Her wealth may fail--her commerce droop With every foreign nation; But mark you, if her pride shall stoop, Or her determination! The products of her fields will be For food and raiment too-- From mountain cliff to rolling sea Her children will be true. Her banner may not always wave On victory's fickle breath, The young, chivalrous, and the brave, May feel the hand of death. But, when her gallant sons have died, Her daughters will remain-- Nor crushed will be the Southern pride, Till they too, all are slain. A BALLAD OF THE WAR. BY GEORGE HERBERT SASS, OF S. C. Watchman, what of the night? Through the city's darkening street, Silent and slow, the guardsmen go On their long and lonely beat. Darkly, drearily down, Falleth the wintry rain; And the cold gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, As it glides o'er town and plain. Beating against the windows, The sleet falls heavy and chill, And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, As the blast shrieks loud and shrill. Silent is all without Save the sentry's challenge grim, And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town And the sleeper's eyes are dim. Watchman, what of the night? Hark! from the old church tower Rings loud and clear, on the wintry air, The chime of the midnight hour. But another sound breaks in, A summons deep and rude, The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum Of a gathering multitude. And the dim and flickering torch Sheds a red and lurid glare, O'er the long dark line, where bayonets shine Faintly, yet sternly there. A low, deep voice is heard: "Rest on your arms, my men." Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, And all is still again. Pale faces and tearful eyes Gaze down on that grim array, For a rumor hath spread that that column dread Marcheth ere break of day. Marcheth against "the rebels," Whose camp lies heavy and still, Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat On the brow of a distant hill. And the mother's heart grows faint, As she thinks of her darling one, Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, Ere the long, dark night be done. Pallid and haggard, too, Is the cheek of the fair young wife; And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him She loveth more than life. For fathers, husbands, sons, Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, And a bleeding country's right. And where their treasure is, There is each loving heart; And sadly they gaze by the torch's blaze, And the tears unbidden start. Is there none to warn the camp, None from that anxious throng? Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town-- The way is dark and long.