Classic Poem

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
Its strange, wild music through the scene
But here and there a name still wreathes
His memory in perpetual green.

Tredyffrin, Caln, and Nantmeal, hold
Traditions of those sires of old;
While Uwchlan, in her inmost vale,
May hear at eve some Cambrian tale.

Though many a brave ancestral name
Has, starlike, in the distance set,
Still thou hast others dear to Fame,
Forgetful Time shall not forget, —
Bright memories which shall long remain
Cherished by every patriot breast, —
That of the calm-browed painter West,
And his, the fiery-hearted Wayne;
And in thy scientific bowers
Are those which fear nor frost nor sun:
There, written with immortal flowers,
Are found such names as Darlington.
Nor dost thou need my hand to fling
The poet's offering on thy shrine: —
Among thy vales sweet minstrels sing
Like thine own flashing Brandywine.
From Kennet, Taylor's soaring strain
Rings like a silver bugle round,
As if on that near battle-plain
Some herald's clarion he had found.
'Twas midnight in the secret cave,
Darkness and silence reigning, save
The dreary muttering of the brands
That flickered where a cauldron hung;
While dreaming near, with folded hands.
A woman sat, no longer young: —
No longer young, — or rather say
Her first youth only passed away.
Her hair, as by a wind thrown back,
Was glossy still, and thick and black;
Her brow was clear, save where the brain
Had set its outward seal of pain.
Her cheek was tanned, her eye was bright
With something of unearthly light;
A string of mingled bead and shell,
Which seemed of woodland life to tell,
Entwined her head, and round her waist
A costly wampum belt was placed;
While on her tawny neck and arm
Hung amulet and bracelet charm.
Her robes of mingled cloth and fur
With beads and quills embroidered were:
And thus in her wild forest dress
She looked an Indian prophetess,
With still a something in her face,
And something in her slender mien,
Beyond the finest savage grace
That ever marked a chieftain's queen.

There sat she gazing, dreamy-eyed,
As if within the flame she spied
Visions of scenes long past and gone,
Or some strange pleasure yet to dawn.
But now her quick ear caught a sound, —
A stealthy footfall drawing near:
A light hare tripping o'er the ground
Would wake her eye, but not her fear:
Still through the leaves it came more clear, —
Her hand was on the rifle laid,
Her quick glance pierced the cavern's shade;
But soon the well-known whisper came,
Giving the watchword and her name: —
" Hist, Nora! — hist! 'tis I! " — she bade
Young Ugo enter undismayed.

A moment in his laughing eye
She gazed, then scanned his strange attire:
His figure brightened by the fire,
His shadow looming darkly high,
The sword, the gun, the pistols, hat, —
With questioning look she stared thereat,
" Say, Ugo, say, where was the theft?
What loyalist have you bereft? "

" No theft, " the boy indignant cried,
" But gift of one who bade me don
These rebel arms, and urged me on,
Until, to please him, I complied;
But who, or where, or when, or how,
The question matters little now.
Come, Nora, — you were ever good, —
I only ask a little food,
And then your helping hand to-night
To make this old sword somewhat bright.
While on these pistols I renew
The polish which is still their due,
And from the gun remove the crust
Of honorable dust and rust;
For well I know the time is near —
The scene, too, not o'er far from here —
When every weapon we can wield
Shall be most dear to Freedom's field."

She gave him food with generous hand,
And then essayed to cleanse the brand;
And, while she wrought the blade along.
She cheered her toiling hand with song.

SONG

I.

Oh, sweet is the sound of the shuttle and loom
When the lilies of peace fill the land with perfume!
Then cheerily echoes the axe from the hill,
While the bright waters sing on the wheel of the mill,
And the anvil rings out like a bell through the day,
And the wagoner's song cheers his team on the way,
Till the bugles sound here, and the drums rattle there,
And the banners of War stream afar on the air.

II.

Then wild is the hour, and fearful the day,
When the shuttle is dropt for the sword and the fray,
When the woodman is felling a foe at each stroke,
And the miller is blackened with powder and smoke,
When the smith wields the blade in his terrible grip,
And the wagoner's rifle cracks true as his whip:
The bugles sound here, and the drums rattle there,
While the banners of War stream afar on the air.

III.

Our brave-hearted yeomen, — our lords of the soil, —
They reap where they sow the reward of their toil;
In the broad field of labor their harvest is blithe,
Their favorite arms the plough, sickle, and scythe:
The plough and the sickle, the scythe and the flail, —
These, these are their weapons, with these they prevail
Till the bugles sound here, and the drums rattle there,
And the banners of War stream afar on the air.

IV.

Then the plough-horse is mounted, and flies o'er the plain,
The blade is flung by in the grass or the grain,
And the hand that grew strong on the flail or the plough,
And battled alone with the harvest till now,
The rifle and sword can as steadily wield,
Till the harvest of foemen is swept from the field;
While the bugles sound here, and the drums rattle there,
And the banners of War stream afar on the air.

V.

Be God on our side in the season of dread!
Be His strength with the living, His peace with the dead;
His love shield the widow and orphan, His care
Soothe the parents whose sorrow shall whiten their hair;
Be success with the right when the struggle is through
And the sword be returned to the ploughshare anew,
And no bugle sound here, and no drum rattle there,
While the banners of Peace stream afar on the air!

Thus, singing strenuously, she toiled
To cleanse the blade which Time had soiled
The dull stains clung unto the steel,
As they were spots of murderous red
Whose stubborn hue must needs reveal
The crime when first that blood was shed.

She knelt before the midnight flame,
Which seemed to leap with pleasure new:
She gazed, — a chill ran through her frame
As if a spectre met her view:
She saw the Berkley arms and name
Slow struggling through the veil of rust,
Then swooned, and sank into the dust.

But Ugo's aid was instant there:
He raised her head upon his knee,
Called her by name, smoothed back her hair,
Looked with a face of mute despair
On hers of pallid agony.
At length a breath came full and deep,
And then, as one who walks in sleep.
And sees with large unwavering eyes
Through veils of awful mysteries,
She stared, and sighed, " O Heaven! 'tis done! —
Where fought the two there stands but one: "
Then passed her hand across her brow,
And looked in the o'erbending face,
Which still its pitying posture kept: —
" O Ugo, do not leave me now! "
She groaned. " It is a dreary place! "
Then bowed her head and wept.

" Go, lay her on her couch apart! "
The deep voice made the hearers start.
She choked the tears back to her heart,
And mounted like a wounded deer
That hears its calling comrade near.

" Good Nora, we have much to do, "
Said Ringbolt, " yet no need of you.
Our eagle troop will soon be here:
They tether now their horses near.
The boy our sentinel watch can keep,
So to your couch a while and sleep.
Unless the storm should pass, or pause,
Which hangs in thunder o'er the land,
Ere set of many suns, your hand
May do good service in our cause.

All night the well-piled fire must glow,
All night the molten lead be poured,
Our guns re-cleaned, re-sharped the sword,
In honor of the approaching foe;
And if it be, as beldames say,
The devil feasts when tyrants fall.
Let his infernal board straightway
Be spread, with room enough for all! "