The first foot-tramp of Tyranny's minions?
Have ye buckled on armor, and brandished the spear,
But to shrink with the trumpet's first peal on the ear?
Why your forts now embattled on headland and height,
Your sons all in armor, unless for the fight?
Did ye think the mere show of your guns on the wall,
And your shouts, would the souls of the heathen appal?
That his lusts and his appetites, greedy as Hell,
Led by Mammon and Moloch, would sink at a spell;--
Nor strive, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the flesh
Should be torn from his jaws, while yet bleeding afresh.
II.
For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!--
To the death for your sacred dominions!--
Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame,
Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame;
Your greybeards, with necks in the halter--
Your virgins, defiled at the altar,--
In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave,
Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave!
Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom!
How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom!
With the fiends in your streets howling pæans,
And the Beast o'er another Orleans!
III.
Do ye quail, as on yon little islet
They have planted the feet that defile it?
Make its sands pure of taint, by the stroke of the sword,
And by torrents of blood in red sacrifice pour'd!
Doubts are Traitors, if once they persuade you to fear,
That the foe, in his foothold, is safe from your spear!
When the foot of pollution is set on your shores,
What sinew and soul should be stronger than yours?
By the fame--by the shame--of your sires,
Set on, though each freeman expires;
Better fall, grappling fast with the foe, to their graves,
Than groan in your fetters, the slaves of your slaves.
IV.
The voice of your loud exultation
Hath rung, like a trump, through the nation,
How loudly, how proudly, of deeds to be done,
The blood of the sire in the veins of the son!
Old Moultrie and Sumter still keep at your gates,
And the foe in his foothold as patiently waits.
He asks, with a taunt, by your patience made bold,
If the hot spur of Percy grows suddenly cold--
Makes merry with boasts of your city his own,
And the Chivalry fled, ere his trumpet is blown;
Upon them, O sons of the mighty of yore,
And fatten the sands with their Sodomite gore!
V.
Where's the dastard that cowers and falters
In the sight of his hearthstones and altars?
With the faith of the free in the God of the brave,
Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save!
By the blue Heaven shining above ye,
By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye,
Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight,
And an ægis to shield and a weapon to smite!
Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not:
With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still.
To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians,
For your homes, and your sacred dominions.
Ode--"Our City by the Sea."
By W. Gilmore Simms.
I.
Our city by the sea,
As the rebel city known,
With a soul and spirit free
As the waves that make her zone,
Stands in wait for the fate
From the angry arm of hate;
But she nothing fears the terror of his blow;
She hath garrisoned her walls,
And for every son that falls,
She will spread a thousand palls
For-the foe!
II.
Old Moultrie at her gate,
Clad in arms and ancient fame.
Grimly watching, stands elate
To deliver bolt and flame!
Brave the band, at command,
To illumine sea and land
With a glory that shall honor days of yore;
And, as racers for their goals,
A thousand fiery souls,
While the drum of battle rolls,
Line the shore.
III.
Lo! rising at his side,
As if emulous to share
His old historic pride,
The vast form of Sumter there!
Girt by waves, which he braves
Though the equinoctial raves,
As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep;
And, like tigers crouching round,
Are the tribute forts that bound
All the consecrated ground,
By the deep!
IV.
It was calm, the April noon,
When, in iron-castled towers,
Our haughty foe came on,
With his aggregated powers;
All his might 'gainst the right,
Now embattled for the fight,
With Hell's hate and venom working in his heart;
A vast and dread array,
Glooming black upon the day,
Hell's passions all in play,
With Hell's art.
V.
But they trouble not the souls
Of our Carolina host,[1]
And the drum of battle rolls,
While each hero seeks his post;
Firm, though few, sworn to do,
Their old city full in view,
The brave city of their sires and their dead;
There each freeman had his brood,
All the dear ones of his blood,
And he knew they watching stood,
In their dread!
VI.
