1 
 
THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 61 ! 
 
 122.2w 
 

 
 ; 
 
 
 . 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 , 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 . 
 
 * 
 
 , 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 % . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 : 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
LIBRARY • 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
 t 
 
 
 
 
 
 
—“the autumn fire 
 Was feasting at the well-built pyre. 
 
THE 
 
 WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES, 
 
 n 
 
 om of the ijags of ^eoentg-^k. 
 
 BY 
 
 T- BUCHANAN IN UC Ay D. 
 
 f. 
 
 Look on your country, God’s appointed stage, 
 
 Where man’s vast mind its boundless course shall run. 
 For that it was your stormy coast He spread,— 
 
 A fear in winter ; girdled you about 
 
 With granite hills, and made you firm and dread. 
 
 Let him who fears before the foeman shout, 
 
 Or gives one inch before a vein has bled, 
 
 Turn on himself and let the traitor out. 
 
 Bokbk. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED FROM DRAWINGS BY 
 HOYENDEN, FEN N, GAUL, AND LOW, 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 LONDON: 10 HENRIETTA STREET, COYENT GARDEN. 
 
 1892 . 
 
Copyright, 1868, and 1884, by J. B. Lippincott & Co, 
 
 Copyright, 1890, by Harriet Dennison Read. 
 
v/> 
 
 J 
 
 5 
 
 60 
 
 CO 
 
 6 
 
 r— 
 
 i: 
 
 a 
 
 d 
 
 S3 
 
 © 
 
 P3 
 
 O 
 
 ?-» 
 
 * 
 
 Qj} 
 
 Rz-Zw 
 
 ) ?-S> 2 - 
 
 P R R FACE. 
 
 
 TTH the exception of some of his lyrics, none of Buchanan 
 
 Read’s poems has been so popular as “The Wagoner 
 
 of the Alleghanies.” It was written under the inspira- 
 t 
 
 tion of feelings which were the strongest in his own nature 
 an<jl which never fail to awaken sympathy in most natures,— 
 
 r 
 
 patriotism and the love of rural life. The scene is laid in the 
 fruitful valleys of his native State, and the period is that of 
 the; Revolution. The occasion and purpose of its composition 
 were connected with the greatest crisis in our later history, 
 and before its publication portions of it had been made familiar 
 through the recitations of the accomplished elocutionist, Mr. 
 James E. Murdoch. Its themes are among those that are best 
 suited to illustration, and the well-known American artists 
 whose pencils have adorned this edition may be supposed to 
 have worked con amore. 
 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 
 —“the autumn fire 
 
 Was feasting at the well-built pyre” ..... 
 
 Drawn by Thomas Hovenden. Engraved by G. H. Reed. 
 
 “On many a dangerous mountain-track” 
 
 Drawn by Harry Fenn. Engraved by John Andrew. 
 
 “Yague as a vessel in a dream” ..... 
 
 Drawn by Harry Fenn. Engraved by John Andrew. 
 
 “The gold harp propping the weary head” 
 
 Drawn by Will H. Low. Engraved by Geo. P. Williams. 
 
 “There still his blade of battle swung” .... 
 
 Drawn by Gilbert Gaul. Engraved by Frank French. 
 
 I 
 
 “An iron hand was thrust between” ..... 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Page 13 
 
 . Page 16 
 
 Page 26 
 
 Page 42 
 
 Page 66 
 
 Drawn by Thomas Hovenden. Engraved by C. H. Reed. 
 
• 11 I « 1 V.' 1 
 
 I 
 
 
 ■V ! I' • VM M 
 
 ' i 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The scenes of this poem are chiefly laid on the banks of the Schuylkill, 
 between Philadelphia and Valley Forge; the time, some¬ 
 what previous to and during a great part of' 
 the war of Independence. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 T O JAMES E. OLAGHORN. 
 
 Might I draw the inspiration 
 Which the sky not oft awards, 
 
 And so join the constellation 
 Of the death-defying hards ; 
 
 Might I build some lofty moral, 
 Reaching heavenward like a hill, 
 
 On whose top should grow the laurel, 
 Leaning towards me at its will;— 
 
 I would gather all the honor 
 Not to hind around my brow ; 
 
 But to you, a grateful donor, 
 
 I would come, as I do now, 
 
 And bring trophies, where the Ages 
 Should behold our mingled names : 
 
 But, alas ! these simple pages 
 Are the most my labor claims. 
 
 Yet, should any leaves grow vernal 
 In the summer breath of praise, 
 
 Then for you, with hand fraternal, 
 Let me twine my wreath of bays. 
 
 Rome, August 1,1861. 
 
 7 
 
8 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A guest was I at Berkley Hall,— 
 And more behooves not guest to say: 
 The very pictures on the wall 
 
 With kindness seemed to whisper, 
 “ Stay !”— 
 
 Old portraits of a dwindled line, 
 Prom Lely’s ruflf and doublet down 
 To Copley’s matchless coat and 
 gown, 
 
 Or Stuart’s later touch divine. 
 
 Still from their frames of gold or oak, 
 A knight or lady shepherdess, 
 
 In valor or in loveliness, 
 
 Leaned through the twilight air and 
 spoke: 
 
 They whispered that the road was 
 dark, 
 
 And lone the highway by the river, 
 That past recall the latest barque 
 Had swept the landing of the park,— 
 There on the stream I still might 
 mark 
 
 Its fading path of ripples quiver, 
 And hear the shore-wave running 
 after, 
 
 Like childhood with a voice of laugh¬ 
 ter. 
 
 ’Twas evening, and the autumn fire 
 Was feasting at the well-built pyre, 
 Where every log, with glowing mirth, 
 Poured from its breast of ample girth 
 Some memory of April birth, 
 
 To cheer the hearth-stone of October. 
 There, conscious of his place and 
 worth, 
 
 One lordly hound, with visage sober, 
 Sheathed his large eyes in sleep’s 
 eclipse, 
 
 While visions of the woodland 
 chase 
 
 Disturbed the slumber on his face 
 With twinklings at his ears and lips. 
 
 That honored hearth was like a gate 
 Wide with the welcome of old days; 
 No sulphur-fuming, modern grate, 
 Which black bitumen daily crams, 
 But waved between its ample jambs 
 Its flag of hospitable blaze. 
 
 A century gone ’twas lined with tiles, 
 Like those the hearths of Holland 
 show ; 
 
 Andstill each Scripture picture smiles 
 And brightens in the hickory glow. 
 
 Oft from those painted sermons rude, 
 In musing hours of solitude, 
 
 A voiceless thought hath searched the 
 heart 
 
 Beyond the theologian’s art. 
 
 A moral winged with verse may reach 
 A soul no weightier words will teach. 
 As arrow from the archer’s bow 
 Has cleaved where falchion failed to 
 go; 
 
 And truths from out a picture oft, 
 
 In colors as the iris soft, 
 
 May shed an influence to remain 
 Where argument would strive in vain. 
 
 The chairs were quaint, antique, and 
 tall, 
 
 As in some old baronial hall; 
 
 And in an alcove dusk and dim, 
 
 Like Denmark’s mailed and phan¬ 
 tom king, 
 
 A suit of armor tall and grim 
 
 With upraised glaive seemed beck¬ 
 oning. 
 
 And had it walked, the gazer, drawn, 
 Must needs have followed on and on! 
 The perforated steel confessed 
 What death had pierced the wearer’s 
 breast. 
 
 Near by, upon a throne upreared, 
 
 A harp of bygone times appeared; 
 The graceful form was deftly made, 
 With pearl and precious woods inlaid; 
 And in the firelight, as of old, 
 
 It flushed theshadowy niche with gold. 
 
 In all the orchestras which lift 
 
 The soul with rapture caught from 
 far, 
 
 As in a bright triumphal car 
 Round which celestial splendors shift, 
 No instrument of earth afiords 
 An influence so divine and deep 
 As when the flying fingers sweep 
 The harp, with all its wondrous chords. 
 Around its honored form there lives 
 Romance mysterious, vague, and 
 old; 
 
 I see the shapes which history gives 
 The bards in dim traditions told,— 
 With visions of great kingly halls, 
 Where red, barbaric splendor falls; 
 But chiefly I behold and hear— 
 While bends a troop of seraphs near— 
 The angels, with their locks of gold. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 9 
 
 Such shadowy halls of deep repose 
 A New-World homestead seldom 
 shows ; 
 
 But such the traveller frequent sees, 
 Embowered within ancestral trees, 
 
 In that maternal isle whose breast 
 First warmed our eagle into life, 
 And then, with rude, unnatural 
 strife, 
 
 Pushed the brave offspring from her 
 nest,— 
 
 Which, launched upon its sunward 
 track, 
 
 No voice on earth could summon 
 back. 
 
 Here, while I slowly paced the room, 
 Strange visions tilled the fitful gloom. 
 On soft, invisible feet they came ; 
 
 I heard them speak,—or was’t the 
 flame 
 
 That muttered in the chimney wide? 
 Faint shadows wavered at my side, 
 My spirit heard a spirit sigh, 
 
 While gauzy garments rustled by ! 
 
 A pallid phantom of the fire 
 Leapt o’er the high flame wildly 
 higher,—• 
 
 A blaze that vanished with a bound ! 
 A whine escaped the sleeping 
 hound,—• 
 
 A sudden wind swept up the lane, 
 And drove the leaves like frighted 
 herds; 
 
 Some, like the ghosts of summer 
 birds, 
 
 Fluttered against the window-pane. 
 
 Hawthorne, my friend, had I your 
 Vand, 
 
 How, at the waving of my hand, 
 
 The place, and all its grandeur 
 gone, 
 
 Should on the marvelling vision 
 dawn! 
 
 Each shepherdess, or warrior bold, 
 Each knight and dame, in ruff and 
 frill, 
 
 Obedient to the wizard will, 
 
 Should step from antique oak or gold ; 
 Bright eyes should glance, sweet 
 voices sing, 
 
 And light feet trip the waxen floor, 
 And round the festive board should 
 ring 
 
 The friendly goblets, as of yore; 
 
 And Love’s sweet grief be newly 
 told 
 
 Under the elm-trees, as of old. 
 
 But, ah ! the hazel wand you wield 
 
 Was grown by that enchanted 
 stream 
 
 Which sometimes flashes through 
 my dream, 
 
 But flows not through my barren 
 field! 
 
 The host came in: he took my 
 hand: 
 
 He saw the wonder on my face, 
 And said, “ Ah, yes : I understand: 
 
 You marvel at this curious place, 
 Which starts your fancy into play. 
 My locks, you see, are somewhat 
 gray : 
 
 What touches you on me is lost. 
 This white hair drives romance 
 away, 
 
 As flowers are driven by the frost. 
 But if a tale would please your ear, 
 There’s one which you are free to 
 hear. 
 
 “Within a little, secret drawer 
 Of this black, antique escritoire, 
 
 I found a simple golden case, 
 
 Which held the semblance of a face 
 So wondrous in its wild attire 
 
 Of floating robe and flying hair, 
 
 And eyes that thrilled the very air 
 To pleasure with their starry fire, 
 That instantly the long-passed name 
 Blazed on my memory like* a flame; 
 
 And old traditions, dimmed by 
 years, 
 
 Breathed from invisible lips there 
 came, 
 
 And lingered in my credulous 
 ears, 
 
 And night and day disturbed my 
 soul, 
 
 Until, perforce, I wrote the whole : 
 That is the picture,—this the scroll. 
 Draw near; and let wild Autumn 
 blow : 
 
 He does but fan the lighted pyre: 
 
 Between the warmth of wine and 
 fire 
 
 Perchance the verse may thaw and 
 flow 
 
 From off the visionary lyre 
 As in the days of long ago.” 
 
10 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 i. 
 
 BERKLEY’S BRIDE. 
 
 My grandsire, when he built the place, 
 Sir Hugh (you may behold him 
 there, 
 
 • With ruffles, cue, and powdered 
 hair, 
 
 And proper blandness on his face) 
 Was Tory, and his loyal soul 
 
 No rebel dream could e’er beguile: 
 He would have had the land in whole, 
 Colossal, touching either pole, 
 
 A likeness of his native isle! 
 
 Hence the Elizabethan gables, 
 
 The lawns, the elms, the antique sta¬ 
 bles, 
 
 And all this lumber called virtu , 
 
 This old time frowning down the new. 
 
 But, ere I tell you more of him, 
 
 Or point the objects strange and 
 quaint, 
 
 I pray you rote these figures dim, 
 Half hid in dust and cracking paint. 
 That picture of those little ones, 
 Which represent Alcmena’s sons, 
 Young Hercules and his weaker 
 brother,— 
 
 One with the snake in his baby 
 hands, 
 
 Crushing it as in iron bands, 
 
 While in affright recoils the other,— 
 Are portraits which the Berkley 
 mother, 
 
 In all the wealth of parental joys, 
 Had painted of her two fair boys ; 
 And pictured thus, because she knew 
 There was that difference ’twixt the 
 two. 
 
 The child who holds the writhing 
 snake 
 
 Was Ralph; the one who seems to 
 quake 
 
 And shudder hack,—that was Sir 
 Hugh. 
 
 They grew, and oft the quarrel loud 
 Raged ’twixt them when they were 
 together: 
 
 Sir Hugh was sullen, wintry, proud, 
 The other fierce as mad March 
 weather,— 
 
 A swift, cloud-blowing, whirling day, 
 That o’er all obstacles makes way, 
 Whether in wrath or whether in play, 
 Striding on to the stormy end, 
 Breaking what will not bow or bend. 
 
 The soul which lights that face of 
 paint, 
 
 You well discern, would scorn re¬ 
 straint ; 
 
 And when he grew a stripling tall, 
 Knowing himself the younger 
 brother, 
 
 And feeling the coldness of the 
 other, 
 
 The place for him proved far too 
 small: 
 
 So, staying not for leave to ask, 
 
 Our Hercules went to seek his task ; 
 And, lest his family might reclaim 
 The truant, took another name, 
 j Joining the army. Tradition tells 
 j He did some daring miracles. 
 
 ’Twas said he fell in a midnight trench 
 At Fort Du Quesne, against the 
 French. 
 
 Sir Hugh was then the only son 
 To hand the name of Berkley on. 
 
 His lady—she who bears a crook, 
 And shepherds at her careful side 
 A lamb, while from her eyes a look 
 Of mildness chastens half her 
 pride— 
 
 Gave to the house one child, and 
 died. 
 
 That child a maiden grown you see, 
 With laughing eyes and tresses free, 
 Which wellnigh mocked the 
 painter’s skill: 
 
 It glows as if some morning beam 
 Had poured here in a golden stream, 
 And, when the sun passed, lingered 
 still. 
 
 A year or two went by, and then 
 His heart was vacant as his hall. 
 No pleasure answered to his call, 
 No joy was in the world of men: 
 
 One passion only swayed his mind, 
 And thrust all other thoughts 
 aside,— 
 
 The passion of ancestral pride. 
 
 The blindest of all eyes most blind 
 Are those forever turned behind. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 11 
 
 Sheer to the past he held his face, 
 Like some mad boatman on a river, 
 "With eyes still on some long-gone 
 place, 
 
 Until he feels the shock and shiver 
 Which tells him he is gone forever. 
 
 The empty hall, or vacant heart, 
 When a new-comer passes in, 
 Throwing the dusty doors apart, 
 Sounds and re-echoes with a din 
 Which makes the ghostly shadows 
 start 
 
 And fly into the dusk remote; 
 
 The webs about the casements float. 
 And flutter on the sudden gust; 
 
 The sun pours in its golden dust; 
 
 The phantom Silence dies in air, 
 And rapidly from hall to hall, 
 
 With questioning eyes and back¬ 
 ward hair, 
 
 Wild Wonder speeds, and mounts 
 the stair, 
 
 Chasing the echoes’ far footfall. 
 
 Thus into Berkley’s hall and heart, 
 Led by his fancy’s sudden whim, 
 Passed a new bride,—a face to dart 
 Strange lustre through the twilight 
 dim,— 
 
 A soul that even startled him, 
 
 Until he half forgot his pride: 
 
 Else had he never stooped to em¬ 
 bower 
 
 Beneath his ancient roof the flower 
 To common wild-wood vines allied. 
 
 Thus oft the passion most profound, 
 Which triumphed over all the 
 past, 
 
 With unexpected halt, wheels round, 
 And contradicts itself at last. 
 
 He took her from a rival’s breast. 
 
 The hot youth dared him to the test: 
 Alas ! he fell on Berkley’s steel; 
 A_nd, it is said, through woe or weal 
 She ever loved the rival best. 
 
 Her heart was like a crystal spring, 
 Fluttered by every breezy wing : 
 
 Was there a cloud? a darker shade 
 Was in its deep recesses laid ; 
 
 Was there a sun ? the pool, o’errun 
 With glory, seemed to mock the 
 sun. 
 
 Her black hair, oft with violets twined 
 (Her heart was with the wildest 
 flowers), 
 
 Tossed back at random, wooed the 
 wind, 
 
 That chased her through the forest 
 bowers. 
 
 The woodman felt his hand relax 
 A moment on the lifted axe, 
 
 As through the vistas of the trees 
 He saw her glide, a spirit blithe ; 
 
 Or, when she tript the harvest leas, 
 The singing mower stayed his scythe, 
 Watched where she fled, then took 
 his way, 
 
 And, mowing, sang no more that day. 
 
 With no misgiving thought or doubt, 
 Her fond arms clasped his child about, 
 In the full mantle of her love; 
 
 For whoso loves the darling flowers 
 Must love the bloom of human 
 bowers,— 
 
 The types of brightest things above. 
 One day—one happy summer day— 
 She prest it to her tender breast: 
 The sunshine of its head there lay 
 As pillowed in its native rest,— 
 
 A blissful picture of repose, 
 
 A lily bosomed on a rose: 
 
 The smallest lily of the vale 
 Making the rose’s sweet breast pale. 
 
 One only day,—and then the sire, 
 Still to his former spirit true, 
 
 Lest the young bud should take the 
 hue 
 
 Of that which glowed too fondly by 
 her,— 
 
 Of that sweet wildling, nature’s 
 own,— 
 
 And thereby learn the look and tone 
 Of spirits alien unto pride, 
 
 Conveyed her to the river’s side.— 
 For nhonths his household felt 
 eclipse,— 
 
 And one of his own many ships 
 Bore her across the ocean wide ; 
 
 And soon in her ancestral isle 
 Was shed the sunshine of her smile. 
 
 Ere half the summer passed away, 
 The lady Berkley grew less gay, 
 
 And, like a captured forest fawn, 
 
 She seemed to mourn some freedom 
 gone,— 
 
12 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Mourned for her native mountain- 
 wild, 
 
 Prom which her feet had been be¬ 
 guiled. 
 
 Her cheeks grew pale, and dim her 
 eye, 
 
 Her voice was low, her mirth was 
 stayed; 
 
 Upon her heart there seemed to lie 
 The darkness of a nameless shade ; 
 She paced the house from room to 
 room,- 
 
 Her form became a walking gloom. 
 
 The menials, in their fancy wise, 
 Glared at each other with strange 
 leers ; 
 
 And, when shemet her husband’s eyes, 
 Her sad soul burst to instant tears. 
 He wondered with a cold surmise, 
 And questioned with as heartless 
 words: 
 
 And could it be a woodland flower 
 Would pine within such stately 
 bower ? 
 
 Or, favored o’er all forest birds, 
 Could this one droop with strange 
 desires 
 
 Within a cage of golden wires? 
 
 Have you beheld the mountain brook 
 Turned to some cultured garden- 
 nook,— 
 
 How it grows stagnant in the pool, 
 Like some wild urchin in a school 
 That saddens o’er a hateful book? 
 Thus grew the lady, and her look 
 Became at last as one insane; 
 
 The cloud that long o’ercast her 
 brain 
 
 Still whirled with gusty falls of 
 rain, 
 
 Which drowned her heart and 
 dimmed her eyes, 
 
 As when the dull autumnal skies 
 Long blur the dreary window-pane. 
 
 One morn, strange wonder filled the 
 place, 
 
 And fruitless searching filled the 
 day ; 
 
 The stream, the woodland, gave no 
 trace : 
 
 They only knew she passed away,— 
 Passed like a vision in the air, 
 
 With naught to tell of how or where. 
 
 Tradition adds how, night by night, 
 With hanging hair and robes of 
 white, 
 
 With pallid hands together prest 
 In pain upon her aching breast, 
 
 Her spirit walked from room to room, 
 As if in search of something lost; 
 That even Berkley shunned the 
 gloom, 
 
 Fearing to meet that breathless 
 ghost; 
 
 For some averred her form had been 
 Afloat upon the river seen ; 
 
 While some, with stouter words, re¬ 
 plied, 
 
 The maniac lady wandered wide 
 Upon her native mountain-side. 
 
 ii. 
 
 THE WILD WAGONER. 
 
 In days long gone, “ The Ship and 
 Sheaf ” 
 
 Was deemed of goodly inns the 
 chief: — 
 
 “ The Ship,”—because its ample door 
 
 Fronted the barques that lined the 
 shore, 
 
 Where oft the sun, o’er Delaware, 
 
 Looking ’twixt masts and cordage 
 bare, 
 
 Their shadows threw on the sanded 
 floor, 
 
 Sailing a phantom vessel there. 
 
 And there the crews from far-off 
 climes 
 
 Reeled in and sang their rough sea- 
 rhymes, 
 
 With laughter learned from the ocean 
 gale, 
 
 As clinked their dripping cups of ale ; 
 
 While froth was dashed o’er many a 
 lip, 
 
 Like foam against a speeding ship, 
 
 And tables chronicled in scars 
 
 The tankards and the thirsty tars. 
 
 “The Sheaf,”—because the wagoner 
 there, 
 
 The captain of the highway-ship, 
 
 Fresh breathing of his mountain air, 
 
 Hung on the wall his coat and 
 whip; 
 
“ On many a dangerous mountain-track.” 
 
 Page 13, 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 13 
 
 And farmer, bringing his stores to 
 town, 
 
 And drover, who drove his cattle 
 down, 
 
 Conversed of pastures and of 
 sheaves, 
 
 The season’s drouth, or ruinous rain, 
 Or told of fabulous crops of grain, 
 
 Or fields where grazed incredible 
 beeves. 
 
 ’Twas April, and the evening winds 
 "Were rattling at the open blinds ; 
 
 The sign, upon its hinge of rust, 
 Made dreary answer to the gust, 
 
 That smote the masts like an ocean 
 squall, 
 
 And, whistling, mocked the boat¬ 
 swain’s call. 
 
 The latch went up; the door was 
 thrown 
 
 Awide, as by a tempest blown ; 
 While, bold as an embodied storm, 
 Strode in a dark and stalwart form, 
 And all the lights in the sudden wind 
 Flared as he slammed the door be¬ 
 hind. 
 
 The noisy revellers ceased their din, 
 And into the corner skulked the cur, 
 As the startled keeper welcomed in 
 The feared and famous wagoner ! 
 Not long they brooked the keen eye- 
 glance 
 
 Who gazed into that countenance ; 
 And even in his mildest mood 
 His voice was sudden, loud, and rude 
 As is a swollen mountain-stream. 
 
 He spoke as to a restive team. 
 
 His team was of the wildest breed 
 That ever tested wagoner’s skill: 
 Each was a fierce, unbroken steed, 
 Curbed only by his giant will; 
 
 And every hostler quaked with fear 
 What time his loud bells wrangled 
 near. 
 
 On many a dangerous mountain- 
 track, 
 
 While oft the tempest burst its wrack, 
 When lightning, like his mad whip¬ 
 lash, 
 
 Whirled round the team its crooked 
 flash, 
 
 And horses reared in fiery fright, 
 
 While near them burst the thunder- 
 crash, 
 
 Then heard the gale his voice of 
 might. 
 
 The peasant from his window gazed, 
 And, staring through the darkened 
 air, 
 
 Saw, when the sudden lightning 
 blazed, 
 
 The fearful vision plunging there ! 
 
 And oft on many a wintry hill 
 
 He dashed from out the vale below, 
 And heaved his way through drift3 
 of snow, 
 
 While all his wheels, with voices 
 shrill, 
 
 Shrieked to the frosty air afar, 
 
 As if December’s tempest-car 
 Obeyed the winter's maniac will. 
 
 Ye knew him well, ye mountain- 
 miles, 
 
 Throughout your numerous dark de¬ 
 files :— 
 
 Where Juniata leaps away 
 On feathery wings of foam and spray ; 
 Or queenly Susquehanna smiles, 
 Proud in the grace of her thousand 
 isles ; 
 
 Where Poet and Historian fling 
 Their light o’er classic Wyoming ; 
 And you, ye green Lancastrian 
 fields, 
 
 Rich with the wealth which Ceres 
 yields ; 
 
 And Chester’s storied vales and hills, 
 In depths of rural calm divine, 
 Where reels the flashing Brandy¬ 
 wine 
 
 And dallies with its hundred mills. 
 
 Such was the figure, strange and wild ; 
 And at his side a twelve-years child— 
 An eagle-eyed, bright, wondering 
 lad, 
 
 In rustic winter garments clad— 
 Entered, and held the wagoner’s 
 hand, 
 
 While on his visage, flushed and 
 tanned, 
 
 A pleasure mingled with amaze 
 Parted his lips and filled his gaze. 
 
 His hair was wavy, long, and black, 
 And from his forehead drifted back 
 
14 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 By the last greeting of the gale, 
 Where still the random rain and 
 hail 
 
 Clung glistening like the tangled 
 pearls 
 
 In careless locks of Indian girls. 
 
 The host with usual “ welcome” 
 smiled, 
 
 And praised the bright-eyed stranger 
 child ; 
 
 Whereat the wagoner lightly spake :— 
 “ Be all your praising for his sake: 
 
 I found him in the wagon-trough 
 
 A-swinging like a cradled thing ; 
 With angry words I bade him off,— 
 
 He stared with large eyes wonder- 
 
 ing, 
 
 And answered that his way was 
 long, 
 
 His knees were tired, his feet were 
 sore ; 
 
 And then his face new brightness 
 wore, 
 
 And straight his spirit burst to song : 
 
 I listened, and my frown gave o’er. 
 
 u My nature, like my hand, is rough, 
 My heart is of rude mountain stuff; 
 And yet, I own, a laughing child 
 Can make at times my temper mild. 
 
 “I placed him on the wheel-horse 
 back, 
 
 Where shoulder-shaken bells were 
 ringing. 
 
 The king of all the bells was he,— 
 
 So silver-clear his voice of glee; 
 
 And there he cheered the way with 
 singing, 
 
 Till music filled our dreary track. 
 
 “ There is not much I ask or need ; 
 Yet would I give my favorite steed 
 To sing the song he sang to-day, 
 
 And for a heart as light and gay : 
 
 The very team went rearing mad 
 With joy beneath his voice so glad, 
 
 As when the steeds of battle hear 
 The wild war-clarion ringing near. 
 Come, my young wood-bird, sing 
 again 
 
 That breezy song,—that mountain 
 strain.” 
 
 And thus, from lips of fresh delight, 
 The wild and artless song took flight. | 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 Where sweeps round the mountains 
 The cloud on the gale, 
 
 And streams from their fountains 
 Leap into the vale,— 
 
 Like frighted deer leap when 
 The storm with his pack 
 Rides over the steep in 
 
 The wild torrent’s track,— 
 
 Even there my free home is; 
 
 There watch I the flocks 
 Wander white as the foam is 
 On stair-ways of rocks. 
 
 Secure in the gorge there 
 In freedom we sing, 
 
 And laugh at King George, where 
 The Eagle is king. 
 
 ii. 
 
 I mount the wild horse with 
 No saddle or rein, 
 
 And guide his swift course with 
 A grasp on his mane ; 
 
 Through paths steep and narrow, 
 And scorning the crag, 
 
 I chase with my arrow 
 The flight of the stag. 
 
 Through snow-drifts engulfing, 
 
 I follow the bear, 
 
 And face the gaunt wolf when 
 He snarls in his lair, 
 
 And watch through the gorge there 
 The red panther spring, 
 
 And laugh at King George, where 
 The Eagle is king. 
 
 hi. 
 
 When April is sounding 
 His horn o’er the hills, 
 
 And brooklets are hounding 
 In joy to the mills,— 
 
 When warm August slumbers 
 Among her green leaves, 
 
 And Harvest encumbers 
 
 Her garners with sheaves,— 
 When the flail of November 
 Is swinging with might, 
 
 And the miller December 
 Is mantled with white,— 
 
 In field and in forge there 
 The free-hearted sing, 
 
 And laugh at King George, where 
 The Eagle is king. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 15 
 
 Some praised the voice, and some, in 
 doubt, 
 
 "With look uncertain, gazed about; 
 And some, with loyal feeling strong, 
 Condemned the singer and the song, 
 And swore it was a rebel strain 
 They would not calmly hear again. 
 "Whereat the wagoner’s eyes of fire 
 Flashed round a withering look of 
 ire; 
 
 His brows grew black, his temple- 
 veins 
 
 Grew large, like brooks with sudden 
 rains; 
 
 From face to face he bent his 
 glance, 
 
 And searched each quailing coun¬ 
 tenance. 
 
 Thus for a time great Henry stood, 
 When cries of “ treason” fired his 
 blood, 
 
 Till from his quivering lips was hurled 
 The answer that awoke the world. 
 And thus the last of all that band,* 
 The giants of our native land, 
 
 The safeguards in our darkest hours, 
 Our bulwarks and our sentinel towers, 
 Oft stood, and from his cavernous 
 eyes 
 
 Sped to the heart his great replies : 
 Far in advance he fiercely sent 
 The fiery shaft of argument; 
 
 And, when he spoke, ’twas but to tell 
 In thunder where the red bolt fell! 
 
 Thus stood the wagoner, till at length, 
 With voice subdued to conscious 
 strength, 
 
 He spoke, and said, “ Our eagle’s wing 
 Shall mount, the eagle shall be king ! 
 And jackals shall be heard no more 
 When Freedom’s monarch bird shall 
 soar.” 
 
 ’Twas passed, and none essayed reply : 
 Defeat or triumph filled each eye. 
 Whence came the boy ? was asked in 
 vain ; 
 
 What errand brought the truant 
 down ? 
 
 What would he in the noisy 
 town ?— 
 
 Conjecture but replied again. 
 
 The wagoner drew the host aside, 
 And said, “The storm approaches 
 near, 
 
 And soon its bolts must be defied : 
 For me its thunders bring no fear ; 
 But for this tender fledgling here, 
 ’Twere well if he awhile might rest 
 Secure in some protected nest. 
 
 “ This hand that long has grasped the 
 whip 
 
 Must shortly take within its grip 
 Another scourge, and boldly deal 
 The blow a tyrant needs must feel; 
 Hence it were best the boy should be 
 Removed a little space from me, 
 
 Lest that the battling oak migfit 
 wrong 
 
 The eaglet it has sheltered long.” 
 
 Then said the landlord, as he took 
 Another survey of the face, 
 
 “ It was no fancy made me trace 
 In that young form the Ringbolt 
 look. 
 
 Although your answer seemed to say 
 He crossed but now your townward 
 way.” 
 
 “ Even as I told,” the wagoner said, 
 “ The urchin, wild of heart and head, 
 Wishing to follow where I led, 
 Stealthily stole behind the wain, 
 Breasting the gusts of hail and rain. 
 It was no easy task, I fear, 
 
 For one so young to keep so near. 
 
 For miles I thought I heard the beat 
 And splash, behind, of following feet. 
 You well may guess with what sur¬ 
 prise 
 
 I met the truant’s laughing eyes, 
 
 And how that face of brave delight, 
 While in the trough he sat upright, 
 Put all my chiding words to flight. 
 
 II All day my thoughts were some¬ 
 
 what sad 
 
 With too much dwelling on the lad, 
 Contriving where I best might trust 
 His sheltered head when comes the 
 gust. 
 
 For when it comes, I must be where 
 The thickest dangers are to dare; 
 
 And there are cowards who would 
 make 
 
 The boy a victim for my sake. 
 
 * Webster. 
 
16 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 It was for this I would not own 
 Before these Tories of the town 
 The child was aught to me beside 
 A friendless truant wandering down, 
 Whom, pitying, I allowed to ride. 
 
 tl And now, my friend, I ask of you 
 To aid me in my urgent need,—■ 
 
 To give or find the boy a home 
 Where present danger may not come : 
 Bor this you shall receive your due, 
 Even though it cost my last good 
 steed.” 
 
 The host replied, “ Leave that to me : 
 There’s many a one comes here to 
 dine 
 
 Would joy beside his chair to see 
 So lithe an urchin serve his wine.” 
 
 <£ Serve /”—but between the wagoner’s 
 teeth 
 
 The word was crushed to instant 
 death: 
 
 His brow grew black a moment, then 
 As quickly it was cleared again. 
 
 “ Be it, good landlord, as you say,” 
 He murmured: “ ’tis but for a day,” 
 And then abruptly turned away. 
 
 Under the gable-roof the boy 
 Soon prest the soothing bed with joy : 
 A little while he heard the sigh 
 Of winds like spirits hovering nigh, 
 The weather-vane that creaked aloof, 
 The slumberous rain along tbe roof, 
 And breathed the scent of bundled 
 herbs 
 
 Close to the waspy rafters hung ; 
 Then heard the hour from the belfry 
 flung, 
 
 And then the watch along the curbs, 
 With voice that warns but not dis¬ 
 turbs ; 
 
 Then slept, and dreamed of his native 
 place, 
 
 And woke with the red sun on his face. 
 
 m. 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 Out of the sea, and over the land, 
 Over the level Jersey sand, 
 
 Making the bay with splendor quiver, 
 Flashing a glory up the river, 
 
 Came the morn on its wheel of fire, 
 Flinging flame from its glowing tire. 
 
 And with the morning, up the tide, 
 Through golden vapor dim descried, 
 A distant ship was seen to ride, 
 Vague as a vessel in a dream,— 
 
 More in the sky than on the stream. 
 
 Down to the wharf a horseman rode, 
 As oft on many a morn before, 
 
 To note the barques that inland 
 bore; 
 
 And when his glance had swept the 
 shore, 
 
 His face with sudden pleasure glowed. 
 He gave the rein to a boy near by, 
 And raised him in his stirrups high, 
 And poised the glass at his anxious 
 eye.— 
 
 Long time with breathless breast he 
 gazed, 
 
 Then deeply sighed, “ Now, Heaven 
 be praised ! ” 
 
 And to a skipper sauntering past 
 He cried, “ Unless my vision fail, 
 
 I know the set of yonder sail, 
 
 And the streamer at her mast 1” 
 The skipper then a moment scanned 
 The ship beneath his shading hand, 
 And answered, with a sudden 
 smile, 
 
 “Ay, ay, sir: I should know that 
 deck: 
 
 The same that saved us once from 
 wreck,— 
 
 1 The Lady of the Isle’! ” 
 
 In haste the rider grasped the rein, 
 And turned his restive steed again, 
 Yet, ere he sped, with hand of joy 
 A coin of silver flung the boy, 
 
 And, as he threw, looked down and 
 smiled ; 
 
 And then, as if some form had risen 
 To meet him from its churchyard 
 prison, 
 
 He stared upon the wondering child. 
 He would have spoke ; but gayly 
 now, 
 
 Before the startled words could join, 
 The boy was toying with the coin, 
 Twirling it in the sunny air, 
 Laughing to see it flashing there. 
 
 A moment the rider pressed his 
 brow, 
 
“ Vague as a vessel in a dream.” 
 
 Page 16, 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 17 
 
 Then dashed the vision in scorn aside, 
 And glanced again o’er the distant 
 tide, 
 
 And, with a face of new delight, 
 Struck to the rowels the glittering 
 spurs: 
 
 The steed obeyed the urging burrs, 
 And bore proud Berkley out of 
 sight. 
 
 The hour went by. Before the town 
 The ship came up; the sails were 
 doft; 
 
 The happy crew, alow and aloft, 
 Sang as the anchor rattled down,— 
 Down and down, as the windlass 
 flew, 
 
 Linking the Old World with the 
 New. 
 
 A crowd was gathering on the wharf, 
 A crowd leaned on the vessel’s side, 
 And here and there a waving scarf 
 Bespoke some welcome friend de¬ 
 scried. 
 
 At the open gang a maiden stood, 
 Reflected in the happy flood,— 
 
 Oh, enviable flood, how blest 
 With such a vision on thy breast!—- 
 Stood like a timid, startled fawn 
 Gazing where its mates are gone; 
 Stood like a white star in the dawn, 
 Looking with inquiring eyes 
 Where its westward pathway lies. 
 
 Loud rumbling to the shore anon 
 A stately coach came proudly drawn, 
 With the ancient Berkley arms 
 thereon : 
 
 And soon to land the maid, whose 
 hair 
 
 Shed amber beauty in the air, 
 
 Was borne, and on her father’s breast 
 The long-expected child was prest. 
 
 The gold of fifteen summer suns 
 Was tangled in young Esther’s 
 locks; 
 
 Her voice, it was a rill that runs 
 Half spray among the flowers and 
 rocks; 
 
 The hues of the dewiest violet 
 Within her liquid eyes were set; 
 
 Her form was small, her figure light 
 As is some fabled fountain-sprite; 
 
 2 
 
 The aerial scarf about her twined 
 Like gossamer, seemed to woo the 
 wind ; 
 
 A shape so light, she seemed to be 
 That vision which poets only see,— 
 The spirit of that iris small 
 Poised on the mist of a waterfall. 
 
 Foremost amid the crowd amazed 
 The truant urchin stood and gazed. 
 His sunbrown cheek and large dark 
 eyes, 
 
 His long black hair and rustic guise, 
 Contrasted with the maiden bright, 
 In her auroral beauty dight, 
 
 As if some offspring of the eve 
 His dusk home in the west should 
 leave, 
 
 To gaze, by love and wonder drawn, 
 On some fair daughter of the dawn. 
 
 Again the proud man, in his joy, 
 Shuddered as he beheld the boy; 
 
 But the happy maid looked round and 
 smiled,—- 
 
 Smiled through her tears at the vision 
 wild 
 
 Of flashing eyes and raven hair, 
 
 And cheeks long tanned by mountain- 
 air. 
 
 That smile went to the urchin’s heart, 
 Secure as ever archer’s dart 
 Sped to the target’s central shade, 
 Long quivering where it struck and 
 stayed. 
 
 But soon the carriage, with rumbling 
 loud, 
 
 Convejmd the lovely shape from 
 sight; 
 
 And he felt like a traveller in the 
 night 
 
 When the moon glides into a thunder¬ 
 cloud 
 
 And will no more return to sight. 
 
 Out of the vessel came many a box 
 
 Of Berkley’s treasures manifold ; 
 Some with iron bands and locks, 
 
 Some from the cabin, some from 
 the hold. 
 
 Some were carried, some were 
 rolled; 
 
 But one, with curious shape, to 
 shore 
 
 With careful hands the sailors bore: 
 
18 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 They said it contained a harp of gold 
 
 Of strange device,—they knew no 
 more. 
 
 A wain took up the various load; 
 The truant followed it out of town, 
 
 By wild, adventurous wonder drawn, 
 
 Along the winding highway road, 
 Where Berkley Hall looked proudly 
 down 
 
 Over its river-reaching lawn. 
 
 When Berkley saw the hoy again, 
 
 He took him by the willing hand, 
 
 And asked him questions simple, 
 plain, 
 
 In easy words to understand ; 
 
 But still the youth, with laughing 
 eyes, 
 
 Made answer with wide, vague re¬ 
 plies ; 
 
 Nor would he tell from whence he 
 came, 
 
 But answered, “ Ugo” was his name. 
 
 And then the master smoothed his 
 hair, 
 
 And said, in soothing accents mild, 
 “ It is a barren world, my child, 
 
 And full of hearts as bleak and bare 
 As is a winter heath forlorn, 
 
 Where only thrives the tangled 
 thorn ; 
 
 And when a stray lamb wanders there 
 Its sides are sorely fleeced and torn. 
 
 What can you to secure your bread ? 
 
 Or how at night procure your bed V* 
 
 The boy looked up with wondering 
 face, 
 
 Which told such thought had never 
 place 
 
 Within the precincts of his brain ; 
 
 And then he gayly cried again, 
 
 With voice on laughter’s sudden 
 wing, 
 
 11 So please you, master, I can sing !” 
 
 “ A fair profession, by my troth l” 
 
 Sir Hugh replied, “ when tune and 
 words 
 
 Are fitted well, and, suiting.both, 
 
 The spirit with the voice accords : 
 But they come otf the hungriest 
 birds 
 
 Who, so enamored of their strain, 
 Sing while the others, in the grain, 
 With voiceless but industrious beaks, 
 Feed well through all the harvest 
 weeks. 
 
 But pour me from your frolic heart 
 A sample of your vocal art.” 
 
 His simple tongue no urging stayed, 
 And thus the call for song was paid. 
 
 SONGr. 
 
 \ 
 
 i. 
 
 Where the peaks first greet the 
 morn, 
 
 Where the mighty streams are 
 born,— 
 
 Streams that sweep from east to 
 west, 
 
 Bearing great arks on their breast,— 
 Where the eagle rears her young 
 Barren rocks and pines among, 
 There’s a child which knows no fear, 
 
 In the home of the mountaineer. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oft among the forests wild 
 The lone woodman hears the child 
 Singing with the earliest dawn, 
 
 And his playmate is a fawn: 
 
 When that fawn’s broad antlers 
 spring, 
 
 They shall hear him louder sing ; 
 Then his startling song shall cheer 
 Far and wide the mountaineer. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Then his hero-hand shall take 
 In its grasp a crested snake, 
 
 And its front, so proudly crowned, 
 Shall be humbled to the ground,— 
 Hymbled, trampled in the sand,—• 
 And no longer fright the land; 
 
 Then the world shall thrill to hear 
 Songs of that young mountaineer. 
 
 The listener, half-way frowning, 
 smiled, 
 
 And said, “ Perchance you are that 
 child 
 
 Far wandering from your mountains 
 wild. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALL EG HA NIES. 
 
 19 
 
 And full of those obnoxious songs 
 
 But fit for rebel ears and tongues ?” 
 
 “Oh, no!” the laughing youth re¬ 
 plied ; 
 
 “ Although I come from the moun¬ 
 tain-side, 
 
 My songs I learned from a school¬ 
 man gray, 
 
 Who, when the children went to play, 
 
 Oft called us round him in a ring, 
 
 And, singing, taught us all to sing.” 
 
 Then Berkley’s brow relaxed his 
 frown, 
 
 And he looked still more kindly 
 down ; 
 
 For there was something in that voice 
 
 Which made him sigh and yet rejoice ; 
 
 And then he cried, “ Come in ! come 
 in !— 
 
 I care not what your kith or kin, 
 
 Your face and singing please me 
 well; 
 
 And, if you will, here may you 
 dwell, 
 
 And be, till your maturer age, 
 
 A gentle lady’s faithful page.” 
 
 IY. 
 
 THE WELCOME. 
 
 Days passed; and now from Berkle}r 
 Hall, 
 
 When evening sped her herald star, 
 Gay music, with wild rise and fall, 
 Streamed on the air ; the windows all 
 Shot their red beams of splendor 
 far, 
 
 Firing the dark like beacon-torches ; 
 While, like a wedding-train, there 
 flowed 
 
 Gay coaches up the winding road, 
 Grating the gravel near the porches. 
 
 Form after form, in rich attire 
 
 Of gems and rustling garments 
 bright, 
 
 Swept like shadows out of the night 
 Into the sudden blaze of light, 
 Gleaming as in a robe of fire. 
 
 The peasant on the distant slope, 
 Agaze at joys beyond his hope, 
 
 Believing the world was what it 
 seemed,— 
 
 Alas that others should he more 
 wise!— 
 
 Beheld them glide, as he fondly 
 deemed, 
 
 Into a transient paradise. 
 
 Along the casements he saw them 
 pass, 
 
 As phantoms on the flaming glass ; 
 And when the music awoke the dance, 
 Like shadows they seemed to sway 
 and glance, 
 
 Or revellers seen in a dreamer’s trance. 
 
 Fond soul, could some kind sprite 
 have shown 
 
 Some hearts beneath those robes 
 and gems, 
 
 The smile without, within the groan, 
 He had not sighed that, poor, un¬ 
 known, 
 
 He stood apart in the open air, 
 
 Or bartered his peace with the proud¬ 
 est there 
 
 To wear the wealth of diadems. 
 
 On the side of the neighboring height 
 He saw the modest cottage light 
 Gleam, like a glow-worm in the night, 
 
 Through the foliage deep and dark: 
 Strange contrast to the splendor bright 
 
 Burning in midst of Berkley Park. 
 And could the marvelling man have 
 seen 
 
 As clearly into that home serene 
 As into that glittering hall of pride,—• 
 
 Have seen the pastor’s patriarch hair 
 Bending over the volume wide, 
 
 And heard the old clock on the stair 
 
 Saying its “ Amen” to the prayer, 
 And, when the evening hymn wgs 
 sung, 
 
 Joining with its silver tongue,— 
 
 He had not sighed o’er his station 
 mean, 
 
 "While hearkening to that worldly 
 din, 
 
 Nor envied the tinsel triumph 
 thin 
 
 Of the stateliest hero of the scene. 
 But hearts are human moths, alas ! 
 Fluttering against the glittering 
 glass, 
 
 Flying from Nature’s flowery ways 
 To worship and die at a transient 
 blaze. 
 
20 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Within, beneath the chandeliers, 
 Wealth, envious of her two com¬ 
 peers, 
 
 Beauty and Wit, her shoulders bare, 
 Strode with her diamond front in 
 air. 
 
 There Beauty walked, too oft a shell, 
 A bower of roses round a cell, 
 
 A casket exquisitely bright, 
 
 With not a jewel hid from sight; 
 Like those proud piles by travellers 
 found 
 
 In foreign lands,with statues crowned, 
 Covered with all that charms the eye, 
 While within sits Poverty, 
 
 Cowering in the ancestral dust, 
 
 With scarce an ember or a crust. 
 
 And Wit, with sparkling glance, was 
 there, 
 
 With flashing words of transient 
 glare, 
 
 Of satire or of flattery,— 
 
 Thoughts that lorded or bowed the 
 knee : 
 
 They who lord it with haughtiest 
 brow 
 
 Have ever the supplest knees to bow. 
 All these, Wealth, Beauty, Wit, 
 bright three,— 
 
 Graces they were by Heaven de¬ 
 signed, 
 
 But oftener grow, through vanity, 
 
 The vices that ensnare the mind. 
 
 But there was one in whom these 
 three 
 
 Were joined in sweetest unity,— 
 
 To all the Virtues reconciled, 
 
 But chiefly Charity’s favorite child. 
 
 So bright the spirit her form en¬ 
 shrined, 
 
 So clearly the face displayed the 
 mind, 
 
 That the coldest gazer’s heart ’gan 
 melt, 
 
 And, in after-days of memory, felt 
 
 A kindlier impulse toward his kind: 
 And it was all to welcome her 
 The glittering groups collected were. 
 
 Through the crowd, on her father’s 
 arm,— 
 
 How proud he was! how very 
 proud !— 
 
 She passed, like a ray of sunshine 
 warm 
 
 Cleaving its way through a broken 
 cloud. 
 
 First there was silence,—breaths long 
 drawn, 
 
 As they would breathe her beauty 
 in, 
 
 And eyes full-orbed, as they would 
 win 
 
 New light from her enchanted dawn ; 
 And then the sudden whisper stirred, 
 Like winds within the aspens heard. 
 The proud man caught the applause 
 around, 
 
 That thrilled his depths of pride pro¬ 
 found, 
 
 Where it echoed like a bugle wound 
 Near caverns that prolong the sound. 
 
 Then to her throned harp he led, 
 Where lustre of gold and pearl was 
 shed, 
 
 Like the light that flushed the air 
 Around the maiden’s pearl-looped 
 hair. 
 
 A moment her timorous fingers tried 
 The chords that tremulously replied, 
 Like reeds beside a little lake 
 Warned by a breeze ere the winds 
 awake : 
 
 She toyed with the prelude; but not 
 long 
 
 The herald notes foreran the song. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 What though my feet have wandered 
 far 
 
 Through groves and lawns of an¬ 
 tique shores, 
 
 Where ever to the morning star 
 
 The enamored lark her love-song 
 pours, 
 
 And through enchanted woods and 
 vales 
 
 Romance still walks, a spirit free, 
 
 Thrilled by the poet-nightingales : 
 
 I turn, dear native land, to thee. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 21 
 
 ii. 
 
 It is not that thy giant floods 
 
 Sweep seaward with unrivalled 
 flow ; 
 
 It is not that thy pathless woods 
 Have majesty no others show; 
 
 Not for thy matchless inland seas, 
 Wider than eagle’s eye discerns, 
 Nor mountains vast;—’tis not for 
 these 
 
 My heart, dear land, to thee re¬ 
 turns :— 
 
 hi. 
 
 Not for thy seasons, though they 
 sweep 
 
 From unknown continents of ice, 
 Or, waked in tropic forests deep, 
 Bring summer from the land of 
 spice; 
 
 Not that thy fiery forest-trees, 
 
 At harvest-close, with splendors 
 burn 
 
 In hues triumphant;—not for these 
 To thee, dear land, my steps re¬ 
 turn.— 
 
 IV. 
 
 Not only that my native hearth 
 Is shrined among thy greenest hills, 
 Or that my earliest infant mirth 
 Was learned among thy flowers 
 and rills, 
 
 But, chiefly, that before thee opes 
 A glorious future, grand and free, 
 And thou hast all my brightest 
 hopes,— 
 
 * For this, dear land, I turn to thee. 
 
 To give the words by a maiden sung 
 After they have passed her tongue, 
 When more than half of all the grace 
 Was in her voice and on her face, 
 
 Is but to render a cup long drawn, 
 With all its effervescence gone ; 
 
 ’Tis hut to treasure in after-hours 
 The garland of faded and dewless 
 flowers 
 
 That in the flood of the banquet-light 
 Made the wearer’s brow more bright. 
 Had another dared the same to sing, 
 They had denounced it a rebel thing ; 
 
 But from her lips could come no 
 wrong : 
 
 So they praised the singer and the 
 song. 
 
 ’Mid those who listened, too rapt to 
 praise, 
 
 Like blossoms that close in the sun’s 
 full blaze, 
 
 Folding the ecstasy into the heart 
 In silence, lest the smallest part 
 Should exhale on the breath of joy 
 exprest, 
 
 Stood one, a chance-invited guest, 
 Half hidden by a curtain’s fold, 
 
 Too modest and proud to be more 
 hold, 
 
 A youth—the neighboring pastor’s 
 son— 
 
 Whose mind and mien had already 
 won 
 
 The wide applause which oft exalts 
 Till envy finds the virtues faults. 
 
 A student he was, with cheeks grown 
 pale, 
 
 Long bleached in that scholastic vale 
 Where mild-eyed Meditation camps 
 Among her midnight books and 
 lamps. 
 
 But as he stood and heard her sing, 
 And gazed with charmed lips apart, 
 The joy long nestling in his heart 
 Flew to his cheek on flaming wing. 
 So feels the prisoner when his cell 
 Flies open, as by a miracle; 
 
 So glows he, breathing what freedom 
 yields 
 
 That first hour in the summer fields. 
 
 Yes ; love, and wonder, and delight, 
 All three into his breast took flight; 
 And those who knew young Edgar 
 best 
 
 Noted the change on his face con¬ 
 fessed. 
 
 Near by, with scarlet coat and plume, 
 Like a bonfire in the room, 
 
 An officer of the royal troops 
 Blazed among the admiring groups, 
 Who, when his eye approval glanced, 
 Or when he spoke the applauding 
 word, 
 
 Deemed Berkley’s honor was ad¬ 
 vanced ; 
 
22 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 And, he, too, felt a new delight, 
 
 And deigned from his great warrior 
 height 
 
 To stoop, and own his heart was 
 stirred. 
 
 Outside, in the stars’ still light, 
 
 Like a spirit of the night, 
 
 Pressing close to the window-pane, 
 With eyes of wonder and mirth in¬ 
 sane, 
 
 There looked a face which shunned 
 the gaze, 
 
 Coming and going, as a shadow plays 
 When the wind, with rise and fall, 
 Sways the elm-shade on the wall. 
 
 This with a smile the maiden saw, 
 Saw it come and then withdraw; 
 
 And oft they knew not why she 
 smiled, 
 
 Nor saw the vision strange and wild 
 Which she beheld with looks of joy,— 
 The frolic-hearted truant boy. 
 
 Thus oft beside a delirious child 
 The watchers see upon its face 
 Expressions which they cannot trace, 
 And where its eyes so fondly turn 
 They look, but nothing can discern, 
 Still conscious of a presence near 
 Of what they cannot see or hear. 
 
 After the supper and the wine, 
 
 Where flowed the Moselle and the 
 Khine, 
 
 And Burgundy and prouder Spain, 
 Disputing, held divided reign,— 
 
 Eor Berkley deemed the worst of faults 
 Poor brands, or scant-provided 
 vaults,— 
 
 Out they sallied into the air; 
 
 And the great white moon was there. 
 In merry groups about the green 
 They strolled, and praised the night 
 serene; 
 
 Here the laugh and there the song 
 Waked from sleep the feathery throng, 
 Nested in the vernal realms 
 Of the poplars and the elms. 
 
 Their heads unsheathing from the 
 wing, 
 
 Some, which only the dark makes 
 dumb, 
 
 Wondered if the dawn had come,— 
 The time to deck their plumes and 
 sing. 
 
 In the grove the whippoorwill 
 Forgot his story, and sat still: 
 
 But all who tell a tale of pain 
 Know well the place to begin again. 
 
 Music on a waveless stream 
 Where the stars and moonshine gleam, 
 While the light oar noiseless dips, 
 And then, lifting, brightly drips, 
 
 As if hung with pearl-strings rare, 
 Caught from the water-spirits’ hair; 
 Then the music-freighted boat 
 Seems some fairy ark afloat, 
 
 Filled with groups of airy elves 
 Playing to delight themselves, 
 Blowing marvellous instruments, 
 With a thrill of joy intense, 
 
 Until the sounds that ring afar 
 Seem blown from many a clarion star; 
 Or as the thin rays of the moon, 
 
 By some marvellous alchemy, 
 Were changed from light to melody, 
 One-half lustre, one-half tune; 
 
 Or as the veil of the other world 
 Were partly lifted, partly furled, 
 And underneath the soft notes born 
 In the eternal fields of morn 
 Were wafted, on the wings of bliss, 
 Out of that realm into this. 
 
 Such were the sounds there heard to 
 flow 
 
 From off the winding stream below,— 
 Till suddenly a clattering steed 
 Dashed up the road in furious speed; 
 But soon the checking rein was drawn, 
 And now the rider gained the lawn. 
 
 And info Berkley’s ear apart 
 He breathed a word that thrilled his 
 heart; 
 
 And then from group to group it 
 passed, 
 
 Quaking the breast from first to last: 
 Something about a rebel troop, 
 
 Like an eagle, soon to swoop; 
 
 How some of that obnoxious clan, 
 With horrid noise of horn and pan, 10 
 Had borne in mockery up and down, 
 In a rough and jolting car, 
 
 The noisiest Tory of the town, 
 
 And only spared the plumes and tar 
 Because they deemed the honor due 
 To loyalists of deeper hue. 
 
 And it was said, and well believed, 
 And much the king’s supporters 
 grieved, 
 
THE WAGONER OF 
 
 That many a secret rebel band 
 Was swiftly forming through the 
 land ; 
 
 Nor could the wisest well divine 
 The object of their full design, 
 
 But knew it much behooved them 
 each 
 
 To he prepared or out of reach. 
 
 And—who could tell ?—before they 
 knew, 
 
 Some lawless and marauding crew— 
 None guessed their number or their 
 power— 
 
 Might choose in such a festive hour 
 To burst into their midst and lay 
 A tax which it were hard to pay. 
 
 Scarce was the warning heard before 
 There was swift mounting at Berkley 
 door, 
 
 And jostling hurry down roads of dust, 
 As if they fled from a thunder-gust! 
 They swept along the highway white, 
 Like autumn leaves before the wind 
 Which heralds the drowning storm 
 behind, 
 
 And round the far hill passed from 
 sight. 
 
 v. 
 
 THE UNWELCOME. 
 
 Proud Berkley, while his arm was 
 placed 
 
 Around his daughter’s slender waist, 
 As up the lawn they swiftly paced, 
 Called loudly to his men in haste 
 To make the outer gates secure, 
 
 To bar and lock the stable door, 
 
 Then loose the iron kennel-check 
 From oft* the savage mastiff’s neck. 
 
 But scarce their feet had pressed the 
 floor 
 
 Beside the open entrance-door, 
 
 When still he heard the revelling din 
 Of some who drank and laughed 
 within. 
 
 Then cried the host, in gayer strain, 
 
 “ It seems some lingering guests re¬ 
 main, 
 
 To praise those old Burgundian casks 
 Or compliment the Rhenish flasks. 
 
 THE ALLEGHANIES. 23 
 
 This suits me well. I’ll bid them stay 
 And revel till the break of day; 
 
 For where such manly mirth is made 
 No rebel band will dare invade.” 
 
 He paced the hall like a generous host, 
 
 And laughed to hear the loud up¬ 
 roar, 
 
 Then cried, as he swung the festive 
 door, 
 
 “ Fill up, my friends, to a loyal toast! 
 
 Fill high!”—but, at the sight re¬ 
 vealed, 
 
 Some sudden paces backward reeled, 
 
 Like a stunned warrior on the field, 
 And stood a moment dumb and lost, 
 Like one who meets a midnight ghost. 
 Then stammered, “ If my sight be 
 true, 
 
 This is an honor scarcely due. 
 
 To what may I ascribe, strange sirs, 
 The presence of such visitors?” 
 
 “ To what,” cried one, with the voice 
 of a gale 
 
 That laughs through an Allegha- 
 nian pine, 
 
 “ But to drink your health in good 
 red wine 
 
 Till its hue returns to your cheek so 
 pale ?” 
 
 And then the dozen sturdy men 
 Laughed, and brimmed their cups 
 again, 
 
 And drained them to the hearty toast 
 Of Berkley Manor and its host. 
 
 ’Twas hard to see his dear old wines, 
 The heart’s blood of the noblest vines, 
 Poured by a rough and sunburnt hand 
 To nourish the souls of a rebel band. 
 He heard the very wine’s heart throb 
 As it flowed from the flask with a sigh 
 and a sob; 
 
 The bubbles that wept around each 
 rim 
 
 Looked with imploring eyes at him. 
 
 Then swelled that gusty voice once 
 more, 
 
 As the speaker rose full six feet four:— 
 11 That loyal toast you left unsaid, 
 
 To spare your breath, I propose in¬ 
 stead ; 
 
 And let the craven, who dares, resist 
 To drink the toast of a loyalist!” 
 
24 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Sir Hugh a moment felt relieved : 
 That word,—perchance he had been 
 deceived; 
 
 They surely could no rebels be 
 Who proffered toasts to loyalty. 
 
 A goblet into his hand was thrust, 
 Brimming and dripping, and drink he 
 must. 
 
 “ Here’s to our royal governors, 
 
 And every man who such prefers ! 
 May Heaven on their advancement 
 smile 
 
 In their speedy return to their native 
 isle !” 
 
 Before his sense the words explained, 
 The lifted cup was wellnigh drained. 
 Then hurst the intruders’ laughter- 
 roar, 
 
 While stood the host with bewil¬ 
 dered brain. 
 
 They rose and bowed, and said no 
 more, 
 
 And now behind them slammed the 
 door; 
 
 He heard them descend the river- 
 lane 
 
 With laugh and song, and all was o’er. 
 They had come like a sudden burst 
 of rain, 
 
 And, like a gust, withdrew again,— 
 Their voices dying beyond the lawn, 
 Like rumbling clouds when the storm 
 is gone. 
 
 Then in chagrin he dashed the glass 
 Down to the floor, a shattered mass, 
 And glared thereon, till, laughing, 
 came, 
 
 Queen of the keys, the brave house- 
 dame,— 
 
 A woman tall and somewhat sere, 
 But, like October, calm and clear; 
 Her dark eye still retained its ray, 
 Her hair its gloss, though touched 
 with gray. 
 
 She cried, “ You had strange guests 
 to-night, 
 
 And such not often you invite 
 Did but the world know who were 
 here, 
 
 Yours would a rebel name appear.” 
 
 To which Sir Hugh, with anger red, 
 “ May a thousand plagues light on 
 each head ! 
 
 I cannot guess what men they be: 
 
 I only know they drank my wine:— 
 Would they might hang, a scare¬ 
 crow line, 
 
 On the next lightning-blasted tree!” 
 
 Hulda replied, 11 Unless I err, 
 
 I heard a voice I have heard before: 
 Each tone of his is a clinging burr, 
 That from the memory will not stir.— 
 Though it is full ten years, or more, 
 Since last I heard his laughter-roar, 
 Or his great stride along the floor, 
 
 I would know, though twice as long 
 it were, 
 
 Kingbolt, the wilful wagoner.” 
 
 Then, in silence and in gloom, 
 
 The proud man passed to his private 
 room, 
 
 And paced the floor, in spirit vexed, 
 With dusky fancies sore perplexed,— 
 Thought of his daughter, thought of 
 his pride, 
 
 And of a hundred things beside. 
 
 But soon o’er his soul of turbulence 
 The quiet stole, and soothed the sense, 
 As silence with its hand at last 
 Smooths the pool where the storm has 
 passed. 
 
 But hark !—was it the rising wind 
 Swinging the boughs on the window- 
 blind ? 
 
 Or chimney-swallows come anew, 
 And talking in the sooty cavern, 
 Conversing as room-mate travellers do 
 Ere they go to sleep in a wayside 
 tavern ? 
 
 Or was it some burglarious crew, 
 With many a stealthy gouge and 
 scratch, 
 
 Working their way from screw to 
 screw, 
 
 Mining around the bolt and latch, 
 With jar and screech, by sure degrees, 
 Or torturing locks with skeleton keys ? 
 
 His heart beat loud: he spake no word, 
 But seized two pistols and a sword ; 
 With cautious hand he oped the 
 door,— 
 
 It creaked as it never creaked be¬ 
 fore,— 
 
 Then descended the stair; in his soul 
 he vowed 
 
 He never knew them to crack so loud. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 25 
 
 At every step he seemed to hear 
 The noises more distinct and near ; 
 Now at the pistol-pans he tapped, 
 And cocked the flints,—how loud they 
 snapped!— 
 
 Then followed the sounds with breath¬ 
 less care, 
 
 Here encountered a table, and there a 
 chair, 
 
 Till it seemed as if to retard his pace 
 Each article had changed its place. 
 
 The wave of every curtain’s fold 
 Now made his trembling heart less 
 bold, 
 
 Lest, issuing from the midnight air, 
 His phantom bride should meet him 
 there, 
 
 With wild mysterious eyes to peer 
 Into his shuddering soul of fear. 
 
 But now he gained the parlor door 
 The noise was louder than before,— 
 A strange, mad music,—a grate,—a 
 jar,— 
 
 Like a maniac trying to tune a guitar. 
 By inch and by inch, he opened the 
 door, 
 
 Saw long phantom windows stretch 
 over the floor, 
 
 Made by the moon, and in the full 
 flood, 
 
 Up at the end where the golden harp 
 stood, 
 
 Beheld — and his heart strangely 
 thrilled at the sight— 
 
 The cause of the noises, the source 
 of his fright. 
 
 He gazed with anger mixed with joy, 
 As he beheld the marvellous boy,— 
 Anger at the fears unbounded, 
 
 Joy that they had proved unfounded : 
 One long relieving breath he drew, 
 Then gazed with silent, steadfast view. 
 
 Close to the harp the urchin prest 
 And clasped it fondly to his breast, 
 Then softly o’er his fingers stirred, 
 
 To wake the tones he late had heard ; 
 Now stopped among the bass per¬ 
 plexed, 
 
 Then tried the tinkling treble next; 
 Now over all his wild hands sped, 
 And then, despairing, he shook his 
 head ; 
 
 His large eyes, wondering, seemed to 
 say 
 
 The music had gone with the maid 
 away. 
 
 Then he arose, with puzzled air, 
 
 And gazed upon the pictures there, 
 Marvelling much that such things 
 were, 
 
 All so alive, and yet no stir: 
 
 And now he climbed into the niche 
 Where stood the suit of armor rich, 
 With golden tracery embossed, 
 
 And gazed on it in wonder lost, 
 From head to foot, with searching scan, 
 Surveyed the marvellous iron man ; 
 Then, with a hand that nothing feared, 
 The’visor carefully upreared,— 
 While Berkley saw, with a shudder 
 of dread, 
 
 The horrid yawn of that iron head,— 
 Looked calmly in, and nothing saw, 
 Then closed it, having felt no awe. 
 
 Methinks to the angel of Peace 
 ’twould be 
 
 A charmed and sacred sight to see 
 A child by an offcast coat of war, 
 Who dreamed not what ’twas fash¬ 
 ioned for. 
 
 Heaven send the time when bloody 
 Mars 
 
 Shall only be known among the stars, 
 And his armor, with its thousand 
 scars, 
 
 In a niche, as a curious thing, be bound, 
 And peered into, and nothing found 1 
 Oh, would some sweet bird of the 
 South 11 
 
 Might build in every cannon’s mouth, 
 Till the only sound from its rusty 
 throat 
 
 Should be the wren’s or the blue¬ 
 bird’s note, 
 
 That doves might find a safe resort 
 In the embrasures of every fort! 
 
 Again to the harp the urchin passed, 
 And sat him down, subdued and 
 tame, 
 
 And seeming overweighed at last, 
 
 He leaned against the golden frame; 
 His black hair drooped along the 
 strings, 
 
 Like a fainting night-bird’s wings ; 
 
 A long sigh heaved his tired breast, 
 And slumber soothed him into rest. 
 
26 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 There, like a spirit bright and good, 
 The guardian moon above him stood : 
 She kissed his cheeks, caressed his 
 hair, 
 
 And filled with happy dreams the air, 
 Till the smile which o’er his features 
 strayed 
 
 The pleasure at his heart betrayed. 
 
 Sir Hugh approached the sleeping 
 child, 
 
 And stood with wondering thoughts 
 beguiled. 
 
 How beautiful the picture there!— 
 The gold harp propping the weary 
 head, 
 
 The flashing cords, the shadowy hair, 
 And over all the moonshine shed! 
 
 That slumbering face, it touched his 
 heart, 
 
 And bade the puzzled memories start ; 
 
 He had seen it in a dream before,— 
 
 A dream long gone, to come no more. 
 
 To keep the weary sleeper warm, 
 
 He spread a mantle where he lay, 
 
 And pressed it softly round his form, 
 Then turned with noiseless feet 
 away, 
 
 And left him there to dream at 
 large, 
 
 The shadows' and the white moon’s 
 charge. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE BISING. 
 
 Out of the North the wild news came, 
 Far flashing on its wings of flame, 
 Swift as the boreal light which flies 
 At midnight through the startled 
 skies. 
 
 And there was tumult in the air, 
 
 The fife’s shrill note, the drum’s 
 loud beat, 
 
 And through the wide land every¬ 
 where 
 
 The answering tread of hurrying 
 feet, 
 
 While the first oath of Freedom’s gun 
 Came on the blast from Lexington. 
 
 And Concord, roused, no longer tame, 
 Forgot her old baptismal name, 
 
 Made bare her patriot arm of. power, 
 And swelled the discord of the hour. 
 
 The strife was loud, the time was 
 wild, 
 
 When from the sky Heaven’s favorite 
 child, 
 
 Sweet Liberty, in joy descended; 
 
 A veil of lightning round her clung, 
 Whereon thestars-of morning hung, 
 While o’er her head Jove’s eagle 
 swung, 
 
 With all his thunderbolts attended. 
 
 She came with Victory hand in hand, 
 Whose flashing eyes and streaming 
 hair 
 
 And gleaming robes and flaming 
 brand 
 
 Shot splendor through the dusky 
 air, 
 
 And gladdened the awakening land. 
 
 Wild was the night; but wilder still 
 The day which saw those sisters 
 bright, 
 
 In all their beauty and their might, 
 Hanging above the battle-stroke, 
 Waving like banners through the 
 smoke 
 
 That veiled the heights of Bunker 
 Hill. 
 
 The field was wellnigh won, when, lo 1 
 From the enraged and reeling foe 
 Another charge, another blow, 
 
 That reached and smote the patriot 
 chief. 
 
 Pale Liberty recoiled a pace, 
 
 And for a moment veiled her face; 
 While Victory o’er her hero prest, 
 And wildly wept on Warren’s breast 
 The first tears of her grief. 
 
 Alas ! that moment was her cost:— 
 When she looked up, the field was 
 lost. 
 
 “Lost? lost?” she cried. “It shall 
 not be, 
 
 While Justice holds her throne on 
 high ! 
 
 By Heaven ! for every martyr dead, 
 For every sacred drop here shed 
 From out the brave hearts of the free, 
 The foe shall doubly bleed and die! ” 
 
“The gold harp propping the weary head.” 
 
 Page 26, 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 27 
 
 Such was the voice that fiercely rung 
 From brave New England’s rocks 
 and pines; 
 
 Such were the notes that echo flung 
 Far southward, from its clarion 
 tongue, 
 
 Through all the Alleghanian lines ; 
 And every homestead heard the call, 
 And one great answer flamed through 
 all. 
 
 Each sacred hearth-stone, deep and 
 wide, 
 
 Through many a night glowed 
 bright and full, 
 
 The matron’s great wheel at its side 
 No more devoured the carded wool, 
 And now the maiden’s smaller wheel 
 No longer felt the throbbing tread, 
 But stood beside the idle reel 
 Among its idle flax and thread. 
 
 No more the jovial song went round, 
 No more the ringing laugh was 
 heard; 
 
 But every voice had a solemn sound, 
 And some stern purpose filled each 
 word 
 
 The yeoman and the yeoman’s son, 
 With knitted brows and sturdy dint, 
 Renewed the polish of each gun, 
 Re-oiled the lock, reset the flint; 
 And oft the maid and matron there, 
 While kneeling in the firelight glare, 
 Long poured, with half-suspended 
 breath, 
 
 The lead into the moulds of death. 
 
 The hands by Heaven made silken soft 
 To soothe the brow of love or pain, 
 Alas! are dulled and soiled too oft 
 By some unhallowed earthly stain ; 
 But under the celestial bound 
 No nobler picture can be found 
 Than woman, brave in word and deed, 
 Thus serving in her nation’s need : 
 Her love is with her country now, 
 Her hand is on its aching brow. 
 
 THE BRAYE AT HOME. 
 
 i. 
 
 The maid who binds her warrior’s sash 
 With smile that well her pain dis¬ 
 sembles, 
 
 The while beneath her drooping lash 
 One starry tear-drop hangs and 
 trembles, 
 
 Though Heaven alone records the 
 tear, 
 
 And Fame shall never know her 
 story, 
 
 Her heart has shed a drop as dear 
 As e’er bedewed the field of glory! 
 
 IT. 
 
 The wife who girds her husband’s 
 sword, 
 
 ’Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
 
 And bravely speaks the cheering 
 word, 
 
 What though her heart be rent 
 asunder, 
 
 Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
 The bolts of death around him 
 rattle, 
 
 Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er 
 Was poured upon the field of battle I 
 
 hi. 
 
 The mother who conceals her grief 
 While to her breast her son she 
 presses, 
 
 Then breathes a few brave words and 
 brief, 
 
 Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
 
 With no one but her secret God 
 To know the pain that weighs upon 
 her, 
 
 Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod 
 Received on Freedom’s field of 
 honor/ 
 
 Within its shade of elm and oak 
 The church of Berkley Manor 
 stood: 
 
 There Sunday found the rural folk, 
 And some esteemed of gentle blood. 
 In vain their feet with loitering tread 
 Passed ’mid the graves where rank 
 is naught: 
 
 All could not read the lesson taught 
 In that republic of the dead. 
 
 / 
 
28 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, 
 The vale with peace and sunshine 
 full, 
 
 Where all the happy people walk, 
 Decked in their homespun flax and 
 wool! 
 
 Where youths’ gay hats with blos¬ 
 soms bloom ; 
 
 And every maid, with simple art, 
 Wears on her breast, like her own 
 heart, 
 
 A hud whose depths are all perfume ; 
 
 While every garment’s gentle stir 
 
 Is breathing rose and lavender. 
 
 There, veiled in all the sweets that are 
 Blown from the violet’s purple 
 bosom, 
 
 The scent of lilacs from afar, 
 
 Touched with the sweet shrub’s 
 spicy blossom, 
 
 Walked Esther; and the rustic 
 ranks 
 
 Stood on each side like flowery 
 banks, 
 
 To let her pass,—a blooming aisle, 
 
 Made brighter by her summer smile: 
 
 On her father’s arm she seemed to be 
 
 The last green bough of that haughty 
 tree. 
 
 The pastor came ; his snowy locks 
 Hallowed his brow of thought and 
 care; 
 
 And, calmly as shepherds lead their 
 flocks, 
 
 He led into the house of prayer. 
 
 Eorgive the student Edgar there 
 
 If his enchanted eyes would roam, 
 And if his thoughts soared not be¬ 
 yond, 
 
 And if his heart glowed warmly 
 fond 
 
 Beneath his hopes’ terrestrial dome. 
 
 To him the maiden seemed to stand, 
 Veiled in the glory of the morn, 
 At the bar of the heavenly bourn, 
 
 A guide to the golden holy land. 
 
 When came the service’ low response, 
 Hers seemed an angel’s answering 
 tongue; 
 
 When with the singing choir she sung, 
 O’er all the rest her sweet notes 
 rung, 
 
 As if a silver bell were swung 
 
 ’Mid bells of iron and of bronze. 
 
 At times, perchance,—oh, happy 
 chance!— 
 
 Their lifting eyes together met, 
 Like violet to violet, 
 
 Casting a dewy greeting glance. 
 
 For once be Love, young Love, for¬ 
 given, 
 
 That here, in a bewildered trance, 
 He brought the blossoms of ro¬ 
 mance 
 
 And waved them at the gates of 
 heaven. 
 
 The pastor rose: the prayer was 
 strong; 
 
 The psalm was warrior David’s song ; 
 The text, a few short words of might,—■ 
 “ The Lord of hosts shall arm the 
 right!” 
 
 He spoke of wrongs too long endured, 
 Of sacred rights to be secured ; 
 
 Then from his patriot tongue of 
 flame 
 
 The startling words for Freedom 
 came. 
 
 The stirring sentences he spake 
 Compelled the heart to glow or quake, 
 And, rising on his theme’s broad wing, 
 And grasping in his nervous hand 
 The imaginary battle-brand, 
 
 In face of death he dared to fling 
 Defiance to a tyrant king. 
 
 Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
 In eloquence of attitude, 
 
 Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; 
 Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
 From startled pew to breathless choir; 
 When suddenly his mantle wide 
 His hands impatient flung aside, 
 
 And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes 
 Complete in all a warrior’s guise. 12 
 
 A moment there was awful pause,— 
 When Berkley cried, “ Cease, 
 traitor ! cease ! 
 
 God’s temple is the house of peace!” 
 The other shouted, “ Nay, not so, 
 When God is with our righteous 
 cause: 
 
 His holiest places then are ours, 
 
 His temples are our forts and towers 
 That frown upon the tyrant foe: 
 
 In this the dawn of Freedom’s day 
 There is a time to fight and pray!” 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 29 
 
 And now before the open door— 
 
 The warrior-priest had ordered so— 
 The enlisting trumpet’s sudden soar 
 Rang through the chapel, o’er and o’er, 
 Its long reverberating blow, 
 
 So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
 Of dusty death must wake and hear. 
 And there the startling drum and fife 
 Fired the living with fiercer life ; 
 While overhead, with wild increase, 
 Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, 
 The great bell swung as ne’er before : 
 It seemed as it would never cease; 
 And every word its ardor flung 
 From off its jubilant iron tongue 
 Was, “War! War! War!” 
 
 “ Who dares”—this was the patriot’s 
 cry, 
 
 As striding from the desk he came— 
 “ Come out with me, in Freedom’s 
 name, 
 
 For her to live, for her to die ?” 
 
 A hundred hands flung up reply, 
 
 A hundred voices answered, “17” 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE WREATH. 
 
 How sweet it is when day is new, 
 And Summer is bathed in her young 
 dew, 
 
 To contemplate, ’twixt sun and sod, 
 Each miracle that tells of God ! 
 
 Thus Edgar mused in dreamy mood, 
 Next morn, on the upland solitude, 
 As, slowly pacing, he gained the site 
 Of the one great oak that crowned 
 the height. 
 
 He threw him on a mossy mound, 
 
 His whole soul flooded with the 
 sense 
 
 Of that delightful recompense 
 Which ever in the fields is found, 
 Which lifts the heart when tempest- 
 bowed, 
 
 And sets the rainbow on the cloud. 
 He saw the river where it flowed 
 Under the morn, a golden road,— 
 Saw ships upon that highway free 
 Moving out to a boundless sea. 
 
 He saw the mist-dispelling sun 
 Mount, proudly conscious there was 
 none 
 
 Sceptred beside himself, to hold 
 High state upon that throne of gold, 
 And thought of Freedom’s glorious 
 light 
 
 Conquering the dull mists of night. 
 He saw the moon with anxious stare 
 Walk down the cloudless western 
 air, 
 
 Seeking the stars with pale dismaj 7- , 
 Like a shepherdess whose flocks 
 From the fields have gone astray 
 Among dusky woods and rocks, 
 
 In the wilderness to roam, 
 
 Till the eve shall bring them home. 
 But he thought decaying Tyranny 
 Might search for his lost flock in 
 vain. 
 
 Those stars now seeking to be free 
 No gloomy eve should bring again. 
 
 Long, long he gazed on Berkley Hall, 
 And then on his native cottage 
 small,— 
 
 The one embowered in tall, proud 
 trees, 
 
 The one with its woodbine porch and 
 bees ; 
 
 And never before they struck his sense 
 With such a hopeless difference. 
 
 He felt how often heart from heart 
 Are kept by the mason’s walls apart, 
 Even though the doors were open, free, 
 As Wealth can afford his doors to be. 
 
 Gliding along the garden-walks, 
 Gathering blossoms from the stalks, 
 He saw the heiress of Berkley Hall, 
 And fancied he heard the rise and fall 
 Of the melody he knew must be 
 Flooding her lips incessantly: 
 
 For song was native to her tongue 
 As to a runnel valeward flung, 
 
 As wind to a cloud, as mist to a fall, 
 As dew t6 the rose, and as sunshine 
 to all. 
 
 His full heart ached with love’s sweet 
 pain, 
 
 Like a sealed fountain, charged with 
 rain, 
 
 That longs to sing in the summer air, 
 Yet faints in its cavern of despair. 
 
 From plot to bower, from vase to vase, 
 Down to the very garden-base, 
 
 He watched her gliding, fawnlike 
 pace; 
 
30 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 The branches bowed to her forehead 
 fair 
 
 And shed their blooms on her golden 
 hair. 
 
 Oh, what is so like an embodied 
 May 
 
 As a frolic maiden, with laughter 
 
 gay> 
 
 Chasing her fancies as they flit 
 Out of her heart of innocent wit, 
 Shrining herself in the blowing 
 bowers, 
 
 Her tresses flecked with falling 
 flowers ? 
 
 0 Heaven, when I am old and bent 
 And into the valley deathward sent, 
 Be the last sweet vision which charms 
 my way 
 
 A breathing, bright, embodied May, 
 That, while I lean upon my staff, 
 
 I may see her smile and hear her 
 laugh, 
 
 That my heart may be fresh, till its 
 life is null, 
 
 With the sun and the dew of the 
 beautiful! 
 
 A tree blown bright with summer 
 blooms, 
 
 O’errun with honeysuckle-vines, 
 
 A very fount of sweet perfumes, 
 Stood in the garden, where the bees 
 
 Toiled ever in these murmurous 
 mines : 
 
 And Edgar might have envied these ; 
 For some which mined that odorous 
 store 
 
 Brought back their sweets to his 
 father’s door. 
 
 Around this tree a stair-way led 
 Into the branches overhead, 
 
 And there, ’mid spreading antler- 
 boughs, 
 
 A little room was fitted well, 
 Where a votaress might make her 
 vows 
 
 Secure within her flowery cell. 
 
 Such a one there stands to-day 
 In a poet’s garden far away, 
 
 Where on many an afternoon, 
 
 His great soul full of marvellous tune, 
 Cloistered among flowers and leaves, 
 He sings, and all the world receives. 
 
 Lightly up the vine-like stair, 
 
 Light of heart and light of foot, 
 Flitted the maiden into the bower. 
 Never in enchanted air 
 Held a vine so fair a flower 
 Or tree so sweet a fruit. 
 
 She sat; the flickering sun and shade 
 Like winged sprites about her played: 
 The wren peered in with curious eye, 
 The bluebird carolled closely by, 
 
 The robin from her nest above 
 Looked, and resumed her task of love. 
 
 The maiden’s lap was full of flowers, 
 Culled from the lavish garden-bowers. 
 ’Mid these her fingers gayly played 
 Entwining happy shade with shade, 
 And, as she wrought the flowers 
 among, 
 
 Her sweet thoughts rippled into song. 
 
 i. 
 
 The blue-eyed lady of the morn, 
 While she wreathes her flowers of 
 light, 
 
 Knows for whom those flowers are 
 bright, 
 
 By whom they shall be worn : 
 
 She knows the golden locks of Day 
 Shall bear that flashing wreath away. 
 
 n. 
 
 Though she knows their shape and 
 hue 
 
 May be crushed and tarnished soon, 
 And the battle-heat of noon 
 Waste their precious dew, 
 
 Yet she knows when Day is through 
 He shall wear his wreath anew- 
 
 hi. 
 
 Would I knew some hero now ! 
 
 He should wear the wreath I make. 
 Not for mine, but Freedom’s sake, 
 I would deck his brow: 
 
 Should his arm victorious prove, 
 
 He should wear the wreath of love. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 31 
 
 IV. 
 
 Should he fall, I would outgrieve 
 All who ever grief possessed ; 
 
 I would weep upon his breast, 
 Overveiled like dewy eve, 
 
 And above my hero dead 
 Pour my tears till life had fled. 
 
 The music on its golden wing 
 Dropt from those dewy lips of spring : 
 Scarce had the cadence ceased to flow, 
 There was a sound of footsteps 
 fleet, 
 
 And suddenly, with cheeks aglow, 
 Young Edgar knelt before her feet. 
 She started with surprise—not fear— 
 To find the stranger youth so near. 
 He read the question in her eye, 
 
 And, ere she spoke, he made reply :— 
 
 “ Oh, lady, if I err, forgive : 
 
 I know not, scarcely, if I live, 
 
 Or that it is my soul is drawn 
 By witching music, on and on, 
 
 To kneel to thee in holier guise, 
 While its poor dwelling yonder lies ! 
 
 I was as one within a land 
 
 Where all he sees is dead and sere, 
 Who droops with thirst, till near at 
 hand 
 
 He hears a fountain singing clear, 
 Then, without further question, flies 
 To find the spring which life supplies. 
 In sooth, the music drew me near, 
 And left me, lady, kneeling here. 
 
 I heard the wish your song expressed, 
 And echo answered in my breast. 
 
 Oh, bid me wear that wreath you 
 make, 
 
 For thine as well as Freedom’s sake!” 
 
 The maiden’s lips no word replied ; 
 But still the youth could well de¬ 
 scry 
 
 That there was pleasure in her eye 
 And that her cheek was double-dyed. 
 
 A moment, with extended hands, 
 
 She held the precious wreath in air, 
 Looked in his face her sweet com¬ 
 mands, 
 
 Then pressed it on her hero’s hair, 
 And would have fled with girlish 
 bound, 
 
 But suddenly a whirring sound 
 
 Made her light foot recoil a pace, 
 And drove the roses from her face. 
 
 A winged arrow fiercely near 
 Had lightly grazed the stranger’s ear, 
 Dislodged one garland-bloom, and 
 sunk 
 
 Quivering in the gnarled trunk, 
 
 And firmly there the angry dart 
 Transfixed the blossom’s odorous 
 heart. 
 
 Her flashing eye the maiden turned: 
 One hurried glance the truth dis¬ 
 cerned. 
 
 Near by, upon the gravel path, 
 Holding his attitude of wrath, 
 
 The wild-eyed boy defiant stood. 
 
 His black hair in a flashing flood 
 Flung back, the quivering bow’s ad¬ 
 vance, 
 
 The right hand to the shoulder 
 drawn, 
 
 The knitted brow, the fiery glance 
 Still following where the dart had 
 gone,— 
 
 He looked the great Apollo’s child, 
 Born in a forest dark and wild. 
 
 A moment thus his posture kept 
 The young soul burning in his face, 
 Then suddenly, as in disgrace, 
 
 He flung him on the grass and wept. 
 
 Her heart was moved, her pity stirred: 
 She fled to him as flies a bird 
 Which hears its lonely fledgling call; 
 She raised his head, smoothed back 
 his hair, 
 
 Looked in his eyes of wild despair. 
 He smiled, and she forgave him all, 
 Then led him calmly up the lawn, 
 Glanced at the bower,—the youth was 
 gone. 
 
 Young Edgar passed the garden-gate 
 With dazzled brain and heart elate; 
 The very landscape seemed to quiver, 
 As if the burning pulse of love 
 Was throbbing in the sky above, 
 Thrilling the forest, field, and river. 
 
 His spirit’s wings had sudden birth; 
 He felt beneath no heavy earth: 
 
 He trod as on a field of air, 
 
 And the flowers like stars shone every¬ 
 where. 
 
32 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Down through the grove he gained 
 the stream, 
 
 "Which flowed before him like a dream, 
 Its ripples whispering to the shore, 
 And love their burden evermore ; 
 Stream, flower, and tree, and breeze, 
 and bird, 
 
 Were eloquent with that one word. 
 
 He knelt, with very joy o’erweighed, 
 Beneath a flowering poplar’s shade, 
 And seized the coronal and kissed 
 The blossoms (Love must have 
 his will), 
 
 And held them to his lips until 
 His eves were full of blissful mist, 
 Through which the bright scene 
 brighter shone 
 In iris colors all his own. 
 
 Then solemnly the flowers he prest 
 Beneath the crossed hands on his 
 breast, 
 
 And cried, “In face of Death and 
 Heaven, 
 
 This sacred wreath by thee was given, 
 And it shall not dishonored be! 
 Here, in face of Heaven and Death, 
 
 I pledge my life, my latest breath, 
 
 To Freedom and to thee !” 
 
 ‘‘ A valiant oath,—and nobly sworn! ’ ’ 
 Exclaimed a voice of thunder near ; 
 “ And, if it be no idle boast, 
 
 Go forth to-day, and take your post: 
 For hark ! ’tis Freedom’s bugle-horn 
 Which summons you from here ! 
 
 “ Mount yonder steed,—unless I err, 
 He will not wait for whip or spur, — 
 And I have one as good beside. 
 
 ’Tis well: we both have far to ride.” 
 
 The youth sprang up. The speaker’s 
 height 
 
 Loomed o’er him like a cloud of 
 night: 
 
 The palm on Edgar’s shoulder flung 
 In friendship, wellnigh made him 
 reel: 
 
 The pledging right hand ached and 
 stung, 
 
 Grasped in the wagoner’s grip of 
 steel. 
 
 “ Our place of secret rendezvous,” 
 
 He said, “ is only known to few,— 
 
 A cavern in a wild ravine, 
 
 Hid by the friendly oak and vine, 
 Where naught is heard but the 
 Brandywine, 
 
 Which rolls a shadowy flood between ; 
 A hidden place, that well might be 
 The stronghold of a robber crew : 
 Of such persuasion are not we, 
 
 Save in our royal tyrant’s view. 
 
 “ Your guide I cannot he to-day ; 
 
 My course lies far another way ; 
 
 But there is one will guide you true: 
 
 Already, with a heart of joy, 
 
 By yonder wall he waits for you, 
 Henceforth your friend,—the frolic 
 boy. 
 
 Mount you, and place the youth be¬ 
 hind,— 
 
 The wildest steed may carry 
 double,— 
 
 And in the holsters you will find 
 Two trusty guards in case of trouble. 
 
 “And when you meet the wild-eyed 
 dame 
 
 Who reigns within our secret place, 
 If she looks strangely in your face, 
 Speak kindly,—simply name my 
 name,— 
 
 That my command has brought you 
 hence; 
 
 No further it behooves to know : 
 ’Twere well you give her no offence: 
 
 She may be- Well, no matter: 
 
 go.” 
 
 They parted, and the youth obeyed, 
 And when the friendly evening laid 
 Concealment over rock and wave, 
 
 He gained the river and the cave. 13 
 
 PART II. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE YOUNG PATRIOT. 
 
 Three years the flying sun and shade 
 O’er Berkley Hall their change had 
 cast, 
 
 Since the wild urchin and the maid 
 Within its loyal portal passed. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 33 
 
 Two years the invader’s war-alarms 
 Had waked the land, which still 
 defied, 
 
 And oft the gleam of patriot arms 
 From Berkley’s turret was descried. 
 
 Upon his central roof a tower 
 
 Bose and o’erlooked the country 
 wide,— 
 
 A place scarce fit for lady’s bower ; 
 
 For there was seen, on every side, 
 Many a cast-off coat of war, 
 
 Helmet and sword, with hack and 
 scar, 
 
 With guns and pistols crosswise hung, 
 O’er which the dust of years was flung. 
 
 And there through many a changeful 
 hour 
 
 The anxious father and the maid 
 Through telescopic glass surveyed 
 The impending cloud of battle lower ; 
 They watched it move o’er land and 
 stream, 
 
 They saw the white sails come and 
 go, 
 
 And all the flashing splendor gleam 
 Along the bristling plains below. 
 
 There had they gazed through one 
 long day, 
 
 Watching an army glide away 
 Beyond the city’s western side,— 
 
 So far, the line was scarce descried ; 
 But Esther knew a nation’s trust 
 Marched there in that long cloud of 
 dust. 
 
 “Thank Heaven!” the loyalist ex¬ 
 claimed, 
 
 “ They are gone!—our city is re¬ 
 claimed, 
 
 And England’s banner now may fly, 
 To gladden every loyal e 3 T e !” 
 
 But now a voice, like a clarion clear, 
 Kang laughing in the speaker’s ear :— 
 “ I saw him! and your vaunt is 
 vain: 
 
 I saw him and his warrior train: 
 
 Had you beheld that hero host, 
 
 Your fears had not allowed the boast. ’ ’ 
 
 Who dared in Berkley's presence 
 proud 
 
 Speak rebel words so fierce and loud ? 
 
 3 
 
 Sir Hugh his hand in anger laid 
 Upon the handle of his blade; 
 
 But when he saw the wild-eyed boy, 
 
 And gazed upon his face of joy, 
 
 The vengeance in his breast was 
 stayed. 
 
 Then, with a tremor on his tongue, 
 While something paler grew his 
 cheek, 
 
 As some retarding memory clung 
 On the rebuke he fain would speak, 
 
 He said, “ Rash boy, beware ! beware ! 
 You put my kindness to the proof. 
 
 Is it for this my three years’ care 
 Has sheltered you beneath my roof? 
 
 Is it for this-” He said no more : 
 
 He saw the tear, the brow of pain,— 
 
 A look which he had seen before, 
 And one he would not see again. 
 
 “ Nay, Ugo, nay!” the maiden cried, 
 Her two hands clasping his be¬ 
 tween ; 
 
 Her tender e} T es to his replied, 
 
 And straightway all his troubled 
 mien 
 
 Grew bright, as when the iris form 
 
 Glows on the cloud that threatened 
 storm. 
 
 “Nay, Ugo, nay: speak out, and 
 say 
 
 The thin gs which you have seen to¬ 
 day.” 
 
 “Him have I seen,” the boy ex¬ 
 claimed, 
 
 “ Yes, him !—what needs he to be 
 named ? 
 
 The world has only one broad sun, 
 
 And Freedom’s world but Washing¬ 
 ton.” 
 
 Even while he spake that fiery word, 
 The stripling’s stature seemed to 
 grow; 
 
 All his young hero spirit stirred 
 Sent to his cheek the warrior glow: 
 
 Save the same look, which knew no 
 awe, 
 
 Learned on his native mountains 
 wild, 
 
 You scarcely longer saw the child 
 
 Which thrice a twelvemonth past you 
 saw. 
 
34 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 “Him have I seen!—oh, sight to 
 cheer 
 
 The patriot when he bleeding lies, 
 To kindle hope and scatter fear, 
 
 And light new fire in dying eyes ! 
 
 “ His way with banners waved and 
 burned; 
 
 The welkin rang with patriot 
 cheers ; 
 
 From every window fondly yearned 
 Bright eyes that spoke their joy in 
 tears. 
 
 “ And music round his pathway flung 
 Its gladness in a silver shower, 
 
 And over all the great bells swung, 
 Shouting their joy from every 
 tower. 
 
 “ The snow-white war-horse he be¬ 
 strode 
 
 Stept conscious, with a soul of 
 flame, 
 
 As if he knew his master rode 
 
 Straight to the glorious gates of 
 Fame. 
 
 ' l The coldest gazer’s heart grew 
 warm, 
 
 And felt no more its indecision ; 
 For every soul which saw that form 
 G-rew larger to contain the vision. 
 
 “I watched the long, long ranks go 
 by, u 
 
 And saw defiance in every eye; 
 
 And every soldier true and stanch 
 Wore in his cap a vernal branch, 
 
 As Victory had placed it there 
 For Fame to twine about his hair. 
 
 “ Oh, how the wild heart sent its 
 blood 
 
 Through all the frame, a throbbing 
 flood, 
 
 To see those spirits, true and tried, 
 "Who crossed at night the roaring 
 tide, 
 
 What time the grinding gulfs of 
 
 ice 
 
 Made all the desperate peril thrice, 
 When nothing but a patriot’s fire 
 Could breast the winter’s bitter ire,— 
 Who barefoot trod December’s snow, 
 And took the hirelings at a blow ! 
 
 “You should have seen that stream 
 of life 
 
 Westward go and eastward come, 
 Thrilled and cheered by the startling 
 fife, 
 
 Throbbed through and through by 
 many a drum. 
 
 “ There, on his charter fierce and 
 tall, 
 
 A fiery stallion black as night, 
 
 His bold front overtopping all,— 
 
 A very tower along the right,— 
 With eye that death could not deter, 
 His rifle o’er his shoulder flung, 
 Two pistols in his holsters hung, 
 Rode Ringbolt, the wild wagoner. 
 
 “ They who have seen that mighty 
 hand, 
 
 And heard the swearing of his whip, 
 May well conceive the giant grip 
 That wielded the commanding brand. 
 
 “ There, like a son by his warrior sire, 
 And mounted on a steed as good, 
 His eye aflame with patriot fire, 
 
 His cheek aflush with patriot blood, 
 Rode Edgar, and the leaves of green 
 Set in his cap had a rose between; 
 
 I knew not what the intent might be: 
 Perchance ’twas there for memory. 
 
 “ And after these a hundred more, 
 Obedient to the wagoner’s word, 
 
 As fierce a band as ever bore 
 
 Through fire and flood the aveng¬ 
 ing sword. 
 
 These were his 4 mountain eagles,’ — 
 these, 
 
 So often seen a flying cloud 
 That sweeps the hills through forest- 
 trees, 
 
 Following their leader loud,— 
 
 A cloud whose form 
 Is a whirlwind storm, 
 
 When on the flanks 
 Of the foeman’s ranks 
 It breaks from upland covert near, 
 And pours its sudden bolts of wrath, 
 Then gains anew the secret path 
 Ere it is said, 4 The storm is here !’ 
 Pale wonder strikes the columns wide, 
 And, ere the foe can count his slain, 
 Thundering down the other side 
 The swooping tempest strikes again. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 35 
 
 “ But yesterday I heard their tramp, 
 And saw their chargers dashing 
 down, 
 
 Each wild mane like a banner 
 blown: 
 
 They swam the river, leapt the 
 creek, 
 
 And o’er the near hills gained the 
 camp, 
 
 Bearing the news from Chesa¬ 
 peake.” 
 
 So spake the youth. The maid near by 
 Sat gazing in his clear, dark eye, 
 
 As if she saw in its depths, anew, 
 
 The whole bright pageant passing 
 through. 
 
 But Berkley frowned his blackest 
 frown, 
 
 As that would put the rebel down, 
 And cried, “ Well, sir, and is this all ? 
 The picture you would have us view 
 Is rare, and colored somewhat new : 
 Methinks ’twere easier to recall 
 That barefoot, tattered, hungry 
 crew 
 
 Quartered but now near Berkley Hall. 
 The farmers’ planted fields forlorn 
 Will make a poor return of corn, 
 
 And thievish birds wax fat, I fear, 
 Since all the scarecrows volun¬ 
 teer!” 
 
 And he laughed the bitter laugh of 
 scorn, 
 
 So grating to a patriot’s ear. 
 
 “ You know so well how a rebel feels 
 Eresh from his sty of mire and 
 straw, 
 
 While dangling, tangling ’twixt his 
 heels 
 
 Is dragged the sword he dares not 
 draw: 
 
 Gird on this brand, and let* us see 
 The brave young rebel you would 
 be!” 
 
 So speaking, he took from its place 
 of dust 
 
 A blade whose scabbard was thick 
 with rust:— 
 
 4 
 
 “ And this chapeau, for many a year 
 Untouched among the cobwebs here,— 
 The webs may serve you yet for lint; 
 This ancient gun, 
 
 With rust o’errun,— 
 
 It matters not the loss of flint; 
 
 A pistol or so to grace your side; 
 
 This old flask, too :—be naught denied 
 
 To deck you in your warrior pride ! 
 
 Behold you now! By Heaven, you 
 stand 
 
 As fair a rebel as walks the land J” 
 
 Again the bitter laugh was flung 
 
 From off the old man’s scornful 
 tongue. 
 
 The youth a moment glared in doubt, 
 Reddening like one who stands at 
 bay ; 
 
 But presently burst his laughter- 
 shout, 
 
 And, crying, “ Then be it as you 
 say!” 
 
 Wildly sprang from the tower 
 away. 
 
 They heard him descend the echoing 
 stair, 
 
 And Berkley stood with wondering 
 air, 
 
 Listening with wide eyes and lips, 
 Like a traveller on Vesuvius’ top 
 When his adventurous hand lets 
 drop 
 
 A stone into the yawning pit: 
 
 From rock to rock he hears it flit, 
 
 Till the noises die in a far eclipse. 
 
 But, when the clattering sounds were 
 past, 
 
 Sir Hugh stood with the look aghast 
 
 Of a sire who has held his favorite 
 boy, 
 
 In frolic, only to fright and annoy, 
 
 Over a precipice wild and deep, 
 
 When, with a sudden and desperate 
 leap, 
 
 The child is gone! and the father 
 stands, 
 
 Stunned and staring, with empty 
 hands. 
 
 II. 
 
 RUST OH THE SWORD. 
 
 0 happy and secure retreat, 
 
 Dear Valley, home of many friends ! 
 
 I envy even the hurried feet 
 
 Which fancy through your quiet 
 sends! 
 
36 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 There led of old the Cambrian swain 
 His flock by flowery brook and 
 rill, 
 
 Flinging across the summer plain 
 The song he learned on Snowdon’s 
 hill,— 
 
 Perchance some fragmentary strain 
 Of ancient Merlin’s wizard skill. 
 
 His language now no longer breathes 
 Its strange, wild music through the 
 scene, 
 
 But here and there a name still 
 wreathes 
 
 His memory in perpetual green. 
 Tredyffrin, Cain, and Nantmeal hold 
 Traditions of those sires of old ; 
 While Uwchlan, in her inmost vale, 
 May hear at eve some Cambrian tale. 
 
 Though many a brave ancestral name 
 Has, starlike, in the distance set, 
 Still thou hast others dear to Fame, 
 Forgetful Time shall not forget,— 
 Bright memories which shall long re¬ 
 main 
 
 Cherished by every patriot breast,— 
 That of the calm-browed painter 
 West, 
 
 And his, the fiery-hearted Wayne; 
 And in thy scientific bowers 
 
 Are those which fear nor frost nor 
 sun : 
 
 There, written with immortal flowers, 
 Are found such names as Darling¬ 
 ton. 
 
 Nor dost thou need my hand to fling 
 The poet’s offering on thy shrine:— 
 Among thy vales sweet minstrels sing 
 Like thine own flashing Brandy¬ 
 wine. 
 
 From Kennet, Taylor’s soaring strain 
 Rings like a silver bugle round, 
 
 As if on that near battle-plain 
 
 Some herald’s clarion he had found. 
 
 ’Twas midnight in the secret cave, 
 Darkness and silence reigning, save 
 The dreary muttering of the brands 
 That flickered where a caldron 
 hung; 
 
 While dreaming near, with folded 
 hands, 
 
 A woman sat, no longer young:— 
 No longer young,—or rather say 
 Her first youth only passed away. 
 
 Her hair, as by a wind thrown back, 
 Was glossy still, and thick and black ; 
 Her brow was clear, save where the 
 brain 
 
 Had set its outward seal of pain. 
 
 Her cheek was tanned, her eye was 
 bright 
 
 With something of unearthly light. 
 A string of mingled bead and shell, 
 Which seemed of woodland life to tell, 
 Entwined her head, and round her 
 waist 
 
 A costly wampum belt was placed ; 
 While on her tawnv neck and arm 
 Hung amulet and bracelet charm. 
 
 Her robes of mingled cloth and fur 
 With beads and quills embroidered 
 were: 
 
 And thus in her wild forest dress 
 She looked an Indian prophetess, 
 With still a something in her face, 
 And something in her slender mien, 
 Beyond the finest savage grace 
 
 That ever marked a chieftain’s 
 queen. 
 
 There sat she gazing, dreamy-eyed, 
 As if within the flame she spied 
 Visions of scenes long past and gone, 
 Or some strange pleasure yet to dawn. 
 But now her quick ear caught a 
 sound,— 
 
 A stealthy footfall drawing near : 
 
 A light hare tripping o’er the ground 
 Would wake her eye, but not her 
 fear: 
 
 Still through the leaves it came 
 more clear,— 
 
 Her hand was on the rifle laid, 
 
 Her quick glance pierced the cavern’s 
 shade; 
 
 But soon the well-known whisper 
 came, 
 
 Giving the watchword and her name : 
 “Hist, Nora!—hist! ’tis I!”—she 
 bade 
 
 Young Ugo enter undismayed. 
 
 A moment in his laughing eye 
 
 She gazed, then scanned his strange 
 attire: 
 
 His figure brightened by the fire, 
 His shadow looming darkly high, 
 
 The sword, the gun, the pistols, hat,— 
 With questioning look she stared 
 thereat. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 37 
 
 “ Say, Ugo, say, where was the theft ? 
 "What loyalist have you bereft V’ 
 
 “ No theft,” the hoy indignant cried, 
 11 But gift of one who hade me don 
 These rebel arms, and urged me on, 
 Until, to please him, I complied; 
 
 But who, or where, or when, or how, 
 The question matters little now. 
 Come, Nora,—you were ever good,— 
 I only ask a little food, 
 
 And then your helping hand to-night 
 To make this old sword somewhat 
 bright; 
 
 While on these pistols I renew 
 The polish which is still their due, 
 And from the gun remove the crust 
 Of honorable dust and rust; 
 
 For well I know the time is near— 
 The scene, too, not o’er far from 
 here— 
 
 When every weapon we can wield 
 Shall he most dear to Freedom’s 
 field.” 
 
 She gave him food with generous 
 hand, 
 
 And then essayed to cleanse the 
 brand; 
 
 And, while she wrought the blade 
 along, 
 
 She cheered her toiling hand with 
 song. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 Oh, sweet is the sound of the shuttle 
 and loom 
 
 When the lilies of peace fill the land 
 with perfume ! 
 
 Then cheerily echoes the axe from the 
 hill, 
 
 While the bright waters sing on the 
 wheel of the mill, 
 
 And the anvil rings out like a hell 
 through the day, 
 
 And the wagoner’s song cheers his 
 team on the way, 
 
 Till the bugles sound here, and the 
 drums rattle there, 
 
 And the banners of War stream afar 
 on the air. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Then wild is the hour, and fearful the 
 day, 
 
 When the shuttle is dropt for the 
 sword and the fray, 
 
 When the woodman is felling a foe at 
 each stroke, 
 
 And the miller is blackened with 
 powder and smoke, 
 
 When the smith wields the blade in 
 his terrible grip, 
 
 And the wagoner’s rifle cracks true 
 as his whip: 
 
 The bugles sound here, and the drums 
 rattle there, 
 
 While the banners of War stream 
 afar on the air. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Our brave-h earted yeomen,—our lords 
 of the soil,— 
 
 They reap where they sow the reward 
 of their toil ; 
 
 In the broad field of labor their harvest 
 is blithe, 
 
 Their favorite arms the plough, sickle, 
 and scythe : 
 
 The plough and the sickle, the scythe 
 and the flail,— 
 
 These, these are their weapons, with 
 these they prevail, 
 
 Till the bugles sound here, and the 
 drums rattle there, 
 
 And the banners of War stream afar 
 on the air. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then the plough-horse is mounted, 
 and flies o’er the plain, 
 
 The blade is flung by in the grass or 
 the grain, 
 
 And the hand that grew strong on 
 the flail or the plough, 
 
 And battled alone with the harvest 
 till now, 
 
 The rifle and sword can as steadily 
 wield, 
 
 Till the harvest of foemen is swept 
 from the field ; 
 
 While the bugles sound here, and the 
 drums rattle there, 
 
 And the banners of War stream afar 
 on the air. 
 
38 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 V. 
 
 Be God on our side in the season of 
 dread ! 
 
 Be His strength with the living, His 
 peace with the dead ; 
 
 His love shield the widow and orphan, 
 His care 
 
 Soothe the parents whose sorrow shall 
 whiten their hair; 
 
 Be success with the right when the 
 struggle is through, 
 
 And the sword he returned to the 
 ploughshare anew, 
 
 And no bugle sound here, and no 
 drum rattle there, 
 
 While the banners of Peace stream 
 afar on the air ! 
 
 Thus, singing strenuously, she toiled 
 To cleanse the blade which Time had 
 soiled. 
 
 The dull stains clung unto the steel, 
 As they were spots of murderous 
 red 
 
 Whose stubborn hue must needs re¬ 
 veal 
 
 The crime when first that blood 
 was shed. 
 
 She knelt before the midnight flame, 
 Which seemed to leap with pleas¬ 
 ure new: 
 
 She gazed,—a chill ran through her 
 frame 
 
 As if a spectre met her view : 
 
 She saw the Berkley arms and name 
 Slow struggling through the veil of 
 rust, 
 
 Then swooned, and sank into the dust. 
 
 But Ugo’s aid was instant there : 
 
 He raised her head upon his knee, 
 Called her by name, smoothed back 
 her hair, 
 
 Looked with a face of mute despair 
 On hers of pallid agony. 
 
 At length a breath came full and 
 deep, 
 
 And then, as one who walks in sleep 
 And sees with large unwavering eyes 
 Through veils of awful mysteries, 
 
 She stared, and sighed, “ 0 Heaven ! 
 ’tis done!— 
 
 Where fought the two there stands 
 hut one 
 
 Then passed her hand across her brow, 
 And looked in the o’erbending face, 
 Which still its pitying posture kept:— 
 “ O Ugo, do not leave me now !” 
 
 She groaned. “It is a dreary 
 * place ! ’ ’ 
 
 Then bowed her head and wept. 
 
 “ Go, lay her on her couch apart!” 
 The deep voice made, the hearers start. 
 She choked the tears hack to her heart, 
 And mounted like a wounded deer 
 That hears its calling comrade near. 
 
 “ Good Nora, we have much to do,” 
 Said Kingbolt, “ yet no need of you. 
 Our eagle troop will soon be here : 
 They tether now their horses near. 
 The boy our sentinel watch can keep, 
 So to your couch awhile and sleep. 
 
 “ Unless the storm should pass, or 
 pause, 
 
 Which hangs in thunder o’er the 
 land, 
 
 Ere set of many suns, your hand 
 May do good service in our cause. 
 
 “All night the well-piled fire must 
 glow, 
 
 All night the molten lead be 
 poured, 
 
 Our guns recleaned, resharped the 
 sword, 
 
 In honor of the approaching foe ; 
 And if it he, as beldams say, 
 
 The devil feasts when tyrants fall, 
 Let his infernal board straightway 
 Be spread, with room enough for 
 all!” 
 
 hi. 
 
 A BUKIAL. 
 
 Round all the wide horizon’s bar 
 There lay no growing cloud to mar 
 The brightness of the autumn day ; 
 And yet the soft air felt the jar 
 Of thunder rolling from afar, 15 
 And shuddered in its pale dismay. 
 
 Berkley, with anxious eye and ear, 
 Stood on the southern porch to hear, 
 Disturbed with many a doubt and fear, 
 As rolled the distant roaring in ; 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 39 
 
 Then to his tower he mounted high, 
 And searched through all the cloud¬ 
 less sky: 
 
 All, all was clear, while still came 
 by 
 
 The rumble of the constant din. 
 
 Was direful war the sudden source ? 
 Was it for this the rebel force 
 Had ta’en hut now their southward 
 course ? 
 
 The sound his fears too well define ! 
 It is, it is the cannon’s mouth! 
 
 Its awful answer from the south 
 Bears tidings of the roaring ranks 
 That crash upon the trembling banks, 
 The crimson banks, of Brandywine. 
 
 Pale Esther, in that gloomy tower, 
 Strained her sad vision’s fruitless 
 power: 
 
 On every sound she seemed to hear 
 The shout and groan together swell; 
 At every burst that came more clear, 
 She deemed her hero Edgar fell,— 
 Fell, and perchance had breathed his 
 last 
 
 Long ere the death-announcing blast, 
 Speeding through miles of frighted 
 air, 
 
 His dying sigh to her could bear. 
 
 Still hearkening, gazing far abroad, 
 Some sign of triumph to discover, 
 All day she poured her prayer to God 
 To shield her country and her lover. 
 
 And Berkley, listening to the fight, 
 Remembered Trenton’s direful night, 
 And that it was the same fierce train 
 Whose lengthy line he saw of late 
 Pour from the city o’er the plain, 
 
 Led by a leader bold and great, 
 Who now upon that roaring field 
 Might cause once more their flag to 
 yield. 
 
 His heart, misgiving, sank away, 
 Shuddering through the doubtful 
 day: 
 
 And should the rebels win, what 
 then ?— 
 
 The troops were bold and desperate 
 men : 
 
 And he remembered with affright 
 The terrors of that startling night 
 
 What time a rude and lawless crew 
 (All such he deemed the patriot 
 lines) 
 
 Intruded on his midnight view 
 
 And drank his dearest, noblest 
 wines: 
 
 His frame was agued through and 
 through 
 
 Lest that wild scene should come 
 anew. 
 
 u Ho ! gardener, hostler, coachman !— 
 ho ! 
 
 Each man whose hand can wield a. 
 spade! 
 
 A place of safety must be made : 
 Bring shovels, hoes, and picks, and 
 show 
 
 How you can ply the digging trade. ’ ’ 
 When Berkley’s will was thus con¬ 
 veyed, 
 
 Down came the gardener and his 
 man, 
 
 The hostler and the hostler’s lad, 
 The coachman and the footman ran, 
 And each his delving orders had. 
 
 “ Dig me a pit!” the master cried, 
 
 “ And let it be both deep and wide, 
 
 As ’twere a grave that might contain 
 A score or more of rebels slain. 
 
 But they for whom this grave is made 
 Belong unto a nobler grade, 
 
 With better blood than ever ran 
 In purple veins of outlaw clan. 
 
 Their royal genealogic lines 
 Come down the Old World’s antique 
 vines: 
 
 Ho, butler ! my good sacristan, 
 
 Bear out our monarch king of wines, 
 Old Port, in all his purple pride, 
 
 With queenly Sherry at his side, 
 Followed by all their loyal train, 
 The brave, light-hearted German 
 knights 
 
 Whose birth was on the Rhenish 
 heights, 
 
 The well-beloved of Charlemagne, 
 And all those maids whose bright 
 eyes'glance 
 
 In memory of their native France. 
 Here, give them to their parent mould 
 Till peace has stilled this rebel 
 strife; 
 
 Then doubly bright and doubly bold 
 Shall be their renovated life.” 
 
40 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Sir Hugh, thus making mournful 
 mirth, 
 
 That poorly cloaked his trembling 
 fear,— 
 
 It may be with a secret tear,— 
 
 Consigned his precious wines to earth : 
 
 ’Twas midnight ere they smoothed 
 away 
 
 All traces where his treasures lay. 
 
 ; Twas midnight, and a moon in 
 heaven, 
 
 And silence over stream and hill, 
 Save where the lone bird’s song was 
 given, 
 
 Or aspens, with a whispering thrill, 
 Seemed sheltering some young wind 
 benighted, 
 
 Late from the battle-field affrighted. 
 The moon which through the window 
 gazed 
 
 Saw Esther ’gainst her harp re¬ 
 clining, 
 
 Her pale and prayerful face upraised, 
 
 And each eye with a tear-drop 
 shining. 
 
 Her prophet-heart foreboding well 
 The fate which to that field befell, 
 Her fingers trembled on the string, 
 And thus her prayerful song took 
 wing. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 0 God, o’er all this blooming earth 
 Is it with thine approving eye 
 
 That every flower of noble birth 
 Must bow to poisonous weeds, or 
 die? 
 
 ii. 
 
 Through all our pastures must there 
 run 
 
 The bramble which no fruitage 
 bears ? 
 
 Must every field which loves the sun 
 Be arrogant with choking tares ? 
 
 hi. 
 
 Must every tree whose leaves divine 
 "Were made in Freedom’s air to 
 spread, 
 
 Be clasped by the obnoxious vine 
 Until its boughs are sapped and 
 dead? 
 
 IY. 
 
 Wilt thou not send some mighty hand 
 
 To sweep through these entangled 
 walks, 
 
 To root the proud weeds from the land 
 
 And burn the rank and thorny 
 stalks ? 
 
 A moment now she paused, and 
 sighed, 
 
 Her hand still on the quivering 
 cords, 
 
 As waiting the ensuing words, 
 When, at the open casement wide, 
 
 A voice in patriot tones replied:— 
 
 u Yes, God hath sent that arm 01 
 wrath: 
 
 It sweeps the land with sword of 
 fire: 
 
 The poisonous weeds but strew his 
 path 
 
 To build Oppression’s funeral 
 pyre 1” 
 
 Sweet is the sound when pardon calls 
 The prisoner from his dreary walls: 
 And sweet the succoring voice must be 
 Which hails a sinking ship at sea ; 
 And dear the water’s light when first 
 It greets the desert-pilgrim’s thirst, 
 Or from the friendly helmet drips 
 To cool a fainting patriot’s lips: 
 
 But not more sweet or dear than when 
 A fond heart hears and meets again 
 The voice and the responding eye 
 Of one, the dearest ’neath the sky, 
 Whom picturing fancy saw but now 
 With drooping head and bleeding 
 brow, 
 
 Or heard the last-drawn sigh of pain 
 Which laid him with his comrades 
 slain: 
 
 Her arm was round her hero prest, 
 Her head was on his happy breast. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 41 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE EIGHT AT THE FORD. 
 When passed the first wild burst of 
 
 joy— 
 
 That bliss which harbors no alloy,— 
 The maiden brushed aside the tear, 
 And sighed, “ Oh, Edgar, is it 
 true ? 
 
 And are you living, breathing here, 
 Or is’t a phantom cheats my view, 
 And leads me up this happy brink 
 To plunge me deeper when I sink? 
 Art sure that from the dreadful fray 
 You brought no bleeding wound 
 away ? 
 
 Thank Heaven that fainting prayer 
 can win 
 
 Its way above the battle-din ! 
 
 But tell me what great deeds were 
 done, 
 
 How the red waves were backward 
 tossed 
 
 Until the glorious field was won-” 
 
 “ Alas !” he answered, “ it was lost! 
 And we retreat,—so deems the foe; 
 But soon his bleeding ranks shall 
 know 
 
 ’Tis but the arrow drawing back 
 Upon the stubborn-bending bow, 
 
 To deal a fiercer, deadlier blow 
 
 When vengeance speeds it on its 
 track. 
 
 11 But how shall I describe the fray? 
 How word the horrors of the day 
 To suit a timid maiden’s ear ? 
 
 In sooth, the scenes are yet too 
 near: 
 
 The roaring cannon and the strife, 
 With all those whirling ranks of life, 
 Sweep through my brain, a puzzled 
 maze, 
 
 Confused within a cloudy haze : 
 
 It seems a wild and broken dream, 
 With transitory glimpse and gleam 
 Of grappling groups, of bayonets’ 
 quiver, 
 
 Of flashing guns and sabre-stroke, 
 Caught through’ the openings of the 
 smoke 
 
 Upon some visionary river. 
 
 “ Wrapt in a friendly cloud of mist, 
 
 At morn the wagoner led us out, 
 
 And, following our bold leader’s 
 shout, 
 
 We put the pickets oft to rout, 
 
 Oft trampling down a scouting list, 
 And oft upon the foeman’s flanks 
 We dealt the blow their startled 
 ranks 
 
 Scarce knew where to resist. 
 
 “ For hours we sailed from rear to 
 front, 
 
 And down their side, from front to 
 rear: 
 
 Death and confusion paid the brunt 
 Wherever we came near. 
 
 Anon was heard the opening roar 
 Which called us to the bristling shore ; 
 And now the fearful scene was won 
 Where deadly gun replied to gun, 
 And pistol answered pistol flash, 
 
 And then the fiery, sudden dash 
 Of hand to hand, and sword to 
 sword, 
 
 While in the stream, with plunge 
 and splash, 
 
 Though thrice our number on us 
 poured, 
 
 We dealt the thick foe crash for crash, 
 And strove to hold the ford. 
 
 “ Now w r as the time you should have 
 seen 
 
 Bold Ringbolt with his towering 
 mien; 
 
 Have heard his voice, have seen his 
 blow 
 
 Which drove the heavy weapon 
 home, 
 
 Each stroke of which unhorsed a foe, 
 And sent him reeling red below, 
 
 ’Mid trampled waters crushed to 
 foam. 
 
 But, oh, it would have touched your 
 pride 
 
 Could you have seen at Ringbolt’s side 
 Our standard-bearer, young and 
 bold, 
 
 Fighting and grasping in his hold 
 The banner whose unsullied fold 
 The foeman’s rage defied ! 
 
 “ But, sad to see, and sad to tell, 
 Brave Ugo’s horse beneath him fell, 
 The banner-boy went down. 
 
 A moment,—shall the horses’ tread 
 Deal death upon his struggling head ? 
 A moment,—shall he drown ? 
 
42 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 * 
 
 No !—Ringbolt from his saddle leaps, 
 His mighty arm is round him cast, 
 But still his fighting posture keeps, 
 His blows fly strong and fast. 
 
 “ The rider who survives must grieve 
 That ere his brave steed strove to 
 cleave 
 
 With rearing hoof that skull apart, 
 He fell an instant carcass slain, 
 Hewed wellnigh through from throat 
 to mane, 
 
 Or gashed unto the heart. 
 
 “No arm with that great arm could 
 cope, 
 
 Whether or foot or fiery horse ; 
 
 But now, as with a tiger’s force 
 When battling to protect its young, 
 Upon his steed again he sprung, 
 While in his hold the boy still 
 hung, 
 
 And grasping, as with grip of 
 death, 
 
 The reins between his angry teeth, 
 To give his right arm clearing scope, 
 There still his blade of battle swung, 
 And on the pressing foemen flung 
 The blow that to the invaders rung 
 The knell of many a hero’s hope. 
 
 “ At last the overwhelming tide 
 Of foemen pressed us slowly back ; 
 We did not turn, we did not slack 
 Our heavy blows, or ever flinch, 
 But, slowly backing, inch by inch, 
 We gained the other side. 
 
 But now was heard the roaring din 
 Of Wayne’s artillery pouring in ; 
 And while its iron torrent flowed, 
 Leaving the foe enough to do, 
 Along the highway we withdrew, 
 To breathe a little, and reload. 
 
 “ When Ugo wakened from his swoon, 
 Gathering his scattered senses soon, 
 He sought the banner of his pride ; 
 He looked through all the busy 
 band, 
 
 And stared upon his empty hand, 
 Then cast his eagle glances wide. 
 
 1 Oh, death ! oh, infamy !’ he cried : 
 He saw it on the other side, 
 
 Beneath the invader’s standard tied, 
 Heavily hanging, wet and tame, 
 Weeping as ’twerein grief and shame. 
 
 “ The hour was loud, but louder still 
 Anon the rage of battle roared 
 Its wild and murderous will; 
 
 From Jefferis down to Wistar’s ford, 
 From Jones to Chads the cannon 
 poured, 
 
 While thundered Osborne Hill. 
 
 Oh, ne’er before fled holy calm 
 
 From out its sainted house of prayer 
 So frighted through the trembling 
 air 
 
 As from that shrine of Birmingham! 
 
 “Oft through the opening cloud we 
 scanned 
 
 The shouting leaders, sword in hand, 
 Directing the tumultuous scene ; 
 There galloped Maxwell, gallant 
 Bland 
 
 The poet-warrior, while between, 
 Ringing o’er all his loud command, 
 Dashed the intrepid Greene. 
 
 “ Here Sullivan in fury trooped, 
 There Weedon like an eagle swooped, 
 With Muhlenberg,—where they were 
 grouped 
 
 The invader dearly earned his 
 gains,— 
 
 And (where the mad should only be 
 The fiercest champion of the free) 
 The loudest trumpet-call was 
 Wayne’s ; 
 
 While in a gale of battle-glee, 
 
 With rapid sword and pistol dealing 
 The blows which set the foemen 
 reeling, 
 
 Sped 1 light-horse Harry Lee.’ 
 
 And once or twice our eye descried, 
 ’Mid clouds a moment blown aside, 
 With lifted hand that well might 
 wield 
 
 The thunders of the storming field, 
 The Jove of battle ride ! 
 
 And every eye new courage won 
 Which gazed that hour on Washing¬ 
 ton. 
 
 “ ’Twas now that, marvelling, we be¬ 
 held 
 
 Upon the rising summit near, 
 
 By every danger unrepelled, 
 
 Confused by smoke and dust,—not 
 fear,— 
 
 A form with wild and floating dress, 
 Which looked a battle-prophetess. 
 
“ There still his blade of battle swung.” 
 
 Page 42, 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHA NIES. 
 
 43 
 
 But when the veiling cloud went 
 
 by, 
 
 We knew the face and flashing eye 
 Of Nora, and we heard her cry 
 Of warning in that hour of need :— 
 
 “ ‘ Speed, Ringbolt, to your leader 
 speed! 
 
 And hid him know the stealthy foe 
 With double strength comes up be¬ 
 hind : 
 
 It was hut now I saw him wind 
 From out the valley road below.’ 
 
 “She ceased: a short and sudden 
 scream 
 
 Escaped her breast; across the stream, 
 Far piercing through the veil of 
 haze, 
 
 Her fierce eyes sent their staring 
 gaze, 
 
 And, following that stare, we saw, 
 With soul of wonder and of awe, 
 Where Porter and bold Porterfield 
 Renewed the struggle at the ford; 
 And at the moment when the sword 
 Swayed in the balance where to yield, 
 In middle of the mad melee 
 Young Ugo snatch his flag away, 
 Leap from the hot, opposing shore, 
 The banner tied about his waist, 
 And in the flood plunge fiercely o’er, 
 By a hundred whistling bullets 
 chased, 
 
 And soon, with wild ecstatic hand, 
 
 He waved it ’mid our shouting band. 
 
 “ Naught dearer fills a soldier’s sight, 
 Or swells his breast with more delight, 
 Than when his flag, late scorned and 
 shamed, 
 
 Is by some comrade’s hand reclaimed. 
 
 “ Another look, the ford was clear, 
 The foe was reeling to the rear ; 
 
 And now the smoke came deeper on, 
 And Nora from our sight was gone. 
 But still her voice rang high and loud: 
 
 The speaker hid, the sound so near, 
 It seemed some spirit of the cloud 
 Spake those prophetic words of 
 fear :— 
 
 ‘Too late! too late!’ this was the 
 cry: 
 
 ‘ Fly, Ringbolt, Ugo, comrades !—fly ! 
 The reinforcing foe is here !’ 
 
 “ What followed then I scarcely 
 know, 
 
 Save that we dashed amid the 
 smoke, 
 
 And where we saw a red line glow, 
 There fell our fiery battle-stroke: 
 
 Like a mad billow of the main 
 
 We broke upon those thundering 
 banks, 
 
 Then, drawing backward, formed 
 again, 
 
 To burst anew along their ranks. 
 
 “ For hours the scene was still the 
 same,— 
 
 A sleet of lead ’mid sheets of flame; 
 
 The hot hail round us hissed and 
 roared, 
 
 Through clouds of seething sulphur 
 poured, 
 
 Until—we knew not how or why— 
 
 The day was lost! Our saddened 
 view 
 
 Between the smoke-wreaths’ opening 
 wrack 
 
 Beheld the patriots falling back : 
 
 The hour of victory had gone by ! 
 
 Still fighting, we our line withdrew, 
 Scorning to yield or fly. 
 
 “And now we gained a sheltering 
 wood, 
 
 Where (oh, it was a sight to whet 
 The sword of vengeance keener 
 yet!), 
 
 Pale with the streaming loss of blood, 
 By hireling foemen still beset, 
 
 Beside his foaming charger stood 
 The wounded, gallant Lafayette. 
 
 “We swept between, with scathing 
 blow, 
 
 Until his bleeding wound was 
 bound: 
 
 Each drop of his the cloven foe 
 Paid double to the crimson ground, 
 
 Until from off that field forlorn 
 
 The noblest son of France was borne. 
 
 “But, oh, the sight, the last and 
 worst, 
 
 That now upon my vision burst!— 
 
 I saw, beyond a thicket-screen, 
 
 Pale Nora o’er a warrior lean; 
 
44 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE A L LEG HA NIES. 
 
 His head upon her knee she nursed, 
 And held unto his fainting lip 
 The can he scarce had strength to 
 sip. 
 
 A few swift leaps, we gained the place. 
 Oh, be the hireling doubly cursed 
 Who caused that noble breast to 
 groan! 
 
 It was my father’s upturned face 
 Which looked into my own. 
 
 411 Nay, son,’ he faintly sighed, the 
 while 
 
 His features wore a struggling smile, 
 4 Be not dismayed, ’twill pass anon : 
 
 ’Tis but a little loss of blood: 
 
 I am content: my hand has done 
 On many a foeman work as good ; 
 And some, metbinks, will never tell 
 Beneath what old man’s sword they 
 fell. 
 
 But bear me hence: this trifling 
 wound-’ 
 
 Then in my circling arms he swooned. 
 Nay, start not: still it was not 
 death,— 
 
 His breast anon recalled his breath. 
 
 41 We made a couch of fallen boughs, 
 Which thickly strewed the wood¬ 
 land path, 
 
 Torn by the cannon’s flying wrath, 
 And, with such speed as pain allows, 
 Conveyed him to the cavern, where 
 He rests in Nora’s watchful care; 
 Then, with the moon to light my way, 
 I rode to tell how went the day.” 
 
 y. 
 
 THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 The red October by his tent 
 
 Sits painted in his warrior-hues ; 
 Beside him lies, in peace unbent, 
 
 The bow which he too soon will use. 
 
 O’er all the hill-sides near and far 
 He sees the wigwam-smoke dis¬ 
 pread ; 
 
 There all his waiting warriors are, 
 Streaked with their many tints of 
 red. 
 
 Through all the realm of elm and oak 
 The blue wreaths of their pipes 
 increase: 
 
 Alas ! the calumets they smoke 
 Are not the sacred pipes of peace! 
 
 They plan around their council-fire 
 The ambush on to-morrow’s track; 
 They do but wait their warrior-sire 
 To give the signal of attack. 
 
 The smile upon his lip to-day, 
 
 The dream-light in his plotting eye, 
 Are but prophetic signs to say 
 
 How fierce the arrow-storm shall fly. 
 
 Thus Esther mused, as from her tower 
 She gazed o’er misty stream and 
 land: 
 
 She knew ’twas but War’s breathing- 
 hour 
 
 Ere he again, in all his power, 
 
 Should wave his flashing battle- 
 brand. 
 
 Even there, beneath her very gaze, 
 The invader’s bristling lines were 
 spread, 
 
 Wrapt in the calm October haze, 
 And, like the Indian autumn, red. 
 From Delaware their scarlet ranks 
 Beached even to the Schuylkill banks, 
 So near the very mansion-wall 
 Echoed the frequent bugle-call,— 
 
 A sight to make a young heart sad/ 
 And all her patriot hopes destroy,— 
 While Berkley’s loyal breast was mad 
 With uncontrolled bursts of joy. 
 
 He gave the invaders every proof 
 How much his wishes wdth them 
 lay : 
 
 Their flag was waving on his roof, 
 His halls received them night and 
 day; 
 
 He even broached his buried store, 
 And brought a dozen hampers out, 
 Willing with generous hand to pour, 
 Bepaid by loyal song and shout. 
 
 But one there was whose bowing 
 plume 
 
 Was chiefly welcome to Sir Hugh, 
 And once before that banquet-room 
 Had felt his presence through and 
 through,— 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 45 
 
 The same who on that long-gone 
 night 
 
 The maiden’s swelling song had 
 heard, 
 
 Who deigned from his great warrior- 
 height 
 
 To stoop, and own his heart was 
 stirred. 
 
 Now oft in Berkley’s ear apart 
 
 He spoke about the maiden’s hand : 
 “ The heiress of such noble land, 
 Sir Hugh, should have a noble heart.” 
 And once, with condescending lips, 
 He bowed and kissed her finger-tips,— 
 Sufficient such approving sign 
 From colonel of the royal line. 
 
 Thus passed a few calm days away ; 
 And now the night was not yet gone, 
 Its dreamy veil but half withdrawn, 
 Fair Esther on her white couch lay, 
 Her soft light melting through the 
 shade; 
 
 Her cheek against her hand was laid, 
 Bound which the dainty flaxen curls 
 Were cast in little golden whirls, 
 
 As Love’s own toying fingers light 
 Had twirled them o’er the pillow 
 white. 
 
 That rounded arm, that angel face, 
 The breast that stirred the snowy 
 frills. 
 
 The whole light form of perfect grace, 
 Which the soft covering seemed to 
 trace 
 
 As loving it with warm embrace,— 
 All this the conjuring fancy thrills ; 
 Thrills with a sense of sweet restraint, 
 As when before some sculptured saint, 
 Or lovely vision poured in paint 
 By some pure master, when his heart 
 Was molten with the fire of art. 
 
 Across her face strange shadows 
 played, 
 
 As if by struggling pinions made; 
 For she was dreaming of the fray, 
 Watching, amid the smoke-wreaths 
 dun, 
 
 Her Edgar bravely battling on, 
 
 The fiercest hero of the day. 
 
 She saw him riding midst the din 
 That raged around the Warren Inn, 
 
 And on Paoli’s fearful plain, 
 
 When Massacre the sword had 
 drawn. 
 
 The trumpet’s near and startling 
 strain, 
 
 That fiercely shook the cloudy 
 dawn, 
 
 The drums that rolled their loud 
 alarms, 
 
 And legions springing up to arms, 
 Flashed through her dream, and, 
 when she woke, 
 
 Upon her ear the tumult broke! 
 
 Leaders were hurrying to and fro, • 
 Proclaiming far, “ The foe ! the foe !” 
 “ The foe ! the foe !” rang over all, 
 And woke the echoes of Berkley 
 
 Hall. 
 
 When Esther looked from her case¬ 
 ment high, 
 
 Fear trembling in her large blue 
 eye, 
 
 She stared against the vapor dank 
 Of morning hanging gray and blank. 16 
 
 Great wrestling voices in the cloud, 
 Made by the mist more clear and 
 loud, 
 
 Appalled her ear; the sudden roar 
 Of swift artillery shook the shore ; 
 While here and there the half-blurred 
 flash 
 
 Burned, and every window-sash 
 Answered to the thunder-crash. 
 
 t 
 
 Anon she saw some warrior-form, 
 Like the great genii of the storm, 
 Kise into shadowy giant height, 
 
 And then another of equal might, 
 And now the followers swung in 
 sight, 
 
 Wielding great arms,—as oak with 
 oak 
 
 Were battling in the hill-side smoke; 
 Or armies of the infernal god, 
 
 With lightning and with thunder 
 shod, 
 
 Were wielding their gigantic blades 
 Against the crests of kindred shades ; 
 Or, rather, as some pale, strange light 
 Were shining on some unseen fight, 
 And these the shadows fierce and tall 
 It threw upon a cold gray wall, 
 Struggling in many a rise and fall. 
 
46 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 A scene of horror clear descried 
 Must make the stoutest spirit quail; 
 But horrors doubly magnified 
 Behind a half-concealing veil 
 May well make maiden’s cheek grow 
 pale. 
 
 One deep, renewing breath she draws : 
 She scorns the weakness thus dis¬ 
 played, 
 
 Contemns the soul that now would 
 pause, 
 
 And gains her feet, no more afraid. 
 
 She watched the sun rise o’er the field, 
 A great disk like a bloody shield, 
 And ’gainst it rose a vision dim, 
 Made clearer by that burning rim, 
 Two plunging riders huge and grim ; 
 Their fiery chargers seemed to swim 
 Together in the wild commotion, 
 Like war-barques in a roaring 
 ocean. 
 
 But who is he, that warrior slim, 
 Now lost to sight, and now more 
 plain ? 
 
 The agile form proclaims it him 
 The object of her heart’s devotion. 
 But, see 1—oh, monstrous !—even the 
 sun 
 
 Burns redder, beholding three to 
 
 one,— 
 
 Three striking and one parrying! 
 Now, 
 
 Doubling the tumult of the scene, 
 Another giant swings between ! 
 Swift flash the blades around his 
 brow, 
 
 Like lightning o’er some rocky crest, 
 Drawn by the metal in its breast: 
 But, like the storm-defying rock, 
 Harmless about him breaks the shock ; 
 The battle-clouds, confused and rent, 
 Are backward hurled, their thunders 
 spent. 
 
 Still side by side the heroes fight, 
 Following the foe from left to right; 
 Swift flies the Wagoner’s whirling 
 blade, 
 
 And Edgar’s is its very shade. 
 
 See how they rear, and plunge, and 
 smite, 
 
 And, fighting still, wheel out of 
 sight. 
 
 Her throbbing eyes can hear no more: 
 She sinks, half fainting, to the floor. 
 
 But no ! her heart is with the cause: 
 Shall she thus sink away dismayed 
 The while her Edgar’s flaming blade 
 Is flashing even as she hade? 
 
 Before his door, with sword in hand, 
 Sir Hugh was making warlike stand, 
 When a troop of loyalists came by, 
 Uncertain if to fight or fly: 
 
 Such contradictory news was tossed 
 
 Through fogs that veiled the battle- 
 din, 
 
 They dared not say which side 
 would win, 
 
 But to their secret hearts within 
 They owned the dreadful day was lost. 
 
 One glance at Berkley Hall they threw, 
 And saw the flag which o’er it flew: 
 
 “ Ho, sirrah rebel! who are you ?” 
 They cried, and trooped around Sir 
 Hugh. 
 
 “ Rebel!” he echoed, in disdain : 
 
 “ Who dares such words apply again, 
 This hand shall drive the lying breath 
 Back to his throat through bleeding 
 teeth ; 
 
 This sword shall cleave the caitiff 1 
 through 
 
 Who dares that insult to renew.” 
 
 “ Ho ! ho 1” they cried,—“a prize! a 
 prize ! 
 
 The rebel dog, through fear and 
 shame, 
 
 Would skulk beneath a loyal name ; 
 But where yon rag insults the skies 
 
 We know full well our right to 
 claim.” 
 
 “That rag? Insult?”—He choked 
 with ire; 
 
 He said no more ; his eye of fire 
 Flashed confidently o’er the roof, 
 When—oh, the staggering, deadly 
 proof! 
 
 His heart, as from a towering crag, 
 Fell back, as stunned in dismal 
 plight. 
 
 Where now his valiant soul of 
 might, 
 
 The spirit never known to lag? 
 There, sailing on the winds aloof, 
 
 He saw the hated patriot flag, 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALL EG HA NIES. 
 
 47 
 
 "While Ugo’s clear and ringing voice 
 Flung from the watch-tower far 
 and free— 
 
 Making the misty air rejoice— 
 
 The fiery shout of Victory. 
 
 Bold Berkley stood with wonder 
 dumb, 
 
 Confused, as dead to sight and 
 sound ; 
 
 But, when he felt his senses come, 
 
 He chafed to find his arms were 
 hound; 
 
 And then, with high, indignant 
 mien, 
 
 Mounted two surly guards between, 
 
 He left with threatening brow the 
 scene. 
 
 Sir Hugh long cursed the fatal hour 
 Which saw that flag upon his tower : 
 Oh, sad mischance that placed it 
 there 
 
 In that wild moment when despair 
 Was trembling down the royal line,— 
 When Victory, with her thrusting 
 hand, 
 
 Through blinding fogs, strove to con¬ 
 sign 
 
 o 
 
 Her laurel to the patriot band ! 17 
 And Berkley, ready for the field, 
 
 At his own door, with waving 
 sword, 
 
 Stood threatening with defiant word 
 The loyal troop which bade him yield. 
 And, further, his accusers knew 
 That members of the obnoxious crew 
 At all hours, day and night, had been 
 Prowling round Berkley Manor seen. 
 
 All these were ominous proofs and 
 black 
 
 Which gathered on his troubled track: 
 No word of his could move the shade 
 Upon his loyal honor laid. 
 
 Some favor still the doubt received : 
 They would not touch his land or 
 hall; 
 
 His daughter might retain them 
 all. 
 
 This but in part his pain relieved : 
 His fancy saw marauding bands 
 Insult his house, o’errun his lands : 
 His daughter, too,—might she not be 
 Subject to rough brutality? 
 
 His fears were vain: his mansion 
 through, 
 
 When the withdrawing troop went 
 down 
 
 To hold their quarter in the town, 
 Was guarded better than he knew. 
 
 vi. 
 
 HEADQUARTEKS. 
 
 O’er town and cottage, vale and 
 height, 
 
 Down came the Winter, fierce and 
 white, 
 
 And shuddering wildly, as distraught 
 At horrors his own hand had wrought. 
 
 His child, the young Year, newly 
 born, 
 
 Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted, 
 Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn, 
 As on a frozen heath benighted. 
 
 In vain the hearths were set aglow, 
 In vain the evening lamps were 
 lighted, 
 
 To cheer the dreary realm of snow: 
 Old Winter’s brow would not be 
 smoothed, 
 
 Nor the young Year’s wailing 
 soothed. 
 
 How sad the wretch at morn or eve 
 Compelled his starving home to leave, 
 Who, plunged breast-deep from drift 
 to drift, 
 
 Toils slowly on from rift to rift, 
 
 Still hearing in his aching ear 
 The cry his fancy whispers near, 
 
 Of little ones who weep for bread 
 Within an ill-provided shed ! 
 
 But wilder, fiercer, sadder still, 
 
 Freezing the tear it caused to start, 
 Was the inevitable chill 
 
 Which pierced a nation’s agued 
 heart,— 
 
 A nation with its naked breast 
 Against the frozen barriers prest, 
 Heaving its tedious wav and slow 
 Through shifting gulfs and drifts of 
 woe, 
 
 Where every blast that whistled by 
 Was bitter with its children’s cry. 
 
48 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Such was the winter’s awful sight 
 For many a dreary day and night, 
 "What time our country’s hope forlorn, 
 Of every needed comfort shorn, 
 
 Lay housed within a hurried tent, 
 Where every keen blast found a rent, 
 And oft the snow was seen to sift 
 Along the floor its piling drift, 
 
 Or, mocking the scant blankets’ fold, 
 Across the night-couch frequent 
 rolled ; 
 
 Where every path by a soldier beat, 
 Or every track where a sentinel 
 stood, 
 
 Still held the print of naked feet, 
 
 And oft the crimson stains of blood; 
 Where Famine held her spectral 
 court, 
 
 And joined by all her fierce allies : 
 She ever loved a camp or fort 
 
 Beleaguered by the wintry skies,— 
 But chiefly when Disease is by, 
 
 To sink the frame and dim the eye, 
 Until, with seeking forehead bent, 
 
 In martial garments cold and damp, 
 Pale Death patrols from tent to tent, 
 To count the charnels of the camp. 
 
 Such was the winter that prevailed 
 Within the crowded, frozen gorge ; 
 Such were the horrors that assailed 
 The patriot band at Valley Forge. 
 
 It was a midnight storm of woes 
 To clear the sky for Freedom’s 
 morn ; 
 
 And such must ever be the throes 
 The hour when Liberty is born. 
 
 The chieftain, by his evening lamp, 
 Whose flame scarce cheered the hazy 
 damp, 
 
 Sat toiling o’er some giant plan, 
 With maps and charts before him 
 spread, 
 
 Beholding in his warrior-scan 
 
 The paths which through the future 
 led. 
 
 But oft his eye was filmed and dim, 
 And oft his aching bosom yearned, 
 As through the camp his fancy 
 turned 
 
 And saw sad eyes which bent on him 
 The look which they in pain had 
 learned. 
 
 The sunken orbs of hunger there, 
 With those that throbbed in fever- 
 rage, 
 
 As he their suffering might assuage, 
 Turned on him their imploring stare. 
 And when he spoke the kindly word 
 Oft from his lips of pity heard, 
 
 And saw those eyes grow bright the 
 while 
 
 They caught the courage of his 
 smile, 
 
 His sorrowing heart was doubly 
 stirred. 
 
 And, to relieve his burdened breast, 
 His face into his hands he prest, 
 
 And poured his secret soul in prayer, 
 Where hope still rose above despair. 
 
 And there was seated by his side 
 The noblest of a noble line: 
 
 Her whole soul in her face benign, 
 Through love and suffering purified, 
 Shone worthy such a chieftain’s bride. 
 
 And not alone his prayer was given,— 
 She joined him in imploring Heaven : 
 Those prayers fell not in barren sands 
 Beside Oblivion’s fruitless sea, 
 
 But, borne aloft by angel hands, 
 They bloomed to flowers of victory. 
 
 The eve was late : naught met the ear, 
 But tramp of sentinel marching near, 
 Or soft and feathery beat of snow 
 Blown light against the window- 
 pane, 
 
 To melt thereon, and tearlike flow, 
 As if the sympathetic glow 
 
 Within had turned each flake to 
 rain. 
 
 At times there came the slumbrous 
 sound 
 
 Of waters toiling at the mill, 
 
 Still singing, though in fetters bound, 
 The song learned on their natal 
 hill. 
 
 Let Winter, with oppressive will, 
 Bind down the stream with chains 
 of ice, 
 
 His utmost power shall not suffice 
 To keep that heart of Freedom 
 still: 
 
 Though prisoned in the frozen pond, 
 It only reinforcement waits 
 To burst the tyrant’s heavy gates 
 And leap to liberty beyond. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 49 
 
 Thus with the tranquil flood of power 
 Within that camp of ice and snow: 
 Though all was silent outward 
 show, 
 
 They did but wait the opening hour. 
 
 The night was late: the chieftain 
 heard 
 
 Approaching footsteps up the yard: 
 A knock : he rose, and gave the word: 
 The door swung wide; the snowy 
 guard 
 
 Announced, with some unwonted stir, 
 An unexpected visitor, 
 
 With two attendants there beside. 
 It was a maid with cloak of fur, 
 
 And hood, so closely round her tied 
 That well the storm had been defied. 
 So thick the snow was o’er her blown, 
 So flaxen was the falling braid 
 Beside the rosy cheek displayed, 
 She looked like some fair Norland 
 maid 
 
 Wrapped in a robe of eider-down. 
 
 Beside her stood a youth whose mien 
 Brought to the chief’s remember¬ 
 ing eye 
 
 The stripling hero he had seen 
 Bearing a banner proudly high, 
 Within a light-horse flying line, 
 
 That fearful day at Brandywine. 
 
 The other was that sturdy dame 
 The housekeeper : you saw it all 
 In one glance at that stately frame, 
 Queen of the keys of Berkley Hall. 
 
 The maid a moment seemed to stand 
 Abashed before that presence high : 
 He read it in her timid eye, 
 
 And took in his her trembling hand. 
 She felt her young blood swifter run ; 
 Her heart could not regain its calm; 
 Her little hand lay in his palm,— 
 The noble palm of Washington ! 
 
 Then rose the lady, with serene, 
 
 Sweet looks o’er all her stately mien ; 
 And she too took her hand, and 
 spoke 
 
 In winning accents low and mild :— 
 
 “ It is a stormy night, my child, 
 
 For one so young to be abroad ;— 
 
 Or have you wandered from your 
 road ? 
 
 Pray, loose your snowy hood and 
 cloak, 
 
 4 
 
 And warm you well beside the fire, 
 And take the rest which you require. 
 Shrink not because the place is small: 
 Our hearts, we trust, have room for 
 all.” 
 
 When Esther answered, “Noble 
 friends, 
 
 We have not wandered from our 
 way, 
 
 Nor need we now for warmth 
 delay; 
 
 Our glowing purpose freely sends 
 Its heat, and we would straigutway 
 do 
 
 The duty Heaven directs us to. 
 
 “ Much have we heard of all the ills 
 Suffered along these winter hills,— 
 
 Of famine in the frozen camp, 
 
 Of cheerless couches, cold and damp, 
 Where sickness breathes its painful 
 breath 
 
 ’Mid bitter wants that usher Death. 
 
 “ Hence have we come, with courage 
 armed, 
 
 With every deep compassion warmed, 
 To do the little in our power 
 To soothe the suffering of the hour. 
 Our sleigh is standing at the door, 
 Laden with such poor, hasty store 
 As one home from its winter hoard 
 Can to a bleeding cause afford : 
 
 And now it but remains to ask 
 Permission to assume our task.” 
 
 She ceased, and stood with glowing 
 cheek,— 
 
 So beautiful, so young and meek, 
 
 She seemed an answer to their 
 prayer,— 
 
 A very pitying angel there. 
 
 The chieftain’s eye grew dim witn 
 mist, 
 
 His heart was all too full to speak ; 
 The lady’s arm the maiden prest, 
 
 She drew her to her matron breast 
 
 And tenderly her forehead kissed. 
 
 The chief put out his hands, and 
 smiled,— 
 
 He laid them on her golden hair, 
 
 And said, in feeling words of 
 prayer, 
 
 “ God bless you, noble child 1” 
 
50 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE WINTEK CAMP. 
 
 ’Twas midnight in the soldier’s shed, 
 Where lay upon his burning bed 
 The sufferer, to whose fever-glow 
 Most welcome came the gusts of 
 snow, 
 
 On searching night-winds, icy thin, 
 Through every cranny blowing in, 
 Filling the place with frequent mist, 
 That round the one poor taper hissed. 
 
 Close at his side an aged man 
 Sat, like a good Samaritan, 
 
 Pouring the sacred oil and halm, 
 
 His pains and spirit-wounds to calm. 
 A cloth about his brow was bound, 
 To shield a deep and stubborn wound ; 
 While round his neck the intruding 
 air 
 
 Lifted and fanned his thin gray hair. 
 Across his knees his warrior sword 
 Sustained the book o’er which he 
 pored; 
 
 The leaves were yellow, old, and 
 stained, 
 
 And oft by fluttering, rude winds 
 stirred, 
 
 But still his aged eyesight strained 
 To read the sacred, unstained Word. 
 
 But who was she who knelt beside, 
 And held the sick man’s hand in 
 hers, 
 
 Feeling such pain as only stirs 
 The breast where love and truth 
 abide ? 
 
 It needs but one glance to suffice 
 To know those large and dewy eyes ; 
 But keener sight ’twould take, I 
 ween, 
 
 To recognize that altered mien 
 Of him whose features scarcely prove 
 The Edgar of her hope and love. 
 
 But saddest of her painful lot 
 To look into those eyes which burned, 
 To find no answering look returned,— 
 Those eyes whose gladness ever flew 
 In love to hers, with pleasure new :— 
 Alas ! alas I he knew her not! 
 
 A moment thus in prayers and tears 
 Her bosom poured its flood of fears; 
 
 But, conscious that, though blind 
 with pain, 
 
 His heart was hers, and hers lone, 
 She summoned strength, and stood 
 again 
 
 Strong in his love and in her own. 
 As one who on a battle-plain, 
 
 Feeling his life-blood dew the ground, 
 Seizes the scarf which love had bound 
 With trembling hands his breast 
 around, 
 
 And thrust it in the bleeding wound 
 To stanch the crimson tide of life, 
 Then springs anew to join the strife, 
 To give, perchance, the fatal blow 
 Which lays the invading foeman 
 low,— 
 
 So rose the maid, and firmly prest 
 His love into her bleeding breast, 
 And strove, with all such hands can 
 do, 
 
 To win him back to health anew. 
 
 It was a charmed sight to see 
 
 How lovingly she came and went,— 
 How like a sunbeam, silently, 
 
 She cheered and warmed that winter 
 tent. 
 
 Her cloak of fur around the wall 
 She hung, to intercept the blast; 
 Across the door was spread her shawl, 
 And every cranny was made fast. 
 
 Nor here alone her care was given: 
 
 She daily passed from shed to shed ; 
 The early morn, the noon, the even, 
 Still found her near some sufferer’s 
 bed. 
 
 And striving oft, as she had striven, 
 There praying ’mid the sick and 
 dead, 
 
 She saw the chieftain’s bowing 
 head, 
 
 And heard his word of courage 
 said: 
 
 Where’er they smiled there seemed 
 to spread 
 
 The soft and healing breath of Heaven. 
 
 Not fruitless was her constant care, 
 And not unheard her daily prayer: 
 The blackest cloud of all was past; 
 New sunshine filled the winter 
 skies; 
 
 Hope came to Edgar’s couch at last: 
 No more her face his glance denies ; 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 51 
 
 His soul responded through his 
 eyes 
 
 With all the warmth which love 
 supplies. 
 
 And with the first returning breath— 
 A breath as sweet as that which 
 stirs 
 
 Through April houghs, when all 
 the woods 
 
 Feel the first thrill of promised 
 buds— 
 
 • He owned his soul was doubly hers, 
 Since she had called it back from 
 death. 
 
 One day, as by the scanty fire 
 She strove to make it sparkle higher, 
 The while her patient’s slender 
 form 
 
 Was propt beside, and mantled 
 warm, 
 
 The old man, Edgar’s patriot sire, 
 Entered with overshadowed brow, 
 And said, “ Sweet daughter, come 
 with me: 
 
 I fear another couch may now 
 Lay claim to your fidelity. 
 
 The strange wild woman you so oft 
 Encountered in your winter round, 
 And who so frequently you found 
 Soothing the sick with accents soft,— 
 Accents which suited not the dress, 
 
 So fitted for the wilderness,— 
 
 How lies a victim to the spell 
 Which she in others strove to quell, 
 With fever sorely racked and thrilled, 
 ’Mid kindly hands, but all unskilled. 
 
 “ I have not yet forgot the day 
 When on the battle-field I lay 
 Almost in death, she was the first 
 To slake my fever-flame of thirst, 
 
 Or how within the secret cave 
 She tended me so well and long, 
 Cheering me oft with some wild 
 stave 
 
 Of ballad or of mountain-song, 
 
 And oft, as though I were a child 
 (There’s something in her brain 
 amiss), 
 
 Telling some legend strange and wild. 
 
 For this- But nay,—it needs 
 
 not this 
 
 To wake compassion in your eyes:— 
 A human creature suffering lies.” 
 
 Then Esther rose, and joined her 
 guide, 
 
 And reached the shed where Nora 
 lay; 
 
 But, when she stood by Nora’s side, 
 
 Her heart of courage sank away. 
 For, oh, it was a piteous sight 
 To see those eyes so strangely bright, 
 And all that flood of scattered hair 
 As blown by winds of wild despair, 
 And all the trappings of her dress 
 Flung wide by hands of hot distress! 
 
 There Ugo by the wagoner stood, 
 And both in anxious, gloomy mood; 
 She stared upon the wondering child, 
 
 Then wept as o’er some burning 
 thought, 
 
 Then gazed at Ringbolt strangely 
 wild, 
 
 And laughed, as though her pain 
 were naught. 
 
 The saddest of all sounds that flow 
 Is laughter forced from deeps of woe. 
 
 A moment on the maid she glanced, 
 As if her spirit hung entranced, 
 
 And now, with curious, searching 
 scan, 
 
 Surveyed the pitying, gray-haired 
 man, 
 
 And spoke with low, mysterious 
 air:— 
 
 “Thou poor young bride, beware 1 
 beware! 
 
 Oh, wed not with that cold white 
 hair 1 
 
 That summer smile is but device:— 
 His breast is snow, his heart is ice. 
 
 Oh, cold was the bridegroom, 
 
 All frozen with pride !— 
 
 He first slew her lover, 
 
 Then made her his bride. 
 Ringbolt, how goes the battle ? Ho! 
 Fly, Ugo !—fly !—the foe !—the foe ! 
 A stealthy trick!—but they shall 
 know 
 
 The stricken can return the blow ! 
 
 The tyrant and his host shall flee,— 
 When patriots strike, they shall be 
 free! 
 
 “ Our flag like a meteor 
 
 Sweeps down through the fight: 
 
 It brightens the valley 
 And burns on the height. 
 
52 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 “ Oh, did you not see 
 
 How it sprung like a flame 
 "When the voice of the nation 
 Called Freedom by name ? 
 
 “ On the soul of the tyrant 
 That mighty name fell, 
 
 As in Gessler’s heart quivered 
 The arrow of Tell! ’ 7 
 
 Thus sang she, and fell hack with 
 breath 
 
 Drawn faint as through the lips of 
 death; 
 
 The life within the frame consumed 
 Seemed scarce again to he illumed. 
 Then Eingbolt gazed on her with 
 eye 
 
 Of pain,—almost of agony,— 
 
 And said, with heavy, solemn tongue, 
 “ ’Tis hard for one so good and young 
 To suffer thus! The poor white 
 dove 
 
 "Was murdered by a falcon’s love !” 
 
 Then Esther said, “ Indeed, my 
 friends, 
 
 It is a sight which sadly sends 
 The blood back on the heart, to see 
 Such depths of human misery. 
 
 Oh, surely this wild, dismal camp 
 Is all too rough and cold and damp: 
 ’Twere better if she were conveyed 
 And in some quiet chamber laid, 
 ’Mid hands that know to tend and 
 spread 
 
 The comforts of a sufferer’s bed, 
 Where pity only holds control, 
 
 With not a sound to vex the soul. 
 And such a room my heart allows, 
 Within a well-provided house, 
 
 And well I know her couch will 
 find 
 
 The hands attendant, gentle, kind ; 
 For Hulda, ever good and mild, 
 
 Will guard her as she were her child. 
 Haste, Ugo, haste, and bring the 
 sleigh, 
 
 And let her he enwrapt straight¬ 
 way : 
 
 ’Tis hut a short two hours’ ride ; 
 
 So easily her course shall glide, 
 
 So deep shall he her bed of fur, 
 
 So soft and noiseless be the stir, 
 
 That she may sleep and never know 
 How swiftly fly the miles below.” 
 
 A moment there was seen to go 
 
 O’er Kingbolt’s face a blackening 
 cloud : 
 
 At length his nodding forehead 
 bowed: 
 
 u Perchance,” he said, “ ’twere better 
 so.” 
 
 The sleigh was brought, and many 
 a fold 
 
 Of fur and blanket wrapt her form : 
 
 And now within the wagoner’s hold, 
 
 Like a light infant, close and warm, 
 
 She lay,—and thus, beside the maid, 
 
 To Berkley Mansion was conveyed. 
 
 He bore her up the shadowy stair, 
 
 The ’ wildered sufferer knew not where, 
 
 And in a chamber warm and large 
 
 He left her in kind Hulda’s charge. 
 
 A cup of wine,—bluff words of 
 thanks,— 
 
 If Esther would regain the camp, 
 Ugo must be her guard and 
 guide,— 
 
 The great hall heard his heavy 
 tramp, 
 
 The deep snow marked his giant 
 stride 
 
 Which led him up the Schuylkill 
 banks 
 
 To join again his waiting ranks. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE HEKALDS. 
 
 Days came and went round Nora’s 
 couch : 
 
 If there was need of aught to tell 
 That gentle hands attended well, 
 
 Her mild and altered mien could 
 vouch. 
 
 Weeks came and went, and every day 
 Brought better news from out the 
 valley: 
 
 Each tiding-tongue was glad to say 
 The troops, the cause, all seemed to 
 rally. 
 
 And Esther’s heart, though still her 
 sire 
 
 Was captive in the royal camp, 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALEEGHANIES. 
 
 53 
 
 Saw Hope re-fan her smouldering fire 
 Within the cloud’s desponding 
 damp. 
 
 ’Twas evening, and she watched the 
 gleam 
 
 Of moonlight over hill and stream ; 
 Though winter now was wellnigh 
 through, 
 
 And spring-time promised soon to 
 blow, 
 
 Still, all the scene which met her 
 view 
 
 Lay in a gleaming robe of snow. 
 She sat and gazed upon the stars, 
 
 As on a banner there unfurled, 
 And wondered if each sparkling 
 world 
 
 Was shocked like this with martial 
 jars,— 
 
 If through those tranquil, silver 
 skies 
 
 Stern warriors bent devoted eyes 
 In worship on the planet Mars. 
 
 She mused,—when Hulda’s waking 
 hand 
 
 Was laid upon her resting arm, 
 And, looking up with mild alarm, 
 She saw within the moonlight stand 
 Another, whose brave feet had paced 
 Through paths of snow in breathless 
 haste. 
 
 “ I come”—this was her hurried word, 
 She scarcely seemed for breath to 
 pause— 
 
 “ To you, for I have often heard 
 Your heart is with our patriot 
 cause: 
 
 You have swift horses at command, 
 And have, perchance, some trusty 
 hand 
 
 By whom a message may be borne : 
 The word I bear must reach our band 
 Before to-morrow morn.” 
 
 “Speak on!” the startled hearer 
 cried : 
 
 “ It shall, no matter what betide !” 
 
 “ Our enemy a plan has laid— 
 
 I got the news, it boots not how— 
 By which our camp shall be betrayed, 
 And all our noble army made 
 To bite the dust, or basely bow. 
 
 This was their threat; and even now 
 Their rapid horsemen form in line, 
 And ere the dawn ’tis their design 
 To strike the fatal blow. 
 
 “ This is the news : I pray you speed ; 
 The hour is short, and dire the 
 need: 
 
 I have no time to answer more ; 
 But if our noble chief would know 
 The source from which these tidings 
 flow, 
 
 Then tell him boldly, undeterred, 
 
 ’Tis Lydia Darrach’s faithful word, 18 
 Which served him once before.” 
 
 “Thanks, noble heart!” young Es¬ 
 ther cried, 
 
 And flung her daring tresses wide: 
 
 “ Spite every danger or mishap, 
 Ere yon low moon shall disappear, 
 The news shall reach our General’s 
 ear 
 
 Though Death stood in the gap!” 
 
 Waiting no more to hear or say, 
 
 The herald took her homeward way. 
 
 “How, Ugo!”—this was Esther’s 
 call,— 
 
 “ Bridle the swiftest steed in stall, 
 Fly with the news you just have 
 heard, 
 
 And let our chieftain know the word. ” 
 
 “A steed!” he answered ; “ but sup¬ 
 pose 
 
 The road should be beset with foes, 
 The boldest rider scarce would do 
 To bear such needful tidings through. 
 Ho, no : I have a better way,— 
 
 One quite as swift, and far more 
 sure; 
 
 Hor horse nor man my course shall 
 stay, 
 
 I shall be mounted so secure.” 
 
 She stared at him with puzzled 
 brow, 
 
 But he nor look nor answer stayed ; 
 She heard the rattling which he 
 made 
 
 Within the dusky hall below ; 
 
 She saw him dash across the snow, 
 Until he gained the frozen river, 
 
54 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Watched him a moment bending low, 
 Then, like an arrow from the bow, 
 Beheld his flying figure go 
 
 On skates, with many a flash and 
 quiver, 
 
 As if the glistening ice and steel, 
 
 In lightning, would his speed reveal. 
 
 The smile applauded the device: 
 
 She watched him, with a glad sur¬ 
 prise, 
 
 Until he vanished from her eyes. 
 But suddenly, with fear renewed, 
 She stood in anxious attitude :— 
 That messenger upon the ice, 
 
 It might, and yet might not, suffice. 
 If highways held the foeman wolf, 
 The river also had its gulf, 
 
 And ’twas the season when the sun 
 Old Winter’s work had half undone ; 
 The snowy eaves were thawed at 
 noon, 
 
 The thinning ice must vanish soon ; 
 The moon, too, hung with sinking 
 disk ; 
 
 Her light would shortly be at end. 
 No, no : it would not do to send 
 One messenger on such a risk: 
 
 All must be staked to win or lose; 
 
 In such a cause, who stayed to choose ? 
 
 In haste she ordered out the sleigh : 
 None heard the maid her purpose say; 
 ’Twas not for others’ ears discussed, 
 For there was none whom she would 
 trust, 
 
 Save Hulda, and her duty lay 
 Bound suffering Nora night and 
 day. 
 
 Alone she mounted, without pause, 
 
 To save, perchance, her country’s 
 cause: 
 
 Away, away, the light car flew ; 
 
 The hoofs flung up the powdery 
 snow; 
 
 Swift as a river seemed to flow 
 The road beneath, where, slipping 
 through 
 
 The crispy foam with whistling 
 shrieks, 
 
 The runners left their glistening 
 streaks. 
 
 Oh, enviable star in heaven 
 That looked through that still crystal 
 even, 
 
 And saw how those two heralds went, 
 Each on the same high mission bent,— 
 One on a road of ice below, 
 
 One on a stream-like road of snow, 
 The locks of each flung backward far, 
 And trailing like a meteor star: 
 
 Oh, ne’er before sped soul with soul 
 In holier race for earthly goal! 
 
 Just as the last hill-top was neared, 
 And the swift horses slackened pace, 
 A voice, as if it broke through space, 
 Pealed to the welkin as it cheered, 
 Announcing the last danger cleared:— 
 ’Twas Ugo’s wild, triumphant mirth, 
 Binging as it would circle earth. 
 
 And thus the two young heralds met, 
 In spite of foes about them set, 
 
 In spite of dark and wintry 
 weather, 
 
 And to the grateful patriot chief, 
 
 In burning language plain and brief, 
 Delivered theirgreat news together; 
 And soon the horses, flecked with 
 foam, 
 
 Well pleased, were turned again for 
 home. 
 
 While ITgo took the guiding rein, 
 Thus held the maid her musing 
 vein:— 
 
 “ Now the moon has left her track, 
 Dropt behind the mountain-bars ; 
 Paly shine the cold white stars, 
 And the pale earth answers hack ; 
 
 All the world a shadow lies, 
 
 Darkly, breathless, deathly still, 
 While above us hang the skies, 
 Throbbing to our throbbing eyes, 
 
 Till the fancy almost hears 
 
 Something of the strains that thrill, 
 Passing through the happy spheres. 
 
 u Yonder the great Northern Wain 
 Bings across the azure plain, 
 
 Nightly rolling toward the goal 
 Of the ever-steadfast Pole: 
 
 Every steed in that great car 
 On his forehead wears a star, 
 
 Proud with bells upon his mane. 
 
 u Sweetest of the chimes of heaven, 
 Is yon clustered sister-seven, 
 
 In their turret’s misty height, 
 
 Like a stem of lilies white,— 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 55 
 
 Our sweet valley Pleiades, 
 
 Kinging perfume on the breeze. 
 
 Ring, sweet sisters, clearer still: 
 
 My heart listens for the thrill 
 From your sacred belfry-cell: 
 
 Pour your chime ; but, ah, the knell 
 Floats from off your silver lips 
 For that lost one in eclipse ! 
 
 “ Lost!—ah, no : she is nc t lost; 
 
 Her song was too fine and sweet 
 "With your singing to compete ; 
 
 On some more celestial coast 
 She is now the angels’ boast, 
 
 With her joy forever told, 
 
 In a tower of shining gold. 
 
 “ Ring, sweet stars of heaven, anew, 
 And my heart will sing with you; 
 Ring !—oh, ring !—that I may hear 
 And feel that heaven is sometimes 
 near.” 
 
 Thus Esther in her happy breast 
 The pleasure of her soul contest; 
 
 For she was glowing with a sense 
 (Although the thought had scarcely 
 heed) 
 
 That she had done a sacred deed 
 Which was its own sweet recompense. 
 The singing sleigh, the horses’ tread, 
 Slow pacing homeward at their will, 
 The flowing road that backward sped, 
 The stars that chased her overhead, 
 Like heavenly guardians with her 
 still, 
 
 The crystal air, hut not too chill, 
 All soothed her with a gentle calm, 
 As if a cool and tender palm 
 Were on her tranquil forehead prest 
 To woo her into peaceful rest. 
 
 And Ugo held in dreamy spell 
 
 The reins which seemed about to 
 fall; 
 
 But homeward steeds remember well 
 The road which leads them t o their 
 stall. 
 
 All nature seemed as it were fanned 
 With Slumber’s cool and downy 
 pinions; 
 
 But, hold !—the steeds are at full 
 stand ! 
 
 Around them close the foeman’s 
 minions ! 
 
 Is she awake, or does she dream ? 
 
 The sword-flash that before her stirs, 
 The scarlet coat, the helmet’s gleam, 
 The bursting laugh of rude de¬ 
 rision, 
 
 A rough voice shouting, “ Pris¬ 
 oners !” 
 
 A soldier at each horse’s rein, 
 
 And Ugo dragged among the train,— 
 All this proclaims it is no vision. 
 The boy is loud,—he will not stay : 
 
 A boy is he, armed soldiers they. 
 “What men are ye,” she strove to 
 say, 
 
 “ Who dare to stop a lady’s way ? 
 
 I charge ye, off! Unbind the hoy!” 
 Whereat the captain’s voice replied, 
 Close at the startled maiden’s side, 
 
 “ Lady, we wish not to annoy 
 Further than strictest duty calls: 
 
 Be not alarmed : if aught befalls 
 Amiss, the fault shall not be ours,— 
 We serve the cause of higher powers: 
 Though it seem hard, and you con¬ 
 demn, 
 
 Our prisoner, you must go to them.” 
 
 He took the reins, and said no more: 
 With mounted men to guard them 
 down, 
 
 Even past her own unhappy door 
 She went a captive to the town. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE TANKARD OF WINE. 
 
 / 
 
 Oh, what delight is in the air 
 What time the new-born spring is 
 there! 
 
 How sweet it is on the breezy slope, 
 ’Mid flowers in bloom or about to ope, 
 When the dog-wood, like a maiden 
 dight 
 
 In bridal robes of snowy white, 
 Beside the flaming maple stands, 
 While the oak, with priestly hands 
 Spread above their bowing heads, 
 
 His whispering benediction sheds ; 
 Where never a careless wind forgets 
 To tell of the woodland violets, 
 
56 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Or how it half forgot to pass 
 From spice-wood boughs and sassa¬ 
 fras ; 
 
 And, like the soul of a mocking¬ 
 bird, 
 
 Repeating every song it heard, 
 
 Each sweeter for being brought afar, 
 As all the joys of memory are. 
 
 Such Esther knew were the delights 
 Clothing the valley and the heights ; 
 And every perfumed air she met, 
 Fresh breathing of the wood and 
 field, 
 
 Filled her with longings and regret 
 For joys the city could not yield. 
 
 Had she a pleasure in her breast, 
 
 In secret it was all suppressed ; 
 
 For every look and every tone 
 Proclaimed her Melancholy’s own. 
 
 ’Twas true, her captive chains were 
 light,— 
 
 Another might have deemed them 
 bright; 
 
 But, light or bright, she felt the 
 pain 
 
 Of knowing that there was a chain 
 Which flowers, though twined with 
 subtlest art, 
 
 Could not make welcome to her heart: 
 They could but hide from others’ 
 stare 
 
 The galling weight she knew was 
 there. 
 
 The city and its farthest street 
 Were free to her unfettered feet; 
 
 But there was still that line beyond, 
 O’er which her feelings, wildly fond, 
 Took yearning wing, and well she 
 knew 
 
 She could not follow where they flew. 
 
 Sir Hugh grew daily more appeased : 
 He mingled with the martial court, 
 His fetters seemed but things of 
 sport, 
 
 And even now might be released 
 If he in any slight degree 
 Would bow and sue for liberty. 
 
 But no ! they had assailed his pride : 
 His loyalty had been denied: 
 
 He would not bow the suppliant 
 limb,— 
 
 Hay, rather they must bow to him. 
 
 And now, too, all he held most dear 
 Hext to his pride, his child, was here, 
 And many a noble officer 
 Bowed supplely low to him and her; 
 And even those with hearts allied 
 In secret to the patriot side 
 Made him obeisance ; for they deemed 
 He might be other than he seemed. 
 These flattering tributes to him paid 
 Gave sweet contentment, and he 
 stayed. 
 
 ’Twas twilight, and the evening air 
 Came dancing over Delaware, 
 Fanning the easy sailor’s hair, 
 
 Who laughed and quaffed away his 
 care, 
 
 With merry song and gusty din, 
 Under the stoop before the inn, 
 Where soon, arrayed in colors fine, 
 Two officers of the royal line 
 Reeled singing in at the open door, 
 
 A flush with pleasure and with wine: 
 ’Twas noble, they said,—or rather 
 swore,— 
 
 With such a general to dine. 
 
 Each face was scarlet as their dress : 
 The whole man seemed to loom and 
 shine, 
 
 As if the red blood of the vine 
 Its glowing presence would express 
 By every visible outward sign. 
 
 “ Ho, landlord of the ‘ Ship and Sheaf,’ 
 Bring us a flagon, and be brief! 
 
 We must not let the tide go by, 
 
 To leave us stranded high and dry, 
 
 Or wait to-morrow’s evening flood 
 To lift us o’er the sand and mud ; 
 ’Twill never do to stick aground 
 While other barques are sailing 
 round : 
 
 Let loose the wine, and, should that 
 fail, 
 
 Then swim us off with good brown 
 ale!” 
 
 Thus shouted they, then searched the 
 gloom, 
 
 To note what guests were in the room : 
 Their glance found only two beside. 
 
 “ Two fellows there I think I spied,” 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 57 
 
 Thus whispered one. “Nay, there 
 are more,” 
 
 The other answered,—“ surely four : 
 But two, perchance, are made of 
 wine !” 
 
 Whereat they laughed ; and still they 
 swore 
 
 ’Twas noble, glorious, and divine 
 With such a general to dine. 
 
 “ Ho, landlord, bring another flask, 
 To nerve us for to-morrow’s task! 
 To-morrow’s task ! Ah, that will be 
 A scene of such rare chivalry 
 That all shall go joy-mad to see ! 
 
 A thousand times more bright and 
 fine 
 
 Than Germantown or Brandywine ! 
 How those poor devils in the gorge, 
 Hidden away at Yalley Forge, 
 
 In their tatterdemalion rags, 
 
 Making their empty rebel brags, 
 Would ope their boorish eyes to gaze 
 Upon the splendors which shall blaze 
 And burn, until the night is spent, 
 Around our glorious tournament! 
 Come, landlord, drink, before we go, 
 A bumper to the royal show ! 
 
 “ That fellow there, who seems to sulk 
 And in the shadowy corner skulk, 
 
 Go bring him out, and let him clear 
 His throat, that he may loudly cheer 
 The golden glories he shall see 
 Around to-morrow’s pageantry ! 
 Come, sirrah, when a colonel bids, 
 Nor sit with scowl like pirate Kidd’s : 
 This smile will smooth your hostler 
 frown 
 
 When it washes the hay-dust down 1” 
 
 The stranger rose : through a side way 
 door 
 
 He pushed a young companion out, 
 Then stood a moment as in doubt, 
 The while he scanned the revellers 
 o’er, 
 
 Then strode to the table with visage 
 grim, 
 
 Demanding what they would with 
 him. 
 
 “ To drink our general’s health !” they 
 cried. 
 
 “ Our general!” boldly he replied, 
 And drained the goblet willingly. 
 
 “ And to our tournament beside 1” 
 “And to the tournament!” echoed 
 he; 
 
 “ And may I be on hand to see !” 
 
 “ Again !” the other cried, with zest; 
 “ Fill high !—methinks that were a 
 breast 
 
 To hold a gallon in its chest,— 
 
 And let the toast be to the fair,— 
 
 To her whose colors I shall wear,— 
 The badge of the ‘ Burning Mountain’ 
 mine, 
 
 ‘ The maid I love’ my motto sign. 
 Then pledge for whom I set the lance, 
 With whom in banquet I shall 
 dance,— 
 
 Perchance”—he hiccoughed, and 
 waved his wine— 
 
 “ To her who may be bride of mine,— 
 I have the father’s word for all: 
 
 Or, if not that”—with drunken leer 
 He whispered in his comrade’s ear, 
 Then laughed till the cup was nigh 
 to fall, 
 
 And shouted, “ The heiress of Berkley 
 Hall!” 
 
 The stranger’s tankard was ready up ; 
 Each his lip was about to dash, 
 When, with an oath like a thunder- 
 -crash, 
 
 He flashed the wine in the speaker’s 
 face 
 
 And into the other’s the empty cup, 
 And then, with heavy, giant pace, 
 Strode leisurely beyond the place ; 
 And, ere they woke from their dis¬ 
 grace, 
 
 A light boat and a springing oar 
 Had borne the wagoner far from shore- 
 
 ii. 
 
 THE MESCHIANZA. 19 
 
 0 city the beloved of Penn, 
 
 How was your quiet startled when 
 Bed Mars made your calm harbor 
 glow 
 
 With all the splendors he can show! 
 
 How looked your tranquil founder 
 down 
 
 That day upon his cherished town,— 
 
58 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 That town which in the sylvan wild 
 He reared and tended like a child ? 
 
 Methinks that patriarch and his peers, 
 Who fashioned all your staid re¬ 
 treats, 
 
 Groaned then in their celestial seats 
 With sad offended eyes and ears ; 
 And, had their loving faith allowed, 
 That day, in mournful spirit bowed, 
 Each had turned his olive-wand 
 Into a rod of reprimand. 
 
 The May was there,—the blue-eyed 
 May; 
 
 The sweet south breeze came up the 
 bay, 
 
 Fanning the river where it lay 
 Voiceless, with astonished stare,— 
 The great sea-drinking Delaware. 
 
 There, in the broad, clear afternoon, 
 With myriad oars, and all in tune, 
 
 A swarm of barges moved away, 
 In all their grand regatta pride, 
 
 As bright as in a blue lagoon, 
 
 When gondolas from shore to shore 
 Swam round the golden Bucentaur 
 On a Venetian holiday, 
 
 What time the Doge threw in the 
 tide 
 
 The ring which made the sea his 
 bride. 
 
 ’Mid these were mighty platforms 
 drawn, 
 
 Each crowded like a festal lawn,— 
 Great swimming floors, o’er which 
 were rolled 
 
 Cloth of scarlet, green, and gold, 
 Like tropic isles of flowery light 
 Unmoored by some enchanter’s might, 
 O’erflowed with music, floated down 
 Before the wharf-assembled town. 
 
 A thousand rowers rocked and sung, 
 A thousand light oars flashed and 
 flung 
 
 A fairy rainbow where they sprung. 
 Conjoining with the singers’ voice, 
 
 In ecstatic rival trial, 
 
 Every instrument of choice, 
 
 Mellow flute and silver viol, 
 
 Wooed the soft air to rejoice ; 
 
 Till on wings of splendor met, 
 
 Clearer, louder, wilder yet, 
 
 Clarion and clarionet, 
 
 And the bugle’s sailing tone, 
 
 As from lips of tempests blown, 
 
 Made the whole wide sky its own, 
 Shivering with its festal jar 
 The aerial dome afar. 
 
 Thus the music past the town 
 Winged the swimming pageant down, 
 Till with one loud crash it dropt, 
 
 And the bright flotilla stopt, 
 
 Mooring in the bannered port 
 At the flowery wharves of Sport. 
 
 There wide triumphal arches flamed 
 With painted trophies, which pro¬ 
 claimed, 
 
 With mottoes wrought in many a 
 line 
 
 Around some brave heraldic sign, 
 That all the splendors here displayed 
 Were honors to great chieftains paid. 
 
 Pavilions round the field were spread, 
 With flying banners overhead, 
 Where, on a high and central throne, 
 The two commanders reigned alone : 
 The admiral, whose powdered hair 
 Had oft been fanned by ocean air; 
 The general, whose eye oft sped 
 O’er fields transfused from green to 
 red, 
 
 As if the very plain should wear 
 The hue his army held so dear,— 
 Both deeming that the world must 
 bow 
 
 Before the awful name of Howe. 
 
 And there,—oh, feast for painter’s 
 heart, 
 
 And yet a light to mock his art, 
 
 To kindle all a poet’s fire, 
 
 To waken, madden, and inspire, 
 
 Yet leave him mastered and undone, 
 As faints a taper in the sun,— 
 
 Yes, there, in many a beaming row, 
 Was lit such beauty as might glow 
 Alone in fabled tourney-rings ; 
 
 Held in those far enchanted scenes 
 Where all are princesses and queens 
 And all the jousting knights are 
 kings. 
 
 Such light was then our city’s boast; 
 And such, methinks, it has not lost: 
 
I 
 
 THE WAGONER OF 
 
 The features Stuart loved to trace 
 And clothe in his immortal glow 
 Are met by many a soul-lit face, 
 Secured by Sully’s touch of grace, 
 
 As bright as theirs of long ago. 
 
 O noble masters, might I here 
 
 Seize the light pencil from your 
 grasp, 
 
 Then should the picture reappear 
 Which vainly I attempt to clasp. 
 What though the vision with me 
 stays, 
 
 The awkward pencil tamely strays, 
 And leaves me, after all my cost, 
 
 To sigh above my labor lost. 
 
 But ye who have the conjuring will, 
 The painter’s gift, the poet’s heart, 
 Take the rough lines I cannot fill, 
 And touch them with your clearer 
 art. 
 
 In middle of the central group— 
 
 The fairest maidens of the troop, 
 
 Each in her flowing Turkish dress— 
 Sat Esther, in her loveliness. 
 
 A graceful turban bound her brow, 
 Its end flung back in gauzy flow, 
 
 And from its sides hung loops of 
 pearls, 
 
 Dripping among the golden curls, 
 While on its snowy front was set 
 A diamond stellar coronet, 
 
 And in the middle of the stars 
 A red rose shone, like burning Mars ; 
 The silken robe, of ample fold, 
 
 Was white, and bound with belt of 
 gold, 
 
 O’er which a scarf of wondrous lace 
 Added its wealth of flowing grace. 
 
 Her beauty thrilled the gazing crowd, 
 And made the heart of Berkley 
 glad; 
 
 But if Sir Hugh that hour was 
 proud, 
 
 Still prouder was the stripling lad, 
 Brave Ugo, who beside her chair, 
 With height and form beyond his 
 age, 
 
 Stood near, her guardian and her 
 page ; 
 
 His large dark eyes and raven hair 
 To hers made contrast rich and rare ; 
 And, decked in Oriental suit, 
 
 He looked a Turk from head to foot, 
 
 THE ALLEGHANIES. 59 
 
 Holding superb and tranquil mien, 
 
 As by the throne of a sceptred queen. 
 
 Now rang the bugle to the cloud; 
 
 And now seven knights, in brave 
 attire 
 
 Of white and scarlet gayly 
 donned, 
 
 On chargers well caparisoned, 
 
 And each attended by his squire, 
 Rode in before the admiring crowd ; 
 
 And soft eyes sparkled brightly 
 fond, 
 
 As each before his lady bowed. 
 
 Then rang the herald’s trumpet 
 higher, 
 
 And swelled the challenge fiercely 
 loud :— 
 
 t£ The brave knights of ‘ The 
 Blended Rose’ 
 
 Proclaim the fair whom they de¬ 
 fend 
 
 Are lovelier, nobler in their pride, 
 Than all the world can show beside; 
 
 And he who dares this vaunt oppose 
 
 We challenge to the direful 
 end!” 
 
 Three times abroad the vaunt was 
 thrown ; 
 
 And now another bugle blown, 
 Flinging its scorn around the heaven, 
 
 Ushered in the answering troop,— 
 The gallant and defying seven, 
 
 In suits of orange and of black, 
 
 With harnessed steeds and squires to 
 back ; 
 
 And these with proud and knightly 
 stoop 
 
 Made their obeisance to the fair 
 Whose beauty they defended there. 
 
 Then swelled the other herald’s 
 cry 
 
 “ 1 The Knights of the Burning 
 Mount’ defy, 
 
 And, in support of their ladies’ 
 charms, 
 
 Challenge all chivalry to arms !” 
 
 But how looked Esther on the scene ? 
 
 Was there no pleasure in the place 
 
 To call the color to her face ? 
 
 A weary sadness veiled her mien ; 
 
 Her eye, which took the splendor in, 
 ’Mid all the show no joy could win ; 
 
60 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 For in her patriotic heart 
 Another picture, far apart, 
 
 Rose, with its drear, contrasted shade, 
 Before her sympathetic eye, 
 
 Which glistened with a pitying 
 damp. 
 
 She saw the starving valley camp, 
 And heard the sufferer’s dying 
 sigh,— 
 
 Saw all the hitter wants that 
 weighed— 
 
 Her country’s only hope and trust— 
 A noble army to the dust; 
 
 And even when her champion proud 
 Bent low, a gallant knight in 
 black, 
 
 She scarcely noticed that he bowed ; 
 Her sad eye paid no glances hack. 
 
 Again the flying bugle’s flash 
 
 Across the waiting scene was 
 pealed ; 
 
 Then came the sudden shock and 
 dash 
 
 Of spears that met in splintering 
 crash 
 
 On every loudly-ringing shield. 
 Then sword with sword together rang 
 With many a fierce and fiery clang, 
 As on some earnest battle-field. 
 
 Oh for the pen which brave Froissart 
 Waved, sword-like, in the knightly 
 van ! 
 
 Oh for the pencil and the art 
 Of battle-loving Wouverman ! 
 
 That on my page might be unrolled 
 Another tourney “ cloth of gold” ! 
 
 All eyes were on the struggle bent, 
 And every gazer forward leant, 
 
 Each breathless at the whirling 
 sight,— 
 
 When dashed in midst another 
 knight, 
 
 Driving the raging foes between, 
 And, like a whirlwind, joined the 
 scene. 
 
 His tall and foaming steed was black, 
 And reared and leapt with plunge 
 and wheel; 
 
 And he who loomed upon his back 
 Wore on his breast a plate of steel, 
 While on his head a helmet shone 
 With flying plume,—the visor down. 
 
 The armor was embossed and rich, 
 And seemed to Esther to recall 
 The helmet and the breastplate which 
 Formed part of that within the 
 niche,— 
 
 The ancestral suit of Berkley Hall; 
 As if the knight, so grim and tall, 
 Finding the ancient form too small, 
 Content to shield his head and breast, 
 Had borrowed but cuirass and crest. 
 
 His raining blows were swift and bold: 
 No sooner was his weapon set 
 ’Gainst every lifted blade he met, 
 Than flew that blade from out its 
 hold; 
 
 While many a bravest knight, 
 alarmed, 
 
 Recoiled apace, abashed, disarmed. 
 
 But when he met the searched-for foe, 
 Fair Esther’s champion in the list, 
 His mighty hand could not resist,— 
 He dealt an angry, giant’s blow,— 
 Perchance it was intended so: 
 
 Somehow, the awkward weapon 
 missed— 
 
 It glanced beyond the approaching 
 head, 
 
 And on the “black knight’s” mouth 
 instead 
 
 Alit the great hilt-clinching fist! 
 
 A blow that made the earth swim 
 round, 
 
 And sent him bleeding to the ground. 
 
 Then, while the murmur questioned 
 loud, 
 
 He dashed to the wondering maid and 
 bowed, 
 
 And raised her white glove to his lip. 
 Now seemed her eye to understand ; 
 She guessed that form of high com¬ 
 mand, 
 
 And felt a folded paper slip 
 
 Stealthily into her startled hand ; 
 Then, like an eagle on flashing wing, 
 He sailed beyond the wondering ring. 
 
 All marvelled; but few guessed the 
 truth : 
 
 They mostly thought it in the play ; 
 And even the knights, with frowns 
 uncouth, 
 
 And many a savage inward oath, 
 Were pleased among themselves to 
 say 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 61 
 
 That some hot-headed frolic youth 
 Had chosen thus to share the day, 
 By dashing in the jousting fray, 
 To bear the highest prize away, 
 And leave them all in wondering 
 doubt, 
 
 As oft in ancient tourney-bout. 
 
 The two commanders, looking on, 
 Approved the novel action done, 
 
 And said, in accents loud and bluff, 
 The brave surprise was well per¬ 
 formed, 
 
 And that it was a knightly thing, 
 Although, perchance, a little rough. 
 
 And catching this, as from a king, 
 
 The shout of joy ran round the 
 ring, 
 
 Till every clapping hand was 
 warmed, 
 
 To send the applause on circling 
 wing. 
 
 And now the day was wellnigh spent, 
 And evening closed the tournament. 
 
 hi. 
 
 THE BANQUET. 
 
 Oh, merry and good is a blooming 
 wood 
 
 On a calm, clear afternoon, 
 
 "When every maid, in a flowery hood, 
 Sings, as every maiden should 
 In the leafy shades of June :— 
 When every light form wears the 
 proof 
 
 Of what beneath her homestead roof 
 The loom of Winter weaves,— 
 
 The blue, and green, and scarlet woof, 
 The white and flowing sleeves:— 
 When every archer bends his bow, 
 
 To bid the laughing arrow go 
 Among the laughing leaves ! 
 
 And merry the call to a Christmas hall, 
 Where nuts and ale abound, 
 Where music, with gusty rise and 
 fall, 
 
 Chases the revellers dancing all 
 In many a mazy round. 
 
 But louder, clearer, merrier yet 
 The music and mirth together met 
 What time the evening feast was set 
 
 And the tournament was through : 
 The knights came in, each waving 
 plume 
 
 Sending a murmur through the room, 
 And, bowing to eyes they deemed 
 most sweet, 
 
 Each knelt before his lady’s feet, 
 
 To receive the trophy due. 
 
 But where was Esther’s champion? 
 Had he no tourney-honor won ? 
 
 And must the flower her turban 
 wore 
 
 Remain unclaimed, and feel the blight 
 Of all that withering festal light? 
 She plucked the rose with fingers 
 white, 
 
 And tore the leaves before their sight, 
 And strewed them on the floor. 
 
 That feasting-hall was a sight to 
 see, 
 
 And, seen, it must remembered 
 be: 
 
 A hundred banners lined the wall, 
 Festooning over swords and spears, 
 And thrice a score of chandeliers 
 Made such a glory through the hall 
 As only summer noonday wears ; 
 And many a mirror, wide and tall, 
 Decked with flowers on golden piers, 
 Caught the splendor, and echoed it all, 
 As if to stretch the gorgeous place 
 Into the outer halls of space, 
 
 As it were to last a thousand years. 
 
 All, all was bright as summer waves 
 That sing and dance on a flowery 
 shore, 
 
 Where the billow decks the bank it 
 laves 
 
 With pearls, and then retreats for 
 more. 
 
 The only shadows around the feast 
 Were a score of turbaned, Nubian 
 slaves 
 
 Arrayed in livery of the East. 
 
 The merriest sounds o’erflowed the 
 scene, 
 
 While flashed the brimming wine 
 between, 
 
 Where each, from the cup he loved 
 to quaff, 
 
 Caught something of its vineyard 
 laugh. 
 
62 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE A EL EG HA NIES. 
 
 There was whispered love, soft words 
 of bliss, 
 
 On lips Adonis would die to kiss, 
 Rustle of silks, and rattle of fans, 
 
 Tinkling of glasses, and, crowning 
 this, 
 
 Music that swelled from invisible 
 clans:— 
 
 Till, closing his eyes,'the listener heard 
 The rush of a woodland waterfall, 
 
 And all the leaves of the forest stirred 
 By a flutter of wings, and the noisy 
 call 
 
 Of every loudest-throated bird. 
 
 The feast was past, the toast was 
 said, 
 
 The inevitable speeches made, 
 
 And the long-cheered, triumphant 
 two 
 
 Breathed easier, and drank anew. 
 
 ’Twas now that one of the leading 
 knights 
 
 Bowed, and, with soft persuasion 
 long, 
 
 Prayed, as a wreath to their delights, 
 Our maid would crown the hour 
 with song. 
 
 In vain her timid lips demurred : 
 
 The praise of her voice so much was 
 heard, 
 
 They would not take the denying 
 word. 
 
 In view of this, a harp had been, 
 
 Only a moment past, brought in. 
 
 And there in a flood of light it shone 
 
 Golden on its waiting throne. 
 
 At length, upon her father’s arm, 
 And bidding her page beside her 
 stay, 
 
 She went, though tremorous with 
 alarm, 
 
 And Andre, bowing, led the way. 
 She gained the throne, and sat 
 thereon : 
 
 Her breath came short for such a 
 need ; 
 
 One glance across the room she sent, 
 
 A thousand eyes were on her bent; 
 They seemed a thousand arrows 
 drawn, 
 
 And she the victim that must 
 bleed. 
 
 One long sustaining breath she drew, 
 Her drooping lids shut out the view,— 
 Till, suddenly dashing her veil aside, 
 And flinging her golden ringlets wide, 
 Her arms around the harp she pressed, 
 Loving it with her loving breast, 
 
 As if its touch her fears might 
 smother. 
 
 And now her hands along the 
 strings 
 
 Plashed daringly across each other, 
 As when two birds, at dividing wires, 
 Outsinging all the woodland choirs, 
 Plutter with half-invisible wings. 
 
 When climbed her fingers high and 
 higher, 
 
 Twinkling among the treble notes 
 There seemed unnumbered silver 
 throats, 
 
 Thrilling the sky with wild desire ; 
 Then sudden lightnings flashed their 
 fire, 
 
 Till, in the heavier chords below, 
 
 The thunder dealt its rumbling blow ; 
 And now the rain was shivered down, 
 And all the tempest-bugles blown. 
 
 Then came her voice: at first ’twas low, 
 Like a sweet brook among the 
 rushes; 
 
 But, like that brook, its further flow 
 Swelled soon to fuller, nobler 
 gushes. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 In the vanished time and olden, 
 Ere the ages yet were golden, 
 
 A great king ruled his misty isles 
 In sullen state alone, 
 
 Till, hearing of a maiden 
 With marvellous beauty laden, 
 
 He swore she must be brought to him. 
 To tend beside his throne. 
 
 n. 
 
 And forthwith every vassal 
 Who dwelt beside his castle 
 Was sent to bring the maiden in 
 Before the morrow morn ; 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 63 
 
 And straightway to her bower 
 They went in all their power: 
 
 But she met them with her noble mien 
 And scorned them with her scorn. 
 
 m. 
 
 “ Go, tell your tyrant master 
 Earth threatens no disaster 
 So direful to a maiden’s soul 
 As is a monarch’s smile ; 
 
 That Death shall wed me rather 
 ’Neath the roof-tree of my father, 
 Than I should serve the greatest king 
 That ever ruled an isle.” 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then laughed they loud derision 
 At the poor defenceless vision 
 Of a simple maid who dared alone 
 Defy their mighty king ; 
 
 “Then come,” they cried, “the 
 trial; 
 
 Our lord brooks no denial: 
 
 Your slender wrists must bear the 
 bands 
 
 Our master bade us bring.” 
 
 v. 
 
 But, firm in her reliance, 
 
 With a glance of fierce defiance 
 She looked into their cowering eyes, 
 That drooped as in disgrace ! 
 
 But, remembering royal anger, 
 With a sudden clash and clangor 
 They drew their mighty falchions 
 forth 
 
 And flashed them in her face. 
 
 vi. 
 
 A moment, as in sadness, 
 
 She looked upon their madness, 
 With calm, white'arms serenely there 
 Upon her bosom laid ; 
 
 Then, with no thrill of terror, 
 
 But smiling at their error, 
 
 Three times she clapped her snowy 
 hands, 
 
 And signalled thus for aid. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Three times her palms resounded, 
 And at once she stood surrounded 
 By noble brothers rushing in 
 From every native field: 
 
 Their forms were rough and tawny, 
 But their limbs were lithe and 
 brawny, 
 
 And, instead of taking captives there, 
 The captors now must yield. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And, against their own consenting, 
 She sent them back repenting. 
 
 The mad king cropt their coward ears 
 To satisfy his wrath : 
 
 And still that noble maiden, 
 
 With all her beauty laden, 
 
 Went singing on her happy way, 
 With honor in her path. 
 
 Scarce had the last word left her 
 tongue, 
 
 And while the chord still trembling 
 hung 
 
 From which the bird-like note had 
 sprung, 
 
 There rose a tumult wild without , 20 
 A hurried rush of loud alarms, 
 
 The flash of flames, the sentinel’s 
 shout, 
 
 With startled drums that beat to 
 arms. 
 
 The shuddering guests no more could 
 doubt, 
 
 But quaked to think the rebel crew 
 Had burst in all their midnight 
 power 
 
 Upon them, in their revel hour, 
 
 To act the' Trenton scene anew. 
 
 What meant that glow whose fearful 
 shine 
 
 Illumined the abatis-line, 
 
 Which fired the scene, as if to light 
 
 The horrors of the coming fight? 
 
 Now could they hear the mounted 
 troop 
 
 Like hungry vultures round them 
 swoop, 
 
 And see the clattering hoofs of steel 
 
 Where lightning flashed from every 
 heel. 
 
64 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Out rushed the guardian ranks aflame, 
 To put the intruding crew to shame ; 
 But, strange to tell, without a blow, 
 To say that there had been the foe, 
 The troopers fled, and left behind 
 Their mocking laughter on the wind. 
 
 The guards pursued them past the 
 town, 
 
 By the same road which brought them 
 down, 
 
 And soon the sentinels descried 
 The line returning, flushed with pride. 
 
 Then laughter filled the hall again, 
 While pleasure took the place of pain, 
 And every happy face was lit 
 With this fresh source of mirth and 
 wit, 
 
 And music spread its circling wing 
 To lead the dance in ampler swing. 
 
 But what was wrong ? What ailed 
 Sir Hugh ? 
 
 Why sought he thus the assembly 
 through ? 
 
 What were thequestions hewould pour 
 At every outward-leading door? 
 
 At last he stood, with sigh long 
 drawn,— 
 
 Both Ugo and the maid were gone. 
 
 One said that while the guardian troop 
 Had gone to beat the rebels hack, 
 He saw descend a hasty group 
 
 Across the lawn, and some were 
 black,— 
 
 A part of that same turbaned horde 
 Who tended while the wine was 
 poured,— 
 
 And that they moved towards a 
 barque :— 
 
 To shield them, then, the white 
 moon bowed 
 
 Behind a heavy wall of cloud :— 
 He saw no more, for all was dark. 
 
 IY. 
 
 THE BBOTHEES. 
 
 What light illumes the eagle’s ken, 
 And flames his breast with Free¬ 
 dom’s rage, 
 
 The first wild daring instant when 
 He soars beyond his broken cage ! 
 
 How glows the lion’s eye of fire, 
 Brighter than lit with midnight ire, 
 The moment when he sees the bar 
 Half drawn that leaves the door ajar I 
 How proudly he exalts his mane 
 That first hour on the open plain! 
 
 When from the winter’s captive hold 
 The young spring takes the freedom 
 won, 
 
 While all his fetters crystal cold 
 Melt like a vision in the sun :— 
 
 Then every river, brook, and rill 
 Feels its deep heart with pleasure 
 thrill; 
 
 Then sing the birds, and every tree 
 Waves its gay hands for jollity. 
 
 What joy, my own dear land, was 
 thine, 
 
 What pleasure filled thy breast of 
 sorrow, 
 
 As if the heart were pulsing wine,— 
 What glorious sunshine filled the 
 noon 
 
 That cloudless, jubilant day in June 
 Which said, “The foe will leave 
 to-morrow 1” 
 
 “ To-morrow !” every glad eye-glance 
 To that sweet music seemed to dance : 
 Youth spread the shout from first to 
 last, 
 
 And Age new vigor seemed to bor¬ 
 row, 
 
 And stranger-face's, as they passed, 
 Looked that masonic word, “ To¬ 
 morrow !” 
 
 The happy country heard-afar 
 The answer of its long desires, 
 Swift sped the news from hill to 
 hill, 
 
 O’er plain and valley wandering 
 still, 
 
 As if on every mountain-bar 
 Was lit the flame of signal-fires. 
 
 And there were eyes in Berkley Hall, 
 That, bright before, were now 
 more bright— 
 
 Young breasts that in their rise and 
 fall 
 
 Were thrilled with uncontrolled 
 delight. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 65 
 
 Yet there beneath the Berkley roof 
 Were looks that angered at the 
 proof,— 
 
 Dark, sullen brows, which seemed to 
 say 
 
 The morn would bring a hateful day. 
 ’Twas hard to see the old reins slip 
 Prom out their doting monarch’s grip; 
 And so, to nerve them for the worst, 
 The purple flask must cheer the 
 hour, 
 
 That they at least might slake their 
 thirst 
 
 For wine, if not for tyrant power. 
 
 “ To-morrow, Colonel, you depart 
 This was the greeting of Sir Hugh. 
 “ Believe me when I say my heart 
 Is sad to part with such as you. 
 
 I hoped ere this—hut hopes are vain : 
 
 There is a higher Wisdom rules:— 
 Though wise His ways, they are not 
 plain: 
 
 ’Tis strange, and yet He sometimes 
 deigns 
 
 To give an empire’s guiding reins 
 Into the hardy hands of fools :— 
 I hoped ere this—that hope at least 
 Holds good, and shall not be denied— 
 To see my family-board increased, 
 
 To see my daughter at your side 
 A lovely and contented bride. 
 
 “ How stands your glass ? The room 
 is dim : 
 
 Methinks the twilight settles soon, 
 In spite of the long days of June; 
 And yonder rises the red moon, 
 
 As if wine flushed her golden brim. 
 So flush your glass ; for wine, in truth, 
 Which sparkles in these founts of 
 ours, 
 
 Is that perpetual Spring of Youth 
 Which Ponce de Leon strove, forsooth, 
 To find within the land of flowers. 
 Then never let our spirits sink, 
 
 Though Time and Fate their worst 
 pursue, 
 
 While at the bacchanalian brink 
 Our hearts their qourage may renew. 
 
 “ Ay, courage,—’tis the soldier’s 
 word: 
 
 The hour is brighter than it seems ; 
 To-day, even while you stood deterred, 
 I caught from hope some clearer 
 gleams. 
 
 5 
 
 “ Did you not notice, when we came, 
 And after my first warm embrace, 
 How flushed her cheek and eye with 
 flame 
 
 When she looked up and saw your 
 face ? 
 
 I felt her little wild heart leap, 
 
 That moment, in my clasping hand: 
 For Love, when he would safely keep 
 His head in secret hiding deep, 
 
 Is but an ostrich in the sand. 
 
 “ What though her look no hope 
 awakes, 
 
 Bepelling with disdainful eye, 
 
 ’Tis but the course the salmon takes, 
 In scornful distance pausing shy ; 
 Just when you think your toil is 
 vain, 
 
 And when he chiefly shows disdain, 
 With sudden whirl he takes the 
 fly! 
 
 What though her mien conceals the 
 spell, 
 
 Believe me, friend, she loves you well. 
 
 “Who spoke? Who dared to give 
 the lie ? 
 
 Ho, Steward ! lights !” 
 
 The lights were brought, 
 And every secret hiding-place 
 Was peered into with angry face. 
 
 The furious searching furnished 
 naught 
 
 To meet his pistol’s ready rage, 
 Except a parrot in his cage : 
 
 Yes, surely ’twas that silly bird 
 Who uttered the obnoxious word. 
 They laughed, and sat: the wine must 
 serve 
 
 To smooth again the ruffled nerve. 
 
 “ To prove, my friend, my words 
 sincere, 
 
 I have the paper ready here.” 
 
 Thus spake Sir Hugh. “ It only 
 waits 
 
 For the contracting names and dates : 
 ’Tis quickly done. There, mine se¬ 
 cures 
 
 The seal; and now, my friend, for 
 yours. 
 
 By Jove! your pen flies o’er the 
 word 
 
 With all the flourish of a sword! 
 
66 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 “The maiden’s name? Ah, never 
 doubt: 
 
 That with the rest shall soon appear. 
 Ho, Steward, seek your mistress out 
 And bid her to attend me here J” 
 
 In Berkley’s breast resolve was stern, 
 For in his proud parental heart, 
 Remembering with what willing art 
 Her favor took the patriots’ part, 
 He felt a deep resentment burn. 
 
 Although he loved her fondly still, 
 Yet, though all else should be denied, 
 She should not set her rebel will 
 Against this last hope of his pride: 
 
 It may be that the flush of wine 
 Gave vigor to his fixed design. 
 
 Young Esther came: her eye was 
 bright 
 
 As if ’twere brimmed with love’s own 
 light; 
 
 Then flowed her maiden accents clear, 
 “ What would you, father ? I am 
 here.” 
 
 “ A trifling service,” he replied ;— 
 There was a strangeness in the tone 
 Which turned her inmost heart to 
 stone:— 
 
 “ Before these written names are dried, 
 Let yours be drying at their side.” 
 
 With wondering countenance ad¬ 
 vanced, 
 
 Her eye across the paper glanced; 
 Her visage showed a lightning- 
 blight,— 
 
 The color from her cheek was blown, 
 As when from otf some festal height 
 The fierce bolt strikes the banner 
 down. 
 
 Before her flashed the ready quill, 
 The black blood waiting at the 
 point; 
 
 Across her swept a deathly chill 
 That agued every sinking joint: 
 
 A very statue, mute and white, 
 
 She stood, till came the order, 
 “ Write!” 
 
 “ Nay, father: any thing but this,— 
 If ’twere to die at your command !” 
 He answered, “ My sole order is 
 To write! The pen is in your 
 hand !” 
 
 ’Twas there; for he had placed it 
 there,— 
 
 He seized her by the slender wrist.— 
 “ Oh, help !” she cried. 
 
 u Nay, to assist 
 
 In your rebellion who shall dare?” 
 
 He answered firmly, at the word, 
 
 Tapping his pistol and his sword. 
 
 Her hand was on the paper prest: 
 Both watched it with their anxious 
 ken; 
 
 The blood was curdling in her breast, 
 A deadly pallor veiled her mien, 
 The room swam round in darkness, 
 —when 
 
 An iron hand was thrust between, 
 Which snatched and crushed the 
 crackling pen ! 
 
 Three paces back, with shuddering 
 reel, 
 
 All started, in their horror dumb ; 
 
 Their tongues even as their hearts 
 were numb; 
 
 For there a voiceless form of steel 
 
 Stood glowering as with threatening 
 will; 
 
 For, though the visor close was 
 down, 
 
 The very iron seemed to frown, 
 
 The clinching gauntlet grasping 
 still 
 
 The crumpled remnant of the quill. 
 
 Within the waning light and gloom 
 
 To giant size it seemed to loom : 
 
 Such necromantic power has fright 
 
 To give to objects double height. 
 
 While now the gazers stood aghast, 
 The form, with slow and backward 
 pace, 
 
 Confronting still with iron face, 
 Retiring, reached the throne at last 
 Where stood the maiden’s harp of 
 gold. 
 
 Still paler grew the lights and dim,— 
 Or so the frighted fancy told,— 
 While phantom lustre seemed to swim 
 About that form so ghostly grim ; 
 And, just behind, the moon’s broad 
 rim 
 
 Seemed to the very casement rolled, 
 A spectral chariot waiting him: 
 
 The gazers’ blood ran doubly cold 
 And palsied every limb. 
 
“An iron hand was thrust between.” 
 
 Page 66, 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
 
 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 67 
 
 But stranger still it was to see 
 The form slow sinking on one knee, 
 
 Upon the harp’s enthroning stand, 
 While in his stretching arms he took 
 The frame, whose chords in terror 
 shook 
 
 Ere scarce they felt the iron hand. 
 
 Slow o’er the strings the gauntlets 
 stole:— 
 
 (That gloves of steel showed little 
 skill 
 
 In answering to the player’s will, 
 Such audience would scarcely won¬ 
 der;)— 
 
 But, with a strange, weird music 
 still, 
 
 That wailed above, then rumbled 
 under, 
 
 He played as ’twere a funeral dole 
 
 Chanted by distant winds and 
 thunder; 
 
 And when from out the helmet broke 
 
 The words in many a dying close, 
 It seemed as if a cavern spoke 
 
 The burden of long-hidden woes. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 A shade has crossed the hill, Sir 
 Hugh, 
 
 A shade has crossed the lawn ; 
 
 And where its phantom feet have 
 gone, 
 
 So lightly were they pressed there¬ 
 on, 
 
 They did not brush the evening 
 dew, 
 
 Sir Hugh, 
 
 They did not brush the dew. 
 ii. 
 
 A gloom is on your house, Sir 
 Hugh, 
 
 Your sire frowns on the wall,— 
 
 Where frown those painted shad¬ 
 ows all, 
 
 Now pale and shuddering o’er your 
 fall: 
 
 The last of all the name are you, 
 Sir Hugh, 
 
 The last of all are you. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Your royal cause is lost, Sir Hugh ; 
 
 Your king recoils aghast; 
 
 His day of tyrant power is past: 
 Of all his friends you are the last, 
 Last of your cause and name are 
 you, 
 
 Sir Hugh, 
 
 The last of all are you. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The last of all are you, Sir Hugh, 
 
 Echoes the owl aloof,— 
 
 The last of all,—upon the roof 
 
 The whippoorwill prolongs the 
 proof:— 
 
 Adieu to Berkley Hall,—adieu, 
 
 Sir Hugh, 
 
 To Berkley Hall adieu. 
 
 “Behold! Sir Hugh, be not dis¬ 
 mayed !” 
 
 The suitor cried, and drew his blade. 
 
 “ Do you not see it is the same 
 
 Who boldly to our tourney came 
 
 A rough, unbidden guest and foe ? 
 
 I have not yet forgiven the blow: 
 
 Though it were years, in twice the 
 gloom 
 
 I still would know that helm and 
 plume.” 
 
 Through Berkley’s brain the light¬ 
 ning sped, 
 
 And, casting round his glances 
 quick, 
 
 Sir Hugh the empty niche espied ; 
 
 Then, with an angry laugh, he 
 cried, 
 
 “A trick! By heaven! a rebel 
 trick!” 
 
 And scarcely had the words been 
 said, 
 
 The room was blinded with a flash : 
 
 The iron vision forward sprung, 
 
 And reeled the frighted group among; 
 
 And now the floor received the 
 crash 
 
 Of one who falls in armor dead. 
 
 Alas ! if there was aught within 
 
 But ghost, to brave that bolt of lead, 
 
 That shining breastplate was too 
 thin! 
 
68 the wagoner of 
 
 The door, by sudden fury thrust, 
 Swung wide, and hurrying men 
 strode in, 
 
 And one, whose voice was like a gust, 
 Cried,“ Wherefore all this murder¬ 
 ous din ?” 
 
 Then, following Sir Hugh’s wild stare,, 
 He saw the fallen armor there, 
 
 And saw from out the iron seam 
 A mortal tide of crimson stream. 
 With hurried stride he crossed the 
 floor, 
 
 And knelt beside the pool of gore, 
 With rapid hand the visor threw, 
 And started backward at the view, 
 One look told all,—no need of more:— 
 Prom out its sheath his weapon flew. 
 
 “Behold,” he cried, “O wretch, 
 behold 
 
 The murderous work your hand has 
 done! 
 
 Ay, stare upon that visage cold, 
 
 And recognize, mad fool, your son ! 
 But, while there’s strength within 
 this hand 
 
 And steel of vengeance in this brand, 
 Your heart shall pour a stream as 
 good, 
 
 Even though I shed a brother’s 
 blood I” 
 
 That moment he had forward sprung, 
 But Esther on his right arm flung 
 Her form, and there she pleading 
 clung. 
 
 Then stood Sir Hugh as one who seems 
 Chained amid horrid nightmare- 
 dreams ; 
 
 Though fain to fly the sight of gore, 
 His feet were frozen to the floor. 
 
 At length he stammered, still with 
 stare 
 
 Fixed on the pallid visage there, 
 
 “ A lie !—a lie ! I had no son, 
 
 And surely never such a one !” 
 
 To which the other cried again, 
 
 ‘ ‘ Thy son, proud fool, and son of her 
 Whose noble heart by you was 
 slain,— 
 
 O cold and double murderer !” 
 
 Still staring with unmoving eye, 
 
 He said,—or rather seemed to sigh,— 
 
 THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 “ I never killed her: if she died, 
 
 It was not here-” 
 
 “ Your bitter pride 
 Struck at her heart, until her brain 
 By many a cold, proud word was 
 slain!” 
 
 The wagoner answered ; and the taunt 
 At last awoke the Berkley blood. 
 
 “Who dares,” he cried, in furious 
 mood, 
 
 “ Thus in my face such words to 
 flaunt ? 
 
 And who art thou, who ne’er before 
 Save once, a rude, unwelcome guest, 
 Was known to enter at my door? 
 What rebel thou, whose coward breast 
 Dares breathe the insult uttered 
 now ?” 
 
 “ Pray, not so fast,” the other cried. 
 “ A moment clear your clouded 
 brow, 
 
 And let your memory allow 
 I am not one to be defied! 
 
 That picture there may well attest 
 Whose courage ever was the best, 
 And which it was who quaked with 
 fear 
 
 The moment danger came too near. 
 
 I scorned you even as a child, 
 
 Proud, cold, and selfish as you were $ 
 A younger brother, oft reviled, 
 
 I would not be your pensioner, 
 And so I left you to yourself, 
 
 With all your boasted pride and pelf. 
 
 “ A rebel !—nay, let that foul name 
 Flush your own coward cheek with 
 shame: 
 
 ’Tis ye are black Rebellion's knaves, 
 Traitors to Freedom and to God, 
 Who dare upon this sacred sod 
 Exalt the slave-compelling rod, 
 Being slaves yourselves, to make us 
 slaves! 
 
 “ While throbs a heart,—while Hea¬ 
 ven is just,— 
 
 While on the banner of our trust 
 One star remains to fight beneath, 
 No blade of ours shall seek its 
 sheath, 
 
 No cannon hold its direful breath, 
 Till on the bitter field of death 
 The bold enslaver bites the dust. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 69 
 
 Already, even as pictured there, 
 
 The joy has oft been mine to take 
 In this good grasp the tyrant snake 
 And fling him writhing in despair.” 
 
 u My brother, thou?” Sir Hugh re¬ 
 plied, 
 
 The while the wagoner’s form he 
 eyed, 
 
 Scanning in scorn, from head to foot, 
 The patriot’s rough and rustic suit. 
 
 “ ’Tis false ! No Berkley scion yet 
 His high-born lineage could forget, 
 To wear such rude and menial form 
 And be the thing which thou art 
 now !”— 
 
 He spake, and back recoiled a pace 
 Before the anger of that face : 
 
 He dared no further brook the storm 
 Which gathered on that threaten¬ 
 ing brow. 
 
 But now his troubled eye again 
 Was cast upon the stripling slain, 
 And, with a look which strove in 
 vain 
 
 To hide the doubt within his brain, 
 He cried, “ ’Tis false! No blood of 
 mine 
 
 E’er wandered vagrant through the 
 land; 
 
 No Berkley son would raise a hand 
 In honor of the rebel line! 
 
 No child of mine-” 
 
 His speech was stayed ; 
 He glared upon the trembling maid. 
 “Well mayst thou tremble!” he re¬ 
 sumed, 
 
 “ And sink with burning shame con¬ 
 sumed, 
 
 Whose recreant heart and rebel eye 
 Now give our loyal blood the lie! 
 
 ’Tis thou, with disobedience long, 
 This sad and direful scene hast 
 wrought,— 
 
 Firing the youth with rebel thought 
 And filling his soul with rebel song ; 
 But that shall end !” And, at the 
 word, 
 
 Across the harp he flashed his sword 
 And severed every trembling chord. 
 
 “ Strike on !”—this was the wagoner’s 
 taunt: 
 
 “ Such courage ever was your vaunt: 
 With no mere stripling sons to kill, 
 On other innocents wreak vour fill!” 
 
 4 - 
 
 “Still must I hear?” Sir Hugh re¬ 
 plied ; 
 
 “ Are my assertions all denied? 
 
 The boy was never son of mine, 
 Though harbored long beneath my 
 roof: 
 
 In shades condemned, or realms 
 divine, 
 
 That truant woman’s wandering ghost 
 
 No Berkley offspring dares to boast:— 
 I challenge every proof!” 
 
 « 
 
 The wagoner turned, and whispered, 
 “ Hark! 
 
 What newer misery thrills the dark? 
 
 What voice is that approaching near ? 
 
 Sir Hugh !—Sir Hugh !—look up and 
 hear 1” 
 
 Thus as he spoke, a mournful air 
 
 Seemed winding down the shadowy 
 stair, 
 
 Still nearing and more near ; and soon 
 
 The words came clearly with the tune. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 Oh, cold was the bridegroom, 
 
 All frozen with pride : 
 
 He first slew her lover, 
 
 Then made her his bride. 
 
 n. 
 
 Beneath a green willow, 
 
 And under a stone, 
 
 They buried her lover, 
 
 And left her alone. 
 
 hi. 
 
 With naught but the bridegroom's 
 Proud breast for her head, 
 
 Oh, how could she live when 
 Her lover was dead ? 
 
 IY. 
 
 Her body they buried 
 Beside the church wall ; 
 
 Her ghost with the bridegroom 
 Sat up in the hall:— 
 
70 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 v. 
 
 Sat up at his table, 
 
 Lay down in his bed:— 
 
 Oh, cold was the bridegroom,— 
 But colder the dead ! 
 
 The singer entered. "Was it a ghost, 
 Or sleeper walking unaware ? 
 
 Her large eyes, as in revery lost, 
 
 Bent forward their unearthly stare ; 
 "Wild o’er her shoulders fell her 
 hair ; 
 
 Her face was like her garments white ; 
 Her thin hands bore a wavering light, 
 Which shed a pale and mournful 
 glare 
 
 Across those features of despair. 
 
 Still forward walked that form of awe, 
 As if her wide eyes nothing saw, 
 Until, in middle of the room, 
 
 The centre of that scene of gloom, 
 She cast a slow, dull glance around, 
 And looked as she had nothing found : 
 Across their very faces past 
 
 Those eyes to which all seemed a 
 blank, 
 
 Till on the floor her glance was cast; 
 And there, as that look was her last, 
 She gazed upon those features white ; 
 From out her fingers dropt the light, 
 And on the armored breast she 
 sank. 
 
 It needed but that last wild gust 
 Of grief to blow from Nora’s frame 
 Life’s low, unsteady, flickering 
 flame, 
 
 And leave it dark and soulless dust. 
 
 “Sir Hugh!—Sir Hugh!” He was 
 not there: 
 
 Sir Hugh was gone, they knew not 
 where. 
 
 But there the haughty suitor stood, 
 His bright sword flashing in his 
 hand, 
 
 As if the keen, defying brand 
 His nuptial claim should still make 
 good. 
 
 This saw the wagoner, as he laid 
 On Edgar’s arm the fainting maid; 
 And, ere the soldier was aware, 
 
 He stood without a weapon there : 
 
 His sword was in the patriot’s hold, 
 Who with a look of scorn surveyed 
 
 The face so lately flushed and bold ; 
 
 Then, with contemptuous movement 
 fleet, 
 
 Across his knee he snapped the 
 blade, 
 
 And flung it at the wearer’s feet, 
 
 And now, the wide door pointing 
 through, 
 
 Exclaimed, with sad but threatening 
 brow, 
 
 “ Depart! The place is sacred now : 
 Go, follow thou Sir Hugh !” 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 My friend abruptly closed the book: 
 
 I felt as one who long had sailed 
 Gazing with anxious landward look,— 
 Who, just as the fair port is hailed, 
 And the rough prow goes dipping in, 
 Suddenly hears the anchor’s din, 
 
 And, lo ! the ship is at full stand : 
 There move the people on the land, 
 And there are voices from the beach, 
 But mournfully all out of reach. 
 
 My face the crowding questions wore : 
 
 He said, “ A little patience yet, 
 And soon the landing skiff and oar 
 Your feet upon the shore shall set.” 
 Then at the sinking fire his hands 
 Gathered and piled the sundered 
 brands, 
 
 Until the hearth was reillumed: 
 “’Tis thus,” he said, “the story 
 stands:— 
 
 A fallen end or two demands 
 To be regathered and consumed. 
 
 “ How goes the wine? ’Tis rare and 
 old: 
 
 Or do you taste the earthy mould ? 
 Some seasons past, while men of mine 
 Were hollowing out an amplespace 
 To give our hothouse-wall its base, 
 I stood to watch them bravely delve 
 And see they followed well the line, 
 When suddenly to its very helve 
 The pick went in with crush and crash, 
 Spattering all with a purple splash ; 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 71 
 
 And when withdrawn—oh, murder¬ 
 ous sign !— 
 
 ’Twas bathed in the streaming blood 
 of wine. 
 
 How it came there to you is plain, 
 And this brings up Sir Hugh again. 
 ’Tis said that on that night of pain 
 He rushed into the moonlit air, 
 
 And sped for hours he knew not 
 where, 
 
 Through fields and woods, by the 
 rivers brim, 
 
 With two sad phantoms following 
 him ;— 
 
 How once, just as he thought he saw 
 The crowning horror of his awe, 
 
 The murdered stripling in his path 
 Rise with confronting eyes of wrath, 
 He reeled and staggered, fainted, fell, 
 And lay at the feet of a sentinel; 
 
 And when he awoke, and the horrid 
 mists 
 
 From otf his aching brow were 
 blown, 
 
 He found himself within the town, 
 Among the guards of the royalists. 
 
 “ He recognized the hand of Fate ; 
 And, after writing a hurried scrawl, 
 Giving his daughter Berkley Hall 21 
 And his blessing with the broad estate, 
 He boarded a ship and felt more free 
 While bidding adieu to river and 
 hay; 
 
 But his heart was withering day by 
 day, 
 
 And at last they buried him far at sea. 
 
 “The lovers? Ah, more sweet the lay 
 Should be which sings of those so 
 dear : 
 
 It is not long since, old and gray, 
 
 My sainted parents passed from 
 here. 
 
 “ If ’twere not that the fire is low, 
 And chanticleer awakes to throw 
 His midnight signal on the air, 
 
 A sacred scene should newly glow 
 Of that beloved and loving pair. 
 
 “ My mother’s favorite seat was there, 
 And this my father’s high-backed 
 chair : 
 
 How clearly comes the long-gone scene 
 When I a child sat here between ! 
 
 “ One night,—I well recall thehour,— 
 Just when our second war was past, 
 The winds were howling o’er the tower, 
 The snow its gulfy deluge poured, 
 And up the chimney like a blast 
 The flame from off the hickory 
 roared, 
 
 Against the outer door a blow 
 
 Sounded like a blacksmith’s sledge, 
 And, waiting no further privilege, 
 Entered, it seemed, the Prince of 
 Snow,— 
 
 A veteran of giant height, 
 
 With wild locks like his garments 
 white. 
 
 The heavy stamping and the beat, 
 Which piled a drift within the hall, 
 Rang through the house and 
 wakened all 
 
 The echoes to announce his feet. 
 
 So thick the cloud he scattered wide. 
 And so majestic was the fling, 
 
 He seemed a very arctic king 
 Throwing his furry robe aside. 
 
 “ My sire, awakened by the stir, 
 Gazed through the door with shaded 
 eyes, 
 
 Puzzled a moment with vague sur¬ 
 prise ; 
 
 But when he saw that giant size, 
 And heard the voice of bluff replies, 
 He knew and welcomed the Wagoner. 
 
 “ Had you beheld him stride the floor, 
 You ne’er had guessed how many a 
 score 
 
 Of years had blown their changeful air 
 Through those white locks to whiten 
 there. 
 
 “We offered him this cushioned seat: 
 He took yon great oak chair in¬ 
 stead,— 
 
 It felt more saddle-like, he said,— 
 And flung him down with wide¬ 
 spread feet. 
 
 “ ‘ ’Tis seventy years,’ he cried, ‘or 
 more, 
 
 Since first I backed a good stout 
 steed; 
 
 And though to-day with as fearless 
 speed 
 
 I rode as in the days of yore, 
 
 I know that wild, free course is o’er. 
 
72 
 
 THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 It boots not to prolong the strife: 
 That brave, old-fashioned, cheery life 
 Is ended. My contented grip 
 Resigns at last the guiding reins : 
 No more my bells o’er hills and 
 plains 
 
 Shall ring, as once, through these 
 domains. 
 
 And therefore I have brought my 
 whip, 
 
 To hang it up in Berkley Hall, 
 
 To see it grace yon antlers tall 
 Which hold those old swords on the 
 wall, 
 
 The rusty weapons of Sir Hugh : 
 
 The honor is its well-earned due.’ 
 
 “We welcomed him with hearty will, 
 And wished him many bright years 
 still, 
 
 Then brought the wine—we knew the 
 sort— 
 
 And brimmed a goblet with old port. 
 Through the red cup he gazed awhile, 
 In musing, with a strange, sad smile.' 
 
 “ ‘ Good Uncle Ralph,’ my mother 
 sighed, 
 
 Dropping the embroidery in her lap, 
 ‘ One question I have often tried 
 To solve; and yet, through some 
 mishap, 
 
 It seems conjecture wandered wide: 
 But you, I think, can solve for me 
 Poor Nora’s mournful history.’ 
 
 “ The old man looked at her a space, 
 Looked vaguely in her upturned face, 
 As if endeavoring to recall 
 
 The far scenes of the past, and 
 said,— 
 
 ‘ For her sake you should know it 
 all, 
 
 For my sake, too, when I am dead ; 
 But first, my friends, let me make 
 clear 
 
 The reason I to-night am here. 
 
 “ ‘ Beside the old churchyard to-day 
 The surly sexton crossed my way: 
 
 He glared at me with sidelong leer, 
 And flung his spade across the wall. 
 Just then a hurrying team drew near: 
 
 The horses, wagon, bells, and all 
 (Believe me, ’twas a marvellous sign) 
 Seemed like the very ghosts of mine; 
 
 The driver—for once I held my breath, 
 To see the flash 
 Of his maniac lash— 
 
 Was a rattling skeleton, grim and 
 tall; 
 
 His shout was the hollow shout of 
 Death 1 
 
 “ ‘ My team, with many a plunge and 
 rear, 
 
 Went mad, then stood like frighted 
 deer, 
 
 While I sat like a girl aghast, 
 Until that awful wagoner passed-, 
 And when I looked behind, ’twas 
 gone, 
 
 And we were in the road alone. 
 
 “ ‘ Think not that superstitious fright 
 Could cheat my ear or mock my 
 sight; 
 
 Although the calendar counts me 
 old, 
 
 My heart is as the youngest hold. 
 Brave Percy, when his charger stood 
 First on the field of Brandywine, 22 
 Beheld, in clear, prophetic mood, 
 
 The spot which should receive his 
 blood; 
 
 He saw his form’s distinct outline 
 Stretched on the sod,—his steed, in 
 fright, 
 
 Dashing riderless through the fight; 
 Then instantly he galloped on, 
 
 And sought the fate he could not 
 shun. 
 
 “ ‘ It is a hitter night; the cold 
 For the first time now makes me 
 old: 
 
 Another cup of this warm wine 
 Perchance will give the blood a 
 start, 
 
 And thaw the chill about my heart, 
 And clear this hazy brain of mine.’ 
 
 “Again his vague eye scanned the 
 glass, 
 
 As if he saw old memories pass 
 In many a long and wavering line; 
 And, as he held the glowing cup 
 Between him and the lamp-light up, 
 The color of the deep wine threw 
 Across his face a purple hue : 
 
 I could but shudder where I stood, 
 
 It looked so like a dash of blood. 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE A L LEG HA NIES. 
 
 73 
 
 ,{ At last he spoke in under-tone,— 
 
 ‘ Those grand old times are past and 
 gone; 
 
 But, Esther,’—here his eye grew 
 bright 
 
 "With something of its former light,— 
 4 Do you remember how of old 
 Around our cause your numbers 
 rolled ? 
 
 I ever loved a fiery song ; 
 
 But there was something in your 
 voice 
 
 "Which made the listener’s heart re¬ 
 joice, 
 
 His eye of courage burn more bright, 
 And filled him with a fierce delight 
 That did not to the words belong: 
 To hear again such music sung 
 Would make a veteran heart grow 
 young.’ 
 
 11 My mother’s cheek turned some¬ 
 what red 
 
 To hear the praise so blufily said ; 
 
 It seemed to bring the vanished days 
 What time her song was used to 
 praise. 
 
 She looked, and smiled, and shook 
 her head, 
 
 And said her voice had lost its 
 power, 
 
 Her singing summer day had sped, 
 And she was in her autumn bower ; 
 The water of a spring-time brook 
 Makes plenteous music through the 
 land, 
 
 But surely ’twas an idle look 
 
 Which sought it in October’s sand ; 
 Her harp, too, since that night of 
 pain 
 
 Had never known its chords again. 
 
 11 But still within her secret breast 
 She thought to humor him were 
 best: 
 
 What though her voice had somewhat 
 failed, 
 
 His aged ear, so long assailed 
 By Winter, could not be o’er-nice, 
 The sense so Jong inured to storm 
 Might deem the cadence still was 
 warm, 
 
 Nor note its chill of autumn ice :— 
 And thus, to please an old man’s 
 whim, 
 
 With folded hands, she sang to him. 
 
 SONG. - 
 
 i. 
 
 When sailed our swift eagle 
 O’er valley and highland, 
 The foe, like a sea-gull, 
 
 Fled back to his island,—- 
 Fled back to his king-land, 
 His home in the ocean,— 
 The white cliffs of England, 
 His pride and devotion. 
 
 n. 
 
 Now pea^e and contentment 
 Fill cottage and manor ; 
 No star of resentment 
 Is lit on our banner. 
 
 Our cannon is sleeping 
 The port-shadows under; 
 The spell in its keeping 
 Let naught break asunder. 
 
 in. 
 
 The impotent taunt let 
 
 Go by,—the wind brings it; 
 But not the red gauntlet, 
 
 No matter who flings it. 
 Who palters and falters, 
 
 Ne’er hearken his story, 
 
 But strike for your altars, 
 
 For Freedom and Glory. 
 
 “ 1 Nay, never say,’ the old man cried, 
 ‘ Your voice is like a brooklet dried; 
 But rather say ’tis filled again, 
 O’erflowing with the autumn rain. 
 
 “ ‘ It carries me back, both brain and 
 heart, 
 
 As if a gale swept o’er the scroll; 
 
 I see the storied past unroll; 
 
 And now, methinks, I may impart 
 Something of Nora and the child. 
 
 “ My memory is a restive colt, 
 Stubborn at times, contrary, wild, 
 At the wrong moment apt to bolt; 
 But wine upon an old man’s lip, 
 
 To such a steed, is spur and whip.’ 
 
THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 { 
 
 74 
 
 “Then laughed he his accustomed 
 laugh, 
 
 That shook the glasses on the board, 
 
 And, with a long and breathless 
 quaff, 
 
 The wine across his lip was poured : 
 
 The goblet dropt from out his hold, 
 
 And crashed to fragments on the 
 floor ; 
 
 Slow sank his chin, slow drooped his 
 lid, 
 
 His heavy hands beside him slid; 
 
 He slept,—ay, slept,—but breathed 
 no more, 
 
 And left the story still untold. 
 
 “As when some monarch of the trees, 
 Which held so long defiant state 
 Against the lightning and the gale, 
 O’erborne at last by its own 
 weight, 
 
 While laughing in the passing breeze, 
 Falls prone in the astonished vale,— 
 So fell our grand old Hercules.” 
 

 
 
 
 
 " 
 
 ' 
 
 V ' , ■ .' ' ■ ■ 
 
 . 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 ,, 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • .. 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 . • ' v • ■ 
 
 • . 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I 
 
3 0112 062299927