Verses of a life time :: :: University of Virginia Library

Stono, on thy still banks
The roar of war is heard; its thunders swell
And shake yon mansion, where domestic love
Till now breathed simple kindness to the heart;
Where white-arm'd childhood twined the neck of age,
Where hospitable cares lit up the hearth,
Cheering the lonely traveller on his way.

A foe inhabits there,—and they depart,
The infirm old man, and his fair household charge,
Seeking another home.—Home! who can tell
The touching power of that most sacred word,
Save he, who feels and weeps that he has none?

Among that group of midnight exiles, fled
Young Mary Anna, on whose youthful cheek
But thirteen years had kindled up the rose.
A laughing creature, breathing heart and love,
Yet timid as the fawn in southern wilds.
E'en the night-reptile on the dewy grass
Startled the maiden, and the silent stars,
Looking so still from out their cloudy home,
Troubled her mind. No time was there for gauds
And toilette art, in this quick flight of fear;
Her glossy hair, damp'd by the midnight winds,
Lay on her neck dishevelled; gathered round
Her form in hurried folds clung her few garments;
Now a quick thrilling sob, half grief, half dread,
Came bursting from her heart—and now her eyes
Glar'd forth, as peal'd the cannon; then beneath
Their drooping lids, sad tears redundant flowed.

But sudden mid the group a cry arose,
“Fenwick! where is he?” None returned reply,
But a sharp piercing glance went out, around,
Keen as a mother's towards her infant child
When sudden danger lowers, and then a shriek
From one, from all burst forth—“He is not here!”

Poor boy, he slept! nor crash of hurrying guns,
Nor impious curses, nor the warrior's shout,

Awoke his balmy rest! He dreamt such dreams
As float round childhood's couch, of angel faces
Peering through clouds;—of sunny rivulets,
Where the fresh stream flows rippling on, to waft
A tiny sail;—and of his rabbits white,
With eyes of ruby, and his tender fawn's
Long delicate limbs, light tread, and graceful neck.
He slept unconscious.—Who shall wake that sleep?
All shrink, for now th' artillery louder roars;—
The frightened slaves crouch at their master's side,
And he, infirm and feeble, scarce sustains
His sinking weight.
There was a pause, a hush
So deep, that one could hear the forest leaves
Flutter and drop between the war-gun's peal.
Then forward stood that girl, young Mary Anna,
The tear dried up upon her cheek, the sob
Crushed down, and in that high and lofty tone
Which sometimes breathes of woman in the child,
She said, “He shall not die,”—and turned alone.

Alone? O gentle girlhood, not alone
Art thou, if One watching above will guard
Thee on thy way.
Clouds shrouded up the stars;—
On—on she sped, the gun's broad glare her beacon!

The wolf-growl sounded near,—on—onward still:
The forest trees like warning spirits moaned,—
She pressed her hands against her throbbing heart,
But faltered not. The whizzing shot went by,
Scarce heeded went.—Pass'd is a weary mile
With the light step a master-spirit gives
On duty's road, and she has reached her home.
Her home—is this her home, at whose fair gate
Stern foes in silence stand to bar her way?
That gate, which from her infant childhood leap'd
On its wide hinges, glad at her return?
Before the sentinels she trembling stood,
And with a voice, whose low and tender tones
Rose like the ring-dove's in midsummer storms,
She said,
“Please let me pass, and seek a child,
Who in my father's mansion has been left
Sleeping, unconscious of the danger near.”

While thus she spake, a smile incredulous
Stole o'er the face of one,—the other cursed
And barr'd her from the way.
“O, sirs,” she cried,
While from her upraised eyes the tears stream'd down,
And her small hands were clasp'd in agony,
“Drive me not hence, I pray. Until to-night

I dared not stray beyond my nurse's side
In the dim twilight; yet I now have come
Alone, unguarded, this far dreary mile,
By darkness unappall'd;—a simple worm
Would often fright my heart, and bid it flutter,
But now I've heard the wild wolf's hungry howl
With soul undaunted—till to-night, I've shrunk
From men;—and soldiers! scarcely dared I look
Upon their glittering arms;—but here I come
And sue to you, men, warriors;—drive me not
Away. He whom I seek is yet a child,
A prattling boy,—and must he, must he die?
O, if you love your children, let me pass.—
You will not? Then my strength and hope are gone,
And I shall perish, ere I reach my friends.”

And then she press'd her brow, as if those hands,
So soft and small, could still its throbbing pulse.
The sentinels looked calmly on, like men
Whose blades had toyed with sorrow, and made sport
Of woe. One step the maiden backward took,
Lingering in thought, then hope like a soft flush
Of struggling twilight kindled in her eyes.
She knelt before them and re-urged her plea.

“Perchance you have a sister, sir, or you,

A poor young thing like me; if she were here
Kneeling like me before my countrymen,
They would not spurn her thus!”
“Go, girl—pass on”—
The soften'd voice of one replied, nor was
She check'd, nor waited she to hear repulse,
But darted through the avenue, attained
The hall, and springing up the well known stairs,
With such a flight as the young eagle takes
To gain its nest, she reached the quiet couch,
Where in bright dreams th' unconscious sleeper lay
Slight covering o'er the rescued boy she threw,
And caught him in her arms. He knew that cheek,
Kiss'd it half-waking, then around her neck
His hands entwined, and dropp'd to sleep again.

She bore him onward, dreading now for him
The shot that whizz'd along, and tore the earth
In fragments by her side. She reached the guards,
Who silent oped the gate,—then hurried on,
But as she pass'd them, from her heart burst forth—
“God bless you, gentlemen!” then urged her way;
Those arms, whose heaviest load and task had been
To poise her doll, and wield her childhood's toys,
Bearing the boy along the dangerous road.

Voices at length she hears—her friends are near,
They meet, and yielding up her precious charge,
She sinks upon her father's breast, in doubt
'Twixt smiles and tears.

1837.

This authentic anecdote is related by Major Garden. It is poetry in itself, without the aid of measured language, but it is hoped its present form may extend the knowledge of this Carolina maiden among her countrymen. “The gallant Lieutenant-Colonel Fenwick, so much distinguished for his services in the war of 1812, was the person saved.”