How many legends have been told or sungSince Rome—the nursling of the wolf—arose,Lean, gaunt and grim, and lapped the bubbling bloodOf fallen and dying foes.How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heardAt dawn, when, clad in steel, the long arrayOf marshaled armies glittering in the sunStretch, like the skies, away.But none so golden, chivalric and holyAs that of thine, Coriolanus—noneIn the imperial purple of old daysBut pale before its sun.True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base,Prone to idolatry of those who soughtTheir April smiles—who fawned to win their votes,Nor dreamed them dearly bought.Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king,First in Corioli—thy wounds in front—Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms,The battle's deadly brunt,To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance,And festal follies in Etruscan halls—Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down,Beyond the city walls,Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye,Demanding as a right their voice, and blushTo bare thy scars, while thy patrician scornMade cheek and forehead flush.The base cabals—the hate which drove thee forthA wanderer, ennobled thee: thy fameLooked lightning on the curs that dared abuse,But lacked the power to shame.Prouder thy spirit in that trying hourThan theirs who stung thee: well might'st thou go forthUndaunted, for thy fame was not of Rome,But, rather, of the earth.Yet it was hard to leave thy wife and babe—Virgilia and thy little one—hard to breakThe bonds that held thee to them: Rome grew dear—Most dear for their sweet sake.But as their forms waxed dim, thy festering heartLooked from thine eyes; thy swelling nostrils toldThe inward struggle, and thy heaving chestA human ocean rolled.Kneeling upon the ground, thy sinister armAdjuring heaven, thy soul broke forth in tonesOf thunder; but thy agony in that hourPale Rome repaid with groans.Coldly, with stately step and placid brow—A lull—the herald of the approaching storm—Thou went'st thy way toward Antium—trod its streetsWithout the thought of harm.Humble was thy approach, but thou went'st forthA Mars of the time—thy snorting steed arrayedAnd glistering with gold, while at thy heelsA thousand clarions brayed.Rome from her seven hills looked down with fear,Appalled and breathless, while her people stoodLike men awoke from sleep, amazed, aghast—With agues in their blood.Like an avenging angel with the swordOf wrath unsheathed, careering toward thy homeThrough flame and blood, thou rod'st: thy coming shookThe hundred gates of Rome.She, who abused, beseeched thee, but in vain—Humbled herself before thee; yet thy hateWas unappeased; and, like one stricken dumb,Rome gazed upon her fate.But when Volumnia came—thy mother—sheWho bore thee 'neath her heart, and, at her sideThe one who, in thy softer hours, with loveThy trembling lip called bride,Leading thy child—thy boy—the old hours cameLike south wind over thee; thy icy soulDissolved in tears; thy hard—thy iron heartAcknowledged love's control,And Rome was saved—Rome, who had wronged, was free!—Thou lost!—O, never from the depths of TimeCame sweeter record of the power of loveThan this, in my poor rhyme.Never was story fuller of the strengthOf love o'er hate: undimmed by age, it breathesA perfume, and a crown around thy brow,Coriolanus, wreathes!
How many legends have been told or sungSince Rome—the nursling of the wolf—arose,Lean, gaunt and grim, and lapped the bubbling bloodOf fallen and dying foes.
How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heardAt dawn, when, clad in steel, the long arrayOf marshaled armies glittering in the sunStretch, like the skies, away.
But none so golden, chivalric and holyAs that of thine, Coriolanus—noneIn the imperial purple of old daysBut pale before its sun.
True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base,Prone to idolatry of those who soughtTheir April smiles—who fawned to win their votes,Nor dreamed them dearly bought.
Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king,First in Corioli—thy wounds in front—Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms,The battle's deadly brunt,
To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance,And festal follies in Etruscan halls—Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down,Beyond the city walls,
Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye,Demanding as a right their voice, and blushTo bare thy scars, while thy patrician scornMade cheek and forehead flush.
The base cabals—the hate which drove thee forthA wanderer, ennobled thee: thy fameLooked lightning on the curs that dared abuse,But lacked the power to shame.
Prouder thy spirit in that trying hourThan theirs who stung thee: well might'st thou go forthUndaunted, for thy fame was not of Rome,But, rather, of the earth.
Yet it was hard to leave thy wife and babe—Virgilia and thy little one—hard to breakThe bonds that held thee to them: Rome grew dear—Most dear for their sweet sake.
But as their forms waxed dim, thy festering heartLooked from thine eyes; thy swelling nostrils toldThe inward struggle, and thy heaving chestA human ocean rolled.
Kneeling upon the ground, thy sinister armAdjuring heaven, thy soul broke forth in tonesOf thunder; but thy agony in that hourPale Rome repaid with groans.
Coldly, with stately step and placid brow—A lull—the herald of the approaching storm—Thou went'st thy way toward Antium—trod its streetsWithout the thought of harm.
Humble was thy approach, but thou went'st forthA Mars of the time—thy snorting steed arrayedAnd glistering with gold, while at thy heelsA thousand clarions brayed.
Rome from her seven hills looked down with fear,Appalled and breathless, while her people stoodLike men awoke from sleep, amazed, aghast—With agues in their blood.
Like an avenging angel with the swordOf wrath unsheathed, careering toward thy homeThrough flame and blood, thou rod'st: thy coming shookThe hundred gates of Rome.
She, who abused, beseeched thee, but in vain—Humbled herself before thee; yet thy hateWas unappeased; and, like one stricken dumb,Rome gazed upon her fate.
