 | [Poems by Hayne in] The Southern Poems of the War |  |
136
“AWAY WITH THE DASTARDS WHO WHINE OF DEFEAT.”
BY PAUL H. HAYNE, OF SOUTH CAROLINA.
Away with the dastards who whine of defeat,
And hint that the day of destruction draws near,
Who counsel “submission,” or whisper “retreat,”
With the traitor's mistrust and the renegade's fear.
And hint that the day of destruction draws near,
Who counsel “submission,” or whisper “retreat,”
With the traitor's mistrust and the renegade's fear.
What! doff the strong armor, and yield us as slaves
To lust and to robbery, banded with might,
While the standard that symbols our liberty waves,
Still flaming and fair in the front of the fight?
To lust and to robbery, banded with might,
While the standard that symbols our liberty waves,
Still flaming and fair in the front of the fight?
By the souls of our fathers! I hold them accurst,
The caitiffs who falter and flee from the strife,
Who would slake at Dishonor's foul cess-pool the thirst
Of a passion—the meanest and basest—for life!
The caitiffs who falter and flee from the strife,
Who would slake at Dishonor's foul cess-pool the thirst
Of a passion—the meanest and basest—for life!
Go! crouch in the forest! Go! hide 'neath the rock!
Slink, pallid and scared, into mountain and den;
We have maidens to fill your lost ranks in the field
Of death and of conflict—most gallant of men!
Slink, pallid and scared, into mountain and den;
We have maidens to fill your lost ranks in the field
Of death and of conflict—most gallant of men!
The soul of the brave saint of Orleans is here,
It thrills in the voices, it burns on the cheek
Of women who heed not the wail of despair,
And scorn the false words which the craven would speak.
It thrills in the voices, it burns on the cheek
137
And scorn the false words which the craven would speak.
“Submission,” ah! yes! we'll submit when the sod,
Lies blackened and bare on the tombs of our race,
And “retreat” when the call of our merciful God,
Shall bid us disband in His kingdom of grace!
Lies blackened and bare on the tombs of our race,
And “retreat” when the call of our merciful God,
Shall bid us disband in His kingdom of grace!
Charleston, May 10, 1862.
208
BUTLER'S PROCLAMATION.
BY PAUL H. HAYNE, OF SOUTH CAROLINA.
“It is ordered that hereafter when any female shall, by word, gesture, or movement, insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States, she shall be regarded and held liable to be treated as a woman of the town, plying her vocation.”
Butler's Order at New Orleans.
Aye! drop the treacherous mask! throw by
The cloak which veiled thine instincts fell,
Stand forth thou base incarnate lie,
Stamped with the signet brand of hell.
At last we view thee as thou art—
A trickster with a demon's heart.
The cloak which veiled thine instincts fell,
Stand forth thou base incarnate lie,
Stamped with the signet brand of hell.
At last we view thee as thou art—
A trickster with a demon's heart.
Off with disguise! no quarter now
To rebel honor! thou would'st strike
Hot blushes up the anguished brow,
And murder fame and strength alike.
Beware! ten millions hearts aflame
Will burn with hate thou canst not tame.
To rebel honor! thou would'st strike
Hot blushes up the anguished brow,
And murder fame and strength alike.
Beware! ten millions hearts aflame
Will burn with hate thou canst not tame.
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We know thee now! we know thy race!
Thy dreadful purpose stands revealed
Naked before the nation's face!
Comrades! let mercy's fount be sealed,
While the black banner courts the wind,
And cursed be he who lags behind!
Thy dreadful purpose stands revealed
Naked before the nation's face!
Comrades! let mercy's fount be sealed,
While the black banner courts the wind,
And cursed be he who lags behind!
O! soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires!
Think that each stalwart blow ye give
Shall quench the rage of lustful fires,
And bid your glorious women live
Pure from a wrong whose tainted breath,
Were fouler than the foulest death.
Think that each stalwart blow ye give
Shall quench the rage of lustful fires,
And bid your glorious women live
Pure from a wrong whose tainted breath,
Were fouler than the foulest death.
O! soldiers, lovers, Christians, men!
Think that each breeze that floats and dies
O'er the red field, from mount or glen,
Is burdened with a maiden's sighs;
And each false soul that turns to flee,
Consigns his love to infamy!
Think that each breeze that floats and dies
O'er the red field, from mount or glen,
Is burdened with a maiden's sighs;
And each false soul that turns to flee,
Consigns his love to infamy!
No pity! let your thirsty brands,
Drink their warm fill at caitiff veins,
Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands,
Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains.
Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will,
The God of vengeance bids you “kill!”
Drink their warm fill at caitiff veins,
Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands,
Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains.
Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will,
The God of vengeance bids you “kill!”
210
Yes! but there's one who shall not die
In battle harness! one for whom
Lurks in the darkness silently
Another and a sterner doom!
A warrior's end should crown the brave,
For him, strong cord and felon grave!
In battle harness! one for whom
Lurks in the darkness silently
Another and a sterner doom!
A warrior's end should crown the brave,
For him, strong cord and felon grave!
As loathsome charnel vapors melt,
Swept by the rushing winds to nought,
So may this fiend of lust and guilt
Die like a nightmare's hideous thought.
Nought left to mark the monster's name,
Save—immortality of shame!
Swept by the rushing winds to nought,
So may this fiend of lust and guilt
Die like a nightmare's hideous thought.
Nought left to mark the monster's name,
Save—immortality of shame!
| [Poems by Hayne in] The Southern Poems of the War | |