Part 9

Heed not the starveling crew, who hang Upon the blue Ohio, A craven heart each traitor bears, And dare not venture nigher.

And should they--know ye not the blood Within our full hearts beaming?-- At once ten thousand scabbards fly, Ten thousand blades are gleaming!

Then, waken from thy nerveless sleep, Gird on thy well-tried armor, And soon the braggart North will feel That Right has strength to harm her.

Kentucky boys and girls have we-- From us ye may not take them; Sad-hearted will ye give them up, And for the foe forsake them?

Oh, Tennessee, twin-sister, grieves, To take thy hand at parting, And feel that from its farewell grasp A brother's blood is starting.

It must not be! Kentucky, come! Virginia loudly calls thee; And Maryland defenseless stands, To share what fate befalls thee.

Come ere the tyrant's chain is forged, From out the war-cloud looming; Come ere thy palsied knee is bent, To hopeless ruin dooming.

A POEM WHICH NEEDS NO DEDICATION.

BY JAMES BARRON HOPE.

What! you 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 altars, Each one, low on bended knee; Pray, with lips that sob and falter, This prayer from a coward's Psalter: "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

But you hold that quick repentance In the Northern mind will be; This repentance comes no sooner Than the robber's did at Luna.[16] "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 he was 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 aisle they bore him, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

And the Bishop, and the Abbot, And 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 those intonations Thrill him thus from head to knee? So! 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!"

HASTING 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 tearful pleading. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine?"

Louder swells the frightful tumult; Pallid Death holds reverie; Dies the organ's mighty clamor, By the Norseman's iron hammer. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

And they thought that he repented! Had they nailed him to a tree, He had not deserved their pity, And--they had not lost their city. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

There's a moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be: If we trust the North's relenting, We will shriek, too late, repenting, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

GOD SAVE THE SOUTH.

BY REUBEN NASON.

God bless our Southern land! Guard our beloved land! God save the South! Make us victorious, Happy and glorious; Spread Thy shield over us; God save the South!

God of our sires, arise! Scatter our enemies, Who mock Thy truth; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks: In Thee our faith we fix; God save the South!

In the fierce battle-hour, With Thine almighty power, Assist our youth; May they, with victory crowned, Joining our choral round, With heart and voice resound, "God save the South!"

ON! SOUTHRON, ON!

BY GEN. M. B. LAMAR.

On! Southron, on! Your flag's unfurled 'Mid clashing steel, and death-shot hurled, And war's dark storm-cloud, swiftly whirled, Your country calls. On! Southron, on!

Strike! Southron, strike! The foeman's trail Is marked with blood and flame alike; And woman's shriek, and infant's wail, Show that he wars upon the frail A war of hate. Strike! Southron, strike!

Can manhood fly, And, recreant, brave The silent scorn, the averted eye-- Decked in its chains--a cringing slave? No! rather seek a soldier's grave, And show the tyrant how to die.

Then, Southron, on! By all that's dear, By feeble age, and childhood's dawn, By mother's love, and maiden's prayer, The brother's blood, the sister's tear-- One glance to Heaven, then, Southron, on!

CIVILE BELLUM.

"In this fearful struggle between North and South there are hundreds of cases in which fathers are arrayed against sons, brothers against brothers."--_American paper._

"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot, That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

"Ah! Captain, here goes for a fine-drawn bead; There's music around, when my barrel's in tune." Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch, That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"O Captain! I staggered and sunk in my track, When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette, For he looked so like you as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold-- An inch from the center my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket--'tis she: My brother's young bride--and the fallen dragoon Was her husband--hush! soldier, 'twas heaven's decree; We must bury him there by the light of the moon!

"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; War is a virtue--weakness a sin; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

FROM THE ONCE UNITED STATES.

_London Once a Week._

"FOLLOW, BOYS! FOLLOW!"

BY MILLIE MAYFIELD.

