Sons of our sunny home!
Gird on the sword for the sacred fight,
For the battle-hour hath come!
Arise! for the felon foe draws nigh
In battle's dread array;
To the front, ye brave! let the coward fly,
'Tis the hero that bides the fray!
Strike hot and hard, my noble band,
With the arm of fight and fire;
Strike fast for God and Fatherland,
For mother, and wife, and sire.
Though thunders roar and lightnings flash,
Oh! Southrons, never fear,
Ye shall turn the bolt with the sabre's clash,
And the shaft with the steely spear.
Bright blooms shall wave o'er the hero's grave,
While the craven finds no rest;
Thrice cursed the traitor, the slave, the knave,
While thrice is the hero blessed
To the front in the fight, ye Southrons, stand,
Brave spirits, with eagle eye,
And standing for God and for Fatherland,
Ye will gallantly do or die.
Charleston Courier.
The Battle Rainbow.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
The poem which follows was written just after the Seven Days of Battle,
near Richmond, in 1862. It was suggested by the appearance of a rainbow,
the evening before the grand trial of strength between the contending
armies. This rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the
position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond.
The warm, weary day, was departing--the smile
Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased;
And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while
On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east.
There our army--awaiting the terrible fight
Of the morrow--lay hopeful, and watching, and still;
Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white,
From river to river, o'er meadow and hill.
While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky
Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun,
Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply;
And slept till the battle, the charge in each gun.
When lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing!
Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold!
The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing
Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold.
Blest omen of victory, symbol divine
Of peace after tumult, repose after pain;
How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign,
To eyes that should never behold it again!
For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out,
And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air:
Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt,
Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair.
Then a long week of glory and agony came--
Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread;
When day unto day gave the record of fame,
And night unto night gave the list of its dead.
We had triumphed--the foe had fled back to his ships--
His standard in rags and his legions a wreck--
But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips
Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check.
Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release,
Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud;
Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace
To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed.
But the promise was given--the beautiful arc,
With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned
The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark
Of the Infinite Love overarching the land:
And that Love, shining richly and full as the day,
Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall,
On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display
Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all.
Stonewall Jackson.
Mortally wounded--"_The Brigade must not know, sir._"
"Who've ye got there?"--"Only a dying brother,
Hurt in the front just now."
"Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother
Where he was killed, and how."
"Whom have you there?"--"A crippled courier, major,
Shot by mistake, we hear.
He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here:
Quick with him to the rear!"
"Well, who comes next?"--"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir;
Don't let the men find out.
It's STONEWALL!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir,
While there's a foe about."
Whom have we _here_--shrouded in martial manner,
Crowned with a martyr's charm?
A grand dead hero, in a living banner,
Born of his heart and arm:
The heart whereon his cause hung--see how clingeth
That banner to his bier!
The arm wherewith his cause struck--hark! how ringeth
His trumpet in their rear!
What have we left? His glorious inspiration,
His prayers in council met.
Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;
And dead, he builds it yet.
Dirge for Ashby.
By Mrs. M. J. Preston.
Heard ye that thrilling word--
Accent of dread--
Fall, like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head?
Over the battle dun,
Over each booming gun--
Ashby, our bravest one!
Ashby is dead!
Saw ye the veterans--
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan--
Sob, though the fight they win,
Tears their stern eyes within--
Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is dead!
Dash, dash the tear away--
Crush down the pain!
_Dulce et decus_, be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall,
Round _him_, be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain!
Catch the last words of cheer,
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the battle's din,
Let them be rung!
"Follow _me!_ follow _me!_"
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung?
Bold as the lion's heart--
Dauntlessly brave--
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard might crave;
Sweet, with all Sydney's grace.
Tender as Hampden's face,
Who now shall fill the space,
Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay--
Crazed in her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay!
Ah! from a thousand eyes,
Flow the pure tears that rise--
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Yet, charge as gallantly,
Ye, whom he led!
Jackson, the victor, still
Leads, at your head!
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier, every one
Nerved by the thought alone--
Ashby is dead!
Sacrifice.
I.
Another victim for the sacrifice!
Oh! my own mother South,
How terrible this wail above thy youth,
Dying at the cannon's mouth,--
And for no crime--no vice--
No scheme of selfish greed--no avarice,
Or insolent ambition, seeking power;--.
But that, with resolute soul and will sublime,
They made their proud election to be free,--
To leave a grand inheritance to time,
And to their sons and race, of liberty!
II.
Oh! widow'd woman, sitting in thy weeds,
With thy young brood around thee, sad and lone,
Thy fancy sees thy hero where he bleeds,
And still thou hear'st his moan!
