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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/everhartpoemsOOeverrich 
 
POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 j-.a.:m::es ib. ^vebhabt, 
 
 AUTHOR OF A VOLUME OF MISCELLANIES. 
 
 I, fuge: sed poteras tutior esse domi. 
 
 Martial, Ep. 4. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 18 68. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
 
 JAMES B. EVERHAKT, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in 
 and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 • / • ••••••• • 
 
 • • • •••••••• 
 
 • • •• • » . t , 
 
 • • • • •• .».•• • • • 
 
 « ••• ••"•"« • • ••« 
 
TO 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
 THESE PAGES 
 ARE AFFECTIONATELY 
 
 1* (v) 
 
 M189010 
 
PROEM 
 
 All things have shapes of beauty, 
 
 Sweet visions haunt the air— 
 If we but catch their favor, 
 
 If we but see them fair. 
 All sounds have got their music, 
 
 All passions have their worth, 
 Each soul has its creations, 
 
 Each thought will have a birth. 
 Yet few are of the prophets 
 
 Whose lips are kissed with fire ; 
 And few are of the players 
 
 That sweep the golden lyre. 
 No bidden guest we enter 
 
 The Muse's banquet hall ; 
 Contented, if allowed us 
 
 The scattered crumbs that fall. 
 
 (vii) 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Flag 11 
 
 Kate Spider 12 
 
 The Land I Love 15 
 
 Grant at Chattanooga 26 
 
 The Harvest Day 30 
 
 Betty Brown's Grave 35 
 
 The Piebald Horse 38 
 
 The Fisherman 40 
 
 A Reverie 44 
 
 The Entertainment at Simon's House 46 
 
 The Maple near my Window 47 
 
 The Cannon 50 
 
 "The Evening Star" 51 
 
 The Sorrel Locks 52 
 
 The Fall 54 
 
 The Kearsarge and the Alabama 55 
 
 TheDoans 60 
 
 Campbell's Ledge 67 
 
 The Past 70 
 
 Croquet 72 
 
 The Mutilated Tree 74 
 
 Cm) 
 
x CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Close of the Year 1866 75 
 
 The Death of Prince 81 
 
 The Drive 82 
 
 Sconnelltown , 87 
 
 The Skaters 93 
 
 To a certain Golden Eagle and a certain Wild Goose 99 
 
 The Old School-House , 101 
 
 The Fall of Richmond 106 
 
 Vesper 108 
 
 Abe Smith 110 
 
 The Unknown Lady 112 
 
 Farewell to Winter 115 
 
 The Wreck of the Albion 118 
 
 The War 123 
 
 The Brandy wine 136 
 
 She is not There 139 
 
 Notes 143 
 
POEMS 
 
 THE FLAG. 
 
 By yon cluster, with starry luster, 
 
 The regiments muster along the line — 
 
 And onward moving, devotion proving, 
 Their hearts a-loving, around it twine. 
 
 Mark ! how they eye it ! as if the fiat 
 Of holy Diet had made them swear 
 
 Before the altar, on law and psalter, 
 They'd never falter beneath its glare. 
 
 Now, high, advancing, oh! see it glancing! 
 
 Oh ! sight entrancing ! they charge the foe !- 
 Shoulder to shoulder, the men grow bolder, 
 
 Shielding its holder from overthrow. 
 
 But, hear the clashing of squadrons dashing, 
 Amidst the crashing of iron and lead ! 
 
 Oh ! scene appalling ! behold them falling ! 
 The wounded crawling among the dead ! 
 
 (in 
 
• • «...'•■ 
 
 • • • . • 
 -• • •• • 
 
 • • • 
 
 12 KATE SPIDER. 
 
 That banner flaring, with colors bearing 
 A charm to daring, the day has saved : — 
 
 And they'll discover, when strife is over, 
 The thickest clover blooms where it waved. 
 
 Still 'neath its blazon the diapason 
 
 Of gun and caisson for Freedom rolls — 
 
 And still shall Glory, through ages hoary, 
 In art and story, embalm its folds. 
 
 KATE SPIDER.! 1 ) 
 
 Kate Spider was yclep'd a witch, 
 And filled the folks with dread : 
 
 For she gave the cows the murrain, 
 And made the milk turn red ! 
 
 And had a sort of mummy look, 
 As if she had been dead ! 
 
 And she dwelt upon the hillside, 
 
 Within a natural cave ; 
 And when she went abroad, they said 
 
 She issued from the grave — 
 And she could ride upon the air, 
 
 Or walk upon the wave. 
 
 Now, some witches may be tender, 
 And beautiful withal, 
 
KATE SPIDER. 13 
 
 As they paint the witch of Endor, 
 
 Who told the fate of Saul ; 
 But in Kate, her best defender 
 
 Could see no charms at all. 
 
 She was dark, and deeply wrinkled, 
 
 Her nose was hook'd and thin, 
 And her eyes were like a devil's, 
 
 That gloated over sin ; 
 And when she tried to smile, she made 
 
 A very horrid grin. 
 
 And then, too, she carried with her 
 
 Her kittens and her cat, 
 Who, often, on her head and arms, 
 
 In antic postures sat ; 
 And would walk upon their hind legs, 
 
 And do such tricks as that. 
 
 ? Twas said they were her messengers, 
 
 And brought infernal news, 
 For their early race o'er meadows 
 
 Dried up the morning dews ; 
 And when the cowboy crossed their trail, 
 
 He trembled in his shoes. 
 
 And forsooth ! she read the secrets 
 
 Of fortunes at a glance, 
 And announced the times and places, 
 
 And surnames of gallants, 
 2 
 
14 KATE SPIDER. 
 
 When young damsels dropp'd their money 
 Amongst her simm'ring plants. 
 
 But the public ban was on her, 
 Her patrons gazed, with awe, 
 
 Upon one who seemed unfettered 
 By any kind of law, 
 
 And into the world of spirits 
 And misty future saw. 
 
 Some nail'd a horse-shoe o'er the sill, 
 
 To bar the entrance way; 
 Or stuck a fork beneath her chair, 
 
 Near fire to make her stay; 
 Yet these were rather meager plans 
 
 To keep a witch at bay. 
 
 So they got a clever artist, 
 Who sketched her on a door, 
 
 Which they shot with silver bullet, 
 That made it ooze with gore — 
 
 And Kate Spider, in that region, 
 Was seen not any more. 
 
THE LAND I LOVE. 15 
 
 THE LAND I LOVE 
 
 You ask me, of the lands I saw, which place did please 
 me best, 
 
 Where I'd prefer to cast my lot, and spend my evening 
 rest : — 
 
 Attractions rare, in many climes, allured me long to 
 stay 
 
 'Mongst relics of the olden time, 'mongst marvels of 
 the day : 
 
 Amongst the precious spices that scent the whispering 
 gales, 
 
 Where Aurora leads the dawn o'er the haunts of East- 
 ern tales ; 
 
 Where the old Sabeans worshiped Orion and his 
 band, 
 
 And Hagar's wandering sons spread their tents upon 
 the sand : 
 
 Where whilom the Caliphs cherished the garnered lore 
 of books, 
 
 Where the Pasha fought the Gauls with his mounted 
 Mamelukes : 
 
 Where through the narrow streets defile the camel car- 
 avan, 
 
 And priests in alabaster mosques expound the Al- 
 coran : — 
 
16 THE LAND I LOVE. 
 
 Where that immortal river rolls with such a conscious 
 pride, 
 
 'Twas deemed to flow from heaven, to have been of 
 Jove the bride ; 
 
 Which sheds its fertile virtue o'er the famed Egyptian 
 soil, 
 
 And washes those stupendous wrecks of vanity and 
 toil — 
 
 The mighty fanes of Ramses, that surpass his battles 
 won, 
 
 The Memnon that made music, when it felt the morn- 
 ing sun, 
 
 The pyramids of Gizeh, and that hundred-gated town, 
 
 Which fired the muse of Homer with its riches and re- 
 nown: — 
 
 And there's that Scriptural region of patriarchs and 
 seers, 
 
 And the City that our Lord bewailed with unavailing 
 tears, 
 
 The pleasant coast of Galilee, that widow's town of 
 Nain, 
 
 The wheat fields of Esdraelon, and Sharon's rosy plain, 
 
 The bushy banks of Jordan, Bethlehem's humble 
 cave, 
 
 The curving slopes of Nazareth, the well that Jacob 
 gave : 
 
 All the spots He hallowed with His weary, sandaled 
 feet, 
 
 Where He did His miracles, and bestowed the Para- 
 clete ; 
 
THE LAND I LOVE. 11 
 
 And the site of that great Temple, whose holies were 
 
 unvailed, 
 When His sacrificial body to the cursed cross was 
 
 nailed : — 
 And there's that splendid City, with its gardens and 
 
 kiosks, 
 Metropolis of continents, the capital of mosques — 
 The scene of many a story, historical and feigned, 
 Where hostile creeds contended, and their chivalry 
 
 maintained : 
 Adorned with marble palaces, with fountains and with 
 
 trees, 
 With bazaars and minarets, and the lovely Cherso- 
 nese; 
 The glassy waves of Bosphorus, o'er which that ship 
 
 of old 
 Bore Jason and his followers, who sought the Fleece of 
 
 Gold:— 
 And there's the classic Islands, once the seat of bards 
 
 and schools, 
 Where Yenus taught her mysteries, and Eloquence her 
 
 rules ; 
 Where the vineyards climb the hillsides, and orchards 
 
 form the shade, 
 Teeming with the Cyprian fruit which won the flying 
 
 maid: 
 Where the sculptor in the rock found the figure of his 
 
 dream, 
 And painters dipped their pencil in the rainbow and 
 
 the stream : — 
 
 2* 
 
18 THE LAND 1 LOVE. 
 
 And there's the shore round Athens, that swarms with 
 
 bees and flowers, 
 The groves of Acadernus where the sages whiled their 
 
 hours : 
 The Acropolis and Parthenon shining o'er the seas, 
 Where Pallas put the olive, and Phidias carved the 
 
 frieze, 
 The Agora for orators, who swayed the murmuring J 
 
 throng, 
 The theater of Bacchus where they trilled the Attic 
 
 song; 
 And where the Areopagites sat on the seats of stone, 
 Where Paul denounced idolatry and preached the God 
 
 unknown : 
 The rock-hewn cell of Socrates, who led the docile 
 
 youth 
 To oracles of virtue, and who perished for the truth : — 
 And there's Rome, the seven hill'd, who once spread 
 
 her arms and creed 
 From the Parthian altars to the Druid groves of 
 
 Tweed, 
 And left upon the earth the memorials of her power 
 In scattered heaps of ruins, still the wonder of the 
 
 hour, 
 In the spirit of her laws, in the music of her lays, 
 In the walls of Christian churches, and in their holi- 
 days, 
 In the language of the peoples, and in the calendar, 
 In lessons of ambition, and the rugged trade of war; 
 
THE LAND I LOVE. 19 
 
 And whose foundations still uphold the modern Papal 
 
 Rome, 
 With its precious Vatican, and Saint Peter's mighty 
 
 dome, 
 Where old and new conspire to move the genius and 
 
 the heart, 
 And lure the distant pilgrim to the shrine of faith and 
 
 art: — 
 And there's delicious Venice, in dazzling beauty seen, 
 Emerging from the parent wave, like Passion's fabled 
 
 queen : 
 Her exhaustless charms concealing many a grievous 
 
 shame, 
 Like the Cestus of the goddess that stifled hate in 
 
 flame; 
 For she in wanton revels played, and drank the wine of 
 
 sin 
 Amidst the wealth of Caravels, and spoils of Sar- 
 acen : 
 And it has been the joy of Bards to fancy and por- 
 tray 
 The prestige of her golden prime, her graces in decay — 
 How once she wore her jewels rare, how lost them from 
 
 her brow, 
 How their luster like a nimbus still lingers round her 
 
 now: — 
 And there's the beauteous Seville on Guadalquivir's 
 
 shores, 
 With her shaded Alameda, and her tower built by 
 
 Moors ; 
 
20 THE LAND I LOVE. 
 
 And where pride in every aspect, at every turn you 
 
 meet, 
 In the beggar 'neath his cloak, in the costly dressed 
 
 elite, 
 In the market peasant strutting in shoes of hempen 
 
 strings, 
 In the ladies without bonnets, and fingers bright with 
 
 rings : 
 Where the brigand, in the twilight, his hand upon his 
 
 knife, 
 Boldly hails you to deliver your money or your life : 
 Where in the vast arena, from the hovel and the 
 
 court, 
 The eager crowds assemble to watch barbarian sport : 
 To fill the air with plaudits at the Picador's keen hand, 
 When the dumb brute he pierces, and his blood defiles 
 
 the sand, 
 When the noble steed is gored, and, all mangled, falls 
 
 and dies, 
 And the bull, lashed to fury, at the Banderilla flies : 
 And so with repetition, till the sun is sinking low, 
 And their degraded passions have grown weary with 
 
 the show, 
 And mules haul off the carcasses, musicians gayly play, 
 And midst the smoke of fans afire, conclude the cruel 
 
 day:— 
 There's the brilliant promenade, of the streets along 
 
 the Seine, 
 Where fashion holds her carnival, and pomp and pleas- 
 ure reign : 
 
THE LAND I LOVE. 21 
 
 Where every tongue and costume are marked amid the 
 
 mass, 
 As by the gaudy windows and the lofty walls they pass ; 
 Where every church and gallery with rarest art is 
 
 rife, 
 And politeness gilds the manners, and lends its grace 
 
 to life : 
 Where kettle-drums are beating round the circuit of the 
 
 walls, 
 And the constant tramp of soldiers upon the pavement 
 
 falls, 
 And the veteran and the maim'd in honored ease re- 
 pose, 
 Where their Captain's mausoleum its blessed shadow 
 
 throws ; 
 And marble arcs of triumph, and the shafts of captured 
 
 guns 
 Show the glory of the nation and the valor of her 
 
 sons: — • 
 
 There's the Switzer with his cot, in the mountainous 
 
 ravine, 
 The glaciers bright above him, and his herds upon the 
 
 green ; 
 Bold and frugal in his instincts, and vigorous of hand, 
 With the virtue of his sires, and the spirit of his land, 
 Contented with his rugged lot, and to his nature true, 
 No luxuries e'er seduce him, nor tyrants can subdue : — 
 There's the varied scenery from the Elbe to the 
 
 Rhine, 
 Where the camp nears the college, and the barley joins 
 
 the vine; 
 
22 THE LAND I LOVE. 
 
 Where castles, old and crumbling, tell many a win- 
 some tale, 
 When they were graced with ladies fair, and gallant 
 
 knights in mail, 
 When hundreds shared the banquet, in the quaintly 
 
 garnished hall, 
 And the sudden clash of sabers oft marred the festival ; 
 When the Minnesingers chanted the songs of chase 
 
 and arms, 
 And the tender notes of passion, in praise of maiden 
 
 charms, 
 And the lays of monstrous dragons, with pestilential 
 
 breath, 
 Of giants huge as forest trees, and terrible as death, 
 Of keeps the devil builded, with their dark unfath- 
 
 omed cells, 
 Of captives disenchanted by the toll of abbey bells, 
 Of the seven cruel sisters, with their dowry of flocks, 
 Whom the curses of their lovers turned into dripping 
 
 rocks, 
 Of the fragrant sloping meadow, which angel footsteps 
 
 press'd, 
 To hear the beaded friars sing the raptures of the blest, 
 Of chapels built of virgins' bones, who perished by the 
 
 sword, 
 To commemorate their faithfulness, as martyrs to the 
 
 Lord : — 
 And there the mighty London mart, in panorama 
 
 grand, 
 Shows the argosies of nations exchanging on her 
 
 Strand : 
 
THE LAND I LOVE. 23 
 
 Where the iron wheels of traffic in triumph roll along, 
 And the gates of Mammon's temple roar with the 
 
 surging throng, 
 Where genius and the virtues, oft like merchandise, are 
 
 sold, 
 And queen fashion measures merit upon a scale of 
 
 gold : — 
 There are Caledonian hills, with broom and heather 
 
 crown 'd, 
 And lakes the most inspiring, at their sylvan base 
 
 abound, 
 1 Where, in numbers swiftly flowing, the sweetest bards 
 
 have sung, 
 And o'er the haunted scenery their fairest fancies 
 
 flung; 
 And in poetic vision shown the chieftain and his men, 
 All for the lowland foray armed, far filing through the 
 
 glen, 
 The maiden with her fairy launch, in timid wonder 
 
 turn, 
 When she hears the stranger bugle, and marks the 
 
 rustling fern, 
 And the white-haired harper thrumming o'er the an- 
 swering chords 
 The tale of wand'ring palmers, and the bitter strife of 
 
 swords : — 
 And there's the Emerald Island, famed for her soil and 
 
 wit, 
 Whence the vermin have been banished, as holy men 
 
 have writ: 
 
24 THE LAND I LOVE. 
 
 Where nature, with a lavish hand, has poured her 
 
 ample horn, 
 Though tyranny has rendered her a byword and a 
 
 scorn ; 
 Whose children, like the erring Jews, are scattered as 
 
 the leaves, 
 And round all standards, but their own, are twining 
 
 laurel wreathes ; 
 The Israel of the nations, whose ransomed hour shall 
 
 come, 
 And her rekindled altar fires shall light her exiles 
 
 home : — 
 And yet there's another country, still vaster than air 
 
 these, 
 Encrowned by lofty mountain chains, and washed by 
 
 mighty seas, 
 Extending over all the zones, enriched by every soil, 
 Yielding every harvest, from the apple to the oil; 
 Abundant in the varied ores that strengthen and adorn, 
 In the vigor of her growth, in the freshness of her 
 
 morn, 
 With enterprise that's fitted her resources to disclose, 
 And make her prairie solitudes to blossom as the rose ; 
 And with charities that beckon the outcast to her 
 
 shore, 
 And freight her decks with bounties to relieve the 
 
 foreign poor : 
 While justice with a steady hand upholds her equal 
 
 scales, 
 And freedom universal o'er the blessed land prevails ; 
 
THE LAND I LOVE. 25 
 
 No bigotry of worship holds her conscience in duress, 
 No mystery veils her altars, no censors curb her press, 
 No adventitious fortune can usurp her public care, 
 And merit from obscurest haunts ascends the Curule 
 
 chair ; 
 With these auspicious omens of her boundless future 
 
 sway, 
 With peace within her borders, and no rivals to dis- 
 may; 
 With her women of the fairest that bloom beneath the 
 
 sky, 
 With her soldiers of the boldest that ever dared to die, 
 With her flag, in glory, spreading o'er the earth and 
 
 o'er the sea, 
 Like a portent to the tyrant, like a rainbow to the free, 
 With the nations flowing toward her, as to a promised 
 
 rest — 
 This, this, of all the lands I saw, is the land I love the 
 
 best. 
 
