With cant and sheer to keep her clear

Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream.

The Louisiana, hurled on high,
Mounts in thunder to meet the sky!
Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,
Fifty fathom of rebel mud!

The Mississippi comes floating down,
A mighty bonfire, from off the town;
And along the river, on stocks and ways,
A half-hatched devil's brood is a-blaze, -
The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames,
(Hark to the roar of her tumbling frames !)
And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn
Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!

From stem to stern, how the pirates burn,
Fired by the furious hands that built !
So to ashes forever turn

The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!

But as we neared the city,
By field and vast plantation,
(Ah, millstone of our Nation!)
With wonder and with pity,
What crowds we there espied
Of dark and wistful faces,
Mute in their toiling places,
Strangely and sadly eyed.
Haply, 'mid doubt and fear,
Deeming deliverance near.
(One gave the ghost of a cheer!)

And on that dolorous strand,
To greet the victor brave.

One flag did welcome wave, -
Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand,

THE RIVER FIGHT.

107

All outworn on our cruel Land, -
The withered hand of a slave!

But all along the Levee,

In a dark and drenching rain,
(By this, 't was pouring heavy,)
Stood a fierce and sullen train.
A strange and frenzied time!
There were scowling rage and pain,
Curses, howls and hisses,
Out of hate's black abysses,
Their courage and their crime
All in vain - all in vain!

For from the hour that the Rebel Stream,
With the Crescent City lying abeam,

Shuddered under our keel,
Smit to the heart with self-struck sting,
Slavery died in her scorpion-ring,

And Murder fell on his steel.

'Tis well to do and dare;
But ever may grateful prayer
Follow, as aye it ought,
When the good fight is fought,

When the true deed is done.
Aloft in heaven's pure light,
(Deep azure crossed on white,)
Our fair Church pennant waves
O'er a thousand thankful braves,
Bareheaded in God's bright sun.

Lord of mercy and frown,
Ruling o'er sea and shore,
Send us such scene once more!
All in line of battle

When the black ships bear down

On tyrant fort and town,

Mid cannon cloud and rattle;

And the great guns once more
Thunder back the roar

Of the traitor walls ashore,
And the traitor flags come down!

New Orleans Era.

THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY.

I.

In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi's waves, Dwells the haughty Creole matron with her daughters

and her slaves;

Round her throng the rebel knighthood, fierce of word and proud of crest, Slightly redolent of julep, cocktail, cobbler, and the rest Of those miscellaneous tipples that the Southern heart impel

To the mighty threats of prowess, whose dread fruits we know so well.*

Round the matron and her daughters ring chivalric voices high:

Not the meanest soul among them but is sworn to do or die!

"Never to the Yankee Vandal, foul and hornéd thing of mud, Will they leave their maids and matrons while a single vein holds blood!

* It is singular that the juleps, cocktails, and "miscellaneous tipples" which European writers continually ridicule as a trait of Yankee life, are all, as we know, of Southern invention.

THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 109

Perish every Southron sooner! Death? They crave it as a boon!"

Then each desperate knight retires to his favorite Quadroon!

II.

In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi's waves, Sits the haughty Creole matron with her daughters and

her slaves;

But her eye no longer flashes with the fire it held of late, For, alas! the Yankee Vandals thunder at the city gate. Proud on Mississippi's waters, looming o'er the dark levée, Ride the gallant Northern war-ships, floats the Banner of

the Free!

While a calm-eyed Captain paces through a sea of scowling men,

To demand the full surrender of the city, there and then. Yet the haughty Creole lady's sorest sorrow lies not there : 'Tis not that the Yankee mudsills will pollute her sacred air;

Though her delicate fibres shudder doubtless at the dreadful thought

That her soft and fragrant breathings may by Yankee lips be caught;

No! the cut of all unkindest - that which makes her heart dilate

Is, her knights have all "skedaddled," and have left her to her fate!

Yes; no strength of smash or julep, nor the cocktail's bitterest heat,

Kept those recreant warriors steady when they saw the Yankee fleet;

All their desperate prowess vanished like a mist before the moon,

Left the Creole maid and matron, even left the dear Quadroon!

III.

In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi's waves, Walks the haughty Creole matron with her daughters and

her slaves;

Freedom's flag is floating o'er her, Freedom's sons she passes by,

And the olden scornful fire burns rekindled in her eye.

How dare Freedom thus insult her? How dare mudsills walk the pave

Whose each stone to her is hallowed by the toil-sweat of the slave?

"What? you call that rag your banner? You, sir, hireling, hound, I mean !

Thus I spit upon your emblem! Let your churl's blood wash it clean!

Well you wear your liveried jacket, hireling bravo that you are!

Lackey, paid to rob and murder in a thin disguise of

war!"

Thus, with many a taunting gesture, speaks she to the Northern braves,

As she flaunts along the sidewalk with her daughters and her slaves!

Naught reply the Northern soldiers, smiling, though they feel the stings

Of the foul and meretricious taunts the Southern lady flings;

So she passes, while the venom from her fragrant mouth still slips

Like the loathsome toads and lizards from the enchanted maiden's lips;

And her spotless soul joys, doubtless, soft her modest bosom beats,

That she so has aped the harlot in her city's public streets!