[Poems by Cranch in] The spirit of the fair Tuesday, April 19, 1864. No. 13 |
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[Yet are this fly-god and his poisonous swarm] |
 | [Poems by Cranch in] The spirit of the fair |  |
[Yet are this fly-god and his poisonous swarm]
Yet are this fly-god and his poisonous swarm,Who ply their fiendish tasks with bloody hands,
But baser spawn of one whose giant form
Still towers Titanic o'er those Southern lands.
Arch-fiend of this fair continent, he stands
Foremost, though dead; and in the direful storm
Of battle, lies the spirit that commands
The rebel's code and keeps their courage warm—
Slavery's apostle and Secession's sage,
His name still rings as teacher and as guide.
The very frogs of Dismal Swamp still croak
The name Calhoun. That name from age to age
Shall stand accursed. Southern hate and pride
Are branches—he, the acorn of their oak.
| [Poems by Cranch in] The spirit of the fair | |