Chapter VII

Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won,
Your toils are not closed in the deeds ye have done;
Touch the souls of each laggard and profligate son,
The greed and the sloth, and the cowardice shame;
Till we rise to complete the great work ye've begun,
And with freedom make conquest of fame!

Jackson.

By H. L. Flash, of Galveston, Formerly of Mobile.

Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low.

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke, In the full sunshine of a peaceful town: When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recalling all his grand heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the nation's promised land, At the red belching of the cannon's mouth: But broke the house of bondage with his hand-- The Moses of the South!

O gracious God! not gainless in the loss; A glorious sunbeam gilds the sternest frown; And while his country staggers with the cross, He rises with the crown!

Mobile Advertiser and Register.

Captain Maffit's Ballad of the Sea.

Charleston Mercury.

I.

Though winds are high and skies are dark, And the stars scarce show us a meteor spark; Yet buoyantly bounds our gallant barque, Through billows that flash in a sea of blue; We are coursing free, like the Viking shark, And our prey, like him, pursue!

II.

At each plunge of our prow we bare the graves, Where, heedless of roar among winds and waves, The dead have slept in their ocean caves, Never once dreaming--as if no more They hear, though the Storm-God ramps and raves From the deeps to the rock-bound shore.

III.

Brave sailors were they in the ancient times, Heroes or pirates--men of all climes, That had never an ear for the Sabbath chimes, Never once called on the priest to be shriven; They died with the courage that still sublimes, And, haply, may fit for Heaven.

IV.

Never once asking the when or why, But ready, all hours, to battle and die, They went into fight with a terrible cry, Counting no odds, and, victors or slain, Meeting fortune or fate, with an equal eye, Defiant of death and pain.

V.

Dread are the tales of the wondrous deep, And well do the billows their secrets keep, And sound should those savage old sailors sleep, If sleep they may after such a life; Where every dark passion, alert and aleap, Made slumber itself a strife.

VI.

What voices of horror, through storm and surge, Sang in the perishing ear its dirge, As, raging and rending, o'er Hell's black verge, Each howling soul sank to its doom; And what thunder-tones from the deeps emerge, As yawns for its prey the tomb!

VII.

We plough the same seas which the rovers trod, But with better faith in the saving God, And bear aloft and carry abroad The starry cross, our sacred sign, Which, never yet sullied by crime or fraud, Makes light o'er the midnight brine.

VIII.

And we rove not now on a lawless quest, With passions foul in the hero's breast, Moved by no greed at the fiend's behest, Gloating in lust o'er a bloody prey; But from tyrant robber the spoil to wrest, And tear down his despot sway!

IX.

'Gainst the spawn of Europe, and all the lands, British and German--Norway's sands, Dutchland and Irish--the hireling bands Bought for butchery--recking no rede, But, flocking like vultures, with felon hands, To fatten the rage of greed.

X.

With scath they traverse both land and sea, And with sacred wrath we must make them flee; Making the path of the nations free, And planting peace in the heart of strife; In the star of the cross, our liberty Brings light to the world, and life!