Chapter VIII: The Struggle for the Continent (2)

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;
All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!
Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the
wayside
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.

* * * * *

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their
children
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.
Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.

* * * * *

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,
Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a
martyr.
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,
uplifting,
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.

* * * * *

Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

In July, 1758, an army of fifteen thousand, under General
James Abercromby and Brigadier Lord Howe, attempted to take
Ticonderoga, where Montcalm was stationed at the head of about
three thousand men. Lord Howe, the very life of the army,
was killed in the first skirmish, and Abercromby handled the
army so badly that it was repulsed with a loss of nearly two
thousand, and fled in a panic. The French loss was less than
four hundred, and the victory was hailed as one of the greatest
ever achieved by French arms in America.

ON THE DEFEAT AT TICONDEROGA OR CARILONG

[July 8, 1758]

Neglected long had been my useless lyre,
And heartfelt grief represt the poet's fire;
But rous'd by dire alarms of wasting war,
Again, O muse, the solemn dirge prepare,
And join the widow's, orphan's, parent's tear.
Unwept, unsung shall Britain's chiefs remain;
Doomed in this stranger clime to bleed in vain:
Here a last refuge hapless Braddock found,
When the grim savage gave the deadly wound:
Ah! hide Monongahel thy hateful head
(Still as thy waves roll near the injur'd dead)
On whose gore-moistened banks the num'rous slain,
Now spring in vegetative life again,
Whilst their wan ghosts as night's dark gloom prevail
Murmur to whistling winds the mournful tale;
Cease, cease, ye grisly forms, nor wail the past.
Lo! a new scene of death exceeds the last;
Th' empurpled fields of Carilong survey
Rich with the spoils of one disastrous day!
Bold to the charge the ready vet'ran stood
And thrice repell'd, as oft the fight renewed,
Till (life's warm current drain'd) they sunk in blood,
Uncheck'd their ardor, unallay'd their fire,
See Beaver, Proby, Rutherford, expire;
Silent Britannia's tardy thunder lay
While clouds of Gallick smoke obscur'd the day.
Th' intrepid race nursed on the mountain's brow
O'er-leap the mound, and dare th' astonish'd foe;
Whilst Albion's sons (mow'd down in ranks) bemoan
Their much lov'd country's wrongs nor feel their own;
Cheerless they hear the drum discordant beat--
And with slow motion sullenly retreat.
But where wert thou, oh! first in martial fame,
Whose early cares distinguish'd praises claim,
Who ev'ry welcome toil didst gladly share
And taught th' enervate warrior want to bear?
Illustrious Howe! whose ev'ry deed confest
The patriot wish that fill'd thy generous breast:
Alas! too swift t' explore the hostile land,
Thou dy'dst sad victim to an ambush band,
Nor e'er this hour of wild confusion view'd
Like Braddock, falling in the pathless wood;
Still near the spot where thy pale corse is laid,
May the fresh laurel spread its amplest shade;
Still may thy name be utter'd with a sigh,
And the big drops swell ev'ry grateful eye;
Oh! would each leader who deplores thy fate
Thy zeal and active virtues emulate,
Soon should proud Carilong be humbled low
Nor Montcalm's self, prevent th' avenging blow.

_London Magazine_, 1759.

But at last the tide turned. In 1757 William Pitt forced his
way to the leadership of the government in England, and at once
formed a comprehensive plan for a combined attack on the French
forts in America. The first point of attack was Louisburg,
which had been ceded back to France in 1748, and in the spring
of 1758 a strong expedition under Lord Amherst was dispatched
against it. The siege commenced June 8--the very day of the
disaster at Ticonderoga--and after a tremendous bombardment
which destroyed the town and badly breached the fortress, the
garrison, numbering nearly six thousand, surrendered July 26,
1758.

