Chapter XII

To the Lord of Hosts the glory, For His the arm and might, That have writ for us the story, And have borne us through the fight! His our shield in that field-- Voice that bade us never yield; Oh! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day? His strength hath made us strong, Cheered the right and crushed the wrong, To His temple let us throng-- PRAISE AND PRAY!

[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South Carolina troops exclusively.

[2] As the iron-clads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred Rhett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where he remained, ordered the band to strike up the national air of "Dixie;" and at the same time, in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and regimental flags were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen guns.

The Lone Sentry.

By James R. Randall.

Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the night. The officer of the day went to the general's tent, and said:

"General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one but is asleep. Shall I wake them?"

"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp to-night."

And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers.

'Twas in the dying of the day,
The darkness grew so still;
The drowsy pipe of evening birds
Was hushed upon the hill;
Athwart the shadows of the vale
Slumbered the men of might,
And one lone sentry paced his rounds,
To watch the camp that night.

A grave and solemn man was he,
With deep and sombre brow;
The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up
Some unaccomplished vow.
The wistful glance peered o'er the plains
Beneath the starry light--
And with the murmured name of God,
He watched the camp that night.

The Future opened unto him
Its grand and awful scroll:
Manassas and the Valley march
Came heaving o'er his soul--
Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by
With that tremendous fight
Which gave him to the angel hosts
Who watched the camp that night.

We mourn for him who died for us,
With one resistless moan;
While up the Valley of the Lord
He marches to the Throne!
He kept the faith of men and saints
Sublime, and pure, and bright--
He sleeps--and all is well with him
Who watched the camp that night.

Brothers! the Midnight of the Cause
Is shrouded in our fate;
The demon Goths pollute our halls
With fire, and lust, and hate.
Be strong--be valiant--be assured--
Strike home for Heaven and Right!
_The soul of Jackson stalks abroad,
And guards the camp to-night!_

To My Soldier Brother.

By Sallie E. Ballard, of Texas.

When softly gathering shades of ev'n Creep o'er the prairies broad and green, And countless stars bespangle heav'n, And fringe the clouds with silv'ry sheen, My fondest sigh to thee is giv'n, My lonely wandering soldier boy; And thoughts of thee Steal over me Like ev'ning shades, my soldier boy.

My brother, though thou'rt far away, And dangers hurtle round thy path, And battle lightnings o'er thee play, And thunders peal in awful wrath, Think, whilst thou'rt in the hot affray, Thy sister prays for thee, my boy. If fondest prayer Can shield thee there Sweet angels guard my soldier boy.

Thy proud young heart is beating high To clash of arms and cannons' roar; That firm-set lip and flashing eye Tell how thy heart is brimming o'er. Be free and live, be free or die; Be that thy motto now, my boy; And though thy name's Unknown to fame's, 'Tis graven on my heart, my boy.

Sea-Weeds

Written in Exile.

By Annie Chambers Ketchum.

Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart!
Beneath the citron-tree--
Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep--
I hear the Mexique Sea.

While through the night rides in the spectral surf
Along the spectral sands,
And all the air vibrates, as if from harps
Touched by phantasmal hands.

Bright in the moon the red pomegranate flowers
Lean to the Yucca's bells,
While with her chrism of dew, sad Midnight fills
The milk-white asphodels.

Watching all night--as I have done before--
I count the stars that set,
Each writing on my soul some memory deep
Of Pleasure or Regret;

Till, wild with heart-break, toward the East I turn,
Waiting for dawn of day;--
And chanting sea, and asphodel and star
Are faded, all, away.

Only within my trembling, trembling hands--
Brought unto me by thee--
I clasp these beautiful and fragile things,
Bright sea-weeds from the sea,

Fair bloom the flowers beneath these Northern skies,
Pure shine the stars by night,
And grandly sing the grand Atlantic waves
In thunder-throated might;

But, as the sea-shell in her chambers keeps
The murmur of the sea,
So the deep-echoing memories of my home
Will not depart from me.

Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things!
As I have seen them cast
Like a drowned woman's hair, along the beach,
When storms were over-past;

Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashore
In Battle's storm and blight;
Would _they_ had died, like sea-weeds! Pray forgive me
But I must weep to-night.

Tell me again, of Summer fields made fair
By Spring's precursing plough;
Of joyful reapers, gathering tear-sown harvests--
Talk to me,--will you?--now!

The Salkehatchie.

By Emily J. Moore.

Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie.

The crystal streams, the pearly streams,
The streams in sunbeams flashing,
The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams,
The streams down mountains dashing,
Have been the theme
Of poets' dream,
And, in wild witching story,
Have been renowned for love's fond scenes,
Or some great deed of glory.

The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,
The Arno, silver-flowing,
The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,
With poesy are glowing;
But I would praise
In artless lays,
A stream which well may match ye,
Though dark its waters glide along--
The swampy Salkehatchie.

'Tis not the beauty of its stream,
Which makes it so deserving
Of honor at the Muses' hands,
But 'tis the use it's serving,
And 'gainst a raid,
We hope its aid
Will ever prove efficient,
Its fords remain still overflowed,
In water ne'er deficient.

If Vandal bands are held in check,
Their crossing thus prevented,
And we are spared the ravage wild
Their malice has invented,
Then we may well
In numbers tell
No other stream can match ye,
And grateful we shall ever be
To swampy Salkehatchie.

The Broken Mug.

Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley (so-called.)

John Esten Cooke.

My mug is broken, my heart is sad!
What woes can fate still hold in store!
The friend I cherished a thousand days
Is smashed to pieces on the floor!
Is shattered and to Limbo gone,
I'll see my Mug no more!

Relic it was of joyous hours
Whose golden memories still allure--
When coffee made of rye we drank,
And gray was all the dress we wore!
When we were paid some cents a month,
But never asked for more!

In marches long, by day and night,
In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,
Strapped on the saddle at my back
This faithful comrade still I bore--
This old companion, true and tried,
I'll never carry more!

From the Rapidan to Gettysburg--
"Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before--
This friend went with the cavalry
And heard the jarring-cannon roar
In front of Cemetery Hill--
Good heavens! how they did roar!

Then back again, the foe behind,
Back to the "Old Virginia shore"--
Some dead and wounded left--some holes
In flags, the sullen graybacks bore;
This mug had made the great campaign,
And we'd have gone once more!

Alas! we never went again!
The red cross banner, slow but sure,
"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout
(Like the lover of Lenore)
A long, sad, lingering farewell--
To taste its joys no more.

But still we fought, and ate hard bread,
Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore!
And still this faithful friend remained--
Riding behind me as before--
The friend on march, in bivouac,
When others were no more.

How oft we drove the horsemen blue
In Summer bright or Winter frore!
How oft before the Southern charge
Through field and wood the blue-birds tore!
Im "harmonized," but long to hear
The bugles ring once more.

Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now,
Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure,
Congress will "reconstruct" us soon--
But no gray people on _that_ floor!
I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long
To see those times once more!

Gay days! the sun was brighter then,
And we were happy, though so poor!
That past comes back as I behold
My shattered friend upon the floor,
My splintered, useless, ruined mug,
From which I'll drink no more.

How many lips I'll love for aye,
While heart and memory endure,
Have touched this broken cup and laughed--
How they did laugh!--in days of yore!
Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream,
If they had been no more!"

Dear comrades, dead this many a day,
I saw you weltering in your gore,
After those days, amid the pines
On the Rappahannock shore!
When the joy of life was much to me
But your warm hearts were more!

Yours was the grand heroic nerve
That laughs amid the storm of war--
Souls that "loved much" your native land,
Who fought and died therefor!
You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,
Your blood--you had no more!

You lived and died true to your flag!
And now your wounds are healed--but sore
Are many hearts that think of you
Where you have "gone before."
Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms,
They are "whole" forevermore!

