Poem : Historic Andover

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TaS

HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY

'Ocft.tH*^

^^.J'hHu.Jc^ /^^

*' 'i'lir ^f^ivfi king's '-hiiytlt, lli€ u'iif ^kiiig' f st^vtii,
AH icll 0/ //.imfiiirti fast."

^OEM

Historic Andover

BY

ANNIE SAWYER DOWNS

i646-l896

Copyright Andovbr, Mass.

ANNIK SAWYER DOWNS THE ANDOVER PRESS

1896 1896

/

ULS I3I3S. 1. /5

^

TO THK CITIZENS OK ANDOVKR,

THIS POKM,
WRITTEN AT THEIR REQUEST;

AND READ

BY PROFESSOR JOHN WESLEY CHURCHILL,

UPON
THE 2SOTH ANNIVERSARY OK THE SETFLEMENT OK THE TOWN;

IS DEDICATED liY THE AUTHOR,
ANNIE SAWYER DOWNS.

♦1 f f a-str ^iti OT2^.

PAGE

Old Church of St. Mary, Andover, England . . . Frontispiece

Group (Full Page), " " 7

Folly Bridge, " " 9

Title, Norman Arch, and Town Seal, Andover, England . •. 11

St. Ann's Well, " " . . 12

Druid Stones, near Andover, England 13

"The North Sea Strand" 14

Meadows, Andover, England 16

Pine Woods, Andover, Massachusetts . 19

"Our River" " " 20

Witch Lane, North Andover, Massachusetts 21

Porch of Anne Bradstreet's House, North Andover ... 22

Anne Bradstreet's House (Full Page), North Andover ... 26

Fire-Place in Anne Bradstreet's Parlor, " " ... 29

Old Houses (Full Page), Andover, Massachusetts . . . 31

Phillips Parsonage (Full Page), Andover, " • • • • 35

Battle of Bunker Hill (Trumbull), 40

First Burying-Ground of North Andover, Massachusetts . . 42

Coat-of-Arms, Phillips Family (Initial Letter) 43

Elm Arch and Enchanted Bridge 45

General Washington in Andover, Massachusetts, November 5, 1789 46

Tablet in Memorial Hall, Addover, Massachusetts ... 49

Portrait of Walter Raymond (Full Page) 51

Prison, now National Cemetery, Salisbury, North Carolina, where
Walter Raymond Died Christmas Day, 1864, and was Buried in

THE Trenches 55

*The Trumpet that Sings of Fame" (Full Page) .... 57

To-day, tKe Hampshire fields are sweet with blossoms of the May ;

To-day, in ancient Hampshire woods, the deer and rabbit play ;

While Hampshire meads are smooth and rich, and shine with emerald gleam,

And hauiilud forests whisper low to each historic stream.

But towns and cities old and gray are Hampshire's pride and boast.

And that o'er all her grassy plains, the track oE Roman host

Still leads to villa, and to camp, and lo the Druid grove,

Whose mystic stones were altars hoar, ere Bacchus was, or Juve ;

Who silent saw the rise of Home, and silent saw her fall,

And made no sign when axe of Dane crashed down the minster wall,

Or smote with all his savage horde, on shrine and chapel rare.

And drowned with ribald jest and oath the monkman's dying prayer.

The Druid stone, the Roman camp, the Norman abbey vast,

The good king's church, the wise king's school, all tell of Hampshire's past,

And of the proud and noble fame which through the years comes down

To flush the cheek, and thrill the hearti throughout our ancient town.

For our own Andover so old, and yet so young to-day,

Who ever to the mother bnd will loving homage pay,

To an old borough on the Ande is namesake, mental heir,

Which Saxon men called Andover in English Hampshire fair.

