Eighth Reader Part 23

We fly by day and shun its light, But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night, And through the forest track our foe.

And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flas.h.i.+ng saber blinds his eyes, And, ere he drives away his sleep And rushes from his camp, he dies.

Free bridle bit, good gallant steed, That will not ask a kind caress, To swim the Santee at our need, When on his heels the foemen press,--

The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The trusted bore, the smiting brand,-- And we are Marion's men, you see.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Marion's Men.]

Now light the fire and cook the meal, The last perhaps that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, And that's a sign we move in haste.

He whistles to the scouts, and hark!

You hear his order calm and low, Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go.

Now pile the brush and roll the log-- Hard pillow, but a soldier's head That's half the time in brake and bog Must never think of softer bed.

The owl is hooting to the night, The cooter crawling o'er the bank, And in that pond the flas.h.i.+ng light Tells where the alligator sank.

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon?

And through the Santee swamps so deep, Without the aid of friendly moon, And we, Heaven help us! half asleep?

But courage, comrades! Marion leads, The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; So clear your swords and spur your steeds, There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress tree, Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, And ready for the strife are we.

The Tory's camp is now in sight, And there he cowers within his den; He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 51: By William Gilmore Simms, an American author (1806-1870).]

III. IN MEMORY OF GEORGE WAs.h.i.+NGTON[52]

How, my fellow-citizens, shall I single to your grateful hearts his preeminent worth? Where shall I begin in opening to your view a character throughout sublime? Shall I speak of his warlike achievements, all springing from obedience to his country's will--all directed to his country's good?

Will you go with me to the banks of the Monongahela, to see our youthful Was.h.i.+ngton supporting, in the dismal hour of Indian victory, the ill-fated Braddock and saving, by his judgment and his valor, the remains of a defeated army, pressed by the conquering savage foe? Or when, oppressed America n.o.bly resolving to risk her all in defense of her violated right, he was elevated by the unanimous vote of Congress to the command of her armies?

Will you follow him to the high grounds of Boston, where to an undisciplined, courageous, and virtuous yeomanry his presence gave the stability of system and infused the invincibility of love of country? Or shall I carry you to the painful scenes of Long Island, York Island, and New Jersey, when, combating superior and gallant armies, aided by powerful fleets and led by chiefs high in the roll of fame, he stood the bulwark of our safety, undismayed by disasters, unchanged by change of fortune?

Or will you view him in the precarious fields of Trenton, where deep gloom, unnerving every arm, reigned triumphant through our thinned, worn-down, unaided ranks, to himself unknown? Dreadful was the night. It was about this time of winter; the storm raged; the Delaware, rolling furiously with floating ice, forbade the approach of man.

Was.h.i.+ngton, self-collected, viewed the tremendous scene. His country called; unappalled by surrounding dangers, he pa.s.sed to the hostile sh.o.r.e; he fought, he conquered. The morning sun cheered the American world. Our country rose on the event, and her dauntless chief, pursuing his blow, completed in the lawns of Princeton what his vast soul had conceived on the sh.o.r.es of the Delaware.

Thence to the strong grounds of Morristown he led his small but gallant band; and through an eventful winter, by the high effort of his genius, whose matchless force was measurable only by the growth of difficulties, he held in check formidable hostile legions, conducted by a chief experienced in the arts of war, and famed for his valor on the ever memorable Heights of Abraham, where fell Wolfe, Montcalm, and since our much-lamented Montgomery, all covered with glory. In this fortunate interval, produced by his masterly conduct, our fathers, ourselves, animated by his resistless example, rallied around our country's standard, and continued to follow her beloved chief through the various and trying scenes to which the destinies of our union led.

Who is there that has forgotten the vales of Brandywine, the fields of Germantown, or the plains of Monmouth? Everywhere present, wants of every kind obstructing, numerous and valiant armies encountering, himself a host, he a.s.suaged our sufferings, limited our privations, and upheld our tottering Republic. Shall I display to you the spread of the fire of his soul, by rehearsing the praises of the hero of Saratoga and his much-loved compeer of the Carolinas? No; our Was.h.i.+ngton wears not borrowed glory. To Gates, to Greene, he gave without reserve the applause due to their eminent merit; and long may the chiefs of Saratoga and of Eutaw receive the grateful respect of a grateful people.

