Judith

Flower of youth, in the ancient frame—   Maid of the mettlesome lip and eye, Lightly wearing the fateful name,   And the rakish beaver of days gone by! Pink of fashion! Yet this is she   That once, through midnight forest and fen, Guided the horsemen of “Old Santee,”   And rode to the death with Marion’s men. Rare the picture that decks the wall;   Rare and dainty, in life, below, My century-later belle of the ball,   Mocking the beauty of long ago. If now the summons should come to ride,   Through such a darkness as brooded then, How would it please you to serve as guide?   And where, ah, where were Marion’s men? False the logic that breeds the fear.   Buds will blossom, and pipes will play. So it was in that early year;   So shall it be till the world is gray. But the petted darling, if need shall be,   As swift to the saddle will vault again; And those that follow will ride as free   As ever of old rode Marion’s men.