What! 't is the signal! start so soon,
And through the Santee swamp so deep,
Without the aid of friendly moon,

And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!
But courage, comrades! Marion leads,
The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;
So clear your swords and spur your steeds,
There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
We leave the swamp and cypress-tree,
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,
And ready for the strife are we.
The Tory camp is now in sight,

And there he cowers within his den; ́ He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

Shall it again appear,

With the sweet-loving certainty of light, Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep!

The upward-looking shepherd on the hills Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks, He wonders why his beauty doth not blaze, Gladding his gaze,

And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways!

How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, Much wondering, while the drowsy silence. fills

The sorrowful vault!-how lingers, in the hope that night

May yet renew the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight!

For the first secret of continued power

Is the continued conquest; -- all our sway Hath surety in the uses of the hour; If that we waste, in vain walled town and lofty tower!

SONG IN MARCH

Now are the winds about us in their glee,
Tossing the slender tree;
Whirling the sands about his furious car,
March cometh from afar;

SPARKLING and bright in liquid light,
Does the wine our goblets gleam in,
With hue as red as the rosy bed
Which a bee would choose to dream in.
Then fill to-night, with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight
Of Time through Life's dominions,
We here a while would now beguile
The graybeard of his pinions,

To drink to-night, with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

But since Delight can't tempt the wight,
Nor fond Regret delay him,
Nor Love himself can hold the elf,
Nor sober Friendship stay him,

We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her

corn,

And the spirit that lives in each amberhued grain,

And which first had its birth from the dew of the morn,

Was taught to steal out in bright dewdrops again.

Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board

Were scattered profusely in every one's reach,

When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard,

Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.

The liquids were mingled while Venus looked on

With glances so fraught with sweet magical power,

That the honey of Ilybla, e'en when they were gone,

Has never been missed in the draught from that hour.

Flora, then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook,

And with roscate fingers pressed down in the bowl,

All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook,

The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.

The draught was delicious, and loud the acclaim,

Though something seemed wanting for all to bewail,

But Juleps the drink of immortals became, When Jove himself added a handful of hail.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes,