Poems of American History

by Unknown

CHAPTER X

THE WAR IN THE SOUTH

After the surrender of Burgoyne, the military attitude of the British in the Northern States was, as has been seen, purely defensive, but the Southern States were the scene of vigorous fighting. The King had set his heart on the reduction of Georgia and the Carolinas, and it looked for a time as though he would be gratified. In General Augustine Prevost there was at last found a man after the King's own heart, and his barbarities and vandalism were among the most monstrous of the war. General Benjamin Lincoln was sent south to oppose him, and was soon joined by Count Pulaski and his legion.

[HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM]

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER

When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowlèd head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The crimson banner, that with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it, till our homes are free!
Guard it! God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him! he our love hath shared!
Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

"Take thy banner! and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
[Martial cloak and shroud for thee]."

The warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

In August, 1779, the French fleet under D'Estaing appeared off the coast of Georgia, and plans were made for the capture of Savannah. The place was closely invested by the French and Americans, and for nearly a month the siege was vigorously carried on. But D'Estaing grew impatient, and on October 9 an attempt was made to carry the place by storm. The assailants were totally defeated, losing more than a thousand men, while the British loss was only fifty-five. Count Pulaski was among the slain.

ABOUT SAVANNAH

[October 9, 1779]

Come let us rejoice,
With heart and with voice,
Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir,
While bumpers go round,
Reëcho the sound,
Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

With warlike parade,
And his Irish brigade,
His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir,
As proud as an elf,
D'Estaing came himself,
And landed on Georgia's coast, sir.

There joining a band
Under Lincoln's command,
Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir,
'Gainst the town of Savannah
He planted his banner,
And then he felt wondrous big, sir.

With thund'ring of guns,
And bursting of bombs,
He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir:
But amidst all their din,
[Brave Maitland push'd in],
And [Moncrieffe] cried, "A fig for your noise," sir.

Chagrined at delay,
As he meant not to stay,
The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir.
Van, centre, and rear
March'd up without fear,
Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir.

Though rude was the shock,
Unmov'd as a rock,
Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir,
While the brave German corps,
And Americans bore
Their parts as intrepid as Turks, sir.

Then muskets did rattle,
Fierce ragèd the battle,
Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir.
The ditch fill'd with slain,
Blood dyed all the plain,
When rebels and French turnèd tail, sir.

See! see! how they run!
Lord! what glorious fun!
How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir!
Brains fly all around,
Dying screeches resound,
And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir.

There Pulaski fell,
That imp of old Bell,
[Who attempted to murder his king], sir.
But now he is gone
Whence he'll never return;
But will make hell with treason to ring, sir.

To Charleston with fear
The rebels repair;
D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir,
Each blaming the other,
Each cursing his brother,
And—may they cut each other's throats, sir.

Scarce three thousand men
The town did maintain,
'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir,
Who left on the plain,
Of wounded and slain,
Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir.

Three thousand! no less!
For the rebels confess
Some loss, as you very well know, sir.
Then let bumpers go round,
And reëcho the sound,
Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

As soon as Clinton learned of this victory, he determined to capture Charleston, where General Lincoln was stationed with three thousand men. Lincoln decided to withstand a siege, hoping for reinforcements; but none came, and on May 12, 1780, to avoid a wanton waste of life, he surrendered his army and the city to the British.

A SONG ABOUT CHARLESTON

[May 12, 1780]

King Hancock sat in regal state,
And big with pride and vainly great,
Address'd his rebel crew:
"These haughty Britons soon shall yield
The boasted honors of the field,
While our brave sons pursue.

"Six thousand fighting men or more,
Protect the Carolina shore,
And Freedom will defend;
And stubborn Britons soon shall feel,
'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel,
How vainly they contend."

But ere he spake, in dread array,
To rebel foes, ill-fated day,
The British boys appear;
Their mien with martial ardor fir'd,
And by their country's wrongs inspir'd,
Shook Lincoln's heart with fear.

See Clinton brave, serene, and great,
For mighty deeds rever'd by fate,
Direct the thund'ring fight,
While Mars, propitious god of war,
Looks down from his triumphal car
With wonder and delight.

"Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine,
'Midst heroes thou wert born to shine
A great immortal name,
And Cornwallis' mighty deeds appear
Conspicuous each revolving year,
The pledge of future fame."

