaffold that echoes the last words

  Of murdered Hayne's goodbye.


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.
The Good Old Cause! it’s still the same

  Even though ages may pass;

It's the cause of what's right against what's wrong,

  Shining bright in every generous heart;

It's the cause of all who say they live

  As free people on Freedom's land;

Of the widow, who mourns her husband and sons,

  Crushed under Tyranny's heel.


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!
And anyone who feels a passionate devotion,

  To see their country free,

And would rather see it baptized in blood,

  Than to kneel in submission;

Must agree to follow her White-Cross flag,

  Where the chaos of battle rages,

A soldier--A SOLDIER!--with weapons in his hands,

  And the love of the South in his heart!


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.
Come one, come all, in service to your country,

  Let no one be left behind,

Except for the very young, and the very old,

  The weak, the lame, the blind;

Let everyone, whether rich or poor,

  Who can carry a backpack and gun,

Join the ranks of our Southern army,

  'Till the South's cause is victorious.


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.
But the son of the South, if he exists,

  Who will back down from the fight now,

Out of a desire for comfort, or greed,

  Or because he’s afraid of the Yankee enemy;

May his neighbors turn away from his offered hand,

  As if it were forever tainted,

And may every woman turn her cheek

  From his cowardly lips;

May his country’s curse be upon him,

  And may no man ever witness,

A gentle bride by the traitor’s side,

  Or children gathered around 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.
Hooray! Hooray! for the Good Old Cause,

  It's an exciting sound to hear;

For it speaks of rights and freedoms,

  Our ancestors fought so hard to achieve;

It calls our heroes from their bloody graves.

  To receive our heartfelt applause,

And encourages us to walk in the footsteps 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!
They have finally met—as storm clouds

                       gather in the sky;

And the Northmen, battered and bleeding,

                       have been pushed back:

And their thunder has been silenced,

And their leaders defeated or dead,

And their ranks, filled with fear,

                       torn apart!


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.
Like the leaves from Vallambrosa

                        they're lying;

In the moonlight, in the midnight,

                        dead and dying:

Like those leaves before the storm,

Swept away, wild and pale;

While the force that made them tremble

                        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.
When up in the morning sun

                        flags were waving,

And "fast revenge on the rebels"

                        were being proclaimed:

They had no idea that night

Would mark their shameful retreat,

And rebels, winners of the battle,

                        would stand fearless.


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!
But peace to those who died

                        in our paths!

May the ground be light on them!

                        green the grass!

The Northmen will long regret the day,

When they faced our determined line,

And flinched from battle's fierce clash

                        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! Freedom rose

To your call at the sound of your trumpet:

At the first echo of that clear blast,

Enemies fled like chaff in the wind—

Fled to their end: from that moment on, no more

Victories for them, either by sea or land.


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! noble the blood

That has soaked your fields in a crimson flood;

On many wide and sunny plains,

Like autumn leaves your dead have lain:

The Southern heart is their funeral urn!

The Southern slogan their stern requiem!


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.
Glorious Virginia! to you, to you

We turn, like the shoots to the parent tree;

Bending in awe at your powerful gaze;--

First in the council, first in the battle!

While our flag is lifted by the winds of fame,

Glorious Virginia! we’ll honor your 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.
Oh, God of battles! once again,

  With banner, trumpet, and drum,

And garments dyed in your wine press,

  To give You thanks, we come.


No goats or bullocks garlanded,

  Unto thine altars go;

With brothers' blood, by brothers shed,

  Our glad libations flow,
No goats or cattle have been decorated,

  To your altars we go;

With the blood of brothers, shed by brothers,

  Our joyful offerings 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.
From the pest house and the filthy dungeon,

  Where they die, injured and torn,

From the bloody trench and the mortuary,

  Where they lie piled on top of each other.


In every groan that yields a soul,

  Each shriek a heart that rends,

With every breath of tainted air,

  Our homage, Lord, ascends.
In every groan that releases a soul,

  Each scream a heart that breaks,

With every breath of polluted air,

  Our tribute, Lord, rises.


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 thank You for the sword's wound,

  The cannon's chaos and destruction;

We appreciate You for the widow's tears,

  The poverty that starving 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!
We give You praise that You have lit

  The torch and fanned the flame;

That lust and greed hunt their prey,

  Kind Father, in Your name!


That, for the songs of idle joy

  False angels sang of yore,

Thou sendest War on earth--ill-will

  To men for evermore!
That, for the songs of carefree joy

  Fake angels sang long ago,

You bring War to the earth--hostility

  To people forevermore!


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 wisdom, truth, and what’s right

  Are given to us and our own;

That You have filled us with the strength,

  To carry out 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.
We know that open fields and towns waste

  Are lovely in Your eyes--

You love an empty hearth,

  You love 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!
Let not our weakness fall below

  The measure of Your will,

And while the press has wine to bleed,

  Oh, walk 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 hate--as Jesus taught

  Nice fools, in the past, to love;

Give us Your vengeance as our own--

  Your 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.
Teach us to turn, with dirty hands,

  The pages of Your word,

And learn the blessed curses there,

  On those who sheath 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!
Wherever we walk, deserts may rise,

  Until no one is left to fight;

And when the last drop of blood is spilled,

  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.
Humans create their own terrible destinies, and these, in turn

Bring about their oppressors. In our desire and anger,

Our cravings and ignorance, he emerges.

The result of our needs as our wasteland,

The punishment that drives us for our fading morals,

He corrects us to make us better! Never before,

In human existence, did a tyrant come to power,

Without being fueled by the people’s worst weaknesses

Of wrongdoing and avarice. The result of our sins,

The repulsive sore of our bad behaviors,

He is destined to be their fitting consequence.


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."
The National Quarterly describes an incredible scene that took place a few years ago on a British transport ship. The commander of the troops on board, realizing that the ship was about to sink and there was no hope of saving his men, lined them up in battle formation and bravely faced their fate as if confronting a human enemy. We don't know of a more striking example of the strength of military discipline in the face 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.
The final goodbyes are whispered by loving lips,

The last heartfelt prayer for cherished ones is spoken,

And over each heart, harsh sorrow's dark shadow

  Her dark veil has fallen.


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.
Far, far beyond what any anxious watcher can see,

Revealing her chest to the playful sea,

The grand ship moves forward with strength,

  Her wild 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.
Out from his fortress in the western sky,

Flashing defiance on every cresting wave,

The sun emerges, with a red and brooding gaze,

  Majestic, even in his decline.


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.
Till, growing bolder as his rays fade,

The gathering waves crash over his defenses,

His flag droops slowly—his divine light dims,

  And darkness takes over 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.
Look once more!--Night's dark shadows have disappeared:

But the pale beams shining from their hiding place,

Only reveal the darkness above,

  And the wild emptiness below.


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.
Mastless and without a helm, the helpless ship drifts;

Her pride, her majesty, her glory lost;

While the dark tempest looms over the waters,

  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.
But listen! in the chaos of the storm

There's an echo across the crashing waves;

Steadfast at its call, the fearless troops gather,

  The determined and bold.


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.
Eight hundred men, the pride of England's army,

In a stern line stand arranged on her deck,

Calmly as if they didn't know they were lost--

  Lost in that broken 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.
Eight hundred men—Old England's trusted and tested,

Their hopes, their fears, their glorious tasks complete,

Steadfast, until the last enemy is defeated,

  And the final battle is 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!"
Free floats their banner above them as they stand;

No sad song shall echo over the waters;

Out rings 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.
Lower and lower sinks the doomed ship,

Closer and closer creeps the merciless wave,

But loudly rises, across the dark waters,

  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!"
Over their heads, the gurgling waves roll;

Still over the waves, the last loving echoes sound,

Ringing out from the depths of the sea,

  "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.
Oh you! whoever you are that reads this page,

Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith,

For all throughout our earthly journey,

  We have a meeting 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.
Not in the chaotic turmoil of the battlefield,

Not at the moment when defeated enemies flee,

Not in the midst of joyful and vibrant life,

  Is it the hardest time 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.
Greater the reward, holier the prize,

Of those who trust and wait with a humble heart;

Oh! understand how high, how sacred true courage is

  In patient strength.


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.
Calm like that second summer before

  The first snowfall,

In the bright sunlight of heroic actions,

  The city waits for the enemy.


As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud,

  Her bolted thunders sleep--

Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,

  Looms o'er the solemn deep.
As of now, behind their walls, strong and proud,

  Her locked-up thunders rest--

Dark Sumter, like a fortress in the sky,

  Rises over the serious 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.
No Calpe scowls from high cliffs or rocky ledges

  To protect the sacred shore;

But Moultrie keeps her war dogs in check,

  Above the flat 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.
And down the dunes a thousand guns are hidden.

  Unseen, next to the flood--

Like tigers in some Eastern jungle lurking,

  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.
Meanwhile, through streets still resonating with commerce,

  Walk serious and contemplative men,

Whose hands might someday handle the patriot's sword

  As easily 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.
And girls, with such eyes that would fade

  Over a wounded dog,

Seem to each have captured the strength of him

  Whose sword she sadly fastened.


Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,

  Day patient following day,

Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome,

  Across her tranquil bay.
So surrounded outside and protected at home,

  Day after day, patiently passing,

Old Charleston gazes from her roof, spire, and dome,

  Across her calm 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.
Ships, sailing through a hundred enemies from Saxon lands

  And fragrant 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.
But still, along that dim Atlantic horizon,

  The only enemy smoke

Drifts like a harmless mist over the waves,

  From some fragile, 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?
Shall the spring day break, and she still dressed in smiles,

  And with an unharmed brow,

Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned islands,

  As beautiful 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.
We don’t know; in the temple of fate

  God has written her destiny;

And, calmly in her belief, she waits

  For victory or death.


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?
What! Does the Mother of Treason still raise

  Her head against the Furies that darken her sea?

Untouched by doubt, and unafraid of fear,

  With her proud head held high, and her knee unbent,

             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.
Sure! Here is the modernized paragraph:

Yes! unleash your red lightning, curse in your anger,

  Shake the earth, the waves, and the sky with your fury;--

But she catches your deadly strikes, still warm from their path,

  And throws back your lightning, laughing at the flames

             Of your useless longing.


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!
Surrounded by her Brave, a fierce circle of fire,

  Flashes up from the sword tips that cover her chest;

She is protected by Love and surrounded by Fame,

  And we swear, your footsteps will never tread

             Where her fallen heroes lay!


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!
Her voice shook the Tyrant! — sublime from her tongue

  Came the warning sounds — a grand Prophetess —

On her soil, the first notes of Freedom rang,

  And the first strong blow of her armored hand

            Woke her land from its sleep!


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!
What more! She has held on with her strong will

  To the fate that would crush her honor to the ground,--

The light in those deep eyes still shines bright

  With the warmth of her courage, the glow of her value,

            Which lights up 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!"
And next to her stands a knight whom the great Bayard loved,

  "Without fear or blame," raises her banner high;

He is at the front, impressive and steady,

  And when that leader is near, a thousand brave souls,

            Swear, "It’s 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!
Their swords have flown through the free air!

  The world holds its breath at the battle! before

Shines the bright figure of Freedom with wreaths in her hair--

  And even if the crown is stained with blood,

            We will cherish her even 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.
And while Freedom tempts us with her passionate eyes

  To the peak of her promise, the voices of the past,

From the legendary depths of ancient times rise,

  And the splendor of their enchanting music pours

            Over the battle-scarred 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!
Then surround your brave Empress, oh heroes, with fire

  Sparked from the sword-tips that protect her chest,

She is protected by Love and surrounded by Fame,

  And never, lowly enemy! shall your steps be taken

            Where her fallen Martyrs lie!


"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.
You men of Alabama,

  Wake up, get up, wake!

And tear apart the coils

  Of this Abolition snake.

If he tightens another fold--

  If this last coil he applies--

In the cold grip 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.
Though I see his deadly coils around your lower limbs and waist,

Yet, thank God! your head and arms,

  And your strong right hand, are free;

And in that hand there shines--

  Oh God! what joy to feel!--

A shiny blade, sharp and keen,

  Made 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.
Now, by the free-born fathers

  From whose brave blood you came!

And by the noble mothers

  At whose loving breasts you fed!

And by your wives and daughters,

  And by the fears they have,

Drive 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.
This serpent Abolition

  Has been coiling for years;

We’ve reasoned, we’ve threatened,

  We’ve almost begged in tears:

Now, away, away with Union,

  Since on our Southern soil

The only union left to 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.
Brave little South Carolina

  Will deliver the same blow,

And Florida, and Georgia,

  And Mississippi too;

And Arkansas, and Texas;

  And in the end, I believe,

The head will fall under the strikes

  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.
In this time of struggle,

  Let conflicts and quarrels end,

Until above this howling storm

  We see the symbol of Peace.

Let Southern men stand together,

  In unity and strength,

And ready their weapons, and lock their shields,

  To protect their homeland.


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!
The love we once had for the Union

  Now beats cold in our hearts,

From insults and injuries we've faced

  It has turned to scorn and hate;

And today we raise the banner of Secession

  High in the sky,

Determined, 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!
Gentlemen of the South,

  Strap on your shining swords!

Darkly along our borders fair

  The Northern hordes are gathering.

Ruthless and fierce they come

  At the blazing cannon's mouth,

To destroy 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!
Ride out with confidence,

  Each carrying on their shield

Symbols our ancestors earned long ago

  On many hard-fought battlefields!

Let this be your battle cry,

  Even to the mouth of the cannon,

One heart, one way! Move forward,

  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!
Brave knights of a noble lineage,

  Gordon, Chambers, and Gray,

Show those minions from the North

  What true Valor can face in battle!

Let them see on every spotless shield

  At the roaring cannon's mouth,

Decori decus addit avito,

  Gentlemen from 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!
Morrison, Douglas, Stuart,

  Erskine, Bradford, and West,

You’ve faced many bloody battles

  And proven yourselves!

With spirit, not cunning!

  March toward the cannon's fire,

Heirs of the brave from past centuries! Forward,

  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!
Gather your brave men,

  Workers in metal and steel!

Call the skilled craftsmen to come forward

  At the sound of the trumpet's call!

Give them your battle cry, Erskine!

  Fight! to the cannon's mouth!

Tell the men Forward! Douglas, Forward!

  Farmers 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!
Brave hunters! You have faced

  The fierce black bear in battle;

You have tracked the panther night after night,

  You have chased the fox by day!

Your spirited horses breathe hard

   To charge at the gray wolf's jaws,

Your aim is steady at your target! Go forward!

  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!
Fight! so that the humble serf

  And the noble lady still

Can remain in their proud dependency,

  Free subjects of your will!

Show the lowly North how poorly,

  At the blazing cannon's mouth,

He fares who dares to touch 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!
From mother, wife, and child,

  From loyal and content servant,

Prayers for you rise to Him

  Whose power can save!

We hold back the coming tears,

  Even as you face the cannon's fire;

The Lord will provide! Forward,

  Gentlemen of the South!


Memphis Appeal.
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!
Southerners, hear your country call you!

Rise! Or something worse than death will happen to you!

    To arms! To arms! To arms! in Dixie!

Look! All the beacon fires are lit,

Let's unite our hearts now!

    To arms! To arms! To arms! in Dixie!

         Raise 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 win peace for Dixie!

      To arms! To arms!

         And win 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.
Listen to the northern thunder rumble!

Northern flags flutter in southern winds!

    To arms! etc.

Send them back your fierce defiance!

Stamp out the cursed 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.
Fear no danger! Avoid no effort!

Grab your rifle, pike, and saber!

    To arms! etc.

Shoulder to shoulder,

Let the odds make each heart stronger!

    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.
How the South's great heart celebrates

At the sound of your cannons;

    To arms! etc.

For faith betrayed and promises broken,

Wrong done, insults hurled.

    To arms! etc.

      March forward 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.
Strong as lions, fast as eagles,

Back to their kennels go these beagles!

    To arms! etc.

Break the unfair chains apart!

Let them take from each other!

    To arms! etc.

      Raise 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.
Swear on your country's honor,

Never to give in or back down;

    To arms! etc.

Until the enemies are defeated,

Until the Lord's work is finished.

    To arms! etc.

      Raise 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.
Halt not until our Federation

Secures its place among the nations of the Earth!

    To arms! etc.

Then at peace, and crowned with glory,

Hear your children share 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.
If our loved ones are crying in sadness,

Victory will soon bring them happiness;

    To arms! etc.

Joyful pride will soon replace sorrow;

Smiles will chase away tears tomorrow.

    To arms! etc.

      Raise 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.
Now bring me my buckskin outfit!

  My pouch and powder, too!

Let's see if seventy-six can shoot

  Like 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!
Old Bess! We’ve kept our barrels shiny!

  Our trigger quick and accurate!

As far, if not as fine a sight,

  As long ago we fired!


And pick me out a trusty flint!

  A real white and blue,

Perhaps 'twill win the other tint

  Before the hunt is through!
And choose me a reliable flint!

  A true white and blue,

Maybe it will win the other color

  Before the hunt is done!


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!
Give boys your brass percussion caps!

  Old "shut-pan" suits too!

There's something in the sparks: maybe

  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!
We've seen the red-coated Brit bleed!

  The red-skinned Indian, too!

We've never thought to take aim

  At Yankee Doodle Dandy!


But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart!

  Those days are mostly done;

And now we must revive the art

  Of shooting on the run!
But, Bessie! bless your sweet old heart!

  Those days are mostly over;

And now we need to bring back the skill

  Of shooting on the go!


If Doodle must be meddling, why,

  There's only this to do--

Select the black spot in his eye,

  And let the daylight through!
If Doodle has to interfere, well,

  There’s really only this to do--

Pick the dark spot in his eye,

  And let the light in!


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!
And if he doesn't like how Bess presents the view,

  He might change his mind and stay

  Where the good Doodles are!


Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know,

  Who kissed the Testament;

To keep the Constitution? No!

  To keep the Government!
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 look for Lincoln, Bess! old buddy,

  And take him partially;

We'll try to hit him, if he's a fool,

  And miss him, if he's a rookie!


We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks

  By which a war is won;

Especially how Seventy-six

  Took Tories on the run.
We'll teach these young guys the tricks

  That help win a war;

Especially how Seventy-six

  Had the 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.
Lord of Hosts, who watches us in battle, defending

  The homes of our ancestors against the enemy's forces,

Send us help on the wings of your angels coming down,

  And protect us from his threats, and thwart his attack.

Ignite the faith of our sons, until it burns like iron,

  Red-hot from the forge, fueled by passion;

Make them eager to confront the hordes that surround,

  In the chaos of battle, through fields of steel!



Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious

  The martyr who falls at the front lines;--

That unwavering faith makes victorious

  The arm that strikes bravely to defend what's right;--

That the passion, stirred by the injustices of a nation,

  Is a warhorse that gallops over the battlefield as his own;

And the Faith, empowered by the soul's approval,

  Is a warrior, in proof, that can never be defeated.


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.
A tear for "the dark and bloody ground,"

  For the land of hills and caves;

Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys rest

  Where the vandals walk over their graves;

A sigh for the loss of her respected fame,

  Once cherished in the days gone by;

Her ship is crewed by a foreign team,

  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.
The bones of her sons lie bleached 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 the first of the brave and bold--

A change has taken place in her heart,

  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.
Pride of the free was that noble state,

  And her banner still was so,

Had it not been for the iron heel of the despot

  That brought her strength so low;

Her valleys were once the freeman's home,

  Her bravery unbought with gold,

But now the pride of her life is gone,

  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.
Her courage would have once rejected

  The weight that burdens her now,

And the tyrant's grip, and the vandal's steps,

  Would have darkened her brow;

Her spirit will still be awakened,

  And her sorrowful fate will be shared,

Her brave sons will show the world

  That Kentucky is not for sale.


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!
Here lie the dangers and the needs

  That require a race of giants--a vast realm,

  With not a single noble leader in charge;

And the great Ship of State still sailing high,

  Amidst the breakers, on a lee shore--towards the rocks.

  With frequent and extremely terrible shocks--

The crew in shock, and fear in every eye.

Yet is the gracious Providence still close;

  And, if our cause is just, our hearts are true,

  We will save the good ship and brave crew,

Nor let our freedom be shipwrecked!

  It's necessary for us as a people to rise,

  With a serious purpose that even fate challenges,

And face all dangers without flinching!


Charleston Mercury.
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.
Tired, tired lies the soldier,

  On his blanket on the ground

With no sweet "Goodnight" to lift his spirits,

  And no soft voice around,

Creating music in the dark,

  Bringing ease to his long hours,

Like a sunbeam in the woods,

  Or a grave covered 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.
Thoughtful and quiet, he lies there, tearful,

  As his memories sadly wander

To the "cozy little living room"

  And the loved ones from his home;

And his waking life and his dreams

  Softly weave together as one,

As twilight blends

  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."
And when sleep comes over him,

  Still his thoughts in his dreams

Are about home, friends, and loved ones,

  And his busy imaginations feel

So real, as they drift

  To his mother’s beloved figure.

As she gently said, when they parted,

  "You are mine in sunshine and in storm:

Mine in the helpless mornings of childhood,

  And in the joyful days of boyhood,

You have to leave me now—God protect you

  In your strong, blossomed manhood."


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 maybe, in the midst of the thoughts

  Crowding his mind,

His beloved father's hair, now gray,

  Comes back to greet him;

And he hears his shaky voice,

  Like a trumpet ringing out,

"Since I'm no longer young and strong, boy,

  You must succeed, 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 maybe he hears a whisper

  Of the softest, softest sigh,

Something deeper than spoken words,

  Something that speaks of a connection

Close to his soul like pulsing blood:

  It’s hers, that patient wife—

And once more that farewell feels

  Like saying goodbye to life:

And her last kiss he remembers,

  And the heart-wrenching thrill,

And the "Must you go?" and response,

  "I only 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.
Or the little kids gather,

Half in awe, around his knees;

And the loyal dog, silent, alert,

In the magical glass he sees;

And the sound of song, and images,

And the simplest homegrown flowers,

Unforgotten, come before him

In the quiet 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!"
Then his thoughts drift in Dreamland

To a sister's gentle touch,

And he feels her soft lips tremble

As they tenderly meet his;

And he hears her proudly saying,

(Though tears of sorrow fill her eyes),

"Brave men fall, but live in stories,

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.
Or maybe his brown cheek flushes,

And his heart races now,

As he thinks of the one who gave him,

Him, the beloved, love's sweet promise;

And, oh, he fondly remembers

He is still her most cherished concern,

Even in his starry dreams

That she prays for him.


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.
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 movement of the shadows

In the twilight's thoughtful 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.
Or when summer suns blaze down on him,

Bringing drought and terrifying illness,

And the pain of debilitating fever

Grips his tired body tight--

In the restless sleep of sickness,

Doomed, perhaps, to a martyr's death,

Listen to him whisper "Home"--a sweet sound,

With his troubled, heavy 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.
Then God bless him, bless the soldier,

And God give him strength for the fight;

May He grant him new skill

To battle for what’s right.

Let him know that while he’s dreaming

In his restless sleep,

That we’re praying—God protect 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.
My rifle, pouch, and knife!

  My horse! And then we say goodbye!

One loving kiss, dear wife,

  One touch of heart to heart!

Hold on to me a little longer,

  But hold back the sobs and tears!

Smile—just try to smile—

  And I’ll leave without any fears.


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.
Our little boy in the cradle,

  He sleeps—and in his sleep,

Smiles, with an angel's joy,

  Which tells you not to cry.

I'll kneel beside him and kiss—

  He won't wake up for now,

Thus dreaming of the happiness,

  That encourages you to smile too.


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!
Think not, my dear wife, that I leave,

  With a carefree heart

It’s a pain similar to sorrow,

  That fills me as we part;

But when the wolf was heard

  Howling around our home,

You know, my dear mother-bird,

  I took him down right then!


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?
Sure, here's the updated text:

Yeah, panther, wolf, and bear,

  Have died beneath my knife;

So why tremble with fear,

  Now that I'm leaving, my wife?

Won't I keep the peace,

  That made our home so dear;

And until these wolf packs stop

  Should I really stay 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!
One loving kiss, dear wife,

  One press of heart to heart;

Then for the deadliest struggle,

  For freedom I leave!

I would be of little value,

  If these Yankee wolves were left free

To roam around our home,

  And bring you sorrow!


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.
God's blessing on you, wife,

  God's blessing on our child:

Pray for me during the struggle,

  And help our little one speak.

Whatever happens in battle,

  I will always be faithful to you--

To the home we love--

  To my people who are 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.
Eva sits on the ottoman there,

  Sits next to a Psyche carved in stone,

With just that face and just that vibe,

  As Esther on 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.
She's picking lint for the brave who bleed,

  And I watch her fingers move and glide

Over the fabric, as, thread by thread,

  It falls 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.
A bracelet jingles on her delicate wrist,

  Crafted like Cellini's in Rome,

From the tears of the amethyst,

  And the pale 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!
And always on the shiny crest—

  A sharp and clear cameo image—

Flashes your fierce knife, Corday,

  And the lava locks belong to you!


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
I thought about the war-wolves following us,

  Their bony fangs dripping with blood;

Until the Past, in a lifeless, hypnotic shroud,

  Fell under a magical surge


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 the angry fire through the metal bars

  Leaped to the fireplace with a thud and a shout--

And a skinny howl echoed 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.
Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear,

  And the dove-eyed girl I knew had vanished--

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!"
She grew like a prophetess filled with destiny,

  With a spell in her eyes,

A sneer on her lips--a hatred in her arms--

  And a lament 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!
Eva, the vision wasn’t wild,

  When it struck the tyrants of the land--

For you were transformed into Nemesis, dear,

  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:
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.
And the blood that flowed from his brave heart,

  At the place where he died heroically,

Was absorbed by the earth as a sacred offering

  For the noble cause he believed in.


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,
In Heaven, a place with the courageous and fortunate,

  And, for his soul's support,

The prophetic gaze of Christ--

  And nothing left on earth,


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!"
But a bit of dust in the land he chose,

  A name in song and story,

And Fame to shout with her loud 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!
Let the trumpet sound again,

                               Beauregard!

Let the battle thunders roar,

                               Beauregard!

And once more by that sea,

Let the swords of everyone free

Spring forth to fight with you,

                               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!
Old Sumter loves your name,

                               Beauregard!

Grim Moultrie protects your fame,

                               Beauregard!

Oh! first in the fight for freedom!

Oh! steadfast in what’s 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!
St. Michael with his army,

                               Beauregard!

Camps by that shore,

                               Beauregard!

And the Demon's power will fade,

And the Dragon's fears will fail,

Even if he’s heavily armored,

                               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!
Not a leaf will fall,

                               Beauregard!

From the laurel won today,

                               Beauregard!

While the ocean breezes blow,

While the waves ebb and flow

Over 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!
Let the trumpet sound again,

                               Beauregard!

Let the battle drums thunder,

                               Beauregard!

From the center to the shore,

From the sea to the land's heart

Reverberates the echo, forever,

                               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.
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 the 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!
My brave old country! I've watched you for a long time

Always the first to rise against what's wrong;

To stop the usurper in his massive stride,

And face his fears while lowering his pride;

To foresee the sneaky danger before it appears,

And warn the careless and inform the wise;

Rejecting the temptations, the bribes, the selfish game,

Which, through power, still turns into shame;

You stood apart—above the fate

That would have destroyed your freedom as a state.

In vain were the tyrant's threats, his cunning traps;

Too proud is your spirit, and your heart too pure;

Your only quest was freedom and to be

Confident in your conscience, and people free.

The knowledge of statesmen was yours, the patriot's goal,

These kept you virtuous and preserved your reputation;

The wisdom still for advice, the brave voice,

That inspires a people until they all rejoice.

These were your birthrights; and two centuries have passed,

As at the start, still find you at the end;

Supreme in your decisions, determined in your will,

Pure in your 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!
The wise advice and brave examples,

Drawn from the past, not left to fade away,

Still inspire your soul with courage—still impart

Wisdom to virtue, strength to the heart!

Always the first to stop the advance—to declare

"Stop right here! The attacker shall go no further;"

You keep your integrity intact, your state secure,

Your fortunes thriving, and your freedom assured;

No flattering trick leads you to your downfall;

The tempter and the usurper can’t succeed at all!

Your spear's first strike reveals the wicked form,

And first, with a brave heart, you face the storm;

Though armies come against you, you stand strong,

Ready to confront the invader on the shore:

Your brave sons compete to be the ones

First in line, gathering by the sea;

No cowardice frightens them, as they learn

How best to throw the spear, or hold the line!


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.
Great spirit in a small body!—the hope of humanity

Rejoices when people like you lead the way!

Steadfast, undeceived, unchained, unpurchased,

Your reputation will shine with every battle fought;

Faithful to the lessons of the past, you’ll provide,

The best protection for the long future ahead.


Charleston Mercury.
Charleston Mercury.


Gossypium.
Cotton.


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!
The tyrant walks on your sacred land,

Your pines offer shelter to his crew,

Your people stand by with idle hands,

    Carolina!

He breathes your soothing air without care,

He dismisses the power of your palm;

Oh, who will shatter your cowardly peace,

    Carolina!

Your once-great reputation is fading,

There's a stain on the edge of your cloak;

Send your battle cry to the winds,

    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!
Call on your children of the hill,

Wake the swamp and river, coast and stream,

Rouse all your strength and all your skill,

    Carolina!

Call on wealth and science, trade and art,

Ignite the cautious marketplace,

And pour yourself through the people's heart,

    Carolina!

Until even the coward shakes off his fears,

And all your fields, marshes, and lakes,

Shall bristle like your 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!
Hold up the glories of your dead;

Say how your elder children bled,

And point to Eutaw's battlefield,

     Carolina!

Tell how the patriot's spirit was tested,

And what his fearless heart defied;

How Rutledge led, and Laurens died,

     Carolina!

Cry! until your call, finally heard,

Falls, like Marion's bugle blast,

Re-echoing 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!
I hear a low sound, like waves

That make their way through dark caves,

Like people fighting in their graves,

     Carolina!

And now it grows deeper; slow and grand

It builds up, like rolling waves on land

An ocean crashing on the shore,

     Carolina!

Shout! let it reach the startled Huns!

And roar with all your celebration guns!

It is the response of your 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!
They won't wait to hear you call;

From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall

Echoes the voice of every hut and hall,

    Carolina!

No! They say you have no stain,

Or none except what battle's day

Will wash away in seas of blood,

    Carolina!

Sure, the enemy might tear your edges,

Your robe may be pierced with swords and darts,

But they can't touch your 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!
Before you accept the tyrant's control,

Ten times ten thousand men must die;

Your body might respond to his call,

    Carolina!

When by your grave, in sorrowful crowds,

The women sing of your mortal wrongs,

It will be their own funeral songs,

    Carolina!

From your lifeless body, trampled by thugs,

No helpless child will turn to God;

Everyone will be safe beneath your soil,

     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!
Girt with such determination to act and endure,

Confident in what’s right, and strengthened by prayer,

You will not succumb to despair,

     Carolina!

Raise your bold banner to the wind!

Face the threatening seas with your ranks,

Like your own proud royal trees,

     Carolina!

Throw down your challenge to the invaders,

And let your cannons roar the call;

Then leave the future to your descendants,

     Carolina!


My Mother-Land.


By Paul H. Hayne.


"Animis, Opibusque Parati."
"Prepared in mind and resources."


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."
My Motherland! you were the first to raise

Your pure flag of freedom to the wind,

The first to bring down, in your nearby seas,

The harsh ruler's power;

But long before that moment,

While, in false and foolish beliefs,

Your sister nations wouldn’t acknowledge their enemy,

And laughed at your warnings, even as the low,

Deep, terrible rumblings, that come before the quake

Filled the heavy air;

While they still paused in scorn,

Of deadly madness born,--

You, oh, my Mother! like a blessed priestess

With a remarkable vision of what’s to come,

Could not calmly rest

Safe and silent--

But from your borders, with the sounds of drums

And trumpets, came the urgent call, "GET READY!"

"Ready for what?" your careless sisters asked;

"We see no storm threatening above,

Just a few light clouds, the west wind's breath

Will blow away, or wash away 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.
"Get ready!" the time has come to face our fate!

Unfortunately, it wasn't until the thunder of

shells and cannons shook the spring day,

Which brightened Charleston Bay—

When the subdued "Stars and Stripes" bowed before us—

That our last remaining scales fell away

From our blinded eyes, and our SOUTH, standing tall and proud,

Confronted the challenge, and though we had been lulled for too long,

Felt her great spirit strengthen, her patriotic courage grow.


But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde

Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword,

  Approach to desecrate

The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate--

Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast

Their ashes to the blast--

Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate

The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"--

Against this ravening flood

Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood,

  Oh! we,

Strong in the strength of God-supported might,

Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight,

  Nor basely yield

To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field--

But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be,

To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ!
But darker days have come upon us—against the horde

Of robbing 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 wind—

Yes! who declare, "we will destroy

The very borders of your sovereign State”—

Against this raging tide

Of vile invaders, fueled by lust and blood,

  Oh! we,

Strong in the strength of God-supported might,

Go forth to give our enemies no weak fight,

  Nor shamefully yield

To corrupt legions a scarcely blood-soaked field—

But bear witness, Heaven! if such the need should arise,

To make our destined land one vast Thermopylæ!


  Death! What of Death?--

Can he who once drew honorable breath

  In liberty's pure sphere,

  Foster a sensual fear,

When death and slavery meet him face to face,

Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace

Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there,

Black degradation, haunted by despair."
Death! What about Death?--

Can someone who once breathed honorably

  In the pure realm of liberty,

  Nurture a fearful desire,

When death and slavery confront him directly,

Saying: "Choose between us; here, the honor

That comes with being a patriotic martyr, and there,

Total 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?
Death! What about Death?--

The most disgusting creatures, animals or humans, who crawl

Across their part of this earthly sphere,

Share life and movement with us; would we struggle

Like them to live,

Dirty, repulsive, just so we can keep our mortal breath?


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:
The thought alone makes me blush!

I hear whispers all around me,

Exciting whispers that soon blend into ONE

A soul-stirring voice—listen! The people are speaking:


"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]
"Our cause is righteous, and our goals are just!

  Look, we aim

Not just to protect noble wives

The virtuous pride of untainted lives,

To shield our daughters from the hands of bullies,

And leave our sons their inheritance of leadership,

    In a generous and lasting trust;

Not only to defend those ancient laws,

Which the strength of Saxons and the spirit of Normans

Forged forever with the cause of freedom,

And passed down unscathed from father to son--

Nor yet, our great religion, and our Christ,

Unadorned by upstart beliefs and cheap gimmicks,

(Though these might surely have sufficed

To rally the weakest pleasure-seeker to battle)--

But more than all, because it includes all,

Guaranteeing all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the gift

Our patriotic leaders fought to win and preserve,

From the foresighted Pinckney and the wise Calhoun

    To him, that brave Knight,

The youngest champion in the Senate chamber,

Who, guided and protected by a brilliant fate,

His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right,

Boldly swept through the arena of eloquence

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.
"There's not a sound from the crowded past,

Raised once for a cause like ours,

That doesn't strike our souls

In long, echoing thunder-rolls,

From the distant heights of ancient tales.

Above the shouting, furious Persian force,

Millions gathered in the grandeur of Eastern powers,

Rings the wild battle cry of Leonidas

Trapped in his rugged rock fortress;

And over the murmuring seas,

Full of heroism and patriotic joy,

(For victory finally fulfills the Athenian's hope),

Come the clear words of Miltiades,

Mixed with cheers that drown out the sounds of battle

Beside the wave-washed shores 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!
"Wherever on earth the dedicated heart

Has been lifted by worthy deeds,

We seek out proud examples; yet for us

  It’s enough to know

Our fathers left us as free people; let us show

The determination to uphold our great legacy,

The steady strength to continue our fathers' work--

Brothers in the pages of history,

We’re ready to write our names in sacrifice,

To shine the morning light of our glory

  Beyond our time and aspirations,

The narrow limits of one era's reach,

  On Time's farthest 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.
"Yes! even if our children's blood

Flows around us in a rising sea of red,

Why stop or hesitate?--that red tide will carry

  The Ark that protects our cherished freedom,

  Closer, and even closer

To some height of hope over the bloody ocean."


  "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!"
"Finally, the conflict is over,

The enduring reward of ultimate victory achieved--

Look! Coming out of the broken darkness

Against a shining peak high in the sky,

  That chosen Ark!

No longer to be tossed by vengeful storms,

But resting on the sacred mountain, where

The gathered nations happily look on,

Awed by the serene beauty of the light

That surrounds Freedom's hard-earned 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!
Thus spoke the wisdom of the people; to me

Its voice has come, a passionate sign!

I think the very look of the world

Changed to the mystical music of its hope.

For, look! around the deepening heavenly dome

The stormy clouds are all unfurled,

  And gently lifted above

Are the brooding wings of invisible love,

  Bringing soothing calm and tender thoughts

  From magical realms, created by magic spells

Above the quiet ocean, heavenly light

  As divine as the light that fills a poet's dreams;

  And all of nature, wherever

My gaze wanders—over sky, sea, and river—

  Rests, like a happy child,

  In untainted sleep,

A hint of greater days to come,

  When war and warlike songs

  Finally will end,

  Before a grand Revelation of Peace,

  Granted in kindness to all humankind—

  A mix of a prelude and a prophecy!


[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.
[1]Everyone should remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." The author is making a comparison between that chivalrous battle and the debate over "Foote's Resolutions" during the important Senate debate of 1832, but it should be clear that he is not pushing the comparison beyond the initial clash between Bois Guilbert and his young opponent, which Scott tells us was the most exciting encounter of the day. Both knights' lances were completely shattered, and they separated with no clear winner 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.
Once more into the battle for the land of the West!

And we’re giving a leader from our bravest and best,

  The pride of his state and his army;

Hope glistens like the plume of Navarre on his helmet,

  And sparkles in the sword 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.
For his bravery is sharp, and his honor shines bright

Like the trusty Toledo he brings to the battle,

  Recently forged in the forges of Spain;

And this weapon, like all he has wielded for good,

  Will never be tarnished 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.
He leaves behind the beloved soil of Virginia,

Where the dust of his ancestors is appropriately honored,

  Where the lush fields of his fame lie;

Where the whispering pines, swaying in the wind,

  Seem to always call 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.
The Johnstons have always had wings on their heels,

And their motto gives a proud distinction--

  "Always ready!" for friend or for enemy--

With a patriot's passion, the feeling ignites

  The big, brave 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.
We learned that a former brave leader of the clan,

Fell, courageously defending the West, at the forefront,

  On Shiloh's famous day;

And we believe that our Johnston is the one

  To repay the dark, bloody debt.


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.
There's a lot to accomplish; if we're not seeking glory,

There's a fair and fierce revenge to take

  For atrocious crimes;

While the cries of the helpless, the sobs 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.
For the Wolf of the North we once traveled to his den,

That trembled in fear beneath the harsh gaze of men,

  With his pack has come back to the prey;

Then come from the mountain, the village, the valley,

  And chase him away from your land again.


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.
Brave Tennesseeans, so loyal and true,

Who have hunted the wild game in your mountains, of you

  Our leader never had a doubt;

You will gather by the thousands to continue the hunt,

  The day his bugles sound 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.
But you "Hunters," famous "of Kentucky" from back in the day,

Where are the rifles that kept the wolf and robber at bay?

  You’ve never been slow to handle a savage so cruel.


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?
Has the love you once had for your country faded?

Has the fire on the altar gone out? Do you value

  Your lives more than your freedom?

