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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117373" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Brandywine</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My foot has climb'd the rocky summit's height,<br>And in mute rapture, from its lofty brow,<br>Mine eye is gazing round me with delight,<br>On all of beautiful, above, below:<br>The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow,<br>The silvery waves half hid with bowering green,<br>That far beneath in gentle murmurs flow,<br>Or onward dash in foam and sparkling sheen,—<br>While rocks and forest-boughs hide half the distant scene.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In sooth, from this bright wilderness 't is sweet<br>To look through loop-holes form'd by forest boughs,<br>And view the landscape far beneath the feet,<br>Where cultivation all its aid bestows,<br>And o'er the scene an added beauty throws;<br>The busy harvest group, the distant mill,<br>The quiet cattle stretch'd in calm repose,<br>The cot, half seen behind the sloping hill,—<br>All mingled in one scene with most enchanting skill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The very air that breathes around my cheek,<br>The summer fragrance of my native hills,<br>Seems with the voice of other times to speak,<br>And, while it each unquiet feeling stills,<br>My pensive soul with hallow'd memories fills:<br>My fathers’ hall is there; their feet have press'd<br>The flower-gemm'd margin of these gushing rills,<br>When lightly on the water's dimpled breast,<br>Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rock was once your dwelling-place, my sires!<br>Or cavern scoop'd within the green hill's side;<br>The prowling wolf fled far your beacon fires,<br>And the kind Indian half your wants supplied;<br>While round your necks the wampum belt he tied,<br>He bade you on his lands in peace abide,<br>Nor dread the wakening of the midnight brand,<br>Or aught of broken faith to loose the peace-belt's band.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! if there is in beautiful and fair,<br>A potency to charm, a power to bless;<br>If bright blue skies and music-breathing air,<br>And nature in her every varied dress<br>Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness,<br>Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray,<br>Then others, too, sweet stream, with only less<br>Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away<br>Some cherish'd thought of thee for many a coming day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But yet not utterly obscure thy banks,<br>Nor all unknown to history's page thy name;<br>For there wild war hath pour'd his battle ranks,<br>And stamp'd in characters of blood and flame,<br>Thine annals in the chronicles of fame.<br>The wave that ripples on, so calm and still,<br>Hath trembled at the war-cry's loud acclaim,<br>The cannon's voice hath roll'd from hill to hill,<br>And ‘midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded shrill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My country's standard waved on yonder height,<br>Her red cross banner England there display'd,<br>And there the German, who, for foreign fight,<br>Had left his own domestic hearth, and made<br>War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade,<br>Amidst the battle stood; and all the day,<br>The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade,<br>The bugle's martial notes, the musket's play,<br>In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright sky,<br>And hung above them like a funeral pall,<br>Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie<br>Like brethren slumbering in one father's hall.<br>The work of death went on, and when the fall<br>Of night came onward silently, and shed<br>A dreary hush, where late was uproar all,<br>How many a brother's heart in anguish bled<br>O'er cherish'd ones, who there lay resting with the dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unshrouded and uncoffin'd they were laid<br>Within the soldier's grave, e'en where they fell;<br>At noon they proudly trod the field—the spade<br>At night dug out their resting-place—and well<br>And calmly did they slumber, though no bell<br>Peal'd over them its solemn music slow;<br>The night-winds sung their only dirge, their knell<br>Was but the owlet's boding cry of woe,<br>The flap of night-hawk's wing, and murmuring waters’ flow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But it is over now,—the plough hath rased<br>All trace of where war's wasting hand hath been:<br>No vestige of the battle may be traced,<br>Save where the share, in passing o'er the scene,<br>Turns up some rusted ball; the maize is green<br>On what was once the death-bed of the brave;<br>The waters have resumed their wonted sheen,<br>The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave,<br>And naught remains to show the sleeping soldier's grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A pebble stone that on the war-field lay,<br>And a wild-rose that blossom'd brightly there,<br>Were all the relics that I bore away,<br>To tell that I had trod the scene of war,<br>When I had turn'd my footsteps homeward far—<br>These may seem childish things to some; to me<br>They shall be treasured ones; and, like the star<br>That guides the sailor o'er the pathless sea,<br>They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandywine, to thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Margaret+Chandler">Elizabeth Margaret Chandler</a> from <i>Poetical Works</i><div class=q>
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