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 re

main

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 Darling

ton.

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 Brandy

wine.

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 caldron 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

"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 nearThe 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.

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.

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,

on the air.

on the air.

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 awhile 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.

Then to his tower he mounted high, And searched through all the cloudless sky:

All, all was clear, while still came by

The rumble of the constant din.

Was direful war the sudden source?
Was it for this the rebel force
Had ta'en but now their southward
course?

The sound his fears too well define!
It is, it is the cannon's mouth!
Its awful answer from the south
Bears tidings of the roaring ranks
That crash upon the trembling banks,
The crimson banks, of Brandywine.
Pale Esther, in that gloomy tower,
Strained her sad vision's fruitless
power:

On every sound she seemed to hear

The shout and groan together swell; At every burst that came more clear, She deemed her hero Edgar fell,Fell, and perchance had breathed his last

Long ere the death-announcing blast, Speeding through miles of frighted air,

His dying sigh to her could bear.

Still hearkening, gazing far abroad, Some sign of triumph to discover, All day she poured her prayer to God To shield her country and her lover.

23*

anew.

spade!

A place of safety must be made : Bring shovels, hoes, and picks, and show

How you can ply the digging trade."
When Berkley's will was thus con-

veyed,

Down came the gardener and his

"Dig me a pit !" the master cried, "And let it be both deep and wide, As 'twere a grave that might contain A score or more of rebels slain. But they for whom this grave is made Belong unto a nobler grade, With better blood than ever ran In purple veins of outlaw clan. Their royal genealogic lines Come down the Old World's antique vines:

Ho, butler! my good sacristan, Bear out our monarch king of wines, Old Port, in all his purple pride, With queenly Sherry at his side,

Followed by all their loyal train, The brave, light-hearted German knights

Whose birth was on the Rhenish heights,

The well-beloved of Charlemagne, And all those maids whose bright eyes glance

In memory of their native France.
Here, give them to their parent mould
Till peace has stilled this rebel

strife;
Then doubly bright and doubly bold
Shall be their renovated life."

SONG.

I.

O God, o'er all this blooming earth
Is it with thine approving eve
That every flower of noble birth
Must bow to poisonous weeds, or
die?

II.

Through all our pastures must there

run

The bramble which no fruitage bears?

Must every field which loves the sun

Be arrogant with choking tares?

IV.

Wilt thou not send some mighty hand To sweep through these entangled walks,

To root the proud weeds from the land And burn the rank and thorny stalks ?

A moment now she paused, and sighed,

Her hand still on the quivering cords,

As waiting the ensuing words, When, at the open casement wide, A voice in patriot tones replied :—

"Yes, God hath sent that arm ΟΣ wrath :

It sweeps the land with sword of fire:

The poisonous weeds but strew his path

To

build Oppression's funeral pyre !"

Sweet is the sound when pardon calls
The prisoner from his dreary walls;
And sweet the succoring voice must be
Which hails a sinking ship at sea;
And dear the water's light when first
It greets the desert-pilgrim's thirst,
Or from the friendly helmet drips
To cool a fainting patriot's lips:
But not more sweet or dear than when
A fond heart hears and meets again
The voice and the responding eye
Of one, the dearest 'neath the sky,
Whom picturing fancy saw but now
With drooping head and bleeding
brow,

Or heard the last-drawn sigh of pain Which laid him with his comrades slain:

Her arm was round her hero prest,
Her head was on his happy breast.