War Poetry of the South | Page 9

swear
We will be free or die!
Then let the
drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven we will be free!
And
to this oath the dead reply--
Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts--

These with us, and the God of hosts,
We will be free or die!
Then
let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
The Battle-Cry of the South.
By James R. Randall.
Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness
against the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are
assembled against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better
for us to die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and
our sanctuary.--Maccabees I.
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,[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