First Published in the New Orleans Delta, about September 1, 1861.
By blue Patapsco's billowy dash
The tyrant's war-shout comes,
Along with the cymbal's fitful clash
And the growl of his sullen drums;
We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills,
And we shall not forgive or forget--
There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead,
We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred--
We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread
Of the peerless Beauregard.
Then woe to your vile, polluting horde,
When the Southern braves are met;
There's faith in the victor's stainless sword,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind
With the clank of an iron chain;
The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind
O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;
And we--though we smite not--are not thralls,
We are piling a gory debt;
While down by McHenry's dungeon walls
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
Our women, have hung their harps away
And they scowl on your brutal bands,
While the nimble poignard dares the day
In their dear defiant hands;
They will strip their tresses to string our bows
Ere the Northern sun is set--
There's faith in their unrelenting woes--
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
'Tis vocal without noise;
It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains
From the blood of the Maryland boys.
That blood shall cry aloud and rise
With an everlasting threat--
By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
Tell the Boys the War Is Ended.
By Emily J. Moore.
While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the boys the war is ended."
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
These were all the words he said;
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
In an instant more was dead.
Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful
Was the smile upon his face,
While the pain, of late so fearful,
Had not left the slightest trace.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
And with heavenly visions bright
Thoughts of comrades loved were blended,
As his spirit took its flight.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
"Grant, 0 God, it may be so,"
Was the prayer which then ascended,
In a whisper deep, though low.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
And his warfare then was o'er,
As, by angel bands attended,
He departed from earth's shore.
Bursting shells and cannons roaring
Could not rouse him by their din;
He to better worlds was soaring,
Far from war, and pain, and sin.
"The Southern Cross."
By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.
Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm,
More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?
Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,
As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.
How radiant each star, as the beacon afar,
Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war!
'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain
To light us to freedom and glory again!
How peaceful and blest was America's soil,
'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,
Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil
To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.
Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel,
And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel!
And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,
To light us to freedom and glory again!
'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope,
Like the sacred Labarum that guided the Roman;
From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope,
'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen.
Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare
The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare!
While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,
To light us to freedom and glory again!
And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied,
And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions,
Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride,
Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions!
With our front in the field, swearing never to yield,
Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield!
And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave,
As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!
Southern Literary Messenger.