I wonder that the woodbine thrives and grows, And is indifferent to the nation's woes. For while these mornings shine, these blossoms bloom, Impious rebellion wraps the land in gloom. Nature, thou art unkind, Yon lichen, clinging to the o'erhanging rock, Me with its joy. Alas! I cannot find One charm in bounteous Nature, while the wind That blows upon my cheek bears on each gust The groans of my poor country, bleeding in the dust. The air is musical with notes That gush from wingéd warblers' throats, And in the leafy trees I hear the drowsy hum of bees. Prone from the blinding sky Dance rainbow-tinted sunbeams, thick with motes; Wavers from flower to flower;-yet in this wood And every turf is drenched with human blood! * * * Delia R. German. Charleston, S. C. CHARLESTON. ALM as that second summer which precedes CALM The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The city bides the foe. As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, Her bolted thunders sleep, Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, Unseen, beside the flood, Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, Meanwhile, through strects still echoing with trade, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen. And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound. Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, Across her tranquil bay. Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And summer to her courts. But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak. Shall the spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, We know not; in the temple of the Fates And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits Henry Timrod. MAGNOLIA CEMETERY. SLEEP sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause! Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause, In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone! Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Small tributes! but your shades will smile Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! Henry Timrod. JOHN Charlestown, Va. BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE. HN BROWN of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day: "I will not have, to shrive my soul, a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!" John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child! The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart; And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent! Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good! Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood! |