But when Volumnia came—thy mother—sheWho bore thee 'neath her heart, and, at her sideThe one who, in thy softer hours, with loveThy trembling lip called bride,
Leading thy child—thy boy—the old hours cameLike south wind over thee; thy icy soulDissolved in tears; thy hard—thy iron heartAcknowledged love's control,
And Rome was saved—Rome, who had wronged, was free!—Thou lost!—O, never from the depths of TimeCame sweeter record of the power of loveThan this, in my poor rhyme.
Never was story fuller of the strengthOf love o'er hate: undimmed by age, it breathesA perfume, and a crown around thy brow,Coriolanus, wreathes!
—"Mightier farThan strength of nerve or sinew, or the swayOf magic potent over sun or starIs Love, though oft to agony distrest,And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast."
—"Mightier farThan strength of nerve or sinew, or the swayOf magic potent over sun or starIs Love, though oft to agony distrest,And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast."
Night o'er the Santee! up the skyThe pale moon went with misty eye;And in the west a brooding cloud—Departed day's wind-lifted shroud—Waved slowly in the depths of blue,While now and then a world looked throughThe broken edge, as from aboveSteals down a seraph's glance of love,Through sorrow's cloud and mortal air,On breaking hearts or tearful prayer.
Night o'er the Santee! up the skyThe pale moon went with misty eye;And in the west a brooding cloud—Departed day's wind-lifted shroud—Waved slowly in the depths of blue,While now and then a world looked throughThe broken edge, as from aboveSteals down a seraph's glance of love,Through sorrow's cloud and mortal air,On breaking hearts or tearful prayer.
Within the recess of the woodThat on the river's margin stood,Encamped beneath the shadeOf solemn pine and cypress tree,And tulip soaring high and free,A patriot band had madeTheir pillows of the moss and leaves,Through which the moaning south-wind grievesWhen day forsakes the glade.And all save one slept hushed as nightBeneath the starry Infinite—That one a boy in years,Whose daring arm and flashing eye,When death and danger hovered nigh,Belied the trembling fearsAnd shrinking dread that seemed to speak,From quivering lip and pallid cheekAt sight of war's array;The first the fearful strife to bide,Forever at his captain's side,Was Lennard in the fray;Yet strange to tell, though oft besideThat captain's form he dared to bideThe cannon's fiery blast,His hand no human blood had shed,Beneath his steel no foe had bled,When in the battle cast.So said his comrades tried and cold,Who marveled that a heart so bold,Should beat in pitying breast.And now beside the smouldering fire,He marked its flickering flames expire,And watched his leader's rest.
Within the recess of the woodThat on the river's margin stood,Encamped beneath the shadeOf solemn pine and cypress tree,And tulip soaring high and free,A patriot band had madeTheir pillows of the moss and leaves,Through which the moaning south-wind grievesWhen day forsakes the glade.And all save one slept hushed as nightBeneath the starry Infinite—That one a boy in years,Whose daring arm and flashing eye,When death and danger hovered nigh,Belied the trembling fearsAnd shrinking dread that seemed to speak,From quivering lip and pallid cheekAt sight of war's array;The first the fearful strife to bide,Forever at his captain's side,Was Lennard in the fray;Yet strange to tell, though oft besideThat captain's form he dared to bideThe cannon's fiery blast,His hand no human blood had shed,Beneath his steel no foe had bled,When in the battle cast.So said his comrades tried and cold,Who marveled that a heart so bold,Should beat in pitying breast.And now beside the smouldering fire,He marked its flickering flames expire,And watched his leader's rest.
That leader—in the civil strifeThen waged for Liberty and Life,No braver spirit stood,Between his country and the chain,Mistaken tyranny would fainHave cast o'er lake and wood;And though in manhood's early morn,Young Huon led through strife and scornA trusty troop and free,Who left their homes his lot to share,For Freedom sworn to live and dare,Or die—at Fate's decree;And from the covert solitudeOf dark morass and thicket rudeGuerilla warfare waged,On Tory band, unwary foe,And struck full many a dauntless blow,While hate and conflict raged.
That leader—in the civil strifeThen waged for Liberty and Life,No braver spirit stood,Between his country and the chain,Mistaken tyranny would fainHave cast o'er lake and wood;And though in manhood's early morn,Young Huon led through strife and scornA trusty troop and free,Who left their homes his lot to share,For Freedom sworn to live and dare,Or die—at Fate's decree;And from the covert solitudeOf dark morass and thicket rudeGuerilla warfare waged,On Tory band, unwary foe,And struck full many a dauntless blow,While hate and conflict raged.
One hour from midnight and the sleepThat wrapped the stalwart frame so deep,Was woke by guard and sign;The forest sounded with the trampOf rushing steeds, until the campWas reached by foremost lineOf the brigade of fearless men,Who rode through wood, and brake, and fen,As speeds the red deer to his glen.No gorgeous suit of war array,No uniform of red or grayIn that rude band were seen;The ploughman's dress, but coarse and plain,And marred by toil with many a stain,Betrayed no gilded sheen;Their only badge the white cockade,No dagger's point or glittering bladeWas worn with martial pride,But sabre hilt and rifle true,Oftimes of dark, ensanguined hue,Were ever at the side.They hailed their comrades in the fight,With blazing fires illumed the night,And waged with jest and smile,As toward the lurid torches' lightRode up their chief the while.No pert gallant or Conrad he,With gay plume waving haughtily;Nor donned he aught his troopers o'er,Save that the leathern cap he woreIn front a silver crescent bore,Inscribed with "Death or Liberty."Of stature low, the piercing eye,And forehead broad, and full, and high,And lined with lofty thought;Were all that marked from his compeers,The man who through long, gloomy yearsWith tireless vigor wrought,Nerved by defeat for loftier aim,To build his country's Hope and Fame,And win for her a seat divineBeneath bright Freedom's hallowed shrine;And few, though rashly brave, would dare,To start the Swamp Fox[2]from his lair.Or in his fastness wild and dun,Cope with the rebel Marion.
