War Poetry of the South | Page 9

needs help,?And a craven is he who flees--?For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,[1]?And the God of the Maccabees!
Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare,?And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown--?Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there?In the cliffs of the Father's frown:?Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light?Which the Sun of Justice gives--?In the caves and sepulchres of night?Jehovah the Lord King lives!?To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,?And a craven is he who flees--?For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,?And the God of the Maccabees!
Think of the dead by the Tennessee,?In their frozen shrouds of gore--?Think of the mothers who shall see?Those darling eyes no more!?But better are they in a hero grave?Than the serfs of time and breath,?For they are the children of the brave,?And the cherubim of death!?To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,?And a craven is he who flees--?For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,?And the God of the Maccabees!
Better the charnels of the West,?And a hecatomb of lives,?Than the foul invader as a guest?'Mid your sisters and your wives--?But a spirit lurketh in every maid,?Though, brothers, ye should quail,?To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade,?And the livid spike of Jael!?To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,?And a craven is he who flees--?For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,?And the God of the Maccabees!
Brothers! I see you tramping by,?With the gladiator gaze,?And your shout is the Macedonian cry?Of the old, heroic days!?March on! with trumpet and with drum,?With rifle, pike, and dart,?And die--if even death must come--?Upon your country's heart!?To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,?And a craven is he who flees--?For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,?And the God of the Maccabees!
Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black,?And the wail of the South wings forth;?Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack,?And the vampires of the North??Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal,?Strike! with a ruthless hand--?Strike! with the vengeance of the soul?For your bright, beleaguered land!?To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,?And a craven is he who flees--?For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,?And the God of the Maccabees!
[1] The surname of the great Maccabeus.
Sonnet.
Charleston Mercury.
Democracy hath done its work of ill,?And, seeming freemen, never to be free,?While the poor people shout in vanity,?The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will.?How swift the abasement follows! But few years,?And we stood eminent. Great men were ours,?Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers!?How have we sunk below our proper spheres!?No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place,?The nimble marmozet and magpie men;?Creatures that only mock and mimic, when?They run astride the shoulders of the race;?Democracy, in vanity elate,?Clothing but sycophants in robes of state.
Seventy-Six and Sixty-One.
By John W. Overall, of Louisiana.
Ye spirits of the glorious dead!?Ye watchers in the sky!?Who sought the patriot's crimson bed,?With holy trust and high--?Come, lend your inspiration now,?Come, fire each Southern son,?Who nobly fights for freemen's rights,?And shouts for sixty-one.
Come, teach them how, on hill on glade,?Quick leaping from your side,?The lightning flash of sabres made?A red and flowing tide--?How well ye fought, how bravely fell,?Beneath our burning sun;?And let the lyre, in strains of fire,?So speak of sixty-one.
There's many a grave in all the land,?And many a crucifix,?Which tells how that heroic band?Stood firm in seventy-six--?Ye heroes of the deathless past,?Your glorious race is run,?But from your dust springs freemen's trust,?And blows for sixty-one.
We build our altars where you lie,?On many a verdant sod,?With sabres pointing to the sky,?And sanctified of God;?The smoke shall rise from every pile,?Till freedom's cause is won,?And every mouth throughout the South,?Shall shout for sixty-one!
"Reddato Gladium."
Virginia to Winfield Scott.
A voice is heard in Ramah!?High sounds are on the gale!?Notes to wake buried patriots!?Notes to strike traitors pale!?Wild notes of outraged feeling?Cry aloud and spare him not!?'Tis Virginia's strong appealing,?And she calls to Winfield Scott!
Oh! chief among ten thousand!?Thou whom I loved so well,?Star that has set, as never yet?Since son of morning fell!?I call not in reviling,?Nor to speak thee what thou art;?I leave thee to thy death-bed,?And I leave thee to thy heart!
But by every mortal hope,?And by every mortal fear;?By all that man deems sacred,?And that woman holds most dear;?Yea! by thy mother's honor,?And by thy father's grave,?By hell beneath, and heaven above,?Give back the sword I gave!
Not since God's sword was planted?To guard life's heavenly tree,?Has ever blade been granted,?Like that bestowed on thee!?To pierce me with the steel I gave?To guard mine honor's shrine,?Not since Iscariot lived and died,?Was treason like to thine!
Give back the sword! and sever?Our strong and mighty tie!?We part, and part forever,?To conquer or to die!?In sorrow, not in anger,?I speak the word, "We part!"?For I leave thee to thy death-bed,?And I leave thee to thy heart!
Richmond