Those lips this broken vessel touched,
His, too!--the man's we all adore--
That cavalier of cavaliers,
Whose voice will ring no more--
Whose plume will float amid the storm
Of battle never more!

Not on this idle page I write
That name of names, shrined in the core
Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen,
Hush! words so cold and poor!
His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,
His bugle sounds no more!

Never was cavalier like ours!
Not Rupert in the years before!
And when his stern, hard work was done,
His griefs, joys, battles o'er--
His mighty spirit rode the storm,
And led his men once more!

He lies beneath his native sod,
Where violets spring, or frost is hoar:
He recks not--charging squadrons watch
His raven plume no more!
That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
That hand we'll touch no more!

My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:
Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
Ye are the types of nobler things
That find their use no more--
Things glorious once, now trodden down--
That makes us smile no more!

Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts--
Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,
Beating his wings against the bars,
The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still--
Bread failed--we fought no more!

Lies in the dust the shattered staff
That bore aloft on sea and shore,
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
And none are now so poor,
So poor to do it reverence,
Now when it flames no more!

But it is glorious in the dust,
Sacred till Time shall be no more:
Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn--
The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!
Furl the great flag--hide cross and star,
Thrust into darkness star and bar,
But look! across the ages far
It flames for evermore!

Carolina.

By Anna Peyre Dinnies.

In the hour of thy glory,
When thy name was far renowned,
When Sumter's glowing story
Thy bright escutcheon crowned;
Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine,
That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine.

Exulting as I heard thee,
Of every lip the theme,
Prophetic visions stirred me,
In a hope-illumined dream:
A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won,
Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son.

And now, when clouds arise,
And shadows round thee fall;
I lift to heaven my eyes,
Those visions to recall;
For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long,
Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong.

Thy serried ranks of pine,
Thy live-oaks spreading wide,
Beneath the sunbeams shine,
In fadeless robes of pride;
Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth,
As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North.

The deeds of other days,
Enacted by their sires,
Themes long of love and praise,
Have wakened high desires
In every heart that beats within thy proud domain,
To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again.

Each heart the home of daring,
Each hand the foe of wrong,
They'll meet with haughty bearing,
The war-ship's thunder song;
And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore,
They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore.

His feet may press their soil,
Or his numbers bear them down,
In his vandal raid for spoil,
His sordid soul to crown;
But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near,
When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear.

A fearful time shall come,
When thy gathering bands unite,
And the larum-sounding drum
Calls to struggle for the Right;
"_Pro aris et pro focis_," from rank to rank shall fly,
As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die.

Oh, then a tale of glory
Shall yet again be thine,
And the record of thy story
The Laurel shall entwine;
Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State!
Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great.

Our Martyrs.

Bu Paul H. Hayne.

I am sitting lone and weary
On the hearth of my darkened room,
And the low wind's _miserere_
Makes sadder the midnight gloom;
There's a terror that's nameless nigh me--
There's a phantom spell in the air,
And methinks that the dead glide by me,
And the breath of the grave's in my hair!

'Tis a vision of ghastly faces,
All pallid, and worn with pain,
Where the splendor of manhood's graces
Give place to a gory stain;
In a wild and weird procession
They sweep by my startled eyes,
And stern with their fate's fruition,
Seem melting in blood-red skies.

Have they come from the shores supernal,
Have they passed from the spirit's goal,
'Neath the veil of the life eternal,
To dawn on my shrinking soul?
Have they turned from the choiring angels,
Aghast at the woe and dearth
That war, with his dark evangels,
Hath wrought in the loved of earth?

Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains
They lie, where the dew-mists weep,
And the murmur of mournful fountains
Breaks over their painful sleep;
On the breast of the lonely meadows,
Safe, safe from the despot's will,
They rest in the star-lit shadows,
And their brows are white and still!