One hour from midnight and the sleepThat wrapped the stalwart frame so deep,Was woke by guard and sign;The forest sounded with the trampOf rushing steeds, until the campWas reached by foremost lineOf the brigade of fearless men,Who rode through wood, and brake, and fen,As speeds the red deer to his glen.No gorgeous suit of war array,No uniform of red or grayIn that rude band were seen;The ploughman's dress, but coarse and plain,And marred by toil with many a stain,Betrayed no gilded sheen;Their only badge the white cockade,No dagger's point or glittering bladeWas worn with martial pride,But sabre hilt and rifle true,Oftimes of dark, ensanguined hue,Were ever at the side.They hailed their comrades in the fight,With blazing fires illumed the night,And waged with jest and smile,As toward the lurid torches' lightRode up their chief the while.No pert gallant or Conrad he,With gay plume waving haughtily;Nor donned he aught his troopers o'er,Save that the leathern cap he woreIn front a silver crescent bore,Inscribed with "Death or Liberty."Of stature low, the piercing eye,And forehead broad, and full, and high,And lined with lofty thought;Were all that marked from his compeers,The man who through long, gloomy yearsWith tireless vigor wrought,Nerved by defeat for loftier aim,To build his country's Hope and Fame,And win for her a seat divineBeneath bright Freedom's hallowed shrine;And few, though rashly brave, would dare,To start the Swamp Fox[2]from his lair.Or in his fastness wild and dun,Cope with the rebel Marion.
Soon Huon by the river's tideSought out his brave commander's side,And listened with respectful air,To learn what new emprise to share,What lurking foe to shun or brave.Short was their conference and grave,Ere Huon bade a trooper callHis page, young Lennard, to his aid;And passing 'neath the cedar tall,And giant oaks' far spreading shade,The boy with graceful step and light,Stood quickly in his captain's sight,And Marion thus, in kindly tone,Spoke with a frankness all his own."'T is said, my boy, thy heart is brave,Thy courage sure, and caution grave;This night, then, we will task thy power.Seek, ere the closing of the hour,The village inn that stands below,Embowered within the coppice glade,And learn the bearings of the foe—Their force in camp, and field, and shade;But ere the silver moon againO'er Carolina's hills shall wane,Meet us beside the deep lagoonBeyond, that knows no scorching noon."
Soon Huon by the river's tideSought out his brave commander's side,And listened with respectful air,To learn what new emprise to share,What lurking foe to shun or brave.Short was their conference and grave,Ere Huon bade a trooper callHis page, young Lennard, to his aid;And passing 'neath the cedar tall,And giant oaks' far spreading shade,The boy with graceful step and light,Stood quickly in his captain's sight,And Marion thus, in kindly tone,Spoke with a frankness all his own."'T is said, my boy, thy heart is brave,Thy courage sure, and caution grave;This night, then, we will task thy power.Seek, ere the closing of the hour,The village inn that stands below,Embowered within the coppice glade,And learn the bearings of the foe—Their force in camp, and field, and shade;But ere the silver moon againO'er Carolina's hills shall wane,Meet us beside the deep lagoonBeyond, that knows no scorching noon."
Anon, far down the silent wood,Undaunted by its solitude,Sped Lennard on his way;Until beneath a blasted pine,Beyond the forest gray,That tall, and bald, and hoary white,Gleamed through the dusky veil of night,As through Life's mist on human sightGleams vital truth divine,He paused, and from a whistle clear,Drew notes that thrilled the valley near.
Anon, far down the silent wood,Undaunted by its solitude,Sped Lennard on his way;Until beneath a blasted pine,Beyond the forest gray,That tall, and bald, and hoary white,Gleamed through the dusky veil of night,As through Life's mist on human sightGleams vital truth divine,He paused, and from a whistle clear,Drew notes that thrilled the valley near.
Within the rebel camp, meanwhile,No slumbers winning smiles beguile,From care to dreams away;The troop who view with fearless heartThe coming strife and battle's mart;And thus with blithesome song, though rude,Awake the echoes of the wood:Though dark the night,And fierce the fight,We fear no living foe;The swamp our home,The sky our dome,Our bed the turf below;We hail the strife,And prize not life,Unblessed by Freedom's smile;
Within the rebel camp, meanwhile,No slumbers winning smiles beguile,From care to dreams away;The troop who view with fearless heartThe coming strife and battle's mart;And thus with blithesome song, though rude,Awake the echoes of the wood:
Though dark the night,And fierce the fight,We fear no living foe;The swamp our home,The sky our dome,Our bed the turf below;We hail the strife,And prize not life,Unblessed by Freedom's smile;
And Age and Youth,To patriot Truth,Pledge hopefully the while.Our Country's nameMust sink in shame,Or sound in triumph free;Then, brothers, on!For Marion,Our homes and liberty.
And Age and Youth,To patriot Truth,Pledge hopefully the while.
Our Country's nameMust sink in shame,Or sound in triumph free;Then, brothers, on!For Marion,Our homes and liberty.
'T was morning—from the golden skyNight fled before day's burning eye,As flies the minister of sinFrom souls that kneel to God, to winCourage to meet the tempter's wile,And strength upon the strife to smile.Scarce had the cloudless sun betrayed,The flowers that bloomed in meadows low,Ere toward a thickly shaded glade,An armed horseman traveled slow;And paused beside a gushing spring,Whose gentle murmurs thrilled the air,As thrills an angel's unseen wingThe distant blue when mounting there.The dark trees hung above its wave,A tapestry of green,And arching o'er the waters, gaveA softness to the sheenOf mellow light that darted throughThe dewy leaves of richest hue;While round the huge trunks many a vine,Had bade its graceful tendrils twine;The blossoming grape and jessamine pale,Loading with sweets the summer gale.Not long with hasty step he trodThe narrow path and flowery sod,Ere gently o'er the sere leaves' bedA maiden passed with faltering tread.
