F. Y. Rockett.--Memphis Appeal.
The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Still the tinkling on the plains,
And transmute the evening chimes
Into war's resounding rhymes,
That the invaders may be slain
By the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
That for years have called to prayer,
And, instead, the cannon's roar
Shall resound the valleys o'er,
That the foe may catch despair
From the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Though it cost a tear to part
With the music they have made,
Where the friends we love are laid,
With pale cheek and silent heart,
'Neath the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Into cannon, vast and grim,
And the foe shall feel the ire
From each heaving lungs of fire,
And we'll put our trust in Him
And the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And when foes no more attack,
And the lightning cloud of war
Shall roll thunderless and far,
We will melt the cannon back
Into bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And they'll peal a sweeter chime,
And remind of all the brave
Who have sunk to glory's grave,
And will sleep thro' coming time
'Neath the bells.
John Pelham.
By James R. Randall.
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,
With all its gorgeous cheer;
In the bright April of historic life
Fell the great cannoneer.
The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath
His bleeding country weeps--
Hushed in the alabaster arms of death,
Our young Marcellus sleeps.
Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome,
Curbing his chariot steeds;
The knightly scion of a Southern home
Dazzled the land with deeds.
Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt,
The champion of the truth,
He bore his banner to the very front
Of our immortal youth.
A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,
The fiery pang of shells--
And there's a wail of immemorial woe
In Alabama dells.
The pennon drops that led the sacred band
Along the crimson field;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand
Over the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face
While 'round the lips and eyes,
Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace
Of a divine surprise.
Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high!
Thy tears may soon be shed--
Think of thy boy with princes of the sky,
Among the Southern dead.
How must he smile on this dull world beneath,
Fevered with swift renown--
He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath
Twining the victor's crown!
"Ye Batteries of Beauregard."
By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall;
Bid the shock of your deep thunder
On their fleet in terror fall:
Rain your storm of leaden fury
On the black invading host--
Teach them that their step shall never
Press on Carolina's coast.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
Sound the story of our wrong;
Let your tocsin wake the spirit
Of a people brave and strong;
Her proud names of old remember--
Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene;
Swell the roll whose deeds of glory
Side by side with theirs are seen.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
From Savannah on them frown;
By the majesty of Heaven
Strike their "grand armada" down;
By the blood of many a freeman,
By each dear-bought battle-field,
By the hopes we fondly cherish,
Never ye the victory yield.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
All along our Southern coast,
Let, in after-time, your triumphs,
Be a nation's pride and boast;
Send each missile with a greeting
To the vile, ungodly crew;
Make them feel they ne'er can conquer
People to themselves so true.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"
By the glories of the past,
By the memory of old Sumter,
Whose renown will ever last,
Speed upon their vaunted legions
Volleys thick of shot and shell,
Bid them welcome, in your glory,
To their own appointed hell.