Ode — “Shell the Old City! Shell!”
I
Shell the old city I shell!
Ye myrmidons of Hell;
Ye serve your master well,
With hellish arts!
Hurl down, with bolt and fire,
The grand old shrines, the spire;
But know, your demon ire
Subdues no hearts!
II
There, we defy ye still,
With sworn and resolute will;
Courage ye cannot kill
While we have breath!
Stone walls your bolts may break,
But, ere our souls ye shake,
Of the whole land we’ll make
One realm of death!
III
Dear are our homes! our eyes
Weep at their sacrifice;
And, with each bolt that flies,
Each roof that falls,
The pang extorts the tear,
That things so precious, dear
To memory, love, and care,
Sink with our walls.
IV
Trophies of ancient time,
When, with great souls, sublime,
Opposing force and crime,
Our fathers fought;
Relics of golden hours,
When, for our shrines and bowers,
Genius, with magic powers,
Her triumphs wrought!
V
Each Sabbath-hallowed dome,
Each ancient family home,
The dear old southwest room,
All trellised round;
Where gay, bright summer vines,
Linked in fantastic twines
With the sun’s blazing lines,
Rubied the ground!
VI
Homes, sacred to the past,
Which bore the hostile blast,
Though Spain, France, Britain cast
Their shot and shell!
Tombs of the mighty dead,
That in our battles bled,
When on our infant head
These furies fell!
VII
Halls which the foreign guest Found of each charm possessed, With cheer unstinted blessed, And noblest grace; Where, drawing to her side The stranger, far and wide, Frank courtesy took pride To give him place!
VIII
The shaded walks—the bowers
Where, through long summer hours,
Young Love first proved his powers
To win the prize;
Where every tree has heard
Some vows of love preferred,
And, with his leaves unstirred,
Watch’d lips and eyes.
IX
Gardens of tropic blooms,
That, through the shaded rooms,
Sent Orient-winged perfumes
With dusk and dawn;
The grand old laurel, tall,
As sovereign over all,
And, from the porch and hall,
The verdant lawn.
X
Oh! when we think of these
Old homes, ancestral trees;
Where, in the sun and breeze,
At morn and even,
Was to enjoy the play
Of hearts at holiday,
And find, in blooms of May,
Foretaste of Heaven!
XI
Where, as we cast our eyes
On thing’s of precious prize,
Trophies of good and wise,
Grand, noble, brave;
And think of these, so late
Sacred to soul and state,
Doomed, as the wreck of fate,
By fiend and slave!—
XII
The inevitable pain,
Coursing through blood and brain,
Drives forth, like winter rain,
The bitter tear!
We cannot help but weep,
From depth of hearts that keep
The memories, dread and deep.
To vengeance dear!
XIII
Aye, for each tear we shed,
There shall be torrents red,
Not from the eye-founts fed,
But from the veins!
Bloody shall be the sweat,
Fiends, felons, that shall yet
Pay retribution’s debt,
In torture’s pains!
XIV
Our tears shall naught abate,
Of what we owe to hate—
To the avenging fate—
To earth and Heaven!
And, soon or late, the hour
Shall bring th’ atoning power,
When, through the clouds that lower,
The storm-bolt’s driven!
XV
Shell the old city—shell!
But, with each rooftree’s knell,
Vows deep of vengeance fell,
Fire soul and eye!
With every tear that falls
Above our stricken walls
Each heart more fiercely calls,
“Avenge, or die!”
“The Enemy Shall Never Reach Your City.”
Andrew Jackson’s Address to the People of New Orleans
I
Never, while such as ye are in the breach,
Oh! brothers, sons, and Southrons—never! never!
Shall the foul enemy your city reach!
For souls and hearts are eager with endeavor;
And God’s own sanction on your cause, makes holy
Each arm that strikes for home, however lowly!—
And ye shall conquer by the rolling deep!—
And ye shall conquer on the embattled steep!—
And ye shall see Leviathan go down
A hundred fathoms, with a horrible cry
Of drowning wretches, in their agony—
While Slaughter wades in gore along the sands,
And Terror flies with pleading, outstretched hands,
All speechless, but with glassy-staring eyes—
Flying to Fate—and fated as he flies;—
Seeking his refuge in the tossing wave,
That gives him, when the shark has fed, a grave!
II
Thus saith the Lord of Battles: “Shall it be,
That this great city, planted by the sea,
With threescore thousand souls—with fanes and spires
Reared by a race of unexampled sires—
That I have watched, now twice a hundred years,[1]
Nursed through long infancy of hopes and fears,
Baptized in blood at seasons, oft in tears;
Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow
To greatness, with a progress firm but slow—
That being the grand condition of duration—
Until it spreads into the mighty nation!
And shall the usurper, insolent of power,
O’erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour!
And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will,
Say to its mighty heart—‘Crouch, and be still!
My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate!
Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!’
III
“No! He shall know—I am the Lord of war;
And all his mighty hosts but pigmies are!
His hellish engines, wrought for human woe,
His arts and vile inventions, and his power,
My arm shall bring to ruin, swift and low!
Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm-clouds lower,
And I will arm my people with a faith,
Shall make them free of fear, and free of scaith;
Arid they shall bear from me a smiting sword,
Edged with keen lightning, at whose stroke is poured
A torrent of destruction and swift wrath,
Sweeping—the insolent legions from their path!
The usurper shall be taught that none shall take—
The right to punish and avenge from me:
And I will guard my City by the Sea,
And save its people for their fathers’ sake!”
IV
Selah!—Oh I brothers, sons, and Southrons, rise;
To prayer: and lo! the wonder in the skies!
The sunbow spans your towers, even while the foe
Hurls his fell bolt, and rains his iron blow.
Toss’d by his shafts, the spray above yon height1
God’s smile hath turned into a golden light;
Orange and purple-golden! In that sign
Find ye fit promise for that voice divine!
Hark! ’tis the thunder! Through the murky air,
The solemn roll goes echoing far and near!
Go forth, and unafraid! His shield is yours!
And the great spirits of your earlier day—
Your fathers, hovering round your sacred shores—
Will guard your bosoms through the unequal fray!
Hark to their voices, issuing through the gloom:[2]
“The cruel hosts that haunt you, march to doom:
Give them the vulture’s rites—a naked tomb!
And, while ye bravely smite, with fierce endeavor,
The foe shall reach your city—never! never!”
[2]In the late engagement of Fort Sumter, with the enemy’s fleet, April 7th, the spray thrown above the walls by their enormous missiles, was formed into a beautiful sunbow, seeing which, General Ripley, with the piety of Constantine, exclaimed: “In hoc signo vinces!”
Charleston Mercury.
Notes
1 Charleston was originally settled in 1671. She is now near 2 years old.