To the bare embattled height,
Then our gallant colonel sprung--
"Bid them welcome to the fight,"
Were the accents of his tongue--
"Music! band, pour out--grand--
The free song of Dixie Land!
Let it tell them we are joyful that they come!
Bid them welcome, drum and flute,
Nor be your cannon mute,
Give them chivalrous salute--
To their doom!"[2]
VII.
Out spoke an eager gun,
From the walls of Moultrie then;
And through clouds of sulph'rous dun,
Rose a shout of thousand men,
As the shot, hissing hot,
Goes in lightning to the spot--
Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail;
Then roared the storm from all,
Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall--
Bursting bomb and driving ball--
Hell in hail!
VIII.
Full a hundred cannon roared
The dread welcome to the foe,
And his felon spirit cowered,
As he crouched beneath the blow!
As each side opened wide
To the iron and the tide,
He lost his faith in armor and in art;
And, with the loss of faith,
Came the dread of wounds and scath--
And the felon fear of death
Wrung his heart!
IX.
Quenched then his foul desires;
In his mortal pain and fear,
How feeble grew his fires,
How stayed his fell career!
How each keel, made to reel
'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel,
Their turrets staggering wildly, to and fro, blind and lame;
Ironsides and iron roof,
Held no longer bullet-proof,
Steal away, shrink aloof,
In their shame!
X.
But our lightnings follow fast,
With a vengeance sharp and hot;
Our bolts are on the blast,
And they rive with shell and shot!
Huge the form which they warm
With the hot breath of the storm;
Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck--
They shiver as they fly,
While their leader, drifting nigh,
Sinks, choking with the cry--
"Keokuk!"
XI.
To the brave old city, joy!
For that the hostile race,
Commissioned to destroy,
Hath fled in sore disgrace!
That our sons, at their guns,
Have beat back the modern Huns--
Have maintained their household fanes and their fires;
And free from taint and scath,
Have kept the fame and faith
(And will keep, through blood and death)
Of their sires!
XII.
To the Lord of Hosts the glory,
For His the arm and might,
That have writ for us the story,
And have borne us through the fight!
His our shield in that field--
Voice that bade us never yield;
Oh! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day?
His strength hath made us strong,
Cheered the right and crushed the wrong,
To His temple let us throng--
PRAISE AND PRAY!
[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South
Carolina troops exclusively.
[2] As the iron-clads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred
Rhett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where he remained,
ordered the band to strike up the national air of "Dixie;" and at the same
time, in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and regimental flags
were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen
guns.
The Lone Sentry.
By James R. Randall.
Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall
Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the
ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the
night. The officer of the day went to the general's tent, and said:
"General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one but is asleep.
Shall I wake them?"
"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp
to-night."
And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel
for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when
glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all
unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers.
'Twas in the dying of the day,
The darkness grew so still;
The drowsy pipe of evening birds
Was hushed upon the hill;
Athwart the shadows of the vale
Slumbered the men of might,
And one lone sentry paced his rounds,
To watch the camp that night.
A grave and solemn man was he,
With deep and sombre brow;
The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up
Some unaccomplished vow.
The wistful glance peered o'er the plains
Beneath the starry light--
And with the murmured name of God,
He watched the camp that night.
The Future opened unto him
Its grand and awful scroll:
Manassas and the Valley march
Came heaving o'er his soul--
Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by
With that tremendous fight
Which gave him to the angel hosts
Who watched the camp that night.
We mourn for him who died for us,
With one resistless moan;
While up the Valley of the Lord
He marches to the Throne!
He kept the faith of men and saints
Sublime, and pure, and bright--
He sleeps--and all is well with him
Who watched the camp that night.
Brothers! the Midnight of the Cause
Is shrouded in our fate;
The demon Goths pollute our halls
With fire, and lust, and hate.
Be strong--be valiant--be assured--
Strike home for Heaven and Right!
_The soul of Jackson stalks abroad,
And guards the camp to-night!_
To My Soldier Brother.
By Sallie E. Ballard, of Texas.
