Wlliam Gilmore Simms
The Simms Review (Vol 16: No 2) >> Monody, on the Death of Gen. Charles Cotesworth Pinckney >> Page 17

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Page 17

Poetry | 1825
Transcription 8

When pale confusion fill'd each quiv'ring eye,
And desolation, weaved her torch on high;
Thou, 'midst the few, when all but life was lost,
And even Hope, by stern assurance crost,
Didst thou despair? Or did they trembling arm
Convulsive, tell thy innate soul'd alarm--
Did one small feature of thy brow pourtray,
The eventful horrors of that glorious day,
When infant Freedom nursed in wars' embrace,
Bared the red steel, and battled for her race?

No! 'midst the few, the sacred, godlike few,
Who felt their cause was just, their faulchions true,
Joint Spirits of the brave, who, proudly free,
Hallow'd with blood, thy plain Thermopylae!
Our Chief appears; not his the soul to wait,
Till urged to conflict, by a laggard fate;
Not his to seek, whilst all around was dark
For other rays--himself a glorious spark
Of that proud spirit, which thro' ages past,
The anshackled lot of myriads still has cast,
Descending on from well tied sire to son,
'Till freedom's battle o'er the worold is won!

Thine arm was first in conflict, link'd with those
Brave spirits who have seen thy ev'ning close,
And glorious to the last who watch thy ray,
As slow descending from the glare of day,