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VOL. 11.
A Ballad for the Young South.
Rev. Sir:
The enclosed “Ballad for the Young
South” is, (as I suppose you are aware,)
from the pen of the late Joseph Brennan,
who died about the time the war began I
believe.
It was originally written and publish
ed in New Orleans in 1857, or there
abouts, and first appeared in the N. O
Bella. I believe the printed one in my
possession is about the only one in exist
ence—at least it is the only one that I or
my friends know of -
If you could republish it in your Ban
ner you will confer a great iavor on a
number of your readers in this part of the
world, and elsewhere I dare say.
Your paper is gaining ground here
every day, and 1 hope when you begin
your next volume ’twill be with a few
thousand new subscribers on your books.
Very respectfully, Yours,
J. J. D.
New Orleans, June 7, ’69.
i.
Men of the South ! our foes are up
In fierce and grim array;
Their sable banner laps the air—
An insult to the day !
The saints of Cromwell rise again
In sanctimonious hordes,
Hiding behind the garb of peace
A million ruthless swords.
From North, from East, from West they
seek
The same disastrous goal,
With Christ upon the lying lip,
And Satan in the soul;
Mocking with ancient shibboleth
All wise and just restraints—
“To the Saints of Heaven, is Empire given,
And tee alone aie Saints!”
ii.
Men of the South ! Look up—behold
The deep and sullen gloom
Which darkens o’er your sunny land
With thunder in its womb 1
Are ye so blind ye cannot see
The omens in the sky ?
Are ye so deaf ye cannot hear
The tramp of foemen nigh ?
Are ye so dull ye will endure
The wdiips and scorns of men,
Who hide the heart of Titus Oates
Beneath the words of Penn ?
Are ye so base, that foot to foot,
Ye will not gladly stand
For land and life, for child and wife,
With naked steel in hand ?
hi.
A preacher to the pulpit comes,
And calls upou the crowd,
For Southern creeds and Southern hopes,
To weave a bloody shroud.
Beside the prayer-book on the desk
The bullet-mould is seen,
And 'neath the Bible’s golden clasp,
The daggers steely sheen;
The simple tale of Bethlehem
No more is fondly told,
For every priestly surplice drags
Too heavily with gold ;
I he blessed Cross of Calvary
Becomes a sign of Bael,
bike that which blayed when chieftains
raised
The clansmen of the Gael!
IV.
"Down with the laws our fathers made!
They bind our hearts no more ;
Down with the stately edifice
„ Cemented by their gore!
i'orget the legends of our race—
Efface each wise decree—
Americans must kneel as slaves,
lill Africans are free !
( hit on the mere Caucasian blood
Os Teuton. Celt or Gaul—
Ihe stream that springs from Niger’s
source
Must triumph overall?”
b° speaks a solemn Senator
W ithin those halls to-day,
Bich echoed erst the thunder burst
Os Webster and of Clay!
v.
Hark to the howling demagogues—
A tierce and ravenous pack—
hh nostrils prone, who bark and bay
“ bicli run upon our track !
i
The wadling bull-pup,—Hale—the cur
Os Massachusetts breed—
The moping mongrel sparsely crossed
With Puritanic seed;
The Bards who join the chase
With genuine beagle chime,
Aid Sumner, snarling poodle-pet
Os Virgins past their prime;
And even the sluts of Women’s Rights—
Tray, Blanche, and Sweatheart, all
Are yelping shrill, against us still,
And hunger for our fall!
VI.
Look North, look East, look West—the
scene
Is blackening all around—
The Negro cordon, year by year,
Is fast and faster bound ;
The black line crossed—the sable flag
Surrounded by a host—■
Our outposts forced—our sentinels
Asleep upon their posts;
Our brethren's life blood Mowing free
To strain the Kansas soil,
And shed in vain, while pious thieves
Are fattening on our toil ?
Look North, look West, the ominous sky
Is moonless, starless, black,
And from the East comes hurrying up
A sweeping thuxder rack !
VII.
Men of the South! ye have no kin
With fanatics or fools;
You are not bound by breed or birth
To Massachusetts rules.
