Produced by Distributed Proofreaders
WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH
Edited By
William Gilmore Simms, LL. D.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866,
By RICHARDSON & CO.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery,
540 Broadway.
To
The Women of the South
I Inscribe This Volume
They have lost a cause, but they have made a triumph! They have shown
themselves worthy of any manhood; and will leave a record which shall
survive all the caprices of time. They have proved themselves worthy of
the best womanhood, and, in their posterity, will leave no race which
shall be unworthy of the cause which is lost, or of the mothers, sisters
and wives, who have taught such noble lessons of virtuous effort, and
womanly endurance.
W.G.S.
Preface.
Several considerations have prompted the editor of this volume in the
compilation of its pages. It constitutes a contribution to the national
literature which is assumed to be not unworthy of it, and which is
otherwise valuable as illustrating the degree of mental and art
development which has been made, in a large section of the country, under
circumstances greatly calculated to stimulate talent and provoke
expression, through the higher utterances of passion and imagination.
Though sectional in its character, and indicative of a temper and a
feeling which were in conflict with nationality, yet, now that the States
of the Union have been resolved into one nation, this collection is
essentially as much the property of the whole as are the captured cannon
which were employed against it during the progress of the late war. It
belongs to the national literature, and will hereafter be regarded as
constituting a proper part of it, just as legitimately to be recognized by
the nation as are the rival ballads of the cavaliers and roundheads, by
the English, in the great civil conflict of their country.
The emotional literature of a people is as necessary to the philosophical
historian as the mere details of events in the progress of a nation. This
is essential to the reputation of the Southern people, as illustrating
their feelings, sentiments, ideas, and opinions--the motives which
influenced their actions, and the objects which they had in contemplation,
and which seemed to them to justify the struggle in which they were
engaged. It shows with what spirit the popular mind regarded the course of
events, whether favorable or adverse; and, in this aspect, it is even of
more importance to the writer of history than any mere chronicle of facts.
The mere facts in a history do not always, or often, indicate the true
_animus_, of the action. But, in poetry and song, the emotional
nature is apt to declare itself without reserve--speaking out with a
passion which disdains subterfuge, and through media of imagination and
fancy, which are not only without reserve, but which are too coercive in
their own nature, too arbitrary in their influence, to acknowledge any
restraints upon that expression, which glows or weeps with emotions that
gush freely and freshly from the heart. With this persuasion, we can also
forgive the muse who, in her fervor, is sometimes forgetful of her art.
And yet, it is believed that the numerous pieces of this volume will be
found creditable to the genius and culture of the Southern people, and
honorable, as in accordance with their convictions. They are derived from
all the States of the late Southern Confederacy, and will be found
truthfully to exhibit the sentiment and opinion prevailing more or less
generally throughout the whole. The editor has had special advantages in
making the compilation. Having a large correspondence in most of the
Southern States, he has found no difficulty in procuring his material.
Contributions have poured in upon him from all portions of the South; the
original publications having been, in a large number of cases, subjected
to the careful revision of the several authors. It is a matter of great
regret with him that the limits of the present volume have not suffered
him to do justice to, and find a place for, many of the pieces which fully
deserve to be put on record. Some of the poems were quite too long for his
purpose; a large number, delayed by the mails and other causes, were
received too late for publication. Several collections, from Louisiana,
North Carolina, and Texas, especially, are omitted for this reason. Many
of these pieces are distinguished by fire, force, passion, and a free play
of fancy. Briefly, his material would enable him to prepare another
volume, similar to the present, which would not be unworthy of its
companionship. He is authorized by his publisher to say that, in the event
of the popular success of the present volume, he will cheerfully follow up
its publication by a second, of like style, character, and dimensions.
The editor has seen with pleasure the volume of "Rebel Rhymes" edited by
Mr. Moore, and of "South Songs," by Mr. De Leon. He has seen, besides, a
single number of a periodical pamphlet called "The Southern Monthly,"
published at Memphis, Tenn. This has been supplied him by a contributor.
He has seen no other publications of this nature, though he has heard of
others, and has sought for them in vain. There may be others still
forthcoming; for, in so large a field, with a population so greatly
scattered as that of the South, it is a physical impossibility adequately
to do justice to the whole by any one editor; and each of the sections
must make its own contributions, in its own time, and according to its
several opportunities. There will be room enough for all; and each, I
doubt not, will possess its special claims to recognition and reward.
His own collections, made during the progress of the war, from the
newspapers, chiefly, of South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia, were
copious. Of these, many have been omitted from this collection, which, he
trusts, will some day find another medium of publication. He has been able
to ascertain the authorship, in many cases, of these writings; but must
regret still that so many others, under a too fastidious delicacy, deny
that their names should be made known. It is to be hoped that they will
hereafter be supplied. To the numerous ladies who have so frankly and
generously contributed to this collection, by sending originals and making
copies, he begs to offer his most grateful acknowledgments.