Dying he calls on thee--again--again!
With blessing and fond memories. Be of cheer;
He has not died--he did not bless--in vain:
For, in the eternal rounds of GOD, HE squares
The account with sorrowing hearts; and soothes the fears,
And leads the orphans home, and dries the widow's tears.
Charleston Mercury.
Sonnet.
Written in 1864.
What right to freedom when we are not free?
When all the passions goad us into lust;
When, for the worthless spoil we lick the dust,
And while one-half our people die, that we
May sit with peace and freedom 'neath our tree,
The other gloats for plunder and for spoil:
Bustles through daylight, vexes night with toil,
Cheats, swindles, lies and steals!--Shall such things be
Endowed with such grand boons as Liberty
Brings in her train of blessings? Should we pray
That such as these should still maintain the sway--
These soulless, senseless, heartless enemies
Of all that's good and great, of all that's wise,
Worthy on earth, or in the Eternal Eyes!
Charleston Mercury.
Grave of A. Sydney Johnston.
By J. B. Synnott.
The Lone Star State secretes the clay
Of him who led on Shiloh's field,
Where mourning wives will stop to pray,
And maids a weeping tribute yield.
In after time, when spleen and strife
Their madd'ning flame shall have expired,
The noble deeds that gemm'd this life
By Age and Youth will be admired.
As o'er the stream the boatmen rove
By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring,
They'll show with moist'ning eye the grave
Where havoc spread her sable wing.
There, 'neath the budding foliage green,
Ere Night evolved her dewy breath,
While Vict'ry smiled upon the scene,
Our Chieftain met the blow of death.
Great men to come will bless the brave;
The soldier, bronzed in War's career,
Shall weave a chaplet o'er his grave,
While Mem'ry drops the glist'ning tear.
Though envy wag her scorpion tongue,
The march of Time shall find his fame;
Where Bravery's loved and Glory's sung,
There children's lips shall lisp his name.
"Not Doubtful of Your Fatherland."
I.
Not doubtful of your fatherland,
Or of the God who gave it;
On, Southrons! 'gainst the hireling band
That struggle to enslave it;
Ring boldly out
Your battle-shout,
Charge fiercely 'gainst these felon hordes:
One hour of strife
Is freedom's life,
And glory hangs upon your swords!
II.
A thousand mothers' matron eyes,
Wives, sisters, daughters weeping,
Watch, where your virgin banner flies,
To battle fiercely sweeping:
Though science fails,
The steel prevails,
When hands that wield, own hearts of oak:
These, though the wall
Of stone may fall,
Grow stronger with each hostile stroke.
III.
The faith that feels its cause as true,
The virtue to maintain it;
The soul to brave, the will to do,--
These seek the fight, and gain it!
The precious prize
Before your eyes,
The all that life conceives of charm,
Home, freedom, life,
Child, sister, wife,
All rest upon your soul and arm!
IV.
And what the foe, the felon race,
That seek your subjugation?
The scum of Europe, her disgrace.
The lepers of the nation.
And what the spoil
That tempts their toil,
The bait that goads them on to fight?
Lust, crime, and blood,
Each fiendish mood
That prompts and follows appetite.
V.
Shall such prevail, and shall you fail,
Asserting cause so holy?
With souls of might, go, seek the fight,
And crush these wretches lowly.
On, with the cry,
To do or die,
As did, in darker days, your sires,
Nor stay the blow,
Till every foe,
Down stricken, in your path, expires!
Charleston Mercury.
Only a Soldier's Grave.
By S. A. Jones, of Aberdeen, Mississippi.
Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents he had--they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with a tearful eye:
It's only a soldier's grave--pass by.
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;--
Only a soldier's grave--pass by.
Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;--
Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by.
Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.
The Guerilla Martyrs.
I.
Ay, to the doom--the scaffold and the chain,--
To all your cruel tortures, bear them on,
Ye foul and coward Hangmen;--but in vain!--
Ye cannot touch the glory they have won--
And win--thus yielding up the martyr's breath
For freedom!--Theirs is a triumphant death!--
A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb
Still keeps some sacred fires;--that yet shall burst,
Even from the reeking ravage of their doom,
As glorious--ay, more glorious--than the first!
Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst!
'Tis for a season only! There shall come
An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst;
When the dread vengeance of a century
Shall reap its harvest in a single day;
And ye shall howl in horror;--and, to die,
Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay;
But to be cruel and brutal, does not make
Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey
On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake
The unappeasable appetite ye wake,
In the hot blood of victims, that have been,
Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,--
Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin!
II.
Ye slaughter,--do ye triumph? Ask your chains,
Ye Sodom-hearted butchers!--turn your eyes,
Where reeks yon bloody scaffold; and the pains,
Ungroaned, of a true martyr, ere he dies,
Attest the damned folly of your crime,
Now at its carnival! His spirit flies,
Unscathed by all your fires, through every clime,
Into the world's wide bosom. Thousands rise,
Prompt at its call, and principled to strike
The tyrants and the tyrannies alike!--
Voices, that doom ye, speak in all your deeds,
And cry to heaven, arm earth, and kindle hell!
A host of freemen, where one martyr bleeds,
Spring from his place of doom, and make his knell
The toscin, to arouse a myriad race,
T'avenge Humanity's wrong, and wipe off man's disgrace!
III.
We mourn not for our martyrs!--for they perish,
As the good perish, for a deathless faith:
Their glorious memories men will fondly cherish,
In terms and signs that shall ennoble death!
Their blood becomes a principle, to guide,
Onward, forever onward, in proud flow,
Restless, resistless, as the ocean tide,
The Spirit heaven yields freedom here below!
How should we mourn the martyrs, who arise,
Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;--
And take their thrones, as slars; and o'er the night,
Shed a new glory; and to other souls,
Shine out with blessed guidance, and true light,
Which leads successive races to their goals!
Charleston Mercury.
"Libera Nos, O Domine!"
By James Barron Hope.
What! ye hold yourselves as freemen?
Tyrants love just such as ye!
Go! abate your lofty manner!
Write upon the State's old banner,
"_A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!_"
Sink before the federal altar,
Each one low, on bended knee,
Pray, with lips that sob and falter,
This prayer from the coward's psalter,--
"_A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!_"
But ye hold that quick repentance
In the Northern mind will be;
This repentance comes no sooner
Than the robbers did, at Luna!
"_A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!_"
He repented _him_:--the Bishop
Gave him absolution free;
Poured upon him sacred chrism
In the pomp of his baptism.
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
He repented;--then he sickened!
Was he pining for the sea?
_In extremis_ was he shriven,
The viaticum was given,
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
Then the old cathedral's choir
Took the plaintive minor key;
With the Host upraised before him,
Down the marble aisles they bore him;
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
While the bishop and the abbot--
All the monks of high degree,
Chanting praise to the Madonna,
Came to do him Christian honor!
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
Now the _miserere's_ cadence,
Takes the voices of the sea;
As the music-billows quiver,
See the dead freebooter shiver!
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
Is it that these intonations
Thrill him thus from head to knee?
Lo, his cerements burst asunder!
'Tis a sight of fear and wonder!
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
Fierce, he stands before the bishop,
Dark as shape of Destinie.
Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,--
Down the prelate goes--dead--falling!
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
Hastings lives! He was but feigning!
What! Repentant? Never he!
Down he smites the priests and friars,
And the city lights with fires!
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
Ah! the children and the maidens,
'Tis in vain they strive to flee!
Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding,
Is no place for woman's pleading.
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
Louder swells the frightful tumult--
Pallid Death holds revelrie!
Dies the organ's mighty clamor,
By the horseman's iron hammer!
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
So they thought that he'd repented!
Had they nailed him to the tree,
He had not deserved their pity,
And they had not--lost their city.
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_
For the moral in this story,
Which is plain as truth can be:
If we trust the North's relenting,
We shall shriek-too late repenting--
_"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"_ [1]
[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's
History of Latin Christianity.
The Knell Shall Sound Once More.
I know that the knell shall sound once more,
And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave;
And there shall be storm on the beaten shore,
And there shall be strife on the stormy wave;
And we shall wail, with a mighty wail,
And feel the keen sorrow through many years,
But shall not our banner at last prevail,
And our eyes be dried of tears?
There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree,
And the nation whose course is long to run,
Must make, though in anguish still it be,
The tribute of many a noble son;
The roots of each mighty shaft must grow
In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts;
And to conquer the right from a bloody foe,
Brings a pang as when soul and body parts!
But the blood and the pang are the need, alas!
To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays
The generations that rise, and pass
To the full fruition that crowns their days!
'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life:
And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care;
And the freedom sought must ever be bought
By the best blood-offerings, held most dear.
Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first
To mount the red altar of sacrifice;
Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst,
Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!--
The struggle may last for a thousand years,
And only with blood shall the field be bought;
But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears,
The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought.
Charleston Mercury.
Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
He sleeps upon Virginia's strand,
While comrades of the Legion stand
With arms reversed--a mournful band--
Around his early bier!
