Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,
The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,
The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;
These murmur of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,—
He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!
The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,
Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,
With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,
The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—