By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina.
Old home! what blessings late were yours;
The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!
Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores,
To ravage and destroy.
The Northman comes no longer there,
With soft address and measured phrase,
With bated breath, and sainted air,
And simulated praise.
He comes a vulture to his prey;
A wolf to raven in your streets:
Around on shining stream and bay
Gather his bandit fleets.
They steal the pittance of the poor;
Pollute the precincts of the dead;
Despoil the widow of her store,--
The orphan of his bread.
Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood,
No Christian land has known before;
Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood,
To sweep them from the shore!
Exiles from home, your people fly,
In adverse fortune's hardest school;
With swelling breast and flashing eye--
They scorn the tyrant's rule!
Away, from all their joys away,
The sports that active youth engage;
The scenes where childhood loves to play,
The resting-place of age.
Away, from fertile field and farm;
The oak-fringed island-homes that seem
To sit like swans, with matchless charm,
On sea-born sound and stream.
Away, from palm-environed coast,
The beach that ocean beats in vain;
The Royal Port, your pride and boast,
The loud-resounding main.