What! ye hold yourselves as freemen?
Tyrants love just such as ye!
Go! abate your lofty manner!
Write upon the State's old banner,
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Sink before the federal altar,
Each one low, on bended knee,
Pray, with lips that sob and falter,
This prayer from the coward's psalter,--
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

But ye hold that quick repentance
In the Northern mind will be;
This repentance comes no sooner
Than the robbers did, at Luna!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented him:--the Bishop
Gave him absolution free;
Poured upon him sacred chrism
In the pomp of his baptism.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented;--then he sickened!
Was he pining for the sea?
In extremis was he shriven,
The viaticum was given,
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Then the old cathedral's choir
Took the plaintive minor key;
With the Host upraised before him,
Down the marble aisles they bore him;
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

While the bishop and the abbot--
All the monks of high degree,
Chanting praise to the Madonna,
Came to do him Christian honor!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Now the miserere's cadence,
Takes the voices of the sea;
As the music-billows quiver,
See the dead freebooter shiver!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Is it that these intonations
Thrill him thus from head to knee?
Lo, his cerements burst asunder!
'Tis a sight of fear and wonder!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Fierce, he stands before the bishop,
Dark as shape of Destinie.
Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,--
Down the prelate goes--dead--falling!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Hastings lives! He was but feigning!
What! Repentant? Never he!
Down he smites the priests and friars,
And the city lights with fires!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Ah! the children and the maidens,
'Tis in vain they strive to flee!
Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding,
Is no place for woman's pleading.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Louder swells the frightful tumult--
Pallid Death holds revelrie!
Dies the organ's mighty clamor,
By the horseman's iron hammer!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

So they thought that he'd repented!
Had they nailed him to the tree,
He had not deserved their pity,
And they had not--lost their city.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

For the moral in this story,
Which is plain as truth can be:
If we trust the North's relenting,
We shall shriek-too late repenting--
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!" [1]

[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's History of Latin Christianity.

The Knell Shall Sound Once More.

I know that the knell shall sound once more,
And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave;
And there shall be storm on the beaten shore,
And there shall be strife on the stormy wave;
And we shall wail, with a mighty wail,
And feel the keen sorrow through many years,
But shall not our banner at last prevail,
And our eyes be dried of tears?

There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree,
And the nation whose course is long to run,
Must make, though in anguish still it be,
The tribute of many a noble son;
The roots of each mighty shaft must grow
In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts;
And to conquer the right from a bloody foe,
Brings a pang as when soul and body parts!

But the blood and the pang are the need, alas!
To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays
The generations that rise, and pass
To the full fruition that crowns their days!
'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life:
And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care;
And the freedom sought must ever be bought
By the best blood-offerings, held most dear.

Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first
To mount the red altar of sacrifice;
Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst,
Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!--
The struggle may last for a thousand years,
And only with blood shall the field be bought;
But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears,
The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought.

Charleston Mercury.