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,