Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful.  The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach.  The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak.  I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts.  From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers.  The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows.  All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.

Song of Marion’s men. deg.

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 the Briton,
  For ever, from our shore.