And down the dunes a thousand guns lie crouched,Unseen, beside the flood —Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouchedThat wait and watch for blood.Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,Walk grave and thoughtful men,Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's bladeAs lightly as the pen.
"Charleston", st. 4–5
Thy skirts indeed the foe may part,Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,They shall not touch thy noble heart, Carolina!Henry Timrod
Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!Front with thy ranks the threatening seasLike thine own proud armorial trees, Carolina!Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,And roar the challenge from thy guns;Then leave the future to thy sons, Carolina!Henry Timrod
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;Though yet no marble column cravesThe pilgrim here to pause.Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!There is no holier spot of groundThan where defeated valor lies,By mourning beauty crowned!Henry Timrod
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons.Henry Timrod