War Poetry of the South.

Edited By

William Gilmore Simms, LL. D.

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

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

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

To
The Women of the South
I Inscribe This Volume

They have lost a cause, but they have made a triumph! They have shown themselves worthy of any manhood; and will leave a record which shall survive all the caprices of time. They have proved themselves worthy of the best womanhood, and, in their posterity, will leave no race which shall be unworthy of the cause which is lost, or of the mothers, sisters and wives, who have taught such noble lessons of virtuous effort, and womanly endurance.

W.G.S.

Preface.

Several considerations have prompted the editor of this volume in the compilation of its pages. It constitutes a contribution to the national literature which is assumed to be not unworthy of it, and which is otherwise valuable as illustrating the degree of mental and art development which has been made, in a large section of the country, under circumstances greatly calculated to stimulate talent and provoke expression, through the higher utterances of passion and imagination. Though sectional in its character, and indicative of a temper and a feeling which were in conflict with nationality, yet, now that the States of the Union have been resolved into one nation, this collection is essentially as much the property of the whole as are the captured cannon which were employed against it during the progress of the late war. It belongs to the national literature, and will hereafter be regarded as constituting a proper part of it, just as legitimately to be recognized by the nation as are the rival ballads of the cavaliers and roundheads, by the English, in the great civil conflict of their country.

The emotional literature of a people is as necessary to the philosophical historian as the mere details of events in the progress of a nation. This is essential to the reputation of the Southern people, as illustrating their feelings, sentiments, ideas, and opinions--the motives which influenced their actions, and the objects which they had in contemplation, and which seemed to them to justify the struggle in which they were engaged. It shows with what spirit the popular mind regarded the course of events, whether favorable or adverse; and, in this aspect, it is even of more importance to the writer of history than any mere chronicle of facts. The mere facts in a history do not always, or often, indicate the true animus, of the action. But, in poetry and song, the emotional nature is apt to declare itself without reserve--speaking out with a passion which disdains subterfuge, and through media of imagination and fancy, which are not only without reserve, but which are too coercive in their own nature, too arbitrary in their influence, to acknowledge any restraints upon that expression, which glows or weeps with emotions that gush freely and freshly from the heart. With this persuasion, we can also forgive the muse who, in her fervor, is sometimes forgetful of her art.

And yet, it is believed that the numerous pieces of this volume will be found creditable to the genius and culture of the Southern people, and honorable, as in accordance with their convictions. They are derived from all the States of the late Southern Confederacy, and will be found truthfully to exhibit the sentiment and opinion prevailing more or less generally throughout the whole. The editor has had special advantages in making the compilation. Having a large correspondence in most of the Southern States, he has found no difficulty in procuring his material. Contributions have poured in upon him from all portions of the South; the original publications having been, in a large number of cases, subjected to the careful revision of the several authors. It is a matter of great regret with him that the limits of the present volume have not suffered him to do justice to, and find a place for, many of the pieces which fully deserve to be put on record. Some of the poems were quite too long for his purpose; a large number, delayed by the mails and other causes, were received too late for publication. Several collections, from Louisiana, North Carolina, and Texas, especially, are omitted for this reason. Many of these pieces are distinguished by fire, force, passion, and a free play of fancy. Briefly, his material would enable him to prepare another volume, similar to the present, which would not be unworthy of its companionship. He is authorized by his publisher to say that, in the event of the popular success of the present volume, he will cheerfully follow up its publication by a second, of like style, character, and dimensions.

The editor has seen with pleasure the volume of "Rebel Rhymes" edited by Mr. Moore, and of "South Songs," by Mr. De Leon. He has seen, besides, a single number of a periodical pamphlet called "The Southern Monthly," published at Memphis, Tenn. This has been supplied him by a contributor. He has seen no other publications of this nature, though he has heard of others, and has sought for them in vain. There may be others still forthcoming; for, in so large a field, with a population so greatly scattered as that of the South, it is a physical impossibility adequately to do justice to the whole by any one editor; and each of the sections must make its own contributions, in its own time, and according to its several opportunities. There will be room enough for all; and each, I doubt not, will possess its special claims to recognition and reward.

His own collections, made during the progress of the war, from the newspapers, chiefly, of South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia, were copious. Of these, many have been omitted from this collection, which, he trusts, will some day find another medium of publication. He has been able to ascertain the authorship, in many cases, of these writings; but must regret still that so many others, under a too fastidious delicacy, deny that their names should be made known. It is to be hoped that they will hereafter be supplied. To the numerous ladies who have so frankly and generously contributed to this collection, by sending originals and making copies, he begs to offer his most grateful acknowledgments.

A large proportion of the pieces omitted are of elegiac character. Of this class, he could find a place for such pieces only as were dedicated to the most distinguished of the persons falling in battle, or such as are marked by the higher characteristics of poetry--freshness, thought, and imagination. But many of the omitted pieces are quite worthy of preservation. Much space has not been given to that class of songs, camp catches, or marching ballads, which are so numerous in the "Rebel Rhymes" of Mr. Moore. The songs which are most popular are rarely such as may claim poetical rank. They depend upon lively music and certain spirit-stirring catchwords, and are rarely worked up with much regard to art or even, propriety. Still, many of these should have found a place in this volume, had adequate space been allowed the editor. It is his desire, as well as that of the publisher, to collect and bind together these fugitives in yet another publication. He will preserve the manuscripts and copies of all unpublished pieces, with the view to this object--keeping them always subject to the wishes of their several writers.

At the close, he must express the hope that these poems will be recognized, not only as highly creditable to the Southern mind, but as truly illustrative, if not justificatory of, that sentiment and opinion with which they have been written; which sentiment and opinion have sustained their people through a war unexampled in its horrors in modern times, and which has fully tested their powers of endurance, as well as their ability in creating their own resources, under all reverses, and amidst every form of privation.

W.G.S.

Brooklyn, September 8, 1866.

Contents.

• Ethnogenesis, Henry Timrod
• God Save the South, George H. Miles
• "You can never win them back", Catherine M. Warfield
• The Southern Cross, E. K. Blunt
• South Carolina, S. Henry Dickson
• The New Star, B. M. Anderson
• The Irrepressible Conflict, Tyrtæus
• The Southern Republic, Olivia T. Thomas
• "Is there then no Hope?", Charleston Courier
• The Fate of the Republic, Charleston Mercury
• The Voice of the South, Charleston Mercury
• The Oath of Freedom, James Barron Hope
• The Battle Cry of the South, James R. Randall
• Sonnet, Charleston Mercury
• Seventy-six and Sixty-one, J. W. Overall
• "Reddato Gladium", Richmond Whig
• "Nay, keep the Sword", Richmond Whig
• Coercion, John R. Thompson
• A Cry to Arms, Henry Timrod
• Jackson, the Alexandria Martyr, W. H. Holcombe
• The Martyr of Alexandria, James W. Simmons
• The Blessed Union, Charleston Mercury
• The Fire of Freedom, Richmond paper
• Hymn to the National Flag, Mrs. M. J. Preston
• Sonnet--moral of party, Charleston Mercury
• Our Faith in '61, A. J. Requier
• "Wouldst thou have me love thee?", Alex. B. Meek
• Enlisted to-day, Anonymous
• "My Maryland", James R. Randall
• The Boy Soldier, Lady of Savannah
• The good old cause, John D. Phelan
• Manassas, Catherine M. Warfield
• Virginia, Ibid.
• The War-Christian's Thanksgiving, S. Teackle Wallis
• Sonnet, Charleston Mercury
• Marching to Death, J. Herbert Sass
• Charleston, Henry Timrod
• Charleston, Paul H. Hayne
• "Ye Men of Alabama", Jno. D. Phelan
• Nec temere, nec timida, Annie C. Ketchum
• Dixie, Albert Pike
• The Old Rifleman, Frank Ticknor
• Battle Hymn, Charleston Mercury
• Kentucky, she is sold, J. R. Barrick
• The Ship of State, Charleston Mercury
• "In his blanket on the ground," Caroline H. Gervais
• The Mountain Partisan, Charleston Mercury
• The Cameo Bracelet, James R. Randall
• Zollicoffer, Henry L. Flash
• Beauregard, Catherine M. Warfield
• South Carolina, Gossypium
• Carolina, Henry Timrod
• My Mother Land, Paul H. Hayne
• Joe Johnston, Jno. R. Thompson
• Over the River, Jane T. H. Cross
• The Confederacy, Jane T. H. Cross
• President Davis, Jane T. H. Cross
• The Rifleman's Fancy Shot, Anonymous
• "All quiet along the Potomac"
• Prize Address, Henry Timrod
• The Battle of Richmond, Geo. Herbert Sass
• The Guerrillas, S. Teackle Wallis
• A Farewell to Pope, Jno. R. Thompson
• Sonnet--Public Prayer, South Carolinian
• Battle of Belmont, J.A. Signaigo
• Vicksburg, Paul H. Hayne
• Ballad of the War, G.H. Sass
• The two Armies, Henry Timrod
• The Legion of Honor, H.L. Flash
• Clouds in the West, A.J. Requier
• Georgia! My Georgia!, Carrie B. Sinclair
• Song of the Texan Rangers, Anonymous
• Kentucky required to yield her arms, Anonymous
• There's life in the old land yet, J.B. Randall
• "Tell the boys the War is ended," Emily J. Moore
• The Southern Cross, St. George Tucker
• England's Neutrality, John R. Thompson
• Close the Ranks, J.L. O'Sullivan
• The Sea-kings of the South, Ed. G. Bruce
• The Return, Anonymous
• Our Christmas Hymn, J. Dickson Bruns
• Charleston, Miss E.B. Cheesborough
• Gathering Song, Annie Chambers Ketchum
• Christmas, Henry Timrod
• A Prayer for Peace, S. Teackle Wallis
• The Band in the Pines, Jno. Esten Cooke
• At Fort Pillow, James R. Randall
• From the Rapidan, Anonymous
• Song of our Southland, Mrs. Mary Ware
• Sonnets, Paul H. Hayne
• Hospital Duties, Charleston Courier
• They cry Peace, Peace!, Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs
• Ballad--"What! have ye thought?" Charleston Mercury
• Missing, Anonymous
• Ode--"Souls of Heroes," Charleston Mercury
• Jackson, Henry L. Flash
• Captain Maffit's Ballad, Charleston Mercury
• Melt the Bells, F. T. Rockett
• John Pelham, James R. Randall
• "Ye batteries of Beauregard," J. R. Barrick
• "When Peace returns," Olivia T. Thomas
• The Right above the Wrong, J. W. Overall
• Carmen Triumphale, Henry Timrod
• The Fiend Unbound, Charleston Mercury
• The Unknown Dead, Henry Timrod
• Ode--"Do ye quail?" W. Gilmore Simms
• Ode--"Our City by the Sea," Ibid.
• The Lone Sentry, J. R. Randall
• My Soldier Brother, Sallie E. Bollard
• Seaweeds, Annie Chambers Ketchum
• The Salkehatchie, Emily J. Moore
• The Broken Mug, Jno. Esten Cooke
• Carolina, Anna Peyre Dinnies
• Our Martyrs, Paul H. Hayne
• Cleburne, Mrs. M. A. Jennings
• The Texan Marseillaise, James Harris
• "O, tempora! O, mores," J. Dickson Bruns
• Our Departed Comrades, J. M. Shirer
• No Land like Ours, J. R. Barrick
• The Angel of the Church, W. Gilmore Simms
• Ode--"Shell the old City," Ibid.
• The Enemy shall never reach your City, Charleston Mercury
• War Waves, Catherine G. Poyas
• Old Moultrie, Ibid.
• Only one killed, Julia L. Keyes
• Land of King Cotton, J. A. Signaigo
• If you love me, Ibid.
• The Cotton Boll, Henry Timrod
• Battle of Charleston Harbor, Paul H. Hayne
• Fort Wagner, W. Gilmore Simms
• Sumter in Ruins, Ibid.
• Morris Island, Ibid.
• Promise of Spring, South Carolinian
• Spring, Henry Timrod
• Chickamauga, Richmond Sentinel
• In Memoriam--Bishop Polk, Viola
• Stonewall Jackson, H. L. Flash
• Stonewall Jackson--a Dirge, Anonymous
• Beaufort, W. J. Grayson
• The Empty Sleeve, J. R. Bagby
• Cotton Burners' Hymn, Memphis Appeal
• Reading the List, Anonymous
• His Last Words, Anonymous
• Charge of Hagood's Brigade, J. Blythe Allston
• Carolina, Jno. A, Wagener
• Savannah, Alethea S. Burroughs
• "Old Betsy," John Killian
• Awake! Arise! G. W. Archer
• Albert Sydney Johnston, Mary Jervey
• Eulogy of the Dead, B. F. Porter
• The Beaufort Exile, Anonymous
• Somebody's Darling, Miss Maria LaCoste
• John Pegram, W. Gordon McGabe
• Captives Going Home, Anonymous
• Heights of Mission Ridge, J. A. Signaigo
• Our Left at Manassas, Anonymous
• On to Richmond, J. R. Thompson
• Turner Ashby, Ibid.
• Captain Latanè, Ibid.
• The Men, Maurice Bell
• The Rebel Soldier, Kentucky Girl
• Battle of Hampton Roads, Ossian D. Gorman
• "Is this a time to dance?" Anonymous
• The Maryland Line, J. D, McCabe, Jr.
• I give my Soldier Boy a blade, H. M. L.
• Sonnet--Avatar of Hell, Anonymous
• Stonewall Jackson's Way, Anonymous
• The Silent March, Anonymous
• Pro Memoria, Ina M. Porter
• Southern Homes in Ruins, R. B. Vance
• Rappahannock Army Song, J. C. McLemore
• Soldier in the Rain, Julia L. Keyes
• My Country, W. D. Porter
• After the Battle, Miss Agnes Leonard
• Our Confederate Dead, Lady of Augusta
• Ye Cavaliers of Dixie, B. F. Porter
• Song of Spring, Jno. A. Wagener
• What the Village Bell said, Jno. C. McLemore
• The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star, A. P. Gray
• Southern War Hymn, Jno. A. Wagener
• The Battle Rainbow, J. R. Thompson
• Stonewall Jackson, Richmond Broadside
• Dirge for Ashby, Mrs. M. J. Preston
• Sacrifice, Charleston Mercury
• Sonnet, Ibid.
• Grave of A. Sydney Johnston, J. B. Synott
• "Not doubtful of your Fatherland," Charleston Mercury
• Only a Soldier's grave, S. A. Jonas
• The Guerrilla Martyrs, Charleston Mercury
• "Libera Nos, O Domine!" James Barron Hope
• The Knell shall sound once more, Charleston Mercury
• Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion, Ina M. Porter
• Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans, Ibid.
• The Foe at the Gates--Charleston, J. Dickson Bruns
• Savannah Fallen, Alethea S. Burroughs
• Bull Run--A Parody, Anonymous
• "Stack Arms," Jos. Blythe Allston
• Doffing the Gray, Lieutenant Falligant
• In the Land where we were dreaming, D. B. Lucas
• Ballad--"Yes, build your Walls," Charleston Mercury
• The Lines around Petersburg, Samuel Davis
• All is gone, Fadette--Memphis Appeal
• Bowing her Head, Savannah Broadside
• The Confederate Flag, Anna Peyre Dinnies
• Ashes of Glory, A. J. Requier

War Poetry of the South

Ethnogenesis.

By Henry Timrod, of S.C.

Written during the meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery, February, 1861.

I.

Hath not the morning dawned with added light?
And shall not evening--call another star
Out of the infinite regions of the night,
To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are
A nation among nations; and the world
Shall soon behold in many a distant port
      Another flag unfurled!
Now, come what may, whose favor need we court?
And, under God, whose thunder need we fear?
      Thank Him who placed us here
Beneath so kind a sky--the very sun
Takes part with us; and on our errands run
All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain
Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year,
And all the gentle daughters in her train,
March in our ranks, and in our service wield
      Long spears of golden grain!
A yellow blossom as her fairy shield,
June fling's her azure banner to the wind,
    While in the order of their birth
Her sisters pass; and many an ample field
Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold
      Its endless sheets unfold
THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth
Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm
      Our happy land shall sleep
      In a repose as deep
  As if we lay intrenched behind
Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm!

II.

And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought,
      In their own treachery caught,
      By their own fears made bold,
      And leagued with him of old,
Who long since, in the limits of the North,
Set up his evil throne, and warred with God--
What if, both mad and blinded in their rage,
Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage,
And with a hostile step profane our sod!
We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth
To meet them, marshalled by the Lord of Hosts,
And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts
Of Moultrie and of Eutaw--who shall foil
Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone,
      But every stock and stone
      Shall help us; but the very soil,
And all the generous wealth it gives to toil,
And all for which we love our noble land,
Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand,
      The heart of woman, and her hand,
Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence,
      Gentle, or grave, or grand;
      The winds in our defence
Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend
      Their firmness and their calm;
And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend
      The strength of pine and palm!

III.

Nor would we shun the battle-ground,
      Though weak as we are strong;
Call up the clashing elements around,
      And test the right and wrong!
On one side, creeds that dare to teach
What Christ and Paul refrained to preach;
Codes built upon a broken pledge,
And charity that whets a poniard's edge;
Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor
To starve and shiver at the schemer's door,
While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled,
He turns some vast philanthropy to gold;
Religion taking every mortal form
But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm,
Where not to vile fanatic passion urged,
Or not in vague philosophies submerged,
Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven,
And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven!
And on the other, scorn of sordid gain,
Unblemished honor, truth without a stain,
Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth,
And, for the poor and humble, laws which give,
Not the mean right to buy the right to live,
      But life, and home, and health!
To doubt the end were want of trust in God,
      Who, if he has decreed
That we must pass a redder sea
Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee,
      Will surely raise at need
      A Moses with his rod!

IV.

But let our fears-if fears we have--be still,
And turn us to the future! Could we climb
Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time,
The rapturous sight would fill
      Our eyes with happy tears!
Not only for the glories which the years
Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea,
And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be;
But for the distant peoples we shall bless,
And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress:
For, to give labor to the poor,
      The whole sad planet o'er,
And save from want and crime the humblest door,
Is one among--the many ends for which
      God makes us great and rich!
The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe
When all shall own it, but the type
Whereby we shall be known in every land
Is that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand,
And through the cold, untempered ocean pours
Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores
May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze
Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.

God Save the South.

George H. Miles, of Baltimore.

God save the South!
God save the South!
Her altars and firesides--
  God save the South!
Now that the war is nigh--
Now that we arm to die--
Chanting--our battle-cry,
  Freedom or Death!

God be our shield!
At home or a-field,
Stretch Thine arm over us,
  Strengthen and save!
What though they're five to one,
Forward each sire and son,
Strike till the war is done,
  Strike to the grave.

God make the right
Stronger than might!
Millions would trample us
  Down in their pride.
Lay, thou, their legions low;
Roll back the ruthless foe;
Let the proud spoiler know
  God's on our side!

Hark! honor's call,
Summoning all--
Summoning all of us
  Up to the strife.
Sons of the South, awake!
Strike till the brand shall break!
Strike for dear honor's sake,
  Freedom and Life!

Rebels before
Were our fathers of yore;
Rebel, the glorious name
  Washington bore,
Why, then, be ours the same
Title he snatched from shame;
Making it first in fame,
  Odious no more.

War to the hilt!
Theirs be the guilt,
Who fetter the freeman
  To ransom the slave.
Up, then, and undismayed,
Sheathe not the battle-blade?
Till the last foe is laid
  Low in the grave.

God save the South!
God save the South!
Dry the dim eyes that now
  Follow our path.
Still let the light feet rove
Safe through the orange grove;
Still keep the land we love
  Safe from all wrath.

God save the South!
God save the South!
Her altars and firesides--
  God save the South!
For the rude war is nigh,
And we must win or die;
Chanting our battle-cry
  Freedom or Death!

You Can Never Win Them Back.

By Catherine M. Warfield.

You can never win them back,
                         never! never!
Though they perish on the track
                         of your endeavor;
Though their corses strew the earth
That smiled upon their birth,
And blood pollutes each hearthstone
                         forever!

They have risen, to a man
                         stern and fearless;
Of your curses and your ban
                         they are careless.
Every hand is on its knife;
Every gun is primed for strife;
Every palm contains a life
                    high and peerless!

You have no such blood as theirs
                    for the shedding,
In the veins of Cavaliers
                    was its heading.
You have no such stately men
In your abolition den,
To march through foe and fen,
                    nothing dreading.

They may fall before the fire
                    of your legions,
Paid in gold for murd'rous hire--
                    bought allegiance!
But for every drop you shed
You shall leave a mound of dead;
And the vultures shall be fed
                    in our regions.

But the battle to the strong
                    is not given,
While the Judge of right and wrong
                    sits in heaven!
And the God of David still
Guides each pebble by His will;
There are giants yet to kill--
                    wrong's unshriven.

The Southern Cross.

By E. K. Blunt.

In the name of God! Amen!
  Stand for our Southern rights;
On our side, Southern men,
  The God of battles fights!
Fling the invaders far--
  Hurl back their work of woe--
The voice is the voice of a brother,
  But the hands are the hands of a foe.
They come with a trampling army,
  Invading our native sod--
Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer,
  In the name of the mighty God!

They are singing our song of triumph,[1]
  Which proclaimed us proud and free--
While breaking away the heartstrings
  Of our nation's harmony.
Sadly it floateth from us,
  Sighing o'er land and wave;
Till, mute on the lips of the poet,
  It sleeps in his Southern grave.
Spirit and song departed!
  Minstrel and minstrelsy!
We mourn ye, heavy hearted,--
  But we will--we will be free!

They are waving our flag above us,
  With the despot's tyrant will;
With our blood they have stained its colors,
  And they call it holy still.
With tearful eyes, but steady hand,
  We'll tear its stripes apart,
And fling them, like broken fetters,
  That may not bind the heart.
But we'll save our stars of glory,
  In the might of the sacred sign
Of Him who has fixed forever
  One "Southern Cross" to shine.

Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer!
  Solemn, and strong, and sure!
The fight shall not be longer
  Than God shall bid endure.
By the life that but yesterday
  Waked with the infant's breath!
By the feet which, ere morning, may
  Tread to the soldier's death!
By the blood which cries to heaven--
  Crimson upon our sod!
Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer,
  In the name of the mighty God!

[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all whose descendants are Confederates.

South Carolina.

December 20, 1860.

The deed is done! the die is cast;
The glorious Rubicon is passed:
Hail, Carolina! free at last!

Strong in the right, I see her stand
Where ocean laves the shelving sand;
Her own Palmetto decks the strand.

She turns aloft her flashing eye;
Radiant, her lonely star[1] on high
Shines clear amidst the darkening sky.

Silent, along those azure deeps
Its course her silver crescent keeps,
And in soft light the landscape steeps.

Fling forth her banner to the gale!
Let all the hosts of earth assail,--
Their fury and their force shall fail.

Echoes the wide resounding shore,
With voice above th' Atlantic roar,
Her sons proclaim her free once more!

Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State!
In numbers few, in daring great,
Thus to affront the frowns of fate!

And while mad triumph rules the hour,
And thickening clouds of menace lower,
Bear back the tide of tyrant power.

With steadfast courage, faltering never,
Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever:
Hail, Carolina! free forever!

[1] The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon.

The New Star.

By B.M. Anderson.

Another star arisen; another flag unfurled;
Another name inscribed among the nations of the world;
Another mighty struggle 'gainst a tyrant's fell decree,
And again a burdened people have uprisen, and are free.

The spirit of the fathers in the children liveth yet;
Liveth still the olden blood which dimmed the foreign bayonet;
And the fathers fought for freedom, and the sons for freedom fight;
Their God was with the fathers--and is still the God of right!

Behold! the skies are darkened! A gloomy cloud hath lowered!
Shall it break before the sun of peace, or spread in rage impowered?
Shall we have the smile of friendship, or shall it be the blow?
Shall it be the right hand to the friend, or the red hand to the foe?

In peacefulness we wish to live, but not in slavish fear;
In peacefulness we dare not die, dishonored on our bier.
To our allies of the Northern land we offer heart and hand,
But if they scorn our friendship--then the banner and the brand!

Honor to the new-born nation! and honor to the brave!
A country freed from thraldom, or a soldier's honored grave.
Every step shall be contested; every rivulet run red,
And the invader, should he conquer, find the conquered in the dead.

But victory shall follow where the sons of freedom go,
And the signal for the onset be the death-knell of the foe;
And hallowed shall the spot be where he was so bravely met,
And the star which yonder rises, rises never more to set.

The Irrepressible Conflict.

Tyrtæus.--Charleston Mercury.

Then welcome be it, if indeed it be
  The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come;
  There will be mitigation of the doom,
If, battling to the last, our sires shall see
Their sons contending for the homes made free
  In ancient conflict with the foreign foe!
  If those who call us brethren strike the blow,
  No common conflict shall the invader know!
War to the knife, and to the last, until
  The sacred land we keep shall overflow
With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill,
Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave!
Aye, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave
May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave.

The Southern Republic.

By Olivia Tully Thomas, of Mississippi.

In the galaxy of nations,
  A nation's flag's unfurled,
Transcending in its martial pride
  The nations of the world.
Though born of war, baptized in blood,
  Yet mighty from the time,
Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood--
  Dismembered, yet sublime.

And braver heart, and bolder hand,
  Ne'er formed a fabric fair
As Southern wisdom can command,
  And Southern valor rear.
Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway,
  Or recognize her birth,
The land blood-bought for Liberty
  Will reign supreme on earth.

Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave!
  Thy sons are bold and free,
And pour life's crimson tide to save
  Their birthright, Liberty!
Their fertile fields and sunny plains
  That yield the wealth alone,
That's coveted for greedy gains
  By despots-and a throne!

Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn,
  Thy altars desolate;
Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn
  At war's relentless fate;
And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears,
  Her homes will consecrate,
While more than brass or marble rears
  The trophy of her great.

Oh! land that boasts each gallant name
  Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE,
And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame
  Extends beyond the sea;
Far rather let thy plains become,
  From gulf to mountain cave,
One honored sepulchre and tomb,
  Than we the tyrant's slave!

Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free,
  Redeemed by blood and war;
Through agony and gloom we see
  Thy hope--a glimmering star;
Thy banner, too, may proudly float,
  A herald on the seas--
Thy deeds of daring worlds remote
  Will emulate and praise!

But who can paint the impulse pure,
  That thrills and nerves thy brave
To deeds of valor, that secure
  The rights their fathers gave?
Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain,
  Crowned with the warrior's wreath,
From beds of fame their proud refrain
  Was "Liberty or Death!"

"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?"

Charleston Courier.

Is there, then, no hope for the nations?
  Must the record of Time be the same?
And shall History, in all her narrations,
  Still close each last chapter in shame?
Shall the valor which grew to be glorious,
  Prove the shame, as the pride of a race:
And a people, for ages victorious,
  Through the arts of the chapman, grow base?

Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman,
  Each strides o'er the scene and departs!
How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman,
  How wondrous their virtues and arts!
Rude valor, at first, when beginning,
  The nation through blood took its name;
Then the wisdom, which hourly winning
  New heights in its march, rose to Fame!

How noble the tale for long ages,
  Blending Beauty with courage and might!
What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages,
  Made eminent stars for each height!
While their people, with reverence ample.
  Brought tribute of praise to the Great,
Whose wisdom and virtuous example,
  Made virtue the pride of the State!

Ours, too, was as noble a dawning,
  With hopes of the Future as high:
Great men, each a star of the morning,
  Taught us bravely to live and to die!
We fought the long fight with our foeman,
  And through trial--well-borne--won a name,
Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman,
  And worthy as lasting a fame!

Shut the Book! We must open another!
  O Southron! if taught by the Past,
Beware, when thou choosest a brother,
  With what ally thy fortunes are cast!
Beware of all foreign alliance,
  Of their pleadings and pleasings beware,
Better meet the old snake with defiance,
  Than find in his charming a snare!

The Fate of the Republics.

Charleston Mercury.

Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years--
Rear'd with such art and wisdom--by a race
Of giant sires, in virtue all compact,
Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals
Of public strength, and peoples capable
Of great conceptions for the common good,
And of enduring liberties, kept strong
Through purity;--tumbles and falls apart,
Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd
Within, without, by greed of avarice,
And vain ambition for supremacy.

So fell the old Republics--Gentile and Jew,
Roman and Greek--such evermore the record;
Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed,
From conquest and from triumph, into fall!
The glory that we see exchanged for guilt
Might yet be glory. There were pride enough,
And emulous ambition to achieve,--
Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment,
To do the work of States--and there were courage
And sense of public need, and public welfare,--
And duty--in a brave but scattered few,
Throughout the States--had these been credited
To combat 'gainst the popular appetites.
But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught,
As lacking favor with the popular lusts!
They found reward in exile or in death!
And he alone who could debase his spirit,
And file his mind down to the basest nature
Grew capp'd with rule!--

So, with the lapse
From virtue, the great nation forfeits all
The pride with the security--the liberty,
With that prime modesty which keeps the heart
Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts
That wait upon Humanity, and teach
Humility, as best check and guaranty,
Against the wolfish greed of appetite!
Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom,
When peoples loathe to listen to the praise
Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims,
Eagerly set upon them to revile,
And banish from their councils! Worse than all
When the great man, succumbing to the mass,
Yields up his mind as a low instrument
To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:--
Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe
Of place or profit, and makes sale of States
To Party!

Thus and then are States subdued--
'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts,
With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay;
Insolent, reckless of account as right,--
While lust grows license, and tears off the robes
From justice; and makes right a thing of mock;
And puts a foolscap on the head of law,
And plucks the baton of authority
From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head.

So rages still the irresponsible power,
Using the madden'd populace as hounds,
To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat.
The ancient history becomes the new--
The ages move in circles, and the snake
Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth.
Thus still in all the past!--and man the same
In all the ages--a poor thing of passion,
Hot greed, and miserable vanity,
And all infirmities of lust and error,
Makes of himself the wretched instrument
To murder his own hope.

So empires fall,--
Past, present, and to come!--
      There is no hope
For nations or peoples, once they lapse from virtue
And fail in modest sense of what they are--
Creatures of weakness, whose security
Lies in meek resting on the law of God,
And in that wise humility which pleads
Ever for his guardian watch and Government,
Though men may bear the open signs of rule.
Humility is safety! could men learn
The law, "ne sutor ultra crepidam,"
And the sagacious cobbler, at his last,
Content himself with paring leather down
To heel and instep, nicely fitting parts,
In proper adaptation, to the foot,
We might have safety.

Rightly to conceive
What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will
To this one measure only, is the whole
Of that grand rule, and wise necessity,
Which only gives us safety.

Where a State,
Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds
Set for their progress, they must topple and fall
Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed
All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all
Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause!
The terrible conjunction of the event,
Close with the provocation, stands apart,
A social beacon in all histories;
And yet we take no heed, but still rush on,
Under mixed sway of greed and vanity,
And like the silly boy with his card-castle,
Precipitate to ruin as we build.

The Voice of the South.

Tyrtæus.--Charleston Mercury.

'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave,
And fits but ill to be held by the slave;
And sad were the thought, if one of our band
Should give up the hope of so fair a land.

But the hour has come, and the times that tried
The souls of men in our days of pride,
Return once more, and now for the brave,
To merit the boon which our fathers gave.

And if there be one base spirit who stands
Now, in our peril, with folded hands,
Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought,
With the sword with which his old father fought.

An oath sublime should the freeman take,
Still braving the fight and the felon stake,--
The oath that his sires brought over the sea,
When they pledged their swords to Liberty!

'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight,
They battled and bled in behalf of the right;
'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign,
And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine.

We cannot forget, and we dare not forego,
The holy duty to them that we owe,
The duty that pledges the soul of the son
To keep the freedom his sire hath won.

To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil
One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil,
One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare
Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share!

Art ready for this, dear brother, who still
Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill?
Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear,
Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear?

Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart,
Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part;
The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands,
And waits but the word for the flashing of brands!

And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,--and thou
Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow;
And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves
Where Apala-chicola[1] glides through her groves.

Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep,
The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep;
Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call,
To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall!

Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves,
The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves,
That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth,
Would rob us of right without reason or ruth.

Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong,
Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong?
Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls,
Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls.

At last ye are wakened, all rising at length,
In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength;
And now let the struggle begin which shall see,
If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free.

We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came,
To welcome the ruin, but never the shame;
To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right,
While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight.

Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw
The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;--
Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here,
To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear.

Let those who defile and deface it, be sure,
No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure;
We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain,
With which they would fetter our free souls in vain.

How goodly and bright were its links at the first!
How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst!
We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave,
But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave.

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

The Oath of Freedom.

By James Barron Hope.

"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be free."

Born free, thus we resolve to live:
  By Heaven we will be free!
By all the stars which burn on high--
By the green earth--the mighty sea--
By God's unshaken majesty,
  We will be free or die!
    Then let the drums all roll!
      Let all the trumpets blow!
         Mind, heart, and soul,
         We spurn control
      Attempted by a foe!

Born free, thus we resolve to live:
  By Heaven we will be free!
And, vainly now the Northmen try
To beat us down--in arms we stand
To strike for this our native land!
  We will be free or die!
    Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, we thus resolve to live:
  By Heaven we will be free!
Our wives and children look on high,
Pray God to smile upon the right!
And bid us in the deadly fight
  As freemen live or die!
    Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, thus we resolve to live:
  By Heaven we will be free!
And ere we cease this battle-cry,
Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt,
On bayonet or sabre hilt!
  We will be free or die!
    Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, thus we resolve to live:
  By Heaven we will be free!
Defiant let the banners fly,
Shake out their glories to the air,
And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear
  We will be free or die!
    Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, thus we resolve to live:
  By Heaven we will be free!
And to this oath the dead reply--
Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts--
These with us, and the God of hosts,
  We will be free or die!
    Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

The Battle-Cry of the South.

By James R. Randall.

Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our sanctuary.--Maccabees I.

Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black,
  And the wail of the South wings forth;
Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack,
  And the vampires of the North?
Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal,
  Strike! with a ruthless hand--
Strike! with the vengeance of the soul,
  For your bright, beleaguered land!
    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
      And a craven is he who flees--
    For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,[1]
      And the God of the Maccabees!

Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare,
  And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown--
Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there
  In the cliffs of the Father's frown:
Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light
  Which the Sun of Justice gives--
In the caves and sepulchres of night
  Jehovah the Lord King lives!
    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
      And a craven is he who flees--
    For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
      And the God of the Maccabees!

Think of the dead by the Tennessee,
  In their frozen shrouds of gore--
Think of the mothers who shall see
  Those darling eyes no more!
But better are they in a hero grave
  Than the serfs of time and breath,
For they are the children of the brave,
  And the cherubim of death!
    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
      And a craven is he who flees--
    For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
      And the God of the Maccabees!

Better the charnels of the West,
  And a hecatomb of lives,
Than the foul invader as a guest
  'Mid your sisters and your wives--
But a spirit lurketh in every maid,
  Though, brothers, ye should quail,
To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade,
  And the livid spike of Jael!
    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
      And a craven is he who flees--
    For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
      And the God of the Maccabees!

Brothers! I see you tramping by,
  With the gladiator gaze,
And your shout is the Macedonian cry
  Of the old, heroic days!
March on! with trumpet and with drum,
  With rifle, pike, and dart,
And die--if even death must come--
  Upon your country's heart!
    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
      And a craven is he who flees--
    For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
      And the God of the Maccabees!

Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black,
  And the wail of the South wings forth;
Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack,
  And the vampires of the North?
Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal,
  Strike! with a ruthless hand--
Strike! with the vengeance of the soul
  For your bright, beleaguered land!
    To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
      And a craven is he who flees--
    For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
      And the God of the Maccabees!

[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus.

Sonnet.

Charleston Mercury.

Democracy hath done its work of ill,
  And, seeming freemen, never to be free,
  While the poor people shout in vanity,
The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will.
How swift the abasement follows! But few years,
  And we stood eminent. Great men were ours,
  Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers!
How have we sunk below our proper spheres!
No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place,
  The nimble marmozet and magpie men;
  Creatures that only mock and mimic, when
They run astride the shoulders of the race;
Democracy, in vanity elate,
Clothing but sycophants in robes of state.

Seventy-Six and Sixty-One.

By John W. Overall, of Louisiana.

Ye spirits of the glorious dead!
  Ye watchers in the sky!
Who sought the patriot's crimson bed,
  With holy trust and high--
Come, lend your inspiration now,
  Come, fire each Southern son,
Who nobly fights for freemen's rights,
  And shouts for sixty-one.

Come, teach them how, on hill on glade,
  Quick leaping from your side,
The lightning flash of sabres made
  A red and flowing tide--
How well ye fought, how bravely fell,
  Beneath our burning sun;
And let the lyre, in strains of fire,
  So speak of sixty-one.

There's many a grave in all the land,
  And many a crucifix,
Which tells how that heroic band
  Stood firm in seventy-six--
Ye heroes of the deathless past,
  Your glorious race is run,
But from your dust springs freemen's trust,
  And blows for sixty-one.

We build our altars where you lie,
  On many a verdant sod,
With sabres pointing to the sky,
  And sanctified of God;
The smoke shall rise from every pile,
  Till freedom's cause is won,
And every mouth throughout the South,
  Shall shout for sixty-one!

"Reddato Gladium."

Virginia to Winfield Scott.

A voice is heard in Ramah!
  High sounds are on the gale!
Notes to wake buried patriots!
  Notes to strike traitors pale!
Wild notes of outraged feeling
  Cry aloud and spare him not!
'Tis Virginia's strong appealing,
  And she calls to Winfield Scott!

Oh! chief among ten thousand!
  Thou whom I loved so well,
Star that has set, as never yet
  Since son of morning fell!
I call not in reviling,
  Nor to speak thee what thou art;
I leave thee to thy death-bed,
  And I leave thee to thy heart!

But by every mortal hope,
  And by every mortal fear;
By all that man deems sacred,
  And that woman holds most dear;
Yea! by thy mother's honor,
  And by thy father's grave,
By hell beneath, and heaven above,
  Give back the sword I gave!

Not since God's sword was planted
  To guard life's heavenly tree,
Has ever blade been granted,
  Like that bestowed on thee!
To pierce me with the steel I gave
  To guard mine honor's shrine,
Not since Iscariot lived and died,
  Was treason like to thine!

Give back the sword! and sever
  Our strong and mighty tie!
We part, and part forever,
  To conquer or to die!
In sorrow, not in anger,
  I speak the word, "We part!"
For I leave thee to thy death-bed,
  And I leave thee to thy heart!

Richmond Whig.

Nay, Keep the Sword.

By Carrie Clifford.

Nay, keep the sword which once we gave,
  A token of our trust in thee;
The steel is true, the blade is keen--
  False as thou art it cannot be.

We hailed thee as our glorious chief,
  With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow;
Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue:
  In whispers hushed we breathe it now.

Yes, keep it till thy dying day;
  Momentous ever let it be,
Of a great treasure once possessed--
  A people's love now lost to thee.

Thy mother will not bow her head;
  She bares her bosom to thee now;
But may the bright steel fail to wound--
  It is more merciful than thou.

And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow,
  Thousands of sons of this fair land
Will rise, and, in their anger just,
  Will stay the rash act of thy hand.

And when in terror thou shalt hear
  Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry
And feel the weight of thy great crime,
  Then fall upon thy sword and die.

Those aged locks I'll not reproach,
  Although upon a traitor's brow;
We've looked with reverence on them once,
  We'll try and not revile them now.

But her true sons and daughters pray,
  That ere thy day of reckoning be,
Thy ingrate heart may feel the pain
  To know thy mother once more free.

Coercion: A Poem for Then and Now.

By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.

Who talks of coercion? who dares to deny
  A resolute people the right to be free?
Let him blot out forever one star from the sky,
  Or curb with his fetter the wave of the sea!

Who prates of coercion? Can love be restored
  To bosoms where only resentment may dwell?
Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword,
  Or good-will among men be established by shell?

Shame! shame!--that the statesman and trickster, forsooth,
  Should have for a crisis no other recourse,
Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth,
  Than the old brutum fulmen of tyranny--force!

From the holes where fraud, falsehood, and hate slink away--
  From the crypt in which error lies buried in chains--
This foul apparition stalks forth to the day,
  And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.

Could you conquer us, men of the North--could you bring
  Desolation and death on our homes as a flood--
Can you hope the pure lily, affection, will spring
  From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood?

Could you brand us as villains and serfs, know ye not
  What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar?
How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot!
  How dearly the Pole loves his father, the Czar!

But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun
  Is a nutrix leonum, and suckles a race
Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one,
  Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace.

And well may the schemers in office beware
  The swift retribution that waits upon crime,
When the lion, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair,
  With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime.

Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still,
  Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends;
Nor join in a conflict accursed, that must fill
  With ruin, the country on which it descends.

But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage
  The gods gave to all whom they wished to destroy,
You would act a new Iliad, to darken the age
  With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy--

If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries,
  When wisdom, humanity, justice implore,
You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes
  Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar--

If there be to your malice no limit imposed,
  And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod
The men upon whom you already have closed
  Our goodly domain and the temples of God:

To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold,
  And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar;
We greet you, as greeted the Swiss, Charles the Bold--
  With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war!

For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright,
  Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide;
Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight,
  With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride;

And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past,
  In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain;
While the sod of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast,
  And give up its heroes to glory again.

A Cry to Arms.

By Henry Timrod.

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side!
  Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the chafing tide
  Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
  Lay by the bloodless spade;
Let desk, and case, and counter rot,
  And burn your books of trade.

The despot roves your fairest lands;
  And till he flies or fears,
Your fields must grow but armed bands,
  Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!
Give up to mildew and to rust
  The useless tools of gain;
And feed your country's sacred dust
  With floods of crimson rain!

Come, with the weapons at your call--
  With musket, pike, or knife;
He wields the deadliest blade of all
  Who lightest holds his life.
The arm that drives its unbought blows
  With all a patriot's scorn,
Might brain a tyrant with a rose,
  Or stab him with a thorn.

Does any falter? let him turn
  To some brave maiden's eyes,
And catch the holy fires that burn
  In those sublunar skies.
Oh! could you like your women feel,
  And in their spirit march,
A day might see your lines of steel
  Beneath the victor's arch.

What hope, O God! would not grow warm
  When thoughts like these give cheer?
The lily calmly braves the storm,
  And shall the palm-tree fear?
No! rather let its branches court
  The rack that sweeps the plain;
And from the lily's regal port
  Learn how to breast the strain!

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side!
  Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the roaring tide
  Have roughened in the gales!

Come! flocking gayly to the fight
  From forest, hill, and lake;
We battle for our country's right,
  And for the lily's sake!

Jackson, The Alexandria Martyr.

By Wm. H. Holcombe, M.D., of Virginia.

'Twas not the private insult galled him most,
But public outrage of his country's flag,
To which his patriotic heart had pledged
Its faith as to a bride. The bold, proud chief,
Th' avenging host, and the swift-coming death
Appalled him not. Nor life with all its charms,
Nor home, nor wife, nor children could weigh down
The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy
The insolent invader. Ellsworth fell,
And Jackson perished 'mid the pack of wolves,
Befriended only by his own great heart
And God approving. More than Roman soul!
O type of our impetuous chivalry!
May this young nation ever boast her sons
A vast, and inconceivable multitude,
Standing like thee in her extremest van,
Self-poised and ready, in defence of rights
Or in revenge of wrongs, to dare and die!

The Martyr of Alexandria.

By James W. Simmons, of Texas.

Revealed, as in a lightning flash,
  A hero stood!
The invading foe, the trumpet's crash,
  Set up his blood.

High o'er the sacred pile that bends
  Those forms above,
Thy star, O Freedom! brightly blends
  Its rays with love.

The banner of a mighty race,
  Serenely there,
Unfurls the genius of the place,
  In haunted air.

A vow is registered in Heaven!
  Patriot! 'tis thine!
To guard those matchless colors, given
  By hands divine.

Jackson! thy spirit may not hear
  Our wail ascend;
A nation gathers round thy bier,
  And mourns its friend.

The example is thy monument,
  And organ tones
Thy name resound, with glory blent,
  Prouder than thrones!

And they whose loss hath been our gain,
  A people's cares
Shall win their wounded hearts from pain,
  And wipe their tears.

When time shall set the captives free,
  Now scathed by wrath,
Heirs of his immortality,
  Bright be their path.

The Blessed Union--Epigram.

Doubtless to some, with length of ears,
  To gratify an ape's desire,
The blessed Union still endears;--
The stripes, if not the stars, be theirs!
"Greek faith" they gave us eighty years,
  And then--"Greek fire!"
But, better all their fires of scath
Than one hour's trust in Yankee faith!

The Fire of Freedom.

The holy fire that nerved the Greek
  To make his stand at Marathon,
Until the last red foeman's shriek
  Proclaimed that freedom's fight was won,
Still lives unquenched--unquenchable:
  Through every age its fires will burn--
Lives in the hermit's lonely cell,
  And springs from every storied urn.

The hearthstone embers hold the spark
  Where fell oppression's foot hath trod;
Through superstition's shadow dark
  It flashes to the living God!
From Moscow's ashes springs the Russ;
  In Warsaw, Poland lives again:
Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus,
  Strikes liberty's electric chain!

Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss;
  Vainly the invader ever strives;
He finds Sic Semper Tyrannis
  In San Jacinto's bowie-knives!
Than these--than all--a holier fire
  Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son!
Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire,
  Strike for the grave of Washington!

The Northern rabble arms for greed;
  The hireling parson goads the train--
In that foul crop from, bigot seed,
  Old "Praise God Barebones" howls again!
We welcome them to "Southern lands,"
  We welcome them to "Southern slaves,"
We welcome them "with bloody hands
  To hospitable Southern graves!"

Hymn to the National Flag.

By Mrs. M. J. Preston.

Float aloft, thou stainless banner!
  Azure cross and field of light;
Be thy brilliant stars the symbol
  Of the pure and true and right.
Shelter freedom's holy cause--
Liberty and sacred laws;
Guard the youngest of the nations--
  Keep her virgin honor bright.

From Virginia's storied border,
  Down to Tampa's furthest shore--
From the blue Atlantic's clashings
  To the Rio Grande's roar--
Over many a crimson plain,
Where our martyred ones lie slain--
Fling abroad thy blessed shelter,
  Stream and mount and valley o'er.

In thy cross of heavenly azure
  Has our faith its emblem high;
In thy field of white, the hallow'd
  Truth for which we'll dare and die;
In thy red, the patriot blood--
  Ah! the consecrated flood.
Lift thyself, resistless banner!
  Ever fill our Southern sky!

Flash with living, lightning motion
  In the sight of all the brave!
Tell the price at which we purchased
  Room and right for thee to wave
Freely in our God's free air,
Pure and proud and stainless fair,
Banner of the youngest nation--
  Banner we would die to save!

Strike Thou for us! King of armies!
  Grant us room in Thy broad world!
Loosen all the despot's fetters,
  Back be all his legions hurled!
Give us peace and liberty,
Let the land we love be free--
Then, oh! bright and stainless banner!
  Never shall thy folds be furled!

Sonnet--Moral of Party

Charleston Mercury.

The moral of a party--if it be
  That healthy States need parties, lies in this,
  That we consider well what race it is,
And what the germ that first has made it free.
That germ must constitute the living tie
  That binds its generations to the end,
Change measures if it need, or policy,
  But neither break the principle, nor bend.
Each race hath its own nature--fixed, defined,
  By Heaven, and if its principle be won,
  Kept changeless as the progress of the sun,
It mocks at storm and rage, at sea and wind,
And grows to consummation, as the tree,
Matured, that ever grew in culture free.

Our Faith in '61.

By A. J. Requier.

"That governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed: that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as TO THEM SHALL SEEM most likely to effect their safety and happiness."--[Declaration of Independence, July 4, '76.]

Not yet one hundred years have flown
  Since on this very spot,
The subjects of a sovereign throne--
  Liege-master of their lot--
This high degree sped o'er the sea,
  From council-board and tent,
"No earthly power can rule the free
  But by their own consent!"

For this, they fought as Saxons fight,
  On bloody fields and long--
Themselves the champions of the right,
  And judges of the wrong;
For this their stainless knighthood wore
  The branded rebel's name,
Until the starry cross they bore
  Set all the skies aflame!

And States co-equal and distinct
  Outshone the western sun,
By one great charter interlinked--
  Not blended into one;
Whose graven key that high decree
  The grand inscription lent,
"No earthly power can rule the free
  But by their own consent!"

Oh! sordid age! Oh! ruthless rage!
  Oh! sacrilegious wrong!
A deed to blast the record page,
  And snap the strings of song;
In that great charter's name, a band
  By grovelling greed enticed,
Whose warrant is the grasping hand
  Of creeds without a Christ--

States that have trampled every pledge
  Its crystal code contains,
Now give their swords a keener edge
  To harness it with chains--
To make a bond of brotherhood
  The sanction and the seal,
By which to arm a rabble brood
  With fratricidal steel.

Who, conscious that their cause is black,
  In puling prose and rhyme,
Talk hatefully of love, and tack
  Hypocrisy to crime;
Who smile and smite, engross the gorge
  Or impotently frown;
And call us "rebels" with King George,
  As if they wore his crown!

Most venal of a venal race,
  Who think you cheat the sky
With every pharisaic face
  And simulated lie;
Round Freedom's lair, with weapons bare,
  We greet the light divine
Of those who throned the goddess there,
  And yet inspire the shrine!

Our loved ones' graves are at our feet,
  Their homesteads at our back--
No belted Southron can retreat
  With women on his track;
Peal, bannered host, the proud decree
  Which from your fathers went,
"No earthly power can rule the free
  But by their own consent!"

Wouldst Thou Have Me Love Thee.

By Alex B. Meek.

Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest,
  With a woman's proudest heart,
Which shall ever hold thee nearest,
  Shrined in its inmost heart?
Listen, then! My country's calling
  On her sons to meet the foe!
Leave these groves of rose and myrtle;
  Drop thy dreamy harp of love!
Like young Korner--scorn the turtle,
  When the eagle screams above!

Dost thou pause?--Let dastards dally--
  Do thou for thy country fight!
'Neath her noble emblem rally--
  "God, our country, and our right!"
Listen! now her trumpet's calling
  On her sons to meet the foe!
Woman's heart is soft and tender,
  But 'tis proud and faithful too:
Shall she be her land's defender?
  Lover! Soldier! up and do!

Seize thy father's ancient falchion,
  Which once flashed as freedom's star!
Till sweet peace--the bow and halcyon,
  Stilled the stormy strife of war.
Listen! now thy country's calling
  On her sons to meet her foe!
Sweet is love in moonlight bowers!
  Sweet the altar and the flame!
Sweet the spring-time with her flowers!
  Sweeter far the patriot's name!

Should the God who smiles above thee,
  Doom thee to a soldier's grave,
Hearts will break, but fame will love thee,
  Canonized among the brave!
Listen, then! thy country's calling
  On her sons to meet the foe!
Rather would I view thee lying
  On the last red field of strife,
'Mid thy country's heroes dying,
  Than become a dastard's wife!

Enlisted To-Day.

I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing,
  And summer sends kisses by beautiful May--
Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing,
  And think--my boy Willie enlisted to-day.

It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming,
  I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine,
While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming
  Of father, adown the street's indistinct line.

It is many a year since my Harry departed,
  To come back no more in the twilight or dawn;
And Robby grew weary of watching, and started
  Alone on the journey his father had gone.

It is many a year--and this afternoon sitting
  At Robby's old window, I heard the band play,
And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting,
  To recollect Willie is twenty to-day.

And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning,
  The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke,
I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning,
  And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke:

"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing,
  They would trample the rights of the South in the dust;
The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going--"
He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh, say if I must!"

I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking,
  My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away,
And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking--
  Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day!"

I sit in the window, and see the flags flying,
  And drearily list to the roll of the drum,
And smother the pain in my heart that is lying,
  And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb.

I shall sit in the window when summer is lying
  Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum
Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing,
  And watch for the face of my darling to come.

And if he should fall--his young life he has given
  For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray
Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven
  To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day.

My Maryland.

Written at Pointe Coupee, LA., April 26, 1861. First Published in the New Orleans Delta.

The despot's heel is on thy shore,
                                 Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door,
                                 Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
                 Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son's appeal,
                                 Maryland!
My Mother-State, to thee I kneel,
                                 Maryland!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
                 Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
                                 Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
                                 Maryland!

Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
              Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
                              Maryland!
Come! with thy panoplied array,
                              Maryland!
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
With Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
              Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
                              Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
                              Maryland!
Come! to thine own heroic throng,
That stalks with Liberty along,
And ring thy dauntless Slogan-song,
              Maryland! My Maryland!

Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain,
                              Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
                              Maryland!