Follow, brave boys, follow! 'Tis the roll-call of the drum, And the bright steel's ringing music, With its spirit-stirring hum-- 'Tis the tramp of armed columns, Brazen fronted, drawing near, And the rattle of the sabers In the scabbards, that ye hear; Follow, follow, 'tis the van, boys, So bravely leading on; Follow, follow, to a man, boys, There's glory to be won!

Follow, follow, saith the mother-- Follow, follow, saith the wife-- Though ye're dear as our hearts' blood, More precious, far than life; But we would not have ye linger While the hated foeman stands Beside our sacred hearth-stones, And desecrates our lands! We'll forgive the starting tear, boys, 'Tis the jewel of the heart, That ye may not blush to wear, boys, When from loved ones thus ye part.

There's not a Southern matron But in her bosom wears The iron Key of Firmness That locketh up her fears; While ye buckle on your armor, She will bid ye safe "God-speed," And bear her cross all bravely For her precious country's need! When our women have such souls, boys, Ye must never flinch or quail-- While the storm of battle rolls, boys, Ne'er strike the straining sail!

Our lives are dearly purchased, When bondage is the price; And what is home, where freedom Withers 'neath the tyrant's vice? Better the earthy pillow, Better the gory bier, Where the true-hearted ever Will drop the burning tear; For think, if ye should fall, boys, Ye have not lived in vain-- On the brave soldier's pall, boys, None ever put a stain!

Fling out our glorious banner Upon the golden air-- Swear by its stars, Dishonor Shall leave no footprint there! That ye'll plant its broad bars firmly, As a barrier to the foe, From the blue Gulf to the Border, From the Sea to Mexico! The Southern sky's a-flame, boys, Where our stately cities burn, But, as monuments of fame, boys, Their ashes we'll in-urn!

Oh! inch by inch, repel him, The foul invading foe! Let the sharp saber tell him How despots are laid low! And history's burning pencil Will, on her golden page, Your hero name enamel An honor to the age! One blow, and we are free, boys, Strike firmly, and 'tis done! On, on, to Tennessee, boys, Oh! follow bravely on!

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE.

BY FATHER A. J. RYAN.

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to victory.

Out of its scabbard, where, full long, It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle's song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee.

Forth from its scabbard, high in air, Beneath Virginia's sky-- And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led they would dare To follow--and to die!

Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee.

Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully.

BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.

_Dedicated with respect and admiration to Major-General Earl Van Dorn._

For sixty days and upwards A storm of shell and shot Rained round as in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not! "If the noble city perish," Our grand young leader said, "Let the only walls the foe shall scale Be ramparts of the dead!"

For sixty days and upwards The eye of heaven waxed dim, And even throughout God's holy morn, O'er Christian's prayer and hymn, Arose a hissing tumult, As if the fiends of air Strove to engulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair.

There was wailing in the houses, There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; But the Lord, our shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped, Our very women walked the streets, With scarce one throb of dread.

And the little children gamboled-- Their faces purely raised, Just for a wondering moment, As the huge bombs whirled and blazed! Then turning with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought, That the good God watched above.[17]

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster From scores of flame-clad ships, And above us denser, darker, Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire.

But the unseen hands of angels These death-shafts warned aside, And the dove of heavenly mercy Ruled o'er the battle tide; In the houses ceased the wailing, And through the war-scarred marts The people strode with the step of hope To the music in their hearts.

COLUMBIA, S. C., _August 6, 1862_.

"THE YANKEE DEVIL."

BY W. P. RIVERS.

The "Nondescript," or "Yankee Devil," for clearing the harbor, was washed ashore on yesterday at Morris Island, and is now in our possession. It is described as an old scow-like vessel, painted red, with a long protruding beak, and jutting iron prongs and claws, intended for the removal of torpedoes. It was attached to the Passaic, and managed by her during the engagement.--_Charleston Courier._

The enemy are waiting for a new machine ("Devil") to remove the torpedoes in the harbor, and to have everything in readiness before the attack.--_Same paper._

Hurrah! hurrah! good news and true, Our woes will soon be past; To Charleston, boys, all praise be due, The devil's caught at last.

