The despot treads thy sacred sands,
                        Thy pines give shelter to his bands,
                        Thy sons stand by with idle hands,
                        He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,
                        He scorns the lances of thy palm;
                        Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,
                        Thy ancient fame is growing dim,
                        A spot is on thy garment's rim;
                        Give to the winds thy battle hymn,


                        Call on thy children of the hill,
                        Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,
                        Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,

                        Cite wealth and science, trade and art,
                        Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,
                        And pour thee through the people's heart,
                        Till even the coward spurns his fears,
                        And all thy fields and fens and meres
                        Shall bristle like thy palm with spears,


                        Hold up the glories of thy dead;
                        Say how thy elder children bled,
                        And point to Eutaw's battle-bed,
                        Tell how the patriot's soul was tried,
                        And what his dauntless breast defied;
                        How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died,
                        Cry! till thy summons, heard at last,
                        Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast
                        Re-echoed from the haunted Past,


                        I hear a murmur as of waves
                        That grope their way through sunless caves,
                        Like bodies struggling in their graves,

                        And now it deepens; slow and grand
                        It swells, as, rolling to the land,
                        An ocean broke upon thy strand,
                        Shout! let it reach the startled Huns!
                        And roar with all thy festal guns!
                        It is the answer of thy sons,


                        They will not wait to hear thee call;
                        From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall
                        Resounds the voice of hut and hall,
                        No! thou hast not a stain, they say,
                        Or none save what the battle-day
                        Shall wash in seas of blood away,
                        Thy skirts indeed the foe may part,
                        Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,
                        They shall not touch thy noble heart,


                        Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall
                        Ten times ten thousand men must fall;
                        Thy corpse may hearken to his call,

                        When by thy bier, in mournful throngs
                        The women chant thy mortal wrongs,
                        'Twill be their own funereal songs,
                        From thy dead breast by ruffians trod
                        No helpless child shall look to God;
                        All shall be safe beneath thy sod,


                        Girt with such wills to do and bear,
                        Assured in right, and mailed in prayer,
                        Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,
                        Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!
                        Front with thy ranks the threatening seas
                        Like thine own proud armorial trees,
                        Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,
                        And roar the challenge from thy guns;
                        Then leave the future to thy sons,


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