She meets her sisters on the plain--
"Sic semper," 'tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
                                 Maryland!
Arise, in majesty again,
                 Maryland! My Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek,
                                 Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
                                 Maryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek
From hill to hill, from creek to creek--
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
                 Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
                                 Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
                                 Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
                 Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum,
                                 Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum,
                                 Maryland!

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb--
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come!
                 Maryland! My Maryland!

The Boy-Soldier.

By a Lady of Savannah.

He is acting o'er the battle,
  With his cap and feather gay,
Singing out his soldier-prattle,
  In a mockish manly way--
With the boldest, bravest footstep,
  Treading firmly up and down,
And his banner waving softly,
  O'er his boyish locks of brown.

And I sit beside him sewing,
  With a busy heart and hand,
For the gallant soldiers going
  To the far-off battle land--
And I gaze upon my jewel,
  In his baby spirit bold,
My little blue-eyed soldier,
  Just a second summer old.

Still a deep, deep well of feeling,
  In my mother's heart is stirred,
And the tears come softly stealing
  At each imitative word!
There's a struggle in my bosom,
  For I love my darling boy--
He's the gladness of my spirit,
  He's the sunlight of my joy!
Yet I think upon my country,
  And my spirit groweth bold--
Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier
  Were but twenty summers old!

I would speed him to the battle--
  I would arm him for the fight;
I would give him to his country,
  For his country's wrong and right!
I would nerve his hand with blessing
  From the "God of battles" won--
With His helmet and His armor,
  I would cover o'er my son.

Oh! I know there'd be a struggle,
  For I love my darling boy;
He's the gladness of my spirit,
  He's the sunlight of my joy!
Yet in thinking of my country,
  Oh! my spirit groweth bold,
And I with my blue-eyed soldier
  Were but twenty summers old!

The Good Old Cause.

By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.

I.

Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause,
  'Tis a stirring sound to hear,
For it tells of rights and liberties,
  Our fathers bought so dear;
It brings up the Jersey prison-ship,
  The spot where Warren fell,
And the scaffold which echoes the dying words
  Of murdered Hayne's farewell.

II.

The Good Old Cause! it is still the same
  Though age upon age may roll;
'Tis the cause of the right against the wrong,
  Burning bright in each generous soul;
'Tis the cause of all who claim to live
  As freemen on Freedom's sod;
Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons,
  By Tyranny's heel down-trod.

III.

And whoever burns with a holy zeal,
  To behold his country free,
And would sooner see her baptized in blood,
  Than to bend the suppliant knee;
Must agree to follow her White-Cross flag,
  Where the storms of battle roll,
A soldier--A SOLDIER!--with arms in his hands,
  And the love of the South in his soul!

IV.

Come one, come all, at your country's call,
  Let none remain behind,
But those too young, and those too old,
  The feeble, the halt, the blind;
Let every man, whether rich or poor,
  Who can carry a knapsack and gun,
Repair to the ranks of our Southern host,
  'Till the cause of the South is won.

V.

But the son of the South, if such there be,
  Who will shrink from the contest now,
From a love of ease, or the lust of gain,
  Or through fear of the Yankee foe;
May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand,
  As though it was soiled for aye,
And may every woman turn her cheek
  From his craven lips away;
May his country's curse be on his head,
  And may no man ever see,
A gentle bride by the traitor's side,
  Or children about his knee.

VI.

Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause,
  'Tis a stirring sound to hear;
For it tells of rights and liberties,
  Our fathers bought so dear;
It summons our braves from their bloody graves.
  To receive our fond applause,
And bids us tread in the steps of those
  Who died for the Good Old Cause.

Manassas.

By Catherine M. Warfield.

They have met at last--as storm-clouds
                       meet in heaven;
And the Northmen, back and bleeding,
                       have been driven:
And their thunders have been stilled,
And their leaders crushed or killed,
And their ranks, with terror thrilled,
                       rent and riven!

Like the leaves of Vallambrosa
                        they are lying;
In the moonlight, in the midnight,
                        dead and dying:
Like those leaves before the gale,
Swept their legions, wild and pale;
While the host that made them quail
                        stood, defying.

When aloft in morning sunlight
                        flags were flaunted,
And "swift vengeance on the rebel"
                        proudly vaunted:
Little did they think that night
Should close upon their shameful flight,
And rebels, victors in the fight,
                        stand undaunted.

But peace to those who perished
                        in our passes!
Light be the earth above them!
                        green the grasses!
Long shall Northmen rue the day,
When they met our stern array,
And shrunk from battle's wild affray
                        at Manassas!

Virginia.

By Catherine M. Warfield.

Glorious Virginia! Freedom sprang
Light to her feet at thy trumpet's clang:
At the first sound of that clarion blast,
Foes like the chaff from the whirlwind passed--
Passed to their doom: from that hour no more
Triumphs their cause by sea or shore.

Glorious Virginia! noble the blood
That hath bathed thy fields in a crimson flood;
On many a wide-spread and sunny plain,
Like leaves of autumn thy dead have lain:
The Southron heart is their funeral urn!
The Southern slogan their requiem stern!

Glorious Virginia! to thee, to thee
We lean, as the shoots to the parent tree;
Bending in awe at thy glance of might;--
First in the council, first in the fight!
While our flag is fanned by the breath of fame,
Glorious Virginia! we'll bless thy name.

The War-Christian's Thanksgiving.

Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States.

Oh, God of battles! once again,
  With banner, trump, and drum,
And garments in thy wine-press dyed,
  To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded,
  Unto thine altars go;
With brothers' blood, by brothers shed,
  Our glad libations flow,

From pest-house and from dungeon foul,
  Where, maimed and torn, they die,
From gory trench and charnel-house,
  Where, heap on heap, they lie.

In every groan that yields a soul,
  Each shriek a heart that rends,
With every breath of tainted air,
  Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank Thee for the sabre's gash,
  The cannon's havoc wild;
We bless Thee for the widow's tears,
  The want that starves her child!

We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit
  The torch, and fanned the flame;
That lust and rapine hunt their prey,
  Kind Father, in Thy name!

That, for the songs of idle joy
  False angels sang of yore,
Thou sendest War on earth--ill-will
  To men for evermore!

We know that wisdom, truth, and right
  To us and ours are given;
That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath,
  To do the work of heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste
  Are pleasant in Thine eyes--
Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate,
  Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.

Let not our weakness fall below
  The measure of Thy will,
And while the press hath wine to bleed,
  Oh, tread it with us still!

Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught
  Fond fools, of yore, to love;
Give us Thy vengeance as our own--
  Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,
  The pages of Thy word,
And learn the blessed curses there,
  On them that sheathe the sword.

Where'er we tread may deserts spring,
  'Till none are left to slay;
And when the last red drop is shed,
  We'll kneel again--and pray!

Sonnet.

Charleston Mercury.

Man makes his own dread fates, and these in turn
Create his tyrants. In our lust and passion,
Our appetite and ignorance, he springs.
The creature of our need as our desert,
The scourge that whips us for decaying virtue,
He chastens to reform us! Never yet,
In mortal life, did tyrant rise to power,
But in the people's worst infirmities
Of crime and greed. The creature of our vices,
The loathsome ulcer of our vicious moods,
He is decreed their proper punishment.

Marching to Death.

By J. Herbert Sass, of South Carolina.

"The National Quarterly depicts a remarkable scene, which occurred some years since on one of the British transport ships. The commander of the troops on board, seeing that the vessel must soon sink, and that there was no hope of saving his men, drew them up in order of battle, and, as in the presence of a human enemy, bravely faced the doom that was before them. We know of no more impressive illustration of the power of military discipline in the presence of death."

I.

The last farewells are breathed by loving lips,
The last fond prayer for darling ones is said,
And o'er each heart stern sorrow's dark eclipse
  Her sable pall hath spread.

II.

Far, far beyond each anxious watcher's sight,
Baring her bosom to the wanton sea,
The lordly ship sweeps onward in her might,
  Her tameless majesty.

III.

Forth from his fortress in the western sky,
Flashing defiance on each crested wave,
Out glares the sun, with red and lowering eye,
  Grand, even in his grave.

IV.

Till, waxing bolder as his rays decline,
The clustering billows o'er his ramparts sweep,
Slow droops his banner--fades his light divine,
  And darkness rules the deep.

V.

Look once again!--Night's sombre shades have fled:
But the pale rays that glimmer from their sheath,
Serve but to show the blackness overhead,
  And the wild void beneath.

VI.

Mastless and helmless drifts the helpless bark;
Her pride, her majesty, her glory gone;
While o'er the waters broods the tempest dark,
  And the wild winds howl on.

VII.

But hark! amid the madness of the storm
There comes an echo o'er the surging wave;
Firm at its call the dauntless legions form,
  The resolute and brave.

VIII.

Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host,
In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck,
Calmly as though they knew not they were lost--
  Lost in that shattered wreck.

IX.

Eight hundred men,--old England's tried and true,
Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done,
Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too,
  And the last fight be won.

X.

Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand;
No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring;
Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand,
  "The king! God save the king!"

XI.

Lower and lower sinks the fated bark,
Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave,
But loud outswells, across the waters dark,
  The death-song of the brave.

XII.

Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep;
Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring,
Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep,
  "The king! God save the king!"

XIII.

Oh thou! whoe'er thou art that reads this page,
Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith,
For all throughout our earthly pilgrimage,
  We hold a tryst with death.

XIV.

Not in the battle-field's tumultuous strife,
Not in the hour when vanquished foemen fly,
Not in the midst of bright and happy life,
  Is it most hard to die.

XV.

Greater the guerdon, holier the prize,
Of him who trusts, and waits in lowly mood;
Oh! learn how high, how holy courage lies
  In patient fortitude.

Charleston.

By Henry Timrod.

Calm as that second summer which precedes
  The first fall of the snow,
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
  The city bides the foe.

As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud,
  Her bolted thunders sleep--
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,
  Looms o'er the solemn deep.

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur
  To guard the holy strand;
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war,
  Above the level sand.

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched.
  Unseen, beside the flood--
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched,
  That wait and watch for blood.

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,
  Walk grave and thoughtful men,
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade
  As lightly as the pen.

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim
  Over a bleeding hound,
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him
  Whose sword she sadly bound.

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,
  Day patient following day,
Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome,
  Across her tranquil bay.

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands
  And spicy Indian ports,
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,
  And summer to her courts.

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,
  The only hostile smoke
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine,
  From some frail, floating oak.

Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles,
  And with an unscathed brow,
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles,
  As fair and free as now?

We know not; in the temple of the Fates
  God has inscribed her doom;
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits
  The triumph or the tomb.

Charleston.

By Paul H. Hayne.

I.

What! still does the Mother of Treason uprear
  Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea?
Unquelled by mistrust, and unblanched by a Fear,
  Unbowed her proud head, and unbending her knee,
             Calm, steadfast, and free?

II.

Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your wrath,
  Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;--
But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path,
  And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire
             Of your fruitless desire.

III.

Ringed round by her Brave, a fierce circlet of flame,
  Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast;
She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,
  And never, we swear, shall your footsteps be pressed
             Where her dead heroes rest!

IV.

Her voice shook the Tyrant!--sublime from her tongue
  Fell the accents of warning,--a Prophetess grand,--
On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung,
  And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand
            Broke the sleep of her land!

V.

What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound will
  The Fate that would trample her honor to earth,--
The light in those deep eyes is luminous still
  With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth,
            Which illumine the Earth!

VI.

And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved,
  "Without fear or reproach," lifts her Banner on high;
He stands in the vanguard, majestic, unmoved,
  And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh,
            Vow, "'tis easy to die!"

VII.

Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air!
  The world's breath is hushed at the conflict! before
Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair--
  And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore,
            We shall prize her the more!

VIII.

And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes
  To the height of her promise, the voices of yore,
From the storied Profound of past ages arise,
  And the pomps of their magical music outpour
            O'er the war-beaten shore.

IX.

Then gird your brave Empress, O! Heroes, with flame
  Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast,
She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,
  And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed
            Where her dead Martyrs rest!

"Ye Men of Alabama!"

By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.

I.

Ye men of Alabama,
  Awake, arise, awake!
And rend the coils asunder
  Of this Abolition snake.
If another fold he fastens--
  If this final coil he plies--
In the cold clasp of hate and power
  Fair Alabama dies.

II.

Though round your lower limbs and waist
  His deadly coils I see,
Yet, yet, thank Heaven! your head and arms,
  And good right hand, are free;
And in that hand there glistens--
  O God! what joy to feel!--
A polished blade, full sharp and keen,
  Of tempered State Rights steel.

III.

Now, by the free-born sires
  From whose brave loins ye sprung!
And by the noble mothers
  At whose fond breasts ye hung!
And by your wives and daughters,
  And by the ills they dread,
Drive deep that good Secession steel
  Right through the Monster's head.

IV.

This serpent Abolition
  Has been coiling on for years;
We have reasoned, we have threatened,
  We have begged almost with tears:
Now, away, away with Union,
  Since on our Southern soil
The only union left us
  Is an anaconda's coil.

V.

Brave little South Carolina
  Will strike the self-same blow,
And Florida, and Georgia,
  And Mississippi too;
And Arkansas, and Texas;
  And at the death, I ween,
The head will fall beneath the blows
  Of all the brave Fifteen.

VI.

In this our day of trial,
  Let feuds and factions cease,
Until above this howling storm
  We see the sign of Peace.
Let Southern men, like brothers,
  In solid phalanx stand,
And poise their spears, and lock their shields,
  To guard their native land.

VII.

The love that for the Union
  Once in our bosoms beat,
From insult and from injury
  Has turned to scorn and hate;
And the banner of Secession
  To-day we lift on high,
Resolved, beneath that sacred flag,
  To conquer, or TO DIE!

Nec Temere, Nec Timide.

By Annie Chambers Ketchum.

Gentlemen of the South,
  Gird on your glittering swords!
Darkly along our borders fair
  Gather the Northern hordes.
Ruthless and fierce they come
  At the fiery cannon's mouth,
To blast the glory of our land,
  Gentlemen of the South!

Ride forth in your stately pride,
  Each bearing on his shield
Ensigns our fathers won of yore
  On many a well-fought field!
Let this be your battle-cry,
  Even to the cannon's mouth,
Cor unum via una! Onward,
  Gentlemen of the South!

Brave knights of a knightly race,
  Gordon, and Chambers, and Gray,
Show to the minions of the North
  How Valor dares the fray!
Let them read on each stainless crest
  At the belching cannon's mouth,
Decori decus addit avito,
  Gentlemen of the South!

Morrison, Douglas, Stuart,
  Erskine, and Bradford, and West,
Your gauntlets on many a bloody field
  Have stood the battle's test!
Animo non astutia!
  March to the cannon's mouth,
Heirs of the brave dead centuries! Onward,
  Gentlemen of the South!

Call forth your stalwart men,
  Workers in brass and steel!
Bid the swart artisans come forth
  At sound of the trumpet's peal!
Give them your war-cry, Erskine!
  Fight! to the cannon's mouth!
Bid the men Forward! Douglas, Forward!
  Yeomanry of the South!

Brave hunters! Ye have met
  The fierce black bear in the fray;
Ye have trailed the panther night by night,
  Ye have chased the fox by day!
Your prancing chargers pant
  To dash at the gray wolf's mouth,
Your arms are sure of their quarry! Onward!
  Gentlemen of the South!

Fight! that the lowly serf
  And the high-born lady still
May bide in their proud dependency,
  Free subjects of your will!
Teach the base North how ill,
  At the fiery cannon's mouth,
He fares who touches your household gods,
  Gentlemen of the South!

From mother, and wife, and child,
  From faithful and happy slave,
Prayers for your sakes ascend to Him
  Whose arm is strong to save!
We check the gathering tears,
  Though ye go to the cannon's mouth;
Dominus providebit! Onward,
  Gentlemen of the South!

Memphis Appeal.

Dixie.

By Albert Pike.

I.

Southrons, hear your Country call you!
Up! lest worse than death befall you!
    To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!
Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,
Let all hearts be now united!
    To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!
         Advance the flag; of Dixie!
            Hurrah! hurrah!
    For Dixie's land we'll take our stand,
         To live or die for Dixie!
      To arms! to arms!
         And conquer peace for Dixie!
      To arms! to arms!
         And conquer peace for Dixie!

II.

Hear the Northern thunders mutter!
Northern flags in South-winds flutter!
    To arms! etc.
Send them back your fierce defiance!
Stamp upon the accursed alliance!
    To arms! etc.
         Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

III.

Fear no danger! shun no labor!
Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre!
    To arms! etc.
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder!
    To arms! etc.
      Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.

IV.

How the South's great heart rejoices
At your cannon's ringing voices;
    To arms! etc.
For faith betrayed and pledges broken,
Wrong inflicted, insults spoken.
    To arms! etc.
      Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.

V.

Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!
    To arms! etc.
Cut the unequal bonds asunder!
Let them hence each other plunder!
    To arms! etc.
      Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

VI.

Swear upon your Country's altar,
Never to submit or falter;
    To arms! etc.
Till the spoilers are defeated,
Till the Lord's work is completed.
    To arms! etc.
      Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

VII.

Halt not till our Federation
Secures among earth's Powers its station!
    To arms! etc.
Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
Hear your children tell the story!
    To arms! etc.
      Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

VIII.

If the loved ones weep in sadness,
Victory soon shall bring them gladness;
    To arms! etc.
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow;
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.
    To arms! etc.
      Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

The Old Rifleman.

By Frank Ticknor, of Georgia.

Now bring me out my buckskin suit!
  My pouch and powder, too!
We'll see if seventy-six can shoot
  As sixteen used to do.

Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright!
  Our trigger quick and true!
As far, if not as fine a sight,
  As long ago we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint!
  A real white and blue,
Perhaps 'twill win the other tint
  Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your brass percussion caps!
  Old "shut-pan" suits as well!
There's something in the sparks: perhaps
  There's something in the smell!

We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed!
  The red-skin Indian, too!
We've never thought to draw a bead
  On Yanke-doodle-doo!

But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart!
  Those days are mostly done;
And now we must revive the art
  Of shooting on the run!

If Doodle must be meddling, why,
  There's only this to do--
Select the black spot in his eye,
  And let the daylight through!

And if he doesn't like the way
  That Bess presents the view,
He'll maybe change his mind, and stay
  Where the good Doodles do!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know,
  Who kissed the Testament;
To keep the Constitution? No!
  To keep the Government!

We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool,
  And take him half and half;
We'll aim to hit him, if a fool,
  And miss him, if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks
  By which a war is won;
Especially how Seventy-six
  Took Tories on the run.

Battle Hymn.

Charleston Mercury.

Lord of Hosts, that beholds us in battle, defending
  The homes of our sires 'gainst the hosts of the foe,
Send us help on the wings of thy angels descending,
  And shield from his terrors, and baffle his blow.
Warm the faith of our sons, till they flame as the iron,
  Red-glowing from the fire-forge, kindled by zeal;
Make them forward to grapple the hordes that environ,
  In the storm-rush of battle, through forests of steel!

Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious
  The martyr who falls in the front of the fight;--
That the faith which is steadfast makes ever victorious
  The arm which strikes boldly defending the right;--
That the zeal, which is roused by the wrongs of a nation,
  Is a war-horse that sweeps o'er the field as his own;
And the Faith, which is winged by the soul's approbation,
  Is a warrior, in proof, that can ne'er be o'erthrown.

Kentucky, She Is Sold

By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.

A tear for "the dark and bloody ground,"
  For the land of hills and caves;
Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep
  Where the vandals tread their graves;
A sigh for the loss of her honored fame,
  Dear won in the days of old;
Her ship is manned by a foreign crew,
  For Kentucky, she is sold.

The bones of her sons lie bleaching on
  The plains of Tippecanoe,
On the field of Raisin her blood was shed,
  As free as the summer's dew;
In Mexico her McRee and Clay
  Were first of the brave and bold--
A change has been in her bosom wrought,
  For Kentucky, she is sold.

Pride of the free, was that noble State,
  And her banner still were so,
Had the iron heel of the despot not
  Her prowess sunk so low;
Her valleys once were the freeman's home,
  Her valor unbought with gold,
But now the pride of her life is fled,
  For Kentucky, she is sold.

Her brave would once have scorned to wear
  The yoke that crushes her now,
And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread,
  Would sullen have made her brow;
Her spirit yet will be wakened up,
  And her saddened fate be told,
Her gallant sons to the world yet prove
  That Kentucky is not sold.

Sonnet--The Ship of State.

Here lie the peril and necessity
  That need a race of giants--a great realm,
  With not one noble leader at the helm;
And the great Ship of State still driving high,
  'Midst breakers, on a lee shore--to the rocks.
  With ever and anon most terrible shocks--
The crew aghast, and fear in every eye.
Yet is the gracious Providence still nigh;
  And, if our cause be just, our hearts be true,
  We shall save goodly ship and gallant crew,
Nor suffer shipwreck of our liberty!
  It needs that as a people we arise,
  With solemn purpose that even fate defies,
And brave all perils with unblenching eye!

Charleston Mercury.

"In His Blanket on the Ground."

By Caroline H. Gervais, Charleston.

Weary, weary lies the soldier,
  In his blanket on the ground
With no sweet "Good-night" to cheer him,
  And no tender voice's sound,
Making music in the darkness,
  Making light his toilsome hours,
Like a sunbeam in the forest,
  Or a tomb wreathed o'er with flowers.

Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful,
  As his memories sadly roam
To the "cozy little parlor"
  And the loved ones of his home;
And his waking and his dreaming
  Softly braid themselves in one,
As the twilight is the mingling
  Of the starlight and the sun.

And when sleep descends upon him,
  Still his thought within his dream
Is of home, and friends, and loved ones,
  And his busy fancies seem
To be real, as they wander
  To his mother's cherished form.
As she gently said, in parting
  "Thine in sunshine and in storm:
Thine in helpless childhood's morning,
  And in boyhood's joyous time,
Thou must leave me now--God watch thee
  In thy manhood's ripened prime."

Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms
  Teeming thick within his brain,
His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered,
  Come to greet his view again;
And he hears his trembling accents,
  Like a clarion ringing high,
"Since not mine are youth and strength, boy,
  Thou must victor prove, or die."

Or perchance he hears a whisper
  Of the faintest, faintest sigh,
Something deeper than word-spoken,
  Something breathing of a tie
Near his soul as bounding heart-blood:
  It is hers, that patient wife--
And again that parting seemeth
  Like the taking leave of life:
And her last kiss he remembers,
  And the agonizing thrill,
And the "Must you go?" and answer,
  "I but know my Country's will."

Or the little children gather,
Half in wonder, round his knees;
And the faithful dog, mute, watchful,
In the mystic glass he sees;
And the voice of song, and pictures,
And the simplest homestead flowers,
Unforgotten, crowd before him
In the solemn midnight hours.

Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander
To a sister's sweet caress,
And he feels her dear lips quiver
As his own they fondly press;
And he hears her proudly saying,
(Though sad tears are in her eyes),
"Brave men fall, but live in story,
For the Hero never dies!"

Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes,
And his heart beats quicker now,
As he thinks of one who gave him,
Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow;
And, ah, fondly he remembers
He is still her dearest care,
Even in his star-watched slumber
That she pleads for him in prayer.

Oh, the soldier will be dreaming,
Dreaming often of us all,
(When the damp earth is his pillow,
And the snow and cold sleet fall),
Of the dear, familiar faces,
Of the cozy, curtained room,
Of the flitting of the shadows
In the twilight's pensive gloom.

Or when summer suns burn o'er him,
Bringing drought and dread disease,
And the throes of wasting fever
Come his weary frame to seize--
In the restless sleep of sickness,
Doomed, perchance, to martyr death,
Hear him whisper "Home"--sweet cadence,
With his quickened, labored breath.

Then God bless him, bless the soldier,
And God nerve him for the fight;
May He lend his arm new prowess
To do battle for the right.
Let him feel that while he's dreaming
In his fitful slumber bound,
That we're praying--God watch o'er him
In his blanket on the ground.

The Mountain Partisan.

I.

My rifle, pouch, and knife!
  My steed! And then we part!
One loving kiss, dear wife,
  One press of heart to heart!
Cling to me yet awhile,
  But stay the sob, the tear!
Smile--only try to smile--
  And I go without a fear.

II.

Our little cradled boy,
  He sleeps--and in his sleep,
Smiles, with an angel joy,
  Which tells thee not to weep.
I'll kneel beside, and kiss--
  He will not wake the while,
Thus dreaming of the bliss,
  That bids thee, too, to smile.

III.

Think not, dear wife, I go,
  With a light thought at my heart
'Tis a pang akin to woe,
  That fills me as we part;
But when the wolf was heard
  To howl around our lot,
Thou know'st, dear mother-bird,
  I slew him on the spot!

IV.

Aye, panther, wolf, and bear,
  Have perish'd 'neath my knife;
Why tremble, then, with fear,
  When now I go, my wife?
Shall I not keep the peace,
  That made our cottage dear;
And 'till these wolf-curs cease
  Shall I be housing here?

V.

One loving kiss, dear wife,
  One press of heart to heart;
Then for the deadliest strife,
  For freedom I depart!
I were of little worth,
  Were these Yankee wolves left free
To ravage 'round our hearth,
  And bring one grief to thee!

VI.

God's blessing on thee, wife,
  God's blessing on the young:
Pray for me through the strife,
  And teach our infant's tongue.
Whatever haps in fight,
  I shall be true to thee--
To the home of our delight--
  To my people of the free.

The Cameo Bracelet.

By James R. Randall, of Maryland.

Eva sits on the ottoman there,
  Sits by a Psyche carved in stone,
With just such a face, and just such an air,
  As Esther upon her throne.

She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed,
  And I watch her fingers float and flow
Over the linen, as, thread by thread,
  It flakes to her lap like snow.

A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist,
  Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome,
Out of the tears of the amethyst,
  And the wan Vesuvian foam.

And full on the bauble-crest alway--
  A cameo image keen and fine--
Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday,
  And the lava-locks are thine!

I thought of the war-wolves on our trail,
  Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood;
Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil,
  Drooped with a wizard flood

Till the surly blaze through the iron bars
  Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry--
And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars
  To the Column of July--

Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear,
  And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown--
For Eva was not on the ottoman there,
  By the Psyche carved in stone.

She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate,
  With the incantation in her gaze,
A lip of scorn--an arm of hate--
  And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!"

Eva, the vision was not wild,
  When wreaked on the tyrants of the land--
For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child,
  With the dagger in your hand!

Zollicoffer.

By H. L. Flash, of Alabama.

First in the fight, and first in the arms
  Of the white-winged angels of glory,
With the heart of the South at the feet of God,
  And his wounds to tell the story:

And the blood that flowed from his hero heart,
  On the spot where he nobly perished,
Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament
  In the holy cause he cherished.

In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed,
  And, for his soul's sustaining,
The apocalyptic eyes of Christ--
  And nothing on earth remaining,

But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,
  A name in song and story,
And Fame to shout with her brazen voice,
  "Died on the Field of Glory!"

Beauregard

By Catharine A. Warfield, of Mississippi.

Let the trumpet shout once more,
                               Beauregard!
Let the battle-thunders roar,
                               Beauregard!
And again by yonder sea,
Let the swords of all the free
Leap forth to fight with thee,
                               Beauregard!

Old Sumter loves thy name,
                               Beauregard!
Grim Moultrie guards thy fame,
                               Beauregard!
Oh! first in Freedom's fight!
Oh! steadfast in the right!
Oh! brave and Christian Knight!
                               Beauregard!

St. Michael with his host,
                               Beauregard!
Encamps by yonder coast,
                               Beauregard!
And the Demon's might shall quail,
And the Dragon's terrors fail,
Were he trebly clad in mail,
                               Beauregard!

Not a leaf shall fall away,
                               Beauregard!
From the laurel won to-day,
                               Beauregard!
While the ocean breezes blow,
While the billows lapse and flow
O'er the Northman's bones below,
                               Beauregard!

Let the trumpet shout once more,
                               Beauregard!
Let the battle-thunders roar,
                               Beauregard!
From the centre to the shore,
From the sea to the land's core
Thrills the echo, evermore,
                               Beauregard!

South Carolina.

1719. Colonial Revolution.
  1763. Colonial History--Progress,
  1776. American Revolution.
  1812-15. Second War with Great Britain
  1830-32. Nullification for State Rights.
  1835-40. Florida War.
  1847. Mexican War--Palmetto Regiment.
  1860-61. Secession, and Third War for Independence.

My brave old Country! I have watched thee long
Still ever first to rise against the wrong;
To check the usurper in his giant stride,
And brave his terrors and abase his pride;
Foresee the insidious danger ere it rise,
And warn the heedless and inform the wise;
Scorning the lure, the bribe, the selfish game,
Which, through the office, still becomes the shame;
Thou stood'st aloof--superior to the fate
That would have wrecked thy freedom as a State.
In vain the despot's threat, his cunning lure;
Too proud thy spirit, and thy heart too pure;
Thou hadst no quest but freedom, and to be
In conscience well-assured, and people free.
The statesman's lore was thine, the patriot's aim,
These kept thee virtuous, and preserved thy fame;
The wisdom still for council, the brave voice,
That thrills a people till they all rejoice.
These were thy birthrights; and two centuries pass'd,
As, at the first, still find thee at the last;
Supreme in council, resolute in will,
Pure in thy purpose--independent still!

The great good counsels, the examples brave,
Won from the past, not buried in its grave,
Still warm your soul with courage--still impar
Wisdom to virtue, valor to the heart!
Still first to check th' encroachment--to declare
"Thus far! no further, shall the assailant dare;"
Thou keep'st thy ermine white, thy State secure,
Thy fortunes prosperous, and thy freedom sure;
No glozing art deceives thee to thy bane;
The tempter and the usurper strive in vain!
Thy spear's first touch unfolds the fiendish form,
And first, with fearless breast, thou meet'st the storm;
Though hosts assail thee, thou thyself a host,
Prepar'st to meet the invader on the coast:
Thy generous sons contending which shall be
First in the phalanx, gathering by the sea;
No dastard fear appals them, as they teach
How best to hurl the bolt, or man the breach!

Great Soul in little frame!--the hope of man
Exults, when such as thou art in the van!
Unshaken, unbeguiled, unslaved, unbought,
Thy fame shall brighten with each battle fought;
True to the examples of the past, thou'lt be,
For the long future, best security.

Charleston Mercury.

Gossypium.

Carolina.

By Henry Timrod.

I.

The despot treads thy sacred sands,
Thy pines give shelter to his bands,
Thy sons stand by with idle hands,
    Carolina!
He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,
He scorns the lances of thy palm;
Oh I who shall break thy craven calm,
    Carolina!
Thy ancient fame is growing dim,
A spot is on thy garment's rim;
Give to the winds thy battle hymn,
    Carolina!

II.

Call on thy children of the hill,
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,
    Carolina!
Cite wealth and science, trade and art,
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,
And pour thee through the people's heart,
    Carolina!
Till even the coward spurns his fears,
And all thy fields, and fens, and meres,
Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears,
     Carolina!

III.

Hold up the glories of thy dead;
Say how thy elder children bled,
Arid point to Eutaw's battle-bed,
     Carolina!
Tell how the patriot's soul was tried,
And what his dauntless breast defied;
How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died,
     Carolina!
Cry! till thy summons, heard at last,
Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast,
Re-echoed from the haunted past,
     Carolina!

IV.

I hear a murmur, as of waves
That grope their way through sunless caves,
Like bodies struggling in their graves,
     Carolina!
And now it deepens; slow and grand
It swells, as rolling to the land
An ocean broke upon the strand,
     Carolina!
Shout! let it reach the startled Huns!
And roar with all thy festal guns!
It is the answer of thy sons,
    Carolina!

V.

They will not wait to hear thee call;
From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall
Resounds the voice of hut and hall,
    Carolina!
No! thou hast not a stain, they say,
Or none save what the battle-day
Shall wash in seas of blood away,
    Carolina!
Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part,
Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,
They shall not touch thy noble heart,
    Carolina!

VI.

Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall,
Ten times ten thousand men must fall;
Thy corpse may hearken to his call,
    Carolina!
When by thy bier, in mournful throngs,
The women chant thy mortal wrongs,
'Twill be their own funereal songs,
    Carolina!
From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod,
No helpless child shall look to God;
All shall be safe beneath thy sod,
     Carolina!

VII.

Girt with such wills to do and bear,
Assured in right, and mailed in prayer,
Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,
     Carolina!
Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas,
Like thine own proud armorial trees,
     Carolina!
Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,
And roar the challenge from thy guns;
Then leave the future to thy sons,
     Carolina!

My Mother-Land.

By Paul H. Hayne.

"Animis, Opibusque Parati."

My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling
Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze,
The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas,
The imperious despot's power;
But long before that hour,
While yet, in false and vain imagining,
Thy sister nations would not own their foe,
And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low,
Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe
Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air;
While yet they paused in scorn,
Of fatal madness born,--
Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd
With wondrous vision of the things to come,
Thou couldst not calmly rest
Secure and dumb--
But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum
And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!"
"Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said;
"We see no threatening tempest overhead,
Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath
Will sweep away, or melt in watery death."

"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom!
Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom
Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day,
Which shone o'er Charleston Bay--
When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed--
That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away
From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud,
Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long,
Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong.

But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde
Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword,
  Approach to desecrate
The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate--
Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast
Their ashes to the blast--
Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate
The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"--
Against this ravening flood
Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood,
  Oh! we,
Strong in the strength of God-supported might,
Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight,
  Nor basely yield
To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field--
But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be,
To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ!

Death! What of Death?--
Can he who once drew honorable breath
  In liberty's pure sphere,
  Foster a sensual fear,
When death and slavery meet him face to face,
Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace
Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there,
Black degradation, haunted by despair."

Death! What of Death?--
The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl
Across their portion of this earthly ball,
Share life and motion with us; would we strive
Like such to creep alive,
Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin
We still might keep our mortal breathings in?

The very thought brings blushes to the cheek!
I hear all 'round about me murmurs run,
Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE
Soul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak:

"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just!
  Behold, we seek
Not merely to preserve for noble wives
The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives,
To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand,
And leave our sons their heirloom of command,
    In generous perpetuity of trust;
Not only to defend those ancient laws,
Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire
Welded forevermore with freedom's cause,
And handed scathless down from sire to sire--
Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ,
Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms,
(Though these had sure sufficed
To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)--
But more than all, because embracing all,
Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon
Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep,
From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun
    To him, that gallant Knight,
The youngest champion in the Senate hall,
Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate,
His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right,
Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep
Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1]

"There's not a tone from out the teeming past,
Uplifted once in such a cause as ours,
Which does not smite our souls
In long reverberating thunder-rolls,
From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story.
Above the shouting, furious Persian mass,
Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers,
Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas
Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock;
And o'er the murmurous seas,
Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss,
(For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last),
Gome the clear accents of Miltiades,
Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock
Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis.

"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart
Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus,
We look for proud exemplars; yet for us
  It is enough to know
Our fathers left us freemen; let us show
The will to hold our lofty heritage,
The patient strength to act our fathers' part--
Brothers on history's page,
We wait to write our autographs in gore,
To cast the morning brightness of our glory
  Beyond our day and hope,
The narrow limit of one age's scope,
  On Time's remotest shore!

"Yea! though our children's blood
Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood,
Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bear
  The Ark that holds our shrined liberty,
  Nearer, and yet more near
Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea.

"At last, the conflict done,
The fadeless meed of final victory won--
Behold! emerging from the rifted dark
Athwart a shining summit high in heaven,
  That delegated Ark!
No more to be by vengeful tempests driven,
But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat
The congregated nations gladly gaze,
Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays
That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!"

Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me
Its voice hath come, a passionate augury!
Methinks the very aspect of the world
Changed to the mystic music of its hope.
For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope
The stormy cloudland banners all are furled,
  And softly borne above
Are brooding pinions of invisible love,
  Distilling balm of rest and tender thought
  From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought
O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams
  Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams;
  And universal nature, wheresoever
My vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river--
  Sleeps, like a happy child,
  In slumber undefiled,
A premonition of sublimer days,
  When war and warlike lays
  At length shall cease,
  Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace,
  Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind--
  A prelude and a prophecy combined!

[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate of 1832, would be understood as not pushing the comparison further than the first shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no decisive advantage on either side.

Joe Johnston.

By John R. Thompson.

Once more to the breach for the land of the West!
And a leader we give of our bravest and best,
  Of his State and his army the pride;
Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest,
  And gleams in the glaive at his side.

For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright
As the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight,
  Newly wrought in the forges of Spain;
And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right,
  Will never be dimmed by a stain.

He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind,
Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined,
  Where lie the fresh fields of his fame;
Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind,
  Seem ever to whisper his name.

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs,
And their motto a noble distinction confers--
  "Ever ready!" for friend or for foe--
With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs
  The large, manly heart of our JOE.

We read that a former bold chief of the clan,
Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van,
  On Shiloh's illustrious day;
And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man
  The dark, bloody debt to repay.

There is much to be done; if not glory to seek,
There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak
  For crimes of a terrible dye;
While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak,
  In a chorus rise up to the sky.

For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den,
That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men,
  With his pack has returned to the spoil;
Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen,
  And drive him again from your soil.

Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true,
Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you
  Our leader had never a doubt;
You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew,
  The day that his bugles ring out.

But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore,
Where now are the rifles that kept from your door
  The wolf and the robber as well?
Of a truth, you have never been laggard before
  To deal with a savage so fell.

Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold?
Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold
  Your lives than your freedom more dear?
Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold,
  Or basely take counsel of fear?

We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land
Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand
  That disgraces the dastard, the slave:
The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand,
  Her own sons her own honor shall save!

Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call,
When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal,
  And the torrents their sources unseal;
And this be the watchword of one and of all--
  "Remember the butcher, McNeil!"

Then once more to the breach for the land of the West;
Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best;
  Follow on where your leader you see;
One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed,
  And the land of the West shall be free!

[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, 1862.]

Over the River.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861.

We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars,"
  As one may hail a neighbor;
Now forward move! no fear of jars,
  With nothing but free labor;
And we will mind our slaves and farm,
And never wish you any harm,
  But greet you--over the river.

The self-same language do we speak,
  The same dear words we utter;
Then let's not make each other weak,
  Nor 'gainst each other mutter;
But let each go his separate way,
And each will doff his hat, and say:
  "I greet you--over the river!"

Our flags, almost the same, unfurl,
  And nod across the border;
Ohio's waves between them curl--
  Our stripe's a little broader;
May yours float out on every breeze,
And, in our wake, traverse all seas--
  We greet you--over the river!

We part, as friends of years should part,
  With pleasant words and wishes,
And no desire is in our heart
  For Lincoln's loaves and fishes;
"Farewell," we wave you from afar,
We like you best--just where you are--
  And greet you--over the river!

The Confederacy.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the Southern Christian Advocated.

Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood,
  The pearly light of heaven was on her face;
Life's early joy was coursing in her blood;
  A thing she was of beauty and of grace.

She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth,
  No voice of sympathy was heard to greet
The glory-beaming morning of her birth,
  Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.

She stood, derided by her passing foes;
  Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn;
Their rage in blackening billows round her rose--
  Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.

Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast,
  She shakes them off in pure and holy ire,
As quietly as Paul, in ages past,
  Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.

She bends not to her foes, nor to the world,
  She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom;
But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled,
  She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom.

She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth,
  She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye,
She asks of Thee her place upon the earth--
  For it is Thine to give or to deny.

Oh, let Thine eye but recognize her right!
  Oh, let Thy voice but justify her claim!
Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight,
  And all their power is but an empty name,

Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer!
  Her robes are dripping with her children's blood;
Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare,"
  They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood."

The anguish wraps her close around, like death,
  Her children lie in heaps about her slain;
Before the world she bravely holds her breath,
  Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain.

But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed,
  Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan--
Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest!
  For Thou hast called her!--is she not Thine own?

President Davis.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the New York News, 1865.

The cell is lonely, and the night
  Has filled it with a darker gloom;
The little rays of friendly light,
  Which through each crack and chink found room
To press in with their noiseless feet,
All merciful and fleet,
And bring, like Noah's trembling dove,
God's silent messages of love--
  These, too, are gone,
  Shut out, and gone,
And that great heart is left alone.

Alone, with darkness and with woe,
  Around him Freedom's temple lies,
Its arches crushed, its columns low,
  The night-wind through its ruin sighs;
Rash, cruel hands that temple razed,
Then stood the world amazed!
And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds!
Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds;
  And yet no groan
  Is heard, no groan!
He suffers silently, alone.

For all his bright and happy home,
  He has that cell, so drear and dark,
The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome,
  The clank of chains, for song of lark;
And for the grateful voice of friends--
That voice which ever lends
Its charm where human hearts are found--
He hears the key's dull, grating sound;
  No heart is near,
  No kind heart near,
No sigh of sympathy, no tear!

Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good!
  Unnumbered hearts on thee await,
By thee invisibly have stood,
  Have crowded through thy prison-gate;
Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars,
Nor floating "stripes and stars,"
Nor glittering gun or bayonet,
Can ever cause us to forget
  Our faith to thee,
  Our love to thee,
Thou glorious soul! thou strong! thou free!

The Rifleman's "Fancy Shot."

"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot,
  Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
Ring me a ball on the glittering spot
  That shines on his breast like an amulet."

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead;
  There's music around when my barrel's in tune."
Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped,
  And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
  From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood:
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
  That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track,
  When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette;
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
  That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold;
  An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
  Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket--'tis she!
  My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon.
Was her husband. Hush, soldier!--'twas heaven's deer
  We must bury him there, by the light of the moon.

"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite;
  War is a virtue, and weakness a sin;
There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night:
  Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

"All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night."

By Lamar Fontaine.

[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues silent on the subject.]

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
  Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
  By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then
  Will not count in the news of a battle;
Not an officer lost! only one of the men
  Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night!
  Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
  And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind
  Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
  Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
  As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed,
  Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,
  Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
  And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"

The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then--
  That night, when the love, yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows
  Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
  He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers his gun closer up to his breast,
  As if to keep down the heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
  And his footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
  Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
  Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"
  And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
  No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
  And the picket's off duty forever!

Address

Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond.

A Prize Poem.--By Henry Timrod.

A FAIRY ring

Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain--
From whose weird circle every loathsome thing
  And sight and sound of pain
Are banished, while about it in the air,
And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies,
  Throng, in a vision fair
As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes,
  Gleams of that unseen world
That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes
  With starry wings unfurled,
Poised for a moment on such airy capes
  As pierce the golden foam
  Of sunset's silent main--
Would image what in this enchanted dome,
  Amid the night of war and death
In which the armed city draws its breath,
  We have built up!
For though no wizard wand or magic cup
  The spell hath wrought,
Within this charmed fane we ope the gates
  Of that divinest fairy-land
  Where, under loftier fates
Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand,
Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought.

Shut for one happy evening from the flood
That roars around us, here you may behold--
  As if a desert way
  Could blossom and unfold
  A garden fresh with May--
Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood,
  Souls that upon the poet's page
  Have lived from age to age,
And yet have never donned this mortal clay.
  A golden strand
Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle
  Where fair Miranda's smile
Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art
  Had led unto her heart,
Which, like a bud that waited for the light,
  Burst into bloom at sight!
Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes
As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand,
  And prattles to the night.
  Anon, a reverend form
  With tattered robe and forehead bare,
That challenge all the torments of the air,
      Goes by!
And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh,
While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear
  The noble wreck of Lear
Reproach like things of life the ancient skies,
  And commune with the storm!
Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, where
Wrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the Moor
  Tells his strange story o'er,
The gentle Desdemona chastely lies,
Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh.
  Then through a hush like death
  Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost!
And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath
Which is the trumpet to a countless host
Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep;
  For while it calls to strife,
He pauses on the very brink of fact
To toy as with the shadow of an act,
And utter those wise saws that cut so deep
  Into the core of life!

Nor shall be wanting many a scene
  Where forms of more familiar mien,
Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present
  The world of every day,
Such as it whirls along the busy quay,
Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall,
Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall,
Or toils in attics dark the night away.
Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet,
As in the round wherein our lives are pent;
  Chance for a while shall seem to reign,
While goodness roves like guilt about the street,
  And guilt looks innocent.

But all at last shall vindicate the right.
Crime shall be meted with its proper pain,
Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight,
And fortune's general justice rendered plain.
Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth,
Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet,
Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth,
Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet.
As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth
A sudden beauty unexpected starts,
So you shall find some germs of hidden worth
  Within the vilest hearts;
And now and then, when in those moods that turn
To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers,
You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn
  You've struck a spring of tears!

But while we lead you thus from change to change,
Shall we not find within our ample range
Some type to elevate a people's heart--
Some haro who shall teach a hero's part
  In this distracted time?
Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell!
And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice,
As if across the billows unenthralled,
Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called,
  Bid liberty rejoice!
Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand
The deeds which, more than their own awful mien,
Make every crag of Switzerland sublime!
And say to those whose feeble souls would lean
Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand,
That once a single mind sufficed to quell
The malice of a tyrant; let them know
That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow,
Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand,
But the whole spirit of a mighty land!

Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day
Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red
With the large promise of the coming ray.
Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile
Amid the terrors of the wildest fray,
Let us among the charms of art awhile
  Fleet the deep gloom away;
Nor yet forget that on each hand and head
Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.

The Battle of Richmond.

By George Herbert Sass, Charleston, S.C.

"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them."--Psalm, xliv. 3, 4.

I.

Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land,
And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand;
For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry,
And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory!
Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave
To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave.

II.

Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry,
Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky;
For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day,
And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray;
Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song,
The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

III.

From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood,
From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood,
From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry,
And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye.
In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn;
In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on.

IV.

Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now,
And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow;
But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone,
Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne;
And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land,
To burn and havoc and destroy--a fierce and ruthless band.

V.

I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while
The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile;
And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see,
A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply;
And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum,
And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.

VI.

Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain,
With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train.
Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight,
And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light.
Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed,
And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast.

VII.

I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors,
And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures,
And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread,
Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's tread
In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease,
And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.

VIII.

But far away another line is stretching dark and long,
Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng;
Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum,
And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come,
And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread,
And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.

IX.

They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood?
Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood.
Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won,
And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on.
Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man,
And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.

X.

They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track
Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;
And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1]
And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee;
And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls,
The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls.

XI.

They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon,
In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon;
And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast,
The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast:
"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life!
We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"

XII.

'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight!
And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right;
And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought,
For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought.
Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song--
The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

[1] Pronounced Eujee

The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song.

By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.

"Awake! and to horse, my brothers!
  For the dawn is glimmering gray;
And hark! in the crackling brushwood
  There are feet that tread this way.

"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?"
  "O God! I sicken to tell,
For the earth seems earth no longer,
  And its sights are sights of hell!

"There's rapine and fire and slaughter,
  From the mountain down to the shore;
There's blood on the trampled harvest--
  There's blood on the homestead floor.

"From the far-off conquered cities
  Comes the voice of a stifled wail;
And the shrieks and moans of the houseless
  Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale.

"I've seen, from the smoking village
  Our mothers and daughters fly;
I've seen where the little children
  Sank down, in the furrows, to die.

"On the banks of the battle-stained river
  I stood, as the moonlight shone,
And it glared on the face of my brother,
  As the sad wave swept him on.

"Where my home was glad, are ashes,
  And horror and shame had been there--
For I found, on the fallen lintel,
  This tress of my wife's torn hair.

"They are turning the slave upon us,
  And, with more than the fiend's worst art,
Have uncovered the fires of the savage
  That slept in his untaught heart.

"The ties to our hearths that bound him,
  They have rent, with curses, away,
And maddened him, with their madness,
  To be almost as brutal as they.

"With halter and torch and Bible,
  And hymns to the sound of the drum,
They preach the gospel of Murder,
  And pray for Lust's kingdom to come.

"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers!
  Look up to the rising sun,
And ask of the God who shines there,
  Whether deeds like these shall be done!

"Wherever the vandal cometh,
  Press home to his heart with your steel,
And when at his bosom you cannot,
  Like the serpent, go strike at his heel!

"Through thicket and wood go hunt him,
  Creep up to his camp fireside,
And let ten of his corpses blacken
  Where one of our brothers hath died.

"In his fainting, foot-sore marches,
  In his flight from the stricken fray,
In the snare of the lonely ambush,
  The debts that we owe him pay,

"In God's hand, alone, is judgment;
  But He strikes with the hands of men,
And His blight would wither our manhood
  If we smote not the smiter again.

"By the graves where our fathers slumber,
  By the shrines where our mothers prayed,
By our homes and hopes and freedom.
  Let every man swear on his blade.--

"That he will not sheath nor stay it,
  Till from point to heft it glow
With the flush of Almighty vengeance,
  In the blood of the felon foe."

They swore--and the answering sunlight
  Leapt red from their lifted swords,
And the hate in their hearts made echo
  To the wrath in their burning words.

There's weeping in all New England,
  And by Schuylkill's banks a knell,
And the widows there, and the orphans,
  How the oath was kept can tell.

A Farewell to Pope.

By John K. Thompson, of Virginia.

"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line!
Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline--
Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes,
Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes"--
Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers,
His vanishing form from our gaze disappears;
Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope,
Abiit, evasit, erupit--John Pope.

He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor,
Compeller of fate and controller of war,
Videre et vincere, simply to see,
And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee,
And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg pére,
With a monkeyish grin and beatified air,
"Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap,"
As with eager attention he listened to Pope.

He came--and the poultry was swept by his sword,
Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board;
He saw--at a distance, the rebels appear,
And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear;
He conquered--truth, decency, honor full soon,
Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon;
And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope.
Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope.

He has left us his shining example to note,
And Stuart has captured his uniform coat;
But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall,
To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall;
While many may claim to deserve it, at least,
From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast,
None else, we can say, without risking the trope,
But himself can be parallel ever to Pope.

Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire,
He gives new expression and force to the lyre;
But in one little matter they differ, the two,
And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true--
While his verses gave great Alexaader his fame,
'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same;
And fate may decree that the end of a rope
Shall award yet his highest position to Pope.

Sonnet.

On Reading a Proclamation for Public Prayer.

South Carolinian.

Oh! terrible, this prayer in the market-place,
  These advertised humilities--decreed
  By proclamation, that we may be freed,
And mercy find for once, and saving grace,
Even while we forfeit all that made the race
  Worthy of Heavenly favor--and profess
  Our faith and homage only through duress,
And dread of danger which we dare not face.

All working that's done worthily is prayer--
  And honest thought is prayer--the wish, the will
  To mend our ways, maintain our virtues still,
And, losing life, still keep our bosoms fair
In sight of God--with whom humility
And patient working can alone make free.

Battle of Belmont.

By J. Augustine Signaigo.

From the Memphis Appeal, Dec. 21, 1861.

I.

Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God,
That He hath met the Southron's foe, and scourged him with his rod:
On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came,
And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame;
But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day,
Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay.

II.

But the Vandals with presumption--for they came in all their might--
Gave free vent unto their feelings, for they thought to win the fight;
And they forced our little cohorts to the very river's brink,
With a breath between destruction and of life's remaining link:
When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth,
Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South.

III.

There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high
That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die;
And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle's din,
Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win:
And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords,
Came destruction to the foeman--and the vengeance was the Lord's!

IV.

When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry,
That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high!
It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that the Vandals' ears did sting,
And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring;
And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won,
From the crackling of our rifles--bravely then they had to run!

V.

Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay,
And their great grandchildren's children will be shamed to name that day;
For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South
Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's booming mouth:
And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood,
For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman's blood.

VI.

Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe,
And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow:
Like the ocean beating wildly 'gainst a prow of adamant,
Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant;
Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field,
Cheering on his noble comrades, ne'er unto the foe to yield!

VII.

None e'er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime--
Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time:
And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few:
"I have bravely fought them, mother--I have bravely fought for you!"
Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South,
And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth.

VIII.

In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag,
Proudly to the breeze 'twas floating in defiance to our flag;
And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down,
They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown;
But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch,
Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch!

IX.

And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death,
Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath;
But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high,
On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die;
But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three,
Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee!

X.

Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be,
That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free;
That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky.
And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die;
For His fiat hath gone forth, e'en among the Hessian horde,
That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord.

XI.

Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God,
That He hath met the Southron's foe and scourged him with His rod;
That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might,
And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight;
Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim,
We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name.

Vicksburg--A Ballad.

By Paul H. Hayne.

I.

For sixty days and upwards,
   A storm of shell and shot
Rained 'round us in a flaming shower,
   But still we faltered not!
"If the noble city perish,"
   Our grand young leader said,
"Let the only walls the foe shall scale
   Be the ramparts of the dead!"

II.

For sixty days and upwards
   The eye of heaven waxed dim,
And even throughout God's holy morn,
   O'er Christian's prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult,
   As if the fiends of air
Strove to ingulf the voice of faith
   In the shrieks of their despair.

III.

