Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes,

Her birth-star was the light of burning plains ;1

Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows

From kindred hearts-the blood of British veins

And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.

VII.

Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,

Or siege unseen in heav'n reflects its beams,

Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,

That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts and nightly dreams!

Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams,

Portentous light! and music's voice is dumb;

Save where the fife its shrill reveillé screams,

Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,

That speaks of madd'ning strife, and blood-stain'd fields to come.

VIII.

It was in truth a momentary pang;

Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe!

First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang,

A husband to the battle doom'd to go!

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'Nay meet not thou," she cried, "thy kindred foe !

But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand !”

"Ah, Gertrude! thy beloved heart, I know,

Would feel, like mine, the stigmatizing brand,

Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band!

IX.

“But shame—but flight—a recreant's name to prove,

To hide in exile ignominious fears;

Say, e'en if this I brook'd, the public love

Thy father's bosom to his home endears:

And how could I his few remaining years,
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child ?"
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers:

At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,

And pale through tears suppress'd the mournful beauty smiled.

X.

Night came, and in their lighted bow'r full late
The joy of converse had endured,-when, hark!
Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate :
And, heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark,
A form has rush'd amidst them from the dark,
And spread his arms,—and fell upon the floor;
Of aged strength his limbs retain'd the mark ;
But desolate he look'd, and famish'd, poor,

As ever shipwreck'd wretch lone left on desert shore.

XI.

Uprisen, each wond'ring brow is knit and arch'd :

A spirit from the dead they deem him first :

To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parch'd,

From lips, as by some pow'rless dream accursed,

Emotions unintelligible burst ;

And long his filmed eye is red and dim ;

At length the pity-proffer'd cup his thirst

Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb,

When Albert's hand he grasp'd;-but Albert knew not him.

XII.

"And hast thou, then, forgot," (he cried, forlorn,

And eyed the group with half indignant air,)
“Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn
When I with thee the cup of peace did share?

Then stately was this head, and dark this hair,
That now is white as Appalachia's snow;

But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair

And age hath bow'd me, and the tort'ring foe,

Bring me my boy-and he will his deliverer know!"

XIII.

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,

Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew :

"Bless thee, my guide!"--but backward, as he came,

The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew,