War Poetry of the South by Various
page 45 of 505 (08%)
page 45 of 505 (08%)
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For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees! Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth; Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, And the vampires of the North? Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, Strike! with a ruthless hand-- Strike! with the vengeance of the soul For your bright, beleaguered land! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees-- For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees! [1] The surname of the great Maccabeus. Sonnet. Charleston Mercury. Democracy hath done its work of ill, And, seeming freemen, never to be free, While the poor people shout in vanity, |
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