There was wailing in the houses,
   There was trembling on the marts,
While the tempest raged and thundered,
   'Mid the silent thrill of hearts;
But the Lord, our shield, was with us,
   And ere a month had sped
Our very women walked the streets
   With scarce one throb of dread.

IV.

And the little children gambolled--
   Their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment,
   As the huge bomb whirled and blazed!
Then turned with silvery laughter
   To the sports which children love,
Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought,
   That the good God watched above.

V.

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,
   From scores of flame-clad ships,
And about us, denser, darker,
   Grew the conflict's wild eclipse,
Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,
   Like a type of doom, and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues
   Of forked and vengeful fire.

VI.

But the unseen hands of angels
   Those death-shafts turned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy
   Ruled o'er the battle tide;
In the houses ceased the wailing,
   And through the war-scarred marts
The people trode with the step of hope,
   To the music in their hearts.

Columbia, S.C., August 6, 1862.

A Ballad of the War.

Published Originally in the Southern Field and Fireside,

By George Herbert Sass, of Charleston, S.C.

Watchman, what of the night?
  Through the city's darkening street,
Silent and slow, the guardsmen go
  On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down,
  Falleth the wintry rain;
And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed,
  As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows,
  The sleet falls heavy and chill,
And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire,
  As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.

Silent is all without,
  Save the sentry's challenge grim,
And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town,
  And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night?
  Hark! from the old church-tower
Rings loud and clear, on the misty air,
  The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in,
  A summons deep and rude,
The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum
  Of a gathering multitude.

And the dim and flickering torch
  Sheds a red and lurid glare,
O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine
  Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard:
  "Rest on your arms, my men."
Then the muskets clank through each serried rank,
  And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes
  Gaze down on that grim array,
For a rumor hath spread that that column dread
  Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels,"
  Whose camp lies heavy and still,
Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat
  On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint,
  As she thinks of her darling one,
Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky,
  Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too,
  Is the cheek of the fair young wife;
And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him
  She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons,
  Are the "rebels" the foe would smite,
And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear,
  And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is,
  There is each loving heart;
And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze,
  And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp,
  None from that anxious throng?
Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town--
  The way is dark and long.

No man is left behind,
  None that is brave and true,
And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light
  With menace stern shine through.

Guarded is every street,
  Brutal the hireling foe;
Is there one heart here will boldly dare
  So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room,
  Alone a woman kneels,
With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face,
  And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow,
  A matron, she, and fair,
Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak
  Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer
  Her pale lips move, and then,
Through the dreary night, like an angel bright,
  On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way,
  Through the lonely, misty street,
Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread
  Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, aye, onward still,
  Far past the weary town,
Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees,
  And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on,
  Breasting the cold, dank rain,
And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill
  Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears
  A dull and muffled tramp,
But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam
  Shines out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge,
  Her work of love is done;
She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height
  Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden,
  Who saved from a ruthless foe
Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown,
  Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic
  How a noble Scottish maid
Her own life gave, her king to save
  From the foul assassin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor,
  Shall live in lasting fame,
Oh, close beside, in grateful pride,
  We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children
  Shall cluster round our knee,
With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days
  When we swore that we would be free,

We'll tell them the thrilling story,
  And we'll say to each childish heart,
"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need,
  Be ready to do thy part."

The Two Armies.

By Henry Timrod.

Two armies stand enrolled beneath
The banner with the starry wreath:
One, facing battle, blight, and blast,
Through twice a hundred fields has passed;
Its deeds against a ruffian foe,
Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know,
Till every wind that sweeps the land
Goes, glory-laden, from the strand.

The other, with a narrower scope,
Yet led by not less grand a hope,
Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place,
And wears its fame with meeker grace.
Wives march beneath its glittering sign,
Fond mothers swell the lovely line:
And many a sweetheart hides her blush
In the young patriot's generous flush.

No breeze of battle ever fanned
The colors of that tender band;
Its office is beside the bed,
Where throbs some sick or wounded head.
It does not court the soldier's tomb,
But plies the needle and the loom;
And, by a thousand peaceful deeds,
Supplies a struggling nation's needs.

Nor is that army's gentle might
Unfelt amid the deadly fight;
It nerves the son's, the husband's hand,
It points the lover's fearless brand;
It thrills the languid, warms the cold,
Gives even new courage to the bold;
And sometimes lifts the veriest clod
To its own lofty trust in God.

When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace,
And bid this weary warfare cease,
Their several missions nobly done,
The triumph grasped, and freedom won,
Both armies, from their toils at rest,
Alike may claim the victor's crest,
But each shall see its dearest prize
Gleam softly from the other's eyes.

The Legion of Honor.

Why are we forever speaking
   Of the warriors of old?
Men are fighting all around us,
   Full as noble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving,
   Mind and muscle, heart and soul,
With the reins of judgment keeping
   Passions under full control.

Noble hearts are beating boldly
   As they ever did on earth;
Swordless heroes are around us,
   Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses,
   Building up the purer laws,
Scattering the dust of ages,
   Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no "right divine"
   In kings and princes from the rest;
In their creed he is the noblest
   Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them--
   Diamond stars they laugh to scorn--
Each will wear a "Cross of Honor"
   On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom--
   Like the noble Hebrew youth,
Striking down Goliath's error
   With the God-blessed stone of truth.

Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner,
   Forward rush these volunteers,
Beating olden wrong away
   From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them,
   But the coming times will say
(Speaking of the slandered present),
   "There were heroes in that day."

Why are we then idly lying
   On the roses of our life,
While the noble-hearted struggle
   In the world-redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion,
   Ever foremost in the fray--
Battling in the name of Progress
   For the nobler, purer day.

Clouds in the West.

By A. J. Requier, of Alabama.

Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West
   A manly shout for instant succor comes,
From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast,
   With rage-indented drums!

Who dare for child, wife, country--stream and strand,
   Though but a fraction to the swarming foe,
There--at the flooded gateways of the land,
   To stem a torrent's flow.

To arms! brave sons of each embattled State,
   Whose queenly standard is a Southern star:
Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate
   On Freedom's victor-car!

Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum
   Of craven traffic for the mustering clan:
The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come
   And prove yourself--a man.

That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief
   Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes--
God! can you live to see a foreign thief
   Contaminate its roses?

Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave
   Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan;
Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave,
   Or claims to be a man!

Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West
   A manly shout for instant succor comes,
From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast.
   With rage-indented drums!

Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din,
   Where still your battle-flags unbended wave,
Dying for what your fathers died to win
   And you must fight to save.

Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep,
   Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar;
The very waves are marshalling on the deep,
   While tempests tread the shore.

Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land
   Shall burial only yield a bandit foe;
Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand,
   And strike the fated blow.

Georgia, My Georgia!

By Carrie Bell Sinclair.

Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar,
That sounds along thy sunny shore,
And thou shalt lie in chains no more,
   My wounded, bleeding Georgia!
Then arm each youth and patriot sire,
Light up the patriotic fire,
And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire,
   Who strike for thee, my Georgia

On thee is laid oppression's hand,
Around thy altars foemen stand,
To scatter freedom's gallant band,
   And lay thee low, my Georgia!
But thou hast noble sons, and brave,
The Stars and Bars above thee wave,
And here we'll make oppression's grave,
   Upon the soil of Georgia!

We bow at Liberty's fair shrine,
And kneel in holy love at thine,
And while above our stars still shine,
   We'll strike for them and Georgia!

Thy woods with victory shall resound,
Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned,
And peace shall spread her wings around
   My own, my sunny Georgia!

Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel
That Southern hearts, and Southern steel,
Will make them in submission kneel
   Before the sons of Georgia!
And thou shalt see thy daughters, too,
With pride and patriotism true,
Arise with strength to dare and do,
   Ere they shall conquer Georgia.

Thy name shall be a name of pride--
Thy heroes all have nobly died,
That thou mayst be the spotless bride
   Of Liberty, my Georgia!
Then wave thy sword and banner high,
And louder raise the battle-cry,
'Till shouts of victory reach the sky,
   And thou art free, my Georgia!

Song of the Texas Rangers.

Air--The Yellow Rose of Texas.

The morning star is paling,
   The camp-fires flicker low,
Our steeds are madly neighing,
   For the bugle bids us go.
So put the foot in stirrup,
   And shake the bridle free,
For to-day the Texas Rangers
   Must cross the Tennessee,

With Wharton for our leader,
  We'll chase the dastard foe,
Till our horses bathe their fetlocks
  In the deep blue Ohio.
Our men are from the prairies,
  That roll broad and proud and free,
From the high and craggy mountains
  To the murmuring Mexic' sea;
And their hearts are open as their plains,
  Their thoughts as proudly brave
As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard,
  Or the Gulf's resistless wave.

Then quick! into the saddle,
                And shake the bridle free,
            To-day, with gallant Wharton,
                We cross the Tennessee.

'Tis joy to be a Ranger!
  To fight for dear Southland;
'Tis joy to follow Wharton,
  With his gallant, trusty band!
'Tis joy to see our Harrison,
  Plunge like a meteor bright
Into the thickest of the fray,
  And deal his deathly might.

Oh! who'd not be a Ranger,
                And follow Wharton's cry!
            To battle for his country--
                And, if it needs be--die!

By the Colorado's waters,
  On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore,
On our soft green peaceful prairies
  Are the homes we may see no more;
But in those homes our gentle wives,
  And mothers with silv'ry hairs,
Are loving us with tender hearts,
  And shielding us with prayers.

So, trusting in our country's God,
                We draw our stout, good brand,
            For those we love at home,
                Our altars and our land.

Up, up with the crimson battle-flag--
  Let the blue pennon fly;
Our steeds are stamping proudly--
  They hear the battle-cry!
The thundering bomb, the bugle's call,
  Proclaim the foe is near;
We strike for God and native land,
  And all we hold most dear.

Then spring into the saddle,
                And shake the bridle free--
            For Wharton leads, through fire and blood,
                For Home and Victory!

Kentucky Required to Yield Her Arms.

By----Boone.

Ho! will the despot trifle,
   In dwellings of the free;
Kentuckians yield the rifle,
   Kentuckians bend the knee!
With dastard fear of danger,
   And trembling at the strife;
Kentucky, to the stranger,
   Yield liberty for life!
Up! up! each gallant ranger,
   With rifle and with knife!

The bastard and the traitor,
   The wolfcub and the snake,
The robber, swindler, hater,
   Are in your homes--awake!
Nor let the cunning foeman
   Despoil your liberty;
Yield weapon up to no man,
   While ye can strike and see,
Awake, each gallant yeoman,
   If still ye would be free!

Aye, see to sight the rifle,
   And smite with spear and knife,
Let no base cunning stifle
   Each lesson of your life:
How won your gallant sires
   The country which ye keep?
By soul, which still inspires
   The soil on which ye weep!
Leap up! their spirit fires,
   And rouse ye from your sleep!

"What!" cry the sires so famous,
   In Orleans' ancient field,
"Will ye, our children, shame us,
   And to the despot yield?
What! each brave lesson stifle
   We left to give you life?
Let apish despots trifle
   With home and child and wife?
And yield, O shame! the rifle,
   And sheathe, O shame! the knife?"

"There's Life in the Old Land Yet."

First Published in the New Orleans Delta, about September 1, 1861.

By blue Patapsco's billowy dash
   The tyrant's war-shout comes,
Along with the cymbal's fitful clash
   And the growl of his sullen drums;
We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills,
   And we shall not forgive or forget--
There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills,
   "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead,
   We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred--
We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread
   Of the peerless Beauregard.
Then woe to your vile, polluting horde,
   When the Southern braves are met;
There's faith in the victor's stainless sword,
   "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind
   With the clank of an iron chain;
The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind
   O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;
And we--though we smite not--are not thralls,
   We are piling a gory debt;
While down by McHenry's dungeon walls
   "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Our women, have hung their harps away
   And they scowl on your brutal bands,
While the nimble poignard dares the day
   In their dear defiant hands;
They will strip their tresses to string our bows
   Ere the Northern sun is set--
There's faith in their unrelenting woes--
   "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
   'Tis vocal without noise;
It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains
   From the blood of the Maryland boys.
That blood shall cry aloud and rise
   With an everlasting threat--
By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,
   "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Tell the Boys the War Is Ended.

By Emily J. Moore.

While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the boys the war is ended."

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
These were all the words he said;
  "Tell the boys the war is ended,"
In an instant more was dead.

Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful
   Was the smile upon his face,
While the pain, of late so fearful,
   Had not left the slightest trace.

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
  And with heavenly visions bright
Thoughts of comrades loved were blended,
  As his spirit took its flight.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
  "Grant, 0 God, it may be so,"
Was the prayer which then ascended,
  In a whisper deep, though low.

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
  And his warfare then was o'er,
As, by angel bands attended,
  He departed from earth's shore.
Bursting shells and cannons roaring
  Could not rouse him by their din;
He to better worlds was soaring,
  Far from war, and pain, and sin.

"The Southern Cross."

By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.

Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm,
More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?
Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,
As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.
How radiant each star, as the beacon afar,
Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war!
'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain
To light us to freedom and glory again!

How peaceful and blest was America's soil,
'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,
Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil
To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.
Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel,
And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel!
And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,
To light us to freedom and glory again!

'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope,
Like the sacred Labarum that guided the Roman;
From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope,
'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen.
Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare
The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare!
While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,
To light us to freedom and glory again!

And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied,
And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions,
Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride,
Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions!
With our front in the field, swearing never to yield,
Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield!
And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave,
As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!

Southern Literary Messenger.

England's Neutrality.

A Parliamentary Debate.

By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia.

All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy,
Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy,
Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality,
And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality,

Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission,
The next debate in parliament on Southern Recognition;
They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see,
As truly as the Times' report, without the gift of prophecy.

Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion,
But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion;
Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant
To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent.

But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason,
As deaf as is the Morning Post, both in and out of season;
The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary,
And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory,

"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering,
While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing--
As, par exemple, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety,
That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society.

"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em,
And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em;
If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?"
And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer.

Enough of him--an abler man demands our close attention--
The Maximus Apollo of strict non-intervention--
With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone,
Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston:

"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes
Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes
Where many an ancient mansion stood--what though the robber pillages
The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages.

"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty,
Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!"
(And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is
Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)?

"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish,
With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish;
Let universal ruin there become a sad reality:
We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."

Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages,
How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages?
Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude;
'Tis clear that you have no concern in that divine beatitude.

But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle,
Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell;
Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see,
And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy.

"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water,
'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter;
The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs,
But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers.

"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny,
We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many;
We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages,
And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages.

"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson,
Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon;
To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"--
(And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?)

"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger,
'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger;
'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh!
Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho.

"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not
    bound her,
We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her;
We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan,
But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan.

"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory,
To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story;
These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em,
But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem.

"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation,
Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation,
Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory,
And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory.

"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina,
And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah;
Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery
Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery.

"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity,
May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city;
No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris,
'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.)

"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles,
While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles;
And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality,
We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."

Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator,
When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur',
When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead,
Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede.

But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it,
And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit,
Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality,
Without the help of Britain's arm, in spite of her neutrality.

Illustrated News.

Close the Ranks.

By John L. O'Sullivan.

The fell invader is before!
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We'll hunt his legions from our shore,
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Our wives, our children are behind,
Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind,
Their voices reach us on the wind,
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

Are we to bend to slavish yoke?
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We'll bend when bends our Southern oak.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
On with the line of serried steel,
We all can die, we none can kneel
To crouch beneath the Northern heel.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We kneel to God, and God alone.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
One heart in all--all hearts as one.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
For home, for country, truth and right,
We stand or fall in freedom's fight:
In such a cause the right is might.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We're here from every southern home.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Fond, weeping voices bade us come.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks
The husband, brother, boy, and sire,
All burning with one holy fire--
Our country's love our only hire.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We cannot fail, we will not yield!
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Our bosoms are our country's shield.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By Washington's immortal name,
By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame,
Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same,
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

By all we hope, by all we love,
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By home on earth, by Heaven above,
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By all the tears, and heart's blood shed,
By all our hosts of martyred dead,
We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed.
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

The front may fall, the rear succeed,
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We smile in triumph as we bleed,
   Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Our Southern Cross above us waves,
Long shall it bless the sacred graves
Of those who died, but were not slaves.
  Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

The Sea-Kings of the South.

By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va.

Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won,
From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston,
On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee,
Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free.

The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm;
Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form;
And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train,
Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again.

But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side--a broader field than the plain,
Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main,
'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land,
For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand.

For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree
Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea,
No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine,
Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line.

The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar;
The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar.
Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball;
But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all.

Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show
That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below.
The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore,
Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore.

Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet!
One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet!
Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour;
But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore.

See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream!
Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam!
Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on,
Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon.

Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game!
From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came.
The catchers of the whale she caught; swift Ariel overhauled;
And made Hatteras know the hardest blow that ever a tar appalled.

She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well.
To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell.
To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck,
With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck.

In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop--
Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop.
Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils,
She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils.

And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career.
Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear;
The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll
Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole.

Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing,
For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring.
All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight,
No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright.

Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea;
The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be!
The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine
For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine!

The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave
As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave,
As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor,
Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war.

Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours,
Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers!
Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled mouth,
And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH!

Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.

The Return.

Three years! I wonder if she'll know me?
  I limp a little, and I left one arm
At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown
  As the plump chestnuts on my little farm:
And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs--
But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers.

The darling! how I long to see her!
  My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace,
For I remember, after I had left,
  A little Charlie came to take my place.
Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes--
His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise!

Surely, they will be at the corner watching!
  I sent them word that I should come to-night:
The birds all know it, for they crowd around,
  Twittering their welcome with a wild delight;
And that old robin, with a halting wing--
I saved her life, three years ago last spring.

Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming!
  For, like the pilgrim of the long ago,
I've tugged, a weary burden at my back,
  Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow;
Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast,
There I can roll my burden off, and rest.

When morning came, the early rising sun
  Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping--
Where a soft covering of bright green grass
  Over two mounds was lightly creeping;
But waked him not: his was the rest eternal,
Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal.

Our Christmas Hymn.

By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C.

"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!"
  The burden of the Advent song,
What time the love-charmed waves grew still
  To hearken to the shining throng;
The wondering shepherds heard the strain
  Who watched by night the slumbering fleece,
The deep skies echoed the refrain,
  "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"

And wise men hailed the promised sign,
  And brought their birth-gifts from the East,
Dear to that Mother as the wine
  That hallowed Cana's bridal feast;
But what to these are myrrh or gold,
  And what Arabia's costliest gem,
Whose eyes the Child divine behold,
  The blessed Babe of Bethlehem.

"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"
  They sing, the bright ones overhead;
And scarce the jubilant anthems cease
  Ere Judah wails her first-born dead;
And Rama's wild, despairing cry
  Fills with great dread the shuddering coast,
And Rachel hath but one reply,
  "Bring back, bring back my loved and lost."

So, down two thousand years of doom
  That cry is borne on wailing winds,
But never star breaks through the gloom,
  No cradled peace the watcher finds;
And still the Herodian steel is driven,
  And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan,
And still the mute appeal to heaven
  Man answers back with groan for groan.

How shall we keep our Christmas tide?
  With that dread past, its wounds agape,
Forever walking by our side,
  A fearful shade, an awful shape;
Can any promise of the spring
  Make green the faded autumn leaf?
Or who shall say that time will bring
  Fair fruit to him who sows but grief?

Wild bells! that shake the midnight air
  With those dear tones that custom loves,
You wake no sounds of laughter here,
  Nor mirth in all our silent groves;
On one broad waste, by hill or flood,
  Of ravaged lands your music falls,
And where the happy homestead stood
  The stars look down on roofless halls.

At every board a vacant chair
  Fills with quick tears some tender eye,
And at our maddest sports appear
  Those well-loved forms that will not die.
We lift the glass, our hand is stayed--
  We jest, a spectre rises up--
And weeping, though no word is said,
  We kiss and pass the silent cup,

And pledge the gallant friend who keeps
  His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height,
And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps
  Beneath Virginian snows to-night;
While, by the fire, she, musing, broods
  On all that was and might have been,
If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods
  Had never drunk that crimson stain.

O happy Yules of buried years!
  Could ye but come in wonted guise,
Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears,
  When looking back through wistful eyes,
Would seem those chimes whose voices tell
  His birth-night with melodious burst,
Who, sitting by Samaria's well,
  Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst.

Ah! yet I trust that all who weep,
  Somewhere, at last, will surely find
His rest, if through dark ways they keep
  The child-like faith, the prayerful mind;
And some far Christmas morn shall bring
  From human ills a sweet release
To loving hearts, while angels sing
  "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"

Charleston.

Written for the Charleston Courier in 1863.

By Miss E. B. Cheesborough.

Proudly she stands by the crystal sea,
  With the fires of hate around her,
But a cordon of love as strong as fate,
  With adamant links surround her.
Let them hurl their bolts through the azure sky,
  And death-bearing missiles send her,
She finds in our God a mighty shield,
  And in heaven a sure defender.

Her past is a page of glory bright,
  Her present a blaze of splendor,
You may turn o'er the leaves of the jewell'd tome,
  You'll not find the word surrender;
For sooner than lay down her trusty arms,
  She'd build her own funeral pyre,
And the flames that give her a martyr's fate
  Will kindle her glory higher.

How the demons glare as they see her stand
  In majestic pride serenely,
And gnash with the impotent rage of hate,
  Creeping up slowly, meanly;
While she cries, "Come forth from your covered dens,
  All your hireling legions send me,
I'll bare my breast to a million swords,
  Whilst God and my sons defend me."

Oh, brave old town, o'er thy sacred form
  Whilst the fiery rain is sweeping,
May He whose love is an armor strong
  Embrace thee in tender keeping;
And when the red war-cloud has rolled away,
  Anoint thee with holy chrism,
And sanctified, chastened, regenerate, true,
  Thou surviv'st this fierce baptism.

Gathering Song.

Air--Bonnie Blue Flag

By Annie Chambers Ketchum.

Come, brothers! rally for the right!
  The bravest of the brave
Sends forth her ringing battle-cry
  Beside the Atlantic wave!
She leads the way in honor's path!
  Come, brothers, near and far,
Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag
  That bears a single star!

We've borne the Yankee trickery,
  The Yankee gibe and sneer,
Till Yankee insolence and pride
  Know neither shame nor fear;
But ready now with shot and steel
  Their brazen front to mar,
We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag
  That bears a single star!

Now Georgia marches to the front,
  And close beside her come
Her sisters by the Mexique Sea,
  With pealing trump and drum!
Till, answering back from hill and glen
  The rallying cry afar,
A NATION hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag
  That bears a single star!

By every stone in Charleston Bay,
  By each beleaguered town,
We swear to rest not, night nor day,
  But hunt the tyrants down!
Till, bathed in valor's holy blood
  The gazing world afar
Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue
  That bears the cross and star!

Christmas.

By Henry Timrod, of South Carolina.

How grace this hallowed day?
Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,
Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
    Round which the children play?

Alas! for many a moon,
That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air,
Mute as an obelisk of ice aglare
    Beneath an Arctic noon.

Shame to the foes that drown
Our psalms of worship with their impious drum.
The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb
    In some far rustic town.

There, let us think, they keep,
Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea
They've ushered in with old-world, English glee,
    Some echoes in their sleep.

    How shall we grace the day?
With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports,
And shout of happy children in the courts,
    And tales of ghost and fay?

Is there indeed a door
Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise,
And all the merry round of Christmas joys,
    Could enter as of yore?

Would not some pallid face
Look in upon the banquet, calling up
Dread shapes of battle in the wassail cup,
    And trouble all the place?

How could we bear the mirth,
While some loved reveller of a year ago
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
    In cold Virginian earth?

How shall we grace the day?
Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn
The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born,
    Employ us, while we pray!

Pray for the peace which long
Hath left this tortured land, and haply now
Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow,
    There hardly safe from wrong.

Let every sacred fane
Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God,
And, with the cloister and the tented sod,
    Join in one solemn strain!

With pomp of Roman form,
With the grave ritual brought from England's shore,
And with the simple faith which asks no more
    Than that the heart be warm.

He, who till time shall cease,
Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vain,
He died to give us peace, will not disdain
    A prayer whose theme is--peace.

Perhaps, ere yet the spring
Hath died into the summer, over all
The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall
    Like some protecting wing.

Oh, ponder what it means!
Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way!
Oh, give the vision and the fancy play,
    And shape the coming scenes!

Peace in the quiet dales,
Made rankly fertile by the blood of men;
Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen,
    Peace in the peopled vales!

Peace in the crowded town,
Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain,
Peace in the highway and the flowery lane,
    Peace on the wind-swept down!

Peace on the furthest seas,
Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams,
Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams,
    And peace in every breeze!

Peace on the whirring marts,
Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams,
Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes,
    And peace in all our hearts!

A Prayer for Peace.

By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.

Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace!
Unto our cry of anguish and despair
Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes,
Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe
Fill their poor urns with tears; from trampled plains,
Where the bright harvest Thou has sent us rots--
The blood of them who should have garnered it
Calling to Thee--from fields of carnage, where
The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings
O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday
Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love
And common hopes and pride, all blasted now--
Father of Mercies! not alone from these
Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone
Upon the battle's seared and desolate track,
Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God,
That Thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths,
And in the crowded streets and busy marts,
Where echo whispers not the far-off strife
That slays our loved ones; in the solemn halls
Of safe and quiet counsel--nay, beneath
The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee,
And 'mid their rising incense--God of Peace!
The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate
Hungering for gold and blood; Ambition, bred
Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts,
Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway
Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price
On human hecatombs, and sell and buy
Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests,
With white, anointed, supplicating hands,
From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee,
Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down
Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats
Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born,
Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth
Till Rachel hath no children left to slay.
The very name of Jesus, writ upon
Thy shrines beneath the spotless, outstretched wings,
Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid
With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires
That rise above them angry banners flout
The skies to which they point, amid the clang
Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise.

All things once prized and honored are forgot:
The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee;
The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield;
The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word,
Which might be stifled, but could never wear
The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie;
All these are gone, and in their stead have come
The vices of the miser and the slave--
Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power,
Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence,
Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope,
Save as begun in self, and ending there.
With vipers like to these, oh! blessed God!
Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more,
Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad,
To wake the midnight of our sorrowing
With tidings of good-will and peace to men;
And if the star, that through the darkness led
Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now,
Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist,
With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak
The unanswerable message of Thy will.

Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us peace!
Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; Peace
On the red waters and their blighted shores;
Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts
That watch and bleed around them and within,
Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;
Peace for the captive on his weary way,
And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness;
For them that suffer, them that do the wrong
Sinning and sinned against.--O God! for all;
For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land--
Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace!

