Glory unto the gallant boys who stoodAt 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 repeatThe legend, which shall grow to themes for story,Told through long ages, and forever sweet!
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 theymustconquer! 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!
No! They must conquer in the breach or perish!Assured, in the last consciousness of breath,That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherishTheir deeds, with honors that shall sweeten death!They shall have trophies in long future hours,And loving recollections, which shall beGreen, as the summer leaves, and fresh as flowers,That, through all seasons, bloom eternally!
Their memories shall be monuments, to riseNext 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!
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!
For thee, young Fortress Wagner--thou shalt wearGreen 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 comeIn homage; and report to distant nations,A SHRINE, which foes shall never make a TOMB!
Charleston Mercury.
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 menRears sacred shrines to liberty.
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.
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!
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 startFor vengeance, and with lightning-dart,Rend the foul serpent ere he sting!
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.
Oh! from the deeds well done, the blood well shedIn a good cause springs up to crown the landWith 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 lightFrom 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 sungWhile 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 readsOf 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 coastThus join the terrible issue to the last;And never shall the invader make his boastOf triumph, though with mightiest panoplyHe seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast!
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 wingThat 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 shareThe promise rich and rare,That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress,That makes each innocent thingPut on its bloom and wing,Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless!
But, alas for us, no moreShall the coming hour rescoreThe 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 singThat 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, with that nameless pathos in the airWhich 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 burnsIts fragrant lamps, and turnsInto a royal court with green festoonsThe banks of dark lagoons.
In the deep heart of every forest treeThe blood is all aglee,And there's a look about the leafless bowersAs if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still on every side appears the handOf 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 findThat 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 knowThat, not a span below,A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,And soon will burst their tomb.
Already, here and there, on frailest stemsAppear 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 passAlong the budding grass,And weeks go by, before the enamored SouthShall kiss the rose's mouth.
Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unbornIn the sweet airs of morn;One almost looks to see the very streetGrow purple at his feet.
At times a fragrant breeze comes floating byAnd brings, you know not why,A feeling as when eager crowds awaitBefore a palace gate.
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,If from a beech's heartA blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say"Behold me! I am May!"
Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crimeWith such a blessed time!Who in the west-wind's aromatic breathCould hear the call of Death!
Yet not more surely shall the Spring awakeThe voice of wood and brake,Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charmsA million men to arms.
There shall be deeper hues upon her plainsThan all her sunlight rains,And every gladdening influence aroundCan 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 rillsUpon the ancient hills,To fall and crush the tyrants and the slavesWho turn her meads to graves.
Chickamuga! Chickamauga!O'er thy dark and turbid waveRolls 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 forestsWith a terror vast and vague;Now to gather further vigorFrom 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--"Hereth' invading wave shall stay;Hereshall cease the foe's proud progress;Herebe crushed his grand array!"
Thentheir eager hearts all throbbing,Backward flashed each battle-flagOf the veteran corps of Longstreet,And the sturdy troops of Bragg;Fierce upon the foemen turning,All their pent-up wrath breaks outIn 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-giantsHurl 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 vengeanceOn their quailing column rolls;And the parched throats of the strickenBreathe 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 homageTo 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,Somewherein their pathway flows,Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,Stream of deathto vandal foes!
They have found it darkly flowingBy Manassas' famous plain,And by rushing ShenandoahMet 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,"Everystream a ChickamaugaTo the vile invading horde!"
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 fieldsTheir last sad watch are round him keeping.
Joy, sainted soul! Within the valeOf 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,AsDe Profundisthey are singing.
Bring all the trophies, that are owedTo 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 StateSustain in thee an equal loss;But who would call thee from thy weightOf 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 flameTranslated thee by fiery death!And we who in one common griefAre 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.
Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fightNot in the rush upon the vandal foe,Did kingly death, with his resistless might,Lay the great leader low!
His warrior soul its earthly shackles boreIn the full sunshine of a peaceful town;When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oakThat propped our cause, went down.
Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,Recording all his grand heroic deeds,Freedom herself is writhing with his wound,And all the country bleeds.
He entered not the nation's "Promised Land,"At the red belching of the cannon's mouth;But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand--The Moses of the South!
Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss:A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown;And while his country staggers with the cross--He rises with the crown!
Go to thy rest, great chieftain!In the zenith of thy fame;With the proud heart stilled and frozen,No foeman e'er could tame;With the eye that met the battleAs the eagle's meets the sun,Rayless-beneath its marble lid,Repose-thou mighty one!
Yet ill our cause could spare thee;And harsh the blow of fateThat struck its staunchest pillarFrom 'neath our dome of state.Of thee, as of the Douglas,We say, with Scotland's king,"There is not one to take his placeIn all the knightly ring."
