Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848

Now I am not going to weary your patience by telling you how just then our "help" entered, one bearing a tray-full of tall sperm candles, another an immense waiter, crowned with the thick-gilt, untarnished china, that had been handed down in our family by four successive generations – we had begged our dear mother to let the tea, the tea only, be handed around as it was done in Boston; she in an evil hour consenting. Nor how Cousin Jehoiakim, aroused from his meditation by the glare of light, starting up, cast his eyes upon Mercy, the stout serving maiden, and bearer of that same precious porcelain – for which my dear mother's reverence was as great, every whit, as that of Charles Lamb's for old China; and how the next moment the waiter was in the hands of my six feet seven and a-half cousin, with "Du let me help you, young woman!" and how the next instant the six feet seven and a-half formed a horizontal line with the floor, instead of a perpendicular one; and how the glittering fragments of gold and white glistened from under every chair, and from the hearth, and out from among the ashes, like unto so many evil eyes glaring upon him for his stupidity and carelessness; and how little Fanny unwound from one foot of the prostrate six feet seven and a-half several yards of snow-white muslin – the innocent cause of the disaster; and how, light as a bird, she sprung, merrily laughing, from the room, with the fluttering fragments of her cobweb dress gathered in an impromptu drapery around her graceful little form.

No; I will not fatigue you with the history of that unlucky adventure; nor how, but a short time after, when we had taken tea from less costly China, and had fallen into a witty, merry uttering of each other's thoughts, we were interrupted by screams the most – but never mind what kind, seeing I have said you shall not be fatigued with a description of what was nothing but an immense kettle of boiling lard flowing quietly and river-like over the long length of the before so spotless kitchen floor, with many a cluster of dough-nut islands interspersed, by way of relieving the said river of monotony. Our dear mother was famed for miles around for the profusion and superiority of her dough-nuts, hence our soubriquet – "Dough-nut Hall." And, seeing that Mercy was only scalded half to death, the guilty culprit, who insisted that the kettle was "too heavy for a woman to lift," escaping unhurt, that is bodily – his remorse of conscience being truly pitiable. No; none of all this, with long, ugly sentences, shall you have; no, nor a detail of his many daily, hourly, and almost momently, misadventures; how once, when we were sitting in Miss Elliott's room, in he bolted with, "Bless my soul! what a lot of industrious women-folk! 'How doth the busy bee;'" that new and elegant little poem was, word for word, recited. Little Fanny he found making a bead purse for Brother Dick, and examining her box with every conceivable shade of bead duly assorted, and separated from each other by innumerable partitions. No matter what he said about them, only the beads were spilled, and the purse could not be finished; and then were Miss Jane's delicate brushes passed through his wondering red hair before a saving hand could arrest them; then was Miss Jane's beautiful inlaid dressing-box broken irreparably; and then – but I will tell you what I will relate you – all about our sleigh-ride and country ball. Yes! that you must know; not because it is worth telling, but because I should like you to hear it – all about how I nearly lost my darling. But to commence.

Rumors were afloat of this said ball, the countriest kind of a country ball, to take place in Squire Brown's barn, the largest, best built barn for miles around. Our city friends entered into the spirit exactly, and determined on going. "Cousin Jehoiakim? Oh, he need know nothing about it," said Sister Anna; "or we can easily deceive him as to the day, without telling him very much of a lie." Ah! Sister Anna. The important day arrived. In one great bandbox reposed various satins, laces, and ribbons too numerous to mention; the owners thereof were standing cloaked, hooded, and muffed, ready to start. The distance was ten miles. We had cast lots for the sleighs, and had agreed on exclusiveness, though not exactly the exclusiveness that Sister Anna wickedly proposed, viz., that each brother should take his respective sisters in due decorum. The new "cutter" of my brother's was drawn by himself; and he had already started with his little Fanny by his side. The proud, beautiful Jane – I really believe I had forgotten to mention that, while Cousin Jehoiakim was upsetting chairs, and spilling pitchers of water, and breaking glasses, and treading on people's toes, and the cat's tail, a distant cousin of ours arrived – rather a guess cousin than Cousin Jehoiakim; tall as the last named, to be sure, but bearing about the same resemblance to him as a vigorous, graceful young willow does to an overgrown mullen stalk. This new cousin – by cognomen Clarence Spencer – the family name our own, by the way – proud and beautiful as the haughty Jane herself – had seen fit to fall most gracefully in love with her. These two, therefore, were just started on their way to the ball, in Clarence's own incomparable turn-out. Lieutenant Allen had drawn the Elliott's beautiful gold and brown sleigh. He was holding the impatient ponies, and Sister Anna was arranging the cushions when Cousin Jehoiakim hove in sight. Sister Anna sprung like a doe to the front seat, threw the heavy buffalo-robes about, making them and the great bandbox fill up the back seat, and seating herself by the lieutenant – all this quicker than lightning – and giving the ponies a touch of the whip, on they dashed to the imminent peril of their necks as well as her own. A saucy toss of the head was all she vouchsafed me. All, then, were on their way save Edgar and myself, who were expecting a quiet, loving talk in the comfortable old-fashioned "pung," with a gig top, that papa used in his frequent drives to Boston.

