 | Selected poems by William J. Grayson |  |
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MARION
I.—THE ESCAPE
The waves grow white, the forest trees
Are bent before the rising breeze;
Sharp lightnings flash, the slanting rain
Courses along the thirsty plain,
Where languid leaf and drooping flower
Rejoicing meet the genial shower;
While blended all the landscape lies
In misty earth and streaming skies;
And startled flock and silent bird,
The shivering horse, the scattered herd,
To fold or copse for shelter flee;
To open shed, or spreading tree.
Yet dauntlessly a tiny sail
Of dingy canvas courts the gale,
And faster hurries, as the mast
Bends lower to the sweeping blast;
And ever, too, the oarsmen ply
Their paddles as the breezes die,
Or flaws in adverse eddies meet,
And strike aback the shivering sheet.
Are bent before the rising breeze;
Sharp lightnings flash, the slanting rain
Courses along the thirsty plain,
Where languid leaf and drooping flower
Rejoicing meet the genial shower;
While blended all the landscape lies
In misty earth and streaming skies;
And startled flock and silent bird,
The shivering horse, the scattered herd,
To fold or copse for shelter flee;
To open shed, or spreading tree.
Yet dauntlessly a tiny sail
Of dingy canvas courts the gale,
And faster hurries, as the mast
Bends lower to the sweeping blast;
And ever, too, the oarsmen ply
Their paddles as the breezes die,
Or flaws in adverse eddies meet,
And strike aback the shivering sheet.
Up Cooper's stream the vessel speeds,
By marshes, flags, and brakes of reeds,
By cypress wood and gloomy pine,
The live-oak and the mantling vine,
The ash and tulip blossomed tree,
The jessamine's wild fragrancy,
And beech, of bark so smooth and fair,
It tempts the hunter posted there,
Or idler's ready knife, to trace
The loved initials on its face.
By marshes, flags, and brakes of reeds,
By cypress wood and gloomy pine,
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The ash and tulip blossomed tree,
The jessamine's wild fragrancy,
And beech, of bark so smooth and fair,
It tempts the hunter posted there,
Or idler's ready knife, to trace
The loved initials on its face.
Still hasting on, the crew invokes
The wind, by Hagan's point of oaks,
And fitfully where breezes blow,
By Strawberry or Pimlico;
They weather Mepkins' marly height,
Pass grove and villa in their flight,
Round Pawley's bend securely wind,
Leave ferry, farm and hall behind.
The wind, by Hagan's point of oaks,
And fitfully where breezes blow,
By Strawberry or Pimlico;
They weather Mepkins' marly height,
Pass grove and villa in their flight,
Round Pawley's bend securely wind,
Leave ferry, farm and hall behind.
Yet on, with flowing winds and tides,
From early dawn the shallop glides;
Till now that in the crimson west,
Enrobed in clouds of gorgeous dyes,
The Sun, departing, sinks to rest,
With promise of serener skies;
The labor of the day is o'er,
The sharp prow sinks in the shore,
The helmsman, from his weary hand
Casts off the sheet and leaps to land,
And from the awning-place, with care
The sable boatmen gently bear
A pale, disabled Cavalier.
Disabled for the strife of swords,
He leaves the leaguered town, to find
The rest his forest home affords
For shattered frame and fretted mind;
Where no unfriendly foot intrudes,
Among his native solitudes,
He seeks the health their scenes supply
Of balmy air and placid sky;
Nursed there by ready hands that gave
Their anxious cares to shield the brave,
With woman's smile to cheer and bless,
Her healing hand of tenderness,
And watchful eye, secure he lies,
Revolves the future enterprise,
And forms, in fancy, for the foe,
The subtle scheme, the sudden blow,
The ambush and the sharp defeat,
The silent march, the sure retreat,
And every keen and crafty plan
That marks the matchless partisan;
While on his couch, in torture tost,
He mourns the venture rashly lost,
The fallen town, the captive host;
And longs for health and strength restored,
To draw again the avenging sword.
From early dawn the shallop glides;
Till now that in the crimson west,
Enrobed in clouds of gorgeous dyes,
The Sun, departing, sinks to rest,
With promise of serener skies;
The labor of the day is o'er,
The sharp prow sinks in the shore,
The helmsman, from his weary hand
Casts off the sheet and leaps to land,
And from the awning-place, with care
The sable boatmen gently bear
A pale, disabled Cavalier.
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He leaves the leaguered town, to find
The rest his forest home affords
For shattered frame and fretted mind;
Where no unfriendly foot intrudes,
Among his native solitudes,
He seeks the health their scenes supply
Of balmy air and placid sky;
Nursed there by ready hands that gave
Their anxious cares to shield the brave,
With woman's smile to cheer and bless,
Her healing hand of tenderness,
And watchful eye, secure he lies,
Revolves the future enterprise,
And forms, in fancy, for the foe,
The subtle scheme, the sudden blow,
The ambush and the sharp defeat,
The silent march, the sure retreat,
And every keen and crafty plan
That marks the matchless partisan;
While on his couch, in torture tost,
He mourns the venture rashly lost,
The fallen town, the captive host;
And longs for health and strength restored,
To draw again the avenging sword.
For now on Ashley's distant shore,
The din of war is heard no more;
Low lies the patriot's flag, the band
That battled for their native land
On Thaddock's point, a captive host,
No longer guard their country's coast,
Or pent in jail or prison-ship,
With frenzied eye and livid lip,
In fever's wild excitement crave,
And find a refuge in the grave.
The din of war is heard no more;
Low lies the patriot's flag, the band
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On Thaddock's point, a captive host,
No longer guard their country's coast,
Or pent in jail or prison-ship,
With frenzied eye and livid lip,
In fever's wild excitement crave,
And find a refuge in the grave.
Nor was the Briton's fury shown
In cruel wrongs to men alone;
His meaner and unmanly rage
Was wreaked on infancy and age,
With reckless and relentless hand
He gave the homestead to the brand,
And in the homeless child and wife
Made war upon the yeoman's life,
A base, ignoble, brutal strife.
In cruel wrongs to men alone;
His meaner and unmanly rage
Was wreaked on infancy and age,
With reckless and relentless hand
He gave the homestead to the brand,
And in the homeless child and wife
Made war upon the yeoman's life,
A base, ignoble, brutal strife.
In vain on Camden's luckless plain
Gates tried the chance of war again:
Not his the lot of deathless fame—
The fierce marauding bands to tame,
Repel them from their track of gore
And drive them to their island shore.
Inglorious in the hopeless fight,
Dishonored in the craven flight,
He left DeKalb's great heart to stain
The field with crimson streams in vain.
Stores, cannon lost, a scattered few
Still flying fast where none pursue,
Beneath the fiery August sky
Withered and sere his laurels lie;
And with the luckless Chief's, anew
The country's hopes seem withered too.
Gates tried the chance of war again:
Not his the lot of deathless fame—
The fierce marauding bands to tame,
Repel them from their track of gore
And drive them to their island shore.
Inglorious in the hopeless fight,
Dishonored in the craven flight,
He left DeKalb's great heart to stain
The field with crimson streams in vain.
Stores, cannon lost, a scattered few
Still flying fast where none pursue,
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Withered and sere his laurels lie;
And with the luckless Chief's, anew
The country's hopes seem withered too.
II.—THE MUSTER
Who boldly now, with iron will,
The bloody game yet dare to play?
What noble band, unconquered still,
Uphold the fortunes of the day?
Not theirs the pomp and proud array
Of host by king or princes led,
With flaunting plume and banner gay,
Of silk enwrought with golden thread.
The bloody game yet dare to play?
What noble band, unconquered still,
Uphold the fortunes of the day?
Not theirs the pomp and proud array
Of host by king or princes led,
With flaunting plume and banner gay,
Of silk enwrought with golden thread.
For them no canvas tent is spread,
Their camp, the tree, the earth, the sky;
The friendly forest gives them bread,
Their thirst the passing brooks supply.
Their camp, the tree, the earth, the sky;
The friendly forest gives them bread,
Their thirst the passing brooks supply.
To distant wood or swamp they hie,
The secret gathering to meet;
At fortune's call to fight or fly,
In fiery charge or sure retreat.
The secret gathering to meet;
At fortune's call to fight or fly,
In fiery charge or sure retreat.
With rifle true, on courser fleet,
What gallant hearts by brake or fen,
Yet quell the foe with daring feat?
The gallant hearts are Marion's men.
And he, the pale disabled Chief,
That from the leaguered town afar,
From din and stir of luckless war,
In solitude had sought relief,
Preserved by Providence to save
A people's cause, and lead the brave,
Who yet unconquered dared oppose
With dauntless heart their country's foes.
What gallant hearts by brake or fen,
Yet quell the foe with daring feat?
The gallant hearts are Marion's men.
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That from the leaguered town afar,
From din and stir of luckless war,
In solitude had sought relief,
Preserved by Providence to save
A people's cause, and lead the brave,
Who yet unconquered dared oppose
With dauntless heart their country's foes.
Of recent pain the pallid trace
Yet lingered on the leader's face;
But his the air, the martial mien,
The look resolved and yet serene,
In Nature's leader only seen—
His the broad forehead, amply wrought
For miracles of noble thought;
The swarthy cheek and eye of flame,
The active limb and iron frame.
Invincible to do, or bear
Cold, hunger, toil—in swift career
To charge, with rapid glance to see
And seize the chance of victory;
Or in declining fortune yield,
Yet save the honors of the field;
And merciful as brave, the blow
He warded from the fallen foe,
And nobly scorned in peace to wreak
His country's vengeance on the weak.
He made no wife nor children's need
The father's evil acts atone,
And lenient to another's deed,
He craved no grace to shield his own.
Not Arthur's knightly table knew
A knight more loyal, just and true,
Nor Saracen nor Christian bore
A lordlier heart on Syria's shore,
When Cross or Crescent rose or fell,
As warriors strove to hold or win,
With deeds that minstrels love to tell,
The holy towers of Saladin;
No Paynim there, nor Templar fought,
Of larger heart or loftier thought.
Amid the country's wreck his star
Still shone with clear unclouded light,
No mist could hide, nor tempest mar
The steadfast watcher of the night.
Serene it stood, to mark and cheer
The path in honor's bright career.
And with their Chief, a chosen few,
That dared the tyrant's rule abhor,
Dauntless, like him, and staunch and true,
Stood foremost in the ranks of war;
Yet lingered on the leader's face;
But his the air, the martial mien,
The look resolved and yet serene,
In Nature's leader only seen—
His the broad forehead, amply wrought
For miracles of noble thought;
The swarthy cheek and eye of flame,
The active limb and iron frame.
Invincible to do, or bear
Cold, hunger, toil—in swift career
To charge, with rapid glance to see
And seize the chance of victory;
Or in declining fortune yield,
Yet save the honors of the field;
And merciful as brave, the blow
He warded from the fallen foe,
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His country's vengeance on the weak.