Our tars, their share of glories won,
For they among the bravest shone,
Undaunted, firm, and bold;
Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'd
Hearts which with native valor glow'd,
Hearts of true British mould.

The whole of South Carolina was soon overrun by the British; estates were confiscated, houses were burned, and alleged traitors hanged without trial. Organized resistance was impossible, but there soon sprang up in the state a number of partisan leaders, foremost among whom was Francis Marion, perhaps the most picturesque figure of the Revolution. No act of cruelty ever sullied the brightness of his fame, but no partisan leader excelled him in ability to distress the enemy in legitimate warfare.

THE SWAMP FOX

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
His friends and merry men are we;
And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
We burrow in the cypress-tree.
The turfy hammock is our bed,
Our home is in the red deer's den,
Our roof, the tree-top overhead,
For we are wild and hunted men.

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 flashing sabre 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 twisted bore, the smiting brand,—
And we are Marion's men, you see.

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.

We may not see their forms again,
God help 'em, should they find the strife!
For they are strong and fearless men,
And make no coward terms for life;
They'll fight as long as Marion bids,
And when he speaks the word to shy,
Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,
Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

Now stir the fire and lie at ease,—
The scouts are gone, and on the brush
I see the Colonel bend his knee,
To take his slumbers too. But hush!
He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;
The man that's fighting day by day
May well, when night comes, take a change,
And down upon his knees to pray.

Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand
The sly and silent jug that's there;
I love not it should idly stand
When Marion's men have need of cheer.
'Tis seldom that our luck affords
A stuff like this we just have quaffed,
And dry potatoes on our boards
May always call for such a draught.

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 flashing light
Tells where the alligator sank.

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon,
And through the Santee swamp 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 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.

William Gilmore Simms.

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 greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

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,
We 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 to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
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 hoary 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 shore.

William Cullen Bryant.

Among the members of Marion's band was a gigantic Scotsman named Macdonald, the hero of many daring escapades, of which his raid through Georgetown, S. C., with only four troopers, was the most remarkable. Georgetown was a fortified place, defended by a garrison of three hundred men.

MACDONALD'S RAID

[1780]

I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray,
And the legion lay idle and listless that day,
A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul,
And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl,
When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade,
Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid.
Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring,
Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright,
To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight;
Yet he chose from our numbers four men and no more.
"Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as fourscore,
If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead,
With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed.
Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring,
Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form
Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm
When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark,
And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark;
His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free,
With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee,
His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing—
Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!

'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride,
Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide,
The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms,
A soft dolce were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms,
When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout,
With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without,
Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring,
"Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout,
That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt,
And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they,
"Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day.
Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din!
'Tis the front wall besieged—have the rebels rushed in?
It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ring
Of 'death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'"

Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped,
And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red;
And the ground here and there by an ominous stain
Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain:
A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose,
With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose,
By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down,
To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown,
And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring
With "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left
Whose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece uncleft,
What should we do next, but—as careless and calm
As if we were scenting a summer morn's balm
'Mid a land of pure peace—just serenely drop down
On the few constant friends who still stopped in the town.
What a welcome they gave us! One dear little thing,
As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?—

Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scars
Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars
From a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss,
On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss,
Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast
Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash ruse at last;
So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we fling
The old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and King!"

As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track
We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back,
And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame:
With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came,
And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt the trees
Seemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees;
Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring
The shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Ah! that was a feat, lads, to boast of! What men
Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with us then?
Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow
I'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now—
The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down,
Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town:
Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring—
Ay! my muscles are firm still; I fought 'gainst the King!

Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all
The sheathed sabres that hang there, unlooped on the wall;
Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp;
Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp
The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweep
I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep—
That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling
To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King.

Paul Hamilton Hayne.

Second alone to Marion in this wild warfare was Thomas Sumter, a Virginian, destined to serve his country in other ways. During the summer of 1780, he kept up so brisk a guerrilla warfare that Cornwallis called him "the greatest plague in the country."

SUMTER'S BAND

When Carolina's hope grew pale
Before the British lion's tread,
And Freedom's sigh in every gale
Was heard above her martyr'd dead;

When from her mountain heights subdued,
In pride of place forbid to soar,
Her Eagle banner, quench'd in blood,
Lay sullen on the indignant shore,

Breathing revenge, invoking doom,
Tyrant! upon thy purple host,
When all stood wrapt in steadfast gloom,
And silence brooded o'er her coast,

Stealthy, as when from thicket dun,
The Indian springs upon his bow,
Up rose, [South Mount], thy warrior son,
And headlong darted on the foe.

