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Page 7
They have risen, to a man
stern and fearless;
Of your curses and your ban
they are careless.
Every hand is on its knife;
Every gun is primed for strife;
Every palm contains a life
high and peerless!
You have no such blood as theirs
for the shedding,
In the veins of Cavaliers
was its heading.
You have no such stately men
In your abolition den,
To march through foe and fen,
nothing dreading.
They may fall before the fire
of your legions,
Paid in gold for murd'rous hire--
bought allegiance!
But for every drop you shed
You shall leave a mound of dead;
And the vultures shall be fed
in our regions.
But the battle to the strong
is not given,
While the Judge of right and wrong
sits in heaven!
And the God of David still
Guides each pebble by His will;
There are giants yet to kill--
wrong's unshriven.
The Southern Cross.
By E. K. Blunt.
In the name of God! Amen!
Stand for our Southern rights;
On our side, Southern men,
The God of battles fights!
Fling the invaders far--
Hurl back their work of woe--
The voice is the voice of a brother,
But the hands are the hands of a foe.
They come with a trampling army,
Invading our native sod--
Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer,
In the name of the mighty God!
They are singing _our_ song of triumph,[1]
Which proclaimed _us_ proud and free--
While breaking away the heartstrings
Of our nation's harmony.
Sadly it floateth from us,
Sighing o'er land and wave;
Till, mute on the lips of the poet,
It sleeps in his Southern grave.
Spirit and song departed!
Minstrel and minstrelsy!
We mourn ye, heavy hearted,--
But we will--we will be free!
They are waving _our_ flag above us,
With the despot's tyrant will;
With our blood they have stained its colors,
And they call it holy still.
With tearful eyes, but steady hand,
We'll tear its stripes apart,
And fling them, like broken fetters,
That may not bind the heart.
But we'll save our stars of glory,
In the might of the sacred sign
Of Him who has fixed forever
One "Southern Cross" to shine.
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