"Wall, now, Cousin Clarry, I reckon you thought I didn't snuff what was going on."

Poor fellow! he looked so good-natured, truly my heart smote me.

"There is another cutter in the barn, cousin," replied I, "and you can take your pick of the horses."

"You are very kind, Cousin Clarry, but there ain't no occasion of calling any more of the poor dumb critters out into the cold. I guess you can make room for me; I will ride on top until we catch up to some of the two-seated sleighs."

Time was too precious to waste in words, and as Cousin Jehoiakim good naturedly persisted that he should be very comfortable on the top, on the top he seated himself. I saw that Edgar did not like the arrangement, but he was too polite, or too proud to interfere. "Let us overtake the others," said he. A bright smile passed over his face. I saw he meditated some mischief. I knew it could not be very mischievous mischief, for a kinder, nobler heart never beat more warmly in any human breast. Forward dashed the horses, throwing the white, sparkling snow before and around them into the bright sunshine. Faster and faster sped the spirited horses, until we passed, first – yes, it was no illusion, his lips were actually pressing her little rosy mouth. Then, Lieutenant Allen, you are not the first man that has done the like; it is a way they all have, ever since Adam gave Mother Eve her first love-kiss. What man would not part with some years of his life for the privilege of pressing to his own a pretty little soft mouth?

Ah, Sister Anna! the question was actually popped; and on that memorable day of the ball, thy giddy heart was actually caged. We came so noiselessly and swift through the soft snow that we actually took thee by surprise. Thy blushes were beautiful; but on we sped, and our next tableaux presented Cousin Clarence gazing most intensely and earnestly into the great deep-blue eyes of the beautiful Jane Elliott, as though he were pouring forth a question from his soul to hers. Her delicate hand lay in his, and her stately, graceful head inclined gently toward him. They were so earnestly occupied, he in talking, and she in listening, that they did not see us until we had passed them; and after we passed them we were not long in overtaking Dick and his little Fanny. Bless the lovers! Her curly-headed little head started, quick as lightning, from its warm resting place, though not so quick but that my practiced eye saw it take leave of Brother Dick's manly shoulder. Her fun-loving spirit could not resist the ludicrous appearance of Cousin Jehoiakim, perched upon the top of our pung like some immense bird of prey. Brother Dick joined in her pealing, merry laughter, and the old woods rang again. The stump of a tree grew at the road-side, near an immense snow-bank. Edgar, as though he had been on the look-out for such a fine opportunity, speedily and dexterously ran one runner of our pung over the stump, and over went the pung. By a skillful movement he righted it instantly. The friendly side preserved me from the snow; but Cousin Jehoiakim – alas! for gravity on a gig-top. In this deep bank of snow, his heels high in air, stood my inverted cousin. As soon as I could speak from convulsive laughter, I implored Edgar to go back to my cousin's assistance.

"As you please," said he. Now you must know that I was the only one that treated Cousin Jehoiakim kindly. Sister Anna and Brother Dick made a complete butt of him; the rest did not treat him at all, except to an occasional shrug of the shoulder from Anna's lieutenant, or a gay laugh from little Fanny. And, forsooth, because I was civil to him, and talked to him, and excused his awkwardness, why Edgar saw fit, in his wisdom, to be jealous of him. Was there ever any thing more absurd? Yes, since time out of mind have men, the wisest and the best of them, been just so absurd; and unto all eternity will they, the wisest and best of them, be just so absurd again.

By the time we had reached again the spot, the others had come up, and were engaged in disentombing the imbedded unfortunate.

"That was a cold bed, any how," said he, shaking himself from head to foot like a huge Newfoundland dog, and smiling upon us with his imperturbable good-nature; "but why, in the name of all that is good, did you not help a feller out sooner? If it had been feathers instead of snow, I should surely have been suffocated."

"Thank your stars for your safe deliverance," said the laughing Fanny.

"What were you thinking of, cousin?" said Anna, in a choking voice.

