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.
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!
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.
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!
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!
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.
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!"
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!
Ballad—"What! Have Ye Thought?"
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?
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?
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.
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!
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!
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!
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."
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!
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."
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!
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!
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!
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?
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
'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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
The merry dance, the lavish feast, The cheery welcome, all are o'er: The music of the viol ceased, The gleesome ring around the floor. No glad communion greets the hour, That welcomes in a Saviour's birth, And Christmas, to a hostile power, Yields all the sway that made its mirth.
The 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.
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.
In place of that beloved form, Benignant, bland, and blessing all, Comes one begirt with fire and storm, The raging shell, the hissing ball! Type of the Prince of Peace, no more, Evoked by those who bear His name, THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore, Now hurls around Satanic flame.
In 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!
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!
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.
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.
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," 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!
"A little season," and the Peace, That now is foremost in your prayers, Shall crown your harvest with increase, And bless with smiles the home of tears; Your wounds be healed; your noble sons, Unhurt, unmutilated—free— Shall limber up their conquering guns, In triumph grand of Liberty!
A 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. 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.
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.
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 pans, And the Beast o'er another Orleans!
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.
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!
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 gis 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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
But they trouble not the souls Of our Carolina host, 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!
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!"
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!
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!
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!
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!"
To the brave old city, joy! For that the hostile race, Commissioned to destroy, Hath fled in sore disgrace! That our sons, at their guns, Have beat back the modern Huns— Have maintained their household fanes and their fires; And free from taint and scath, Have kept the fame and faith (And will keep, through blood and death) Of their sires!
To the 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!
 The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South Carolina troops exclusively.
 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.
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!
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!
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.
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!
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.
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" 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" 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" 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 .
 The country-seat of R. Barnwell Rhett.
 The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond.
 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.
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.
That spire, for full a hundred years, 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.
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; 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!
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.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
 St.. Michael's Church was opened for divine worship, February 1, 1761
 "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.
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!
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!
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.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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.
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.
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!
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!—
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!
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!
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!
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.
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!
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, 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!'"
"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!"
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 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: "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!"
 Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years old.
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!"
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!
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!
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.
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.
 "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 plumd 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!