And Gottlieb, colonial musician,
Once more had come over the seas, And sweet to the slave and patrician Were the sounds of his low melodies; Once again came the tears, the petition, Soul-longings and heart-felt contrition
At his mystical touch on the keys.
There joined in the prayers of the yeomen
For the rulers and high in command,
The statesman who prayed that the foemen
Might perish by sea and by land;
And flowers from herbariums Elysian
Long pressed, yet still sweet, in the vision
Were strewn by a spiritual hand.
There were saints, - there were souls heavy-laden
With the burden of sins unconfessed.
In the shadow there lingered a maiden
With a babe to her bosom close pressed,
And the peace that exceeds understanding
Borne on odors of blossoms expanding
Forever abode in her breast.
Then hushed were the prayers and the chorus
As we gazed through the gloom o'er the pews,
And the phantoms had gone from before us
By invisible dark avenues,
And slowly we passed through the portals
In awe from the haunts of immortals
Who had vanished like summer's light dews.
O church! that of old proudly flourished,
Upon thee decay gently falls,
And the founders by whom thou wert nourished
Lie low in the shade of thy walls;
No stone need those pioneer sages
To tell their good works to the ages:
Thy ruin their greatness recalls.
Trenton, N. J.
BATTLE OF TRENTON.
N Christmas-day in seventy-six,
Our ragged troops with bayonets fixed,
For Trenton marched away.
The Delaware see! the boats below!
The light obscured by hail and snow!
But no signs of dismay.
Our object was the Hessian band,
That dared invade fair freedom's land,
And quarter in that place.
Great Washington he led us on,
Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,
Had never known disgrace.
In silent march we passed the night,
Each soldier panting for the fight,
Though quite benumbed with frost.
Greene, on the left, at six began,
The right was led by Sullivan,
Who ne'er a moment lost.
Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,
That rebels risen from the dead
Were marching into town.
Some scampered here, some scampered there,
And some for action did prepare;
But soon their arms laid down.
Twelve hundred servile miscreants,
With all their colors, guns, and tents,
Were trophies of the day.
The frolic o'er, the bright canteen
In centre, front, and rear was seen
Driving fatigue away.
Now, brothers of the patriot bands,
Let's sing deliverance from the hands
And as our life is but a span,
Let's touch the tankard while we can,
In memory of that day.
O Trenton, thy amber screen,
That the pool's dim surface no more be seen!
Gay reveller, tossing away thy wine,
Thy golden sherry, whose hue divine
Was never sphered in the clustering vine,
'Tis Autumn who feeds thee; her banners she flings
Across thy full sources, and shakes in thy springs
Her whole wealth of colors, leaves orange and red,
Green, purple, and mottled, an emperor's bed
For thy waters to dream on; and when they awake,
Into flashes of gold and of amber they break:
Oh, type of glad youth, forever be hung
With garlands of faces all rosy and young!
WRITTEN AT TRENTON FALLS.
OME down! from where the everlasting hills
Open their rocky gates to let thee pass,
Child of a thousand rapid running rills,
And still lakes, where the skies their beauty glass.
With thy dark eyes, white feet, and amber hair,
Of heaven and earth thou fair and fearful daughter,
Through thy wide halls, and down thy echoing stair,
Rejoicing come, thou lovely "Leaping Water!"
Shout! till the woods beneath their vaults of green
Resound, and shake their pillars on thy way;
Fling wide thy glittering fringe of silver sheen,
And toss towards heaven thy clouds of dazzling spray.
The sun looks down upon thee with delight,
And weaves his prism around thee for a belt;
And as the wind waves thy thin robes of light,
The jewels of thy girdle glow and melt.
Ah! where be they, who first with human eyes
Beheld thy glory, thou triumphant flood!
And through the forest heard with glad surprise
Thy waters calling like the voice of God?
Far towards the setting sun wandering they go,
Poor remnant! left from exile and from slaughter,
But still their memory, mingling with thy flow,
Lives in thy name, thou lovely "Leaping Water."
Frances Anne Kemble.
Valley Forge, Pa.
VALLEY FORGE.
'ER town and cottage, vale and height,
Down came the Winter, fierce and white,
And shuddering wildly, as distraught
At horrors his own hand had wrought.
His child, the young Year, newly born,
Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,
Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,
As on a frozen heath benighted.
In vain the hearths were set aglow,
In vain the evening lamps were lighted,
To cheer the dreary realm of snow:
Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,
Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.
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