Blaze with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee! The shackles ne'er again shall bind The arm which now is free. I've mailed it with the thunder, When the tempest muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow! I've scared ye in the city, I've scalped ye on the plain; Go, count your chosen, where they fell Beneath my leaden rain! I scorn your proffered treaty! The pale-face I defy! Revenge is stamped upon my spear, And blood my battle-cry! Ye've trailed me through the forest, Ye've tracked me o'er the stream; And struggling through the everglade, Your bristling bayonets gleam; But I stand as should the warrior, With his rifle and his spear;-- The scalp of vengeance still is red, And warns ye,--Come not here! I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with my eye, And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, And fight ye till I die! I never will ask ye quarter, And I never will be your slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath the wave! G. W. Patten. CLXXXIX. THE THREE BEATS. Roll--roll!--How gladly swell the distant notes From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats! Roll--roll!--On, gorgeously they come, With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way, With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray:-- "What do ye here, my merry comrades,--say?"-- "We beat the gathering drum; 'T is this which gives to mirth a lighter tone, To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow, When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone, It steals upon his ear,--this martial call Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all