O mother of a blessed soul on high ! Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, How must he smile on this dull world beneath, He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath JAMES R. RANDALL. THE BAND IN THE PINES. [Heard after Pelham died.] OH, band in the pine-wood, cease! But the dead were bravest of all! They throng to the martial summons, And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends They come with the ringing bugle, And the deep drum's mellow roar ; Till the soul is faint with longing Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, JOHN ESTEN COOKE. CHARLESTON. [April, 1863.] CALM as that second summer which precedes In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen. And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound. Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, Across her tranquil bay. Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And summer to her courts. But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail floating oak. Shall the Spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, As fair and free as now? We know not; in the temple of the Fates And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits HENRY TIMROD. THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR. [Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the South Atlantic Squadron, U. S. Navy, April 7, 1863.] I. Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, The Northman's mailed "Invincibles " steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave. II. A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening star. III. Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes! IV. Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold, They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widelyechoing cheers, And then once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. V. Onward-in sullen file and slow, low glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore, Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunderwrath of yore! VI. Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail! Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, 'gainst law and truth and Right: Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might! VII. No empty boast! for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire; The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above; Fight on, O knightly gentlemen! for faith and home and love! VIII. There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise To seize the victor's wreath of blood, though death must give the prize There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down. IX. The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud armada sweeps, Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light, Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight! |