Shall we be less worthy the sacrifice grand,
The heritage noble we took at their hand,
The peace and the comfort, the fruits of the land;
And, sunk in a torpor as hopeless as base,
Recoil from the shock of the Sodomite band,
That would ruin the realm and the race?
VII.
Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won,
Your toils are not closed in the deeds ye have done;
Touch the souls of each laggard and profligate son,
The greed and the sloth, and the cowardice shame;
Till we rise to complete the great work ye've begun,
And with freedom make conquest of fame!
Jackson.
By H. L. Flash, of Galveston, Formerly of Mobile.
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight,
Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,
Did kingly death, with his resistless might,
Lay the great leader low.
His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke,
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town:
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak
That propped our cause went down.
Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,
Recalling all his grand heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing with the wound,
And all the country bleeds.
He entered not the nation's promised land,
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth:
But broke the house of bondage with his hand--
The Moses of the South!
O gracious God! not gainless in the loss;
A glorious sunbeam gilds the sternest frown;
And while his country staggers with the cross,
He rises with the crown!