Fill memory's cup to the brim;
May the laurels they've won never perish,
"Nor star of their glory grow dim;"
May the States of the South never sever,
But the champions of freedom e'er be;
May they flourish Confederate forever,
The boast of the brave and the free.
CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc.
[1] "Land of King Cotton" was the favorite song of the Tennessee troops,
but especially of the Thirteenth and One Hundred and Fifty-fourth
regiments.
If You Love Me.
By J. Augustine Signaigo.
You have told me that you love me,
That you worship at my shrine;
That no purity above me
Can on earth be more divine.
Though the kind words you have spoken.
Sound to me most sweetly strange,
Will your pledges ne'er be broken?
Will there be in you no change?
If you love me half so wildly--
Half so madly as you say,
Listen to me, darling, mildly--
Would you do aught I would pray?
If you would, then hear the thunder
Of our country's cannon speak!
While by war she's rent asunder,
Do not come my love to seek.
If you love me, do not ponder,
Do not breathe what you would say,
Do not look at me with wonder,
Join your country in the fray.
Go! your aid and right hand lend her,
Breast the tyrant's angry blast:
Be her own and my defender--
Strike for freedom to the last,
Then I'll vow to love none other,
While you nobly dare and do;
As you're faithful to our mother,
So I'll faithful prove to you.
But return not while the thunder
Lives in one invading sword;
Strike the despot's hirelings under--
Own no master but the Lord.
The Cotton Boll.
By Henry Timrod.
While I recline
At ease beneath
This immemorial pine,
Small sphere!--
By dusky fingers brought this morning here?
And shown with boastful smiles,--
I turn thy cloven sheath,
Through which the soft white fibres peer,
That, with their gossamer bands,
Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands,
And slowly, thread by thread,
Draw forth the folded strands,
Than which the trembling line,
By whose frail help yon startled spider fled
Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging bed,
Is scarce more fine;
And as the tangled skein
Unravels in my hands,
Betwixt me and the noonday light,
A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles
The landscape broadens on my sight,
As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell
Like that which, in the ocean shell,
With mystic sound,
Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round,
And turns some city lane
Into the restless main,
With all his capes and isles!
Yonder bird,--
Which floats, as if at rest,
In those blue tracts above the thunder, where
No vapors cloud the stainless air,
And never sound is heard,
Unless at such rare time
When, from the City of the Blest,
Rings down some golden chime,--
Sees not from his high place
So vast a cirque of summer space
As widens round me in one mighty field,
Which, rimmed by seas and sands,
Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams
Of gray Atlantic dawns;
And, broad as realms made up of many lands,
Is lost afar
Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns
Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams
Against the Evening Star!
And lo!
To the remotest point of sight,
Although I gaze upon no waste of snow,
The endless field is white;
And the whole landscape glows,
For many a shining league away,
With such accumulated light
As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day!
Nor lack there (for the vision grows,
And the small charm within my hands--
More potent even than the fabled one,
Which oped whatever golden mystery
Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale,
The curious ointment of the Arabian tale--
Beyond all mortal sense
Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see
Beneath its simple influence,
As if, with Uriel's crown,
I stood in some great temple of the Sun,
And looked, as Uriel, down)--
Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green
With all the common gifts of God,
For temperate airs and torrid sheen
Weave Edens of the sod;
Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold
Broad rivers wind their devious ways;
A hundred isles in their embraces fold
A hundred luminous bays;
And through yon purple haze
Vast mountains lift their pluméd peaks cloud-crowned;
And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps,
An unknown forest girds them grandly round,
In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps!
Ye stars, which though unseen, yet with me gaze
Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth!
Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays
Above it, as to light a favorite hearth!
Ye clouds, that in your temples in the West
See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers!
And, you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast
Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers!
Bear witness with me in my song of praise,
And tell the world that, since the world began,
No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays,
Or given a home to man!
But these are charms already widely blown!
His be the meed whose pencil's trace
Hath touched our very swamps with grace,
And round whose tuneful way
All Southern laurels bloom;
The Poet of "The Woodlands," unto whom
Alike are known
The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone,
And the soft west-wind's sighs;
But who shall utter all the debt,
0 Land! wherein all powers are met
That bind a people's heart,
The world doth owe thee at this day,
And which it never can repay,
Yet scarcely deigns to own!
Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing
The source wherefrom doth spring
That mighty commerce which, confined
To the mean channels of no selfish mart,
Goes out to every shore
Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships
That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips
In alien lands;
Joins with a delicate web remotest strands;
And gladdening rich and poor,
Doth gild Parisian domes,
Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes,
And only bounds its blessings by mankind!
In offices like these, thy mission lies,
My Country! and it shall not end
As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend
In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard
And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard
Thy hearthstones as a bulwark; make thee great
In white and bloodless state;
And, haply, as the years increase--
Still working through its humbler reach
With that large wisdom which the ages teach--
Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace!
As men who labor in that mine
Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed
Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead,
Hear the dull booming of the world of brine
Above them, and a mighty muffled roar
Of winds and waters, and yet toil calmly on,
And split the rock, and pile the massive ore,
Or carve a niche, or shape the archéd roof;
So I, as calmly, weave my woof
Of song, chanting the days to come,
Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air
Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn
Wakes from its starry silence to the hum
Of many gathering armies. Still,
In that we sometimes hear,
Upon the Northern winds the voice of woe
Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know
The end must crown us, and a few brief years
Dry all our tears,
I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will
Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget
That there is much even Victory must regret.
And, therefore, not too long
From the great burden of our country's wrong
Delay our just release!
And, if it may be, save
These sacred fields of peace
From stain of patriot or of hostile blood!
Oh, help us Lord! to roll the crimson flood
Back on its course, and, while our banners wing
Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling
To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave
Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate
The lenient future of his fate
There, where some rotting ships and trembling quays
Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas.
The Battle of Charleston Harbor.
April 7th, 1863.
By Paul H. Hayne.
I.
Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day,
The Northman's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay;
They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave,
Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.
II.
A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew
More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue,
And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar,
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening Star!
III.
Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands,
The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands,
So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise,
They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!
IV.
Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold,
Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold--
They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely-echoing cheers,
And then--once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.
V.
Onward--in sullen file, and slow, low glooming on the wave,
Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,
When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore,
Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore![1]
VI.
Ha! brutal Corsairs! tho' ye come thrice-cased in iron mail,
Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail!
Ye strive the ruffian types of Might 'gainst law, and truth, and Right,
Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!
VII.
No empty boast! I for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher,
Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire.
The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above.
Fight on! oh! knightly Gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love!
VIII.
There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise,
To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' Death must give the prize--
There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient Town,
A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down.
IX.
The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps,
Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps;
And ship by ship, raked, overborne, 'ere burned the sunset bloom,
Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb!
X.
Oh! glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires,
Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires--
Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless
sons,
And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's Angels near the guns!
[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun.
Fort Wagner.
By W. Gilmore Simms.
I.
Glory unto the gallant boys who stood
At Wagner, and, unflinching, sought the van;
Dealing fierce blows, and shedding precious blood,
For homes as precious, and dear rights of man!
They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory;--
Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat
The legend, which shall grow to themes for story,
Told through long ages, and forever sweet!
II.
High honor to our youth--our sons and brothers,
Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand!
They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers,
But keep, through storm, the bulwarks of the land!
They feel that they _must_ conquer! Not to do it,
Were worse than death--perdition! Should they fail,
The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it,
The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail!
III.
No! They must conquer in the breach or perish!
Assured, in the last consciousness of breath,
That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish
Their deeds, with honors that shall sweeten death!
They shall have trophies in long future hours,
And loving recollections, which shall be
Green, as the summer leaves, and fresh as flowers,
That, through all seasons, bloom eternally!
IV.
Their memories shall be monuments, to rise
Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past;
Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies,
And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast!
A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted,
Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;--
A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted,
When skies and seas around thee shook with fire!
V.
And others as well chronicled shall be!
What though they fell with unrecorded name--
They live among the archives of the free,
With proudest title to undying fame!
The unchisell'd marble under which they sleep,
Shall tell of heroes, fearless still of fate;
Not asking if their memories shall keep,
But if they nobly served, and saved, the State!
VI.
For thee, young Fortress Wagner--thou shalt wear
Green laurels, worthy of the names that now,
Thy sister forts of Moultrie, Sumter, bear!
See that thou lift'st, for aye, as proud a brow!
And thou shalt be, to future generations,
A trophied monument; whither men shall come
In homage; and report to distant nations,
A SHRINE, which foes shall never make a TOMB!
Charleston Mercury.
Sumter in Ruins.
By W. Gilmore Simms.
I.