O, inotlier land, O, mother lown, how oft tliy sliaded street
Has heard at dawn the bugle call, and then the trampling Eeel
Ot men at arms, who for their king shrank not from toil or pain,
And for their right in church or state accounted death but gain.
Who in the cell, and on the block, by faggot, and by rack.
Laid straight a way through coming years for freedom's shining (rack.
O, mother land, O, mother lown, when dark diys on you fell,
And those you set in places high, for gold and gauds dared sell.
The freeman's right to name his faith, the freeman's right to pray.
To seek his God with hymn or psalm a4 seemed to him God's way,
The freeman's right lo judge the Word, to teach his simple child
That secret true of holy life is Gospel undefiled ;
And that to follow leaders blind is weak and wicked thing.
For of the soul not prince, nor priest, but God alone is king.
Then through thy quiet rural ways, O, lovely mother land.
And in thine ancient city streets, and on the North sea strand
Was heard a sound like wind at night among the leafy trees.
Or ceaseless break on sandy shores of never silentTseas;
And which in great waves rolled along to break at last in song.

^tfc^ii^^L

As Israel went of old.
To seek a home and find a grave.

In strange and distant fold.
We go, we go, the world is wide,

Hut love is ever near,
Our fathers' God is at our side ;

And true hearts know not fear.

" Across the sea, across the sea,

Are valleys fair and lone.
And forests rich, and wild, and free.

Which yet may be our own,
And where, tnivexed by bishop's rule.

Or envious tyrant's hate.
We with Gotl's help, in wisdom's school,

May rear a noble state.

" Where truth shall be the rule of life,

And faith have steadfast sway,
And not for gold or fame the strife,

But clear to see God's way.
Where loosed from old and craven fears.

Men see who once were blind,
That only thus through future years,

May souls sure freedom find.

" Farewell, farewell, we may not wait,

Our ships are in the bay,
And though to-night the tide is late.

Before the dawn of day.
We shall far off on shifting wave,

Watch line of fading shore.
The fairest shore God ever gave.

But home for us no more.
No more, no more, dear fading shore,

Our home, O, never more."

'5

HFIR voyage was long on wintry seas,

I ossed by the strange ind baffling breeze,
A )d I inmer s m was warm and high,
l!(.[orc tl e r eyes snw coast line nigh.

Ihit coast hne was our Salem bay,
(jlad (hen as now w tl light waves' play,
r-i r tl en is now with rose and fern ;

II t th ckly S(.l with forests stern,

Which all untrod pressed dark and grim,
( lo e to tl c wh te si d's curving rim ;
As they would hide from vision rude.
The haunts of virgin solitude.

And from whose depths as twilight fell,
Rose clear above the ocean's swell,
The owl's wild call, the wolf's dread roar
And stealthy steps unheard before.

Which made young children closer cteej:
And sobbing wake from restless sleep;
While women knelt, their faces white.
Shrinking in fear from morning light.

~3

UT with the morn, the mom of June,
Their hope sprang gny to wild bird's tunc,
And proudly rang their hymn of praise,
Throughout the forest's leafy ways.

Then glad they sought the sheltered vales,
Whence still were seen the harbor sails :
And where before the summer Hed,
The log house had its thatch o'er head.

What matter then that winter cold
Trod hard on autumn's garb of gold ?
Or that the hearth stone, rough and low,
Was hidden deep in drifted snow ?

For safe within were child and wife,
And soul not with itself at strife,
While will, and choice, and doctrine high,
Were free as earth and air and sky.

'I'hty sought uiir woods,

Ihey lovL'd uur hills.
They hmitudby oiir bubliliiif;

rills,
And one spring morn new Lowiislii].

liy yonder grass grown burying ground.

And soon by brook and river side.
Their rude homes scntlcred far and wide ;
While fairer tban their shelters small,
Rose house of worship over all.

Where freely hymn and psalm rose high,
As God to humblest soul drew nigh ;
Where right was might, and will was fate,
For God was Ixird of Church and Stale.

Strong were their hands and stern their will
As with hard toil and patient skill,
'J'hey wrested harvests from the plain
And cleared the wood for waving grain.

The secrets of those early years.
The griefs, the pains, the hopes, the fears,
Are gone with children's faces sweet
Or fleeing red men's hurrying feet.

We faintly trace their farm lands' bound,
Their cellars' green and sunken round ;
Their meeting house upon the hill,
'I'he stones of their first water mill.

Seek records of their parish wide
Who first was groom, and who the bride ;
Whose child first sat on Parson's knee.
Who first paid hated tithing fee.

Yet seek in vain ; but one dim page
Is wafted to us from their age ;
But one faint name on tombstone gray
Reveals their brief and hitter day.

We only know that firm and deep,
They tilled where we the harvest reap.
We only know the seal they set
Stamps all our best and noblest yet.

iiifc*.!^

Um stili our loving fancy turns,

To maity an nncienl road,
VVIierc aged houses lowly bend,

Beneath the centuries' load.

One with long line of sloping roof.

Where shadows come and go;
And close about whose door stone gray.

The early wild Mowers blow,

Is shrine for poet, and for saint,

Where pilgrims never cease :
For grave Ainie Itradstreet loved this haunt,

"This haunt of ancient pence."

hirbt poet of our l^sex vale,

l-irst woman in the land
lo hing how sweet our meadows wide.

How fair our river strand.

And that the red man fierce and wild,

Was yet a child of God,
Who through uncounted years had been

Sole master of the sod.

O, grave Anne Bradstreet, saintly soul.

Your fame was early won,
Vet you loved best the mother's name,

The wifely work well done ;

And long years after you had found
Rest in your unknown grave,

A half forgotten deed of love.
Remembered, was, to save

Your child first born, your son, best loved.
From worse than deadly doom.

Which smiting men and maids alike,
Wrapt all the (own in gloom.

HE infant town where winter snow, laid cliill

Upon tlie plain,
And where the noisy, rude

March winds,
Swept from the far oil barren hill

To ravage field and wood.

The wretched town which roused from sleep,

Tliat morning of long ago,
Ity oaths, and yells, and crackling fire.

And hurrying through the snow;
Of wives and children shrieking wild.

Shivering and ghastly white,
In after years would never tell,

The horrors of that fight ;

Hut told instead, how oft in age,
They saw the blood red sky ;

1 their dreams heard wounded groan.

And in

And tortured women cry
For help, to bear the cruel pain,

Or swift release of death,
While louder grew the dreadful din

Above their laboring breath.

The Indian horde swept through the town,

The house of God defiled.
And killed before the mother's eyes

Her new born helpless child.
They burned the harvest in the barn.

The cattle in the stall.
And dreadful as the curse of hell

Was their mad fiendish call.

And I'arson Ilarnard, hid behind

His book shelves old and tall,
Heard painted leader orders give

Where next their blows should fall.
Then quick they burned the parish book,

And by their torches' shine
He saw how like the beasts ihey fought

For the communion wine.

' -r -lii

^fnrfflT u

T-"^:^

HE Parson, without doubt, was saint,

But hotly rose his ire
As oH they rushed to set at once

The Bradstreet house on fire.
He moved, he rose, but sank again,

Scared by a dreadful shout,
" The half fed wolves have found," he said,

** Some long sought plunder out."

He careful crept on hands and knees

And looked through crack in door.
As Dudley Hradstreet with his wife

And children weeping sore
VV^as hurried long the Haverhill road

By all the yelling band.
With kicks and blows and curses loud

And bloody knives in hand.

No backward look they dared to cast ;

Their half clad stumbling feet
Could hardly keep o'er frozen snow

PaCv-' set for swift retreat.
As Parson watched them grieving loud,

The bitter north wind died,
And slowly faded fire and smoke

From off the country side.

For that the Parson thanked the Lord,

And as he thanked he heard
What in the midst of that wild scene

His inmost spirit stirred,
A shout, it almost seemed of glee.

From just this side of wood ;
Where in a circle and unbound

The waiting captives stood.

