Chapter XII

A few more hours of mortal strife,--
Of faith and patience, working still,
In struggle for the immortal life,
With all their soul, and strength, and will;
And, in the favor of the Lord,
And powerful grown by heavenly aid,
Your roof trees all shall be restored,
And ye shall triumph in their shade.

[1] "1. And I saw an Angel come down from Heaven, having the key of the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand.

"2. And he laid hold on the Dragon, that Old Serpent, which is the Devil and Satan, and bound him a thousand years.

"And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand years should be fulfilled; and _after that he must be loosed a little season_."--Rev. xx., v. 1-3.

The Unknown Dead.

By Henry Timrod.

The rain is plashing on my sill, But all the winds of Heaven are still; And so, it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the churchyard ground, When the first spadeful drops like lead Upon the coffin of the dead. Beyond my streaming window-pane, I cannot see the neighboring vane, Yet from its old familiar tower The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. What strange and unsuspected link Of feeling touched has made me think-- While with a vacant soul and eye I watch that gray and stony sky-- Of nameless graves on battle plains, Washed by a single winter's rains, Where, some beneath Virginian hills, And some by green Atlantic rills, Some by the waters of the West, A myriad unknown heroes rest? Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see Their flags in front of victory, Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost Pay for a battle nobly lost, Claim from their monumental beds The bitterest tears a nation sheds. Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot, By all save some fond few forgot-- Lie the true martyrs of the fight, Which strikes for freedom and for right. Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, The lofty faith that with them died, No grateful page shall further tell Than that so many bravely fell; And we can only dimly guess What worlds of all this world's distress, What utter woe, despair, and dearth, Their fate has brought to many a hearth. Just such a sky as this should weep Above them, always, where they sleep; Yet, haply, at this very hour, Their graves are like a lover's bower; And Nature's self, with eyes unwet, Oblivious of the crimson debt To which she owes her April grace, Laughs gayly o'er their burial place.

Ode--"Do Ye Quail?"

By W. Gilmore Simms.

I.

Do ye quail but to hear, Carolinians, The first foot-tramp of Tyranny's minions? Have ye buckled on armor, and brandished the spear, But to shrink with the trumpet's first peal on the ear? Why your forts now embattled on headland and height, Your sons all in armor, unless for the fight? Did ye think the mere show of your guns on the wall, And your shouts, would the souls of the heathen appal? That his lusts and his appetites, greedy as Hell, Led by Mammon and Moloch, would sink at a spell;-- Nor strive, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the flesh Should be torn from his jaws, while yet bleeding afresh.

II.

For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!-- To the death for your sacred dominions!-- Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame, Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame; Your greybeards, with necks in the halter-- Your virgins, defiled at the altar,-- In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave, Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave! Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom! How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom! With the fiends in your streets howling pæans, And the Beast o'er another Orleans!

III.

Do ye quail, as on yon little islet They have planted the feet that defile it? Make its sands pure of taint, by the stroke of the sword, And by torrents of blood in red sacrifice pour'd! Doubts are Traitors, if once they persuade you to fear, That the foe, in his foothold, is safe from your spear! When the foot of pollution is set on your shores, What sinew and soul should be stronger than yours? By the fame--by the shame--of your sires, Set on, though each freeman expires; Better fall, grappling fast with the foe, to their graves, Than groan in your fetters, the slaves of your slaves.

IV.

The voice of your loud exultation Hath rung, like a trump, through the nation, How loudly, how proudly, of deeds to be done, The blood of the sire in the veins of the son! Old Moultrie and Sumter still keep at your gates, And the foe in his foothold as patiently waits. He asks, with a taunt, by your patience made bold, If the hot spur of Percy grows suddenly cold-- Makes merry with boasts of your city his own, And the Chivalry fled, ere his trumpet is blown; Upon them, O sons of the mighty of yore, And fatten the sands with their Sodomite gore!

V.

Where's the dastard that cowers and falters In the sight of his hearthstones and altars? With the faith of the free in the God of the brave, Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save! By the blue Heaven shining above ye, By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye, Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight, And an ægis to shield and a weapon to smite! Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not: With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still. To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians, For your homes, and your sacred dominions.

Ode--"Our City by the Sea."

By W. Gilmore Simms.

I.

Our city by the sea, As the rebel city known, With a soul and spirit free As the waves that make her zone, Stands in wait for the fate From the angry arm of hate; But she nothing fears the terror of his blow; She hath garrisoned her walls, And for every son that falls, She will spread a thousand palls For-the foe!

II.

Old Moultrie at her gate, Clad in arms and ancient fame. Grimly watching, stands elate To deliver bolt and flame! Brave the band, at command, To illumine sea and land With a glory that shall honor days of yore; And, as racers for their goals, A thousand fiery souls, While the drum of battle rolls, Line the shore.

III.

Lo! rising at his side, As if emulous to share His old historic pride, The vast form of Sumter there! Girt by waves, which he braves Though the equinoctial raves, As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep; And, like tigers crouching round, Are the tribute forts that bound All the consecrated ground, By the deep!

IV.

It was calm, the April noon, When, in iron-castled towers, Our haughty foe came on, With his aggregated powers; All his might 'gainst the right, Now embattled for the fight, With Hell's hate and venom working in his heart; A vast and dread array, Glooming black upon the day, Hell's passions all in play, With Hell's art.

V.

But they trouble not the souls Of our Carolina host,[1] And the drum of battle rolls, While each hero seeks his post; Firm, though few, sworn to do, Their old city full in view, The brave city of their sires and their dead; There each freeman had his brood, All the dear ones of his blood, And he knew they watching stood, In their dread!

VI.

To the bare embattled height, Then our gallant colonel sprung-- "Bid them welcome to the fight," Were the accents of his tongue-- "Music! band, pour out--grand-- The free song of Dixie Land! Let it tell them we are joyful that they come! Bid them welcome, drum and flute, Nor be your cannon mute, Give them chivalrous salute-- To their doom!"[2]

VII.

Out spoke an eager gun, From the walls of Moultrie then; And through clouds of sulph'rous dun, Rose a shout of thousand men, As the shot, hissing hot, Goes in lightning to the spot-- Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail; Then roared the storm from all, Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall-- Bursting bomb and driving ball-- Hell in hail!

VIII.

Full a hundred cannon roared The dread welcome to the foe, And his felon spirit cowered, As he crouched beneath the blow! As each side opened wide To the iron and the tide, He lost his faith in armor and in art; And, with the loss of faith, Came the dread of wounds and scath-- And the felon fear of death Wrung his heart!

IX.

Quenched then his foul desires; In his mortal pain and fear, How feeble grew his fires, How stayed his fell career! How each keel, made to reel 'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel, Their turrets staggering wildly, to and fro, blind and lame; Ironsides and iron roof, Held no longer bullet-proof, Steal away, shrink aloof, In their shame!

X.

But our lightnings follow fast, With a vengeance sharp and hot; Our bolts are on the blast, And they rive with shell and shot! Huge the form which they warm With the hot breath of the storm; Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck-- They shiver as they fly, While their leader, drifting nigh, Sinks, choking with the cry-- "Keokuk!"

XI.

To the brave old city, joy! For that the hostile race, Commissioned to destroy, Hath fled in sore disgrace! That our sons, at their guns, Have beat back the modern Huns-- Have maintained their household fanes and their fires; And free from taint and scath, Have kept the fame and faith (And will keep, through blood and death) Of their sires!