Chapter 2

They are singing _our_ song of triumph,[1] Which proclaimed _us_ proud and free-- While 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 ye, heavy hearted,-- But we will--we will be free!

They are waving _our_ flag above us, With the despot's tyrant will; With our blood they have stained its colors, And they 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 One "Southern Cross" to shine.

Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer! Solemn, and strong, and sure! The fight shall not be longer Than God shall bid endure. By the life that but yesterday Waked with the infant's breath! By the feet which, ere morning, may Tread to the soldier's death! By the blood which cries to heaven-- Crimson upon our sod! Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer, In the name of the mighty God!

[1] The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all whose descendants are Confederates.

South Carolina.

December 20, 1860.

S. Henry Dickson.

The deed is done! the die is cast; The glorious Rubicon is passed: Hail, Carolina! free at last!

Strong in the right, I see her stand Where ocean laves the shelving sand; Her own Palmetto decks the strand.

She turns aloft her flashing eye; Radiant, her lonely star[1] on high Shines clear amidst the darkening sky.

Silent, along those azure deeps Its course her silver crescent keeps, And in soft light the landscape steeps.

Fling forth her banner to the gale! Let all the hosts of earth assail,-- Their fury and their force shall fail.

Echoes the wide resounding shore, With voice above th' Atlantic roar, Her sons proclaim her free once more!

Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State! In numbers few, in daring great, Thus to affront the frowns of fate!

And while mad triumph rules the hour, And thickening clouds of menace lower, Bear back the tide of tyrant power.

With steadfast courage, faltering never, Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever: Hail, Carolina! free forever!

[1] The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon.

The New Star.

By B.M. Anderson.

Another star arisen; another flag unfurled; Another name inscribed among the nations of the world; Another mighty struggle 'gainst a tyrant's fell decree, And again a burdened people have uprisen, and are free.

The spirit of the fathers in the children liveth yet; Liveth still the olden blood which dimmed the foreign bayonet; And the fathers fought for freedom, and the sons for freedom fight; Their God was with the fathers--and is still the God of right!

Behold! the skies are darkened! A gloomy cloud hath lowered! Shall it break before the sun of peace, or spread in rage impowered? Shall we have the smile of friendship, or shall it be the blow? Shall it be the right hand to the friend, or the red hand to the foe?

In peacefulness we wish to live, but not in slavish fear; In peacefulness we dare not die, dishonored on our bier. To our allies of the Northern land we offer heart and hand, But if they scorn our friendship--then the banner and the brand!

Honor to the new-born nation! and honor to the brave! A country freed from thraldom, or a soldier's honored grave. Every step shall be contested; every rivulet run red, And the invader, should he conquer, find the conquered in the dead.

But victory shall follow where the sons of freedom go, And the signal for the onset be the death-knell of the foe; And hallowed shall the spot be where he was so bravely met, And the star which yonder rises, rises never more to set.

The Irrepressible Conflict.

Tyrtæus.--_Charleston Mercury._

Then welcome be it, if indeed it be The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come; There will be mitigation of the doom, If, battling to the last, our sires shall see Their sons contending for the homes made free In ancient conflict with the foreign foe! If those who call us brethren strike the blow, No common conflict shall the invader know! War to the knife, and to the last, until The sacred land we keep shall overflow With blood as sacred--valley, wave, and hill, Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave! Aye, welcome to your graves--or ours! The brave May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave.

The Southern Republic.

By Olivia Tully Thomas, of Mississippi.

In the galaxy of nations, A nation's flag's unfurled, Transcending in its martial pride The nations of the world. Though born of war, baptized in blood, Yet mighty from the time, Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood-- Dismembered, yet sublime.

And braver heart, and bolder hand, Ne'er formed a fabric fair As Southern wisdom can command, And Southern valor rear. Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway, Or recognize her birth, The land blood-bought for Liberty Will reign supreme on earth.

Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave! Thy sons are bold and free, And pour life's crimson tide to save Their birthright, Liberty! Their fertile fields and sunny plains That yield the wealth alone, That's coveted for greedy gains By despots-and a throne!

Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn, Thy altars desolate; Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn At war's relentless fate; And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears, Her homes will consecrate, While more than brass or marble rears The trophy of her great.

Oh! land that boasts each gallant name Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE, And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame Extends beyond the sea; Far rather let thy plains become, From gulf to mountain cave, One honored sepulchre and tomb, Than we the tyrant's slave!

Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free, Redeemed by blood and war; Through agony and gloom we see Thy hope--a glimmering star; Thy banner, too, may proudly float, A herald on the seas-- Thy deeds of daring worlds remote Will emulate and praise!

But who can paint the impulse pure, That thrills and nerves thy brave To deeds of valor, that secure The rights their fathers gave? Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain, Crowned with the warrior's wreath, From beds of fame their proud refrain Was "Liberty or Death!"

"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?"

Charleston Courier.

Is there, then, no hope for the nations? Must the record of Time be the same? And shall History, in all her narrations, Still close each last chapter in shame? Shall the valor which grew to be glorious, Prove the shame, as the pride of a race: And a people, for ages victorious, Through the arts of the chapman, grow base?

Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman, Each strides o'er the scene and departs! How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman, How wondrous their virtues and arts! Rude valor, at first, when beginning, The nation through blood took its name; Then the wisdom, which hourly winning New heights in its march, rose to Fame!

How noble the tale for long ages, Blending Beauty with courage and might! What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages, Made eminent stars for each height! While their people, with reverence ample. Brought tribute of praise to the Great, Whose wisdom and virtuous example, Made virtue the pride of the State!

Ours, too, was as noble a dawning, With hopes of the Future as high: Great men, each a star of the morning, Taught us bravely to live and to die! We fought the long fight with our foeman, And through trial--well-borne--won a name, Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman, And worthy as lasting a fame!

Shut the Book! We must open another! O Southron! if taught by the Past, Beware, when thou choosest a brother, With what ally thy fortunes are cast! Beware of all foreign alliance, Of their pleadings and pleasings beware, Better meet the old snake with defiance, Than find in his charming a snare!

The Fate of the Republics.

Charleston Mercury.

Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years-- Rear'd with such art and wisdom--by a race Of giant sires, in virtue all compact, Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals Of public strength, and peoples capable Of great conceptions for the common good, And of enduring liberties, kept strong Through purity;--tumbles and falls apart, Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd Within, without, by greed of avarice, And vain ambition for supremacy.

So fell the old Republics--Gentile and Jew, Roman and Greek--such evermore the record; Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed, From conquest and from triumph, into fall! The glory that we see exchanged for guilt Might yet be glory. There were pride enough, And emulous ambition to achieve,-- Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment, To do the work of States--and there were courage And sense of public need, and public welfare,-- And duty--in a brave but scattered few, Throughout the States--had these been credited To combat 'gainst the popular appetites. But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught, As lacking favor with the popular lusts! They found reward in exile or in death! And he alone who could debase his spirit, And file his mind down to the basest nature Grew capp'd with rule!--

So, with the lapse From virtue, the great nation forfeits all The pride with the security--the liberty, With that prime modesty which keeps the heart Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts That wait upon Humanity, and teach Humility, as best check and guaranty, Against the wolfish greed of appetite! Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom, When peoples loathe to listen to the praise Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims, Eagerly set upon them to revile, And banish from their councils! Worse than all When the great man, succumbing to the mass, Yields up his mind as a low instrument To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:-- Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe Of place or profit, and makes sale of States To Party!

Thus and then are States subdued-- 'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts, With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay; Insolent, reckless of account as right,-- While lust grows license, and tears off the robes From justice; and makes right a thing of mock; And puts a foolscap on the head of law, And plucks the baton of authority From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head.

