The
despot treads thy sacred sands,
Thy
pines give shelter to his bands,
Thy
sons stand by with idle hands,
Carolina!
He
breathes at ease thy airs of balm,
He
scorns the lances of thy palm;
Oh!
who shall break thy craven calm,
Carolina!
Thy
ancient fame is growing dim,
A
spot is on thy garment's rim;
Give
to the winds thy battle hymn,
Carolina!
Call
on thy children of the hill,
Wake
swamp and river, coast and rill,
Rouse
all thy strength and all thy skill,
Carolina!
Cite
wealth and science, trade and art,
Touch
with thy fire the cautious mart,
And
pour thee through the people's heart,
Carolina!
Till
even the coward spurns his fears,
And
all thy fields and fens and meres
Shall
bristle like thy palm with spears,
Carolina!
Hold
up the glories of thy dead;
Say
how thy elder children bled,
And
point to Eutaw's battle-bed,
Carolina!
Tell
how the patriot's soul was tried,
And
what his dauntless breast defied;
How
Rutledge ruled and Laurens died,
Carolina!
Cry!
till thy summons, heard at last,
Shall
fall like Marion's bugle-blast
Re-echoed
from the haunted Past,
Carolina!
I
hear a murmur as of waves
That
grope their way through sunless caves,
Like
bodies struggling in their graves,
Carolina!
And
now it deepens; slow and grand
It
swells, as, rolling to the land,
An
ocean broke upon thy strand,
Carolina!
Shout!
let it reach the startled Huns!
And
roar with all thy festal guns!
It
is the answer of thy sons,
Carolina!
They
will not wait to hear thee call;
From
Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall
Resounds
the voice of hut and hall,
Carolina!
No!
thou hast not a stain, they say,
Or
none save what the battle-day
Shall
wash in seas of blood away,
Carolina!
Thy
skirts indeed the foe may part,
Thy
robe be pierced with sword and dart,
They
shall not touch thy noble heart,
Carolina!
Ere
thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall
Ten
times ten thousand men must fall;
Thy
corpse may hearken to his call,
Carolina!
When
by thy bier, in mournful throngs
The
women chant thy mortal wrongs,
'Twill
be their own funereal songs,
Carolina!
From
thy dead breast by ruffians trod
No
helpless child shall look to God;
All
shall be safe beneath thy sod,
Carolina!
Girt
with such wills to do and bear,
Assured
in right, and mailed in prayer,
Thou
wilt not bow thee to despair,
Carolina!
Throw
thy bold banner to the breeze!
Front
with thy ranks the threatening seas
Like
thine own proud armorial trees,
Carolina!
Fling
down thy gauntlet to the Huns,
And
roar the challenge from thy guns;
Then
leave the future to thy sons,
Carolina!
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