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.

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 was 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?
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.
" 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 'twere in 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 " 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 J OVE of battle ride!
And every eye new courage won
Which gazed that hour on Washington.

'Twas now that, marvelling, we beheld
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.
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 bid him know the stealthy foe
With double strength comes up behind:
It was but 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:
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.

" Nay, son," he faintly sighed, the while
His features wore a struggling smile,
" 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, methinks, 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.

We made a couch of fallen boughs,
Which thickly strewed the woodland 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. "