Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CHARLESTON RETAKEN; DEC. 14, 1782, by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CHARLESTON RETAKEN; DEC. 14, 1782, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: As some half-vanquished lion
Last Line: Did slowly disappear.
Subject(s): American Revolution; Charleston, South Carolina


As some half-vanquished lion,
Who long hath kept at bay
A band of sturdy foresters
Barring his blood-stained way --
Sore-smitten, weak and wounded --
Glares forth on either hand;
Then, cowed with fear, his cavernous lair
Seeks in the mountain land:

So when their stern Cornwallis,
On Yorktown heights resigned,
His sword to our great leader,
Of the stalwart arm and mind --
So when both fleet and army
At one grand stroke went down
And Freedom's heart beat high once more
In hamlet, camp and town; --

Through wasted Carolina,
Where'er from plain to hill
The Briton's guarded fortresses
Uprose defiant still,
Passed a keen shock of terror,
And the breasts of war-steeled men
Quailed in the sudden blast of doom
That smote their spirits then.

"Our cause is lost!" they muttered,
Pale browed, with trembling lips;
"Our strength is sapped, our hope o'er-whelmed,
In final, fierce eclipse;
And what to us remaineth
But to blow our earthworks high,
And hurl our useless batteries
In wild fire to the sky?"

'Twas done! each deadly fastness
In flaming fragments driven
Farther than e'er their souls could climb
Along the path to heaven --
Coastward the Britons hurried,
In reckless throngs that flee
Wild as December's scattered clouds
Storm-whirled toward the sea.

In Charleston streets they gathered,
Each dazed wiseacre's head
Wagging, perchance in prophecy,
Or more perchance in dread.
Horsemen and footmen mingled,
They talked with bated breath
Of the shameful fate that stormed the gate,
Of wrack, and strife, and death!

Meanwhile our squadrons hastened,
Keen as a sleuth-hound pack
That near their destined quarry
By some drear wild-wood track,
Ah, Christ! what desolation
Before us grimly frowned!
The roadways trenched and furrowed,
The gore-ensanguined ground,
With many a mark (oh! deep and dark!)
Made ghastlier by the star-white frost,
'Twixt broken close and thorn-hedgerow,
Of desperate charge and mortal blow
In conflicts won or lost!

Proud manors once the centre
Of jubilant life and mirth,
Now silent as the sepulchre,
Begirt by ruin and dearth;
Their broad domains all blackened
With taint of fire and smoke,
And corpses vile with a death's-head smile,
Swung high on the gnarled oak.

No sportive flocks in the pasture,
No aftermath on the lea;
No laugh of the slaves at labors
No chant of birds on the tree;
But all things bodeful, dreary,
As a realm by the Stygian flood,
With odors of death on the uplands,
And a taste in the air of blood!

On, on our squadrons hastened,
Sick with the noisome fumes
From man and beast unburied,
Through the dull funeral gloom
Till in unsullied sunshine
One glorious morn we came
Where far aloof, o'er tower and roof,
We viewed our brave St. Michael's spire
Flushed in the noontide flame!

Without their ruined ramparts,
Beyond their shattered lines,
Just where the soil, bent seaward,
In one long slope declines,
The foe had sent their messengers,
Who vowed the vanquished host
Would leave unscathed our city,
Would leave unscathed our coast!

Only due time they prayed for
(Meek, meek our lords had grown)
To range their broken legions,
And rear ranks overthrown --
So that, though smirched and tainted
Their martial fame might be,
In order meet their stately fleet
Should bear them safe to sea.

Who win, may well be gracious;
We did not stint their boon,
Though the white 'kerchiefs of our wives
Were fluttered in the noon,
On house-top and on parapet
Each token fair and far
Shone through the golden atmosphere
Like some enchanted star!

Next morn their signal-cannon
Roared from the vanward wall,
And to the ranks right gleefully
We gathered, one and all,
Our banners scarred in many a fight,
Could still flash back the winter light,
And proud as knights of old renown,
With sunburnt hands and faces brown,

Borne through the joyous, deepening hum,
'Mid ring of fife and beat of drum,
'Mid purpling silk and flowery arch,
Our long, unwavering columns march;
And yet (good sooth!) we almost seem
Like weird battalions of a dream;
Our souls bewildered scarce can deem
We tread once more,
Released, secure,
With fetterless footsteps as of yore,
The pathways of the ancient town!

And still, as borne through dreamland,
We glanced from side to side,
While mothers, wives and daughters rushed
To greet us, tender-eyed;
Each hoary patriot proudly
Lifted his brave, gray head,
And the forms of careworn captives rose
Like spectres from the dead --

Like spectres whom the trumpets
Of freedom's cohorts call
To burst their grave-like dungeon,
And spurn their despot's thrall;
To take once more the image
Of manhood's loftier grace,
And, chainless now, the universe
Look boldly in the face!

And the young girls scattered flowers,
And the lovely dames were bright
With something more than beauty,
In their faithful hearts' delight;
The very babes were crowing
Shrill welcome to our bands,
And, perched on matron shoulders, clapped
Blithely their dimpled hands:

And naught but benedictions
Lightened that sacred air,
Freed from the awful burden
Of two long years' despair --
Two years so thronged with anguish,
So fraught with bitter wrong,
They seemed in mournful retrospect
Well night a century long.

But if years of mortal being
Trebled threescore and ten,
At the last, our souls exultant,
Would recall that scene again,
With its soft "God bless you, gentlemen?"
Its greetings warm and true,
And the tears of bliss our lips did kiss
From dear eyes black or blue.

Nathless, despite our rapture,
Down to the harbor-mouth
We dogged the Britons doomed to fly
Forever from our South!
They left as some foul vulture
Might leave his mangled prey,
And pass with clotted beak and wing
Reluctantly away.

Three hundred noble vessels
Rose on the rising flood,
Wherein with sullen apathy
Embarked those men of blood;
Then streamed their admiral's pennant --
The northwest breeze blew free;
With sloping mast, and current fast,
Out swept their fleet to sea.

We strained our vision waveward,
Watching the white-winged ships,
Till the vague clouds of distance
Wrapped them in half eclipse:
And still we strained our vision
Till, dimmer and more dim,
The rearmost sail, a phantom pale,
Died down the horizon's rim.

Thus, o'er the soul's horizon,
Did thoughts of blood and war,
Through time's enchanted distances
Receding, fade afar,
Thus o'er the soul's horizon,
Our strife's last ghastly fear,
Like all the rest, down memory's west
Did slowly disappear.





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