A large proportion of the pieces omitted are of elegiac character. Of this
class, he could find a place for such pieces only as were dedicated to the
most distinguished of the persons falling in battle, or such as are marked
by the higher characteristics of poetry--freshness, thought, and
imagination. But many of the omitted pieces are quite worthy of
preservation. Much space has not been given to that class of songs, camp
catches, or marching ballads, which are so numerous in the "Rebel Rhymes"
of Mr. Moore. The songs which are most popular are rarely such as may
claim poetical rank. They depend upon lively music and certain
spirit-stirring catchwords, and are rarely worked up with much regard
to art or even, propriety. Still, many of these should have found a place
in this volume, had adequate space been allowed the editor. It is his
desire, as well as that of the publisher, to collect and bind together
these fugitives in yet another publication. He will preserve the
manuscripts and copies of all unpublished pieces, with the view to this
object--keeping them always subject to the wishes of their several
writers.
At the close, he must express the hope that these poems will be
recognized, not only as highly creditable to the Southern mind, but as
truly illustrative, if not justificatory of, that sentiment and opinion
with which they have been written; which sentiment and opinion have
sustained their people through a war unexampled in its horrors in modern
times, and which has fully tested their powers of endurance, as well as
their ability in creating their own resources, under all reverses, and
amidst every form of privation.
W.G.S.
Brooklyn, September 8, 1866.
Contents.
Ethnogenesis, _Henry Timrod_
God Save the South, _George H. Miles_
"You can never win them back", _Catherine M. Warfield_
The Southern Cross, _E. K. Blunt_
South Carolina, _S. Henry Dickson_
The New Star, _B. M. Anderson_
The Irrepressible Conflict, _Tyrtæus_
The Southern Republic, _Olivia T. Thomas_
"Is there then no Hope?", _Charleston Courier_
The Fate of the Republic, _Charleston Mercury_
The Voice of the South, _Charleston Mercury_
The Oath of Freedom, _James Barron Hope_
The Battle Cry of the South, _James R. Randall_
Sonnet, _Charleston Mercury_
Seventy-six and Sixty-one, _J. W. Overall_
"Reddato Gladium", _Richmond Whig_
"Nay, keep the Sword", _Richmond Whig_
Coercion, _John R. Thompson_
A Cry to Arms, _Henry Timrod_
Jackson, the Alexandria Martyr, _W. H. Holcombe_
The Martyr of Alexandria, _James W. Simmons_
The Blessed Union, _Charleston Mercury_
The Fire of Freedom, _Richmond paper_
Hymn to the National Flag, _Mrs. M. J. Preston_
Sonnet--moral of party, _Charleston Mercury_
Our Faith in '61, _A. J. Requier_
"Wouldst thou have me love thee?", _Alex. B. Meek_
Enlisted to-day, _Anonymous_
"My Maryland", _James R. Randall_
The Boy Soldier, _Lady of Savannah_
The good old cause, _John D. Phelan_
Manassas, _Catherine M. Warfield_
Virginia, _Ibid._
The War-Christian's Thanksgiving, _S. Teackle Wallis_
Sonnet, _Charleston Mercury_
Marching to Death, _J. Herbert Sass_
Charleston, _Henry Timrod_
Charleston, _Paul H. Hayne_
"Ye Men of Alabama", _Jno. D. Phelan_
Nec temere, nec timida, _Annie C. Ketchum_
Dixie, _Albert Pike_
The Old Rifleman, _Frank Ticknor_
Battle Hymn, _Charleston Mercury_
Kentucky, she is sold, _J. R. Barrick_
The Ship of State, _Charleston Mercury_
"In his blanket on the ground," _Caroline H. Gervais_
The Mountain Partisan, _Charleston Mercury_
The Cameo Bracelet, _James R. Randall_
Zollicoffer, _Henry L. Flash_
Beauregard, _Catherine M. Warfield_
South Carolina, _Gossypium_
Carolina, _Henry Timrod_
My Mother Land, _Paul H. Hayne_
Joe Johnston, _Jno. R. Thompson_
Over the River, _Jane T. H. Cross_
The Confederacy, _Jane T. H. Cross_
President Davis, _Jane T. H. Cross_
The Rifleman's Fancy Shot, _Anonymous_
"All quiet along the Potomac"
Prize Address, _Henry Timrod_
The Battle of Richmond, _Geo. Herbert Sass_
The Guerrillas, _S. Teackle Wallis_
A Farewell to Pope, _Jno. R. Thompson_
Sonnet--Public Prayer, _South Carolinian_
Battle of Belmont, _J.A. Signaigo_
Vicksburg, _Paul H. Hayne_
Ballad of the War, _G.H. Sass_
The two Armies, _Henry Timrod_
The Legion of Honor, _H.L. Flash_
Clouds in the West, _A.J. Requier_
Georgia! My Georgia!, _Carrie B. Sinclair_
Song of the Texan Rangers, _Anonymous_
Kentucky required to yield her arms, _Anonymous_
There's life in the old land yet, _J.B. Randall_
"Tell the boys the War is ended," _Emily J. Moore_
The Southern Cross, _St. George Tucker_
England's Neutrality, _John R. Thompson_
Close the Ranks, _J.L. O'Sullivan_
The Sea-kings of the South, _Ed. G. Bruce_
The Return, _Anonymous_
Our Christmas Hymn, _J. Dickson Bruns_
Charleston, _Miss E.B. Cheesborough_
Gathering Song, _Annie Chambers Ketchum_
Christmas, _Henry Timrod_
A Prayer for Peace, _S. Teackle Wallis_
The Band in the Pines, _Jno. Esten Cooke_
At Fort Pillow, _James R. Randall_
From the Rapidan, _Anonymous_
Song of our Southland, _Mrs. Mary Ware_
Sonnets, _Paul H. Hayne_
Hospital Duties, _Charleston Courier_
They cry Peace, Peace! _Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs_
Ballad--"What! have ye thought?" _Charleston Mercury_
Missing, _Anonymous_
Ode--"Souls of Heroes," _Charleston Mercury_
Jackson, _Henry L. Flash_
Captain Maffit's Ballad, _Charleston Mercury_
Melt the Bells, _F. T. Rockett_
John Pelham, _James R. Randall_
"Ye batteries of Beauregard," _J. R. Barrick_
"When Peace returns," _Olivia T. Thomas_
The Right above the Wrong, _J. W. Overall_
Carmen Triumphale, _Henry Timrod_
The Fiend Unbound, _Charleston Mercury_
The Unknown Dead, _Henry Timrod_
Ode--"Do ye quail?" _W. Gilmore Simms_
Ode--"Our City by the Sea," _Ibid_.
The Lone Sentry, _J. R. Randall_
My Soldier Brother, _Sallie E. Bollard_
Seaweeds, _Annie Chambers Ketchum_
The Salkehatchie, _Emily J. Moore_
The Broken Mug, _Jno. Esten Cooke_
Carolina, _Anna Peyre Dinnies_
Our Martyrs, _Paul H. Hayne_
Cleburne, _Mrs. M. A. Jennings_
The Texan Marseillaise, _James Harris_
"O, tempora! O, mores," _J. Dickson Bruns_
Our Departed Comrades, _J. M. Shirer_
No Land like Ours, _J. R. Barrick_
The Angel of the Church, _W. Gilmore Simms_
Ode--"Shell the old City," _Ibid_.
The Enemy shall never reach your City, _Charleston Mercury_
War Waves, _Catherine G. Poyas_
Old Moultrie, _Ibid_.
Only one killed, _Julia L. Keyes_
Land of King Cotton, _J. A. Signaigo_
If you love me, _Ibid_.
The Cotton Boll, _Henry Timrod_
Battle of Charleston Harbor, _Paul H. Hayne_
Fort Wagner, _W. Gilmore Simms_
Sumter in Ruins, _Ibid_.
Morris Island, _Ibid_.
Promise of Spring, _South Carolinian_
Spring, _Henry Timrod_
Chickamauga, _Richmond Sentinel_
In Memoriam--Bishop Polk, _Viola_
Stonewall Jackson, _H. L. Flash_
Stonewall Jackson--a Dirge, _Anonymous_
Beaufort, _W. J. Grayson_
The Empty Sleeve, _J. R. Bagby_
Cotton Burners' Hymn, _Memphis Appeal_
Reading the List, _Anonymous_
His Last Words, _Anonymous_
Charge of Hagood's Brigade, _J. Blythe Allston_
Carolina, _Jno. A, Wagener_
Savannah, _Alethea S. Burroughs_
"Old Betsy," _John Killian_
Awake! Arise! _G. W. Archer_
Albert Sydney Johnston, _Mary Jervey_
Eulogy of the Dead, _B. F. Porter_
The Beaufort Exile, _Anonymous_
Somebody's Darling, _Miss Maria LaCoste_
John Pegram, _W. Gordon McGabe_
Captives Going Home, _Anonymous_
Heights of Mission Ridge, _J. A. Signaigo_
Our Left at Manassas, _Anonymous_
On to Richmond, _J. R. Thompson_
Turner Ashby, _Ibid_.
Captain Latanè, _Ibid_.
The Men, _Maurice Bell_
The Rebel Soldier, _Kentucky Girl_
Battle of Hampton Roads, _Ossian D. Gorman_
"Is this a time to dance?" _Anonymous_
The Maryland Line, _J. D, McCabe, Jr._
I give my Soldier Boy a blade, _H. M. L._
Sonnet--Avatar of Hell, _Anonymous_
Stonewall Jackson's Way, _Anonymous_
The Silent March, _Anonymous_
Pro Memoria, _Ina M. Porter_
Southern Homes in Ruins, _R. B. Vance_
Rappahannock Army Song, _J. C. McLemore_
Soldier in the Rain, _Julia L. Keyes_
My Country, _W. D. Porter_
After the Battle, _Miss Agnes Leonard_
Our Confederate Dead, _Lady of Augusta_
Ye Cavaliers of Dixie, _B. F. Porter_
Song of Spring, _Jno. A. Wagener_
What the Village Bell said, _Jno. C. McLemore_
The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star, _A. P. Gray_
Southern War Hymn, _Jno. A. Wagener_
The Battle Rainbow, _J. R. Thompson_
Stonewall Jackson, _Richmond Broadside_
Dirge for Ashby, _Mrs. M. J. Preston_
Sacrifice, _Charleston Mercury_
Sonnet, _Ibid_.
Grave of A. Sydney Johnston, _J. B. Synott_
"Not doubtful of your Fatherland," _Charleston Mercury_
Only a Soldier's grave, _S. A. Jonas_
The Guerrilla Martyrs, _Charleston Mercury_
"Libera Nos, O Domine!" _James Barron Hope_
The Knell shall sound once more, _Charleston Mercury_
Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion, _Ina M. Porter_
Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans, _Ibid_.
The Foe at the Gates--Charleston, _J. Dickson Bruns_
Savannah Fallen, _Alethea S. Burroughs_
Bull Run--A Parody, _Anonymous_
"Stack Arms," _Jos. Blythe Allston_
Doffing the Gray, _Lieutenant Falligant_
In the Land where we were dreaming, _D. B. Lucas_
Ballad--"Yes, build your Walls," _Charleston Mercury_
The Lines around Petersburg, _Samuel Davis_
All is gone, Fadette--_Memphis Appeal_
Bowing her Head, _Savannah Broadside_
The Confederate Flag, _Anna Peyre Dinnies_
Ashes of Glory, _A. J. Requier_
War Poetry of the South
Ethnogenesis.
By Henry Timrod, of S.C.
Written during the meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery,
February, 1861.
I.
Hath not the morning dawned with added light?
And shall not evening--call another star
Out of the infinite regions of the night,
To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are
A nation among nations; and the world
Shall soon behold in many a distant port
Another flag unfurled!
Now, come what may, whose favor need we court?
And, under God, whose thunder need we fear?
Thank Him who placed us here
Beneath so kind a sky--the very sun
Takes part with us; and on our errands run
All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain
Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year,
And all the gentle daughters in her train,
March in our ranks, and in our service wield
Long spears of golden grain!
A yellow blossom as her fairy shield,
June fling's her azure banner to the wind,
While in the order of their birth
Her sisters pass; and many an ample field
Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold
Its endless sheets unfold
THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth
Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm
Our happy land shall sleep
In a repose as deep
As if we lay intrenched behind
Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm!
II.
And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought,
In their own treachery caught,
By their own fears made bold,
And leagued with him of old,
Who long since, in the limits of the North,
Set up his evil throne, and warred with God--
What if, both mad and blinded in their rage,
Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage,
And with a hostile step profane our sod!
We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth
To meet them, marshalled by the Lord of Hosts,
And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts
Of Moultrie and of Eutaw--who shall foil
Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone,
But every stock and stone
Shall help us; but the very soil,
And all the generous wealth it gives to toil,
And all for which we love our noble land,
Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand,
The heart of woman, and her hand,
Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence,
Gentle, or grave, or grand;
The winds in our defence
Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend
Their firmness and their calm;
And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend
The strength of pine and palm!
III.
Nor would we shun the battle-ground,
Though weak as we are strong;
Call up the clashing elements around,
And test the right and wrong!
On one side, creeds that dare to teach
What Christ and Paul refrained to preach;
Codes built upon a broken pledge,
And charity that whets a poniard's edge;
Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor
To starve and shiver at the schemer's door,
While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled,
He turns some vast philanthropy to gold;
Religion taking every mortal form
But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm,
Where not to vile fanatic passion urged,
Or not in vague philosophies submerged,
Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven,
And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven!
And on the other, scorn of sordid gain,
Unblemished honor, truth without a stain,
Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth,
And, for the poor and humble, laws which give,
Not the mean right to buy the right to live,
But life, and home, and health!
To doubt the end were want of trust in God,
Who, if he has decreed
That we must pass a redder sea
Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee,
Will surely raise at need
A Moses with his rod!
IV.
But let our fears-if fears we have--be still,
And turn us to the future! Could we climb
Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time,
The rapturous sight would fill
Our eyes with happy tears!
Not only for the glories which the years
Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea,
And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be;
But for the distant peoples we shall bless,
And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress:
For, to give labor to the poor,
The whole sad planet o'er,
And save from want and crime the humblest door,
Is one among--the many ends for which
God makes us great and rich!
The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe
When all shall own it, but the type
Whereby we shall be known in every land
Is that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand,
And through the cold, untempered ocean pours
Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores
May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze
Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.
God Save the South.
George H. Miles, of Baltimore.
God save the South!
God save the South!
Her altars and firesides--
God save the South!
Now that the war is nigh--
Now that we arm to die--
Chanting--our battle-cry,
Freedom or Death!
God be our shield!
At home or a-field,
Stretch Thine arm over us,
Strengthen and save!
What though they're five to one,
Forward each sire and son,
Strike till the war is done,
Strike to the grave.
God make the right
Stronger than might!
Millions would trample us
Down in their pride.
Lay, thou, their legions low;
Roll back the ruthless foe;
Let the proud spoiler know
God's on our side!
Hark! honor's call,
Summoning all--
Summoning all of us
Up to the strife.
Sons of the South, awake!
Strike till the brand shall break!
Strike for dear honor's sake,
Freedom and Life!
Rebels before
Were our fathers of yore;
Rebel, the glorious name
Washington bore,
Why, then, be ours the same
Title he snatched from shame;
Making it first in fame,
Odious no more.
War to the hilt!
Theirs be the guilt,
Who fetter the freeman
To ransom the slave.
Up, then, and undismayed,
Sheathe not the battle-blade?
Till the last foe is laid
Low in the grave.
God save the South!
God save the South!
Dry the dim eyes that now
Follow our path.
Still let the light feet rove
Safe through the orange grove;
Still keep the land we love
Safe from all wrath.
God save the South!
God save the South!
Her altars and firesides--
God save the South!
For the rude war is nigh,
And we must win or die;
Chanting our battle-cry
Freedom or Death!
You Can Never Win Them Back.
By Catherine M. Warfield.
You can never win them back,
never! never!
Though they perish on the track
of your endeavor;
Though their corses strew the earth
That smiled upon their birth,
And blood pollutes each hearthstone
forever!
They have risen, to a man
stern and fearless;
Of your curses and your ban
they are careless.
Every hand is on its knife;
Every gun is primed for strife;
Every palm contains a life
high and peerless!
You have no such blood as theirs
for the shedding,
In the veins of Cavaliers
was its heading.
You have no such stately men
In your abolition den,
To march through foe and fen,
nothing dreading.
They may fall before the fire
of your legions,
Paid in gold for murd'rous hire--
bought allegiance!
But for every drop you shed
You shall leave a mound of dead;
And the vultures shall be fed
in our regions.
But the battle to the strong
is not given,
While the Judge of right and wrong
sits in heaven!
And the God of David still
Guides each pebble by His will;
There are giants yet to kill--
wrong's unshriven.
The Southern Cross.
By E. K. Blunt.
In the name of God! Amen!
Stand for our Southern rights;
On our side, Southern men,
The God of battles fights!
Fling the invaders far--
Hurl back their work of woe--
The voice is the voice of a brother,
But the hands are the hands of a foe.
They come with a trampling army,
Invading our native sod--
Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer,
In the name of the mighty God!
They are singing _our_ song of triumph,[1]
Which proclaimed _us_ proud and free--
While breaking away the heartstrings
Of our nation's harmony.
Sadly it floateth from us,
Sighing o'er land and wave;
Till, mute on the lips of the poet,
It sleeps in his Southern grave.
Spirit and song departed!
Minstrel and minstrelsy!
We mourn ye, heavy hearted,--
But we will--we will be free!
They are waving _our_ flag above us,
With the despot's tyrant will;
With our blood they have stained its colors,
And they call it holy still.
With tearful eyes, but steady hand,
We'll tear its stripes apart,
And fling them, like broken fetters,
That may not bind the heart.
But we'll save our stars of glory,
In the might of the sacred sign
Of Him who has fixed forever
One "Southern Cross" to shine.
Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer!
Solemn, and strong, and sure!
The fight shall not be longer
Than God shall bid endure.
By the life that but yesterday
Waked with the infant's breath!
By the feet which, ere morning, may
Tread to the soldier's death!
By the blood which cries to heaven--
Crimson upon our sod!
Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer,
In the name of the mighty God!
[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all
whose descendants are Confederates.
South Carolina.
December 20, 1860.
S. Henry Dickson.
The deed is done! the die is cast;
The glorious Rubicon is passed:
Hail, Carolina! free at last!
Strong in the right, I see her stand
Where ocean laves the shelving sand;
Her own Palmetto decks the strand.
She turns aloft her flashing eye;
Radiant, her lonely star[1] on high
Shines clear amidst the darkening sky.
Silent, along those azure deeps
Its course her silver crescent keeps,
And in soft light the landscape steeps.
Fling forth her banner to the gale!
Let all the hosts of earth assail,--
Their fury and their force shall fail.
Echoes the wide resounding shore,
With voice above th' Atlantic roar,
Her sons proclaim her free once more!
Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State!
In numbers few, in daring great,
Thus to affront the frowns of fate!
And while mad triumph rules the hour,
And thickening clouds of menace lower,
Bear back the tide of tyrant power.
With steadfast courage, faltering never,
Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever:
Hail, Carolina! free forever!
[1] The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon.
The New Star.
By B.M. Anderson.
Another star arisen; another flag unfurled;
Another name inscribed among the nations of the world;
Another mighty struggle 'gainst a tyrant's fell decree,
And again a burdened people have uprisen, and are free.
The spirit of the fathers in the children liveth yet;
Liveth still the olden blood which dimmed the foreign bayonet;
And the fathers fought for freedom, and the sons for freedom fight;
Their God was with the fathers--and is still the God of right!
Behold! the skies are darkened! A gloomy cloud hath lowered!
Shall it break before the sun of peace, or spread in rage impowered?
Shall we have the smile of friendship, or shall it be the blow?
Shall it be the right hand to the friend, or the red hand to the foe?
In peacefulness we wish to live, but not in slavish fear;
In peacefulness we dare not die, dishonored on our bier.
To our allies of the Northern land we offer heart and hand,
But if they scorn our friendship--then the banner and the brand!
Honor to the new-born nation! and honor to the brave!
A country freed from thraldom, or a soldier's honored grave.
Every step shall be contested; every rivulet run red,
And the invader, should he conquer, find the conquered in the dead.
But victory shall follow where the sons of freedom go,
And the signal for the onset be the death-knell of the foe;
And hallowed shall the spot be where he was so bravely met,
And the star which yonder rises, rises never more to set.
The Irrepressible Conflict.
Tyrtæus.--_Charleston Mercury._
Then welcome be it, if indeed it be
The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come;
There will be mitigation of the doom,
If, battling to the last, our sires shall see
Their sons contending for the homes made free
In ancient conflict with the foreign foe!
If those who call us brethren strike the blow,
No common conflict shall the invader know!
War to the knife, and to the last, until
The sacred land we keep shall overflow
With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill,
Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave!
Aye, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave
May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave.
The Southern Republic.
By Olivia Tully Thomas, of Mississippi.
In the galaxy of nations,
A nation's flag's unfurled,
Transcending in its martial pride
The nations of the world.
Though born of war, baptized in blood,
Yet mighty from the time,
Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood--
Dismembered, yet sublime.
And braver heart, and bolder hand,
Ne'er formed a fabric fair
As Southern wisdom can command,
And Southern valor rear.
Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway,
Or recognize her birth,
The land blood-bought for Liberty
Will reign supreme on earth.
Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave!
Thy sons are bold and free,
And pour life's crimson tide to save
Their birthright, Liberty!
Their fertile fields and sunny plains
That yield the wealth alone,
That's coveted for greedy gains
By despots-and a throne!
Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn,
Thy altars desolate;
Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn
At war's relentless fate;
And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears,
Her homes will consecrate,
While more than brass or marble rears
The trophy of her great.
Oh! land that boasts each gallant name
Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE,
And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame
Extends beyond the sea;
Far rather let thy plains become,
From gulf to mountain cave,
One honored sepulchre and tomb,
Than we the tyrant's slave!
Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free,
Redeemed by blood and war;
Through agony and gloom we see
Thy hope--a glimmering star;
Thy banner, too, may proudly float,
A herald on the seas--
Thy deeds of daring worlds remote
Will emulate and praise!
But who can paint the impulse pure,
That thrills and nerves thy brave
To deeds of valor, that secure
The rights their fathers gave?
Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain,
Crowned with the warrior's wreath,
From beds of fame their proud refrain
Was "Liberty or Death!"
"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?"
Charleston Courier.
Is there, then, no hope for the nations?
Must the record of Time be the same?
And shall History, in all her narrations,
Still close each last chapter in shame?
Shall the valor which grew to be glorious,
Prove the shame, as the pride of a race:
And a people, for ages victorious,
Through the arts of the chapman, grow base?
Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman,
Each strides o'er the scene and departs!
How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman,
How wondrous their virtues and arts!
Rude valor, at first, when beginning,
The nation through blood took its name;
Then the wisdom, which hourly winning
New heights in its march, rose to Fame!
How noble the tale for long ages,
Blending Beauty with courage and might!
What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages,
Made eminent stars for each height!
While their people, with reverence ample.
Brought tribute of praise to the Great,
Whose wisdom and virtuous example,
Made virtue the pride of the State!
Ours, too, was as noble a dawning,
With hopes of the Future as high:
Great men, each a star of the morning,
Taught us bravely to live and to die!
We fought the long fight with our foeman,
And through trial--well-borne--won a name,
Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman,
And worthy as lasting a fame!
Shut the Book! We must open another!
O Southron! if taught by the Past,
Beware, when thou choosest a brother,
With what ally thy fortunes are cast!
Beware of all foreign alliance,
Of their pleadings and pleasings beware,
Better meet the old snake with defiance,
Than find in his charming a snare!
The Fate of the Republics.
Charleston Mercury.
Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years--
Rear'd with such art and wisdom--by a race
Of giant sires, in virtue all compact,
Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals
Of public strength, and peoples capable
Of great conceptions for the common good,
And of enduring liberties, kept strong
Through purity;--tumbles and falls apart,
Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd
Within, without, by greed of avarice,
And vain ambition for supremacy.
So fell the old Republics--Gentile and Jew,
Roman and Greek--such evermore the record;
Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed,
From conquest and from triumph, into fall!
The glory that we see exchanged for guilt
Might yet be glory. There were pride enough,
And emulous ambition to achieve,--
Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment,
To do the work of States--and there were courage
And sense of public need, and public welfare,--
And duty--in a brave but scattered few,
Throughout the States--had these been credited
To combat 'gainst the popular appetites.
But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught,
As lacking favor with the popular lusts!
They found reward in exile or in death!
And he alone who could debase his spirit,
And file his mind down to the basest nature
Grew capp'd with rule!--
So, with the lapse
From virtue, the great nation forfeits all
The pride with the security--the liberty,
With that prime modesty which keeps the heart
Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts
That wait upon Humanity, and teach
Humility, as best check and guaranty,
Against the wolfish greed of appetite!
Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom,
When peoples loathe to listen to the praise
Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims,
Eagerly set upon them to revile,
And banish from their councils! Worse than all
When the great man, succumbing to the mass,
Yields up his mind as a low instrument
To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:--
Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe
Of place or profit, and makes sale of States
To Party!
Thus and then are States subdued--
'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts,
With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay;
Insolent, reckless of account as right,--
While lust grows license, and tears off the robes
From justice; and makes right a thing of mock;
And puts a foolscap on the head of law,
And plucks the baton of authority
From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head.
