Henry Timrod     The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines
give shelter to his bands, Thy sons stand by with idle hands, He
breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy
palm; Oh! who shall break thy craven calm, Thy ancient fame is
growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds
thy battle hymn,   Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp
and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy
skill, Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy
fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's
heart, Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields
and fens and meres Shall bristle like thy palm with spears,
Hold up the glories of thy dead; Say how thy elder children
bled, And point to Eutaw's battle-bed, Tell how the patriot's
soul was tried, And what his dauntless breast defied; How
Rutledge ruled and Laurens died, Cry! till thy summons, heard at
last, Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast Re-echoed from the
haunted Past,   I hear a m