Classic Poem

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;
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
Reached even to the Schuylkill banks,
So near the very mansion-wall
Echoed the frequent bugle-call, —
A sight to make her 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 with 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,
Repaid 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 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Its dreamy veil but half withdrawn,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,
Round 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 casement high,
Fear trembling in her large blue eye,
She stared against the vapor dank
Of morning hanging gray and blank.

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.

Anon she saw some warrior-form,
Like the great genii of the storm,
Rise 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.

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.

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-barks 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! — 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 bear 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 bade?
One deep, renewing breath she draws;
She scorns the weakness thus displayed,
Contemns the soul that now would pause,
And gains her feet, no more afraid.

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 through
Who dares that insult to renew. "

" Ho! ho! " 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,
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 bound;
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 consign
Her laurel to the patriot band!
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.