A SOUTHERN SONG.

By Miss Maria Grason.

While crimson drops our hearthstones stain,
And Northern despots forge our chain,
O God! shall freemen strike in vain?

Shall tyrants desecrate the sod
Our fathers hallowed with their blood,
Or cowards tread where heroes trod?

The lowering tempest darkens round;
And at the bugle’s silvery sound
The fiery war-horse spurns the ground.

The thunder of his iron tread
Sweeps o’er the dying and the dead;
The trembling earth is blushing red.

’Mid wreathing smoke, and flashing steel,
And blazing cannons’ deafening peal
Our brave battalions charge and wheel.

The maiden sees her lover there!
Far in the battle’s lurid glare
He stands, his only shield her prayer.

Oh, may that warrior in his pride
Return with honor to her side,
Or die as old Dentatus died!

Queen Anne Co., Md.