Moving in his own orbit, he imparted heat and light to his most distant satellites; and combining the physical and moral force of all within his sphere, with irresistible weight, he took his course, commiserating folly, disdaining vice, dismaying treason, and invigorating despondency; until the auspicious hour arrived when united with the intrepid forces of a potent and magnanimous ally, he brought to submission the since conqueror of India; thus finis.h.i.+ng his long career of military glory with a l.u.s.ter corresponding to his great name, and in this, his last act of war, affixing the seal of fate to our nation's birth....

First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen, he was second to none in the humble and endearing scenes of private life. Pious, just, humane, temperate, and sincere, uniform, dignified, and commanding, his example was edifying to all around him, as were the effects of that example lasting.

To his equals he was condescending; to his inferiors, kind; and to the dear object of his affections, exemplarily tender. Correct throughout, vice shuddered in his presence, and virtue always felt his fostering hand; the purity of his private character gave effulgence to his public virtues. His last scene comported with the whole tenor of his life.

Although in extreme pain, not a sigh, not a groan, escaped him; and with undisturbed serenity he closed his well-spent life. Such was the man America has lost! Such was the man for whom our nation mourns!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 52: By Henry Lee of Virginia. Extract from an oration delivered in the House of Representatives, 1799.]

THREE GREAT AMERICAN POEMS

I

One day when Dr. Peter Bryant of c.u.mmington, Ma.s.sachusetts, was looking through his writing desk, he found a small package of papers on which some verses were written. He recognized the neat, legible handwriting as that of his son, and he paused to open the papers and read. Presently, he called aloud to his wife, "Here, Sallie, just listen to this poem which Cullen has written!"

He began to read, and as he read, the proud mother listened with tears in her eyes. "Isn't that grand?" she cried. "I've always told you that Cullen would be a poet. And now just think what a pity it is that he must give up going to Yale College and settle down to the study of law!"

"Yes, wife," responded Dr. Bryant, "it is to be regretted. But people with small means cannot always educate their children as they wish. A lawyer is a better breadwinner than most poets are, and I am satisfied that our boy will be a successful lawyer."

"Of course he will," said Mrs. Bryant; "he will succeed at anything he may undertake. But that poem--why, Wordsworth never wrote anything half so grand or beautiful. What is the t.i.tle?"

"Thanatopsis."

"Thanatopsis? I wonder what it means."

"It is from two Greek words, and means 'A View of Death.' I have half a notion to take the poem to Boston with me next winter. I want to show it to my friend Mr. Philips."

"Oh, do; and take some of Cullen's other poems with it. Perhaps he might think some of them good enough to publish."

Dr. Peter Bryant was at that time a member of the senate in the Ma.s.sachusetts general a.s.sembly. When the time came for the meeting of the a.s.sembly he went up to Boston, and he did not forget to take several of his son's poems with him. The _North American Review_ was a great magazine in those days, and Dr. Bryant was well acquainted with Mr.

Philips, one of its editors. He called at the office of the _Review_, and not finding Mr. Philips, he left the package of ma.n.u.script with his name written upon it.

When Mr. Philips returned he found the package, and after reading the poems concluded that Dr. Bryant had written "Thanatopsis," and that the others were probably by his son Cullen.

"It is a remarkable poem--a remarkable poem," he said, as he showed it to his two fellow-editors. "We have never published anything better in the _Review_," he said, and he began to read it to them.

When he had finished, one of them, Richard Henry Dana, who was himself a poet, said doubtingly:

"Mr. Philips, you have been imposed upon. There is no person in America who can write a poem like that."

"Ah, but I know the man who wrote it," answered Mr. Philips. "He is in the state senate, and he isn't a man who would impose upon any person."

"Well, I must have a look at the man who can write such lines as those,"