"I could think of nothing but the ten commandments; and I wondered what sinful iniquity my grandfather had been guilty of, that I should be visited in such an awful manner for his transgressions. But where on earth is my hat? I have looked in the hole, and all about for it."

"Look on your neck, Hoiky; you are wearing it for a stock," said my brother.

"By gracious! so I am."

I brushed the snow from his shoulders and hair, and assisted his long neck from its cumbrous stock, and pinning on the crown-piece, the hat was quite wearable again.

"Mr. Johnson will ride much more comfortably in one of the double-seated sleighs," said Edgar.

"Most certainly, Mr. Elliott," replied Cousin Jehoiakim, "you know I begged you to let me out the first sleigh we met. I reckon you did let me out to some purpose at last. By jimminy! but that was a cool dip. Wall, Cousin Anny, what do you say to my riding along with you, though I had a leetle rather sit alongside of Clarry, yet if you've no objections I havn't none."

So now was my turn to pay back my sister by as provoking a toss of the head as she gave me. Our ride the rest of the way was pleasant. Edgar's eyes grew warm and loving. Among the other interesting things we talked of, Edgar poured into my greedy ears the wonders and beauty of the almost new doctrine of the transcendentalists. He described the home he was going to give me, and called me his little wife, and said – but dear me, I am not going to tell you all he said. His passionate words and the love in his soul-full eyes lay deep in my heart as we stopped before Squire Brown's.

Then came the dressing, and then it was we found that Cousin Jehoiakim had contrived to crush the great bandbox on the seat beside him. The beautiful lace dress Miss Elliott was to have worn over a satin was torn and spoiled, also Anna's and my wreaths, also things too numerous to mention. When we told of the disaster, Brother Dick said that Anna and I looked much prettier in our own uncovered hair than with an artificial flower-garden upon our heads – that the elegant white satin of Miss Jane needed no lace to make it more beautiful – adding, in an undertone, that he would give more to see a woman dressed in the simple white muslin his little Fanny wore than for all the laces and satins that could be bought.

When we entered the ball-room we found Cousin Jehoiakim already dancing with a red-haired young lady, in a blue gauze dress. Seeing us, and wishing to astonish us, he attempted a quadruple pigeon-wing, which unfortunately entangled his great feet in the blue gauze dress, and ended in his own subversion and the dismemberment of the thin gauze. The young lady was obliged to retire for the night, while Cousin Jehoiakim slowly picked himself up. He was so much abashed I had to console him by asking him to dance with me. I really pitied the poor fellow, he could get no one but me to dance with him, still he tried so hard to make himself agreeable, and was so determinedly good-natured that it was not his fault that he could not be a second Apollo.

I was Edgar's partner for a reel.

"You seem to take very great interest in the well-doing of that odious cousin of yours," said he.

"Poor fellow! why should I not?" replied I.

"Because he is awkward and disagreeable," said he, half laughing at his own reason.

"He is as the Lord made him," replied I, in a tone of affected humility.

"But the Lord did not make you to dance with him and lavish so much attention upon him; you will oblige me very much, Clara, by not dancing any more with him and making yourself so ridiculous."

Now there was not very much in those words to take offence at, and I should, like a submissive woman that was about to be a wife, have promised obedience, but, unfortunately, being a daughter of Eve I inherited somewhat of her pride and vanity. In a different tone of voice Edgar might have said even those words without offending either pride or vanity, but his voice was cold, and his eyes were colder, and I, driving my heart away from my lips and eyes, replied – "I trust Mr. Elliott does not flatter himself he has yet the entire control of my actions."

"Just as you please."

The reel was finished, and he was off. I repented as soon as the words passed my lips – the first angry words I had spoken to him. But then, thought I, sitting down on a bench by myself, why is he so foolishly provoking and unreasonably jealous of my poor cousin. He to be so unkind, he who had ever been the noblest and most loving of sons, the kindest and truest of brothers. For a moment my heart misgave me at the thought of becoming his for life, it was only a moment. I saw through the dim vista of years a vision of peace and love.

Cousin Jehoiakim came and sat down beside me. "Ah! Cousin Clarry," said he, abruptly taking my hand and holding it, "you are good and kind to me, how happy I shall be when you are my own little wife, when the time comes to give you my hand as I already have my heart."

Cousin Jehoiakim sentimental! I looked up – Edgar's cold blue eyes were fastened upon me. I hastily drew my hand from my cousin, and sprung toward the glooming Edgar.

"Is it not near time to go, dear Edgar?" exclaimed I, grasping his hand in my own.

"Mr. Johnson can see you home. I have engaged to go with a friend of mine back to Boston."

"Edgar!" – but he was gone.

