Chapter 3
We hailed thee as our glorious chief, With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow; Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue: In whispers hushed we breathe it now.
Yes, keep it till thy dying day; Momentous ever let it be, Of a great treasure once possessed-- A people's love now lost to thee.
Thy mother will not bow her head; She bares her bosom to thee now; But may the bright steel fail to wound-- It is more merciful than thou.
And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow, Thousands of sons of this fair land Will rise, and, in their anger just, Will stay the rash act of thy hand.
And when in terror thou shalt hear Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry And feel the weight of thy great crime, Then fall upon thy sword and die.
Those aged locks I'll not reproach, Although upon a traitor's brow; We've looked with reverence on them once, We'll try and not revile them now.
But her true sons and daughters pray, That ere thy day of reckoning be, Thy ingrate heart may feel the pain To know thy mother once more free.
Coercion: A Poem for Then and Now.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
Who talks of coercion? who dares to deny A resolute people the right to be free? Let him blot out forever one star from the sky, Or curb with his fetter the wave of the sea!
Who prates of coercion? Can love be restored To bosoms where only resentment may dwell? Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword, Or good-will among men be established by shell?
Shame! shame!--that the statesman and trickster, forsooth, Should have for a crisis no other recourse, Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth, Than the old _brutum fulmen_ of tyranny--force!
From the holes where fraud, falsehood, and hate slink away-- From the crypt in which error lies buried in chains-- This foul apparition stalks forth to the day, And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.
Could you conquer us, men of the North--could you bring Desolation and death on our homes as a flood-- Can you hope the pure lily, affection, will spring From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood?
Could you brand us as villains and serfs, know ye not What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar? How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot! How dearly the Pole loves his father, the Czar!
But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun Is a _nutrix leonum_, and suckles a race Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one, Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace.
And well may the schemers in office beware The swift retribution that waits upon crime, When the lion, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair, With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime.
Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still, Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends; Nor join in a conflict accursed, that must fill With ruin, the country on which it descends.
But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage The gods gave to all whom they wished to destroy, You would act a new Iliad, to darken the age With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy--
If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries, When wisdom, humanity, justice implore, You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar--
If there be to your malice no limit imposed, And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod The men upon whom you already have closed Our goodly domain and the temples of God:
To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold, And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar; We greet you, as greeted the Swiss, Charles the Bold-- With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war!
For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright, Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide; Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight, With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride;
And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past, In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain; While the sod of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast, And give up its heroes to glory again.
A Cry to Arms.
By Henry Timrod.
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade.
The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armed bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain; And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!
Come, with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch.
What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain!
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales!
Come! flocking gayly to the fight From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our country's right, And for the lily's sake!
Jackson, The Alexandria Martyr.
By Wm. H. Holcombe, M.D., of Virginia.
'Twas not the private insult galled him most, But public outrage of his country's flag, To which his patriotic heart had pledged Its faith as to a bride. The bold, proud chief, Th' avenging host, and the swift-coming death Appalled him not. Nor life with all its charms, Nor home, nor wife, nor children could weigh down The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy The insolent invader. Ellsworth fell, And Jackson perished 'mid the pack of wolves, Befriended only by his own great heart And God approving. More than Roman soul! O type of our impetuous chivalry! May this young nation ever boast her sons A vast, and inconceivable multitude, Standing like thee in her extremest van, Self-poised and ready, in defence of rights Or in revenge of wrongs, to dare and die!
The Martyr of Alexandria.
By James W. Simmons, of Texas.
Revealed, as in a lightning flash, A hero stood! The invading foe, the trumpet's crash, Set up his blood.
High o'er the sacred pile that bends Those forms above, Thy star, O Freedom! brightly blends Its rays with love.
The banner of a mighty race, Serenely there, Unfurls the genius of the place, In haunted air.
A vow is registered in Heaven! Patriot! 'tis thine! To guard those matchless colors, given By hands divine.
Jackson! thy spirit may not hear Our wail ascend; A nation gathers round thy bier, And mourns its friend.
The example is thy monument, And organ tones Thy name resound, with glory blent, Prouder than thrones!
And they whose loss hath been our gain, A people's cares Shall win their wounded hearts from pain, And wipe their tears.
When time shall set the captives free, Now scathed by wrath, Heirs of his immortality, Bright be their path.
The Blessed Union--Epigram.
