“Sir H. Clinton arrived with reinforcements on the 1st of April, soon after which he summoned the town to surrender; but General Lincoln declared his intention of defending the place (to which resolution he was induced by the daily expectation of recruits from Virginia, which never arrived) whenever hostilities should commence. The batteries of the enemy were immediately opened on the town. The Americans returned a brisk, but ineffectual fire. Their numbers were too few to cope with the united strength of the British army, and the troops so scattered as to be exposed to be cut off by every fire from the batteries. The results of this unavailing struggle on the side of the Americans, caused the final capitulation of Charleston. But this happened too late to awaken joy or sorrow in the breast of Morna. Her betrothed lover was one of General Lincoln's aids, and commanded his first battery. He maintained this post of danger with consummate skill and bravery, until every man was swept away from around him, and he stood alone, a distinguished mark for their shot. It was but for a moment, and he fell, covered with wounds and with glory. General Lincoln, who was near him in his last moments, sent a message to his family, informing them that he met death as became an American, and a hero, fighting in the cause of liberty.
“Afflictions, it is said, never come alone. The same day that brought the overwhelming tidings of Percy's fall, intelligence reached my mother that Colonel Ridgely was mortally wounded. Hostilities having ceased, he sent under a flag of truce to request the immediate attendance of his sister and daughter. No time was to be lost; in a state of mind bordering on distraction, they were hurried towards the British camp. My mother was a worshipper of God; to Him she looked up for strength equal to the mighty conflict. But of poor Morna, how shall I speak? The waves of affliction had well nigh overwhelmed the slender bark of her existence, and despair alone seemed to nerve her step, as she was conducted to the door of her father's tent. The attendant officer seeing them approach, opened the door, and with a sad countenance informed them that Colonel Ridgely had just expired. A shriek was the only sound that escaped Morna's lips. She fell insensible on the floor, and happy would it have been for her if life had been extinguished with her reason, which from that moment never resumed its empire. The functions of life gradually revived, and maintained a feeble and wavering existence for a few weeks; but the gem of the mind was gone—wild and incoherent fancies filled her imagination—broken images of past and future joys were confusedly mingled with phantoms of fear and dread. In her last moments, there was something mysterious and almost supernatural in the creations of her imagination. She seemed to have caught the glimpse of a procession, which she was hastening to join. ‘Mammy Marget,’ she cried, ‘bring my bridal dress—the procession is waiting for me; to the church you know we must go to be united: there is Alfred and father too. Haste! haste!—it is almost in the clouds already, but I must overtake it!’ Breathless she sunk back, and expired. Her remains were laid in my mother's garden, and the turf that 'wraps her slumbering clay' was daily moistened with her tears. On the slab that marks the spot are inscribed Hamlet's words: ‘Lay her in the earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring.’”
Such was the history attached to the PORTRAIT.
V.
STANZAS.
BY JAMES F. OTIS.
See, where, fast sinking o'er the hills,
As with a golden halo round,
The setting sun with splendor fills
Those massy piles which lie around
His couch, in crimson glory drest,
Like drapery o'er a monarch's rest.
Bright, fair, but oh, how fading too
Is all this beautiful array!
A moment given to the view,
Then past, amid the gloom, away:
So, like the gilded things of earth,
Which charm the eye, though little worth!
And now, eve's glowing star illumes
The chambers of the distant west,
And, scarce discerned, like waving plumes
That flash o'er many a warrior's crest,
There float along the upper air
Thin, fleecy clouds, so clear and fair.
How sweet to gaze upon their slight,
Transparent forms, changing so oft,
As e'en the Zephyr's gentlest flight
Scatters them with its pinions soft—
Seeming, as down the sky they go,
Like wreaths of gently driven snow!
And then to trace the full-orbed moon,
As, struggling on her cloudy way,
She travels forth, now wrapped in gloom,
Now bursting forth with undimm'd ray—
Like some high, noble heart, whose pride
Still bears him on, though woes betide.