Ye batter down the lion's den,
But yet the lordly beast g'oes free;
And ye shall hear his roar again,
From mountain height, from lowland glen,
From sandy shore and reedy fen--
Where'er a band of freeborn men
Rears sacred shrines to liberty.
II.
The serpent scales the eagle's nest,
And yet the royal bird, in air,
Triumphant wins the mountain's crest,
And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest,
And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast,
Till, like a storm-bolt from the west,
He strikes the invader in his lair.
III.
What's loss of den, or nest, or home,
If, like the lion, free to go;--
If, like the eagle, wing'd to roam,
We span the rock and breast the foam,
Still watchful for the hour of doom,
When, with the knell of thunder-boom,
We bound upon the serpent foe!
IV.
Oh! noble sons of lion heart!
Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing!
What though your batter'd bulwarks part,
Your nest be spoiled by reptile art--
Your souls, on wings of hate, shall start
For vengeance, and with lightning-dart,
Rend the foul serpent ere he sting!
V.
Your battered den, your shattered nest,
Was but the lion's crouching-place;--
It heard his roar, and bore his crest,
His, or the eagle's place of rest;--
But not the soul in either breast!
This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd,
To save and to avenge their race!
Charleston Mercury.
Morris Island.
By W. Gilmore Simms.
Oh! from the deeds well done, the blood well shed
In a good cause springs up to crown the land
With ever-during verdure, memory fed,
Wherever freedom rears one fearless band,
The genius, which makes sacred time and place,
Shaping the grand memorials of a race!
The barren rock becomes a monument,
The sea-shore sands a shrine;
And each brave life, in desperate conflict spent,
Grows to a memory which prolongs a line!
Oh! barren isle--oh! fruitless shore,
Oh! realm devoid of beauty--how the light
From glory's sun streams down for evermore,
Hallowing your ancient barrenness with bright!
Brief dates, your lowly forts; but full of glory,
Worthy a life-long story;
Remembered, to be chronicled and read,
When all your gallant garrisons are dead;
And to be sung
While liberty and letters find a tongue!
Taught by the grandsires at the ingle-blaze,
Through the long winter night;
Pored over, memoried well, in winter days,
While youthful admiration, with delight,
Hangs, breathless, o'er the tale, with silent praise;
Seasoning delight with wonder, as he reads
Of stubborn conflict and audacious deeds;
Watching the endurance of the free and brave,
Through the protracted struggle and close fight,
Contending for the lands they may not save,
Against the felon, and innumerous foe;
Still struggling, though each rampart proves a grave.
For home, and all that's dear to man below!
Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow;
But still undaunted, with a martyr's might,
They make for man a new Thermopylæ;
And, perishing for freedom, still go free!
Let but each humble islet of our coast
Thus join the terrible issue to the last;
And never shall the invader make his boast
Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply
He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast!
Promise of Spring.
The sun-beguiling breeze,
From the soft Cuban seas,
With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers;
And lo! our city elms,
Have plumed with buds their helms,
And, with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers.
The promise of the Spring,
Is in every glancing wing
That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the flight;
And mocking Winter's glooms,
Skies, air and earth grow blooms,
With change as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night!
Ah! could our hearts but share
The promise rich and rare,
That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress,
That makes each innocent thing
Put on its bloom and wing,
Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless!
But, alas for us, no more
Shall the coming hour rescore
The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls;
Even as the Spring appears,
Her smiling makes our tears,
While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.
Even as our zephyrs sing
That they bring us in the Spring,
Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight--
We see the serpent crawl,
With his slimy coat o'er all,
And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.
We shudder at the blooms,
Which but serve to cover tombs--
At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath;
Sad shapes look out from trees,
And in sky and earth and breeze,
We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!
South Carolinian.
Spring.
By Henry Timrod.
Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.
In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,
And there's a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still on every side appears the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;
Or where, like those strange semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.
As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.
Already, here and there, on frailest stems
Appear some azure gems,
Small as might deck, upon a gala day,
The forehead of a fay.
In gardens you may see, amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.
But many gleams and shadows need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.
Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate.
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech's heart
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say
"Behold me! I am May!"
Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime
With such a blessed time!
Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath
Could hear the call of Death!
Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake
The voice of wood and brake,
Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms
A million men to arms.
There shall be deeper hues upon her plains
Than all her sunlight rains,
And every gladdening influence around
Can summon from the ground.
Oh! standing on this desecrated mould,
Methinks that I behold,
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,
Spring, kneeling on the sod,
And calling with the voice of all her rills
Upon the ancient hills,
To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves
Who turn her meads to graves.