Doubtless to some, with length of ears, To gratify an ape's desire, The blessed Union still endears;-- The stripes, if not the stars, be theirs! "Greek faith" they gave us eighty years, And then--"Greek fire!" But, better all their fires of scath Than one hour's trust in Yankee faith!
The Fire of Freedom.
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 springs 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 arms 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!"
Hymn to the National Flag.
By Mrs. M. J. Preston.
Float aloft, thou stainless banner! Azure cross and field of light; Be thy brilliant stars the symbol Of the pure and true and right. Shelter freedom's holy cause-- Liberty and sacred laws; Guard the youngest of the nations-- Keep her virgin honor bright.
From Virginia's storied border, Down to Tampa's furthest shore-- From the blue Atlantic's clashings To the Rio Grande's roar-- Over many a crimson plain, Where our martyred ones lie slain-- Fling abroad thy blessed shelter, Stream and mount and valley o'er.
In thy cross of heavenly azure Has our faith its emblem high; In thy field of white, the hallow'd Truth for which we'll dare and die; In thy red, the patriot blood-- Ah! the consecrated flood. Lift thyself, resistless banner! Ever fill our Southern sky!
Flash with living, lightning motion In the sight of all the brave! Tell the price at which we purchased Room and right for thee to wave Freely in our God's free air, Pure and proud and stainless fair, Banner of the youngest nation-- Banner we would die to save!
Strike Thou for us! King of armies! Grant us room in Thy broad world! Loosen all the despot's fetters, Back be all his legions hurled! Give us peace and liberty, Let the land we love be free-- Then, oh! bright and stainless banner! Never shall thy folds be furled!
Sonnet--Moral of Party
Charleston Mercury.
The moral of a party--if it be That healthy States need parties, lies in this, That we consider well what race it is, And what the germ that first has made it free. That germ must constitute the living tie That binds its generations to the end, Change measures if it need, or policy, But neither break the principle, nor bend. Each race hath its own nature--fixed, defined, By Heaven, and if its principle be won, Kept changeless as the progress of the sun, It mocks at storm and rage, at sea and wind, And grows to consummation, as the tree, Matured, that ever grew in culture free.
Our Faith in '61.
By A. J. Requier.
"That governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed: that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as TO THEM SHALL SEEM most likely to effect their safety and happiness."--[Declaration of Independence, July 4, '76.]
Not yet one hundred years have flown Since on this very spot, The subjects of a sovereign throne-- Liege-master of their lot-- This high degree sped o'er the sea, From council-board and tent, "No earthly power can rule the free But by their own consent!"
For this, they fought as Saxons fight, On bloody fields and long-- Themselves the champions of the right, And judges of the wrong; For this their stainless knighthood wore The branded rebel's name, Until the starry cross they bore Set all the skies aflame!
And States co-equal and distinct Outshone the western sun, By one great charter interlinked-- Not blended into one; Whose graven key that high decree The grand inscription lent, "No earthly power can rule the free But by their own consent!"
Oh! sordid age! Oh! ruthless rage! Oh! sacrilegious wrong! A deed to blast the record page, And snap the strings of song; In that great charter's name, a band By grovelling greed enticed, Whose warrant is the grasping hand Of creeds without a Christ--
States that have trampled every pledge Its crystal code contains, Now give their swords a keener edge To harness it with chains-- To make a bond of brotherhood The sanction and the seal, By which to arm a rabble brood With fratricidal steel.
Who, conscious that their cause is black, In puling prose and rhyme, Talk hatefully of love, and tack Hypocrisy to crime; Who smile and smite, engross the gorge Or impotently frown; And call us "rebels" with King George, As if they wore his crown!
Most venal of a venal race, Who think you cheat the sky With every pharisaic face And simulated lie; Round Freedom's lair, with weapons bare, We greet the light divine Of those who throned the goddess there, And yet inspire the shrine!
Our loved ones' graves are at our feet, Their homesteads at our back-- No belted Southron can retreat With women on his track; Peal, bannered host, the proud decree Which from your fathers went, "No earthly power can rule the free But by their own consent!"
Wouldst Thou Have Me Love Thee.
By Alex B. Meek.
Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest, With a woman's proudest heart, Which shall ever hold thee nearest, Shrined in its inmost heart? Listen, then! My country's calling On her sons to meet the foe! Leave these groves of rose and myrtle; Drop thy dreamy harp of love! Like young Korner--scorn the turtle, When the eagle screams above!
