V.

Your battered den, your shattered nest, Was but the lion's crouching-place;-- It heard his roar, and bore his crest, His, or the eagle's place of rest;-- But not the soul in either breast! This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd, To save and to avenge their race!

Charleston Mercury.

Morris Island.

By W. Gilmore Simms.

Oh! from the deeds well done, the blood well shed In a good cause springs up to crown the land With ever-during verdure, memory fed, Wherever freedom rears one fearless band, The genius, which makes sacred time and place, Shaping the grand memorials of a race!

The barren rock becomes a monument, The sea-shore sands a shrine; And each brave life, in desperate conflict spent, Grows to a memory which prolongs a line!

Oh! barren isle--oh! fruitless shore, Oh! realm devoid of beauty--how the light From glory's sun streams down for evermore, Hallowing your ancient barrenness with bright!

Brief dates, your lowly forts; but full of glory, Worthy a life-long story; Remembered, to be chronicled and read, When all your gallant garrisons are dead; And to be sung While liberty and letters find a tongue!

Taught by the grandsires at the ingle-blaze, Through the long winter night; Pored over, memoried well, in winter days, While youthful admiration, with delight, Hangs, breathless, o'er the tale, with silent praise; Seasoning delight with wonder, as he reads Of stubborn conflict and audacious deeds; Watching the endurance of the free and brave, Through the protracted struggle and close fight, Contending for the lands they may not save, Against the felon, and innumerous foe; Still struggling, though each rampart proves a grave. For home, and all that's dear to man below!

Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow; But still undaunted, with a martyr's might, They make for man a new Thermopylæ; And, perishing for freedom, still go free! Let but each humble islet of our coast Thus join the terrible issue to the last; And never shall the invader make his boast Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast!

Promise of Spring.

The sun-beguiling breeze, From the soft Cuban seas, With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers; And lo! our city elms, Have plumed with buds their helms, And, with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers.

The promise of the Spring, Is in every glancing wing That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the flight; And mocking Winter's glooms, Skies, air and earth grow blooms, With change as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night!

Ah! could our hearts but share The promise rich and rare, That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress, That makes each innocent thing Put on its bloom and wing, Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless!

But, alas for us, no more Shall the coming hour rescore The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls; Even as the Spring appears, Her smiling makes our tears, While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.

Even as our zephyrs sing That they bring us in the Spring, Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight-- We see the serpent crawl, With his slimy coat o'er all, And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.

We shudder at the blooms, Which but serve to cover tombs-- At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath; Sad shapes look out from trees, And in sky and earth and breeze, We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!

South Carolinian.

Spring.

By Henry Timrod.

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side appears the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of Autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay.

In gardens you may see, amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows need must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate.

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say "Behold me! I am May!"

Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime With such a blessed time! Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath Could hear the call of Death!

Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake The voice of wood and brake, Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms A million men to arms.

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains Than all her sunlight rains, And every gladdening influence around Can summon from the ground.

Oh! standing on this desecrated mould, Methinks that I behold, Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, Spring, kneeling on the sod,

And calling with the voice of all her rills Upon the ancient hills, To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves Who turn her meads to graves.

Chickmauga--"The Stream of Death."

Richmond Senitnel.

Chickamuga! Chickamauga! O'er thy dark and turbid wave Rolls the death-cry of the daring, Rings the war-shout of the brave; Round thy shore the red fires flashing, Startling shot and screaming shell-- Chickamauga, stream of battle, Who thy fearful tale shall tell?

Olden memories of horror, Sown by scourge of deadly plague, Long hath clothed thy circling forests With a terror vast and vague; Now to gather further vigor From the phantoms grim with gore, Hurried, by war's wilder carnage, To their graves on thy lone shore.

Long, with hearts subdued and saddened, As th' oppressor's hosts moved on, Fell the arms of freedom backward, Till our hopes had almost flown; Till outspoke stern valor's fiat-- "_Here_ th' invading wave shall stay; _Here_ shall cease the foe's proud progress; _Here_ be crushed his grand array!"

_Then_ their eager hearts all throbbing, Backward flashed each battle-flag Of the veteran corps of Longstreet, And the sturdy troops of Bragg; Fierce upon the foemen turning, All their pent-up wrath breaks out In the furious battle-clangor, And the frenzied battle-shout.

Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga, Trembles all thy ghastly shore, With the rude shock of the onset, And the tumult's horrid roar; As the Southern battle-giants Hurl their bolts of death along, Breckenridge, the iron-hearted, Cheatham, chivalric and strong:

Polk Preston--gallant Buckner, Hill and Hindman, strong in might, Cleburne, flower of manly valor, Hood, the Ajax of the fight; Benning, bold and hardy warrior, Fearless, resolute Kershaw; Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt, Volley fierce and wild hurrah!

At the volleys bleed their bodies, At the fierce shout rise their souls, While the fiery wave of vengeance On their quailing column rolls; And the parched throats of the stricken Breathe for air the roaring flame, Horrors of that hell foretasted, Who shall ever dare to name!

Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled, Paid, upon that bloody field, Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage To the sword our heroes yield; And who felt, by fiery trial, That the men who will be free. Though in conflict baffled often, Ever will unconquered be!

Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us, Dealing desolation round, Marking, with the tracks of ruin, Many a rood of Southern ground; Yet, whatever course they follow, _Somewhere_ in their pathway flows, Dark and deep, a Chickamauga, _Stream of death_ to vandal foes!

They have found it darkly flowing By Manassas' famous plain, And by rushing Shenandoah Met the tide of woe again; Chickahominy, immortal, By the long, ensanguined fight, Rappahannock, glorious river, Twice renowned for matchless fight.

Heed the story, dastard spoilers, Mark the tale these waters tell, Ponder well your fearful lesson, And the doom that there befell; Learn to shun the Southern vengeance, Sworn upon the votive sword, "_Every_ stream a Chickamauga To the vile invading horde!"

In Memoriam

Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General Confederate States Army.

Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done, This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended: There is no more--eternity begun, Faith merged in sight--hope with fruition blended. Peace, troubled soul! The Warrior rests upon his bier, Within his coffin calmly sleeping. His requiem the cannon peals, And heroes of a hundred fields Their last sad watch are round him keeping.

Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling; Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale, Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling. Joy, sainted soul! Back to her altar which he served, The Holy Church her child is bringing. The organ's wail then dies away, And kneeling priests around him pray, As _De Profundis_ they are singing.

Bring all the trophies, that are owed To him at once so great, so good. His Bible and his well-used sword-- His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!" No! pure as when before his God, He laid its spotless folds aside, War's path of awful duty trod, And on his country's altar died!

Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State Sustain in thee an equal loss; But who would call thee from thy weight Of glory, back to bear life's cross! The Faith was kept--thy course was run, Thy good fight finished; hence the word, "Well done, oh! faithful child, well done, Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!"

No dull decay nor lingering pain, By slow degrees, consumed thy health, A glowing messenger of flame Translated thee by fiery death! And we who in one common grief Are bending now beneath the rod, In this sweet thought may find relief, "Our holy father walked with God, And is not--God has taken him!"

Viola.

"Stonewall" Jackson

By H. L. Flash.

Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fight Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low!

His warrior soul its earthly shackles bore In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause, went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recording all his grand heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with his wound, And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the nation's "Promised Land," At the red belching of the cannon's mouth; But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand-- The Moses of the South!

Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss: A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown; And while his country staggers with the cross-- He rises with the crown!

"Stonewall" Jackson.--A Dirge.

Go to thy rest, great chieftain! In the zenith of thy fame; With the proud heart stilled and frozen, No foeman e'er could tame; With the eye that met the battle As the eagle's meets the sun, Rayless-beneath its marble lid, Repose-thou mighty one!

Yet ill our cause could spare thee; And harsh the blow of fate That struck its staunchest pillar From 'neath our dome of state. Of thee, as of the Douglas, We say, with Scotland's king, "There is not one to take his place In all the knightly ring."

Thou wert the noblest captain Of all that martial host That front the haughty Northman, And put to shame his boast. Thou wert the strongest bulwark To stay the tide of fight; The name thy soldiers gave thee Bore witness of thy might!

But we may not weep above thee; This is no time for tears! Thou wouldst not brook their shedding, Oh! saint among thy peers! Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven, Above us smiling spread, Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief, On the blood-stained path we tread!

Not--while our homes in ashes Lie smouldering on the sod! Not--while our houseless women Send up wild wails to God! Not--while the mad fanatic Strews ruin on his track! _Dare_ any Southron give the rein To feeling, and look back!