26 GRANT AT CHATTANOOGA. 
 
 GRANT AT CHATTANOOGA. 
 
 There went up a wail of sorrow 
 
 From all the Loyal land — 
 There went up a shout of triumph 
 
 From every Rebel band — 
 For the banks of Chickamauga 
 
 Beheld our smitten host, 
 And the banks of Chickamauga 
 
 Made good the Rebel boast. 
 
 And trade through all our cities 
 
 Was staggered by the blow, 
 And down, with her torn banner, fell 
 
 The nation's credit, low. 
 In the market and the warehouse, 
 
 The pulpit and the press, 
 In the parlor and the highway, 
 
 .Was seen the sore distress. 
 
 Good men beyond the ocean, 
 
 The poor of every soil, 
 And the negro, like a culprit, 
 
 Bound to his thankless toil, 
 Felt, each, the dire disaster — 
 
 Feared, each, a darker hour — 
 Feared, all, this cursed prestige 
 
 Of fell, barbaric power. 
 
GRANT AT CHATTANOOGA. 2? 
 
 And many a brave heart trembled ; 
 
 Many a weak one sighed; 
 Many a prayer was offered up 
 
 To turn the battle's tide : — 
 Will our God forsake His children, 
 
 And turn away His face ? 
 Will the cause of truth go under, 
 
 And crime usurp its place ? 
 
 Will the fields of so much glory, 
 
 Will all the martyrs slain, 
 Will our history and altars, 
 
 And all our hopes be vain ? — 
 Oh ! for a sign in heaven, 
 
 Such as the Kaiser saw ! 
 Oh ! for some gifted hero, 
 
 His conquering sword to draw ! 
 
 So, some doubted and debated, 
 
 And marveled and deplored — 
 With unswerving faith some waited 
 
 The justice of the Lord. 
 Soon, brighter than the morning fire, 
 
 His stately steps are seen — 
 Chariots blazing with His ire, 
 
 Amongst the clouds careen ! 
 
 Now ! Grant girds on his armor, 
 
 And leads his legions forth — 
 For in the fray, that comes to-day, 
 
 Jehovah 's with the North ! 
 
28 GRANT AT CHATTANOOGA. 
 
 And he bids his trusty captains, 
 
 That at the signal peal, 
 Their ranks shall scale, through iron hail, 
 
 The mountain sides with steel. 
 
 The columns, swiftly formed in line, 
 
 Move gayly o'er the field, 
 As if they know the haughty foe 
 
 Is sure to fly or yield. 
 And, Rebels, now look to your works, 
 
 See that your aim be true, — 
 For Grant commands those Loyal bands, 
 
 And this is no review. 
 
 Full fierce the mighty struggle swells ; 
 
 Death roars from every gun : 
 While through a flood of human blood 
 
 The rifle pits are won. 
 Our forces follow up the steep, 
 
 Loud shouting as they go, 
 Nor heed the shot that, thick and hot, 
 
 Come crashing fast below. 
 
 And when they gain the crested ridge, 
 
 The clouds beneath them lie : 
 And down afar, it seems a war 
 
 Of demons in the sky. 
 Around them rolls the sulph'rous smoke 
 
 That follows ball and bomb, 
 While thunders boom, as if the doom 
 
 Of all the earth had come. 
 
GRANT AT CHATTANOOGA. 29 
 
 They reach the very last redoubt, 
 
 Hell yawns at every fire ! 
 Midst sword and lead, o'er piles of dead, 
 
 The Rebel hordes retire : 
 And routed, scattered, and dismayed, 
 
 Far flee these lords of slaves ; 
 While flashing bright, from every height 
 
 The flag of freedom waves. 
 
 And honor, then, to all our men, 
 
 To leaders and to guard, 
 Who braved their life in mortal strife, 
 
 Or who kept watch and ward : 
 And praises to the Lord of Hosts ! 
 
 Whom nations must obey, 
 That He did bide all by our side 
 
 On Chattanooga's day ! 
 
 Let holy tears bedew the graves 
 
 Of those who fell in fight : 
 Let marble stones above their bones 
 
 Salute the morning light : 
 Let History write in golden books : 
 
 Let bards with song enshrine : 
 Let women chant the name of Grant, 
 
 And the glory of the Line ! 
 
 3* 
 
30 THE HARVEST DAY. 
 
 THE HARVEST DAY. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the welcome harvest ! 
 
 The ripened grain behold, 
 Thick standing like a serried host, 
 
 In thousands manifold ; 
 And flaring, in the early sun, 
 
 Their nodding plumes of gold ! 
 
 Now comes the ponderous Reaper, 
 And bares its whetted knife; 
 
 All harnessed to the faithful steeds, 
 As if equipped for strife, 
 
 Like the scythe-armed chariot, grim, 
 That mowed the field of life. 
 
 And behold its wondrous progress ! 
 
 Amidst that bright array — 
 How swiftly shifts the scenery, 
 
 As by some magic play ! 
 As the falling ranks are strewing 
 
 Its track with golden spray. 
 
 And the binder in his bosom, 
 Folds up the straw in sheaves; 
 
 And his comrade, in his footsteps, 
 In heaps the bundles heaves ; 
 
THE HARVEST DAY. 31 
 
 And o'er the yellow, yielding dome, 
 A cunning roof he weaves. 
 
 And the stacks, in rows, are rising, 
 
 Like avenues of towers ; 
 As if some royal way were planned 
 
 To enter Ceres' bowers, 
 When she, the long procession leads, 
 
 Crown'd with her corn and flowers. 
 
 So, willing hands their work display — 
 
 No idlers here complain : 
 The Goddess her essential stores 
 
 Yields to the plodding swain, 
 And cheers him, as he drives afield, 
 
 To load the yawning wain. 
 
 By sudden halts, and narrow turns, 
 
 With skillful rein he wends, 
 While clean along his careful course, 
 
 Each row alternate ends, 
 And o'er the creaking ladders, fast, 
 
 In teeming bulk ascends. 
 
 And wide, around the varied view, 
 
 Delightful scenes appear : 
 Vigorous arms in toil contend 
 
 That lately hurl'd the spear, 
 And loyal, merry songs salute 
 
 The bounty of the year. 
 
THE HARVEST DAY. 
 
 Some sing the rural Deities 
 
 Who give propitious days, 
 And blessed Peace, who rules the land 
 
 Adorned with laurel bays : 
 And the grateful charms of beauty, 
 
 In thrilling roundelays. 
 
 And hear! amidst the sultry heat 
 The boasting challenge rise, 
 
 As every rival group its task 
 With zealous labor plies ; 
 
 While anxious looks are scanning oft 
 The omens of the skies. 
 
 And see ! the swallows skim the pool, 
 And frogs, hoarse croaking, show 
 
 That through the crackling stubble now 
 The wains must swiftly go — 
 
 For the winds roar in the distance, 
 And clouds are hanging low. 
 
 Then hasten ! stalwart yeomen, 
 Nor pause for lunch or rest — 
 
 For the crisis loudly summons 
 Each man to do his best — 
 
 Lo ! the sun obscured is sinking, 
 And lightnings gild the west. 
 
 Haste ! for the air is cooling fast, 
 The shadows darker loom, 
 
THE HARVEST DAY. 33 
 
 And here, and there, alone, the light 
 Can pierce the gathering gloom, 
 
 And more nearly, and more fiercely, 
 The rapid thunders boom. 
 
 Haste ! for the humming louder grows 
 
 Which signals instant rain : 
 Which murmurs like a distant crowd, 
 
 Or like the sighing main, 
 Or like the tramp of horsemen far, 
 
 Who sweep along the plain. 
 
 Haste! nor longer with your labors, 
 But homeward flee from harm — 
 
 For pattering are the big drops 
 From edges of the storm, 
 
 Like the rattling fire of pickets 
 Before the armies form. 
 
 See, the grain and forest branches 
 
 Are whirling with the dust : 
 And vines and fences from their place 
 
 With ruthless fury thrust; 
 While on the flying harvesters 
 
 Down swoops the howling gust. 
 
 And then, falls a sea of water — 
 Then, blaze the lightnings fast — 
 
 And Earth, the far horizon round, 
 Reels in the fearful blast — 
 
34 THE HARVEST DAT. 
 
 And turmoil seems to mark the day 
 As if it were the last. 
 
 The streamlets, too, in torrents wild, 
 Overflow their native beds ; 
 
 And flocks and herds, in terror, flee 
 For shelter, to the sheds ! 
 
 Whose frail foundations yielding then, 
 A ruin o'er them spreads. 
 
 Now, naught of all that pomp is seen 
 
 That gilt the busy morn — 
 Nor jocund cries are heard that hailed 
 
 This carnival of corn- 
 But everywhere, a humid waste 
 Forsaken and forlorn. 
 
 And o'er the dismal picture soon, 
 Night flings her sable vail — 
 
 And the harvest and the houseless 
 Are left to floods and gale — 
 
 And farmers, in their fitful dreams, 
 Their woeful lot bewail. 
 
BETTY BROWN'S GRAVE. 35 
 
 BETTY BROWN'S GRAVE.( 2 ) 
 
 On the banks of Lackawanna, 
 
 Abruptly sloping down — 
 A red, unpolished sandstone bears 
 
 The name of Betty Brown. 
 Though the legend is disfigured 
 
 By lichen and by time, 
 You may read that she departed 
 
 In life's inceptive prime. 
 
 A hundred years ago at least, 
 
 She w^as a little child, 
 And gamboled with the Indian girls 
 
 In this sequestered wild. 
 She may have grown to womanhood 
 
 The belle of all the vale, 
 And caused unnumbered feuds between 
 
 The red face and the pale. 
 
 And who knows what bloody stories 
 
 Are buried in this grave ! 
 What deeds heroic were performed 
 
 Her life or love to save ! 
 How many an am'rous savage, 
 
 When toiling in the chase, 
 Has loosed the bended bow at once, 
 
 Enchanted by her face ! 
 
36 BETTY BROWN'S GRAVE. 
 
 How many a gentle shepherd, 
 
 While lounging by the stream, 
 Has left his bleating flock to err, 
 
 When she inspired his dream! 
 She may have had a heart of steel, 
 
 Less prone to love than pride : 
 And flirted with her suitors fond, 
 
 But scorned to be a bride. 
 
 She may have been a weary wife, 
 
 With infants at her knee, 
 Whose unreturning sire had gone 
 
 A wandering o'er the sea. 
 She may have pined away in grief, 
 
 For some one loved and slain, 
 Who gave his life that she might live, 
 
 But gave his life in vain. 
 
 She may have passed the dearest time 
 
 That falls to human lot ; 
 And felt not any fear or want 
 
 Within her rustic cot : 
 The gorgeous shows of waste and wealth, 
 
 The guiles and charms of town, 
 May ne'er have lured the forest girl, 
 
 Whose name was Betty Brown. 
 
 With kirtel of the homespun wool, 
 And wild flowers in her hair, 
 
BETTY BROWN'S GRAVE. 3T 
 
 She nevef dream'd of silk or lace, 
 
 Or costly gems to wear. 
 With no gilt course upon her board, 
 
 Or carriage at her gate, 
 She may have tripped with naked feet, 
 
 And fared on earthen plate. 
 
 The music of key'd instruments 
 
 May ne'er have thrilled her ear, 
 The carol of the singing birds 
 
 She must have loved to hear. 
 The murmurs of iEolian sounds 
 
 That fill the summer choir, 
 May have been sweeter, far, to her, 
 
 Than any minstrel's lyre. 
 
 The bright and varying pictures, 
 
 That bloom in Nature's plan, 
 May more have pleased her simple eye 
 
 Than mimic works of man : 
 While scenes around her soul inspired 
 
 With such a life sincere, 
 As never caused her foe a pang, 
 
 Nor friend to drop a tear. 
 
 She may have had the wit of age, 
 
 The innocence of youth, 
 The countenance of Abigail, 
 
 The tenderness of Ruth. 
 4 
 
38 THE PIEBALD HORSE. 
 
 And yet we may not know her worth, 
 Nor guess her humble fame — 
 
 Whose simple record only shows 
 The shadow of a name. 
 
 THE PIEBALD H0RSE.( 3 ) 
 
 Long years ago, in quaint old times, 
 
 When travelers all bestrode 
 Their favorite nags, with saddle-bags, 
 
 And jogged along the road : 
 It seems, a curious notion 
 
 Prevailed witt rich and poor; 
 Who rode a piebald horse, of course 
 
 The hooping-cough could cure. 
 
 Now, Levis Dobson dressed in shorts, 
 And wore a flowing beard, 
 
 And with a queue and glasses too, 
 His look was wise and weird : 
 
 And on his own, dear, dappled roan, 
 He like a sage appeared. 
 
 So mounted for a journey once, 
 
 To see his distant kin, 
 He soon found out, he raised a rout, 
 
 What town he entered in — 
 
THE PIEBALD HORSE. 39 
 
 Not Galen great, in all his state, 
 Might cause a louder din. 
 
 When busy wives, and unctuous youth, 
 
 His coming figure spied, 
 At first, amazed, from windows raised, 
 
 And open doors, they cried : 
 Then left their mops and suds and slops, 
 
 And crowded to his side. 
 
 They grappled for his stirrup-straps, 
 
 His bridle-reins did seize, 
 With strange grimace in every face, 
 
 They babbled of disease: 
 While Dobson, doubting and dismayed, 
 
 Did tremble to his knees — 
 But lost his fear, as he did hear 
 
 The parlous youngsters wheeze. 
 
 That sound to him was like a note 
 
 Of music from Parnassus : 
 He felt a light illume his sight — 
 
 Smiles glistened through his glasses — 
 And making off — yelled : hooping-cough ! 
 
 Whisky and molasses ! 
 
 Hence, as in every town he saw 
 These physic-craving masses, 
 
40 THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 He tore along with spur and thong-, 
 As swift as whirlwind passes, 
 
 Shouting, with Stentorian lungs: 
 Whisky and molasses ! 
 
 THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 I saw an ancient Fisherman, 
 
 As on the coast he stood, 
 And threw his line with sudden force 
 
 Upon the foaming flood — 
 And it did seem a weary plan 
 
 For sport or livelihood. 
 
 And as the surf receded out, 
 
 And drew his line along, 
 His arms stretched softly after it, 
 
 But held it very strong — 
 And then, I marveled if he heard 
 
 The ocean's choral song. 
 
 For as the waves did ebb and flow, 
 
 Each had its monotone, 
 But, commingling altogether, 
 
 They formed a plaintive moan : 
 As if the sea had wished and failed 
 
 To make the land its own. 
 
THE FISHERMAN. 41 
 
 With the heaving of the breakers, 
 
 The sounds did correspond, 
 And hoarsely boomed against the beach, 
 
 Or died away beyond — 
 And of this curious cadence 
 
 One grows exceeding fond. 
 
 For some dreamers might imagine 
 
 That spirits of the drowned 
 Were thus struggling with the billows, 
 
 Which had them closely bound, 
 And their strange, despairing voices 
 
 Did cause this solemn sound. 
 
 Or that it was the mystic strain 
 Which makes the world accord — 
 
 The all-potent, pauseless echoes 
 Of that creative word, 
 
 Which, away in the beginning, 
 Was uttered by the Lord. 
 
 And while I thus was musing, 
 
 The Fisher held his pole, 
 Till the rapid tide incoming 
 
 Against his breast did roll; 
 And till I feared he might prefer 
 
 A drum-fish to his soul. 
 
 For withal, he stood there calmly, 
 As if he dared the sea; 
 4* 
 
42 THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 Or deemed it only courting him, 
 With a boisterous glee : 
 
 And so I, in doubt, stayed watching 
 What might the issue be. 
 
 It was rather grand to see him — 
 A column midst the brine — 
 
 Or like one by spell enchanted 
 His eye upon the line : 
 
 And of motion, or retreating, 
 Give not a single sign. 
 
 Now, some men for home or honor, 
 Have scaled the blazing fort : 
 
 And others, for love or money, 
 Met death in every sort — 
 
 But this enamored Fisherman 
 Forgot it for his sport. 
 
 Sure, the chase has got its perils : 
 The horse may lurch or fall : 
 
 And the gun of careless comrade 
 May pierce one with a ball : 
 
 Yet these a sympathy inspires, 
 Each, with the nerve of all. 
 
 But lonely was the Fisherman, 
 And silent as the dumb : 
 
 Nor on his ear did foxhound's bay 
 In thrilling echoes thrum ; 
 
THE FISHERMAN. 43 
 
 Nor to his eye the landscape views 
 In shifting pictures come. 
 
 Before him was the sparkling main, 
 
 Above, the shining sky, 
 A sail or steamer loom'd afar, 
 
 And near him, only I, 
 Who sought to know how long he would 
 
 The surf and sun defy. 
 
 For what gave him all his patience ? 
 
 What gave his self-command ? — 
 Ah, then ! a pulse upon the string 
 
 Electrified his hand; 
 And, soon, he made the ocean yield 
 
 A tribute to the land ! 
 
 And he, who late was motionless, 
 
 Grew frisky as a sprite : 
 And his every limb and muscle 
 
 Throbb'd with a fierce delight, 
 As with a vig'rous, skillful pull 
 
 He brought his prey to sight. 
 
 The Hunter knows the chase he runs : 
 
 His game the Gunner eyes: 
 The Fisher has an added charm 
 
 In feelings of surprise : 
 Since he ne'er sees, till he enjoys, 
 
 The value of his prize. 
 
44 A REVERIE. 
 
 And hence we ken the angler's joy — 
 
 The risk he undergoes 
 But gives incentive to his art; 
 
 While in his bosom glows 
 The ardent will to make the deep 
 
 Its hidden wealth disclose. 
 
 No wonder, then, this lonesome craft 
 
 Ambitious minds adore : 
 Which lures them where the billows vast 
 
 Their diapason roar: 
 And glimpses of their mystery 
 
 Shed on the wasted shore. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 The last visitor's gone, and his step from the stair 
 Has left me in silence, in my old rocking-chair ; 
 And musing so lonely in the midst of the night, 
 A host of abstractions greet the ear and the sight : 
 Soon, in flying battalions, they file round the wall, 
 Crowding thick as the spirits, in Milton's grand hall- 
 From the far-off in place, and the far-off in time, 
 Inspirations of youth, inspirations of clime — 
 The impressions of nature, the halo of art, 
 And the sparkles of wit, and the dreams of the heart : 
 
A REVERIE. 45 
 
 The glances of beauty, and the footprints of worth, 
 And the odor of love, and the ringing of mirth : 
 And the blaze of the crown, and the mist of the tear, 
 And the shade of the flag, and the gleam of the spear; 
 The mirage of cities, and the specter of throngs, 
 The semblance of honors, and the echo of songs, 
 The mem'ries of grandeur, the visions of power, 
 And the luster of genius yield the text of the hour, — 
 Show illusions surviving their substance and source, 
 And the triumphs of soul, and the weakness of force, 
 And that void as the winds, and as false as the sands, 
 Is the pride of the flesh o'er the work of the hands. 
 For years in their progress, and the world in its strife 
 Leave but only the phantoms of labor and life ; 
 And the perishing dust is wide scattered and strown, 
 And the states and their structures are blasted and 
 
 blown, 
 But invisible thoughts, undecaying, remain, 
 And the ages unite, by their mystical chain. 
 
46 ENTERTAINMENT AT SIMON'S HOUSE. 
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT AT SIMON'S HOUSE. 
 
 Luke, vii. 36-50. 
 
 Midst those who had taken their places, 
 
 To sup at the Pharisee's board, 
 There entered a woman, with ointment, 
 
 Who stooped at the couch of the Lord. 
 Her tresses hung loose o'er her shoulders, 
 
 And her eyes were cast to the floor ; 
 She seemed an unwelcome intruder, 
 
 Desolate, degraded, and poor. 
 
 Her tears bathed the feet of the Master, 
 
 She wiped them with folds of her hair, 
 Bedewed them with kisses and ointment, 
 
 And silently worshiped Him there. 
 The host, as a bigot, regarded 
 
 Her beautiful deed with disdain, 
 And deemed, if his guest were a Prophet, 
 
 He'd know that her touch was a stain. 
 
 The Lord in His wisdom, divining 
 What passed in the Pharisee's heart, 
 
 Declared how his faith is deficient 
 Who yields of his love but a part. 
 
 For Simon but formally tendered 
 The debt that to strangers he owed, 
 
THE MAPLE NEAR MY WINDOW. 4t 
 
 Denying the tribute of homage 
 The woman so fondly bestowed. 
 
 Though many her sins, He forgave her : 
 
 Then, marveled the guests at the board : 
 "Who's this, that he pardons transgression?" — 
 
 The woman alone knew the Lord. 
 Their cavils He checked by repeating 
 
 Salvation again in her ears, 
 Who'd shown her belief and devotion 
 
 By lowliness, sorrow, and tears. 
 
 THE MAPLE NEAR MY WINDOW. 
 
 You may tell me of the willow that sadly sweeps the 
 tomb, 
 
 That held the harps of Zion, when the captives mourned 
 their doom — 
 
 You may boast about the oak, with its branches high 
 and wide, 
 
 With its Dodona oracles, and old Druidic pride — 
 
 You may speak about the olive, that blooms in warmer 
 soil, 
 
 That bears Minerva's emblem, and that bears the pre- 
 cious oil — 
 
48 THE MAPLE NEAR MY WINDOW. 
 
 You may sing about the palm, and its shadow on the 
 
 sand, 
 Whose boughs the pilgrims carried from the distant 
 
 Holy Land — 
 You may praise the classic laurel, with its ever grow- 
 ing green, 
 Which crown'd the festive banquet and the hero's lordly 
 
 mien — 
 You may talk about the cedar, whose gilded rafters 
 
 bore 
 The ceiling of the Temple, in the mighty days of 
 
 yore — 
 And you may gather all the trees that in the forest 
 
 grow, 
 You may gather all the flowers that in the garden 
 
 blow ; 
 From the rose that runs the lattice to the ivy on the 
 
 wall, 
 There is none of them can equal my Maple in the 
 
 Fall. 
 It mingles all the colors that nature's stores can yield, 
 The carnation of the hot-house, the verdure of the 
 
 field, 
 The golden tints of sunset, the rainbow's many hues, 
 The shifting shades of Ocean, the glistening morning 
 
 dews. 
 I watch it by the gaslight, and I watch it by the 
 
 day, 
 Its leaves become more lovely as they slowly pass 
 
 away ; 
 
THE MAPLE NEAR MY WINDOW. 49 
 i 
 
 Like the dolphin that, expiring, sheds new glory on the 
 
 wave, 
 Like virtue that grows brighter as it hovers near the 
 
 grave. 
 Now, one by one, they're dropping on the cold and 
 
 stony street, 
 And little girls are picking them from under passing 
 
 feet; 
 They will weave them into garlands, and bind them in 
 
 bouquets, 
 To decorate the parlors, and to grace the holidays. 
 And when the hoary winter comes, with wild and 
 
 snowy blast, 
 These brilliant maple relics will revive the faded past; 
 They will tell the pensive story of the seasons as they 
 
 turn, 
 The spring-time with its promise, and the autumn with 
 
 its urn. 
 
50 THE CANNON. 
 
 THE CANNON. 
 
 In the midnight, in the daylight, 
 At the tropics, near the poles, 
 
 On the mountains, o'er the fountains 
 Of the deep, its thunder rolls. 
 
 From the castle, for the vassal, 
 For the tyrant, for a name ; 
 
 For the few and for the true ; 
 Now in honor, now in shame. 
 
 None betraying, all obeying, 
 Knowing neither friend nor foe ; 
 
 Scattering death with fiery breath, 
 Alternating hope and woe. 
 
 Bloody toiler, frightful spoiler — 
 Men and cities laid in dust ; 
 
 Fields forsaken, treasure taken ; 
 Plow and anvil black with rust. 
 
 But its mission, demolition, 
 Has its final volley flung ; 
 
 And hereafter, joy and laughter 
 Shall employ its iron tongue. 
 
THE E VEMNG ST A R 51 
 
 "THE EVENING STAR," 
 
 LOST IN THE GULF STREAM, OCTOBER 3, 1866. 
 
 On the placid, briny ocean, 
 
 With a blithe and bounding motion, 
 
 Steams a modern caravel ; 
 In her hull is costly treasure, 
 On her deck are youth and pleasure, 
 Tripping to the Tyrian measure 
 
 Of the flute's euphonious swell. 
 
 Wit and grace are gayly blending — 
 Love his silver bow is bending — 
 
 And the goblet passes round ! 
 Ivied mirth controls the wassail ; 
 Like a fairy, floating castle, 
 Sails the joyous, gallant vessel, 
 
 O'er the treacherous profound. 
 
 Towards the region of bananas, 
 Past the sunny, sweet savannas, 
 
 She is racing with the Hours — 
 Every thought of peril spurning — 
 Every soul, with ardor, yearning 
 For that tropic climate, burning 
 
 Where the Crescent City towers 
 
52 THE SORREL LOCKS. 
 
 She is in that wondrous river, 
 Whose strong current flows forever 
 
 Through the volume of the sea — 
 When there comes a cyclone roaring- 
 O'er her sides a deluge pouring — 
 Like a monster fain devouring 
 
 All the precious argosy. 
 
 Gilt saloons, from floor to rafter, 
 Courage, beauty, wit, and laughter, 
 
 Are the gloomy tempest's prey. — 
 Few to tell the tragic story 
 Of the bark that rode in glory 
 On the mountain billows hoary, 
 
 Will behold the light of day. 
 
 THE SORREL LOCKS. 
 
 I think it was Paul, in his sermon, 
 
 Who spoke of luxuriant hair, 
 And called it the shame of the strong sex, 
 
 And the crowning grace of the fair. 
 But no canon ever decided 
 
 What tint is the most debonair. 
 
THE SORREL LOCKS. 53 
 
 The Ma'm of that little Immortal, 
 
 Who causes such'amorous pain, 
 Had locks, says the classical poet, 
 
 As bright as the harvested grain ; 
 And Laura's, that vied with the sunbeams, 
 
 Made Petrarch adore her in vain. 
 
 But Scott's lovely lady of Katrine, 
 
 As seen in her fairy canoe, 
 Had tresses as black as the raven's, 
 
 •With the gloss of the morning dew ; 
 And those of the Haidee of Byron 
 
 Were tinged with an auburn hue. 
 
 And Praed, in his Troubadour carol, 
 Says brown was the hair of the Nun ; 
 
 But dark are the curls of the Princess, 
 In the idyl of Tennyson ; 
 
 And Herrick declared that his lady, 
 Though shorn, were a paragon. 
 
 It seems, from these random examples 
 Of bards who've sported the laurel, 
 
 That from the mere passion of lovers 
 We cull the apposite moral — 
 
 Each admires the hair of his lady, 
 If auburn, somber, or sorrel. 
 
 5* 
 
54 THE FALL. 
 
 THE FALL. 
 
 Alas ! the beautiful season ! 
 
 With its warm, peculiar bloom, 
 With its gayly painted foliage, 
 
 With its verdure and perfume, 
 And its genial fascinations, 
 
 Is fast fading into gloom ! 
 
 Like some vast and varied pageant, 
 
 Like some gorgeous, moving show ; 
 With the gauzy clouds for curtains, 
 
 For its stage, the earth below, 
 For its orchestra of music, 
 
 Every voice the senses know — 
 It is shedding, now in transit, 
 
 Its departing, dying glow. 
 
 And, thus, forever disappearing, 
 
 Are the brightest gifts of time — 
 Pleasure, midst enchanting revels, 
 
 Honor, crowning heights sublime, 
 Fortune, girt with golden trophies, 
 
 Beauty, in its dearest prime — 
 All, it seems, whilst we admire them, 
 
 Vanish to some mystic clime. 
 
THE KEARSARGE AND THE ALABAMA. 55 
 
 THE KEABSARGE AND THE ALABAMA. 
 
 'Twas on a Sabbath morning, 
 
 In June of sixty-four, 
 The rebel Alabama 
 
 Swung from the Gallic shore. 
 Her battle-flag was flying, 
 
 Her rig was trim and tight, 
 Her guns were manned and shotted, 
 
 Her decks were cleared for fight. 
 
 The Kearsarge in the offing, 
 
 Eased out a league or so, 
 And leaving neutral waters, 
 
 Bore down upon the foe. 
 These cruisers fairly mated, 
 
 In metal, men, and weight, 
 Were gaged to test in conflict 
 
 Their prowess and their fate. 
 
 The first was British handiwork, 
 
 Equipped by British gold ; 
 Her crew were British sailors, 
 
 Her chief a Rebel bold. 
 She was a pirate, branded, 
 
 The terror of the wave, 
 Burning costly argosies, 
 
 And warring to enslave. 
 
56 THE KEARSARGE AND THE ALABAMA. 
 
 The other bravely heralded 
 , The true Republican, 
 The autonomy of peoples, 
 
 The brotherhood of man. 
 She wore a grim defiance 
 
 To slavers and to kings — 
 She bore the hope of ages 
 
 Upon her eagle wings. 
 
 Right warily they move now, 
 Amidst the steam and spray, 
 
 Careering round in circles, 
 Manoeuvring for the fray ; 
 
 Crowds, on cliffs and vessels, watch 
 The marvelous display. 
 
 It is a sight to witness, 
 
 These rivals in their pride, 
 As they sweep, in silence, o'er 
 
 The undulating tide ; 
 Grandly as Bucentaurs once, 
 
 Espousing their sea bride. 
 
 Hark ! though a mile 's between them, 
 
 The rebel broadside roars ; 
 Yet thrice, before the Kearsarge 
 
 An answering volley pours ; 
 Afar, the mighty echoes 
 
 Alarm the teeming shores. 
 
THE KEARSARGE AND THE ALABAMA. 5? 
 
 The waters spout in columns ; 
 
 Great clouds of smoke ascend ; 
 And in red lightning flashes 
 
 The fires their tribute lend, 
 Till elements and enemies 
 
 In horrid turmoil blend. 
 
 Still they tack and weather ship ; 
 
 And hurl their pond'rous blows ; 
 Still send up alternate cheers, 
 
 As the battle hotter grows ; 
 Still make their distance lessen, 
 
 As if about to close. 
 
 Still, distracting scenes appear 
 
 Upon the hostile ships — 
 Captains shouting orders through 
 
 The trumpet's brazen lips ; 
 And gunners grimed with powder, 
 
 Half naked to the hips. 
 
 Still, gangs are quickly passing 
 
 Munitions from below ; 
 Or, charged with fearful errands, 
 
 Are running to and fro ; 
 With toil and passion sweltering, 
 
 Like ministers of woe. 
 
 The missiles and the splinters 
 Go crashing through the spars ; 
 
58 THE KEARSARGE AND THE ALABAMA. 
 
 Down tumble chains and chimneys 
 
 And down drop British tars, 
 Never more to sail again 
 
 Beneath the Rebel bars. 
 
 The foe with will unyielding, 
 
 And fierce heroic zeal, 
 Their lead and iron swiftly 
 
 In wasteful rounds still deal ; 
 To our fell aim replying 
 
 By one incessant peal. 
 
 Their hull is sadly shattered, 
 
 In briny waters pour ; 
 The decks are strewn with corpses, 
 
 The scuppers run with gore ; 
 Midst bitter oaths and groaning, 
 
 They head the ship for shore. 
 
 But scarcely move her paddles, 
 
 Her driving-engine fails; 
 The balls have crushed her rudder, 
 
 And swept away her sails : — 
 Vanquished, with his crew and craft, 
 
 Semmes's haughty spirit quails. 
 
 Courage can no longer stand 
 
 This hurricane of fire — 
 Strike, he must, that cursed flag, 
 
 Surrender or expire ! 
 
THE KEARSARGE AND THE ALABAMA. 59 
 
 Naught of hope or chance remains, 
 Resistance to inspire. 
 
 The Rebel guns are silenced, 
 
 No more her banner flies ; 
 Down in the sea she settles, 
 
 While shouts triumphant rise — 
 Perfidious Gaul and Briton 
 
 Are dumb with sore surprise. 
 
 Now, Charity an angel, 
 
 Sheds grace upon the fray — 
 Victors save their drowning foes, 
 
 And end the brilliant day, 
 Whose name shall never perish 
 
 Till Christians cease to pray. 
 
 And long, long years hereafter, 
 
 In city and in manse, 
 Mothers fond will tell the tale 
 
 To boys with listening glance, 
 How we, the Anglo-rebel 
 
 Sank on the coast of France. 
 
 Hurrah ! then, for our navy ! 
 
 For Winslow and his Tars, 
 Who, with the sword and trident 
 
 Of Neptune and of Mars, 
 Have blazon 'd with new luster 
 
 The blessed flag of stars ! 
 
60 THE DOANS. 
 
 THE D0ANS.( 4 ) 
 
 FYTTE THE FIRST. 
 
 Far back in the troublous era, 
 
 In tbe kingly days of George, 
 When Britishers held the city, 
 
 And Yankees camped at the Forge : 
 The prices costly of produce, 
 
 And the charms of foreign gold 
 Were snares to the loyal conscience, 
 
 And tempting spoil to the bold. 
 
 'Twas late, when Giles with his wagon 
 
 Was leaving the Ferry Pier ; 
 The clink of the purse he carried 
 
 Delightfully fell on his ear. 
 He laughed, recounting his bargains; 
 
 Imagined his dame would stare, 
 When into her lap he'd empty 
 
 His wallet of golden ware. 
 
 And thus, his journey beguiling, 
 As o'er him the moonlight glowed, 
 
 Awhile, he had scarcely noticed 
 How near him a horseman rode — 
 
THE DOANS. 61 
 
 Saluting freely each other, 
 
 They came to a country Khan ; 
 Stopping to water their horses, 
 
 The stranger treated his man. 
 
 And then ; he hinted at starting, 
 
 As their course was alike for miles, 
 His nag he'd hitch to the wagon, 
 
 And ride in the seat with Giles. 
 And so, together they wended, 
 
 And drank and chatted along, 
 And cursed the Doans and the British, 
 
 Or chimed in concert a song. 
 
 The Farmer, fond and familiar, 
 
 Revealed his luck and his gains : 
 At last, o'ercome by the liquor, 
 
 His hands abandoned the reins — 
 He slept till morning awoke him, 
 
 Away in the woods alone, 
 To find that his clothes were rifled, 
 
 And his friend was Moses Doan! 
 
 FYTTE THE SECOND. 
 
 The Drama flourished in Southwark, 
 Fostered by soldiers and lords — 
 
 Young Andre painted the scenery, 
 Old Hallam strutted the boards. 
 6 
 
62 THE DOANS. 
 
 A Tory was making his exit, 
 Along to the carriage stand — 
 
 Feeling a twitch at his pocket, 
 He seized a nobleman's hand ! 
 
 Shocked at his haste and imprudence, 
 
 He carried his lordship home, 
 And roused his elegant mansion, 
 
 From basement up to the dome. 
 Light blazed from a hundred candles, 
 
 And flashed from the mirrored walls: 
 Sweet music burst from pianos ; 
 
 Rare viands reeked in the halls. 
 
 Beauty and wealth did their utmost 
 
 To honor the lordly guest — 
 Till, cloyed with feasting and incense, 
 
 They showed him up to his rest. 
 Now, darkness follows the splendor ; 
 
 And silence soothes to repose : 
 When, out from his lordship's chamber 
 
 A figure stealthily goes. 
 
 Beneath, where the host is dreaming, 
 
 The Liverpool watch is drawn, 
 And gold from the oaken bureau : 
 
 And the ghostly figure 's gone — 
 He smiled, as he gained the pavement, 
 
 And saw the treasure his own, 
 Saying : they'll likely, to-morrow, 
 
 Find that their lord was a Doan, 
 
THE DOANS. 63 
 
 FYTTE THE THIRD. 
 
 A Lancaster crowd were gathered, 
 
 On one of those festal days, 
 When the olden sports were cherished, 
 
 They sing in the Scottish lays. 
 The wrestlers writhed in their struggles, 
 
 With many a twist and bound, 
 Till one had lifted the other, 
 
 And cast him prone to the ground. 
 
 Then scowled from the former defiance, 
 
 And mighty the oath he swore ; 
 He'd fling from his feet the foremost 
 
 That ever the county bore. 
 Soon murmurs rose at a distance, 
 
 A shout in answer replied — 
 A gainly, sinewy yeoman 
 
 Came pushing the people aside. 
 
 He threw off his hat and doublet, 
 
 His arms were brawny and bare ; 
 He grasped the waist of the boaster, 
 
 And tossed him high in the air. 
 The latter rose and retreated, 
 
 His head to the earth was bowed — 
 Wild plaudits greeted the stranger, 
 
 Around him jostled the crowd. 
 
64 THE DOANS. 
 
 The lists were opened for leaping : 
 
 The stranger tried it the last — 
 Beyond the mark of the nimblest, 
 
 Scarce with exertion he passed. 
 And then, to crown his successes, 
 
 A Pittsburg wagon was near, 
 He braced his nerves for the effort — 
 
 O'er it he leaped like a deer. 
 
 The people, awed and bewildered, 
 Stood dumb and still as the stones ; 
 
 Till wonder broke into clamor — 
 "By Jove ! it's one of the Doans!" 
 
 FYTTE THE FOURTH. 
 
 The Quaker sat by his mantel, 
 
 Enjoying the genial heat : 
 Abroad, the tempest was driving 
 
 A rattling shower of sleet. 
 A knock was heard at the entrance, 
 
 A Pauper, feeble and gaunt, 
 Came shuffling into the parlor, 
 
 With sorrowful signs of want. 
 He told of the hours he fasted, 
 
 Of wand'rings far in the gloom ; 
 He showed the rents in his raiment, 
 
 And his eyes filled up with rheum. 
 
THE DOANS. 65 
 
 The Quaker, listened, and yielded 
 
 His heart to the sad appeal ; 
 And drew him near to the fireplace 
 
 And ordered a wholesome meal. 
 The Pauper appeared to relish 
 
 His gentle, kindly care ; 
 And fervently heard the Scripture, 
 
 And joined the family prayer. 
 
 The Quaker, soothed in his conscience, 
 
 Went weary up to his bed ; 
 The Pauper, seeming so pious, 
 
 Purloined his money and fled. 
 Some months, not many, thereafter, 
 
 They carried a Doan to jail, 
 Who, seeing the Quaker, asked him 
 
 If he'd go the Pauper's bail. 
 
 FYTTE THE FIFTH. 
 
 The neighbors, at dusk in summer, 
 
 Soon after their daily toil, 
 Their pipes at the "Boot" were smoking, 
 
 And sipping their cider oil. 
 Two horsemen, dusty with travel, 
 
 Alighted awhile for rest, 
 Then draining their mugs, they mounted, 
 
 And rode away to the west. 
 And one of the wary neighbors, 
 
 With caution, followed their track, 
 6* 
 
THE DOANS. 
 
 And knew his men when he saw them 
 
 Describing a circuit back. 
 He summoned the comitatus, 
 
 For he was the sheriff, hight, 
 And chased them down at a gallop, 
 
 And fought a desperate fight. 
 The bullets showered for an instant, 
 
 And a few had broken bones ; 
 But law, and the men of Chester 
 
 Too many were for the Doans. 
 
 FYTTE THE SIXTH. 
 
 The people poured in the city, 
 
 As if to a feast or fair ; 
 And all of the streets were crowded 
 
 That led to Center Square; 
 And loud were the oaths and jesting 
 
 That mixed with the sport and strife, 
 With tramp of the foot and horses, 
 
 With sounds of the drum and fife. 
 And up, on a dizzy platform, 
 
 With clerks and men of the law, 
 Three rogues, arrayed in their halters, 
 
 Waited the terrible draw! 
 Black caps were over their faces, 
 
 And each had a ghostly shroud ; 
 Their hands were pinioned behind them, 
 
 And the Parson prayed aloud : 
 
CAMPBELL'S LEDGE. 
 
 Then came a marvelous silence — 
 And then a shock and a gleam — 
 
 The last of the Doans were swinging 
 From under the gallows beam. 
 
 CAMPBELL'S LEDGE IN WYOMING VALLEY, PA.( 5 ) 
 
 We clambered up the rugged steep, 
 
 All thick with oak and pine ; 
 The velvet moss was in our path, 
 
 And Celia's arm in mine. 
 Her friend and Etta lagged behind, 
 
 With leisurely delay; 
 Now plucking berries from the wood, 
 
 Now resting by the way. 
 
 Through many a weary circuit, 
 
 'Mongst bushes and 'mongst trees, 
 We gained, at last, the Campbell's Ledge, 
 
 And caught the mountain breeze — 
 Oh, God ! what glorious recompense, 
 
 This panoramic show ! 
 The heavens like a veil above, 
 
 The beauteous earth below. 
 
 The valley with its villages 
 In fields of varied green 
 
68 CAMPBELL'S LEDGE. 
 
 The forest range on either side 
 As frame-work of the scene. 
 
 The river flashing in the snn, 
 The tow-boat's creeping course, 
 
 The roaring engine, blazing like 
 Th' Apocalyptic horse. 
 
 The farmer plowing up the sod, 
 
 Or driving forth the wain ; 
 The orchards filled with ripening fruit, 
 
 The barns with garnered grain; 
 The cattle browsing on the mead, 
 
 The song-birds circling nigh, 
 And the smoke of scores of chimneys 
 
 Drifting toward the sky. 
 
 The coal shafts peering from the soil, 
 
 For distant miles around, 
 Show what a host of people toil 
 
 Deep in the hollow ground. 
 What countless tons of mineral 
 
 Lie under cot and field — 
 No harvest on the surface can 
 
 Such precious treasure yield. 
 
 The loom that weaves the maiden's garb, 
 The wheel that drives the car, 
 
 The forge that fills the arsenal 
 With thunderbolts of war ; 
 
CAMPBELL'S LEDGE. 69 
 
 The mill that shapes the forest logs 
 
 For keels that plow the brine, 
 And cities that the land adorn 
 
 Depend upon the mine. 
 
 And the wise man, in his vision, 
 
 Beholds the coming day, 
 When, here, a new metropolis 
 
 Shall wield imperial sway ; 
 When, here, the trades shall center, 
 
 And like the power above, 
 Shall lavish on the pleasant land 
 
 The golden shower of Jove. 
 
 When the blows of million hammers 
 
 Shall clank on native ore, 
 And countless fires of furnaces 
 
 Their iron rivers pour ; 
 When palaces shall tower aloft, 
 
 As fair as classic piles, 
 Which in the palmy days of Rome 
 
 Adorned her street for miles. 
 
 Wlier] barges of the rarest speed 
 
 Upon her stream shall float, 
 And richer far, in silk and gems, 
 
 Than Cleopatra's boat. 
 When genius shall augment her stores 
 
 With works of finest art, 
 
70 THE PAST. 
 
 With forms and hues that mimic life, 
 And half its grace impart. 
 
 When all that nature offers, 
 
 And all that man contrives, 
 Shall make the valley nourish 
 
 A million human lives; 
 And the wisdom of the ages, 
 
 And the tribute of the climes, 
 And the homage of the sections 
 
 Shall crown the blessed times. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 Brood not o'er the retrospection 
 Of the distant, fading years — 
 
 More than half the varied vision 
 Will be veiled by bitter tears ; 
 
 And the echoes of lost voices 
 Will sound sadly on the ears. 
 
 Childhood, docile and believing, 
 With a step so free and light, 
 
 Never gained the boon it longed for, 
 Never caught those colors bright, 
 
 Which, in rainbows, gilt the heavens, 
 And then vanished from the sight. 
 
THE PAST. 11 
 
 Fond affections, sown in promise, 
 
 Teeming in a genial breast, 
 Did but wither on the instant 
 
 That their bloom was manifest — 
 And some ever-baleful shadow 
 
 Seemed to dim Hope's rising crest. 
 
 Young ambition, that so gayly 
 
 Started for its shining goal, 
 Has been checked by chance or error, 
 
 Or oppressed by cruel dole ; 
 Or the burthen of contention 
 
 Has subdued the soaring soul. 
 
 Rural sports, once deemed attractive, 
 Haunts amidst the bloom of flowers, 
 
 Radiant charms that pleased the senses 
 In the buoyant, sunny hours, 
 
 Have departed, like illusions, 
 And will never more be ours. 
 
 Farewell, then, the life that's perished ; 
 
 Let oblivion o'er it steal ! 
 With our faces fronting forward, 
 
 Let us make our last appeal 
 To the ever-looming future, 
 
 And its beautiful ideal. 
 
 From the proverbs of the poets, 
 From the maxims of the grove, 
 
T2 CROQUET. 
 
 From the tenets of that Gospel, 
 Whose apocalypse is love, 
 
 Let us learn the serpent's wisdom, 
 And the pureness of the dove. 
 
 CROQUET. 
 
 Behold the play, that's called croquet ! 
 
 So gentle and exciting"; 
 That yet commands the feet and hands, 
 
 Both skill and mirth uniting. 
 
 See how they're fixed, the sexes mixed 
 In most promiscuous places, 
 
 To wield the maul, or watch the ball, 
 With wry or radiant faces. 
 
 And note the smiles, and freaks and wiles, 
 
 And Babel-like discussion, 
 The graceful sway, and gestures gay 
 
 Attending each percussion. 
 
 See ! how they aim, to win the game, 
 The strokes so deftly dealing — 
 
 Now faint the blows, now loud echoes 
 Through all the air are pealing. 
 
CROQUET. *J3 
 
 Both sides contrive the balls to drive 
 
 Together or asunder — 
 Beyond the close to send their foes, 
 
 Their friends, the arches under. 
 
 Alternate swings, alternate rings 
 
 The hammer that enforces 
 The missiles, round, along the ground, 
 
 In straight or errant courses. 
 
 And mark the rout, as one goes out; 
 
 Or else becomes a Rover, 
 And wanders free, with reckless glee, 
 
 The wicket-field all over. 
 
 See ! how they press, with eagerness, 
 
 As comes the final crisis ; 
 How flash their eyes, how sharp their cries, 
 
 Like gamblers at their vices. 
 
 The game is done, and they have won 
 Who show'd the highest talents 
 
 For passing arcs, and hitting marks, 
 And flirting with their gallants. 
 
 For Cupid's fire seems to inspire 
 
 The zeal of this diversion, 
 That yields the Fair such wholesome air 
 
 And muscular exertion. 
 7 
 
U THE MUTILATED TREE. 
 
 THE MUTILATED TREE. 
 
 I passed along the promenade — 
 
 The Pruner's axe had strewn 
 The swelling boughs amidst the mire ; 
 
 And to a post had hewn 
 The lofty tree, whose shadow cooled 
 
 The heat of Summer noon. 
 
 And it was a scene to sadden 
 
 A gentle eye to tears ; 
 And one, for which, incessant gibes 
 
 Will plague the weary ears 
 Of those, who for a whim, destroyed 
 
 The darling growth of years. 
 
 For who can gaze upon the wreck 
 
 Of the Linden in its prime, 
 And mourn not for the sheltering limbs 
 
 That towered above sublime, 
 And, through their verdant leaves, poured forth 
 
 The warblers' pleasant chime? 
 
 Alas! of all its beauty shorn, 
 
 It's doomed to swift decay, 
 And like the cursed tree of old, 
 
 It mars the light of day — 
 While bird and child its ghostly trunk 
 
 Avoid with sore dismay. 
 
THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1866. 75 
 
 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1866. 
 
 The seasons have their circuit made, 
 The bud, the fruit, the flower displayed, 
 
 Decay and torpor drear — 
 And thousands have beheld the dawn, 
 And thousands to the grave have gone, 
 
 Within the vanished year. 
 
 There's been the average guilt and worth 
 And wealth and want upon the earth ; 
 
 While knowledge has progressed 
 Amidst alternate peace and war, 
 And shed its light both near and far, 
 
 Like sunshine east and west. 
 
 Gigantic thoughts, gigantic schemes, 
 By which the human mind redeems 
 
 Slow nature's latent powers ; 
 And labors, that in days agone 
 Old Bards would feign the Gods had done, 
 
 Have marked the faded hours. 
 
 Through Alpine rocks the tunnel bores ; 
 Beneath the lake the hydrant pours, 
 A city to sustain ; 
 
76 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1866. 
 
 And bridges, built of wire and stone, 
 Athwart two rivers vast are thrown, 
 To speed the fiery train. 
 
 The grand canal, that's meant to wed 
 The Middle ocean with the Red, 
 
 Is urged with added force. 
 And soon, through rough, unsettled States, 
 They'll seek Pacific's golden gates 
 
 Upon the iron-horse. 
 
 An armored ship has crossed the sea, 
 And rode the storm right gallantly, 
 
 The Muscovite to greet; 
 While, in return, the realm of Czars 
 Has honored well the flag of stars 
 
 In palace, fort, and fleet. 
 
 Three Yachts, that lately turned their prows 
 With daring towards the port of Cowes, 
 
 An ocean race to run, 
 With streamers spread, and swelling sails, 
 Swift flying, 'fore the western gales, 
 
 Success and glory won. 
 
 And under the Atlantic waves, 
 Amongst the hidden coral caves, 
 
 The conscious Cable lies, 
 Informing, through its wondrous line, 
 All races, like some power divine, 
 
 In language of the skies. 
 
THE CLOSE OF THE TEAR 1866. 71 
 
 Portentous signs have been displayed : 
 A star, that blazed, was seen to fade, 
 
 As if it were consumed. 
 And showers of meteoric stones 
 Shot wildly cross the upper zones, 
 
 And half the night illumed. 
 
