_Dedicated with respect and admiration to Major-General Earl Van Dorn._

For sixty days and upwards A storm of sh.e.l.l and shot Rained round as in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not!

"If the n.o.ble city perish,"

Our grand young leader said, "Let the only walls the foe shall scale Be ramparts of the dead!"

For sixty days and upwards The eye of heaven waxed dim, And even throughout G.o.d's holy morn, O'er Christian's prayer and hymn, Arose a hissing tumult, As if the fiends of air Strove to engulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair.

There was wailing in the houses, There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; But the Lord, our shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped, Our very women walked the streets, With scarce one throb of dread.

And the little children gamboled-- Their faces purely raised, Just for a wondering moment, As the huge bombs whirled and blazed!

Then turning with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought, That the good G.o.d watched above.[17]

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster From scores of flame-clad ships, And above us denser, darker, Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire.

But the unseen hands of angels These death-shafts warned aside, And the dove of heavenly mercy Ruled o'er the battle tide; In the houses ceased the wailing, And through the war-scarred marts The people strode with the step of hope To the music in their hearts.

COLUMBIA, S. C., _August 6, 1862_.

"THE YANKEE DEVIL."

BY W. P. RIVERS.

The "Nondescript," or "Yankee Devil," for clearing the harbor, was washed ash.o.r.e on yesterday at Morris Island, and is now in our possession. It is described as an old scow-like vessel, painted red, with a long protruding beak, and jutting iron p.r.o.ngs and claws, intended for the removal of torpedoes. It was attached to the Pa.s.saic, and managed by her during the engagement.--_Charleston Courier._

The enemy are waiting for a new machine ("Devil") to remove the torpedoes in the harbor, and to have everything in readiness before the attack.--_Same paper._

Hurrah! hurrah! good news and true, Our woes will soon be past; To Charleston, boys, all praise be due, The devil's caught at last.

He's caught, he's dead, and met his fate On Morris Island's sands; His carca.s.s lies in solemn state, The spoil of Rebel hands.

Hurrah! hurrah! let Dixie cheer!

What may not Charleston do!

The devil's caught at last, we hear; A Yankee devil, too!

The blackest, bluest from below, The prince of all is he, Who leads the Yankees where they go, On land, or on the sea.

The news is true, all doubt dispel, All grief and fears be o'er!

The chiefest from perdition's well Lies on a Southern sh.o.r.e.

On South Carolina's beach he lies-- His majesty ash.o.r.e!

Ah! well we know that devil dies Who enters at that door.

His name and hue, and shape and size, Identify the beast; 'Tis he--the father of all lies, Of devils not the least.

Scow-like across the deep he came, Blood-red his iron sides; With beak, and claws, and fins of flame To plow the vernal tides.

Like serpents which Minerva sent To crush the Trojan sire, So Northern devils come to vent On Charleston blood and fire.

But Neptune ne'er decreed the fate Of Laoc.o.o.n's dear sons, To gratify the Yankees' hate On Charleston's dearer ones.

They'll never bear one fatal hour The Northern serpent's coil, Nor feel the Yankee devil's power Who come to crush and spoil.

The "Nondescript," name chosen well; The "Northern Devil," aye!

A fiend, a ghoul, a spirit fell!

Who may describe it--say?

Foul, artful, b.l.o.o.d.y, false, insane, This Northern ghote[18] of sin; The heathen h.e.l.ls could ne'er contain A darker power within.

But now, hurrah, the devil's dead!

High, dry upon the sh.o.r.e!

Rebellion still may rear its head, The war will soon be o'er.

Hold, not so fast, abate your cheer, The battle is not won; Another devil comes, we hear, Before the work is done.

Alas! when will this warfare end?

Not till all Yankee foes are dead; For nondescript is each--or fiend-- His soul with murder red.

CAVE SPRINGS, GA., _April 11, 1863_.

THE BOY-SOLDIER.

BY A LADY OF SAVANNAH.

He is acting o'er the battle, With his cap and feather gay, Singing out his soldier prattle, In a mockish, manly way-- With the boldest, bravest footstep, Treading firmly up and down, And his banner waving softly O'er his boyish locks of brown.

And I sit beside him sewing, With a busy heart and hand, For the gallant soldiers going To the far-off battle-land; And I gaze upon my jewel, In his baby-spirit bold, My little blue-eyed soldier, Just a second summer old.

Still a deep, deep well of feeling, In my mother's heart is stirred, And the tears come softly stealing At each imitative word.

There's a struggle in my bosom, For I love my darling boy-- He's the gladness of my spirit, He's the sunlight of my joy!

Yet I think upon my country, And my spirit groweth bold, Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old!

I would speed him to the battle, I would arm him for the fight, I would give him to his country, For his country's wrong and right!

I would nerve his hand with blessing, From the "G.o.d of Battles" won; With _His_ helmet and _His_ armor, I would cover o'er my son.

Oh! I _know_ there'd be a struggle, For I love my darling boy; He's the gladness of my spirit, He's the sunlight of my joy!

Yet in thinking of my country, Oh! my spirit groweth bold; And I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old.