III.
We mourn not for our martyrs!--for they perish,
As the good perish, for a deathless faith:
Their glorious memories men will fondly cherish,
In terms and signs that shall ennoble death!
Their blood becomes a principle, to guide,
Onward, forever onward, in proud flow,
Restless, resistless, as the ocean tide,
The Spirit heaven yields freedom here below!
How should we mourn the martyrs, who arise,
Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;--
And take their thrones, as slars; and o'er the night,
Shed a new glory; and to other souls,
Shine out with blessed guidance, and true light,
Which leads successive races to their goals!
Charleston Mercury.
"Libera Nos, O Domine!"
By James Barron Hope.
What! ye hold yourselves as freemen?
Tyrants love just such as ye!
Go! abate your lofty manner!
Write upon the State's old banner,
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Sink before the federal altar,
Each one low, on bended knee,
Pray, with lips that sob and falter,
This prayer from the coward's psalter,--
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
But ye hold that quick repentance
In the Northern mind will be;
This repentance comes no sooner
Than the robbers did, at Luna!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
He repented him:--the Bishop
Gave him absolution free;
Poured upon him sacred chrism
In the pomp of his baptism.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
He repented;--then he sickened!
Was he pining for the sea?
In extremis was he shriven,
The viaticum was given,
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Then the old cathedral's choir
Took the plaintive minor key;
With the Host upraised before him,
Down the marble aisles they bore him;
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
While the bishop and the abbot--
All the monks of high degree,
Chanting praise to the Madonna,
Came to do him Christian honor!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Now the miserere's cadence,
Takes the voices of the sea;
As the music-billows quiver,
See the dead freebooter shiver!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Is it that these intonations
Thrill him thus from head to knee?
Lo, his cerements burst asunder!
'Tis a sight of fear and wonder!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Fierce, he stands before the bishop,
Dark as shape of Destinie.
Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,--
Down the prelate goes--dead--falling!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Hastings lives! He was but feigning!
What! Repentant? Never he!
Down he smites the priests and friars,
And the city lights with fires!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Ah! the children and the maidens,
'Tis in vain they strive to flee!
Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding,
Is no place for woman's pleading.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Louder swells the frightful tumult--
Pallid Death holds revelrie!
Dies the organ's mighty clamor,
By the horseman's iron hammer!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
So they thought that he'd repented!
Had they nailed him to the tree,
He had not deserved their pity,
And they had not--lost their city.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
For the moral in this story,
Which is plain as truth can be:
If we trust the North's relenting,
We shall shriek-too late repenting--
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!" [1]
[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's History of Latin Christianity.
The Knell Shall Sound Once More.
I know that the knell shall sound once more,
And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave;
And there shall be storm on the beaten shore,
And there shall be strife on the stormy wave;
And we shall wail, with a mighty wail,
And feel the keen sorrow through many years,
But shall not our banner at last prevail,
And our eyes be dried of tears?
There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree,
And the nation whose course is long to run,
Must make, though in anguish still it be,
The tribute of many a noble son;
The roots of each mighty shaft must grow
In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts;
And to conquer the right from a bloody foe,
Brings a pang as when soul and body parts!
But the blood and the pang are the need, alas!
To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays
The generations that rise, and pass
To the full fruition that crowns their days!
'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life:
And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care;
And the freedom sought must ever be bought
By the best blood-offerings, held most dear.
Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first
To mount the red altar of sacrifice;
Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst,
Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!--
The struggle may last for a thousand years,
And only with blood shall the field be bought;
But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears,
The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought.
Charleston Mercury.
Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
He sleeps upon Virginia's strand,
While comrades of the Legion stand
With arms reversed--a mournful band--
Around his early bier!
His war-horse paws the shaking ground,
The volleys ring--they close around--
And on the white brow, laurel-bound,
Falls many a soldier's tear.
Up, stricken mourners! look on high,
Loud anthems rend the echoing sky,
Re-born where heroes never die--
The warrior is at rest!
Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown;
Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down,
His plumes replaced by shining--crown,
The red cross on his breast!
Though Gendron's arm is with the dust,
Let not his blood-stained weapon rust,
Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust,
Where Southern banners fly!
Some brave, who followed where he led--
Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead,
To avenge each drop of blood he shed,
Or, like him, bravely die!
He deemed a death for honor sweet.--
And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet,
Our flag should be his winding-sheet,
Proud banner of the free!
Oh, let his honored form be laid
Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade;
His praises sung by Southern maid,
While flows the broad Santee!
We come around his urn to twine
Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine,
Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine,
From skies deep-dyed and bright;
And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!--
On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the field!
Or dead return on battered shield,
As martyrs for the right!
Where camp-fires light the reddened sod,
The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God,
In Palmer's name, and by his blood,
They swell the battle-cry;
We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel,
'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel,
And menial hordes as suppliants kneel,
Or, terror-stricken, fly!
Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
Where murdered Mumford lies,
Bewailed in bitter sighs,
Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved,
Martyrs of Liberty,
Defenders of the Free!
Come, humbly nigh,
And learn to die!
Ah, Freedom, on that day,
Turned fearfully away,
While pitying angels lingered near,
To gaze upon the sod,
Red with a martyr's blood;
And woman's tear
Fell on his bier!
O God! that he should die
Beneath a Southern sky!
Upon a felon's gallows swung,
Murdered by tyrant hand,--
While round a helpless band,
On Butler's name
Poured scorn and shame.
But hark! loud pæans fly
From earth to vaulted sky,
He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!
List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1]
Tolls far the martyr's knell!
Shout, Southrons, high,
Our battle cry!
Come, all of Southern blood,
Come, kneel to Freedom's God!
Here at her crimsoned altar swear!
Accursed for evermore
The flag that Mumford tore,
And o'er his grave
Our colors wave!
[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God."--Oriental Legend.
The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston.
By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D.
Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies,
Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;
Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,
Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.
Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel
Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;
And in her hour of anguish let her feel
That ye can die whom she has taught to live.
Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade,
To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;
That never villain hand on her be laid,
Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.
See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame,
As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath,
Her generous brow and bosom all aflame
At the bare thought of insult, worse than death.
And stained and rent her snowy garments are;
The big drops gather on her pallid face,
Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar
The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace.
And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers
And bitter tears, to every loving child
To stand between her and the doom she fears,
To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled!
Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!
And doubly damned who casts one look behind!
Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout,
Up with her banner! give it to the wind.
Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,
Till every ringing avenue repeat
The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide
Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.
Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!
Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now
By the sweet memories of your childhood's home,
By every manly hope and filial vow,
To save her proud soul from that loathéd thrall
Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name;
Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,
Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame.
From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled,
Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,
And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,
Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.
Gather around her sacred ashes then,
Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,
Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,
Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.
So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,
If not in life, at least by death, set free--
And send her fame, through endless ages down,
The last grand holocaust of liberty.