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."

Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages, How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages? Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude; 'Tis clear that _you_ have no concern in that divine beatitude.

But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle, Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell; Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see, And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy.

"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water, 'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter; The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs, But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers.

"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny, We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many; We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages, And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages.

"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson, Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon; To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"-- (And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?)

"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger, 'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger; 'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh! Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho.

"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not bound her, We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her; We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan, But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan.

"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory, To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story; These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em, But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem.

"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation, Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation, Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory, And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory.

"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina, And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah; Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery.

"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity, May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city; No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris, 'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.)

"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles, While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles; And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality, We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."

Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator, When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur', When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead, Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede.

But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it, And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit, Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality, Without the help of Britain's arm, _in spite of_ her neutrality.

Illustrated News.

Close the Ranks.

By John L. O'Sullivan.

The fell invader is before! Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We'll hunt his legions from our shore, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our wives, our children are behind, Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind, Their voices reach us on the wind, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

Are we to bend to slavish yoke? Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We'll bend when bends our Southern oak. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! On with the line of serried steel, We all can die, we none can kneel To crouch beneath the Northern heel. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We kneel to God, and God alone. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! One heart in all--all hearts as one. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! For home, for country, truth and right, We stand or fall in freedom's fight: In such a cause the right is might. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We're here from every southern home. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Fond, weeping voices bade us come. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks The husband, brother, boy, and sire, All burning with one holy fire-- Our country's love our only hire. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We cannot fail, we will not yield! Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our bosoms are our country's shield. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By Washington's immortal name, By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame, Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

By all we hope, by all we love, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By home on earth, by Heaven above, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By all the tears, and heart's blood shed, By all our hosts of martyred dead, We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

The front may fall, the rear succeed, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We smile in triumph as we bleed, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our Southern Cross above us waves, Long shall it bless the sacred graves Of those who died, but were not slaves. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

The Sea-Kings of the South.

By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va.

Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won, From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston, On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee, Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free.

The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm; Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form; And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train, Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again.

But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side--a broader field than the plain, Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main, 'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land, For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand.

For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea, No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine, Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line.

The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar; The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar. Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball; But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all.

Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below. The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore, Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore.

Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet! One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet! Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour; But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore.

See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream! Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam! Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on, Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon.

Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game! From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came. The catchers of the whale she caught; swift _Ariel_ overhauled; And made _Hatteras_ know the hardest _blow_ that ever a tar appalled.

She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well. To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell. To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck, With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck.

In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop-- Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop. Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils, She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils.

And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career. Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear; The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole.

Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing, For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring. All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight, No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright.

Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea; The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be! The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine!

The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave, As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor, Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war.

Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours, Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers! Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled mouth, And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH!

Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.

The Return.

Three years! I wonder if she'll know me? I limp a little, and I left one arm At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown As the plump chestnuts on my little farm: And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs-- But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers.

The darling! how I long to see her! My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace, For I remember, after I had left, A little Charlie came to take my place. Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes-- His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise!

Surely, they will be at the corner watching! I sent them word that I should come to-night: The birds all know it, for they crowd around, Twittering their welcome with a wild delight; And that old robin, with a halting wing-- I saved her life, three years ago last spring.

Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming! For, like the pilgrim of the long ago, I've tugged, a weary burden at my back, Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow; Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast, There I can roll my burden off, and rest.

* * * * *

When morning came, the early rising sun Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping-- Where a soft covering of bright green grass Over two mounds was lightly creeping; But waked him not: his was the rest eternal, Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal.

Our Christmas Hymn.

By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C.

"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!" The burden of the Advent song, What time the love-charmed waves grew still To hearken to the shining throng; The wondering shepherds heard the strain Who watched by night the slumbering fleece, The deep skies echoed the refrain, "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"

And wise men hailed the promised sign, And brought their birth-gifts from the East, Dear to that Mother as the wine That hallowed Cana's bridal feast; But what to these are myrrh or gold, And what Arabia's costliest gem, Whose eyes the Child divine behold, The blessed Babe of Bethlehem.

"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" They sing, the bright ones overhead; And scarce the jubilant anthems cease Ere Judah wails her first-born dead; And Rama's wild, despairing cry Fills with great dread the shuddering coast, And Rachel hath but one reply, "Bring back, bring back my loved and lost."

So, down two thousand years of doom That cry is borne on wailing winds, But never star breaks through the gloom, No cradled peace the watcher finds; And still the Herodian steel is driven, And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan, And still the mute appeal to heaven Man answers back with groan for groan.

How shall we keep our Christmas tide? With that dread past, its wounds agape, Forever walking by our side, A fearful shade, an awful shape; Can any promise of the spring Make green the faded autumn leaf? Or who shall say that time will bring Fair fruit to him who sows but grief?

Wild bells! that shake the midnight air With those dear tones that custom loves, You wake no sounds of laughter here, Nor mirth in all our silent groves; On one broad waste, by hill or flood, Of ravaged lands your music falls, And where the happy homestead stood The stars look down on roofless halls.

