Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge, For he loved the Lord God, - and he hated King
He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way
At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew
But God- and that one of the hireling crew
Who fired the shot! Enough! there she lay,
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!
Did he bear it, - what way? Think of him as you
By the old church to-day; - think of him and that band
Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat! Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,
And what could you, what should you, what would you do?
Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road
With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load
At their feet! then above all the shouting and shots, Rang his voice, "Put Watts into 'em, - Boys, give
And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,
But not always a hero like this, - and that's all.
Staten Island, N. Y.
AT HOME IN STATEN ISLAND.
Y true-love clasped me by the hand,
And from our garden alley,
Looked o'er the landscape seamed with sea,
And rich with hill and valley,
And said, "We 've found a pleasant place
As fair as thine and my land,
A calm abode, a flowery home,
In sunny Staten Island.
"Behind us lies the teeming town
With lust of gold grown frantic;
Before us glitters o'er the bay
The peaceable Atlantic.
We hear the murmur of the sea,
A monotone of sadness,
But not a whisper of the crowd,
Or echo of its madness.
"See how the dogwood sheds its bloom Through all the greenwood mazes,
As white as the untrodden snow
That hides in shady places.
See how the fair catalpa spreads
Its azure flowers in masses,
Bell-shaped, as if to woo the wind
To ring them as it passes.
See, stretching o'er the green hillside, The haunt of cooing turtle,
The clambering vine, the branching elm, The maple and the myrtle,
The undergrowth of flowers and fern
In many-tinted lustre,
And parasites that climb or creep,
And droop, and twist, and cluster.
"Behold the gorgeous butterflies
That in the sunshine glitter,
The bluebird, oriole, and wren
That dart and float and twitter;
And humming-birds that peer like bees
In stamen and in pistil,
And, over all, the bright blue sky
Translucent as a crystal.
"The air is balmy, not too warm,
And all the landscape sunny
Seems, like the Hebrew Paradise,
To flow with milk and honey.
Here let us rest, a little while, —
Not rich enough to buy land,
And pass a summer well content
In bowery Staten Island."
Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide,
Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky,
Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind,
Majestically flows. Oh! by thy side,
Far from the tumults and the throng of men,
And the vain cares that vex poor human life,
'T were happiness to dwell, alone with thee,
And the wide, solemn grandeur of the scene.
From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose
In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain,
Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend,
Enrobed with clustering woods, o'er which the smile
Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed,
Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues,
And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub
His golden livery. On the distant heights
Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar
Their burnished summits in the clear, blue heaven,
Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye
Turns drooping from the sight. - Nature is here
Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell,
In music never silent, of her power.
Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds
Such monuments of regal sway. These wide,
Untrodden forests eloquently speak,
Whether the breath of summer stir their depths,
Or the hoarse moaning of November's blast
Strip from their boughs their covering.
That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers,
Gay village spires ascend, - and the glad voice
Of industry is heard. So in the lapse
Of future years these ancient woods shall bow
Beneath the levelling axe, and man's abodes
Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass
In turn away; yet, heedless of all change,
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on,
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee
To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom.
MEETING OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND THE
USH on, glad stream, in thy power and pride,
To claim the hand of thy promised bride;
She doth haste from the realm of the darkened mine,
To mingle her murmured vows with thine;
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