What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers,
Still at thy feet the old oak towers;
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,
And things of beauty, love, and flowers
Are smiling o'er this land of ours,

My sunny home, Savannah !
There is no film before thy sight,—
Thou seest woe and death and night,
And blood upon thy banner bright;
But in thy full wrath's kindled might
What carest thou for woe or night?
My rebel home, Savannah !

Come for the crown is on thy head!
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed;
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Oh! come unto thy battle bed,

Savannah! O Savannah !

ALETHEA S. BURROUGHS.

THE FOE AT THE GATES.
[Charleston, 1865.]

RING round her! children of her glorious skies,
Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;
Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,
Then close your ranks and face the threatening
fate.

Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel
Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;

And in her hour of anguish let her feel

That ye can die whom she has taught to live.

Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;

That never violent hand on her be laid,

Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.

Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!
And doubly damned who casts one look behind !
Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout,
Up with her banner! give it to the wind!

Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,
Till every ringing avenue repeat
The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide

Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.

Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!
Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now
By the sweet memories of your childhood's home,
By every manly hope and filial vow,

To save her proud soul from that loathed thrall
Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name ;
Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,

Spare her she sues—the agony and shame.
From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled;
Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,
And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,
Give her unspotted to the God of Fire.

Gather around her sacred ashes then,

Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,

Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,

Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.

So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,

If not in life, at least by death, set free;

And send her fame through endless ages downThe last grand holocaust of Liberty.

JOHN DICKSON BRUNS.

FLAG OF TRUCE.

LET us bury our dead:

Since we may not of vantage or victory prate; And our army, so grand in the onslaught of late, All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead,— For the carnage was great:

Let us bury our dead.

Let us bury our dead:

Oh, we thought to surprise you, as, panting and flushed,

From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed: But you fought like the gods-till we faltered and fled,

And the earth, how it blushed!
Let us bury our dead.

So we bury our dead

From the field; from the range and the crash of the

gun;

From the kisses of love; from the face of the sun! Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed! Lay them in, one by one:

So we bury our dead.

Fast we bury our dead:

All too scanty the time, let us work as we may,

For the foe burns for strife and our ranks are at

bay:

O'er the graves we are digging what legions will tread

Swift, and eager to slay,

Though we bury our dead.

See, we bury our dead!

Oh, they fought as the young and the dauntless will

fight,

Who fancy their war is a war for the right!

Right or wrong, it was precious-this blood they have shed:

If they erred as they fought, will He charge them with blame,

When their hearts beat aright, and the truth was their aim?

Nay, never in vain has such offering bled

North or South, 'tis the same

Fast we bury our dead.

Thus we bury our dead.

Oh, ye men of the North, with your banner that

waves

Far and wide o'er our Southland, made rugged with

graves,

Are ye verily right, that so well ye have sped?
Were we wronging our slaves?
Well-we bury our dead.

Ah, we bury our dead!

And granting you all you have claimed on the whole

Are we 'spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,

To be spurned at Heaven's court when its records are read?

Nay, expound not the scroll
Till we bury our dead!

Haste and bury our dead!

No time for revolving of right and of wrong;

We must venture our souls with the rest of the throng;

And our God must be Judge, as He sits overhead,
Of the weak and the strong,
While we bury our dead.

Now peace to our dead:

Fair grow the sweet blossoms of Spring where they lie . .

Hark! the musketry roars, and the rifles reply; Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be dread;

To the ranks let us hie,—

We have buried our dead.

AMANDA T. JONES.

"STACK ARMS!"

[Written in prison at Fort Delaware, Del., on hearing of the surrender of General Lee.]

"STACK ARMS!" I've gladly heard the cry
When, weary with the dusty tread

Of marching troops, as night drew nigh,
I sank upon my soldier bed,
And calmly slept; the starry dome

Of heaven's blue arch my canopy,
And mingled with my dreams of home
The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.

"Stack Arms!" I've heard it when the shout
Exulting ran along our line,

Of foes hurled back in bloody rout,
Captured, dispersed; its tones divine
Then came to mine enraptured ear,
Guerdon of duty nobly done,

And glistened on my cheek the tear
Of grateful joy for victory won.

"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow
And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue,

A broken, murmuring wail of woe,

From manly hearts by anguish wrung.