The little town swells to a goodly city—the forests fall around—the farms stretch out their borders—wains creak and groan with harvest wealth—lordly shipping floats on the rivers—the fair haired race increase—roads mark the country—and the deer and game, scared, fly the haunts of men.—Hah!—the same flag floats not at the Manahattoes!—now, ’tis Stars and Stripes—See!—crowding across the river men in dark masses—cannon—muniments of war—in boats—on rafts—in desperate haste. Trenches and ramparts creep like serpents on the earth—horsemen scour the country—divisions—regiments—take position, and stalwart yeomen hurrying forward, join in the ranks of Liberty!—Hear! hear the wild confusion—the jar of wheels—the harsh shrill shriek of trumpets and the incessant roll of drums—the rattling musketry—the sudden blaze and boom of cannon—it is the roar of battle—it is the battle field!—Hear! hear the distant cry—“St. George and merry England.”—“Our Country and Liberty.”—Ah! o’er this very ground, the conflict passes—See! the vengeful Briton prostrate falls beneath the deadly rifle—while the yeomen masses fade beneath the howling cannon shot—and hark! how from amid the sulphurous cloud the wild “hurrah” drowns e’en the dread artillery. The smoke clouds lazily creep from off the surface—the battle’s o’er and the red-cross banner floats again upon the island of Manahattoes.—And now again—the Stripes and Stars stream gently in the breeze. The past is gone—the future stands before us. Ay! here upon this very spot, once rife with death, yonder cities shall lay their slain for centuries to come—their slain, falling in the awful contest with the stern warrior, against whom human strength is nought, and human conflict vain. Years shall sweep on in steady tide, and these broad fields be whitened with countless sepulchres—the mounds, covered with graves where affection still shall plant the flower and trail the vine—in the deep valleys, and romantic glens to receive their ne’er returning tenants; the sculptured vaults still shall roll ope their marble fronts—beneath the massive pyramid’s firm-fixed base, the Martyrs of the Prisons find their final resting-place—and on this spot the stately column shooting high in air, to future generations tell, the bloody story of yon battle-field. All here shall rest;—the old man—his silver hairs in quiet, and the wailing babe in sweet repose—the strong from fierce conflict with fiery disease, and bowing submissively, the poor pallid invalid—the old—the young—the strong—the beautiful—all—here shall rest in deep and motionless repose.