Thou wert the noblest captainOf all that martial hostThat front the haughty Northman,And put to shame his boast.Thou wert the strongest bulwarkTo stay the tide of fight;The name thy soldiers gave theeBore witness of thy might!
But we may not weep above thee;This is no time for tears!Thou wouldst not brook their shedding,Oh! saint among thy peers!Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven,Above us smiling spread,Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief,On the blood-stained path we tread!
Not--while our homes in ashesLie smouldering on the sod!Not--while our houseless womenSend up wild wails to God!Not--while the mad fanaticStrews ruin on his track!Dareany Southron give the reinTo feeling, and look back!
No! Still the cry is "onward!"This is no time for tears;No I Still the word is "vengeance!"Leave ruth for coming years.We will snatch thy glorious bannerFrom thy dead and stiffening hand,And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm,We'll bear it through the land.
And all who mark it streaming--Oh! soldier of the cross!--Shall gird them with a fresh resolveSternly to avenge our loss;Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr,Thy sacred mission shown,Shalt lay the record of our wrongsBefore the Eternal throne!
Old home! what blessings late were yours;The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores,To ravage and destroy.
The Northman comes no longer there,With soft address and measured phrase,With bated breath, and sainted air,And simulated praise.
He comes a vulture to his prey;A wolf to raven in your streets:Around on shining stream and bayGather his bandit fleets.
They steal the pittance of the poor;Pollute the precincts of the dead;Despoil the widow of her store,--The orphan of his bread.
Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood,No Christian land has known before;Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood,To sweep them from the shore!
Exiles from home, your people fly,In adverse fortune's hardest school;With swelling breast and flashing eye--They scorn the tyrant's rule!
Away, from all their joys away,The sports that active youth engage;The scenes where childhood loves to play,The resting-place of age.
Away, from fertile field and farm;The oak-fringed island-homes that seemTo sit like swans, with matchless charm,On sea-born sound and stream.
Away, from palm-environed coast,The beach that ocean beats in vain;The Royal Port, your pride and boast,The loud-resounding main.
Away, from orange groves that glowWith golden fruit or snowy flowers,Roses that never cease to blow,Myrtle and jasmine bowers.
From these afar, the hoary beadOf feeble age, the timid maid,Mothers and nurslings, all have fled,Of ruthless foes afraid.
But, ready, with avenging hand,By wood and fen, in ambush lieYour sons, a stern, determined band,Intent to do or die.
Whene'er the foe advance to dareThe onset, urged by hate and wrath,Still have they found, aghast with fear,A Lion in the path.
Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush,Their shattered ranks to shield and save,And learn how hard a task to crushThe spirit of the brave.
Oh, God! Protector of the right,The widows' stay, the orphans' friend,Restrain the rage of lawless might,The wronged and crushed defend!
Be guide and helper, sword and shield!From hill and vale, where'er they roam,Bring back the yeoman to his field,The exile to his home!
Pastors and scattered flocks restore;Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise;And let their quivering lips once moreRejoice in songs of praise!
By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia.
Tom, old fellow, I grieve to seeThe sleeve hanging loose at your sideThe arm you lost was worth to meEvery Yankee that ever died.But you don't mind it at all;You swear you've a beautiful stump,And laugh at that damnable ball--Tom, I knew you were always a trump.
A good right arm, a nervy hand,A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,Buried deep in the Malverri sand--To laugh at that, is a sorry joke.Never again your iron gripShall I feel in my shrinking palm--Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip;All within is not so calm.
Well! the arm is gone, it is true;But the one that is nearest the heartIs left--and that's as good as two;Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?Why, man,shethinks that empty sleeveA badge of honor; so do I,And all of us:--I do believeThe fellow is going to cry!
"She deserves a perfect man," you say;"You were not worth her in your prime:"Tom! the arm that has turned to clay,Your whole body has made sublime;For you have placed in the Malvern earthThe proof and pledge of a noble life--And the rest, henceforward of higher worth,Will be dearer than all to your wife.
I see the people in the streetLook at your sleeve with kindling eyes;And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweetAs homage shown in mute surmise.Bravely your arm in battle strove,Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it;It has perished--but a nation's loveIn proud remembrance will save it.
Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith--You're a fool for staying so long--Woman's love you'll find no myth,But a truth; living, tender, strong.And when around her slender beltYour left is clasped in fond embrace,Your right will thrill, as if it felt,In its grave, the usurper's place.
As I look through the coming years,I see a one-armed married man;A little woman, with smiles and tears,Is helping--as hard as she canTo put on his coat, to pin his sleeve,Tie his cravat, and cut his food;And I say, as these fancies I weave,"That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."
