VII.

Girt with such wills to do and bear, Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, Carolina! Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! Front with thy ranks the threatening seas, Like thine own proud armorial trees, Carolina! Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, And roar the challenge from thy guns; Then leave the future to thy sons, Carolina!

My Mother-Land.

By Paul H. Hayne.

_"Animis, Opibusque Parati."_

My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze, The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas, The imperious despot's power; But long before that hour, While yet, in false and vain imagining, Thy sister nations would not own their foe, And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low, Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air; While yet they paused in scorn, Of fatal madness born,-- Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd With wondrous vision of the things to come, Thou couldst not calmly rest Secure and dumb-- But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!" "Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said; "We see no threatening tempest overhead, Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath Will sweep away, or melt in watery death."

"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom! Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day, Which shone o'er Charleston Bay-- When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed-- That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud, Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long, Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong.

But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword, Approach to desecrate The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate-- Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast Their ashes to the blast-- Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"-- Against this ravening flood Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood, Oh! we, Strong in the strength of God-supported might, Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight, Nor basely yield To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field-- But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be, To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ!

Death! What of Death?-- Can he who once drew honorable breath In liberty's pure sphere, Foster a sensual fear, When death and slavery meet him face to face, Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there, Black degradation, haunted by despair."

Death! What of Death?-- The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl Across their portion of this earthly ball, Share life and motion with us; would we strive Like such to creep alive, Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin We still might keep our mortal breathings in?

The very thought brings blushes to the cheek! I hear all 'round about me murmurs run, Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE Soul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak:

"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just! Behold, we seek Not merely to preserve for noble wives The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives, To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand, And leave our sons their heirloom of command, In generous perpetuity of trust; Not only to defend those ancient laws, Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire Welded forevermore with freedom's cause, And handed scathless down from sire to sire-- Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ, Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms, (Though these had sure sufficed To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)-- But more than all, because embracing all, Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep, From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun To him, that gallant Knight, The youngest champion in the Senate hall, Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate, His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right, Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1]

"There's not a tone from out the teeming past, Uplifted once in such a cause as ours, Which does not smite our souls In long reverberating thunder-rolls, From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story. Above the shouting, furious Persian mass, Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers, Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock; And o'er the murmurous seas, Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss, (For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last), Gome the clear accents of Miltiades, Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis.

"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus, We look for proud exemplars; yet for us It is enough to know _Our fathers left us freemen_; let us show The will to hold our lofty heritage, The patient strength to act our fathers' part-- Brothers on history's page, We wait to write our autographs in gore, To cast the morning brightness of our glory Beyond our day and hope, The narrow limit of _one_ age's scope, On Time's remotest shore!

"Yea! though our children's blood Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood, Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bear The Ark that holds our shrined liberty, Nearer, and yet more near Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea.

"At last, the conflict done, The fadeless meed of final victory won-- Behold! emerging from the rifted dark Athwart a shining summit high in heaven, That delegated Ark! No more to be by vengeful tempests driven, But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat The congregated nations gladly gaze, Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!"

Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me Its voice hath come, a passionate augury! Methinks the very aspect of the world Changed to the mystic music of its hope. For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope The stormy cloudland banners all are furled, And softly borne above Are brooding pinions of invisible love, Distilling balm of rest and tender thought From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams; And universal nature, wheresoever My vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river-- Sleeps, like a happy child, In slumber undefiled, A premonition of sublimer days, When war and warlike lays At length shall cease, Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace, Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind-- A prelude and a prophecy combined!

[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate of 1832, would be understood as _not_ pushing the comparison further than the _first_ shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no decisive advantage on either side.

Joe Johnston.

By John R. Thompson.

Once more to the breach for the land of the West! And a leader we give of our bravest and best, Of his State and his army the pride; Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, And gleams in the glaive at his side.

For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright As the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight, Newly wrought in the forges of Spain; And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right, Will never be dimmed by a stain.

He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind, Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, Where lie the fresh fields of his fame; Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind, Seem ever to whisper his name.

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, And their motto a noble distinction confers-- "Ever ready!" for friend or for foe-- With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs The large, manly heart of our JOE.

We read that a former bold chief of the clan, Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van, On Shiloh's illustrious day; And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man The dark, bloody debt to repay.

There is much to be done; if not glory to seek, There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak For crimes of a terrible dye; While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak, In a chorus rise up to the sky.

For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men, With his pack has returned to the spoil; Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen, And drive him again from your soil.

Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true, Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you Our leader had never a doubt; You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew, The day that his bugles ring out.

But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore, Where now are the rifles that kept from your door The wolf and the robber as well? Of a truth, you have never been laggard before To deal with a savage so fell.

Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold? Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold Your lives than your freedom more dear? Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, Or basely take counsel of fear?

We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand That disgraces the dastard, the slave: The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand, Her own sons her own honor shall save!

Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal, And the torrents their sources unseal; And this be the watchword of one and of all-- "Remember the butcher, McNeil!"

Then once more to the breach for the land of the West; Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best; Follow on where your leader you see; One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed, And the land of the West shall be free!

[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, 1862.]

Over the River.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861.

We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars," As one may hail a neighbor; Now forward move! no fear of jars, With nothing but free labor; And we will mind our slaves and farm, And never wish you any harm, But greet you--_over the river_.

The self-same language do we speak, The same dear words we utter; Then let's not make each other weak, Nor 'gainst each other mutter; But let each go his separate way, And each will doff his hat, and say: "I greet you--over the river!"

Our flags, almost the same, unfurl, And nod across the border; Ohio's waves between them curl-- _Our stripe's a little broader_; May yours float out on every breeze, And, _in our wake_, traverse all seas-- We greet you--over the river!

We part, as friends of years should part, With pleasant words and wishes, And no desire is in our heart For Lincoln's loaves and fishes; "Farewell," we wave you from afar, We like you best--just where you are-- And greet you--over the river!

The Confederacy.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the Southern Christian Advocated.

Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood, The pearly light of heaven was on her face; Life's early joy was coursing in her blood; A thing she was of beauty and of grace.

She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth, No voice of sympathy was heard to greet The glory-beaming morning of her birth, Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.

She stood, derided by her passing foes; Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn; Their rage in blackening billows round her rose-- Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.

Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast, She shakes them off in pure and holy ire, As quietly as Paul, in ages past, Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.

She bends not to her foes, nor to the world, She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom; But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled, She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom.

She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth, She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye, She asks of Thee her place upon the earth-- For it is Thine to give or to deny.

Oh, let _Thine_ eye but recognize her right! Oh, let _Thy_ voice but justify her claim! Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight, And all their power is but an empty name,

Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer! Her robes are dripping with her children's blood; Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare," They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood."

The anguish wraps her close around, like death, Her children lie in heaps about her slain; Before the world she bravely holds her breath, Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain.

But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed, Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan-- Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest! For Thou hast called her!--is she not Thine own?

President Davis.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the New York News, 1865.

The cell is lonely, and the night Has filled it with a darker gloom; The little rays of friendly light, Which through each crack and chink found room To press in with their noiseless feet, All merciful and fleet, And bring, like Noah's trembling dove, God's silent messages of love-- These, too, are gone, Shut out, and gone, And that great heart is left alone.

Alone, with darkness and with woe, Around him Freedom's temple lies, Its arches crushed, its columns low, The night-wind through its ruin sighs; Rash, cruel hands that temple razed, Then stood the world amazed! And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds! Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds; And yet no groan Is heard, no groan! He suffers silently, alone.

For all his bright and happy home, He has that cell, so drear and dark, The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome, The clank of chains, for song of lark; And for the grateful voice of friends-- That voice which ever lends Its charm where human hearts are found-- He hears the key's dull, grating sound; No heart is near, No kind heart near, No sigh of sympathy, no tear!

Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good! Unnumbered hearts on thee await, By thee invisibly have stood, Have crowded through thy prison-gate; Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars, Nor floating "stripes and stars," Nor glittering gun or bayonet, Can ever cause us to forget Our faith to thee, Our love to thee, Thou glorious soul! thou strong! _thou free!_

The Rifleman's "Fancy Shot."

"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet."

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead; There's music around when my barrel's in tune." Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood: A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track, When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette; For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket--'tis she! My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon. Was her husband. Hush, soldier!--'twas heaven's deer We must bury him there, by the light of the moon.

"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; War is a virtue, and weakness a sin; There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night: Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

"All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night."

By Lamar Fontaine.

[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues silent on the subject.]

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" Except here and there a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of a battle; Not an officer lost! only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night! Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping; While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"

The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then-- That night, when the love, yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling; And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, As if to keep down the heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, And his footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!" And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, And the picket's off duty forever!

Address

Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond.

A Prize Poem.--By Henry Timrod.

A FAIRY ring

Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain-- From whose weird circle every loathsome thing And sight and sound of pain Are banished, while about it in the air, And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies, Throng, in a vision fair As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes, Gleams of that unseen world That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes With starry wings unfurled, Poised for a moment on such airy capes As pierce the golden foam Of sunset's silent main-- Would image what in this enchanted dome, Amid the night of war and death In which the armed city draws its breath, We have built up! For though no wizard wand or magic cup The spell hath wrought, Within this charmed fane we ope the gates Of that divinest fairy-land Where, under loftier fates Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand, Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought.

Shut for one happy evening from the flood That roars around us, here you may behold-- As if a desert way Could blossom and unfold A garden fresh with May-- Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood, Souls that upon the poet's page Have lived from age to age, And yet have never donned this mortal clay. A golden strand Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle Where fair Miranda's smile Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art Had led unto her heart, Which, like a bud that waited for the light, Burst into bloom at sight! Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand, And prattles to the night. Anon, a reverend form With tattered robe and forehead bare, That challenge all the torments of the air, Goes by! And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh, While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear The noble wreck of Lear Reproach like things of life the ancient skies, And commune with the storm! Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, where Wrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the Moor Tells his strange story o'er, The gentle Desdemona chastely lies, Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. Then through a hush like death Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost! And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath Which is the trumpet to a countless host Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep; For while it calls to strife, He pauses on the very brink of fact To toy as with the shadow of an act, And utter those wise saws that cut so deep Into the core of life!

Nor shall be wanting many a scene Where forms of more familiar mien, Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present The world of every day, Such as it whirls along the busy quay, Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, Or toils in attics dark the night away. Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, As in the round wherein our lives are pent; Chance for a while shall seem to reign, While goodness roves like guilt about the street, And guilt looks innocent.

But all at last shall vindicate the right. Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight, And fortune's general justice rendered plain. Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth, Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet, Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth, Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet. As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth A sudden beauty unexpected starts, So you shall find some germs of hidden worth Within the vilest hearts; And now and then, when in those moods that turn To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn You've struck a spring of tears!

But while we lead you thus from change to change, Shall we not find within our ample range Some type to elevate a people's heart-- Some haro who shall teach a hero's part In this distracted time? Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell! And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, As if across the billows unenthralled, Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, Bid liberty rejoice! Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand The deeds which, more than their own awful mien, Make every crag of Switzerland sublime! And say to those whose feeble souls would lean Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand, That once a single mind sufficed to quell The malice of a tyrant; let them know That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow, Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand, But the whole spirit of a mighty land!

Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red With the large promise of the coming ray. Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, Let us among the charms of art awhile Fleet the deep gloom away; Nor yet forget that on each hand and head Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.

The Battle of Richmond.

By George Herbert Sass, Charleston, S.C.

"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them." --Psalm, xliv. 3, 4.