XI.

Let Christendom cower 'neath Stripes and Stars, Cloaking her shame under legal bars, Not too moral for traffic, but shirking wars, While the Southern cross, floating topmast high. Though torn, perchance, by a thousand scars, Shall light up the midnight sky!

Melt the Bells.

F. Y. Rockett.--Memphis Appeal.

The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon.

Melt the bells, melt the bells, Still the tinkling on the plains, And transmute the evening chimes Into war's resounding rhymes, That the invaders may be slain By the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells, That for years have called to prayer, And, instead, the cannon's roar Shall resound the valleys o'er, That the foe may catch despair From the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells, Though it cost a tear to part With the music they have made, Where the friends we love are laid, With pale cheek and silent heart, 'Neath the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells, Into cannon, vast and grim, And the foe shall feel the ire From each heaving lungs of fire, And we'll put our trust in Him And the bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells, And when foes no more attack, And the lightning cloud of war Shall roll thunderless and far, We will melt the cannon back Into bells.

Melt the bells, melt the bells, And they'll peal a sweeter chime, And remind of all the brave Who have sunk to glory's grave, And will sleep thro' coming time 'Neath the bells.

John Pelham.

By James R. Randall.

Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer; In the bright April of historic life Fell the great cannoneer.

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath His bleeding country weeps-- Hushed in the alabaster arms of death, Our young Marcellus sleeps.

Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome, Curbing his chariot steeds; The knightly scion of a Southern home Dazzled the land with deeds.

Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt, The champion of the truth, He bore his banner to the very front Of our immortal youth.

A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, The fiery pang of shells-- And there's a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells.

The pennon drops that led the sacred band Along the crimson field; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand Over the spotless shield.

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face While 'round the lips and eyes, Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise.

Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed-- Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, Among the Southern dead.

How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown-- He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath Twining the victor's crown!

"Ye Batteries of Beauregard."

By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall; Bid the shock of your deep thunder On their fleet in terror fall: Rain your storm of leaden fury On the black invading host-- Teach them that their step shall never Press on Carolina's coast.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" Sound the story of our wrong; Let your tocsin wake the spirit Of a people brave and strong; Her proud names of old remember-- Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene; Swell the roll whose deeds of glory Side by side with theirs are seen.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" From Savannah on them frown; By the majesty of Heaven Strike their "grand armada" down; By the blood of many a freeman, By each dear-bought battle-field, By the hopes we fondly cherish, Never ye the victory yield.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" All along our Southern coast, Let, in after-time, your triumphs, Be a nation's pride and boast; Send each missile with a greeting To the vile, ungodly crew; Make them feel they ne'er can conquer People to themselves so true.

"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" By the glories of the past, By the memory of old Sumter, Whose renown will ever last, Speed upon their vaunted legions Volleys thick of shot and shell, Bid them welcome, in your glory, To their own appointed hell.

"When Peace Returns."

Published in the Granada Picket.

By Olivia Tully Thomas.

When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front," And meek-eyed peace returning, Has brightened hearts that long were wont To sigh in grief and mourning-- How blissful then will be the day When, from the wars returning, The weary soldier wends his way To dear ones that are yearning,

To clasp in true love's fond embrace, To gaze with looks so tender Upon the war-worn form and face Of Liberty's defender; To count with pride each cruel scar, That mars the manly beauty, Of him who proved so brave in war, So beautiful in duty.

When peace returns, throughout our land, Glad shouts of welcome render The gallant few of Freedom's band Whose cry was "no surrender;" Who battled bravely to be free From tyranny's oppressions, And won, for Southern chivalry, The homage of all nations!

And when, again, in Southern bowers The ray of peace is shining, Her maidens gather fairest flowers, And honor's wreaths are twining, To bind the brows victorious On many a field so gory, Whose names, renowned and glorious, Shall live in song and story,

Then will affection's tear be shed, And pity, joy restraining, For those, the lost, lamented dead, Are all beyond our plaining; They fell in manhood's prime and might; And we should not weep the story That tells of Fame, a sacred light, Above each grave of glory!

The Right above the Wrong.

By John W. Overall.

In other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and free, For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea; They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song, For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong.

But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea, The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea; And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might, That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right.

The King sent over hireling hosts--the Briton, Hessian, Scot-- And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot; While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng, And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place given to the Wrong.

But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's sword was out, With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's thunder-shout; And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight, But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right!

And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea, To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free, Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long, And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong.

And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew, But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue; For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight, And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right!

The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South, To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon's mouth; For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song, Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong.

But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool, Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule; We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night, And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right.

Carmen Triumphale.

By Henry Timrod.

Go forth and bid the land rejoice, Yet not too gladly, oh my song! Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong The solemn rapture of thy voice.

Be nothing lightly done or said This happy day! Our joy should flow Accordant with the lofty woe That wails above the noble dead.

Let him whose brow and breast were calm While yet the battle lay with God, Look down upon the crimson sod And gravely wear his mournful palm;

And him, whose heart still weak from fear Beats all too gayly for the time, Know that intemperate glee is crime While one dead hero claims a tear.

Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill, With sober joy, the troubled days; A nation's hymn of grateful praise May not be hushed for private ill.

Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! The mighty tidings far and nigh! Ye cities! write them on the sky In purple and in emerald fires!

They came with many a haughty boast; Their threats were heard on every breeze; They darkened half the neighboring seas, And swooped like vultures on the coast.

False recreants in all knightly strife, Their way was wet with woman's tears; Behind them flamed the toil of years, And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life.

They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves; God gave the dastards to our hands; Their bones are bleaching on the sands, Or mouldering slow in shallow graves.

What though we hear about our path The heavens with howls of vengeance rent; The venom of their hate is spent; We need not heed their fangless wrath.

Meantime the stream they strove to chain Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, And rushes onward to the main;

While down the swelling current glides Our ship of state before the blast, With streamers poured from every mast, Her thunders roaring from her sides.

Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, And speed her to the ports of peace!

The Fiend Unbound.

Charleston Mercury.