CALM as that second summer which precedes | |
The first fall of the snow, | |
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, | |
The City bides the foe. | |
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As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud, | 5 |
Her bolted thunders sleep, | |
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, | |
Looms o'er the solemn deep. | |
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No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar | |
To guard the holy strand; | 10 |
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war | |
Above the level sand. | |
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And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, | |
Unseen, beside the flood | |
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched | 15 |
That wait and watch for blood. | |
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Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, | |
Walk grave and thoughtful men, | |
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade | |
As lightly as the pen. | 20 |
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And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim | |
Over a bleeding hound, | |
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him | |
Whose sword she sadly bound. | |
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Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, | 25 |
Day patient following day, | |
Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, | |
Across her tranquil bay. | |
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Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands | |
And spicy Indian ports, | 30 |
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, | |
And Summer to her courts. | |
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But still, along you dim Atlantic line, | |
The only hostile smoke | |
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, | 35 |
From some frail, floating oak. | |
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Shall the Spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, | |
And with an unscathed brow, | |
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, | |
As fair and free as now? | 40 |
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We know not; in the temple of the Fates | |
God has inscribed her doom; | |
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits | |
The triumph or the tomb. | |