Dost thou pause?--Let dastards dally-- Do thou for thy country fight! 'Neath her noble emblem rally-- "God, our country, and our right!" Listen! now her trumpet's calling On her sons to meet the foe! Woman's heart is soft and tender, But 'tis proud and faithful too: Shall she be her land's defender? Lover! Soldier! up and do!
Seize thy father's ancient falchion, Which once flashed as freedom's star! Till sweet peace--the bow and halcyon, Stilled the stormy strife of war. Listen! now thy country's calling On her sons to meet her foe! Sweet is love in moonlight bowers! Sweet the altar and the flame! Sweet the spring-time with her flowers! Sweeter far the patriot's name!
Should the God who smiles above thee, Doom thee to a soldier's grave, Hearts will break, but fame will love thee, Canonized among the brave! Listen, then! thy country's calling On her sons to meet the foe! Rather would I view thee lying On the last red field of strife, 'Mid thy country's heroes dying, Than become a dastard's wife!
Enlisted To-Day.
I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing, And summer sends kisses by beautiful May-- Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing, And think--my boy Willie enlisted to-day.
It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming, I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine, While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming Of father, adown the street's indistinct line.
It is many a year since my Harry departed, To come back no more in the twilight or dawn; And Robby grew weary of watching, and started Alone on the journey his father had gone.
It is many a year--and this afternoon sitting At Robby's old window, I heard the band play, And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting, To recollect Willie is twenty to-day.
And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning, The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke, I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning, And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke:
"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing, They would trample the rights of the South in the dust; The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going--" He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh, say if I must!"
I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking, My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away, And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking-- Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day!"
I sit in the window, and see the flags flying, And drearily list to the roll of the drum, And smother the pain in my heart that is lying, And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb.
I shall sit in the window when summer is lying Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing, And watch for the face of my darling to come.
And if he should fall--his young life he has given For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day.
My Maryland.
Written at Pointe Coupee, LA., April 26, 1861. First Published in the New Orleans Delta.
The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland! My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! My Maryland!
Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland!
Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Remember Howard's warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland! My Maryland!
Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come! with thy panoplied array, Maryland! With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, With Watson's blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland! My Maryland!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come! to thine own heroic throng, That stalks with Liberty along, And ring thy dauntless Slogan-song, Maryland! My Maryland!
Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland!
_She_ meets her sisters on the plain-- "_Sic semper,_" 'tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland!
I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek-- Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland!
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland! The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb-- Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come! Maryland! My Maryland!
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 with my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old!
The Good Old Cause.
By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.
I.
Huzza! huzza! for the _Good Old Cause_, 'Tis a stirring sound to hear, For it tells of rights and liberties, Our fathers bought so dear; It brings up the _Jersey prison-ship_, The spot where _Warren_ fell, And the scaffold which echoes the dying words Of _murdered Hayne's_ farewell.
II.
The _Good Old Cause!_ it is still the same Though age upon age may roll; 'Tis the cause of _the right_ against _the wrong_, Burning bright in each generous soul; 'Tis the cause of all who claim to live As freemen on Freedom's sod; Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons, By Tyranny's heel down-trod.
III.
And whoever burns with a holy zeal, To behold his country free, And would sooner see her _baptized in blood_, Than to bend the suppliant knee; Must agree to follow her _White-Cross flag_, Where the storms of battle roll, _A soldier_--A SOLDIER!--with _arms in his hands_, And the _love of the South in his soul!_
IV.
Come one, come all, at your country's call, Let none remain behind, But those too young, and those too old, The feeble, the halt, the blind; Let _every man_, whether rich or poor, Who can carry a knapsack and gun, Repair to the ranks of our Southern host, 'Till the cause of the South is won.
V.
But the son of the South, if such there be, Who will shrink from the contest now, From a love of ease, or the lust of gain, Or through fear of the Yankee foe; May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand, As though it was soiled for aye, And may every woman turn her cheek From his craven lips away; May his country's curse be on his head, And may no man ever see, A gentle bride by the traitor's side, Or children about his knee.
VI.
Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause, 'Tis a stirring sound to hear; For it tells of rights and liberties, Our fathers bought so dear; It summons our braves from their bloody graves. To receive our fond applause, And bids us tread in the steps of those Who _died_ for the _Good Old Cause_.
Manassas.
By Catherine M. Warfield.
They have met at last--as storm-clouds meet in heaven; And the Northmen, back and bleeding, have been driven: And their thunders have been stilled, And their leaders crushed or killed, And their ranks, with terror thrilled, rent and riven!