Alas! for the martyred heroes
Cut down at their golden prime,
In a strife with the brutal Neroes,
Who blacken the path of Time!
For them is the voice of wailing,
And the sweet blush-rose departs
From the cheeks of the maidens, paling
O'er the wreck of their broken hearts!

And alas! for the vanished glory
Of a thousand household spells!
And alas! for the tearful story
Of the spirit's fond farewells!
By the flood, on the field, in the forest,
Our bravest have yielded breath,
But the shafts that have smitten sorest,
Were launched by a viewless death!

Oh, Thou, that hast charms of healing,
Descend on a widowed land,
And bind o'er the wounds of feeling
The balms of Thy mystic hand!
Till the hearts that lament and languish,
Renewed by the touch divine,
From the depths of a mortal anguish
May rise to the calm of Thine!

Cleburne.

By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama.

"_Another star now shines on high._"

Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laurelled grave-- Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set, For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.

'Tis true thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead; The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.

No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore, No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more, No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise, For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.

Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless, deadened heart; Calm, calm and sweet, 0 warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part, And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine, A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.

A long farewell--we give thee up, with all thy bright renown; A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found. Above thy grave a wail is heard--a nation mourns her dead; A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled.

A last farewell--how can we speak the bitter word farewell! The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell. Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might; And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night.

Selma Despatch, 1864.

The Texan Marseillaise.

By James Haines, of Texas.

Sons of the South, arouse to battle!
Gird on your armor for the fight!
The Northern Thugs with dread "War's rattle,"
Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;
Meet them as Ocean meets in madness
The frail bark on the rocky shore,
When crested billows foam and roar,
And the wrecked crew go down in sadness.
Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!
Scatter yon Vandal hordes!
Despots and bandits, fitting food
For vultures and your swords.

Shall dastard tyrants march their legions
To crush the land of Jackson--Lee?
Shall freedom fly to other regions,
And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?
Or shall their "footprints' base pollution"
Of Southern soil, in blood be purged,
And every flying slave be scourged
Back to his snows in wild confusion?
Arm! Arm! &c.

Vile despots, with their minions knavish,
Would drag us back to their embrace;
Will freemen brook a chain so slavish?
Will brave men take so low a place?
O, Heaven! for words--the loathing, scorning
We feel for such a Union's bands:
To paint with more than mortal hands,
And sound our loudest notes of warning.
Arm! Arm! &c.

What! union with a race ignoring The charter of our nation's birth! Union with bastard slaves adoring The fiend that chains them, to the earth! No! we reply in tones of thunder-- No! our staunch hills fling back the sound-- No! our hoarse cannon echo round-- No! evermore remain asunder! Arm! Arm! &c.

Southern Confederacy.

O, Tempora! O, Mores!

By John Dickson Bruns, M. D.

"Great Pan is dead!" so cried an airy tongue
To one who, drifting down Calabria's shore,
Heard the last knell, in starry midnight rung,
Of the old Oracles, dumb for evermore.

A low wail ran along the shuddering deep,
And as, far off, its flaming accents died,
The awe-struck sailors, startled from their sleep,
Gazed, called aloud: no answering voice replied;

Nor ever will--the angry Gods have fled,
Closed are the temples, mute are all the shrines,
The fires are quenched, Dodona's growth is dead,
The Sibyl's leaves are scattered to the winds.

No mystic sentence will they bear again,
Which, sagely spelled, might ward a nation's doom;
But we have left us still some god-like men,
And some great voices pleading from the tomb.

If we would heed them, they might save us yet,
Call up some gleams of manhood in our breasts,
Truth, valor, justice, teach us to forget
In a grand cause our selfish interests.

But we have fallen on evil times indeed,
When public faith is but the common shame,
And private morals held an idiot's creed,
And old-world honesty an empty name.

And lust, and greed, and gain are all our arts!
The simple lessons which our father's taught
Are scorned and jeered at; in our sordid marts
We sell the faith for which they toiled and fought.

Each jostling each in the mad strife for gold,
The weaker trampled by the unrecking throng
Friends, honor, country lost, betrayed, or sold,
And lying blasphemies on every tongue.

