April 14, 1861.
By John A. Wagener, of S.C.
Carolina! Carolina!
Noble name in State and story,
How I love thy truthful glory,
As I love the blue sky o'er ye,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Land of chivalry unfearing,
Daughters fair beyond comparing,
Sons of worth, and noble daring,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Soft thy clasp in loving greeting,
Plenteous board and kindly meeting,
All thy pulses nobly beating,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven,
Bold thy streams through forest riven,
Bright thy laurels, hero-given,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Holy name, and dear forever,
Never shall thy childen, never,
Fail to strike with grand endeavor,
Carolina evermore!
Savannah.
By Alethea S. Burroughs.
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Thou eomest to thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;
To thee, the triple cords belong,
Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong,
And spirit vaunted long, too long!
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;
Only the martyrs' blood is there;
It gleams upon thy bosom bier,
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thy clean white hand is opened wide
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers--
Still at thy feet the old oak towers;
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,
And things of beauty, love, and flowers
Are smiling o'er this land of ours,
My sunny home, Savannah!
There is no film before thy sight--
Thou seest woe, and death, and night--
And blood upon thy banner bright;
But in thy full wrath's kindled might,
What carest thou for woe, or night?
My rebel home, Savannah!
Come--for the crown is on thy head!
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed,
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Oh! come unto thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
"Old Betsy."
By John Killum.
Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping,
Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth;
Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,
Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding,
Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South;
Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding
Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.
Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you,
When the fierce bear was cut down in his track--
If at that moment she never deceived you,
Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.
Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping,
Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth;
Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,
Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Awake--Arise!
By G. W. Archer, M. D.
Sons of the South--awake--arise!
A million foes sweep down amain,
Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes,
And fire and rapine in their train,
Like savage Hun and merciless Dane!
"We come as brothers!" Trust them not!
By all that's dear in heaven and earth,
By every tie that hath its birth
Within your homes--around your hearth;
Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot,
Worse for the fair and sleek disguise--
A traitor in a patriot's cloak!
"Your country's good
Demands your blood!"
Was it a fiend from hell that spoke?
They point us to the Stripes and Stars;
(Our banner erst--the despot's now!)
But let not thoughts of by-gone wars,
When beat we back the common foe,
And felled them fast and shamed them so,
Divide us at this fearful hour;
But think of dungeons and of chains--
Think of your violated fanes--
Of your loved homestead's gory stains--
Eternal thraldom for your dower!
No love of country fires their breasts--
The fell fanatics fain would free
A grovelling race,
And in their place
Would fetter us with fiendish glee!
Sons of the South--awake--awake!
And strike for rights full dear as those
For which our struggling sires did shake
Earth's proudest throne--while freedom rose,
Baptized in blood of braggart foes.
Awake--that hour hath come again!
Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne--
Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown--
Strike! in the name of Washington,
Who taught you once to rend the chain,
Smiles now from heaven upon our cause,
So like his own. His spirit moves
Through every fight,
And lends its might
To every heart that freedom loves.
Ye beauteous of the sunny land!
Unmatched your charms in all the earth,
'Neath freedom's banner take your stand;
And, though ye strike not, prove your worth,
As wont in days of joy and mirth:
Lavish your praises on the brave--
Pray when the battle fiercely lowers--
Smile when the victory is ours--
Frown on the wretch who basely cowers--
Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave!
Lend thus your favors whilst we smite!
Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!--
With woman's charms
To nerve their arms,
Oh! when have men their freedom lost!
General Albert Sidney Johnston.
By Mary Jervy, of Charleston.
In thickest fight triumphantly he fell,
While into victory's arms he led us on;
A death so glorious our grief should quell:
We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.
No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now,
No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame
Immortal honor rests upon his brow,
And noble memories cluster round his name.
For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears,
To read the story of his touching fate;
How in his death the gallant soldier wears
The crown that came for earthly life too late.
Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keep
The garlands green above his hero-grave;
Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep,
To tell him he is shrined among the brave!
Eulogy of the Dead.
By B. F. Porter, of Alabama.
"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah.
Oh! weep not for the dead,
Whose blood, for freedom shed,
Is hallowed evermore!
Who on the battle-field
Gould die--but never yield!
Oh, bemoan them never more--
They live immortal in their gore!
Oh, what is it to die
Midst shouts of victory,
Our rights and homes defending!
Oh! what were fame and life
Gained in that basest strife
For tyrants' power contending,
Our country's bosom rending!
Oh! dead of red Manassah!
Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray!
Oh! victors of the Richmond field!
Dead on your mother's breast,
You live in glorious rest;
Each on[1] his honored shield,
Immortal in each bloody field!
Oh! sons of noble mothers!
Oh! youth of maiden lovers!
Oh! husbands of chaste wives!
Though asleep in beds of gore,
You return, oh! never more;
Still immortal are your lives!
Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!
How blest is he who draws
His sword in freedom's cause!
Though dead on battle-field,
Forever to his tomb
Shall youthful heroes come,
Their hearts for freedom steeled,
And learn to die on battle-field.
As at Thermopylæ,
Grecian child of liberty;
Swears to despot ne'er to yield--
Here, by our glorious dead,
Let's revenge the blood they've shed,
Or die on bloody field,
By the sons who scorned to yield!
Oh! mothers! lovers! wives!
Oh! weep no more--our lives
Are our country's evermore!
More glorious in your graves,
Than if living Lincoln's slaves,
Ye will perish never more,
Martyred on our fields of gore!
[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his shield, said--"With it, or on it."
The Beaufort Exile's Lament.
Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea,
And sing the sad wanderer's psalm--
Ye women and children in exile that flee
From the land of the orange and palm.
Lament for your homes, for the house of your God,
Now the haunt of the vile and the low;
Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod
By the foot of the Puritan foe!
No longer for thee, when the sables of night
Are fading like shadows away,
Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light,
Praise God for the birth of a day.
No longer for thee, when the rays are now full,
Do the oaks form an evergreen glade;
While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull
The cattle that rest in the shade.
No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon
Silver o'er the green waves of the bay;
Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon
Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray.
Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore,
And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng,
Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar,
The wild chant of the sacred boat-song.
Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff,
The traveller would pause on his way;
And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh,
To list to the negro's rude lay.
"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear
At the close of each solemn refrain;
'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year,
Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again.
Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie,
Your daughters' mid strangers now roam;
Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh
O'er the days when they once had a home.
"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone
Can those words sweep the chords of the soul,
And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone,
As the tide-waves of time backward roll.
"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine,
Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul,
Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine--
Will have gone home at last to their God!
Somebody's Darling.
By Marie La Coste, of Georgia.
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and the dying lay--
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day--
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave!
Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face--
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave--
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace!
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould--
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now--
Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low--
One bright curl from its fair mates take--
They were somebody's pride you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there;
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister fair--
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! He has somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there--
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand!
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay--
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead--
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head--
"Somebody's darling slumbers here."