Not in the pride of war he came,
With bugle note and banner high,
And nodding plume, and steel of flame,
Red battle's gorgeous panoply!

With followers few, but undismay'd,
Each change and chance of fate withstood,
Beneath her sunshine and her shade,
The same heroic brotherhood!

From secret nook, in other land,
Emerging fleet along the pine,
Prone down he flew before his band,
Like eagle on the British line!

Catacoba's waters smiled again,
To see her Sumter's soul in arms;
And issuing from each glade and glen,
Rekindled by war's fierce alarms,

Throng'd hundreds through the solitude
Of the wild forest, to the call
Of him whose spirit, unsubdued,
Fresh impulse gave to each, to all.

By day the burning sands they ply,
Night sees them in the fell ravine;
Familiar to each follower's eye,
The tangled brake, the hall of green.

Roused by their tread from covert deep,
Springs the gaunt wolf, and thus while near
Is heard, forbidding thought of sleep,
The rattling serpent's sound of fear!

Before or break of early morn,
Or fox looks out from copse to close,
Before the hunter winds his horn.
Sumter's already on his foes!

He beat them back! beneath the flame
Of valor quailing, or the shock!
And carved, at last, a hero's name
Upon the glorious Hanging Rock!

And time, that shades or sears the wreath,
Where glory binds the soldier's brow,
Kept bright her Sumter's fame in death,
His hour of proudest triumph, now.

And ne'er shall tyrant tread the shore
Where Sumter bled, nor bled in vain;
A thousand hearts shall break, before
They wear the oppressor's chains again.

O never can thy sons forget
The mighty lessons taught by thee;
Since—treasured by the eternal debt—
Their watchword is thy memory!

J. W. Simmons.

South Carolina was too important to be left dependent upon the skill of partisan commanders, and General Gates was hurried to the scene, only to be ignominiously defeated by Cornwallis at Camden, and routed with a loss of two thousand men. Cornwallis, elated by this victory, started for North Carolina; but the country was thoroughly aroused, and on October 7 a detachment of twelve hundred men was brought to bay on King's Mountain, and either killed or captured.

THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN

[October 7, 1780]

'Twas on a pleasant mountain
The Tory heathens lay,
With a doughty major at their head,
One Ferguson, they say.

Cornwallis had detach'd him
A-thieving for to go,
And catch the Carolina men,
Or bring the rebels low.

The scamp had rang'd the country
In search of royal aid,
And with his owls, perchèd on high,
He taught them all his trade.

But ah! that fatal morning,
When Shelby brave drew near!
'Tis certainly a warning
That ministers should hear.

And Campbell, and Cleveland,
And Colonel Sevier,
Each with a band of gallant men,
To Ferguson appear.

Just as the sun was setting
Behind the western hills,
Just then our trusty rifles sent
A dose of leaden pills.

Up, up the steep together
Brave Williams led his troop,
And join'd by Winston, bold and true,
Disturb'd the Tory coop.

The royal slaves, the royal owls,
Flew high on every hand;
But soon they settled—gave a howl,
And quarter'd to Cleveland.

I would not tell the number
Of Tories slain that day,
But surely it is certain
That none did run away.

For all that were a-living,
Were happy to give up;
So let us make thanksgiving,
And pass the bright tin-cup.

To all the brave regiments,
Let's toast 'em for their health,
And may our good country
Have quietude and wealth.

This brilliant victory restored hope to the patriots of the South, and Cornwallis soon found himself in a dangerous position. He was finally forced to detach Tarleton, with eleven hundred men, to attack Daniel Morgan's little army of nine hundred men, which was threatening his line of communications. On Tarleton's approach, Morgan retreated to a grazing ground known as the Cowpens near King's Mountain, and here, on January 17, 1781, Tarleton attacked him, only to be completely routed.

THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS

[January 17, 1781]

To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning,
Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight;
From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning,
Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.

In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error,
When his force was made our ready blows to feel;
When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror
At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.

All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,
Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;
There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,
Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' heavy tramp.

Morning on the mountain border ranged in order found our forces,
Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe;
While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant water-courses,
Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.

Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favor
That they scarce would care to follow us again;
In the rear, the Continentals—none were readier, nor braver;
In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.

Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forces
Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall,
Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw-boned country horses,
Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by M^cCall.

Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing—
It was then upon the very nick of nine.
Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing,
And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.

In the distance seen so dimly, they looked grimly; coming nearer,
There was naught about them fearful, after all,
Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling water clearer,
"Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's mercy is the ball."

Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brother
Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand;
Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my mother
From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.

I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten.
Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame;
Of the wretches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafter
Of the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, consuming flame.

But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me—
No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire;
And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger;
And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.

On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leaden
Pattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing;
Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden;
And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.

Then said Morgan, "Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George's;
On your rifles and a careful aim rely.
They were trained in many battles—we in workshops, fields, and forges;
But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die."

Though our leader's words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited,
Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came:
Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated;
On they came with gleaming bayonet 'mid the cannon's smoke and flame.

At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o'er the yelling
Of his men we heard his voice's brazen tone;
With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features telling
In their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.

On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firing
Of our forward line upon their close-set ranks;
Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring.
Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.

Then the combat's raging anger, din, and clangor, round and o'er us
Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground;
Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before us,
Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.

Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain,
Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar;
Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet raging
Of the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.

Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leaden
Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve.
Tarleton's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face began to redden;
Tarleton gave the closing order—"Bring to action the reserve!"

Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring,
Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks;
And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring,
Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.

By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly drifted to the nor'ward,
And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe;
We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, moving forward,
With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.

Morgan gave his order clearly—"Fall back nearly to the border
Of the hill and let the enemy come nigher!"
Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder,
When out rang the voice of Howard—"To the right about, face!—Fire!"

Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley,
And our balls made red a pathway down the hill;
Broke the foe and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard—
"Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!"—and we did it with a will.

In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding faster
Than their comrades on our rear in fury bore;
But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster,
For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.

Like a herd of startled cattle from the battlefield we drove them;
In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled;
Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing,
And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed not for the dead.

Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such fleetness—
We had never seen such running in our lives!
Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness,
Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.

Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield them!
To their home o'er ocean never sailing back;
After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them,
Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuth-hound unrelenting on their track.

In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I noted
Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white;
When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devoted
Him, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.

For that token in the summer had been from our cabin taken
By the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin;
'Twas my sister's—for the moment things around me were forsaken;
I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's din.

Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded;
Vain to me they looked for succor in their need.
O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded,
Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly-bounding steed.

As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered;
Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim;
As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered,
For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.

Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him—
Horse and rider—down together went the twain:

"Quarter!"—He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o'er him;
Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain—
Ha! no music like that crushing through the skull-bone to the brain.

Thomas Dunn English.

Tarleton's defeat deprived Cornwallis of nearly a third of his forces, and his situation became more desperate than ever. He kept on across North Carolina and engaged Greene in an indecisive action at Guilford Court-House on March 15, and then retreated to Wilmington. Greene, with splendid strategy, started at once for South Carolina, captured nearly all the forts there in British hands, and on September 8 fell upon the British at Eutaw Springs, compelling them to retreat to Charleston.

THE BATTLE OF EUTAW

[September 8, 1781]

Hark! 'tis the voice of the mountain,
And it speaks to our heart in its pride,
As it tells of the bearing of heroes
Who compassed its summits and died!
How they gathered to strife as the eagles,
When the foeman had clambered the height!
How, with scent keen and eager as beagles,
They hunted him down for the fight.

Hark! through the gorge of the valley,
'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe;
Our own quickly sounds for the rally,
And we snatch down the rifle and go.
As the hunter who hears of the panther,
Each arms him and leaps to his steed,
Rides forth through the desolate antre,
With his knife and his rifle at need.

From a thousand deep gorges they gather,
From the cot lowly perched by the rill,
The cabin half hid in the heather,
'Neath the crag which the eagle keeps still;
Each lonely at first in his roaming,
Till the vale to the sight opens fair,
And he sees the low cot through the gloaming,
When his bugle gives tongue to the air.

Thus a thousand brave hunters assemble
For the hunt of the insolent foe,
And soon shall his myrmidons tremble
'Neath the shock of the thunderbolt's blow.
Down the lone heights now wind they together,
As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale,
And now, as they group on the heather,
The keen scout delivers his tale:

"The British—the Tories are on us,
And now is the moment to prove
To the women whose virtues have won us,
That our virtues are worthy their love!
They have swept the vast valleys below us
With fire, to the hills from the sea;
And here would they seek to o'erthrow us
In a realm which our eagle makes free!"