Cant for religion, sounding words for truth,
Fraud leads to fortune, gelt for guilt atones,
No care for hoary age or tender youth,
For widows' tears or helpless orphans' groans.

The people rage, and work their own wild will,
They stone the prophets, drag their highest down,
And as they smite, with savage folly still
Smile at their work, those dead eyes wear no frown.

The sage of "Drainfield"[1] tills a barren soil,
And reaps no harvest where he sowed the seed,
He has but exile for long years of toil;
Nor voice in council, though his children bleed.

And never more shall "Redcliffs"[2] oaks rejoice,
Now bowed with grief above their master's bier;
Faction and party stilled that mighty voice,
Which yet could teach us wisdom, could we hear.

And "Woodland's"[3] harp is mute: the gray, old man
Broods by his lonely hearth and weaves no song;
Or, if he sing, the note is sad and wan,
Like the pale face of one who's suffered long.

So all earth's teachers have been overborne
By the coarse crowd, and fainting; droop or die;
They bear the cross, their bleeding brows the thorn,
And ever hear the clamor--"Crucify!"

Oh, for a man with godlike heart and brain!
A god in stature, with a god's great will.
And fitted to the time, that not in vain
Be all the blood we're spilt and yet must spill.

Oh, brothers! friends! shake off the Circean spell!
Rouse to the dangers of impending fate!
Grasp your keen swords, and all may yet be well--
More gain, more pelf, and it will be, too late!

Charleston Mercury [1864].

[1] The country-seat of R. Barnwell Rhett.

[2] The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond.

[3] The homestead of W. Gilmore Simms (destroyed by Sherman's army.)

Our Departed Comrades.

By J. Marion Shirer.

I am sitting alone by a fire
That glimmers on Sugar Loaf's height,
But before I to rest shall retire
And put out the fast fading light--
While the lanterns of heaven are ling'ring
In silence all o'er the deep sea,
And loved ones at home are yet mingling
Their voices in converse of me--
While yet the lone seabird is flying
So swiftly far o'er the rough wave,
And many fond mothers are sighing
For the noble, the true, and the brave;
Let me muse o'er the many departed
Who slumber on mountain and vale;
With the sadness which shrouds the lone-hearted,
Let me tell of my comrades a tale.
Far away in the green, lonely mountains,
Where the eagle makes bloody his beak,
In the mist, and by Gettysburg's fountains,
Our fallen companions now sleep!
Near Charleston, where Sumter still rises
In grandeur above the still wave,
And always at evening discloses
The fact that her inmates yet live--
On islands, and fronting Savannah,
Where dark oaks overshadow the ground,
Round Macon and smoking Atlanta,
How many dead heroes are found!
And out on the dark swelling ocean,
Where vessels go, riding the waves,
How many, for love and devotion,
Now slumber in warriors' graves!
No memorials have yet been erected
To mark where these warriors lie.
All alone, save by angels protected,
They sleep 'neath the sea and the sky!
But think not that they are forgotten
By those who the carnage survive:
When their headboards will all have grown rotten,
And the night-winds have levelled their graves,
Then hundreds of sisters and mothers,
Whose freedom they perished to save,
And fathers, and empty-sleeved brothers,
Who surmounted the battle's red wave;
Will crowd from their homes in the Southward,
In search of the loved and the blest,
And, rejoicing, will soon return homeward
And lay our dear martyrs to rest.

No Land Like Ours.

Published in the Montgomery Advertiser, January, 1863.

By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.

Though other lands may boast of skies
Far deeper in their blue,
Where flowers, in Eden's pristine dyes,
Bloom with a richer hue;
And other nations pride in kings,
And worship lordly powers;
Yet every voice of nature sings,
There is no land like ours!

Though other scenes, than such as grace
Our forests, fields, and plains,
May lend the earth a sweeter face
Where peace incessant reigns;
But dearest still to me the land
Where sunshine cheers the hours,
For God hath shown, with his own hand,
There is no land like ours!