 Disasters followed car and craft, 
 
 And Stafford's, Yorkshire's bursted shaft, 
 
 That shook the counties round. 
 While silk-producing Hindostan 
 Has seen the starved lie cold and wan, 
 
 Unburied o'er the ground. 
 
 Terrific fires have towns devoured, 
 
 And that mailed ship which proudly towered 
 
 'Gainst Sumter's cannonade. 
 And Cyclones o'er the prairies whirled, 
 And roofs and walls like playthings hurled, 
 
 And frightful havoc made. 
 
 That Pest, resistless, which at times 
 Revisits all sublunar climes, 
 
 Has touched our shores again ; 
 And through the air, in silence, goes, 
 Dispensing its appalling woes 
 
 Amongst the haunts of men. 
 
 The Prussian on the battle-field 
 Tore Venice' crest from Hapsburg's shield : 
 While Europe trembling gazed, 
 
 7* 
 
78 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1866. 
 
 As thrones were emptied at his word, 
 And armies fell before his sword, 
 And tower and hamlet blazed. 
 
 From 'neath the famed Rialto's arc, 
 And from the portals of Saint Mark, 
 
 Is heard the glad refrain — 
 As down the palace-lined canal 
 Winds Freedom's gorgeous carnival — 
 
 "Bucentaur weds again." 
 
 That pleasant Isle where Minos ruled, 
 And where the Cretan Jove was schooled, 
 
 And splendid cities stood, 
 Is scourged by Moslem brand and steel ! 
 And Christian faith and classic zeal 
 
 Contend in seas of blood. 
 
 The Chinese rebel war prevails 
 That o'er the broad, celestial vales 
 
 Swept like the dread Typhoon. 
 And in Japan's imperial hall 
 Great chiefs around the gloomy pall, 
 
 Die for the dead Tycoon. 
 
 The Pope, of foreign aid bereft, 
 
 The world supposed he would have left 
 
 His city of renown: 
 But wary of the plots of man, 
 He yet commands the Vatican, 
 
 And wears the triple crown. 
 
THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1866. 79 
 
 And Paraguay, below the line, 
 Brazilians and the Argentine, 
 
 All thought of peace deride ; 
 And where the ancient Incas reigned, 
 Unequal strife the States maintained 
 
 Against Castilian pride. 
 
 The Austrian Prince, of late has grown 
 Enamored of his tottering throne, 
 
 And hesitates to go ; 
 While France reluctantly withdraws 
 The bay'nets that upheld his cause 
 
 In thankless Mexico. 
 
 The Fenian Irish lately made 
 A wild and unsupported raid 
 
 Upon our neighbor's coast ; 
 And in the gallant Em'rald Isle, 
 Old English power and English guile 
 
 Disarm the rising host. 
 
 Again, the Savage warwhoop sounds, 
 And from Fort Kearney's distant mounds 
 
 Is borne a tale of woe ; 
 Of ambuscade, and tortures dire, 
 Of dripping scalp, and fagot fire, 
 
 That mark the fiendish foe. 
 
 The loyal States, with potent voice, 
 Have offered to the South her choice: 
 With pledges to return, 
 
80 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1866. 
 
 Or stay without the temple door, 
 And sackcloth wear, and ashes pour, 
 And sacrifices burn. 
 
 Ethiops have not changed their skin, 
 And woolly head and tender shin 
 
 Their origin denote — 
 But they are bettered in estate, — 
 In Boston they can legislate, 
 
 In Washington can vote. 
 
 The chief who led the great revolt 
 Still expiates his heinous fault 
 
 In prison's penal gloom. 
 And he that sought in desert clime 
 A refuge for assassin's crime, 
 
 Comes o'er the sea to doom. 
 
 And thus has sped the storied year, 
 Which some believed the Bible Seer 
 
 Predicted as the last : 
 That it would bear upon its course 
 The earth and every mortal force 
 
 Into the finished past. 
 
 To some, indeed, an end it brought ; 
 To others it sad lessons taught, 
 
 Who folly had for guide : 
 And fortunes wrecked, ambition's claims, 
 And broken hearts, and cruel shames 
 
 Are floating down its tide. 
 
THE DEATH OF PRINCE. 81 
 
 While others found it ever bright, 
 
 And marked its days with pebbles white, 
 
 Dropped in the honored urns — 
 Let us with laurels green endow 
 That hopeful, beaming, Janus brow 
 
 That to the future turns. 
 
 THE DEATH OF PRINCE. 
 
 Prince was indeed the prince of dogs ! 
 
 The dearest in the town — 
 His colors of the richest dye, 
 
 His hair like eider-down. 
 
 His body small, was ob-ovate, 
 
 As Botanists would say: 
 A two-inch tail was all he had, 
 
 The rest he'd wagged away. 
 
 He seemed quite fat and pulpy, 
 And waddled as he walked — 
 
 His mouth wore all the meaning of 
 A child's, before it talked. 
 
 His eyes were set like brilliants, 
 
 Beneath his forehead low, 
 And had as soft and warm a light 
 
 As any girl's I know. 
 
82 THE DRIVE. 
 
 He died in early puppyhood — 
 And ere the morn was past — 
 
 A fatal error in his meal 
 Did make that meal his last. 
 
 His death-throes were attended 
 By one, his saddest friend ! 
 
 And other eyes were wet with tears 
 That saw his latter end ! 
 
 His little corpse lies in the yard, 
 Among the worms below ; 
 
 His little soul has soared above 
 To where the good dogs go ! 
 
 THE DRIVE. 
 
 Midst the prancing, 
 
 And the dancing, 
 And advancing ! what excitement at the start! 
 
 Horses heady — 
 
 Ho ! there, steady — 
 Now, then, ready — we're forward like a dart. 
 
 'Twas late at night, 
 
 The sky was white 
 
 With mellow light, spent by the Autumn moon 
 
THE DRIVE. 83 
 
 The milky-way, 
 With glist'ning spray, 
 'Most made it day, eclipsed at early noon. 
 
 The wind was still, 
 
 And farm and mill 
 On plain and hill, scarce yielded sign or sound, 
 
 Save that our wheels, 
 
 And horses' heels 
 Sent rattling peals over the lonesome ground. 
 
 On, on, we sped, 
 
 And overhead, 
 The dust, we shed, rolled up in silver clouds ; 
 
 The countless posts 
 
 Seemed mighty hosts 
 Of noiseless ghosts, that passed us in their shrouds. 
 
 Each little stream 
 
 Did like a gleam 
 Of lightning seem, so quick 'twas lost from view ; 
 
 The forest tall, 
 
 With leaves o'er all, 
 Spread like a pall, and like a phantom flew. 
 
 The ricks and mows, 
 
 And ungeared plows, 
 And orchard boughs, with apples bending low, 
 
 And sleeping kine, 
 
 And railroad line, 
 And tavern sign whirled by us like a show. 
 
84 THE DRIVE. 
 
 Up toilsome steeps, 
 
 Cross level sweeps, 
 With fearful leaps, we cleft the frosty night; 
 
 O'er yielding sedge, 
 
 O'er stony ridge, 
 O'er lofty bridge we kept our onward flight. 
 
 By corners turned, 
 
 By ditches spurned, 
 The axles burned upon the winding road; 
 
 And smoking wet, 
 
 With heat and sweat, 
 Exhaustless yet, our nags their mettle showed. 
 
 Still on they pressed, 
 
 As if possessed, 
 As if a rest they'd never need again — 
 
 Fast and faster, 
 
 Till at last there, 
 Some disaster must break the fearful strain. 
 
 Not such canter 
 
 Made O'Sbanter, 
 Who did banter her crew and Cutty Sark, 
 
 As when so soon, 
 
 The drunken loon 
 Crossed o'er the Doon, on Maggie, in the dark. 
 
 Not Gilpin John 
 So scoured along, 
 As crowds looked on, with merry shout and laugh, 
 
THE DRIVE. 85 
 
 When, like the wind, 
 He left behind, 
 In wondering mind, his hungry better-half. 
 
 Not such career 
 
 Had Paul Revere, 
 When far and clear, flashed from the old Church tower, 
 
 The signal, bright, 
 
 That lit his flight 
 To rouse the fight against stern England's power. 
 
 Not such a race, 
 
 Not such a chase, 
 Did Cheyney pace, when by old Sconnell's line, 
 
 He bore the word: 
 
 "At Trimble's ford 
 The English horde have crossed the Brandy wine." 
 
 One might have thought, 
 
 With tidings fraught 
 Of battle fought, we moved so rapidly — 
 
 One might have thought, 
 
 That we had wrought 
 Some deed that ought from justice make us flee. 
 
 But charm nor fear, 
 
 Nor threat nor cheer, 
 In front or rear, seemed urging us a pace ; 
 
 And in view then, 
 
 Nothing human, 
 Man nor woman appeared in any place. 
 
 8 
 
] THE DRIVE. 
 
 And thus we went, 
 
 Half hours were spent, 
 And no intent explained our mighty haste — 
 
 A mystery 
 
 Of deviltry 
 We could not see our curious journey graced. 
 
 But with gable, 
 
 Tall and sable, 
 Soon a stable betrayed the hidden cause ! 
 
 For there each horse 
 
 Stopt in his course, 
 As if his force had shifted to his jaws. 
 
 And now, forsooth ! 
 
 Behold the truth, 
 Ye frivolous youth ! who late abroad do roam — 
 
 If you want speed, 
 
 Then train your steed 
 To hope for feed, when you are bound for home. 
 
SCONNELLTOWN. 87 
 
 SCONNELLTOWN.( 6 ) 
 
 Whoever heard of Sconnelltown ? — 
 
 A village long ago, 
 That on the heights of Bradford stood, 
 
 With Brandywine below. 
 They say it was a thriving place, 
 
 When in its day of palm, 
 Cornwallis lunched his army there, 
 
 Marching to Birmingham. 
 
 It was there the Quakers, driven 
 
 By battle's loud refrain, 
 From their ancient house of worship, 
 
 Came near the foe again ; 
 And devoted to their service, 
 
 Within their lowly walls, 
 They silently awaited him, 
 
 As Romans did the Gauls. 
 
 'Twas there the weaver Sconnell lived, 
 
 Who chose this lofty site — 
 Perhaps as classic founders did, 
 
 From birds' auspicious flight — 
 And there plowed the circling furrow, 
 
 To fix the metes and bounds ; 
 And lured the venturous emigrants 
 
 To settle on his grounds. 
 
88 S C ONNELL TO WN. 
 
 And for several leagues, at least, 
 
 There was no greater town — 
 For the Borough had not risen, 
 
 And Upland tended down. 
 The avenues, perchance, were few, 
 
 Nor garnished by the arts, 
 Nor thronged with curious tourists then, 
 
 Or trade with foreign parts. 
 
 The people were not wealthy then, 
 
 And made a small display, 
 But doubtless had the passions, too, 
 
 That we have got to-day. 
 And if their sphere was circumscribed, 
 
 Perhaps their pride was great, 
 And what to us would humble seem, 
 
 Might seem to them like state. 
 
 And they likely had their classes 
 
 And arbitrary ways ; 
 The rich who were ever idle, 
 
 The poor on holidays. 
 And there were certain crafts in vogue, 
 
 That shared the various toil — 
 Some plied their cunning handiwork, 
 
 And some delved in the soil. 
 
 But politics and fancy stocks 
 Did ne'er disturb their ease; 
 
 And they rarely heard of lawyers, 
 Or courts of common pleas. 
 
SCONNELLTOWN. 89 
 
 The grandeur of our cities, 
 
 The magic power of steam, 
 The lightning flash of telegraphs 
 
 Ne'er entered in their dream. 
 
 But where's the pleasant village now ? 
 
 Its business and its fetes, 
 And its denizens and dwellings, 
 
 And animated streets ? 
 For near these rugged rocks it stood, 
 
 Where Elecampane blooms ; 
 Yet scarce a vestige can be found 
 
 Of tenements or tombs. 
 
 No garden here with weeds o'ergrown, 
 
 No loose and scattered rails, 
 No broken roof or tumbling joist 
 
 The curious eye bewails. 
 The wrecked and mossy timber's gone, 
 
 And sunk the basement walls ; 
 No tott'ring ivied chimney-stack 
 
 A ruined hearth recalls. 
 
 A mound and ditch not far apart, 
 
 Round which the harvest grows, 
 Are all the landmarks of the place 
 
 The antiquary knows. 
 Near these the wheelwright had his bench, 
 
 Or cobbler had his room, 
 Or the blacksmith swung his hammer, 
 
 Or weaver shook his loom. 
 8* 
 
90 SGONNELL TO WN. 
 
 Or there the well of water was 
 
 Which women went to draw, 
 Like her who in Samaria 
 
 The blessed Saviour saw. 
 Or there the awful pedagogue 
 
 Enforced his learned facts — 
 The mystery dark of figures, 
 
 The canons of syntax. 
 
 But eager search can't tell us now 
 
 On what specific spot 
 The gayest mansion had its seat, 
 
 Or where the meanest cot ; 
 Or what resorts were chosen once 
 
 For sport and revelry ; ' 
 Or where the moonlight lovers strolled 
 
 Unto the trysting tree. 
 
 Or where the pious shepherd poured 
 
 'Gainst sin his earnest wrath, 
 And taught his little flock to find 
 
 The straight and narrow path. 
 Or where, at eve, the old men sat, 
 
 And daily toil discussed ; 
 Or whither went the mourning train, 
 
 When dust was borne to dust. 
 
 Or where the post-boy's winding horn, 
 And horse's clanking shoes 
 
 Brought out the gaping crowd to hear 
 The latest monthly news. 
 
S CONN ELL TO WN. 9 1 
 
 Or where the boist'rous men were kept, 
 
 If any there were known, 
 Who, in the rites of Bacchus, oft 
 
 Thrust reason from her throne. 
 
 And where are now the populace ? 
 
 How did they disappear ? 
 Did they slowly pass and perish, 
 
 As does the fading year ? 
 Or like the Aborigines, 
 
 Who once the soil possessed, 
 Scatter as the autumnal leaves? 
 
 Or vanish in the West ? 
 
 Or did some grievous pest or fire 
 
 Destroy them in a breath ? 
 Or some ruthless, grim invader 
 
 Pursue them to the death? 
 Or did they make their exodus 
 
 As captives from the land, 
 To weep beneath their silent harps, 
 
 Upon a foreign strand ? 
 
 For tradition ne'er related 
 
 What finished their career ; 
 We only know they flourished once, 
 
 And are no longer here. 
 And many winter storms have burst 
 
 Upon this stony mount ; 
 And many generations passed 
 
 To meet their great account ; 
 
92 SCONNELL TO WN. 
 
 And many summer birds have built 
 
 Amidst the bushy thorn ; 
 And many precious crops have waved 
 
 Where ripens yonder corn; 
 And many flowers have graced the hill, 
 
 Whose species died away ; 
 And many strides the world has made 
 
 Since that forgotten day. 
 
 The plowman old, who turns the glebe, 
 
 Would deem you asked in jest, 
 If e'er he saw a hamlet stand 
 
 Upon this lonely crest. 
 His fathers, who are in their graves, 
 
 Its thrift remembered well, 
 But when, or how, it ceased to be 
 
 They never seemed to tell. 
 
 Around a modern school-house now, 
 
 The boys are shooting game; 
 Whose vacant walls are on its site, 
 
 And keep alive its name. 
 And some locust and some oak-trees 
 
 There stretch their verdant limbs, 
 And as the evening breezes blow, 
 
 Sound sad as fun'ral hymns. 
 
 As if nature had a spirit, 
 
 Which mourns for human woes, 
 
 And that her solitude prevails 
 Where village murmurs rose. 
 
THE SKATERS. 93 
 
 And you, who wander 'cross the seas, 
 
 In search of cities old, 
 That in their pride were swept away 
 
 With half their story told ; 
 
 And that, once, of wealth and splendor, 
 
 Had spread o'er earth their fame, 
 Yet scarcely left a wreck behind, 
 
 Or more than empty name ; 
 You here may learn how shadows thin 
 
 Mere mortal hopes will crown ; 
 How cities, like our lives, may have 
 
 The fate of Sconnelltown. 
 
 THE SKATERS. 
 
 Ho ! look at the merrisome skaters, 
 As they're coursing the circuit around, 
 
 Ami in parties are swinging, 
 
 While their irons are ringing, 
 
 And their laughter is flinging 
 A glow of delight o'er the bright crystal ground. 
 
 It's little they're heeding the danger, 
 And it's little they care for the cold ; 
 
94 THE SKATERS. 
 
 The soft ice may be weeping — 
 The north wind may be sweeping — 
 Or the sun may be keeping 
 Behind the gray clouds, in his chariot of gold. 
 
 The skaters secure on their runners, 
 And incased in an armor of fur, 
 
 To no fears are appealing — 
 
 And no chilliness feeling, 
 
 But with pleasure are reeling, 
 As if they'd the clime of the orange and myrrh. 
 
 Though the fields are frory and pallid, 
 And no longer the flowerets blow, 
 
 Yet the glee of the skaters, 
 
 And the flashing of gaiters, 
 
 And applause of spectators 
 Might startle old Summer from his grave in the snow. 
 
 And mark, that the glassy area, 
 Where the sexes commingling are seen, 
 
 With no evil is teeming, 
 
 With no rout unbeseeming ; 
 
 And yet health, freshly beaming, 
 Still follows the measures in which they careen. 
 
 And beauty grows ruddy and fairer, 
 In this gayest of muscular plays : 
 
THE SKATERS. 95 
 
 For the wind so embraces, 
 And expresses the graces 
 Of the spirit and faces, 
 That love is inspired by the witching displays. 
 
 The blended array of rare colors, 
 And the picturesque nutter of dress, 
 
 Feathers tossing ambitious 
 
 Over smiles so delicious, 
 
 Although elsewhere capricious, 
 Here excite an emotion no chance can repress. 
 
 The strangely mixed masses of people, 
 The odd phases of figure and style, 
 
 The infant, like Aztec, 
 
 And old adults elastic, 
 
 In a jumble fantastic 
 Might even a Cynic's stern rigor beguile. 
 
 And neither the desert nor drama, 
 Nor the capers of holiday fetes, 
 
 Nor the forms of devotions, 
 
 Nor the air, nor the oceans 
 
 Show such beautiful motions 
 As theirs, who perform in this feast of the skates. 
 
 Each foot, with an ease that surprises, 
 Is penciling those elegant lines, 
 
96 THE SKATERS. 
 
 For which artists have striven, 
 For which sages have given 
 Hours belonging to Heaven, 
 To find their equations in fluxional signs. 
 
 And thus with a voluble swiftness, 
 They are hourly propelling along, 
 And like acrobats veering, 
 With such skillfulness steering, 
 And with zeal persevering, 
 As though in accord with a jubilant song. 
 
 Let the swelt'ring dancers trip it 
 On the lighted, dusty floor — 
 
 We shall, in the purer breezes, 
 Glibly skim the lakelet o'er : 
 
 While the welkin shakes with shouting, 
 As we seem to sail or soar. 
 
 Let them rock upon their carpets, 
 By the glowing anthracite — 
 
 We prefer the grim horizon ; 
 
 Woods agleam with crystal light : 
 
 And the sport that thrills the pulses, 
 Where the lake is icy white. 
 
 Let them read their tales fictitious, 
 Let them puzzle o'er their chess — 
 
THE SKATERS. * 97 
 
 We will face the scowls of winter, 
 
 And provoke his rough caress, 
 And, like Jacob and the Angel, 
 
 With him wrestle till he bless. 
 
 Let the lover, in the parlor, 
 
 Plead his passion on his knees — 
 Yet the maids are not so haughty, 
 
 Nor so difficult to please, 
 With the slippery ice beneath them, 
 
 And with nothing near to seize — 
 When they naively seek your elbows 
 
 As their safest guarantees, 
 And still cling about your person, 
 
 Like the sweet Clematides. 
 
 Let the sleighers on the highways 
 
 Ring their tiny, tinkling bells: 
 While they're shiv'ring on their cushions, 
 
 And their laugh in mock'ry swells — 
 Our unshackled, active vigor 
 
 Every morbid humor quells : 
 Sends the heated blood a-dancing, 
 
 Like a cup of old Moselle's. 
 
 Note the long, repeated music 
 
 Of the rapid skater's heel, 
 While he's flying, forth and backward, 
 
 As if wings were on his heel ; 
 
98 THE SKATERS. 
 
 Humming o'er the shining surface, 
 With a rich, metallic peal ; 
 
 Like the silver thrum of harp-strings, 
 That one hears in old Castile. 
 
 See him as he's deftly "rolling," 
 
 Poising on alternate feet, 
 Bending, waving, right and leftward, 
 
 Every limb in posture meet ; 
 Scarce a muscle seems to labor, 
 
 Every stroke with grace replete. 
 
 Let them sing in classic metre, 
 
 In those rich Bucolic strains, 
 Of the gentle games of summer ; 
 
 And the matches of the swains 
 By the shade-trees, in the sunshine, 
 
 With the flocks that browse the hills, 
 Midst the fragrant breath of blossoms, 
 
 By the lucid, wandering rills. 
 
 Let them sing the chariot races, 
 
 When the smoking axles roll ; 
 When the daring craft of victors 
 
 Urge their steeds beyond the goal. 
 Let them sing, in sweet Provencal, 
 
 Of the gallant knights who strove, 
 Tilting lances in the tourney, 
 
 For the smiles of lady love. 
 
TO A CERTAIN GOLDEN EAGLE. 99 
 
 But that great and princely Singer, 
 
 Native to the Mantuan moors, 
 And the Bard of Pythian measure, 
 
 And the pleasant Troubadours, 
 Never sang of sports more genial 
 
 Than these sports that winter cheer, 
 Than the skaters' graceful frolic 
 
 On the smoothly frozen mere. 
 
 TO A CERTAIN GOLDEN EAGLE AND A CERTAIN 
 WILD GOOSE. 
 
 Hail! to you, monarchic Eagle ! 
 
 Whose scream the flock appalls ; 
 And hail ! to you, historic Goose, 
 
 Whose cackle scared the Gauls ! 
 
 You ! sacred to old Jupiter, 
 
 And you ! unto his queen, 
 You ! the emblem of the nations, 
 
 And you ! of the cuisine ! 
 
 And you were fledged and feathered both, 
 
 Where white foot never trod ; 
 And you have sailed the yielding air — 
 
 And you have sailed the flood. 
 
100 TO A CERTAIN GOLDEN EAGLE. 
 
 With eyes that scorn the blazing sun — 
 
 And bill that loves the brine — 
 You seem but hapless exiles, 
 
 Beneath the garden vine. 
 * 
 For useless are those talons now, 
 
 That rived the living prey : 
 And useless are those skinny oars 
 
 That rowed you o'er the bay. 
 
 As on your restive bosoms now, 
 You fold your worthless wings, 
 
 Above you far in triumph soars 
 The meanest bird that sings. 
 
 The quills that bore you onward once, 
 Cross distant waves and sand, 
 
 Now mark the flight of fancy o'er 
 The misty spirit land. 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 101 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 Oh ! spare that ancient building, 
 
 With the iron fence before — 
 A thousand boys were tutored there, 
 
 In the halcyon days of yore. 
 Oh ! touch not a single pebble 
 
 On its yellow painted walls, 
 For each has a separate story 
 
 Which our early life recalls. 
 
 Its very soil is sacred too, 
 
 Oh, save it from the spade ! 
 It was there our village fathers, 
 
 In their adolescence, played. 
 It's haunted by the memories 
 
 Of some fifty years or more, 
 With the charms of Alma Hater 
 
 For the many sons it bore. 
 
 Look around upon the country, 
 
 Through civil scenes and strife — 
 Its Alumni share the honors 
 
 In all the walks of life. 
 The Doctor, with his healing hand, 
 
 The Statesman in his place, 
 The Lawyer pondering quibbles, 
 
 The Parson preaching grace. 
 9* 
 
102 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 And behind the Merchant's counter, 
 
 Beside the Farmer's team ; 
 The Blacksmith with his brawny arm, 
 
 The Poet in his dream ; 
 On the Colorado prairies, 
 
 Where roam the buffalo, 
 And the savage trails the pale face, 
 
 And mutilates his foe. 
 
 In the trains of footsore emigrants, 
 
 Amidst their famish'd kine ; 
 On the decks of coasting shallops, 
 
 Whence fishers drop the line ; 
 And beyond the far Sierras, 
 
 By El Dorado's main, 
 Where the miner builds his cabin, 
 
 And rakes his golden grain. 
 
 On the bosom of the waters, 
 
 And on the border land ; 
 Where'er our gallant vessels float, 
 
 Where'er our armies stand : — 
 Everywhere, some grateful friend 
 
 That ancient pile reveres, 
 Who'd learn of its decline and fall 
 
 With grief akin to tears. 
 
 For right well does he remember 
 
 That juvenile resort 
 Which gave his supple faculties 
 
 Alternate pain and sport. 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 103 
 
 The teacher with his learned brow, 
 
 The threatening ferule near ; 
 The buzzing of the busy mass, 
 
 The whisper and the leer. 
 
 The text-book opened at the hour, 
 
 The classes in a row — 
 The proper answers, quick and loud, 
 
 The guesses murmured low; 
 The slate defaced with furtive games, 
 
 The copy blotted o'er ; 
 The bright and battered drinking-cup, 
 
 The bucket on the floor. 
 
 And the pop-gun made of goosequill, 
 
 The paper-box for flies ; 
 The desk-lid primed with pencil dust 
 
 To close the freshman's eyes. 
 The teacher's casual absence, 
 
 And anarchy's brief reign — 
 The discordant swell of voices, 
 
 Loud roaring like the main. 
 
 The slamming of the stools and doors, 
 
 The horn books in the air ; 
 The water dashed upon the stove, 
 
 Ink on the cushioned chair. 
 The painful and demure surprise 
 
 Which greets the teacher soon ; 
 The boist'rous shout of joy and mirth 
 
 That welcomes in the noon. 
 
104 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 The hoop, the bow and arrow, 
 
 The soaring of the swing, 
 The humming of the corner ball, 
 
 The marbles in the ring. 
 The kite sailing o'er the poplars, 
 
 The top upon the pave, 
 The cabin roofed with autumn leaves, 
 
 The snow-constructed cave. 
 
 The rope sleds and the sliding boards, 
 
 The races down the yard ; 
 And the war of snow-ball armies, 
 
 The victors and the scarred. 
 And the advent of the spring-time, 
 
 Which stirs the sap and blood ; 
 And the climbing after birds' nests, 
 
 The wrestling in the mud. 
 
 Hop Scotch, in geometric lines, 
 
 Mark'd quaintly on the bricks ; 
 The driving of the shapeless blocks 
 
 With crooked shinney sticks. 
 And the hand sling, and the sucker, 
 
 Carved out of some old boot ; 
 The three-cornered paper squib, 
 
 The trunk-key made to shoot. 
 
 So about the school-house linger 
 All the early ties of men, 
 
 And inspire a tender sadness 
 That they are not boys again. 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 105 
 
 For each youthful pain and sorrow 
 
 Was banished with the light ; 
 And each morning brought new beauties, 
 
 Sweet slumbers came with night. 
 
 The earth was like a garden then, 
 
 And life seemed like a show, 
 And the air was rife with fragrance. 
 
 The sky was all rainbow. 
 And the heart was warm and joyous, 
 
 Each lad had native grace ; 
 Sly cupid painted blushes then 
 
 On every virgin face. 
 
 Those pleasant hours can ne'er return 
 
 Except by fitful gleams, 
 As when some ancient haunt like this 
 
 Recalls them in our dreams. 
 Oh ! then let the building flourish, 
 
 And long adorn the town ; 
 On its steps, let generations 
 
 Meet, passing up and down. 
 Let it still the past and present 
 
 With a common love entwine ; 
 Let its pilgrim sons, returning, 
 
 Revere it as a shrine. 
 
106 THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 
 
 THE FALL OF KICHMOND. 
 
 Hang out the triple colors from window and wall, 
 Let them stream from the vessel and flash from the 
 
 hall; 
 Let batteries of cannon shake mountain and strand, 
 Let the bells and the bugles peal over the land ; 
 With bonfires and torches illumine the night, 
 With odes and orations express the delight ; 
 Leave the toils of the market, the plow in the sod, 
 With sackbut and psaltery sing praises to God — 
 The chief armies have battled, the struggle is done, 
 And the foemen are vanquished, their citadel's won ; 
 The Babylon that gloried in rebels and slaves 
 Is repenting her folly, midst ashes and graves. 
 The great Victor, regarding his Master above, 
 Is proffering the humbled the right hand of love : 
 " Return to allegiance who've wandered so long, 
 "We insist not on vengeance, there's pardon for wrong, 
 "Be in spirit fraternal, revive the old spell 
 " Which our fathers united, and all will be well." 
 And while peace, like an angel, is nigh at the door, 
 And the arms of rebellion seem sheathed evermore — 
 Lo ! hark ! a tragical shriek conies piercing the ear ! 
 And the merciful Ruler lies cold on his bier ! 
 With the craft of a coward, the hate of a fiend, 
 These modern Iscariots have murdered their friend ! 
 
THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 10? 
 
 Oh ! accurs'd be their system, accursed its hand ! 
 Let the law's retribution and Cain's hissing brand 
 Drive the wretches, in torture, far down to their place, 
 Let the scorn of the ages descend on their race, 
 Let their fate, in its rigor, teach monsters in crime, 
 That the pains of hereafter are symbol'd in time. 
 
 Though the blow of bereavement falls fierce as a 
 
 scourge, 
 And our song of triumphing subdues to a dirge ; 
 Though our pride it's prostrated, and palsied our mirth, 
 And with emblems of sorrow has darkened the earth, 
 Yet the Lord will o'errule it, and temper the loss, 
 And show, in His wisdom, the crown next the cross. 
 That life may be forfeit for the errors of all, 
 And the foremost in merit, the last one to fall 
 To ennoble the freeman, and ransom the thrall. 
 Thus the blood of the martyr shall hallow his cause, 
 And the truth, that was stifled, rise up with applause ; 
 So shall wrong of its mischief and terror be shorn — 
 In this travail of horrors, the nation's reborn. 
 
108 VESPER. 
 
 VESPER. 
 
 Hark ! to the running water 
 As it murmurs o'er the stones — 
 
 The sad, unchanging sweetness 
 Of wild nature's music tones. 
 
 But soon, the spell is broken 
 By the noise of laughing girls, 
 
 Who are plashing in the stream, 
 And a washing of their curls. 
 
 So, in the days of fable, 
 
 When the gods espous'd the fair, 
 Bards tell us of the wood nymphs, 
 
 Who thus bathed their virgin hair. 
 
 The shadows now are spreading, 
 And they weave the day a shroud- 
 
 The sinking sun is painting 
 Gorgeous colors on the cloud. 
 
 Dewy odors of the harvest 
 
 Breathe softly through the grove ; 
 And all the senses tell us 
 
 Of the twilight hour of love. 
 
VESPER. 109 
 
 Now, to their leafy lodges 
 
 Swiftly fly the feathered throng; 
 
 While countless woodland singers 
 Begin their amorous song. 
 
 And yet these small musicians, 
 
 Whose life seems but a tune, 
 Soon feed the jaws of reptiles, 
 
 Who then fall themselves as soon. 
 
 And thus, the simple annals 
 
 Of so brief a vital span, 
 Are like a sorry satire 
 
 On the character of man. 
 
 The bat sails on a foray, 
 
 With his mouth extended wide, 
 Remorseless as a pirate, 
 
 On the briny, orient tide. 
 
 The owl flits to his station, 
 
 Where his big eyes threaten death ; 
 
 The toad hops from his shelter, 
 With a poison on his breath. 
 
 And loudly booms the night hawk, 
 
 As he swoops upon his prey; 
 The fox peers from his burrow 
 
 At the lingering glance of day. 
 10 
 
110 ABE SMITH. 
 
 The rattling of the reaper 
 
 Sounds no more upon the plain, 
 
 No more the shouting yeomen 
 Bind the golden sheaves of grain. 
 
 The cowherd, with the mastiff, 
 Now homeward sauntering goes, 
 
 The lowing kine before him — 
 And the toils with evening close. 
 
 ABE SMITH. 
 
 They lifted him up with Samaritan care, 
 
 And bore him benumbed from the night's icy air, 
 
 The shelter and couch of a cottage to share. 
 
 But naught could avail 'gainst the pitiless foe — 
 The wild winter winds now over him blow, 
 As coldly and stark he sleeps under the snow. 
 
 Though swarthy his hue, he was stately in form ; 
 Uncultured in mind, he'd a heart that was warm, 
 And manners uncouth, yet imbued with a charm. 
 
 His hands, like the smith's that we read of in song, 
 With arduous toil, had grown callous and strong, 
 Yet clean as a child's of dishonor or wrong. 
 
ABE SMITH. Ill 
 
 He loved the broad lands to upturn and to sow, 
 The harvest to glean in the midsummer's glow, 
 The forest to fell, when the sap ceased to flow. 
 
 He loved the brave team, on the highway to guide ; 
 The pomp of their march filled his bosom with pride, 
 As swaying he rode, or kept step by their side. 
 
 He loved the green sward on the hill and the mead, 
 Where the wond'ring steers started up from their feed, 
 And came to his hand, with a frolicsome speed. 
 
 The brutes knew him well, and seemed to rejoice 
 On seeing his face, or on hearing his voice, 
 And heeded his will from attachment and choice. 
 
 Such tasks as he did now need him in vain ; 
 The creatures he fed may in silence complain ; 
 His love and his care will ne'er bless them again. 
 
 And we shall revere what the grave cannot hold, 
 Those virtues of his, as they gleam through the mould 
 Of time and decay, with the luster of gold. 
 
112 THE UNKNOWN LADY. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN LADY. 
 
 Ah ! comrade ! I have seen, in far distant land and 
 
 city, 
 The beauties that you read of in story book and 
 
 ditty— 
 The lasses of the Scottish realm, who crown the mead 
 
 and brae 
 With charms, like those, which erst inspired the harp- 
 er's roundelay: 
 The haughty maids of England, with foreheads broad 
 
 and blond, 
 The coral lips of Flemish belles, so tempting and so 
 
 fond: 
 The gay and artful demoiselles that bloom upon the 
 
 Seine, 
 And the lovely Senoritas of the olive clime of Spain : 
 
 The dark eyed girls of Yenice, with their pensive look 
 
 and smile, 
 As if they mourned the glory fled that once illumed 
 
 their Isle : 
 The Grecians with those chiseled forms, adored in 
 
 classic art, 
 Who prattle with the sweetest tongue that ever sought 
 
 the heart: 
 
THE UNKNOWN LADY. [13 
 
 The slaves from rude Circassia, who in Stamboul laugh 
 
 and dance, 
 And flash beneath their jealous vails the furtive, fiery 
 
 glance: 
 The daughters of the prophecy, who still round Salem 
 
 cling, 
 Recalling that voluptuous fair who lured the wisest 
 
 king: 
 All such, and many more I've seen, in garden and in 
 
 hall, 
 Clad in the careless rustic garb, or graced with coronal, 
 Gilding the peasant's humble sphere, or Fashion's 
 
 carnival — 
 But none of these e'er warmed me, with such an ardent 
 
 flame, 
 As she who passed me in the street, and whom I can- 
 not name. 
 She wore a hat of velvet cloth, tipp'd with a wild 
 
 bird's plume, 
 And a robe of glossy silk, from the cunning Tuscan 
 
 loom: 
 Her train fell on the pavement, in many a winding 
 
 fold, 
 And her stately step recalled the Epic Queen of old. 
 
 She turned her head a moment, and revealed a blessed 
 
 face, 
 Radiant with youthfulness, and as eloquent with grace : 
 All the elements of beauty beamed in that vision bright, 
 Every symmetry of outline, and every tint of light. 
 10* 
 
114 THE UNKNOWN LADY. 
 
 A virgin, so attractive, once, some gifted artisan 
 May have copied on his easel for church or Vatican. 
 Her cheeks possessed the changing hue, the rare and 
 
 blended glow- 
 That mantles o'er the mellow wine, when it is iced 
 
 with snow. 
 Her eyes were mild and lucid, like the innocent ga- 
 zelle's, 
 And shed a magic sweetness that bound one in their 
 
 spells : 
 And musical her voice was, as the tone of silver bells, 
 When she bade a friend good morning, in such a 
 
 winning way, 
 I felt its echoes whisper through my bosom, all the 
 day. 
 
FAREWELL TO WINTER. 115 
 
 FAREWELL TO WINTER. 
 
 Good-by ! old blustering Winter ! 
 
 Pack up your ice and snow — 
 You need not stand to shake one's hand, 
 
 Nor friendly sorrow show — 
 Your parting grace is out of place — 
 
 We're glad to see you go. 
 
 You did a deal of cruel work : 
 
 Many a plague you bore : 
 While on your breath was cruel death 
 
 Which wasted sea and shore ; 
 And far and wide, you laid the pride 
 
 Of sunny sixty-four. 
 
 The ling'ring bloom of autumn flowers, 
 
 So innocent and fair, 
 The leafy grove, the haunts of love, 
 
 The song birds in the air, 
 With ruthless spite, you banish 'd quite, 
 
 And made earth mute and bare. 
 
 You cast a spell upon the sight, 
 A spell upon the ear, 
 
116 FAREWELL TO WINTER. 
 
 A doleful shade the heart o'erlaid, 
 And turned its hope to fear : 
 
 And spread around a gloom profound, 
 A prospect sad and drear. 
 
 Oh ! tarry here no longer then ; 
 
 Haste with your hideous train : 
 Let gentle Spring her glories bring, 
 
 And sway the land and main, 
 Till overhead, and 'neath our tread, 
 
 All things rejoice again. 
 
 Behold ! she's in the distance now, 
 Just bursting on the view ! 
 
 With modest gait, she needs must wait 
 To find her welcome true : 
 
 And like a maid, by passion stayed, 
 She loves but cannot woo. 
 
 How gorgeous her epiphany ! 
 
 Like some celestial Sight 
 With every trait of royal state 
 
 Her presence is bedight, 
 And by her side, in all their pride, 
 
 Attendants beam with light. 
 
 Sylvan powers sport in her smiles — 
 The Satyr and the Faun 
 
FAREWELL TO WINTER. 11? 
 
 Come with Dryads and with Naiads, 
 From streamlet, wood, and lawn : 
 
 And the Horae, like Aurora, 
 Lead forth the Summer's dawn. 
 
 Her balmy breath the gales perfume, 
 
 The gales with joy prolong 
 The native notes of feathered throats, 
 
 In loud and thrilling song: 
 While on her way, in colors gay, 
 
 The Floral beauties throng. 
 
 All hail ! then Spring's advancing steps 
 
 On Winter's flying rear ! 
 Each sense to charm, each heart to warm 
 
 And renovate the year — 
 So Peace shall chase War's rugged face, 
 
 And fill the land with cheer. 
 
118 THE WRECK OF THE ALBION. 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE ALBION.P) 
 
 Years ago, the Albion ship 
 
 Swung from her moorings free, 
 And proudly down the Narrows sailed, 
 
 And stood away to sea. 
 Right for the English channel bound, 
 
 Mann'd by a chosen crew, 
 A score of days she onward sped, 
 
 And kept her bearings true. 
 
 The wind upon her quarter lay, 
 
 The voyage promised well, 
 Until a sudden blast arose, 
 
 And tossed her like a shell. 
 Yet soon again it seemed to lull, 
 
 As land was seen ahead, 
 And all, with cheer, beheld the Isle 
 
 Which few would ever tread. 
 
 For the sky, at dusk, grew cloudy, 
 
 The deep with white caps hoar ; 
 We held a press of canvas on, 
 
 To crowd the ship off shore. 
 But the southward squalls blew harder, 
 
 And sail was shortened fast, 
 And a heavy sea, that struck her, 
 
 Disabled every mast. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ALBION. 119 
 
 It stove the doors and hatches in, 
 
 And breaching o'er the deck, 
 It left the gallant Albion 
 
 A sad and shattered wreck. 
 In vain they sought the leaky pumps, 
 
 In vain the helm assayed ; 
 The tall headlands, closing round her, 
 
 The fated bark embayed. 
 
 The Captain, in despair, beheld 
 
 The fearful fate in store, 
 And told all hands assembled, 
 
 The ship would drive ashore ! 
 Frail women, from their slumbers roused, 
 
 Aghast, the warning heard : 
 And oldest tars and boldest men 
 
 Quailed at the startling word. 
 
 The iron coast of Kinsale Head 
 
 Lay just upon our lee — 
 Destruction waited on the rocks, 
 
 And in the surging sea. 
 No skillfulness of mariners 
 
 The peril could eschew — 
 The stoutest as the weakest were, 
 
 The many, as the few. 
 
 With aid, I crawled toward the bows, 
 Sick from my berth below, 
 
120 THE WRECK OF THE ALBION. 
 
 And seemed, again, to grow in strength 
 To face this scene of woe ; 
 
 For some were there, already dead, 
 Drowned by the whelming tide, 
 
 And one I helped to reach the rails, 
 And there she clung and died. 
 
 Fast, toward the raging whirlpools, 
 
 Formed by the surfworn caves, 
 Fast through appalling darkness, 
 
 And o'er the mountain waves, 
 The helpless hulk was driving on 
 
 Before the dreadful gale, 
 Without an axe to clear the wreck, 
 
 Without a shred of sail. 
 
 And strained through all her timbers, 
 
 She yawned at every seam, 
 And like a coffin huge appeared 
 
 On death's terrific stream. 
 The foaming of the breakers soon 
 
 Gave forth their dismal boom, 
 Announcing, like a signal gun, 
 
 The instant hour of doom. 
 
 At dawn of day, a mighty jar, 
 Then gave a grating sound, 
 
 And crushed her keel and rudder off, 
 And swung her stern around. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ALBION. 121 
 
 With toiling steps I waded aft, 
 
 A cable for my guide, 
 Half clad, amidst the fragments dashed, 
 
 I gained the leeward side. 
 
 Another lurch her bottom stove, 
 
 And crashing was the shock, 
 As through the parted vessel rose 
 
 A rugged reef of rock. 
 And those who'd crowded at the prow 
 
 Were swept at once away, 
 And some, lashed to the windlass post, 
 
 Were smothered by the spray. 
 
 The quarter deck beat o'er the ledge, 
 
 Beneath the craggy wall, 
 Whose top loomed up beyond the sight, 
 
 Sheer as a plumb could fall. 
 I mustered all my failing powers — 
 
 I made a desp'rate bound — 
 And clutching on a narrow cliff, 
 
 A single foothold found. 
 
 There, drenched and bruised, and numb with cold, 
 
 And trembling as I stood, 
 The steward seized me, as he drowned, 
 
 Then drifted down the flood. 
 Eight sailors, only, from the yards 
 
 Were picked up, one by one ; 
 11 
 
122 THE WRECK OF THE ALBION. 
 
 My cabin mates had perished all — 
 And I was left alone. 
 
 Alone, upon that little peak, 
 
 With scarce a space to stand — 
 A wilderness of water round, 
 
 A precipice, the land. 
 The billows, far, like ordered hosts, 
 
 Came on with roaring tread, 
 And lifting up their frowning crests, 
 
 Burst o'er my naked head. 
 
 Five hours upon that single foot, 
 
 Each hour seemed like a year, 
 I waited for His saving aid 
 
 Without a throb of fear ; 
 For well I knew His promise sure, 
 
 Who rules the sky and land, 
 Who holds the tempest in its path, 
 
 The ocean in His hand. 
 
 At length, a rope, thrown from above, 
 
 I seized and girt me round — 
 I saw the dizzy depths below — 
 
 All darkness seemed the ground. 
 Unconscious, in a stupor blind, 
 
 I lay like one that dies, 
 Until a gracious, healing care 
 
 Made life seem like surprise. 
 
THE WAR. 123 
 
 Bereft of raiment and of means, 
 
 Enfeebled and unknown, 
 I scarcely «felt a sense of want, 
 
 Such charity was shown. 
 And blessings on those Irish hearts, 
 
 And Heaven them repay, 
 Who treated with a brother's love 
 
 The stranger castaway. 
 
 THE WAR. 
 
 The wrath of nations vents itself in blood, 
 And Death himself withholds or yields renown; 
 For whom he toils in most destructive mood, 
 That side will prosper, and its foe go down — 
 Defeat, triumph dwell in his smile or frown ; 
 And in his reeking wake at last appears 
 The Cap of Freedom, or the Despot's Crown, 
 When, o'er the ghastly sea of gore and tears, 
 Mild Peace, in dazzling hues, her halcyon rainbow- 
 rears. _- 
 
 And thus with peoples, as with single souls, 
 Salvation has in sacrifice its source : 
 And martyrs' names are therefore writ on scrolls 
 Eternal; and their illustrious course 
 
124 THE WAR. 
 
 Inspires the living with unwonted force, 
 And swells the num'rous host ; and thus subdues 
 The stubborn foe, or fills him with remorse, 
 That he in penitence for pardon sues, 
 And his allegiance pays, and friendship, faith renews. 
 
 I say the dead do conquer! from their graves 
 The prestige issues which achieves the fight ! 
 Example is their testament, which saves 
 The cause they fell for, when that cause is right. 
 And so the men, who, in that dawn's gray light, 
 Upon the city streets, their lives outpoured, 
 Marching on duty, 'neath their standard bright, 
 Aroused the masses 'gainst the rebel horde, 
 And made the North proclaim th' evangel of the sword. 
 
 Not greater columns followed the Crusade, 
 To win the holy places for the Giaour, 
 When it was urged the scheme had Heaven's aid, 
 And that was promised as the soldier's dower; 
 Nor saw the Persian, from his gorgeous tower, 
 More numbers, when he dared the Grecian wars ; 
 Nor did Napoleon, in his palmy power, 
 Lead stronger legions ; nor did ever Mars 
 Call forth such hosts as bore the banner of the stars. 
 
 From all callings and localities they came, 
 All creeds and colors, and from youth to age; 
 And sought War's perils, and perhaps its fame ; 
 And Wealth gave freely of its heritage — 
 
THE WAR. 125 
 
 Wit and Song cheered from the press and stage — 
 And Beauty aided with propitious smiles — 
 And hopes were cited from the Hallowed Page — 
 finance greetings echoed from the distant Isles — 
 And zeal responsive flashed through all the mustering 
 files. 
 
 The cause was worthy of this grand array — 
 It had the sanction of prescriptive time, 
 Of famous Cycles that have passed away, 
 Of Nations and of Heroes, whose great prime 
 Bards have chanted in the loftiest chime ; 
 The cause, which Seers, in their unclouded view, 
 Foresaw prevailing in each happy clime : 
 It was the cause of Israel's God, Who knew 
 The wrongs His people bore from lords His wrath 
 o'erthrew. 
 
 The Foe was bold, well furnished, and in force, 
 Greedy of sway ; intolerant with pride ; 
 While all his nurture and resource 
 He owed to slaves, and Her he now denied — 
 'Gainst whom he raised the hand of parricide ! 
 A crime, that traces back to Fiends its birth, 
 And which, above, had willfully defied 
 The Divine autocracy ; and, on Earth, 
 Would blast the public weal, uproot the family hearth. 
 
 And such a crime the Rebel chieftains dared; 
 And led the people from their honored ways — 
 11* 
 
126 THE WAR. 
 
 And all their patriotic ties impaired — 
 
 And made new idols to engross their praise — 
 
 Made them their noblest history erase — 
 
 Call bondage holy, curse the charms that bore 
 
 Their souls to triumph, in the early days, 
 
 When, North and South shed, in one cause their 
 
 gore, 
 When, not as since, was heard Fort Moultrie's cannon 
 
 roar. 
 
 The Long Roll peals across the continent, 
 And where the monster castles swim the brine — 
 Calling to field, to trench, and battlement — 
 The mass unfolds in stern, prodigious line, 
 With wings, extending to each far confine, 
 Till the vast Frontier's girt on every hand, 
 As with a living wall, and teeming mine, 
 But waiting for the signal, fell command, 
 Their terrors to discharge, and scourge the Rebel land. 
 
 And yet, they pause ; the world's great heart beats 
 
 fast, 
 Will prudence now, or patience yet avail ? 
 The North, colossal, hesitates at last 
 To strike the blow, reluctant to assail, 
 And countless horrors on its kin entail; 
 And strives with zeal to turn the pending storm — 
 Deems reason, sobered, may perhaps prevail, 
 Or time, or chance work out some peaceful charm, 
 Or Heaven withhold the destroying angel's arm — 
 
THE WAR. 121 
 
 Fire ! the fatal word is spoken ! 
 Fire ! the breathless pause is broken ! 
 Now, badgered I^orth and vaunting South, 
 
 The risen Bond, the fearless Free 
 Discuss their wrath with cannon's mouth, 
 
 And greet its awful Jubilee ! 
 Hail ! harbingers of grief and woe ! 
 Hail ! fiendish Furies from below ! 
 
 Your fiery mission speed — 
 Upheave the sea, unseat the ground — 
 The ages, in their far profound, 
 The world will, to its utmost bound, 
 
 Your dismal logic heed ! 
 
 For never yet has golden Phrah 
 Shone o'er such vast Aceldama; 
 And never yet have armies wheeled 
 Upon a wider battle-field. 
 By gentle stream, and deep morass, 
 In wilderness, and mountain pass, 
 Above the clouds, and on the main, 
 In everglade, and open plain, 
 Amidst the winter's snowy sheen, 
 Amidst the groves of Tropic green, 
 By rural towns, on prairies wide, 
 Upon the river's rushing tide, 
 By cities, proud of caste or gold, 
 With scarlet sins, like her of old, 
 O'er greater bounds than Kaiser's, sways 
 This battle of a thousand days ! 
 
128 THE WAR. 
 
 And many a gallant feat is played, 
 
 By cautious scout, and dashing raid, 
 
 By skirmisher and sentinel, 
 
 By sailor in hia floating shell. 
 
 All through the long advance there runs 
 
 The rattle of the lesser guns ; 
 
 The sharp and searching fusilade, 
 
 To swift unmask the ambuscade ; 
 
 To feel the measure of the foe, 
 
 His strong defense or weakness show, 
 
 Until positions lost or ta'en 
 
 Involve the hostile sides amain, 
 
 And breaking forth, on land and flood, 
 
 There sounds the battery's heavy thud. 
 
 Now, from the front, and curving flanks, 
 From deck, and wall, and serried ranks, 
 From sunken mine, and lofty crest, 
 From North and South, and East and West 
 
 The loud explosions roar! 
 And Parrot steel and Minnie lead, 
 And iron bomb like meteor red, 
 
 Their pond'rous volleys pour — 
 Till all around the horizon far, 
 The earth is trembling with the jar, 
 And heaven's lurid with the glare 
 Of engines, that her thunders share ; 
 Till it recalls when Titans strove, 
 Or Giants coped with mighty Jove, 
 
THE WAR. 129 
 
 And would his stable throne reverse 
 And battle for the Universe : 
 Such havoc huge is spread around, 
 Such tumult and such noise resound. 
 
 But lo ! a lull is in the storm? 
 And in close order, swift they form — 
 With fixed blade, and cutlass keen, 
 With standards flashing o'er the scene, 
 With rolling drum, and trumpets blown, 
 With shouting in demoniac tone, 
 The foot, the horse, the teeming barge 
 Move fiercely to the final charge ! 
 The peril of the hour is rife 
 With all the issues of the strife ; 
 Both Foemen, in their bosoms, feel 
 This is the struggle's last appeal — 
 Who conquers in this fearful cast 
 The future holds, and seals the past. 
 Imbued, alike, with zeal and skill, 
 With bitter hate, or stubborn will ; 
 As those, who know their art to wield, 
 As those, who rather die than yield: 
 No better soldiers ever met 
 With javelin or bayonet. 
 
 In phrenzied rage, or blind despair, 
 That naught will give, and all will dare, 
 That neither aims to live, or spare, 
 With frightful din they close — 
 
130 THE WAR. 
 
 Like oceans by the tempest blown — 
 Like avalanche from mountain thrown — 
 The myriads of weapons crash, 
 And legions against legions dash, 
 And sway, and heave, recoil and blend, 
 In ridges rise, in vales descend, 
 
 As fury wilder grows — 
 And Slaughter stalks with dripping garb — 
 And Death upon his ghostly barb 
 
 His crest of horror shows ! 
 'Neath trampling hoof and crunched bone, 
 From limb and carcass widely strown, 
 From hurt and killed, in mangled mass, 
 From thousands, falling like the grass, 
 
 Beneath the mailed blows : 
 From morning till the sable night, 
 Down gentle mound, and rocky height, 
 Through culvert drains, and scuppered beams, 
 Profusely as the wine press streams, 
 
 The purle torrent flows ! 
 
 And, oh ! the aggregated cries 
 Of triumph, and of agonies 
 
 That freight the fretted air ! 
 While dark'ning clouds of dust and fume 
 O'ershadow with funereal gloom 
 
 Sad victims everywhere ! 
 Such multitudes down in the deep, 
 Or on the sod, in frequent heap, 
 Are lying in that silent sleep 
 
 No dreams will e'er beguile — 
 
THE WAR. 131 
 
 And more will fall, and not be slain, 
 And more will shrink, but not with pain, 
 Who have been waiting these in vain 
 With love's familiar smile. 
 
 Now, fortune o'er this red expanse, 
 Amidst hell's saturnalian dance, 
 Oft dealt the foes alternate chance 
 
 To win the harried field — 
 And there were points of time and place, 
 Our cause were lost, had Heaven's grace 
 
 Not interposed a shield. 
 New vigor from the gloom burst forth ; 
 Disasters but refreshed the North — 
 
 Beneath them rebels reeled. 
 
 And thus the fight they madly waged, 
 The treasures that they boldly gaged 
 
 Have failed the stake to gain. 
 And all their lines, in front and rear, 
 Are breaking way 'fore gun and spear, 
 
 On cliff, and sea, and plain. 
 Whole regions, in their flying path, 
 Are wasted with consuming wrath. 
 
 The pleasant Grange is spoiled and peeled 
 Of orange grove and cotton field ! 
 The garner's void, the fertile mead 
 Is plowed, but not with ox or steed. 
 
132 THE WAR. 
 
 The cities, whose delicious cares 
 Were tasteful toils and am'rous airs ; 
 Where gentle passions toyed and smiled, 
 Or boisterous sports the youth beguiled, 
 Or trade exchanged with foreign shores 
 The summer fruits for precious ores — 
 These too have failed and fallen low ; 
 These too are humbled by the blow ! 
 There's bursted gate and crumbling pile — 
 There's grass beneath the arching aisle — 
 There's mourning in the smitten street — 
 There's footfall sad of muffled feet — 
 There's darkness on the dusty stair — 
 There's silence in the stall and fair — 
 No music swells along the hall — 
 No dance leads forth the festival — 
 The Courts are dumb, the Altars quenched- 
 And Famine's hollow eye has blenched, 
 On Beauty's cheek, the beaming rose, 
 And filled the roof and garden close 
 With Rachael's wail and Ramah's woes ! 
 
 The Fort, defiant in its pride, 
 Has yielded to the iron tide : 
 The Fleets, that prowled upon the waves, 
 Have found within them sudden graves : 
 The Armies, that so firmly stood, 
 Have melted in their tracks of blood : 
 The Emblem of the Rebels' trust 
 Is torn and trailing in the dust : 
 
THE WAR. 133 
 
 The Power that flung those colors high, 
 O'er cavalier and chivalry, 
 That sought perhaps to rear a throne, 
 With crime for its foundation stone, — 
 Is riven, shivered — vanished last — 
 Before the mighty, Northern blast! 
 
 The fight is concluded, the victory is won, 
 The sword's in the scabbard, uplimbered the gun; 
 The last charge is sounded, the last bullet sped, 
 The wounded are cared for, and buried the dead. 
 No more of the camp, or the horrors of strife, 
 Of the roll of the drum, or the scream of the fife. 
 The alarums are ceased, and the pickets withdrawn, 
 The forays are ended, and the cohorts are gone. 
 
 **, 
 As we muse on the facts, we are stricken aghast 
 
 At their towering proportions, o'ershading the past. 
 
 No classical annals, nor barbarous chaunt, 
 
 Nor the Sagas of Scald, nor the Minstrel's romaunt 
 
 Of such loss and devotion, and science e'er told, 
 
 Of issue more brilliant, or valor more bold. 
 
 Not Yikings of Norseland, with their ice-covered sail, 
 Not Paynim nor Paladin, harnessed in mail ; 
 Not stalwart Achaians, whose prowess has thrown 
 O'er their country a luster, that illumines our own; 
 Not those who, in triumph, with gorgeous display, 
 Midst paeans of Romans, climbed the Capitol way; 
 12 
 
134 THE WAR. 
 
 Not those of the Doges, whose Gonfalon bore 
 The thunders of Venice 'gainst the Saracen shore ; 
 Not the cross of Saint George, nor the colors of Gaul 
 E'er a victory won, so glorious for all ! 
 
 In the glow of success, ere the passions subside, 
 
 Let wisdom restrain the excesses of pride. 
 
 The rigors of Justice let the charities mould : 
 
 Let the erring repentant re-enter the fold. 
 
 Let the cause be secured for which struggled the 
 
 braves, 
 Let their freedom be sealed, who were holden as 
 
 slaves. 
 
 And let there be granted for the Lost and the Saved, 
 Who followed your Ensign wherever it waved, 
 Testimonials, such as they'd never have craved. 
 Let structures, becoming, of shaft and of tower, 
 Let positions of profit, of honor, of power, 
 Let song and oration, and the evergreen crown 
 Your gratitude witness, and their lasting renown. 
 But let this Republic give praises to God ! 
 Who has led her, with honor, through rivers of 
 
 blood : 
 Has blessed her with plenty, and made her a name : 
 Has broken the sorceries that bound her in shame : 
 Has solaced her sorrows, when her spirit has waned, 
 And cleansed her of dross, and her jewels retained. 
 So her Horn shall be lifted, and her altars shall fume 
 With oifrings, that the lightnings of God shall con- 
 sume : 
 
THE WAR. 135 
 
 Her faith shall be greeted with care from above, 
 With bounties of nature, with tokens of love. 
 
 Already, as the smoke is raised from the scene — 
 
 Lo! the ashes are cold, and the red field is green! 
 
 New harvests will bloom o'er the flesh of her slain, 
 
 And her Navies of Commerce will conquer the main. 
 
 The union of effort, and the massing of thought 
 
 Will restore, with new beauty where ruin has 
 wrought. 
 
 The zeal of true labor, and the genius of art 
 
 Will bring grace to the Hall, and wealth to the 
 Mart: 
 
 Cause her mines to produce their rare treasures of 
 stone, 
 
 Her strands to be builded, and her wastes to be 
 sown; 
 
 Her mountains shall sunder, and her valleys shall 
 raise — 
 
 And the nations will throng in the steps of her ways. 
 
 Her virtues will strengthen, as her glories increase, 
 
 O'er her borders will smile the blest Angel of Peace ; 
 
 While her law will go forth, with a prestige sub- 
 lime, 
 
 The Future will hail her as the marvel of Time. 
 
136 THE BRANDY WINE. 
 
 THE BRANDYWINE.( 8 ) 
 
 How beautifully glides the Brandywine ! 
 On and forever, from dawn to decline — 
 Under the bridges and arches of trees, 
 Gilding the landscape and cooling the breeze, 
 Parting the pastures and swelling their stores, 
 Flowering, perfuming the sinuous shores, 
 Glassing the squirrel, disporting above, 
 Sweetening the Tanager's carol of love. 
 
 How beautifully flows the Brandywine ! 
 Laving the limbs of the indolent kine, 
 Kissing the sedges and smoothing the stones, 
 Charming the air with its murmuring tones, 
 Bord'ring the cottage ensconced in the vale, 
 Whitening the wheat for the garner and flail, 
 Shaking the mill with its slumberous sounds, 
 And feeding the forge as it smokes and pounds. 
 
 How beautifully streams the Brandywine ! 
 Slowly or swift with its silvery shine, 
 Under the cliffs, ( 9 ) where traditional fame 
 Pictures the plunge of the desperate dame, 
 Rounding the hollow,( 10 ) where sunbeams illume 
 With changeable gleams arboreous gloom, 
 
THE BRAND YW1NE. 131 
 
 Nearing the lodge of the Indian Maid,( n ) 
 Lingering alone, where her fathers strayed. 
 
 How solemnly surges^the Brandywine ! 
 Armies of nations contesting its line, 
 Foreigners fording its turbulent flood, 
 Signal guns distantly pealing their thud — 
 Column on column, heroic with zeal, 
 Waving their pennants and flashing their steel, 
 Trampling the rushes and climbing the bank, 
 Startling their foemen, assailing their flank. 
 
 How solemnly surges the Brandywine ! 
 Marking with crimson its course serpentine — 
 Forces reserved closing in from afar, 
 Scaling with fury the ridges of war, 
 Cannon exploding with terrible roar, 
 Dark'ning the heavens and rocking the shore, 
 Squadrons of troopers o'ersweeping the plain, 
 Regiments recoiling, retreating or slain. 
 
 How solemnly surges the Brandywine ! 
 Teeming with many a sorrowful sign — 
 Heroes and horses, distorted and torn, 
 Bloated and dead, on its surface upborne, 
 Wounded ones writhing and wailing for aid, 
 Fragments and missiles o'er hillock and glade, 
 Havoc and horror, disaster and night 
 Palling the scenery and quenching the fight. 
 12* 
 
138 THE BRAND YWINE. 
 
 How solemnly surges the Brandywine ! 
 Mocking the moan of the mountainous pine- 
 Misfortune and want pervading the land, 
 Toiling in vain, scarce her people withstand 
 Spoilure of wealth and the tything of life, 
 Oppression with truce, despair in the strife, 
 Doubt and confusion portentous of doom — 
 Virtues transcendant resisting the gloom. 
 ***** 
 
 How exultingly leaps the Brandywine ! 
 Welcoming Peace with her features divine, 
 Bearing the olive, and pouring her horn 
 Over the region so smitten and shorn, 
 Causing the barrens to bloom as the rose, 
 Soothing the passions of rage to repose, 
 Blessing the labors of genius and art, 
 Rearing the altar and crowding the mart. 
 
 How complacently pours the Brandywine ! 
 Voicing its sounds in songs crystalline — 
 Orders abolished and merit secure, 
 Fortune unfolding her gates to the poor, 
 Science displaying the secrets of time, 
 Yoking the forces of nature sublime, 
 Progress and weal with the country allied, 
 And Glory adorning her banner of pride. 
 
 How beautifully rolls the Brandywine ! 
 Hast'ning to mingle itself in the brine, 
 
SHE IS NOT THERE. 139 
 
 Water fowls dipping their wings in its crest, 
 Swimmers fomenting its waves into yest, 
 Holiday barks sailing gayly along, 
 Freighted with frolic and graces and song, 
 Fishermen watching the tremulous line, 
 And dreamers in quest of the Muses' shrine, 
 In the haunted dells of the Brandywine. 
 
 SHE IS NOT THERE. 
 
 I glance outside the dwelling-house, 
 
 And o'er the bright parterre ; 
 The flowers -are gayly blooming, 
 
 And scent the summer air ; 
 The alleys lined with evergreen, 
 
 Are trimmed with tasteful care ; 
 The birds are singing that she loved — 
 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
 I gaze about the doorway sill, 
 
 On the bronzed, old, iron chair; 
 The pine-tree waves its shadows cool, 
 
 That used to fan her hair ; 
 The beggar's waiting at the gate, 
 
 Who blessed her with his prayer ; 
 The neighbors pass she used to greet — 
 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
140 SHE IS NOT THERE. 
 
 I enter in the spacious hall, 
 With quick, unconscious air ; 
 
 I look around the parlor seats ; 
 I seek the open stair ; 
 
 I listen for a voice or step — 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
 The carriage drives within the yard 
 The dogs bound from their lair; 
 
 And one by one the seats are left, 
 That she was wont to share, 
 
 I mark them as they pass me by — 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
 I sit me at the family board, 
 Beside her constant chair; 
 
 I seem to cull the parts she chose 
 To make her evening fare ; 
 
 I turn around to meet her smile — 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
 I bring some favored, genial book, 
 Some lay or ballad rare; 
 
 I rest near where she often bent 
 To catch the quaint old air ; 
 
 No gentle signs respond to me — 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
 Familiar scenes are beaming still, 
 Old Kaunts attractions bear: 
 
SHE IS NOT THERE. 141 
 
 Warm hands their kindly pressure give ; 
 
 Fond looks their welcome wear ; 
 And yet the broken circle shows 
 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
 Those features in the pendent frame 
 
 Her outward charms declare ; 
 Yet shall my breast an image keep, 
 
 Far dearer and more fair, 
 Of tenderness, and truth, and love, 
 
 And faith above despair, 
 Until the heart's dead pulses show 
 
 She is not there, not there. 
 
NOTES 
 
 (1). Kate Spider, a witch of great repute seventy years ago, 
 lived on the Valley Hill, Chester County, Pa. 
 
 (2). Betty Brown's grave is on a beautiful slope of the Lack- 
 awanna, on land of J. T. Everhart, Esq., near Pittston, Pa. The 
 tombstone inscription tells all that is known of her — that she 
 died in 1778, at the age of 27 years. 
 
 (3). The rider of a piebald horse, in old times, was exposed 
 to great annoyance, because of the common belief that he 
 could cure hooping-cough. The incident related of Dobson was 
 obtained from an elderly person acquainted with the fact. 
 
 (4). The Doans were seven brothers of Bucks County, Pa., 
 famous Robbers and Tories in the revolutionary war. They 
 were outlawed, and a price set upon their heads. Some of them 
 were killed in resisting capture. Two were taken not far from 
 the "Boot Tavern," Chester County, Pa., and they and another 
 of them were hanged at Philadelphia in 1788. 
 
 (5). Campbell's Ledge is a stupendous pile of rocks, several 
 hundred feet above the Susquehanna River, and affords, perhaps, 
 the most magnificent view of the Wyoming Valley. The name, 
 according to tradition, is derived from one Campbell, who, being 
 pursued thither by Indians, threw himself from the ledge to 
 avoid a worse fate in their hands. 
 
 (143) 
 
144 NOTES. 
 
 (6). Sconnelltown, which exists no longer, was in the last 
 century a flourishing village, some two miles from the Turk's 
 Head Tavern, about the only building then standing, where is 
 now the Borough of West Chester, Pa. 
 
 (7). The Packet Ship Albion, on a voyage from New York to 
 Liverpool, was wrecked the 22d of Api*il, 1822, near the Old 
 Head of Kinsale, Ireland. The captain and all the crew but 
 eight were lost. Of the cabin passengers — among whom were 
 General Lefebvre Desnouettes, Colonel A. J. Prevost, Major Wm. 
 Gough, brother of Lord Gough, Professor Fisher, of Yale Col- 
 lege, and some twenty others — Hon. William Everhart, of West 
 Chester, Pa., was alone saved. The Irish, and especially James 
 B. Gibbons, Esq., near Garretstown, and James Redmond Barry, 
 Esq., of Glandore House, treated him with great hospitality. 
 
 (8). The Brandywine is celebrated for the battle fought on its 
 banks on the 11th of September, 1777. The British made a feint 
 of crossing the stream at Chadd's Ford, but they crossed in force 
 about six miles further up, at Jefferis' Ford. Washington re- 
 ceived information of this movement too late to meet it, and 
 thus lost the battle. 
 
 (9). Deborah's Rock is so called, says the story, from a dis- 
 appointed girl of that name, who destroyed herself by leaping 
 from it. 
 
 (10). Dungeon Hollow is the name of a picturesque turn of 
 the stream near Painter's Bridge. 
 
 (11). Indian Hannah was the last of the Lenape tribe. She 
 lived in a hut near the Brandywine long after her people had 
 disappeared. 
 
M189010 953 
 
 E2>3 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY