Birds of the air to the father, at length, the common rumor brought: “Your son,” they sang, “in the cunning toils of a rustic lass is caught!” “A fit betrothal,” the lawyer said, “must make these follies cease; Which shall it be?—the banker’s ward?—Edith, the judge’s niece?” “Father, I pray”—said Hugh. “O yes!” out-leapt the other’s mood, “I hear of your wanton loiterings; they ill become your blood! If you hold our name at such light worth, forbear to darken the life Of this Alice Dale”—“No, Alice Van Ghelt! father, she is my wife.” 2. Worldlings, who say the eagle should mate with eagle, after his kind, Nor have learned from what far and diverse cliffs the twain each other find, Yours is the old, old story, of age forgetting its wiser youth; Of eyes which are keen for others’ good and blind to an inward truth. But the pride which closed the father’s doors swelled in the young man’s veins, And he led his bride, in the sight of all, through the pleasant Monmouth lanes, To the little farm his grandsire gave, years since, for a birthday gift: Unto such havens unforeseen the barks of our fortune drift! There, for a happy pastoral year, he tilled the teeming field, Scattered the marl above his land, and gathered the orchard’s yield; And Alice, in fair and simple guise, kissed him at even-fall; And her face was to him an angel’s face, and love was all in all. —What is this light in the southern sky, painting a red alarm? What is this trumpet call, which sounds through peaceful village and farm,— Jarring the sweet idyllic rest, stilling the children’s throng, Hushing the cricket on the hearth, and the lovers’ evening song? VII. 1. War! war! war! Manning of forts on land and ships for sea; Innumerous lips that speak the righteous wrath Of days which have been and again may be; Flashing of tender eyes disdaining tears; A pause of men with indrawn breath, Knowing it awful for the people’s will Thus, thus to end the mellow years Of harvest, growth, prosperity, And bring the years of famine, fire, and death, Though fear and a nation’s shame are more awful still. 2. War! war! war! A thundercloud in the South in the early Spring,— The launch of a thunderbolt; and then, With one red flare, the lightning stretched its wing, And a rolling echo roused a million men! Then the ploughman left his field; The smith, at his clanging forge, Forged him a sword to wield. From meadow, and mountain-gorge, And the Western plains, they came, Fronting the storm and flame. War! war! war! Heaven aid the right! God nerve the hero’s arm in the fearful fight! God send the women sleep, in the long, long night, When the breasts on whose strength they leaned shall heave no more! VIII.