Though other streams may softer flow
In vales of classic bloom,
And rivers clear as crystal glow,
That wear no tinge of gloom;
Though other mountains lofty look,
And grand seem olden towers,
We see, as in an open book,
There is no land like ours!

Though other nations boast of deeds
That live in old renown,
And other peoples cling to creeds
That coldly on us frown;
On pure religion, love, and law
Are based our ruling powers--
The world but feels, with wondering awe,
There is no land like ours!

Though other lands may boast their brave, Whose deeds are writ in fame, Their heroes ne'er such glory gave As gilds our country's name; Though others rush to daring deeds, Where the darkening war-cloud lowers, Here, each alike for freedom bleeds-- There is no land like ours!

Though other lands Napoleon And Wellington adorn, America, her Washington, And later heroes born; Yet Johnston, Jackson, Price, and Lee, Bragg, Buckner, Morgan towers, With Beauregard, and Hood, and Bee-- There is no land like ours!

The Angel of the Church.

By W. Gilmore Simms.

The enemy, from his camp on Morris Island, has, in frequent letters in the Northern papers, avowed the object at which they aim their shells in Charleston to be the spire of St. Michael's Church. Their _practice_ shows that these avowals are true. Thus far, they have not succeeded in their aim. Angels of the Churches, is a phrase applied by St. John in reference to the Seven Churches of Asia. The Hebrews recognized an Angel of the Church, in their language, "Sheliack-Zibbor," whose office may be described as that of a watcher or guardian of the church. Daniel says, iv. 13, "Behold, a watcher and a Holy one came down from Heaven." The practice of naming churches after tutelary saints, originated, no doubt, in the conviction that, where the church was pure, and the faith true, and the congregation pious, these guardian angels, so chosen, would accept the office assigned them. They were generally chosen from the Seraphim and Cherubim--those who, according to St. Paul (1 Colossians xvi.), represented thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers. According to the Hebrew traditions, St. Michael was the head of the first order; Gabriel, of the second; Uriel, of the third; and Raphael, of the fourth. St. Michael is the warrior angel who led the hosts of the sky against the powers of the princes of the air; who overthrew the dragon, and trampled him under foot. The destruction of the Anaconda, in his hands, would be a smaller undertaking. Assuming for our people a hope not less rational than that of the people of Nineveh, we may reasonably build upon the guardianship and protection of God, through his angels, "a great city of sixty thousand souls," which has been for so long a season the subject of his care. These notes will supply the adequate illustrations for the ode which follows.

I.

Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim
The temple of the living God;
Hurl iron bolt and seething flame
Through aisles which holiest feet have trod;
Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb,
And, raging with demoniac ire,
Send down, in sudden crash of doom,
That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire.

II.

That spire, for full a hundred years,[1]
Hath been a people's point of sight;
That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears,
With strains well worthy Salem's height;
The sweet, clear music of its bells,
Made liquid soft in Southern air,
Still through the heart of memory swells,
And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer.

III.

Along the shores for many a mile,
Long ere they owned a beacon-mark,
It caught arid kept the Day-God's smile,
The guide for every wandering bark;[2]
Averting from our homes the scaith
Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven,
The Pharos to the wandering faith,
It pointed every prayer to Heaven!

IV.

Well may ye, felons of the time,
Still loathing all that's pure and free,
Add this to many a thousand crime
'Gainst peace and sweet humanity:
Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame,
Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes,
But fitly turn your murderous aim
Against Jehovah's ancient domes.

V.

Yet, though the grand old temple falls,
And downward sinks the lofty spire,
Our faith is stronger than our walls,
And soars above the storm and fire.
Ye shake no faith in souls made free
To tread the paths their fathers trod;
To fight and die for liberty,
Believing in the avenging God!

VI.

Think not, though long his anger stays,
His justice sleeps--His wrath is spent;
The arm of vengeance but delays,
To make more dread the punishment!
Each impious hand that lights the torch
Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall;
And the bright Angel of the Church,
With seraph shield avert the ball!

VII.

For still we deem, as taught of old,
That where the faith the altar builds,
God sends an angel from his fold,
Whose sleepless watch the temple shields,
And to his flock, with sweet accord,
Yields their fond choice, from THRONES and POWERS;
Thus, Michael, with his fiery sword
And golden shield, still champions ours!

VIII.

And he who smote the dragon down,
And chained him thousand years of time,
Need never fear the boa's frown,
Though loathsome in his spite and slime.
He, from the topmost height, surveys
And guards the shrines our fathers gave;
And we, who sleep beneath his gaze,
May well believe his power to save!

IX.

Yet, if it be that for our sin
Our angel's term of watch is o'er,
With proper prayer, true faith must win
The guardian watcher back once more I
Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer--
In blood and sackcloth, if it need;
And still our spire shall rise in air,
Our temple, though our people bleed!

[1] St.. Michael's Church was opened for divine worship, February 1, 1761

[2] "The height of this steeple makes it the principal land-mark for the pilots."--Dalcjio (in 1819).

Ode--"Shell the Old City! Shell!"

By W. Gilmore Simms.

I.

Shell the old city I shell! Ye myrmidons of Hell; Ye serve your master well, With hellish arts! Hurl down, with bolt and fire, The grand old shrines, the spire; But know, your demon ire Subdues no hearts!

II.

There, we defy ye still, With sworn and resolute will; Courage ye cannot kill While we have breath! Stone walls your bolts may break, But, ere our souls ye shake, Of the whole land we'll make One realm of death!

III.

Dear are our homes! our eyes Weep at their sacrifice; And, with each bolt that flies, Each roof that falls, The pang extorts the tear, That things so precious, dear To memory, love, and care, Sink with our walls.

IV.

Trophies of ancient time, When, with great souls, sublime, Opposing force and crime, Our fathers fought; Relics of golden hours, When, for our shrines and bowers, Genius, with magic powers, Her triumphs wrought!

V.

Each Sabbath-hallowed dome, Each ancient family home, The dear old southwest room, All trellised round; Where gay, bright summer vines, Linked in fantastic twines With the sun's blazing lines, Rubied the ground!

VI.

Homes, sacred to the past, Which bore the hostile blast, Though Spain, France, Britain cast Their shot and shell! Tombs of the mighty dead, That in our battles bled, When on our infant head These furies fell!

VII.

Halls which the foreign guest Found of each charm possessed, With cheer unstinted blessed, And noblest grace; Where, drawing to her side The stranger, far and wide, Frank courtesy took pride To give him place!

VIII.

The shaded walks--the bowers Where, through long summer hours, Young Love first proved his powers To win the prize; Where every tree has heard Some vows of love preferred, And, with his leaves unstirred, Watch'd lips and eyes.

IX.

Gardens of tropic blooms, That, through the shaded rooms, Sent Orient-winged perfumes With dusk and dawn; The grand old laurel, tall, As sovereign over all, And, from the porch and hall, The verdant lawn.

X.

Oh! when we think of these Old homes, ancestral trees; Where, in the sun and breeze, At morn and even, Was to enjoy the play Of hearts at holiday, And find, in blooms of May, Foretaste of Heaven!

XI.

Where, as we cast our eyes On thing's of precious prize, Trophies of good and wise, Grand, noble, brave; And think of these, so late Sacred to soul and state, Doomed, as the wreck of fate, By fiend and slave!--

XII.

The inevitable pain, Coursing through blood and brain, Drives forth, like winter rain, The bitter tear! We cannot help but weep, From depth of hearts that keep The memories, dread and deep. To vengeance dear!

XIII.

Aye, for each tear we shed, There shall be torrents red, Not from the eye-founts fed, But from the veins! Bloody shall be the sweat, Fiends, felons, that shall yet Pay retribution's debt, In torture's pains!