"They are turning the slaves upon us, And with more than the fiend's worst art, Have uncovered the fire of the savage, That slept in his untaught heart! "The ties to our hearths that bound him, They have rent with curses away, And maddened him, with their madness, To be almost as brutal as they. "With halter, and torch, and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of murder, And pray for lust's kingdom to come. "To saddle! to saddle! my brothers! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done! "Wherever the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel, And when at his bosom you can not, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel. "Through thicket and wood, go hunt him, Creep up to his camp-fire side, And let ten of his corpses blacken Where one of our brothers hath died. "In his fainting, foot-sore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts we owe him, pay. "In God's hand alone is vengeance, But he strikes with the hands of men, And his blight would wither our manhood, If we smite not the smiter again. "By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes, and hopes, and freedom, Let every man swear on his blade, "That he will not sheathe nor stay it, Till from point to hilt it glow With the flush of Almighty vengeance, In the blood of the felon foe." They swore--and the answering sunlight Leaped red from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo To the wrath in their burning words. There's weeping in all New England, And by Schuylkill's banks a knell, And the widows there and the orphans, How the oath was kept, can tell.[12] SOUTHERN MARSEILLAISE. Ye men of Southern hearts and feeling, Arm, Arm! your struggling country calls-- Hear ye the guns now loudly pealing, From Sumter's high embattled walls! Shall a fanatic horde in power Send forth a base and hireling band, To desolate our happy land, And make our Southern freemen cower. To arms, to arms! each one, The sword unsheathe, raise the gun, Then on, rush on, ye brave and free, To death or victory. Now clouds of war begin to gather, And black and murky is our sky-- Shall we submit--no, never, never! Let death or freedom be our cry-- In Heaven's justice firm relying, We'll nobly struggle to be free, And bravely gain our liberty, Or die, our Northern foes defying. To arms, to arms! each one, etc.