How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown,-- He, with the martyr’s amaranthine wreath Twining the victor’s crown! [Southern.] [Illustration] [Illustration] THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR. (Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the fleet, 7th April, 1863.) BY PAUL H. HAYNE. I. Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, The Northmen’s mailed “Invincibles” steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave. II. A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle’s broadening star. III. Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes! IV. Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight’s ruddy gold,-- They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers, And then--once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. V. Onward--in sullen file and slow, low glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When sudden, shivering up the calm, o’er startled flood and shore, Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore! VI. Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, Beware the storm that’s opening now, God’s vengeance guides the hail! Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, ’gainst law and truth and Right; Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might! VII. No empty boast! for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire; The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above; Fight on, O knightly gentlemen! for faith and home and love! VIII. There’s not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise To seize the victor’s wreath of blood, though death must give the prize-- There’s not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down.