And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, Unseen, beside the flood-- Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched That wait and watch for blood.
Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen.
And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound.
Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, Across her tranquil bay.
Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And Summer to her courts.
But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak.
Shall the Spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, As fair and free as now?
We know not; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed her doom; And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The triumph or the tomb.
Rich in red honors, that upon him lie As lightly as the Summer dews Fall where he won his fame beneath the sky Of tropic Vera Cruz;
Bold scorner of the cant that has its birth In feeble or in failing powers; A lover of all frank and genial mirth That wreathes the sword with flowers;
He moves amid the warriors of the day, Just such a soldier as the art That builds its trophies upon human clay Moulds of a cheerful heart.
I see him in the battle that shall shake, Ere long, old Sumter's haughty crown, And from their dreams of peaceful traffic wake The wharves of yonder town;
As calm as one would greet a pleasant guest, And quaff a cup to love and life, He hurls his deadliest thunders with a jest, And laughs amid the strife.
Yet not the gravest soldier of them all Surveys a field with broader scope; And who behind that sea-encircled wall Fights with a loftier hope?
Gay Chieftain! on the crimson rolls of Fame Thy deeds are written with the sword; But there are gentler thoughts which, with thy name, Thy country's page shall hoard.
A nature of that rare and happy cast Which looks, unsteeled, on murder's face; Through what dark scenes of bloodshed hast thou passed, Yet lost no social grace?