King's Mountain

A poem by Sara Beaumont Kennedy

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KING'S MOUNTAIN

(OCT.  7,   1780.)

October stands—month   Midas-fingered—

Where the forests skyward lift.

And each idly wandering zephyr

Laden comes with golden drift.

Myriad hues of blended blossoms

Banner bright the woodland ways

Where King's Mountain frowns imperial,

Diademed with purple haze.

*         *         *     ..   *         *

Backward cast thy searching vision

Through the centuries’ rolling mist.

Lo—the same scene, scarlet tinted

Where the early frosts have kissed!

But beneath the placid beauty,

Drowsy with its droning life,

Stirring patriot blood to frenzy

Heaved a wave of martial strife.

For the tyrant British leader

Sent his minions through the land,

And their desolating passage

Wide they marked with blade and brand

Till the hardy mountain heroes,

To repel the vaunting foe,

Gathered in the deep-set valleys

Where the western waters flow—

Gathered   as the storm-clouds muster

Ere the outburst of the blast.

And  their threats,  like muttered thunder,

On the wind went speeding past.

Every cliff gave back an echo,

Every cave and mountain steep

Thrilled with cries of "right” and "freedom,

Startled from their mystic sleep.

Arms and war's supplies were scanty,

But each dim-lit mountain cave—

Frosted with its crystal pendants—

Treasured store of nitre gave;

Arid the powder's meed of charcoal

Calm-eyed women, undismayed,

Burned upon their lowly hearth stones

Where the thoughtless children played.

And the red glow every evening

Filled the humble homes with light—

Touched a maiden dreaming shyly

Of her lover's last "good night;"

Crowned with gold the silver tresses

Of a dame whose youth was dim;

Wrapped in warmth a frail young mother

Singing sweet her cradle hymn.

Scenes like these the flashing firelight

Caught within its ruddy glow,

And the embers gave no token

They were death-fraught for the foe—

British foe, who on King’s Mountain

Pitched their white tents in the light,

Dreaming not the Continentals

Dared assail that dizzy height.

But they,knew not half the valor

That assaulting  band   would   show,

Men who fight lor home and honor

Strike with God to guide the blow.

And no patriot footstep faltered,

Eye nor visage showed dismay

As their thin line girt the.mountain

On that wan October day.

On the crest, the British leader,

Like a wolf trapped in its lair.

Struck out blindly, but each movement

Closer drew the fatal snare.

Vain—in vain his soldiers rallied

To retrieve and save the day,

For the mountaineers' keen rifles

Picked them off like birds of prey!

Then, as moved by one grand impulse.

One intent and purpose high,

Forward surged that line of heroes

With a hoarse, exultant cry;

For a voice struck through the sunlight,

Through the deafening roar of war

With a call of "Up and onward!"

Though no man the speaker saw.

'Twas the voice that startled Israel

By the Red Sea's sounding shore;

Add that Tell heard in its glory

On the Alpine heights of yore;

At whose call above Plataea

All of Sparta held her breath,
And whose echoes bleeding Poland                       ,

Caught amid the throes of death.

Now above King's lofty mountain

Once again that cry floats free,

And the charging patriots know it—

Know the voice of Liberty! And,

responsive to its summons,

Up they spring from crag to crag,

Up, to where the British banner

Flutters like a crimson rag.

Up and on—no fear or falter!

(How the ringing rifles flash!)

All of England had not stayed them

In that headlong, upward dash.

Ferguson, the English leader,

Gave his life to stem the tide,

But his horse, without a rider,

Plunges down the mountain side.

Then, from o'er the topmost boulder

Sinks the red-crossed flae: from sight,

And another, white and drooping,

Wavers in the fading light,

Sadly, dumbly, asking quarter;

For the furious light is done,

And the patriots stand victorious

In the last light of the sun.

Once again the placid autumn

Crowns the peak with purple haze,

Once again the soft-hued blossoms

Banner bright the woodland ways.

Years have left no scar of battle,

But at times we seem to see

Those bold heroes on King's Mountain

Turn a nation's destiny!

SARA BEAUMONT KENNEDY.

[This was found in the Lindsey Family Bible.  I hope it is ok to reprint it here; if not, please contact me at sam@samlindsey.com.  Thank you

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