By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
[A very interesting bit of literary history attaches to this poem. The piece appeared in Mr. Bryant's first collected volume of poems about 1831. Mr. Bryant sent the volume, with a letter, to Washington Irving, then in London, with whom he had no personal acquaintance, and invoked his good offices in inducing Murray to bring out an English edition of the work. The time being peculiarly unpropitious, Murray declined to undertake the venture, but Irving found another publisher, and himself introduced the volume in the most favorable manner, with a dedicatory letter of his own. While passing the book through the press the publisher observed in this poem the lines:
"The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told,"
"The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told,"
"The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told,"
and assured Irving that he could not offer a work containing such a statement to a British public. It was impossible to consult the author, three thousand miles away, and Irving ventured to change the objectionable passage so that it should read:
"The foeman trembles in his campWhen Marion's name is told."
"The foeman trembles in his campWhen Marion's name is told."
"The foeman trembles in his campWhen Marion's name is told."
There is no reason to believe that Mr. Bryant ever resented the liberty or regarded it otherwise than as an act of friendly intervention; but some years later William Leggett, who had long been Mr. Bryant's editorial associate in the office of theEvening Post, but had severed his connection with that paper, made a virulent assault upon Irving in thePlaindealeron account of the change he had made, even going so far as to intimate that both that and his dealings with one of his own works were dictated by mean sycophancy and cowardice on Irving's part.—Editor.]
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
Ourband is few, but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good greenwood,Our tent the cypress tree;We know the forest round us;As seamen know the sea;We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear;When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil;We talk the battle over,And share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shout,As if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads,—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night windThat lifts his tossing mane.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and awayBack to the pathless forest,Before the peep of day.Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our bandWith kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the BritonForever from our shore.
Ourband is few, but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good greenwood,Our tent the cypress tree;We know the forest round us;As seamen know the sea;We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear;When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil;We talk the battle over,And share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shout,As if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads,—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night windThat lifts his tossing mane.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and awayBack to the pathless forest,Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our bandWith kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the BritonForever from our shore.