AN APPEAL FOR “THE OLD SOUTH”

FULL sevenscore years our city's pride —

The comely Southern spire —

Has cast its shadow, and defied

The storm, the foe, the fire;

Sad is the sight our eyes behold;

Woe to the three-hilled town,

When through the land the tale is told —

“The brave‘ Old South’ is down!”

Let darkness blot the starless dawn

That hears our children tell,

“Here rose the walls, now wrecked and gone,

Our fathers loved so well;

Here, while his brethren stood aloof,

The herald's blast was blown

That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof

And rocked King George's throne!

“The home-bound wanderer of the main

Looked from his deck afar,

To where the gilded, glittering vane

Shone like the evening star,

And pilgrim feet from every clime

The floor with reverence trod,

Where holy memories made sublime

The shrine of Freedom's God!”

The darkened skies, alas! have seen

Our monarch tree laid low,

And spread in ruins o'er the green,

But Nature struck the blow;

No scheming thrift its downfall planned,

It felt no edge of steel,

No soulless hireling raised his hand

The deadly stroke to deal.

In bridal garlands, pale and mute,

Still pleads the storied tower;

These are the blossoms, but the fruit

Awaits the golden shower;

The spire still greets the morning sun,—

Say, shall it stand or fall?

Help, ere the spoiler has begun!

Help, each, and God help all!