SONG OF MARION'S MEN. OUR band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our tent the cypress-tree; As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Wo to the English soldiery And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain ; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp— A moment-and away Back to the pathless forest, Grave men there are by broad Santee, And lovely ladies greet our band With smiles like those of summer, For them we wear these trusty arms, Till we have driven the Briton, THE ARCTIC LOVER. GONE is the long, long winter night; Look, my beloved one! How glorious, through his depths of light, Rolls the majestic sun! The willows, waked from winter's death, Give out a fragrance like thy breath The summer is begun! Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day: The loosened ice-ridge breaks away The smitten waters flash. Seaward the glittering mountain rides, While, down its green translucent sides, The foamy torrents dash. See, love, my boat is moored for thee, By ocean's weedy floor The petrel does not skim the sea More swiftly than my oar. We'll go, where, on the rocky isles, Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, Seek and defy the bear. Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, This arm his savage strength shall tame, And drag him from his lair. When crimson sky and flamy cloud And the dead valleys wear a shroud I'll build of ice thy winter home, With glistening walls and glassy dome, And spread with skins the floor. The white fox by thy couch shall play; And, from the frozen skies, The meteors of a mimic day Shall flash upon thine eyes. And I-for such thy vow-meanwhile Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, Till that long midnight flies. |