ETIWANDO—A BALLAD

BY JOHN TOMLIN.

(Extracts.)

Down in the darkful vale of death, forgotten years gone by, Ah! who into that secret womb, in memory will fly?

Back to forgotten memory, a hundred years ago,

A hundred years ago, or more, thy legends now to show?

A hundred years ago, or more, in silent solitude

By Etiwando’s raging flood, young Etiwando stood!

Disdain was in his swelling heart, as flashed the meteor o’er, His dark black eyes, in liquid fire, a strong resemblance bore!

All motionless as rock he stood, as firm as granite stone,

By Etiwando’s silent tide, in silence all alone;

His busom heaving as the tide of Etiwando’s flood,

His forehead swollen by the veins, big with revengeful blood; His dark eyes quivered with a light—O God! how strongly fix’d They were on time, on space, and seemed as with a devil mix'd; As motionless he stood as gazed upon the rising day,

And seem to speak, and did not speak, but yet his heard did say:

‘“ Ho! mandates of the living God, how tyrants little reck!

Ho! mandates of an earthly king, how galling to the neck! How much of evil and of good together here are mix'd

How much of evil here we find with good to it affix'd!

Now by the healing blood of Christ will Etiwando swear,

God help him now to keep the vow—no tyraut now shall swear, A kingly crown within this land, my native land of bliss,

Nor kingly crown, nor purple robe within a land like this.”

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In council as a prophet, seer, young Etiwando stood,

None deemed less divine thau man, some thought quite a god! In councils wise, in battles brave, his countrymen did say, That none did more of honor, save Marion in his day.

It was on holy Christmas eve, the moon was shining bright,

And on old Etiwando shed a flood of ivory light: Lhe sentinel was heard at post, a-pacing to and fro—

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Ho! Carolina’s Huguenots! rejected sons of France, On Briton and on Hessian too, in chivalry advance! Ho for your altars and your hearths! arouse, the thought inspires!

Ho Carolina’s Huguenots! the battle is begun, If lost to give the slavery, or freedom if ’tis won!

Young Etiwando, prophet, seer, young Etiwando stood, A spirit quenchless in its fire, a spirit brooding good! The Sachem of a perished race, he stood the white man's friend. And blest the cause of Liberty, of Freedom to the end!

In Freedom’s cause, on Eutaw’s plains, how gloriously he fell, The annals of his country point, and will forever tell! (1)