Where erst the jay, within the elm’s tall crest,
    Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young,
  And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
    By every light wind, like a censer, swung.

* * * * *

  Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
    The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
  Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien,
    Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

* * * * *

  While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
    Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
  And twice war bowed to her his sable plume,
    Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall—­

  Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew,
    And struck for Liberty its dying blow;
  Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
    Fell ’mid the ranks of the invading foe.

  Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
    Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
  Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
    Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

  At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed;
    Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene;
  And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
    While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

* * * * *

=_Margaret M. Davidson, 1823-1837._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From Lines in Memory of her Sister Lucretia.

=_409._=

  O thou, so early lost, so long deplored! 
     Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near;
  And, while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,
    Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

  For thee I pour this unaffected lay;
    To thee these simple numbers all belong: 
  For though thine earthly form has passed away,
    Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

  Take, then, this feeble tribute; ’tis thine own;
    Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o’er,
  Arouse to harmony each buried tone,
    And bid its wakened music sleep no more.

  Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre
    Hung o’er thy grave, in death’s unbroken rest;
  But when its last sweet tones were borne away,
    One answering echo lingered in my breast.

  O thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,
    Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,
  Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,
    By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee.

* * * * *

=_John R. Thompson,[90] 1823-1873._=

=_410._= MUSIC IN CAMP.

  Two armies covered hill and plain,
    Where Rappahannock’s waters
  Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
    Of battle’s recent slaughters.

  The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
    In meads of heavenly azure,
  And each dread gun of the elements
    Slept in its hid embrazure.