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