He made no wife nor children's need
The father's evil acts atone,
And lenient to another's deed,
He craved no grace to shield his own.
Not Arthur's knightly table knew
A knight more loyal, just and true,
Nor Saracen nor Christian bore
A lordlier heart on Syria's shore,
When Cross or Crescent rose or fell,
As warriors strove to hold or win,
With deeds that minstrels love to tell,
The holy towers of Saladin;
No Paynim there, nor Templar fought,
Of larger heart or loftier thought.
Amid the country's wreck his star
Still shone with clear unclouded light,
No mist could hide, nor tempest mar
The steadfast watcher of the night.
Serene it stood, to mark and cheer
The path in honor's bright career.
And with their Chief, a chosen few,
That dared the tyrant's rule abhor,
Dauntless, like him, and staunch and true,
Stood foremost in the ranks of war;
Conyers, the flower of chivalry,
The first to charge, the last to flee;
James, with his sturdy brother band;
Bold Baxter of the iron hand,
And brave Postell, who never knew
Heroic deed too hard to do;
M'Cottry, of unerring aim,
Stern Witherspoon, of giant frame;
McDonald, prompt in every need,
As fiery as his matchless steed;
And skilled alike in feast or fray,
The scout by night, the fight by day,
The rapid march, the patient halt,
The ambush and the bold assault,
Horry, with stammered word, and blow
Like lightning, struck the flying foe.
The first to charge, the last to flee;
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Bold Baxter of the iron hand,
And brave Postell, who never knew
Heroic deed too hard to do;
M'Cottry, of unerring aim,
Stern Witherspoon, of giant frame;
McDonald, prompt in every need,
As fiery as his matchless steed;
And skilled alike in feast or fray,
The scout by night, the fight by day,
The rapid march, the patient halt,
The ambush and the bold assault,
Horry, with stammered word, and blow
Like lightning, struck the flying foe.
And many a gallant heart beside,
The chivalry of Marion's band,
Their Chief's and country's stay and pride,
When gloom and sorrow filled the land.
The chivalry of Marion's band,
Their Chief's and country's stay and pride,
When gloom and sorrow filled the land.
What, though the hostile trooper swept,
To mountain-top from ocean's flood,
And wife and mother raved and wept,
At daily scenes of tears and blood,
Undaunted still, resolved to dare
All risk, all loss, with latest breath,
Calmly they trampled on despair,
Their motto—Liberty or Death—
That once in burning accents broke
From Henry's lips, when foes amazed
Cried treason, as the speaker spoke,
And startled friends in wonder gazed
That, now, the leader's cap before,
Engraved a silver crescent bore,
The single emblem, stern and brief,
That spoke the purpose of the Chief.
The summer's anxious sorrows past,
With health restored and hope renewed,
He calls his troop, with bugle blast,
To wage the fierce undying feud;
While life endures, no foe shall stand
Unchallenged on his native land.
To mountain-top from ocean's flood,
And wife and mother raved and wept,
At daily scenes of tears and blood,
Undaunted still, resolved to dare
All risk, all loss, with latest breath,
Calmly they trampled on despair,
Their motto—Liberty or Death—
That once in burning accents broke
From Henry's lips, when foes amazed
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And startled friends in wonder gazed
That, now, the leader's cap before,
Engraved a silver crescent bore,
The single emblem, stern and brief,
That spoke the purpose of the Chief.
The summer's anxious sorrows past,
With health restored and hope renewed,
He calls his troop, with bugle blast,
To wage the fierce undying feud;
While life endures, no foe shall stand
Unchallenged on his native land.
October's sky is calm and clear,
The breeze is soft, the balmy air
Steals o'er the senses like a spell,
Where Summer-lingering spirits dwell,
And leave us with a sweet farewell;
Sonorous, then, at early morn,
Is heard the sound of mellow horn;
It dies away, but as it dies,
Another and another rise;
They sweep along the forest side,
Across the river's winding tide,
By swamp and thicket, glade and glen,
The signal horns of Marion's men.
Prompt at the call, with fiery speed,
The yeoman mounts his hardy steed.
The saw's rough steel, a scanty store,
Supplies the sword the trooper bore;
The rifle and the hunter's gear,
The arms, the dress, the yeomen wear.
With heart untamed and courage true,
They seek the secret rendezvous,
In dreary swamp and forest, where
The eagle builds his eyrie nigh;
Far off the timid fold may fear
The terrors of his beak and eye;
No safety leagues of distance bring;
With sudden swoop he strikes his prey,
Back to his haunts on rapid wing,
The bleeding victim bears away.
Here, in their eyrie, watchful, too,
Bold flights the daring hunters plan,
And far and wide the foe may rue
The onset of the Partisan;
When mustering fast the yeomen make
The camp fires in the caney brake,
Led by the Chief, whose matchless skill
Held Victory subject to his will.
The breeze is soft, the balmy air
Steals o'er the senses like a spell,
Where Summer-lingering spirits dwell,
And leave us with a sweet farewell;
Sonorous, then, at early morn,
Is heard the sound of mellow horn;
It dies away, but as it dies,
Another and another rise;
They sweep along the forest side,
Across the river's winding tide,
By swamp and thicket, glade and glen,
The signal horns of Marion's men.
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The yeoman mounts his hardy steed.
The saw's rough steel, a scanty store,
Supplies the sword the trooper bore;
The rifle and the hunter's gear,
The arms, the dress, the yeomen wear.
With heart untamed and courage true,
They seek the secret rendezvous,
In dreary swamp and forest, where
The eagle builds his eyrie nigh;
Far off the timid fold may fear
The terrors of his beak and eye;
No safety leagues of distance bring;
With sudden swoop he strikes his prey,
Back to his haunts on rapid wing,
The bleeding victim bears away.
Here, in their eyrie, watchful, too,
Bold flights the daring hunters plan,
And far and wide the foe may rue
The onset of the Partisan;
When mustering fast the yeomen make
The camp fires in the caney brake,
Led by the Chief, whose matchless skill
Held Victory subject to his will.
Marion wore on the front of his cap a small silver plate, inscribed with the words “liberty or death,” suggested, perhaps, by Henry's famous speech.
III.—THE CAMP
On Pee-Dee's swamp, in deep morass,
'Mid winding creeks and island lies,
Closed every path and secret pass
By tangled woods to prying eyes;
Around in stately columns rise
Huge cypresses, gigantic pine,
Tall oaks that quiver in the skies,
And lither limbs of branching vine;
Grape, twisted supple-jack combine
To spread aloft a leafy maze
So densely, through its arch a line
Of Summer sunlight rarely strays;
Herds there in winter wandering graze
In brakes of cane, so darkly green,
The spotted fawn securely plays,
Protected by the living screen.
'Mid winding creeks and island lies,
Closed every path and secret pass
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Around in stately columns rise
Huge cypresses, gigantic pine,
Tall oaks that quiver in the skies,
And lither limbs of branching vine;
Grape, twisted supple-jack combine
To spread aloft a leafy maze
So densely, through its arch a line
Of Summer sunlight rarely strays;
Herds there in winter wandering graze
In brakes of cane, so darkly green,
The spotted fawn securely plays,
Protected by the living screen.
Bright plumed, the Summer duck is seen
In hollow oaks, a cunning nest,
And far up earth and sky between,
The heron finds a place of rest.
Here, deep within the silent breast
Of wood and swamp, the leader placed
His secret camp, when sorely prest,
A refuge in a pathless waste.
In hollow oaks, a cunning nest,
And far up earth and sky between,
The heron finds a place of rest.
Here, deep within the silent breast
Of wood and swamp, the leader placed
His secret camp, when sorely prest,
A refuge in a pathless waste.
Of reeds and sod the hunters made
A hamlet in the narrow glade;
Slight shelter, but enough for those
Who love the forest's deep repose,
Its quiet scenes, its simple fare,
Its manly sport, and bracing air.
Around, prepared for all alarms,
Their sylvan armory, their arms,
At easy distance, ready lie
For active hand and watchful eye;
The powder-horn hangs over head,
On pine or oak the rifle leans,
The hardy horse, in marshes bred,
His forage there securely gleans;
The smokes of camp-fires to the skies,
By breath unmoved of passing breeze,
Rose straight and tall, to dreamy eyes,
Gray trunks of ancient forest trees.
Here scattered yeomen carelessly,
On gathered leaves, with blanket spread,
Or long grey moss, a forest bed,
In groups asleep, or resting lie,
Or while away the idle day,
In boisterous sport or quiet play;
Or clean their rifles, and with care
The bullet and the patch prepare;
Or seated by the camp fire boast
Their gallant deeds of daring done,
When Moultrie kept the island coast,
And Jasper fame and honors won.
A hamlet in the narrow glade;
Slight shelter, but enough for those
Who love the forest's deep repose,
Its quiet scenes, its simple fare,
Its manly sport, and bracing air.
Around, prepared for all alarms,
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At easy distance, ready lie
For active hand and watchful eye;
The powder-horn hangs over head,
On pine or oak the rifle leans,
The hardy horse, in marshes bred,
His forage there securely gleans;
The smokes of camp-fires to the skies,
By breath unmoved of passing breeze,
Rose straight and tall, to dreamy eyes,
Gray trunks of ancient forest trees.
Here scattered yeomen carelessly,
On gathered leaves, with blanket spread,
Or long grey moss, a forest bed,
In groups asleep, or resting lie,
Or while away the idle day,
In boisterous sport or quiet play;
Or clean their rifles, and with care
The bullet and the patch prepare;
Or seated by the camp fire boast
Their gallant deeds of daring done,
When Moultrie kept the island coast,
And Jasper fame and honors won.
With merry laugh they loved to tell
Of Ardiesoff's unhappy plight,
When sprawling on the floor he fell,
His menace turned to sudden fright,
As James with weighty chair replied
To bullying arrogance and pride.
Of Ardiesoff's unhappy plight,
When sprawling on the floor he fell,
His menace turned to sudden fright,
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To bullying arrogance and pride.
Of Conyers, too, when hand to hand,
Braving the best of Watson's band,
Daily before the British post
He rode and challenged all their host;—
While in the porch, with taunting mood,
A rebel maid, a captive, stood,
Inviting every foe to try
The freely offered courtesy,
Laughing to see that not a man
Dared meet her rebel partisan.
But most they praised the famous feat
Of James, when on his gallant gray,
Compelled by numbers to retreat,
He held alone the narrow way;
While confident, in full career,
The foe assailed the rebel rear.
There in a road, a fathom wide,
Deep miry swamp on either side,
He singly stood, and dared oppose
The onset of a hundred foes;
With rifle shot and bayonet thrust,
He laid the foremost in the dust;
Others in quick succession came,
Their charge and luckless fate the same;
Dismay'd, the troop in silence gazed,
And stood admiring and amazed;
Fix'd by some paralyzing charm
To see a single heart and arm,
As with a wizard's potent spell,
The charges of a host repel.
