You can Never Win them Back.

You can never win them back-
Never! never!

Though they perish on the track
Of your endeavor:
Though their corses strew the earth,
That smiled to give them birth;
And blood pollutes each hearth-
Ay, forever!

They have risen to a man,
Stern and fearless;

Of your boasting and your ban
They are careless ;
Every hand has grasped its knife,
Every gun is primed for strife,
Every palm contains a life

High and peerless !

You have no such blood as theirs
For the shedding!

In the veins of cavaliers

Was its heading:

You have no such noble men
In your "abolition den,"
To march through foe and fen-
Nothing dreading!

They may fall before the fire
Of your legions,

Paid with gold for murderous hire-
Bought allegiance!

But for every drop you shed
They will make a mound of dead,
That the vultures may be fed
In our regions!

But the battle to the strong
Is not given.

While the Judge of right and wrong

Sits in heaven

While the God of David still

Guides the pebble, with His will

There are giants yet to kill-
Wrongs unshriven !

Beauregard's Appeal. (×)

(x.)

YEA! though the need is bitter,

Take down those sacred bells!

Whose music speaks of our hallowed joys
And passionate farewells!

But ere ye fall dismantled,

Ring out, deep Bells! once more: And pour on the waves of the passing wind The symphonies of yore:

Let the latest born be welcomed

By pealings glad and long;

Let the latest dead in the churchyard bed, Be laid with solemn song;

And the bells above them throbbing,
Should sound in mournful tone,
As if in the grief for a human death,
They prophesied their own.

Who says 'tis a desecration

To strip the Temple Towers,
And invest the metal of peaceful notes
With death-compelling powers?

A truce to cant and folly!

With Faith itself at stake,
Shall we heed the cry of the shallow fool,
Or pause for the Bigot's sake?

Then, crush the struggling sorrow!

Feed high your furnace fires,

That shall mould into deep-mouthed guns of bronze,

The Bells from a hundred spires.

Methinks no common vengeance

No transient war eclipse-
Will follow the awful thunder burst
From their "adamantine lips."

A cause like ours is holy,
And useth holy things;

And over the storm of a righteous strife,
May shine the Angel's wings.

Where'er our duty leads us,

The Grace of God is there,
And the lurid shrine of War may hold
The Eucharist of prayer.

The Cameo Bracelet.

EVA sits on the ottoman there,

Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, With just such a face and just such an air As Esther upon her throne.

She's sifting lint for the brave who bled,
And I watch her fingers float and flow
Over the linen, as thread by thread,
It flakes to her lap like snow.

A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist,
Wrought as Cellini's were at Rome,

Out of the tears of the amethyst
And the wan Vesuvian foam.

And full on the bauble-crest alway-
A cameo image keen and fine—
Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday,
And the lava locks are thine!

I thought of the war-wolves on our trailTheir gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood