"For we are a skulking lot," says he,

"Of land-thieves hereabout, And the bold señores, two to one, Have come to smoke us out."

Santa Anna and Castrillon,

Almonte brave and gay,

Portilla red from Goliad,

And Cos with his smart array. Dulces and cigaritos,

And the light guitar, ting-tum! Sant' Anna courts siesta

And Sam Houston taps his drum.

The buck stands still in the timber-
"Is it patter of nuts that fall?"
The foal of the wild mare whinnies-
Did he hear the Comanche call?
In the brake by the crawling bayou
The slinking she-wolves howl,

And the mustang's snort in the river sedge
Has startled the paddling fowl.

A soft, low tap, and a muffled tap,
And a roll not loud nor long-
We would not break Sant' Anna's nap,
Nor spoil Almonte's song.

Saddles and knives and rifles!

Lord! but the men were glad

When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!"

And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"

The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,
And the fifer gripped his gun.

Oh, for one free, wild, Texan yell,
As we took the slope in a run!

But never a shout nor a shot we spent,
Nor an oath nor a prayer, that day,
Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,
And then we blazed away.

Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,
And the glory that Travis made,

With Bowie's lunge, and Crockett's shot,
And Fannin's dancing blade;

And the heart of the fighter, bounding free
In his joy so hot and mad-

When Millard charged for Alamo,

Lamar for Goliad.

Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,

Into the shock and rout:

"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge, There's no sneak's back-way out!"

Muzzle or butt for Goliad,

Pistol and blade and fist!

Oh, for the knife that never glanced,
And the gun that never missed!

Dulces and cigaritos,

Song and the mandolin!

That gory swamp was a gruesome grove

To dance fandangos in.

We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd

That fell in that frantic rout;

We slew and slew till the sun set red,

And the Texan star flashed out.

John Williamson Palmer [1825-1906]

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

[DECEMBER 17, 1839]

It was the schooner Hesperus,

That sailed the wintry sea;

And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,

To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds

That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his mouth,

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailòr,
Had sailed to the Spanish main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat

Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?"

"Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!".

And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh say, what may it be!"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be;

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull,

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts, went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

THE LOST COLORS

[1843]

FROWNING, the mountain stronghold stood,
Whose front no mortal could assail;
For more than twice three hundred years
The terror of the Indian vale.

By blood and fire the robber band
Answered the helpless village wail.

Hot was his heart and cool his thought,
When Napier from his Englishmen
Up to the bandits' rampart glanced,
And down upon his ranks again.
Summoned to dare a deed like that,
Which of them all would answer then?

What sullen regiment is this

That lifts its eyes to dread Cutchee?