Braving the best of Watson's band,
Daily before the British post
He rode and challenged all their host;—
While in the porch, with taunting mood,
A rebel maid, a captive, stood,
Inviting every foe to try
The freely offered courtesy,
Laughing to see that not a man
Dared meet her rebel partisan.
But most they praised the famous feat
Of James, when on his gallant gray,
Compelled by numbers to retreat,
He held alone the narrow way;
While confident, in full career,
The foe assailed the rebel rear.
There in a road, a fathom wide,
Deep miry swamp on either side,
He singly stood, and dared oppose
The onset of a hundred foes;
With rifle shot and bayonet thrust,
He laid the foremost in the dust;
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Their charge and luckless fate the same;
Dismay'd, the troop in silence gazed,
And stood admiring and amazed;
Fix'd by some paralyzing charm
To see a single heart and arm,
As with a wizard's potent spell,
The charges of a host repel.
James had gone into Georgetown, in behalf of his neighbors, to confer with Ardiesoff, commanding the British troops there. The American envoy having been received with insulting menaces, knocked down his opponent with a chair, and made his escape.
IV.—THE SCOUT
Foremost of all the band to tell
The wild adventures loved so well,
A veteran scout the time beguiles,
With tales of fights and forest wiles;
Of Indian fights and border feuds—
A veteran scout, but vigorous still
To track, in pathless solitudes,
Savage, or deer, with matchless skill;
A Pee-Dee man, Old Peter Slade.
Amid the pines' unbroken shade,
By Reedy Creek, his cabin stood,
Of logs unhewed and daubed with clay;
Around, his pale white-headed brood,
And grim old dame, at work or play;
While he, unbought by gold or fame,
To fight his country's battles came.
He came in hunting shirt arrayed,
And moccasins of buckskin made,
And coon-skin cap, the brush behind,
To guard his neck from cold or wind:
Smoke-dried, he seemed, with dingy spots
From sooty fires of light wood knots;
Broad-shouldered, wiry, straight and tall,
Ready at race, or wrestler's fall;
His gray eyes twinkled keen and bright,
Like star-eyes in a frosty night;
His ample chest and shaggy head,
And sinewy hand and arm were spread
With coarse strong hair of grizzly red;
His throat with beard or whisker fringed,
His lips and teeth tobacco tinged;
Prompt as a boy at jest or play,
He threw the well-worn quid away,
And by the camp-fire where he lay,
Told the young yeomen gathered round,
Of many a bloody border strife;
The midnight fire, the captive bound,
The war-whoop and the reeking knife;
Of scalps in savage triumph spread,
From children torn and woman's head;
Strange, stirring tales, an ample store,
Old stories often heard of yore,
But ever welcome as before.
The wild adventures loved so well,
A veteran scout the time beguiles,
With tales of fights and forest wiles;
Of Indian fights and border feuds—
A veteran scout, but vigorous still
To track, in pathless solitudes,
Savage, or deer, with matchless skill;
A Pee-Dee man, Old Peter Slade.
Amid the pines' unbroken shade,
By Reedy Creek, his cabin stood,
Of logs unhewed and daubed with clay;
Around, his pale white-headed brood,
And grim old dame, at work or play;
While he, unbought by gold or fame,
To fight his country's battles came.
He came in hunting shirt arrayed,
And moccasins of buckskin made,
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To guard his neck from cold or wind:
Smoke-dried, he seemed, with dingy spots
From sooty fires of light wood knots;
Broad-shouldered, wiry, straight and tall,
Ready at race, or wrestler's fall;
His gray eyes twinkled keen and bright,
Like star-eyes in a frosty night;
His ample chest and shaggy head,
And sinewy hand and arm were spread
With coarse strong hair of grizzly red;
His throat with beard or whisker fringed,
His lips and teeth tobacco tinged;
Prompt as a boy at jest or play,
He threw the well-worn quid away,
And by the camp-fire where he lay,
Told the young yeomen gathered round,
Of many a bloody border strife;
The midnight fire, the captive bound,
The war-whoop and the reeking knife;
Of scalps in savage triumph spread,
From children torn and woman's head;
Strange, stirring tales, an ample store,
Old stories often heard of yore,
But ever welcome as before.
He told of wars—in martial pride,
When Grant his Highland heroes led,
And gallantly, and side by side,
The Briton and Provincial bled;
When promptly, at their chief's command,
Young Marion led the foremost band
Against the ambushed Cherokee;
Where hidden in the dark ravine
By Shugaw Town or Etchoee,
The rifle's flash alone was seen,
While the red warrior grimly stood
Concealed amid the gloomy wood,
And sent his messengers of death
In showers upon the foe beneath.
No bolder heart than Marion's there,
Drove the fierce Indian from his lair;
But when the routed braves were driven
For distant fastnesses to fly,
And stern command by Grant was given
To burn and waste—no soldier's eye
Like Marion's saw, with pitying tear,
The wigwam blaze, the autumn cheer
Of maize consumed, and savoury bean,
In fields where foot-prints still were seen
Of little children, wont to stray
Among the tassel'd stalks at play,
Whose mothers now in grief and fear
Saw in the waste of battle there,
Famine and sickness and despair.
When Grant his Highland heroes led,
And gallantly, and side by side,
The Briton and Provincial bled;
100
Young Marion led the foremost band
Against the ambushed Cherokee;
Where hidden in the dark ravine
By Shugaw Town or Etchoee,
The rifle's flash alone was seen,
While the red warrior grimly stood
Concealed amid the gloomy wood,
And sent his messengers of death
In showers upon the foe beneath.
No bolder heart than Marion's there,
Drove the fierce Indian from his lair;
But when the routed braves were driven
For distant fastnesses to fly,
And stern command by Grant was given
To burn and waste—no soldier's eye
Like Marion's saw, with pitying tear,
The wigwam blaze, the autumn cheer
Of maize consumed, and savoury bean,
In fields where foot-prints still were seen
Of little children, wont to stray
Among the tassel'd stalks at play,
Whose mothers now in grief and fear
Saw in the waste of battle there,
Famine and sickness and despair.
“You'd not have thought,” old Peter said,
“His heart so soft, with flashing eye,
And lip compressed and battle-cry,
When in the fierce attack he led,
At Dollard's house, or when he stood
At bay, resolved, by Benbow's wood,
To wait and brave the fierce attack
Of Tarleton's legion on his track.”
“His heart so soft, with flashing eye,
And lip compressed and battle-cry,
101
At Dollard's house, or when he stood
At bay, resolved, by Benbow's wood,
To wait and brave the fierce attack
Of Tarleton's legion on his track.”
Now, changed the theme, he told the tale
Of subtle arts that never fail
To hit the Tory's cunning trail,
As surely as the hound pursues
The flying buck through tainted dews.
Boasted how, near the British host,
He shot the sentry at his post;
Or climbing high, or creeping near
In brakes, contrived to see and hear.
Of subtle arts that never fail
To hit the Tory's cunning trail,
As surely as the hound pursues
The flying buck through tainted dews.
Boasted how, near the British host,
He shot the sentry at his post;
Or climbing high, or creeping near
In brakes, contrived to see and hear.
He told of marches made by night,
How foes had trembled at their sight,
When in the Tory camp they came,
Like hunter on his midnight game,
That stand with glaring eyes and gaze
Upon the torch's sudden blaze,
Powerless to move, until they fall
Beneath the rifle's fatal ball.
How foes had trembled at their sight,
When in the Tory camp they came,
Like hunter on his midnight game,
That stand with glaring eyes and gaze
Upon the torch's sudden blaze,
Powerless to move, until they fall
Beneath the rifle's fatal ball.
'Twas thus, of late, they found the foe,
By Nelson's Ford, from Camden's plain,
Advancing carelessly and slow,
A hundred prisoners in their train.
Fearing no more the rebel crew,
A vanquished, scattered, heartless few,
Prompter to fly than to pursue,
They slumbered idly on the way,
The noontide of an August day;
And little dreamed that Marion's men
Were ambushed in the forest glen—
Waked by the sudden shot, the shout,
The wild huzza, the headlong rout,
Stopt all retreat, no succor nigh,
No chance to fight, or way to fly,
Quickly the luckless Britons learn
How soon the smiles of Fortune turn
To sneering frowns, and sadly yield
The trophies of a happier field.
By Nelson's Ford, from Camden's plain,
Advancing carelessly and slow,
A hundred prisoners in their train.
Fearing no more the rebel crew,
102
Prompter to fly than to pursue,
They slumbered idly on the way,
The noontide of an August day;
And little dreamed that Marion's men
Were ambushed in the forest glen—
Waked by the sudden shot, the shout,
The wild huzza, the headlong rout,
Stopt all retreat, no succor nigh,
No chance to fight, or way to fly,
Quickly the luckless Britons learn
How soon the smiles of Fortune turn
To sneering frowns, and sadly yield
The trophies of a happier field.
A young recruit with eager ears
And heart of fire, the story hears:
Late to the camp the stripling came,
Ardent and emulous of fame—
“And where the men released?” he cried.
“Snatched from the fate they knew so well,
The prison ship, a floating hell,
They surely joined our leader's side,
And, eager to wipe out the stain
Of Camden, took the field again!”
“Not so,” the cooler scout replied,
“Defeat had crushed their martial pride,
No faith had they in Marion's art—
His ready wit and dauntless heart;
They found no stores to tempt them here,
Yielded, like dastards, to despair,
And sought their homes; the men you see
Are those who won the victory.”
And heart of fire, the story hears:
Late to the camp the stripling came,
Ardent and emulous of fame—
“And where the men released?” he cried.
“Snatched from the fate they knew so well,
The prison ship, a floating hell,
They surely joined our leader's side,
And, eager to wipe out the stain
Of Camden, took the field again!”
“Not so,” the cooler scout replied,
“Defeat had crushed their martial pride,
103
His ready wit and dauntless heart;
They found no stores to tempt them here,
Yielded, like dastards, to despair,
And sought their homes; the men you see
Are those who won the victory.”
“Base churls! unworthy to be led
By chief like ours,” the stripling said.
“Vile, craven spirits, that could pause
And falter thus in Freedom's cause!—
What next befel? “The maddened foe
Sought vengeance for the daring blow.
Wemys and Tarleton, sent to plan
The ruin of the partisan,
With force and fraud alike essay
To track his steps, to snare his way.
By numbers forced at last to fly,
Before the storm constrained to bend,
Where Waccamaw's wild sources lie
The scanty troop of yeomen wend
Their weary way, or, scattered, try
Their homes and friends to see once more;
Yet ready at the signal cry
To seek the forest as before.
And soon it came, a flitting bird,
A whistle in the thicket heard,
A distant horn, a long halloo,
Told there was other work to do;
Vengeance for tears from woman wrung,
For homesteads burnt, for comrades hung,
Like brave Cusack—unheeded there,
And scorned the father's earnest prayer;
The mother kneeled and begged for grace,
They slew the son before her face.
Their ears and eyes were deaf and blind
To gray hairs streaming in the wind,
To cries and shrieks, to frenzy wild,
Of weeping wife and maddened child.
'Twas this, the friend, the captive slain,
The cry for quarter made in vain;
This brought the lion from his den,
This fired the hearts of Marion's men.
By chief like ours,” the stripling said.
“Vile, craven spirits, that could pause
And falter thus in Freedom's cause!—
What next befel? “The maddened foe
Sought vengeance for the daring blow.
Wemys and Tarleton, sent to plan
The ruin of the partisan,
With force and fraud alike essay
To track his steps, to snare his way.
By numbers forced at last to fly,
Before the storm constrained to bend,
Where Waccamaw's wild sources lie
The scanty troop of yeomen wend
Their weary way, or, scattered, try
Their homes and friends to see once more;
Yet ready at the signal cry
To seek the forest as before.
And soon it came, a flitting bird,
A whistle in the thicket heard,
A distant horn, a long halloo,
Told there was other work to do;
104
For homesteads burnt, for comrades hung,
Like brave Cusack—unheeded there,
And scorned the father's earnest prayer;
The mother kneeled and begged for grace,
They slew the son before her face.
Their ears and eyes were deaf and blind
To gray hairs streaming in the wind,
To cries and shrieks, to frenzy wild,
Of weeping wife and maddened child.
'Twas this, the friend, the captive slain,
The cry for quarter made in vain;
This brought the lion from his den,
This fired the hearts of Marion's men.
“Not vainly shall the injured wait
For vengeance; with assisting hand
To draw the victim to his fate
Some demon ready seems to stand;
Bide but your time, the fatal power,
That never mortal step can shun,
Shall bring the inexorable hour
That wreaks revenge for injuries done.
By Balfour sent to burn and slay
At Tarcote wood new levies lay,
Born to the soil, but now enrolled
And led by Tynes for British gold.
Nor British gold the only cause:
Some loved their ancient lord and laws,
And, in a nobler spirit, fought
For loftier ends, with purer thought,
Not basely led by lucre bought.
By Tarcote wood secure and gay
They loitered out the roistering day;
Late from the town with loaded train
Of stores, they sought their homes again,
From danger safe—the dreaded foe
To distant wilds compelled to go,
Or scattered round, an easy prey,
Their watchful leader far away.
In wassail deep the day is spent,
On wild carouse and revel bent,
They dance and reel, the night prolong
With cards and dice, with jest and song;
Some slumber by the forest side,
Some tell their boasted deeds, and lied.
The present safe, the future bright,
Away all thought of ills to-night!
‘Drink to the king, and damn the cause
Of traitors that oppose his laws!’
So shouted Campbell, of the band
The fiercest heart, the bloodiest hand.
‘No need’ he cried, ‘with us, for care,
Let Marion's followers think of fear;
Curse on his cunning, may the rope
And hangman prove his only hope;
Curse on the ragged, rebel crew,
The halter be their portion too;
Huzza for George!’—'twas hardly said,
A bullet, from the thicket sped,
Struck in his boast the boaster dead.
And bursting on the startled ear,
The tramp of horsemen thundered near.
Up to their feet the revellers sprung,
Down cup and can and flagon flung;
Then rose upon the startled ear
The scream of terror and despair,
Half waked the dizzy sleepers reel
Beneath the charger's iron heel,
The rifle in the darkness flashed,
Through crouching crowds the trooper dashed—
All thought of battle laid aside,
Wings to the flying fear supplied.
But Tarcote Swamp is deep and drear,
The night was dark, the refuge near,
The scattered bands found shelter there.
Off with the dawn of morning light
The sleepless Chief unwearied flew;
He never lingered to invite
Surprise, nor paused if aught to do
Remained undone—new foes to meet,
With ready arm and judgment true,
Again, on coursers sure and fleet,
He led the stern, determined few;
Nor night from day their service knew,
All times alike—attack, retreat,
Their ready steps where duty drew,
The rapid onset they repeat.
They kept no road nor beaten path,
They sought no bridge on passing stream,
They swam the river in his wrath,
They came, they vanished, like a dream;
Unlooked-for, like the sudden flash
Of summer lightning, and their blow,
Terrific as the thunder crash,
With fear and wonder struck the foe.
With them no flaunting pennon waved,
No cannon lumbering shook the ground,
No trumpet when the battle raved
Or paused, retreat or onset sound;
But silent, like a sprite, they came,
The rifle's flash proclaimed them near,
They swept along like sudden flame
Through forests in the early year.
In march or charge, in field or flood,
Ford, deeper river, still alone
He ever led, he spared the blood
Of all, unsparing of his own.
Vain was the Briton's boasted claim
To conquest, vain the blood it cost,
The unconquered soul remains the same—
While that endures no cause is lost;
It yields while foes too strong prevail,
Resumes the conflict as before,
As saplings bend before the gale,
Erect and strong the tempest o'er.”
For vengeance; with assisting hand
To draw the victim to his fate
Some demon ready seems to stand;
Bide but your time, the fatal power,
That never mortal step can shun,
Shall bring the inexorable hour
That wreaks revenge for injuries done.
By Balfour sent to burn and slay
At Tarcote wood new levies lay,
Born to the soil, but now enrolled
And led by Tynes for British gold.
Nor British gold the only cause:
105
And, in a nobler spirit, fought
For loftier ends, with purer thought,
Not basely led by lucre bought.
By Tarcote wood secure and gay
They loitered out the roistering day;
Late from the town with loaded train
Of stores, they sought their homes again,
From danger safe—the dreaded foe
To distant wilds compelled to go,
Or scattered round, an easy prey,
Their watchful leader far away.
In wassail deep the day is spent,
On wild carouse and revel bent,
They dance and reel, the night prolong
With cards and dice, with jest and song;
Some slumber by the forest side,
Some tell their boasted deeds, and lied.
The present safe, the future bright,
Away all thought of ills to-night!
‘Drink to the king, and damn the cause
Of traitors that oppose his laws!’
So shouted Campbell, of the band
The fiercest heart, the bloodiest hand.
‘No need’ he cried, ‘with us, for care,
Let Marion's followers think of fear;
Curse on his cunning, may the rope
And hangman prove his only hope;
106
The halter be their portion too;
Huzza for George!’—'twas hardly said,
A bullet, from the thicket sped,
Struck in his boast the boaster dead.
And bursting on the startled ear,
The tramp of horsemen thundered near.
Up to their feet the revellers sprung,
Down cup and can and flagon flung;
Then rose upon the startled ear
The scream of terror and despair,
Half waked the dizzy sleepers reel
Beneath the charger's iron heel,
The rifle in the darkness flashed,
Through crouching crowds the trooper dashed—
All thought of battle laid aside,
Wings to the flying fear supplied.
But Tarcote Swamp is deep and drear,
The night was dark, the refuge near,
The scattered bands found shelter there.
Off with the dawn of morning light
The sleepless Chief unwearied flew;
He never lingered to invite
Surprise, nor paused if aught to do
Remained undone—new foes to meet,
With ready arm and judgment true,
Again, on coursers sure and fleet,
He led the stern, determined few;
Nor night from day their service knew,
107
Their ready steps where duty drew,
The rapid onset they repeat.
They kept no road nor beaten path,
They sought no bridge on passing stream,
They swam the river in his wrath,
They came, they vanished, like a dream;
Unlooked-for, like the sudden flash
Of summer lightning, and their blow,
Terrific as the thunder crash,
With fear and wonder struck the foe.
With them no flaunting pennon waved,
No cannon lumbering shook the ground,
No trumpet when the battle raved
Or paused, retreat or onset sound;
But silent, like a sprite, they came,
The rifle's flash proclaimed them near,
They swept along like sudden flame
Through forests in the early year.
In march or charge, in field or flood,
Ford, deeper river, still alone
He ever led, he spared the blood
Of all, unsparing of his own.
Vain was the Briton's boasted claim
To conquest, vain the blood it cost,
The unconquered soul remains the same—
While that endures no cause is lost;
It yields while foes too strong prevail,
Resumes the conflict as before,
108
Erect and strong the tempest o'er.”
“What glorious sport!” with flashing eyes
And flushing cheeks, the youth replies;
“But tell me of the conflict, when
With twenty picked of Marion's men —
With twenty matched, in open field,
You forced the enemy to yield.
Which are the gallant men you chose
To meet the challenge of your foes?”
“One near, with busy hands you see,
Cleaning the rifle on his knee;
Broad-chested, like a bull, his hair,
Black, glossy, like an autumn bear;
A bolder heart or stronger hand
Rode never yet in Marion's band.
Another leans on yonder bay,
In hunting shirt and leggings gray,
With folded arms and hunter's eye,
Watching the wild ducks whizzing by;
Straight as a sapling, strong and tall,
And apt alike, in festive hall,
In dance, or danger's sudden call.
Another by the camp-fire stands,
Busy among the blazing brands;
Some dainty for his dinner there,
The product of his trap or snare,
Squirrel or rabbit, asks his care;
A raw-boned, iron man, his frame
Nor time can bend, nor labors tame;
No scout like him! By night, by day,
He tracks the deer or foeman's way;
No quicker eye, no surer aim,
For battle-field or forest game.
Vanderhorst their leader, on they went,
To meet the challenge of the foe.
No guests on feast or wedding bent
With lighter step or spirits go.
The field at hand, with sudden cheer
They forward rush—the place is bare,
On silent wing the bird is flown,
Brave McIlraith has wiser grown;
Withdraws his chosen men and flies,
Rushes from wood to wood, and foils,
By rapid march, the hunter's toils,
And—lost his laurels—gladly tries
In distant garrison to meet
The triumph of a safe retreat.”
And flushing cheeks, the youth replies;
“But tell me of the conflict, when
With twenty picked of Marion's men —
With twenty matched, in open field,
You forced the enemy to yield.
Which are the gallant men you chose
To meet the challenge of your foes?”
“One near, with busy hands you see,
Cleaning the rifle on his knee;
Broad-chested, like a bull, his hair,
Black, glossy, like an autumn bear;
A bolder heart or stronger hand
Rode never yet in Marion's band.
Another leans on yonder bay,
In hunting shirt and leggings gray,
With folded arms and hunter's eye,
Watching the wild ducks whizzing by;
Straight as a sapling, strong and tall,
And apt alike, in festive hall,
In dance, or danger's sudden call.
Another by the camp-fire stands,
Busy among the blazing brands;
109
The product of his trap or snare,
Squirrel or rabbit, asks his care;
A raw-boned, iron man, his frame
Nor time can bend, nor labors tame;
No scout like him! By night, by day,
He tracks the deer or foeman's way;
No quicker eye, no surer aim,
For battle-field or forest game.
Vanderhorst their leader, on they went,
To meet the challenge of the foe.
No guests on feast or wedding bent
With lighter step or spirits go.