A hundred nations gave their blood
To feed those healthful springs.
Which bear the seed of Jacques Bonhom
me,
With that of Bourbon Kings.
The Danish pluck and sailor craft,
The Huguenotic will
The Norman grace and chivalry,
The Gerrnan’n steady skill;
The fiery Celts impassioned thought
Inspire the Southern heart;
Who have no room for bigot gloom,
Or pious plunder’s art 1
VIII.
Sons of the brave! the time has come
To bow the haughty crest,
I stand alone, despite the threats
Os North, or East, or West!
The hour has come for manly deeds
And not for puling words—
The hour has passed for platform prate —
It is the time for swords;
And by the fame of John Calhoun,
To honest truth be true,
And by old Jackson’s iron will,
Now do what you can do !
By all ye love and all ye hope
Be resolute and proud,
And make your flag a symbol high,
Os triumph—or a shroud!
IX.
Men of the South ! look up—behold
The deep and sullen gloom—
Which darkens o'er your sunny land
With thunder in its wouab !
Arc ye so blind ye cannot see
The Omens in tbe sky ?
Are ye so deaf ye cannot hear
The tramp of foemen nigh ?
Are ye so dull ye will endure
She whips and scorns of men
Who hide the heart of Titus Oates
Beneath the words of Penn !
Are ye so base that foot to foot
Ye will not gladly stand
For land and life, for child and wife,
With naked steel in hand?
[For the Banner of the South.]
The Executioner’s Bride.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BARNWELL, BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
[continued.]
CHAPTER V.
THE EXECUTIONER’S WIFE.
Ogier bore his bride to the magnifi
cently furnished residence he had pur
chased in Rouen; the same in which we
first saw him. It had formerly belonged
to a wealthy nobleman, and during tbe
late wars had, at one time, been occu
pied by Humphrey the Good, I>uke of
Gloucester.
Here she found every luxury which was
known to the age, and Ogier seemed to
anticipate her every wish. She saw 7 but
three persons besides her husband; her
confessor, and a man and woman, who
AUGUSTA, GA, JUNE 26, 1869.
had been Ogier's servants for years. She
never went out, indeed her health alone
would have prevented her doing so, for
she had contracted a low, nervous fever,
which rendered her very weak and lan
guid. Ogier never left her, and w T ould
allow 7 no one to nurse her but himself.
His frame seemed made of iron. Night
after night, he sat beside her, striving
by every fond device to cheer the w 7 eary
hours, for she was very restless and wake
ful. Throughout the entire day he con
tinued his unwearied devotion; yet no
sigh of fatigue ever met her eye. She
was often low-spirited, fretful and impa
tient, but his gentleness and patience
never failed She soon learned to cling
to him with the helpless trust and affec
tion of a petted child; and as her strength
increased, and she saw more and more of
her husband’s unselfish devotion, and
his noble nature unfolded itself more
clearly to her view, her admiration, res
pect, and affection deepened day by day.
Five months had passed since their
strange marriage, and the executioner
and his high-born bride still dwelt in
Rouen. The last blow 7 which w 7 as to
make Ogier a nobleman, had not yet
been struck, and the axe had never been
in his grasp since his wedding day.
Isabelle had recovered her health,
beauty, and much of her former bright,
mil thlul spirit. Her time was fully occu
pied. Music, painting, books, filled up
her quiet days, and in all Ogier was her
master. Her education had been greatly
neglected, and he was now engaged in
the delightful task of remedying this
neglect. She was (quick and bright
with a talent for both music and paint
ing, and he found in her a docile and
charming pupil. Ogier, himself, would
have been perfectly happy, but for a
doubt which haunted his mind continually.
His wife was fond of him he knew, but
did she love him w 7 ith the love a wife
should feel for her husband; with the
love he felt for her ? Were the choice
now in her power, would she cling to
him, or return to her high estate ? Could
she stand once more, free to be the bride
of De Mornay or of himself, to which
would her heart go forth with deep, un*
selfish, passionate love ? These were
questions he could not answer to himself;
tormenting doubts he could not solve.