So rages still the irresponsible power, Using the madden'd populace as hounds, To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat. The ancient history becomes the new-- The ages move in circles, and the snake Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth. Thus still in all the past!--and man the same In all the ages--a poor thing of passion, Hot greed, and miserable vanity, And all infirmities of lust and error, Makes of himself the wretched instrument To murder his own hope.

So empires fall,-- Past, present, and to come!-- There is no hope For nations or peoples, once they lapse from virtue And fail in modest sense of what they are-- Creatures of weakness, whose security Lies in meek resting on the law of God, And in that wise humility which pleads Ever for his guardian watch and Government, Though men may bear the open signs of rule. Humility is safety! could men learn The law, "_ne sutor ultra crepidam_," And the sagacious cobbler, at his last, Content himself with paring leather down To heel and instep, nicely fitting parts, In proper adaptation, to the foot, We might have safety.

Rightly to conceive What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will To this one measure only, is the whole Of that grand rule, and wise necessity, Which only gives us safety.

Where a State, Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds Set for their progress, they must topple and fall Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause! The terrible conjunction of the event, Close with the provocation, stands apart, A social beacon in all histories; And yet we take no heed, but still rush on, Under mixed sway of greed and vanity, And like the silly boy with his card-castle, Precipitate to ruin as we build.

The Voice of the South.

Tyrtæus.--_Charleston Mercury._

'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave, And fits but ill to be held by the slave; And sad were the thought, if one of our band Should give up the hope of so fair a land.

But the hour has come, and the times that tried The souls of men in our days of pride, Return once more, and now for the brave, To merit the boon which our fathers gave.

And if there be one base spirit who stands Now, in our peril, with folded hands, Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought, With the sword with which his old father fought.

An oath sublime should the freeman take, Still braving the fight and the felon stake,-- The oath that his sires brought over the sea, When they pledged their swords to Liberty!

'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight, They battled and bled in behalf of the right; 'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign, And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine.

We cannot forget, and we dare not forego, The holy duty to them that we owe, The duty that pledges the soul of the son To keep the freedom his sire hath won.

To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil, One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share!

Art ready for this, dear brother, who still Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill? Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear, Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear?

Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart, Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part; The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands, And waits but the word for the flashing of brands!

And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,--and thou Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow; And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves Where Apala-chicola[1] glides through her groves.

Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep, The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep; Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call, To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall!

Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves, The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves, That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth, Would rob us of right without reason or ruth.

Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong, Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong? Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls, Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls.

At last ye are wakened, all rising at length, In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength; And now let the struggle begin which shall see, If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free.

We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came, To welcome the ruin, but never the shame; To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right, While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight.

Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;-- Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here, To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear.

Let those who defile and deface it, be sure, No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure; We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain, With which they would fetter our free souls in vain.

How goodly and bright were its links at the first! How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst! We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave, But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave.

[1] The reader will place the accent on the _ante-penultimate_, which affords not only the most musical, but the correct pronunciation.

The Oath of Freedom.

By James Barron Hope.

_"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be free."_

Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! By all the stars which burn on high-- By the green earth--the mighty sea-- By God's unshaken majesty, We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! Let all the trumpets blow! Mind, heart, and soul, We spurn control Attempted by a foe!

Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! And, vainly now the Northmen try To beat us down--in arms we stand To strike for this our native land! We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, we thus resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! Our wives and children look on high, Pray God to smile upon the right! And bid us in the deadly fight As freemen live or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! And ere we cease this battle-cry, Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt, On bayonet or sabre hilt! We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! Defiant let the banners fly, Shake out their glories to the air, And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! And to this oath the dead reply-- Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts-- These with us, and the God of hosts, We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.

The Battle-Cry of the South.

By James R. Randall.

Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our sanctuary.--_Maccabees I._

Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth; Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, And the vampires of the North? Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, Strike! with a ruthless hand-- Strike! with the vengeance of the soul, For your bright, beleaguered land! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees-- For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,[1] And the God of the Maccabees!

Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare, And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown-- Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there In the cliffs of the Father's frown: Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light Which the Sun of Justice gives-- In the caves and sepulchres of night Jehovah the Lord King lives! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees-- For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Think of the dead by the Tennessee, In their frozen shrouds of gore-- Think of the mothers who shall see Those darling eyes no more! But better are they in a hero grave Than the serfs of time and breath, For they are the children of the brave, And the cherubim of death! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees-- For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Better the charnels of the West, And a hecatomb of lives, Than the foul invader as a guest 'Mid your sisters and your wives-- But a spirit lurketh in every maid, Though, brothers, ye should quail, To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade, And the livid spike of Jael! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees-- For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Brothers! I see you tramping by, With the gladiator gaze, And your shout is the Macedonian cry Of the old, heroic days! March on! with trumpet and with drum, With rifle, pike, and dart, And die--if even death must come-- Upon your country's heart! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees-- For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth; Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, And the vampires of the North? Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, Strike! with a ruthless hand-- Strike! with the vengeance of the soul For your bright, beleaguered land! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees-- For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus.

Sonnet.

Charleston Mercury.

Democracy hath done its work of ill, And, seeming freemen, never to be free, While the poor people shout in vanity, The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will. How swift the abasement follows! But few years, And we stood eminent. Great men were ours, Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers! How have we sunk below our proper spheres! No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place, The nimble marmozet and magpie men; Creatures that only mock and mimic, when They run astride the shoulders of the race; Democracy, in vanity elate, Clothing but sycophants in robes of state.

Seventy-Six and Sixty-One.

By John W. Overall, of Louisiana.

Ye spirits of the glorious dead! Ye watchers in the sky! Who sought the patriot's crimson bed, With holy trust and high-- Come, lend your inspiration now, Come, fire each Southern son, Who nobly fights for freemen's rights, And shouts for sixty-one.

Come, teach them how, on hill on glade, Quick leaping from your side, The lightning flash of sabres made A red and flowing tide-- How well ye fought, how bravely fell, Beneath our burning sun; And let the lyre, in strains of fire, So speak of sixty-one.

There's many a grave in all the land, And many a crucifix, Which tells how that heroic band Stood firm in seventy-six-- Ye heroes of the deathless past, Your glorious race is run, But from your dust springs freemen's trust, And blows for sixty-one.

We build our altars where you lie, On many a verdant sod, With sabres pointing to the sky, And sanctified of God; The smoke shall rise from every pile, Till freedom's cause is won, And every mouth throughout the South, Shall shout for sixty-one!

"Reddato Gladium."

Virginia to Winfield Scott.

A voice is heard in Ramah! High sounds are on the gale! Notes to wake buried patriots! Notes to strike traitors pale! Wild notes of outraged feeling Cry aloud and spare him not! 'Tis Virginia's strong appealing, And she calls to Winfield Scott!

Oh! chief among ten thousand! Thou whom I loved so well, Star that has set, as never yet Since son of morning fell! I call not in reviling, Nor to speak thee what thou art; I leave thee to thy death-bed, And I leave thee to thy heart!

But by every mortal hope, And by every mortal fear; By all that man deems sacred, And that woman holds most dear; Yea! by thy mother's honor, And by thy father's grave, By hell beneath, and heaven above, Give back the sword I gave!

Not since God's sword was planted To guard life's heavenly tree, Has ever blade been granted, Like that bestowed on thee! To pierce me with the steel I gave To guard mine honor's shrine, Not since Iscariot lived and died, Was treason like to thine!

Give back the sword! and sever Our strong and mighty tie! We part, and part forever, To conquer or to die! In sorrow, not in anger, I speak the word, "We part!" For I leave thee to thy death-bed, And I leave thee to thy heart!

Richmond Whig.

Nay, Keep the Sword.

By Carrie Clifford.

Nay, keep the sword which once we gave, A token of our trust in thee; The steel is true, the blade is keen-- False as thou art it cannot be.