He's caught, he's dead, and met his fate On Morris Island's sands; His carcass lies in solemn state, The spoil of Rebel hands.

Hurrah! hurrah! let Dixie cheer! What may not Charleston do! The devil's caught at last, we hear; A Yankee devil, too!

The blackest, bluest from below, The prince of all is he, Who leads the Yankees where they go, On land, or on the sea.

The news is true, all doubt dispel, All grief and fears be o'er! The chiefest from perdition's well Lies on a Southern shore.

On South Carolina's beach he lies-- His majesty ashore! Ah! well we know that devil dies Who enters at that door.

His name and hue, and shape and size, Identify the beast; 'Tis he--the father of all lies, Of devils not the least.

Scow-like across the deep he came, Blood-red his iron sides; With beak, and claws, and fins of flame To plow the vernal tides.

Like serpents which Minerva sent To crush the Trojan sire, So Northern devils come to vent On Charleston blood and fire.

But Neptune ne'er decreed the fate Of Laocoon's dear sons, To gratify the Yankees' hate On Charleston's dearer ones.

They'll never bear one fatal hour The Northern serpent's coil, Nor feel the Yankee devil's power Who come to crush and spoil.

The "Nondescript," name chosen well; The "Northern Devil," aye! A fiend, a ghoul, a spirit fell! Who may describe it--say?

Foul, artful, bloody, false, insane, This Northern ghote[18] of sin; The heathen hells could ne'er contain A darker power within.

But now, hurrah, the devil's dead! High, dry upon the shore! Rebellion still may rear its head, The war will soon be o'er.

Hold, not so fast, abate your cheer, The battle is not won; Another devil comes, we hear, Before the work is done.

Alas! when will this warfare end? Not till all Yankee foes are dead; For nondescript is each--or fiend-- His soul with murder red.

CAVE SPRINGS, GA., _April 11, 1863_.

THE BOY-SOLDIER.

BY A LADY OF SAVANNAH.

He is acting o'er the battle, With his cap and feather gay, Singing out his soldier prattle, In a mockish, manly way-- With the boldest, bravest footstep, Treading firmly up and down, And his banner waving softly O'er his boyish locks of brown.

And I sit beside him sewing, With a busy heart and hand, For the gallant soldiers going To the far-off battle-land; And I gaze upon my jewel, In his baby-spirit bold, My little blue-eyed soldier, Just a second summer old.

Still a deep, deep well of feeling, In my mother's heart is stirred, And the tears come softly stealing At each imitative word.

There's a struggle in my bosom, For I love my darling boy-- He's the gladness of my spirit, He's the sunlight of my joy! Yet I think upon my country, And my spirit groweth bold, Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old!

I would speed him to the battle, I would arm him for the fight, I would give him to his country, For his country's wrong and right! I would nerve his hand with blessing, From the "God of Battles" won; With _His_ helmet and _His_ armor, I would cover o'er my son.

Oh! I _know_ there'd be a struggle, For I love my darling boy; He's the gladness of my spirit, He's the sunlight of my joy! Yet in thinking of my country, Oh! my spirit groweth bold; And I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old.

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

_Sic Jurat._

The knightliest of the knightly race, Who, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band Who rarely hated ease, Who rode with Smith around the land And Raleigh round the seas!

Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Amid embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of many homes With loveliness and worth!

We thought they slept! the sons who kept The names of noble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires! But still the Golden Horseshoe knights, Their Old Dominion keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep.

TORCH HALL, GA.

C. S. A.

BY FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN.

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who, living, were true and tried for us, And, dying, sleep side by side for us; The martyr band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us, They stood in the front of the fray for us, And held the foeman at bay for us; And tears should fall Fore'er o'er all Who fell while wearing the gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us, How many a story of fame for us They left: Would it not be a blame for us If their memories part From our land and heart, And a wrong to them, and a shame for us?

No, no, no! they were brave for us, And bright were the lives they gave for us; The land they struggled to save for us Will not forget Its warriors yet Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

On many and many a plain for us Their blood poured down all in vain for us, Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; They bleed--we weep, We live--they sleep, "All lost," the only refrain for us.

