"No! He shall know--I am the Lord of war;
And all his mighty hosts but pigmies are!
His hellish engines, wrought for human woe,
His arts and vile inventions, and his power,
My arm shall bring to ruin, swift and low!
Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm-clouds lower,
And I will arm my people with a faith,
Shall make them free of fear, and free of scaith;
Arid they shall bear from me a smiting sword,
Edged with keen lightning, at whose stroke is poured
A torrent of destruction and swift wrath,
Sweeping--the insolent legions from their path!
The usurper shall be taught that none shall take--
The right to punish and avenge from me:
And I will guard my City by the Sea,
And save its people for their fathers' sake!"
IV.
Selah!--Oh I brothers, sons, and Southrons, rise;
To prayer: and lo! the wonder in the skies!
The sunbow spans your towers, even while the foe
Hurls his fell bolt, and rains his iron blow.
Toss'd by his shafts, the spray above yon height[1]
God's smile hath turned into a golden light;
Orange and purple-golden! In that sign
Find ye fit promise for that voice divine!
Hark! 'tis the thunder! Through the murky air,
The solemn roll goes echoing far and near!
Go forth, and unafraid! His shield is yours!
And the great spirits of your earlier day--
Your fathers, hovering round your sacred shores--
Will guard your bosoms through the unequal fray!
Hark to their voices, issuing through the gloom:[2]
"The cruel hosts that haunt you, march to doom:
Give them the vulture's rites--a naked tomb!
And, while ye bravely smite, with fierce endeavor,
The foe shall reach your city--never! never!"
[1] Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years old.
[2]In the late engagement of Fort Sumter, with the enemy's fleet, April 7th, the spray thrown above the walls by their enormous missiles, was formed into a beautiful sunbow, seeing which, General Ripley, with the piety of Constantine, exclaimed: "In hoc signo vinces!"
Charleston Mercury.
War-Waves.
By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston.
What are the war-waves saying,
As they compass us around?
The dark, ensanguined billows,
With their deep and dirge-like sound?
Do they murmur of submission;
Do they call on us to bow
Our necks to the foe triumphant
Who is riding o'er us now?
Never! No sound submissive
Comes from those waves sublime,
Or the low, mysterious voices
Attuned to their solemn chime!
For the hearts of our noble martyrs
Are the springs of its rich supply;
And those deeply mystic murmurs
Echo their dying cry!