Classic Poem

Three years the flying sun and shade
O'er Berkley Hall their change had cast,
Since the wild urchin and the maid
Within its loyal portal passed.
Two years the invader's war-alarms
Had waked the land, which still defied,
And oft the gleam of patriot arms
From Berkley's turret was descried.

Upon his central roof a tower
Rose and o'erlooked the country wide, —
A place scarce fit for lady's bower;
For there was seen, on every side,
Many a cast-off coat of war,
Helmet and sword, with hack and scar,
With guns and pistols crosswise hung,
O'er which the dust of years was flung.

And there through many a changeful hour
The anxious father and the maid
Through telescopic glass surveyed
The impending cloud of battle lower;
They watched it move o'er land and stream,
They saw the white sails come and go,
And all the flashing splendor gleam
Along the bristling plains below.

There had they gazed through one long day,
Watching an army glide away
Beyond the city's western side, —
So far, the line was scarce descried;
But Esther knew a nation's trust
Marched there in that long cloud of dust.

" Thank Heaven! " the loyalist exclaimed,
" They are gone! — our city is reclaimed.
And England's banner now may fly,
To gladden every loyal eye! "

But now a voice, like a clarion clear,
Rang laughing in the speaker's ear: —
" I saw him! and your vaunt is vain;
I saw him and his warrior train:
Had you beheld that hero host,
Your fears had not allowed the boast. "

Who dared in Berkley's presence proud
Speak rebel words so fierce and loud?
Sir Hugh his hand in anger laid
Upon the handle of his blade;
But when he saw the wild-eyed boy,
And gazed upon his face of joy,
The vengeance in his breast was stayed.

Then, with a tremor on his tongue,
While something paler grew his cheek,
As some retarding memory clung
On the rebuke he fain would speak,
He said, " Rash boy, beware! beware!
You put my kindness to the proof.
Is it for this my three years' care
Has sheltered you beneath my roof?
Is it for this — — " He said no more:
He saw the tear, the brow of pain, —
A look which he had seen before,
And one he would not see again.

" Nay, Ugo, nay! " the maiden cried,
Her two hands clasping his between;
Her tender eyes to his replied,
And straightway all his troubled mien
Grew bright, as when the iris form
Glows on the cloud that threatened storm.
" Nay, Ugo, nay: speak out, and say
The things which you have seen to-day. "

" Him have I seen, " the boy exclaimed,
" Yes, him! — what needs he to be named?
The world has only one broad sun,
And Freedom's world but Washington. "

Even while he spake that fiery word,
The stripling's stature seemed to grow;
All his young hero spirit stirred
Sent to his cheek the warrior glow:
Save the same look, which knew no awe,
Learned on his native mountains wild,
You scarcely longer saw the child
Which thrice a twelvemonth past you saw.

" Him have I seen! — oh, sight to cheer
The patriot when he bleeding lies,
To kindle hope and scatter fear,
And light new fire in dying eyes!

His way with banners waved and burned,
The welkin rang with patriot cheers,
From every window fondly yearned
Bright eyes that spoke their joy in tears.

And music round his pathway flung
Its gladness in a silver shower,
And over all the great bells swung,
Shouting their joy from every tower.

The snow-white war-horse he bestrode
Stept conscious, with a soul of flame,
As if he knew his master rode
Straight to the glorious gates of Fame.

The coldest gazer's heart grew warm,
And felt no more its indecision;
For every soul which saw that form
Grew larger to contain the vision.

I watched the long, long ranks go by,
And saw defiance in every eye;
And every soldier true and staunch
Wore in his cap a vernal branch,
As Victory had placed it there
For Fame to twine about his hair.

Oh, how the wild heart sent its blood
Through all the frame, a throbbing flood,
To see those spirits, true and tried,
Who crossed at night the roaring tide,
What time the grinding gulfs of ice
Made all the desperate peril thrice,
When nothing but a patriot's fire
Could breast the winter's bitter ire, —
Who barefoot trod December's snow,
And took the hirelings at a blow!

You should have seen that stream of life
Westward go and eastward come,
Thrilled and cheered by the startling fife,
Throbbed through and through by many a drum.

There, on his charger fierce and tall,
A fiery stallion black as night,
His bold front overtopping all, —
A very tower along the right, —

With eye that death could not deter,
His rifle o'er his shoulder flung,
Two pistols in his holsters hung,
Rode Ringbolt, the wild wagoner.

They who have seen that mighty hand
And heard the swearing of his whip
May well conceive the giant grip
That wielded the commanding brand.

There, like a son by his warrior sire,
And mounted on a steed as good,
His eye aflame with patriot fire,
His cheek aflush with patriot blood,
Rode Edgar, and the leaves of green
Set in his cap had a rose between;
I knew not what the intent might be:
Perchance 'twas there for memory.

And after these a hundred more.
Obedient to the wagoner's word,
As fierce a band as ever bore
Through fire and flood the avenging sword.
These were his " mountain eagles," — these,
So often seen a flying cloud

That sweeps the hills through forest-trees,
Following their leader loud, —
A cloud whose form
Is a whirlwind storm,
When on the flanks
Of the foeman's ranks
It breaks from upland covert near,
And pours its sudden bolts of wrath,
Then gains anew the secret path
Ere it is said, " The storm is here!"
Pale wonder strikes the columns wide,
And, ere the foe can count his slain,
Thundering down the other side
The swooping tempest strikes again.

But yesterday I heard their tramp,
And saw their chargers dashing down,
Each wild mane like a banner blown:
They swam the river, leapt the creek,
And o'er the near hills gained the camp,
Bearing the news from Chesapeake. "

So spake the youth. The maid near by
Sat gazing in his clear, dark eye,
As if she saw in its depths, anew,
The whole bright pageant passing through.

But Berkley frowned his blackest frown,
As that would put the rebel down,
And cried, " Well, sir, and is this all?
The picture you would have us view
Is rare, and colored somewhat new:
Methinks 'twere easier to recall
That barefoot, tattered, hungry crew
Quartered but now near Berkley Hall.
The farmers' planted fields forlorn
Will make a poor return of corn,
And thievish birds wax fat, I fear,
Since all the scarecrows volunteer! "
And he laughed the bitter laugh of scorn,
So grating to a patriot's ear.

" You know so well how a rebel feels
Fresh from his sty of mire and straw,
While dangling, tangling 'twixt his heels
Is dragged the sword he dares not draw:
Gird on this brand, and let us see
The brave young rebel you would be! "
So speaking, he took from its place of dust
A blade whose scabbard was thick with rust: —
" And this chapeau, for many a year
Untouched among the cobwebs here, —

The webs may serve you yet for lint;
This ancient gun,
With rust o'errun, —
It matters not the loss of flint;
A pistol or so to grace your side;
This old flask, too: — be naught denied
To deck you in your warrior pride!
Behold you now! By Heaven, you stand
As fair a rebel as walks the land! "

Again the bitter laugh was flung
From off the old man's scornful tongue.

The youth a moment glared in doubt,
Reddening like one who stands at bay;
But presently burst his laughter-shout,
And, crying, " Then be it as you say! "
Wildly sprang from the tower away.

They heard him descend the echoing stair
And Berkley stood with wondering air,
Listening with wide eyes and lips,
Like a traveller on Vesuvius' top
When his adventurous hand lets drop
A stone into the yawning pit,
From rock to rock he hears it flit,
Till the noises die in a far eclipse.

But, when the clattering sounds were past,
Sir Hugh stood with the look aghast
Of a sire who has held his favorite boy,
In frolic, only to fright and annoy,
Over a precipice wild and deep,
When, with a sudden and desperate leap,
The child is gone! and the father stands,
Stunned and staring, with empty hands.