My Mother-Land.

By Paul H. Hayne.

"Animis, Opibusque Parati."

My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze, The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas, The imperious despot's power; But long before that hour, While yet, in false and vain imagining, Thy sister nations would not own their foe, And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low, Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air; While yet they paused in scorn, Of fatal madness born,-- Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd With wondrous vision of the things to come, Thou couldst not calmly rest Secure and dumb-- But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!" "Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said; "We see no threatening tempest overhead, Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath Will sweep away, or melt in watery death."

"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom! Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day, Which shone o'er Charleston Bay-- When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed-- That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud, Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long, Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong.

But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword, Approach to desecrate The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate-- Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast Their ashes to the blast-- Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"-- Against this ravening flood Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood, Oh! we, Strong in the strength of God-supported might, Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight, Nor basely yield To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field-- But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be, To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ!

Death! What of Death?-- Can he who once drew honorable breath In liberty's pure sphere, Foster a sensual fear, When death and slavery meet him face to face, Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there, Black degradation, haunted by despair."

Death! What of Death?-- The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl Across their portion of this earthly ball, Share life and motion with us; would we strive Like such to creep alive, Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin We still might keep our mortal breathings in?

The very thought brings blushes to the cheek! I hear all 'round about me murmurs run, Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE Soul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak:

"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just! Behold, we seek Not merely to preserve for noble wives The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives, To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand, And leave our sons their heirloom of command, In generous perpetuity of trust; Not only to defend those ancient laws, Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire Welded forevermore with freedom's cause, And handed scathless down from sire to sire-- Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ, Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms, (Though these had sure sufficed To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)-- But more than all, because embracing all, Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep, From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun To him, that gallant Knight, The youngest champion in the Senate hall, Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate, His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right, Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1]

"There's not a tone from out the teeming past, Uplifted once in such a cause as ours, Which does not smite our souls In long reverberating thunder-rolls, From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story. Above the shouting, furious Persian mass, Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers, Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock; And o'er the murmurous seas, Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss, (For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last), Gome the clear accents of Miltiades, Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis.

"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus, We look for proud exemplars; yet for us It is enough to know Our fathers left us freemen; let us show The will to hold our lofty heritage, The patient strength to act our fathers' part-- Brothers on history's page, We wait to write our autographs in gore, To cast the morning brightness of our glory Beyond our day and hope, The narrow limit of one age's scope, On Time's remotest shore!

"Yea! though our children's blood Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood, Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bear The Ark that holds our shrined liberty, Nearer, and yet more near Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea.

"At last, the conflict done, The fadeless meed of final victory won-- Behold! emerging from the rifted dark Athwart a shining summit high in heaven, That delegated Ark! No more to be by vengeful tempests driven, But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat The congregated nations gladly gaze, Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!"

Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me Its voice hath come, a passionate augury! Methinks the very aspect of the world Changed to the mystic music of its hope. For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope The stormy cloudland banners all are furled, And softly borne above Are brooding pinions of invisible love, Distilling balm of rest and tender thought From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams; And universal nature, wheresoever My vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river-- Sleeps, like a happy child, In slumber undefiled, A premonition of sublimer days, When war and warlike lays At length shall cease, Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace, Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind-- A prelude and a prophecy combined!

[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate of 1832, would be understood as not pushing the comparison further than the first shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no decisive advantage on either side.