While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;
But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[[1]] the bristling chapparal,
With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;
And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,
Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.
The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,
With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,
And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,
Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;
But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,