De Mornay had, at length, arisen from
his sick bed, and though pale and list
less, he had recovered both health and
strength. He still lingered in Rouen,
detained by a purpose, he had not im
parted even to Raoul. Every night he
went forth and did not return for several
hours; but the manner in which he passed
the time was never disclosed.
These hours were spent in a solitary
room, he had hired, which commanded a
view of the windows on the western side
of the apartment in which Ogier and
Isabelle passed their evenings. There
be would sit, watching them, as they
read, or sang, or talked, with a torturing
fascination.
Isabelle had no idea of De Mornay’s
presence in Rouen, and Ogier was equal
ly ignorant. He was on terms of social
intercourse with no one, and his old ser
vants were trained to the same reserve,
so that hi 6 ignorance was not strange.
It was a dark, windy fall evening, one
of those heralds sent out to announce the
approach of Winter, and Isabelle’s
cushioned chair was drawn close to the
bright, glowing, fire. A book was in
her hand, but she had ceased reading,
and was intently watching her husband.
He sat beside a small table opposite to
her, reading eagerly from a heavy volume
which rested upon it. The firelight
played full upon his noble, intellectual
lace, lighting it up with a radiant splen
dor. His eyes were seldom long absent
from the face of his wife, and she had not
watched him many moments, ere the
lids were lifted, and, almost unconscious
ly, they rested upon her. He caught her
glance, and gave her a bright smile full!
of love and pride. An answering smile •
sprang to her lips, and she was about to
to speak, when the door opened, and a
tall form, his face concealed by a heavy
cloak, strode into the room, closing and
locking the door behind him.
Ogier sprang to his feet, exclaiming:
“This is an unwonted liberty, Sir
stranger! Who are you that thus intrude
so rudely ?”
“I am Gaston de Mornay,” replied the
stranger, haughtily, casting his cloak
aside, and advancing close to Ogier.
“You, doubtless, have heard my name.
Isabelle!” and he turned towards her,
both hands extended, and his pale face
quivering with suppressed emotion.
She had risen, and was leaning, white
and trembling, for support against the
back of her chair. At De Mornay’s cry
and gesture, she moved impulsively to
wards him and laid both of her hands in
his. He pressed them wildly to his lips,
and still retaining them in his grasp,
cried passionately ;
“Isabelle, my beautiful, iunocent, suf
fering love, didst thou think I had desert
ed thee ? Ah, no; illness alone has kept
me from flying to thy rescue. Think
not that I blamed thee, after the first
burst of anguish, my beloved, that thou
didst choose so fearful a sacrifice rather
than to face the cruel death to which
they had doomed thee. Ah! what months
of suffering these must have been, that
thou hast passed beneath this accursed
roof! My heart bled for thy misery, sweet
one, but my traitor arm was then too
weak for thy rescue. Its strength has
returned, and Grace a Dieu ! thou shalt
be saved to-night.”
He dropped her hands, and unsheath
ing his blade, turned to Ogier, saying,
imperiously ;
“Draw your sword, for before we
leave this room you or I must die. You
are, no matter by what foul means, the
of this lady; therefore, I Gaston
de Mornay, knight and noble of France,
will cross swords with you, the execu
tioner of Rouen. When you fall, she
will, once more, be free. Should you be
victor, I shall at least have died in a vain
effort to save her.”
Isabelle uttered a cry, and laid her
hand upon De Mornay’s arm. He turn
ed towards her with a proud, yet tender,
smile, saying;
“Fear not, my beloved; De Mornay’s
sword hath never failed him yet. It can
not prove recreant now.”
He turned once more to Ogier, and his
© ’
tones were stern and scornful.
“You have not drawn! What means
this delay ? Can you only strike when
your opponent is unarmed, aad his head
rests upon a block ? Or, is the axe your
only weapon ? If so, bring axes, and
though they are scarce knightly weapons,
I will for once essay my skill in such
unwonted combat.”
Ogier stood motionless, and, to all ap
pearance, calm, beneath De Mornay’s in
sulting words, llis tall form was drawn
to its fullest height, his head erect, and
his face deadly pale. The glance of his
dark eye was firm and steady .There was
no sign of emotion, save a slight convul
sive quivering of the white, closely com
pressed lips. As De Mornay ceased, he
replied, iu tones low, but unshaken.