'T was morning—from the golden skyNight fled before day's burning eye,As flies the minister of sinFrom souls that kneel to God, to winCourage to meet the tempter's wile,And strength upon the strife to smile.Scarce had the cloudless sun betrayed,The flowers that bloomed in meadows low,Ere toward a thickly shaded glade,An armed horseman traveled slow;And paused beside a gushing spring,Whose gentle murmurs thrilled the air,As thrills an angel's unseen wingThe distant blue when mounting there.The dark trees hung above its wave,A tapestry of green,And arching o'er the waters, gaveA softness to the sheenOf mellow light that darted throughThe dewy leaves of richest hue;While round the huge trunks many a vine,Had bade its graceful tendrils twine;The blossoming grape and jessamine pale,Loading with sweets the summer gale.Not long with hasty step he trodThe narrow path and flowery sod,Ere gently o'er the sere leaves' bedA maiden passed with faltering tread.
Oh! light was the step of the blooming girl,And glossy the hue of the raven curl,And joyous the glance of the dark eye's play,When the pride of the village was Morna Grey.But ruthless war to her dwelling came,Her brothers slept on the field of fame,Her father's blood on his hearth was shed;And the desolate orphan in anguish fledTo the cottage of one who her childhood nursed,And who soothed the spirit that grief had cursed;And now in the depths of that speaking eyeThere slumbered a sadness still and high,But veiled with a clear and mellow light,Like the softened glow of a moonlit night;And the rose on her cheek that came and went,Like the hues of the West when day is spent,Told how the chords of the heart below,Quivered and shrunk at the breath of wo.But why did a presage of coming ill,With a fiercer pang her bosom thrill,And pale her cheek to a deadlier hue,As she sought the spring where the jessamine grew?She had come to meet for a moment there,Ere he sought the field in the strife to share,One who her father had blessed in death,As she pledged her faith with faltering breath;And Huon with joyous smile and gay,Welcomed the presence of Morna Grey.
Oh! light was the step of the blooming girl,And glossy the hue of the raven curl,And joyous the glance of the dark eye's play,When the pride of the village was Morna Grey.But ruthless war to her dwelling came,Her brothers slept on the field of fame,Her father's blood on his hearth was shed;And the desolate orphan in anguish fledTo the cottage of one who her childhood nursed,And who soothed the spirit that grief had cursed;And now in the depths of that speaking eyeThere slumbered a sadness still and high,But veiled with a clear and mellow light,Like the softened glow of a moonlit night;And the rose on her cheek that came and went,Like the hues of the West when day is spent,Told how the chords of the heart below,Quivered and shrunk at the breath of wo.But why did a presage of coming ill,With a fiercer pang her bosom thrill,And pale her cheek to a deadlier hue,As she sought the spring where the jessamine grew?She had come to meet for a moment there,Ere he sought the field in the strife to share,One who her father had blessed in death,As she pledged her faith with faltering breath;And Huon with joyous smile and gay,Welcomed the presence of Morna Grey.
But the words they spoke were short and few—A soldier must be to his duty true;And ere a half hour had hastened by,She watched his steed as it hurried nigh,O'er the verdant plain to the cedars tall,Where his men were waiting their leader's call.As she dashed the drops that dimmed her sight,From the dark-fringed lids where they trembled bright,A rustling was heard in the brushwood near,And a crone, whose wild and fantastic gearBetrayed the erring of mind within,Stood in her presence with mocking grin."Said I not sorrows in dark array,Crowded the future of Morna Grey?Why from the cheek do the roses fly?Where is the light of the flashing eye?Where has the rounded lips, ruby red,Gone, since we parted beside the dead?The white owl entered the casement high,O'er the brow of the dying I saw it fly;Presager of death! I hailed its wing,She scorned the omen but felt the stingOf bitter grief, when another dayBore her angel Mother from earth away.I warned her, when on the coming blastI saw the phantom-like shades flit past;She smiled on my words as idle play,But wept when her sire, in the midnight fray,Felled to the dust by the Tory's blade,Died in the home where his bones are laid;When the cold drops stood on the forehead fair,And the curdling blood on the thin, gray hair.But the dead in silence forgotten sleep;She is weaving on earth a vision deep,Of joyous hopes that must fade and die,Like the bow that smiles when the tempests fly,In vain the strength of her youth is shed,In a path where she trembles and fears to tread;In vain—in vain would the fragile form,Brave the hot breath of the cannon's storm;The bullet speeds on its mission free—A broken heart and a grave I see.""Though dark my way, I fear it not;Speed, woman, to thy sheltered cot,Lest thou, with no protector nigh,Should catch some hostile wanderer's eye.My trust is in that mighty Power,Who rules the battle's wildest hour;And woman's love is like the flowerThat bloometh not in sunny bower;But when the dark and solemn night,Has gathered round with storm and blight,Unfolds its petals bright and rare,And sheds its fragrance on the air;And if it dare and peril all,Asks only to preserve or fall,His bleeding land requires his arm—God will protect the brave from harm.""Behold!" and Morna turned to gazeUpon the huge tree, dark and lone,The withered finger of the croneMarked out, and glancing in the raysOf morn, beheld a serpent coilIts glossy length, with easy toil,Up the brown trunk, till close it hungAbove the wild bird's nest and young;While round and round, with scream of dread,The frighted bird in anguish fled;And vainly sought to drive the foeFrom his dark aim again below.
But the words they spoke were short and few—A soldier must be to his duty true;And ere a half hour had hastened by,She watched his steed as it hurried nigh,O'er the verdant plain to the cedars tall,Where his men were waiting their leader's call.As she dashed the drops that dimmed her sight,From the dark-fringed lids where they trembled bright,A rustling was heard in the brushwood near,And a crone, whose wild and fantastic gearBetrayed the erring of mind within,Stood in her presence with mocking grin."Said I not sorrows in dark array,Crowded the future of Morna Grey?Why from the cheek do the roses fly?Where is the light of the flashing eye?Where has the rounded lips, ruby red,Gone, since we parted beside the dead?The white owl entered the casement high,O'er the brow of the dying I saw it fly;Presager of death! I hailed its wing,She scorned the omen but felt the stingOf bitter grief, when another dayBore her angel Mother from earth away.I warned her, when on the coming blastI saw the phantom-like shades flit past;She smiled on my words as idle play,But wept when her sire, in the midnight fray,Felled to the dust by the Tory's blade,Died in the home where his bones are laid;When the cold drops stood on the forehead fair,And the curdling blood on the thin, gray hair.But the dead in silence forgotten sleep;She is weaving on earth a vision deep,Of joyous hopes that must fade and die,Like the bow that smiles when the tempests fly,In vain the strength of her youth is shed,In a path where she trembles and fears to tread;In vain—in vain would the fragile form,Brave the hot breath of the cannon's storm;The bullet speeds on its mission free—A broken heart and a grave I see."
"Though dark my way, I fear it not;Speed, woman, to thy sheltered cot,Lest thou, with no protector nigh,Should catch some hostile wanderer's eye.My trust is in that mighty Power,Who rules the battle's wildest hour;And woman's love is like the flowerThat bloometh not in sunny bower;But when the dark and solemn night,Has gathered round with storm and blight,Unfolds its petals bright and rare,And sheds its fragrance on the air;And if it dare and peril all,Asks only to preserve or fall,His bleeding land requires his arm—God will protect the brave from harm."
"Behold!" and Morna turned to gazeUpon the huge tree, dark and lone,The withered finger of the croneMarked out, and glancing in the raysOf morn, beheld a serpent coilIts glossy length, with easy toil,Up the brown trunk, till close it hungAbove the wild bird's nest and young;While round and round, with scream of dread,The frighted bird in anguish fled;And vainly sought to drive the foeFrom his dark aim again below.
Moments there are when Reason's control,Yieldeth to Fancy in heart and soul;When the spirit views with prescient eye,The common light and shaded sky,An omen finds in the falling leaf,And symbols in all things of joy or grief.And this was one, for on that failing strifeHad Morna cast her dearest hope in life.Must she behold with power as vain to shield,Earth's only blessing from her presence torn?Was there a fiercer pang for her revealedIn that short conflict than she yet had known?Her dark eyes grew more wildly bright,And gleamed with an intenser light,As closer drew the venomed fang,And shrill the lone bird's accents rang.But, hark! a shot—a rustling fall—Approaching steps—a sportman's call—The parent bird is in the dust;And o'er the path that homeward led,With fleeting step fair Morna fled,And breathed a prayer of thanks and trust.Though sweet to live, more blest to die,For those that strong affections tieHas fettered to the clinging heart,With links not Death can wholly part.
Moments there are when Reason's control,Yieldeth to Fancy in heart and soul;When the spirit views with prescient eye,The common light and shaded sky,An omen finds in the falling leaf,And symbols in all things of joy or grief.And this was one, for on that failing strifeHad Morna cast her dearest hope in life.Must she behold with power as vain to shield,Earth's only blessing from her presence torn?Was there a fiercer pang for her revealedIn that short conflict than she yet had known?Her dark eyes grew more wildly bright,And gleamed with an intenser light,As closer drew the venomed fang,And shrill the lone bird's accents rang.But, hark! a shot—a rustling fall—Approaching steps—a sportman's call—The parent bird is in the dust;And o'er the path that homeward led,With fleeting step fair Morna fled,And breathed a prayer of thanks and trust.Though sweet to live, more blest to die,For those that strong affections tieHas fettered to the clinging heart,With links not Death can wholly part.
The day wore on, and down the West,The sun had rolled in his unrest;While gorgeous clouds of gold and red,Reflected back the splendor fled;And twilight—pensive nun, to pray,In silence drew her veil of gray.The last bright gleam was waxing pale,And low night winds began their wail,When near a ruined house, that stoodWithin a grove of tulip wood,Young Lennard paused and gazed awhile,With clouded brow and saddened smile,On trampled flowers, and shrubs, and vine,Torn from the pillar it would twineWith verdant bloom, and casting roundIts scarlet blossoms on the ground.A waste of weeds the garden lay,And grass grew in the carriage way;Cold desolation, like a pall,Had spread its mantle over all;Yet not the creeping touch of Time,Had wrecked that dwelling in its prime.The fierce and unrelenting wrathOf human war had crossed that path,And left its trace on all things near,Save the blue sky above our sphere.Anon, with hurried step and free,He crossed the ruined balcony,And passing by the fallen door,Stood on the dark hall's oaken floor.Lighting the pine-torch that he bore,He watched its lurid beams exploreThe gloomy precincts, and passed on,As one who knew each winding well,To a low room that lay beyond,And echoed to the south wind's knell.Upon the threshold crushed and lone,By rude marauder's hand o'erthrown,The holy volume lay;He raised it from its station there,And smoothed the crumpled leaves with care,Then sadly turned awayTo gaze upon a portrait near,Whose thoughtful eyes, so calm and clear,And chastened look and lofty mien,And forehead noble and serene,Told of a spirit touched by timeOnly to soften and sublime;Of woman's earnest faith and loveSurmounting earth to soar above.
The day wore on, and down the West,The sun had rolled in his unrest;While gorgeous clouds of gold and red,Reflected back the splendor fled;And twilight—pensive nun, to pray,In silence drew her veil of gray.The last bright gleam was waxing pale,And low night winds began their wail,When near a ruined house, that stoodWithin a grove of tulip wood,Young Lennard paused and gazed awhile,With clouded brow and saddened smile,On trampled flowers, and shrubs, and vine,Torn from the pillar it would twineWith verdant bloom, and casting roundIts scarlet blossoms on the ground.A waste of weeds the garden lay,And grass grew in the carriage way;Cold desolation, like a pall,Had spread its mantle over all;Yet not the creeping touch of Time,Had wrecked that dwelling in its prime.The fierce and unrelenting wrathOf human war had crossed that path,And left its trace on all things near,Save the blue sky above our sphere.Anon, with hurried step and free,He crossed the ruined balcony,And passing by the fallen door,Stood on the dark hall's oaken floor.Lighting the pine-torch that he bore,He watched its lurid beams exploreThe gloomy precincts, and passed on,As one who knew each winding well,To a low room that lay beyond,And echoed to the south wind's knell.Upon the threshold crushed and lone,By rude marauder's hand o'erthrown,The holy volume lay;He raised it from its station there,And smoothed the crumpled leaves with care,Then sadly turned awayTo gaze upon a portrait near,Whose thoughtful eyes, so calm and clear,And chastened look and lofty mien,And forehead noble and serene,Told of a spirit touched by timeOnly to soften and sublime;Of woman's earnest faith and loveSurmounting earth to soar above.
With quivering lip the boy gazed long;Unheeded and unmarked a throngMight there have met, so fixed his soulOn Memory's unfolding scroll.He knew not that the hours crept by,And sullen grew the deepening night;Again he met his mother's eye,As erst in joyous days and bright,And heard the accents clear and mild,Now hushed in death, breathe o'er her childA fervent blessing and a prayer;Again his father's silver hairGleamed on his sight, although the tombHad closed him in its rayless gloom.
With quivering lip the boy gazed long;Unheeded and unmarked a throngMight there have met, so fixed his soulOn Memory's unfolding scroll.He knew not that the hours crept by,And sullen grew the deepening night;Again he met his mother's eye,As erst in joyous days and bright,And heard the accents clear and mild,Now hushed in death, breathe o'er her childA fervent blessing and a prayer;Again his father's silver hairGleamed on his sight, although the tombHad closed him in its rayless gloom.
His leathern cap aside was flung,And o'er his brow the dark locks hungIn wild confusion, as he stoodAmid that haunted solitude,Raising the blazing torch to throwUpon the pictured face its glow.In him a careless eye might seeA semblance of that face in life;With more of fire and energyTo brave the storm and strife;With more of earthly hope to claim,And less of Heaven—yet still the same.
His leathern cap aside was flung,And o'er his brow the dark locks hungIn wild confusion, as he stoodAmid that haunted solitude,Raising the blazing torch to throwUpon the pictured face its glow.In him a careless eye might seeA semblance of that face in life;With more of fire and energyTo brave the storm and strife;With more of earthly hope to claim,And less of Heaven—yet still the same.
But suddenly the mystic spellThat bound him to the Past was rent;The vivid lightning, forked and red,Flashed through the broken casement, blentWith the loud thunder's awful roar,Prolonged and echoing o'er and o'er.The warring of the world withoutOffended not the struggling heart;Roused from the apathy of thoughtHe sought the casement with a start,And watched the raging storm sweep byWith kindling cheek and flashing eye.
But suddenly the mystic spellThat bound him to the Past was rent;The vivid lightning, forked and red,Flashed through the broken casement, blentWith the loud thunder's awful roar,Prolonged and echoing o'er and o'er.The warring of the world withoutOffended not the struggling heart;Roused from the apathy of thoughtHe sought the casement with a start,And watched the raging storm sweep byWith kindling cheek and flashing eye.
On! on! it came with fiery breath,Instinct with rage and winged with death,As downward swept, ere Time begunHis swift and varied race to run,Through realms chaotic and sublime,With wing of light and forehead pale,Immortal in remorse and crime,Thrilling the Infinite with wail,The apostate troops from lands of lightTo darkness, shame and withering blight.On! on! it came, and in its pathThe tall trees bent beneath its wrath,And fell with hollow, crashing sound,Torn and uprooted, to the ground.Still nearer grew the lightning flash,And heavier broke the thunder crash;And as, with almost blinded gaze,Watched Lennard the electric blaze,He saw through rain and densest nightA thin, pale line of waving lightSpeed to a lofty oak, whose headSunk powerless to its parent bed.
On! on! it came with fiery breath,Instinct with rage and winged with death,As downward swept, ere Time begunHis swift and varied race to run,Through realms chaotic and sublime,With wing of light and forehead pale,Immortal in remorse and crime,Thrilling the Infinite with wail,The apostate troops from lands of lightTo darkness, shame and withering blight.On! on! it came, and in its pathThe tall trees bent beneath its wrath,And fell with hollow, crashing sound,Torn and uprooted, to the ground.Still nearer grew the lightning flash,And heavier broke the thunder crash;And as, with almost blinded gaze,Watched Lennard the electric blaze,He saw through rain and densest nightA thin, pale line of waving lightSpeed to a lofty oak, whose headSunk powerless to its parent bed.
The hours passed on—the storm had spentThe fury to its madness lent,And wild and sullen clouds on highIn broken masses swept the sky,As Lennard left the ruined hall,And, bounding o'er the garden wall,Walked swiftly o'er the lonely plain,Till 'neath the blasted pine againHe paused, and blew the whistle low;Soon from a clump of firs belowAn aged servant slowly ledA saddled steed: the pale moon shedIts fitful gleam as Lennard sprungLight to his seat, then fearless flungThe bridle loose, and spurring, soonDrew up beside a deep lagoon,Whose stagnant waters 'neath the moonGlimmered through bush and hanging vine,And cypress bald and ragged pine.Concealed within the spectral gloom,Of wide morass and forest tomb,His comrades there he found;By many a devious winding led,Where the pale fire-flies' torches shedA fitful gleam around,He paused at length where Huon stood,Amid his faithful band, though rude,And thus his errand told:"Where bends the Santee in the plainHas Tarleton's troop encamped again,With careless movement bold;One half his men will march to-nightTo join the troop on Charleston height,The guard will be both dull and light;A few short hours, with speed and care,Must lead us to the station there."
The hours passed on—the storm had spentThe fury to its madness lent,And wild and sullen clouds on highIn broken masses swept the sky,As Lennard left the ruined hall,And, bounding o'er the garden wall,Walked swiftly o'er the lonely plain,Till 'neath the blasted pine againHe paused, and blew the whistle low;Soon from a clump of firs belowAn aged servant slowly ledA saddled steed: the pale moon shedIts fitful gleam as Lennard sprungLight to his seat, then fearless flungThe bridle loose, and spurring, soonDrew up beside a deep lagoon,Whose stagnant waters 'neath the moonGlimmered through bush and hanging vine,And cypress bald and ragged pine.Concealed within the spectral gloom,Of wide morass and forest tomb,His comrades there he found;By many a devious winding led,Where the pale fire-flies' torches shedA fitful gleam around,He paused at length where Huon stood,Amid his faithful band, though rude,And thus his errand told:"Where bends the Santee in the plainHas Tarleton's troop encamped again,With careless movement bold;One half his men will march to-nightTo join the troop on Charleston height,The guard will be both dull and light;A few short hours, with speed and care,Must lead us to the station there."
His mission o'er, with thoughtful look,The boy sought out a shaded nook,Apart from all—yet nearThe opening where the men had laidTheir rations on the mossy glade,Beside the swamp-marsh drear.Silent was he, reserved and shy,Seldom raising cap or eye;Not many days since first his handHad joined him to that patriot band;Yet none more truly did fulfill,The duties of his arm required,Though slight withal, and often stillWhen the loud signal-gun was fired,The herald of the coming fight,His cheek would pale like flowers at nightBeneath the autumn's chilling blight;None knew his residence or name,Save that of Lennard, which he toldThe morn when to the camp he came,And begged that he might be enrolledIn Huon's corps, to serve with thoseWho bled to heal their country's woes;Of late his arm had bolder grownWhen in the rout and skirmish thrown,And stronger, too, and Huon lovedThe slender boy who at his sideStood nobly when o'er War's red tideThe fiery death-shot moved.
His mission o'er, with thoughtful look,The boy sought out a shaded nook,Apart from all—yet nearThe opening where the men had laidTheir rations on the mossy glade,Beside the swamp-marsh drear.Silent was he, reserved and shy,Seldom raising cap or eye;Not many days since first his handHad joined him to that patriot band;Yet none more truly did fulfill,The duties of his arm required,Though slight withal, and often stillWhen the loud signal-gun was fired,The herald of the coming fight,His cheek would pale like flowers at nightBeneath the autumn's chilling blight;None knew his residence or name,Save that of Lennard, which he toldThe morn when to the camp he came,And begged that he might be enrolledIn Huon's corps, to serve with thoseWho bled to heal their country's woes;Of late his arm had bolder grownWhen in the rout and skirmish thrown,And stronger, too, and Huon lovedThe slender boy who at his sideStood nobly when o'er War's red tideThe fiery death-shot moved.
'Twas midnight, as with silent tread,Like one who bears the coffined dead,His valiant troopers Marion ledThrough long and dark defile;And on they marched till morning lightWith streaks of crimson touched the night;Then, unannounced by trumpet-clang,Fell on the slumb'ring foe;Swift to his post each warrior sprang,Above, around, below;And soon in close and eager strife,As o'er the tomb meet Death and Life,The hostile forces stood;The sabre flashed in day's bright eye,The whizzing shot, death-winged, swept by,The turf grew red with blood;And where the charge was hottest made,Where boldest fell the flashing blade,Was Huon foremost there;And ever near his daring handThe youngest, gentlest of his band,Stood Lennard on that day;Fierce raged the conflict o'er the dead,Until, o'erpowered, the vanquished fled;Yet ere they left the frayOne aimed the bloody lance he boreAt Huon's heart—a moment more,And Lennard fell, his life-blood o'erThe green turf welling fast;The blade that sought his leader's breastHis hand aside had cast;Swift to his aid his comrades prest;The death-hue on his forehead layAs Huon flung both sword and lanceWith quivering lip away,And met in Lennard's dying glanceThe smile of Morna Grey.
'Twas midnight, as with silent tread,Like one who bears the coffined dead,His valiant troopers Marion ledThrough long and dark defile;And on they marched till morning lightWith streaks of crimson touched the night;Then, unannounced by trumpet-clang,Fell on the slumb'ring foe;Swift to his post each warrior sprang,Above, around, below;And soon in close and eager strife,As o'er the tomb meet Death and Life,The hostile forces stood;The sabre flashed in day's bright eye,The whizzing shot, death-winged, swept by,The turf grew red with blood;And where the charge was hottest made,Where boldest fell the flashing blade,Was Huon foremost there;And ever near his daring handThe youngest, gentlest of his band,Stood Lennard on that day;Fierce raged the conflict o'er the dead,Until, o'erpowered, the vanquished fled;Yet ere they left the frayOne aimed the bloody lance he boreAt Huon's heart—a moment more,And Lennard fell, his life-blood o'erThe green turf welling fast;The blade that sought his leader's breastHis hand aside had cast;Swift to his aid his comrades prest;The death-hue on his forehead layAs Huon flung both sword and lanceWith quivering lip away,And met in Lennard's dying glanceThe smile of Morna Grey.
Beside the Santee's murmuring wave,They made the early dead a grave;And sometimes on its borders greenThe passing traveler has seenA spot where pale wild roses blowThe lofty oaks and firs below—The turf is verdant with the spray—There sleeps the dust of Morna Grey.And Huon?—Still his daring armWas lifted in his country's aid,Though life had lost its sunniest charm,And o'er the future hung a shade;And time would fail me now to tellOf all the deeds his valor wrought,How, when Fort Moultrie's color fell,He mounted 'mid the flames and shotThe merlon height, and fixed on highThe starry banner 'mid the sky.Nor how he died—the nobly slain,In bearing from the battle-plainThe flag intrusted to his care.But deeds like these were common thenAs life, and light, and air;Brave deeds that shall forever roundOur nation's annals cling;Perchance some louder harp shall sound,Some bolder spirit sing.For me—the first pale star on highHerald's the night with beaming eye,And down the west has rolled the sun—My song is o'er—my task is done.
Beside the Santee's murmuring wave,They made the early dead a grave;And sometimes on its borders greenThe passing traveler has seenA spot where pale wild roses blowThe lofty oaks and firs below—The turf is verdant with the spray—There sleeps the dust of Morna Grey.And Huon?—Still his daring armWas lifted in his country's aid,Though life had lost its sunniest charm,And o'er the future hung a shade;And time would fail me now to tellOf all the deeds his valor wrought,How, when Fort Moultrie's color fell,He mounted 'mid the flames and shotThe merlon height, and fixed on highThe starry banner 'mid the sky.Nor how he died—the nobly slain,In bearing from the battle-plainThe flag intrusted to his care.But deeds like these were common thenAs life, and light, and air;Brave deeds that shall forever roundOur nation's annals cling;Perchance some louder harp shall sound,Some bolder spirit sing.For me—the first pale star on highHerald's the night with beaming eye,And down the west has rolled the sun—My song is o'er—my task is done.
During the Revolution, a young girl plighted to an officer of Marion's corps, followed him without being discovered to the camp, where, dressed in male attire, and unknown to him, she enrolled in the service. A few days after, during a fierce conflict that occurred, she stood by his side in the thickest of the fight, and in turning away a lance aimed at his heart received it in her own, and fell bleeding at his feet. She was buried on the banks of the Santee. He was afterward distinguished in the service at Fort Moultrie, and at Savannah, where he received his death-wound in carrying off the flag which was intrusted to him.
During the Revolution, a young girl plighted to an officer of Marion's corps, followed him without being discovered to the camp, where, dressed in male attire, and unknown to him, she enrolled in the service. A few days after, during a fierce conflict that occurred, she stood by his side in the thickest of the fight, and in turning away a lance aimed at his heart received it in her own, and fell bleeding at his feet. She was buried on the banks of the Santee. He was afterward distinguished in the service at Fort Moultrie, and at Savannah, where he received his death-wound in carrying off the flag which was intrusted to him.
Warsaw, farewell! Alone that wordFame's dark eclipse recalls;The voice of wail alone is heardWithin her ruined walls—Her pavement rings beneath the treadOf bondsmen by their master led.Hope kindles on my native shoreNo more her beacon fires—The Northern Bear is trampling o'erThe dust of fallen sires,And signal ever to destroyHath been his growl of savage joy.Oh! for one hour of glory gone—An arm of might to hurlThe Czar, in thunder, from his throne,And Freedom's flag unfurl;Then welcome, like a bride, the grave,Unbranded by the name of slave!Our snowy Eagle[3]screams no moreDefiance high and loud;The wing is broken that could soarThrough battle's smoky cloud,And wounded by a coward's spear,His perch is now lost Poland's bier.Once happy was the hall of Home,Now Desolation's lair—Blood stains its hearth, and I must roamA pilgrim of despair,Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold,My weary bones in foreign mould.
Warsaw, farewell! Alone that wordFame's dark eclipse recalls;The voice of wail alone is heardWithin her ruined walls—Her pavement rings beneath the treadOf bondsmen by their master led.
Hope kindles on my native shoreNo more her beacon fires—The Northern Bear is trampling o'erThe dust of fallen sires,And signal ever to destroyHath been his growl of savage joy.
Oh! for one hour of glory gone—An arm of might to hurlThe Czar, in thunder, from his throne,And Freedom's flag unfurl;Then welcome, like a bride, the grave,Unbranded by the name of slave!
Our snowy Eagle[3]screams no moreDefiance high and loud;The wing is broken that could soarThrough battle's smoky cloud,And wounded by a coward's spear,His perch is now lost Poland's bier.
Once happy was the hall of Home,Now Desolation's lair—Blood stains its hearth, and I must roamA pilgrim of despair,Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold,My weary bones in foreign mould.