But their memories e'er shall remain for us, And their names, bright names, without stain for us; The glory they won shall not wane for us, In legend and lay Our heroes in gray Shall forever live over again for us.

THE SWEET SOUTH.

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

O the sweet South! the sunny, sunny South! Land of true feeling, land forever mine! I drink the kisses of her rosy mouth, And my heart swells as with a draught of wine; She brings me blessings of maternal love; I have her smile which hallows all my toil; Her voice persuades, her generous smiles approve, She sings me from the sky and from the soil! O, by her lonely pines that wave and sigh! O, by her myriad flowers, that bloom and fade, By all the thousand beauties of her sky, And the sweet solace of her forest shade, She's mine--she's ever mine-- Nor will I aught resign Of what she gives me, mortal or divine; Will sooner part With life, hope, heart-- Will die--before I fly!

O, love is hers--such love as ever glows In souls where leap affection's living tide; She is all fondness to her friends; to foes She glows a thing of passion, strength, and pride; She feels no tremors when the danger's nigh, But the fight over and the victory won, How, with strange fondness, turns her loving eye In tearful welcome on each gallant son! O! by her virtues of the cherished past-- By all her hopes of what the future brings-- I glory that my lot with her is cast, And my soul flushes and exulting sings; She's mine--she's ever mine-- For her will I resign All precious things--all placed upon her shrine; Will freely part With life, hope, heart-- Will die--do aught but fly!

THE SOUTHERN CROSS.[19]

BY MRS. ELLEN KEY BLUNT.

In the name of God! Amen! Stand for our Southern rights! Arm, ye Southern men, The God of Battle fights! Fling the invaders far, Hurl back their work of woe, The voice is the voice of a brother, But the hands are the hands of a foe. They come with a trampling army, Invading our native sod-- Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer! In the name of the Mighty God!

They're singing _our_ song of triumph[20] Which was made to make us free, While they're breaking away the heartstrings Of our nation's harmony. Sadly it floateth from us, Sighing o'er land and wave, Till mute on the lips of the poet, It sleeps in his Southern grave. Spirit and song departed! Minstrel and minstrelsy! We mourn thee, heavy-hearted, But we will, we shall be free!

They are waving _our_ flag above us, With a despot's tyrant will; With our blood they have stained its colors, And call it holy still. With tearful eyes, but steady hand, We'll tear its stripes apart, And fling them like broken fetters, That may not bind the heart; But we'll save our stars of glory, In the might of the sacred sign Of Him who has fixed forever Our Southern Cross to shine.

Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer! Solemn and strong and sure! The strife shall not be longer Than God shall bid endure. By the life which only yesterday Came with the infant's breath, By the feet which ere the morn may Tread to the soldier's death! By the blood which cries to Heaven! Crimson upon our sod! Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer! In the name of the Mighty God!

PARIS, 1862.

PATRIOTISM.

The holy fire that nerved the Greek To make his stand at Marathon, Until the last red foeman's shriek Proclaimed that Freedom's fight was won, Still lives unquenched--unquenchable! Through every age its fires will burn-- Lives in the hermit's lonely cell, And springs from every storied urn!

The hearthstone embers hold the spark Where fell Oppression's foot hath trod; Through Superstition's shadow dark It flashes to the living God! From Moscow's ashes spring the Russ; In Warsaw Poland lives again; Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus, Strikes Liberty's electric chain!

Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss; Vainly the invader ever strives; He finds "Sic Semper Tyrannis" In San Jacinto's bowie-knives! Than these--than all--a holier fire Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son! Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire; Strike for the grave of Washington!

The Northern rabble aims for greed; The hireling parson goads the train-- In that foul crop from bigot seed, Old "Praise God Barebones" howls again! We welcome them to "Southern lands"-- We welcome them to "Southern slaves"-- We welcome them "with bloody hands To hospitable Southern graves!"

SONG FOR THE MARYLAND LINE.

BY J. D. M'CABE, JR.