The Band in the Pines.

(Heard after Pelham Died.)

By John Esten Cooke.

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease!
  Cease with your splendid call;
The living are brave and noble,
  But the dead were bravest of all!

They throng to the martial summons,
  To the loud, triumphant strain;
And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends
  Come to the heart again!

They come with the ringing bugle,
  And the deep drum's mellow roar;
Till the soul is faint with longing
  For the hands we clasp no more!

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease!
  Or the heart will melt in tears,
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips,
  And the voices of old years!

At Fort Pillow.

First published in the Wilmington Journal, April 25, 1864.

You shudder as you think upon
  The carnage of the grim report,
The desolation when we won
  The inner trenches of the fort.

But there are deeds you may not know,
  That scourge the pulses into strife;
Dark memories of deathless woe
  Pointing the bayonet and knife.

The house is ashes where I dwelt,
  Beyond the mighty inland sea;
The tombstones shattered where I knelt,
  By that old church at Pointe Coupee.

The Yankee fiends, that came with fire,
  Camped on the consecrated sod,
And trampled in the dust and mire
  The Holy Eucharist of God!

The spot where darling mother sleeps,
  Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon,
Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps,
  To stall the horse of some dragoon.

God! when I ponder that black day
  It makes my frantic spirit wince;
I marched--with Longstreet--far away,
  But have beheld the ravage since

The tears are hot upon my face,
  When thinking what bleak fate befell
The only sister of our race--
  A thing too horrible to tell.

They say that, ere her senses fled,
  She rescue of her brothers cried;
Then feebly bowed her stricken head,
  Too pure to live thus--so she died.

Two of those brothers heard no plea;
  With their proud hearts forever still--
John shrouded by the Tennessee,
  And Arthur there at Malvern Hill.

But I have heard it everywhere,
  Vibrating like a passing knell;
'Tis as perpetual as the air,
  And solemn as a funeral bell.

By scorched lagoon and murky swamp
  My wrath was never in the lurch;
I've killed the picket in his camp,
  And many a pilot on his perch.

With steady rifle, sharpened brand,
  A week ago, upon my steed,
With Forrest and his warrior band,
  I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.

You should have seen our leader go
  Upon the battle's burning marge,
Swooping, like falcon, on the foe,
  Heading the gray line's iron charge!

All outcasts from our ruined marts,
  We heard th' undying serpent hiss,
And in the desert of our hearts
  The fatal spell of Nemesis.

The Southern yell rang loud and high
  The moment that we thundered in,
Smiting the demons hip and thigh,
  Cleaving them to the very chin.

My right arm bared for fiercer play,
  The left one held the rein in slack;
In all the fury of the fray
  I sought the white man, not the black.

The dabbled clots of brain and gore
  Across the swirling sabres ran;
To me each brutal visage bore
  The front of one accursed man.

Throbbing along the frenzied vein,
  My blood seemed kindled into song--
The death-dirge of the sacred slain,
  The slogan of immortal wrong.

It glared athwart the dripping glaves,
  It blazed in each avenging eye--
The thought of desecrated graves,
  And some lone sister's desperate cry!

From the Rapidan--1864.

A low wind in the pines!
  And a dull pain in the breast!
And oh! for the sigh of her lips and eyes--
  One touch of the hand I pressed!

The slow, sad lowland wind,
  It sighs through the livelong day,
While the splendid mountain breezes blow,
  And the autumn is burning away.

Here the pines sigh ever above,
  And the broomstraw sighs below;
And far from the bare, bleak, windy fields
  Comes the note of the drowsy crow.

There the trees are crimson and gold,
  Like the tints of a magical dawn,
And the slender form, in the dreamy days,
  By the slow stream rambles on.

Oh, day that weighs on the heart!
  Oh, wind in the dreary pines!
Does she think on me 'mid the golden hours,
  Past the mountain's long blue lines?

The old house, lonely and still,
  By the sad Shenandoah's waves,
Must be touched to-day by the sunshine's gleam,
  As the spring flowers bloom on graves.

Oh, sunshine, flitting and sad,
  Oh, wind, that forever sighs!
The hall may be bright, but my life is dark
  For the sunshine of her eyes!

Song of Our Glorious Southland.

By Mrs. Mary Ware.

From the Southern Field and Fireside.

I.

Oh, sing of our glorious Southland,
  The pride of the golden sun!
'Tis the fairest land of flowers
  The eye e'er looked upon.

Sing of her orange and myrtle
  That glitter like gems above;
Sing of her dark-eyed maidens
  As fair as a dream of love.

Sing of her flowing rivers--
  How musical their sound!
Sing of her dark green forests,
  The Indian hunting-ground.

Sing of the noble nation
  Fierce struggling to be free;
Sing of the brave who barter
  Their lives for liberty!

II.

Weep for the maid and matron
  Who mourn their loved ones slain;
Sigh for the light departed,
  Never to shine again:

'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping,
  That never will comfort know;
'Tis the wail of desolation,
  The breaking of hearts in woe!

III.

Ah! the blood of Abel crieth
  For vengeance from the sod!
'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted
  In the face of an angry God!

Oh! brother of the Northland,
  We plead from our father's grave;
We strike for our homes and altars,
  He fought to build and save!

A smouldering fire is burning,
  The Southern heart is steeled--
Perhaps 'twill break in dying,
  But never will it yield.

Sonnet.

By Paul H. Hayne.

Rise from your gory ashes stern and pale,
Ye martyred thousands! and with dreadful ire,
A voice of doom, a front of gloomy fire,
Rebuke those faithless souls, whose querulous wail
Disturbs your sacred sleep!--"The withering hail
Of battle, hunger, pestilence, despair,
Whatever of mortal anguish man may bear,
We bore unmurmuring! strengthened by the mail
Of a most holy purpose!--then we died!--
Vex not our rest by cries of selfish pain,
But to the noblest measure of your powers
Endure the appointed trial! Griefs defied,
But launch their threatening thunderbolts in vain,
And angry storms pass by in gentlest showers!"

Hospital Duties.

Charleston Courier.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,
  Turn the key on your jewels to-day,
And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses
  Braid back in a serious way;
No more delicate gloves, no more laces,
  No more trifling in boudoir or bower,
But come with your souls in your faces
  To meet the stern wants of the hour.

Look around. By the torchlight unsteady
  The dead and the dying seem one--
What! trembling and paling already,
  Before your dear mission's begun?
These wounds are more precious than ghastly--
  Time presses her lips to each scar,
While she chants of that glory which vastly
  Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by this bedside. How mellow
  The light showers down on that brow!
Such a brave, brawny visage, poor fellow!
  Some homestead is missing him now.
Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing,
  Some mother sits moaning distressed,
While the loved one lies faint but unfearing,
  With the enemy's ball in his breast.

Here's another--a lad--a mere stripling,
  Picked up in the field almost dead,
With the blood through his sunny hair rippling
  From the horrible gash in the head.
They say he was first in the action:
  Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty:
He fought till he dropped with exhaustion
  At the gates of our fair southern city.

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city,
  With a spirit transcending his years--
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,
  And wet his pale lips with your tears.
Touch him gently; most sacred the duty
  Of dressing that poor shattered hand!
God spare him to rise in his beauty,
  And battle once more for his land!

Pass on! it is useless to linger
  While others are calling your care;
There is need for your delicate finger,
  For your womanly sympathy there.
There are sick ones athirst for caressing,
  There are dying ones raving at home,
There are wounds to be bound with a blessing,
  And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest
  Of death in its ghastliest view;
The nearest as well as the furthest
  Is there with the traitor and true.
And crowned with your beautiful patience,
  Made sunny with love at the heart,
You must balsam the wounds of the nations,
  Nor falter nor shrink from your part.

And the lips of the mother will bless you,
  And angels, sweet-visaged and pale,
And the little ones run to caress you,
  And the wives and the sisters cry hail!
But e'en if you drop down unheeded,
  What matter? God's ways are the best:
You have poured out your life where 'twas needed,
  And he will take care of the rest.

They Cry Peace, Peace, When There Is No Peace.

By Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia.

They are ringing peace on my heavy ear--
  No peace to my heavy heart!
They are ringing peace, I hear! I hear!
  O God! how my hopes depart!

They are ringing peace from the mountain side;
  With a hollow voice it comes--
They are ringing peace o'er the foaming tide,
  And its echoes fill our homes.

They are ringing peace, and the spring-time blooms
  Like a garden fresh and fair;
But our martyrs sleep in their silent tombs--
  Do they hear that sound--do they hear?

They are ringing peace, and the battle-cry
  And the bayonet's work are done,
And the armor bright they are laying by,
  From the brave sire to the son.

And the musket's clang, and the soldier's drill,
  And the tattoo's nightly sound;
We shall hear no more, with a joyous thrill,
  Peace, peace, they are ringing round!

There are women, still as the stifled air
  On the burning desert's track,
Not a cry of joy, not a welcome cheer--
  And their brave ones coming back!

There are fair young heads in their morning pride,
  Like the lilies pale they bow;
Just a memory left to the soldier's bride--
  Ah, God! sustain her now!

There are martial steps that we may not hear!
  There are forms we may not see!
Death's muster roll they have answered clear,
  They are free! thank God, they are free!

Not a fetter fast, nor a prisoner's chain
  For the noble army gone--
No conqueror comes o'er the heavenly plain--
  Peace, peace to the dead alone!

They are ringing peace, but strangers tread
  O'er the land where our fathers trod,
And our birthright joys, like a dream, have fled,
  And Thou! where art Thou, 0 God!

They are ringing peace! not here, not here,
  Where the victor's mark is set;
Roll back to the North its mocking cheer--
  No peace to the Southland yet!

We may sheathe the sword, and the rifle-gun
  We may hang on the cottage wall,
And the bayonet brave, sharp duty done,
  From, the soldier's arm it may fall.

But peace!--no peace! till the same good sword,
  Drawn out from its scabbard be,
And the wide world list to my country's word,
  And the South! oh, the South, be free!

Charleston Broadside.

Ballad--"What! Have Ye Thought?"

Charleston Mercury.

I.

What! have ye thought to pluck
    Victory from chance and luck,
Triumph from clamorous shout, without a will?
    Without the heart to brave
    All peril to the grave,
And battle on its brink, unshrinking still?

II.

And did ye dream success
    Would still unvarying bless
Your arms, nor meet reverse in some dread field?
    And shall an adverse hour
    Make ye mistrust the power
Of virtue, in your souls, to make your enemy yield?

III.

Oh! from this dreary sleep
    Arise, and upward leap,
Nor let your hearts grow palsied with dismay!
    Fling out your banner high,
    Still challenging the sky,
While thousand strong arms bear it on its way.

IV.

Forth, as a sacred band,
    Sworn saviours of the land,
Chosen by God, the champions of the right!
    And never doubt that He
    Who made will keep ye free,
If thus your souls resolve to triumph in the fight!

V.

The felon foe, no more
    Trampling the sacred shore,
Shall leave defiling footprint on the sod;
    Where, desperate in the strife,
    Reckless of wounds and life,
Ye brave your myriad foes beneath the eye of God!

VI.

On brothers, comrades, men,
    Rush to the field again;
Home, peace, love, safety--freedom--are the prize!
    Strike! while an arm can bear
    Weapon--and do not spare--
Ye break a felon bond in every foe that dies!

Missing.

In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook,
  Where the May buds sprinkle the green old mound,
And the winds, and the birds, and the limpid brook,
  Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound;
Who lies so still in the plushy moss,
  With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow,
Couched where the light and the shadows cross
  Through the flickering fringe of the willow?
    Who lies, alas!
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass?

A soldier clad in the Zouave dress,
  A bright-haired man, with his lips apart,
One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face,
  And the other clutching his pulseless heart,
Lies here in the shadows, cool and dim,
  His musket swept by a trailing bough,
With a careless grace in each quiet limb,
  And a wound on his manly brow;
    A wound, alas!
Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass.

The violets peer from their dusky beds,
  With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes;
The lilies quiver their shining heads,
  Their pale lips full of a sad surprise;
And the lizard darts through the glistening fern--
  And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary;
Strange birds fly out, with a cry, to bathe
  Their wings in the sunset glory;
    While the shadows pass
O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass.

God pity the bride who waits at home,
  With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes,
Dreaming the sweet old dreams of love,
  While her lover is walking in Paradise;
God strengthen her heart as the days go by,
  And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow,
Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind,
  May breathe the tale of the hollow;
    Alas! alas!
The secret is safe with the woodland grass.

Ode-"Souls of Heroes."

Charleston Mercury.

Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won,
Still smile on the conflict so greatly begun;
Bring succor to comrade, to brother, to son
  Now breasting the battle in ranks of the brave;
And the dastard that loiters, the conflict to shun,
  Pursue him with scorn to the grave!

II.

Pursue him with furies that goad to despair,
Hunt him out, where he crouches in crevice and lair,
Drive him forth, while the wife of his bosom cries--"There
  Goes the coward that skulks, though his sister and wife
Tremble, nightly, in sleep, overshadowed by fear
  Of a sacrifice dearer than life."

III.

There are thousands that loiter, of historied claim,
Who boast of the heritage shrined in each name--
Sting their souls to the quick, till they shrink from the shame
  Which dishonors the names and the past of their boast;
Even now they may win the best guerdon of fame,
  And retrieve the bright honors they've lost!

IV.

Even now, while their country is torn in the toils,
While the wild boar is raging to raven the spoils,
While the boa is spreading around us the coils
  Which would strangle the freedom our ancestors gave;
But each soul must be quickened until it o'er-boils,
  Every muscle be corded to save!

V.

Still the cause is the same which, in long ages gone,
Roused up your great sires, so gallantly known,
When, braving the tyrant, the sceptre and throne,
  They rushed to the conflict, despising the odds;
Armed with bow, spear, and scythe, and with sling and with stone,
  For their homes and their family gods!

VI.

Shall we be less worthy the sacrifice grand,
The heritage noble we took at their hand,
The peace and the comfort, the fruits of the land;
  And, sunk in a torpor as hopeless as base,
Recoil from the shock of the Sodomite band,
  That would ruin the realm and the race?

VII.

Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won,
  Your toils are not closed in the deeds ye have done;
Touch the souls of each laggard and profligate son,
  The greed and the sloth, and the cowardice shame;
Till we rise to complete the great work ye've begun,
  And with freedom make conquest of fame!

Jackson.

By H. L. Flash, of Galveston, Formerly of Mobile.

Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight,
Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,
Did kingly death, with his resistless might,
         Lay the great leader low.

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke,
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town:
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak
         That propped our cause went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,
Recalling all his grand heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing with the wound,
         And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the nation's promised land,
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth:
But broke the house of bondage with his hand--
         The Moses of the South!

O gracious God! not gainless in the loss;
A glorious sunbeam gilds the sternest frown;
And while his country staggers with the cross,
         He rises with the crown!

Mobile Advertiser and Register.

Captain Maffit's Ballad of the Sea.

Charleston Mercury.

I.

Though winds are high and skies are dark,
And the stars scarce show us a meteor spark;
Yet buoyantly bounds our gallant barque,
  Through billows that flash in a sea of blue;
We are coursing free, like the Viking shark,
  And our prey, like him, pursue!

II.

At each plunge of our prow we bare the graves,
Where, heedless of roar among winds and waves,
The dead have slept in their ocean caves,
  Never once dreaming--as if no more
They hear, though the Storm-God ramps and raves
  From the deeps to the rock-bound shore.

III.

Brave sailors were they in the ancient times,
Heroes or pirates--men of all climes,
That had never an ear for the Sabbath chimes,
  Never once called on the priest to be shriven;
They died with the courage that still sublimes,
  And, haply, may fit for Heaven.

IV.

Never once asking the when or why,
But ready, all hours, to battle and die,
They went into fight with a terrible cry,
  Counting no odds, and, victors or slain,
Meeting fortune or fate, with an equal eye,
  Defiant of death and pain.

V.

Dread are the tales of the wondrous deep,
And well do the billows their secrets keep,
And sound should those savage old sailors sleep,
  If sleep they may after such a life;
Where every dark passion, alert and aleap,
  Made slumber itself a strife.

VI.

What voices of horror, through storm and surge,
Sang in the perishing ear its dirge,
As, raging and rending, o'er Hell's black verge,
  Each howling soul sank to its doom;
And what thunder-tones from the deeps emerge,
  As yawns for its prey the tomb!

VII.

We plough the same seas which the rovers trod,
But with better faith in the saving God,
And bear aloft and carry abroad
  The starry cross, our sacred sign,
Which, never yet sullied by crime or fraud,
  Makes light o'er the midnight brine.

VIII.

And we rove not now on a lawless quest,
With passions foul in the hero's breast,
Moved by no greed at the fiend's behest,
  Gloating in lust o'er a bloody prey;
But from tyrant robber the spoil to wrest,
  And tear down his despot sway!

IX.

'Gainst the spawn of Europe, and all the lands,
British and German--Norway's sands,
Dutchland and Irish--the hireling bands
  Bought for butchery--recking no rede,
But, flocking like vultures, with felon hands,
  To fatten the rage of greed.

X.

With scath they traverse both land and sea,
And with sacred wrath we must make them flee;
Making the path of the nations free,
  And planting peace in the heart of strife;
In the star of the cross, our liberty
  Brings light to the world, and life!

XI.

Let Christendom cower 'neath Stripes and Stars,
Cloaking her shame under legal bars,
Not too moral for traffic, but shirking wars,
  While the Southern cross, floating topmast high.
Though torn, perchance, by a thousand scars,
  Shall light up the midnight sky!

Melt the Bells.

F. Y. Rockett.--Memphis Appeal.

The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon.

Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Still the tinkling on the plains,
And transmute the evening chimes
Into war's resounding rhymes,
That the invaders may be slain
By the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells,
That for years have called to prayer,
And, instead, the cannon's roar
Shall resound the valleys o'er,
That the foe may catch despair
From the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Though it cost a tear to part
With the music they have made,
Where the friends we love are laid,
With pale cheek and silent heart,
'Neath the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Into cannon, vast and grim,
And the foe shall feel the ire
From each heaving lungs of fire,
And we'll put our trust in Him
And the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And when foes no more attack,
And the lightning cloud of war
Shall roll thunderless and far,
We will melt the cannon back
Into bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And they'll peal a sweeter chime,
And remind of all the brave
Who have sunk to glory's grave,
And will sleep thro' coming time
'Neath the bells.

John Pelham.

By James R. Randall.

Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,
  With all its gorgeous cheer;
In the bright April of historic life
  Fell the great cannoneer.

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath
  His bleeding country weeps--
Hushed in the alabaster arms of death,
  Our young Marcellus sleeps.

Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome,
  Curbing his chariot steeds;
The knightly scion of a Southern home
  Dazzled the land with deeds.

Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt,
  The champion of the truth,
He bore his banner to the very front
  Of our immortal youth.

A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,
  The fiery pang of shells--
And there's a wail of immemorial woe
  In Alabama dells.

The pennon drops that led the sacred band
  Along the crimson field;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand
  Over the spotless shield.

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face
  While 'round the lips and eyes,
Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace
  Of a divine surprise.

Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high!
  Thy tears may soon be shed--
Think of thy boy with princes of the sky,
  Among the Southern dead.

How must he smile on this dull world beneath,
  Fevered with swift renown--
He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath
  Twining the victor's crown!

"Ye Batteries of Beauregard."

By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
  Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall;
Bid the shock of your deep thunder
  On their fleet in terror fall:
Rain your storm of leaden fury
  On the black invading host--
Teach them that their step shall never
  Press on Carolina's coast.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
  Sound the story of our wrong;
Let your tocsin wake the spirit
  Of a people brave and strong;
Her proud names of old remember--
  Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene;
Swell the roll whose deeds of glory
  Side by side with theirs are seen.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
  From Savannah on them frown;
By the majesty of Heaven
  Strike their "grand armada" down;
By the blood of many a freeman,
  By each dear-bought battle-field,
By the hopes we fondly cherish,
  Never ye the victory yield.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
  All along our Southern coast,
Let, in after-time, your triumphs,
  Be a nation's pride and boast;
Send each missile with a greeting
  To the vile, ungodly crew;
Make them feel they ne'er can conquer
  People to themselves so true.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
  By the glories of the past,
By the memory of old Sumter,
  Whose renown will ever last,
Speed upon their vaunted legions
  Volleys thick of shot and shell,
Bid them welcome, in your glory,
  To their own appointed hell.

"When Peace Returns."

Published in the Granada Picket.

By Olivia Tully Thomas.

When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front,"
  And meek-eyed peace returning,
Has brightened hearts that long were wont
  To sigh in grief and mourning--
How blissful then will be the day
  When, from the wars returning,
The weary soldier wends his way
  To dear ones that are yearning,

To clasp in true love's fond embrace,
  To gaze with looks so tender
Upon the war-worn form and face
  Of Liberty's defender;
To count with pride each cruel scar,
  That mars the manly beauty,
Of him who proved so brave in war,
  So beautiful in duty.

When peace returns, throughout our land,
  Glad shouts of welcome render
The gallant few of Freedom's band
  Whose cry was "no surrender;"
Who battled bravely to be free
  From tyranny's oppressions,
And won, for Southern chivalry,
  The homage of all nations!

And when, again, in Southern bowers
  The ray of peace is shining,
Her maidens gather fairest flowers,
  And honor's wreaths are twining,
To bind the brows victorious
  On many a field so gory,
Whose names, renowned and glorious,
  Shall live in song and story,

Then will affection's tear be shed,
  And pity, joy restraining,
For those, the lost, lamented dead,
  Are all beyond our plaining;
They fell in manhood's prime and might;
  And we should not weep the story
That tells of Fame, a sacred light,
  Above each grave of glory!

The Right above the Wrong.

By John W. Overall.

In other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and free,
For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea;
They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song,
For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong.

But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea,
The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea;
And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might,
That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right.

The King sent over hireling hosts--the Briton, Hessian, Scot--
And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot;
While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng,
And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place given to the Wrong.

But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's sword was out,
With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's thunder-shout;
And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight,
But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right!

And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea,
To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free,
Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long,
And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong.

And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew,
But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue;
For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight,
And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right!

The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South,
To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon's mouth;
For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song,
Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong.

But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool,
Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule;
We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night,
And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right.

Carmen Triumphale.

By Henry Timrod.

Go forth and bid the land rejoice,
  Yet not too gladly, oh my song!
  Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong
The solemn rapture of thy voice.

Be nothing lightly done or said
  This happy day! Our joy should flow
  Accordant with the lofty woe
That wails above the noble dead.

Let him whose brow and breast were calm
  While yet the battle lay with God,
  Look down upon the crimson sod
And gravely wear his mournful palm;

And him, whose heart still weak from fear
  Beats all too gayly for the time,
  Know that intemperate glee is crime
While one dead hero claims a tear.

Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill,
  With sober joy, the troubled days;
  A nation's hymn of grateful praise
May not be hushed for private ill.

Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires!
  The mighty tidings far and nigh!
  Ye cities! write them on the sky
In purple and in emerald fires!

They came with many a haughty boast;
  Their threats were heard on every breeze;
  They darkened half the neighboring seas,
And swooped like vultures on the coast.

False recreants in all knightly strife,
  Their way was wet with woman's tears;
  Behind them flamed the toil of years,
And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life.

They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves;
  God gave the dastards to our hands;
  Their bones are bleaching on the sands,
Or mouldering slow in shallow graves.

What though we hear about our path
  The heavens with howls of vengeance rent;
  The venom of their hate is spent;
We need not heed their fangless wrath.

Meantime the stream they strove to chain
  Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps
  With broadening breast, and mightier deeps,
And rushes onward to the main;

While down the swelling current glides
  Our ship of state before the blast,
  With streamers poured from every mast,
Her thunders roaring from her sides.

Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease,
  Hang out thy rainbow on the sea!
  Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee,
And speed her to the ports of peace!

The Fiend Unbound.

Charleston Mercury.

I.

No more, with glad and happy cheer,
  And smiling face, doth Christmas come,
But usher'd in with sword and spear,
  And beat of the barbarian drum!
No more, with ivy-circled brow,
  And mossy beard all snowy white,
He comes to glad the children now,
  With sweet and innocent delight.

II.

The merry dance, the lavish feast,
  The cheery welcome, all are o'er:
The music of the viol ceased,
  The gleesome ring around the floor.
No glad communion greets the hour,
  That welcomes in a Saviour's birth,
And Christmas, to a hostile power,
  Yields all the sway that made its mirth.

III.

The Church, like some deserted bride,
  In trembling, at the Altar waits,
While, raging fierce on every side,
  The foe is thundering at her gates.
No ivy green, nor glittering leaves,
  Nor crimson berries, deck her walls:
But blood, red dripping from her eaves,
  Along the sacred pavement falls.

IV.

Her silver bells no longer chime
  In summons to her sacred home;
Nor holy song at matin prime,
  Proclaims the God within the dome.
Nor do the fireside's happy bands
  Assemble fond, with greetings dear,
While Patriarch Christmas spreads his hands
  To glad with gifts and crown with cheer.

V.

In place of that beloved form,
  Benignant, bland, and blessing all,
Comes one begirt with fire and storm,
  The raging shell, the hissing ball!
Type of the Prince of Peace, no more,
  Evoked by those who bear His name,
THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore,
  Now hurls around Satanic flame.

VI.

In hate,--evoked by kindred lands,
  But late beslavering with caress,
Lo, Moloch, dripping crimson, stands,
  And curses where he cannot bless.
He wings the bolt and hurls the spear,
  A demon loosed, that rends in rage,
Sends havoc through the homes most dear,
  And butchers youth and tramples age!

VII.

With face of Fox--with glee that grins,
  And apish arms, with fingers claw'd,
To snatch at all his brother wins,
  And straight secrete, with stealth and fraud;--
Lo! Mammon, kindred Demon, comes,
  And lurks, as dreading ill, in rear;
He blows the trumpet, beats the drums,
  Inflames the torch, and sharps the spear!

VIII.

And furious, following in their train,
  What hosts of lesser Demons rise;
Lust, Malice, Hunger, Greed and Gain,
  Each raging for its special prize.
Too base for freedom, mean for toil,
  And reckless all of just and right,
They rage in peaceful homes for spoil,
  And where they cannot butcher, blight.

IX.

A Serpent lie from every mouth,
  Coils outward ever,--sworn to bless;
Yet, through the gardens of the South,
  Still spreading evils numberless,
By locust swarms the fields are swept,
  By frenzied hands the dwelling flames,
And virgin beds, where Beauty slept,
  Polluted blush, from worst of shames.

X.

The Dragon, chain'd for thousand years,
  Hath burst his bonds and rages free;--
Yet, patience, brethren, stay your fears;--
  Loosed for "a little season,"[1] he
Will soon, beneath th' Ithuriel sword,
  Of heavenly judgment, crush'd and driven,
Yield to the vengeance of the Lord,
  And crouch beneath the wrath of Heaven!

XI.

"A little season," and the Peace,
  That now is foremost in your prayers,
Shall crown your harvest with increase,
  And bless with smiles the home of tears;
Your wounds be healed; your noble sons,
  Unhurt, unmutilated--free--
Shall limber up their conquering guns,
  In triumph grand of Liberty!

XII.

A few more hours of mortal strife,--
  Of faith and patience, working still,
In struggle for the immortal life,
  With all their soul, and strength, and will;
And, in the favor of the Lord,
  And powerful grown by heavenly aid,
Your roof trees all shall be restored,
  And ye shall triumph in their shade.

[1] "1. And I saw an Angel come down from Heaven, having the key of the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand.

"2. And he laid hold on the Dragon, that Old Serpent, which is the Devil and Satan, and bound him a thousand years.

"And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand years should be fulfilled; and after that he must be loosed a little season."--Rev. xx., v. 1-3.

The Unknown Dead.

By Henry Timrod.

The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of Heaven are still;
And so, it falls with that dull sound
Which thrills us in the churchyard ground,
When the first spadeful drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.
Beyond my streaming window-pane,
I cannot see the neighboring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower
The bell comes, muffled, through the shower.
What strange and unsuspected link
Of feeling touched has made me think--
While with a vacant soul and eye
I watch that gray and stony sky--
Of nameless graves on battle plains,
Washed by a single winter's rains,
Where, some beneath Virginian hills,
And some by green Atlantic rills,
Some by the waters of the West,
A myriad unknown heroes rest?
Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see
Their flags in front of victory,
Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost
Pay for a battle nobly lost,
Claim from their monumental beds
The bitterest tears a nation sheds.
Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot,
By all save some fond few forgot--
Lie the true martyrs of the fight,
Which strikes for freedom and for right.
Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,
The lofty faith that with them died,
No grateful page shall further tell
Than that so many bravely fell;
And we can only dimly guess
What worlds of all this world's distress,
What utter woe, despair, and dearth,
Their fate has brought to many a hearth.
Just such a sky as this should weep
Above them, always, where they sleep;
Yet, haply, at this very hour,
Their graves are like a lover's bower;
And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,
Oblivious of the crimson debt
To which she owes her April grace,
Laughs gayly o'er their burial place.

Ode--"Do Ye Quail?"

By W. Gilmore Simms.

I.

Do ye quail but to hear, Carolinians,
The first foot-tramp of Tyranny's minions?
Have ye buckled on armor, and brandished the spear,
But to shrink with the trumpet's first peal on the ear?
Why your forts now embattled on headland and height,
Your sons all in armor, unless for the fight?
Did ye think the mere show of your guns on the wall,
And your shouts, would the souls of the heathen appal?
That his lusts and his appetites, greedy as Hell,
Led by Mammon and Moloch, would sink at a spell;--
Nor strive, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the flesh
Should be torn from his jaws, while yet bleeding afresh.

II.

For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!--
To the death for your sacred dominions!--
Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame,
Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame;
Your greybeards, with necks in the halter--
Your virgins, defiled at the altar,--
In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave,
Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave!
Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom!
How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom!
With the fiends in your streets howling pæans,
And the Beast o'er another Orleans!

III.

Do ye quail, as on yon little islet
They have planted the feet that defile it?
Make its sands pure of taint, by the stroke of the sword,
And by torrents of blood in red sacrifice pour'd!
Doubts are Traitors, if once they persuade you to fear,
That the foe, in his foothold, is safe from your spear!
When the foot of pollution is set on your shores,
What sinew and soul should be stronger than yours?
By the fame--by the shame--of your sires,
Set on, though each freeman expires;
Better fall, grappling fast with the foe, to their graves,
Than groan in your fetters, the slaves of your slaves.

IV.

The voice of your loud exultation
Hath rung, like a trump, through the nation,
How loudly, how proudly, of deeds to be done,
The blood of the sire in the veins of the son!
Old Moultrie and Sumter still keep at your gates,
And the foe in his foothold as patiently waits.
He asks, with a taunt, by your patience made bold,
If the hot spur of Percy grows suddenly cold--
Makes merry with boasts of your city his own,
And the Chivalry fled, ere his trumpet is blown;
Upon them, O sons of the mighty of yore,
And fatten the sands with their Sodomite gore!

V.

Where's the dastard that cowers and falters
In the sight of his hearthstones and altars?
With the faith of the free in the God of the brave,
Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save!
By the blue Heaven shining above ye,
By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye,
Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight,
And an ægis to shield and a weapon to smite!
Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not:
With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still.
To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians,
For your homes, and your sacred dominions.

Ode--"Our City by the Sea."

By W. Gilmore Simms.

I.

Our city by the sea,
   As the rebel city known,
With a soul and spirit free
   As the waves that make her zone,
Stands in wait for the fate
From the angry arm of hate;
But she nothing fears the terror of his blow;
She hath garrisoned her walls,
And for every son that falls,
She will spread a thousand palls
   For-the foe!

II.

Old Moultrie at her gate,
   Clad in arms and ancient fame.
Grimly watching, stands elate
   To deliver bolt and flame!
Brave the band, at command,
To illumine sea and land
With a glory that shall honor days of yore;
And, as racers for their goals,
A thousand fiery souls,
While the drum of battle rolls,
   Line the shore.

III.

Lo! rising at his side,
   As if emulous to share
His old historic pride,
   The vast form of Sumter there!
Girt by waves, which he braves
Though the equinoctial raves,
As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep;
And, like tigers crouching round,
Are the tribute forts that bound
All the consecrated ground,
   By the deep!

IV.

It was calm, the April noon,
   When, in iron-castled towers,
Our haughty foe came on,
   With his aggregated powers;
All his might 'gainst the right,
Now embattled for the fight,
With Hell's hate and venom working in his heart;
A vast and dread array,
Glooming black upon the day,
Hell's passions all in play,
   With Hell's art.

V.

But they trouble not the souls
   Of our Carolina host,[1]
And the drum of battle rolls,
   While each hero seeks his post;
Firm, though few, sworn to do,
Their old city full in view,
The brave city of their sires and their dead;
There each freeman had his brood,
All the dear ones of his blood,
And he knew they watching stood,
   In their dread!

VI.

To the bare embattled height,
   Then our gallant colonel sprung--
"Bid them welcome to the fight,"
   Were the accents of his tongue--
"Music! band, pour out--grand--
The free song of Dixie Land!
Let it tell them we are joyful that they come!
Bid them welcome, drum and flute,
Nor be your cannon mute,
Give them chivalrous salute--
   To their doom!"[2]

VII.

Out spoke an eager gun,
   From the walls of Moultrie then;
And through clouds of sulph'rous dun,
   Rose a shout of thousand men,
As the shot, hissing hot,
Goes in lightning to the spot--
Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail;
Then roared the storm from all,
Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall--
Bursting bomb and driving ball--
   Hell in hail!

VIII.

Full a hundred cannon roared
   The dread welcome to the foe,
And his felon spirit cowered,
   As he crouched beneath the blow!
As each side opened wide
To the iron and the tide,
He lost his faith in armor and in art;
And, with the loss of faith,
Came the dread of wounds and scath--
And the felon fear of death
   Wrung his heart!

IX.

Quenched then his foul desires;
   In his mortal pain and fear,
How feeble grew his fires,
   How stayed his fell career!
How each keel, made to reel
'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel,
Their turrets staggering wildly, to and fro, blind and lame;
Ironsides and iron roof,
Held no longer bullet-proof,
Steal away, shrink aloof,
   In their shame!

X.

But our lightnings follow fast,
   With a vengeance sharp and hot;
Our bolts are on the blast,
   And they rive with shell and shot!
Huge the form which they warm
With the hot breath of the storm;
Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck--
They shiver as they fly,
While their leader, drifting nigh,
Sinks, choking with the cry--
   "Keokuk!"

XI.

To the brave old city, joy!
   For that the hostile race,
Commissioned to destroy,
   Hath fled in sore disgrace!
That our sons, at their guns,
Have beat back the modern Huns--
Have maintained their household fanes and their fires;
And free from taint and scath,
Have kept the fame and faith
(And will keep, through blood and death)
   Of their sires!

XII.

To the Lord of Hosts the glory,
   For His the arm and might,
That have writ for us the story,
   And have borne us through the fight!
His our shield in that field--
Voice that bade us never yield;
Oh! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day?
His strength hath made us strong,
Cheered the right and crushed the wrong,
To His temple let us throng--
   PRAISE AND PRAY!

[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South Carolina troops exclusively.

[2] As the iron-clads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred Rhett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where he remained, ordered the band to strike up the national air of "Dixie;" and at the same time, in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and regimental flags were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen guns.

The Lone Sentry.

By James R. Randall.

Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the night. The officer of the day went to the general's tent, and said:

"General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one but is asleep. Shall I wake them?"

"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp to-night."

And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers.

'Twas in the dying of the day,
   The darkness grew so still;
The drowsy pipe of evening birds
   Was hushed upon the hill;
Athwart the shadows of the vale
   Slumbered the men of might,
And one lone sentry paced his rounds,
   To watch the camp that night.

A grave and solemn man was he,
   With deep and sombre brow;
The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up
   Some unaccomplished vow.
The wistful glance peered o'er the plains
   Beneath the starry light--
And with the murmured name of God,
   He watched the camp that night.

The Future opened unto him
   Its grand and awful scroll:
Manassas and the Valley march
   Came heaving o'er his soul--
Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by
   With that tremendous fight
Which gave him to the angel hosts
   Who watched the camp that night.

We mourn for him who died for us,
   With one resistless moan;
While up the Valley of the Lord
   He marches to the Throne!
He kept the faith of men and saints
   Sublime, and pure, and bright--
He sleeps--and all is well with him
   Who watched the camp that night.

Brothers! the Midnight of the Cause
   Is shrouded in our fate;
The demon Goths pollute our halls
   With fire, and lust, and hate.
Be strong--be valiant--be assured--
   Strike home for Heaven and Right!
The soul of Jackson stalks abroad,
  And guards the camp to-night!

To My Soldier Brother.

By Sallie E. Ballard, of Texas.

When softly gathering shades of ev'n
Creep o'er the prairies broad and green,
And countless stars bespangle heav'n,
And fringe the clouds with silv'ry sheen,
My fondest sigh to thee is giv'n,
My lonely wandering soldier boy;
   And thoughts of thee
   Steal over me
Like ev'ning shades, my soldier boy.

My brother, though thou'rt far away,
And dangers hurtle round thy path,
And battle lightnings o'er thee play,
And thunders peal in awful wrath,
Think, whilst thou'rt in the hot affray,
Thy sister prays for thee, my boy.
   If fondest prayer
   Can shield thee there
Sweet angels guard my soldier boy.

Thy proud young heart is beating high
To clash of arms and cannons' roar;
That firm-set lip and flashing eye
Tell how thy heart is brimming o'er.
Be free and live, be free or die;
Be that thy motto now, my boy;
   And though thy name's
   Unknown to fame's,
'Tis graven on my heart, my boy.

Sea-Weeds

Written in Exile.

By Annie Chambers Ketchum.

Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart!
   Beneath the citron-tree--
Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep--
   I hear the Mexique Sea.

While through the night rides in the spectral surf
   Along the spectral sands,
And all the air vibrates, as if from harps
   Touched by phantasmal hands.

Bright in the moon the red pomegranate flowers
   Lean to the Yucca's bells,
While with her chrism of dew, sad Midnight fills
   The milk-white asphodels.

Watching all night--as I have done before--
   I count the stars that set,
Each writing on my soul some memory deep
   Of Pleasure or Regret;

Till, wild with heart-break, toward the East I turn,
   Waiting for dawn of day;--
And chanting sea, and asphodel and star
   Are faded, all, away.

Only within my trembling, trembling hands--
   Brought unto me by thee--
I clasp these beautiful and fragile things,
   Bright sea-weeds from the sea,

Fair bloom the flowers beneath these Northern skies,
   Pure shine the stars by night,
And grandly sing the grand Atlantic waves
   In thunder-throated might;

But, as the sea-shell in her chambers keeps
   The murmur of the sea,
So the deep-echoing memories of my home
   Will not depart from me.

Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things!
   As I have seen them cast
Like a drowned woman's hair, along the beach,
   When storms were over-past;

Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashore
   In Battle's storm and blight;
Would they had died, like sea-weeds! Pray forgive me
  But I must weep to-night.

Tell me again, of Summer fields made fair
  By Spring's precursing plough;
Of joyful reapers, gathering tear-sown harvests--
  Talk to me,--will you?--now!

The Salkehatchie.

By Emily J. Moore.

Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie.

The crystal streams, the pearly streams,
  The streams in sunbeams flashing,
The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams,
  The streams down mountains dashing,
    Have been the theme
    Of poets' dream,
  And, in wild witching story,
Have been renowned for love's fond scenes,
  Or some great deed of glory.

The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,
  The Arno, silver-flowing,
The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,
  With poesy are glowing;
    But I would praise
    In artless lays,
  A stream which well may match ye,
Though dark its waters glide along--
  The swampy Salkehatchie.

'Tis not the beauty of its stream,
  Which makes it so deserving
Of honor at the Muses' hands,
  But 'tis the use it's serving,
    And 'gainst a raid,
    We hope its aid
  Will ever prove efficient,
Its fords remain still overflowed,
  In water ne'er deficient.

If Vandal bands are held in check,
  Their crossing thus prevented,
And we are spared the ravage wild
  Their malice has invented,
    Then we may well
    In numbers tell
  No other stream can match ye,
And grateful we shall ever be
  To swampy Salkehatchie.

The Broken Mug.

Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley (so-called.)

John Esten Cooke.

My mug is broken, my heart is sad!
  What woes can fate still hold in store!
The friend I cherished a thousand days
  Is smashed to pieces on the floor!
  Is shattered and to Limbo gone,
    I'll see my Mug no more!

Relic it was of joyous hours
  Whose golden memories still allure--
When coffee made of rye we drank,
  And gray was all the dress we wore!
  When we were paid some cents a month,
    But never asked for more!

In marches long, by day and night,
  In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,
Strapped on the saddle at my back
  This faithful comrade still I bore--
  This old companion, true and tried,
    I'll never carry more!

From the Rapidan to Gettysburg--
  "Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before--
This friend went with the cavalry
  And heard the jarring-cannon roar
  In front of Cemetery Hill--
    Good heavens! how they did roar!

Then back again, the foe behind,
  Back to the "Old Virginia shore"--
Some dead and wounded left--some holes
  In flags, the sullen graybacks bore;
  This mug had made the great campaign,
    And we'd have gone once more!

Alas! we never went again!
  The red cross banner, slow but sure,
"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout
  (Like the lover of Lenore)
  A long, sad, lingering farewell--
    To taste its joys no more.

But still we fought, and ate hard bread,
  Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore!
And still this faithful friend remained--
  Riding behind me as before--
  The friend on march, in bivouac,
    When others were no more.

How oft we drove the horsemen blue
  In Summer bright or Winter frore!
How oft before the Southern charge
  Through field and wood the blue-birds tore!
  Im "harmonized," but long to hear
    The bugles ring once more.

Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now,
  Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure,
Congress will "reconstruct" us soon--
  But no gray people on that floor!
  I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long
    To see those times once more!

Gay days! the sun was brighter then,
  And we were happy, though so poor!
That past comes back as I behold
  My shattered friend upon the floor,
  My splintered, useless, ruined mug,
    From which I'll drink no more.

How many lips I'll love for aye,
  While heart and memory endure,
Have touched this broken cup and laughed--
  How they did laugh!--in days of yore!
  Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream,
    If they had been no more!"

Dear comrades, dead this many a day,
  I saw you weltering in your gore,
After those days, amid the pines
  On the Rappahannock shore!
  When the joy of life was much to me
    But your warm hearts were more!

Yours was the grand heroic nerve
  That laughs amid the storm of war--
Souls that "loved much" your native land,
  Who fought and died therefor!
  You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,
    Your blood--you had no more!

You lived and died true to your flag!
  And now your wounds are healed--but sore
Are many hearts that think of you
  Where you have "gone before."
  Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms,
    They are "whole" forevermore!

Those lips this broken vessel touched,
  His, too!--the man's we all adore--
That cavalier of cavaliers,
  Whose voice will ring no more--
  Whose plume will float amid the storm
    Of battle never more!

Not on this idle page I write
  That name of names, shrined in the core
Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen,
  Hush! words so cold and poor!
  His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,
    His bugle sounds no more!

Never was cavalier like ours!
  Not Rupert in the years before!
And when his stern, hard work was done,
  His griefs, joys, battles o'er--
  His mighty spirit rode the storm,
    And led his men once more!

He lies beneath his native sod,
  Where violets spring, or frost is hoar:
He recks not--charging squadrons watch
  His raven plume no more!
  That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
    That hand we'll touch no more!

My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:
  Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
Ye are the types of nobler things
  That find their use no more--
  Things glorious once, now trodden down--
    That makes us smile no more!

Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts--
  Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,
Beating his wings against the bars,
  The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still--
  Bread failed--we fought no more!

Lies in the dust the shattered staff
  That bore aloft on sea and shore,
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
  And none are now so poor,
  So poor to do it reverence,
  Now when it flames no more!

But it is glorious in the dust,
  Sacred till Time shall be no more:
Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn--
  The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!
  Furl the great flag--hide cross and star,
  Thrust into darkness star and bar,
  But look! across the ages far
    It flames for evermore!

Carolina.

By Anna Peyre Dinnies.

In the hour of thy glory,
      When thy name was far renowned,
    When Sumter's glowing story
      Thy bright escutcheon crowned;
Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine,
That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine.

Exulting as I heard thee,
      Of every lip the theme,
    Prophetic visions stirred me,
      In a hope-illumined dream:
A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won,
Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son.

And now, when clouds arise,
      And shadows round thee fall;
    I lift to heaven my eyes,
      Those visions to recall;
For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long,
Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong.

Thy serried ranks of pine,
      Thy live-oaks spreading wide,
    Beneath the sunbeams shine,
      In fadeless robes of pride;
Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth,
As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North.

The deeds of other days,
      Enacted by their sires,
    Themes long of love and praise,
      Have wakened high desires
In every heart that beats within thy proud domain,
To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again.

Each heart the home of daring,
      Each hand the foe of wrong,
    They'll meet with haughty bearing,
      The war-ship's thunder song;
And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore,
They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore.

His feet may press their soil,
      Or his numbers bear them down,
    In his vandal raid for spoil,
      His sordid soul to crown;
But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near,
When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear.

    A fearful time shall come,
      When thy gathering bands unite,
    And the larum-sounding drum
      Calls to struggle for the Right;
"Pro aris et pro focis," from rank to rank shall fly,
As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die.

Oh, then a tale of glory
      Shall yet again be thine,
    And the record of thy story
      The Laurel shall entwine;
Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State!
Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great.

Our Martyrs.

Bu Paul H. Hayne.

I am sitting lone and weary
  On the hearth of my darkened room,
And the low wind's miserere
  Makes sadder the midnight gloom;
There's a terror that's nameless nigh me--
  There's a phantom spell in the air,
And methinks that the dead glide by me,
  And the breath of the grave's in my hair!

'Tis a vision of ghastly faces,
  All pallid, and worn with pain,
Where the splendor of manhood's graces
  Give place to a gory stain;
In a wild and weird procession
  They sweep by my startled eyes,
And stern with their fate's fruition,
  Seem melting in blood-red skies.

Have they come from the shores supernal,
  Have they passed from the spirit's goal,
'Neath the veil of the life eternal,
  To dawn on my shrinking soul?
Have they turned from the choiring angels,
  Aghast at the woe and dearth
That war, with his dark evangels,
  Hath wrought in the loved of earth?

Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains
  They lie, where the dew-mists weep,
And the murmur of mournful fountains
  Breaks over their painful sleep;
On the breast of the lonely meadows,
  Safe, safe from the despot's will,
They rest in the star-lit shadows,
  And their brows are white and still!

Alas! for the martyred heroes
  Cut down at their golden prime,
In a strife with the brutal Neroes,
  Who blacken the path of Time!
For them is the voice of wailing,
  And the sweet blush-rose departs
From the cheeks of the maidens, paling
  O'er the wreck of their broken hearts!

And alas! for the vanished glory
  Of a thousand household spells!
And alas! for the tearful story
  Of the spirit's fond farewells!
By the flood, on the field, in the forest,
  Our bravest have yielded breath,
But the shafts that have smitten sorest,
  Were launched by a viewless death!

Oh, Thou, that hast charms of healing,
  Descend on a widowed land,
And bind o'er the wounds of feeling
  The balms of Thy mystic hand!
Till the hearts that lament and languish,
  Renewed by the touch divine,
From the depths of a mortal anguish
  May rise to the calm of Thine!

Cleburne.

By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama.

"Another star now shines on high."

Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave
Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laurelled grave--
Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set,
For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.

'Tis true thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head
Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead;
The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright
Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.

No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore,
No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more,
No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise,
For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.

Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless, deadened heart;
Calm, calm and sweet, 0 warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part,
And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine,
A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.

A long farewell--we give thee up, with all thy bright renown;
A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found.
Above thy grave a wail is heard--a nation mourns her dead;
A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled.

A last farewell--how can we speak the bitter word farewell!
The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell.
Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might;
And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night.

Selma Despatch, 1864.

The Texan Marseillaise.

By James Haines, of Texas.

Sons of the South, arouse to battle!
  Gird on your armor for the fight!
The Northern Thugs with dread "War's rattle,"
  Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;
Meet them as Ocean meets in madness
  The frail bark on the rocky shore,
  When crested billows foam and roar,
And the wrecked crew go down in sadness.
    Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!
    Scatter yon Vandal hordes!
    Despots and bandits, fitting food
    For vultures and your swords.

Shall dastard tyrants march their legions
  To crush the land of Jackson--Lee?
Shall freedom fly to other regions,
  And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?
Or shall their "footprints' base pollution"
  Of Southern soil, in blood be purged,
  And every flying slave be scourged
Back to his snows in wild confusion?
    Arm! Arm! &c.

Vile despots, with their minions knavish,
  Would drag us back to their embrace;
Will freemen brook a chain so slavish?
  Will brave men take so low a place?
O, Heaven! for words--the loathing, scorning
  We feel for such a Union's bands:
  To paint with more than mortal hands,
And sound our loudest notes of warning.
    Arm! Arm! &c.

What! union with a race ignoring
The charter of our nation's birth!
Union with bastard slaves adoring
The fiend that chains them, to the earth!
No! we reply in tones of thunder--
No! our staunch hills fling back the sound--
No! our hoarse cannon echo round--
No! evermore remain asunder!
Arm! Arm! &c.

Southern Confederacy.

O, Tempora! O, Mores!

By John Dickson Bruns, M. D.

"Great Pan is dead!" so cried an airy tongue
  To one who, drifting down Calabria's shore,
Heard the last knell, in starry midnight rung,
  Of the old Oracles, dumb for evermore.

A low wail ran along the shuddering deep,
  And as, far off, its flaming accents died,
The awe-struck sailors, startled from their sleep,
  Gazed, called aloud: no answering voice replied;

Nor ever will--the angry Gods have fled,
  Closed are the temples, mute are all the shrines,
The fires are quenched, Dodona's growth is dead,
  The Sibyl's leaves are scattered to the winds.

No mystic sentence will they bear again,
  Which, sagely spelled, might ward a nation's doom;
But we have left us still some god-like men,
  And some great voices pleading from the tomb.

If we would heed them, they might save us yet,
  Call up some gleams of manhood in our breasts,
Truth, valor, justice, teach us to forget
  In a grand cause our selfish interests.

But we have fallen on evil times indeed,
  When public faith is but the common shame,
And private morals held an idiot's creed,
  And old-world honesty an empty name.

And lust, and greed, and gain are all our arts!
  The simple lessons which our father's taught
Are scorned and jeered at; in our sordid marts
  We sell the faith for which they toiled and fought.

Each jostling each in the mad strife for gold,
  The weaker trampled by the unrecking throng
Friends, honor, country lost, betrayed, or sold,
  And lying blasphemies on every tongue.

Cant for religion, sounding words for truth,
  Fraud leads to fortune, gelt for guilt atones,
No care for hoary age or tender youth,
  For widows' tears or helpless orphans' groans.

The people rage, and work their own wild will,
  They stone the prophets, drag their highest down,
And as they smite, with savage folly still
  Smile at their work, those dead eyes wear no frown.

The sage of "Drainfield"[1] tills a barren soil,
  And reaps no harvest where he sowed the seed,
He has but exile for long years of toil;
  Nor voice in council, though his children bleed.

And never more shall "Redcliffs"[2] oaks rejoice,
  Now bowed with grief above their master's bier;
Faction and party stilled that mighty voice,
  Which yet could teach us wisdom, could we hear.

And "Woodland's"[3] harp is mute: the gray, old man
  Broods by his lonely hearth and weaves no song;
Or, if he sing, the note is sad and wan,
  Like the pale face of one who's suffered long.

So all earth's teachers have been overborne
  By the coarse crowd, and fainting; droop or die;
They bear the cross, their bleeding brows the thorn,
  And ever hear the clamor--"Crucify!"

Oh, for a man with godlike heart and brain!
  A god in stature, with a god's great will.
And fitted to the time, that not in vain
  Be all the blood we're spilt and yet must spill.

Oh, brothers! friends! shake off the Circean spell!
  Rouse to the dangers of impending fate!
Grasp your keen swords, and all may yet be well--
  More gain, more pelf, and it will be, too late!

Charleston Mercury [1864].

[1] The country-seat of R. Barnwell Rhett.

[2] The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond.

[3] The homestead of W. Gilmore Simms (destroyed by Sherman's army.)

Our Departed Comrades.

By J. Marion Shirer.

