And the Bishop, and the Abbot, And the monks of high degree, Chanting praise to the Madonna, Came to do him Christian honor. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" Now, the Miserere's cadence Takes the voices of the sea;-- As the music-billows quiver See the dead freebooter shiver! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" Is it that those intonations Thrill him thus from head to knee? So! his cerements burst asunder! 'Tis a sight of fear and wonder! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" Fierce he stands before the Bishop-- Dark as shape of Destinie! Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling! Down the prelate goes, dead--falling; "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" HASTING lives! He was but feigning! What! Repentant? Never he! Down he smites the priests and friars, And the city lights with fires. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" Ah! the children and the maidens, 'Tis in vain they strive to flee! Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding Is no place for tearful pleading. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine?" Louder swells the frightful tumult; Pallid Death holds reverie; Dies the organ's mighty clamor, By the Norseman's iron hammer. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" And they thought that he repented! Had they nailed him to a tree, He had not deserved their pity, And--they had not lost their city. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" There's a moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be: If we trust the North's relenting, We will shriek, too late, repenting, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" GOD SAVE THE SOUTH. BY REUBEN NASON. God bless our Southern land! Guard our beloved land! God save the South! Make us victorious, Happy and glorious; Spread Thy shield over us; God save the South! God of our sires, arise! Scatter our enemies, Who mock Thy truth; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks: In Thee our faith we fix; God save the South! In the fierce battle-hour, With Thine almighty power, Assist our youth; May they, with victory crowned, Joining our choral round, With heart and voice resound, "God save the South!" ON! SOUTHRON, ON! BY GEN. M. B. LAMAR. On! Southron, on! Your flag's unfurled 'Mid clashing steel, and death-shot hurled, And war's dark storm-cloud, swiftly whirled, Your country calls. On! Southron, on! Strike! Southron, strike! The foeman's trail Is marked with blood and flame alike; And woman's shriek, and infant's wail, Show that he wars upon the frail A war of hate. Strike! Southron, strike!