The years roll on, and then I seeA wedding picture, bright and fair;I look closer, and its plain to meThat is Tom with the silver hair.He gives away the lovely bride,And the guests linger, loth to leaveThe house of him in whom they pride--"Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."
"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--Memphis Appeal.
Lo! where Mississippi rollsOceanward its stream,Upward mounting, folds on folds,Flaming fire-tongues gleam;'Tis the planters' grand oblationOn the altar of the nation;'Tis a willing sacrifice--Let the golden incense rise--Pile the Cotton to the skies!CHORUS--Lo! the sacrificial flameGilds the starry dome of night!Nations! read the mute acclaim--'Tis for liberty we fight!Homes! Religion! Right!
Never such a golden lightLit the vaulted sky;Never sacrifice as bright,Rose to God on high:Thousands oxen, what were theyTo the offering we pay?And the brilliant holocaust--When the revolution's past--In the nation's songs will last!CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
Though the night be dark above,Broken though the shield--Those who love us, those we love,Bid us never yield:Never! though our bravest bleed,And the vultures on them feed;Never! though the Serpents' race--Hissing hate and vile disgrace--By the million should menace!CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
Pile the Cotton to the skies;Lo! the Northmen gaze;England! see our sacrifice--See the Cotton blaze!God of nations! now to Thee,Southrons bend th' imploring knee;'Tis our country's hour of need--Hear the mothers intercede--Hear the little children plead!CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
"Is there any news of the war?" she said--"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"Was the man's reply,Without lifting his eyeTo the face of the woman standing by."'Tis the very thing--I want," she said;"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
He read the list--'twas a sad arrayOf the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;In the very midst, was a pause to tellOf a gallant youth, who fought so wellThat his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?""The only son of the Widow Gray,"Was the proud replyOf his Captain nigh.What ails the woman standing near?Her face has the ashen hue of fear!
"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!""Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say,Killed outright on that fatal day."But see, the woman has swooned away!
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;Slowly recalled the events of the fight;Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright!It has cost me the life of my only son;But the battle is fought, and the victory won;The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
God pity the cheerless Widow Gray,And send from the halls of eternal day,The light of His peace to illumine her way!
"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks--.' Here the sentence was left unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away."
Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees,And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze;Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there.Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair!
Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before,Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore;So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze,Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees.
Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark:'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark.Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease,We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees.
Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried,And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide.Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease,There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.
The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade as their most desperate encounter.
Scarce seven hundred men they standIn tattered, rude array,A remnant of that gallant band,Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strandOf Morris' isle, with iron hand'Gainst Yankees' hated sway.
SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims,And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames,And the dark battle on the streamsOf POCOTALIGO:And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight,And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height,Whence, at the gray dawn of the light,They rushed upon the foe.
Tattered and torn those banners now,But not less proud each lofty brow,Untaught as yet to yield:With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye,Forward, where bombshells shrieking flyFlecking with smoke the azure skyOn Weldon's fated field.
Sweeps from the woods the bold array,Not theirs to falter in the fray,No men more sternly trained than theyTo meet their deadly doom:While, from a hundred throats agape,A hundred sulphurous flames escape,Round shot, and canister, and grape,The thundering cannon's boom!
Swift, on their flank, with fearful crashShrapnel and ball commingling clash,And bursting shells, with lurid flash,Their dazzled sight confound:Trembles the earth beneath their feet,Along their front a rattling sheetOf leaden hail concentric meet,And numbers strew the ground.
On, o'er the dying and the dead,O'er mangled limb and gory head,With martial look, with martial tread,March Hagood's men to bloody bed,Honor their sole reward;Himself doth lead their battle line,Himself those banners guard.
They win the height, those gallant few,A fiercer struggle to renew,Resolved as gallant men to doOr sink in glory's shroud;But scarcely gain its stubborn crest,Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast,An impious foe has dared to wrestThat banner proud.
Upon him, Hagood, in thy might!Flash on thy soul th' immortal lightOf those brave deeds that blazon brightOur Southern Cross.He dies. Unfurl its folds again,Let it wave proudly o'er the plain;The dying shall forget their pain,Count not their loss.
Then, rallying to your chieftain's call,Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ballHemmed in, as by a living wall,Cleave back your way.Those bannered deeds their souls inspire,Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire,By the Two Hundred who retireOf that array.
Ah, Carolina! well the tearMay dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rearIn passion, o'er their tombless bier,Thy fallen chivalry!Malony, mirror of the brave,And Sellers lie in glorious grave;No prouder fate than theirs, who gaveTheir lives for Liberty.
