What! union with a race ignoring
The charter of our nation's birth!
Union with bastard slaves adoring
The fiend that chains them, to the earth!
No! we reply in tones of thunder--
No! our staunch hills fling back the sound--
No! our hoarse cannon echo round--
No! evermore remain asunder!
Arm! Arm! &c.

Southern Confederacy.




O, Tempora! O, Mores!

By John Dickson Bruns, M. D.



"Great Pan is dead!" so cried an airy tongue
To one who, drifting down Calabria's shore,
Heard the last knell, in starry midnight rung,
Of the old Oracles, dumb for evermore.

A low wail ran along the shuddering deep,
And as, far off, its flaming accents died,
The awe-struck sailors, startled from their sleep,
Gazed, called aloud: no answering voice replied;