"Union men!" O thrice-fooled fools! As well might ye hope to bind The desert sands with a silken thread, When tossed by the whistling wind, Or to blend the shattered waves that lash The feet of the cleaving rock, When the tempest walks the face of the deep, And the water-spirits mock, As the severed chain to reunite In a peaceful link again; On our burning homesteads ye may write, "We found no Union men." Aye, hoist your old dishonored flag, And pipe your worn-out tune; The hills of the South have caught the strain, And will answer it full soon; Not with the sycophantic tone, And the cringing knee bent low-- The deep-mouthed cannon shall bear the tale, Where the sword deals blow for blow; Our braying trumpets in your ears, Shall defiant shout again, "Back, wolves and foxes, to your lairs, Here are no Union men!" _Union_, with tastes dissimilar? Such Union is the worst And direst form of bondage that Nations or men have cursed! _Union with traitors?_ Hear ye not That cry for vengeance, deep, Where hand to hand, and foot to foot, Our glittering columns sweep? Our iron-tongued artillery Shouts through the bristling glen, To the war-drum echoing reveille, "Here are no Union men!" Oh, deep have sunken the burning seeds That the winged winds have borne, That for all your future years must yield The thistle and prison-thorn; Our soil was genial--ye might have sown A harvest rich. 'Tis too late! To our children's children we leave for you But a heritage of Hate! Ye have opened the wild flood-gates of war, And we may not the torrent pen; But ye seek in vain on our storm-beat shore For the myth called "Union Men." HARP OF THE SOUTH. A SONNET. BY "CORA." Harp of the South, awake! A loftier strain Than ever yet thy tuneful strings has stirred, Awaits thee now. The Eastern world has heard The thunder of the battle 'cross the main-- Has seen the young South burst the tyrant's chain, And rise to being at a single word-- The watchword, Liberty--so long transferred To the oppressor's mouth. Moons wax and wane, And still the nations stand with listening ear, And still o'er ocean floats the battle-cry. Harp of the South, awake, and bid them hear The name of Jackson; loud, and clear, and high, Strike notes exultant, o'er the hero's bier, Who, though he sleeps in dust, can never die. WHAT THE SPIRITS OF THE FATHERS OF THE FIRST REVOLUTION SAY TO THEIR SONS NOW ENGAGED IN THE SECOND. BY HENRY LOMAS. We are watching that land where Liberty woke-- Like beams of the morning through darkness it broke-- Then up from the mountain the bold eagle sprung, And wide to the breeze his broad pinions flung. Rise! rise! ye sons of the South and be free!