And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn:
It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return!”
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
UR 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.
Woe 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 woodlands ring 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.
'T is life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'T is 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 the Briton,
Forever, from our shore.
THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL.
The Slanten Light o' Fall.
H! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you,
When you wer' cristen'd, small an' light, Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue,
A-hangen in your robe o' white.
We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,
Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own,
When harvest-work wer' all a-done,
An' time brought round October zun
The slanten light o' Fall.
An' I can mind the wind wer' rough,
An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms,
An' you wer' nessled warm enough,
'Ithin your smilen mother's earms.
The whindlen grass did quiver light,
Among the stubble, feaded white,
An' if at times the zunlight broke
Upon the groun', or on the vo❜k,
'T wer' slanten light o' Fall.
An' when we brought ye droo the door
O' Knapton Church, a child o' greace,
There cluster'd roun' a'most a score
O' vo'k to zee your tiny feace.
An' there we all did veel so proud,
To zee an op'nen in the cloud,
An' then a stream o' light break droo,
A-sheenen brightly down on you -
The slanten light o' Fall.
But now your time's a-come to stan'
In church a-blushen at my zide,
The while a bridegroom vrom my han'
Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride.
Your Christian neame we gi'd ye here,
When Fall did cool the western year;
An' now, agean, we brought ye droo
The doorway, wi' your surneame new,
In slanten light o' Fall.
An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair,
An' God ha' been your steadvast friend,
An' mid ye have more jay than ceare,
Vor ever, till your journey's end.
An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,
But now I soon mus' leave your zide,
Vor you ha' still life's spring-tide zun,
But my life, Jeane, is now a-run
To slanten light o' Fall.
GOOD painter, tell me true
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things you never saw?
Ay? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields a little brown, -
The picture must not be over-bright,
Yet all the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down,
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, and fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing room
Under their tassels, cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With blue-birds twittering all around, —
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little and black and old,
With children, many as it could hold,
All at the windows, open wide,
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush;
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way
Out of a wilding wayside bush.
Listen closer, when you have done
With the woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while!
I need not speak these foolish words;
Yet one word tells you all I would say,
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee,
You must paint, sir, one like me,
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise.
At ten years old he went to sea,
God knoweth if he is living now, -
He sailed in the good ship Commodore, -
Nobody ever crossed her track
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