University of Virginia Library

Dark shadows rest on field and wood;
No ray of star or moon's dim light
Pierces the murky mists that brood
On swamp and stream—a double night;
Still all—save when at times is heard
An insect's chirp, a sudden neigh,
The flitting of a startled bird,
The owl cry, prowling after prey;
Dimly the camp-fires wear away,
Then, startlingly, with transient glare,
Blaze brightly out in seeming play;
Around deep gloomy caves appear,
Black, limitless, and from the ground,
With trailing vines, like serpents bound,
Trees, like huge columns, start, and then
Sink down at once to earth again.

But now, amid the camp, the stir
Of action breaks the hush of night:
Abrupt and hurried, like the whirr
Of partridge roused to hasty flight;
They're off—before the paling ray
Of moonlight brightens into day,
The distant loyalist shall know
And rue the vigor of their blow—
When Ganey, Barfield, trembling hear,
From rifle shot and charging cheer,
The dreaded partisan is near.

His scouts out-lying, far and wide,
Each hostile post and fort beside,
Were come to tell, the gathering foe—
Watson above and Doyle below,
Had marched to strike some secret blow—
That many a Tory troop had sped
With Richbourg, from their distant post;
That Harrison his people led
To swell the Briton's growing host;
They march to break the secret charm,
The hidden spell that seemed to lie
In Maham's potent sword and arm,
That flashed from Marion's eagle eye,
A light that led to victory.

To take his island camp, they thought,
Would stain the leader's spotless fame,
And mar the magic gift that brought
Such boundless power to Marion's name.
Fools!—'t was the soul that gave the eye
And hand their ready mastery;
With it, what daring deeds are wrought,
What trophies won, what battles fought,
From countless hosts what victories won,
Like Salamis and Marathon;
Without it, walls of brass impart
No courage to the craven heart;
Not miry swamp, nor secret glen—
Souls were the forts of Marion's men.

On every side his scouts recall
His distant parties from their post,
In one strong band he gathers all
To hurl them on the hostile host;
Prompt to anticipate the blow,
He rushes on the nearest foe.

A thousand men by Watson led,
With steady tramp and spirits gay,
March gallantly, their banners spread,
A regiment in proud array,
And Richbourg's troopers in the van,
Keen woodsmen all, with practiced eyes,
Glen, thicket, brake, with caution scan,
To guard them from the foe's surprise.
But soon the empty saddles show
The presence of their active foe;
The bullet flies from every wood,
The scarlet coat is died in blood.
With riflemen the forest swarms,
The swamp 's astir with flitting forms;
On every side, flank, front and rear,
They charge, recede, and re-appear;
No pause, no respite, soon and late,
The bullet whizzes, winged by fate;
Despondingly, his vaunting gone,
The weary Briton hurries on.
The river near, his hope revives,
To reach its friendly bank he strives;
Across, his panting troops may meet
A resting place for weary feet.
The hope is vain, the bridge is fired,
The plank removed; no passage there
Awaits the Briton, faint and tired,
The day far spent and Marion near.

Beyond the bridge, the river nigh,
By trees concealed, in wood or fen,
M'Cottrey's longest rifles lie,
The sharpest shots of Marion's men.
Upon the adverse bank, in vain,
High overhead, with ceaseless roar,
From brazen mouths, their iron rain
The British cannon idly pour;
Safe, from his tree, the hunter's eye
And ringing rifle shot reply—
And headlong, like the forest game,
The Briton sinks beneath his aim.
He falls, but promptly of his band,
Another takes the staff and stand;
Before the rifle's deadly ball
Another and another fall:
No private dares, at last, to face
The terrors of the fatal place;
But gallantly their chief assumes
The dreaded risk—his nodding plumes
Attract a hundred vengeful eyes—
In blood the daring leader lies;
Then rushing where the bodies lay
His friends would bear the corpse away:
Vain the attempt—the bullet speeds,
Beside the dead the rescuer bleeds;
And Watson sees, with wild despair,
The helpless, hopeless slaughter there;
Back to his fortress gladly flies,
And curses, with reverted eyes,
The foe and fatal enterprise.

Then, like a lion to his lair
That bears and wolves had dared to waste,
Too late to save, but to repair
And to avenge, the hunters haste;
Doyle's Tory scouts had learned to trace
The pathways to the secret place.
His troop had seized its meagre spoils,
The gathering of the hunter's toils;
Then, frightened at their work, in dread
To meet the coming vengeance fled:
In vain—no speed, no arts avail
To save them from the avenging foe;
Horry and Maham track their trail
As wolves the wounded buffalo,
When bleeding on the grassy plain
The prairie monarch tries in vain
To fly—the fierce, insatiate gang
Around his weary quarters hang,
Grow bolder with his failing breath,
And drag the giant to his death;
So fast the panting Briton flew,
So fierce his eager foes pursue;
Arms, knapsack, canteen, cast aside—
No season this for martial pride,
Not fame the end, the desperate strife
Is waged on either side for life:
To take, to save, the peril past,
The flying squadrons pause at last,
And Camden, in her distant post,
Gives safety to the routed host.