The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston. The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston. By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D. Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies, Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate. Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give; And in her hour of anguish let her feel That ye can die whom she has taught to live. Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth; That never villain hand on her be laid, Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth. See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame, As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath, Her generous brow and bosom all aflame At the bare thought of insult, worse than death. And stained and rent her snowy garments are; The big drops gather on her pallid face, Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace. And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers And bitter tears, to every loving child To stand between her and the doom she fears, To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled! Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt! And doubly damned who casts one look behind! Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, Up with her banner! give it to the wind. Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, Till every ringing avenue repeat The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet. Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come! Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, By every manly hope and filial vow, To save her proud soul from that loathéd thrall Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name; Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame. From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled, Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled, Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire. Gather around her sacred ashes then, Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, Die! as becomes a race of free-born men, Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain. So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, If not in life, at least by death, set free-- And send her fame, through endless ages down, The last grand holocaust of liberty. Savannah Fallen. By Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia. I. Bowing her head to the dust of the earth. Smitten and stricken is she, Light after light gone out from her hearth, Son after son from her knee. Bowing her head to the dust at her feet, Weeping her beautiful slain, Silence! keep silence, for aye in the street, See! they are coming again. II. Coming again, oh! glorious ones, Wrapped in the flag of the free; Queen of the South! bright crowns for thy sons, Only the cypress for thee! Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum, Marches, and requiems sweet; Silence! keep silence! alas, how they come, Oh! how they move through the street! III. Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go, Bearing the young and the brave, Fair as the summer, but white as the snow Bearing them down to the grave. Some in the morning, and some in the noou, Some in the hey-day of life; Bower nor blossom, nor summer nor June, Wooing them back to the strife. IV. Some in the billow, afar, oh! afar, Staining the waves with their blood; One on the vessel's high deck, like a star, Sinking in glory's bright-flood.[1] Bowing her head to the dust of the earth, Humbled but honored is she, lighting the skies with the stars from her hearth, Who shall her comforter be? V. Bring her, oh! bring her the garments of woe, Sackcloth and ashes for aye; Winds of the South! oh, a requiem blow, Sighing and sorrow to-day. Sprinkle the showers from heaven's blue eyes Wide o'er the green summer lea, Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies, Thou shalt her comforter be! [1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the "Water Witch." Bull Run.--A Parody. I. At Bull Run when the sun was low, Each Southern face grew pale as snow, While loud as jackdaws rose the crow Of Yankees boasting terribly! II. But Bull Run saw another sight, When at the deepening shades of night, Towards Fairfax Court-House rose the flight Of Yankees running rapidly. III. Then broke each corps with terror riven, Then rushed the steeds from battle driven, The men of battery Number Seven Forsook their Red artillery! IV. Still on McDowell's farthest left, The roar of cannon strikes one deaf, Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff Contend for death or victory. V. The panic thickens--off, ye brave! Throw down your arms! your bacon save! Waive, Washington, all scruples waive, And fly, with all your chivalry! "Stack Arms." Written in the Prison of Fort Delaware, Del., on Hearing of the Surrender of General Lee. By Jos. Blyth Alston. "Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry When, weary with the dusty tread Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, I sank upon my soldier bed, And camly slept; the starry dome Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, And mingled with my dreams of home, The thoughts of Peace and Liberty. "Stack Arms!" I've heard it, when the shout Exulting, rang along our line, Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, Captured, dispersed; its tones divine Then came to mine enraptured ear. Guerdon of duty nobly done, And glistened on my cheek the tear Of grateful joy for victory won. "Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, A broken, murmuring wail of woe, From manly hearts by anguish wrung. Like victims of a midnight dream, We move, we know not how nor why, For life and hope but phantoms seem, And it would be relief--to die! Doffing the Gray. By Lieutenant Falligant, of Savannah, Geo. Off with your gray suits, boys-- Off with your rebel gear-- They smack too much of the cannons' peal, The lightning flash of your deadly steel, The terror of your spear. Their color is like the smoke That curled o'er your battle-line; They call to mind the yell that woke When the dastard columns before you broke, And their dead were your fatal sign. Off with the starry wreath, Ye who have led our van; To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death, When we followed you over the gory heath, Where we whipped them man to man. Down with the cross of stars-- Too long hath it waved on high; 'Tis covered all over with battle scars, But its gleam the Northern banner mars-- 'Tis time to lay it by. Down with the vows we've made, Down, with each memory-- Down with the thoughts of our noble dead-- Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid And down with Liberty. In the Land Where We Were Dreaming By D. B. Lucas, Esq., of Jefferson. Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as grand As ever floated out of Faerie land; Children were we in single faith, But God-like children, whom, nor death, Nor threat, nor danger drove from Honor's path, In the land where we were dreaming. Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render; As violets, our women pure and tender; And when they spoke, their voice did thrill Until at eve, the whip-poor-will, At morn the mocking-bird, were mute and still In the land where we were dreaming. And we had graves that covered more of glory Than ever tracked tradition's ancient story; And in our dream we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled And suffered long our own immortal dead In the land where we were dreaming. Though in our land we had both bond and free, Both were content; and so God let them be;-- 'Till envy coveted our land And those fair fields our valor won: But little recked we, for we still slept on, In the land where we were dreaming. Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew wild-- Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field; Crimson the moon; between the Twins Barbed arrows fly, and then begins Such strife as when disorder's Chaos reigns, In the land where we were dreaming. Down from her sun-lit heights smiled Liberty And waved her cap in sign of Victory-- The world approved, and everywhere Except where growled the Russian bear, The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer In the land where we were dreaming. We fancied that a Government was ours-- We challenged place among the world's great powers; We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission, Until so life-like grew our vision, That he who dared to doubt but met derision In the land where we were dreaming. We looked on high: a banner there was seen, Whose field was blanched and spotless in its sheen-- Chivalry's cross its Union bears, And vet'rans swearing by their scars Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars In the land where we were dreaming. A hero came amongst us as we slept; At first he lowly knelt--then rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears He swept across the field of Mars; Then bowed farewell and walked beyond the stars-- In the land where we were dreaming. We looked again: another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will-- Full of grandeur, clothed with power, Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour With stern, majestic sway--of strength a tower In the land where we were dreaming. As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God, Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, Rome felt herself secure and free, So, "Richmond's safe," we said, while we Beheld a bronzed Hero--God-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming. As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls-- As wakes the mother when the infant falls-- As starts the traveller when around His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound-- So woke our nation with a single bound In the land where we were dreaming. Woe! woe is me! the startled mother cried-- While we have slept our noble sons have died! Woe! woe is me! how strange and sad, That all our glorious vision's fled And left us nothing real but the dead In the land where we were dreaming. And are they really dead, our martyred slain? No! dreamers! morn shall bid them rise again From every vale--from every height On which they seemed to die for right-- Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight In the land where we were dreaming. Ballad--"Yes, Build Your Walls." I. Yes, build your walls of stone or sand, But know, when all is builded--then, The proper breastworks of the land Are in a race of freeborn men! The sons of sires, who knew, in life, That, of all virtues, manhood first, Still nursing peace, yet arms for strife, And braves, for liberty, the worst! II. What grand examples have been ours! Oh! sons of Moultrie, Marion,--call From mansions of the past, the powers, That plucked ye from the despot's thrall! Do Sumter, Rutledge, Gadsden, live? Oh! for your City by the Sea, They gladly gave, what men could give, Blood, life, and toil, and made it free! III. The grand inheritance, in trust For children of your loins, must know No taint of shame, no loss by lust, Your own, or of the usurping foe! Let not your sons, in future days, The children now that bear your name, Exulting in a grandsire's praise, Droop o'er a father's grave in shame! Charleston Mercury. The Lines Around Petersburg. By Samuel Davis, of North Carolina. "Such a sleep they sleep, The men I loved!" Tennyson. Oh, silence, silence! now, when night is near, And I am left alone, Thou art so strange, so sad reposing here-- And all so changed hath grown, Where all was once exuberant with life Through day and night, in deep and deadly strife. If I must weep, oh, tell me, is there not Some plaintive story breathed into mine ear By spirit-whispers from thy voiceless sphere, Haunting this awful spot? To my sad soul, more mutely eloquent Than words of fame on sculptured monument Outspeaks yon crumbling parapet, where lies The broken gun, the idly rusting ball, Mute tokens of an ill-starred enterprise! Rude altars reared for costly sacrifice! Vast work of hero-hands left in thy fall! Where are they now, that fearless brotherhood, Who marshalled here, That fearful year, In pain and peril, yet undaunted stood,-- Though Death rode fiercest on the battle-storm And earth lay strewn with many a glorious form? Where are they now, who, when the strife was done, With kindly greeting 'round the camp-fire met,-- And made an hour of mirth, from triumphs won, Repay the day's stern toil, when the slow sun had set? Where are they?