_Anonymous._
Song of Marion"s Men
Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion"s name is told.
Our fortress is the good green wood, Our tent the cypress tree; We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of th.o.r.n.y vines, Its glades of reedy gra.s.s, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark mora.s.s.
Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over And share the battle"s spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier"s cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds.
"Tis life our fiery barbs to guide Across the moonlight plains; "Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts their tossing manes.
A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away-- Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with h.o.a.ry hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our sh.o.r.e.
_William Cullen Bryant._
The Minstrel-Boy
The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you"ll find him; His father"s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.-- "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman"s chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne"er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!"
_Thomas Moore._
Our Homestead
Our old brown homestead reared its walls, From the wayside dust aloof, Where the apple-boughs could almost cast Their fruitage on its roof: And the cherry-tree so near it grew, That when awake I"ve lain, In the lonesome nights, I"ve heard the limbs, As they creaked against the pane: And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!
I"ve seen my little brothers rocked In their tops by the summer breeze.
The sweet-brier under the window-sill, Which the early birds made glad, And the damask rose by the garden fence Were all the flowers we had.
I"ve looked at many a flower since then, Exotics rich and rare, That to other eyes were lovelier, But not to me so fair; O those roses bright, O those roses bright!
I have twined them with my sister"s locks, That are hid in the dust from sight!
We had a well, a deep old well, Where the spring was never dry, And the cool drops down from the mossy stones Were falling constantly: And there never was water half so sweet As that in my little cup, Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, Which my father"s hand set up; And that deep old well, O that deep old well!
I remember yet the splashing sound Of the bucket as it fell.
Our homestead had an ample hearth, Where at night we loved to meet; There my mother"s voice was always kind, And her smile was always sweet; And there I"ve sat on my father"s knee, And watched his thoughtful brow, With my childish hand in his raven hair,-- That hair is silver now!
But that broad hearth"s light, O that broad hearth"s light!
And my father"s look, and my mother"s smile,-- They are in my heart to-night.
_Phoebe Gary._
The Ballad of the Tempest
We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.
"Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shuddered there in silence,-- For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with Death.
As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.
But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn"t G.o.d upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anch.o.r.ed safe in harbor, When the morn was shining clear.
_James T. Fields._
Santa Filomena
Whene"er a n.o.ble deed is wrought, Whene"er is spoken a n.o.ble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow, Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,--
The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pa.s.s through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room.