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212 ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER. 

But yet not utterly obscure thy banks,
Nor all unknown to history's page thy name;
For there wild war hath pour'd his battle ranks,
And stamp'd in characters of blood and flame, 
Thine annals in the chronicles of fame.
The wave that ripples on, so calm and still,
Hath trembled at the way-cry's loud acclaim,
The cannon's voice hath roll'd from hill to hill,
And 'midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded shrill. 

My country's standard waved on yonder height,
Her red cross banner England there display'd,
And there the German, who, for foreign fight,
Had left his own domestic hearth, and made
War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade, 
Amidst the battle stood; and all the day,
The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade,
The bugle's martial notes, the musket's play,
In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away.

Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright sky,
And hung above them like a funeral pall,
Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie
Like brethren slumbering in one father's hall.
The work of death went on, and when the fall 
Of night came onward silently, and shed
A deary hush, where late was uproar all,
How many a brother's heart in anguish bled
O'er cherish'd ones, who there lay resting with the dead.

Unshrouded and uncoffin'd they were laid
Within the soldier's grave, e'en where they fell;
At noon they proudly trod the field-the spade
At night dug out their resting-pace-and well
And calmly did they slumber, though no bell
Peal'd over them its solemn music slow;
The night-winds sung their only dirge, their knell

ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER. 213

Was but the owlet's boding cry of woe,
The flap of night-hawk's wing, and murmuring waters' flow

But it is over now,-the plough hath rased
All trace of where war's wasting hand hath been;
No vestige of the battle may be traced,
Save where the share, in passing o'er the scene,
Turns up some rusted ball; the maize is green
On what was once the death-bed of the brave;
The waters have resumed their wonted sheen;
The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave,
And nought remains to show the sleeping soldier's grave.

A pebble stone that on the war-field lay,
And a wild-rose that blossom'd brightly there,
Were all the relics that I bore away,
To tell that I had trod the scene of war,
When I had turn'd my footsteps homeward far.
These may seem childish things to some; to me
They shall be treasured ones; and, like the star
That guides the sailor o'er the pathless sea,
They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandywine, to thee.

THE SOLDIER'S PRAYER.

Garden, in his "Anecdotes of the Revolution," when describing the sufferings of the army, mentions the circumstance of a soldier having earnestly entreated permission to visit his family, which was refused, on the ground that the same favour must be granted to others, who could not be spared without weakening the army, whose strength was already reduced by sickness. He acquiesced in the justice of the denial, but added, that to him refusal would be death. He was a brave and valuable soldier, and apparently in health at the time;-but his words were verified.

I CARE not for the hurried march through August's burning noon,
Nor for the long cold ward at night, beneath the dewy moon;
I've calmly felt the winter's storms, o'er my unshelter'd head, 
And trod the snow with naked foot, till every track was red!

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 23:52:14