You may depend I did not ride home with Mr. Johnson, but begged a seat with my sister, leaving my cousin the "pung" with the gig-top all to himself. Whether he encountered any more stumps or pit-falls I cannot say. He and the pung came safely home, as did the rest of us.

"Mother," exclaimed I, "I do wish you would contrive some means to get rid of my odious Cousin Jehoiakim, he is the torment of my life."

"Mamma," chimed in Anna, while a smile twinkled in the corner of her eye, "Cousin Jehoiakim has ruined my beautiful French wreath, and has broken my Chinese pagoda, and my exquisite Chinese mandarins, and soiled my Book of Beauty, and has broken my new set of chess-men that Uncle Eb. brought from the East Indies, and has – dear mother, can you not think of some means of sending him to Uncle Abiram's, or to Halifax?"

"Yes, mother," said Brother Dick, with a laugh, "Hoiky has been here mischiefizing long enough; do invent some means of packing him off. We have been victimized long enough. He has broken every fishing-rod I have, and has lost my hooks, and he has lamed my beautiful pony Cæsar, and ruined my gun, and yesterday, in shooting game, he shot my dog Neptune, that I have been offered fifty dollars for, and would not have taken one hundred."

"Wife," said our dear papa, coming into the room, "it is of no use, I can be patient no longer, you must devise some method of letting Nephew Jehoiakim understand we do not wish his presence any longer. Poor fellow! I would not for the world be unkind to him. I will give him an annual stipend that will support him liberally during his life, willingly, gladly, but I cannot have him here any longer. He is utterly incorrigible."

"What has he done now?" asked our dear mamma.

"He left the bars down that led into my largest, best field of wheat, and half the cattle in the country have been devouring it. They have ruined at least a couple of hundred dollars worth. The money is not what I care so much for, but it was the best wheat-field for miles around, and I had a pride in having it yield more than any field of my neighbors. I have borne with him day after day, hoping he might do better. Poor fellow! he is sorry enough always for his mistakes. The other day he left the garden-gate open, and the cows got in and eat all my cabbages and other vegetables; then he leaves the barn-door open, and the hogs go in and the calves come out."

"We will see," said our dear mamma.

The next morning at the breakfast-table said our dear mother —

"You will have a delightful day to ride in, dear nephew."

Cousin Jehoiakim opened wide his eyes, inquiringly.

"Richard, my son, I hope you did not forget to tell Mr. Grimes to let the stage stop here this morning. It will be very inconvenient for your cousin to be obliged to stay another day. I packed your trunk this morning early, dear nephew, just after you left your room, knowing how you disliked the trouble."

Still wider opened my cousin's eyes.

"Harry, my son," said mamma to my little brother, "those cakes and dough-nuts are for your cousin to take with him for his lunch."

"Mayn't I have a piece of pie then?"

"Go and get what you want of Mercy, my dear. I put some runs of yarn in your trunk, dear nephew, you may give them with my love to sister Abigal, and tell her the wool is from white Kitty. She will remember the sheep. Give my love to brother Abiram with this letter."

Still wider opened Cousin Jehoiakim's eyes.

"You will find also in your trunk a dozen and a half of new linen shirts that I have taken the liberty of putting there instead of your old ones."

"Thank you, dear aunt, you are very kind. I really am very sorry to leave you all. I have enjoyed myself very much here; but Aunt Abigail will feel hurt if I do not pay her a visit. I shall come again as soon as I can, so do not cry your eyes out, Cousin Clarry."

The stage came and Cousin Jehoiakim went.

And the way I lured back my flown bird would make quite an interesting sentimental little story of itself. Bless his bright eyes! they are shining on me now, full of mischief at this sketch I am giving you, beloved reader. But didn't we have a nice wedding time? There was Anna and her brave lieutenant, Brother Dick and his bright little Fanny, the beautiful, majestic Jane, and my beautiful, majestic Cousin Clarence, and my darling, good Edgar, and, dear reader, your very humble servant.

CORIOLANUS

BY HENRY B. HIRSTHow 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!

LENNARD

A TALE OF MARION'S MENBY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD– "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."INight 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.IIWithin 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.IIIThat 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.IVOne 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 Fox2 from his lair.Or in his fastness wild and dun,Cope with the rebel Marion.VSoon 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."VIAnon, 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.VIIWithin 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.VIII'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.IXOh! 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.XBut 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.XIMoments 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.XIIThe 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.XIIIWith 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.XIVHis 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.XVBut 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.XVIOn! 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.XVIIThe 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."XVIIIHis 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.XIX'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.XXBeside 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.NOTE

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.