-- Let the nameless grave declare,-- In strange unwonted hillocks--frequent seen! Alas I who knows how much lies buried there!-- What worlds, of love, and all that might have been! The rest are scattered now, we know not where; And Life to each a new employment brings; But still they seem to gather round me here, To whom these places were familiar things! Wide sundered now, by mountain and by stream, Once brothers--still a brotherhood they seem;-- More firm united, since a common woe Hath brought to common hopes their overthrow! Brave souls and true;--in toil and danger tried,-- I see them still as in those glorious years, When strong, and battling bravely side by side, All crowned their deeds with praise,--and some with tears 'Tis done! the sword is sheathed; the banner furled, No sound where late the crashing missile whirled-- The dead alone possess the battle-plain; The living turn them to life's cares again. Oh, Silence! blessed dreams upon thee wait; here Thought and Feeling ope their precious store, And Memory, gathering from the spoils of Fate Love's scattered treasures, brings them back once more! So let me often dream, As up the brightening stream Of olden Time, thought gently leads me on, Seeking those better days, lost, lost, alas! and gone! All Is Gone. Fadette.--Memphis Appeal. Sister, hark! Atween the trees cometh naught but summer breeze? All is gone-- Summer breezes come and go. Hope doth never wander so-- No, nor evermore doth Woe. Sister, look! Adown the lane treadeth only April rain? All is gone-- Through the tangled hedge-rows green glimmer thus the sunbeam's sheen, Dropping from cloud-rifts between? Sister, hark! the very air heavy on my heart doth bear-- All is gone!-- E'en the birds that chirped erewhile for the frowning sun to smile, Hush at that drum near the stile. Sister, pray!--it is the foe! On thy knees--aye, very low-- All is gone, And the proud South on her knees to a mongrel race like these-- But the dead sleep 'neath the trees. See--they come--their banners flare gayly in our gloomy air-- All is gone-- Flashed our Southern Cross all night--naught but a meteoric light In a moment lost to sight? Aye, so gay--the brave array--marching from no battle fray-- All is gone,-- Yet who vaunteth, of your host, maketh he but little boast If he think on battles most. On they wind, behind the wood. Dost remember once we stood-- All is gone-- All but memory, of those days--but we've stood here while the haze Of the battle met the blaze. Of the sun adown yon hill. Charge on charge--I hear them still.-- All is gone!-- Yet I hear the echoing crash--see the sabres gleam and flash-- See one gallant headlong dash. One, amid the battle-wreck, restive plunged his charger black-- All is gone-- Whirrs the partridge there--didst see where he rode so recklessly? Once he turned and waved to me. "Ah," thou saidst, "the smoke is dark, scarce can I our banner mark"-- All is gone-- All but memory; yet I see, darksome howsoever it be, How to death--to death--rode he. Not a star he proudly bore, but a sword all dripping gore-- All is gone-- Dashes on our little band like yon billow on the strand-- Like yon strand unmoved they stand. For their serried ranks are strong: thousands upon thousands throng-- All is gone, And the handful, true and brave, spent, like yonder dying wave, Fall back slowly from that grave. Low our banner drooped--and fell. Back he spurs, mid shot and shell-- All was gone, But he waves it high--and then, on--we sweep them from the glen-- But he ne'er rode back again. Ah, I smiled to see him go. How my cheek with pride did glow! All is gone-- All, of pride or hope, for me--but that evening, hopefully Stood I at the gate with thee, Sister, when at twilight gray marched our soldiers back this way-- All is gone-- In the woods rang many a cheer--how we smiled! I did not fear Till--at last was borne a bier. Sweetest sister, dost thou weep? Hush! he only fell asleep-- All is gone-- And'twere better he had died--free, whatever us betide-- Our galling chains untried. We were leaning on the gate. Dost remember, it grew late-- All is gone-- Yet I see the stars so pale--see the shadows down the vale-- Hear the whip-poor-will's far wail, As if all were in a dream. Through yon pines the moon did gleam-- All is gone-- On that banner-pall of death--on that red sword without sheath-- And--I knew who lay beneath. Did I speak? I thought I said, let me look upon your dead-- All is gone--- Was I cold? I did not weep. Tears are spray from founts not deep-- My heart lies in frozen sleep. Sister, pray for me. Thine eyes gleam like God's own midnight skies-- All is gone-- Tuneless are my spirit's chords. I but look up, like the birds, And trust Christ to say the words. Bowing Her Head. Her head is bowed downwards; so pensive her air, As she looks on the ground with her pale, solemn face, It were hard to decide whether faith or despair, Whether anguish or trust, in her heart holds a place. Her hair was all gold in the sun's joyous light, Her brow was as smooth as the soft, placid sea: But the furrows of care came with shadows of night, And the gold silvered pale when the light left the lea. Her lips slightly parted, deep thought in her eye, While sorrow cuts seams in her forehead so fair; Her bosom heaves gently, she stifles a sigh, And just moistens her lid with the dews of a tear. Why droops she thus earthward--why bends she? Oh, see! There are gyves on her limbs! see