27

rOPPEI) short by daubed and painted chief
I Not seen by them before,
, Who cut the cords which held them tight

And at the leader swore.
Then turned to Bradstreet, Colonel called,

" You do not know my face,
Do not remember years ago
When hunted in disgrace ;

"An Indian boy crept to your home.

And by your mother seen.
Was warmed and fed, and all day hid

Behind the fireplace screen.
Was sheltered through the winter long,

And when pursuit was o'er
Was safely sent with escort strong

To Saco's distant shore.

** No harm shall touch your mother*s child,

No man of Indian race
Shall lift a hand against the home

She made my hiding place.
Now homeward turn and tell her kin

One red man was not base
But loosed your bonds and spared your life

For her sweet act of grace."

28

Next Sabbath, when the Parson prayed,

He lliankcd the Loid for tliose
Who while on earth (ed, wanned, and clothed

And even loved their foes.
And tlien he told this gentle tale.

Which like a Hower comes down
To light the darkness of the gloom

Which wrapped the infant town.

The Parson might have told as well, how few

Short years ago ; the Hradstreet house for two

Long months, was dark, and closed to all, how cries

Rose loud against the name, and how the sighs

Of men in pain, and women tortured sore

Were laid straightway at Dudley IJradstreet's door.

How with his wife he fled by night, and close

Was hid, until, again men's reason rose ;

Till prisoners were from jail released,

And o'er the land the witchcraft frenzy ceased.

Hardly is there a record left to guide

Us in our quest ; but still on one brook side

We trace the lane by which the sheriff went

When he in haste for wretched witch was sent.

And proud to-day should be our town to call

That witch's name ; for only she, of all

Who pined and starved in Salem jail denied,

With lifted head, and fierce and stubborn pride,

That she herself a witch wife was, or could

Another make, or that so long as God was good.

Witch there could ever be. They hanged her then

And hid her bones in wild wolfs den.

liut we upon our records high, write Martha Carrier's name.

And give the story of her fate a wide and deathless fame.

30

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HE end of first hall century found the town
lioth rich and strong. Tho' fathers had lain down
The burden and the care, anci slept in peace,
The mills and sliops of sons sliowed great increase.
The humble school at "parting of ihe ways"
Had its own building new. In darkest days
They glad to. Harvard gave; and freely sent
Their men and arms, and slender substance lent.
When runiors that the east by war was stirred ;
Or when the exiles' tales of woe were heard.

'I'he old first parish wide was rift in twain

And South tlie new was called. Then bare and piai

Rose second meeting house, and I'hillips wise,

First of the long and noble line, was named

Their pastor and their guide. Unblanied

He walked among them sixty years, and o'er

Tlieir lives shed counsel clear, and ever more

Urged noblest deed and spirit high : so when

Were wanted sore, brave prompt and fearless men.

The old town lacked them not. Stern too was he.

Nor ever lightly looked at sin to see

If there excuse might be. I'o know the truth,

To do hard things, he taught the eager youth,

So when the dark days came no single man

Of f'arson Phillips' flock, but quick began

His life to plan so that when called on high

tie need not fear to meet his Parson's eye.

Vet life was life in those old days, and like our own
Was sad, or joyed in love's liglit o'er it thrown ;
While peace and shelter sweet of home, were ihonj^l
'I'he dearest things, if not by honor bought.
Clear was il always understood the state
Was first, and though men might their ease abate.
The soldiers in the field must be supplied.
Needs of their wives and children satislied.
And while as freemen sure, the action bold
Of those they chose to rule, might be controlled
Ity censure sharp; they firmly held the ground
In their defense when others on them frowned.
They dreaded Papists like the death, yet found
Houses and farms, and chance to till the ground,
For guiltless ones who from Arcadian shores
By stress of war were driven to their doors.
And still on lovely western slope, a field
Is shown, that once of flax a wondrous yield
Produced under their skilful hands. When they,
Kiick to their homes were sent, sad was the day
And mournful their farewell. They left to show
Their love a cnrven powder horn, and bow.
And snatches gay of song and dance
And stories strange of distant sunny France.

