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THE TWELFTH OF APRIL. 3
All the doubtful chances turning, Till our souls with shame were burning:, As if twice our bitter yearning Could avail!
Who had fired the earliest gun ?
Was the fort by traitors won ?
Was there succor ? What was done
Who could know ? And once more our thoughts would wander To the gallant, lone commander, On his battered ramparts, grander
Than the foe.
Not too long the brave shall wait: On their own heads be their fate, Who against the hallowed State
Dare begin ; Flag defied, and compact riven ! In the record of high Heaven, How shall Southern men be shriven
For the sin ?