Can you shamefully trade your birthright for money,

  Or cowardly take advice from 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!
We won’t believe it; Kentucky, the land

Of Clay, won’t quietly accept the mark

  That shames the coward, the slave:

The time for freedom is near, it’s at hand,

  Her own sons will restore her honor!


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!"
Mighty men of Missouri, step up to the call,

When the flow of your rivers and storms cause fear,

  And the floods unleash their power;

And let this be the rallying cry for everyone--

  "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!
Then once again to the fight for the land of the West;

Strike hard for your homes—for the lips you love most;

  Follow wherever your leader goes;

One flash of his sword, when the enemy is on the run,

  And the land of the West will 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.]
[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries a beautiful sword that was recently given to him, marked with 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.
We praise your "stripes" and fewer "stars,"

  Just like we would greet a neighbor;

Now let’s move forward! No need to worry,

  With nothing but free labor;

And we’ll take care of our workers and crops,

And won’t wish you any harm,

  But welcome you--across 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!"
The exact same language we speak,

  The same beloved words we say;

So let's not make each other weak,

  Or talk behind each other's backs;

But let each go their own way,

And each will tip their hat and say:

  "I'll see you--across 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!
Our flags, nearly identical, fly high,

  And wave to each other across the border;

Ohio's waves roll between them--

  Our stripe is just a bit wider;

May yours rise on every breeze,

And, in our path, sail across all seas--

  We greet you--across 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!
We say goodbye, just like old friends do,

  With kind words and good wishes,

And there's no want in our hearts

  For the things that don't truly matter;

"Goodbye," we wave to you from a distance,

We prefer you just as you are--

  And we'll see you again--across 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.
Born in a day, fully grown, our Nation stood,

  The bright light of heaven was on her face;

Life's early joy was flowing in her blood;

  She was a thing of beauty and 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, a stranger on the vast expanse of the earth,

  No voice of compassion was heard to welcome

The shining morning of her arrival,

  Or celebrate the arrival of her unblemished 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.
She stood, mocked by her passing enemies;

  Her heart beat steadily beneath their scornful gaze;

Their anger surged around her like dark waves--

  Her brow, in the meantime, shone as bright as the morning.


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.
Their venomous coils are wrapped around her limbs,

  She shakes them off in righteous anger,

Just like Paul, long ago,

  Shook off the snake 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 doesn't bow to her enemies or the world,

  She has a heart for glory or for sadness;

But with her starry cross and her flag raised,

  She kneels among the beautiful magnolia flowers.


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.
She kneels to You, O God, claiming her birth,

  She lifts her young and trusting eyes to You,

She asks You for her place on this earth--

  For it is Yours to give or 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,
Oh, let Your eye just see her right!

  Oh, let Your voice just support her claim!

Nations are like grasshoppers in Your sight,

  And all their power is just 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."
Then listen, Father, hear her prayer!

  Her clothes are soaked with her children's blood;

Her enemies surround her, "like bulls of Bashan staring,"

  They would happily wash her away, "like 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.
The pain surrounds her tightly, like death,

  Her children lie in piles, killed beside her;

In front of the world, she courageously stays silent,

  Not allowing even a sound of pain to escape.


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?
But it's not like You to forget the oppressed,

  You feel within her heart the stifled moan--

Oh Christ! Oh Lamb of God! please give her rest!

  For You have called her!--is she not Yours?


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.
The cell feels lonely, and the night

  Has covered it with a deeper gloom;

The small beams of friendly light,

  That found their way through every crack and gap

To enter with their quiet steps,

All kind and swift,

And bring, like Noah's anxious dove,

God's quiet messages of love--

  These, too, have vanished,

  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.
Alone, surrounded by darkness and sadness,

  Freedom's temple is all around him,

Its arches collapsed, its columns short,

  The night wind sighs through its ruins;

Reckless, cruel hands that destroyed the temple,

Then the world stood in shock!

And now those hands—oh, ruthless actions!

Their captive is pierced—his brave heart bleeds;

  And yet there’s no groan

  To be heard, no groan!

He suffers in silence, 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!
For all his cheerful and happy home,

  He has that cell, so gloomy and dark,

The narrow walls, instead of heaven's blue sky,

  The clanking of chains, instead of the song of a lark;

And for the grateful voices of friends—

That voice that always brings

Its charm where human hearts are found—

He hears the key's dull, grinding sound;

  No heart is nearby,

  No kind heart nearby,

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!
Oh, don’t dream like that, you true and good one!

  Countless hearts are waiting for you,

Have silently stood by you,

  Have pressed through your prison gate;

Neither dungeon bolts nor prison bars,

Nor drifting "stripes and stars,"

Nor shining guns or bayonets,

Can ever make us forget

  Our faith in you,

  Our love for you,

You glorious soul! you strong! you 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."
"Rifleman, take your best shot,

  Straight at the heart of that lurking guard;

Hit me a bullet on the shining mark

  That glows on his chest like a charm."


"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.
"Ah, captain! Here goes for a finely crafted bead;

  There's music in the air when my barrel's in tune."

Crack! went the rifle; the messenger took off,

  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."
"Now, marksman, sneak through the bushes and grab

  A little something from your target to mark your first kill:

A button, a loop, or that shiny patch

  That glows 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.
"Oh, captain! I stumbled and fell in my path,

  When I looked at the face of the fallen soldier;

For he looked so much like you, lying on his back,

  That my heart ached for him, and still does."


"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."
"But I grabbed the trinket—this gold locket;

  Just an inch from the center my bullet broke through,

Barely touching the picture, so lovely to see,

  Of a beautiful lady in her wedding dress."


"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.
"Ha! Rifleman! Throw me the locket—it's her!

  My brother's young wife; and the fallen soldier.

Her husband was a dragoon. Quiet, soldier!—it was heaven's dear

  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!"
"But listen! the distant bugles join in warning;

  War is a strength, and weakness is a flaw;

There's a lurking danger surrounding us tonight:

  Reload, rifleman, stay sharp!"


"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.]
[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine asserts, has been challenged by a woman from New York, but she remains quiet on the matter.]


"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.
"Everything's quiet along the Potomac tonight!"

  Except for an occasional stray picket

Who gets shot as he patrols back and forth,

  By a marksman hiding in the bushes.


'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.
It's nothing! A soldier or two now and then

  Won't matter in the reports of a battle;

Not an officer lost! Just 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.
All is calm along the Potomac tonight!

  Where soldiers are peacefully dreaming;

And their tents shine in the glow of the clear autumn moon,

  And the light of their campfires is sparkling.


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.
A shaky sigh, like a soft night breeze

  Slowly moving through the forest leaves;

While the stars above, with their sparkling eyes,

  Watch over the army as it sleeps.


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.
There's only the sound of the one guard's footsteps,

  As he walks from the rock to the fountain,

And thinks of the two on the small trundle bed,

  Far away, in the crib 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!"
His musket hangs loosely, his face, dark and stern,

  Softens with sweet memories,

As he whispers a prayer for the kids asleep,

  And their mom--"may heaven protect 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.
The moon still shines as brightly as it did back then—

  That night, when the love, still unspoken,

Burst forth on his lips, and when softly whispered vows

  Were promised to be forever 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.
Then he roughly wipes his eyes with his sleeve,

  He brushes away the tears that are building up;

And pulls his gun tighter against his chest,

  As if to suppress the rising emotions.


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.
He walks by the fountain, the ruined pine tree,

  And his steps are slow and tired;

Yet he continues on, through the wide band of light,

  Towards the dark woods that feel so gloomy.


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.
Hey! Was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?

  Was it the moonlight shining so beautifully?

It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, goodbye!"

  And his life’s blood is draining 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!
"All is quiet along the Potomac tonight!"

  No sound except for the rush of the river;

While soft dew falls on the faces of the dead,

  And the picket is off duty forever!


Address


Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond.


A Prize Poem.--By Henry Timrod.


  A FAIRY ring
A fairy circle


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.
Drawn in the red of a battlefield—

From whose strange circle every disgusting thing

  And sight and sound of pain

Are kept away, while around it in the air,

And from the ground, and from the low-hanging skies,

  Crowd, in a beautiful vision

As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes,

  Glimmers of that unseen world

That surrounds us, rainbow-colored shapes

  With starry wings spread wide,

Balanced for a moment on such airy heights

  As pierce the golden foam

  Of sunset's quiet sea—

Would portray what in this enchanted space,

  Amid the night of war and death

In which the armed city draws its breath,

  We have created!

For although no wizard wand or magical cup

  Has cast the spell,

Within this charmed place we open the gates

  To that most divine fairyland

  Where, under greater destinies

Than govern the ordinary earth on which we stand,

Move the bright beings 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!
Shut away for one happy evening from the flood

That roars around us, here you can see--

  As if a deserted path

  Could bloom and unfold

  A garden fresh with May--

Materialized in breathing flesh and blood,

  Souls that on the poet's page

  Have lived through the ages,

And yet have never worn this mortal shell.

  A golden ribbon

Sometimes appears before you like the island

  Where fair Miranda's smile

Met the sweet stranger whom her father's art

  Had brought to her heart,

Which, like a bud waiting for the light,

  Burst into bloom at the sight!

Love will grow softer in each maiden's eyes

As Juliet rests her cheek on her hand,

  And chats to the night.

  Soon, a solemn figure

  In a tattered robe and bare forehead,

That challenges all the torments of the air,

      Moves past!

And the bottled-up feelings choke in one long sigh,

While, as the fake thunder rumbles, you hear

  The noble wreck of Lear

Reproaching the ancient skies like living things,

  And communicating with the storm!

Look! next is a dim and silent room, where

Wrapped in happy dreams, in which, perhaps, the Moor

  Tells his strange story again,

The gentle Desdemona lies chastely,

Unaware of the loving murderer nearby.

  Then through a hush like death

  Stalks Denmark's armored ghost!

And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath

Which serves as the trumpet to countless reasons,

But which awakens no actions from sleep;

  For while it calls to conflict,

He hesitates on the very edge of reality

To play with the shadow of an act,

And say those wise sayings 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.
There will be plenty of scenes

  Where more familiar figures,

Moving through simpler paths, will show

  The everyday world,

Just like it buzzes along the busy dock,

Or relaxes under a rustic orchard wall,

Or drifts around a stylish hall,

Or works in dark attics all night long.

Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame will intersect,

As they do in the cycle that confines our lives;

  For a time, chance will seem to rule,

While goodness wanders like guilt around the street,

  And guilt appears 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 in the end, everyone will get what they deserve.

Crime will be punished appropriately,

The small issues will be cleared from the doubter's view,

And the overall fairness of fortune will become obvious.

There will be no shortage of genuine laughter,

Cleverness will connect with both serious and sweet humor,

Our knowledge won’t be too serious for joy,

And foolishness will always find a fool to welcome it.

Just like unexpected beauty can emerge from the humblest spot on earth,

You will discover hidden value

Within the most wretched hearts;

And sometimes, when you’re in those moods that turn

To the cold Muse that mocks faults with scorn,

You might be oddly surprised to find

  You’ve hit a source 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!
But as we take you from one change to another,

Won't we discover within our vast array

Some example to lift a nation's spirit—

Some hero who will show us how to be a hero

  In this chaotic time?

Wake from your long slumber, noble Tell!

And, with the thunder of your voice from the Alps,

As if calling across the unchained waves,

Your Alps to the Alleghenies,

  Tell freedom to celebrate!

Proclaim on this transatlantic shore

The actions which, more than their fearsome appearance,

Make every peak of Switzerland majestic!

And tell those whose weak hearts would rely

Not on themselves, but on an outstretched hand,

That once a strong mind was enough to defeat

The malice of a tyrant; let them understand

That everyone can contribute with every well-aimed strike,

Not just the meager strength of arm and sword,

But the entire spirit of a mighty nation!


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.
Let freedom celebrate! Yes, whether its day

Is far away or close, these clouds will still be red

With the big promise of the coming light.

In the meantime, with that steady courage that can smile

In the face of the wildest battle,

Let’s enjoy the beauty of art for a while

  And chase the deep gloom away;

And let’s not forget that on either side

Rest the precious 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.
"For they did not take the land by their own sword; it wasn't their own strength that saved them; but Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your face, because You showed them favor."--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.
Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts throughout all our Southern land,

And blessed be His holy name, in whose great strength we stand;

For He who loves the sound of prayer has heard His people's cry,

And with His own mighty arm has achieved the victory!

Oh, share it loud through every home, from the blue waters of the Potomac

To the distant waters of the West that cover 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.
Now let there be one triumphant shout across the land,

Wherever a Southern heart beats or a Southern sky shines bright;

For He who governs every battle has been with us today,

And the great God of battles has guided the glorious fight;

So, let us raise a joyful song to His holy name,

The race isn’t always for the swift, nor the battle for 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.
From the royal banks of Hudson, from the proud flood of Ohio,

From that dark rock in Plymouth Bay where the pilgrims once stood,

From the East and North, from far and wide, the call went out,

And countless crowds came rushing in with fierce and eager eyes.

In the great name of Liberty, every thirsty sword is drawn;

In the great name of Liberty, every tyrant presses 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.
Alas, alas! Her sacred name is completely dishonored now,

And blood-stained hands are ripping off every laurel from her brow;

But still, the cry rings out, loud and mocking,

In her holy shrine, they try to build a despot's throne;

And moving forward with eager steps, they sweep across the land,

To burn, ravage, and destroy—a fierce and ruthless group.


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.
I looked at the beautiful Potomac's shore, and at my feet the sparkling waves jumped happily to greet summer's smile;  
And colorful flags were waving there, and banners looked lovely to see,  
A great army gathered, I think, in war's impressive gear;  
And as I watched, a cry rose up, a deep and growing sound,  
And loud and serious along the line came the heavy beat of the 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.
Onward, across the beautiful fields of Virginia, through rows of swaying grain,

With cheers and songs, they move along, a vibrant and brave group.

Oh, never, I believe, have those wide plains seen a more stunning sight,

And bright and cheerful those June skies shine their glorious light.

Onward, yes, always onward, that powerful crowd has moved,

And "On to Richmond!" is the shout that resonates in the breeze.


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.
I looked again; the rising sun shines down on the moors,

And beneath its rays, high walls and stern emplacements rise,

And on each proud barrier, menacing and terrifying,

Grim-faced messengers of death: the sentry's footsteps

Fall in a steady rhythm. Everything in nature seems calm,

And above it all, the Stars and Stripes are waving 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.
But far away, another line stretches dark and long,

Another flag floats freely where armed troops gather;

Another war cry fills the air, as the martial drum beats,

And onward still, in tightly packed ranks, the Southern soldiers advance,

And up to that high barricade, the charging columns march,

And boldly and freely, the Stars and Bars wave at their front.


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.
They’re on it! They’re over it! Who can hold back that living wave?

Look, ever rising, rolls on the boiling tide of blood.

Yet another and another is boldly attacked and taken,

And forward to the thief’s camp, the column pushes on.

Hooray! Hooray! The field is won! We’ve faced them man to man,

And still the Stars and Bars are leading the way.


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.
They’re flying! They’re flying! And right on their heels

Comes our amazing "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;

And Longstreet, too, and brave Hill, and Rhodes, and fearless Huger,

And he whose name is worth a thousand, our bold, dedicated Lee;

And back to where the proud James rolls its disdainful waves,

The cowardly enemy is running fast—those men of cowardly hearts.


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!"
They’re flying! They’re flying! Cavalry and infantry, and brave dragoons,

In one flowing mass are mixed, beneath the slowly fading moon;

And even louder the cry is heard, as it's carried on the wind,

The shouts of the chasing troops are growing strong and fast:

“Go, go to the river, it’s our only chance to survive!

We have to reach the gunboats, or we’ll die in this fight!”


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.
It’s done! The bloody battlefield is ours; we’ve won the fight!

And once again our voices can share the victory of what’s right;

The arrogant enemy who sought our downfall is defeated,

For God’s mighty hand and powerful arm have brought great deliverance.

So, let’s celebrate His holy name with a joyful song—

The race isn’t always to the fast, nor the battle to the strong.


[1] Pronounced Eujee
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.
"Wake up! And get on your horses, my brothers!

  Because the dawn is showing a gray light;

And listen! In the crackling underbrush

  There are footsteps coming 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!
"Who’s there?" "A friend." "What news?"

  "O God! I dread to say,

For the world feels like it’s not real anymore,

  And what I see is like 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.
"There's looting and fire and killing,

  From the mountain down to the shore;

There's blood on the trampled crops--

  There's blood on the farmhouse 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.
"From the distant conquered cities

  Comes the sound of a muffled cry;

And the screams and groans of the homeless

  Resonate, like a funeral song, on the wind."


"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.
"I've seen, from the burning village

  Our mothers and daughters escape;

I've watched where the little children

  Fell down, in the fields, 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.
"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.
"Where my home was happy, now there are ashes,

  And horror and shame were present--

For I found, on the broken doorframe,

  This lock 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.
"They are turning the slave against us,

  And, with more than the devil's worst tricks,

Have brought out the savage instincts

  That lay dormant in his untrained 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.
"The connections to our homes that held him,

  They have torn apart, with curses, away,

And drove him mad, with their madness,

  To be nearly as brutal as they are."


"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.
"With a halter, torch, and Bible,

  And hymns to the beat 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!
"Get ready! Get ready! my brothers!

  Look up to the rising sun,

And ask the God who shines there,

  Whether actions like these shall be taken!"


"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!
"Wherever the vandal shows up,

  Attack him with all your strength,

And when you can’t hit him in the chest,

  Like a snake, go for 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.
"Through the bushes and the woods go find him,

  Sneak up to his campfire,

And let ten of his bodies rot

  Where one of our brothers has 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 his weary, aching marches,

  In his escape from the battling chaos,

In the trap of the isolated ambush,

  Let’s repay the debts we owe him,


"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.
"In God's hand is the only judgment;

  But He acts through the hands of men,

And His curse would weaken our manhood

  If we did not retaliate against the attacker."


"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.--
"By the graves where our fathers rest,

  By the places where our mothers prayed,

By our homes, our dreams, and our freedom.

  Let every man swear on his weapon.--


"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."
"That he won't put it away or hold back,

  Until it shines from tip to handle

With the fire of divine vengeance,

  In the blood of the guilty enemy."


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.
They swore—and the sunlight responded

  Leapt red from their raised swords,

And the hate in their hearts echoed

  To the anger 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.
There's crying all over New England,

  And by Schuylkill's banks a tolling bell,

And the widows there, and the orphans,

  How the promise 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.
"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line!

Let the flags all bow, and the swords lower--

Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, as the conqueror passes by,

Whose eyes have only seen "the backs of his enemies"--

Through a thicket of laurels, a whirlwind of cheers,

His vanishing figure disappears from our sight;

From now on, he’ll face the fierce Dacotahs,

Abiit, evasit, erupit--John Pope.


He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor,

Compeller of fate and controller of war,

Videre et vincere, simply to see,

And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee,

And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg pére,

With a monkeyish grin and beatified air,

"Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap,"

As with eager attention he listened to Pope.
He came from the West, like the young Lochinvar,

Master of destiny and ruler of battle,

To see and to conquer, just to witness,

And immediately to defeat Hill, Jackson, and Lee,

And old Abe in the White House, like a father Kilmansegg,

With a cheeky grin and an angelic look,

"Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap,"

As he listened intently 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 arrived--and his sword cut through the poultry,

Spoons, drinks, and furniture went overboard;

He saw--from a distance, the rebels show up,

And "raced to the front," which was oddly the back;

He defeated--truth, decency, and honor pretty quickly,

Pest, thief, coward, faker, fraud;

And he was eager to slip away from the scene of his victories.

Sure, there’s never been a 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.
He has left us a great example to follow,

And Stuart has captured his uniform coat;

But it’s quite puzzling, as we remember his deeds,

To figure out whose shoulders his legacy should rest;

While many may say they deserve it, at least,

From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast,

We can truthfully say, without going too far,

That no one can compare to him, just like 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.
Like his namesake, the brilliant and passionate poet,

He brings fresh expression and energy to the lyre; 

But in one small way, they really differ,

And they differ quite a lot, it's true—

While his verses earned great Alexander his fame,

It's our hero's setbacks that do the same;

And fate might decide that the end of a rope

Will still put Pope in the highest position.


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.
Oh! How awful, this prayer in the marketplace,

  These public displays of humility—ordered

  By announcement, so we can be freed,

And find mercy for once, and saving grace,

Even while we give up everything that made the human race

  Deserving of Heavenly favor—and show

  Our faith and respect only under pressure,

And fear of the dangers we won’t confront.


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.
All work done with purpose is prayer—

  And honest thinking is prayer—the desire, the determination

  To improve ourselves, uphold our values,

And, even in losing life, keep our hearts pure

In the eyes of God—with whom humility

And patient effort can alone bring freedom.


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.
Now glory to our Southern cause, and thanks to God,

That He has faced the enemy of the South and punished him:

On the battlefields of Belmont, the Vandals came in their strength,

And they brought destruction to everything they found, with sword and fire;

But that day they encountered strong resistance from a small group,

Who vowed they would triumph or return to the earth.


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.
But the Vandals, overconfident because they came in full strength,

Expressed their emotions freely, believing they could win the battle;

And they pushed our small troops to the very edge of the river,

With a moment hanging between destruction and the last breath of life:

When McCown's cannon, spitting fire from its barrel,

Brought ruin to the Vandals and safety 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!
There were Pillow, Polk, and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high

That field would either see them win or see them die there;

And in the groan of the dying and in the chaos of battle,

Came the echo from heaven, assuring them they would win that battle:

And in the sound of cannons booming, and in the clash of swords,

Destruction came to the enemy—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!
When the battle was at its fiercest, a wild and cheering shout arose,

That filled our enemies with fear and lifted our spirits!

It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that stung the Vandals' ears,

And our guys picked up the echo until it made the skies ring;

And just when the Hessians thought they had the fight all wrapped up,

From the crackling of our rifles--they had to run bravely!


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.
Then they rushed to their transports in deep fear and shock,

And their great-grandchildren will be embarrassed to mention that day;

For the misery they intended to bring to the people of the South

Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's roaring mouth:

And the proud old Mississippi ran a terrible flood that day,

For its banks were stained deep red with the blood of the hired Northerners.


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!
Let’s remember those who fell there, bravely battling the enemy,

And who heroically fought for Freedom, dealing a blow to Tyranny:

Like the ocean crashing wildly against an unbreakable ship,

Or the storm that keeps raging but can’t destroy the plant;

Brave Lieutenant Walker, injured, still fought on the bloody ground,

Encouraging his courageous comrades, never giving in to the enemy!


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.
No one ever knew him without loving him, the brave martyr for his homeland—

Now his name is forever tied to Freedom, for all time:

And few will forget the last words he spoke:

"I fought bravely against them, mother—I fought bravely for you!"

May his memory stay alive in the hearts of those who love the South,

And may his noble actions be the story that everyone shares.


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!
In the heat of the battle stood a Vandal flag,

Proudly waving in the breeze, boldly challenging our flag;

And our Southern soldiers knew well that to bring that flag down,

They would have to face death itself in its most fierce and angry form;

But it couldn't intimidate Armstrong, fearless Vollmer, or brave Lynch,

Though ten thousand deaths awaited, they wouldn't back down from their honorable duty!


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!
And they rushed at that flag, protected by the grim figure of Death,

Who had withered everything around it with his scorching breath;

But they snatched it from his grip, and brave Vollmner waved it high,

On the bloody battlefield, where the three were destined to die;

But before their spirits left, they shouted their final battle cry,

Cheering for the sunny South and dear 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.
Let the horrors of this day serve as a warning to the enemy,

That the Lord is with the South, and His support is with the free;

That her land is pure and clean, just like her clear and sunny sky.

And anyone who dares to pollute it on her ground shall meet a terrible fate;

For His decree has been issued, even among the Hessian crowd,

That the South has His blessing, because the South belongs to 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.
Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises to God,

That He has faced the Southern enemy and punished him;

That He has stood by our side, with all His strength and might,

And fought for the Southern cause in every fierce battle;

Let us, in humble acknowledgment, tell the world,

We give thanks and honor to the Lord, and fight 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!"
For more than sixty days,

   A storm of shells and gunfire

Poured down on us like a blazing rain,

   But we didn’t back down!

"If the great city falls,"

   Our brave young leader said,

"Let the only walls the enemy will climb

   Be the barriers 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.
For more than sixty days

   The sun grew dim,

And even during God's holy morning,

   Over Christian prayers and hymns,

A hissing uproar rose,

   As if the devils of the air

Tried to drown out the voice of faith

   In the screams 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.
There was crying in the homes,

   There was shaking in the markets,

While the storm howled and boomed,

   Amid the quiet excitement of hearts;

But the Lord, our protector, was with us,

   And before a month had passed

Our women confidently walked the streets

   With hardly a sense of fear.


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.
And the little kids played around—

   Their faces turned to the sky,

Just for a curious moment,

   As the massive bomb spun and exploded!

Then they laughed with joy

   And went back to the games they enjoyed,

Completely wrapped in the sweet, natural feeling,

   That a good God was watching over them.


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.
Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,

   From dozens of flame-clad ships,

And around us, denser, darker,

   Grew the chaos of the conflict,

Till a solid cloud closed over us,

   Like a sign of doom and anger,

From which 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.
But the unseen hands of angels

   Redirected the paths of death,

And the dove of heavenly mercy

   Swayed over the battle's chaos;

In the homes, the cries stopped,

   And through the war-torn markets

The people walked with hopeful steps,

   To the music in their hearts.


Columbia, S.C., August 6, 1862.
Columbia, SC, 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.
Watchman, what's happening at night?

  Through the city's darkening streets,

Quiet and slow, the guards walk

  On their long and lonely route.


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.
Gloomily, drearily down,

  Falls the winter rain;

And the cold, gray mist has kissed the rooftops,

  As it glides over 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.
Pounding against the windows,

  The sleet falls hard and cold,

And the kids gather closer around the hearth and fire,

  As the wind howls loud and sharp.


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.
Everything outside is silent,

  Except for the guard's stern challenge,

And a calm falls over the tired town,

  And the eyes of the sleepers 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.
Watchman, what's happening tonight?

  Listen! From the old church tower,

Rings out loud and clear in the misty air,

  The sound of midnight striking.


But another sound breaks in,

  A summons deep and rude,

The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum

  Of a gathering multitude.
But another sound cuts in,

  A summons strong and harsh,

The beat of the drum, and the rush and buzz

  Of a crowd coming together.


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.
And the dim and flickering torch

  Throws a red and eerie light,

Over the long dark line, whose bayonets shine

  Softly, yet firmly 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.
A low, deep voice is heard:

  "Rest your arms, guys."

Then the muskets clank through each lined-up group,

  And everything is quiet 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.
Pale faces and tearful eyes

  Look down on that grim sight,

For a rumor has spread that that scary column

  Moves before the 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.
Marches against "the rebels,"

  Whose camp lies quiet and motionless,

Where the biting sleet and the cold rain pound

  On the slope of a faraway 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.
And the mother's heart aches,

  As she thinks of her precious child,

Who might be lying under that wintry sky,

  Before the long, dark night is over.


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.
Pale and worn out, too,

  Is the cheek of the beautiful young wife;

And her eye dims as she thinks of him

  She loves 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.
For fathers, husbands, sons,

  Are the "rebels" that the enemy wants to defeat,

And heartfelt is the prayer for those lives we hold dear,

  And for a wounded country's rights.


And where their treasure is,

  There is each loving heart;

And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze,

  And the tears unbidden start.
And where their treasure is,

  There is each loving heart;

And sadly they look by the torches' light,

  And the tears come without warning.


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.
Is there no one to warn the camp,

  No one from that worried crowd?

Ah, the rain pours down over the fields and town--

  The path 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.
No person is left behind,

  No one who is brave and true,

And the bayonets, shining brightly in the harsh light

  With a serious threat shining through.


Guarded is every street,

  Brutal the hireling foe;

Is there one heart here will boldly dare

  So brave a deed to do?
Every street is on guard,

  Brutal is the hired enemy;

Is there anyone here who will boldly dare

  To do such a brave deed?


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.
Look! In her quiet, dark room,

  A woman kneels all alone,

With Care's deep marks on her pale, tired face,

  And Sorrow's harsh seals.


Wrinkling her placid brow,

  A matron, she, and fair,

Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak

  Gemming her glossy hair.
Furrowing her calm brow,

  She’s a matron, and beautiful,

Even if her cheek is pale, and the silver strands

  Are beading her shiny 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.
A moment in silent prayer

  Her pale lips move, and then,

Through the dark night, like a shining angel,

  On her mission of love to people.


She glideth upon her way,

  Through the lonely, misty street,

Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread

  Of the watchman on his beat.
She glides along her path,

  Through the empty, foggy street,

Shivering with fear as she hears the sound

  Of the guard 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.
Onward, yes, onward still,

  Far beyond the tired town,

Until exhaustion takes hold of her weak knees,

  And her heavy hands drop 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.
But bravely she pushes through,

  Facing the cold, damp rain,

And, heavy and chilly, the fog from the hill

  Sweeps down over 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.
Listen! Far behind she hears

  A dull and muffled tread,

But ahead of her, the glow of the campfire's light

  Shines 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.
She hears the guard's call,

  Her loving task is finished;

She has fought well, and at the peak of Fame

  Has won a crown of glory.


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.
Oh, they tell of a Tyrol girl,

  Who saved her pretty town

From a brutal enemy,

  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.
And I've read in heroic tales

  How a brave Scottish girl

Gave her own life to save her king

  From the vile 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.
But if these, on the rolls of honor,

  Shall live in lasting fame,

Oh, right here, with grateful pride,

  We'll add 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."
And when our fair-haired kids

  Gather around us,

With wide eyes, as we share about the times

  When we promised we would be free,



We'll tell them the exciting story,

  And we'll say to each young heart,

"By this brave action, when your country needs you,

  Be ready to do your 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.
Two armies are gathered beneath  
The flag with the starry wreath:  
One, bracing for battle, destruction, and chaos,  
Has crossed two hundred fields;  
Its actions against a brutal enemy,  
Are known by every stream, valley, hill, and mountain,  
Until every wind that blows across the land  
Carries glory from the shore.


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.
The other, with a narrower focus,

Yet driven by just as great a hope,

Has perhaps earned as proud a position,

And carries its fame with humbler elegance.

Wives walk under its shining symbol,

Loving mothers expand the beautiful line:

And many a girlfriend hides her blush

In the young patriot's spirited glow.


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.
No battle breeze ever stirred  
The colors of that gentle group;  
Its role is by the bedside,  
Where a sick or injured head beats.  
It doesn't seek the soldier's grave,  
But works with the needle and the loom;  
And through countless peaceful acts,  
Meets 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.
Nor is that army's gentle power

Unnoticed in the deadly fight;

It strengthens the son's, the husband's hand,

It guides the lover's fearless resolve;

It excites the tired, warms the cold,

Gives even fresh courage to the brave;

And sometimes raises the lowest person

To its own high faith 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.
When heaven sounds the trumpet of peace,

And tells this tired war to end,

Their individual missions accomplished,

The victory earned, and freedom gained,

Both armies, resting from their struggles,

Can equally claim the victor's crown,

But each will see its greatest reward

Shine gently in 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.
Why do we keep talking

   About the warriors from the past?

There are men fighting all around us,

   Just as noble, just as brave.


Ever working, ever striving,

   Mind and muscle, heart and soul,

With the reins of judgment keeping

   Passions under full control.
Always working, always striving,

   Mind and body, heart and soul,

With judgment guiding us,

   Emotions fully in control.


Noble hearts are beating boldly

   As they ever did on earth;

Swordless heroes are around us,

   Striving ever from their birth.
Noble hearts are beating fiercely

   Just like they always have on earth;

Heroic souls without swords are here,

   Striving hard since the day of their birth.


Tearing down the old abuses,

   Building up the purer laws,

Scattering the dust of ages,

   Searching out the hidden flaws.
Tearing down the old abuses,

   Building up the better laws,

Scattering the dust of ages,

   Finding 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.
Acknowledging no "divine right"

   In kings and princes over others;

In their belief, the greatest is

   The one who has worked and strived the hardest.


Decorations do not tempt them--

   Diamond stars they laugh to scorn--

Each will wear a "Cross of Honor"

   On the Resurrection morn.
Decorations don't impress them--

   Diamond stars they scoff at--

Each will proudly wear a "Cross of Honor"

   On Resurrection morning.


Warriors they in fields of wisdom--

   Like the noble Hebrew youth,

Striking down Goliath's error

   With the God-blessed stone of truth.
Warriors in the fields of wisdom—

   Like the noble Hebrew youth,

Taking down Goliath's mistake

   With the God-given stone of truth.


Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner,

   Forward rush these volunteers,

Beating olden wrong away

   From the fast advancing years.
Marshaled under the Right's wide banner,

   Forward rush these volunteers,

Banishing old injustices

   From the rapidly approaching years.


Contemporaries do not see them,

   But the coming times will say

(Speaking of the slandered present),

   "There were heroes in that day."
Contemporaries don't recognize them,

   But the future will say

(Speaking of the criticized present),

   "There were heroes back then."


Why are we then idly lying

   On the roses of our life,

While the noble-hearted struggle

   In the world-redeeming strife.
Why are we just lying around

   On the roses of our life,

While the kind-hearted fight

   In the struggle to save the world?


Let us rise and join the legion,

   Ever foremost in the fray--

Battling in the name of Progress

   For the nobler, purer day.
Let’s get up and join the crowd,

   Always leading the charge--

Fighting for Progress’s cause

   For a better, brighter 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!
Listen! On the wind blowing from the West

   A bold call for immediate help arises,

From fighters who, outnumbered, stand strong,

   With drums pounding in anger!


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.
Who dares for child, wife, country—stream and shore,

   Even if just a fraction against the swarming enemy,

There—at the flooded entrances of the land,

   To hold back 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!
To arms! Brave sons of every battle-worn state,

   Whose proud banner is a Southern star:

Whoever wants to be free must face their fate

   On Freedom's winning chariot!


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.
Leave behind the field, the store, the market, the buzz

   Of cowardly commerce for the gathering crowd:

The dead themselves are committed that you will show up

   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?
That sacred ground where a painful sadness first

   Was felt, which taught you that only Heaven decides--

God! can you bear to watch a foreign thief

   Pollute 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!
Blow, calling trumpets, a persistent tune

   Through all the land, from Beersheba to Dan;

Come out! come out! who refuses to be a slave,

   Or dares to call himself 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!
Listen! On the winds blowing from the West

   A strong call for immediate help arises,

From men who are fighting, outnumbered, face to face.

   With pounding drums of fury!


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.
Who leads and encourages amid the deadly noise,

   Where your battle flags still wave unbent,

Dying for what your fathers fought to win

   And you must fight to protect.


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.
Hey! Sharp fifes that wake the valleys from their sleep,

   Hey! Loud thunders from the ancient mountains;

The very waves are gathering in the ocean,

   While storms march along 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.
Arise and swear, your palm-surrounded land

   Shall only give burial to a bandit enemy;

Then jump on the cowards, weapon in hand,

   And deliver the destined 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
Listen! It's the cannon's deafening blast,

That echoes along your sunny shore,

And you won’t be in chains anymore,

   My wounded, bleeding Georgia!

Then equip every young man and patriotic father,

Ignite the fire of patriotism,

And encourage the zeal of those who never tire,

   Who fight for you, 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!
On you rests the weight of oppression,

Enemies gather around your altars,

To scatter freedom's brave fighters,

   And bring you down, my Georgia!

But you have noble sons, and brave,

The Stars and Bars fly above you,

And here we'll turn oppression into its grave,

   On 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!
We bow at Liberty's beautiful shrine,

And kneel in sacred love before you,

And as our stars continue to shine above,

   We'll fight 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!
Your woods will echo with victory,

Your brow will be crowned with laurels,

And peace will spread her wings all 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.
Yes, these will show your enemies that

Southern hearts and Southern strength

Will make them bow in submission

   Before the sons of Georgia!

And you will see your daughters, too,

With true pride and patriotism,

Rise with the strength to dare and do,

   Before they 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!
Your name will be a name of pride--

Your heroes have all died nobly,

So that you may be the pure bride

   Of Liberty, my Georgia!

Now wave your sword and banner high,

And raise the battle cry even louder,

Until the shouts of victory reach the sky,

   And you are free, my Georgia!


Song of the Texas Rangers.


Air--The Yellow Rose of Texas.
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,
The morning star is fading,

   The campfires flicker low,

Our horses are wildly neighing,

   For the bugle calls us to go.

So put your foot in the stirrup,

   And shake the reins free,

Because today 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.
With Wharton as our leader,

  We'll pursue the cowardly enemy,

Until our horses dip their legs

  In the deep blue Ohio.

Our men come from the prairies,

  That stretch wide and proud and free,

From the high and rugged mountains

  To the gentle Mexican sea;

And their hearts are as open as their plains,

  Their thoughts as boldly brave

As the steep cliffs of the San Bernard,

  Or the Gulf's unstoppable wave.


            Then quick! into the saddle,

                And shake the bridle free,

            To-day, with gallant Wharton,

                We cross the Tennessee.
Then hurry! into the saddle,

                And loosen the bridle,

            Today, with brave Wharton,

                We’ll 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.
It's a joy to be a Ranger!

  To fight for our beloved Southland;

It's a joy to follow Wharton,

  With his brave, loyal crew!

It's a joy to see our Harrison,

  Dive in like a bright meteor

Into the heart of the battle,

  And unleash his deadly skill.


            Oh! who'd not be a Ranger,

                And follow Wharton's cry!

            To battle for his country--

                And, if it needs be--die!
Oh! who wouldn't want to be a Ranger,

                And hear Wharton's call!

            To fight for his country--

                And, if necessary--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.
By the waters of the Colorado,

  On the Gulf's softly murmuring shore,

On our calm, green, peaceful prairies

  Are the homes we may never see again;

But in those homes, our loving wives,

  And mothers with silver hair,

Are caring for us with tender hearts,

  And protecting us with their 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.
So, trusting in our country's God,

                We take our strong, good stand,

            For those we care about at home,

                Our sacred places 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.
Up, up with the red battle flag--

  Let the blue banner wave;

Our horses are stomping proudly--

  They hear the battle call!

The booming cannon, the bugle's call,

  Announce the enemy is close;

We fight for God and our homeland,

  And everything we cherish most.


            Then spring into the saddle,

                And shake the bridle free--

            For Wharton leads, through fire and blood,

                For Home and Victory!
Then jump into the saddle,

                And loosen the reins--

            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!
Ho! Will the tyrant play games,

   In homes of the free;

Kentuckians give up their rifles,

   Kentuckians bow down!

With cowardly fear of danger,

   And shaking in the conflict;

Kentucky, to the outsider,

   Gives up freedom for life!

Come on! Each brave ranger,

   With rifle and 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!
The illegitimate and the betrayer,

   The wolf cub and the snake,

The thief, con artist, hater,

   Are in your homes—awake!

Don’t let the sly enemy

   Steal your freedom;

Give up your weapon to no one,

   While you can fight and see,

Awake, every brave farmer,

   If you still want to 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!
Sure, here's the modernized text:

Yeah, look at the rifle,

   And strike with spear and knife,

Don’t let any cheap tricks hold back

   Each lesson of your life:

How did your brave ancestors

   Win the land you protect?

By the spirit that still inspires

   The ground on which you grieve!

