From the holes where Fraud, Falsehood, and Hate slink away; From the crypt in which Error lies buried in chains; This foul apparition stalks forth to the day, And would ravage the land which his presence profanes. Could you conquer us, Men of the North, could you bring Desolation and death on our homes as a flood; Can you hope the pure lily, Affection, will spring From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood? Could you brand us as villeins and serfs, know ye not What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar? How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot; How dearly the Pole loves his Father, the Czar! But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun Is a _nutrix leonum_, and suckles a race Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one, Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace. And well may the schemers in office beware The swift retribution that waits upon crime, When the lion, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair, With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime. Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still, Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends; Nor join in a conflict accurst, that must fill With ruin the country on which it descends. But if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage The gods give to all whom they wished to destroy, You would act a new Iliad to darken the age, With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy: If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries, When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore, You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar: If there be to your malice no limit imposed, And your reckless design is to rule with the rod The men upon whom you have already closed Our goodly domain and the temples of God: To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold, And at once let the tocsin be sounded afar; We greet you, as greeted the Swiss Charles the Bold, With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war! For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright, Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide; Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight, With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride; And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past, In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain; While the sods of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast, And give up its heroes to glory again. _Charleston Mercury._ ETHNOGENESIS. BY HENRY TIMROD.[1] I.