Carolina! Carolina!Noble name in State and story,How I love thy truthful glory,As I love the blue sky o'er ye,Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!Land of chivalry unfearing,Daughters fair beyond comparing,Sons of worth, and noble daring,Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!Soft thy clasp in loving greeting,Plenteous board and kindly meeting,All thy pulses nobly beating,Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven,Bold thy streams through forest riven,Bright thy laurels, hero-given,Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!Holy name, and dear forever,Never shall thy childen, never,Fail to strike with grand endeavor,Carolina evermore!
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Thou eomest to thy battle bed,Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;To thee, the triple cords belong,Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong,And spirit vaunted long,toolong!Savannah! oh, Savannah!
No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;Only the martyrs' blood is there;It gleams upon thy bosom bier,It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thy clean white hand is opened wideFor weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,Savannah! oh, Savannah!
What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers--Still at thy feet the old oak towers;Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,And things of beauty, love, and flowersAre smiling o'er this land of ours,My sunny home, Savannah!
There is no film before thy sight--Thou seest woe, and death, and night--And blood upon thy banner bright;But in thy full wrath's kindled might,What carestthoufor woe, or night?My rebel home, Savannah!
Come--for the crown is on thy head!Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed,Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Oh! come unto thy battle bed,Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping,Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth;Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding,Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South;Quick! or his villainous feet will be boundingWhere the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.
Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you,When the fierce bear was cut down in his track--If at that moment she never deceived you,Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.
Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping,Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth;Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Sons of the South--awake--arise!A million foes sweep down amain,Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes,And fire and rapine in their train,Like savage Hun and merciless Dane!"We come as brothers!" Trust them not!By all that's dear in heaven and earth,By every tie that hath its birthWithin your homes--around your hearth;Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot,Worse for the fair and sleek disguise--A traitor in a patriot's cloak!"Your country's goodDemands your blood!"Was it a fiend from hell that spoke?
They point us to the Stripes and Stars;(Our banner erst--the despot's now!)But let not thoughts of by-gone wars,When beat we back the common foe,And felled them fast and shamed them so,Divide us at this fearful hour;But think of dungeons and of chains--Think of your violated fanes--Of your loved homestead's gory stains--Eternal thraldom for your dower!No love of country fires their breasts--The fell fanatics fain would freeA grovelling race,And in their placeWould fetter us with fiendish glee!
Sons of the South--awake--awake!And strike for rights full dear as thoseFor which our struggling sires did shakeEarth's proudest throne--while freedom rose,Baptized in blood of braggart foes.Awake--that hour hath come again!Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne--Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown--Strike! in the name of Washington,Who taught you once to rend the chain,Smiles now from heaven upon our cause,So like his own. His spirit movesThrough every fight,And lends its mightTo every heart that freedom loves.
Ye beauteous of the sunny land!Unmatched your charms in all the earth,'Neath freedom's banner take your stand;And, though ye strike not, prove your worth,As wont in days of joy and mirth:Lavish your praises on the brave--Pray when the battle fiercely lowers--Smile when the victory is ours--Frown on the wretch who basely cowers--Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave!Lend thus your favors whilst we smite!Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!--With woman's charmsTo nerve their arms,Oh! when have men their freedom lost!
In thickest fight triumphantly he fell,While into victory's arms he led us on;A death so glorious our grief should quell:We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.
No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now,No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fameImmortal honor rests upon his brow,And noble memories cluster round his name.
For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears,To read the story of his touching fate;How in his death the gallant soldier wearsThe crown that came for earthly life too late.
Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keepThe garlands green above his hero-grave;Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep,To tell him he is shrined among the brave!
"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah.
Oh! weep not for the dead,Whose blood, for freedom shed,Is hallowed evermore!Who on the battle-fieldGould die--but never yield!Oh, bemoan them never more--They live immortal in their gore!
Oh, what is it to dieMidst shouts of victory,Our rights and homes defending!Oh! what were fame and lifeGained in that basest strifeFor tyrants' power contending,Our country's bosom rending!
Oh! dead of red Manassah!Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray!Oh! victors of the Richmond field!Dead on your mother's breast,You live in glorious rest;Each on[1] his honored shield,Immortal in each bloody field!
Oh! sons of noble mothers!Oh! youth of maiden lovers!Oh! husbands of chaste wives!Though asleep in beds of gore,You return, oh! never more;Still immortal are your lives!Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!
How blest is he who drawsHis sword in freedom's cause!Though dead on battle-field,Forever to his tombShall youthful heroes come,Their hearts for freedom steeled,And learn to die on battle-field.
As at Thermopylæ,Grecian child of liberty;Swears to despot ne'er to yield--Here, by our glorious dead,Let's revenge the blood they've shed,Or die on bloody field,By the sons who scorned to yield!
Oh! mothers! lovers! wives!Oh! weep no more--our livesAre our country's evermore!More glorious in your graves,Than if living Lincoln's slaves,Ye will perish never more,Martyred on our fields of gore!
[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his shield, said--"With it, or on it."