Rise up! Their spirit ignites,

   And wake up 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?"
"What!" cry the famous leaders,

   In the old fields of Orleans,

"Will you, our children, shame us,

   And give in to the tyrant?

What! stifle every brave lesson

   We taught you to give you life?

Let foolish tyrants mess around

   With home and child and wife?

And give up, oh what a shame! the gun,

   And sheathe, oh what a 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!"
By the rolling waves of the blue Patapsco

   The tyrant's war cry comes,

Along with the sporadic clash of cymbals

   And the low rumble of his gloomy drums;

We hear it, we pay attention with vengeful chills,

   And we will not forgive or forget--

There's faith in the rivers, 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!"
Minions! We may be asleep, but we’re not dead,

   We are crushed, we are beaten, we are scarred--

We crouch—it's to welcome the victorious steps

   Of the unmatched Beauregard.

Then woe to your filthy, polluting crowd,

   When the Southern heroes gather;

There’s hope in the victor's pure sword,

   "There’s life in the Old Land still!"


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!"
Bigots! You can’t suppress the brave mind

   With the sound of an iron chain;

The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind

   Over Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;

And we--even though we don’t strike--are not slaves,

   We are accumulating a bloody debt;

While down by McHenry's prison 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!"
Our women have put their harps away

   And they glare at your brutal groups,

While the quick dagger challenges the day

   In their dear defiant hands;

They will cut their hair to string our bows

   Before the Northern sun sets--

There's belief in their unyielding struggles--

   "There's life in the Old Land still!"


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!"
There's life, even though it pulses in quiet veins,

   It speaks without making a sound;

It flowed over Manassas' somber fields

   From the blood of the Maryland boys.

That blood will shout out and rise

   With a never-ending warning--

By the death of the brave, by the God above,

   "There's life in the Old Land still!"


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."
While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital in Rome, Georgia, a young soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Regiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro, called me to his bedside. As I got closer, I saw that he was dying, and when I leaned over him, he managed to whisper, "Tell the guys the war is over."


  "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.
"Tell the guys the war is over,"

These were all the words he said;

  "Tell the guys the war is over,"

In a moment, he 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.
Weirdly bright, calm, and happy

   Was the smile on his face,

While the pain, recently so intense,

   Had left no sign at all.


"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 guys the war is over,"

  And with bright, heavenly visions

Thoughts of beloved friends mixed in,

  As his spirit soared away.

"Tell the guys the war is over,"

  "Please, God, let it be true,"

Was the prayer that then rose up,

  In a deep, quiet whisper.


"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.
"Tell the guys the war is over,"

  And his fighting then was done,

As, guided by angelic hosts,

  He left the earth behind.

Exploding shells and roaring cannons

  Could not wake him from their noise;

He was rising to better places,

  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!
Oh! can you see, through the darkness and the storm,

Brighter than the gloom, that pure constellation?

Like a symbol of love and redemption, its shape,

As it guides us to the safe harbor of hope for the nation.

How bright each star shines, like a distant beacon,

Offering hope for peace or reassurance in war!

It's the Southern Cross, which will always stay

To guide us to freedom and glory once more!


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!
How peaceful and blessed was America's land,

'Til deceived by the tricks of the Puritan spirit,

Which hides behind virtue and strikes from its shadow

To sink its fangs into the lifeblood of the free.

So let's courageously reach out to every heart that can feel,

And crush the vile snake beneath Liberty's heel!

And the Cross of the South will triumphantly stand,

To guide us back to freedom and glory once more!


'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!
'It’s the symbol of peace, it’s the star of hope,

Like the sacred Labarum that led the Romans;

From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope,

It’s the trust of the free and the fear of our enemies.

Raise its colors high while we proudly declare

The rights we demand and the actions we dare!

As long as the Cross of the South stands in triumph,

To guide us to freedom and glory once more!


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!
And if peace seems impossible and justice is denied,

And war's bloody vulture spreads its dark wings,

Then we’ll gladly take up arms, while we throw, in our pride,

Defiance at tyrants and death to their followers!

With our faces to the front, swearing never to back down,

Or die, like the Spartans, with our shields in hand!

And the Cross of the South will proudly fly,

As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!


Southern Literary Messenger.
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,
All of you who eagerly listen to the fanciful whispers,

Or pursue the wild extravagance of hope,

Who dream that England will soon abandon her long-misunderstood neutrality,

And give us, with a warm handshake, the hand of national unity,


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.
Read, as we give, with minimal mistakes or omissions,

The next debate in parliament about Southern Recognition;

They're all so similar, in fact, that one can dismiss it, I see,

As accurately as the Times' report, without needing to predict.


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.
Not yet, not yet does England find a reason to get involved,

But treats our good commissioner with indifference and avoidance;

Such indifference in the situation that, honestly, it's chilling

To recall that two long years ago she labeled 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,
But, on top of that, Downing Street is silent, the Prime Minister ignores reason,

As indifferent as the Morning Post, both always and in every situation;

The working men of Lancashire are all brought to poverty,

And still they won’t listen to Roebuck or 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.
"Or any other guy," today, who suggests getting involved,

While everyone who speaks out against it gets a quick response--

Like, for example, Mr. Bright, the model of all decency,

That gentle and humble member of the esteemed 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.
"Let them fight," says Mr. Bright, "I can’t stand those Southerners,

And I hope the Black Republicans will wipe them out soon;

If freedom can’t put down rebellion, what’s the point of it?"

And so he laughs at the chaos just as happily as the devil.


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:
Enough of him—another, more capable man deserves our full attention—

The Maximus Apollo of strict non-intervention—

With relentless severity, though his tone is respectful and composed,

Thus spoke the "old man eloquent," the powerful 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 if the land is stained with blood, what if the bright flashes

Of cannon fire light up the night, leaving behind a sorrowful pile of ashes

Where many old mansions once stood--what if the thief loots

The sacred home, the house of God, in over two 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)?
"What if a wicked, unknown injustice, that makes revenge obligatory,

Is happening every day" (O Lord, how long!) "to kindness and beauty!"

(And who can describe this hellish act, how much more deadly of a curse it is

Than even destroying temples and burning down 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."
"Let the arts fade away, let millions suffer, yes, let freedom be lost,

With everything in the western world that people would love and cherish;

Let total destruction become a grim truth there:

We cannot waver, we must maintain our strict 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.
Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! have you ever read what's written in the holy books,

How blessed are the peacemakers, God's children throughout the ages?

Maybe you think the promise was nothing but a cliché;

It's clear that you have no interest in that divine happiness.


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.
But "hear! hear! hear!" another noble, that strong man,

Is on his feet, what thin legs! "you noble Earl" of Russell;

This is how he might speak if he didn’t see the foolishness of his clever restraint,

And thus reveal the hidden strategy 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.
"John Bright was right, let them fight, those fools across the ocean,

It's really none of our business, their festival of destruction;

The Christian world might say we shouldn't let it happen, gentlemen,

But the sound of those Yankee howitzers is still music to our ears."


"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.
"A word or two of sympathy, that doesn’t cost us anything,

We give the brave Southerners, the few standing against the many;

We say their noble strength in the face of defeat hints at greater victories,

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?)
"Of course we celebrate the shining legacy of the glorious Stonewall Jackson,

Who represents the English race, a true Anglo-Saxon;

To the bravest songs his actions belong, to Clio and Melpomene--

(And why shouldn't a British river lay claim to 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.
"But for the cause for which he fell, we can't lift a finger,

It's pointless to linger any longer on this question here;

It's true the South has suffered greatly, her sorrows are epic, oh!

Her situation is similar to that of the one who traveled to 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.
"The thieves have stripped and bruised her, but so far they haven’t tied her up.

We'd love to see her take them all out, left and right around her;

We wouldn't complain in parliament if Lee crossed the Raritan,

But England has never been known to act like 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.
"And so we move to the other side, leaving them to their glory,

To show new acts of bravery, new moments for song and story;

These sweet words of praise might trick them,

But before we step in, you know, we'll see them 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.
"Yeah, let them fight until both are left in utter despair,

Until wolves gather around the cottage door in both nations,

Until, worn out and defeated, the South will no longer be stubborn,

And rust consumes 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.
"Until the cotton bolls no longer burst over the fields of Carolina,

And fill Dinah's dark hands with white fibers;

Until war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's deceit

Has brought an end to freedom and slavery throughout the land."


"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.)
"The dark Bastille, the rack, the wheel, without any remorse or pity,

Can thrive with the guillotine in every American city;

It doesn’t matter if old Abe brings back the brazen bull of Phalaris,

It's not our problem at all"--(reaction in the audience.)


"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."
"So will our 'merry England' prosper from troubles across the Atlantic,

While India, on her far-off plains, doubles her cotton harvest;

And as long as North or South shows any sign of life,

We won't waver, we must maintain our strict 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.
Your speech, my lord, could easily be that of a Saxon lawmaker,

When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a natural state,

When Vikings drank from human skulls their strong honey mead,

Long, long before the brave barons confronted 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.
But it’s a speech so simple, my lord, that everyone can understand it,

And so we quickly turn back to fight the Yankee bandit,

Convinced that we will eventually win our nationality,

Without the help of Britain’s support, despite her neutrality.


Illustrated News.
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!
The enemy is here!

   Stand together! Stand tight!

We'll drive his forces from our land,

   Stand together! Stand tight!

Our wives, our kids are safe behind,

Our mothers, sisters, loved and kind,

Their voices call us on the breeze,

   Stand together! Stand tight!


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!
Are we going to submit to a servile burden?

   Close the ranks! Get into formation!

We'll yield when our Southern oak bends.

   Close the ranks! Get into formation!

On with the line of tightly packed strength,

We can all die, but none of us will kneel

To bow down beneath the Northern oppression.

   Close the ranks! Get into formation!


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 kneel to God, and God alone.

   Close the ranks! Tighten up the ranks!

One heart in all—everyone together as one.

   Close the ranks! Tighten up the ranks!

For home, for country, truth, and what's right,

We stand or fall in the fight for freedom:

In this cause, what is right is strong.

   Close the ranks! Tighten 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're here from every home in the South.

   Close the lines! Close up the lines!

Loved ones, with tearful voices, called us to come.

   Close the lines! Close up the lines!

The husband, brother, son, and father,

All driven by one deep passion--

Our love for our country is our only motivation.

   Close the lines! Close up the lines!


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!
We can't fail; we won't back down!

   Tighten the formation! Tighten up the formation!

Our hearts are our country's defense.

   Tighten the formation! Tighten up the formation!

By Washington's legendary name,

By Stonewall Jackson's respected fame,

Their spirits, their actions, their mission are one,

   Tighten the formation! Tighten up the formation!


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!
By everything we hope for, by all the love we have,

   Fill the lines! Tighten the ranks!

By the home we cherish, by the skies above,

   Fill the lines! Tighten the ranks!

By every tear and every drop of blood spilled,

By all the countless martyrs we’ve lost,

We’ll either win, or we’ll join them in rest.

   Fill the lines! Tighten 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 front might falter, the back might thrive,

   Tighten the lines! Tighten the lines!

We grin in victory as we bleed,

   Tighten the lines! Tighten the lines!

Our Southern Cross flies high above,

It will watch over the hallowed graves

Of those who perished, but weren’t enslaved.

  Tighten the lines! Tighten the lines!


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.
Many have sung of the victories our warriors have won,

From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston,

On the beautiful Potomac's classic shore, by the winding Tennessee,

Hill, rock, and river will forever tell 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.
The air still echoes with the cannon fire, and the warmth of battle lingers;

Still on the hills, their swords have protected our legions as they circle and gather;

And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, along with their brave troops,

Wait at the front, in tense silence, for the moment to strike 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.
But a rougher field than the mountainside—a wider arena than the plain,

Is laid out for the battle in the stormy waves and the ocean that surrounds the globe,

It’s there that the keel of the strong ship must carve out the land’s fate,

For the name you write in the white sea foam will be the first and will last the longest.


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.
For countless centuries, ever since the sacred tree

Was set afloat by a solitary sailor on some ancient sea,

No stronger material than the heart of oak or resilient pine,

Had sailed beyond the shallow waters to cross the equator.


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.
The Naiad and the Dryad met in waves and in wood;

The forest battled at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar.

Old Tubalcain worked hard to forge the sword and ball;

But couldn't build the massive ship that held everything inside.


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.
Six thousand years had passed for our brave sailors to prove

That iron was meant to ride the waves while timber sank below.

The calm waters that first welcomed the white man to our shore,

Columbus, of an iron age, the fearless Buchanan brought.


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.
Not one for one, but thirty to one, those were the odds he had to face!

One ship, untested by wind or tide, to confront a proud fleet!

Now the waves crash and spill over her broken remains;

But the glory of that amazing day will be hers forever.


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.
See that spot on the mist in the distance, as faint as a dream!

Close by, it approaches, with masts like reeds and a swirling plume of steam!

Fast, fierce, and lean, with tilted bows, it charges boldly ahead,

From where and to where, its prey to catch, the enemy will find out soon.


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.
Oh, her hunting ground is wide and green, and there's plenty of game!

She traveled from the restless bay of old Biscay to the Caribbean sea.

She outpaced the whale catchers; swift Ariel caught up;

And made Hatteras experience the toughest blow that ever a sailor faced.


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.
She carries the name of a proud state, and she carries it with grace.

For us, it has become a word of pride, but for the North, it brings doom.

To the Puritan in the bustling marketplace, the Puritan on his deck,

Hearing "Alabama" brings visions of destruction, sorrow, and disaster.


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.
In vain, his clumsy fleets swoop around her enchanted path—

Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop.

Unless it's to capture a prize or punish an enemy, as their weak skills fail,

She won't bother to change her course, easily outsmarting all their efforts.


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.
And bravely does her sisterhood start her young career.

Already her gentle name has become a name of fear;

The name that evokes the orange blossom, of soft lagoons that swell

Around 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.
Like the albatross and the tropic bird, always in flight,

Neither night nor dawn can offer them peace or shelter.

All worn out from their long journey or broken from the battle,

No loving home opens its arms to welcome them.


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!
Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea;

The fewer they are, the tougher the job, the bigger their reward!

The most beautiful garlands of everlasting flowers the most beautiful hands shall weave

For the brows of our brave knights, the champions of the sea!


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.
The "stars and bars" of our strong sailors will proudly wave

As long as they are remembered in history, or in inspiring song,

Just like the red cross of St. George or the raven banner of Thor,

Or any flag of the sea, whatever it is, that has ever gone to battle.


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!
Then rise high up to their parent sky those circled stars of ours,

Wherever the dark-hulled enemy drifts, wherever his symbol stands tall!

Speak for what’s right, for truth and light, from the gun’s unmuffled voice,

And revive the fame of the Dane again, you Vikings of the SOUTH!


Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.
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.
Three years! I wonder if she'll recognize me?

  I have a slight limp, and I lost one arm

In Petersburg; and I've gotten as tan

  As the plump chestnuts on my small farm:

And I'm as scruffy as the chestnut burrs--

But ripe and sweet inside, and completely 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!
The darling! How I can't wait to see her!

  My heart races ahead of this slow pace,

Because I remember, after I left,

  A little Charlie came to take my spot.

Ah! How the laughing, three-year-old, brown eyes—

His mother's eyes—will look with happy 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.
Surely, they’ll be waiting at the corner!

  I let them know I’d be coming tonight:

The birds all know it, since they're gathering around,

  Chirping their greetings with wild excitement;

And that old robin, who flies a bit uneven--

I saved her life three springs ago.


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.
Three years! Maybe I'm just dreaming!

  Because, like a traveler from long ago,

I've carried a heavy load on my back,

  Through summer's heat and winter's harsh snow;

Until now, I finally reach my home, my love's embrace,

There I can unload my burden 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.
When morning arrived, the early rising sun

  Gently touched a soldier sleeping--

Where a soft layer of bright green grass

  Crawled over two mounds, creeping lightly;

But did not wake him: his was the eternal rest,

Where his brown eyes reflected a love beyond this world.


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!"
"Goodwill and peace! Peace and goodwill!"

  The message of the Advent song,

When the love-filled waves became calm

  To listen to the shining crowd;

The amazed shepherds heard the tune

  Who kept watch at night over the sleeping sheep,

The vast skies echoed the refrain,

  "Peace and goodwill, goodwill 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.
And wise men celebrated the promised sign,

  And brought their gifts from the East,

Precious to that Mother like the wine

  That blessed Cana's wedding feast;

But what are myrrh or gold to these,

  And what are Arabia's most expensive gems,

When the Child divine is seen,

  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."
"Peace and good will, good will and peace!"

  They sing, the bright ones above;

And hardly do the joyful anthems stop

  Before Judah mourns her firstborn dead;

And Rama's wild, desperate cry

  Fills the trembling coast with great dread,

And Rachel has just one response,

  "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.
So, for two thousand years of suffering

  That cry is carried on howling winds,

But no star ever breaks through the darkness,

  No soothing peace does the observer find;

And still the Herodian sword strikes,

  And shattered hearts make endless cries,

And still the silent plea to heaven

  Man responds with a groan for every 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?
How are we going to celebrate Christmas?

  With that painful past, its wounds wide open,

Always walking next to us,

  A scary shadow, a terrible figure;

Can any promise of spring

  Bring life back to the withered autumn leaf?

Or who can say that time will offer

  Good fruits to someone who only plants sorrow?


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.
Wild bells! that shake the midnight air

  With those beloved tones that tradition cherishes,

You don't awaken any laughter here,

  Nor joy in all our quiet groves;

In one vast expanse, by hill or stream,

  Your music echoes over devastated lands,

And where the joyful homestead once stood

  The stars gaze 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,
At every gathering, an empty chair

  Brings quick tears to some tender eye,

And in our wildest fun, we see

  Those cherished faces that won’t fade away.

We raise our glasses, but our hands hesitate—

  We joke, and a ghost pops up—

And crying, though no words are spoken,

  We kiss and share 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.
And toast the brave friend who spends

  His Christmas Eve on Malvern Hill,

And him, our blond boy, who’s resting

  Under Virginian snow tonight;

While, by the fire, she thinks and reflects

  On all that was and what could have been,

If Shiloh's damp and soaked woods

  Had never soaked up that red 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.
O happy Yules of the past!

  If only you could come back as you used to,

Sweet as the first kiss of love,

  When I look back with longing eyes,

It would feel like those bells whose sounds announce

  His birthday with a joyful ring,

Who, sitting by the well in Samaria,

  Satisfied the lifelong thirst of the lonely widow.


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!"
Ah! Still, I believe that everyone who cries,

  Somewhere, eventually, will find

Their peace, if they hold on through dark times

  With a child-like faith and a prayerful mind;

And some distant Christmas morning will bring

  A sweet relief from human struggles

To loving hearts, while angels sing

  "Peace and goodwill, goodwill 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.
She stands proudly by the clear blue sea,

  With the flames of hatred swirling around her,

But a barrier of love as strong as destiny,

  With unbreakable links surrounds her.

Let them launch their attacks through the bright sky,

  And send her deadly missiles,

She finds in our God a powerful shield,

  And in heaven a reliable 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.
Her past is a shining page of glory,

  Her present a flash of brilliance,

You can flip through the pages of the jeweled book,

  You won't find the word surrender;

Because before she'd lay down her trusted weapons,

  She'd create her own funeral pyre,

And the flames that grant her a martyr's death

  Will elevate her glory even more.


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."
How the demons stare at her standing there

  In majestic pride, calm and steady,

And grind their teeth with the useless rage of hate,

  Creeping up slowly, so petty;

While she shouts, "Come out from your hiding spots,

  Send your hired troops to meet me,

I'll expose my chest to a million swords,

  While God and my sons protect 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.
Oh, brave old town, over your sacred form

  While the fiery rain is sweeping,

May He whose love is a strong armor

  Embrace you in tender protection;

And when the red war-cloud has passed,

  Anoint you with holy blessing,

And sanctified, purified, renewed, true,

  You will survive 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!
Come on, brothers! Stand up for what's right!

  The bravest of the brave

Shouts her strong battle-cry

  By the Atlantic shore!

She shows us the way to honor!

  Come, brothers, from near and far,

Come gather around the Bonnie Blue Flag

  That has one 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!
We've put up with the Yankee tricks,

  The Yankee jabs and taunts,

Until Yankee arrogance and pride

  Feel neither shame nor fear;

But now, with gun and steel in hand,

  We're ready to take them on,

We raise high the Bonnie Blue Flag

  That has just one 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!
Now Georgia marches to the front,

  And right beside her come

Her sisters by the Mexican Sea,

  With sounding trumpets and drums!

Until, echoing back from hill and valley

  The rallying cry rings out,

A NATION raises the Bonnie Blue Flag

  That has 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!
By every stone in Charleston Bay,

  By each troubled town,

We promise to not rest, night or day,

  But to hunt those tyrants down!

Until, drenched in the righteous blood of valor

  The watching world afar

Shall greet with cheers the Bonnie Blue

  That carries 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?
How lovely is this sacred day?

Will joyful bells from that old tower,

Send their cheerful greetings to every Christmas fire

    Where the children are playing?


    Alas! for many a moon,

That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air,

Mute as an obelisk of ice aglare

    Beneath an Arctic noon.
Alas! for many a moon,

That silent tower has cut through the Sabbath air,

Quiet as a column of ice shining bright

    Under 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.
Shame on the enemies who drown

Our songs of praise with their disrespectful drums.

The sweetest bells in the whole country are silent

    In some far-off country 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?
There, let’s consider, they hold,

Of the dead Yules they’ve welcomed by the sea

With old-fashioned English cheer,

    Some echoes in their dreams.



    How shall we celebrate the day?

With feasting, singing, dancing, and old games,

And shouts of joyful kids in the courtyards,

    And stories of ghosts and fairies?


    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?
Is there really a door

Where the old pastimes, with their rightful noise,

And all the joyful celebrations of Christmas,

    Could come in like they used to?


    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?
Wouldn't some pale face

Look in on the feast, bringing up

Terrifying images of battle in the drink,

    And disturb the whole scene?


    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 can we enjoy the laughter,

While someone who celebrated a year ago

Now lies silent this Christmas beneath the snow,

    In the cold Virginia ground?


    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!
How should we honor the day?

Ah! let the thought that on this sacred morning

The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born,

    Guide us, as 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.
Pray for the peace that has long

Left this troubled land, and maybe now

It sits in its white court on some distant mountaintop,

    Barely safe from harm.


    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!
Let every holy place

Invite its mournful followers to the house of God,

And, with the monastery and the sacred ground,

    Unite in one solemn song!


    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.
With the grandeur of Roman style,

With the serious ceremony brought from England's coast,

And with the straightforward belief that asks for nothing more

    Than a warm heart.


    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.
He, who will watch until the end of time,

Will see the earth, where he once fought, not in vain,

He died to bring us peace, will not reject

    A prayer focused on 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.
Maybe, before spring

Has turned into summer, across all

The land, the peace of His immense love will spread

    Like a protective 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!
Oh, think about what it means!

Oh, consider that amazing thought from every angle!

Oh, let your imagination and creativity soar,

    And form the upcoming 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 quiet valleys,

Made richly fertile by the blood of men;

Peace in the woods, and the lonely glen,

    Peace in the crowded valleys!


    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 in the busy town,

Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain,

Peace on the highway and the flower-filled lane,

    Peace on the wind-swept hills!


    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 farthest seas,

Peace in our safe bays and wide rivers,

Peace wherever our starry crown shines,

    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!
Peace in the bustling markets,

Peace where the scholar reflects, the hunter wanders,

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.
Peace! Peace! God of our ancestors, grant us peace!

To our cries of anguish and despair,

Listen and have mercy! From the lonely homes,

Where widowed poverty and orphaned sorrow

Fill their small urns with tears; from devastated fields,

Where the bountiful harvest You provided rots--

The blood of those who should have harvested it

Calls out to You--from battlegrounds, where

The foul vultures, fully satisfied, flap their wings

Over piled-up corpses, that just yesterday

Held hearts of brothers, beating strong with love

And shared hopes and pride, now all destroyed--

Father of Mercies! our prayers and wails arise not just from these

But also from the battle's scorched and empty land,

Nor is it only by the sword and flames, O God,

That You have struck us. Around our homes,

And in the crowded streets and busy markets,

Where the echoes do not whisper of the distant conflict

That kills our loved ones; in the solemn halls

Of safe discussions--no, beneath

The temple roofs we have built for You,

And among their rising incense--God of Peace!

The curse of war weighs heavily on us. Greed and hatred

Craving gold and blood; Ambition, born

From intense vanity and sordid desires,

Driven mad by the selfish wish to dominate

Over people's minds and hearts, have put a price

On human sacrifices, trading and bartering

Their sons and brothers for the slaughter. Priests,

With pure, anointed, pleading hands,

From Sabbath to Sabbath clasped to You,

Burn, in their heated veins, to throw down

Your censers and Your cross, to choke the throats

Of relatives by whose cradles they were born,

Or grab the sword of Herod and march forth

Until Rachel has no children left to lose.

The very name of Jesus, written upon

Your shrines beneath the pure, outstretched wings,

Of Your Almighty Dove, is wrapped and hidden

With bloody battle flags, and from the spires

That rise above them angry banners mock

The skies to which they point, amid the noise

Of rolling war songs tuned to ridicule Your 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.
All the things we once valued and honored are forgotten:

The freedom we worshipped alongside You;

The courage that was the spear and shield of freedom;

The proud, genuine heart; the brave, honest words,

That could be silenced but could never disguise

The truth, no matter the gain, as a lie;

All these are gone, replaced by

The vices of the greedy and the submissive—

Shaming no act that brings wealth or power,

Lacking love, faith, reverence,

Or compassion, connection, purpose, or hope,

Except for what begins and ends with self.

With monsters like these, oh! blessed God!

Punish us no longer! Send us, once again,

Some shining angel in Your joyful glory,

To light up the darkness of our sorrow

With news of goodwill and peace for everyone;

And if the star that guided

Earth’s wisdom back then doesn’t lead our foolishness today,

Oh, let the lightning be Your messenger,

With all its fiery, forked tongues, to deliver

The undeniable message of Your 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!
Peace! Peace! God of our ancestors, grant us peace!

Peace in our hearts and at Your altars; Peace

On the crimson waters and their devastated shores;

Peace for the besieged cities, and the armies

That watch and suffer around them and within,

Peace for the homeless and the orphaned;

Peace for the captive on his weary journey,

And the angry crowds who mock his helplessness;

For those who suffer, those who do wrong

Sinning and sinned against.--O God! for all;

For a troubled, torn, and suffering land--

Speed the good news! 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!
Oh, band in the pine woods, stop!

  Stop with your beautiful call;

The living are brave and noble,

  But the dead were the 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 gather for the call to arms,

  To the loud, victorious tune;

And the beloved bright eyes of long-lost friends

  Return to the heart once more!


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!
They arrive with the sounding bugle,

  And the deep drum's rich boom;

Until the soul is weak with yearning

  For the hands we can no longer hold!


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!
Oh, band in the pine woods, stop!

  Or the heart will break into tears,

For the brave eyes and the smiling lips,

  And the voices from long ago!


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.
You shiver as you think about

  The bloodshed in the bleak report,

The devastation 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.
But there are actions you might not realize,

  That stir up conflict in the heart;

Haunting memories of endless sorrow

  Sharpening the blade and the 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 house is just ashes where I lived,

  Beyond the huge inland sea;

The gravestones are broken 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 Yankee villains, who arrived with flames,

  Set up camp on the sacred ground,

And stomped in the dirt and muck

  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.
The place where dear mom rests,

  Under the light of that sad moon,

Is shattered, with broken marble piles,

  To stop the horse of some soldier.


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
God! When I think about that dark day

  It makes my frantic spirit cringe;

I marched—with Longstreet—far away,

  But I've seen the destruction 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.
The tears are warm on my face,

  As I think about the bleak fate that happened to

The only sister of our kind--

  A thing too horrific to share.


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.
They say that, before she lost her senses,

  She cried out to save her brothers;

Then she weakly lowered her head,

  Too pure to live like this—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.
Two of those brothers heard no plea;

  With their proud hearts forever still--

John buried 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.
But I’ve heard it everywhere,

  Vibrating like a distant bell;

It’s as constant as the air,

  And serious like 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.
By the burnt lagoon and muddy swamp

  My anger was never at a standstill;

I've taken out the sentry in his camp,

  And many a pilot in his place.


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.
With steady rifle, sharpened blade,

  A week ago, on my horse,

With Forrest and his warrior crew,

  I made the hellhounds 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!
You should have seen our leader charge

  Across the battlefield's fiery edge,

Diving like a falcon at the enemy,

  Leading the gray line's fierce assault!


All outcasts from our ruined marts,

  We heard th' undying serpent hiss,

And in the desert of our hearts

  The fatal spell of Nemesis.
All outcasts from our ruined markets,

  We heard the undying serpent hiss,

And in the desert of our hearts

  The deadly 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.
The Southern yell echoed loudly and clearly
  
  As we charged in,
  
Striking the demons hard and deep,
  
  Cutting them down to the 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.
My right arm exposed for a more intense fight,

  The left one kept the reins loose;

In all the chaos of the battle

  I aimed for 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.
The splattered chunks of brain and blood

  Across the twisting blades ran;

To me, each savage face showed

  The mask of one cursed man.


Throbbing along the frenzied vein,

  My blood seemed kindled into song--

The death-dirge of the sacred slain,

  The slogan of immortal wrong.
Throbbing along the frantic vein,

  My blood felt lit up with song--

The death song of the holy dead,

  The rallying cry of endless 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!
It shone across the dripping blades,

  It burned in each vengeful eye--

Thinking of desecrated graves,

  And some lonely 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!
A gentle breeze through the pines!

  And a heavy ache in my chest!

And oh! to feel the sigh from her lips and eyes--

  Just one touch of the hand I held!


The slow, sad lowland wind,

  It sighs through the livelong day,

While the splendid mountain breezes blow,

  And the autumn is burning away.
The slow, mournful wind in the lowlands,

  It sighs throughout the entire day,

While the glorious mountain breezes blow,

  And autumn is fading 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.
Here the pines constantly whisper above,

  And the broomstraw whispers below;

And far from the empty, cold, windy fields

  Comes the sound of the sleepy 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.
There the trees are red and gold,

  Like the colors of a magical dawn,

And the slim figure, in the dreamy days,

  Wanders by the slow stream.


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?
Oh, day that feels heavy on the heart!

  Oh, wind in the gloomy pines!

Does she think of me during the beautiful 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.
The old house, lonely and quiet,

  By the somber Shenandoah's waves,

Must feel the sunshine's light today,

  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!
Oh, sunshine, drifting and sad,

  Oh, wind, that always sighs!

The hall might be bright, but my life is dark

  For the light in 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.
Oh, sing of our beautiful Southland,

  The pride of the golden sun!

It's the most beautiful land of flowers

  The eye has ever seen.


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 orange and myrtle

  That sparkle like jewels above;

Sing of her dark-eyed girls

  As beautiful 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 her flowing rivers—

  How beautiful their sound!

Sing of her deep green forests,

  The Native American hunting ground.


Sing of the noble nation

  Fierce struggling to be free;

Sing of the brave who barter

  Their lives for liberty!
Sing of the proud nation

  Fighting hard to be free;

Sing of the brave who trade

  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:
Weep for the woman and mother

  Who grieve for their loved ones lost;

Sigh for the light that's gone,

  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!
It's the voice of Rachel crying,

  That will never find comfort;

It's the sound of despair,

  The shattering of hearts in grief!


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!
Ah! the blood of Abel cries

  For revenge from the ground!

It's a brother's hand that's raised

  In front 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!
Oh! brother of the North,

  We ask from our father's grave;

We fight for our homes and shrines,

  He struggled to create and protect!


A smouldering fire is burning,

  The Southern heart is steeled--

Perhaps 'twill break in dying,

  But never will it yield.
A smoldering fire is burning,

  The Southern heart is strong--

Maybe it will break in dying,

  But it will never give in.


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!"
Rise from your bloody ashes, serious and pale,

You martyred thousands! And with fierce anger,

A voice of doom, a face of dark fire,

Rebuke those faithless souls, whose whiny cries

Disturb your sacred rest!--"The damaging hail

Of battle, hunger, sickness, despair,

Whatever mortal suffering we endured,

We did so without complaint! Strengthened by a

Most holy purpose!--then we died!--

Don’t disrupt our peace with cries of selfish pain,

But to the fullest extent of your abilities

Face the trials ahead! Griefs opposed,

But send their threatening thunderbolts in vain,

And fierce storms pass by as gentle 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.
Put away all your colorful dresses,

  Lock up your jewelry today,

And style your long hair

  In a more serious way;

No more fancy gloves, no more frills,

  No more wasting time in your bedroom or garden,

But come with determination in your expressions

  To face the serious demands of the moment.


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.
Look around. By the flickering torchlight

  The dead and the dying seem the same--

What! shaking and turning pale already,

  Before your important mission has started?

These wounds are more valuable than horrific--

  Time kisses each scar gently,

While she speaks of that glory which greatly

  Surpasses 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.
Pause here by this bedside. How soft  
  The light falls on that forehead!  
Such a strong, sturdy face, poor guy!  
  Some family is missing him now.  
Some wife shields her eyes in the distance,  
  Some mother sits crying in pain,  
While the loved one lies weak but unafraid,  
  With the enemy's bullet in his chest.


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.
Here's another—a young guy—a mere youth,

  Found in the field nearly lifeless,

With blood flowing through his sunny hair

  From the terrible wound on his head.

They say he was first to join the fight:

  Bright-hearted, sharp-minded, and funny:

He fought until he collapsed from exhaustion

  At the gates of our beautiful 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!
Fought and fell under the guns of that city,

  With a spirit beyond his years--

Lift him up with your big-hearted pity,

  And wet his pale lips with your tears.

Touch him gently; it’s a sacred duty

  To tend to that poor shattered hand!

God spare him to rise in his beauty,

  And fight 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.
Move on! It's pointless to wait

  While others are asking for your help;

There’s a need for your gentle touch,

  For your caring spirit too.

There are the sick who long for comfort,

  There are dying ones losing their grip at home,

There are wounds that need healing with kindness,

  And preparations needed 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.
They've gathered around you the harvest

  Of death in its most horrific form;

Both the closest and the farthest

  Are there with the betrayer and the loyal.

And crowned with your lovely patience,

  Brightened by love at your core,

You must soothe the wounds of the nations,

  Without hesitating or backing down from your role.


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.
And your mother’s lips will bless you,

  And angels, sweet-faced and pale,

And the little ones will rush to hug you,

  And the wives and sisters will cheer!

But even if you fall down unnoticed,

  What does it matter? God’s ways are the best:

You have given your life where it was needed,

  And He will handle 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 in my tired ear--

  No peace for my heavy heart!

They're ringing peace, I can hear it! I hear it!

  Oh God! how my hopes fade away!


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 from the mountains;

  With a hollow sound it comes--

They are ringing peace over the crashing waves,

  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 calling for peace, and the spring flowers

  Are blooming bright and beautiful;

But our martyrs rest in their quiet graves--

  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.
They are ringing in peace, and the battle cry

  And the work of the bayonet is finished,

And they are putting away the bright armor,

  From the brave father 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!
And the musket's clang, and the soldiers' training,

  And the nightly sound of the tattoo;

We won't hear that again, with a joyful excitement,

  Peace, peace, it's ringing everywhere!


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 women, still as the heavy air

  On the scorching desert path,

Not a shout of joy, not a greeting 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 beautiful young faces in their morning glory,

  Like pale lilies, they bend; 

Just a memory left for the soldier's wife--

  Ah, God! support 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!
There are martial steps we might not hear!

  There are shapes we might not see!

Death's call they've answered loud and 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!
Not a tight bond, nor a prisoner’s chain

  For the noble army gone--

No conqueror crosses 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 proclaiming peace, but outsiders walk

  On the land where our ancestors walked,

And the joys of our heritage, like a dream, have disappeared,

  And You! where are You, O 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!
They’re calling for peace! not here, not here,

  Where the winner's flag is raised;

Take the taunting cheer back to the North—

  No peace for the South 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.
We might put away the sword and the rifle

  We could hang them on the cottage wall,

And the brave bayonet, with its sharp duty completed,

  May drop from the soldier's arm.


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!
But peace!—no peace! until that same good sword,

  is drawn out from its scabbard,

And the whole world listens to my country's call,

  And the South! oh, the South, be free!


Charleston Broadside.
Charleston Announcement.


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?
What! Did you think you could take

    Victory from chance and luck,

Triumph from loud shouts, without any will?

    Without the courage to face

    All danger to the end,

And fight on the edge, unwavering 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?
And did you dream that success

    Would always bless

Your efforts, without any setbacks in a dangerous situation?

    And will a tough moment

    Make you doubt the strength

Of virtue, within you, to make your enemy give in?


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.
Oh! from this dreary sleep

    Wake up, and jump up,

Don’t let your hearts become numb with fear!

    Raise your banner high,

    Still daring the sky,

While a thousand strong arms carry it along 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!
Forth, as a sacred group,

    Sworn protectors of the land,

Chosen by God, the champions of what’s right!

    And never doubt that He

    Who created will keep you free,

If your hearts are set on winning 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!
The criminal enemy, no longer

    Stamping on the holy ground,

Will leave no dirty footprints on the soil;

    Where, desperate in the battle,

    Careless of injuries and life,

You bravely face your countless foes under the watch 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!
On brothers, comrades, men,

    Hurry back to the battlefield;

Home, peace, love, safety—freedom—are the rewards!

    Fight! while you can still wield

    A weapon—and show no mercy—

You break a criminal bond with every enemy that falls!


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?
In the cool, sweet quiet of a wooded spot,

  Where May buds scatter across the green old hill,

And the winds, along with the birds and the clear brook,

  Murmur their dreams with a sleepy sound;

Who lies so still on the soft moss,

  With his pale cheek resting on a breezy pillow,

Nestled where the light and shadows meet

  Through the flickering leaves of the willow?

    Who lies, sadly,

So still, so cold, 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.
A soldier dressed in Zouave style,

  A bright-haired guy, with his lips slightly open,

One hand raised over his still, lifeless face,

  And the other gripping his cold heart,

Lies here in the shadows, cool and dim,

  His musket caught by a drooping branch,

With a relaxed grace in each calm limb,

  And a wound on his strong brow;

    A wound, sadly!

From which warm blood drips onto 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.
The violets peek out from their dark beds,

  With a teary dew in their bright, clear eyes;

The lilies tremble with their shining heads,

  Their pale lips filled with a sad surprise;

And the lizard darts through the gleaming fern--

  And the squirrel rustles the aged branches;

Strange birds fly out, calling, to bathe

  Their wings in the sunset's glory;

    While the shadows move

Over the calm surface 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.
God help the bride waiting at home,

  With her fair skin and violet eyes,

Dreaming those sweet old dreams of love,

  While her lover strolls in Paradise;

God give her strength as the days pass,

  And the long, dreary nights of her watch continue,

No bird, no moon, no whispering wind,

  Can share the story of the emptiness;

    Oh no! oh no!

