There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree, And the nation whose course is long to run, Must make, though in anguish still it be, The tribute of many a noble son; The roots of each mighty shaft must grow In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts; And to conquer the right from a bloody foe, Brings a pang as when soul and body parts! But the blood and the pang are the need, alas! To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays The generations that rise, and pass To the full fruition that crowns their days! 'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life: And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care; And the freedom sought must ever be bought By the best blood-offerings, held most dear. Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first To mount the red altar of sacrifice; Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst, Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!-- The struggle may last for a thousand years, And only with blood shall the field be bought; But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears, The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought. Charleston Mercury. Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama. He sleeps upon Virginia's strand, While comrades of the Legion stand With arms reversed--a mournful band-- Around his early bier! His war-horse paws the shaking ground, The volleys ring--they close around-- And on the white brow, laurel-bound, Falls many a soldier's tear. Up, stricken mourners! look on high, Loud anthems rend the echoing sky, Re-born where heroes never die-- The warrior is at rest! Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown; Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down, His plumes replaced by shining--crown, The red cross on his breast! Though Gendron's arm is with the dust, Let not his blood-stained weapon rust, Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust, Where Southern banners fly! Some brave, who followed where he led-- Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead, To avenge each drop of blood he shed, Or, like him, bravely die! He deemed a death for honor sweet.-- And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet, Our flag should be his winding-sheet, Proud banner of the free! Oh, let his honored form be laid Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade; His praises sung by Southern maid, While flows the broad Santee! We come around his urn to twine Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine, Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine, From skies deep-dyed and bright; And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!-- On, brothers, on!--Fight! win the field! Or dead return on battered shield, As martyrs for the right! Where camp-fires light the reddened sod, The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God, In Palmer's name, and by his blood, They swell the battle-cry; We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel, 'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel, And menial hordes as suppliants kneel, Or, terror-stricken, fly! Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans. By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.