Classic Poem

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;
While froth was dashed o'er many a lip,
Like foam against a speeding ship,
And tables chronicled in scars
The tankards and the thirsty tars.

" The Sheaf, " — because the wagoner there,
The captain of the highway-ship,
Fresh breathing of his mountain air,
Hung on the wall his coat and whip;
And farmer, bringing his stores to town,
And drover, who drove his cattle down,
Conversed of pastures and of sheaves,
The season's drouth, or ruinous rain,
Or told of fabulous crops of grain,
Or fields where grazed incredible beeves.

'Twas April, and the evening winds
Were rattling at the open blinds;
The sign, upon its hinge of rust.
Made dreary answer to the gust,
That smote the masts like an ocean squall,
And, whistling, mocked the boatswain's call.

The latch went up; the door was thrown
Awide, as by a tempest blown;
While, bold as an embodied storm,
Strode in a dark and stalwart form,
And all the lights in the sudden wind
Flared as he slammed the door behind.

The noisy revellers ceased their din,
And into the corner skulked the cur,
As the startled keeper welcomed in
The feared and famous wagoner!
Not long they brooked the keen eye-glance
Who gazed into that countenance;
And even in his mildest mood
His voice was sudden; loud, and rude
As is a swollen mountain-stream.
He spoke as to a restive team.
His team was of the wildest breed
That ever tested wagoner's skill:
Each was a fierce, unbroken steed,
Curbed only by his giant will;
And every ostler quaked with fear
What time his loud bells wrangled near.

On many a dangerous mountain-track,
While oft the tempest burst its wrack,
When lightning, like his mad whip-lash,
Whirled round the team its crooked flash,
And horses reared in fiery fright,
While near them burst the thunder-crash,
Then heard the gale his voice of might,
The peasant from his window gazed,
And, staring through the darkened air,
Saw, when the sudden lightning blazed,
The fearful vision plunging there!

And oft on many a wintry hill
He dashed from out the vale below,
And heaved his way through drifts of snow.
While all his wheels, with voices shrill,
Shrieked to the frosty air afar,
As if December's tempest-car
Obeyed the winter's maniac will.

Ye knew him well, ye mountain-miles,
Throughout your numerous dark defiles: —
Where Juniata leaps away
On feathery wings of foam and spray;
Or queenly Susquehanna smiles,
Proud in the grace of her thousand isles;
Where Poet and Historian fling
Their light o'er classic Wyoming,
And you, ye green Lancastrian fields,
Rich with the wealth which Ceres yields;
And Chester's storied vales and hills,
In depths of rural calm divine,
Where reels the flashing Brandywine,
And dallies with its hundred mills.

Such was the figure, strange and wild;
And at his side a twelve-years child —
An eagle-eyed, bright, wondering lad,
In rustic winter garments clad —
Entered, and held the wagoner's hand,
While on his visage, flushed and tanned,
A pleasure mingled with amaze
Parted his lips and filled his gaze.
His hair was wavy, long, and black,
And from his forehead drifted back
By the last greeting of the gale,
Where still the random rain and hail
Clung glistening like the tangled pearls
In careless locks of Indian girls.

The host with usual " welcome " smiled,
And praised the bright-eyed stranger child
Whereat the wagoner lightly spake: —
" Be all your praising for his sake:
I found him in the wagon-trough
A-swinging like a cradled thing;
With angry words I bade him off, —
He stared with large eyes wondering,
And answered that his way was long,
His knees were tired, his feet were sore,
And then his face new brightness wore,
And straight his spirit burst to song:
I listened, and my frown gave o'er.

My nature, like my hand, is rough,
My heart is of rude mountain stuff;
And yet, I own, a laughing child
Can make at times my temper mild.

I placed him on the wheel-horse back,
Where shoulder-shaken bells were ringing.
The king of all the bells was he, —
So silver-clear his voice of glee;
And there he cheered the way with singing,
Till music filled our dreary track.

There is not much I ask or need;
Yet would I give my favorite steed
To sing the song he sang to-day,
And for a heart as light and gay:
The very team went rearing mad
With joy beneath his voice so glad,
As when the steeds of battle hear
The wild war-clarion ringing near.
Come, my young wood-bird, sing again
That breezy song, — that mountain-strain. "
And thus, from lips of fresh delight,
The wild and artless song took flight.

SONG .

Where sweeps round the mountains
The cloud on the gale,
And streams from their fountains
Leap into the vale, —
Like frighted deer leap when
The storm with his pack
Rides over the steep in
The wild torrent's track, —
Even there my free home is;
There watch I the flocks
Wander white as the foam is
On stairways of rocks.
Secure in the gorge there
In freedom we sing,
And laugh at King George, where
The Eagle is king.

II.

I mount the wild horse with
No saddle or rein,
And guide his swift course with
A grasp on his mane;
Through paths steep and narrow,
And scorning the crag,
I chase with my arrow
The flight of the stag.
Through snow-drifts engulfing,
I follow the bear,
And face the gaunt wolf when
He snarls in his lair,
And watch through the gorge there
The red panther spring,
And laugh at King George, where
The Eagle is king.

III.

When April is sounding
His horn o'er the hills,
And brooklets are bounding
In joy to the mills, —
When warm August slumbers
Among her green leaves,
And Harvest encumbers
Her garners with sheaves, —
When the flail of November
Is swinging with might,
And the miller December
Is mantled with white, —
In field and in forge there
The free-hearted sing,
And laugh at King George, where
The Eagle is king.

Some praised the voice, and some, in doubt,
With look uncertain, gazed about;
And some, with loyal feeling strong,
Condemned the singer and the song,
And swore it was a rebel strain
They would not calmly hear again.
Whereat the wagoner's eyes of fire
Flashed round a withering look of ire;
His brows grew black, his temple-veins
Grew large, like brooks with sudden rains,
From face to face he bent his glance,
And searched each quailing countenance.

Thus for a time great Henry stood,
When cries of " treason " fired his blood,
Till from his quivering lips was hurled
The answer that awoke the world.
And thus the last of all that band,
The giants of our native land,
The safeguards in our darkest hours,
Our bulwarks and our sentinel towers,
Oft stood, and from his cavernous eyes
Sped to the heart his great replies:
Far in advance he fiercely sent
The fiery shaft of argument;
And, when he spoke, 'twas but to tell
In thunder where the red bolt fell!

Thus stood the wagoner, till at length,
With voice subdued to conscious strength,
He spoke, and said, " Our eagle's wing
Shall mount, the eagle shall be king!
And jackals shall be heard no more
When Freedom's monarch bird shall soar. "

'Twas passed, and none essayed reply;
Defeat or triumph filled each eye.
Whence came the boy? was asked in vain;
What errand brought the truant down?
What would he in the noisy town? —
Conjecture but replied again.

The wagoner drew the host aside,
And said, " The storm approaches near,
And soon its bolts must be defied:
For me its thunders bring no fear;
But for this tender fledgling here,
'Twere well if he a while might rest
Secure in some protected nest.

This hand that long has grasped the whip
Must shortly take within its grip
Another scourge, and boldly deal
The blow a tyrant needs must feel:
Hence it were best the boy should be
Removed a little space from me,
Lest that the battling oak might wrong
The eaglet it has sheltered long. "

Then said the landlord, as he took
Another survey of the face,
" It was no fancy made me trace
In that young form the Ringbolt look.
Although your answer seemed to say
He crossed but now your townward way. "
" Even as I told, " the wagoner said
" The urchin, wild of heart and head,
Wishing to follow where I led,
Stealthily stole behind the wain,
Breasting the gusts of hail and rain.
It was no easy task, I fear,
For one so young to keep so near.
For miles I thought I heard the beat
And splash, behind, of following feet.
You well may guess with what surprise
I met the truant's laughing eyes,
And how that face of brave delight,
While in the trough he sat upright,
Put all my chiding words to flight.

All day my thoughts were somewhat sad
With too much dwelling on the lad,
Contriving where I best might trust
His sheltered head when comes the gust.
For when it comes, I must be where
The thickest dangers are to dare;
And there are cowards who would make
The boy a victim for my sake.
It was for this I would not own
Before these Tories of the town
The child was aught to me beside
A friendless truant wandering down,
Whom, pitying, I allowed to ride.

And now, my friend, I ask of you
To aid me in my urgent need, —
To give or find the boy a home
Where present danger may not come:
For this you shall receive your due,
Even though it cost my last good steed.

The host replied, " Leave that to me:
There's many a one comes here to dine
Would joy beside his chair to see
So lithe an urchin serve his wine. "

" Serve ! " — but between the wagoner's teeth
The word was crushed to instant death:
His brow grew black a moment, then
As quickly it was cleared again.
" Be it, good landlord, as you say, "
He murmured: " 'tis but for a day, "
And then abruptly turned away.

Under the gable-roof the boy
Soon prest the soothing bed with joy:
A little while he heard the sigh
Of winds like spirits hovering nigh,
The weather-vane that creaked aloof,
The slumberous rain along the roof,
And breathed the scent of bundled herbs
Close to the waspy rafters hung;
Then heard the hour from the belfry flung,
And then the watch along the curbs,
With voice that warns but not disturbs;
Then slept, and dreamed of his native place,
And woke with the red sun on his face.