^ THEN men still richer grew, while women fair
Began, as women should, to have their share

' Of ease ; no longer was there fear of raid
By Indians wild ; no longer was the maid
Porcod to hard toil in field, bnt nt the side
Of cheerful fire, spun, wove, and told with glee
Light laughing tales of maiden's trickery.
Slill heril;)ge of freedom was not won.
A question grave, pressed hard, they could not shun ;
The mother land was dear, should they permit
Her rule when wrong? Should ihey to tax submit,
Which wisest men of her own realm had said
Would not be paid where freedom was not dead?
No, by high heaven I The .sea might o'er them roll,
The land they loved grow up again lo wood,
Kre -single penny of their gold should
Be unjustly wrung. All would they do and
More, if as was right by law of mother land
Son of their soil had seat, and voice in band
Which statutes made. Until that right was theirs,
Vield they would not to orders nor to prayers.
The mother's blood was like the child's, so talk
Kan high ; and over seas an army came
To cities hold, and sear the land with llame.

Quick sprang our town to arms, and on the first

Great day, the April day, when war cloud burst

At Lexington, and crimsoned Concord's plain

With blood, left loom, and plough, and tender grain

To reach the front. 'J'hey did their share that day ;

And proved once more no price too high to pay

For freemen's rights. No need to tell how drum

And fife broke stillness of the vale, how hum

Of angry words, by night and day, grew loud ;

And everywhere from farm and shop, the crowd

Flocked to the aged church in hopes to hear

Where next a blow would fall ; perhaps how near.

Then marshalled quick the minute men who gazed

'loward Boston Bay, where hated war ships lay.

And each night e'er the sun went down, cried loud,

" To-morrow morn the word may come : * (^uick, crowd

You to the fight ; ' and so (iod speed the night."

Then at their arms they waiting stood, through spring days long and

bright,
To hear at last 'neath summer skies, the summons to the fight.

The grass was green upon the lawn,

The corn waved dark and tall,
And all day long the oriole,

Whistled his silvery call.
But what the veil, the film, the cloud

That freights the air of June?
And what the hush, the dread, the fear,

To which hearts beat in tune ?

And why do men set faces hard

And eyes of women fill ?
While trembling age and eager youth,

Press to the distant hill ?
No courier swift swept through the street

With beat of martial drum.
And none could tell how the dread news

To Andover town had come.

Only that e'er the cannon's roar,

'I'urned every heart's blood chill.
The voice was heard, " Stand fast ! 'J'hey fight

To-day at Hunker Hill."
Dark rolled the smoke, when on the breeze

Was borne a deaf'ning shout
"We 've beat the red coals off the field,

We hold the frail redoubt ! "

39

Then there was mounting in hot haste

And hurrying lo nnd fro,
For Doctor, Nurse, and Parson French

Swift to the field must go.
More weary hours wore slow away,

Again the mighty sound,
"A second time the red coals Ike,

Once more they leave the ground."

O maids and wives, and mothers dear.

Whose sad eyes watched [he tire,
God grant tliough on thai summur day

You lost your hearts' desire.
That steadfast pride and courage high

Were yours through earthly ill.
For a great state was born that day,

That day at Bunker Hill !

QUI) and still louder roared the guns,

Thick smoke hid all the sky,
And still the silvery oriole

Sang in the chestnut high.
At last the word, " Our powder gone,

We've turned us down the hill,
Content to prove this summer day,

This day at Bunker Hill!

That farmer lads can shake a crown

And lay proud England low.
And on a field they have not tilled

Such fearful harvest sow ! "
Shot fell like rain on Charlestown Neck,

And brave the deeds oft told,
Of Bailey, Farnum, Frye, and Poor,

And stout John Barker bold.

For he was private in the ranks,

But last in the retreat ;
When Captain Farnum struck by shell.

