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.