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.
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
Rose 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,

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,

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 everywhere
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,

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 off 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 remain,

Days past; and now from Berkley 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,

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 barks that inland bore;

In days long gone, " The Ship and Sheaf "
Was deemed of goodly inns the chief: —
" The Ship, " — because its ample door
Fronted the barks 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;

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 stables,
And all this lumber called virtu ,

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,
From Lely's ruff 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,

It was a beauty that I saw
So pure, so perfect, as the frame
Of all the universe was lame,
To that one figure, could I draw,
Or give least line of it a law!

A skeine of silke without a knot!
A faire march made without a halt!
A curious forme, without a fault!
A printed book without a blot.
All beauty and without a spot.