War Poetry of the South by Various


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Page 123

Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow;
But still undaunted, with a martyr's might,
They make for man a new Thermopyl�;
And, perishing for freedom, still go free!
Let but each humble islet of our coast
Thus join the terrible issue to the last;
And never shall the invader make his boast
Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply
He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast!




Promise of Spring.



The sun-beguiling breeze,
From the soft Cuban seas,
With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers;
And lo! our city elms,
Have plumed with buds their helms,
And, with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers.

The promise of the Spring,
Is in every glancing wing
That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the flight;
And mocking Winter's glooms,
Skies, air and earth grow blooms,
With change as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night!

Ah! could our hearts but share
The promise rich and rare,
That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress,
That makes each innocent thing
Put on its bloom and wing,
Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless!

But, alas for us, no more
Shall the coming hour rescore
The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls;
Even as the Spring appears,
Her smiling makes our tears,
While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.

Even as our zephyrs sing
That they bring us in the Spring,
Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight--
We see the serpent crawl,
With his slimy coat o'er all,
And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.

We shudder at the blooms,
Which but serve to cover tombs--
At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath;
Sad shapes look out from trees,
And in sky and earth and breeze,
We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!

South Carolinian.




Spring.

By Henry Timrod.



Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 2nd Jan 2026, 15:19