No war-council suffered to trifle
With the hours devote to the deed;
Swift followed the grasp of the rifle,
Swift followed the bound to the steed;
And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen,
All panting with rage at the sight,
Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman,
As he lay in his camp on the height.

Grim dashed they away as they bounded,
The hunters to hem in the prey,
And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded,
Then the British rose fast to the fray;
And never with arms of more vigor
Did their bayonets press through the strife.
Where, with every swift pull of the trigger,
The sharpshooters dashed out a life!

'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions;
'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves;
Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance,
Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves;
Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle,
As from danger to danger he flies.
Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle,
With its "touch me who dare" and he dies!

An hour, and the battle is over;
The eagles are rending the prey;
The serpents seek flight into cover,
But the terror still stands in the way:
More dreadful the doom that on treason
Avenges the wrongs of the state;
And the oak-tree for many a season
Bears fruit for the vultures of fate!

William Gilmore Simms.

EUTAW SPRINGS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS,
UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN SOUTH CAROLINA,
WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781,
AT EUTAW SPRINGS.

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck of ruin they
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite thy gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted, rural reign;
Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
You too may fall and ask a tear;
'Tis not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear—

They saw their injured country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear,—but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
The Britons they compelled to fly;
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause, to die—

But, like the Parthians famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
Though far from Nature's limits thrown,
We trust they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.

Philip Freneau.

Cornwallis, meanwhile, had marched off toward Virginia, reaching Petersburg May 20, 1781, joining the British forces there and raising his army to five thousand men. He marched down the peninsula and established himself at Yorktown, adding the garrison of Portsmouth to his army, so that it numbered over seven thousand men.

THE DANCE

Cornwallis led a country dance,
The like was never seen, sir,
Much retrograde and much advance,
And all with General Greene, sir.

They rambled up and rambled down,
Joined hands, then off they run, sir.
Our General Greene to Charlestown,
The earl to Wilmington, sir.

Greene in the South then danced a set,
And got a mighty name, sir,
Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,
But suffered in his fame, sir.

Then down he figured to the shore,
Most like a lordly dancer,
And on his courtly honor swore
He would no more advance, sir.

Quoth he, my guards are weary grown
With footing country dances,
They never at St. James's shone,
At capers, kicks, or prances.

Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,
While sauntering on parade, sir,
Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green,
Or at a masquerade, sir.

Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,
For stumps and briars meet, sir?
Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,
Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

Now housed in York, he challenged all,
At minuet or all 'amande,
And lessons for a courtly ball
His guards by day and night conned.

This challenge known, full soon there came
A set who had the bon ton,
De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame
Fut brillant pour un long tems.

And Washington, Columbia's son,
Whom easy nature taught, sir,
That grace which can't by pains be won,
Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.

Now hand in hand they circle round
This ever-dancing peer, sir;
Their gentle movements soon confound
The earl as they draw near, sir.

His music soon forgets to play—
His feet can move no more, sir,
And all his bands now curse the day
They jiggèd to our shore, sir.

Now Tories all, what can ye say?
Come—is not this a griper,
That while your hopes are danced away,
'Tis you must pay the piper?

Here an unexpected factor entered upon the scene. A magnificent French fleet under Count de Grasse had sailed for the Chesapeake, and Washington, with a daring worthy of Cæsar or Napoleon, decided to transfer his army from the Hudson to Virginia and overwhelm Cornwallis. On August 19 Washington's army crossed the Hudson at King's Ferry and started on its four hundred mile march. On September 18 it appeared before Yorktown. The French squadron was already on the scene, and Cornwallis was in the trap. There was no escape. On October 17 he hoisted the white flag, and two days later the British army, over seven thousand in number, laid down its arms.

CORNWALLIS'S SURRENDER

[October 19, 1781]

When British troops first landed here,
With Howe commander o'er them,
They thought they'd make us quake for fear,
And carry all before them;
With thirty thousand men or more,
And she without assistance,
America must needs give o'er,
And make no more resistance.

But Washington, her glorious son,
Of British hosts the terror,
Soon, by repeated overthrows,
Convinc'd them of their error;
Let Princeton, and let Trenton tell,
What gallant deeds he's done, sir,
And Monmouth's plains where hundreds fell,
And thousands more have run, sir.