The secret remains hidden in 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!
Souls of heroes, risen from the fields you've conquered,

Still watch over the conflict that was started so boldly;

Bring help to your comrade, your brother, your son

  Now facing the battle among the brave;

And the coward who lingers, trying to avoid the fight,

  Chase him with disdain 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."
Pursue him with intense fury that pushes him to despair,

Hunt him down, where he hides in every nook and corner,

Force him out, while his beloved wife cries out-- "There

  Goes the coward who hides, even though his sister and wife

Tremble every night in their sleep, overshadowed by fear

  Of a sacrifice that's more precious 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!
There are thousands who hang around, with a proud history,

Who brag about the legacy honored in each name--

They feel the sting deep within, until they shy away from the shame

  That taints the names and the past they take pride in;

Even now they can earn the greatest reward of fame,

  And regain the shining 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!
Even now, while our country is caught up in chaos,

While the wild boar is rampaging to take the spoils,

While the boa is wrapping around us the coils

  That would choke the freedom our ancestors fought for;

But every soul must be stirred until it overflows,

  Every muscle must be tightened 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!
Still the reason is the same that, in ages long past,

Inspired your great ancestors, so bravely renowned,

When, defying the oppressor, the crown and the throne,

  They charged into battle, ignoring the odds;

Equipped with bow, spear, and scythe, and with sling and 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?
Shall we be less deserving of the great sacrifice,

The noble heritage we received from them,

The peace and comfort, the benefits of the land;

  And, caught in a stupor as hopeless as shameful,

Shrink back from the threat of the corrupt crowd,

  That would destroy the kingdom and the people?


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!
Souls of heroes, risen from the battles you've fought,

  Your efforts don't end with the acts you've brought;

Inspire the hearts of every lazy and reckless son,

  The greed and the laziness, and the cowardice that’s shameful;

Until we stand to finish the great work you've started,

  And with freedom, achieve the glory we've sought!


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.
Not in the lightning of the stormy battle,

Nor in the charge against the invading enemy,

Did royal death, with its unstoppable force,

         Bring the great leader down.


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.
His warrior spirit broke free from earthly chains,

In the bright sunlight of a tranquil town:

When the storm was finally quiet, the sturdy oak

         That supported our cause fell 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.
Though it's his blood that stains the ground,

Remembering all his great heroic acts,

Freedom herself is suffering from the injury,

         And the whole country is in pain.


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!
He did not enter the nation's promised land,

At the loud explosion of the cannon:

But shattered the chains of oppression 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!
O gracious God! not pointless in the loss;

A glorious sunbeam brightens the harshest frown;

And while his country struggles with the burden,

          He rises with the crown!


Mobile Advertiser and Register.
Mobile Ad 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!
Though the winds are strong and the skies are gloomy,

And the stars barely show us a meteor spark;

Still our brave ship sails energetically,

  Through waves that shimmer in a sea of blue;

We're moving freely, like the Viking shark,

  And we're chasing our prey, just like it does!


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.
At every push of our bow, we uncover the graves,

Where, unaware of the noise from winds and waves,

The dead have rested in their ocean caves,

  Never once dreaming—like they can’t hear anymore

Even though the Storm-God rages and roars

  From the depths to the rocky 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.
Brave sailors they were in ancient times,

Heroes or pirates—men from all over,

Who never listened for the Sabbath bells,

  Never once asked a priest for forgiveness;

They died with a courage that still inspires,

  And, perhaps, may be suited 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.
Never asking when or why,

But always ready to fight and die,

They charged into battle with a terrifying shout,

  Not counting the odds, whether winners or lost,

Facing fortune or fate, with equal resolve,

  Unafraid 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.
Dread are the stories of the amazing deep,

And the waves guard their secrets well,

And those savage old sailors should rest in peace,

  If they can find sleep after such a life;

Where every dark passion, awake and leaping,

  Turned sleep itself into a struggle.


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!
What terrifying voices, through storm and waves,

Sang a death song in the fading ear,

As, raging and tearing, over Hell's dark edge,

  Each howling soul fell to its fate;

And what thunderous sounds from the depths rise,

  As the tomb yawns for its prey!


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.
We sail the same seas that the explorers once roamed,

But with greater faith in the saving God,

And raise and spread abroad

  The starry cross, our holy symbol,

Which, never tainted by crime or deceit,

  Shines over the midnight waves.


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!
And we're not roaming on a lawless mission now,

With dark desires in the hero's heart,

Driven by no greed at the monster's command,

  Reveling in lust over a bloody victim;

But to wrest the loot from the tyrant thief,

  And bring down his oppressive rule!


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.
Against the offspring of Europe, and all the lands,

British and German--Norway's sands,

Dutchland and Irish--the mercenary groups

  Paid for slaughter--disregarding advice,

But, gathering like vultures, with criminal hands,

  To feed the anger 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!
With anger, they travel across both land and sea,

And with righteous fury, we must drive them away;

Clearing the way for nations to be free,

  And bringing peace to the midst of conflict;

In the light of the cross, our freedom

  Shines bright in the world, and gives 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!
Let Christianity hide beneath the Stripes and Stars,

Covering its shame with legal restrictions,

Not too principled for commerce, but avoiding wars,

  While the Southern Cross, soaring at the top,

Though perhaps ripped apart by a thousand wounds,

  Will illuminate 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.
The following lines were written in response to General Beauregard's request for people to donate their bells so they could be melted down 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,

Stop the tinkling across the plains,

And change the evening chimes

Into the loud rhythms of war,

So that the invaders can be defeated

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,

That for years have called to prayer,

And instead, the cannon's roar

Shall shake the valleys below,

So the enemy may feel 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,

Even if it makes us cry to separate

From the music they created,

Where our beloved friends are resting,

With pale faces and quiet hearts,

Under 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,

Into cannon, huge and menacing,

And the enemy will feel the wrath

From every roaring lung of fire,

And we'll place our faith 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 when enemies no longer attack,

And the storm of war

Has rolled away silently,

We will turn the cannons 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.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,

And they'll ring a sweeter tone,

And remind us of all the brave

Who have fallen to glory's grave,

And will rest through the ages

'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.
Just as spring burst through the struggle,

  With all its vibrant joy;

In the bright April of history's journey

  Came 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.
The amazing calming of a hero's breath

  His wounded country cries--

Silent in the white arms of death,

  Our young Marcellus rests.


Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome,

  Curbing his chariot steeds;

The knightly scion of a Southern home

  Dazzled the land with deeds.
Nobler and greater than the Child of Rome,

  Reining in his chariot horses;

The knightly descendant of a Southern home

  Astonished the land with his actions.


Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt,

  The champion of the truth,

He bore his banner to the very front

  Of our immortal youth.
Gentlest and bravest in the heat of battle,

  The champion of the truth,

He carried his banner right to the front

  Of our everlasting youth.


A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,

  The fiery pang of shells--

And there's a wail of immemorial woe

  In Alabama dells.
A clash of sabers in the Virginian snow,

  The sharp sting of shells--

And there's a cry of timeless sadness

  In Alabama valleys.


The pennon drops that led the sacred band

  Along the crimson field;

The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand

  Over the spotless shield.
The banner falls that guided the brave crew

  Across the blood-red field;

The shining sword slips from the limp hand

  Onto the unblemished 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.
We stared and stared at that beautiful face

  While around the lips and eyes,

Caught in the marble sleep, the grace

  Of a divine surprise shone.


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.
Oh, mother of a blessed soul above!

  Your tears may soon fall--

Think of your boy with the 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!
How must he smile in this dull world below,

  Burning with quick fame--

He--with the martyr's endless wreath

  Woven into 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.
"Hey batteries of Beauregard!"

  Unleash your fire from Moultrie's wall;

Tell the roar of your deep thunder

  To crash down on their fleet in fear:

Send your storm of deadly fury

  On the dark invading army--

Show them that their foot will never

  Set 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.
"Those batteries of Beauregard!"

  Tell the tale of our injustice;

Let your alarm sound awaken the spirit

  Of a brave and strong people;

Remember her proud names from the past--

  Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene;

Increase the list of those whose glorious deeds

  Stand alongside theirs.


"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.
"Those batteries of Beauregard!"

  From Savannah they glare;

By the power of Heaven

  Bring their "great fleet" down;

By the blood of countless free men,

  By every hard-fought battlefield,

By the hopes we hold dear,

  Never give up the victory.


"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.
"Those batteries of Beauregard!"

  All along our Southern coast,

Let, in the future, your victories,

  Be a nation's pride and boast;

Send each missile with a message

  To the wicked, godless crowd;

Make them realize they can never conquer

  People who are so true to themselves.


"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.
"Those batteries of Beauregard!"

  By the glories of the past,

By the memory of old Sumter,

  Whose fame will never fade,

Rush toward their celebrated legions

  With volleys of bullets and shells,

Welcome them, in your glory,

  To their destined 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,
When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front,"

  And calm peace comes back,

Has brightened hearts that have long been

  Sighing in grief and mourning--

How joyful will the day be

  When, coming back from the wars,

The tired soldier finds his way

  To loved ones who are waiting,


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.
To hold in true love's warm embrace,

  To look with eyes so gentle

At the battle-scarred body and face

  Of Liberty's protector;

To take pride in each painful mark,

  That disrupts his handsome features,

Of him who was so courageous in battle,

  So admirable in service.


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!
When peace comes back to our land,

  Joyful cheers of welcome arise

For the brave few in Freedom's fight

  Who shouted "no surrender;"

They fought fiercely to be free

   From the weight of tyranny,

And achieved, for Southern honor,

  The respect 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,
And when, once more, in the Southern gardens

  The light of peace shines bright,

Her maidens gather the prettiest flowers,

  And weave wreaths of honor,

To crown the victorious heads

  On many a bloody battlefield,

Whose names, well-known and glorious,

  Shall live on 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!
Then tears of love will be shed,

  And pity, holding back joy,

For those we've lost and mourned,

  Are all beyond our lamenting;

They fell in the prime of their strength;

  And we shouldn't weep for the tale

That speaks 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.
In the past, our fathers’ love was steadfast, abundant, and unrestricted,

For those they left behind in the Island of the Sea;

They fought in King George’s battles and celebrated him in song,

Because back then, justice confidently suppressed the oppression of injustice.


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.
But when the King’s weak, willing followers imposed a tax on tea,

The Western men stood up and faced the Island of the Sea;

And made a solemn vow to God, those strong men declared,

That in the end, the Wrong would fall, and the Right would prevail.


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.
The King sent over hired armies—the Briton, Hessian, Scot—

And vowed that those Western men, when caught, would be shot;

While Chatham spoke passionately against the hired crowd,

And sadly watched the Right fall and the Wrong take its place.


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!
But God was on the side of the just, and Gideon had his sword out,

With the clash of steel, the sound of drums, and the thunderous shout of the free;

And rivers of blood soaked the land through that long, fierce battle,

But in the end, hooray! the Wrong was defeated 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 when the enemies came again from the Northern Sea,

To destroy our happy land and conquer the free,

Our fathers quickly went to push them back, with sharp and long rifles,

And made a strong vow that Right would overcome 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!
And while the world watched, the conflict became unpredictable,

But soon our stars shone bright in the clear blue sky;

For Jackson fought fiercely at red Chalmette and won the glorious battle,

And then the Wrong fell, hurrah! and victory 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.
The day has come again, when men who love the beautiful South,

To speak up, if necessary, for what’s right, even if it means facing cannons;

For those cursed by God and humanity, with their deceitful words and songs,

Would restrict, imprison, condemn the Right, and glorify 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.
But a deceitful scoundrel of pen and sword, nor a self-righteous fool,

Will ever conquer this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule;

We'll gather on every bloody plain, as numerous as the stars at night,

And, with God's help, the Wrong will be defeated 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.
Go out and tell the land to celebrate,

  But not too joyfully, oh my song!

  Speak gently, as if happiness would spoil

The serious joy of your 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.
Be nothing done or said lightly

  This joyful day! Our happiness should flow

  In harmony with the deep sorrow

That mourns 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;
Let him whose forehead and chest were steady

  While the battle was still with God,

  Look down upon the bloody ground

And solemnly hold his grieving hand;


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.
And him, whose heart is still weak from fear

  Beats all too happily for the moment,

  Know that excessive joy is wrong

While one fallen hero deserves 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.
Yet go forth, my song! and inspire,

  With genuine joy, the difficult days;

  A nation's anthem of thankful praise

Cannot be silenced for personal pain.


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!
Our enemies have been defeated! Send the news, you wires!

  The great news spreads far and wide!

  You cities! Write it in the sky

In purple and emerald flames!


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.
They arrived full of arrogant boasts;

  Their threats were heard on every breeze;

  They darkened half the nearby seas,

And swooped down 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.
Fake cowards in all noble battles,

  Their path was soaked with women's tears;

  Behind them burned the work of years,

And bloodshed marked the harvest 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.
They fought like tyrants or like slaves;

  God delivered the cowards into our hands;

  Their bones are bleaching on the sands,

Or decaying slowly 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.
What if we hear about our path

  The skies torn apart by howls of vengeance;

  The poison of their hate is exhausted;

We don’t need to pay attention to their toothless anger.


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;
Meantime, the river they tried to control

  Now flows from a thousand springs and expands

  With a wider current and deeper waters,

And rushes forward to the sea;


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.
While the rising current flows

  Our ship of state moves forward before the wind,

  With flags flying from every mast,

Its cannons booming from its 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!
Lord! tell the wild storm to stop,

  Put your rainbow in the sea!

  Laugh around her, waves! in shining joy,

And hurry her to the safe harbors!


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.
No longer does Christmas arrive with joyful cheer,

  And smiling faces,

But is welcomed in with sword and spear,

  And the pounding of a barbaric drum!

No longer, with an ivy crown,

  And a beard of soft, white moss,

Does he come to bring joy to 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.
The joyful dance, the fancy feast,

  The cheerful welcome, all are gone:

The music of the violin stopped,

  The happy circle around the floor.

No joyful gathering greets the time,

  That celebrates a Savior's birth,

And Christmas, to an unwelcoming force,

  Loses all the joy that made it bright.


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.
The Church, like a lonely bride,

  Stands nervously at the altar,

While, fiercely raging all around,

  The enemy pounds at her gates.

No green ivy, no shining leaves,

  No crimson berries decorate her walls:

But blood, red and dripping from her eaves,

  Falls on the sacred ground below.


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.
Her silver bells no longer ring

  To call her to her sacred home;

Nor does a holy song at dawn,

  Proclaim the God inside the dome.

Nor do the happy faces by the fire

  Gather fondly, sharing warm greetings,

While Father Christmas opens his arms

  To bring joy with gifts and 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.
In place of that cherished figure,

  Kind, gentle, and a source of blessing,

Comes one surrounded by fire and chaos,

  The furious shell, the hissing projectile!

Symbol of the Prince of Peace, no longer,

  Called upon by those who carry His name,

THE DEVIL, instead of the SAINT of the past,

  Now throws around demonic fire.


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!
In hatred, stirred up by familiar territories,

  But recently showering with affection,

Look, Moloch, dripping with blood, stands,

  And curses where he cannot provide blessings.

He launches the bolt and throws the spear,

  A demon unleashed, that tears apart in fury,

Brings destruction through the dearest homes,

  And slaughters the young and tramples the old!


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!
With a fox's face—grinning with delight,

  And monkey-like arms, with clawed fingers,

Reaching for all his brother’s victories,

  And quickly hiding them with stealth and deceit;—

Look! Mammon, that familiar spirit, approaches,

  And hides, as if fearing something bad, behind;

He sounds the trumpet, beats the drums,

  Ignites the torch, and sharpens 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.
And furious, following in their wake,

  What groups of lesser demons emerge;

Lust, Malice, Hunger, Greed, and Gain,

  Each furious for its own reward.

Too low for freedom, too petty for work,

  And reckless toward what’s fair and just,

They rage in peaceful homes for destruction,

  And where they can’t kill, they ruin.


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.
A serpent lies from every mouth,

  Coiling outward forever,--promising blessings;

Yet, through the gardens of the South,

  Still spreading countless evils,

The fields are swept by locust swarms,

  Homes set ablaze by frenzied hands,

And virgin beds, where beauty once slept,

  Now tainted, blushing from the 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!
The Dragon, chained for a thousand years,

  Has broken free and rages wild;--

Yet, patience, brothers, hold your fears;--

  Released for "a little while,"[1] he

Will soon, beneath the Ithuriel sword,

  Of divine judgment, crushed and driven,

Yield to the wrath of the Lord,

  And shrink beneath the fury 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!
"A short time," and the Peace,

  That is now at the top of your prayers,

Will bless your harvest with growth,

  And bring smiles to your home of sorrow;

Your wounds will heal; your brave sons,

  Uninjured, whole—free—

Will prepare their conquering guns,

  In a grand celebration 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.
A few more hours of human struggle,--

  Of faith and patience, still working away,

In the fight for eternal life,

  With all their heart, strength, and will;

And, with the Lord's blessing,

  And strengthened by divine help,

Your homes will all be restored,

  And you will thrive 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.
[1] "1. And I saw an angel come down from heaven, holding the key to the bottomless pit and a big 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.
"2. And he seized the Dragon, that Old Serpent, who is the Devil and Satan, and restrained him for 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.
"And threw him into the bottomless pit, locked it up, and put a seal on him so that he wouldn't deceive the nations anymore until the thousand years were completed; and after that, he must be released for a short time." --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.
The rain is splashing on my window sill,

But all the winds in the sky are calm;

So, it falls with that dull sound

That makes us feel something in the graveyard,

When the first shovelful drops heavily

On the coffin of the deceased.

Beyond my dripping windowpane,

I can't see the nearby weather vane,

Yet from its old familiar tower,

The bell sounds muffled through the shower.

What strange and unexpected connection

Of emotions has made me think--

While with a vacant soul and gaze

I watch that gray and stony sky--

Of nameless graves on battlefields,

Washed by a single winter's rain,

Where, some beneath Virginian hills,

And some by green Atlantic streams,

Some by the waters of the West,

A countless number of unknown heroes rest?

Ah! not the leaders who, dying, see

Their flags front and center in victory,

Or, at the greatest cost of their life,

Pay for a battle nobly lost,

Claim from their monumental graves

The bitterest tears a nation sheds.

Beneath that lonely mound--the spot,

By all except a few fond souls forgotten--

Lie the true martyrs of the fight,

Which stands for freedom and for right.

Of them, their patriotic zeal and pride,

The lofty faith that died with them,

No grateful page will further tell

Other than that so many bravely fell;

And we can only vaguely guess

What worlds of this world's distress,

What utter grief, despair, and lack,

Their fate has brought to many a home.

Just such a sky as this should weep

Above them, always, where they sleep;

Yet, perhaps, at this very hour,

Their graves are like a lover's bower;

And Nature herself, with dry eyes,

Oblivious of the crimson debt

She owes for her April beauty,

Laughs cheerfully over their burial site.


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.
Do you tremble just to hear, Carolinians,

The first footsteps of Tyranny's followers?

Have you put on armor and brandished your spear,

Only to flinch at the trumpet's first blast?

Why are your forts fortified on headlands and heights,

Your sons all in armor, unless for battle?

Did you think the mere display of your guns on the wall,

And your shouts, would scare the hearts of the savage?

That his desires and appetites, greedy as Hell,

Led by Mammon and Moloch, would back down at a command;--

Nor struggle, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the flesh

Should be ripped from his jaws, while still bleeding fresh.


II.


For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!--

To the death for your sacred dominions!--

Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame,

Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame;

Your greybeards, with necks in the halter--

Your virgins, defiled at the altar,--

In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave,

Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave!

Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom!

How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom!

With the fiends in your streets howling pæans,

And the Beast o'er another Orleans!
For shame! To the fight, Carolinians!--

Fight to the death for your sacred lands!--

Homes, shrines, and your cities all burning in flames,

Cry out to your souls, in their sorrow and shame;

Your elders, with their necks in the noose--

Your women, violated at the altar,--

In the disgusting grasp of the criminal and slave,

A fate far worse than the worm of the grave!

Ah! God! if you falter in this moment of despair!

How shameful the weakness, how terrible the fate!

With the demons in your streets howling praises,

And the Beast over 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.
Do you tremble, as on that little island

They have planted feet that desecrate it?

Make its sands pure again, with a stroke of the sword,

And pour torrents of blood in a red sacrifice!

Doubts are traitors, if they convince you to fear,

That the enemy, in his stronghold, is safe from your attack!

When the foot of contamination is on your shores,

What strength and spirit should be stronger than yours?

By the glory—by the disgrace—of your ancestors,

Press on, even if every free person falls;

Better to fall, grappling fiercely with the enemy, to their graves,

Than to suffer in chains, 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!
The sound of your loud celebration

Has echoed, like a trumpet, through the nation,

How boldly, how proudly, about the actions to take,

The blood of the father in the veins of the son!

Old Moultrie and Sumter still stand at your gates,

And the enemy patiently waits in his position.

He mocks, becoming bolder with your patience,

Asks if the hot temper of Percy has suddenly cooled—

Laughs with claims of your city being his own,

And the knights have fled before his trumpet is blown;

On them, O sons of the mighty of the past,

And soak the sands with their wicked blood!


V.


Where's the dastard that cowers and falters

In the sight of his hearthstones and altars?

With the faith of the free in the God of the brave,

Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save!

By the blue Heaven shining above ye,

By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye,

Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight,

And an ægis to shield and a weapon to smite!

Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not:

With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still.

To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians,

For your homes, and your sacred dominions.
Where's the coward who shrinks and stumbles

In the presence of his home and altars?

With the courage of the free in the God of the brave,

Go forward; you are powerful to conquer and save!

By the blue sky shining above you,

By the pure-hearted thousands who love you,

You are equipped with the strength to succeed in the fight,

And a shield to protect and a weapon to strike!

So don't give up, and don't be afraid; the enemy will not win:

With faith and determination, you will defeat him still.

To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians,

For your homes, and your sacred lands.


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!
Our seaside city,

   Known as the rebellious one,

With a soul and spirit as free

   As the waves that shape her shore,

Stands ready for the fate

From the fierce arm of hatred;

But she fears nothing from the terror of his strike;

She has fortified her walls,

And for every son who falls,

She will lay a thousand shrouds

   For the enemy!


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.
Old Moultrie at her gate,

   Dressed in armor and ancient glory.

Watching grimly, full of pride

   To unleash thunder and fire!

The brave group, ready to act,

To light up sea and land

With a glory that honors days gone by;

And, like racers headed for their goals,

A thousand fiery souls,

While the drum of battle sounds,

   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!
Look! Rising beside him,

   As if eager to share

His old historic pride,

   There stands the vast form of Sumter!

Surrounded by waves, which he faces

Even as the storm rages,

As the mountain faces the lightning on its peak;

And, like tigers crouching around,

Are the tribute forts that encircle

All the sacred 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.
It was a peaceful April afternoon,

   When, from his stronghold towers,

Our arrogant enemy approached,

   With all his combined forces;

All his strength against what’s just,

Now ready for battle,

With hatred and malice fueling his heart;

A huge and terrifying force,

Darkening the daylight,

Hell's fury on display,

   With Hell's tactics.


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!
But they don’t bother the souls

   Of our Carolina host,[1]

And the drum of battle beats,

   While each hero finds his place;

Steadfast, though outnumbered, sworn to fight,

Their old city clearly in sight,

The brave city of their ancestors and their fallen;

There each free man had his family,

All the loved ones of his blood,

And he knew they were watching,

   In their fear!


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]
To the harsh, fought-over height,

   Then our brave colonel jumped--

"Welcome them to the fight,"

Were the words he spoke--

"Music! Band, play loud--

The joyful song of Dixie Land!

Let them know we’re happy they’re here!

Welcome them, drum and flute,

And don’t let your cannons be silent,

Give them a noble salute--

   To their fate!"[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!
Out came an eager gun,

   From the walls of Moultrie then;

And through clouds of sulfurous smoke,

   Rose a shout from a thousand men,

As the shot, hissing hot,

Zooms like lightning to the spot--

Crashing wildly through timber and armor;

Then roared the storm from all,

Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall--

Bursting bombs and speeding balls--

   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!
A hundred cannons thundered

   The terrifying welcome to the enemy,

And his guilty spirit shrank,

   As he crouched under the impact!

As each side opened up wide

To the iron and the onslaught,

He lost his trust in armor and skill;

And, with that loss of trust,

Came the fear of injuries and pain--

And the guilty fear of death

   Gripped 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!
Quenched then his foul desires;

   In his mortal pain and fear,

How weak his fires became,

   How halted his destructive path!

How each ship, built to withstand

'Neath our thunder, seems to bow,

Their towers swaying wildly, back and forth, blind and crippled;

Ironclads and iron roofs,

No longer bulletproof,

Slip away, pull back,

   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!"
But our lightning strikes quickly,

   With a fierce and intense heat;

Our thunderbolts are on the move,

   And they tear apart with shells and shots!

Huge the shape that they heat

With the warm breath of the storm;

Terrifying the crash that comes as each giant mass is hit—

They break apart as they soar,

While their leader, drifting close,

Falls, struggling with the shout—

   "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!
To the brave old city, joy!

   For the hostile forces,

Commissioned to destroy,

   Have fled in shame!

That our sons, at their guns,

Have pushed back the modern Huns--

Have protected their homes and their fires;

And free from harm and damage,

Have preserved the reputation and beliefs

(And will keep, through blood and death)

   Of their ancestors!


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!
To the Lord of Hosts be the glory,

   For He is our strength and power,

Who has written our story,

   And helped us through the struggle!

He is our shield in that battle--

The voice that told us never to give up;

Oh! if He hadn't been with us through the fears of that day?

His strength has made us strong,

Encouraged what is right and defeated what is wrong,

Let’s gather in His temple--

   PRAISE AND PRAY!


[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South
Carolina troops exclusively.
[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought solely by troops from South Carolina.


[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.
[2] As the ironclads moved closer to Fort Sumter in formation, Col. Alfred Rhett, the commander of the post, climbed up onto the parapet, where he stayed, and commanded the band to play the national song "Dixie." At the same time, alongside the Confederate flag, the state and regimental flags were raised at various points of the fort and honored with thirteen gun salutes.


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:
Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall Jackson had made a forced march, upon stopping for the night they collapsed on the ground, exhausted and weak. It was time to set the watch for the night. The officer on duty 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?"
"General, the men are all exhausted, and every one of them is asleep. Should I wake them?"


"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp
to-night."
"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I’ll keep an eye on the camp tonight."


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.
And all night long he rode around that lonely camp, the only guard for that brave, but tired and quiet group of Virginia heroes. And when the beautiful morning came, the soldiers woke up feeling refreshed and ready for action, completely unaware of the noble watch kept over their sleep.


'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.
It was in the fading light of day,

   The darkness became very quiet;

The sleepy call of evening birds

   Was silenced on the hill;

Across the shadows of the valley

   Slept the mighty men,

And one lone guard walked his rounds,

   To keep watch over 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.
A serious and somber man was he,

   With a deep and thoughtful brow;

His dreamy eyes seemed to hold onto

   Some unfinished promise.

The longing gaze looked over the fields

   Under the starry light--

And with the whispered 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.
The future unfolded before him

   Its grand and terrifying scroll:

Manassas and the Valley march

   Came crashing down on his soul--

Richmond and Sharpsburg roared past

   With that overwhelming battle

That took him to the angel hosts

   Who watched over 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.
We grieve for the one who sacrificed for us,

   With a powerful sigh;

As he ascends the Valley of the Lord

   Towards the Throne up high!

He upheld the beliefs of people and saints

   Noble, true, and bright--

He rests now--and all is good for him

   Who guarded 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!
Brothers! The Midnight of the Cause

   Is wrapped in our fate;

The barbaric Goths corrupt our halls

   With fire, and desire, and hate.

Be strong—be courageous—be confident—

   Strike for Heaven and what is right!

The spirit of Jackson roams freely,

  And watches over the camp tonight!


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.
When the soft shades of evening

Creep over the wide and green prairies,

And countless stars twinkle in the sky,

And edge the clouds with a silvery glow,

My deepest sigh is for you,

My lonely wandering soldier boy;

   And thoughts of you

   Come to me

Like evening shadows, 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.
My brother, even though you're far away,

And dangers surround you,

And battle flashes around you,

And thunder rumbles in anger,

Remember, while you're in the thick of it,

Your sister is praying for you, my boy.

   If my heartfelt prayers

   Can protect you there,

Sweet angels watch over 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.
Your proud young heart is beating strong

To the clash of arms and the roar of cannons;

That determined lip and shining eye

Show how your heart is overflowing.

Be free and live, be free or die;

Make that your motto now, my boy;

   And even though your name's

   Unknown to fame,

It's engraved 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.
Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart!

   Beneath the citron tree--

Deep calling to my soul's deeper part--

   I hear the Mexican 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.
While through the night rides in the ghostly waves

   Along the ghostly shores,

And every breeze vibrates, as if from harps

   Played by otherworldly 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.
Bright in the moonlight, the red pomegranate flowers

   Lean toward the Yucca's bells,

While with her dew like anointing oil, 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;
Watching all night--like I have before--

   I count the stars that disappear,

Each etching on my soul a deep memory

   Of Joy 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.
Till, wild with heartbreak, I turn toward the East,

   Waiting for the dawn;--

And the sea’s chant, and asphodel, and stars

   Have all faded 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,
Only in my trembling, trembling hands--

   Brought to me by you--

I hold these beautiful and delicate things,

   Bright seaweeds 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;
The flowers bloom beautifully under these Northern skies,

   The stars shine brightly at night,

And the mighty Atlantic waves sing loudly

   With thunderous strength;


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.
But, just like the seashell in her room holds

   The sound of the ocean,

My deep and resonant memories of home

   Will never leave 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 on the page they lie, these gentle things!

   As I have seen them thrown

Like a drowned woman's hair, along the beach,

   When the storms have passed;


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.
Prone, like my own feelings, thrown ashore

   In the storm and chaos of battle;

I wish they had died, like seaweed! Please forgive me

  But I have to cry tonight.


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!
Tell me again about the summer fields made beautiful

  By spring's preparing plow;

About happy farmers, collecting the crops grown from tears--

  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.
Written when a military post, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, was planning a raid 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 sparkling streams, the glistening streams,

  The streams shining in the sunlight,

The bubbling streams, the calm streams,

  The streams rushing down the mountains,

    Have been the subject

    Of poets' dreams,

  And, in enchanting tales,

Have been famous for love's tender moments,

  Or some epic act of bravery.


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.
The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,

  The Arno, flowing like silver,

The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,

  With poetry are shining;

    But I want to celebrate

    In simple verses,

  A stream that can easily compare to you,

Though its waters flow dark and murky--

  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.
It's not the beauty of its stream,

  That makes it worthy of

Honor from the Muses,

  But the purpose it serves,

    And against an attack,

    We hope its support

  Will always be effective,

Its shallow crossings are still flooded,

  With water never lacking.


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.
If Vandal groups are kept in check,

  Their crossing successfully stopped,

And we are spared from the wild destruction

  Their cruelty has created,

    Then we can rightfully

    Count how many ways

  No other river can compare to you,

And we will always be thankful

  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!
My mug is broken, and my heart feels heavy!

  What other troubles could fate bring!

The friend I loved for a thousand days

  Is in pieces on the floor!

  It's shattered and lost to Limbo now,

    I'll never see my mug again!


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!
Relic of happy times

  Whose golden memories still attract--

When we drank rye coffee,

  And wore nothing but gray!

  When we got a few 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!
In long marches, day and night,

  In raids, intense charges, and the chaos of war,

Strapped to the saddle on my back,

  This loyal buddy I still carried--

  This old companion, reliable and tested,

    I’ll never carry anything else!


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!
From the Rapidan to Gettysburg--

  "Hardtack" behind, "sauerkraut" ahead--

This friend joined the cavalry

  And heard the deafening cannons 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!
Then back again, the enemy behind,

  Back to the "Old Virginia shore"--

Some dead and wounded left--some holes

  In flags, the gloomy graybacks carried;

  This guy had gone through the big campaign,

    And we would have gone again!


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.
Alas! We never went again!

  The red cross banner, slow but steady,

"Fell back"—we said goodbye to sauerkraut

  (Like the lover of Lenore)

  A long, sad, lingering farewell—

    To experience 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.
But we kept fighting and ate tough bread,

  Or went hungry--my good friend, let’s mourn our troubles!

And this loyal friend stayed with me--

  Riding behind me as always--

  The friend on the march, in the camp,

    When everyone else was gone.


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.
How often we drove the blue horsemen

  In bright summer or cold winter!

How often before the Southern charge

  Through field and woods the bluebirds flew!

  I'm "harmonized," but I long to hear

    The bugles sound 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!
Oh yes! We're all "brotherly" now,

  Cleansed of our sins, we're fresh and pure,

Congress will "rebuild" us soon--

  But no gray people allowed on that floor!

  I'm tuned in--"so-called"--but eager

    To relive those days 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.
Happy days! The sun was brighter back then,

  And we were happy, even though we had little!

That time returns as I see

  My broken friend lying on the floor,

  My cracked, 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!"
How many lips I’ll love forever,

  As long as my heart and memory last,

Have touched this broken cup and laughed--

  Oh, how they laughed!--in the days gone by!

  Those days we’d call “a beautiful dream,

    If only they had been 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!
Dear friends, dead for so long,

  I saw you lying in your blood,

After all those days, among the pines

  By the Rappahannock shore!

  When the joy of life meant so much to me

    But your warm hearts meant even 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!
Yours was the bold, heroic courage

  That laughs in the midst of the chaos of war--

Souls that "loved deeply" your homeland,

  Who fought and died for it!

  You gave your youth, your intellect, your strength,

    Your blood--you had nothing left!


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!
You lived and died loyal to your flag!

  And now your wounds are healed—but many hearts

  That remember you are still hurting

  Where you have "gone before."

  Rest in peace, comrade! God has healed those bodies,

    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!
Those lips this broken vessel kissed,

  His, too!--the man we all admire--

That charming man among men,

  Whose voice will be silent now--

  Whose feather will drift in the chaos

    Of battle never again!


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!
Not on this empty page I write

  That name of names, treasured in the heart

Of every person!--peace! silly pen,

  Hush! words so cold and lacking!

  His sword is rusty; the blue eyes are gone,

    His bugle no longer sounds!


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!
Never was a cavalier like ours!

  Not Rupert in the years before!

And when his tough, hard work was finished,

  His sorrows, joys, battles over--

  His mighty spirit weathered the storm,

    And led his men once again!


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!
He lies under his home soil,

  Where violets bloom, or frost is white:

He doesn’t care—charging troops keep watch

  Over his dark plume no longer!

  That smile we’ll see, that voice we’ll hear,

    That hand we’ll never touch again!


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!
My silly happiness is replaced by tears:

  Poor pieces scattered on the floor,

You are reminders of better things

  That no longer have a purpose--

  Once glorious things, now stepped on--

    That no longer make us smile!


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!
Of courage, pride, big dreams, strong hearts--

  Tough, stubborn determination, pure devotion,

Flapping his wings against the bars,

  The trapped eagle tried to fly!

Outmatched, overwhelmed, we kept fighting--

  Food ran out--we gave up!


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!
Lying in the dust is the broken staff

  That once held high on land and sea,

That bright flag, in the midst of the storm!

  And no one is so low,

  So low as to show it respect,

  Now that it no longer burns bright!


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!
But it's glorious in the dust,

  Sacred until time ends:

Spare it, brutal editors! your scorn--

  The terrible "Rebellion" is over!

  Lower the big flag--hide the cross and star,

  Push the star and bar into darkness,

  But look! across the ages far,

    It burns forevermore!


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.
In your moment of glory,

      When your name was widely known,

    When Sumter's inspiring tale

      Adorned your shining emblem;

Oh, noble Carolina! how proud I was to belong to you,

That through respect, duty, and heritage, I was yours.


    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.
Celebrating as I heard you,

      The topic on every lip,

    Prophetic visions moved me,

      In a dream lit by hope:

A dream of fearless courage, of battles fought and won,

Where each field was just a victory--a hero in 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.
And now, when clouds come up,

      And shadows fall around you;

    I lift my eyes to the sky,

      To recall those visions;

For I can't imagine that darkness will stay with you for long,

Oh, noble Carolina! with your strong arms and hearts.


    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.
Your crowded lines of pine,

      Your live oaks spreading wide,

    Shining in the sunlight,

      In everlasting robes of pride;

Thus assembled on their homeland, your brave sons stand tall,

As unchanging as your green forests, defying 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.
The actions of the past,

      Performed by their ancestors,

    Stories filled with love and admiration,

      Have stirred deep desires

In every heart that beats within your proud land,

To hold on to their memory and relive those moments.


    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.
Each heart is filled with courage,

      Each hand fights against what's wrong,

    They'll confront with proud resolve,

      The battleship's thunderous song;

And even if the cowardly invader taints your sacred shore,

They'll stand strong against him just like their fathers did before.


    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.
His feet might tread on their land,

      Or his numbers might weigh them down,

    In his destructive raid for loot,

      To feed his greedy soul;

But his victory will be short-lived, because the time is coming near,

When the battle cry of your knights will reach his surprised ears.



    A terrible time will arrive,

      When your assembled forces unite,

    And the drum sounding the alarm

      Calls to fight for what is right;

"For our altars and our homes," will echo from rank to rank,

As they confront the ruthless enemy, to win 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.
Oh, then a story of glory

      Shall once again be yours,

    And the record of your journey

      The Laurel shall embrace;

Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and mighty State!

Heroic deeds shall celebrate you, and the Nations recognize your greatness.


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!
I am sitting all alone and tired

  On the floor of my darkened room,

And the low wind's wailing

  Makes the midnight gloom even sadder;

There's an unnamed fear nearby--

  There's a ghostly presence in the air,

And I feel like the dead are passing by me,

  And the breath of the grave is 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.
It's a vision of horrible faces,

  All pale and worn with pain,

Where the beauty of manhood's qualities

  Gives way to a bloody stain;

In a wild and strange procession

  They pass by my shocked eyes,

And serious with their fate's outcome,

  Seem to fade 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?
Have they come from the heavenly shores,

  Have they moved beyond the spirit's purpose,

Beneath the veil of eternal life,

  To shine on my withering soul?

Have they turned away from the singing angels,

  Shocked by the sorrow and scarcity

That war, with his dark messengers,

  Has caused among those we cherish?


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!
Vain dream! In the distant mountains

  They rest, where the dew-mists weep,

And the sound of sad fountains

  Disturbs their troubled sleep;

On the expanse of the quiet meadows,

  Safe, safe from the tyrant's control,

They lie in the starry shadows,

  And their foreheads are pale and calm!


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!
Alas! for the sacrificed heroes

  Cut down in their prime,

In a struggle against the ruthless Neroes,

  Who darken the course of Time!

For them is the sound of mourning,

  And the lovely blush-rose fades

From the faces of the girls, whitening

  Over the ruins of their shattered 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!
And sadly! for the lost glory

  Of a thousand home remedies!

And sadly! for the sorrowful tale

  Of the spirit's loving goodbyes!

By the river, in the field, in the woods,

  Our bravest have breathed their last,

But the wounds that have hurt the most,

  Were caused by an unseen 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!
Oh, You who have the power to heal,

  Come down upon this grieving land,

And cover the wounds of the heart

  With the soothing touch of Your hand!

Until the hearts that mourn and suffer,

  Revived by Your divine grace,

From the depths of human sorrow

  May rise to find peace in Your embrace!


Cleburne.


By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama.


"Another star now shines on high."
"Another star now shines up above."


