 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
Born in Charleston, S. C. in 1806. Studied law but practiced
his profession a short time only, finally devoting himself altogether
to literary labor. He was a voluminous writer of fiction,
poetry, biography, history and miscellaneous essays. He ranks
as one of the foremost of the elder American novelists. His first
volume of poems was published in 1827. His published books
number nearly three score. He died in 1870.
FORT WAGNER.
Glory unto the gallant boys who stood
At Wagner, and unflinching sought the van;
Dealing fierce blows and shedding precious blood,
For homes as precious, and dear rights of man!
They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory!
Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat
The legend, which shall grow to themes for story,
Told through long ages, and forever sweet!
At Wagner, and unflinching sought the van;
Dealing fierce blows and shedding precious blood,
For homes as precious, and dear rights of man!
They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory!
Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat
The legend, which shall grow to themes for story,
Told through long ages, and forever sweet!
High honor to our youth—our sons and brothers,
Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand!
They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers,
But keep through storm the bulwarks of the land!
They feel that they must conquer! Not to do it
Were worse than death—perdition! Should they fail,
The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it,
The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail!
Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand!
They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers,
But keep through storm the bulwarks of the land!
They feel that they must conquer! Not to do it
Were worse than death—perdition! Should they fail,
The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it,
The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail!
112
No! they must conquer in the breach or perish!
Assured, in the last consciousness of breath,
That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish
Their deeds with honors that shall sweeten death!
They shall have trophies in long future hours,
And loving recollections, which shall be
Green as the summer leaves and fresh as flowers,
That, through all seasons, bloom eternally.
Assured, in the last consciousness of breath,
That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish
Their deeds with honors that shall sweeten death!
They shall have trophies in long future hours,
And loving recollections, which shall be
Green as the summer leaves and fresh as flowers,
That, through all seasons, bloom eternally.
Their memories shall be monuments, to rise
Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past;
Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies,
And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast!
A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted,
Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;
A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted
When skies and seas around thee shook with fire!
Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past;
Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies,
And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast!
A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted,
Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;
A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted
When skies and seas around thee shook with fire!
And others as well chronicled shall be!
What though they fell with unrecorded name—
They live among the archives of the free,
With proudest title to undying fame!
The unchiselled marble under which they sleep,
Shall tell of heroes, fearless still of fate;
Not asking if their memories shall keep,
But if they nobly served, and saved, the State!
What though they fell with unrecorded name—
They live among the archives of the free,
With proudest title to undying fame!
The unchiselled marble under which they sleep,
Shall tell of heroes, fearless still of fate;
Not asking if their memories shall keep,
But if they nobly served, and saved, the State!
113
or thee, young Fortress Wagner—thou shalt wear
Green laurels, worthy of the names, that now
'hy sister forts of Moultrie, Sumter, bear!
See that thbu liftest, for aye, as proud a brow!
and thou shalt be to future generations,
A trophied monument, whither men shall come
homage; and report to distant nations
A shrine, which foes shall never make a tomb!
Green laurels, worthy of the names, that now
'hy sister forts of Moultrie, Sumter, bear!
See that thbu liftest, for aye, as proud a brow!
and thou shalt be to future generations,
A trophied monument, whither men shall come
homage; and report to distant nations
A shrine, which foes shall never make a tomb!
THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH.
(Sx. MICHAEL'S CHURCH, CHARLESTON, S. C.)
Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim
The temple of the living God;
Hurl iron bolt and seething flame
Through aisles which holiest feet have trod;
Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb,
And, raging with demoniac ire,
Send down, in sudden crash of doom,
That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire.
The temple of the living God;
Hurl iron bolt and seething flame
Through aisles which holiest feet have trod;
Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb,
And, raging with demoniac ire,
Send down, in sudden crash of doom,
That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire.
114
That spire, for full a hundred years,
Hath been a people's point of sight;
That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears,
With strains well worthy Salem's height;
The sweet, clear music of its bells
Made liquid soft in Southern air,
Still through the heart of memory swells,
And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer.
Hath been a people's point of sight;
That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears,
With strains well worthy Salem's height;
The sweet, clear music of its bells
Made liquid soft in Southern air,
Still through the heart of memory swells,
And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer.
Along the shores for many a mile,
Long ere they owned a beacon-mark,
It caught and kept the Day-god's smile,
The guide for every wandering bark;
Averting from our homes the scaith
Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven,
The Pharos to the wandering faith,
It pointed every prayer to Heaven!
Long ere they owned a beacon-mark,
It caught and kept the Day-god's smile,
The guide for every wandering bark;
Averting from our homes the scaith
Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven,
The Pharos to the wandering faith,
It pointed every prayer to Heaven!
Well may ye, felons of the time,
Still loathing all that's pure and free,
Add this to many a thousand crime,
'Gainst peace and sweet humanity;
Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame,
Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes,
But fitly turns your murderous aim
Against Jehovah's ancient domes.
Still loathing all that's pure and free,
Add this to many a thousand crime,
'Gainst peace and sweet humanity;
Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame,
Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes,
But fitly turns your murderous aim
Against Jehovah's ancient domes.
115
Yet, though the grand old temple falls,
And downward sinks the lofty spire,
Our faith is stronger than our walls,
And soars above the storm and fire;
Ye shake no faith in souls made free
To tread the paths their fathers trod;
To fight and die for liberty,
Believing in the avenging God!
And downward sinks the lofty spire,
Our faith is stronger than our walls,
And soars above the storm and fire;
Ye shake no faith in souls made free
To tread the paths their fathers trod;
To fight and die for liberty,
Believing in the avenging God!
Think not, though long his anger stays,
His justice sleeps—his wrath is spent;
The arm of vengeance but delays,
To make more dread the punishment!
Each impious hand that lights the torch
Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall;
And the bright Angel of the Church,
With seraph shield avert the ball!
His justice sleeps—his wrath is spent;
The arm of vengeance but delays,
To make more dread the punishment!
Each impious hand that lights the torch
Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall;
And the bright Angel of the Church,
With seraph shield avert the ball!
For still we deem, as taught of old,
That where the faith the altar builds,
God sends an angel from his fold,
Whose sleepless watch the temple shields;
And to his flock, with sweet accord,
Yields their fond choice, from Thrones and Powers,
Thus Michael, with his fiery sword
And golden shield, still champions ours!
That where the faith the altar builds,
God sends an angel from his fold,
Whose sleepless watch the temple shields;
And to his flock, with sweet accord,
Yields their fond choice, from Thrones and Powers,
Thus Michael, with his fiery sword
And golden shield, still champions ours!
116
And he who smote the dragon down,
And chained him thousand years of time,
Need never fear the boa's frown,
Though loathsome in his spite and slime;
He, from the topmost height, surveys
And guards the shrines our fathers gave;
And we, who sleep beneath his gaze,
May well believe his power to save!
And chained him thousand years of time,
Need never fear the boa's frown,
Though loathsome in his spite and slime;
He, from the topmost height, surveys
And guards the shrines our fathers gave;
And we, who sleep beneath his gaze,
May well believe his power to save!
Yet, if it be that for our sin
Our angel's term of watch is o'er,
With proper prayer, true faith must win
The guardian watcher back once more!
Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer—
In blood and sackcloth, if it need;
And still our spire shall rise in air,
Our temple, though our people bleed!
Our angel's term of watch is o'er,
With proper prayer, true faith must win
The guardian watcher back once more!
Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer—
In blood and sackcloth, if it need;
And still our spire shall rise in air,
Our temple, though our people bleed!
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |