The American epic: a concise scenic history of the United States, and other selected poems by [Welburn Drummond] b. 1818. [from old catalog]

Author:[Welburn, Drummond] b. 1818. [from old catalog]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Nashville, Tenn., Printed for the author, Publishing house of the Methodist Episcopal church, South
Published: 1892-03-25T05:00:00+00:00

FORT srjrTER.

While boastful K^orthern men are confident

That they in ninety days can whip the South.

Both have for years been "spoiling for a fight."

They have it now. Let them make good their boasts.

This firing on the flag will fire all heai'ts,

And unify the Korlh against the South.

'Twill make the South a battle-field for years.

And every boy a soldier for his State.

What say you, 3Iars, have I not kept my word?

Mars. You have. You have redeemed your promises.

Satan. Go, then, and gather millions for t'le fray. Bring them from cv'ry corner of this land. From Europe, Asia, Africa, the isles. And from profoundest depths of hellish gloom Go, Baal, call forth all your followers. Bring murder, arson, lust, and villainy Of every tyj^e that earth has ever known.

Baal. I will! I will! I will! your Majesty; And some that hell itself has yet to learn.

Satan. Mammon, go summon all your em2)loyee8. Let them serve legions of camp-followers, Robbers and thieves by thousands in the ranks, And captains, colonels, gen'rals by the score. With now and then a chaplain gone astray. Or a grave senator or sober judge, Hast'ning on higher plunder to get rich. Say, Mammon, are you ready for your work?

Mammon. I am ! 1 am! my high and mighty prince !

Satan. Belial, your children call to their base work, On battle-fields, in camps, or in the homes Of soldiers far away from wife and child. Stir up the slaves to lust, theft, robbery; Invent new follies, vices, sins, and crimes.

Belial. Trust me to do my part, nost potent prince. The world shall be astounded at our deeds.

Satan. Go, comrades, drench this Christian land Avith blood By Christians shed in fratricidal strife. Rest not till millions heave their dying groans, Till widows wail and helpless orjihans cry In twice five hundred thousand Christian homes. Hark! hark! the thunder of the bombardment Grows louder, more terrific than before. Fort Sumter is in ruins ! it must fall—

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