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Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn, Thy altars desolate; Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn At war's relentless fate; And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears, Her homes will consecrate, While more than brass or marble rears The trophy of her great.

Oh! land that boasts each gallant name Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE, And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame Extends beyond the sea; Far rather let thy plains become, From gulf to mountain cave, One honored sepulchre and tomb, Than we the tyrant's slave!

Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free, Redeemed by blood and war; Through agony and gloom we see Thy hope--a glimmering star; Thy banner, too, may proudly float, A herald on the seas-- Thy deeds of daring worlds remote Will emulate and praise!

But who can paint the impulse pure, That thrills and nerves thy brave To deeds of valor, that secure The rights their fathers gave? Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain, Crowned with the warrior's wreath, From beds of fame their proud refrain Was "Liberty or Death!"

"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?"

Charleston Courier.

Is there, then, no hope for the nations? Must the record of Time be the same? And shall History, in all her narrations, Still close each last chapter in shame? Shall the valor which grew to be glorious, Prove the shame, as the pride of a race: And a people, for ages victorious, Through the arts of the chapman, grow base?

Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman, Each strides o'er the scene and departs! How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman, How wondrous their virtues and arts! Rude valor, at first, when beginning, The nation through blood took its name; Then the wisdom, which hourly winning New heights in its march, rose to Fame!

How noble the tale for long ages, Blending Beauty with courage and might! What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages, Made eminent stars for each height! While their people, with reverence ample. Brought tribute of praise to the Great, Whose wisdom and virtuous example, Made virtue the pride of the State!

Ours, too, was as noble a dawning, With hopes of the Future as high: Great men, each a star of the morning, Taught us bravely to live and to die! We fought the long fight with our foeman, And through trial--well-borne--won a name, Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman, And worthy as lasting a fame!

Shut the Book! We must open another! O Southron! if taught by the Past, Beware, when thou choosest a brother, With what ally thy fortunes are cast! Beware of all foreign alliance, Of their pleadings and pleasings beware, Better meet the old snake with defiance, Than find in his charming a snare!

The Fate of the Republics.

Charleston Mercury.

Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years-- Rear'd with such art and wisdom--by a race Of giant sires, in virtue all compact, Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals Of public strength, and peoples capable Of great conceptions for the common good, And of enduring liberties, kept strong Through purity;--tumbles and falls apart, Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd Within, without, by greed of avarice, And vain ambition for supremacy.

So fell the old Republics--Gentile and Jew, Roman and Greek--such evermore the record; Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed, From conquest and from triumph, into fall! The glory that we see exchanged for guilt Might yet be glory. There were pride enough, And emulous ambition to achieve,-- Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment, To do the work of States--and there were courage And sense of public need, and public welfare,-- And duty--in a brave but scattered few, Throughout the States--had these been credited To combat 'gainst the popular appetites. But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught, As lacking favor with the popular lusts! They found reward in exile or in death! And he alone who could debase his spirit, And file his mind down to the basest nature Grew capp'd with rule!--

So, with the lapse From virtue, the great nation forfeits all The pride with the security--the liberty, With that prime modesty which keeps the heart Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts That wait upon Humanity, and teach Humility, as best check and guaranty, Against the wolfish greed of appetite! Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom, When peoples loathe to listen to the praise Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims, Eagerly set upon them to revile, And banish from their councils! Worse than all When the great man, succumbing to the mass, Yields up his mind as a low instrument To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:-- Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe Of place or profit, and makes sale of States To Party!

Thus and then are States subdued-- 'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts, With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay; Insolent, reckless of account as right,-- While lust grows license, and tears off the robes From justice; and makes right a thing of mock; And puts a foolscap on the head of law, And plucks the baton of authority From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head.

So rages still the irresponsible power, Using the madden'd populace as hounds, To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat. The ancient history becomes the new-- The ages move in circles, and the snake Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth. Thus still in all the past!--and man the same In all the ages--a poor thing of passion, Hot greed, and miserable vanity, And all infirmities of lust and error, Makes of himself the wretched instrument To murder his own hope.

Rightly to conceive What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will To this one measure only, is the whole Of that grand rule, and wise necessity, Which only gives us safety.

Where a State, Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds Set for their progress, they must topple and fall Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause! The terrible conjunction of the event, Close with the provocation, stands apart, A social beacon in all histories; And yet we take no heed, but still rush on, Under mixed sway of greed and vanity, And like the silly boy with his card-castle, Precipitate to ruin as we build.

The Voice of the South.

'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave, And fits but ill to be held by the slave; And sad were the thought, if one of our band Should give up the hope of so fair a land.

But the hour has come, and the times that tried The souls of men in our days of pride, Return once more, and now for the brave, To merit the boon which our fathers gave.

And if there be one base spirit who stands Now, in our peril, with folded hands, Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought, With the sword with which his old father fought.

An oath sublime should the freeman take, Still braving the fight and the felon stake,-- The oath that his sires brought over the sea, When they pledged their swords to Liberty!

'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight, They battled and bled in behalf of the right; 'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign, And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine.

We cannot forget, and we dare not forego, The holy duty to them that we owe, The duty that pledges the soul of the son To keep the freedom his sire hath won.

To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil, One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share!

Art ready for this, dear brother, who still Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill? Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear, Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear?

Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart, Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part; The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands, And waits but the word for the flashing of brands!

And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,--and thou Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow; And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves Where Apala-chicola glides through her groves.

Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep, The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep; Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call, To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall!

Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves, The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves, That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth, Would rob us of right without reason or ruth.

Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong, Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong? Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls, Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls.

At last ye are wakened, all rising at length, In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength; And now let the struggle begin which shall see, If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free.

We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came, To welcome the ruin, but never the shame; To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right, While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight.

Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;-- Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here, To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear.

Let those who defile and deface it, be sure, No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure; We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain, With which they would fetter our free souls in vain.

How goodly and bright were its links at the first! How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst! We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave, But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave.

The Oath of Freedom.

The Battle-Cry of the South.

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!

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!

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.

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