her manacled hand! She is loaded with chains; but her spirit is free-- Free to love and to mourn for her desolate land. Her jailer, though cunning, lacks wit to devise How to fetter her thoughts, as her limbs he has done; The eagle that's snatched from his flight to the skies, From the bars of his cage may still gaze at the sun. No sound does she utter; all voiceless her pains; The wounds of her spirit with pride she conceals; She is dumb to her shearers; the clank of her chains And the throbs of her heart only tell what she feels. She looks sadly around her; now sombre the scene! How thick the deep shadows that darken her view! The black embers of homes where the earth was so green, And the smokes of her wreck where the heavens shone blue. Her daughters bereaved of all succor but God, Her bravest sons perished--the light of her eyes; But oppression's sharp heel does not cut 'neath the sod, And she knows that the chains cannot bind in the skies. She thinks of the vessel she aided to build, Of all argosies richest that floated the seas; Compacted so strong, framed by architects skilled, Or to dare the wild storm, or to sail to the breeze. The balmiest winds blowing soft where she steers, The favor of heaven illuming her path-- She might sail as she pleased to the mild summer airs, And avoid the dread regions of tempest and wrath. But the crew quarrelled soon o'er the cargo she bore; 'Twas adjusted unfairly, the cavillers said; And the anger of men marred the peace that of yore Spread a broad path of glory and sunshine ahead. There were seams in her planks--there were spots on her flag-- So the fanatics said, as they seized on her helm; And from soft summer seas, turned her prow where the crag And the wild breakers rose the good ship to overwhelm. Then the South, though true love to the vessel she bore, Since she first laid its keel in the days that were gone-- Saw it plunge madly on to the wild billows' roar, And rush to destruction and ruin forlorn. So she passed from the decks, in the faith of her heart That justice and God her protectors would be; Not dashed like a frail, fragile spar, without chart, In the fury and foam of the wild raging sea. The life-boat that hung by the stout vessel's side She seized, and embarked on the wide, trackless main, In the faith that she'd reach, making virtue her guide, The haven the mother-ship failed to attain But the crew rose in wrath, and they swore by their might They would sink the brave boat that did buffet the sea, For daring to seek, by her honor and right, A new port from the storms, a new home for the free. So they crushed the brave boat; all forbearance they lost; They littered with ruins the ocean so wild-- Till the hulk of the parent ship, beaten and tossed, Drifted prone on the flood by the wreck of the child. And the bold rower, loaded with fetters and chains, In the gloom of her heart sings the proud vessel's dirge; Half forgets, in its wreck, all the pangs of her pains, As she sees its stout parts floating loose in the surge. Savannah Broadside. The Confederate Flag By Anna Feyre Dinnies, of Louisiana. Take that banner down,'tis weary, Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, Furl it, hide it, let it rest; For there's not a man to wave it-- For there's not a soul to lave it In the blood that heroes gave it. Furl it, hide it, let it rest. Take that banner down,'tis tattered; Broken is its staff, and shattered; And the valiant hearts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it-- Hard to think there's none to hold it-- Hard that those, who once unrolled it, Now must furl it with a sigh. Furl that banner, furl it sadly; Once six millions hailed it gladly, And three hundred thousand, madly, Swore it should forever wave-- Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever-- That their flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave! Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that banner--it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe; For, though conquered, they adore it, Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it-- Oh! how wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so! Furl that banner; true 'tis gory, But 'tis wreathed around with glory, And'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust; For its fame, on brightest pages-- Sung by poets, penned by sages-- Shall go sounding down to ages-- Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that banner-softly, slowly; Furl it gently, it is holy, For it droops above the dead. Touch it not, unfurl it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are fled. Ashes of Glory. A. J. Requier. Fold up the gorgeous silken sun, By bleeding martyrs blest, And heap the laurels it has won Above its place of rest. No trumpet's note need harshly blare-- No drum funereal roll-- Nor trailing sables drape the bier That frees a dauntless soul! It lived with Lee, and decked his brow From Fate's empyreal Palm: It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now-- As spotless and as calm. It was outnumbered--not outdone; And they shall shuddering tell, Who struck the blow, its latest gun Flashed ruin as it fell. Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze That smote the victor tar, With death across the heaving seas Of fiery Trafalgar; Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom Their knightly deeds have starred; Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume, Nor peerless-born Bayard; Not all that antique fables feign, And Orient dreams disgorge; Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain, And Lion of St. George, Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still Thy crimson glory shines Beyond the lengthened shades that fill Their proudest kingly lines. Sleep! in thine own historic night,-- And be thy blazoned scroll, A warrior's Banner takes its flight, To greet the warrior's soul! *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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