At every board a vacant chair Fills with quick tears some tender eye, And at our maddest sports appear Those well-loved forms that will not die. We lift the glass, our hand is stayed-- We jest, a spectre rises up-- And weeping, though no word is said, We kiss and pass the silent cup,

And pledge the gallant friend who keeps His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height, And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps Beneath Virginian snows to-night; While, by the fire, she, musing, broods On all that was and might have been, If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods Had never drunk that crimson stain.

O happy Yules of buried years! Could ye but come in wonted guise, Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears, When looking back through wistful eyes, Would seem those chimes whose voices tell His birth-night with melodious burst, Who, sitting by Samaria's well, Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst.

Ah! yet I trust that all who weep, Somewhere, at last, will surely find His rest, if through dark ways they keep The child-like faith, the prayerful mind; And some far Christmas morn shall bring From human ills a sweet release To loving hearts, while angels sing "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"

Charleston.

Written for the Charleston Courier in 1863.

By Miss E. B. Cheesborough.

Proudly she stands by the crystal sea, With the fires of hate around her, But a cordon of love as strong as fate, With adamant links surround her. Let them hurl their bolts through the azure sky, And death-bearing missiles send her, She finds in our God a mighty shield, And in heaven a sure defender.

Her past is a page of glory bright, Her present a blaze of splendor, You may turn o'er the leaves of the jewell'd tome, You'll not find the word _surrender_; For sooner than lay down her trusty arms, She'd build her own funeral pyre, And the flames that give her a martyr's fate Will kindle her glory higher.

How the demons glare as they see her stand In majestic pride serenely, And gnash with the impotent rage of hate, Creeping up slowly, meanly; While she cries, "Come forth from your covered dens, All your hireling legions send me, I'll bare my breast to a million swords, Whilst God and my sons defend me."

Oh, brave old town, o'er thy sacred form Whilst the fiery rain is sweeping, May He whose love is an armor strong Embrace thee in tender keeping; And when the red war-cloud has rolled away, Anoint thee with holy chrism, And sanctified, chastened, regenerate, true, Thou surviv'st this fierce baptism.

Gathering Song.

Air--Bonnie Blue Flag

By Annie Chambers Ketchum.

Come, brothers! rally for the right! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle-cry Beside the Atlantic wave! She leads the way in honor's path! Come, brothers, near and far, Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star!

We've borne the Yankee trickery, The Yankee gibe and sneer, Till Yankee insolence and pride Know neither shame nor fear; But ready now with shot and steel Their brazen front to mar, We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star!

Now Georgia marches to the front, And close beside her come Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, With pealing trump and drum! Till, answering back from hill and glen The rallying cry afar, A NATION hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star!

By every stone in Charleston Bay, By each beleaguered town, We swear to rest not, night nor day, But hunt the tyrants down! Till, bathed in valor's holy blood The gazing world afar Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue That bears the cross and star!

Christmas.

By Henry Timrod, of South Carolina.

How grace this hallowed day? Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire Round which the children play?

Alas! for many a moon, That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, Mute as an obelisk of ice aglare Beneath an Arctic noon.

Shame to the foes that drown Our psalms of worship with their impious drum. The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb In some far rustic town.

There, let us think, they keep, Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea They've ushered in with old-world, English glee, Some echoes in their sleep.

How shall we grace the day? With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, And shout of happy children in the courts, And tales of ghost and fay?

Is there indeed a door Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, And all the merry round of Christmas joys, Could enter as of yore?

Would not some pallid face Look in upon the banquet, calling up Dread shapes of battle in the wassail cup, And trouble all the place?

How could we bear the mirth, While some loved reveller of a year ago Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, In cold Virginian earth?

How shall we grace the day? Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born, Employ us, while we pray!

Pray for the peace which long Hath left this tortured land, and haply now Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow, There hardly safe from wrong.

Let every sacred fane Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, And, with the cloister and the tented sod, Join in one solemn strain!

With pomp of Roman form, With the grave ritual brought from England's shore, And with the simple faith which asks no more Than that the heart be warm.

He, who till time shall cease, Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, He died to give us peace, will not disdain A prayer whose theme is--peace.

Perhaps, ere yet the spring Hath died into the summer, over all The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall Like some protecting wing.

Oh, ponder what it means! Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way! Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, And shape the coming scenes!

Peace in the quiet dales, Made rankly fertile by the blood of men; Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, Peace in the peopled vales!

Peace in the crowded town, Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, Peace on the wind-swept down!

Peace on the furthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams, And peace in every breeze!

Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts!

A Prayer for Peace.

By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.

Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace! Unto our cry of anguish and despair Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes, Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe Fill their poor urns with tears; from trampled plains, Where the bright harvest Thou has sent us rots-- The blood of them who should have garnered it Calling to Thee--from fields of carnage, where The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love And common hopes and pride, all blasted now-- Father of Mercies! not alone from these Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone Upon the battle's seared and desolate track, Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God, That Thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths, And in the crowded streets and busy marts, Where echo whispers not the far-off strife That slays our loved ones; in the solemn halls Of safe and quiet counsel--nay, beneath The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee, And 'mid their rising incense--God of Peace! The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate Hungering for gold and blood; Ambition, bred Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts, Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price On human hecatombs, and sell and buy Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests, With white, anointed, supplicating hands, From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee, Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born, Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth Till Rachel hath no children left to slay. The very name of Jesus, writ upon Thy shrines beneath the spotless, outstretched wings, Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires That rise above them angry banners flout The skies to which they point, amid the clang Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise.

