Part 12

With a bitter cry of sorrow, And a dark and angry frown, Looked that band of gallant patriots At their gunner stricken down. “Fall back, comrades, it is folly Thus to strive against the foe.” “No! not so,” cried Irish Molly; “We can strike another blow.”

Quickly leaped she to the cannon, In her fallen husband’s place, Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, Fired it in the foeman’s face. Flashed another ringing volley, Roared another from the gun; “Boys, hurrah!” cried gallant Molly, “For the flag of Washington.”

Greene’s Brigade, though shorn and shattered, Slain and bleeding half their men, When they heard that Irish slogan, Turned and charged the foe again. Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, To the front they forward wheel, And before their rushing onset Clinton’s English columns reel.

Still the cannon’s voice in anger Rolled and rattled o’er the plain, Till there lay in swarms around it Mangled heaps of Hessian slain. “Forward! charge them with the bayonet!” ’Twas the voice of Washington, And there burst a fiery greeting From the Irish woman’s gun.

Monckton falls; against his columns Leap the troops of Wayne and Lee, And before their reeking bayonets Clinton’s red battalions flee. Morgan’s rifles, fiercely flashing, Thin the foe’s retreating ranks, And behind them onward dashing Ogden hovers on their flanks.

Fast they fly, these boasting Britons, Who in all their glory came, With their brutal Hessian hirelings To wipe out our country’s name. Proudly floats the starry banner, Monmouth’s glorious field is won, And in triumph Irish Molly, Stands beside her smoking gun.

THE SOUTH IN THE REVOLUTION

BY ROBERT YOUNG HAYNE

If there be one State in the Union, and I say it not in a boasting spirit, that may challenge comparison with any other, for an uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the Union, that State is South Carolina.

From the very commencement of the Revolution, up to this hour, there is no sacrifice, however great, she has not cheerfully made, no service she has even hesitated to perform. She has adhered to you, in your prosperity; but in your adversity she has clung to you with more than filial affection. No matter what was the condition of her domestic affairs, though deprived of her resources, divided by parties, or surrounded by difficulties, the call of the country has been to her as the voice of God. Domestic discord ceased at the sound; every man became at once reconciled to his brethren, and the sons of Carolina were all seen crowding together to the temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their common country.

What was the conduct of the South during the Revolution? I honor New England for her conduct in that glorious struggle. But, great as is the praise which belongs to her, I think at least equal honor is due to the South. They espoused the quarrel of their brethren with a generous zeal which did not suffer them to stop to calculate their interest in the dispute. Favorites of the mother-country, possessed of neither ships nor seamen to create a commercial rivalship, they might have found, in their situation, a guarantee that their trade would be forever fostered and protected by Great Britain. But, trampling on all considerations, either of interest or of safety, they rushed into the conflict; and, fighting for principle, periled all in the sacred cause of freedom. Never was there exhibited in the history of the world higher examples of noble daring, dreadful suffering, and heroic endurance than by the Whigs of Carolina during the Revolution! The whole state, from the mountains to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force of the enemy. The fruits of industry perished on the spot where they were produced, or were consumed by the foe. The “Plains of Carolina” drank up the most precious blood of her citizens. Black and smoking ruins marked the places which had been the habitations of her children. Driven from their homes, into the gloomy and almost impenetrable swamps, even there the spirit of liberty survived, and South Carolina, sustained by the example of her Sumters and her Marions, proved, by her conduct, that, though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of her people was invincible.

THE SONG OF MARION’S MEN

(1780-1781.)

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

_While the British Army held South Carolina, Marion and Sumter gathered bands of partisans and waged a vigorous guerilla warfare most harassing and destructive to the invader._

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion’s name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Wo to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire They grasp their arms in vain, 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 band that Marion leads— 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, Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven down the Briton, Forever, from our shore.

OUR COUNTRY SAVED

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

(Extract from Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration, July 21, 1865.)

Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves! Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple! Banners, advance with triumph, bend your staves! And from every mountain-peak Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, She of the open soul and open door, With room about her hearth for all mankind! The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; From her bold front the helm she doth unbind, Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin, And bids her navies, that so lately hurled Their crashing battle, to hold their thunders in, Swimming like birds of calm along the unharmful shore. No challenge sends she to the older world, That looked askance and hatred; a light scorn Plays o’er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of nobler days, enthroned between her subject seas.

Bow down, dear land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thee peace! Bow down in prayer and praise! No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man’s enfranchised brow. O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more! Smoothing thy gold of war-disheveled hair O’er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips Freed from wrath’s pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare; What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, Among the nations bright beyond compare? What were our lives without thee? What all our lives to save thee? We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else, and we will dare!

NEW ENGLAND AND VIRGINIA

BY ROBERT CHARLES WINTHROP

There are circumstances of peculiar and beautiful correspondence in the careers of Virginia and New England which must ever constitute a bond of sympathy, affection, and pride between their children. Not only did they form respectively the great northern and southern rallying points of civilization on this continent; not only was the most friendly competition or the most cordial coöperation, as circumstances allowed, kept up between them during their early colonial existence—but who forgets the generous emulation, the noble rivalry, with which they continually challenged and seconded each other in resisting the first beginnings of British aggression, in the persons of their James Otises and Patrick Henrys?

Who forgets that while that resistance was first brought to a practical test in New England, at Lexington and Concord and Bunker Hill, Fortune reserved for Yorktown of Virginia the last crowning battle of Independence? Who forgets that while the hand by which the original Declaration of Independence was drafted, was furnished by Virginia, the tongue by which the adoption of that instrument was defended and secured, was furnished by New England,—a bond of common glory, upon which not Death alone seemed to set his seal, but Deity, I had almost said, to affix an immortal sanction, when the spirits by which that hand and voice were moved, were caught up together to the clouds on the same great Day of the Nation’s Jubilee.

VI

SWEET LAND OF LIBERTY

AMERICA[11]

BY S. F. SMITH

My country, ’tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims’ pride, From every mountain side Let Freedom ring.

My native country, thee, Land of the noble free, Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills, My heart with rapture thrills Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet Freedom’s song; Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong.

Our fathers’ God to Thee, Author of Liberty, To thee we sing, Long may our land be bright With Freedom’s holy light, Protect us by thy might Great God, our King.

Our glorious Land to-day, ’Neath Education’s sway, Soars upward still. Its halls of learning fair, Whose bounties all may share, Behold them everywhere On vale and hill!

Thy safeguard, Liberty, The school shall ever be,— Our Nation’s pride! No tyrant hand shall smite, While with encircling might All here are taught the Right With Truth allied.

Beneath Heaven’s gracious will The stars of progress still Our course do sway; In unity sublime To broader heights we climb, Triumphant over Time, God speeds our way!

Grand birthright of our sires, Our altars and our fires Keep we still pure! Our starry flag unfurled, The hope of all the world, In Peace and Light impearled, God hold secure!

THE REPUBLIC

(From “The Building of the Ship.”)

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, ’Tis of the wave and not the rock; ’Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest’s roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades— Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old— My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty.

O Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailèd hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven; Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birthright was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrow on the mountain’s side, Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age— Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm they ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven.

AMERICA

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Oh, mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years. With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step—the wild deer’s rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

Aye, let them rail—those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe.

They know not, in their hate and pride, What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades; What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;—

What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the West; How faith is kept, and truth revered, And man is loved, and God is feared, In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams.

There’s freedom at thy gates and rest For Earth’s down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head, For the starved laborer toil and bread. Power, at thy bounds, Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.

Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. Deep in the brightness of the skies The thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet.

Thine eye, with every coming hour, Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn, Before thine eye, Upon their lips the taunt shall die.

ODE

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

(Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857.)