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.
Another ray of light has gone, another Southern hero

Has fallen for his country and found a heroic grave--

Has fallen, but his eternal name will live on when stars fade,

For, noble Cleburne, you are one this world will never 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.
It's true your warm heart no longer beats, that Azrael placed his icy hand on your noble head, and you are with the dead;  
The sparkle in your eyes is dim; they won't shine brightly again  
Until they open in Paradise, with a clearer, more heavenly 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.
No news of battle disrupts your peace on the sunny shore,

No trumpeting call rouses you on Earth to fight anymore,

No stomping horse, no cautious enemy urges you to wake, arise,

For you are in the angelic realm, 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.
Brave Cleburne, dream in your quiet bed, with a still, lifeless heart;

Calm, calm, and sweet, oh warrior rest! you have truly done your part,

And now a glorious wreath for you the angels are weaving,

A glorious wreath, not of this earth, but made by divine hands.


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 long goodbye—we let you go, along with all your shining glory;

A leader is lost here on earth, but an angel is found in heaven.

Above your grave, we hear a cry—a nation mourns its loss;

No one more noble for the South has ever died, and no one braver has ever 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.
A final goodbye—how can we say that painful word goodbye!

The pain in our broken hearts can't be expressed in empty words.

Rest easy, rest easy, to God we entrust our leader in his strength;

And while we cry, we know he lives on in a place free from sorrow's night.


Selma Despatch, 1864.
Selma Dispatch, 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.
Sons of the South, rise up for battle!

  Put on your armor for the fight!

The Northern thugs with the terrifying sound of war,

  Descend on every valley, glen, and height;

Face them like the ocean clashes with a fragile boat

  Against the rocky shore,

  When the towering waves crash and roar,

And the doomed crew sinks in despair.

    Arm yourselves! Arm yourselves, Southern warriors!

    Scatter those barbaric hordes!

    Tyrants and criminals, fitting prey

    For vultures and your blades.


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.
Should cowardly tyrants rally their forces

  To conquer the land of Jackson--Lee?

Should freedom escape to other places,

  And the sons of Yorktown submit?

Or will their "footprints' base pollution"

  Of Southern soil be cleansed in blood,

  And every escaping slave be driven

Back to his home in wild chaos?

    Get ready! Get ready! &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.
Vile tyrants, with their sly followers,

  Would pull us back into their grip;

Can free people accept such slavery?

  Can brave men settle for such a low status?

Oh, Heaven! for words— the disgust and disdain

  We have for such a Union's shackles:

  To express it more powerfully than any human hands,

And shout our loudest warnings.

    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.
What! Joining a race that ignores

The foundation of our nation’s birth!

Joining with illegitimate slaves that adore

The devil that keeps them tied to the ground!

No! we respond in thunderous tones--

No! our strong hills bounce back the sound--

No! our loud cannons echo around--

No! may we always stay apart!

Arm! Arm! &c.


Southern Confederacy.
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.
"Great Pan is dead!" so shouted a lighthearted voice

  To someone, floating along Calabria's coast,

Who heard the final bell, ringing out at midnight,

  For the ancient Oracles, silent forever.


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;
A low wail drifted through the trembling deep,

  And as, far away, its fiery sounds faded,

The amazed sailors, jolted from their sleep,

  Stared, called out: no answering voice came back;


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.
Nor ever will—the angry gods have gone,

  The temples are shut, all the shrines are silent,

The fires are out, Dodona's trees have died,

  The Sibyl's leaves are blown away by the wind.


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.
No mystical words will they endure again,

  Which, wisely articulated, could avert a nation's fate;

But we still have some god-like figures among us,

  And some powerful voices calling out from the grave.


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.
If we listen to them, they might still save us,

  Inspire some courage in our hearts,

Truth, bravery, and justice, help us to overlook

  Our selfish interests for a noble cause.


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.
But we’re truly in tough times,

  When public trust is just a widespread disgrace,

And personal morals follow a foolish belief,

  And traditional honesty is just a meaningless term.


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.
And desire, and greed, and profit are all we pursue!

  The basic lessons our fathers taught

Are mocked and laughed at; in our filthy markets

  We trade the belief for which they struggled 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.
Each pushing against each in the crazy rush for wealth,

  The weaker trampled by the thoughtless crowd

Friends, honor, and country lost, betrayed, or sold,

  And lies spilling from every mouth.


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.
Talk about religion, using smooth words for truth,

  Dishonesty brings wealth, money for guilt pays off,

No concern for old age or young innocence,

  For widows' cries or the suffering of orphans.


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 people are furious and do whatever they want,

  They attack the prophets and bring their best down,

And as they strike, still smiling with savage craziness

  Their blank eyes show no sign of frowning.


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.
The wise person of "Drainfield"[1] works the unproductive land,

  And gathers no crop from the seeds he planted,

He only has exile after years of hard work;

  And no say in the council, even as his children suffer.


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 the "Redcliffs"[2] oaks will never rejoice again,

  Now weighed down with sorrow over their master's coffin;

Faction and party silenced that great voice,

  Which could still teach us wisdom, if we could listen.


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.
And "Woodland's"[3] harp is silent: the old man

  Sits by his lonely fire and doesn’t sing;

Or, if he does, the tune is sad and weak,

  Like the pale face of someone who's been through a lot.


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!"
So all of earth's teachers have been overwhelmed

  By the rough crowd, and fainting; they droop or die;

They carry the burden, their bleeding brows the thorn,

  And constantly hear the cries--"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, to have a man with a heart and mind like a god!

  A god in presence, with a powerful will.

And suited for this time, so that all the blood we've shed and still have to shed

  is not in vain.


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!
Oh, brothers! Friends! Break free from the enchantment!

  Awaken to the dangers approaching fast!

Grab your sharp swords, and all might still turn out fine--

  More wealth, more riches, and it will be too late!


Charleston Mercury [1864].
Charleston Mercury [1864].


[1] The country-seat of R. Barnwell Rhett.
[1] The country house of R. Barnwell Rhett.


[2] The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond.
[2] The home of Jas. H. Hammond.


[3] The homestead of W. Gilmore Simms (destroyed by Sherman's army.)
[3] The home 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.
I'm sitting alone by a fire

  That flickers on Sugar Loaf's peak,

But before I go to sleep

  And snuff out the quickly fading light--

While the stars are lingering

  In silence all over the deep sea,

And loved ones at home are still chatting

  About me--

While the lonely seabird is flying

  So swiftly far over the rough waves,

And many devoted mothers are sighing

  For the noble, the true, and the brave;

Let me think about the many who have departed

  Who rest on mountains and in valleys;

With the sadness that envelops the lonely-hearted,

  Let me tell a tale of my comrades.

Far away in the green, lonely mountains,

  Where the eagle stains his beak with blood,

In the mist, by Gettysburg's fountains,

  Our fallen friends now sleep!

Near Charleston, where Sumter still stands

  In grandeur above the still water,

And always in the evening reveals

  That its inhabitants still live--

On islands, and facing Savannah,

  Where dark oaks shade the ground,

Around Macon and smoky Atlanta,

  How many dead heroes are found!

And out on the dark, swelling ocean,

  Where vessels ride the waves,

How many, for love and loyalty,

  Now rest in warriors' graves!

No memorials have been built yet

  To mark where these warriors lie.

All alone, except for angels guarding them,

  They sleep beneath the sea and the sky!

But don’t think they are forgotten

  By those who survived the carnage:

When their headstones have all rotted,

  And the night winds have leveled their graves,

Then hundreds of sisters and mothers,

  Whose freedom they died to protect,

And fathers, and brothers with empty sleeves,

  Who overcame the battle's bloody waves;

Will gather from their homes in the South,

  In search of the beloved and blessed,

And, rejoicing, will soon head home

  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 places might claim skies

  Much deeper in their blue,

Where flowers, in Eden's pure colors,

  Bloom with a brighter hue;

And other countries take pride in kings,

  And worship powerful rulers;

Yet every sound 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 places, unlike those that beautify

  Our forests, fields, and plains,

May give the earth a nicer appearance

  Where peace always reigns;

But closest to my heart is the land

  Where sunshine brightens the hours,

For God has shown, with his own hand,

  There is no place 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 streams may flow more gently

  In valleys full of classic beauty,

And rivers that shine like crystal,

  Without a hint of gloom;

Though other mountains stand tall,

  And ancient towers seem grand,

We see, like 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 countries brag about their achievements

  That are remembered through time,

And other peoples hold onto beliefs

  That coldly look down on us;

Our ruling powers are founded on pure religion, love, and law--

  The world can only feel, with amazement,

  There is no place like ours!



Though other nations may take pride in their brave,

Whose actions are recorded in history,

Their heroes never brought such glory

As shines upon our country's name;

Though others rush into daring actions,

Where the dark war clouds gather,

Here, everyone fights for freedom--

There is no place 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!
Though other countries have Napoleon

And Wellington to celebrate,

America has Washington,

And later heroes to honor;

Yet Johnston, Jackson, Price, and Lee,

Bragg, Buckner, Morgan stand tall,

With Beauregard, Hood, and Bee--

There is no place 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.
The enemy, from their camp on Morris Island, has repeatedly stated in letters to Northern newspapers that their target for shelling in Charleston is the spire of St. Michael's Church. Their actions confirm that these statements are accurate. So far, they haven't hit their target. The phrase "Angels of the Churches" is used by St. John to refer to the Seven Churches of Asia. The Hebrews had a concept of an Angel of the Church, called "Sheliack-Zibbor," whose role can be described as a supervisor or protector of the church. Daniel states in chapter iv, verse 13, "Look, a watcher and a Holy one came down from Heaven." The tradition of naming churches after guardian saints likely comes from the belief that, where the church is pure, the faith is sincere, and the congregation is devout, these chosen guardian angels would take on their assigned roles. They were usually selected from the Seraphim and Cherubim—those who, according to St. Paul (1 Colossians xvi), represented thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers. According to Hebrew tradition, St. Michael was the leader of the first order; Gabriel led the second; Uriel led the third; and Raphael led the fourth. St. Michael is the warrior angel who commanded the heavenly hosts against the forces of evil, who defeated the dragon, and trampled him down. The defeat of the Anaconda in his hands would be a lesser task. Assuming for our people a hope as reasonable as that of the people of Nineveh, we can confidently rely on God's guardianship and protection, through His angels, for "a great city of sixty thousand souls," which has been under His care for such a long time. These notes will provide the necessary illustrations for the following ode.


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.
Sure, here’s the modernized text:

Yeah, hit with a disrespectful goal

  The temple of the living God;

Throw iron bolts and fiery flames

  Through aisles where the holiest have walked;

Destroy the altar, loot the tomb,

  And, burning with insane rage,

Bring down, in a sudden crash of disaster,

  That grand, old, sky-high 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.
That spire, for a full hundred years,

  Has been a focal point for the people;

That shrine has stirred their souls to tears,

  With melodies worthy of Salem's height;

The sweet, clear sound of its bells,

  Made softly resonant in Southern air,

Still echoes in the heart of memory,

  And inspires the hopeful soul to pray.


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!
Along the shores for many miles,

  Long before they had a beacon,

It caught and held the sun’s smile,

  The guide for every wandering ship;

Keeping away from our homes the harm

  Of fiery lightning, in stormy clouds,

The lighthouse to the wandering faith,

  It directed 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.
Well may you, criminals of the time,

  Still hating everything that’s pure and free,

Add this to the countless crimes

  Against peace and sweet humanity:

You, who have set our towns on fire,

  Desecrated our shrines, polluted our homes,

Should rightly turn your murderous intent

  Against God’s ancient temples.


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!
Yet, even as the grand old temple crumbles,

  And the tall spire sinks down,

Our faith is stronger than our walls,

  And rises above the storm and fire.

You shake no faith in souls made free

  To walk the paths their fathers walked;

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!
Don’t think that just because his anger lasts a while,

  His justice is resting—his wrath isn’t gone;

The hand of vengeance just takes its time,

  To make the punishment even more terrifying!

Every wicked hand that lights the flame

  Will wither before the strike comes down;

And the shining Angel of the Church,

  With seraph’s shield will protect us all!


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!
For we still believe, as we've been taught,

  That where faith sets up an altar,

God sends an angel from his realm,

  Whose constant watch protects the temple,

And to his followers, in harmony,

  Gives their beloved choice, from THRONES and POWERS;

So, Michael, with his fiery sword

  And golden shield, still fights for us!


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!
And the one who defeated the dragon,

  And bound him for a thousand years,

Should never dread the snake's scowl,

  Even if it's disgusting in its malice.

He watches from the highest peak,

  And protects the shrines our ancestors built;

And we, who rest beneath his watch,

  Can truly trust in his ability 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!
Yet, if it's true that because of our sins

  Our angel's time of watching is up,

With sincere prayer, real faith must bring

  The guardian watcher back once more!

Faith, brothers of the Church, and prayer—

  In blood and sackcloth, if it’s necessary;

And still our spire will rise in the air,

  Our temple, even if our people suffer!


[1] St.. Michael's Church was opened for divine worship, February 1, 1761
[1] St. Michael's Church was opened for worship on February 1, 1761.


[2] "The height of this steeple makes it the principal land-mark for the
pilots."--Dalcjio (in 1819).
[2] "The height of this steeple makes it the main landmark 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!
Shell the old city, I will!

You minions of Hell;

You serve your master well,

    With wicked tricks!

Bring down, with lightning and flames,

The grand old temples, the towers;

But know, your demonic rage

Conquers 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!
There, we still stand against you,

With a strong and determined will;

Courage you can't destroy

    As long as we're alive!

Your weapons may breach stone walls,

But before you shake our souls,

We'll turn the whole land into

    One kingdom 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.
Dear are our homes! our eyes

Weep at their sacrifice;

And, with each bolt that flies,

    Each roof that falls,

The pain forces out 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!
Trophies of ancient times,

When, with great souls, sublime,

Facing force and crime,

    Our ancestors fought;

Remnants of golden hours,

When, for our shrines and gardens,

Genius, with magic powers,

    Her victories created!


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!
Each Sabbath-hallowed dome,

Each ancient family home,

The beloved old southwest room,

    All covered in trellises;

Where cheerful, vibrant summer vines,

Intertwined in fantastic twists,

With the sun's blazing rays,

    Sparkled on 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!
Homes, sacred to the past,

Which faced the hostile blast,

Though Spain, France, Britain aimed

    Their shot and shell!

Tombs of the mighty dead,

Who bled in our battles,

When these furies fell

    Upon our young heads!


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!
Halls that the foreign guest  
Found to be full of charm,  
With endless cheer and grace,  
    And noblest style;  
Where, bringing him close,  
The stranger, from far and wide,  
Took pride in offering  
    Him a 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.
The shaded paths—the arbors

Where, during long summer days,

Young Love first showed his skills

    To win the prize;

Where every tree has listened

To vows of love expressed,

And, with its leaves unmoved,

    Watched 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.
Gardens filled with tropical flowers,

That, through the shaded rooms,

Sent scents from the East

    With dusk and dawn;

The grand old laurel, tall,

Like a ruler over all,

And, from the porch and hall,

    The lush 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!
Oh! when we think of these

Old homes, family trees;

Where, in the sun and breeze,

    At morning and evening,

We enjoyed the fun

Of hearts on holiday,

And found, in May's blossoms,

    A taste 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!--
Where, as we look around

At things of great value,

Trophies of the good and wise,

    Grand, noble, brave;

And think of these, so recently

Sacred to spirit and nation,

Destined, like the ruins of fate,

    By villain and traitor!--


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!
The inevitable pain,

Flowing through blood and brain,

Pushes on, like winter rain,

    The bitter tear!

We can't help but cry,

From the depths of hearts that hold

The memories, scary 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!
Yeah, for every tear we cry,

There will be rivers of red,

Not from our eyes,

    But from our veins!

Our sweat will be bloody,

Monsters and criminals who will

Eventually pay their debts,

    In suffering's agony!


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!
Our tears won’t lessen,

What we owe to hate--

To the avenging fate--

    To earth and Heaven!

And, sooner or later, the hour

Will bring the atoning power,

When, through the dark clouds,

    The storm's strike is 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!"
Shell the old city—shell!

But with every rooftop’s toll,

Deep vows of revenge poured out,

    Fire soul and eye!

With each tear that drops

Above our damaged walls,

Each heart cries out harder,

    “Get revenge, 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!
Never, while you are in this struggle,

Oh! brothers, sons, and Southerners--never! never!

Shall the vile enemy reach your city!

For souls and hearts are eager to fight;

And God's own blessing on your cause makes holy

Every arm that fights for home, no matter how humble!--

And you will conquer by the rolling sea!--

And you will conquer on the battle-scarred hill!--

And you will see Leviathan sink

A hundred fathoms deep, with a terrible cry

Of drowning souls, in their pain--

While Death wades in blood along the shore,

And Fear flees with pleading, outstretched hands,

All silent, but with staring, glassy eyes--

Fleeing to Fate--and destined as he flees;--

Seeking his refuge in the tossing waves,

That offers him, after 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!'
Thus says the Lord of Battles: "Will it be,

That this great city, built by the sea,

With sixty thousand souls—with temples and towers

Raised by an extraordinary lineage—

That I have watched for two hundred years,[1]

Nurtured through long childhood of hopes and fears,

Baptized in blood at times, often in tears;

Refined by storm and fire, and told to grow

To greatness, with a steady but slow progress—

That being the main condition for survival—

Until it expands into a mighty nation!

And will the usurper, arrogant with power,

Overwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour!

And strike his blows, and with a controlling will,

Say to its strong heart—'Crouch, and be still!

My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate!

Can declare 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!"
"No! He will know--I am the Lord of war;

And all his powerful armies are nothing but tiny pests!

His terrible machines, made for human suffering,

His tricks and evil inventions, and his power,

My strength will bring to ruin, quickly and completely!

Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm clouds gather,

And I will equip my people with a faith,

That will free them from fear and harm;

And they will carry from me a striking sword,

Sharpened with fierce lightning, at whose blow is unleashed

A flood of destruction and swift anger,

Sweeping--the arrogant legions from their way!

The usurper will learn that none shall take--

The right to punish and avenge from me:

And I will protect my City by the Sea,

And save its people for their ancestors' 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!"
Selah! Oh my brothers, sons, and folks from the South, rise;  
To prayer: and look! the wonder in the skies!  
The sun’s rainbow arcs over your towers, even while the enemy  
Sends his deadly arrows and rains down his iron blows.  
Tossed by his strikes, the spray above that height  
God's smile has transformed into a golden light;  
Orange and purple-golden! In that sign  
You’ll find a fitting promise for that divine voice!  
Listen! It’s the thunder! Through the darkened air,  
The solemn roll echoes far and wide!  
Go forth, and without fear! His shield is yours!  
And the great spirits of your ancestors—  
Your fathers, watching over your sacred shores—  
Will protect you through the uneven battle!  
Listen to their voices, coming through the darkness:  
"The cruel forces that threaten you march to their doom:  
Give them the vulture's rites—a bare tomb!  
And while you bravely strike with fierce determination,  
The enemy shall never reach your city—never! never!"


[1] Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years
old.
[1] Charleston was first settled in 1671. It is now almost 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!"
[2]In the recent battle at Fort Sumter, against the enemy's fleet on April 7th, the spray created by their massive missiles soaring over the walls formed a stunning rainbow. Seeing this, General Ripley, with the devotion of Constantine, exclaimed: "In hoc signo vinces!"


Charleston Mercury.
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?
What are the war waves saying,

  As they surround us? 

The dark, bloody waves,

  With their deep, mournful sound?

Are they whispering about giving up;

  Are they urging us to bow 

Our heads to the victorious enemy 

  Who is riding over 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!
Never! No sound submissive

  Comes from those sublime waves,

Or the soft, mysterious voices

  In sync with their solemn chime!

For the hearts of our noble martyrs

  Are the source of its rich supply;

And those deeply mystical 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!
They urged us to raise our banner

  Once again in the name of God;

And strive for the goal of Freedom

  By the paths our Fathers walked:

They stepped over their dying brothers;

  From their pale lips caught the sigh—

The flame of their heroic hearts,

  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!
Up! Up! because time is running out,

  The red waves are closing in;--

They'll carry us on their waves

  If our hearts are true!

They'll lift us high--joyful,

  And the scared world will witness

The Ark of a saved people

  Sailing on the red 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!
Afloat, with her glorious banner--

  The cross on its red background,

Its stars, and its white folds waving

  In triumph at her head;

Emblem of everything sacred

  Heralding Faith to see;

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!
So what could those waves be singing

   But a grand, sublime anthem,

As they carry a lament for our fallen heroes

   To the coast of Time?

What else as they roll majestically

   Towards the distant, shadowy shore,

To join the Eternal chorus

   When Time comes to an end!


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.
All poetry lovers will know whose liquid gold I've used to brighten 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 shines on flag-draped walls
  
  Of historic Moultrie, known for its tales;
  
And now it highlights his scarred brow,
  
  With beams of golden brilliance!
  
     Renowned for his past greatness;
  
     Honored by the respect
  
     Given to him by the enemy,
  
     Who had vowed to bring him down!


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 glory falls—historic walls

  Too weak to shield against insulting foes,

Become a tower—a protective grove—

  A theme of joy overflowing;

     God, merciful and mighty,

     Kept safe the noble state

     Of Moultrie, by His strength

     Through the fierce hours of battle!


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 splendor collapsed—his flags expand

  Majestic out to catch the rain;

Our beloved blue gets again

  A rich, timeless gift!

     Down the triple lines

     Of its partner, beams

     Of golden glory flow;

     On the seven-pointed circle glow!


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,
The glory falls—but not on the walls

  Of Sumter considered the post of duty;

A brilliant sphere, shining bright

  The harbor in its beauty;

     Holding in its embrace

     The city's regal grace;

     Strong battery and tower,

     Of courage 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!
But the brightest light shines on Moultrie's walls,

  Forever resting in glory,

A sacred light—on the heights of the fort—

  Oh, cherished and ancient fort!

      Rest here and proclaim that faith

      Will never suffer harm;

      Rest here—and shine from afar—

      Hope's ever-burning star!


Charleston Mercury
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 person died—in Company B,

   It was a small loss—just one guy!

A charge from the bold and daring Lee—

While it was quite amusing to see

   The enemy as they fled.


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.
Only one killed on our side--

   Once again they head back to the field.

Quietly now the horsemen ride--

And stop by the body of the one who died,

   So bravely, as we now 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.
Their grief for their beloved comrade

   At first was obvious;

They saw the bullet had gone right through

That his suffering was short—oh! so few

   Die like this, on the battlefield.


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.
The news has reached his home, far away—

   About the brief and brave battle,

The heroic actions of young La Var

Whose life flickered out like a shooting 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.
"Only one killed! It was my son!"

   The widowed mother cried.

She turned to hold the sinking one,

Who didn't hear 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!
Ah! For her, death would be a sweet relief,

   The bride of just one year.

Oh! If only she could, with her heavy grief,

Lie down in the dirt, with the autumn leaf

   Now trampled, brown, and dry!


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.
But no, she must endure what's ahead

   Her weight of quiet sorrow,

The older mother and young wife

Must survive a country’s bloody conflict,

   Sighing, and waiting to leave.


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.
Where loved ones gather beyond the stars,

    They meet without ever saying goodbye,

They can smile again through the crystal bars--

Where the pain of wars

    Will never overshadow the loving heart.


Field and Fireside.
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.
Oh! Dixie, beloved land of King Cotton,

  "The home of the brave and the free,"

A nation born from freedom,

  The fright of tyrants to be;

Wherever your flag is flying,

  Oppressive rule trembles before you,

And the light of liberty shines,

  In a glorious, sweet grandeur.


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!
CHORUS.--Three cheers for our loyal army,

            Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee;

           Beauregard and our Davis always,

            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.
When Liberty sounds her battle cry,

  Claiming her rights and what’s fair,

The first place to join the fight

  Is Dixie, the home of the brave;

As numerous as leaves in a summer forest,

  Her courageous sons will rise across the land,

And then strike, until every enemy

  Lies dead on the soil they tried to ruin.

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.
May the names of our beloved dead,

  Fill our memories to the top;

May the honors they've earned never fade,

  "Nor their glory ever stop;"

May the Southern States always stay united,

  But the champions of freedom remain strong;

May they thrive as Confederates forever,

  The pride 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.
[1] "Land of King Cotton" was the favorite song of the Tennessee troops, especially for 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?
You’ve told me that you love me,

  That you adore me;

That nothing can be purer

  Than what I am to you.

Though your kind words are beautiful

  And feel oddly sweet to me,

Will your promises never fade?

  Will you always stay the same?


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 even a fraction as passionately—

  Half as crazily as you claim,

Listen to me, sweetheart, calmly—

  Would you do anything I ask, the same? 

If you would, then hear the thunder

  Of our nation's cannons sound!

While the war tears us apart, 

  Don't come looking for my love around.


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,
If you love me, don’t hesitate,

  Don’t say what you’re thinking,

Don’t look at me with surprise,

  Join your country in the fight.

Go! lend her your support and strength,

  Face the tyrant’s fierce attack:

Be her own and my protector—

  Fight for freedom until the end,


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.
Then I’ll promise to love no one else,

  While you bravely take action;

As you stay loyal to our mother,

  So I’ll remain loyal to you.

But don’t come back while the thunder

  Rages from a threatening sword;

Fight the tyrant’s hired hands—

  Serve no one 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!
While I relax

Comfortably beneath

This ancient pine,

Small sphere!--

By dark hands brought here this morning?

And shown with proud smiles,--

I turn your split sheath,

Through which the soft white fibers peek,

That, with their delicate threads,

Unite, like love, the separated lands,

And slowly, thread by thread,

Pull out the folded strands,

Which are finer than the trembling line,

By whose fragile help that startled spider escaped

Down the tall grass from his swinging bed,

Is hardly more delicate;

And as the tangled skein

Unravels in my hands,

A veil seems lifted between me and the noon light,

And for miles and miles

The landscape opens up before me,

As, in the little ball, there hid a spell

Like that which, in the ocean shell,

With its mystical sound,

Breaks down the narrow walls that surround us,

And turns some city street

Into the restless sea,

With all its capes and islands!


Yonder bird,--

Which floats, as if at rest,

In those blue tracts above the thunder, where

No vapors cloud the stainless air,

And never sound is heard,

Unless at such rare time

When, from the City of the Blest,

Rings down some golden chime,--

Sees not from his high place

So vast a cirque of summer space

As widens round me in one mighty field,

Which, rimmed by seas and sands,

Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams

Of gray Atlantic dawns;

And, broad as realms made up of many lands,

Is lost afar

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns

Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams

Against the Evening Star!

And lo!

To the remotest point of sight,

Although I gaze upon no waste of snow,

The endless field is white;

And the whole landscape glows,

For many a shining league away,

With such accumulated light

As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day!

Nor lack there (for the vision grows,

And the small charm within my hands--

More potent even than the fabled one,

Which oped whatever golden mystery

Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale,

The curious ointment of the Arabian tale--

Beyond all mortal sense

Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see

Beneath its simple influence,

As if, with Uriel's crown,

I stood in some great temple of the Sun,

And looked, as Uriel, down)--

Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green

With all the common gifts of God,

For temperate airs and torrid sheen

Weave Edens of the sod;

Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold

Broad rivers wind their devious ways;

A hundred isles in their embraces fold

A hundred luminous bays;

And through yon purple haze

Vast mountains lift their pluméd peaks cloud-crowned;

And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps,

An unknown forest girds them grandly round,

In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps!

Ye stars, which though unseen, yet with me gaze

Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth!

Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays

Above it, as to light a favorite hearth!

Ye clouds, that in your temples in the West

See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers!

And, you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast

Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers!

Bear witness with me in my song of praise,

And tell the world that, since the world began,

No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays,

Or given a home to man!
That bird up there,

Floating as if it's resting,

In the clear blue skies above the thunder, where

No mist clouds the pure air,

And you can't hear a sound,

Except on those rare occasions

When, from the City of the Blessed,

Some golden chime rings down,--

It doesn't see from its high perch

Such a vast stretch of summer space

As spreads out around me in one massive field,

Rimmed by seas and sands,

That greets its earliest light in the rays

Of gray Atlantic dawns;

And, as wide as lands combined,

It fades away

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns

Of sunset, among rolling plains that send their streams

Toward the Evening Star!

And look!

To the farthest point I can see,

Even though I'm not looking at a snowy wasteland,

The endless field is white;

And the whole landscape shines,

For many shining miles away,

With so much accumulated light

As Polar regions would flash beneath a tropical day!

And there's no lack (for my vision expands,

And the small charm in my hands--

More powerful even than the mythical one,

That opened any golden mystery

Hidden in enchanted woods or magic valleys,

The curious ointment of the Arabian tale--

Beyond all human perception

Extends my sight's horizon, and I see

Under its simple influence,

As if, wearing Uriel's crown,

I stood in some great temple of the Sun,

Looking down like Uriel)--

And there are rich pastures and green fields

With all of God's ordinary gifts,

For temperate breezes and warm sunlight

Weave Edens in the earth;

Through lands that appear as a sea of swaying gold

Broad rivers wind their twisting paths;

A hundred islands in their embrace fold

A hundred shining bays;

And through that purple haze

Vast mountains rise with cloud-crowned peaks;

And, except where the plowman climbs their slopes,

An unknown forest grandly surrounds them,

In whose dark shadows a future navy rests!

O stars, which though unseen, still gaze

With me upon this loveliest piece of earth!

O Sun, that lights all your gentlest rays

Above it, as if to warm a favorite home!

O clouds, that in your temples in the West

See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers!

And you, Winds, that on the ocean's surface

Are kissed cool before you reach its gardens!

Bear witness with me in my song of praise,

And tell the world that, since the world began,

No prettier land has inspired a poet's songs,

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!
But these are charms already well known!

His reward belongs to the one whose artistry

Has brought beauty even to our swamps,

And around whose melodic path

All Southern laurels flourish;

The Poet of "The Woodlands," who understands

Both the soft whispers of the flute and the bold sounds of the trumpet,

And the gentle sighs of the west wind;

But who can express the debt,

Oh Land! where all strengths unite

That connect a people's heart,

The world owes you today,

And will never be able to repay,

Yet hardly acknowledges!

Where is the poet who can truly sing

Of the source from which arises

That great commerce which, unconfined

To the narrow paths of a selfish market,

Reaches out to every shore

Of this vast earth, filling the seas with ships

That carry no cannons; quieting hungry mouths

In distant lands;

Connecting even the farthest strands with a delicate web;

And bringing joy to both rich and poor,

It adorns the domes of Paris,

Or fuels the cottage fires of English homes,

And only limits its blessings by the needs of humanity!

In these duties, your purpose lies,

My Country! and it will not end

As long as rain falls and Heaven stretches

In blue above you; though your enemies be tough

And cruel with their weapons, it will protect

Your homes like a stronghold; make you great

In pure and peaceful standing;

And perhaps, as the years go on--

Still working through its humble ways

With that vast wisdom which the ages teach--

Revive the nearly forgotten dream of universal peace!


As men who labor in that mine

Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed

Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead,

Hear the dull booming of the world of brine

Above them, and a mighty muffled roar

Of winds and waters, and yet toil calmly on,

And split the rock, and pile the massive ore,

Or carve a niche, or shape the archéd roof;

So I, as calmly, weave my woof

Of song, chanting the days to come,

Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air

Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn

Wakes from its starry silence to the hum

Of many gathering armies. Still,

In that we sometimes hear,

Upon the Northern winds the voice of woe

Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know

The end must crown us, and a few brief years

Dry all our tears,

I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will

Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget

That there is much even Victory must regret.

And, therefore, not too long

From the great burden of our country's wrong

Delay our just release!
As men working in that mine

In Cornwall, carved out beneath the ocean,

When a storm passes overhead,

Hear the dull rumble of the salty world

Above them, and a powerful muffled roar

Of winds and waves, yet they keep working on,

Splitting rock and piling the heavy ore,

Carving a niche or shaping the arched roof;

So I, just as calmly, weave my fabric

Of song, singing of the days to come,

Unsilenced, even though the quiet summer air

Is stirred by the noise of battles, and each dawn

Wakes from its starry silence to the buzz

Of many armies gathering. Still,

In what we sometimes hear,

On the Northern winds the voice of sorrow

Is not completely drowned in victory, though I know

The end must bring us triumph, and a few brief years

Will dry all our tears,

I can't sing too joyfully. Resigned to Your will,

Oh Lord! we cannot all forget

That there is much even Victory must grieve.

And so, not too long

From the heavy burden of our country's wrongs

Delay our rightful 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.
And, if possible, save

These sacred fields of peace

From the stain of patriot or enemy blood!

Oh, help us, Lord, to push the red tide

Back on its path, and, while our banners fly

Northward, fight with us! until the Goth grips

His own ruined altar stones and begs

For mercy; and we will grant it and decide

The gentle future of his fate

There, where some decaying ships and shaking docks

Will one day mark the Port that 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.
Two hours or more past the peak of a cheerful April day,

The Northman's armored "Invincibles" sailed smoothly into Charleston Bay;

They approached in a gloomy line, slow and low on the waves,

Dark as a midnight storm front, and as quiet 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!
A thousand brave hearts raced as those terrifying monsters moved

Closer to the deadly game under the calm blue sky,

And twenty thousand hearts of those watching from a distance,

Trembled in the heavy silence that awaits the battle's expanding climax!


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!
Each gunner stands stiffly by his gun, with a serious look,

The linstocks held firmly in strong, steady hands,

So still in their marble-like calm, their stern, heroic appearance,

They looked like statues made of stone with fiery 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.
Our banners on the outer walls, with a grand rustling fold,

Reflect the sunlight's warm gold from the arch and parapet--

They rise to the deep sound of drums and the loud cheers,

And then--once again, dark, breathless, silent, the grim gunners wait.


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]
Onward—in a gloomy line, moving slowly and silently on the water,

Closer and closer, the proud fleet glides quietly like a grave,

When suddenly, shivering through the calm, over the startled waves and shore,

The thunderous rage of the old Island Fort erupts![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!
Ha! Brutal pirates! Even though you're covered in iron armor,

Watch out for the storm that's brewing now, God's wrath is controlling the hail!

You struggle with the rough types of strength against law, and truth, and what's right,

Now tremble before a stronger power, and acknowledge a greater 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!
No empty brag! While we talk, we are more furious, wilder, higher,

Shooting from the circling cannons a hundred tongues of fire.

The waves shine red, the dark sky above seems torn apart.

Fight on! oh! noble gentlemen! for faith, 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.
There's not a single person in that line of fire who wouldn't rise,

To grab the victor's bloody crown, even if Death has to give the prize--

There's not one person in this anxious crowd that fills the old town,

A girl who doesn't long for the power to take one tyrant 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!
The conflict intensifies! Ship by ship, the proud Armada advances,

Where the fierce volleys of cannon fire erupt from Sumter's fiery heart;

And ship by ship, battered and overwhelmed, before the sunset's glow fades,

It drifts out to sea like a hangman's cart headed for the prisoner's grave!


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!
Oh! glorious Empress of the Sea! From your famous towers,

You can surely ring your bells of joy and light your celebration fires--

For today, Heaven has fought for you, has strengthened your brave sons,

And you, with clear faith, have seen God's Angels near the cannons!



[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun.
[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first shot.


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!
Glory to the brave boys who stood

  At Wagner, and, without fear, led the charge;

Striking hard and shedding valuable blood,

  For homes as valuable, and the rights of humanity!

They’ve earned their reward, and they will have the glory;--

Song, filled with beautiful memories, will tell

The story, which will grow into legends,

  Told through many ages, and always cherished!


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!
High honor to our youth—our sons and brothers,

  Georgians and Carolinians, standing strong!

They won’t disgrace their heritage or their mothers,

  But will hold fast through every storm, defending the land!

They know they *have* to conquer! Not doing it,

  Would be worse than death—total ruin! If they fail,

The innocent generations yet to come will regret it,

  The whole world will feel the pain, and nations will mourn!


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!
No! They must succeed in their struggle or be lost!

  Confident, in their final moments,

That love will adorn their graves, and memories will hold dear

  Their actions, with honors that will make death sweeter!

They will have trophies in the distant future,

  And loving memories, which will be

Green, like summer leaves, and fresh as flowers,

  That, through all seasons, will bloom forever!


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!
Their memories will stand as monuments, rising

  Next to those of the greatest martyrs of the past;

Beacons, when fierce storms sweep the skies,

  And weak souls huddle down against the blast!

A shrine for you, young Cheves, truly devoted,

  Most deserving of a great, illustrious father;--

A spot for you, young Haskell, nobly recognized,

  When skies and seas around you 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!
And others will be recorded too!

  Even if they fell without a name—

They live among the archives of the free,

  With the proudest claim to everlasting fame!

The uncarved stone beneath which they rest,

  Will speak of heroes, still brave in the face of fate;

Not wondering if their memories will last,

  But if they served with honor 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!
For you, young Fortress Wagner—you will wear

  Green laurels, worthy of the names that now,

Your sister forts of Moultrie and Sumter bear!

  Make sure you always hold your head high!

And you will be, for future generations,

  A celebrated monument; where people will come

In tribute; and tell far-off nations,

A SHRINE, which enemies will never turn into a TOMB!


Charleston Mercury.
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.
You strike down the lion's den,

  But still the mighty beast roams free;

And you will hear his roar once more,

From mountain heights, from lowland valleys,

From sandy shores and marshy lands--

Wherever a group of free men

  Builds 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.
The snake climbs up to the eagle's nest,

  But the majestic bird, in the sky,

Confidently reaches the mountain's peak,

And although ready for battle, still finds peace,

And smooths out his ruffled feathers,

Until, like a lightning bolt from the west,

  He hits the intruder in his hideout.


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!
What's the loss of a den, nest, or home,

  If, like the lion, we're free to go;--

If, like the eagle, we have wings to roam,

We soar over the rocks and ride the waves,

Still alert for the moment of doom,

When, with the sound of thunder, we leap 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!
Oh! noble sons of brave hearts!

  Oh! courageous hearts with the spirit of eagles!

Even if your battered defenses fall apart,

Your home is ruined by deceitful creatures--

Your souls, fueled by anger, will rise

For revenge, and with a lightning strike,

  Tear apart the wicked serpent before it can attack!


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!
Your worn-out den, your broken nest,

  Was just the lion's hiding spot;--

It heard his roar and displayed his mark,

His, or the eagle's resting place;--

But not the spirit in either heart!

This unites the two, blessed by freedom,

  To protect and take revenge for their kind!


Charleston Mercury.
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!
Oh! From the great deeds accomplished and the blood spilled for a noble cause,  
A lasting green covers the land, nourished by memory,  
Wherever freedom gathers a brave group,  
The spirit that honors significant times and places,  
Creating the powerful memorials of a people!


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!
The bare rock turns into a monument,

  The sandy beach becomes a shrine;

And each courageous life, spent in fierce struggle,

  Transforms into a memory that keeps the story alive!


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!
Oh! lifeless island—oh! unproductive shore,

  Oh! land without beauty—how the light

From glory's sun streams down forever,

  Making your ancient emptiness seem 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!
Short-lived dates, your humble strongholds; but full of glory,

  Deserving a story that lasts a lifetime;

Remembered, to be recorded and read,

  When all your brave defenders are gone;

    And to be sung

As long as freedom and knowledge have a voice!


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!
Taught by the elders by the fire,

  Through the long winter night;

Studied and memorized well during winter days,

  While youthful admiration, filled with delight,

Hangs, breathless, over the story, with quiet praise;

Mixing joy with wonder as he reads

About stubborn battles and daring feats;

  Watching the strength of the free and brave,

  Through the extended struggle and fierce fight,

Fighting for the lands they can’t save,

  Against the villain and countless enemies;

Still fighting, even though each stronghold becomes a grave.

  For home, and everything dear to humanity!


Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow;

  But still undaunted, with a martyr's might,

    They make for man a new Thermopylæ;

And, perishing for freedom, still go free!

  Let but each humble islet of our coast

Thus join the terrible issue to the last;

  And never shall the invader make his boast

Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply

  He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast!
The earth shakes and the ocean sways with every hit;

  But still fearless, with the strength of a martyr,

    They create a new Thermopylae for humanity;

And, while sacrificing for freedom, they remain unbroken!

  If every small island along our coast

Joins this fierce battle until the end;

  The invader will never be able to brag

About victory, even with the strongest armor

  He uses to tear apart, ruin, and destroy!


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 sun-kissed breeze,

    From the gentle Cuban seas,

With a life-giving kiss wakes the pride of garden alcoves;

    And look! our city elms,

    Have adorned their tops with buds,

And, with tiny spears, greet the arrival 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!
The promise of Spring,

    Is in every fluttering wing

That shares its journey in a song that will outlast its flight;

    And teasing Winter's gloom,

    Skies, air, and earth bloom,

With a change as blessed as anything that comes with the passing 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!
Ah! If only our hearts could share

    The promise that's so rich and rare,

That invites life to joy in each sweet, loving touch,

    That makes everything pure

    Put on its beauty and soar,

Singing for Spring to arrive in the land she still wants to 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.
But, sadly for us, no more

    Will the coming hour restore

The glory, sweet and familiar, of the seasons to our souls;

    Just like Spring shows up,

    Her smile brings our tears,

While with each painful memory the flood rolls over us.


    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.
Even as our breezes sing

    That they bring us into Spring,

Even as our bird becomes musical in the joy of flight--

    We see the serpent slither,

    With his slimy skin covering all,

And mixed with the song is the hissing of his curse.


    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!
We shiver at the flowers,

    Which only hide the graves--

At the intense sweetness of scents that mix poison with the air;

    Sad figures stare from trees,

    And in the sky, on the ground, and in the wind,

We see nothing but a sight of a Horror worse than Death!


South Carolinian.
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.
Spring, with that indescribable feeling in the air

That accompanies all things beautiful,

Spring, with her golden sunshine and silver rain,

Is with us once more.


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.
Out in the quiet woods, the jasmine blooms,

Its sweet-scented lights, and transforms

Into a royal court with green decorations

Along the shores 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.
In the core of every forest tree

The sap is all happy,

And there's a vibe about the bare branches

As if they were dreaming 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;
Yet still on every side the hand of Winter

Can be seen in the land,

Except where the maple turns red on the lawn,

Brought to life 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.
Or where, like those odd appearances we encounter

That connect adulthood to childhood,

The elm dresses up, as if to mock Nature,

In 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.
As of now, the ground is dark, even though you know

That, just a bit below,

A thousand germs are feeling their way through the darkness,

And will soon break free from their confinement.


Already, here and there, on frailest stems

Appear some azure gems,

Small as might deck, upon a gala day,

The forehead of a fay.
Already, here and there, on delicate stems

Show some blue gems,

Small enough to adorn, on a festive day,

The forehead of a fairy.


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.
In gardens, you might see, amidst the scarcity,

The crocus pushing through the ground;

And close to the snowdrop's soft white and green,

The violet in its cover.


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.
But many glimmers and shadows must move

Along the growing grass,

And weeks will go by before the love-struck South

Shall kiss the rose's petals.


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.
Still there's a feeling of flowers yet to bloom

In the sweet morning air;

One almost expects to see the very street

Turn purple beneath 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.
Sometimes a sweet-smelling breeze passes through

And brings, without reason,

A feeling like when excited crowds wait

In front of a palace entrance.


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!"
Some amazing spectacle; and you would hardly flinch,

If from the heart of a beech tree

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping out, were to say

"Look at 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!
Ah! who would connect thoughts of war and crime

With such a blessed time!

Who in the west wind's fragrant breeze

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.
Yet not even more surely will Spring awaken

The sounds of the woods and brush,

Than she will stir, despite all her calm beauty,

A million men to fight.


There shall be deeper hues upon her plains

Than all her sunlight rains,

And every gladdening influence around

Can summon from the ground.
There will be richer colors on her fields

Than all the sunlight brings,

And every joyful force nearby

Can draw from the earth.


Oh! standing on this desecrated mould,

Methinks that I behold,

Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,

Spring, kneeling on the sod,
Oh! standing on this ruined ground,

I think that I see,

Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,

Spring, kneeling on the earth,


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.
And calling with the sound of all her streams

Upon the old hills,

To fall and crush the oppressors and the oppressed

Who turn her fields into 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?
Chickamauga! Chickamauga!

  Over your dark and murky waters

Echoes the death cry of the bold,

  Resounds the battle roar of the brave;

Around your banks the red fires blaze,

  Gunshots ring out and shells scream--

Chickamauga, river of war,

  Who will tell your terrifying story?


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.
Old memories of horror,

  Sown by the ravages of a deadly plague,

Have long covered your surrounding forests

  With a vast and vague fear;

Now to gain more strength

  From the grim, bloody ghosts,

Rushed by the wilder destruction of war,

  To their graves on your lonely 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!"
Long, with hearts low and heavy,

  As the oppressor's forces advanced,

Fell the arms of freedom back,

  Until our hopes had almost vanished;

Until brave valor declared--

  "Here the invading wave will stop;

Here the enemy's proud march will end;

  Here his mighty troops will be defeated!"


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.
Then their eager hearts all racing,

  Backward flew each battle flag

Of Longstreet's veteran corps,

  And Bragg's strong troops;

Fierce against the enemy turning,

  All their pent-up anger erupts

In the chaotic sound of battle,

  And the wild battle cry.


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:
Roll your dark waves, Chickamauga,

  Trembles all your ghastly shore,

With the crude impact of the attack,

  And the chaos's terrible roar;

As the Southern battle giants

  Throw their deadly strikes around,

Breckenridge, the iron-hearted,

  Cheatham, noble 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!
Polk Preston—brave Buckner,

  Hill and Hindman, powerful in strength,

Cleburne, a true example of courage,

  Hood, the champion of the battle;

Benning, a bold and tough warrior,

  Fearless, determined Kershaw;

Mix battle cries with fierce shots,

  Loud cheers and wild excitement!


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!
At the volleys, their bodies bleed,

  At the fierce shout, their souls rise,

While the fiery wave of revenge

  Crashes over their frightened ranks;

And the dry throats of the wounded

  Gasp for air like roaring fire,

Horrors of that foreseen hell,

  Who would 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!
Carried by those who, rigid and broken,

  Gave, on that bloody battlefield,

Terrifying, cowering, stunned respect

  To the sword our heroes gave in;

And who realized, through intense struggle,

  That the ones who seek freedom.

Although often thwarted in battle,

  Will always remain unconquered!


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!
Learned, even though they’ve gone unchecked for a long time, they ruin us,

  Spreading devastation everywhere,

Leaving behind the signs of destruction,

  Across many acres of Southern land;

Still, no matter which direction they take,

  Somewhere in their path lies,

Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,

  Stream of death for vandal enemies!


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.
They discovered it flowing darkly

  By Manassas' famous plain,

And by the rushing Shenandoah

  Faced the tide of sorrow again;

Chickahominy, unforgettable,

  By the long, blood-soaked battle,

Rappahannock, glorious river,

  Twice celebrated for unmatched 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!"
Listen to the story, cowardly spoilers,

  Pay attention to the tale these waters share,

Think carefully about your frightening lesson,

  And the fate that happened there;

Learn to avoid the Southern wrath,

  Sworn on the sacred sword,

"Every stream a Chickamauga

  Against the wicked 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.
Peace, troubled soul! The struggle is over,

  This life’s intense battles and sorrows have ended:

There’s no more—eternity has begun,

  Faith turned into sight—hope realized and blended.

               Peace, troubled soul!

The Warrior lies on his deathbed,

  Calmly resting in his coffin.

    His eulogy is the sound of cannons,

    And heroes from a hundred battles

  Stand vigil around him in sorrow.


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.
Joy, blessed soul! In the valley

  Of Heaven's grand temple, is your joyful home;

Filled with a light that makes the sun look dull,

  Archangels' hymns rising in endless joy.

               Joy, blessed soul!

Back to her altar that he served,

  The Holy Church is bringing her child.

    The organ's mournful sound fades away,

    And kneeling priests pray around him,

  As they sing De Profundis.


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!
Bring all the trophies that are deserved

  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 dreadful duty walked,

  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!"
Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State

  Support in you an equal loss;

But who would pull you from your glory

  Back to face life's struggles?

The Faith was upheld—your path was complete,

  Your good fight finished; hence the word,

"Well done, oh! faithful child, well done,

  Enjoy the mercies of your 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!"
No slow decay or lingering pain,

  By gradual means, took away your health,

A shining messenger of fire

  Translated you by fiery death!

And we who share this common grief

  Are now bowing beneath the burden,

In this comforting thought may find relief,

  "Our holy father walked with God,

And is no longer here--God has taken him!"


Viola.
Voila.


"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!
Not in the lightning of the stormy battle

Not in the charge against the destructive enemy,

Did royal death, with his unstoppable power,

Bring down the great leader!


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.
His warrior spirit carried its earthly burdens

In the bright sunshine of a peaceful town;

When all the storm calmed down, the sturdy oak

That supported our cause fell.


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.
Though the blood that stains the ground is his alone,

Documenting all his great heroic acts,

Freedom herself is suffering from his injury,

And the whole country is bleeding.


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!
He didn’t step into the nation’s “Promised Land,”

At the loud roar of the cannon;

But shattered 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!
Oh, gracious God! Our loss isn't without its gain:

A glorious sunbeam brightens Your harshest frown;

And while his country struggles under the burden--

He stands up 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!
Go to your rest, great leader!

At the peak of your glory;

With your proud heart stilled and frozen,

No enemy ever could conquer;

With the eye that faced the battle

Like an eagle faces the sun,

Lifeless beneath its marble lid,

Rest easy, you 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."
Yet our cause could hardly spare you;

And cruel was the blow of fate

That struck down its strongest support

From beneath our state's dome.

Of you, just like the Douglas,

We say, with Scotland's king,

"There is no one to take your place

In all the noble circle."


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!
You were the noblest leader

Of all that battle crew

That faced the proud Norseman,

And put his bragging to shame.

You were the strongest defense

To hold back the flow of battle;

The name your soldiers gave you

Testified to your power!


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!
But we can't cry for you;

This isn’t a time for tears!

You wouldn’t want us to shed them,

Oh! saint among your peers!

If you could speak from up in heaven,

Smiling down on us instead,

You wouldn’t want us to stop 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!
Not—while our homes lie in ashes

Smoldering in the ground!

Not—while our homeless women

Send wild cries to God!

Not—while the crazy fanatic

Leaves destruction in his path!

Dare any Southerner give in

To emotion 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.
No! The shout is still "onward!"

This isn't the time for tears;

No, the word is still "vengeance!"

Save compassion for later years.

We'll take your glorious banner

From your lifeless, stiffening hand,

And high, amidst the battle's deadly storm,

We'll carry it across 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!
And all who see it streaming--

Oh! soldier of the cross!--

Shall equip themselves with a new determination

To avenge our loss;

While you, recognized as a martyr,

Your sacred mission revealed,

Shall present 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.
Old home! What blessings you once had;

  The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!

Now, enemy troops are coming to your shores,

  To ruin and destroy.


The Northman comes no longer there,

  With soft address and measured phrase,

With bated breath, and sainted air,

  And simulated praise.
The Northman no longer comes there,

  With smooth talk and careful words,

With held breath and holy vibes,

  And fake compliments.


He comes a vulture to his prey;

  A wolf to raven in your streets:

Around on shining stream and bay

  Gather his bandit fleets.
He comes like a vulture to his prey;

  A wolf to seize what’s yours in the streets:

Around the sparkling stream and bay

  He gathers 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.
They take the little that the poor have;

  Desecrate the grounds of the dead;

Rob the widow of her savings,--

  The orphan of his food.


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!
Crimes like theirs—of desire and violence,

  No Christian country has seen before;

Oh, for some punishment of fire and flood,

  To wash 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!
Exiles from home, your people soar,

  In the toughest lessons of bad luck;

With proud hearts and fiery eyes--

  They reject the tyrant's control!


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 all their joys,

  The activities that lively youth enjoys;

The places where childhood loves to play,

  The quiet spot for the elderly.


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 lush fields and farms;

  The oak-lined island homes that appear

To rest like swans, with unmatched charm,

  On the sound and stream born of the sea.


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 the palm-lined coast,

  The beach that the ocean crashes against in vain;

The Royal Port, your pride and joy,

  The loudly echoing sea.


Away, from orange groves that glow

  With golden fruit or snowy flowers,

Roses that never cease to blow,

  Myrtle and jasmine bowers.
Away from orange groves that shine

  With golden fruit or white flowers,

Roses that always bloom,

  Myrtle and jasmine arbors.


From these afar, the hoary bead

  Of feeble age, the timid maid,

Mothers and nurslings, all have fled,

  Of ruthless foes afraid.
From far away, the gray bead

  Of weak old age, the shy girl,

Mothers and little ones have all run away,

  Afraid of cruel enemies.


But, ready, with avenging hand,

  By wood and fen, in ambush lie

Your sons, a stern, determined band,

  Intent to do or die.
But, ready with vengeful hands,

  By woods and marshes, lying in wait

Your sons, a tough, resolute group,

  Determined to fight 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.
Whenever the enemy tries to attack,

  Driving forward with hatred and anger,

They’ve still found, terrified and shocked,

  A Lion in their way.


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.
Beaten down, they rush wildly to their ships,

  To protect and save their broken ranks,

And realize how difficult it is to break

  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!
Oh, God! Guardian of justice,

  The support of widows, the friend of orphans,

Calm the fury of the lawless,

  Protect those who are wronged and oppressed!


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!
Be a guide and a helper, a sword and a shield!

  From hills and valleys, wherever they wander,

Bring the farmer back to his land,

  And the exile back 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!
Pastors and scattered flocks come together;

  They rebuild their temples, raise their altars;

And let their trembling lips once again

  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.
Tom, old friend, it pains me to see

  The sleeve hanging loosely by your side.

The arm you lost meant more to me

  Than every Yankee who ever died.

But you don't seem to care;

  You say you've got a great stump,

And you laugh about that horrible ball—

  Tom, I always knew you were a champ.


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.
A strong right arm, a shaky hand,

  A wrist as tough as a young oak,

Buried deep in the Malverri sand--

  Laughing at that is a cruel joke.

I’ll never feel your iron grip

  In my shrinking palm again--

Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip;

  Everything inside isn’t 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!
Well! The arm is gone, it's true;

  But the one that's closest to the heart

Is still here—and that's as good as having two;

  Tom, old buddy, why do you jump?

Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve

  Is a badge of honor; so do I,

And all of us:—I really believe

  The guy is about 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.
"She deserves a perfect man," you say;

  "You weren't worth her in your prime:"

Tom! the arm that has turned to dust,

  Your whole body has become incredible;

For you have laid in the Malvern earth

  The proof and promise of a noble life--

And from now on, the rest of greater worth,

  Will be more precious than anything 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.
I see the people in the street

  Looking at your sleeve with hopeful eyes;

And you know, Torn, there's nothing more beautiful

  Than respect shown in silent understanding.

Bravely your arm fought in battle,

  Freely giving for the sake of Freedom;

It has been lost—but a nation's love

  In proud memory will preserve 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.
Go to your sweetheart right away—

  You're silly for waiting so long—

You'll discover that a woman's love

  Is real; living, tender, and strong.

And when your left arm wraps around

  Her slim waist in a loving hold,

Your right will tingle, as if it sensed,

  In its grave, the invader's role.


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."
As I look ahead to the years to come,

  I see a one-armed married guy;

A petite woman, with smiles and tears,

  Is doing her best to help him out

Putting on his coat, pinning his sleeve,

  Tying his tie, and cutting his food;

And I think, as I imagine these scenes,

  "That's Tom, and the woman he loved."


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 years go by, and then I see

  A wedding photo, bright and beautiful;

I look closer, and it’s clear to me

  That’s Tom with the silver hair.

He gives away the lovely bride,

  And the guests hang around, reluctant to go

The home of the man they admire--

  "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.
"Yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis and across the country was burned. It's likely that at least 300,000 bales have been destroyed 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!
Look! Where the Mississippi flows

  Toward the ocean’s embrace,

Rising higher, layer upon layer,

  Flaming tongues of fire shine;

It’s the planters’ great offering

  On the nation’s altar;

It’s a willing sacrifice—

Let the golden incense rise—

Stack the cotton to the skies!

  CHORUS—Look! The sacrificial flame

      Illuminates the starry night sky!

      Nations! Acknowledge the silent praise—

      It’s for freedom we fight!

      Homes! Faith! Justice!


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.
Never has such a golden light

  Lit up the sky;

Never has a sacrifice so bright,

  Risend to God on high:

Thousands of oxen, what were they

To the offering we make?

And the brilliant holocaust--

When the revolution's over--

In the nation's songs will endure!

  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.
Though the night is dark above,

  And the shield is broken--

Those who love us, and those we love,

  Tell us to never back down:

Never! even if our bravest bleed,

And the vultures feast on them;

Never! even if the Serpents' kind--

Hissing with hate and shame--

Threaten us by the millions!

  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.
Pile the cotton high;

  Look! The Northerners watch;

England! see our sacrifice--

  See the cotton burn!

God of nations! now to You,

Southerners bend the pleading knee;

This is our country's hour of need--

Hear the mothers intercede--

Hear the little children plead!

  CHORUS-Look! 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."
"Is there any news about the war?" she asked--

"Just a list of the wounded and dead,"

  Was the man's reply,

  Without looking up

  At the face of the woman standing nearby.

"'That's exactly what I want," she said;

"Read me the 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!
He read the list—it was a heartbreaking sight

Of the injured and dead from the deadly battle;

  In the middle of it all, there was a moment to mention

  A brave young man who fought so valiantly

That his friends asked: "Who is he?"

"The only son of the Widow Gray,"

  Was the proud response

  From his Captain nearby.

What's wrong with the woman standing close?

Her face is drained of color from 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!
"Well, well, keep reading; is he hurt? Hurry!

Oh God! My heart is so heavy with sorrow!"

  "Is he hurt? No! They say he fell,

  Killed instantly on that tragic day."

  But look, the woman has fainted!


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!"
Sadly, she opened her eyes to the light;

Slowly remembered what happened in the fight;

Softly she murmured: "Killed right away!

  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!
God have mercy on the gloomy Widow Gray,

And send from the halls of eternal day,

The light of His peace to brighten her path!


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."
A few moments before his death, Stonewall Jackson called out in his delirium: "Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Move the infantry up quickly. Tell Major Hawks—." Here the sentence was left unfinished. But soon after, a gentle smile spread across his face, and he murmured softly, with a sense of relief: "Let’s cross the river and rest in 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!
Come, let's cross the river and relax under the trees,

And listen to the cheerful leaves playing in the breeze;

We earn our rest through struggle, and Peace is waiting there.

It's odd that a cause so damaging yields results so bright!


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.
Come, let's cross the river, those who came before,

Crushed in the fight for freedom, wait on that shore;

The sunshine sparkles so brightly, the breeze hums so cheerily,

Come, let's cross the river, and rest under 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.
Come on, let’s cross the river, the stream that runs so dark:

Only cowards hesitate, so let’s all get on board.

Come, men with fearless hearts, we’ll handle the current with ease,

We’ll cross the flowing river and rest under 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.
Come, let’s cross the river, the dying hero called,

And God, the giver of life, then carried him across the tide.

Life’s battles are done for him, the warrior finds his peace,

There, by the flowing river, resting 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.
The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, right after the charge mentioned, which the brigade always regarded as their most intense battle.


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.
Scarce seven hundred men stand

  In worn-out, rough formation,

A leftover of that brave group,

Who once held the coastal land

Of Morris' island, with a strong grip

  Against the Yankees' despised control.


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.
SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims,

And SUMTER, surrounded by smoke and flames,

And the fierce battle on the streams

  Of POCOTALIGO:

And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION's hard-fought fight,

And DREWRY'S BLUFF's fortified height,

From where, at the gray dawn of light,

  They charged at the enemy.


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.
Tattered and torn, those banners are now,

But each proud head still stands tall,

  Not ready to give in yet:

With unflinching look and steady gaze,

They move forward, where the bombs scream

Filling the blue sky with smoke

  On Weldon's doomed battlefield.


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!
Sweeping from the woods, the fearless line,

They won’t hesitate in the battle,

No one is more fiercely trained than they

  To face their deadly fate:

While from a hundred open mouths,

A hundred fiery blasts erupt,

Round shot, and canister, and grape,

  The booming of the cannons!


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.
Swift, on their side, with a terrifying crash

Shrapnel and bullets collide,

And exploding shells, with a bright flash,

  Confuse their dazzled sight:

The ground trembles beneath their feet,

A rattling sheet of lead

Pours down in concentric waves,

  And bodies litter 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.
On, over the dying and the dead,

Over mangled limbs and bloody heads,

With a military look, with military stride,

March Hagood's men to their bloody rest,

  Honor is their only reward;

He himself leads their battle line,

  He himself guards those banners.


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.
They reach the peak, those brave few,

A tougher fight to continue,

Determined like brave men do

  Or fade into glory's shroud;

But hardly reach its stubborn top,

Before, from the flag's injured heart,

A wicked enemy has dared to take

  That proud banner.


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.
Hagood, in your strength!

Shine the eternal light on your soul

From those courageous acts that stand out

  Our Southern Cross.

He’s passing away. Unfurl its folds again,

Let it wave proudly over the field;

The dying will forget their pain,

  Not count their loss.


Then, rallying to your chieftain's call,

Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball

Hemmed in, as by a living wall,

  Cleave back your way.

Those bannered deeds their souls inspire,

Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire,

By the Two Hundred who retire

  Of that array.
Then, gathering to your leader's call,

Charged through by cannon fire and shots,

Surrounded, as if by a living wall,

  Cut your way back.

Those heroic actions ignite their spirit,

Carried through bursts of crossfire,

By the Two Hundred who pull back

  From that formation.


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.
Ah, Carolina! Well, the tear

May wet your cheek; your clasped hands raise

In passion, over their unmarked grave,

  Your fallen heroes!

Malony, a reflection of the brave,

And Sellers lie in a 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!

  A proud name in both the state and history,

  How I cherish your honest fame,

  Just like I cherish the blue sky above you,

    Carolina forever!


Carolina! Carolina!

Land of chivalry unfearing,

Daughters fair beyond comparing,

Sons of worth, and noble daring,

Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!

Land of fearless chivalry,

Daughters beautiful beyond compare,

Sons of honor and noble bravery,

Carolina forever!


Carolina! Carolina!

Soft thy clasp in loving greeting,

Plenteous board and kindly meeting,

All thy pulses nobly beating,

Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!

Gentle your hold in warm welcome,

Abundant feasts and friendly gatherings,

All your heartbeats strong and proud,

Carolina forever!


Carolina! Carolina!

Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven,

Bold thy streams through forest riven,

Bright thy laurels, hero-given,

Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!

Green are your valleys, bright is your sky,

Bold are your streams running through the forest,

Bright are your laurels, gifted by heroes,

Carolina forever!


Carolina! Carolina!

Holy name, and dear forever,

Never shall thy childen, never,

Fail to strike with grand endeavor,

Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!

Sacred name, and cherished always,

Your children will never, ever,

Stop striving with great effort,

Carolina forevermore!


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!
You have not lowered your proud head,

Your sorrows create a stunning beauty!

Not like a lamb being led to slaughter,

But with the lion's royal stride,

You come to your battlefield,

    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!
Your strong arm is ready;

The blue veins swell beneath your pain;

The triple ties of sorrow, death, and unashamed wrong,

And the spirit that boasted for 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!
No blood stains mark your lovely forehead;

Only the blood of martyrs is there;

It shines upon your resting place,

It stirs your deep, deep soul to prayer,

And plays a mournful tune for your 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!
Your clean white hand is stretched wide

For good or bad, you Freedom Bride;

The sword-sheath sparkles at your side,

Your pledged promise, no matter what happens,

You have only Freedom as your 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!
What if the heavy storm cloud looms—

Still at your feet the old oak stands tall;

Still fragrant are your jasmine bowers,

And things of beauty, love, and flowers

Are smiling across 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!
There’s no movie in front of you--

You see sorrow, death, and darkness--

And blood on your bright banner;

But in the fury of your wrath,

What do you care about sorrow or darkness?

    My rebellious 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!
Come—because the crown is on your head!

Your troubles reveal a stunning beauty,

Not like a lamb being led to slaughter,

But with the might of a lion, you walk,

Oh! come to your battlefield,

    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.
Come, with the rifle you've held onto for so long,

  Clean up the old gun and get it ready;

Better to die while "Old Betsy" is talking,

  Than live with your arms crossed, a slave to 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.
Hear the howl of the North wolf echoing,

  Sensing the blood of the warm-hearted South;

Hurry! or his wicked feet will be racing

  Where the blood 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.
Often in the woods "Old Bess" has helped you,

  When the fierce bear was taken down in its path--

If she never let you down in that moment,

  Trust her today with this hungry 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.
Then come with the rifle you've held onto for so long,

  Clean it up and get it ready to go;

It's better to die while "Old Betsy" is firing,

  Than live with your arms crossed, a slave to 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?
Sons of the South—wake up—rise up!

  A million enemies are coming fast,

Fierce hatred shining in their eyes,

  With destruction and violence in their wake,

  Like savage Huns and heartless Danes!

 "We come as brothers!" Don’t trust them!

  By everything dear in heaven and earth,

  By every bond that starts

  Within your homes—around your hearth;

Believe me, it's a tyrant's scheme,

  Worse for the pretty and smooth disguise—

A traitor wearing a patriot's cloak!

   "Your country's good

    Demands your blood!"

Was that a demon 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!
They point us to the Stars and Stripes;

  (Our flag once—now the tyrant's!)

But let’s not let memories of past wars,

  When we defeated the common enemy,

  And brought them down and shamed them so,

Split us at this critical moment;

  But think of dungeons and chains—

  Think of your violated temples—

  Of your beloved home’s bloody stains—

Eternal slavery as your inheritance!

No love of country inspires them—

The wicked fanatics wish to free

  A subservient race,

  And in their place

Would chain us with devilish delight!


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.
Sons of the South—wake up—wake up!

  And fight for rights as precious as those

  For which our brave ancestors battled

  Against the proudest powers on Earth—while freedom emerged,

  Cleansed in the blood of boastful enemies.

Wake up—that moment has come again!

  Fight! as you look to Heaven’s high throne—

  Fight! for the Christian patriot’s crown—

  Fight! in the name of Washington,

Who once showed you how to break the chains,

  Smiles now from above upon our cause,

So much like his own. His spirit is with us

    In every battle,

    And gives its strength

To every heart that loves freedom.


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!
You beautiful ones of the sunny land!

  Your charms are unmatched anywhere on earth,

Stand proudly under freedom's banner;

  And, though you don’t fight, show your worth,

  As you have in times of joy and laughter:

Celebrate the brave—

  Pray when the battle gets intense—

  Smile when victory is ours—

  Frown on the coward who hides away—

Mourn for every fallen hero’s grave!

  Support us as we strike!

We’ll soon crush this hostile force!—

    With women’s charms

    To strengthen their arms,

Oh! When have men ever lost their freedom!


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.
In the heat of battle, he fell triumphantly,

  Leading us into victory's embrace;

A death so glorious that our grief should fade:

  We mourn him, yet he has earned his battle crown.


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.
No malicious words can bother him now,

  No harsh insults can tarnish his hard-earned fame.

Endless honor sits upon his brow,

  And great memories gather around 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.
For hearts will tremble and eyes will grow dim with tears,

  To read the story of his moving fate;

How in his death the brave 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!
You people! Honor his memory—sacredly protect

  The green garlands above his hero's grave;

Yet cry, for praise can never bring him back,

  To let him know he’s honored among the brave!


Eulogy of the Dead.


By B. F. Porter, of Alabama.


"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah.
"Don't cry for the dead; don’t mourn 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! don’t cry for the dead,

Whose blood, shed for freedom,

Is honored forever!

Those who could die on the battlefield

Would do so--but never give up!

Oh, don’t mourn them anymore--

They live on forever in their blood!


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, what is it to die

Amid shouts of victory,

Defending our rights and homes!

Oh! what is fame and life

Won in that lowest struggle

For battling against tyrants' power,

Tearing our country's heart!


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! dead of red Manassah!

Oh! dead of Shiloh's battle!

Oh! victors of the Richmond battlefield!

Dead on your mother's breast,

You rest in glorious peace;

Each on his honored shield,

Immortal in every 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!
Oh! sons of noble mothers!

Oh! youth of maiden lovers!

Oh! husbands of faithful wives!

Though you sleep in beds of blood,

You return, oh! never again;

Still, your lives are everlasting!

Eternal 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.
How blessed is the one who draws

His sword for the cause of freedom!

Even if he falls on the battlefield,

Young heroes will always come to his grave,

Their hearts hardened for freedom,

And learn to face death on the battlefield.


As at Thermopylæ,

Grecian child of liberty;

Swears to despot ne'er to yield--

Here, by our glorious dead,

Let's revenge the blood they've shed,

Or die on bloody field,

By the sons who scorned to yield!
As at Thermopylae,

Greek child of freedom;

Swears to never submit to tyranny--

Here, by our glorious dead,

Let's avenge the blood they've spilled,

Or die on the bloody field,

By the sons who refused to surrender!


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!
Oh! mothers! lovers! wives!

Oh! don’t cry anymore--our lives

Are our country’s forever!

More glorious in your graves,

Than if living as Lincoln's slaves,

You will never perish again,

Martyred on our fields of blood!


[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his
shield, said--"With it, or on it."
[1] The Greek mother, as she sent her son off to battle, pointed to his shield and 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.
Now sing me a mournful song for the Islands by the Sea,

  And chant the sorrowful traveler’s tune--

You women and children in exile who escape

  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!
Lament for your homes, for the house of your God,

  Now the hangout of the wicked and the low;

Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trampled

  By the foot of the Puritan enemy!


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 you, when the dark of night

  Is fading like shadows away,

Does the mockingbird, drinking in the first light,

  Praise God for the birth of a new 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 you, when the rays are now bright,

  Do the oaks create a green glade;

While the buzz of the locust overhead seems to soothe

  The cattle that relax 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.
The soft-shining moon no longer shines for you

  Silver over the green waves of the bay;

Nor in the evening do the notes of the wandering loon

  Say goodbye to the sun's fading light.


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.
Nor when night falls over river and shore,

  And disperses the cheerful crowd of evening,

Does there arise, keeping pace with 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.
Then the partygoers would stop before they finished their red wine,

  The traveler would take a break on his journey;

And young women would quiet their soft, cheerful laughter,

  To listen to the singer's rough song.


"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.
"Going home! Going home!" I think I can now hear

  At the end of each serious refrain;

It'll be many days, yes, and many years,

  Before you'll sing that beloved 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.
Your noble sons lie slain on the battlefield,

  Your daughters now wander among strangers;

Your elderly and helpless sigh in poverty

  For 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!" for the exile alone

  Can those words touch the chords of the soul,

And bring back to life the loved ones who are gone,

  As the waves of time roll back.


"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!
"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who long,

  Dear Beaufort, to embrace your green spirit,

Before that, will have moved on to shores brighter than yours--

  Will have finally gone home 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!
Into a ward with whitewashed walls,

  Where the dead and dying lie--

Wounded by bayonets, shells, and bullets,

  Somebody's darling was brought in one day--

Somebody's darling, so young and so brave!

  Still showing on his sweet, pale face--

Soon to be covered by the dust of the grave--

  The fading light of his youthful 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.
Matted and damp are the golden curls

  Kissing the snow of that lovely young forehead,

Pale are the lips of delicate shape--

  Somebody's darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful blue-veined forehead

  Brush his wandering waves of gold;

Cross his hands on his chest 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?
Kiss him once for someone’s sake,

  Murmur a prayer softly and low--

Take one bright curl from its fair mates--

  They were someone’s pride, you know.

Someone’s hand has rested there;

  Was it a mother’s, soft and white?

Or have the lips of a fair sister--

  Been kissed by 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.
God knows best! He has someone's love;

  Someone's heart treasured him there--

Someone lifted his name above,

  Night and morning, on the wings of prayer.

Someone cried when he left to fight,

  Looking so handsome, brave, and grand!

Someone's kiss rested on his forehead--

  Someone held tightly 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."
Somebody's watching and waiting for him,

  Longing to hold him close to her heart again;

And there he lies with his blue eyes faded,

  And his child-like lips smiling slightly apart.

Tenderly bury the young one who is gone--

  Taking a moment to drop a tear on his grave;

Carve on the wooden plaque above his head--

  "Somebody's darling rests here."


John Pegram,


Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, Ætat XXXIII.


By W. Gordon McCabe.


What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight,

  Or how express the measure of our woe,

For him who rode the foremost in the fight,

  Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?
What should we say, now, about our kind knight,

  Or how can we express the depth of our sorrow,

For the one who led the charge in battle,

  Whose sharp sword shone brightly among the enemy?


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?
Of all his knightly deeds, what’s there to say?--

  That good sword now rests firmly in its sheath;

What can we do but show where he fell,

  And, like a soldier, faced 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.
We don't grieve like those who have no hope;

  For he was as pure in heart as he was brave in action--

God forgive us if we fumble around blindly,

  And if love is doubted by hearts that ache.


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.
And yet—oh! foolish and lacking in faith!

  We can’t help but shed our pointless tears;

We loved him so much; we never imagined that death

  Would dare to come for him in his courageous 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!
Ah! dear, tanned face, so bold and so bright!

  As kind to a friend as you were tough to an enemy--

We'll never see you shining in battle again,

  The eager eyes--the flush on your 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.
No longer will we welcome the graceful, familiar figure,

  Amid the rising smoke, with loud cheers;

No more will your ringing voice rise above the chaos,

  In tones 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.
Yep! He fought the battle and is now gone--

  Our awesome young leader taken down in the fight!

So quick to grab the opportunities in the chaos,

  And only careless of his brave 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.
He is not dead, but sleeping! We know well

  The body that lies here today beneath the ground,

Will rise when the golden trumpets sound,

  And fill the halls of God with their music.


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.
And there among our great heroic dead--

  The battle-scarred sons of God, whose work is finished--

His face will shine, as they with dignified stride,

  In a grand display, sweep by 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!
Let’s not be troubled! His time was short, but full of love and faith:

Lord, we believe; help our doubts,

  And bless your servants with a life and death like his!


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.
No flashy banners wave over them,

  No weapons reflect the sun's bright rays,

No cheering crowds gather around them,

  No music lifts their spirits on their way:

They're heading home. By cruel fate

  Forced to put away their trusty swords;

True soldiers they are, even disarmed--

  Heroes, though stripped of victory's crown.


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.
Brave Southerners! It’s with heavy hearts

  That we look at them through our tears,

And sadly realize how pointless were all

  Their heroic acts over the long years;

Yet among their foes they walk

  With steady strides and fearless faces:

Oh, Freedom! in every era,

  These have been your chosen champions.


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."
Going home! Unfortunately, for them, the words

  Bring images filled with sadness and despair:

Since they last saw those beloved homes,

  The armies of the invading enemy

Have swept through like a harsh desert storm,

  Spreading destruction with the breeze!

"They found a garden, but they left

  A desolate wasteland 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.
Ah! in those empty homes

  Where the "fate of war has arrived,"

The welcome is sad--the feast is sparse--

  That awaits the soldier’s return;

Yet loved ones will gather around him,

  With smiles that are more gentle, if not as bright,

And joy will light up pale faces

  At the 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.
Sure, give them a warm welcome home, beautiful South,

  For you they've earned a lasting legacy;

Shining through all time will be

  The amazing story of their fame.

They built a nation. So what if soon

  Its brilliant sun has appeared to set;

The past has demonstrated what they can achieve,

  The future still holds great promise.


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.
When the enemies, in a heated fight,

  Clashed over the road and bridge,

While Bragg grimly pulled back

  From the peaks of Mission Ridge--

There, among the pines and forest,

  Two rival colonels fell,

Who had been childhood classmates,

  And had cared for each other deeply.


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.
There, in the midst of the chaos,

  Facing Havoc's fiery breath,

The two wounded warriors met in battle,

  In their final moments of pain.

But they spotted each other swaying

  Among the dead and dying men,

And the feelings from the old days,

  Came rushing back to them once more.


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.
When that night the moon came shining,

  With its golden rays over the dead,

She saw two soldiers, resting,

  Free from all earthly pain.

Right by the mountain heather,

  Where the rocks hide the sand,

They had died, it seems, together,

  As they held 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 sunrise to sunset they stood,

  That long summer day!

While fierce and quick

The battle's roar

  Swept soldiers rank by 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!"
From dawn until dusk, they battled

  With legions swept and divided,

While dark and wide,

The tide of battle

  Continued to surge on our "Left!"


They closed each ghastly gap!

  They dressed each shattered rank

They knew, how well!

That Freedom fell

  With that exhausted flank!
They filled every awful gap!

  They patched each broken line

They knew, all too well!

That Freedom fell

  With that worn-out side!


"Oh! for a thousand men,

  Like these that melt away!"

And down they came,

With steel and flame,

  Four thousand to the fray!
"Oh! for a thousand men,

  Like these that disappear!"

And down they came,

With steel and flame,

  Four thousand to the fight!


They left the laggard train;

  The panting steam might stay;

And down they came,

With steel and flame,

  Head-foremost to the fray!
They left the slow-moving train;

  The huffing steam could wait;

And down they came,

With steel and fire,

  Charging into the fight!


Right through the blackest cloud

  Their lightning-path they cleft!

Freedom and Fame

With triumph came

  To our immortal Left.
Right through the darkest cloud

  They carved a path with lightning!

Freedom and Fame

Came with triumph

  To our everlasting Left.


Ye! of your living, sure!

  Ye! of your dead, bereft!

Honor the brave

Who died to save

  Your all, upon our 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.
Major-General Scott

An order came through

  To advance the troops to Richmond;

For a loud cry rang out,

From all over the North,

Demanding that the war should end

In time for the regular Fall Trade:

Mr. Greeley openly criticized the delay,

The Northerners were all eager for the fight;

The brave Grow

Claimed they were slow,

So the order

To march from the border

  And make a push to Richmond was given.

Major-General Scott

Probably wasn’t

Too hesitant to follow this command, I believe;

In his private view

The Old Dominion

Deserved to be looted, her men to be shot,

  And the reason is clear;

Though this area

Was where he was born,

And medals and swords,

With fancy inscriptions,

  It never voted for Winfield.

Besides, you should know that our top commander

Had sworn, just as hard as the Army in Flanders,

With his finest troops and strongest navy,

To settle his old score with Jefferson Davis.

Then "forward the column," he said to McDowell;

  And the Zouaves, with a shout,

  Fiercely cried out,

"To Richmond or hell" (I’ve left out the vowel),

And Winfield ordered his carriage and four,

A flashy turnout, to be brought to the door,

  For a nice trip to Richmond.

Major-General Scott

Had right there on site

A splendid group

Ready to plunder and fight;

In the camp he could boast

A crowd so vast,

As he never had seen

On a battlefield;

Every type and class from Northern society

Was in for the trip, a real variety:

In the camp he could hear every dialect in style,

"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue."

