Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide. 'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his belovèd land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew And well he deemed the sons would pour There lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept, O'er Angostura's plain-- And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave, No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your story be forgot, While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE CIVIL WAR] [Illustration] BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. (Written in December, 1860, when South Carolina adopted the Ordinance of Secession.) She has gone,--she has left us in passion and pride-- Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow, And turned on her brother the face of a foe!