So rages still the irresponsible power,
Using the madden'd populace as hounds,
To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat.
The ancient history becomes the new--
The ages move in circles, and the snake
Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth.
Thus still in all the past!--and man the same
In all the ages--a poor thing of passion,
Hot greed, and miserable vanity,
And all infirmities of lust and error,
Makes of himself the wretched instrument
To murder his own hope.
So empires fall,--
Past, present, and to come!--
There is no hope
For nations or peoples, once they lapse from virtue
And fail in modest sense of what they are--
Creatures of weakness, whose security
Lies in meek resting on the law of God,
And in that wise humility which pleads
Ever for his guardian watch and Government,
Though men may bear the open signs of rule.
Humility is safety! could men learn
The law, "_ne sutor ultra crepidam_,"
And the sagacious cobbler, at his last,
Content himself with paring leather down
To heel and instep, nicely fitting parts,
In proper adaptation, to the foot,
We might have safety.
Rightly to conceive
What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will
To this one measure only, is the whole
Of that grand rule, and wise necessity,
Which only gives us safety.
Where a State,
Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds
Set for their progress, they must topple and fall
Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed
All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all
Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause!
The terrible conjunction of the event,
Close with the provocation, stands apart,
A social beacon in all histories;
And yet we take no heed, but still rush on,
Under mixed sway of greed and vanity,
And like the silly boy with his card-castle,
Precipitate to ruin as we build.
The Voice of the South.
Tyrtæus.--_Charleston Mercury._
'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave,
And fits but ill to be held by the slave;
And sad were the thought, if one of our band
Should give up the hope of so fair a land.
But the hour has come, and the times that tried
The souls of men in our days of pride,
Return once more, and now for the brave,
To merit the boon which our fathers gave.
And if there be one base spirit who stands
Now, in our peril, with folded hands,
Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought,
With the sword with which his old father fought.
An oath sublime should the freeman take,
Still braving the fight and the felon stake,--
The oath that his sires brought over the sea,
When they pledged their swords to Liberty!
'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight,
They battled and bled in behalf of the right;
'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign,
And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine.
We cannot forget, and we dare not forego,
The holy duty to them that we owe,
The duty that pledges the soul of the son
To keep the freedom his sire hath won.
To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil
One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil,
One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare
Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share!
Art ready for this, dear brother, who still
Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill?
Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear,
Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear?
Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart,
Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part;
The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands,
And waits but the word for the flashing of brands!
And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,--and thou
Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow;
And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves
Where Apala-chicola[1] glides through her groves.
Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep,
The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep;
Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call,
To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall!
Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves,
The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves,
That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth,
Would rob us of right without reason or ruth.
Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong,
Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong?
Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls,
Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls.
At last ye are wakened, all rising at length,
In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength;
And now let the struggle begin which shall see,
If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free.
We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came,
To welcome the ruin, but never the shame;
To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right,
While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight.
Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw
The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;--
Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here,
To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear.
Let those who defile and deface it, be sure,
No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure;
We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain,
With which they would fetter our free souls in vain.
How goodly and bright were its links at the first!
How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst!
We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave,
But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave.
[1] The reader will place the accent on the _ante-penultimate_, which
affords not only the most musical, but the correct pronunciation.
The Oath of Freedom.
By James Barron Hope.
_"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be
free."_
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven we will be free!
By all the stars which burn on high--
By the green earth--the mighty sea--
By God's unshaken majesty,
We will be free or die!
Then let the drums all roll!
Let all the trumpets blow!
Mind, heart, and soul,
We spurn control
Attempted by a foe!
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven we will be free!
And, vainly now the Northmen try
To beat us down--in arms we stand
To strike for this our native land!
We will be free or die!
Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, we thus resolve to live:
By Heaven we will be free!
Our wives and children look on high,
Pray God to smile upon the right!
And bid us in the deadly fight
As freemen live or die!
Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven we will be free!
And ere we cease this battle-cry,
Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt,
On bayonet or sabre hilt!
We will be free or die!
Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven we will be free!
Defiant let the banners fly,
Shake out their glories to the air,
And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear
We will be free or die!
Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven we will be free!
And to this oath the dead reply--
Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts--
These with us, and the God of hosts,
We will be free or die!
Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
The Battle-Cry of the South.
By James R. Randall.
Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against
the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled
against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to
die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our
sanctuary.--_Maccabees I._
Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black,
And the wail of the South wings forth;
Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack,
And the vampires of the North?
Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal,
Strike! with a ruthless hand--
Strike! with the vengeance of the soul,
For your bright, beleaguered land!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees--
For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,[1]
And the God of the Maccabees!
Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare,
And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown--
Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there
In the cliffs of the Father's frown:
Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light
Which the Sun of Justice gives--
In the caves and sepulchres of night
Jehovah the Lord King lives!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees--
For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees!
Think of the dead by the Tennessee,
In their frozen shrouds of gore--
Think of the mothers who shall see
Those darling eyes no more!
But better are they in a hero grave
Than the serfs of time and breath,
For they are the children of the brave,
And the cherubim of death!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees--
For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees!
Better the charnels of the West,
And a hecatomb of lives,
Than the foul invader as a guest
'Mid your sisters and your wives--
But a spirit lurketh in every maid,
Though, brothers, ye should quail,
To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade,
And the livid spike of Jael!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees--
For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees!
Brothers! I see you tramping by,
With the gladiator gaze,
And your shout is the Macedonian cry
Of the old, heroic days!
March on! with trumpet and with drum,
With rifle, pike, and dart,
And die--if even death must come--
Upon your country's heart!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees--
For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees!
Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black,
And the wail of the South wings forth;
Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack,
And the vampires of the North?
Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal,
Strike! with a ruthless hand--
Strike! with the vengeance of the soul
For your bright, beleaguered land!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees--
For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees!
[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus.
Sonnet.
Charleston Mercury.
Democracy hath done its work of ill,
And, seeming freemen, never to be free,
While the poor people shout in vanity,
The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will.
How swift the abasement follows! But few years,
And we stood eminent. Great men were ours,
Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers!
How have we sunk below our proper spheres!
No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place,
The nimble marmozet and magpie men;
Creatures that only mock and mimic, when
They run astride the shoulders of the race;
Democracy, in vanity elate,
Clothing but sycophants in robes of state.
Seventy-Six and Sixty-One.
By John W. Overall, of Louisiana.
Ye spirits of the glorious dead!
Ye watchers in the sky!
Who sought the patriot's crimson bed,
With holy trust and high--
Come, lend your inspiration now,
Come, fire each Southern son,
Who nobly fights for freemen's rights,
And shouts for sixty-one.
Come, teach them how, on hill on glade,
Quick leaping from your side,
The lightning flash of sabres made
A red and flowing tide--
How well ye fought, how bravely fell,
Beneath our burning sun;
And let the lyre, in strains of fire,
So speak of sixty-one.
There's many a grave in all the land,
And many a crucifix,
Which tells how that heroic band
Stood firm in seventy-six--
Ye heroes of the deathless past,
Your glorious race is run,
But from your dust springs freemen's trust,
And blows for sixty-one.
We build our altars where you lie,
On many a verdant sod,
With sabres pointing to the sky,
And sanctified of God;
The smoke shall rise from every pile,
Till freedom's cause is won,
And every mouth throughout the South,
Shall shout for sixty-one!
"Reddato Gladium."
Virginia to Winfield Scott.
A voice is heard in Ramah!
High sounds are on the gale!
Notes to wake buried patriots!
Notes to strike traitors pale!
Wild notes of outraged feeling
Cry aloud and spare him not!
'Tis Virginia's strong appealing,
And she calls to Winfield Scott!
Oh! chief among ten thousand!
Thou whom I loved so well,
Star that has set, as never yet
Since son of morning fell!
I call not in reviling,
Nor to speak thee what thou art;
I leave thee to thy death-bed,
And I leave thee to thy heart!
But by every mortal hope,
And by every mortal fear;
By all that man deems sacred,
And that woman holds most dear;
Yea! by thy mother's honor,
And by thy father's grave,
By hell beneath, and heaven above,
Give back the sword I gave!
Not since God's sword was planted
To guard life's heavenly tree,
Has ever blade been granted,
Like that bestowed on thee!
To pierce me with the steel I gave
To guard mine honor's shrine,
Not since Iscariot lived and died,
Was treason like to thine!
Give back the sword! and sever
Our strong and mighty tie!
We part, and part forever,
To conquer or to die!
In sorrow, not in anger,
I speak the word, "We part!"
For I leave thee to thy death-bed,
And I leave thee to thy heart!
Richmond Whig.
Nay, Keep the Sword.
By Carrie Clifford.
Nay, keep the sword which once we gave,
A token of our trust in thee;
The steel is true, the blade is keen--
False as thou art it cannot be.
We hailed thee as our glorious chief,
With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow;
Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue:
In whispers hushed we breathe it now.
Yes, keep it till thy dying day;
Momentous ever let it be,
Of a great treasure once possessed--
A people's love now lost to thee.
Thy mother will not bow her head;
She bares her bosom to thee now;
But may the bright steel fail to wound--
It is more merciful than thou.
And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow,
Thousands of sons of this fair land
Will rise, and, in their anger just,
Will stay the rash act of thy hand.
And when in terror thou shalt hear
Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry
And feel the weight of thy great crime,
Then fall upon thy sword and die.
Those aged locks I'll not reproach,
Although upon a traitor's brow;
We've looked with reverence on them once,
We'll try and not revile them now.
But her true sons and daughters pray,
That ere thy day of reckoning be,
Thy ingrate heart may feel the pain
To know thy mother once more free.
Coercion: A Poem for Then and Now.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
Who talks of coercion? who dares to deny
A resolute people the right to be free?
Let him blot out forever one star from the sky,
Or curb with his fetter the wave of the sea!
Who prates of coercion? Can love be restored
To bosoms where only resentment may dwell?
Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword,
Or good-will among men be established by shell?
Shame! shame!--that the statesman and trickster, forsooth,
Should have for a crisis no other recourse,
Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth,
Than the old _brutum fulmen_ of tyranny--force!
From the holes where fraud, falsehood, and hate slink away--
From the crypt in which error lies buried in chains--
This foul apparition stalks forth to the day,
And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.