“In this matter, there is one to be con
sulted whose will must be our law 7 . Isa
belle !”—De Mornay stood between them,
but his eyes passed him by, and rested
steadily on her face—“lsabelle, my wife,
the decision, rests with you. If your
heart, as well as your hand, is wholly and
willingly in my keeping, then, I scarcely
think Monsieur De Mornay will insist
upon this combat. But, if to him be
longs your love, if you would be happier
with him, then my sword shall not linger
in its sheath. With one blow to wipe out
his insulting taunts uttered in your
presence —but one blow which shall not
be fatal —, I swear to fall by his sword,
and leave you free to be once mefre hap
py in his love.”
De Mornay had heard him to the end
with unconcealed impatience. Now, he
cried indignantly :
“By heavens, this is too insolent! Her
heart in your keeping ? Draw 7 , villain,
it you would not force me to slay you
unprepared !”
His sword gleamed aloft, but Ogier's
attitude changed not. His eye had never
turned from the face of his wife, since he
appealed to her to choose between them.
One hand rested on the table, and none
could see that the nails of the other, as
it hung by his side, were deriven deep
into the flesh of the palm, staining it
with blood.
De Mornay’s sword quivered in his
gaasp, as he cried hoasely:
“For the love of God defend yourself!
I cannot answer for my self-control much
longer; and I would not strike even you
unarmed!
Isabelle had remained iu speechless
terror, leaning heavily upon the chair she
had quitted, and turning her eyes wild
ly from one to the other, as they spoke.
Now the spell of terror, which had
chained her to tho spot, seemed suddenly
broken; and she sprang between them.
“For the love of heaven, put up your
sword, Gaston!” she cried. “Nay,” as
she saw him hesitate; “then I command
you, as knight and gentlemen. Do you
know, that this is my husband ? No
matter how we were wedded; he saved
my life, and has cherished me fondly
and faithfully. He is my lord and hus
band. To him belong m3 7 hand, my life,
my heart. With him, I can bear any
thing; without him my life would be
desolate.”
She had spoken proudly, but, all at
once, her voice broke, and, with a sob
she threw herself upon her husband's
breast, crying, in tones of passionate, re
proachful tenderness:
“Bertrand, my, beloved, my husband!
Didst thou not know I loved thee, and
thee only V s
Ogier wife convulsively to
his heart, and bent his proud face to hers.
They heard a rapid uneven stride; the
door opened and closed again violently ;
and then, the strong man’s calmness
gave way. Deep, passionate sobs burst
from his overcharged breast, and burn
ing tears, like drops of lava, fell upon
the beautiful face of his wife, as it rested
on his bosom.
CHAPrER VI.
TRIED AND PROVED WORTHY.
A year has passed since their wed
ding day, and Ogier and his wife are sit
ting in the same room, which witnessed
the stormy interview described in our
last chapter. There is a third, now, in
the little group, a noble boy of six short
weeks, who already bears a strong re
semblance to his father. The child lies
on Isabelle’s knee, w r kile Ogier bends
over them, with eyes full of love and
pride.
“Ah! little Bertrand, you are not no
ble yet,” he said, fondly, touching the
infant’s soft cheek with his fingers.
“Never mind, my little lad, some way
shall open to me yet. I have kept my
promise to you badly; have I not, Isa
belle ?”
“Dear Bertrand,’’ she answered ten
derly 7 , “you cannot think how little I
seem to care for all that now. When I
thought that you must once more ascend
the dreadful scaffold to take the life of a
helpless fellow-croature, a shudder of
horror came over me. It was so noble
in you to resign your place, and with it
the ambition that has so long been your
guiding star, lor the sake of humanity
and right. Ah! my Bertrand, you are
nobler than the noblest knight of France
in the eyes of your wife.”
He kissed her tenderly.
“Dear one,” he said, “I must confess
that it has been a fearful struggle. I
wish the Dauphin had accepted my resig
nation, or, rather, allowed it to reach the
King, at once, instead of bidding me
wait until the first of May. Ido not un-
No. 15.