Published Originally in the Southern Field and Fireside,
By George Herbert Sass, of Charleston, S.C.
Watchman, what of the night?
Through the city's darkening street,
Silent and slow, the guardsmen go
On their long and lonely beat.
Darkly, drearily down,
Falleth the wintry rain;
And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed,
As it glides o'er town and plain.
Beating against the windows,
The sleet falls heavy and chill,
And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire,
As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.
Silent is all without,
Save the sentry's challenge grim,
And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town,
And the sleeper's eyes are dim.
Watchman, what of the night?
Hark! from the old church-tower
Rings loud and clear, on the misty air,
The chime of the midnight hour.
But another sound breaks in,
A summons deep and rude,
The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum
Of a gathering multitude.
And the dim and flickering torch
Sheds a red and lurid glare,
O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine
Faintly, yet sternly there.
A low, deep voice is heard:
"Rest on your arms, my men."
Then the muskets clank through each serried rank,
And all is still again.
Pale faces and tearful eyes
Gaze down on that grim array,
For a rumor hath spread that that column dread
Marcheth ere break of day.
Marcheth against "the rebels,"
Whose camp lies heavy and still,
Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat
On the brow of a distant hill.
And the mother's heart grows faint,
As she thinks of her darling one,
Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky,
Ere the long, dark night be done.
Pallid and haggard, too,
Is the cheek of the fair young wife;
And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him
She loveth more than life.
For fathers, husbands, sons,
Are the "rebels" the foe would smite,
And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear,
And a bleeding country's right.
And where their treasure is,
There is each loving heart;
And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze,
And the tears unbidden start.
Is there none to warn the camp,
None from that anxious throng?
Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town--
The way is dark and long.
No man is left behind,
None that is brave and true,
And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light
With menace stern shine through.
Guarded is every street,
Brutal the hireling foe;
Is there one heart here will boldly dare
So brave a deed to do?
Look! in her still, dark room,
Alone a woman kneels,
With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face,
And Sorrow's ruthless seals.
Wrinkling her placid brow,
A matron, she, and fair,
Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak
Gemming her glossy hair.
A moment in silent prayer
Her pale lips move, and then,
Through the dreary night, like an angel bright,
On her mission of love to men.
She glideth upon her way,
Through the lonely, misty street,
Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread
Of the watchman on his beat.
Onward, aye, onward still,
Far past the weary town,
Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees,
And the heavy hands hang down.
But bravely she struggles on,
Breasting the cold, dank rain,
And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill
Sweeps down upon the plain.
Hark! far behind she hears
A dull and muffled tramp,
But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam
Shines out from the Southern camp.
She hears the sentry's challenge,
Her work of love is done;
She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height
Hath a crown of glory won.
Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden,
Who saved from a ruthless foe
Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown,
Three hundred years ago.
And I've read in tales heroic
How a noble Scottish maid
Her own life gave, her king to save
From the foul assassin's blade.
But if these, on the rolls of honor,
Shall live in lasting fame,
Oh, close beside, in grateful pride,
We'll write this matron's name.
And when our fair-haired children
Shall cluster round our knee,
With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days
When we swore that we would be free,
We'll tell them the thrilling story,
And we'll say to each childish heart,
"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need,
Be ready to do thy part."
The Two Armies.
By Henry Timrod.
Two armies stand enrolled beneath
The banner with the starry wreath:
One, facing battle, blight, and blast,
Through twice a hundred fields has passed;
Its deeds against a ruffian foe,
Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know,
Till every wind that sweeps the land
Goes, glory-laden, from the strand.
The other, with a narrower scope,
Yet led by not less grand a hope,
Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place,
And wears its fame with meeker grace.
Wives march beneath its glittering sign,
Fond mothers swell the lovely line:
And many a sweetheart hides her blush
In the young patriot's generous flush.
No breeze of battle ever fanned
The colors of that tender band;
Its office is beside the bed,
Where throbs some sick or wounded head.
It does not court the soldier's tomb,
But plies the needle and the loom;
And, by a thousand peaceful deeds,
Supplies a struggling nation's needs.
Nor is that army's gentle might
Unfelt amid the deadly fight;
It nerves the son's, the husband's hand,
It points the lover's fearless brand;
It thrills the languid, warms the cold,
Gives even new courage to the bold;
And sometimes lifts the veriest clod
To its own lofty trust in God.
When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace,
And bid this weary warfare cease,
Their several missions nobly done,
The triumph grasped, and freedom won,
Both armies, from their toils at rest,
Alike may claim the victor's crest,
But each shall see its dearest prize
Gleam softly from the other's eyes.
The Legion of Honor.
By H.L. Flash.
Why are we forever speaking
Of the warriors of old?
Men are fighting all around us,
Full as noble, full as bold.
Ever working, ever striving,
Mind and muscle, heart and soul,
With the reins of judgment keeping
Passions under full control.
Noble hearts are beating boldly
As they ever did on earth;
Swordless heroes are around us,
Striving ever from their birth.
Tearing down the old abuses,
Building up the purer laws,
Scattering the dust of ages,
Searching out the hidden flaws.
Acknowledging no "right divine"
In kings and princes from the rest;
In their creed he is the noblest
Who has worked and striven best.
Decorations do not tempt them--
Diamond stars they laugh to scorn--
Each will wear a "Cross of Honor"
On the Resurrection morn.
Warriors they in fields of wisdom--
Like the noble Hebrew youth,
Striking down Goliath's error
With the God-blessed stone of truth.
Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner,
Forward rush these volunteers,
Beating olden wrong away
From the fast advancing years.
Contemporaries do not see them,
But the coming times will say
(Speaking of the slandered present),
"There were heroes in that day."
Why are we then idly lying
On the roses of our life,
While the noble-hearted struggle
In the world-redeeming strife.
Let us rise and join the legion,
Ever foremost in the fray--
Battling in the name of Progress
For the nobler, purer day.
Clouds in the West.
By A. J. Requier, of Alabama.
Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West
A manly shout for instant succor comes,
From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast,
With rage-indented drums!
Who dare for child, wife, country--stream and strand,
Though but a fraction to the swarming foe,
There--at the flooded gateways of the land,
To stem a torrent's flow.
To arms! brave sons of each embattled State,
Whose queenly standard is a Southern star:
Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate
On Freedom's victor-car!
Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum
Of craven traffic for the mustering clan:
The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come
And prove yourself--a man.
That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief
Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes--
God! can you live to see a foreign thief
Contaminate its roses?
Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave
Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan;
Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave,
Or claims to be a man!
Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West
A manly shout for instant succor comes,
From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast.
With rage-indented drums!
Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din,
Where still your battle-flags unbended wave,
Dying for what your fathers died to win
And you must fight to save.
Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep,
Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar;
The very waves are marshalling on the deep,
While tempests tread the shore.
Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land
Shall burial only yield a bandit foe;
Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand,
And strike the fated blow.
Georgia, My Georgia!
By Carrie Bell Sinclair.
Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar,
That sounds along thy sunny shore,
And thou shalt lie in chains no more,
My wounded, bleeding Georgia!
Then arm each youth and patriot sire,
Light up the patriotic fire,
And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire,
Who strike for thee, my Georgia
On thee is laid oppression's hand,
Around thy altars foemen stand,
To scatter freedom's gallant band,
And lay thee low, my Georgia!
But thou hast noble sons, and brave,
The Stars and Bars above thee wave,
And here we'll make oppression's grave,
Upon the soil of Georgia!
We bow at Liberty's fair shrine,
And kneel in holy love at thine,
And while above our stars still shine,
We'll strike for them and Georgia!
Thy woods with victory shall resound,
Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned,
And peace shall spread her wings around
My own, my sunny Georgia!
Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel
That Southern hearts, and Southern steel,
Will make them in submission kneel
Before the sons of Georgia!
And thou shalt see thy daughters, too,
With pride and patriotism true,
Arise with strength to dare and do,
Ere they shall conquer Georgia.
Thy name shall be a name of pride--
Thy heroes all have nobly died,
That thou mayst be the spotless bride
Of Liberty, my Georgia!
Then wave thy sword and banner high,
And louder raise the battle-cry,
'Till shouts of victory reach the sky,
And thou art free, my Georgia!
Song of the Texas Rangers.
Air--The Yellow Rose of Texas.
The morning star is paling,
The camp-fires flicker low,
Our steeds are madly neighing,
For the bugle bids us go.
So put the foot in stirrup,
And shake the bridle free,
For to-day the Texas Rangers
Must cross the Tennessee,
With Wharton for our leader,
We'll chase the dastard foe,
Till our horses bathe their fetlocks
In the deep blue Ohio.
Our men are from the prairies,
That roll broad and proud and free,
From the high and craggy mountains
To the murmuring Mexic' sea;
And their hearts are open as their plains,
Their thoughts as proudly brave
As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard,
Or the Gulf's resistless wave.
Then quick! into the saddle,
And shake the bridle free,
To-day, with gallant Wharton,
We cross the Tennessee.
'Tis joy to be a Ranger!
To fight for dear Southland;
'Tis joy to follow Wharton,
With his gallant, trusty band!
'Tis joy to see our Harrison,
Plunge like a meteor bright
Into the thickest of the fray,
And deal his deathly might.
Oh! who'd not be a Ranger,
And follow Wharton's cry!
To battle for his country--
And, if it needs be--die!
By the Colorado's waters,
On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore,
On our soft green peaceful prairies
Are the homes we may see no more;
But in those homes our gentle wives,
And mothers with silv'ry hairs,
Are loving us with tender hearts,
And shielding us with prayers.
So, trusting in our country's God,
We draw our stout, good brand,
For those we love at home,
Our altars and our land.
Up, up with the crimson battle-flag--
Let the blue pennon fly;
Our steeds are stamping proudly--
They hear the battle-cry!
The thundering bomb, the bugle's call,
Proclaim the foe is near;
We strike for God and native land,
And all we hold most dear.
Then spring into the saddle,
And shake the bridle free--
For Wharton leads, through fire and blood,
For Home and Victory!