No! Still the cry is "onward!" This is no time for tears; No I Still the word is "vengeance!" Leave ruth for coming years. We will snatch thy glorious banner From thy dead and stiffening hand, And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm, We'll bear it through the land.

And all who mark it streaming-- Oh! soldier of the cross!-- Shall gird them with a fresh resolve Sternly to avenge our loss; Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr, Thy sacred mission shown, Shalt lay the record of our wrongs Before the Eternal throne!

Beaufort.

By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina.

Old home! what blessings late were yours; The gifts of peace, the songs of joy! Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores, To ravage and destroy.

The Northman comes no longer there, With soft address and measured phrase, With bated breath, and sainted air, And simulated praise.

He comes a vulture to his prey; A wolf to raven in your streets: Around on shining stream and bay Gather his bandit fleets.

They steal the pittance of the poor; Pollute the precincts of the dead; Despoil the widow of her store,-- The orphan of his bread.

Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood, No Christian land has known before; Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood, To sweep them from the shore!

Exiles from home, your people fly, In adverse fortune's hardest school; With swelling breast and flashing eye-- They scorn the tyrant's rule!

Away, from all their joys away, The sports that active youth engage; The scenes where childhood loves to play, The resting-place of age.

Away, from fertile field and farm; The oak-fringed island-homes that seem To sit like swans, with matchless charm, On sea-born sound and stream.

Away, from palm-environed coast, The beach that ocean beats in vain; The Royal Port, your pride and boast, The loud-resounding main.

Away, from orange groves that glow With golden fruit or snowy flowers, Roses that never cease to blow, Myrtle and jasmine bowers.

From these afar, the hoary bead Of feeble age, the timid maid, Mothers and nurslings, all have fled, Of ruthless foes afraid.

But, ready, with avenging hand, By wood and fen, in ambush lie Your sons, a stern, determined band, Intent to do or die.

Whene'er the foe advance to dare The onset, urged by hate and wrath, Still have they found, aghast with fear, A Lion in the path.

Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush, Their shattered ranks to shield and save, And learn how hard a task to crush The spirit of the brave.

Oh, God! Protector of the right, The widows' stay, the orphans' friend, Restrain the rage of lawless might, The wronged and crushed defend!

Be guide and helper, sword and shield! From hill and vale, where'er they roam, Bring back the yeoman to his field, The exile to his home!

Pastors and scattered flocks restore; Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise; And let their quivering lips once more Rejoice in songs of praise!

The Empty Sleeve.

By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia.

Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see The sleeve hanging loose at your side The arm you lost was worth to me Every Yankee that ever died. But you don't mind it at all; You swear you've a beautiful stump, And laugh at that damnable ball-- Tom, I knew you were always a trump.

A good right arm, a nervy hand, A wrist as strong as a sapling oak, Buried deep in the Malverri sand-- To laugh at that, is a sorry joke. Never again your iron grip Shall I feel in my shrinking palm-- Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip; All within is not so calm.

Well! the arm is gone, it is true; But the one that is nearest the heart Is left--and that's as good as two; Tom, old fellow, what makes you start? Why, man, _she_ thinks that empty sleeve A badge of honor; so do I, And all of us:--I do believe The fellow is going to cry!

"She deserves a perfect man," you say; "You were not worth her in your prime:" Tom! the arm that has turned to clay, Your whole body has made sublime; For you have placed in the Malvern earth The proof and pledge of a noble life-- And the rest, henceforward of higher worth, Will be dearer than all to your wife.

I see the people in the street Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes; And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet As homage shown in mute surmise. Bravely your arm in battle strove, Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it; It has perished--but a nation's love In proud remembrance will save it.

Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith-- You're a fool for staying so long-- Woman's love you'll find no myth, But a truth; living, tender, strong. And when around her slender belt Your left is clasped in fond embrace, Your right will thrill, as if it felt, In its grave, the usurper's place.

As I look through the coming years, I see a one-armed married man; A little woman, with smiles and tears, Is helping--as hard as she can To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve, Tie his cravat, and cut his food; And I say, as these fancies I weave, "That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."

The years roll on, and then I see A wedding picture, bright and fair; I look closer, and its plain to me That is Tom with the silver hair. He gives away the lovely bride, And the guests linger, loth to leave The house of him in whom they pride-- "Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."

The Cotton-Burners' Hymn.

"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--_Memphis Appeal._