'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend,
Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall hurt it not.

George P. Morris.

Brandywine, the River, Pa.

THE BRANDYWINE.

H! if there is in beautiful and fair

potency to charm, a power to bless;

If bright blue skies and music-breathing air, And Nature in her every varied dress Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness, Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray, Then others, too, sweet stream, with only less Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away Some cherished thought of thee for many a coming day.

But yet not utterly obscure thy banks,

Nor all unknown to history's page thy name;
For there wild war hath poured his battle ranks,
And stamped, 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 war-cry's loud acclaim,

The cannon's voice hath rolled 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 displayed,
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 dreary hush, where late was uproar all, How many a brother's heart in anguish bled O'er cherished ones, who there lay resting with the dead

Unshrouded and uncoffined 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-place; and well
And calmly did they slumber, though no bell
Pealed over them its solemn music slow:

The night winds sung their only dirge, their knell
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 naught remains to show the sleeping soldier's grave.

A pebble-stone that on the war-field lay,
And a wild rose that blossomed brightly there,
Were all the relics that I bore away,

To tell that I had trod the scene of war,
When I had turned 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!

Elizabeth Margaret Chandler.

TO THE BRANDYWINE.

AGAIN upon my view

Thou com'st in quiet beauty, gentle stream!
Upon thy waves, the clustering foliage through,
Floats the soft summer beam.

Tall trees above thee bend,

That cast dark shadows on thy swelling breast;
And falls the mellow light in hues that blend,
Soft as the sunset west.

And massy rocks arise,

To whose gray sides the glossy smilax cleaves,
While in the clefts the fox's timorous eyes
Peep from the clustering leaves.

The pendent willows dip

Their long boughs o'er, and in the water lave;
And stoops the modest golden cup, to sip
The brightly flowing wave.

Thou wind'st through meadows green,

Fringed with tall grass, and graceful bending fern; And down through glades to join thee, many a stream Leaps from its mountain urn.

*

In sunnier climes than ours

Glide brighter streams, o'er sands of golden hue, And course their way beneath o'ershadowing flowers And skies of fadeless blue.

Yet still around thy name

A halo lingers, never to decay,

For thou hast seen, of old, young Freedom's flame, Beaming with glorious ray.

And once thy peaceful tide

Was filled with life-blood from bold hearts and brave; And heroes on thy verdant margin died,

The land they loved, to save.

These vales, so calm and still,

Once saw the foeman's charge, the bayonet's gleam;
And heard the thunders roll from hill to hill,
From morn till sunset's beam.

Yet in thy glorious beauty, now,

Unchanged thou art as when War's clarion peal