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BATTLE OF FORT MOULTRIE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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251

BATTLE OF FORT MOULTRIE.

Soft is the veil of moonlight o'er the waters,
Soft is the swell, upon the shore, of billows,
Soft, in the distance, the great city's spires,
And soft the breeze.
Peace is upon the land and on the ocean,
Peaceful the slumbers of this ocean hamlet,
And the blue concave, by a cloud unshadowed,
Looks loving peace.
Before us sleeps a mound, whose solemn shadow
Beseems the red man's tumulus of ages,
As keeping in its deep and vaulted chambers
A realm of dead.
With gentle light the moon stoops down to hallow
The deep repose that wakes not to sweet voices;
She leaves her smiles, where sad, in seasons vanish'd,
Man left but tears.

252

No sleepless bird is heard, with cry or music,
Unsuited to the quiet, deep and sacred,
Where Silence, in her own primeval temple,
Still reigns supreme.
Who that beholds that ocean wrapt in brightness;
Who that enjoys embrace with these sweet zephyrs;
That feels the beauty and the calm about him,
Would dream of strife?
Would dream of tempests raging o'er this ocean;
Clouds in that azure vault, its charm effacing;
And for this breeze, so meek, yet full of fondness
Would look for storm?
Yet will the tempest, with a wild transition,
Stifle these gentle breathings of the zephyr,
While great tornadoes sweep the face of heaven,
With all its charms!
Yet will the seas, in beauty now reposing,
Boil up in madness and o'erthrow their barriers
Defacing lawny shore and verdant meadow,
Now blest with peace.
Thus, in a moment—let the foe but threaten—
That silent mound becomes a fiery fortress,
Whose flashing death-bolts, hurtling o'er the waters,
Ring out his doom!
Such awful change of old this shore hath witnessed,
When first our young republic, bold but feeble,
Claimed, though at peril of all wreck of fortune,
Her place of pride.

253

Thus calm the seas, when o'er the waters raging,
Rush'd, swollen with wrath, the giant form of Britain,
Her thunders hurling on our peaceful hamlets,
With hate of hell!
Thus silent lay our bulwarks of palmetto,
Behind them little groups of youthful heroes,
Waiting the signal when, with answering thunders,
To meet her wrath.
How patient was their watch beneath that banner,
The slight blue streamer, lighted by one crescent,
That show'd the modest hope that warm'd their courage
In that dark hour!
How doubtful, yet how fearless of the struggle,
When, in the strength assured of thousand battles,
Britain, in armor, 'gainst the youthful shepherd
Came fiercely on!
Doubtful our young men stood, but undespairing,
Not blind to all the fearful odds against them,
But sworn in faith, that finds it better falling
In fight, than fear!
How beautiful, as serpents fang'd with venom,
Glided the swans of battle to the conflict,
Their streamers flaunting with Britannia's lion,
Rampant in red!
How silently they moored beneath our fortress,
Unmuzzled their grim ministers of vengeance,
And waited but the signal, to send terror
Among our sons.

254

One awful pause preceded the wild tempest,
Then roared the storm, and fell the hail of battle;
A thousand fires were lighted, in a moment,
At Moloch's shrine!
One look of yearning to the distant city,
Where hung, in tears and fondness, wives and mothers,
Forms of most fond delight and dear devotion,
Weeping in prayer:
And then, the brave hearts of our youthful warriors,
Nerved with new courage by those sweet spectators,
Conscious what hopes and eyes were set upon them,
Rushed to the strife!
Thunder for thunder, and defiant voices,
Bore witness to the love that faced that conflict—
How the brave spirits, battling for their homesteads,
Defied the Fates!
Through the long day of summer, still unshaken,
They stood beside their cannon, while each broadside
Shook their frail simple bastions of palmetto,
But shook no hearts.
There Moultrie coolly stands, the scene surveying,
Ranging his muzzles on each mighty frigate,
Speeding each fearful missile on its mission
Of blood and wreck.
There Marion ministers, his young lieutenant,
Wheels the swift piece, and sights the flaming cannon,
Or, when the bullet rends the reeling vessel,
Shouts loud with cheer!

255

There, stout McDonald, slain upon the rampart,
The first brave martyr in the fearful battle,
Shrieks, as he falls: “I die, my gallant comrades,
But not our cause!”
Down sinks the crescent streamer of the fortress,
While o'er the city sudden darkness lowers,
As if a star, the only one in heaven,
Had sunk in night.
But lo! it rises from the cloud, and waving,
Reveals the lithe and active form of Jasper—
He plucks it from the beach, and rears it proudly
Through all the storm!
If then one heart had trembled in its terror,
It gathers hope and pride from that glad omen,
And hears the whisper'd cry from each fond mother,
“Be strong, my son!”
And they were strong, as for the rock, the eagle,
Who hears the cry of young ones in his eyrie,
Assailed by subtlest foes, and bends his pinion
To guard his nest.
Day wanes, and Night hangs out her starry banner,
Blue spread the curtains of the sky for slumber,
Peace soars aloft, as if in prayer imploring
For peace below:
But still the cannon thundered with its mission;
Still spoke fierce music to the hearts of valor;
Still shouted high the brave and shrieked the dying,
Till midnight fell!

256

The lion-banner sank, at length, in darkness,
The crescent soared, in every eye triumphant
While in the distant city rose the shouting
From hearts made glad.
With dawn, the shattered hulks to sea were drifting;
Upon the shores the gentle waves were breaking;
And, with the triumph of our virgin valor,
Came peace once more!