ON THE LATE SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION AGAINST LOUISBOURG

[July 26, 1758]

At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done,
And British valor hath the conquest won:
Success our arms, our heroes, honor crowns,
And Louisbourg an English monarch owns!
Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought,
Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought--
That awful scene where the dread god of war
O'er field of death roll'd his triumphant car:
There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I view
The pressing throng, the fierce assault renew:
With dauntless front advance, and boldly brave
The cannon's thunder and th' expecting grave.

On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep,
Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep;
_Britannia_ lonely sitting, from afar
Waits the event, and overlooks the war;
Thence, rolls her eager wand'ring eyes about
In all the dread anxiety of doubt;
Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite,
Grasp deathless honors, and maintain the fight.
Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway,
And hope and fear wear the slow hours away.
See! from the realms of everlasting light,
A radiant form wings her aerial flight.
The palm she carries, and the crown she wears,
Plainly denote 'tis _Victory_ appears;
Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind,
The clouds her chariot, and the wings her wind:
Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play,
And laurell'd honors gild her azure way--
Now she alights--the trumpets cease to sound,
Her presence spreads expecting silence round:--
And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly face
Effulgent glories brighten all the place--

"Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day,
And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay;
Thy godlike sons, by _this_, their names shall raise,
And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise.
I to the list'ning world shall soon proclaim
Of _Wolfe's_ brave deeds, the never-dying fame,
And swell with glory Amherst's patriot name.
Such are the heroes that shall ever bring
Wealth to their country, honor to their king:
Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quell
The native fires that in such bosoms dwell.
To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign,
Smile, smile, _Britannia_! victory is thine.
Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow!
Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know!
See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline!
Rejoice, _Britannia_! victory is thine."

Give your loose canvas to the breezes free,
Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea:
Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king,
And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring:
Let the wild crowd that catch the breath of fame,
In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim:
Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend,
While mingling shouts the azure concave rend.
But let the few, whom reason makes more wise,
With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes:
Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy.
Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ;
To bless our _God_ with me let all unite,
_He_ guides the conq'ring sword, _he_ governs in the fight.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

The fall of Louisburg was followed a few months later by the
capture of Fort Duquesne (November 25, 1758), by General John
Forbes. Forbes, at the head of an excellent army, had proceeded
slowly and carefully. As the English approached, the French
realized that to remain was simply to be captured, so they
deserted the hopeless post, and Forbes marched in unmolested.
He named his conquest Fort Pitt, after the great minister.

FORT DUQUESNE

A HISTORICAL CENTENNIAL BALLAD

[November 25, 1758-1858]

I

Come, fill the beaker, while we chaunt a pean of old days:
By Mars! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise,
Than they who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain,
And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Duquesne.

For glorious were the days they came, the soldiers strong and true,
And glorious were the days, they came for Pennsylvania, too;
When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown,
And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflame went down.

Virginia sent her chivalry and Maryland her brave,
And Pennsylvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave:
Oh, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then,
For every sturdy youth was worth a score of common men!

They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware--
The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there;
And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun,
Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington.

O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen,
Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen;
They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail,
From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale.

And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way,
Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay;
The tartans of Grant's Highlanders were sodden yet and red,
As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled.

--Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray,
And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day,
When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain,
'Twixt laurelled Loyalhanna and the outposts of Duquesne.

And there before them was the field of massacre and blood,
Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous wood
Where Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble one
Whose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun.

Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame,
For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame;
"And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stain
Before to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne."

II

'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleam
Had left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream;
And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees,
And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze.

The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep,
The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep;
Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air,
But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair.

Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on;
The forage and provision, too,--so Ormsby said,--were gone.
Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say;
In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay.

Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frame
There ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame!
"I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain!
I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!"

So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind,
And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind,
And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright
At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire
light.

Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky,
As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!
Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven
By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!

O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array,
And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay,
As came the scouts swift-footed in--"They fly! the foe! they fly!
They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!"

III

Now morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came,
And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with
flame;
And through the brown woods on the hills--those altars of the world--
The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled.

Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious din
Of twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin,
And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men,
Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen.

Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seas
Would speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies,
Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne,
And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain.

Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest,
They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West,"
There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold,
And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled.

Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales,
Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails;
Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecoeur's armed batteaux,
And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes.

Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran,
And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van,
The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet,
And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt.

Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring,
And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout--"Long live the King!
Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reign
That adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!"

FLORUS B. PLIMPTON.

Pitt determined to strike a blow at the very centre of French
power, and on June 26, 1759, an English fleet of twenty-two
ships of the line, with frigates, sloops-of-war, and transports
carrying nine thousand regulars, appeared before Quebec. In
command of this great expedition was Major-General James Wolfe,
who had played so dashing a part in the capture of Louisburg
the year before, and was soon to win immortal glory.

HOT STUFF

[June, 1759]

Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck,
Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec;
Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail,
Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail;
And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough:
Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff.

Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance,
To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance.
Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will try
At their capital to give them another black eye.
Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,--
Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff.

With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose,
Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose;
And the Indians will come: but the light infantry
Will soon oblige _them_ to betake to a tree.
From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff?
Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff!

When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore,
While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar,
Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's--I know the lappels."
"You lie," says Ned Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'!
Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff;
So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff."

EDWARD BOTWOOD.

About the end of August a place was found where the heights
might be scaled, and an assault was ordered for the night of
Wednesday, September 12. The night arrived; every preparation
had been made and every order given; it only remained to wait
the turning of the tide. Wolfe was on board the flagship
Sutherland, and to while away the hours of waiting he is said
to have written the little song, "How Stands the Glass Around?"

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND?

[September 12, 1759]

How stands the glass around?
For shame ye take no care, my boys,
How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound,
The trumpets sound,
The colors they are flying, boys,
To fight, kill, or wound,
May we still be found
Content with our hard fate, my boys,
On the cold ground.

Why, soldiers, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, soldiers, why?
Whose business 'tis to die!
What, sighing? fie!
Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!
'Tis he, you or I!
Cold, hot, wet or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly!

'Tis but in vain,--
I mean not to upbraid you, boys,--
'Tis but in vain,
For soldiers to complain:
Should next campaign
Send us to him who made us, boys,
We're free from pain!
But if we remain,
A bottle and a kind landlady
Cure all again.

JAMES WOLFE.

Montcalm, riding out from Quebec early in the morning of
Thursday, September 13, 1759, found the English drawn up in
line of battle on the Plains of Abraham--they had scaled the
cliffs in safety. He attacked about ten o'clock, but his troops
were repulsed at the second volley and fled in confusion back
to the fort. Wolfe was killed in the charge which followed, and
Montcalm was fatally wounded and died that night. The French
were demoralized; a council was called and the incredible
resolution reached to abandon the fort without further
resistance. The retreat commenced at once, and Quebec was left
to its fate. It was never again to pass into the hands of
France.

BRAVE WOLFE

[September 13, 1759]

Cheer up, my young men all,
Let nothing fright you;
Though oft objections rise,
Let it delight you.

Let not your fancy move
Whene'er it comes to trial;
Nor let your courage fail
At the first denial.

I sat down by my love,
Thinking that I woo'd her;
I sat down by my love,
But sure not to delude her.

But when I got to speak,
My tongue it doth so quiver,
I dare not speak my mind,
Whenever I am with her.

Love, here's a ring of gold,
'Tis long that I have kept it,
My dear, now for my sake,
I pray you to accept it.

When you the posy read,
Pray think upon the giver,
My dear, remember me,
Or I'm undone forever.

Then Wolfe he took his leave,
Of his most lovely jewel;
Although it seemed to be
To him, an act most cruel.

Although it's for a space
I'm forced to leave my love,
My dear, where'er I rove,
I'll ne'er forget my dove.

So then this valiant youth
Embarked on the ocean,
To free America
From faction's dire commotion.

He landed at Quebec,
Being all brave and hearty;
The city to attack,
With his most gallant party.

