Chapter 7

And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death, Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath; But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high, On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die; But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three, Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee!

X.

Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be, That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free; That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky. And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die; For His fiat hath gone forth, e'en among the Hessian horde, That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord.

XI.

Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God, That He hath met the Southron's foe and scourged him with His rod; That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might, And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight; Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim, We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name.

Vicksburg--A Ballad.

By Paul H. Hayne.

I.

For sixty days and upwards, A storm of shell and shot Rained 'round us 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 the ramparts of the dead!"

II.

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 ingulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair.

III.

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.

IV.

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

V.

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, From scores of flame-clad ships, And about 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.

VI.

But the unseen hands of angels Those death-shafts turned 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 trode with the step of hope, To the music in their hearts.

Columbia, S.C., August 6, 1862.

A Ballad of the War.

Published Originally in the Southern Field and Fireside,

By George Herbert Sass, of Charleston, S.C.

Watchman, what of the night? Through the city's darkening street, Silent and slow, the guardsmen go On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down, Falleth the wintry rain; And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows, The sleet falls heavy and chill, And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.

Silent is all without, Save the sentry's challenge grim, And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town, And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night? Hark! from the old church-tower Rings loud and clear, on the misty air, The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in, A summons deep and rude, The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum Of a gathering multitude.

And the dim and flickering torch Sheds a red and lurid glare, O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard: "Rest on your arms, my men." Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes Gaze down on that grim array, For a rumor hath spread that that column dread Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels," Whose camp lies heavy and still, Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint, As she thinks of her darling one, Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too, Is the cheek of the fair young wife; And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons, Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is, There is each loving heart; And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze, And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp, None from that anxious throng? Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town-- The way is dark and long.

No _man_ is left behind, None that is brave and true, And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light With menace stern shine through.

Guarded is every street, Brutal the hireling foe; Is there one heart here will boldly dare So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room, Alone a woman kneels, With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face, And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow, A matron, she, and fair, Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer Her pale lips move, and then, Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way, Through the lonely, misty street, Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, aye, onward still, Far past the weary town, Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on, Breasting the cold, dank rain, And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears A dull and muffled tramp, But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam Shines out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge, Her work of love is done; She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, Who saved from a ruthless foe Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic How a noble Scottish maid Her own life gave, her king to save From the foul assassin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor, Shall live in lasting fame, Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children Shall cluster round our knee, With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days When we swore that we would be free,

We'll tell them the thrilling story, And we'll say to each childish heart, "By this gallant deed, at thy country's need, Be ready to do thy part."

The Two Armies.

By Henry Timrod.

Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath: One, facing battle, blight, and blast, Through twice a hundred fields has passed; Its deeds against a ruffian foe, Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know, Till every wind that sweeps the land Goes, glory-laden, from the strand.

The other, with a narrower scope, Yet led by not less grand a hope, Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, And wears its fame with meeker grace. Wives march beneath its glittering sign, Fond mothers swell the lovely line: And many a sweetheart hides her blush In the young patriot's generous flush.

No breeze of battle ever fanned The colors of that tender band; Its office is beside the bed, Where throbs some sick or wounded head. It does not court the soldier's tomb, But plies the needle and the loom; And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, Supplies a struggling nation's needs.

Nor is that army's gentle might Unfelt amid the deadly fight; It nerves the son's, the husband's hand, It points the lover's fearless brand; It thrills the languid, warms the cold, Gives even new courage to the bold; And sometimes lifts the veriest clod To its own lofty trust in God.

When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, And bid this weary warfare cease, Their several missions nobly done, The triumph grasped, and freedom won, Both armies, from their toils at rest, Alike may claim the victor's crest, But each shall see its dearest prize Gleam softly from the other's eyes.

The Legion of Honor.

By H.L. Flash.

Why are we forever speaking Of the warriors of old? Men are fighting all around us, Full as noble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving, Mind and muscle, heart and soul, With the reins of judgment keeping Passions under full control.

Noble hearts are beating boldly As they ever did on earth; Swordless heroes are around us, Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses, Building up the purer laws, Scattering the dust of ages, Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no "right divine" In kings and princes from the rest; In their creed he is the noblest Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them-- Diamond stars they laugh to scorn-- Each will wear a "Cross of Honor" On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom-- Like the noble Hebrew youth, Striking down Goliath's error With the God-blessed stone of truth.

Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner, Forward rush these volunteers, Beating olden wrong away From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them, But the _coming_ times will say (Speaking of the slandered present), "There were heroes in that day."

Why are we then idly lying On the roses of our life, While the noble-hearted struggle In the world-redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion, Ever foremost in the fray-- Battling in the name of Progress For the nobler, purer day.

Clouds in the West.

By A. J. Requier, of Alabama.

Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West A manly shout for instant succor comes, From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast, With rage-indented drums!

Who dare for child, wife, country--stream and strand, Though but a fraction to the swarming foe, There--at the flooded gateways of the land, To stem a torrent's flow.

To arms! brave sons of each embattled State, Whose queenly standard is a Southern star: Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate On Freedom's victor-car!

Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum Of craven traffic for the mustering clan: The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come And prove yourself--a man.

That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes-- God! can you live to see a foreign thief Contaminate its roses?

Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan; Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave, Or claims to be a man!

Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West A manly shout for instant succor comes, From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast. With rage-indented drums!

Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din, Where still your battle-flags unbended wave, Dying for what your fathers died to win And you must fight to save.

Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep, Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar; The very waves are marshalling on the deep, While tempests tread the shore.

Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land Shall burial only yield a bandit foe; Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand, And strike the fated blow.

Georgia, My Georgia!

By Carrie Bell Sinclair.

Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar, That sounds along thy sunny shore, And thou shalt lie in chains no more, My wounded, bleeding Georgia! Then arm each youth and patriot sire, Light up the patriotic fire, And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire, Who strike for thee, my Georgia

On thee is laid oppression's hand, Around thy altars foemen stand, To scatter freedom's gallant band, And lay thee low, my Georgia! But thou hast noble sons, and brave, The Stars and Bars above thee wave, And here we'll make oppression's grave, Upon the soil of Georgia!

We bow at Liberty's fair shrine, And kneel in holy love at thine, And while above our stars still shine, We'll strike for them and Georgia!

Thy woods with victory shall resound, Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned, And peace shall spread her wings around My own, my sunny Georgia!

Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel That Southern hearts, and Southern steel, Will make them in submission kneel Before the sons of Georgia! And thou shalt see thy daughters, too, With pride and patriotism true, Arise with strength to dare and do, Ere they shall conquer Georgia.

Thy name shall be a name of pride-- Thy heroes all have nobly died, That thou mayst be the spotless bride Of Liberty, my Georgia! Then wave thy sword and banner high, And louder raise the battle-cry, 'Till shouts of victory reach the sky, And thou art free, my Georgia!

Song of the Texas Rangers.

Air--_The Yellow Rose of Texas_.

The morning star is paling, The camp-fires flicker low, Our steeds are madly neighing, For the bugle bids us go. So put the foot in stirrup, And shake the bridle free, For to-day the Texas Rangers Must cross the Tennessee,

With Wharton for our leader, We'll chase the dastard foe, Till our horses bathe their fetlocks In the deep blue Ohio. Our men are from the prairies, That roll broad and proud and free, From the high and craggy mountains To the murmuring Mexic' sea; And their hearts are open as their plains, Their thoughts as proudly brave As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard, Or the Gulf's resistless wave.

Then quick! into the saddle, And shake the bridle free, To-day, with gallant Wharton, We cross the Tennessee.

'Tis joy to be a Ranger! To fight for dear Southland; 'Tis joy to follow Wharton, With his gallant, trusty band! 'Tis joy to see our Harrison, Plunge like a meteor bright Into the thickest of the fray, And deal his deathly might.

Oh! who'd not be a Ranger, And follow Wharton's cry! To battle for his country-- And, if it needs be--die!

By the Colorado's waters, On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore, On our soft green peaceful prairies Are the homes we may see no more; But in those homes our gentle wives, And mothers with silv'ry hairs, Are loving us with tender hearts, And shielding us with prayers.

So, trusting in our country's God, We draw our stout, good brand, For those we love at home, Our altars and our land.

