XX.
Beside the Santee's murmuring wave,
They made the early dead a grave;
And sometimes on its borders green
The passing traveler has seen
A spot where pale wild roses blow
The lofty oaks and firs below—
The turf is verdant with the spray—
There sleeps the dust of Morna Grey.
And Huon?—Still his daring arm
Was 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 tell
Of all the deeds his valor wrought,
How, when Fort Moultrie's color fell,
He mounted 'mid the flames and shot
The merlon height, and fixed on high
The starry banner 'mid the sky.
Nor how he died—the nobly slain,
In bearing from the battle-plain
The flag intrusted to his care.
But deeds like these were common then
As life, and light, and air;
Brave deeds that shall forever round
Our nation's annals cling;
Perchance some louder harp shall sound,
Some bolder spirit sing.
For me—the first pale star on high
Herald's the night with beaming eye,
And down the west has rolled the sun—
My song is o'er—my task is done.