Then Wolfe drew up his men,
In rank and file so pretty,
On Abraham's lofty heights,
Before this noble city.

A distance from the town
The noble French did meet them,
In double numbers there,
Resolved for to beat them.

_A Parley_: WOLFE _and_ MONTCALM _together_

Montcalm and this brave youth,
Together they are walking;
So well they do agree,
Like brothers they are talking.

Then each one to his post,
As they do now retire;
Oh, then their numerous hosts
Began their dreadful fire.

Then instant from his horse,
Fell this most noble hero,
May we lament his loss
In words of deepest sorrow.

The French are seen to break,
Their columns all are flying;
Then Wolfe he seems to wake,
Though in the act of dying.

And lifting up his head
(The drums and trumpets rattle),
And to his army said,
"I pray how goes the battle?"

His aide-de-camp replied,
"Brave general, 'tis in our favor,
Quebec and all her pride,
'Tis nothing now can save her.

"She falls into our hands,
With all her wealth and treasure."
"O then," brave Wolfe replied,
"I quit the world with pleasure."

Wolfe's death almost overshadowed the victory. Major Knox, in
his diary, writes, "our joy at this success is inexpressibly
damped by the loss we sustained of one of the greatest heroes
which this or any other age can boast of."

THE DEATH OF WOLFE

[September 13, 1759]

Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,
The breathing marble or the muses' lays.
Art is but vain--the force of language weak,
To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.
Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,
Each line to raise, and animate at will--
To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,
Point out its object, or its rage control--
Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we find
Of those great virtues that adorned thy mind.
Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,
Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear--
While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight,
And placed her safety in ignoble flight.
Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,
And rage and grief alternately impart.
With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death,
These were the words that closed the warrior's breath--
"My eyesight fails!--but does the foe retreat?
If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"
A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,
Cried, "Sir, they fly!--their ranks entirely broke:
Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance,
And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."
The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,
And from his lips these dying accents stole:--
"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,
Guarded by angels to celestial day.
An awful band!--Britannia's mighty dead,
Receives to glory his immortal shade.
Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief--
Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,
With joyful song conduct their welcome guest
To the bright mansions of eternal rest--
For those prepared who merit just applause
By bravely dying in their country's cause.

_Pennsylvania Gazette_, November 8, 1759.

The fall of Quebec settled the fate of Canada. On September 8,
1760, Vaudreuil surrendered Montreal to a great besieging force
under Amherst. By the terms of the capitulation, Canada and all
its dependencies passed to the British crown. The fight for
the continent was ended. Indian hostilities continued for some
years, and it was not until October, 1764, that peace was made
with them. One of its conditions was the return of all captives
taken by the Indians, and they were assembled at Carlisle, Pa.,
December 31, 1764. It was there the incident took place which
is related in the following verses.

THE CAPTIVE'S HYMN

(Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764)

The Indian war was over,
And Pennsylvania's towns
Welcomed the blessed calm that comes
When peace a conflict crowns.
Bitter and long had been the strife,
But gallant Colonel Bouquet
Had forced the foe to sue for grace,
And named the joyful day
When Shawnees, Tuscarawas,
Miamis, Delawares,
And every band that roved the land
And called a captive theirs--
From the pathless depths of the forest,
By stream and dark defile,
Should bring their prisoners, on their lives,
In safety to Carlisle;
Carlisle in the Cumberland valley,
Where Conodogwinnet flows,
And the guardian ranges, north and south,
In mountain pride repose.

Like the wind the Colonel's order
To hamlet and clearing flew;
And mourning mothers and wives and sons
From banks where Delaware seaward runs,
From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide,
And the vales where the southern hills divide,
Flocked to the town, perchance to view,
At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square,
The faces lost, but in memory fair.

