Classic Poem

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,
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 lagune,
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 vial,
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 proclaimed,
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:
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.
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: —
" The brave knights of " The Blended Rose"
Proclaim the fair whom they defend
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: —
" " 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;
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 bitter 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 back.

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-clenching 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 command,
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
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 performed,
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.