When softly gathering shades of ev'n
Creep o'er the prairies broad and green,
And countless stars bespangle heav'n,
And fringe the clouds with silv'ry sheen,
My fondest sigh to thee is giv'n,
My lonely wandering soldier boy;
And thoughts of thee
Steal over me
Like ev'ning shades, my soldier boy.
My brother, though thou'rt far away,
And dangers hurtle round thy path,
And battle lightnings o'er thee play,
And thunders peal in awful wrath,
Think, whilst thou'rt in the hot affray,
Thy sister prays for thee, my boy.
If fondest prayer
Can shield thee there
Sweet angels guard my soldier boy.
Thy proud young heart is beating high
To clash of arms and cannons' roar;
That firm-set lip and flashing eye
Tell how thy heart is brimming o'er.
Be free and live, be free or die;
Be that thy motto now, my boy;
And though thy name's
Unknown to fame's,
'Tis graven on my heart, my boy.
Sea-Weeds
Written in Exile.
By Annie Chambers Ketchum.
Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart!
Beneath the citron-tree--
Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep--
I hear the Mexique Sea.
While through the night rides in the spectral surf
Along the spectral sands,
And all the air vibrates, as if from harps
Touched by phantasmal hands.
Bright in the moon the red pomegranate flowers
Lean to the Yucca's bells,
While with her chrism of dew, sad Midnight fills
The milk-white asphodels.
Watching all night--as I have done before--
I count the stars that set,
Each writing on my soul some memory deep
Of Pleasure or Regret;
Till, wild with heart-break, toward the East I turn,
Waiting for dawn of day;--
And chanting sea, and asphodel and star
Are faded, all, away.
Only within my trembling, trembling hands--
Brought unto me by thee--
I clasp these beautiful and fragile things,
Bright sea-weeds from the sea,
Fair bloom the flowers beneath these Northern skies,
Pure shine the stars by night,
And grandly sing the grand Atlantic waves
In thunder-throated might;
But, as the sea-shell in her chambers keeps
The murmur of the sea,
So the deep-echoing memories of my home
Will not depart from me.
Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things!
As I have seen them cast
Like a drowned woman's hair, along the beach,
When storms were over-past;
Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashore
In Battle's storm and blight;
Would _they_ had died, like sea-weeds! Pray forgive me
But I must weep to-night.
Tell me again, of Summer fields made fair
By Spring's precursing plough;
Of joyful reapers, gathering tear-sown harvests--
Talk to me,--will you?--now!
The Salkehatchie.
By Emily J. Moore.
Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening
a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie.
The crystal streams, the pearly streams,
The streams in sunbeams flashing,
The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams,
The streams down mountains dashing,
Have been the theme
Of poets' dream,
And, in wild witching story,
Have been renowned for love's fond scenes,
Or some great deed of glory.
The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,
The Arno, silver-flowing,
The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,
With poesy are glowing;
But I would praise
In artless lays,
A stream which well may match ye,
Though dark its waters glide along--
The swampy Salkehatchie.
'Tis not the beauty of its stream,
Which makes it so deserving
Of honor at the Muses' hands,
But 'tis the use it's serving,
And 'gainst a raid,
We hope its aid
Will ever prove efficient,
Its fords remain still overflowed,
In water ne'er deficient.
If Vandal bands are held in check,
Their crossing thus prevented,
And we are spared the ravage wild
Their malice has invented,
Then we may well
In numbers tell
No other stream can match ye,
And grateful we shall ever be
To swampy Salkehatchie.
The Broken Mug.
Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley
(so-called.)
John Esten Cooke.
My mug is broken, my heart is sad!
What woes can fate still hold in store!
The friend I cherished a thousand days
Is smashed to pieces on the floor!
Is shattered and to Limbo gone,
I'll see my Mug no more!
Relic it was of joyous hours
Whose golden memories still allure--
When coffee made of rye we drank,
And gray was all the dress we wore!
When we were paid some cents a month,
But never asked for more!
In marches long, by day and night,
In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,
Strapped on the saddle at my back
This faithful comrade still I bore--
This old companion, true and tried,
I'll never carry more!
From the Rapidan to Gettysburg--
"Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before--
This friend went with the cavalry
And heard the jarring-cannon roar
In front of Cemetery Hill--
Good heavens! how they did roar!
Then back again, the foe behind,
Back to the "Old Virginia shore"--
Some dead and wounded left--some holes
In flags, the sullen graybacks bore;
This mug had made the great campaign,
And we'd have gone once more!
Alas! we never went again!
The red cross banner, slow but sure,
"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout
(Like the lover of Lenore)
A long, sad, lingering farewell--
To taste its joys no more.
But still we fought, and ate hard bread,
Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore!
And still this faithful friend remained--
Riding behind me as before--
The friend on march, in bivouac,
When others were no more.
How oft we drove the horsemen blue
In Summer bright or Winter frore!
How oft before the Southern charge
Through field and wood the blue-birds tore!
Im "harmonized," but long to hear
The bugles ring once more.
Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now,
Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure,
Congress will "reconstruct" us soon--
But no gray people on _that_ floor!
I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long
To see those times once more!
Gay days! the sun was brighter then,
And we were happy, though so poor!
That past comes back as I behold
My shattered friend upon the floor,
My splintered, useless, ruined mug,
From which I'll drink no more.
How many lips I'll love for aye,
While heart and memory endure,
Have touched this broken cup and laughed--
How they did laugh!--in days of yore!
Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream,
If they had been no more!"
Dear comrades, dead this many a day,
I saw you weltering in your gore,
After those days, amid the pines
On the Rappahannock shore!
When the joy of life was much to me
But your warm hearts were more!
Yours was the grand heroic nerve
That laughs amid the storm of war--
Souls that "loved much" your native land,
Who fought and died therefor!
You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,
Your blood--you had no more!
You lived and died true to your flag!
And now your wounds are healed--but sore
Are many hearts that think of you
Where you have "gone before."
Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms,
They are "whole" forevermore!
Those lips this broken vessel touched,
His, too!--the man's we all adore--
That cavalier of cavaliers,
Whose voice will ring no more--
Whose plume will float amid the storm
Of battle never more!
Not on this idle page I write
That name of names, shrined in the core
Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen,
Hush! words so cold and poor!
His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,
His bugle sounds no more!
Never was cavalier like ours!
Not Rupert in the years before!
And when his stern, hard work was done,
His griefs, joys, battles o'er--
His mighty spirit rode the storm,
And led his men once more!
He lies beneath his native sod,
Where violets spring, or frost is hoar:
He recks not--charging squadrons watch
His raven plume no more!
That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
That hand we'll touch no more!
My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:
Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
Ye are the types of nobler things
That find their use no more--
Things glorious once, now trodden down--
That makes us smile no more!
Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts--
Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,
Beating his wings against the bars,
The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still--
Bread failed--we fought no more!
Lies in the dust the shattered staff
That bore aloft on sea and shore,
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
And none are now so poor,
So poor to do it reverence,
Now when it flames no more!
But it is glorious in the dust,
Sacred till Time shall be no more:
Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn--
The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!
Furl the great flag--hide cross and star,
Thrust into darkness star and bar,
But look! across the ages far
It flames for evermore!
Carolina.
By Anna Peyre Dinnies.
In the hour of thy glory,
When thy name was far renowned,
When Sumter's glowing story
Thy bright escutcheon crowned;
Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine,
That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine.
Exulting as I heard thee,
Of every lip the theme,
Prophetic visions stirred me,
In a hope-illumined dream:
A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won,
Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son.
And now, when clouds arise,
And shadows round thee fall;
I lift to heaven my eyes,
Those visions to recall;
For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long,
Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong.
Thy serried ranks of pine,
Thy live-oaks spreading wide,
Beneath the sunbeams shine,
In fadeless robes of pride;
Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth,
As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North.
The deeds of other days,
Enacted by their sires,
Themes long of love and praise,
Have wakened high desires
In every heart that beats within thy proud domain,
To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again.
Each heart the home of daring,
Each hand the foe of wrong,
They'll meet with haughty bearing,
The war-ship's thunder song;
And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore,
They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore.
His feet may press their soil,
Or his numbers bear them down,
In his vandal raid for spoil,
His sordid soul to crown;
But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near,
When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear.
A fearful time shall come,
When thy gathering bands unite,
And the larum-sounding drum
Calls to struggle for the Right;
"_Pro aris et pro focis_," from rank to rank shall fly,
As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die.
Oh, then a tale of glory
Shall yet again be thine,
And the record of thy story
The Laurel shall entwine;
Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State!
Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great.
Our Martyrs.
Bu Paul H. Hayne.
I am sitting lone and weary
On the hearth of my darkened room,
And the low wind's _miserere_
Makes sadder the midnight gloom;
There's a terror that's nameless nigh me--
There's a phantom spell in the air,
And methinks that the dead glide by me,
And the breath of the grave's in my hair!
'Tis a vision of ghastly faces,
All pallid, and worn with pain,
Where the splendor of manhood's graces
Give place to a gory stain;
In a wild and weird procession
They sweep by my startled eyes,
And stern with their fate's fruition,
Seem melting in blood-red skies.
Have they come from the shores supernal,
Have they passed from the spirit's goal,
'Neath the veil of the life eternal,
To dawn on my shrinking soul?
Have they turned from the choiring angels,
Aghast at the woe and dearth
That war, with his dark evangels,
Hath wrought in the loved of earth?
Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains
They lie, where the dew-mists weep,
And the murmur of mournful fountains
Breaks over their painful sleep;
On the breast of the lonely meadows,
Safe, safe from the despot's will,
They rest in the star-lit shadows,
And their brows are white and still!
Alas! for the martyred heroes
Cut down at their golden prime,
In a strife with the brutal Neroes,
Who blacken the path of Time!
For them is the voice of wailing,
And the sweet blush-rose departs
From the cheeks of the maidens, paling
O'er the wreck of their broken hearts!
And alas! for the vanished glory
Of a thousand household spells!
And alas! for the tearful story
Of the spirit's fond farewells!
By the flood, on the field, in the forest,
Our bravest have yielded breath,
But the shafts that have smitten sorest,
Were launched by a viewless death!
Oh, Thou, that hast charms of healing,
Descend on a widowed land,
And bind o'er the wounds of feeling
The balms of Thy mystic hand!
Till the hearts that lament and languish,
Renewed by the touch divine,
From the depths of a mortal anguish
May rise to the calm of Thine!
Cleburne.
By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama.
"_Another star now shines on high._"
Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave
Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laurelled grave--
Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set,
For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.
'Tis true thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head
Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead;
The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright
Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.
No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore,
No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more,
No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise,
For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.
Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless, deadened heart;
Calm, calm and sweet, 0 warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part,
And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine,
A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.
A long farewell--we give thee up, with all thy bright renown;
A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found.
Above thy grave a wail is heard--a nation mourns her dead;
A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled.
A last farewell--how can we speak the bitter word farewell!
The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell.
Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might;
And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night.
Selma Despatch, 1864.
The Texan Marseillaise.
By James Haines, of Texas.
Sons of the South, arouse to battle!
Gird on your armor for the fight!
The Northern Thugs with dread "War's rattle,"
Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;
Meet them as Ocean meets in madness
The frail bark on the rocky shore,
When crested billows foam and roar,
And the wrecked crew go down in sadness.
Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!
Scatter yon Vandal hordes!
Despots and bandits, fitting food
For vultures and your swords.
Shall dastard tyrants march their legions
To crush the land of Jackson--Lee?
Shall freedom fly to other regions,
And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?
Or shall their "footprints' base pollution"
Of Southern soil, in blood be purged,
And every flying slave be scourged
Back to his snows in wild confusion?
Arm! Arm! &c.