Beside the Santee's murmuring wave, They made the early dead a grave; And sometimes on its borders green The passing traveler has seen A spot where pale wild roses blow The lofty oaks and firs below-- The turf is verdant with the spray-- There sleeps the dust of Morna Grey. And Huon?--Still his daring arm Was lifted in his country's aid, Though life had lost its sunniest charm, And o'er the future hung a shade; And time would fail me now to tell Of all the deeds his valor wrought, How, when Fort Moultrie's color fell, He mounted 'mid the flames and shot The merlon height, and fixed on high The starry banner 'mid the sky. Nor how he died--the nobly slain, In bearing from the battle-plain The flag intrusted to his care. But deeds like these were common then As life, and light, and air; Brave deeds that shall forever round Our nation's annals cling; Perchance some louder harp shall sound, Some bolder spirit sing. For me--the first pale star on high Herald's the night with beaming eye, And down the west has rolled the sun-- My song is o'er--my task is done. NOTE. During the Revolution, a young girl plighted to an officer of Marion's corps, followed him without being discovered to the camp, where, dressed in male attire, and unknown to him, she enrolled in the service. A few days after, during a fierce conflict that occurred, she stood by his side in the thickest of the fight, and in turning away a lance aimed at his heart received it in her own, and fell bleeding at his feet. She was buried on the banks of the Santee. He was afterward distinguished in the service at Fort Moultrie, and at Savannah, where he received his death-wound in carrying off the flag which was intrusted to him. THE POLE'S FAREWELL. BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. Warsaw, farewell! Alone that word Fame's dark eclipse recalls; The voice of wail alone is heard Within her ruined walls-- Her pavement rings beneath the tread Of bondsmen by their master led. Hope kindles on my native shore No more her beacon fires-- The Northern Bear is trampling o'er The dust of fallen sires, And signal ever to destroy Hath been his growl of savage joy. Oh! for one hour of glory gone-- An arm of might to hurl The Czar, in thunder, from his throne, And Freedom's flag unfurl; Then welcome, like a bride, the grave, Unbranded by the name of slave! Our snowy Eagle[3] screams no more Defiance high and loud; The wing is broken that could soar Through battle's smoky cloud, And wounded by a coward's spear, His perch is now lost Poland's bier.