The handsome lad

  From the banks of the Shannon,

Was there to man

His superb cannon;

And in addition to the long lines of dragoons and artillery,

  The Zouaves and Hussars,

  All the warriors of Mars,

  There were barbers and cooks

  And authors of books,--

The chef de cuisine with his French menus,

And artists to style the young officers' hair.

And the writers were ready to quickly prepare

  An impressive tale

  Of conquest and glory;

And servants with countless baskets of Sillery,

Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the procession,

At quite a safe distance, to "carry the champagne:"

While the fields were so green and the sky so blue,

There was certainly nothing better to do

  On this nice trip to Richmond.

In Congress, the discussion, as I said, was of action,

To swiftly eliminate the traitorous faction.

In the press and the crowd,

They would hear nothing less

Than to make the advance, regardless of rhyme or reason,

And immediately end the insolent treason.

There was Greeley,

And Ely,

The bloodthirsty Grow,

And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the gentleman),

And that fierce Baker

Who would seize the South, every acre,

And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or

Some nameless place smelling of sulfur;

And with all this brave crew

Nothing would satisfy,

While the fields were so green and the sky so blue,

  But to march straight 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.
Then the brave McDowell

Rode furiously, spurring

  A horse that had never been "won" by him,

In the side of his steed,

To achieve a feat,

  Like nothing he had ever done before;

And the battery called Sherman's

  Was lined up,

While the beer-drinking Germans,

  From Neckar and Rhine,

With rifles and drinks,

Came marching in style,

Full of anger and beer,

  (Both the day and the parade were equally great.)

Oh! the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,

It truly was a nice sight to see,

  As the column moved forward 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.
Before the march started,

In a playful spirit,

General Scott, in a speech,

Said this army should show

The Southerners the importance of following the laws,

And just before dusk on the third or fourth day,

  Should happily 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.
He talked about their drill

And their bravery and skill,

And said that the ladies of Richmond would be impressed

By such unmatched perfection and would elegantly wave

In delight their delicate handkerchiefs in the air

At their morning parades in Capitol Square.

But unfortunately! Oh no!

Look at what soon happened,

  When this army, despite his compliments,

Amid war's loudest chaos

Must clumsily stumble

  Upon those dreaded "masked batteries."

Then Beauregard arrived,

Like a storm of fire,

To consume them in anger

On their dangerous path;

And Johnston charged in like a whirlwind to sweep

  Their ranks off the field

  Where their fate had been sealed,

As the storm rushes over the surface of the sea;

While quickly at the center our President pushed.

  And the enemy could see

  In the flash of his eye

The light that once shone on Diomed's helmet.

McDowell! McDowell! cry, cry for the day.

When you meet the Southerners in their battle formation;

To your confident troops with its bullets and steel

It was worse than Culloden for luckless Lochiel.

Oh! the generals were inexperienced and old Scott is now upset,

And it was a dreadful situation, McDowell, for you,

  That pleasant trip to Richmond.


Richmond Whig.
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!
To the brave, we pay our respects,

  Weep, oh skies of June!

With a light that's pure and gentle,

  Shine, oh sorrowful moon!

    "Fallen on the field of honor,"

    Hero worthy of song and tale,

  Lies our valiant soldier!


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.
Well, they found out who killed him,

  A braver, nobler enemy

Never battled with a Moor or Pagan--

  Rode at Templestowe;

    With such a proud and joyful demeanor,

    Against the hordes that wanted to wipe us out,

He went out, as 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.
Never again, unfortunately, shall I wield a sword

  Shining around his head;

Fought his battle, completed his work,

  Calmed his noble heart;

    All unnoticed, sweet nature's rhythm,

    Trumpet of glory 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.
Earth, that has tied him down so quickly?

  Gently cover his body;

Stay lovingly close to him,

  Light of the setting sun;

    Softly fall the summer rain,

    Birds and bees among the flowers

  Make the sadness feel bright.


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.
There, through the years to come,

  When his sword is rusty,

And his actions are written in history;

  Remembering her trust,

    Virginia, bowing down,

    Will still keep a constant sacred watch

  Over his remains.


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!
The battle didn't last long; but we won the day,

  And through the troops that surrounded us,

Our small group rode proudly on its path,

  Leaving behind one brave soul, honored with glory,

Unburied on the ground he fought to win;

Alone, of all his men, among the enemy dead!


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.
One moment he stood at the edge of battle,

  A halo of hope around his head like a helmet--

The next, he was covered in his own blood,

  Lying still in death; and even in death, he looked good!

And so he moved on, through the bloody gates of conflict,

From earthly crowns and rewards to 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 brother brought his body from the field,

  And handed it over to strangers, who closed

His peaceful blue eyes, sealed on earth for good,

  And gently arranged his slender limbs;

Strangers, but sisters, who, with Mary's love,

Sat by the open tomb and, crying, looked up.


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.
A little girl scattered roses on his coffin,

  Pale roses—no cleaner than his soul,

Nor any sweeter than his honest life,

  That bloomed with good deeds—short, but complete.

The elderly woman, with the loyal servant,

Approached with respectful steps to the hero's simple 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!
No man of God was allowed to read the burial rite

  Above the rebel—so declared the enemy,

Who turned pale before him in the fierce battle;

  But a woman's voice, in soft and gentle tones,

Shaking with compassion, filled with emotion, read

Over his sacred remains, 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.
"It’s sown in weakness; it’s raised in power." 

  Softly the promise floated in the air, 

And the sweet scents of the sunset hour, 

  Came back in response to the mourner's prayer. 

Gently they laid him beneath the soil, 

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.
We shouldn't cry for him! His actions live on;

  So young, so beautiful, so brave—he died

As he would have wanted. The past is safe,

  No matter what sorrow may come

To those who remain by the rough shore;

Change can't harm him now, nor can fortune find him anymore.


And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,

  Vitrix et vidua, the conflict done,

Shall raise her mailéd hand to wipe the tear

  That starts, as she recalls each martyr son;

No prouder memory her breast shall sway

Than thine--the early lost--lamented Lat-a-nè!
And when Virginia, resting on her spear,

  Vitrix et vidua, the battle over,

She'll raise her armored hand to wipe the tear

  That falls as she remembers each martyr son;

No prouder memory will touch her heart

Than yours—the early lost—mourned Lat-a-nè!


The Men.


By Maurice Bell.


In the dusk of the forest shade

  A sallow and dusty group reclined;

Gallops a horseman up the glade--

  "Where will I your leader find?

Tidings I bring from the morning's scout--

  I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen."

"Well, sir, stay not hereabout,

  Here are only a few of 'the men.'
In the evening light of the forest

  A pale and dusty group relaxed;

A horseman rides up the path--

  "Where can I find your leader?

I bring news from the morning's scout--

  I've traveled over hills, moors, and wetlands."

"Well, sir, don't hang around here,

  There 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.'
"Here, no collar has any insignia,

  No fancy embroidery decorates a sleeve;

Further along are our officers,

  Let them receive your report.

Higher up, on the hill over there,

  Looking down on this quiet valley.

There are their quarters—don’t stop here,

  We are just 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.'
"Wait, courier, if you have news

  That the battle is close;

Let them know we’re ready, and wherever

  They want us to be, we’ll show up soon;

Just tell them to inform us

  Where to gather our troops and when;

And we’ll show the bragging enemy

  That they’ve faced some real '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.'
"We're the men, even though our clothes are worn--

  We're the men, even though we don't wear lace--

We're the men whom the enemy has torn,

  And scattered their ranks in total disgrace;

We're the men who have won before--

  We're the men who will win again;

For the dust, and the smoke, and the sound of cannons,

  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!"
"You who scoff at the battle scars,

  Of clothes that are worn out, dirty, and torn,

Yet who praise the 'stars and bars'

  With compliments, respect, and fine food;

Ridicule those who wear them and move on,

  Give them no kind words—and just know

If your freedom is ever achieved

  By human beings—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.
Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare

The inscription engraved on the white card there.

It's a photograph, taken last Spring, they say,

Before 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 captured by the sunlight'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!
Oh God! Oh God! How my heart aches

  With a sudden, sharp pain,

As I see, revealed through the magic of Art,

  One terrifying scene from the battlefield:--

White as the foam of a stormy wave,

Alone like the rocks those waves crash against--

Gray sky above--cold ground below--

A brave figure lies stretched out 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.
With his calm face fresh on the trampled dirt,

  And brave hands clasped over his strong chest:

Except for the bloodstains on his gray jacket,

  We might think he’s just a soldier resting.

Ah no! That red tide is too vivid—

Too deeply pierced is that wounded side;

Youth, hope, love, glory—manhood’s pride—

Have all, in vain, defied Death’s strike.


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!
His faithful rifle lies useless there,

  As it fell from its owner's limp grip;

And the sunlight glimmers on his flowing hair

  Which the fallen cap no longer protects--

Oh Heaven! spread over it your merciful shield,

Let the battle be hidden from my sight!

Oh fiercer than a storm—grim Hades is terrifying—

On a woman's eyes 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.
The scene has shifted: In a quiet room,

  Far from where the lone body lies,

A mother kneels in the evening darkness

  To make her nightly offering.

Noon has passed, and the day is over,

She knows the battle is either won or lost--

Who survived? Who perished? Hush! Be still!

The boy is dead on the trench-filled 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.
Never had a beautiful scene smiled

  On calm waters under the sun,

Like that on Hampton's watery plain,

  The fateful morning the battle began.

Far toward the shiny Sewell shores,

  Below the guns of Craney Isle,

Our fleet was seen advancing quickly,

  Beneath the sun's favorable 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.
Oh, disastrous scene! The enemy forces

  From Newport camp raise serious alerts:

The Cumberland gets ready for battle--

  The fierce marines quickly grab their gear.

The Merrimac, heavily armored,

  Starts firing from its close position,

And doesn’t flinch from the shower of bullets,

  And deadly projectiles flying fast and lethal;

But, moving forward through smoke and flames,

  And roaring thunder long and loud,

It honors the ship with its stern bow,

  And then retreats in swirling clouds.


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 job is finished. The frigate turns

  In painful, uncertain balance--

She’s sinking, she’s sinking! Across the deck

  There's a cry, a wailing sound.

Swallowed by those calm waves

  Churned by the fight’s relentless push,

The crew is lost; the ship is still,

  And whistling shells sing her farewell.


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.
The battle is still raging fiercely:

  The Congress, stuck "high and dry,"

Maintains her claimed power in vain,

  As gunboats gather around,

With "stars and bars" flying from the mainmast,

  And unleash their fire on the water,

While the Merrimac, moving in quickly,

  Sends out her shells and fiery 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.
Meanwhile, the Jamestown, a brave ship,

  Takes on strong defenses on land--

While Patrick Henry makes his way,

  To join the Congress, still stuck ashore.

Once that’s done, we focus on

  The Minnesota, which responds,

With whizzing shells to Teuser's cannon,

  Whose booming shatters the distant sky.

The naval battle sounds once more;

  The enemy fleets haven’t retreated,

Though night is closing in on earth and sea

  In twilight's pale and mysterious dawn.

Strange whistling noises fill the air;

  The thick smoke looks dark as night,

And deadly, fiery flames erupt

  Their glow lighting up the missiles' path;

A magnificent scene on the crashing waves!

  The gentle breezes blow on,

And echoing cannon fire floats away,

  Disturbing Neptune's coral realm.

The victory is ours, and let the world

  Remember Buchanan's name with pride;

The crew is brave, the flag bright,

  That flew high when Hutter died.


[1] Commander of the "Merrimac."
Captain of the "Merrimac."


[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry."
[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry."


Macon Daily Telegraph.
Macon Daily News.


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?
The evening breeze sweeps across the plain,

  And spreads its fragrance in the valley,

But on its wings are sounds of pain,

  Sad tones that drown out the echoes' rise;

And yet we hear a cheerful call,

  Sweet joy smiles with a radiant gaze,

Lively music plays in the happy hall:

  Oh God! is this really 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?
Sad notes, like a spirit's sigh,

  Drift from the bloody battlefield,

As if a powerful spirit cried

  In terrible agony and pain:

We know our friends are suffering there,

  Our brothers, too, perhaps,

And in reproachful tones they say,

  Loved ones, is this a time to celebrate?


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.
Oh, raise your festive outfits high!

  The human blood that spills around

Will stain their colors with crimson;

  And let your music play louder

To drown the dying warrior's scream!

  Let sparkling wine boost your joy

Forget that blood has colored its hue,

  And push the wild dance even faster.


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?
But wait! The floor beneath you

  Makes a coffin's hollow sound,

And every note of sweet music

  Carries a dying soldier's groan.

Oh, sisters! who have beloved brothers

  Risking every battle's fate,

Does dark Remorse not bring any fear,

  To stop you from this 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?
Go, take off your celebration clothes!

  Go, put on the mourner's black veil!

Go, kneel before your God and pray!

  If your prayers can still mean something.

Go, confront the terrifying figure of Death!

  And nervously meet his icy stare,

And then, for once, with honest words,

  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.
The Maryland regiments in the Confederate army have taken on the name "The Maryland Line," a title that was heroically upheld by their patriot ancestors during the first Revolution, and the actions of Marylanders at Manassas prove that the patriotic Marylanders of this second Revolution deserve to carry it.


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.
By the swift flow of the Potomac,

  Our bayonets are shining;

And over the vast waters

  We look on, as tears are falling.

The distant hills of Maryland

  Rise sadly in front of us--

And oppressive forces have shackled our land,

  Our proud mother who gave us life.


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.
Our proud old mother's regal head

  Is bowed in defeat;

With her children's blood, her land is stained,

  And demons in celebration

Mock her with disgrace as they fasten her chains,

  While her heart is torn with grief;

Old mother, on the famous Manassas' fields

  Our revenge did not fade.


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 thought of your wrongs as we rushed in,

  Amid the terrifying gunfire;

We heard your voice as it rose up,

  From the blood of Maryland spilling.

We felt no pity! Did they show mercy

  When they tied up the mother who raised us?

But we brought death to the cowardly enemy

  Until they screamed and ran from 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.
We grieve for our brave brothers who fell

  On that harsh and bloody battlefield;

But their spirits soared with our triumphant shout

  To the heavenly heights of glory.

And their bodies lie on the hard-won ground--

  With their love so genuine and caring,

We'll hold onto the prize they wouldn’t give up,

  We’ll die, but we won’t back down.


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;
The noblest of the noble knights

  Who, since ancient times,

Have kept the spirit of chivalry

  Burning in hearts of gold;

The most generous of the gentle crew

  Who seldom shunned comfort,

Yet traveled with Smith across the land,

  And Raleigh over 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,--
Who climbed the blue Virginia hills,

  Among battling foes,

And planted there, in beautiful valleys,

  The lily and the rose;

Whose fragrance is found in many lands,

  Whose beauty shines across the earth,

And brightens the homes of thousands

  With loveliness and value,--


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.
We were afraid they were asleep!—the sons who carried on

  the names of the greatest ancestors,

And didn’t wake, even as darkness surrounded

  their watch fires;

But still the Golden Horseshoe Knights

  keep their "Old Dominion":

The enemy has discovered the enchanted land,

  but not one knight is asleep.


Torch-Hall, Georgia.
Torch-Hall, GA.


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!
Six thousand years of living together, God and humanity,—

Two thousand years of Christ; yet from such beginnings,

The earth only harvests the bitterest fruits!

The forces of evil rage now as they did when they started!

Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, still triumphant,

Yelling, shouting, celebrating, and dominating human will!

The sun moves backward! The comforting beliefs we held,

That in the advancement of mankind, we stood,

Two thousand years above the flood

Before the day’s experiences fade and disappear,

Like frost beneath the fire! And what remains

Of all our grand ideals and significant achievements,

With Goths, Huns, Vandals, fighting in their pride,

While the humble Christ is constantly crucified!


Pax.
Peace.


"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.
These verses, according to the newspaper report, might have been discovered in the possession of a dead rebel following one of Jackson's battles in the Shenandoah Valley; however, we are happy to say that the author is a rebel who is still alive and capable of writing even better works.


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."
Come on, guys, stack your weapons! Pile up the rails;

  Light up the campfire bright;

It doesn't matter if the canteen runs out,

  We'll have a great night anyway.

Here Shenandoah flows along,

Here the strong Blue Ridge echoes loud,

To amplify the brigade's lively 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."
We see him now—the old slouched hat

  Tilted over his eye at an angle—

The clever, dry smile—the words so ready,

  So calm, so straightforward, so real.

The "Blue Light Elder" knows them well:

He says, "That's Banks; he loves shellfish.

God 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.
Be quiet! Put down your weapons! Everyone kneel! Remove your hats!

  Old "Blue Light" is going to pray.

Anyone who laughs at this better watch out!

  Pay attention! That’s just how he does it!

Calling out from his homeland

In forma pauperis to God,

"Reveal your strength! Reach out your staff!

  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!
He's in the saddle now: Fall in!

  Steady! The whole brigade!

Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll help him

  Find his way out, with our guns and swords.

What does it matter if our shoes are worn?

What does it 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!"
The sun's bright rays chase away the morning mist

  And, wow!

Here's Longstreet, fighting hard,

 Trapped in a tough spot.

Pope and his Union troops, beaten before:

"Bayonets and cannons!" hear Stonewall shout;

"Charge, Stuart! Settle the score with Ashby,

  In Stonewall Jackson's path!"


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.
Ah, girl! wait, and watch, and long,

  For news of Stonewall's group!

Ah, widow! read—with eyes that burn,

  That ring on your hand!

  Ah! wife, keep sewing, keep praying, keep hoping:

Your life won't be all sad.

The enemy would be better off never having been born,

  Than to get 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.
On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep by the roadside when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by in hushed voices and soft footsteps to avoid waking him.


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.
Overcome with exhaustion and worry,

  The battle-scarred veteran lay

On the green grass of his homeland,

  And dozed by the way;

The breeze that sighed across his brow,

  And smoothed its worn lines,

Fresh from his beloved mountain brought

  The murmuring of their pines;

And the cheerful sound of waters,

  The blue joy-filled streams,

Whose sweet familiar melodies blended

  With the music of his dreams:

They brought no noise of battle's chaos,

  Shrill fife or trumpet,

But only the gentlest memories

  Of his own beautiful Arlington.

While the chief slept on,

  Forgetful of his troubles,

The hollow march of thousands

  Came echoing through the air.

With ringing spurs and sabres,

  And thundering feet they approached,

Bright plumes and rustling banners,

  And fife, trumpet, and drum;

But soon the leading column

  Noticed where, beneath the shade,

In slumber, calm as a child,

  Their weary chief was laid;

And down the line a murmur

  Flew from mouth to mouth,

Until the quiet whisper

  Had spread from front to back;

And over the crowd a silence

  As deep and sudden fell,

As if some mighty wizard

  Had silenced them with a spell;

And every sound was muted,

  And every soldier's step

Fell gently like a mother's

  'Round her baby's cradle-bed;

And rank, and file, and column,

  So softly passed by,

It seemed a ghostly army

  Had moved past him as he slept;

But stronger than any magic

  Was that with a magic touch—

The spell that quieted their voices—

  Deep respect 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:
Look! The Southland Queen, coming out

  From her sorrowful and wintry gloom,

Covers her torn and bleeding heart

  In her most extravagant blossoms:


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!
CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.)

     For her tired sons are resting

     By the Edenshore;

     They have earned the eternal crown,

     And the burden of death is done!

     Where the Oriflamme is shining

     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!
Bright and beautiful, in stunning glory,

  God's great gem shines in our sky;

Look! on the heart's white face

  There's a SHADOW passing by!


CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc.
CHORUS.--But the tired 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!
Homes are dark and hearts are tired,

  Souls are numb with endless pain;

Because the footsteps at the door

  Will never be heard 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.
CHORUS.--They have left us for good,

     Yep, for all time!

     We must earn the everlasting crown,

     Follow the path they showed us,

     Where the Oriflamme is glowing

     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.
Proudly, as our Southern forests

  Face the winter's sharp winds:

Timeless memories gather

  Around our hearts in vibrant green.


CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
CHORUS.--They have left us for good, etc.


May our faltering voices mingle

  In the angel-chanted psalm;

May our earthly chaplets linger

  By the bright celestial palm.
May our hesitant voices blend

  In the angel-sung hymn;

May our earthly wreaths remain

  By the shining heavenly palm.


CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
CHORUS.--They are 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!
Crest to crest they carried our banner,

  Side by side they drifted off to sleep;

Hand in hand we spread flowers,

  Heart to heart we kneel and cry!


CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
CHORUS.--They have left us for good, etc.


When the May eternal dawneth

  At the living God's behest,

We will quaff divine Nepenthe,

  We will share the Soldier's rest.
When May eternally dawns

  At the command of the living God,

We will drink the divine Nepenthe,

  We will share the Soldier's rest.


CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc.
CHORUS.--Where the tired 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!
Where the shadows are lifted

  Under the ever-bright sun,

We shout, Glory in the Highest!

  We have lost, but you 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!
CHORUS.--Our hearts belong to you forever,

     Yes, for all time!

     You have earned the eternal crown,

     And the weight of death has passed,

     Where the Oriflamme is shining

     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.
"We know a lot about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern women know even more. Blood hasn't spilled on our doorsteps yet; shells haven't exploded over our homes--let's hope they never do."--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 gray-haired father has died,

  Like an oak that falls, never to rise again,

Because his son, his support, his pride,

  Died with blood on his hands.

No more on earth, at morning or evening,

  Will age and youth be joined as one--

Nor will father and son grieve for each other--

  Life's work, unfortunately, is finished for both!


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 mother's heart has broken

  While looking at her beloved child,

As in its little eyes she saw

  The father's face, gentle and mild;

For his voice will never again bring joy

  To the grieving heart, which mourns him gone;

Nor will his kisses dry the burning tears,

  That keep 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!"
Many little ones will wander down the valley and over the hill,  
And watch with longing eyes for the one whose footsteps are still absent;  
And when the twilight approaches quickly  
Over the meadow, the stream, and the quiet home,  
And shadows cover the sweet, beloved face—  
The call will be, "Oh, Dad, 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!
And many homes are in ruins now,

  Where joy used to be a regular visitor,

And I believe there are sorrowful groups,

  With no house or place to rest;

And blood is on the shattered sill,

  Where happy feet used to come and go,

And everywhere, by fields and hills,

  Are disturbing sights and sounds of grief!


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.
There is a God who reigns above,

  The friend of the widow and the orphan,

Who sees every tear and hears every sigh,

  So that these lonely hearts can reach out to Him!

And when in anger He removes

  The empty excuses that people create,

The record book will clearly show

  Who’s in the wrong and who’s 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.
The hard march is done--

  We won't carry the pack anymore--

Because we're here for help from Richmond,

  From the shore of the Rappahannock.

The enemy is closing in on us--

  We can hear his wild cry;

So, let's go for good old Richmond!

  Like soldiers, we'll either succeed 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’ve left the land that raised us,

  Many miles behind,

And our moms and sisters miss us,

  With tearful eyes they pray;

But this will hold back their crying,

  And still the deep sigh--

For all, for beautiful old Richmond,

  Have come to fight 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.
We have come to join our brothers

  From the proud Dominion's valleys,

And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier,

  Tanned by the tropical winds;

To greet them all with joy,

  With hand and shining eye,

And to swear, for dear 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.
The brave Carolina sisters

  Stand ready, lance in hand,

To fight as they did in a past war,

  For the sake of their homeland.

The glories of Sumter and Bethel

  Have lifted their fame high,

But it'll fade if for dear old Richmond

  They don't vow 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.
Zollicoffer looks down at his people,

  And relies on their hearts and strength,

To take revenge for the blood he has spilled,

  In the chaos of battle's sounds.

Alabamians, remember the past,

  Be the "South at Manassas," their rallying cry;

As they marched on towards old Richmond,

  Determined to fight 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.
Brave Bartow, from his high place at home,

  Calls the Empire State to step up,

To endure once more as she has endured

  With glory through the heat of battle.

Mississippians who know no defeat,

  Hold the Chief's flag high;

For he, too, for beautiful old Richmond,

  Has vowed to fight 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.
Fair land of my birth—sweet Florida—

  Your strength may be small, but your spirit

Must speak of a truer, nobler power,

  When the drums for battle sound.

Look inside for your courage in the fight,

  And don’t dwell on your few with a sigh—

If you don’t win for beautiful old Richmond,

  At least you can die with bravery.


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.
Onward everyone! Oh! group of brothers!

  The beat of the long roll is heard!

And the hearts of the advancing columns,

  Are stirred by its music.

Onward everyone! and never turn back,

  Until our foes flee from the Borders--

To be honored by the beautiful of old Richmond,

  As those who were willing to fight or die.


Richmond Enquirer.
Richmond News.


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.
Ah me! the rain sounds sadder

  Than it ever did before;

And the wind whistles more mournfully through

  The cracks in 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.
We know we're safe under our roof

  From every drop that falls;

And we feel secure and blessed, inside

  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?
Then why do we fear the sound

  Of the quick, pouring rain--

And the splash of the winter drops, that hit

  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.
We think about the tents on the ground below,

  Where our brave soldiers rest;

And the guard's cold and solitary patrol,

  Under 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.
And we pray, with a heavy heart, for those

  Who fight for us even more--

And we hope this war, with all its troubles

  And sorrows, would just end.


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 pray when the skies are sunny and clear,

  When the winds are gentle and warm--

But oh! we pray with a heavy heart

  In 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,
We would gladly lift these covering clouds

  That block our sunny weather;

We can only wait—because we know there’ll be

  A day, in the future,


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.
When peace, like a beautiful sunrise, fills

  Our land with gentle light:

Then--we will hardly hear the rain

  In the gloomy winter 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;
Go, read the stories of the great and free,  
  The nations on the long, bright list of fame,  
Whose noble fury has defied the decree  
  Of tyrants trying to steal 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:
Whose swords have shone like lightning in the eyes

  Of greedy tyrants, flaunting their power,

And showed the world, through acts of great courage,

  The strength of truth and the importance of justice:


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.
Whose people, strong to suffer and endure,

  In faith have struggled until the blessing came,

And achieved a victory through their hardships,

  As a martyr earns their crown through sacrifice and pain.


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.
The truest virtue has faced the hardest tests,

  And there's no glory without hard work;

And the one who seeks fair Freedom as his partner,

  Must endure suffering to be free of flaws and dirt.


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!
My country! in this time of serious struggle,

  When your fate hangs in the balance,

Prepare your strong heart with bravery to the maximum,

  And don’t let a single shred of faith or hope fade away!


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!
The world's bright eye is still focused on you;

  Life, honor, fame--all of these are at stake:

Hang in there! Hang in there! Hang in there! with steadfast determination,

  And by the truth of heaven, you will not fail!


Patriot and Mountaineer.
Patriot and Adventurer.


"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.
All day long the sun had roamed,

  Through the gradually passing hours,

And finally the stars were twinkling

  Like golden-petaled flowers

Scattered over the blue expanse

  Of the glorious night,

Filling the sky with majesty,

  Filling 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:
And the lovely moon, with the bright stars,

  Shone among the glowing spheres

Like "a pearl of great price" sparkling

  Just as it had for years,

On the young land that had emerged,

  In her beauty and strength,

Like some stunning creation

  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.
With her "cities hung like jewels"

  On her green and peaceful land,

With her abundant harvest fields,

  And her calm homes of rest.

But a change had sadly fallen

  Over the young and beautiful land,

Brothers fought madly on the field

  Who once walked 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.
And "the hearts of distant mountains

  Shuddered," with a fearful wonder,

As the echoes crashed around them

  Of the cannon's terrifying thunder.

For hours, the battle raged on

  Until the sun went down

And marked the end of the chaos,

That the day's crazy work was over.


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.
Thickly on the trampled grass

  Were the terrible signs of battle,

Amid the blood-stained clover flowers

  Lay the stark and gruesome faces,

With no mourners leaning down

  Over an expensive funeral cloth;

And the fading daylight gently,

  With the starlight watched over 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.
And where happy, excited footsteps

  Used to stroll once in a while,

A small stream ran by,

  Making one “blue fold in the dark grass;”

And where, from its hidden source,

  The clear and bright brook flowed

Two had crawled, and each was leaning

  Over to quench 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.
Then under the serious starlight

  Of the bright jeweled skies,

Both turned and were focused

  Gazing into each other's eyes.

Both were seriously forgiving—

  Quieted the pulse of passion's breath—

Soothed the intense craving for battle,

  By the cold 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:
Then one spoke, in deep pain:

  "God, have mercy on my wife,

And my children, in New Hampshire;

  Orphans because of this cruel conflict."

And the other, leaning in closer,

  Under the solemn sky,

Bowed his head to hide the tears

  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.
"I have a wife and a little daughter,

  Amid the sweet Georgia flowers,"--

Then his cry became sharper, wilder,

  "Oh, God! have pity on their sadness."

And the wounded, in their final moments,

  Talking about the pain of their loved ones,

Drew closer to one another,

  Until they were no longer enemies."


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."
And the Georgian listened sadly

  As the other tried to talk,

While tears fell softly

  On the paleness of his cheek:

"How she used to stand and listen,

  Looking out over the fields for me,

Waiting until she saw me coming,

  Under the shadowy old plum tree.

I'll never hear her laughter again,

  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."
Then the Georgian, speaking softly,

  Said: "A brown-eyed little girl

Used to wait among the roses,

  For me, when the day was over;

And among the early fragrance

  Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet,

Up and down the old porch

  I would chase my darling's feet.

But on earth, I will no longer see the beauty

  Of her face greet my eyes,

Never again will I hear the music

  Of those happy pattering feet--

Ah, the solemn starlight, falling

  On the distant Georgia bloom,

Tells no story to my darling

  Of her absent father's fate."


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."
Through the tears that welled up between them

  Both were trying to hold back their sadness,

As they held each other's hands

  Whispering: "Let's forgive one another."


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.
When the morning sun was rising

  "Up the gray stairs of dawn,"

And the red sky in the east was glowing

  Across the forehead of the morning,

Sympathetic skies were watching sadly

  Over the "once proud, happy land,"

Over the Southerner and the Northerner,

  Holding onto each other's hands.

Fatherless, the golden hair,

  Playing under the old plum tree;

Fatherless, the little Georgian

  Playing in innocent joy.


Chicago Journal of Commerce, June, 1868.
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.
Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I weave

  For you the softest of wildflowers;

And over your grave a maiden's prayer I send,

  To welcome the bright moon and the April rains.


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.
I only know, I only care to know,

  You died for me— for me and the country you bled for;

A thousand Springs and wild December snow

  Will mourn 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.
Maybe some mother looks up at the skies,

  Crying, like Rachel, for her fallen hero--

Oh, for her beloved's sake, my tear-filled eyes

  Wet the ground above your humble 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.
The cause is holy when our young women stand

  United with grieving mothers and brave fathers,

Above the remains of a conquered land

  And ignite the flame of sacred 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.
Your bed of honor has a rosy cover

  To reflect the shining stars above;

And every petal sparkles with hope

  Where Love has bloomed in the circle 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.
Sleep! On your couch of glory, doze off

  Cradled among the choir of angels;

Not with the rumble of fierce drums

  Intensifying the chorus of angry battles.


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.
Above you, the oak and cedar will spread

  Their massive branches and sheltering shade;

For you, the songbird will pause in flight

  And sing lullabies, always unafraid.


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.
Farewell! And if your spirit happens to wander nearby

  To kiss this plant of unambitious art--

Translate it, even in the heavenly realm,

  As the lyrics of a young woman'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.
You Cavaliers of the South

Who protect our Southern shores,

Whose flags stand strong against the battle-storm

That rages around the border;

Your glorious sabers draw again,

And charge the invading enemy;

Harvest the fallen deep

Where the battle storms rage,

Where the iron rain pours down,

And the bloody streams 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.
You Cavaliers of Dixie!

Although the storm is dark,

No one will bear a tyrant's chains!

No cowardly heart will flinch!

Bright above the clouds, the sign will shine,

To lead us to victory;

While your swords cut through his forces,

Where the battle storms rage,

And the iron rain falls like floods,

And the bloody streams 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.
You Cavaliers of Dixie!

Even though Vicksburg's towers have fallen,

Here still are sacred rights to defend!

Your wives, your homes, your everything!

With shining weapons, move forward again,

Push back the furious enemy,

Don't give up your homeland,

While the battle storms rage,

And the iron rain pours down,

And the bloody streams 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.
Our country doesn’t need any fortifications,

No defenses to protect us!

Your hearts are her strong walls,

Barriers that won’t back down!

The roar of your fighting blades

Will drive away the hated enemy,

While their blood spills on the shore,

Where the storms of battle rage,

And the iron rain pours down,

And the bloody streams rush by.


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 spirits of your ancestors

Shall rise from every grave!

Our country is their place of honor,

They bravely died to protect!

Where Johnson, Jackson, Tilghman fell,

Your patriotic hearts will shine;

While you reap deep victories,

Through the enemy’s ranks,

Where the battle is raging fiercely,

And the bloody streams 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 the South

On a red field shall blaze,

With a blue cross and silver stars,

To lead her sons to glory!

When peace with olive branches comes back,

That flag's white fabric shall shine,

Still bright on every mountain,

Where the storm has calmed down,

Where the battle storms no longer rage,

Nor bloody rivers 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.
The battle flag of Dixie

Will proudly wave for a long time,

Wherever the battles rage,

And victory celebrates the brave!

The Cavaliers of Dixie!

In women’s songs, your glory will shine

With the fame of your name,

When the storms have calmed,

When the battles cease,

And the bloodshed ends.


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 is here! Spring is here!

  The brightening earth, the sparkling dew,

  The bursting buds, the blue sky,

  The singer's song, in trees and bushes,

  Proclaim once more God's promise--

"As long as humanity remains on earth,

The seasons that have passed will return 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 is here! Spring is here!

  We have it here, in the warm air,

  In the blossoms that bloom without a worry;

  The violet rises from her humble place,

  And the jasmine shows off with pride;

All nature, in her fresh outfit,

Is out and about—to inspire, comfort, 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!
Spring is here! Spring is here!

  Yes, and as eternal as the Lord,

  Who brings her into existence with a word;

  All blessed except for man, whose proud passions

  Envelop Nature in her bloody shroud--

His heart is winter through and through,

His spring, sadly, will 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've spent many years in the village church,

  With a view above the world;

And I’ve been happier there than if I had been

  High up in the air in a golden dome;

    For I’ve rung the bell

    When the slow hearse rolled

  Its sad burden to my door;

       And each echo that sounded,

       With the solemn toll,

  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.
I know the big bell of the city spire

  Is way more impressive than someone like me;

And its loud chime, compared to mine,

  Is like thunder next to a sigh:

           But the booming sound

           Of its metal throat,

  As it echoes on a Sabbath air,

           More often rings

           For other things

  Than a call to the place of worship.


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!
Brave boy, I rang when your father passed away,

  And you cried while my tones echoed loudly;

And I rang more softly when the pure white lady,

  Your dear mother, lay in her coffin:

           And I sang in a sweet voice

           That the angels could embrace,

  When you gave your sister to your friend;

           Oh! I rang with joy,

           On that beautiful summer night,

  When they promised they would love forever!


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.
But a lowly enemy arises from the depths of crime,

  With a heart burning with the flames of hell;

And the sound of the bell you've cherished for so long

  Will no longer fill the air:

    For the people's leader,

    With his arrogant conviction

  That his nation's cause is God's own,

    Would alter the song,

    The hills have echoed,

  To the thunder's more menacing sound.


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 down from the village church,

  Where I've peacefully hung for so long;

But I ask you, by all the loved and lost,

  Remember the songs I've sung.

    Remember the mound

    Of holy ground,

  Where your father and mother lie;

    And swear by the love

    For those who have died

  To defeat your vile enemy 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.
Then take me; but when (I ask you this)

  You arrive at the bloody battlefield,

That the bell of God, for a cannon that has fired,

  You will never give in to the enemy.

    By the love of the past,

    Let that hour be your last,

  When the enemy has gained this trust;

     And make him a bed

     Of patriotic dead,

  And let him rest in this sacred ground.


[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines.
[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.
From the silver sands of a shining shore,

  Where the wild ocean waves were crashing,

A tall shoot from a twisting root

  Burst forth as the dawn was breaking;

And the top, though warmed by the hot sun,

  (And the trunk only by the salty wave,) 

Spread green to the breeze of the curling seas,

  And rose like a lonely column.

    So here's to the tree, the Palmetto tree,

    Symbol of the noble, the brave, and the free.


As the sea-winds rustled the bladed crest,

  And the sun to the noon rose higher,

A serpent came, with an eye of flame,

  And coiled by the leafy pyre;

His ward he would keep by the lonely tree,

  To guard it with constant devotion;

Oh, sharp was the fang, and the arméd clang,

  That pierced through the roar of the ocean,

    And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree,

    Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.
As the sea breezes rustled the sharp tops,

  And the sun reached its peak,

A serpent appeared, with a fiery gaze,

  And curled up by the leafy pyre;

He would watch over his domain by the solitary tree,

  To protect it with unwavering loyalty;

Oh, how sharp was the fang, and the metallic clash,

  That cut through the roar of the ocean,

    And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree,

    Symbol 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.
And the day came to a quiet end,

  The breeze faded from the waves;

Yet the sharp noise of the rattles sounded

  Occasionally from the serpent's resting place;

When I saw through the night a shining star

  Above the branching peak shining,

Until the green leaves and the serpent's shine

  In the golden light were glowing,

    That hung over the tree, the Palmetto tree,

    Symbol 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.
By the standard we all uphold,

  When the drums roll loud and clear;

Let the flags fly high for the victor's gaze;

  Or drop in the chaos of battle.

If victory rests on the bloodied ground,

  With a winner's song, let’s celebrate it;

If the battle is lost and the stars fade out,

  We’ll still hold our heads high and not hide it,

    But honor the tree, the Palmetto tree,

    Symbol 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!
Get up! Get up! with strong arms,

  Sons of our bright homeland!

Put on your swords for the sacred battle,

  For the time to fight has come!

Get up! for the treacherous enemy approaches

  In the terrifying formation of war;

To the front, you brave ones! let the cowards run,

  It’s the hero who stays for the fight!


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.
Strike hard and strong, my brave group,

  With the strength of battle and flames;

Strike quickly for God and our homeland,

  For mother, wife, and father.

Even when thunder rumbles and lightning strikes,

  Oh! Southerners, don't be afraid,

You will deflect the lightning with the sword's clash,

  And the arrow with the sharp 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.
Bright flowers will sway over the hero's grave,

  While the coward finds no peace;

Thrice cursed is the traitor, the coward, the crook,

  While the hero is thrice blessed.

Step up to the front in the fight, you Southerners, stand,

  Brave souls, with sharp eyes,

And standing for God and for your country,

  You will bravely fight or die.


Charleston Courier.
Charleston News.


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 poem that follows was written right after the Seven Days of Battle, near Richmond, in 1862. It was inspired by the sight of a rainbow the evening before the major showdown between the opposing armies. This rainbow stretched across the eastern sky and clearly outlined the position of the Confederate army as viewed from the Capitol in 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.
The warm, tired day was ending—the sunset's smile

  Showed that the storm had finally stopped;

And the lightning still flickered for a bit

  On the cloud that sank gloomy 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.
There our army—waiting for the brutal battle

  Of tomorrow—lay hopeful, watching, and still;

Where their tents were scattered across the land, white,

  From river to river, over 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.
While above them the intense cannon fire of the sky

  Exploded and flashed from the clouds that hid the sun,

Their "fake noises" made no response;

  And they slept until the battle, the firing of 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.
When suddenly, on the cloud, a miraculous sight!

  The rainbow broke in beauty to embrace our group!

The center was covered by its arch, and each side

  Was filled with its blue and red 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!
Blessed sign of victory, divine symbol

  Of peace after chaos, rest after suffering;

How sweet and radiant with promise the sign,

  To eyes that will never see 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.
For the fierce flame of war tomorrow burst forth,

  And its thunder roared through the quivering air:

Over slippery trenches and blood-stained fort,

  Echoed the wild cheers of victory, the cries 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.
Then a long week of glory and pain came--

  Of silent pleading, and longing, and fear;

When day after day recorded the fame,

  And night after night listed 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.
We had won—the enemy had retreated to their ships—

  Their flag in tatters and their troops in disarray—

But sadly, the pale faces and lifeless lips

  Of our loved ones dampened the celebration of victory.


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.
Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release,

  Had the Lord shown mercy by putting his bow in the cloud;

Not yet had the Comforter spoken of peace

  To the hearts that around us were 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:
But the promise was made—the beautiful arc,

  With its bright mix of colors, that stretched

Across the sky on that lovely evening, was the sign

  Of the Infinite Love that embraced 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.
And that Love, shining brightly and fully like daylight,

  Through the tear drops that dampen each martyr's proud flag,

On the darkness of the past the bright rainbow will show

  Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, embracing everything.


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."
"Who's that you have?"--"Just a dying brother,

  Injured at the front just now."

"Good boy! He'll do. Someone let his mother know

  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!"
"Who do you have there?"--"A wounded courier, sir,

  Shot by accident, we hear.

He was with Stonewall." "They've done a terrible job here:

  Get him to the rear quickly!"


"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."
"Well, who's up next?" -- "Doctor, keep your voice down, keep your voice down, please; 

  Don’t let the guys find out. 

It's STONEWALL!" "Wow!" "The brigade can't find out, sir, 

  While there's an enemy nearby."


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:
Whom do we have 

  here—dressed in battle gear,

  Crowned with a martyr's allure?

A great fallen hero, in a living emblem,

  Created from his heart and strength:


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!
The heart that held his cause—look how that banner clings

  To his coffin!

The arm that fought for his cause—listen! how that trumpet

  Echoes behind them!


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.
What do we have left? His amazing inspiration,

  His prayers in meetings.

While alive, he laid the first stones of a nation;

  And even in death, he continues to build it.


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!
Have you heard that shocking news—

  A word that strikes fear—

It falls like a lightning bolt,

  Making us all bow our heads?

Over the battlefield,

Over each roaring gun—

Ashby, our bravest soldier!

  Ashby is gone!


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!
Saw you the veterans--

  Hearts that have known

Never a hint of fear,

  Never a groan--

Sobbing, though the battle they win,

Tears their tough eyes within--

Ashby, our hero,

  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!
Dash, dash the tear away--

  Crush down the pain!

Dulce et decorum, be

  Fittest refrain!

Why should the dreary shadow,

Round him, be cast at all?

Did not our hero fall

  Gallantly slain!


Catch the last words of cheer,

  Dropt from his tongue;

Over the battle's din,

  Let them be rung!

"Follow me! follow me!"

Soldier, oh! could there be

Pæan or dirge for thee,

  Loftier sung?
Catch the last words of cheer,

  Dropped from his tongue;

Over the battle's noise,

  Let them be heard!

"Follow me! follow me!"

Soldier, oh! could there be

Praise or lament for you,

  Sung more grandly?


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?
Bold as a lion's heart—

  Fearlessly brave—

Knightly as the most noble

  Bayard could wish for;

Sweet, with all of Sydney's charm.

Tender as Hampden's face,

Who now will take the place,

  Left empty 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!
It's not just one broken heart,

  Wild with despair--

Crazy in her pain,

  Weeps over his remains!

Ah! from a thousand eyes,

Flow the pure tears that fall--

Widowed Virginia lies

  Devastated today!


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!
Yet, charge bravely,

  You, whom he led!

Jackson, the winner, still

  Leads, at your front!

Heroes! Once the battle is over

Braver, every one

Fueled by the thought alone--

  Ashby is gone!


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!
Another victim for the sacrifice!

  Oh! my own mother South,

  How terrible this cry above your youth,

  Dying at the cannon's mouth,--

And for no crime--no vice--

No schemes of selfish greed--no greed,

Or arrogant ambition, seeking power;--.

But that, with determined spirit and noble will,

  They chose proudly to be free,--

To leave a grand legacy for the future,

  And for their children and descendants, 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.
Oh! widowed woman, sitting in your black clothes,

  With your young children around you, sad and alone,

Your imagination sees your hero where he’s wounded,

  And you still hear his cries!

Dying, he calls to you—again—again!

  With blessings and fond memories. Take heart;

He hasn’t died—he didn’t bless—without purpose:

For, in the eternal cycles of God, He balances

The accounts with grieving hearts; He calms the fears,

And guides the orphans home, and wipes the widow's tears.


Charleston Mercury.
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!
What right do we have to freedom when we aren't free?

  When all our passions push us into lust;

  When, for worthless gains, we lick the dirt,

And while half our people die just so we

Can sit in peace and freedom under our tree,

The other half revels in plunder and theft:

Bustling through the day, ruining the night with labor,

Cheating, swindling, lying, and stealing!—Should such things

Be granted such grand gifts as Liberty

  Brings along with it? Should we wish

  That like these should continue to hold power—

These soulless, mindless, heartless enemies

Of all that’s good and great, of all that’s wise,

Worthy on earth, or in the Eternal's Eyes!


Charleston Mercury.
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.
The Lone Star State hides the clay

  Of the one who fought on Shiloh's field,

Where grieving wives pause to pray,

  And young women offer their tears as tribute.


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.
In the future, when anger and conflict

  Have burned out their maddening fire,

The heroic actions that brightened this life

  Will be admired by both the old and the young.


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.
As the boatmen wander over the stream

  By Pittsburgh Bend in early spring,

They'll point with tearful eyes to the grave

  Where destruction spread her dark wings.


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.
There, beneath the budding green leaves,

  Before Night brought her damp breath,

While Victory smiled on the scene,

  Our Leader faced 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.
Great men in the future will honor the brave;

  The soldier, weathered from his time in battle,

Will create a wreath for his grave,

  While Memory sheds a shining 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.
Though envy may speak its venomous words,

  The march of Time will secure his fame;

Where bravery is cherished and glory is celebrated,

  There children will whisper 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!
Not doubting your homeland,

  Or the God who gave it;

On, Southerners! Against the hired group

  That fights to enslave it;

    Shout out loud

    Your battle cry,

Charge fiercely against these criminal hordes:

    One hour of struggle

    Is freedom's life,

And glory rests 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.
A thousand mothers' watchful eyes,

  Wives, sisters, daughters in tears,

Look on as your pure banner flies,

  Charging into battle without fears:

    Though knowledge falters,

    The strength of steel alters,

When hands that fight have hearts of oak:

    These, even if the wall

    Of stone should fall,

Become stronger with each blow and 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!
The belief that truly feels justified,

  The strength to uphold it;

The courage to stand, the determination to act,--

  These pursue the struggle, and achieve it!

    The valuable reward

    Right in front of you,

Everything that life imagines as beautiful,

    Home, freedom, life,

    Child, sister, wife,

All depend on your spirit and strength!


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.
And what about the enemy, the criminal group,

  That wants to take you down?

The scum of Europe, her shame.

  The outcasts of the nation.

    And what’s the reward

    That drives their work,

The lure that pushes them to battle?

    Desire, wrongdoing, and violence,

    Every wicked impulse

That urges and feeds desire.


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!
Let that happen, and let you lose,

  Claiming a cause so righteous?

With strong spirits, go, seek the battle,

  And defeat these miserable foes.

    Onward, with the shout,

    To act or perish,

Just like, in tougher times, your ancestors,

    Don’t hold back,

    Until every enemy,

Lies defeated, in your way, and dies!


Charleston Mercury.
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.
Just a soldier's grave! Keep walking,

Because soldiers, like everyone else, die.

He had parents—they're far away;

No sister mourns over the soldier's remains;

No brother comes with a tearful eye:

It's just a soldier's grave—keep walking.


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.
He was indeed loving, young, and brave,

Yet no shining tribute marks his grave;

No proud recounting of well-known virtues,

Of sorrows faced, or victories earned;

No marble plaque or towering obelisk;--

Just a soldier's grave--move along.


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 bravely he fought with his sword,

And he gave his life for what was right!

When his hopes were high, and his youthful dreams

As bright as the sunlight on that stream;

His heart free from 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.
Yet, should we mark it—the soldier's grave,

Someone might look for him hoping to save!

Some of the loved ones, far away,

Would bring him back to his native land:

It would be sad, indeed, if they wandered close,

Didn’t find the grave, and passed 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!
Yes, to the doom—the scaffold and the chains—

  Endure all your cruel tortures, go ahead,

You filthy and cowardly executioners;—but it’s pointless!—

  You can’t touch the glory they’ve earned—

And will earn—by giving up the martyr’s last breath

  For freedom! Their death is a victory!—

A sacred promise from Nature, that her womb

  Still holds some sacred flames;—that will rise,

Even from the horrific destruction of their doom,

  As glorious—yes, even more glorious—than before!

Rejoice, shout, triumph! Miscreants, do your worst!

  It’s only for a season! There will come

A time when you’ll find yourselves cursed;

  When the terrible wrath of a century

Shall harvest its revenge in a single day;

  And you’ll scream in terror;—and to die,

Shall be escape and refuge! You can kill;

  But being cruel and brutal doesn’t make

You victors; and the vulture will still feed

  On living hearts; and vengeance will fiercely satisfy

The insatiable hunger you provoke,

  In the hot blood of the victims, who have been,

Most eager, binding free people to the stake,—

  Most greedy, in the celebrations 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!
You kill—do you celebrate? Look at your chains,

  You heartless murderers!—turn your gaze,

Where that bloody scaffold stands; and the suffering,

Uncried out, of a true martyr before he dies,

Shows the terrible foolishness of your crime,

  Now in its festivity! His spirit escapes,

Untouched by all your fires, to every land,

  Into the world's wide embrace. Thousands rise,

Ready to respond, and determined to strike

The tyrants and the tyranny alike!

Voices that condemn you speak through all your actions,

  And call to heaven, prepare the earth, and ignite hell!

A crowd of free people, where one martyr falls,

  Spring from his place of death, and make his death knell

The alarm to awaken countless others,

To avenge Humanity's wrongs, and erase 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!
We don’t grieve for our martyrs!—they die,

  Just like the good die, for a faith that never fades:

People will cherish their glorious memories,

  In ways that make even death feel noble!

Their blood becomes a guiding principle,

  Moving forward, always moving forward, in a proud wave,

Restless, unstoppable, like the ocean tide,

  The Spirit grants freedom here on earth!

Why should we mourn the martyrs, who rise,

Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;—

And take their thrones, like stars; and over the night,

  Shine with new glory; and to other souls,

Illuminate with blessed guidance, and true light,

  Leading future generations to their goals!


Charleston Mercury.
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!"
What! You see yourselves as free people?

  Tyrants enjoy people like you!

Go! Lower your proud attitude!

Write on 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!"
Sink before the federal altar,

  Each one bowing down on bended knee,

Pray, with voices that tremble and break,

This prayer from the coward's book,--

    "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!"
But you believe that quick repentance

  In the Northern mind is possible;

This repentance doesn’t come any sooner

Than the robbers did, at Luna!

    "From the fury of the Normans,

    Deliver us, O Lord!"


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 felt remorse for himself:--the Bishop

  Granted him forgiveness without charge;

Anointed him with blessed oil

During the grandeur of his baptism.

  "From the fury of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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!"
He felt remorse; then he fell ill!

  Was he longing for the sea?

At the point of death he was absolved,

The final blessing was given,

  "From the rage of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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!"
Then the old cathedral's choir

  Took the sad minor key;

With the Host held up before him,

Down the marble aisles they carried him;

  "From the fury of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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!"
While the bishop and the abbot—

  All the high-ranking monks,

Chanting praises to the Madonna,

Came to pay him Christian respect!

  "From the fury of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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!"
Now the miserere's rhythm,

  Captures the voices of the sea;

As the musical waves ripple,

Watch the dead pirate tremble!

  "From the fury of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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!"
Is it that these sounds

  Excite him like this from head to toe?

Look, his wrappings tear apart!

  It's a sight of fear and amazement!

  "A fury of the Normans,

  Save us, O Lord!"


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!"
Fierce, he stands before the bishop,

  Dark as the shape of Destiny.

Listen! A horrifying scream rises,--

The prelate collapses--dead--falling!

  "A fury of Normans,

  Free us, O Lord!"


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!"
Hastings is alive! He was just pretending!

  What! Regretful? Never!

He strikes down the priests and friars,

And the city is lit up with fires!

  "A furore Normanorum,

  Libera nos, O Lord!"


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!"
Ah! the kids and the young women,

  It's pointless for them to try to escape!

Where the white-haired priests are lying wounded,

Is not a place for a woman's pleas.

  "From the fury of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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!"
Louder grows the terrifying chaos--

  Pale Death is having a party!

The organ's powerful noise dies,

By the horseman's iron hammer!

  "A frenzy of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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!"
So they thought he had changed his mind!

  Had they nailed him to the tree,

He wouldn’t have deserved their pity,

And they hadn’t--lost their city.

  "From the fury of the Normans,

  Deliver us, O Lord!"


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]
For the lesson in this story,

  Which is as clear as the truth can be:

If we rely on the North's mercy,

We'll regret it too late, screaming--

  "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.
[1] For this event 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?
I know the bell will ring again,

  And the song of mourning will be sung over a bloody grave;

And there will be storms on the battered shore,

  And there will be conflict on the raging waves;

And we will cry out, with a powerful cry,

  And feel the deep sorrow for many years,

But won’t our flag finally triumph,

  And our eyes be free 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!
There's a harsh promise for every fruitful tree,

  And the nation whose journey is far from over,

Must make, even though it causes pain,

  The sacrifice of many a brave son;

The roots of each strong tree must grow

  In the blood-red streams of courageous hearts;

And to claim what's right from a brutal enemy,

  Brings a hurt as deep as when soul and body separate!


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.
But the pain and sacrifice are essential, unfortunately!

  To empower the ruling will that governs

The generations that come and go

  To reach the full realization that completes their lives!

It's still in the struggle that they must find life:

  And sorrow will strengthen the soul for responsibility;

And the freedom pursued must always be earned

  By the most valued sacrifices, 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.
Heroes, the bravest, will always be the first

  To step up to the altar of sacrifice;

The most sacred homes will suffer the most,

  Before we conquer and achieve the valuable prize!--

The struggle might go on for a thousand years,

  And only with blood will the land be claimed;

But the children will inherit, through blood and tears,

  The birthright for which their fathers fought.


Charleston Mercury.
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.
He sleeps on Virginia's shore,

While his Legion comrades stand

With weapons reversed—a sorrowful group—

  Around his young casket!

His war-horse pounds the trembling ground,

The shots echo—they gather around—

And on his white brow, crowned with laurel,

  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!
Up, grieving mourners! Look up,

Loud anthems tear through the echoing sky,

Reborn where heroes never die--

  The warrior is at peace!

Gone is the tired, pain-filled frown;

Life's journey is done, his arms laid down,

His feathers replaced by a shining crown,

The red cross on his chest!


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!
Though Gendron's arm is with the dust,

Let not his blood-stained weapon rust,

Passed down to one who'll take the trust,

  Where Southern flags wave high!

Some brave souls, who followed where he led--

Yeah, swear to him over the martyred dead,

To avenge every drop of blood he shed,

  Or, like him, die bravely!


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!
He thought dying for honor was beautiful.--

And so he fell! It's only fitting,

Our flag should be his burial shroud,

  Proud banner of the free!

Oh, let his respected body be laid

Beneath the beloved Palmetto's shade;

His praises sung by Southern girls,

  While the broad Santee flows!


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!
We gather around his urn to wrap

Sweet bunches of jasmine vines,

Picked where our tropical sun shines,

  From skies vivid and bright;

And, kneeling, pledge we won’t give in!--

On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the battle!

Or return dead on a battered shield,

  As martyrs for what’s 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!
Where campfires glow on the scorched ground,

The grieving Legion kneels to God,

In Palmer's name, and by his blood,

  They raise the battle cry;

We won't put away our bloody swords,

'Til tyrants feel the Southern wrath,

And lowly crowds kneel as beggars,

  Or flee in fear!


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!
Where murdered Mumford rests,

Mourned with deep sighs,

Low down beneath the flag he cherished,

Martyrs of Liberty,

Defenders of the Free!

Come, humbly close,

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!
Ah, Freedom, on that day,

Turned away in fear,

While compassionate angels hung around,

To look at the ground,

Stained with a martyr's blood;

And a woman's tear

Fell on his coffin!


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.
O God! that he should die

Beneath a Southern sky!

Hanging from a felon's gallows,

Killed by a tyrant's hand,--

While a helpless crowd

Poured scorn and shame

On Butler's name.


But hark! loud pæans fly

From earth to vaulted sky,

He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!

List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1]

Tolls far the martyr's knell!

Shout, Southrons, high,

Our battle cry!
But listen! Loud cheers soar

From the ground to the open sky,

He’s crowned at Freedom’s sacred throne!

Hear! Sweet-voiced Israfel[1]

Rings out the martyr’s bell!

Shout, Southerners, 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!
Come, all those from the South,

Come, kneel before the God of Freedom!

Here at her red altar, swear!

Cursed forevermore

Is the flag that Mumford tore,

And over his grave

Our colors fly!


[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God."--Oriental Legend.
[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel near God's throne." --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.
Gather around her! children of her glorious skies,

  Whom she has raised to be proud and great;

Catch one last look from her pleading eyes,

  Then close your ranks and face the looming 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 around her! with a wall of terrifying steel

  Confront the enemy, ask for no mercy, nor give any;

And in her time of suffering let her feel

  That you can die for those 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.
Ring around her! swear, by every lifted blade,

  To protect from harm the mother who gave you life;

That no wicked hand shall be laid on her,

  Nor any lowly foot disrespect her sacred home.


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.
See how she’s filled with a proud shame,

  As she breathes heavily through deep sobs,

Her noble forehead and chest all aflame

  At the mere thought of an 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 her white clothes are stained and torn;

  The big drops collect on her pale face,

Marked with deep wounds from cowards who tried to ruin

  The beautiful shape that rejected their filthy touch.


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!
And still she begs, oh! how she begs, with prayers

  And bitter tears, to every loving child

To stand between her and the fate she fears,

  To keep her reputation spotless, untainted!


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.
Cursed be the coward who stops or hesitates!

  And doubly damned is anyone who looks back!

You who are men! with your swords drawn, and shout,

  Lift her banner! let it fly in 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.
Shout your bold slogan, resonating everywhere,

  Until every bustling street echoes back

The rallying call, and Ashley's furious wave

  Calls to the ocean waves crashing at 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,
Sons, to the rescue! Strapped in and ready, come!

  Kneeling, with clasped hands, she calls on you now

By the sweet memories of your childhood home,

  By every manly hope and promise to your parents,


To save her proud soul from that loathéd thrall

  Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name;

Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,

  Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame.
To save her proud spirit from that hated captivity

  Which her soul still can’t bear to speak of;

Or, if her end is close and she has to surrender,

  Spare her—she pleads—for the pain and the humiliation.


From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled,

  Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,

And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,

  Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.
From all her places of worship, let solemn bells be rung,

  Gather with loving hands her expensive funeral pyre,

And so, with a song of praise and anthems sung,

  Offer her, pure and unblemished, 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.
Gather around her sacred ashes then,

  Sprinkle the cherished dust with red rain,

Die! as becomes a race of free-born people,

  Who will not bow down 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.
So, by dying, you'll gain great fame,

  If not in life, at least by your death, set free--

And let her legacy live on through endless ages,

  The final grand sacrifice of freedom.


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.
Bowing her head to the ground.

  Devastated and heartbroken is she,

Light after light has gone out from her home,

  Son after son from her side.

Bowing her head to the dirt at her feet,

  Crying for her beautiful dead,

Silence! stay silent, forever in the street,

  Look! 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!
Coming again, oh! glorious ones,

  Wrapped in the flag of the free;

Queen of the South! bright crowns for your sons,

  Only the cypress for you!

Laurel, and banners, and music, and drums,

  Marches, and sweet requiems;

Silence! keep quiet! oh, 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.
Slowly, oh! sadly, slowly they move,

  Carrying the young and the brave,

Beautiful as summer, but pale as snow

  Taking them down to the grave.

Some in the morning, and some in the noon,

  Some in the prime of their life;

No shade nor bloom, nor summer nor June,

  Luring them back to the struggle.


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?
Some in the waves, far away, oh! far away,

  Staining the water with their blood;

One on the ship’s high deck, like a star,

  Sinking in the bright flood of glory.[1]

Bowing her head to the dust of the earth,

  Humbled but honored is she,

lighting the skies with the stars from her home,

  Who will be her comforter?


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!
Bring her, oh! bring her the clothes of sorrow,

  Sackcloth and ashes forever;

Winds of the South! oh, play a funeral tune,

  Sighing and grieving today.

Sprinkle the rains from heaven's blue eyes

  All over the green summer meadow,

Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies,

  You will be her comforter!


[1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the
"Water Witch."
[1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C.S.N., was killed during 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!
At Bull Run when the sun was low,

Each Southern face turned pale as snow,

While as loud as jackdaws rose the crow

  Of Yankees boasting fiercely!


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.
But Bull Run witnessed another scene,

As night deepened its shades,

Towards Fairfax Court-House flew the group

  Of Yankees running fast.


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!
Then shattered, each unit seized by fear,

Then the horses fled from the battle,

The soldiers from Battery Number Seven

  Abandoned 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.
Still on McDowell's farthest left,

The roar of cannon hits one hard,

Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff

  Fight 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!
The panic gets intense—run, you brave ones!

Drop your weapons! Save your food!

Forget your doubts, Washington, just go for it,

  And escape with all your courage!


"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 happily heard the shout

  When, tired from the dusty march

Of troops, as night approached,

  I collapsed onto my soldier bed,

And calmly fell asleep; the starry sky

  Of heaven's blue arch my canopy,

And mixed with my dreams of home,

  Were thoughts of Peace and Freedom.


"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!" I've heard it, when the shout

  Cheerfully echoed along our line,

Of enemies thrown back in a bloody defeat,

  Caught, scattered; its sounds felt heavenly

Then reached my captivated ears.

  Reward for duty honorably fulfilled,

  And a tear of grateful joy for victory gained

  Shone on my cheek.


"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!
"Stack Arms!" In shaky voices, slow

  And heavy, it spreads from person to person,

A broken, soft cry of sorrow,

  From strong hearts deeply stirred by pain.

Like the lost souls in a dark dream,

  We move, not knowing how or why,

For life and hope feel like mere illusions,

  And death would almost be a relief!


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.
Off with your gray suits, guys--

  Off with your rebel gear--

They remind us too much of the cannon's roar,

The lightning flash of your deadly weapons,

  The fear 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.
Their color is like the smoke

  That drifted over your battle-line;

They remind you of the shout that rose

When the cowardly columns fell apart,

  And their dead were your deadly 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.
Off with the starry wreath,

 Ye who have led our charge;

 To you it was the promise of a glorious death,

 When we followed you across the bloody field,

 Where we defeated them one by one.


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 cross of stars--

  It's waved high for too long;

It's covered in battle scars,

But its shine ruins the Northern banner--

  It's time to put it away.


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.
Forget the vows we've made,

  Forget each memory--

Forget the thoughts of our brave dead--

Forget, forget to the dust, where their bodies lie

  And forget about 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.
Our visions were beautiful! Oh, they were as magnificent

As anything that comes from Fairyland;

  We were innocent kids with a strong belief,

  But god-like kids, whom neither death,

Nor threats, nor danger could sway from the path of Honor,

  In the place 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.
Our men were proud, as proud as anyone could be by birth;

Our women were pure and tender like violets;

  And when they spoke, their voices were thrilling

  Until in the evening, the whip-poor-will,

In the morning the mockingbird, were quiet 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.
And we had graves that held more glory

Than any old story passed down through tradition;

  And in our dream, we spun the thread

  Of principles for which our own immortal dead

Had bled and suffered long

  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.
Though in our country we had both enslaved and free,

Both were happy; and so God allowed it to be;--

  'Till envy desired our land

  And those beautiful fields our bravery gained:

But we didn't care much, for we remained asleep,

  In the place 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.
Our sleep became restless and our dreams became chaotic--

Red meteors zipped across the night sky;

  The moon was crimson; between the Twins,

  Barbed arrows shot through, and then started

The kind of conflict that happens when chaos rules,

  In the place 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.
Down from her sunlit heights smiled Liberty

And waved her cap as a sign of Victory--

  The world approved, and everywhere

  Except where the Russian bear growled,

The good, the brave, the just offered 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 imagined that we had a government—

We claimed our place among the world's great powers;

  We dreamed about status and titles,

  Until our vision became so real,

That anyone who dared to doubt faced ridicule

  In the land of our dreams.


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.
We looked up high: a banner was visible,

Whose field was pure and bright in its shine--

  Chivalry's cross its Union holds,

  And veterans swearing by their scars

Promised they would carry 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.
A hero came to us while we were asleep;

At first, he knelt down quietly—then he stood up and cried;

  Then picking up a thousand spears

  He charged across the battlefield;

Then he said goodbye and walked beyond the stars—

  In the place 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.
We looked again: another figure still

Gave hope, and strengthened each person's will--

  Full of grandeur, dressed with power,

  Self-assured, standing tall, he commanded the moment

With serious, impressive authority--a pillar of strength

  In the place 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 great Jove, in bronze, a guardian God,

Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood,

  Rome felt 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.
As the soldier wakes when the alarm sounds—

As the mother wakes when the baby falls—

  As the traveler wakes when the fire bells ring

  Around his sleeping area—

So our nation stirred with a single leap

  In the land where we had been 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.
Alas! I'm so grief-stricken! the shocked mother exclaimed--

While we were asleep, our brave sons have perished!

  Alas! I'm so grief-stricken! how unusual and heartbreaking,

  That all our glorious dreams have vanished

And left us with nothing tangible but the dead

  In the place 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.
And are they really dead, our fallen heroes?

No! dreamers! morning will call them to rise again

  From every valley--from every peak

  Where they appeared to die for what is right--

Their brave spirits will continue the fight

  In the place 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!
Yes, build your walls of stone or sand,

  But know, when everything is built—then,

The real defenses of the land

  Are in a community of free people!

The sons of fathers who understood in life,

  That, out of all virtues, manhood comes first,

Still promoting peace, yet ready for battle,

  And facing the worst for freedom's sake!


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!
What great examples we have!

  Oh! sons of Moultrie, Marion,--call

From the mansions of the past, the powers,

  That rescued you from the despot's control!

Do Sumter, Rutledge, Gadsden, still live?

  Oh! for your City by the Sea,

They willingly gave what men could give,

  Blood, life, and hard work, 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!
The huge inheritance, kept safe

  For your children, should be free

Of any shame, no losses from lust,

  Neither yours nor from the enemy!

Don’t let your sons, in the years to come,

  The children who carry your name,

Feeling proud of their grandfather’s fame,

  Be sad by their father’s grave in shame!


Charleston Mercury.
Charleston Mercury.


The Lines Around Petersburg.


By Samuel Davis, of North Carolina.


"Such a sleep they sleep,

The men I loved!"

                 Tennyson.
"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.
Oh, quiet, quiet! Now, as night approaches,

  And I’m left alone,

You feel so odd, so sorrowful resting here--

  And everything has changed so much,

Where everything was once full of life

  Through day and night, in intense and deadly conflict.


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!
If I have to cry, oh, please tell me, is there not

Some sorrowful story whispered into my ear

By ghostly echoes from your silent realm,

  Haunting this terrible place?

To my grieving soul, more silently expressive

Than words of glory on a sculpted monument,

Speaks that crumbling wall over there, where lies

The broken cannon, the ball rusting away,

Silent reminders of a doomed effort!

Rough altars built for costly sacrifice!

A massive work of brave hands left in your ruin!


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 now, that brave brotherhood,

  Who gathered here,

  That terrifying year,

In pain and danger, yet stood strong,--

Though Death raged hardest in the battle's chaos

And the ground was covered with many a glorious figure?

Where are they now, who, when the fighting ended,

With warm greetings around the campfire came together,--

And created an hour of joy, from victories earned,

To reward the day's tough work, when the sun finally 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!
Where are they?--

Let the unnamed grave speak for itself,--

In strange, unusual hillocks--often seen!

Alas, who knows how much is buried there!--

What worlds of love, and everything that could have been!

The rest are scattered now, we don’t know where;

And life brings each of us new tasks;

But still they seem to gather around me here,

To whom these places were familiar!

Now widely separated by mountains and streams,

Once brothers--still a brotherhood they appear;--

More united now, since a shared sorrow

Has led to a shared downfall of their hopes!


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.
Brave souls and true;--in hard work and danger tested,--

I still see them as in those glorious years,

When strong, and fighting bravely side by side,

All celebrated their deeds with praise,--and some with tears.

It's over! The sword is put away; the banner is folded,

No noise where the crashing missiles flew--

Only the dead remain on the battlefield;

The living go back to life's worries once more.


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!
Oh, Silence! Blessed dreams are waiting for you;

Here, Thought and Feeling open their precious treasures,

And Memory, collecting from the spoils of Fate,

Brings back Love's scattered treasures once again!

   So let me dream often,

   As the brightening stream

   Of the past gently guides me on,

Searching for those better days, lost, lost, sadly 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, listen! Between the trees, is there nothing but a summer breeze?

    Everything is gone--

Summer breezes come and go. Hope never strays like that--

No, nor does Woe ever really leave.


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, look! Down the lane is just April rain?

    Everything is gone--

Through the tangled green hedges, the sunbeam's shine glimmers like this,

Dropping from the breaks in the clouds?


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, listen! The air weighs heavy on my heart--

    Everything is gone!--

Even the birds that sang earlier for the frowning sun to shine,

Are silent near that drum by the gate.


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.
Sister, pray! It’s the enemy! Get down on your knees—really low—

    Everything is lost,

And the proud South is on her knees to a mixed-race like these—

But the dead rest beneath 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?
See—they're coming—their banners shine brightly in our dreary sky—

    Everything is gone—

Our Southern Cross flashed all night—just a fleeting light

In an instant vanished from view?


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.
Yeah, so cheerful—the brave display—marching from any fight—

    All is lost,--

Yet whoever boasts about your group, makes very little claim

If he thinks about the battles the 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.
On the wind, behind the trees. Do you remember when we stood--

    Everything is gone--

All except the memories of those days--but we've been here while the fog

Of the battle met the flames.


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.
Of the sun down that hill. Charge after charge—I still hear them.--

    Everything is gone!--

But I can hear the echoing crash—see the sabers shine and flash—

See one brave headlong rush.


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.
One, in the chaos of battle, his restless black horse plunged--

    Everything is lost--

I hear the partridge over there--did you see where he rode so

recklessly?

He turned once 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.
"Ah," you said, "the smoke is dark, I can barely see our banner"--

All is gone--

All but memory; yet I see, no matter how dark it is,

How to death--to death--he rode.


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.
Not a star he proudly carried, but a sword covered in blood--

    Everything is lost--

It crashes down on our small group like that wave on the shore--

Like that shore, they remain unaffected.


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.
For their closely packed ranks are powerful: thousands upon thousands crowd--

    All is lost,

And the few, loyal and courageous, exhausted, like that fading wave,

Step 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.
Low our banner drooped—and fell. Back he spurs, amidst shot and shell—

    All was gone,

But he waves it high—and then, on—we sweep them from the glen—

But he never 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,
Ah, I smiled to see him leave. How my cheek glowed with pride!

    Everything is gone--

All, of pride or hope, for me--but that evening, hopefully

I stood at the gate with you,


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.
Sister, when our soldiers came back this way at twilight, all is gone. In the woods, we heard many cheers—how we smiled! I wasn’t afraid until, at last, they brought in a coffin.


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.
Sweetest sister, are you crying? Hush! He just fell asleep—

    Everything is gone—

And it would have been better if he had died—free, no matter what happens to us—

Our painful chains untested.


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,
We were leaning on the gate. Do you remember, it got late—

    Everything is gone—

Yet I can see the stars so faint—see the shadows down the valley—

Hear the whip-poor-will’s distant cry,


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.
As if it were all a dream. Through those pines, the moon shone--

         Everything is gone--

On that funeral shroud of death--on that red sword without a sheath--

And--I knew who was beneath.



Did I say anything? I thought I asked to see your dead--

         Everything is gone---

Was I heartless? I didn’t cry. Tears are from fountains that aren't deep--

My heart is 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.
Sister, pray for me. Your eyes shine like God's own midnight skies--

         Everything is lost--

My spirit's chords are silent. I just look up, like the birds,

And trust Christ to speak 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 head is lowered; she looks so thoughtful,

  Staring at the ground with her pale, serious face,

It’s hard to tell if faith or despair,

  If anguish or trust, has a spot in her heart.


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 hair shone like gold in the cheerful sunlight,

  Her forehead was smooth like a calm, quiet sea:

But the lines of worry came with the shadows of night,

  And the gold turned silver when the light faded from the meadow.


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.
Her lips are slightly apart, deep thought in her eye,

  While sorrow etches lines in her beautiful forehead;

Her chest rises gently as she holds back a sigh,

  And just dampens her eyelid with the drops 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.
Why is she drooping down like that—why is she bending? Oh, look!

  There are shackles on her limbs! Look at her manacled hand!

She is weighed down by chains; but her spirit is free—

  Free to love and to mourn for her forsaken 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.
Her jailer, though clever, doesn't have the smarts to figure out

  How to trap her thoughts like he has her body;

The eagle that's taken from his soaring in the sky,

  From the bars of his cage can still look 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 doesn’t make a sound; her pain is silent;

  She hides her spirit’s wounds with pride;

She doesn’t speak to her shearers; the clanking of her chains

  And the beat of her heart reveal 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.
She looks around her with sadness; the scene is now so gloomy!

  How dense the deep shadows that cloud her sight!

The charred remains of homes where the earth was so green,

  And the smoke of her destruction where the skies were so 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.
Her daughters left with nothing but God,

  Her bravest sons gone--the light of her eyes;

But oppression's heavy foot doesn't crush the ground,

  And she knows that the chains can't hold 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.
She thinks about the ship she helped build,

  Of all the richest ships that sailed the seas;

Built so sturdy, crafted by skilled builders,

  To brave the fierce storm or to glide with 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.
The warmest winds blowing gently where she navigates,

  The grace of heaven lighting her way--

She could sail wherever she wanted to the gentle summer breezes,

  And steer clear of the terrifying areas of storms and fury.


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.
But the crew soon fought over the cargo she carried;  
  It was divided unfairly, the critics said;  
And the anger of men ruined the peace that once  
  Created a wide 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.
There were gaps in her boards—there were stains on her flag—

  So the extremists claimed, as they took control of her steering;

And from calm summer seas, redirected her bow where the cliffs

   And the wild waves surged to overpower the good ship.


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.
Then the South, although it truly loved the ship she carried,

  Since she first set its keel in the days long past--

Watched it dive recklessly into the wild waves' roar,

  And rush toward destruction and hopeless ruin.


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.
So she left the decks, believing in her heart

  That justice and God would protect her;

Not shattered like a weak, delicate spar, without a map,

  In the chaos and waves of the wild, stormy 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
The lifeboat that hung beside the sturdy ship

  She took and boarded the vast, empty sea,

Believing she'd arrive, with goodness as her guide,

  At the destination the mother ship couldn't reach.


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.
But the crew got angry, and they swore by their strength

  They would sink the brave boat that battled 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.
So they wrecked the brave boat; they lost all patience;

  They scattered ruins across the wild ocean--

Until the hull of the mother ship, battered and tossed,

  Drifted helpless in the waves next to 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.
And the brave rower, weighed down by shackles and chains,

  In the darkness of her heart, sings the proud ship's funeral song;

Half forgets, in its ruin, all her suffering and pains,

  As she watches its strong pieces drifting freely in the waves.


Savannah Broadside.
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, it's tired,

Around its staff it's hanging low,

  Fold it up, hide it, let it rest;

Because there's no one to wave it--

Because there's no one to honor it

In the blood that heroes shed for it.

  Fold it up, 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.
Take that banner down; it's all torn;

Its staff is broken, and it's shattered;

And the brave hearts are scattered

  Underneath it where it used to fly.

Oh! It's tough for us to fold it--

Hard to accept that no one can hold it--

Hard that those who once unfurled it,

  Now have to roll it up 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 that banner, furl it sadly;

Once six million people welcomed it happily,

And three hundred thousand, passionately,

  Promised it would always fly--

Promised that an enemy's sword would never

Tear apart hearts like theirs intertwined--

That their flag would fly forever

  Over 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 it, for the hands that held it,

And the hearts that cherished it,

  Cold and lifeless, lying low;

And that banner—it's dragging,

While around it the wailing

  Of its people fills the air;

For, even though they’ve been defeated, they love it,

They mourn the cold, dead hands that carried it,

Weep for those who fell before it—

Oh! how deeply they grieve for it,

  Now to furl and fold it like this!


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.
Roll up that banner; it's definitely bloody,

But it's wrapped in glory,

And it will be remembered in songs and stories,

  Even though its fabric is dusty;

For its fame, on the brightest pages--

Celebrated by poets, written by wise men--

Will echo through the ages--

  Roll it up now, even if we have to.


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.
Furl that banner—softly, slowly;

Furl it gently, it is sacred,

  For it hangs over the dead.

Touch it not, never unfurl it,

Let it droop there, furled forever,

  For its people's hopes are gone.


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!
Fold up the beautiful silken sun,

  Blessed by martyrs who gave their all,

And pile up the laurels it has won

  Above its final resting place.



No trumpet needs to harshly blare—

  No funeral drum needs to roll—

Nor black veils drape the coffin

 That releases a courageous 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 lived with Lee and adorned his brow

  From Fate's celestial hand:

It rests now in Jackson's sleep--

  As pure and as peaceful.


It was outnumbered--not outdone;

  And they shall shuddering tell,

Who struck the blow, its latest gun

  Flashed ruin as it fell.
It was outnumbered—not outdone;

  And they will shudderingly say,

Who delivered the blow, its final shot

  Flashed destruction as it fell.


Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze

  That smote the victor tar,

With death across the heaving seas

  Of fiery Trafalgar;
Sleep, wrapped up Ensign! not the breeze

  That struck the victorious sailor,

With death across the rolling 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 Arthur's knights, in the darkness

  Their noble deeds have shone;

Nor Gallic Henry's unmatched plume,

  Nor the one-of-a-kind Bayard;


Not all that antique fables feign,

  And Orient dreams disgorge;

Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain,

  And Lion of St. George,
Not all old tales are made up,

  And Eastern dreams reveal;

Nor the Silver Cross of Spain,

  And the 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.
Can I invite you to be pale! Proud symbol, still

  Your crimson glory shines

Beyond the extended shadows that fill

  Their most regal 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!
Sleep! in your own legendary night,--

  And may your decorated scroll,

A warrior's banner takes to the sky,

  To welcome the warrior's spirit!





        
        
    

    
    Download ePUB
    

    

    If you like this ebook, consider a donation!
    

    
    

      
    

    

    
        
      

    

  


  
  
  
  
↑