I am sitting alone by a fire
  That glimmers on Sugar Loaf's height,
But before I to rest shall retire
  And put out the fast fading light--
While the lanterns of heaven are ling'ring
  In silence all o'er the deep sea,
And loved ones at home are yet mingling
  Their voices in converse of me--
While yet the lone seabird is flying
  So swiftly far o'er the rough wave,
And many fond mothers are sighing
  For the noble, the true, and the brave;
Let me muse o'er the many departed
  Who slumber on mountain and vale;
With the sadness which shrouds the lone-hearted,
  Let me tell of my comrades a tale.
Far away in the green, lonely mountains,
  Where the eagle makes bloody his beak,
In the mist, and by Gettysburg's fountains,
  Our fallen companions now sleep!
Near Charleston, where Sumter still rises
  In grandeur above the still wave,
And always at evening discloses
  The fact that her inmates yet live--
On islands, and fronting Savannah,
  Where dark oaks overshadow the ground,
Round Macon and smoking Atlanta,
  How many dead heroes are found!
And out on the dark swelling ocean,
  Where vessels go, riding the waves,
How many, for love and devotion,
  Now slumber in warriors' graves!
No memorials have yet been erected
  To mark where these warriors lie.
All alone, save by angels protected,
  They sleep 'neath the sea and the sky!
But think not that they are forgotten
  By those who the carnage survive:
When their headboards will all have grown rotten,
  And the night-winds have levelled their graves,
Then hundreds of sisters and mothers,
  Whose freedom they perished to save,
And fathers, and empty-sleeved brothers,
  Who surmounted the battle's red wave;
Will crowd from their homes in the Southward,
  In search of the loved and the blest,
And, rejoicing, will soon return homeward
  And lay our dear martyrs to rest.

No Land Like Ours.

Published in the Montgomery Advertiser, January, 1863.

By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.

Though other lands may boast of skies
  Far deeper in their blue,
Where flowers, in Eden's pristine dyes,
  Bloom with a richer hue;
And other nations pride in kings,
  And worship lordly powers;
Yet every voice of nature sings,
  There is no land like ours!

Though other scenes, than such as grace
  Our forests, fields, and plains,
May lend the earth a sweeter face
  Where peace incessant reigns;
But dearest still to me the land
  Where sunshine cheers the hours,
For God hath shown, with his own hand,
  There is no land like ours!

Though other streams may softer flow
  In vales of classic bloom,
And rivers clear as crystal glow,
  That wear no tinge of gloom;
Though other mountains lofty look,
  And grand seem olden towers,
We see, as in an open book,
  There is no land like ours!

Though other nations boast of deeds
  That live in old renown,
And other peoples cling to creeds
  That coldly on us frown;
On pure religion, love, and law
  Are based our ruling powers--
The world but feels, with wondering awe,
  There is no land like ours!

Though other lands may boast their brave,
Whose deeds are writ in fame,
Their heroes ne'er such glory gave
As gilds our country's name;
Though others rush to daring deeds,
Where the darkening war-cloud lowers,
Here, each alike for freedom bleeds--
There is no land like ours!

Though other lands Napoleon
And Wellington adorn,
America, her Washington,
And later heroes born;
Yet Johnston, Jackson, Price, and Lee,
Bragg, Buckner, Morgan towers,
With Beauregard, and Hood, and Bee--
There is no land like ours!

The Angel of the Church.

By W. Gilmore Simms.

The enemy, from his camp on Morris Island, has, in frequent letters in the Northern papers, avowed the object at which they aim their shells in Charleston to be the spire of St. Michael's Church. Their practice shows that these avowals are true. Thus far, they have not succeeded in their aim. Angels of the Churches, is a phrase applied by St. John in reference to the Seven Churches of Asia. The Hebrews recognized an Angel of the Church, in their language, "Sheliack-Zibbor," whose office may be described as that of a watcher or guardian of the church. Daniel says, iv. 13, "Behold, a watcher and a Holy one came down from Heaven." The practice of naming churches after tutelary saints, originated, no doubt, in the conviction that, where the church was pure, and the faith true, and the congregation pious, these guardian angels, so chosen, would accept the office assigned them. They were generally chosen from the Seraphim and Cherubim--those who, according to St. Paul (1 Colossians xvi.), represented thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers. According to the Hebrew traditions, St. Michael was the head of the first order; Gabriel, of the second; Uriel, of the third; and Raphael, of the fourth. St. Michael is the warrior angel who led the hosts of the sky against the powers of the princes of the air; who overthrew the dragon, and trampled him under foot. The destruction of the Anaconda, in his hands, would be a smaller undertaking. Assuming for our people a hope not less rational than that of the people of Nineveh, we may reasonably build upon the guardianship and protection of God, through his angels, "a great city of sixty thousand souls," which has been for so long a season the subject of his care. These notes will supply the adequate illustrations for the ode which follows.

I.

Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim
  The temple of the living God;
Hurl iron bolt and seething flame
  Through aisles which holiest feet have trod;
Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb,
  And, raging with demoniac ire,
Send down, in sudden crash of doom,
  That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire.

II.

That spire, for full a hundred years,[1]
  Hath been a people's point of sight;
That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears,
  With strains well worthy Salem's height;
The sweet, clear music of its bells,
  Made liquid soft in Southern air,
Still through the heart of memory swells,
  And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer.

III.

Along the shores for many a mile,
  Long ere they owned a beacon-mark,
It caught arid kept the Day-God's smile,
  The guide for every wandering bark;[2]
Averting from our homes the scaith
  Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven,
The Pharos to the wandering faith,
  It pointed every prayer to Heaven!

IV.

Well may ye, felons of the time,
  Still loathing all that's pure and free,
Add this to many a thousand crime
  'Gainst peace and sweet humanity:
Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame,
  Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes,
But fitly turn your murderous aim
  Against Jehovah's ancient domes.

V.

Yet, though the grand old temple falls,
  And downward sinks the lofty spire,
Our faith is stronger than our walls,
  And soars above the storm and fire.
Ye shake no faith in souls made free
  To tread the paths their fathers trod;
To fight and die for liberty,
  Believing in the avenging God!

VI.

Think not, though long his anger stays,
  His justice sleeps--His wrath is spent;
The arm of vengeance but delays,
  To make more dread the punishment!
Each impious hand that lights the torch
  Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall;
And the bright Angel of the Church,
  With seraph shield avert the ball!

VII.

For still we deem, as taught of old,
  That where the faith the altar builds,
God sends an angel from his fold,
  Whose sleepless watch the temple shields,
And to his flock, with sweet accord,
  Yields their fond choice, from THRONES and POWERS;
Thus, Michael, with his fiery sword
  And golden shield, still champions ours!

VIII.

And he who smote the dragon down,
  And chained him thousand years of time,
Need never fear the boa's frown,
  Though loathsome in his spite and slime.
He, from the topmost height, surveys
  And guards the shrines our fathers gave;
And we, who sleep beneath his gaze,
  May well believe his power to save!

IX.

Yet, if it be that for our sin
  Our angel's term of watch is o'er,
With proper prayer, true faith must win
  The guardian watcher back once more I
Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer--
  In blood and sackcloth, if it need;
And still our spire shall rise in air,
  Our temple, though our people bleed!

[1] St.. Michael's Church was opened for divine worship, February 1, 1761

[2] "The height of this steeple makes it the principal land-mark for the pilots."--Dalcjio (in 1819).

Ode--"Shell the Old City! Shell!"

By W. Gilmore Simms.

I.

Shell the old city I shell!
Ye myrmidons of Hell;
Ye serve your master well,
    With hellish arts!
Hurl down, with bolt and fire,
The grand old shrines, the spire;
But know, your demon ire
Subdues no hearts!

II.

There, we defy ye still,
With sworn and resolute will;
Courage ye cannot kill
    While we have breath!
Stone walls your bolts may break,
But, ere our souls ye shake,
Of the whole land we'll make
    One realm of death!

III.

Dear are our homes! our eyes
Weep at their sacrifice;
And, with each bolt that flies,
    Each roof that falls,
The pang extorts the tear,
That things so precious, dear
To memory, love, and care,
    Sink with our walls.

IV.

Trophies of ancient time,
When, with great souls, sublime,
Opposing force and crime,
    Our fathers fought;
Relics of golden hours,
When, for our shrines and bowers,
Genius, with magic powers,
    Her triumphs wrought!

V.

Each Sabbath-hallowed dome,
Each ancient family home,
The dear old southwest room,
    All trellised round;
Where gay, bright summer vines,
Linked in fantastic twines
With the sun's blazing lines,
    Rubied the ground!

VI.

Homes, sacred to the past,
Which bore the hostile blast,
Though Spain, France, Britain cast
    Their shot and shell!
Tombs of the mighty dead,
That in our battles bled,
When on our infant head
    These furies fell!

VII.

Halls which the foreign guest Found of each charm possessed, With cheer unstinted blessed, And noblest grace; Where, drawing to her side The stranger, far and wide, Frank courtesy took pride To give him place!

VIII.

The shaded walks--the bowers
Where, through long summer hours,
Young Love first proved his powers
    To win the prize;
Where every tree has heard
Some vows of love preferred,
And, with his leaves unstirred,
    Watch'd lips and eyes.

IX.

Gardens of tropic blooms,
That, through the shaded rooms,
Sent Orient-winged perfumes
    With dusk and dawn;
The grand old laurel, tall,
As sovereign over all,
And, from the porch and hall,
    The verdant lawn.

X.

Oh! when we think of these
Old homes, ancestral trees;
Where, in the sun and breeze,
    At morn and even,
Was to enjoy the play
Of hearts at holiday,
And find, in blooms of May,
    Foretaste of Heaven!

XI.

Where, as we cast our eyes
On thing's of precious prize,
Trophies of good and wise,
    Grand, noble, brave;
And think of these, so late
Sacred to soul and state,
Doomed, as the wreck of fate,
    By fiend and slave!--

XII.

The inevitable pain,
Coursing through blood and brain,
Drives forth, like winter rain,
    The bitter tear!
We cannot help but weep,
From depth of hearts that keep
The memories, dread and deep.
    To vengeance dear!

XIII.

Aye, for each tear we shed,
There shall be torrents red,
Not from the eye-founts fed,
    But from the veins!
Bloody shall be the sweat,
Fiends, felons, that shall yet
Pay retribution's debt,
    In torture's pains!

XIV.

Our tears shall naught abate,
Of what we owe to hate--
To the avenging fate--
    To earth and Heaven!
And, soon or late, the hour
Shall bring th' atoning power,
When, through the clouds that lower,
    The storm-bolt's driven!

XV.

Shell the old city--shell!
But, with each rooftree's knell,
Vows deep of vengeance fell,
    Fire soul and eye!
With every tear that falls
Above our stricken walls
Each heart more fiercely calls,
    "Avenge, or die!"

"The Enemy Shall Never Reach Your City."

Andrew Jackson's Address to the People of New Orleans.

I.

Never, while such as ye are in the breach,
Oh! brothers, sons, and Southrons--never! never!
Shall the foul enemy your city reach!
For souls and hearts are eager with endeavor;
And God's own sanction on your cause, makes holy
Each arm that strikes for home, however lowly!--
And ye shall conquer by the rolling deep!--
And ye shall conquer on the embattled steep!--
And ye shall see Leviathan go down
A hundred fathoms, with a horrible cry
Of drowning wretches, in their agony--
While Slaughter wades in gore along the sands,
And Terror flies with pleading, outstretched hands,
All speechless, but with glassy-staring eyes--
Flying to Fate--and fated as he flies;--
Seeking his refuge in the tossing wave,
That gives him, when the shark has fed, a grave!

II.

Thus saith the Lord of Battles: "Shall it be,
That this great city, planted by the sea,
With threescore thousand souls--with fanes and spires
Reared by a race of unexampled sires--
That I have watched, now twice a hundred years,[1]
Nursed through long infancy of hopes and fears,
Baptized in blood at seasons, oft in tears;
Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow
To greatness, with a progress firm but slow--
That being the grand condition of duration--
Until it spreads into the mighty nation!
And shall the usurper, insolent of power,
O'erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour!
And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will,
Say to its mighty heart--'Crouch, and be still!
My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate!
Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!'

III.

"No! He shall know--I am the Lord of war;
And all his mighty hosts but pigmies are!
His hellish engines, wrought for human woe,
His arts and vile inventions, and his power,
My arm shall bring to ruin, swift and low!
Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm-clouds lower,
And I will arm my people with a faith,
Shall make them free of fear, and free of scaith;
Arid they shall bear from me a smiting sword,
Edged with keen lightning, at whose stroke is poured
A torrent of destruction and swift wrath,
Sweeping--the insolent legions from their path!
The usurper shall be taught that none shall take--
The right to punish and avenge from me:
And I will guard my City by the Sea,
And save its people for their fathers' sake!"

IV.

Selah!--Oh I brothers, sons, and Southrons, rise;
To prayer: and lo! the wonder in the skies!
The sunbow spans your towers, even while the foe
Hurls his fell bolt, and rains his iron blow.
Toss'd by his shafts, the spray above yon height[1]
God's smile hath turned into a golden light;
Orange and purple-golden! In that sign
Find ye fit promise for that voice divine!
Hark! 'tis the thunder! Through the murky air,
The solemn roll goes echoing far and near!
Go forth, and unafraid! His shield is yours!
And the great spirits of your earlier day--
Your fathers, hovering round your sacred shores--
Will guard your bosoms through the unequal fray!
Hark to their voices, issuing through the gloom:[2]
"The cruel hosts that haunt you, march to doom:
Give them the vulture's rites--a naked tomb!
And, while ye bravely smite, with fierce endeavor,
The foe shall reach your city--never! never!"

[1] Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years old.

[2]In the late engagement of Fort Sumter, with the enemy's fleet, April 7th, the spray thrown above the walls by their enormous missiles, was formed into a beautiful sunbow, seeing which, General Ripley, with the piety of Constantine, exclaimed: "In hoc signo vinces!"

Charleston Mercury.

War-Waves.

By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston.

What are the war-waves saying,
  As they compass us around?
The dark, ensanguined billows,
  With their deep and dirge-like sound?
Do they murmur of submission;
  Do they call on us to bow
Our necks to the foe triumphant
  Who is riding o'er us now?

Never! No sound submissive
  Comes from those waves sublime,
Or the low, mysterious voices
  Attuned to their solemn chime!
For the hearts of our noble martyrs
  Are the springs of its rich supply;
And those deeply mystic murmurs
  Echo their dying cry!

They bid us uplift our banner
  Once more in the name of God;
And press to the goal of Freedom
  By the paths our Fathers trod:
They passed o'er their dying brothers;
  From their pale lips caught the sigh--
The flame of their hearts heroic,
  From the flash of each closing eye!

Up! Up! for the time is pressing,
  The red waves close around;--
They will lift us on their billows
  If our hearts are faithful found!
They will lift us high--exultant,
  And the craven world shall see
The Ark of a ransomed people
  Afloat on the crimson sea!

Afloat, with her glorious banner--
  The cross on its field of red,
Its stars, and its white folds waving
  In triumph at her head;
Emblem of all that's sacred
  Heralding Faith to view;
Type of unblemished honor;
  Symbol of all that's true!

Then what can those waves be singing
   But an anthem grand, sublime,
As they bear for our martyred heroes
   A wail to the coast of Time?
What else as they roll majestic
   To the far-off shadowy shore,
To join the Eternal chorus
   When Time shall be no more!

Old Moultrie.

By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston.

All lovers of poetry will know in whose liquid gold I have dipped my brush to illumine the picture.

The splendor falls on bannered walls
  Of ancient Moultrie, great in story;
And flushes now, his scar-seamed brow,
  With rays of golden glory!
     Great in his old renown;
     Great in the honor thrown
     Around him by the foe,
     Had sworn to lay him low!

The glory falls--historic walls
  Too weak to cover foes insulting,
Become a tower--a sheltering bower--
  A theme of joy exulting;
     God, merciful and great,
     Preserved the high estate
     Of Moultrie, by His power
     Through the fierce battle-hour!

The splendor fell--his banners swell
  Majestic forth to catch the shower;
Our own loved blue receives anew
  A rich immortal dower!
     Adown the triple bars
     Of its companion, spars
     Of golden glory stream;
     On seven-rayed circlet beam!

The glory falls--but not on walls
  Of Sumter deemed the post of duty;
A brilliant sphere, it circles clear
  The harbor in its beauty;
     Holding in its embrace
     The city's queenly grace;
     Stern battery and tower,
     Of manly strength and power,

But brightest falls on Moultrie's walls,
  Forever there to rest in glory,
A hallowed light--on buttress height--
  Oh, fort, beloved and hoary!
      Rest there and tell that faith
      Shall never suffer scaith;
      Rest there-and glow afar--
      Hope's ever-burning star!

Charleston Mercury

Only One Killed.

By Julia L. Keyes, Montgomery, Ala.

Only one killed--in company B,
   'Twas a trifling loss--one man!
A charge of the bold and dashing Lee--
While merry enough it was, to see
   The enemy, as he ran.

Only one killed upon our side--
   Once more to the field they turn.
Quietly now the horsemen ride--
And pause by the form of the one who died,
   So bravely, as now we learn.

Their grief for the comrade loved and true
   For a time was unconcealed;
They saw the bullet had pierced him through
That his pain was brief--ah! very few
   Die thus, on the battle-field.

The news has gone to his home, afar--
   Of the short and gallant fight,
Of the noble deeds of the young La Var
Whose life went out as a falling star
   In the skirmish of that night.

"Only one killed! It was my son,"
   The widowed mother cried.
She turned but to clasp the sinking one,
Who heard not the words of the victory won,
   But of him who had bravely died.

Ah! death to her were a sweet relief,
   The bride of a single year.
Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief,
Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf
   Now trodden and brown and sere!

But no, she must bear through coming life
   Her burden of silent woe,
The aged mother and youthful wife
Must live through a nation's bloody strife,
   Sighing, and waiting to go.

Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars,
   Are meeting no more to part,
They can smile once more through the crystal bars--
Where never more will the woe of wars
   O'ershadow the loving--heart.

Field and Fireside.

Land of King Cotton.[1]

Air--Red, White, and Blue.

By J. Augustine Signaigo.

From the Memphis Appeal, December 18, 1861.

Oh! Dixie, dear land of King Cotton,
  "The home of the brave and the free,"
A nation by freedom begotten,
  The terror of despots to be;
Wherever thy banner is streaming,
  Base tyranny quails at thy feet,
And liberty's sunlight is beaming,
  In splendor of majesty sweet.

CHORUS.--Three cheers for our army so true,
            Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee;
           Beauregard and our Davis forever,
            The pride of the brave and the free!

When Liberty sounds her war-rattle,
  Demanding her right and her due,
The first land that rallies to battle
  Is Dixie, the shrine of the true;
Thick as leaves of the forest in summer,
  Her brave sons will rise on each plain,
And then strike, until each Vandal comer
  Lies dead on the soil he would stain.
CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc.

May the names of the dead that we cherish,
  Fill memory's cup to the brim;
May the laurels they've won never perish,
  "Nor star of their glory grow dim;"
May the States of the South never sever,
  But the champions of freedom e'er be;
May they flourish Confederate forever,
  The boast of the brave and the free.
CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc.

[1] "Land of King Cotton" was the favorite song of the Tennessee troops, but especially of the Thirteenth and One Hundred and Fifty-fourth regiments.

If You Love Me.

By J. Augustine Signaigo.

You have told me that you love me,
  That you worship at my shrine;
That no purity above me
  Can on earth be more divine.
Though the kind words you have spoken.
  Sound to me most sweetly strange,
Will your pledges ne'er be broken?
  Will there be in you no change?

If you love me half so wildly--
  Half so madly as you say,
Listen to me, darling, mildly--
  Would you do aught I would pray?
If you would, then hear the thunder
  Of our country's cannon speak!
While by war she's rent asunder,
  Do not come my love to seek.

If you love me, do not ponder,
  Do not breathe what you would say,
Do not look at me with wonder,
  Join your country in the fray.
Go! your aid and right hand lend her,
  Breast the tyrant's angry blast:
Be her own and my defender--
  Strike for freedom to the last,

Then I'll vow to love none other,
  While you nobly dare and do;
As you're faithful to our mother,
  So I'll faithful prove to you.
But return not while the thunder
  Lives in one invading sword;
Strike the despot's hirelings under--
  Own no master but the Lord.

The Cotton Boll.

By Henry Timrod.

While I recline
At ease beneath
This immemorial pine,
Small sphere!--
By dusky fingers brought this morning here?
And shown with boastful smiles,--
I turn thy cloven sheath,
Through which the soft white fibres peer,
That, with their gossamer bands,
Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands,
And slowly, thread by thread,
Draw forth the folded strands,
Than which the trembling line,
By whose frail help yon startled spider fled
Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging bed,
Is scarce more fine;
And as the tangled skein
Unravels in my hands,
Betwixt me and the noonday light,
A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles
The landscape broadens on my sight,
As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell
Like that which, in the ocean shell,
With mystic sound,
Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round,
And turns some city lane
Into the restless main,
With all his capes and isles!

Yonder bird,--
Which floats, as if at rest,
In those blue tracts above the thunder, where
No vapors cloud the stainless air,
And never sound is heard,
Unless at such rare time
When, from the City of the Blest,
Rings down some golden chime,--
Sees not from his high place
So vast a cirque of summer space
As widens round me in one mighty field,
Which, rimmed by seas and sands,
Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams
Of gray Atlantic dawns;
And, broad as realms made up of many lands,
Is lost afar
Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns
Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams
Against the Evening Star!
And lo!
To the remotest point of sight,
Although I gaze upon no waste of snow,
The endless field is white;
And the whole landscape glows,
For many a shining league away,
With such accumulated light
As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day!
Nor lack there (for the vision grows,
And the small charm within my hands--
More potent even than the fabled one,
Which oped whatever golden mystery
Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale,
The curious ointment of the Arabian tale--
Beyond all mortal sense
Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see
Beneath its simple influence,
As if, with Uriel's crown,
I stood in some great temple of the Sun,
And looked, as Uriel, down)--
Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green
With all the common gifts of God,
For temperate airs and torrid sheen
Weave Edens of the sod;
Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold
Broad rivers wind their devious ways;
A hundred isles in their embraces fold
A hundred luminous bays;
And through yon purple haze
Vast mountains lift their pluméd peaks cloud-crowned;
And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps,
An unknown forest girds them grandly round,
In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps!
Ye stars, which though unseen, yet with me gaze
Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth!
Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays
Above it, as to light a favorite hearth!
Ye clouds, that in your temples in the West
See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers!
And, you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast
Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers!
Bear witness with me in my song of praise,
And tell the world that, since the world began,
No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays,
Or given a home to man!

But these are charms already widely blown!
His be the meed whose pencil's trace
Hath touched our very swamps with grace,
And round whose tuneful way
All Southern laurels bloom;
The Poet of "The Woodlands," unto whom
Alike are known
The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone,
And the soft west-wind's sighs;
But who shall utter all the debt,
0 Land! wherein all powers are met
That bind a people's heart,
The world doth owe thee at this day,
And which it never can repay,
Yet scarcely deigns to own!
Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing
The source wherefrom doth spring
That mighty commerce which, confined
To the mean channels of no selfish mart,
Goes out to every shore
Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships
That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips
In alien lands;
Joins with a delicate web remotest strands;
And gladdening rich and poor,
Doth gild Parisian domes,
Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes,
And only bounds its blessings by mankind!
In offices like these, thy mission lies,
My Country! and it shall not end
As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend
In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard
And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard
Thy hearthstones as a bulwark; make thee great
In white and bloodless state;
And, haply, as the years increase--
Still working through its humbler reach
With that large wisdom which the ages teach--
Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace!

As men who labor in that mine
Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed
Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead,
Hear the dull booming of the world of brine
Above them, and a mighty muffled roar
Of winds and waters, and yet toil calmly on,
And split the rock, and pile the massive ore,
Or carve a niche, or shape the archéd roof;
So I, as calmly, weave my woof
Of song, chanting the days to come,
Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air
Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn
Wakes from its starry silence to the hum
Of many gathering armies. Still,
In that we sometimes hear,
Upon the Northern winds the voice of woe
Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know
The end must crown us, and a few brief years
Dry all our tears,
I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will
Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget
That there is much even Victory must regret.
And, therefore, not too long
From the great burden of our country's wrong
Delay our just release!

And, if it may be, save
These sacred fields of peace
From stain of patriot or of hostile blood!
Oh, help us Lord! to roll the crimson flood
Back on its course, and, while our banners wing
Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling
To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave
Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate
The lenient future of his fate
There, where some rotting ships and trembling quays
Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas.

The Battle of Charleston Harbor.

April 7th, 1863.

By Paul H. Hayne.

I.

Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day,
The Northman's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay;
They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave,
Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.

II.

A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew
More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue,
And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar,
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening Star!

III.

Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands,
The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands,
So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise,
They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!

IV.

Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold,
Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold--
They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely-echoing cheers,
And then--once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.

V.

Onward--in sullen file, and slow, low glooming on the wave,
Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,
When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore,
Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore![1]

VI.

Ha! brutal Corsairs! tho' ye come thrice-cased in iron mail,
Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail!
Ye strive the ruffian types of Might 'gainst law, and truth, and Right,
Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!

VII.

No empty boast! I for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher,
Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire.
The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above.
Fight on! oh! knightly Gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love!

VIII.

There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise,
To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' Death must give the prize--
There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient Town,
A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down.

IX.

The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps,
Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps;
And ship by ship, raked, overborne, 'ere burned the sunset bloom,
Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb!

X.

Oh! glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires,
Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires--
Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons,
And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's Angels near the guns!

[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun.

Fort Wagner.

By W. Gilmore Simms.

I.

Glory unto the gallant boys who stood
  At Wagner, and, unflinching, sought the van;
Dealing fierce blows, and shedding precious blood,
  For homes as precious, and dear rights of man!
They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory;--
 Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat
The legend, which shall grow to themes for story,
  Told through long ages, and forever sweet!

II.

High honor to our youth--our sons and brothers,
  Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand!
They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers,
  But keep, through storm, the bulwarks of the land!
They feel that they must conquer! Not to do it,
  Were worse than death--perdition! Should they fail,
The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it,
  The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail!

III.

No! They must conquer in the breach or perish!
  Assured, in the last consciousness of breath,
That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish
  Their deeds, with honors that shall sweeten death!
They shall have trophies in long future hours,
  And loving recollections, which shall be
Green, as the summer leaves, and fresh as flowers,
  That, through all seasons, bloom eternally!

IV.

Their memories shall be monuments, to rise
  Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past;
Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies,
  And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast!
A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted,
  Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;--
A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted,
  When skies and seas around thee shook with fire!