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Page 169
He deemed a death for honor sweet.--
And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet,
Our flag should be his winding-sheet,
Proud banner of the free!
Oh, let his honored form be laid
Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade;
His praises sung by Southern maid,
While flows the broad Santee!
We come around his urn to twine
Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine,
Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine,
From skies deep-dyed and bright;
And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!--
On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the field!
Or dead return on battered shield,
As martyrs for the right!
Where camp-fires light the reddened sod,
The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God,
In Palmer's name, and by his blood,
They swell the battle-cry;
We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel,
'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel,
And menial hordes as suppliants kneel,
Or, terror-stricken, fly!
Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
Where murdered Mumford lies,
Bewailed in bitter sighs,
Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved,
Martyrs of Liberty,
Defenders of the Free!
Come, humbly nigh,
And learn to die!
Ah, Freedom, on that day,
Turned fearfully away,
While pitying angels lingered near,
To gaze upon the sod,
Red with a martyr's blood;
And woman's tear
Fell on his bier!
O God! that he should die
Beneath a Southern sky!
Upon a felon's gallows swung,
Murdered by tyrant hand,--
While round a helpless band,
On Butler's name
Poured scorn and shame.
But hark! loud p�ans fly
From earth to vaulted sky,
He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!
List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1]
Tolls far the martyr's knell!
Shout, Southrons, high,
Our battle cry!
Come, all of Southern blood,
Come, kneel to Freedom's God!
Here at her crimsoned altar swear!
Accursed for evermore
The flag that Mumford tore,
And o'er his grave
Our colors wave!
[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God."
--_Oriental Legend._
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