O tenderly the haughty day Fills his blue urn with fire; One morn is in the mighty heaven, And one in our desire.

The cannon booms from town to town, Our pulses beat not less, The joy-bells chime their tidings down, Which children’s voices bless.

For He that flung the broad blue fold O’er-mantling land and sea, One third part of the sky unrolled For the banner of the free.

The men are ripe of Saxon kind To build an equal state,— To take the statute from the mind And make of duty fate.

United States! the ages plead,— Present and Past in under-song,— Go put your creed into your deed, Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don’t understand Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights By the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scroll Of honor o’er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll A ferry of the free.

And henceforth there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea The wires shall murmur through the main Sweet songs of liberty.

The conscious stars accord above, The waters wild below, And under, through the cable wove, Her fiery errands go.

AMERICA FIRST[12]

ANONYMOUS

This is the season when Young America celebrates the glorious deeds of the forefathers, when they cut the leading-strings that bound them to the Old World, and stepped forth with the independence of manhood.

It took Rome five hundred years, five centuries of war, intrigue and arrogance, to overspread Southern Europe. In a little more than one century America has grown to a magnitude in area and perhaps in population also, equal to that of Rome in its most magnificent days.

“_Civis Romanus sum!_” was the proudest boast that could fall from the lips of man at the beginning of the Christian era. Is there to-day an American who rates his citizenship in the Great Republic at a lower value than Roman freedom nineteen hundred years ago?

The day for “spread-eagle” brag is long past, but there is no reason why we should hesitate to say what not we alone but all the people of the world believe, that it is the destiny of this country to become the greatest, the strongest, the wealthiest, the most self-supporting of all the nations of the earth. It is already the greatest self-governing community the world has ever seen.

How can we make it greater? By standing together as Americans. We shall not magnify, but shall belittle ourselves, if we swagger before our neighbors—using bravado for the strong, and insolence in our treatment of the weak. But we should take American views instead of party views, when questions arise between this government and others.

The motto “America against the world” would be a contemptible motto. Yet is it not better to adopt even such a motto than to take the side of the world against America, or to be indifferent when the interests of one’s own country are assailed?

The Fourth of July is a good time for us all to resolve that we will be Americans at heart. Not that we will build up our own country on the ruins of others, but that when there is a clashing of interests those of our native land shall have our hearty support.

LIBERTY FOR ALL

BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON

They tell me, Liberty! that in thy name I may not plead for all the human race; That some are born to bondage and disgrace, Some to a heritage of woe and shame, And some to power supreme, and glorious fame: With my whole soul I spurn the doctrine base, And, as an equal brotherhood, embrace All people, and for all fair freedom claim! Know this, O man! whate’er thy earthly fate— God never made a tyrant nor a slave: Woe, then, to those who dare to desecrate His glorious image!—for to all He gave Eternal rights, which none may violate; And, by a mighty hand, the oppressed He yet shall save!

HYMN

(For the Fourth of July, 1863.)

ANONYMOUS

Lord, the people of the land In Thy presence humbly stand; On this day, when Thou didst free Men of old from tyranny, We, their children, bow to Thee. Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust!

All our homes are red with blood; Long our grief we have withstood; Every lintel, each door-post, Drips, at tidings from the host, With the blood of some one lost. Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust!

Comfort, Lord, the grieving one Who bewails a stricken son! Comfort, Lord, the weeping wife, In her long, long widowed life, Brooding o’er the fatal strife, Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust!

On our Nation’s day of birth, Bless Thy own long-favored earth! Urge the soldier with Thy will! Aid their leaders with Thy skill! Let them hear Thy trumpet thrill! Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust!

Lord, we only fight for peace, Fight that freedom may increase. Give us back the peace of old, When the land with plenty rolled, And our banner awed the bold! Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust!

Lest we pray in thoughtless guilt, Shape the future as Thou wilt! Purge our realm from hoary crime With Thy battles, dread, sublime, In Thy well-appointed time! Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust!