III.

Ah! the blood of Abel crieth For vengeance from the sod! 'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted In the face of an angry God!

Oh! brother of the Northland, We plead from our father's grave; We strike for our homes and altars, He fought to build and save!

A smouldering fire is burning, The Southern heart is steeled-- Perhaps 'twill break in dying, But never will it yield.

Sonnet.

By Paul H. Hayne.

Rise from your gory ashes stern and pale, Ye martyred thousands! and with dreadful ire, A voice of doom, a front of gloomy fire, Rebuke those faithless souls, whose querulous wail Disturbs your sacred sleep!--"The withering hail Of battle, hunger, pestilence, despair, Whatever of mortal anguish man may bear, We bore unmurmuring! strengthened by the mail Of a most holy purpose!--then we died!-- Vex not our rest by cries of selfish pain, But to the noblest measure of your powers Endure the appointed trial! Griefs defied, But launch their threatening thunderbolts in vain, And angry storms pass by in gentlest showers!"

Hospital Duties.

Charleston Courier.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses Braid back in a serious way; No more delicate gloves, no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir or bower, But come with your souls in your faces To meet the stern wants of the hour.

Look around. By the torchlight unsteady The dead and the dying seem one-- What! trembling and paling already, Before your dear mission's begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly-- Time presses her lips to each scar, While she chants of that glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by this bedside. How mellow The light showers down on that brow! Such a brave, brawny visage, poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now. Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, Some mother sits moaning distressed, While the loved one lies faint but unfearing, With the enemy's ball in his breast.

Here's another--a lad--a mere stripling, Picked up in the field almost dead, With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From the horrible gash in the head. They say he was first in the action: Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty: He fought till he dropped with exhaustion At the gates of our fair southern city.

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years-- Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And wet his pale lips with your tears. Touch him gently; most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand! God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for his land!

Pass on! it is useless to linger While others are calling your care; There is need for your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy there. There are sick ones athirst for caressing, There are dying ones raving at home, There are wounds to be bound with a blessing, And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest Of death in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the furthest Is there with the traitor and true. And crowned with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart, You must balsam the wounds of the nations, Nor falter nor shrink from your part.

And the lips of the mother will bless you, And angels, sweet-visaged and pale, And the little ones run to caress you, And the wives and the sisters cry hail! But e'en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God's ways are the best: You have poured out your life where 'twas needed, And he will take care of the rest.

They Cry Peace, Peace, When There Is No Peace.

By Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia.

They are ringing peace on my heavy ear-- No peace to my heavy heart! They are ringing peace, I hear! I hear! O God! how my hopes depart!

They are ringing peace from the mountain side; With a hollow voice it comes-- They are ringing peace o'er the foaming tide, And its echoes fill our homes.

They are ringing peace, and the spring-time blooms Like a garden fresh and fair; But our martyrs sleep in their silent tombs-- Do _they_ hear that sound--do they hear?

They are ringing peace, and the battle-cry And the bayonet's work are done, And the armor bright they are laying by, From the brave sire to the son.

And the musket's clang, and the soldier's drill, And the tattoo's nightly sound; We shall hear no more, with a joyous thrill, Peace, peace, they are ringing round!

There are women, still as the stifled air On the burning desert's track, Not a cry of joy, not a welcome cheer-- And their brave ones coming back!

There are fair young heads in their morning pride, Like the lilies pale they bow; Just a memory left to the soldier's bride-- Ah, God! sustain her now!

There are martial steps that we may not hear! There are forms we may not see! Death's muster roll they have answered clear, _They are free! thank God, they are free!_

Not a fetter fast, nor a prisoner's chain For the noble army gone-- No conqueror comes o'er the heavenly plain-- Peace, _peace to the dead alone!_

They are ringing peace, but strangers tread O'er the land where our fathers trod, And our birthright joys, like a dream, have fled, And _Thou!_ where art _Thou_, 0 God!

They are ringing peace! _not here, not here,_ Where the victor's mark is set; Roll back to the North its mocking cheer-- No peace to the Southland yet!

We may sheathe the sword, and the rifle-gun We may hang on the cottage wall, And the bayonet brave, sharp duty done, From, the soldier's arm it may fall.

But peace!--no peace! till the same good sword, Drawn out from its scabbard be, And the wide world list to my country's word, And the South! oh, the South, be free!

Charleston Broadside.

Ballad--"What! Have Ye Thought?"

Charleston Mercury.