Cornwallis, too, when he approach'd
Virginia's old dominion,
Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be;
And so was North's opinion.
From State to State with rapid stride,
His troops had march'd before, sir,
Till quite elate with martial pride,
He thought all dangers o'er, sir.

But our allies, to his surprise,
The Chesapeake had enter'd;
And now too late, he curs'd his fate,
And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd,
For Washington no sooner knew
The visit he had paid her,
Than to his parent State he flew,
To crush the bold invader.

When he sat down before the town,
His Lordship soon surrender'd;
His martial pride he laid aside,
And cas'd the British standard;
Gods! how this stroke will North provoke,
And all his thoughts confuse, sir!
And how the Peers will hang their ears,
When first they hear the news, sir.

Be peace, the glorious end of war,
By this event effected;
And be the name of Washington
To latest times respected;
Then let us toast America,
And France in union with her;
And may Great Britain rue the day
Her hostile bands came hither.

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS

Come, all ye bold Americans, to you the truth I tell,
'Tis of a sad disaster, which late on Britain fell;
'Twas near the height of Old Yorktown, where the cannons loud did roar,
A summons to Cornwallis, to fight or else give o'er.

A summons to surrender was sent unto the lord,
Which made him feel like poor Burgoyne and quickly draw his sword,
Saying, "Must I give o'er those glittering troops, those ships and armies too,
And yield to General Washington, and his brave noble crew?"

A council to surrender this lord did then command;
"What say you, my brave heroes, to yield you must depend;
Don't you hear the bomb-shells flying, boys, and the thundering cannon's roar?
De Grasse is in the harbor, and Washington's on shore."

'Twas on the nineteenth of October, in the year of '81,
Cornwallis did surrender to General Washington;
Six thousand chosen British troops march'd out and grounded arms;
Huzza, ye bold Americans, for now sweet music charms.

Six thousand chosen British troops to Washington resign'd,
Besides some thousand Hessians that could not stay behind;
Both refugees and Tories all, when the devil gets his due,
O now we have got thousands, boys, but then we should have few.

Unto New York this lord has gone, surrendering you see,
And for to write these doleful lines unto his majesty;
For to contradict those lines, which he before had sent,
That he and his brave British crew were conquerors where they went.

Here's a health to General Washington, and his brave noble crew,
Likewise unto De Grasse, and all that liberty pursue;
May they scourge these bloody tyrants, all from our Yankee shore,
And with the arms of Freedom cause the wars they are all o'er.

"Early on a dark morning of the fourth week in October, an honest old German, slowly pacing the streets of Philadelphia on his night watch, began shouting, 'Basht dree o'glock, und Gornvallis ish dakendt!' and light sleepers sprang out of bed and threw up their windows." The whole country burst into jubilation at the news, and every village green was ablaze with bonfires.

NEWS FROM YORKTOWN

OCTOBER, 1781

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
How the voice rolled down the street
Till the silence rang and echoed
With the stir of hurrying feet!
In the hush of the Quaker city,
As the night drew on to morn,
How it startled the troubled sleepers,
Like the cry for a man-child born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
How they gathered, man and maid,
Here the child with a heart for the flint-lock,
There the trembling grandsire staid!
From the stateliest homes of the city,
From hovels that love might scorn,
How they followed that ringing summons,
Like the cry for a king's heir born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
I can see the quick lights flare,
See the glad, wild face at the window,
Half dumb in a breathless stare.
In the pause of an hour portentous,
In the gloom of a hope forlorn,
How it throbbed to the star-deep heavens,
Like the cry for a nation born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
How the message is sped and gone
To the farm and the town and the forest
Till the world was one vast dawn!
To distant and slave-sunk races,
Bowed down in their chains that morn,
How it swept on the winds of heaven,
Like a cry for God's justice born!

Lewis Worthington Smith.

AN ANCIENT PROPHECY

(Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis)

When a certain great King, whose initial is G.,
Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea;
When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble,
You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.

But when a Petition he treads under feet,
And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,
When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,
Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes to cage;
When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;
You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.

But when B. and C. with their armies are taken
This King will do well if he saves his own bacon:
In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and two
A stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;
And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive,
When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.

In the year eighty-three, the affair will be over
And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover;
The face of the Lion will then become pale,
He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail—
O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore,
From the Stars and the Stripes you will mercy implore,
And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.—

Philip Freneau.

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