Chickmauga--"The Stream of Death."
Richmond Senitnel.
Chickamuga! Chickamauga!
O'er thy dark and turbid wave
Rolls the death-cry of the daring,
Rings the war-shout of the brave;
Round thy shore the red fires flashing,
Startling shot and screaming shell--
Chickamauga, stream of battle,
Who thy fearful tale shall tell?
Olden memories of horror,
Sown by scourge of deadly plague,
Long hath clothed thy circling forests
With a terror vast and vague;
Now to gather further vigor
From the phantoms grim with gore,
Hurried, by war's wilder carnage,
To their graves on thy lone shore.
Long, with hearts subdued and saddened,
As th' oppressor's hosts moved on,
Fell the arms of freedom backward,
Till our hopes had almost flown;
Till outspoke stern valor's fiat--
"_Here_ th' invading wave shall stay;
_Here_ shall cease the foe's proud progress;
_Here_ be crushed his grand array!"
_Then_ their eager hearts all throbbing,
Backward flashed each battle-flag
Of the veteran corps of Longstreet,
And the sturdy troops of Bragg;
Fierce upon the foemen turning,
All their pent-up wrath breaks out
In the furious battle-clangor,
And the frenzied battle-shout.
Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga,
Trembles all thy ghastly shore,
With the rude shock of the onset,
And the tumult's horrid roar;
As the Southern battle-giants
Hurl their bolts of death along,
Breckenridge, the iron-hearted,
Cheatham, chivalric and strong:
Polk Preston--gallant Buckner,
Hill and Hindman, strong in might,
Cleburne, flower of manly valor,
Hood, the Ajax of the fight;
Benning, bold and hardy warrior,
Fearless, resolute Kershaw;
Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt,
Volley fierce and wild hurrah!
At the volleys bleed their bodies,
At the fierce shout rise their souls,
While the fiery wave of vengeance
On their quailing column rolls;
And the parched throats of the stricken
Breathe for air the roaring flame,
Horrors of that hell foretasted,
Who shall ever dare to name!
Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled,
Paid, upon that bloody field,
Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage
To the sword our heroes yield;
And who felt, by fiery trial,
That the men who will be free.
Though in conflict baffled often,
Ever will unconquered be!
Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,
Dealing desolation round,
Marking, with the tracks of ruin,
Many a rood of Southern ground;
Yet, whatever course they follow,
_Somewhere_ in their pathway flows,
Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,
_Stream of death_ to vandal foes!
They have found it darkly flowing
By Manassas' famous plain,
And by rushing Shenandoah
Met the tide of woe again;
Chickahominy, immortal,
By the long, ensanguined fight,
Rappahannock, glorious river,
Twice renowned for matchless fight.
Heed the story, dastard spoilers,
Mark the tale these waters tell,
Ponder well your fearful lesson,
And the doom that there befell;
Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,
Sworn upon the votive sword,
"_Every_ stream a Chickamauga
To the vile invading horde!"
In Memoriam
Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General
Confederate States Army.
Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done,
This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended:
There is no more--eternity begun,
Faith merged in sight--hope with fruition blended.
Peace, troubled soul!
The Warrior rests upon his bier,
Within his coffin calmly sleeping.
His requiem the cannon peals,
And heroes of a hundred fields
Their last sad watch are round him keeping.
Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale
Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling;
Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale,
Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling.
Joy, sainted soul!
Back to her altar which he served,
The Holy Church her child is bringing.
The organ's wail then dies away,
And kneeling priests around him pray,
As _De Profundis_ they are singing.
Bring all the trophies, that are owed
To him at once so great, so good.
His Bible and his well-used sword--
His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!"
No! pure as when before his God,
He laid its spotless folds aside,
War's path of awful duty trod,
And on his country's altar died!
Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State
Sustain in thee an equal loss;
But who would call thee from thy weight
Of glory, back to bear life's cross!
The Faith was kept--thy course was run,
Thy good fight finished; hence the word,
"Well done, oh! faithful child, well done,
Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!"
No dull decay nor lingering pain,
By slow degrees, consumed thy health,
A glowing messenger of flame
Translated thee by fiery death!
And we who in one common grief
Are bending now beneath the rod,
In this sweet thought may find relief,
"Our holy father walked with God,
And is not--God has taken him!"
Viola.
"Stonewall" Jackson
By H. L. Flash.