His war-horse paws the shaking ground,
The volleys ring--they close around--
And on the white brow, laurel-bound,
Falls many a soldier's tear.
Up, stricken mourners! look on high,
Loud anthems rend the echoing sky,
Re-born where heroes never die--
The warrior is at rest!
Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown;
Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down,
His plumes replaced by shining--crown,
The red cross on his breast!
Though Gendron's arm is with the dust,
Let not his blood-stained weapon rust,
Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust,
Where Southern banners fly!
Some brave, who followed where he led--
Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead,
To avenge each drop of blood he shed,
Or, like him, bravely die!
He deemed a death for honor sweet.--
And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet,
Our flag should be his winding-sheet,
Proud banner of the free!
Oh, let his honored form be laid
Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade;
His praises sung by Southern maid,
While flows the broad Santee!
We come around his urn to twine
Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine,
Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine,
From skies deep-dyed and bright;
And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!--
On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the field!
Or dead return on battered shield,
As martyrs for the right!
Where camp-fires light the reddened sod,
The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God,
In Palmer's name, and by his blood,
They swell the battle-cry;
We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel,
'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel,
And menial hordes as suppliants kneel,
Or, terror-stricken, fly!
Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
Where murdered Mumford lies,
Bewailed in bitter sighs,
Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved,
Martyrs of Liberty,
Defenders of the Free!
Come, humbly nigh,
And learn to die!
Ah, Freedom, on that day,
Turned fearfully away,
While pitying angels lingered near,
To gaze upon the sod,
Red with a martyr's blood;
And woman's tear
Fell on his bier!
O God! that he should die
Beneath a Southern sky!
Upon a felon's gallows swung,
Murdered by tyrant hand,--
While round a helpless band,
On Butler's name
Poured scorn and shame.
But hark! loud pæans fly
From earth to vaulted sky,
He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!
List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1]
Tolls far the martyr's knell!
Shout, Southrons, high,
Our battle cry!
Come, all of Southern blood,
Come, kneel to Freedom's God!
Here at her crimsoned altar swear!
Accursed for evermore
The flag that Mumford tore,
And o'er his grave
Our colors wave!
[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God."
--_Oriental Legend._
The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston.
By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D.
Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies,
Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;
Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,
Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.
Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel
Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;
And in her hour of anguish let her feel
That ye can die whom she has taught to live.
Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade,
To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;
That never villain hand on her be laid,
Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.
See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame,
As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath,
Her generous brow and bosom all aflame
At the bare thought of insult, worse than death.
And stained and rent her snowy garments are;
The big drops gather on her pallid face,
Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar
The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace.
And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers
And bitter tears, to every loving child
To stand between her and the doom she fears,
To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled!
Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!
And doubly damned who casts one look behind!
Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout,
Up with her banner! give it to the wind.
Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,
Till every ringing avenue repeat
The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide
Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.
Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!
Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now
By the sweet memories of your childhood's home,
By every manly hope and filial vow,
To save her proud soul from that loathéd thrall
Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name;
Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,
Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame.
From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled,
Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,
And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,
Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.
Gather around her sacred ashes then,
Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,
Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,
Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.
So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,
If not in life, at least by death, set free--
And send her fame, through endless ages down,
The last grand holocaust of liberty.
Savannah Fallen.
By Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia.
I.
Bowing her head to the dust of the earth.
Smitten and stricken is she,
Light after light gone out from her hearth,
Son after son from her knee.
Bowing her head to the dust at her feet,
Weeping her beautiful slain,
Silence! keep silence, for aye in the street,
See! they are coming again.
II.
Coming again, oh! glorious ones,
Wrapped in the flag of the free;
Queen of the South! bright crowns for thy sons,
Only the cypress for _thee!_
Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum,
Marches, and requiems sweet;
Silence! keep silence! alas, how they come,
Oh! how they move through the street!
III.
Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go,
Bearing the young and the brave,
Fair as the summer, but white as the snow
Bearing them down to the grave.
Some in the morning, and some in the noou,
Some in the hey-day of life;
Bower nor blossom, nor summer nor June,
Wooing them back to the strife.
IV.
Some in the billow, afar, oh! afar,
Staining the waves with their blood;
One on the vessel's high deck, like a star,
Sinking in glory's bright-flood.[1]
Bowing her head to the dust of the earth,
Humbled but honored is she,
lighting the skies with the stars from her hearth,
Who shall her comforter be?
V.
Bring her, oh! bring her the garments of woe,
Sackcloth and ashes for aye;
Winds of the South! oh, a requiem blow,
Sighing and sorrow to-day.
Sprinkle the showers from heaven's blue eyes
Wide o'er the green summer lea,
Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies,
Thou shalt her comforter be!