iotic heroines of
the Revolution.

This is, perhaps, enough in prose, but the fame of Marion
and his men has been fitly enshrined in poetry, and it will
not be amiss to quote a verse or two, in conclusion, from
Bryant's stirring poem entitled "Song of Marion's Men."

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.

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 moonlit 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
Forever from our shore.

THE FATE OF THE PHILADELPHIA.

It was a mild evening on the Mediterranean, the wind light,
the sea smooth, the temperature--though the season was that
of midwinter--summer-like in its geniality. Into the harbor
of Tripoli slowly glided a small, two-masted vessel, all her
sails set and moderately well filled by the wind, yet moving
with the tardiness of a very slow sailer. A broad bay lay
before her, its surface silvered by the young moon whose
crescent glowed in the western sky. Far inward could be
dimly seen the masts and hull of a large vessel, its furled
sails white in the moonlight. Beyond it were visible distant
lights, and a white lustre as of minaret tops touched by the
moonbeams. These were the lights and spires of Tripoli, a
Moorish town then best known as a haunt and stronghold of
the pirates of the Mediterranean. All was silence, all
seemingly peace. The vessel--the ketch, to gi