All things once prized and honored are forgot: The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee; The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield; The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word, Which might be stifled, but could never wear The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie; All these are gone, and in their stead have come The vices of the miser and the slave-- Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power, Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence, Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope, Save as begun in self, and ending there. With vipers like to these, oh! blessed God! Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more, Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad, To wake the midnight of our sorrowing With tidings of good-will and peace to men; And if the star, that through the darkness led Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now, Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist, With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak The unanswerable message of Thy will.

Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us peace! Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; Peace On the red waters and their blighted shores; Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts That watch and bleed around them and within, Peace for the homeless and the fatherless; Peace for the captive on his weary way, And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness; For them that suffer, them that do the wrong Sinning and sinned against.--O God! for all; For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land-- Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace!

The Band in the Pines.

(Heard after Pelham Died.)

By John Esten Cooke.

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! Cease with your splendid call; The living are brave and noble, But the dead were bravest of all!

They throng to the martial summons, To the loud, triumphant strain; And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends Come to the heart again!

They come with the ringing bugle, And the deep drum's mellow roar; Till the soul is faint with longing For the hands we clasp no more!

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! Or the heart will melt in tears, For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, And the voices of old years!

At Fort Pillow.

First published in the Wilmington Journal, April 25, 1864.

You shudder as you think upon The carnage of the grim report, The desolation when we won The inner trenches of the fort.

But there are deeds you may not know, That scourge the pulses into strife; Dark memories of deathless woe Pointing the bayonet and knife.

The house is ashes where I dwelt, Beyond the mighty inland sea; The tombstones shattered where I knelt, By that old church at Pointe Coupee.

The Yankee fiends, that came with fire, Camped on the consecrated sod, And trampled in the dust and mire The Holy Eucharist of God!

The spot where darling mother sleeps, Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps, To stall the horse of some dragoon.

God! when I ponder that black day It makes my frantic spirit wince; I marched--with Longstreet--far away, But have beheld the ravage since

The tears are hot upon my face, When thinking what bleak fate befell The only sister of our race-- A thing too horrible to tell.

They say that, ere her senses fled, She rescue of her brothers cried; Then feebly bowed her stricken head, Too pure to live thus--so she died.

Two of those brothers heard no plea; With their proud hearts forever still-- John shrouded by the Tennessee, And Arthur there at Malvern Hill.

But I have heard it everywhere, Vibrating like a passing knell; 'Tis as perpetual as the air, And solemn as a funeral bell.

By scorched lagoon and murky swamp My wrath was never in the lurch; I've killed the picket in his camp, And many a pilot on his perch.

With steady rifle, sharpened brand, A week ago, upon my steed, With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.

You should have seen our leader go Upon the battle's burning marge, Swooping, like falcon, on the foe, Heading the gray line's iron charge!

All outcasts from our ruined marts, We heard th' undying serpent hiss, And in the desert of our hearts The fatal spell of Nemesis.

The Southern yell rang loud and high The moment that we thundered in, Smiting the demons hip and thigh, Cleaving them to the very chin.

My right arm bared for fiercer play, The left one held the rein in slack; In all the fury of the fray I sought the white man, not the black.

The dabbled clots of brain and gore Across the swirling sabres ran; To me each brutal visage bore The front of one accursed man.

Throbbing along the frenzied vein, My blood seemed kindled into song-- The death-dirge of the sacred slain, The slogan of immortal wrong.

It glared athwart the dripping glaves, It blazed in each avenging eye-- _The thought of desecrated graves, And some lone sister's desperate cry!_

From the Rapidan--1864.

A low wind in the pines! And a dull pain in the breast! And oh! for the sigh of her lips and eyes-- One touch of the hand I pressed!

The slow, sad lowland wind, It sighs through the livelong day, While the splendid mountain breezes blow, And the autumn is burning away.

Here the pines sigh ever above, And the broomstraw sighs below; And far from the bare, bleak, windy fields Comes the note of the drowsy crow.

There the trees are crimson and gold, Like the tints of a magical dawn, And the slender form, in the dreamy days, By the slow stream rambles on.

Oh, day that weighs on the heart! Oh, wind in the dreary pines! Does she think on me 'mid the golden hours, Past the mountain's long blue lines?

The old house, lonely and still, By the sad Shenandoah's waves, Must be touched to-day by the sunshine's gleam, As the spring flowers bloom on graves.

Oh, sunshine, flitting and sad, Oh, wind, that forever sighs! The hall may be bright, but my life is dark For the sunshine of her eyes!

Song of Our Glorious Southland.

By Mrs. Mary Ware.

From the Southern Field and Fireside.