Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848. Various
by. "Do not give up," he had still strength to say; "you are fighting for liberty and country." Who that heard these words could think of surrender?
Noon came and went, yet still the awful struggle continued. Suddenly a shot struck the flag-staff, and the banner, which had waved in that lurid atmosphere all day, fell on the beach outside the fort. For a moment there was a pause, as if at a presage of disaster. Then a grenadier, the brave and immortal Serjeant Jasper, sprang upon the parapet, leaped down to the beach, and passing along nearly the whole front of the fort, exposed to the full fire of the enemy, deliberately cut off the bunting from the shattered mast, called for a sponge staff to be thrown to him, and tying the flag to this, clambered up the ramparts and replaced the banner, amid the cheers of his companions. Far away, in the city, there had been those who saw, through their telescopes, the fall of that flag; and, as the news went around, a chill of horror froze every heart, for it was thought the place had surrendered. But soon a slight staff was seen uplifted at one of the angles: it bore, clinging to it, something like bunting: the breeze struck it, the bundle unrolled, it was the flag of America! Hope danced again through every heart. Some burst into tears; some laughed hysterically; some gave way to outcries and huzzas of delight. As the hours wore on, however, new causes for apprehension arose. The fire of the fort was perceived to slacken. Could it be that its brave defenders, after such a glorious struggle, had at last given in? Again hope yielded to doubt, almost to despair; the feeling was the more terrible from the late exhilaration. Already, in fancy, the enemy was seen approaching the city. Wives began trembling for their husbands, who had rendered themselves conspicuous on the patriotic side: mothers clasped their infants, whose sires, they thought, had perished in the fight, and, in silent agony, prayed God to protect the fatherless. Thus passed an hour of the wildest anxiety and alarm. At last intelligence was brought that the fire had slackened only for want of powder; that a supply had since been secured; and that the cannonade would soon be resumed. In a short time these predictions were verified, and the air again shook with distant concussions. Thus the afternoon passed. Sunset approached, yet the fight raged. Slowly the great luminary of day sank in the west, and twilight, cold and calm, threw its shadows across the waters; yet still the fight raged. The stars came out, twinkling sharp and clear, in that half tropical sky: yet still the fight raged. The hum of the day had now subsided, and the cicada was heard trilling its note on the night-air: all was quiet and serene in the city: yet still the fight raged. The dull, heavy reports of the distant artillery boomed louder across the water, and the dark curtain of smoke that nearly concealed the ships and fort, grew luminous with incessant flashes. The fight still raged. At last the frequency of the discharges perceptibly lessened, and gradually, toward ten o'clock, ceased altogether. The ships of the enemy were now seen moving from their position, and making their way slowly, as if crippled and weary, out of the harbor: and, at that sight, most of the population, losing their anxiety, returned to their dwellings; though crowds still lined some of the wharves, waiting for authentic messengers from the fight, and peering into the gathering gloom, to detect the approach of the first boat.
The loss of the enemy had been excessive. The flag-ship, the Bristol, had forty-four men killed, and thirty wounded: the Experiment, another fifty gun ship, fifty-seven killed, and thirty wounded. All the ships were much cut up: the two-deckers terribly so; and one of the frigates, the Acteon, running aground, was burnt. The last shot fired from the fort entered the cabin of Sir Peter Parker's ship, cut down two young officers who were drinking there, and passing forward, killed three sailors on the main-deck, then passed out and buried itself in the sea. The loss on the American side was inconsiderable: twelve killed, and about twenty-five wounded. During the battle, the earnest zeal of the men was occasionally relieved by moments of merriment. A coat, having been thrown on the top of one of the merlons, was caught by a shot, and lodged in a tree, at which sight a general peal of laughter was heard. Moultrie sat coolly smoking his pipe during the conflict, occasionally taking it from his mouth to issue an order. Once, while the battle was in progress, General Lee came off to the island, but, finding every thing so prosperous, soon returned to his camp. The supply of powder which was obtained during the battle, and which enabled the patriots to resume the fight, was procured, part from a schooner in the harbor, part from the city. Unbounded enthusiasm, on the side of the inhabitants, hailed the gallant defenders of the fort after the victory: Moultrie received the thanks of Congress, was elevated to the rank of brigadier-general, and was honored by having the post he had defended called after his name. A stand of colors was presented, by Mrs. Elliott, to the men of his regiment, with the belief, she said, "that they would stand by them, as long as they could wave in the air of liberty." It was in guarding these colors, and perhaps in the recollection of her words, that the brave Serjeant Jasper lost his life, subsequently, at the siege of Savannah.
THE POET'S LOVE.
BY HENRY B. HIRST
"Thou hast a heart," my spirit said;
"Seek out a kindred one, and wed:
So passes grief, comes joy instead."
"True, Soul, I have," I quick replied;
"But in this weary world and wide
That other hath my search defied."
"Poet, thou hast an eye to see;
Thou knowest all things as they be;
The spheres are open books to thee.
"Thou art a missioned creature, sent
To preach of beauty – teach content:
In life's Sahara pitch thy tent!
"It is not good to be alone —
Not fit for any living one —
There's nothing single save the sun.
"Beasts, fishes, birds – yea, atoms mate,
Acknowledging an ordered fate:
What dost thou in a single state?"
"O, Soul!" I bitterly replied,
For I was full of haughty pride,
"Would in my birth that I had died!
"I feel what thou hast said is truth;
But I am past the bloom of youth,
And Beauty's eye has lost its ruth.
"I languish for some gentle heart
To throb with mine, devoid of art,
Perfect and pure in every part —
"Some innocent heart whose pulse's tone
Should beat in echo of mine own,
Where I might reign and reign alone."
"All this, and more, thy love might win,"
My spirit urged, "poor Child of Sin,
That sickenest in this rude world's din.
"Love is a way-side plant: go forth
And pluck – love has no thorns for worth —
The blossom from its place of birth.
"Perchance, on thee may Beauty's queen,
And Fortune's, look, with smiling mien —
With eyes, whose lids hold love between."
"Spirit, I am of little worth,"
Said I – "an erring child of earth:
Yet fain would own a happy hearth.
"Mere beauty, though it drowns my soul
With sunshine, may not be my goal;
And love despises gold's control.
"Better the riches of the mind —
A spirit toward the spheres inclined —
A heart that veers not with the wind.
"She might be beautiful, and gold
Might