 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
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PAUL H. HAYNE.
Born in Charleston, South Carolina, January 1, 1830. Several
volumes of his miscellaneous poems were published before the
war. His complete poetical works were issued in a large and
splendidly illustrated volume, by Lothrop & Co., Boston, in 1884.
After the war, in which he lost nearly all of his property, he
lived in retirement in an humble cottage, at Copse Hill, near
Grovetown, Ga., where he died, August 6, 1886. He is buried
in the old cemetery in Augusta.
CHARLESTON.
What! still does the Mother of Treason uprear
Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea?
Unquelled by mistrust and unblanched by a fear;
Unbowed her proud head and unbending her knee,
Calm, steadfast, and free?
Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea?
Unquelled by mistrust and unblanched by a fear;
Unbowed her proud head and unbending her knee,
Calm, steadfast, and free?
Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your
wrath,
Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;—
But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path,
And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire
Of your fruitless desire.
Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;—
But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path,
And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire
Of your fruitless desire.
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Ringed round by her brave, a fierce circlet of flame
Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast;
She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,
And never, we swear, shall your footsteps be pressed
Where her dead heroes rest!
Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast;
She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,
And never, we swear, shall your footsteps be pressed
Where her dead heroes rest!
Her voice shook the Tyrant!—sublime from her tongue
Fell the accents of warning—a Prophetess grand—
On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung,
And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand
Broke the sleep of her land!
Fell the accents of warning—a Prophetess grand—
On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung,
And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand
Broke the sleep of her land!
What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound
will
The Fate that would trample her honor to earth—
The light in those deep eyes is luminous still
With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth,
Which illumine the Earth!
The Fate that would trample her honor to earth—
The light in those deep eyes is luminous still
With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth,
Which illumine the Earth!
And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved,
"Without fear or reproach," lifts her banner on high;
"Without fear or reproach," lifts her banner on high;
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He stands in the vanguard, majestic, unmoved,
And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh,
Vow: "'Tis easy to die!"
And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh,
Vow: "'Tis easy to die!"
Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air!
The world's breath is hushed at the conflict—before
Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair;
And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore?
We shall prize her the more!
The world's breath is hushed at the conflict—before
Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair;
And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore?
We shall prize her the more!
And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes
To the height of her promise, the voices of yore
From the storied profound of past ages arise,
And the pomps of their magical music outpour
O'er the war-beaten shore.
To the height of her promise, the voices of yore
From the storied profound of past ages arise,
And the pomps of their magical music outpour
O'er the war-beaten shore.
Then gird your brave Empress, O heroes! with flame,
Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast;
She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,
And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed
Where her dear Martyrs rest!
Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast;
She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,
And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed
Where her dear Martyrs rest!
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THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR.
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.
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.
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 hearty of those who watched the scene afar,
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening star!
More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue,
And twice ten thousand hearty of those who watched the scene afar,
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening star!
Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect
stands,
The ready linstocks 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!
The ready linstocks 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!
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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 widely echoing cheers,
And then—once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.
Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold—
They mount to the deep roll of drums and widely echoing cheers,
And then—once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.
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,
Bursts from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore!
Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,
When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore,
Bursts from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore!
Ha! brutal Corsairs, tho' 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!
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!
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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!
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!
There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that
would not rise
To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' 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.
To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' 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.
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 bloom,
Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb!
Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps,
And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset bloom,
Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb!
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Oh, glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy
storied spires,
Thou well may'st peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires—
Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons,
And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's angels near the guns!
Thou well may'st peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires—
Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons,
And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's angels near the guns!
OUR MARTYRS.
I am sitting lone and weary,
On the hearth of my darkened room,
And the low wind's miserere
Makes sadder the midnight gloom;
There's a terror that's nameless nigh me—
There's a phantom-spell in the air,
And methinks that the dead glide by me,
And the breath of the grave's in my hair!
On the hearth of my darkened room,
And the low wind's miserere
Makes sadder the midnight gloom;
There's a terror that's nameless nigh me—
There's a phantom-spell in the air,
And methinks that the dead glide by me,
And the breath of the grave's in my hair!
'Tis a vision of ghastly faces,
All pallid, and worn with pain,
Where the splendor of manhood's graces
Gives place to a gory stain;
All pallid, and worn with pain,
Where the splendor of manhood's graces
Gives place to a gory stain;
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In a wild and weird procession
They sweep by my startled eyes,
And stern with their fate's fruition,
Seem melting in blood-red skies.
They sweep by my startled eyes,
And stern with their fate's fruition,
Seem melting in blood-red skies.
Have they come from the shores supernal,
Have they passed from the spirits' goal,
'Neath the veil of the life eternal
To dawn on my shrinking soul?
Have they turned from the choiring angels,
Aghast at the wo and dearth
That war, with his dark evangels,
Have wrought in the loved of earth?
Have they passed from the spirits' goal,
'Neath the veil of the life eternal
To dawn on my shrinking soul?
Have they turned from the choiring angels,
Aghast at the wo and dearth
That war, with his dark evangels,
Have wrought in the loved of earth?
Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains
They lie, where the dew-mists weep,
And the murmur of mournful fountains
Breaks over their painless sleep;
On the breast of the lonely meadows,
Safe, safe from the despot's will,
They rest in the star-lit shadows,
And their brows are white and still!
They lie, where the dew-mists weep,
And the murmur of mournful fountains
Breaks over their painless sleep;
On the breast of the lonely meadows,
Safe, safe from the despot's will,
They rest in the star-lit shadows,
And their brows are white and still!
Alas! for the martyred heroes,
Cut down alt their golden prime,
In a strife with the brutal Neroes,
Who blacken the path of time;
Cut down alt their golden prime,
In a strife with the brutal Neroes,
Who blacken the path of time;
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For them is the voice of wailing,
And the sweet blush-rose departs
From the cheeks, of the maidens, paling
O'er the wreck of their broken hearts!
And the sweet blush-rose departs
From the cheeks, of the maidens, paling
O'er the wreck of their broken hearts!
And alas! for the vanished glory
Of a thousand household spells!
And alas! for the tearful story
Of the spirit's fond farewells!
By the flood, on the field, in the forest,
Our bravest have yielded breath,
But the shafts that have smitten sorest
Were launched by a viewless death!,
Of a thousand household spells!
And alas! for the tearful story
Of the spirit's fond farewells!
By the flood, on the field, in the forest,
Our bravest have yielded breath,
But the shafts that have smitten sorest
Were launched by a viewless death!,
Oh, Thou, that hast charms of healing,
Descend on a widowed land,
And bind o'er the wounds of feeling
The balms of Thy mystic hand;
Till the hearts that lament and languish,
Renewed by the touch divine,
From the depths of a mortal anguish
May rise to the calm of thine!
Descend on a widowed land,
And bind o'er the wounds of feeling
The balms of Thy mystic hand;
Till the hearts that lament and languish,
Renewed by the touch divine,
From the depths of a mortal anguish
May rise to the calm of thine!
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |