O city the beloved of Penn,
How was your quiet startled when
Red 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, —
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 retreats,
Groaned then in their celestial seats.
With sad offended eyes and ears;

And, had their loving faith allowed,
That day, in mournful spirit bowed,

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,
Or how it half forgot to pass
From spice-wood boughs and sassafras;
And, like the soul of a mocking-bird,

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,
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;

'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 balm,
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

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

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

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 dispread;
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;

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

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,
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;
Then to his tower he mounted high,
And searched through all the cloudless sky:
All, all was clear, while still came by

O happy and secure retreat,
Dear Valley, home of many friends!
I envy even the hurried feet
Which fancy through your quiet sends!

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