How strange the scene on the village green
That morning cold and gray!
To right the Indian tents were set,
And in groups the dusky warriors met,
While their captives clung to the captors yet,
As wild and bronzed as they--
In rags and skins, with moccasined feet,
Some loath to part, some fain to greet
The friends of a vanished day;
And, eagerly watching the tents, to left
Stood mothers and sons and wives bereft,
While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley,
And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally,
The troops in their brave array.

Now friends and captives mingle,
And cries of joy or woe
Thrill the broad street as loved ones meet,
Or in vain the tale of the past repeat,
And back in anguish go.
Among them lingered a widow--
From the Suabian land was she--
And one fell morning she had lost
Husband and children three,
All slain save the young Regina,
A captive spared to be.
Nine weary years had followed,
But the wilderness was dumb,
And never a word to her aching heart
Through friend or foe had come,
And now, from Tulpehocken,
Full seventy miles away,
She had walked to seek her daughter,
The Lord her only stay.

She scanned the sun-browned maidens;
But the tunic's rough disguise,
The savage tongue, the forest ways,
Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze,
And with sobs and streaming eyes
She turned to the Colonel and told him
How hopeless was her quest--
Moaning, "Alas, Regina!
The grave for me is best!"
"Nay, Madam," gently he replied,
"Don't be disheartened yet, but bide,
And try some other test.
What pleasant song or story
Did she love from your lips to hear?"
"O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;'
And the 'Creed' we hold so dear,
And she said them over and over
While I was spinning near;
And every eve, by her little bed,
When the light was growing dim,
I sung her to sleep, my darling!
With Schmolke's beautiful hymn."
"Then sing it _now_," said the Colonel,
And close to the captive band
He brought the mother with her hymn
From the far Suabian land;
And with faltering voice and quivering lips,
While all was hushed, she sung
The strain of lofty faith and cheer
In her rich German tongue:

"Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein"
(How near the listeners press!),
Alone, yet not alone am I,
Though all may deem my days go by
In utter dreariness;
The Lord is still my company,
I am with Him, and He with me,
The solitude to bless.

He speaks to me within His word
As if His very voice I heard,
And when I pray, apart,
He meets me in the quiet there
With counsel for each cross and care,
And comfort for my heart.

The world may say my life is lone,
With every joy and blessing flown
Its vision can descry;
I shall not sorrow nor repine,
For glorious company is mine
With God and angels nigh.

As she sung, a maid of the captives
Threw back her tangled hair,
And forward leaned as if to list
The lightest murmur there;
Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed,
Her eyes grew bright and wide
As if some spell the song had cast,
And, ere the low notes died,
With a bound like a deer in the forest
She sprang to the singer's side,
And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!"
Enfolding her, she cried--
"My dear, dear, little Mother!"--
Then swift before her knelt
As in the long, long buried days
When by the wood they dwelt;
And, "Vater unser, der du bist
Im Himmel," chanted she,
The sweet "Our Father" she had learned
Beside that mother's knee;
And then the grand "Apostles' Creed"
That in her heart had lain:
"Ich glaube an Gott den Vater,"
Like a child she said again--
"I believe in God the Father"--
Down to the blest "Amen."
Stooping and clasping the maiden
Whose soul the song had freed,
"Now God be praised!" said the mother,
"This is my child indeed!--
My own, my darling Regina,
Come back in my sorest need,
For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,'
And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!"
Then, while the throng was silent,
And the Colonel bowed his head,
With tears and glad thanksgivings
Her daughter forth she led;
And the sky was lit with sunshine,
And the cold earth caught its smile
For the mother and ransomed maiden,
That morning in Carlisle.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

A PROPHECY

[1764]

Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,--
If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds,
As it has done the last sad passing year,
Made the New World in anger shed the tear,--
Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle,
They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile,
While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain,
And make lost Liberty once more to reign.
But let them live, as they would choose to be,
Loyal to King, and as true Britons free,
They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crown
Which first has raised them, though now pulls them down;
If but the rights of subjects they receive,
'Tis all they ask--or all a crown can give.

ARTHUR LEE (?).