G.H.  BOKER.

Carolina.

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

Call on thy children of the hill,
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,
Carolina! 
Cite wealth and science, trade and art,
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,
And pour thee through the people’s heart,
Carolina! 
Till even the coward spurns his fears,
And all thy fields, and fens, and meres
Shall bristle like thy palm with spears,
Carolina!

I hear a murmur as of waves
That grope their way through sunless caves,
Like bodies struggling in their graves,
Carolina! 
And now it deepens; slow and grand
It swells, as, rolling to the land,
An ocean broke upon thy strand,
Carolina! 
Shout!  Let it reach the startled Huns! 
And roar with all thy festal guns! 
It is the answer of thy sons,
Carolina!

H. TIMROD.

Dirge for a Soldier.

Close his eyes; his work is done! 
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman? 
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he?  He cannot know;
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he?  He cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country’s stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
What to him are all our wars,
What but death bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he?  He cannot know;
Lay him low!

Leave him to God’s watching eye;
Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by;
God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he?  He cannot know! 
Lay him low!

G.H.  BOKER.

Battle-hymn of the Republic.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword: 

                His truth is marching on.

  I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
  They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
  I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: 
          His day is marching on.