SUMTER; A BALLAD OF 1861.
BY E. O. MURDEN.
| ’Twas on the twelfth of April, Before the break of day, We heard the guns of Moultrie Give signal for the fray. Anon across the waters There boomed the answering gun, From North and South came flash on flash— The battle had begun. The mortars belched their deadly food, And spiteful whizzed the balls, A fearful storm of iron hailed On Sumter’s doomèd walls. We watched the meteor flight of shell, And saw the lightning flash; Saw where each fiery missile fell, And heard the sullen crash. The morn was dark and cloudy, Yet, till the sun arose, No answer to our gallant boys Came booming from our foes. Then through the dark and murky clouds The morning sunlight came, And forth from Sumter’s frowning walls Burst sudden sheets of flame. The shot and shell flew thick and fast, The war-dogs howling spoke, And thundering came their angry roar, Through wreathing clouds of smoke. Again to fight for liberty, Our gallant sons had come, They smiled when came the bugle call, And laughed when tapped the drum. From cotton- and from corn-field, From desk and forum too, From work-bench and from anvil, came Our gallant boys and true. A hireling band had come to awe, Our chains to rivet fast; Yon lofty pile scowls on our homes, Seaward the hostile mast. But gallant freemen man our guns— No mercenary host, Who barter for their honor’s price, And of their baseness boast. Now came our stately matrons, And maidens too by scores; Oh! Carolina’s beauty shone Like love-lights on her shores. See yonder, anxious gazing, Alone a matron stands, The tear-drop glistening on each lid, And tightly clasped her hands. For there, exposed to deadly fire, Her husband and her son— “Father,” she spake, and heavenward looked, “Father, thy will be done.” See yonder group of maidens, No joyous laughter now, For cares lie heavy on each heart And cloud each anxious brow: For brothers dear, and lovers fond, Are there amid the strife; Tearful the sister’s anxious gaze— Pallid the promised wife. Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear, Prompt at their country’s call, They yielded forth their dearest hopes, And gave to honor all! Now comes a message from below— Oh quick the tidings tell— “At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too, And Morris, all are well!” Then mark the joyous brightening; See how each bosom swells; That friends and loved ones all are safe, Each to the other tells. All day the shot flew thick and fast, All night the cannon roared, While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stood, And vengeful answer poured. Again the sun rose, bright and clear, ’Twas on the thirteenth day, While, lo! at prudent distance moored Five hostile vessels lay. With choicest abolition crews— The bravest of their brave— They’d come to pull our Crescent down And dig Secession’s grave. See, see, how Sumter’s banner trails, They’re signaling for aid, See you no boats of armed men? Is yet no movement made? Now densest smoke and lurid flames Burst out o’er Sumter’s walls; “The fort’s on fire,” ’s the cry; Again for aid he calls. See you no boats or vessels yet? Dare they not risk one shot, To make report grandiloquent Of aid they rendered not? Nor boat nor vessel leaves the fleet— “Let the old Major burn”— We’ll boast of that we would have done, If but—on our return. Go back, go back ye cravens, Go back the way ye came; Ye gallant, would be, men-of-war, Go! to your country’s shame. ’Mid fiery storm of shot and shell, ’Mid smoke and roaring flame, See how Kentucky’s gallant son Does honor to her name! See how he answers gun for gun— Hurrah! his flag is down! The white! the white! Oh see it wave! Is echoed all around. Now ring the bells a joyous peal, And rend with shouts the air, We’ve torn the hated banner down, And placed the Crescent there. All honor to our gallant boys, Bring forth the roll of fame, And there in glowing lines inscribe Each patriot hero’s name. Spread, spread the tidings far and wide, Ye winds take up the cry: “Our soil’s redeemed from hateful yoke, We’ll keep it pure or die.” |
REBELS.
| Rebels! ’tis a holy name! The name our fathers bore, When battling in the cause of Right, Against the tyrant in his might, In the dark days of yore. Rebels! ’tis our family name! Our father, Washington, Was the arch-rebel in the fight, And gave the name to us—a right Of father unto son. Rebels! ’tis our given name! Our mother, Liberty, Received the title with her fame, In days of grief, of fear, and shame, When at her breast were we. Rebels! ’tis our sealèd name! A baptism of blood! The war—aye, and the din of strife— The fearful contest, life for life— The mingled crimson flood. Rebels! ’tis a patriot’s name! In struggles it was given; We bore it then when tyrants raved, And through their curses ’twas engraved On the doomsday-book of heaven. Rebels! ’tis our fighting name! For peace rules o’er the land, Until they speak of craven woe— Until our rights receive a blow, From foe’s or brother’s hand. Rebels! ’tis our dying name! For, although life is dear, Yet, freemen born and freemen bred, We’d rather live as freemen dead, Than live in slavish fear. Then call us rebels, if you will— We glory in the name; For bending under unjust laws, And swearing faith to an unjust cause, We count a greater shame. Atlanta Confederacy. |
THE HEART OF LOUISIANA.
BY HARRIET STANTON.
| Oh! let me weep, while o’er our land Vile discord strides, with sullen brow, And drags to earth, with ruthless hand, The flag no tyrant’s power could bow! Trailed in the dust, inglorious laid, While one by one her stars retire, And pride and power pursue the raid, That bids our liberty expire. Aye, let me weep! for surely Heaven In anger views the unholy strife; And angels weep that thus is riven The tie that gave to Freedom life. I can not shout—I will not sing Loud pæans o’er a severed tie; And, draped in woe, in tears I fling Our State’s new flag to greet the sky. I can but choose, while senseless zeal And lawless hate are clothed with power, The bitter cup; but still I feel The sadness of this parting hour! I know that thousand hearts will bleed While loud huzzas the welkin rend; The thoughtless crowd will shout, Secede! But ah! will this the conflict end? Oh! let me weep and prostrate lie Low at the footstool of my God; I can not breathe one note of joy, While yet I feel His chastening rod. Sure, we have as a nation sinned— Let every heart its folly own, And sackcloth, as a girdle, bind, And mourn our glorious Union gone! Sisters, farewell! You know not half The pain your pride, injustice, give; You spurn our cause, and lightly laugh, And hope no more the wrong shall live. New Orleans Delta. |
SOUTHERN SONG OF FREEDOM.
Air—“The Minstrel’s Return.”
|
A nation has sprung into life Beneath the bright Cross of the South; And now a loud call to the strife Rings out from the shrill bugle’s mouth. They gather from morass and mountain, They gather from prairie and mart, To drink, at young Liberty’s fountain, The nectar that kindles the heart. Then, hail to the land of the pine! The home of the noble and free; A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine Round the altar of young Liberty! Our flag, with its cluster of stars, Firm fixed in a field of pure blue, All shining through red and white bars, Now gallantly flutters in view. The stalwart and brave
|