Girt with such wills to do and bear, Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, Carolina! Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! Front with thy ranks the threatening seas Like thine own proud armorial trees, Carolina! Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, And roar the challenge from thy guns; Then leave the future to thy sons, Carolina! A Cry to Arms Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade. The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armèd bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain; And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain! Come, with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn. Does any falter? let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch. What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain! Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our Country's right, And for the Lily's sake! Charleston Calm as that second summer which precedes The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The City bides the foe. As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud, Her bolted thunders sleep-- Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, Looms o'er the solemn deep. No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar To guard the holy strand; But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war Above the level sand. And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, Unseen, beside the flood-- Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched That wait and watch for blood.