Fell just across his feet.
He lifted and he held him high

Full in the redcoats* view
And shouted loud, *' Now hold on Ben,

The Reg'lars sha' n't have you ! "

41

A hundred years have come and gone,

And still in stirring verse.
The children of North Andover

John Harker's deed rehearse,
And in the old-fashioned burying ground.

Shady and green and still,
On a mossy stone you oft may read,

" He fought at Bunker Hill."

He fought the fight, he kept the step.

Loyal, and brave, and true,
For a free land he paid the price

Comrades, that day for you.
So lowly kneel, and softly tread,

In the graveyard under the hill
Fame writes aloft no prouder line.

Than, " Fought at Bunker Hill."

/?#Ȥ# ^

UT not on battle fields alone
Our fathers' noble deeds have shone,
I'or when };rliiT war was at llicir door
'I'hey calmly turned to lellcrcd lore

And planted deep on hill top green,
Wide o'er the country to be seen;
Not fortress stern from whence to rule,
But firm, enduring Christian school.

First in the land where learning old,
Disclosed to all its wealth of gold.
Where side by side, the rich and great
Sat low with men of mean e.slale.

And nobler still, the first in land.
To write on high that (lod's conim
Was far above all classic lore,
Or poets from Castalian shore.

O noble soul of rhJIIips name,
To-day the whole world owns thy fame.
While I'hillips School is loved and blest;
Where'er men roam in east or west.

School, which for hundred years and more,
Has opened wide and generous door
To truth, when she was known by few,
To learning old, and science new.

Whose walls have rung with echo loud.
Great names of which the world is proud.
Dear names, which whether far or near.
Bring songs of love, and hope, and cheer.

So twine once more the ivy green,
And once more wreathe the bay leaves sheen ;
That town must never blush for shame.
Which guardian is of Phillips fame.

44

NI) as the years have come and gone,
Round Phillips School, so early born,
Religion grave has made her seat,
And school tor maidens, fair and sweet,

Has risen at tlic foot of hill;

Fruit of the loving, generous will.

Of one who to the I'hillipi kin

In her low grave long years has been,

O, trio, blest, and good, and wise !

Pride in your fair fame never dies,

For of your life the noblest part

Springs deep from out tile old town's heart.

And not alone tKese buildings high,

Ring with great names and reach the sky ;

We see grand faces in llic street,

By stream and grove their clear eyes meet.

Here rode the Father of his land,
And gracious waved his courtly hand;
Here to the plaudits of the crowd.
The gallant Frenchman lowly bowed.

And parsons with their gowns and bands,
And liour glass quaint to tell the sands.
And women of heroic make,
Who risked their all for love's sweet sake.

But why their titles now rehearse ?
Why praise their deeds in trembling verse ?
The seed they sowed has flowered in worth,
And "added beauty to the earth."

HEN once again, as long ago,

When life with love was all aglow,
When men dwelt quiet at their ease,
And wealth was borne on every breeze,

Was heard a warning voice, " Not yet is freedom won ;
And ne'er will be, while in this land, a single son
Of mine is called a slave, is bought and sold, and made
To work in fields and woods, and in rice swamps, unpaid ;
Black he may be, or white, unknown, unlearned, or poor.
Hut while in bondage one is held, your freedom is not sure.
You have grown rich upon his toil ; you softly live.
While he is starved and cold. You must arise and give
Such freedom as is yours ; must break his heavy chains
Though at the cost of death, and prisoners' lonely pains.

47

HEN raise once more, O sons of mine.

My Hag ol heavenly blue ;
Draw once again my shining blade.

And hold it high in view.
Then close your ranks, and waiting stand
I ill loud 1 call throughout the land."

Ihey waited through the April days,

When tidings swiftly Hew
That erring brothers in their rage

Had fired on flag of blue,
Had lifted sacrilegious hands
And laid it low on Charleston sand^.

Then freedom from her starry heights.

Called loud the roll of fame,
And swift as arrow from the bow.