The field at hand, with sudden cheer
They forward rush—the place is bare,
On silent wing the bird is flown,
Brave McIlraith has wiser grown;
Withdraws his chosen men and flies,
Rushes from wood to wood, and foils,
By rapid march, the hunter's toils,
And—lost his laurels—gladly tries
In distant garrison to meet
The triumph of a safe retreat.”
His opponents complained that Marion relied on stratagem and surprise, and challenged his troop to a contest of twenty picked men, in open field.
V.—THE FLAG
The story paused, but forward bent,
The listeners, with insatiate ear,
Sat all unwearied, and intent
Some other gallant deed to hear.
But most the tale of war inflames
The brother of the veteran James,
The lad whose questions brief and bold,
His frank and ardent spirit told;
New to the war, he longed to try
His skill and strength of arm and eye;
For often in the forest near
His shot had stopped the bounding deer,
And rapid as the flash of light
Had struck the partridge in her flight.
The listeners, with insatiate ear,
110
Some other gallant deed to hear.
But most the tale of war inflames
The brother of the veteran James,
The lad whose questions brief and bold,
His frank and ardent spirit told;
New to the war, he longed to try
His skill and strength of arm and eye;
For often in the forest near
His shot had stopped the bounding deer,
And rapid as the flash of light
Had struck the partridge in her flight.
But mute the wily hunter lies,
And peers around with searching eyes
And frowning brow. His ready ear
Had caught the sound of footsteps near;
And soon the parted boughs between
Two scouts of Marion's band are seen;
Between the two, with bandaged eyes,
To guard their fastness from surprise,
In scarlet dress a third appears.
A flag of truce the Briton bears—
He comes commissioned to provide
Exchange of prisoners, and to frame
Some plan, to curb on either side,
The license that disgraced its name;
To crush the base marauding bands
That marred the noble soldier's toils,
The bandit hordes, whose felon hands
With murder reeked and bloody spoils.
And peers around with searching eyes
And frowning brow. His ready ear
Had caught the sound of footsteps near;
And soon the parted boughs between
Two scouts of Marion's band are seen;
Between the two, with bandaged eyes,
To guard their fastness from surprise,
In scarlet dress a third appears.
A flag of truce the Briton bears—
He comes commissioned to provide
Exchange of prisoners, and to frame
Some plan, to curb on either side,
The license that disgraced its name;
To crush the base marauding bands
That marred the noble soldier's toils,
111
With murder reeked and bloody spoils.
With calm, frank air, and courteous word,
The forest warrior met his guest,
The plan with glad attention heard,
The wish with earnest warmth exprest
That something they might do to stay
The license of that bloody day.
Brave hearts with equal honor fraught,
Soldiers alike in deed and thought,
Each, in his foe, with ready eyes
A brother seemed to recognize.
The forest warrior met his guest,
The plan with glad attention heard,
The wish with earnest warmth exprest
That something they might do to stay
The license of that bloody day.
Brave hearts with equal honor fraught,
Soldiers alike in deed and thought,
Each, in his foe, with ready eyes
A brother seemed to recognize.
The business done, and noon-day near,
The parting guest was prest to stay:
“Stop,” said the Chief, “my larder share;
'Tis ampler than is wont, to-day;
Whatever be the dish, at least,
You're warmly welcomed to the feast.”
The parting guest was prest to stay:
“Stop,” said the Chief, “my larder share;
'Tis ampler than is wont, to-day;
Whatever be the dish, at least,
You're warmly welcomed to the feast.”
They sat, the chair a fallen pine,
Its bark their dish; the simple fare
Potatoes, and the daintiest wine—
Cool water from the fountain near.
With wonder struck, the Briton viewed
The drink, the furniture, the food:
“Is this your life,” he gravely said,
“Is this your daily meat and bread?
On food like this, will soldiers stay,
To watch by night, to fight by day,
And give their blood and lives away?”
“We fight for freedom, not for pride,
Or wealth, or power,” the Chief replied.
The Briton bowed—his manly heart
Was moved—in silence on his way,
Thoughtful he went. “Is mine the part
To fight such men,” he said, “for pay?
No never!” To his island shore
He turned his steps, his sword resigned,
Untainted with fraternal gore.
He left no nobler heart behind.
How few like him! how few that give
The dismal tales of every clime
A brighter page, and nobly live
To cheer the waste of wrong and crime;
Tales else that hatred and disgust
Would spurn and trample in the dust.
Its bark their dish; the simple fare
Potatoes, and the daintiest wine—
Cool water from the fountain near.
With wonder struck, the Briton viewed
The drink, the furniture, the food:
“Is this your life,” he gravely said,
“Is this your daily meat and bread?
On food like this, will soldiers stay,
112
And give their blood and lives away?”
“We fight for freedom, not for pride,
Or wealth, or power,” the Chief replied.
The Briton bowed—his manly heart
Was moved—in silence on his way,
Thoughtful he went. “Is mine the part
To fight such men,” he said, “for pay?
No never!” To his island shore
He turned his steps, his sword resigned,
Untainted with fraternal gore.
He left no nobler heart behind.
How few like him! how few that give
The dismal tales of every clime
A brighter page, and nobly live
To cheer the waste of wrong and crime;
Tales else that hatred and disgust
Would spurn and trample in the dust.
Rare are the noble hearts that, strong
In fixt resolve and purpose high,
Retain amid the common throng
Some semblance of their native sky;
Not theirs the part, with groveling eye,
To watch Ambition's paths alone,
And every mean allurement try
To make her maddening heights their own.
With hand of steel, with heart of stone,
Not theirs through carnage to obtain
The victor's wreath, the monarch's throne,
And deluge earth with crimson rain;
Nor theirs, the deep enduring stain
Of those that, formed for nobler aim,
For truth, for honor, basely train
Their powers to grope for party fame,
To win from fools or knaves a name—
To worship Mammon, to degrade,
For office sake, the sacred flame
By Heaven for nobler objects made;
The flowers of genius shrink and fade—
Even they shall moulder into dust,
If on unhallowed altars laid
To wreathe the brows of wine or lust:
Time with no laurel crowns the bust
Of him who basely trades away
His birthright and the sacred trust,
For the low purpose dares betray,
To him the garlands of a day;
Not those of amaranth belong,
Such as diviner brows display,
That love the right and scorn the wrong:
Alas! that, lost amid the throng,
His name unpraised we never knew,
To whom applause and minstrel song,
Love, honor, monuments are due;
His name, who bravely cast aside
Advancement, friendship, martial pride,
And scorned the efforts to enslave,
By arms, the noble and the brave.
In fixt resolve and purpose high,
Retain amid the common throng
Some semblance of their native sky;
Not theirs the part, with groveling eye,
To watch Ambition's paths alone,
And every mean allurement try
To make her maddening heights their own.
With hand of steel, with heart of stone,
Not theirs through carnage to obtain
113
And deluge earth with crimson rain;
Nor theirs, the deep enduring stain
Of those that, formed for nobler aim,
For truth, for honor, basely train
Their powers to grope for party fame,
To win from fools or knaves a name—
To worship Mammon, to degrade,
For office sake, the sacred flame
By Heaven for nobler objects made;
The flowers of genius shrink and fade—
Even they shall moulder into dust,
If on unhallowed altars laid
To wreathe the brows of wine or lust:
Time with no laurel crowns the bust
Of him who basely trades away
His birthright and the sacred trust,
For the low purpose dares betray,
To him the garlands of a day;
Not those of amaranth belong,
Such as diviner brows display,
That love the right and scorn the wrong:
Alas! that, lost amid the throng,
His name unpraised we never knew,
To whom applause and minstrel song,
Love, honor, monuments are due;
His name, who bravely cast aside
Advancement, friendship, martial pride,
114
By arms, the noble and the brave.
VI.—THE ALARM
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.
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.
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—
115
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.
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.
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,
116
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.
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.
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;
117
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.
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;
118
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.
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:
119
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.
VII.—THE CHANGE
Fortune, that with capricious smile
Lures and deludes the eager throng,
Most loves the wary to beguile:
To bend the proud, to break the strong;
And now in her accustomed way,
With frowns for smiles, she turns to meet
The Briton's insolence of sway,
And change his triumph to defeat;
Ebbs the full tide, the crimson flush
Of conquest sinks in deepening gloom,
From vale and glen, the swelling rush
Of numbers tells his coming doom;
Sumter's indomitable will,
And Pickens with adroiter skill
Their fiery followers lead again
To sweep the posts of hill and plain;
And Greene, his country's sword and shield,
With troops now trained to war's array,
Hurries from Guilford's bloody field
To drive the leopard from his prey:
He comes—the foe no longer dares
His wasted squadrons to divide,
But from each distant post prepares
To draw his forces to his side.
Now far and near, with slackened rein,
Shall Marion's troopers scour the plain,
From golden fields of Waccanaw,
To where in wider circuit flow
The southern floods of Edisto,
His sword is government and law;
He sweeps the country from the main
Like autumn storms of wind and rain;
Post, fortress, vainly strive to stay
Or fetter his resistless way,
And check the fortunes of the day.
Fort Watson, from its lofty site,
Defiance dared, but dares no more;
From logs built up to loftier height
Their deadly shot the yeomen pour,
So sharp, so true; the work is done,
The banner struck, the fortress won,
And vain for succor or relief
The message to their distant chief.
'Twas then the patriot matron gave
Her stately mansion to the flame;
She saw, to save it, was to save
The hostile fort that bore her name.
With generous haste, that scorned to pause
In honor's and her country's cause,
She lent the flaming shaft that flew
The bow that winged its way on high,
And calmly stood and smiled to view
Her cherished home in ashes lie.
While fashion's idle votaries die
Unknown, the insects of a day,
The light of immortality
Around her brow shall ever play;
In poet's tale, in minstrel's lay,
The deed shall never be forgot,
And history's pages shall display,
For aye, the gentle name of Motte.
In maiden's song it finds a place,
Its sweetest ornament and grace;
On every tongue, a household word,
That honored name is ever heard.
Taught by devotion pure and warm
Like this, each manly bosom glows,
It lends his cause a brighter charm,
It gives new force to Freedom's blows;
Resistless now her arms shall sweep
The proud invader to the deep.
Lures and deludes the eager throng,
Most loves the wary to beguile:
To bend the proud, to break the strong;
And now in her accustomed way,
With frowns for smiles, she turns to meet
120
And change his triumph to defeat;
Ebbs the full tide, the crimson flush
Of conquest sinks in deepening gloom,
From vale and glen, the swelling rush
Of numbers tells his coming doom;
Sumter's indomitable will,
And Pickens with adroiter skill
Their fiery followers lead again
To sweep the posts of hill and plain;
And Greene, his country's sword and shield,
With troops now trained to war's array,
Hurries from Guilford's bloody field
To drive the leopard from his prey:
He comes—the foe no longer dares
His wasted squadrons to divide,
But from each distant post prepares
To draw his forces to his side.
Now far and near, with slackened rein,
Shall Marion's troopers scour the plain,
From golden fields of Waccanaw,
To where in wider circuit flow
The southern floods of Edisto,
His sword is government and law;
He sweeps the country from the main
Like autumn storms of wind and rain;
Post, fortress, vainly strive to stay
Or fetter his resistless way,
And check the fortunes of the day.
121
Defiance dared, but dares no more;
From logs built up to loftier height
Their deadly shot the yeomen pour,
So sharp, so true; the work is done,
The banner struck, the fortress won,
And vain for succor or relief
The message to their distant chief.
'Twas then the patriot matron gave
Her stately mansion to the flame;
She saw, to save it, was to save
The hostile fort that bore her name.
With generous haste, that scorned to pause
In honor's and her country's cause,
She lent the flaming shaft that flew
The bow that winged its way on high,
And calmly stood and smiled to view
Her cherished home in ashes lie.
While fashion's idle votaries die
Unknown, the insects of a day,
The light of immortality
Around her brow shall ever play;
In poet's tale, in minstrel's lay,
The deed shall never be forgot,
And history's pages shall display,
For aye, the gentle name of Motte.
In maiden's song it finds a place,
Its sweetest ornament and grace;
122
That honored name is ever heard.
Taught by devotion pure and warm
Like this, each manly bosom glows,
It lends his cause a brighter charm,
It gives new force to Freedom's blows;
Resistless now her arms shall sweep
The proud invader to the deep.
No more shall Carolina lie
Prostrate in mortal agony,
No longer shall her valleys feel
The accursed tramp of hostile heel,
Nor, day by day, shall field or flood
Be stained with streams of native blood;
But ever on, her foot shall climb
The heights of fame to endless time,
And trophies won in war or peace
By gallant sons, shall never cease.
Prostrate in mortal agony,
No longer shall her valleys feel
The accursed tramp of hostile heel,
Nor, day by day, shall field or flood
Be stained with streams of native blood;
But ever on, her foot shall climb
The heights of fame to endless time,
And trophies won in war or peace
By gallant sons, shall never cease.
Bright as thy skies, my native land,
In glory's path thy steps shall shine.
No braver heart nor readier hand,
At honor's call, shall come than thine.
Where fight the foremost, ever there
Thy sword shall cross the haughtiest foe;
No flag in victory's proud career
A nobler place than thine shall know.
No eloquence in Senate hall,
Of bolder tone or loftier flight,
Shall crush the false, the base appall,
Uphold and vindicate the right.
By Freedom's arc and altar, none
Keep watch and ward with keener eye,
With deeper scorn, the traitor shun,
Clear in their hallowed ministry.
In glory's path thy steps shall shine.
No braver heart nor readier hand,
At honor's call, shall come than thine.
Where fight the foremost, ever there
Thy sword shall cross the haughtiest foe;
No flag in victory's proud career
A nobler place than thine shall know.
No eloquence in Senate hall,
123
Shall crush the false, the base appall,
Uphold and vindicate the right.
By Freedom's arc and altar, none
Keep watch and ward with keener eye,
With deeper scorn, the traitor shun,
Clear in their hallowed ministry.
Nor yet has earth's supremest race
Borne forms and faces more divine
In virgin loveliness and grace,
More soft, more bright, more pure than thine;
The gifts, sweet look, sweet speech, sweet thought,
The maiden gifts of Chaucer's lay,
None live of earth more richly fraught
With all these gentle gifts than they.
So ever onward by thy course,
So brave thy sons, thy daughters chaste,
And never be by fraud or force
Thy honors stained, thy arms defaced.
Proudly, with flashing eye of scorn,
Look down, if slander dare defame,
No lying tongue of woman born
Shall taint the lustre of thy name:
Too high, too bright, thy glorious sphere
For carrion birds to shelter there.
Borne forms and faces more divine
In virgin loveliness and grace,
More soft, more bright, more pure than thine;
The gifts, sweet look, sweet speech, sweet thought,
The maiden gifts of Chaucer's lay,
None live of earth more richly fraught
With all these gentle gifts than they.
So ever onward by thy course,
So brave thy sons, thy daughters chaste,
And never be by fraud or force
Thy honors stained, thy arms defaced.
Proudly, with flashing eye of scorn,
Look down, if slander dare defame,
No lying tongue of woman born
Shall taint the lustre of thy name:
Too high, too bright, thy glorious sphere
For carrion birds to shelter there.
124
VIII.—EUTAW
September's sky is calm and clear,
A vault of fire—the burning air
An oven's breath; the wasted rill
Sinks and deserts the idle mill;
The reservoir is dry, its bed
A pasture with rank grasses spread;
The sluggish cattle in the shade
Chew lazily; the shriveled blade
Of grass or maize is crisp and sere,
Dews fall no more; the mid-day glare
Is blinding—birds have ceased to sing,
The crow alone is on the wing,
With piercing eye and subtle scent
And mustering caw, on plunder bent;
The breath of every breeze is lost,
The lightest feather upward tost
Sinks down to earth; on lake or stream
No ripple breaks the dazzling gleam;
A quivering haze is on the ground,
A death-like quiet slumbers round:
When suddenly a sound of fear
Roars on the forest's startled ear—
The rush of war, the iron heel
Of horse, the clang of hostile steel,
The tramp of men, the solemn boom
Of cannon shot, a voice of doom.
Greene, like an eagle from his rock,
His wings new plumed, his force restored,
Swoops down upon the frightened flock,
From Santee's hills, by Howel's ford.
Not burning suns can stop his way,
Nor fever hosts of summer stay,
Nor troops, nor stores withheld, delay
His onward course—from short repose
He rushes on his slumbering foes.
And foremost there the task to share,
The conflict meet, the peril dare,
Are Marion's men; no keener eye,
No bolder heart to do or die
Greene's steadiest veterans supply.
A vault of fire—the burning air
An oven's breath; the wasted rill
Sinks and deserts the idle mill;
The reservoir is dry, its bed
A pasture with rank grasses spread;
The sluggish cattle in the shade
Chew lazily; the shriveled blade
Of grass or maize is crisp and sere,
Dews fall no more; the mid-day glare
Is blinding—birds have ceased to sing,
The crow alone is on the wing,
With piercing eye and subtle scent
And mustering caw, on plunder bent;
The breath of every breeze is lost,
The lightest feather upward tost
Sinks down to earth; on lake or stream
No ripple breaks the dazzling gleam;
A quivering haze is on the ground,
A death-like quiet slumbers round:
When suddenly a sound of fear
Roars on the forest's startled ear—
The rush of war, the iron heel
Of horse, the clang of hostile steel,
The tramp of men, the solemn boom
Of cannon shot, a voice of doom.
125
His wings new plumed, his force restored,
Swoops down upon the frightened flock,
From Santee's hills, by Howel's ford.
Not burning suns can stop his way,
Nor fever hosts of summer stay,
Nor troops, nor stores withheld, delay
His onward course—from short repose
He rushes on his slumbering foes.
And foremost there the task to share,
The conflict meet, the peril dare,
Are Marion's men; no keener eye,
No bolder heart to do or die
Greene's steadiest veterans supply.
Where Eutaw's fountains, deep and clear,
Pour out at once a river's force,
A thicket fringing all its course,
An open field and mansion near,
The battle raged—a fiercer strife,
More prodigal of blood and life,
Fought never Rome's resistless bands,
When, yet their vigor fresh and young,
On conquering wings their eagles hung,
O'er African or Asian lands.
Pour out at once a river's force,
A thicket fringing all its course,
An open field and mansion near,
The battle raged—a fiercer strife,
More prodigal of blood and life,
Fought never Rome's resistless bands,
When, yet their vigor fresh and young,
On conquering wings their eagles hung,
O'er African or Asian lands.
Beneath the lofty, leafy arch,
Within the grand primeval shade
Of forest trees, their adverse march,
On either side, the armies made;
And now their chiefs with skill and care
The frowning front of war prepare;
Malmedy, Marion, Pickens, form
The foremost line; their yeomen meet
The first, fierce fury of the storm,
Its iron hail and fiery sleet;
Next, stately, like a towering oak,
Campbell arrays his martial train
From distant Dan and Roanoke,
From mountain ridge and piny plain;
Beside them Williams, true and tried,
Hardman and Howard by his side,
Ranges his band, Patapsco's pride;
And gaily Kirkwood's Delawares
Their post assume—a host, though few,
When war his sternest aspect rears
No braver heart, nor hand more true,
The sword of battle ever drew.
Within the grand primeval shade
Of forest trees, their adverse march,
On either side, the armies made;
126
The frowning front of war prepare;
Malmedy, Marion, Pickens, form
The foremost line; their yeomen meet
The first, fierce fury of the storm,
Its iron hail and fiery sleet;
Next, stately, like a towering oak,
Campbell arrays his martial train
From distant Dan and Roanoke,
From mountain ridge and piny plain;
Beside them Williams, true and tried,
Hardman and Howard by his side,
Ranges his band, Patapsco's pride;
And gaily Kirkwood's Delawares
Their post assume—a host, though few,
When war his sternest aspect rears
No braver heart, nor hand more true,
The sword of battle ever drew.
Bold, too, and firm the hostile ranks—
Stewart, like a Briton, scorns retreat,
And Coffin and Majoribanks
Are worthy of the foes they meet.
Stewart, like a Briton, scorns retreat,
And Coffin and Majoribanks
Are worthy of the foes they meet.
In quiet woods that ne'er before
Had echoed to the battle's roar,
Where lowing herds alone were heard,
Or warbled song of hidden bird,
The conflict raves—the trembling ground,
With bursting shell or crashing ball,
Is rent and torn, from trees around
The shattered leaves and branches fall;
Fiercer the roar of battle grows,
With roll of drum and furious shout,
And teeth firm set and flashing eye,
And leveled steel, resistlessly,
They charge, the clashing bayonets close;
A moment's pause of anxious doubt,
A moment's pause, then fiercely on,
Like torrent, bank and barrier gone,
Williams and Campbell sweep the field,
Like lurid clouds that break and fly,
Before the gale, along the sky,
The hostile bands disordered yield;
The day is won!—but, ah, how soon
May Fortune's frown her gifts resume—
Snatch from the hand her brightest boon,
And turn the sunlight into gloom.
In vain achieved the glorious deed,
For honor and their country's need,
Still many a gallant heart must bleed.
Had echoed to the battle's roar,
Where lowing herds alone were heard,
Or warbled song of hidden bird,
The conflict raves—the trembling ground,
127
Is rent and torn, from trees around
The shattered leaves and branches fall;
Fiercer the roar of battle grows,
With roll of drum and furious shout,
And teeth firm set and flashing eye,
And leveled steel, resistlessly,
They charge, the clashing bayonets close;
A moment's pause of anxious doubt,
A moment's pause, then fiercely on,
Like torrent, bank and barrier gone,
Williams and Campbell sweep the field,
Like lurid clouds that break and fly,
Before the gale, along the sky,
The hostile bands disordered yield;
The day is won!—but, ah, how soon
May Fortune's frown her gifts resume—
Snatch from the hand her brightest boon,
And turn the sunlight into gloom.
In vain achieved the glorious deed,
For honor and their country's need,
Still many a gallant heart must bleed.
The strong-walled mansion-house behind,
The flying host a fortress find,
And tents invitingly are near,
And tables with abundant cheer,
To half-fed troops a tempting snare;
Alas! that Victory's foot should pause
And falter for so light a cause,
Losing the precious moment when,
The chance once lost, no more success
Returns with smiling lip to bless
The fleeting hopes of mortal men.
'Tis lost, the rallying foes reform
Their broken ranks with small delay;
Vainly may Campbell toil to storm
The mansion fort that bars his way;
Idly, a prodigal of life,
He dares the charge with peril rife
And sinks amid the unequal strife.
And vainly Washington assails
The band that held the British flank
In copses hid by Eutaw's bank;
Fierce though the charge, the onset fails,
'Mid stunted oaks and saplings, where
Majoribanks still kept his post
Like Paladin that knew no fear;
The charger falls—the rider's lost—
A prisoner on the battle field,
Wounded, entangled, forced to yield
The sword he could no longer wield.
He sinks, the flag that ever flew
Foremost, where peril called the brave,
Then first the freaks of fortune knew,
And sunk beneath the crimson wave
Of battle; vainly now to save
His comrade, Hammond cuts his way;
Blackened with powder, stained with blood,
He strives to pierce the firm array,
In vain, that still undaunted stood
Protected by the pathless wood.
The flying host a fortress find,
And tents invitingly are near,
And tables with abundant cheer,
128
Alas! that Victory's foot should pause
And falter for so light a cause,
Losing the precious moment when,
The chance once lost, no more success
Returns with smiling lip to bless
The fleeting hopes of mortal men.
'Tis lost, the rallying foes reform
Their broken ranks with small delay;
Vainly may Campbell toil to storm
The mansion fort that bars his way;
Idly, a prodigal of life,
He dares the charge with peril rife
And sinks amid the unequal strife.
And vainly Washington assails
The band that held the British flank
In copses hid by Eutaw's bank;
Fierce though the charge, the onset fails,
'Mid stunted oaks and saplings, where
Majoribanks still kept his post
Like Paladin that knew no fear;
The charger falls—the rider's lost—
A prisoner on the battle field,
Wounded, entangled, forced to yield
The sword he could no longer wield.
He sinks, the flag that ever flew
Foremost, where peril called the brave,
Then first the freaks of fortune knew,
And sunk beneath the crimson wave
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His comrade, Hammond cuts his way;
Blackened with powder, stained with blood,
He strives to pierce the firm array,
In vain, that still undaunted stood
Protected by the pathless wood.
With ready hand and practiced eye,
Had Marion and his men been nigh
To force the covert foes to yield
The wood, and take the open field,
And give the trooper's sabre room,
Far different then had been the doom
Of him whose sword's resistless sway
Had shorn the crest of Tarleton's pride,
And turned, on Guilford's bloody day,
With Gunby's charge, the battle's tide.
Had Marion and his men been nigh
To force the covert foes to yield
The wood, and take the open field,
And give the trooper's sabre room,
Far different then had been the doom
Of him whose sword's resistless sway
Had shorn the crest of Tarleton's pride,
And turned, on Guilford's bloody day,
With Gunby's charge, the battle's tide.
The baffled troops, at last, retire;
Greene stays their onset and recalls,
He sees their ineffectual fire
Is vainly poured on solid walls;
And useless charge his troopers make
On pathless copse and tangled brake.
Another fierce September sun
Must close the work so well begun,
And, restlessly, with hope elate,
The morrow's call the hunters wait,
To drive the quarry to his fate.
Greene stays their onset and recalls,
He sees their ineffectual fire
Is vainly poured on solid walls;
And useless charge his troopers make
On pathless copse and tangled brake.
Another fierce September sun
Must close the work so well begun,
130
The morrow's call the hunters wait,
To drive the quarry to his fate.
But long before the morrow's dawn
The tents are struck, the foe is gone,
Arms, wounded, stores abandoned, fast
And far, before the morning's light
Shall tell the beaten Briton's flight.
He hastes away—the peril's past—
Yet, as he flies, among the trees
The deadly rifleman he sees;
In every copse and swamp and fen,
He dreads the shot of Marion's men,
Till panting, through the sun, he finds
His safety in the city lines.
The tents are struck, the foe is gone,
Arms, wounded, stores abandoned, fast
And far, before the morning's light
Shall tell the beaten Briton's flight.
He hastes away—the peril's past—
Yet, as he flies, among the trees
The deadly rifleman he sees;
In every copse and swamp and fen,
He dreads the shot of Marion's men,
Till panting, through the sun, he finds
His safety in the city lines.
The British tents were standing, and tables spread with refreshments for the troops, when the Americans reached them.
IX.—PEACE
The toilsome task at last is done,
The battle fought, the victory won;
Far through the land the cheering light
Of peace, with welcome radiance gilds
The lowliest vale, the loftiest height,
The cot, the hall, with rapture fills;
Matron and maid alike rejoice,
Gray-headed seniors and their boys,
The widow's heart forgets its pain—
The lost has not been lost in vain,
And Peace may fill his place again:
The mother, of her sons bereaved,
Though nothing earthly gives relief,
In freedom for their home achieved
Yet finds a balm that soothes her grief.
No lot so low but sees a bliss
In Peace and Hope's fair promises.
The battle fought, the victory won;
Far through the land the cheering light
Of peace, with welcome radiance gilds
The lowliest vale, the loftiest height,
The cot, the hall, with rapture fills;
Matron and maid alike rejoice,
Gray-headed seniors and their boys,
The widow's heart forgets its pain—
The lost has not been lost in vain,
And Peace may fill his place again:
The mother, of her sons bereaved,
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In freedom for their home achieved
Yet finds a balm that soothes her grief.
No lot so low but sees a bliss
In Peace and Hope's fair promises.
And what of those who fought and bled,
With constancy almost divine,
Whose toil and blood for years had fed
The feeble fire on Freedom's shrine;
Of those whose iron nerve had rent
The chain that bound the timid crowd,
Whose hearts by adverse years unbent,
To Fortune's power had never bowed:
The ragged soldier—what of him?
Do open hands their gifts bestow—
Do hearts with generous ardor glow—
Honoring the mutilated limb,
The gaunt, scarred frame? With garlands bound,
Praised, petted, followed, flattered, crowned;
March-worn and labor-wasted now,
Unfit for toil of spade and plough;
Finds he at last some happier lot,
Some nook of ease and bounteous cheer?
His wounds and sufferings are forgot,
His claims excite a smile or sneer,
Disbanded, scattered to the winds,
No place of rest the veteran finds;
A burthen to his country grown,
Compelled to beg or take his bread;
No cur, that gnaws his lonely bone,
More grudgingly was ever fed.
Upon that bright December day,
When crowded transports filled the bay
To bear the conquered hosts away,
The common joy had been complete
If, while the favoring breezes blew,
The bay had borne another fleet
Of transports for the conquerors, too;
Fond wishes, then, for favoring gales
Had filled the soldier's parting sails;
Warm hopes had moved the people's heart
That Fortune, with auspicious hand,
Would lead to some far richer land
The veteran, and would there impart
Her amplest, fairest gifts, that they
The burthen might no longer bear;
Now hateful grown, of food or pay,
For war, a foe no longer near;
The debt of gratitude too great,
They left the soldier to his fate.
With constancy almost divine,
Whose toil and blood for years had fed
The feeble fire on Freedom's shrine;
Of those whose iron nerve had rent
The chain that bound the timid crowd,
Whose hearts by adverse years unbent,
To Fortune's power had never bowed:
The ragged soldier—what of him?
Do open hands their gifts bestow—
Do hearts with generous ardor glow—
Honoring the mutilated limb,
The gaunt, scarred frame? With garlands bound,
Praised, petted, followed, flattered, crowned;
March-worn and labor-wasted now,
Unfit for toil of spade and plough;
Finds he at last some happier lot,
Some nook of ease and bounteous cheer?
His wounds and sufferings are forgot,
His claims excite a smile or sneer,
Disbanded, scattered to the winds,
No place of rest the veteran finds;
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Compelled to beg or take his bread;
No cur, that gnaws his lonely bone,
More grudgingly was ever fed.
Upon that bright December day,
When crowded transports filled the bay
To bear the conquered hosts away,
The common joy had been complete
If, while the favoring breezes blew,
The bay had borne another fleet
Of transports for the conquerors, too;
Fond wishes, then, for favoring gales
Had filled the soldier's parting sails;
Warm hopes had moved the people's heart
That Fortune, with auspicious hand,
Would lead to some far richer land
The veteran, and would there impart
Her amplest, fairest gifts, that they
The burthen might no longer bear;
Now hateful grown, of food or pay,
For war, a foe no longer near;
The debt of gratitude too great,
They left the soldier to his fate.
Yet, though the many spurned his claim,
And scorned the warrior's honest fame,
All generous hearts—a noble few,
Amid the base more purely bright,
As beacon lights that, ever true,
Shine clearest in the darkest night—
All generous hearts, with grief, deplore
The war-worn soldier's scanty store,
The country's promise falsely spoken,
The contract made and meanly broken;
The garb of rags, the dole of food,
The country's base ingratitude;
And gentler hearts with pity glow,
And favors fairer hands bestow,
And love's sweet sympathies impart
Their treasure to the veteran's heart;
His toils reward, his fortunes cheer—
Who more than he deserves the fair?
And scorned the warrior's honest fame,
All generous hearts—a noble few,
Amid the base more purely bright,
As beacon lights that, ever true,
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All generous hearts, with grief, deplore
The war-worn soldier's scanty store,
The country's promise falsely spoken,
The contract made and meanly broken;
The garb of rags, the dole of food,
The country's base ingratitude;
And gentler hearts with pity glow,
And favors fairer hands bestow,
And love's sweet sympathies impart
Their treasure to the veteran's heart;
His toils reward, his fortunes cheer—
Who more than he deserves the fair?
For him, the bravest of the brave,
Who, in his country's darkest hour,
Still bade her dauntless banner wave,
And spurn the stern invader's power;
For him one gentle bosom warmed,
One eager ear, intent to hear,
Insatiate sought the tale that charmed
Her heart with Marion's great career:
She loved the high heroic name,
The courage, ever prompt to dare,
The Patriot Chief's unspotted fame,
The gentle spirit, prone to spare,
That through long years of civil strife
With wrong and rancorous passions rife
Had passed without reproach or fear;
And now could challenge friend or foe,
In all that brave and bright career,
One blot or stain or shade to show,
Conscious no tongue of truth could speak
A charge to flush his manly cheek.
Who, in his country's darkest hour,
Still bade her dauntless banner wave,
And spurn the stern invader's power;
For him one gentle bosom warmed,
One eager ear, intent to hear,
Insatiate sought the tale that charmed
Her heart with Marion's great career:
She loved the high heroic name,
The courage, ever prompt to dare,
The Patriot Chief's unspotted fame,
The gentle spirit, prone to spare,
That through long years of civil strife
With wrong and rancorous passions rife
Had passed without reproach or fear;
134
In all that brave and bright career,
One blot or stain or shade to show,
Conscious no tongue of truth could speak
A charge to flush his manly cheek.
Her warm devotion, many a day,
Had smoothed and cheered the warrior's way,
The wanted aid had ever lent
The secret message often sent,
To warn him of the cunning wile,
The Briton's wrath, the Tory's guile;
And, now, his suit the warrior pays,
Nor pays in vain—she loved to praise
The chief and matchless partisan;
And from the chief to love the man
Is but an easy step, 'tis said,
Though silver threads, not singly now,
About the wooer's temple spread,
And broader showed his noble brow;
But still, in minstrel's tale, 'tis sung,
That heartfelt love is ever young,
Nor ceases with his purest light,
With tenderness as warm as true,
In winter climes to shine as bright
As spring or summer ever knew.
Had smoothed and cheered the warrior's way,
The wanted aid had ever lent
The secret message often sent,
To warn him of the cunning wile,
The Briton's wrath, the Tory's guile;
And, now, his suit the warrior pays,
Nor pays in vain—she loved to praise
The chief and matchless partisan;
And from the chief to love the man
Is but an easy step, 'tis said,
Though silver threads, not singly now,
About the wooer's temple spread,
And broader showed his noble brow;
But still, in minstrel's tale, 'tis sung,
That heartfelt love is ever young,
Nor ceases with his purest light,
With tenderness as warm as true,
In winter climes to shine as bright
As spring or summer ever knew.
135
X.—RETIREMENT
Sweet is repose by labor earned,
And safety won from perils past,
As skies, through breaking clouds discerned,
Are brightened by the stormy blast,
And smile upon the gazer's sight
With softer blue in purer light.
Amid his old ancestral woods,
The forest pines, that sentries stand,
Like marshalled giants of the land,
To guard its solemn solitudes,
The mansion-house of Marion rose,
With peace, and love, and honor blest,
Of weary wars a fitting close;
A place of joy, a home of rest,
A shrine of hospitality.
Its open portals sought the eye
Of every stranger wandering by,
And with a welcome, sure and warm,
Enticed his lingering step to stay,
And won him, with a growing charm,
To loiter joyous weeks away;
Around the board, of ample cheer,
With hearts still young, from day to day,
The veteran warriors revelled there;
Alert and strong, though worn and gray,
And listened with unwearied ear,
Or talked of battles fought and won;
And sometimes with a soldier's tear,
They named the names of comrades gone—
Brave hearts, but fated not to see
Their country's final victory.
And safety won from perils past,
As skies, through breaking clouds discerned,
Are brightened by the stormy blast,
And smile upon the gazer's sight
With softer blue in purer light.
Amid his old ancestral woods,
The forest pines, that sentries stand,
Like marshalled giants of the land,
To guard its solemn solitudes,
The mansion-house of Marion rose,
With peace, and love, and honor blest,
Of weary wars a fitting close;
A place of joy, a home of rest,
A shrine of hospitality.
Its open portals sought the eye
Of every stranger wandering by,
And with a welcome, sure and warm,
Enticed his lingering step to stay,
And won him, with a growing charm,
To loiter joyous weeks away;
Around the board, of ample cheer,
With hearts still young, from day to day,
The veteran warriors revelled there;
Alert and strong, though worn and gray,
And listened with unwearied ear,
Or talked of battles fought and won;
136
They named the names of comrades gone—
Brave hearts, but fated not to see
Their country's final victory.
On either side the mansion lay
Broad pastures for the generous steed,
There petted colts at pleasure play,
And flocks and herds securely feed;
With bell adorned, about the lawn,
Of lustrous eye and agile limb,
A deer half tamed, a forest fawn,
Walks gently or, in sudden whim
Or causeless fright, with graceful bounds,
Leaps the high fence and scours the grounds;
So lightly, airily it springs,
The creature seems to move on wings.
Broad pastures for the generous steed,
There petted colts at pleasure play,
And flocks and herds securely feed;
With bell adorned, about the lawn,
Of lustrous eye and agile limb,
A deer half tamed, a forest fawn,
Walks gently or, in sudden whim
Or causeless fright, with graceful bounds,
Leaps the high fence and scours the grounds;
So lightly, airily it springs,
The creature seems to move on wings.
More distant field and swamp sustain
A varied crop of golden grain,
And ample barns, with open door,
Welcome the rich autumnal store;
To help the hospitable fare,
The ready forest gives its share:
Fat turkeys first—the table's pride—
The partridge pasty by their side;
Blue teel and summer ducks supply
Another faultless luxury;
And rice-reared birds—more delicate
A dainty princess never ate:
The lake, the pond, their daily dish
And sport bestow, of various fish,
The choicest product of the stream,
Delicious trout and peerless bream.
But chiefest of the country cheer,
Plump haunches of the forest deer—
Not like the park's that, fed and tame,
Can give no taste to sylvan game:
These range at will the distant woods,
And browse the glades and swim the floods;
And, when the hunter's horn is heard,
And opening dogs are on the cry,
No sport so deeply ever stirred
The heart with joy. The hunter's eye
Flashes with fire, he spurs his steed
Through bush and brake with furious speed,
Till reached the stand, his steady aim
And sharp shot stop the flying game.
Brave sports, and worthy to impart
Due vigor to the hand and heart,
To train them for the bolder game
That guards their country's flag and fame;
Who that has felt the joy it gives,
But loves the life the hunter lives,
When free as air he wildly roves
The hill, the vale, the fields and groves;
Where nerve and eye, from every scene,
Fatigue and toil, grow strong and keen;
Fit, too, the sport for veterans, when
The bolder hunting past of men—
They want some mimic scene of strife
To mind them of their ancient life.
A varied crop of golden grain,
And ample barns, with open door,
Welcome the rich autumnal store;
To help the hospitable fare,
The ready forest gives its share:
Fat turkeys first—the table's pride—
The partridge pasty by their side;
Blue teel and summer ducks supply
Another faultless luxury;
And rice-reared birds—more delicate
A dainty princess never ate:
137
And sport bestow, of various fish,
The choicest product of the stream,
Delicious trout and peerless bream.
But chiefest of the country cheer,
Plump haunches of the forest deer—
Not like the park's that, fed and tame,
Can give no taste to sylvan game:
These range at will the distant woods,
And browse the glades and swim the floods;
And, when the hunter's horn is heard,
And opening dogs are on the cry,
No sport so deeply ever stirred
The heart with joy. The hunter's eye
Flashes with fire, he spurs his steed
Through bush and brake with furious speed,
Till reached the stand, his steady aim
And sharp shot stop the flying game.
Brave sports, and worthy to impart
Due vigor to the hand and heart,
To train them for the bolder game
That guards their country's flag and fame;
Who that has felt the joy it gives,
But loves the life the hunter lives,
When free as air he wildly roves
The hill, the vale, the fields and groves;
Where nerve and eye, from every scene,
Fatigue and toil, grow strong and keen;
Fit, too, the sport for veterans, when
138
They want some mimic scene of strife
To mind them of their ancient life.
Here, prompt to do each generous deed,
The widow help, the orphan feed,
With ready hand and open door,
To right the wronged, to aid the poor:
In every plan for good to lead,
To give desert its fitting meed.
Truth, knowledge, virtue to sustain,
The jars of new-made peace restrain
With vigorous hand and steady rein,
He lived beloved—his waning years
Flowed softly as a river flows,
Where green and flowery banks enclose
A quiet stream that gently bears
Its tribute to the parent deep,
And in its bosom sinks to sleep.
The widow help, the orphan feed,
With ready hand and open door,
To right the wronged, to aid the poor:
In every plan for good to lead,
To give desert its fitting meed.
Truth, knowledge, virtue to sustain,
The jars of new-made peace restrain
With vigorous hand and steady rein,
He lived beloved—his waning years
Flowed softly as a river flows,
Where green and flowery banks enclose
A quiet stream that gently bears
Its tribute to the parent deep,
And in its bosom sinks to sleep.
Sleep, gallant warrior, calmly sleep!
No mummeries shall here presume,
With heartless pageantries to heap
And desecrate thy simple tomb;
To virtue reared with reverent care,
By Love and Truth alone adorned,
No false pretense has offered there
The homage by thy spirit scorned;
It stands thy woodland home beside,
Where Eutaw's storied waters flow;
It needs no gift of pomp or pride,
Of vanity or vulgar show.
Fitly the forest warrior lies
In groves with mossy draperies hung,
His dome of state the vaulted skies,
By birds his requiem daily sung:
The wild deer bounds and browses near,
Around it sated herds repose,
And on his sculptured name the year
Drops crimson leaf-showers at its close.
Fair, like the scene, thy deed and thought
The pure example ever finds,
With nature's blended influence fraught
Apt audience here with noble minds.
Long ages hence, the voice of fame
Shall love its lessons to prolong;
Long ages hence, thy cherished name
Shall live the light of tale and song:
A light, a lustrous star, beside
The radiant host that shine to cheer
Ingenuous hearts, and prompt and guide
Their course in honor's high career.
Sleep, gallant chief, around thy grave
No sculptured busts nor columns rise,
But hither come the fair, the brave,
With swelling hearts and brimming eyes,
And feel, as at some hallowed shrine,
An influence here almost divine.
No mummeries shall here presume,
With heartless pageantries to heap
And desecrate thy simple tomb;
To virtue reared with reverent care,
By Love and Truth alone adorned,
No false pretense has offered there
The homage by thy spirit scorned;
It stands thy woodland home beside,
Where Eutaw's storied waters flow;
139
Of vanity or vulgar show.
Fitly the forest warrior lies
In groves with mossy draperies hung,
His dome of state the vaulted skies,
By birds his requiem daily sung:
The wild deer bounds and browses near,
Around it sated herds repose,
And on his sculptured name the year
Drops crimson leaf-showers at its close.
Fair, like the scene, thy deed and thought
The pure example ever finds,
With nature's blended influence fraught
Apt audience here with noble minds.
Long ages hence, the voice of fame
Shall love its lessons to prolong;
Long ages hence, thy cherished name
Shall live the light of tale and song:
A light, a lustrous star, beside
The radiant host that shine to cheer
Ingenuous hearts, and prompt and guide
Their course in honor's high career.
Sleep, gallant chief, around thy grave
No sculptured busts nor columns rise,
But hither come the fair, the brave,
With swelling hearts and brimming eyes,
And feel, as at some hallowed shrine,
An influence here almost divine.
| Selected poems by William J. Grayson | |