A SOUTHERN GATHERING SONG.
By L. Virginia French.
|Sons of the South, beware the foe!|
Hark to the murmur, deep and low,
Rolling up like the coming storm,
Swelling up like the sounding storm,
Hoarse as the hurricanes that brood
In space’s far infinitude!
Minute guns of omen boom
Through the future’s folded gloom;
Sounds prophetic fill the air,
Heed the warning—and prepare!
Watch! be wary—every hour
Mark the foeman’s gathering power—
Keep watch and ward upon his track
And crush the rash invaders back!
Sons of the brave!—a barrier staunch
Breasting the alien avalanche—
Manning the battlements of Right;
Up, for your Country, “God and right!”
Form your battalions steadily,
And strike for death or victory!
Surging onward sweeps the wave,
Serried columns of the brave,
Banded ’neath the benison of
Freedom’s godlike Washington!
Stand! but should the invading foe
Aspire to lay your altars low,
Charge on the tyrant ere he gain
Your iron-arteried domain!
Sons of the brave! when tumult trod
The tide of revolution—God
Looked from His throne on “the things of time,”
And two new stars in the reign of time,
He bade to burn in the azure dome—
The freeman’s Love and the freeman’s Home!
Holy of Holies! guard them well,
Baffle the despot’s secret spell,
And let the chords of life be riven,
Ere you yield those gifts of heaven!
Io paean! trumpet notes,
Shake the air where our banner floats;
Io triumphe! still we see
The land of the South is the home of the free!