Came answer to the same.
Turn, comrades, turn, the old leaves o'er,
And read the lofty names once more.

But read them low on bended knee,

And humble tribute pay,
They were the noblest in our town,

Who heard the call that day.
And who once more to deadly strife
Uore high the names which shaped our life.

No deed of theirs has ever shamed,
Our proud and ancient town ;

Their courage and tlieir zeal, we count
The jewels in her crown.

And write their names on record high.

And ne'er will let their memory die.

I'liat roll of fame 1 careful scan.

For name above the rest.
For some more shining word or deed,

t'o be by pen contest.
Itut vaiidy scan, for every deed,
Asks of our praise the highest meed.

ET stay, there is a simple boy,

Younger than those 1 see ;
Who often from our library wall,

Turns serious eyes to me,
Not braver he than comrades true,

And not so strong or wise.
And who my words would hear to-day

With scarcely pleased surprise.

Who would, perhaps, have said aloud,

" Our Captain was our pride.
And my messmate the bravest man

Who for the old flag died,
While as for me, I loved my town.

And heard my country call.
But in the camp and on the field.

Was boy amongst them all."

Hut just because he was a boy.

Like those before me now,
The brighter shines his hurried life,

'I'he aureole on his brow.
** You are too young," the elders cried,

Yet, when fresh summons came.
Again upon the crowded list.

Was Walter Raymond's name.

50

Lone was the home he left behind,

But quick from field and tent,
Came boyish letters, brief and plain,

Begging that food be sent ;
And like a boy bewailing oft.

How slow and small his pay.
And how for papers and for books

He looked in vain each day.

" And how were all within the house ?

How bloomed his mother's flowers ? "
Ah, friends ! you think them trifles small.

But then the boy was ours.
More serious soon the letters grew.

And simple as a child.
He told how when 'twas time to fight,

He knelt in thicket wild,

And asked his God to help him stand

Firm in his ordered place ;
And that he might not be afraid

To meet his foeman's face.
Low over to himself he said

The collect for the day,
And knew the Lord was by his side.

Through all the fearful fray.

53

The Slimmer brief was almost gone,

When in one twilight sweet,
A passing friend laid lightly down,

Across his mother's feet,
A letler, faded, crumpled, old.

Which told how days Ijefore,
Her boy upon a rapid raid

Along the river shore.

Had captured been by rebel horde.

And driven swift away ;
Hilt to what city, or what town.

No man of them could say.
No more than this, except that he

Called loud to those behind ;
To turn them sharp, and save the trap,

To which he had been blind.

It was n brave and generous thing

To do that fatal day,
" Itut then you know," they only said,

"That it was Walter's way."
Then darkness like the blackest night,

And silence like the tomb.
Hid from tli<;ir straining, aching hearts,

The knowledge of his doom.

And that the tale was cominun then,
More bitter made the grief,

More keen the anguish of the home.
Where hope gave no relief.

'Twas autumn hrst, and winter then,

liut when the tardy spring.
Was sweet with leaves, and buds, and (low

And songs (he wild birds sing :
They heard, how in a prison pen,

III, cold, and starved beside;
While bells rang loud for Christmas Day

That biavc young boy had died.

' /»'^

/

And heard as well, how urged to sell

His honor, and be free,
He answered with uplifted head,

"The dead cart first for me."
How begged to steal from scanty store.

Of feebler men than he,
I'he answer still had been the same,

"That will not do for me,

They do not teach, you see, their boys

That way in my old town ;
Just tell my father how I died;"

And smiling laid him down.
Our Christmas bells o'er fields of snow.

He needed not to hear,
For loud rang out the bells of Heaven

As that pure soul drew near.

And boys, with clear eyes like his own.

Who bear his name to-day,
Who proudly march beneath the flag,

Which o*er his soul had sway,
Remember through all coming years ;

Whatever storms betide,
How grandly for that starry flag.

Young Walter Raymond died.

S6

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