By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina.



Old home! what blessings late were yours;
The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!
Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores,
To ravage and destroy.

The Northman comes no longer there,
With soft address and measured phrase,
With bated breath, and sainted air,
And simulated praise.

He comes a vulture to his prey;
A wolf to raven in your streets:
Around on shining stream and bay
Gather his bandit fleets.

They steal the pittance of the poor;
Pollute the precincts of the dead;
Despoil the widow of her store,--
The orphan of his bread.

Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood,
No Christian land has known before;
Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood,
To sweep them from the shore!