The Foe at the Gates.--Charleston.

By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D.

Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies, Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.

Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give; And in her hour of anguish let her feel That ye can die whom she has taught to live.

Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth; That never villain hand on her be laid, Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.

See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame, As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath, Her generous brow and bosom all aflame At the bare thought of insult, worse than death.

And stained and rent her snowy garments are; The big drops gather on her pallid face, Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace.

And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers And bitter tears, to every loving child To stand between her and the doom she fears, To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled!

Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt! And doubly damned who casts one look behind! Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, Up with her banner! give it to the wind.

Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, Till every ringing avenue repeat The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.

Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come! Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, By every manly hope and filial vow,

To save her proud soul from that loathéd thrall Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name; Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, Spare her--she sues--the agony and the shame.

From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled, Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled, Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.

Gather around her sacred ashes then, Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, Die! as becomes a race of free-born men, Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.

So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, If not in life, at least by death, set free-- And send her fame, through endless ages down, The last grand holocaust of liberty.