Up, up with the crimson battle-flag-- Let the blue pennon fly; Our steeds are stamping proudly-- They hear the battle-cry! The thundering bomb, the bugle's call, Proclaim the foe is near; We strike for God and native land, And all we hold most dear.

Then spring into the saddle, And shake the bridle free-- For Wharton leads, through fire and blood, For Home and Victory!

Kentucky Required to Yield Her Arms.

By----Boone.

Ho! will the despot trifle, In dwellings of the free; Kentuckians yield the rifle, Kentuckians bend the knee! With dastard fear of danger, And trembling at the strife; Kentucky, to the stranger, Yield liberty for life! Up! up! each gallant ranger, With rifle and with knife!

The bastard and the traitor, The wolfcub and the snake, The robber, swindler, hater, Are in your homes--awake! Nor let the cunning foeman Despoil your liberty; Yield weapon up to no man, While ye can strike and see, Awake, each gallant yeoman, If still ye would be free!

Aye, see to sight the rifle, And smite with spear and knife, Let no base cunning stifle Each lesson of your life: How won your gallant sires The country which ye keep? By soul, which still inspires The soil on which ye weep! Leap up! their spirit fires, And rouse ye from your sleep!

"What!" cry the sires so famous, In Orleans' ancient field, "Will ye, our children, shame us, And to the despot yield? What! each brave lesson stifle We left to give you life? Let apish despots trifle With home and child and wife? And yield, O shame! the rifle, And sheathe, O shame! the knife?"

"There's Life in the Old Land Yet."

First Published in the New Orleans Delta, about September 1, 1861.

By blue Patapsco's billowy dash The tyrant's war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal's fitful clash And the growl of his sullen drums; We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget-- There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead, We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred-- We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There's faith in the victor's stainless sword, "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane; And we--though we smite not--are not thralls, We are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry's dungeon walls "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Our women, have hung their harps away And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day In their dear defiant hands; They will strip their tresses to string our bows Ere the Northern sun is set-- There's faith in their unrelenting woes-- "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, 'Tis vocal without noise; It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains From the blood of the Maryland boys. That blood shall cry aloud and rise With an everlasting threat-- By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Tell the Boys the War Is Ended.

By Emily J. Moore.

While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the boys the war is ended."

"Tell the boys the war is ended," These were all the words he said; "Tell the boys the war is ended," In an instant more was dead.

Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful Was the smile upon his face, While the pain, of late so fearful, Had not left the slightest trace.

"Tell the boys the war is ended," And with heavenly visions bright Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, As his spirit took its flight. "Tell the boys the war is ended," "Grant, 0 God, it may be so," Was the prayer which then ascended, In a whisper deep, though low.

"Tell the boys the war is ended," And his warfare then was o'er, As, by angel bands attended, He departed from earth's shore. Bursting shells and cannons roaring Could not rouse him by their din; He to better worlds was soaring, Far from war, and pain, and sin.

"The Southern Cross."

By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.

Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm, More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation? Like the symbol of love and redemption its form, As it points to the haven of hope for the nation. How radiant each star, as the beacon afar, Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war! 'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain To light us to freedom and glory again!

How peaceful and blest was America's soil, 'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon, Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen. Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel, And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel! And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, To light us to freedom and glory again!

'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope, Like the sacred _Labarum_ that guided the Roman; From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope, 'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen. Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare! While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, To light us to freedom and glory again!

And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied, And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions, Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride, Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions! With our front in the field, swearing never to yield, Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield! And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave, As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!

Southern Literary Messenger.

England's Neutrality.

A Parliamentary Debate.

By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia.

All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy, Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy, Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality, And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality,

Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission, The _next_ debate in parliament on Southern Recognition; They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see, As truly as the _Times_' report, without the gift of prophecy.

Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion, But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion; Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent.

But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason, As deaf as is the _Morning Post_, both in and out of season; The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary, And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory,

"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering, While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing-- As, _par exemple_, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety, That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society.

"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em, And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em; If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?" And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer.

Enough of him--an abler man demands our close attention-- The Maximus Apollo of strict _non_-intervention-- With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone, Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston:

"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes Where many an ancient mansion stood--what though the robber pillages The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages.

"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty, Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!" (And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)?

"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish, With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish; Let universal ruin there become a sad reality: We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."