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.