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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
141
CANTO SEVENTH.
THE REVELATION.
They bound him to the fatal stake, and high
Destruction's fagots round the warrior piled:
There was unwonted moisture in his eye,
For prayed he, in that moment, for his child;
A torch was thrown, by hand with blood defiled,
On the dark death-pyre:—whence, oh! whence the shriek
That, rising shrill above the tumult wild,
Tinged with a wanner shade the victim's cheek,
While parted his blanched lips in vain essay to speak?
Destruction's fagots round the warrior piled:
There was unwonted moisture in his eye,
For prayed he, in that moment, for his child;
A torch was thrown, by hand with blood defiled,
On the dark death-pyre:—whence, oh! whence the shriek
That, rising shrill above the tumult wild,
Tinged with a wanner shade the victim's cheek,
While parted his blanched lips in vain essay to speak?
I.
Retreating from the fatal spotWhere Valor died, but yielded not,
Thickly the Senecas o'erspread,
With hiding brush and leaves, their dead:—
It is a custom with Indian warriors to conceal their losses from the enemy. They exert themselves to the utmost to prevent their slain from falling into hostile hands. Even while the battle is raging, old Indian fighters have seen
“Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard,And bear away the dead.”
For, sorrowing would warrior go,
Dishonored by the knife of foe,
To lands the setting sun below.
When reached the river's willowed side,
Pirogues they launched upon the tide,
And, landing on the western shore,
A moment looked the landscape o'er.
142
Heard was no 'larum on the gale,
Announcing Frank in close pursuit,
Or hated Huron on the trail.
Checked by the Romans of the West,
Invader paused, with drooping crest,
To scoop for brethren where they fell
In earth a rude receptacle:
Knowing that scream of carrion-bird
Another day would there be heard,
While snarling monster of the wold
Snuffed tainted air, and pawed the mould.
II.
Thou phantom, Military Fame!How long will Genius laud thy name,
And curtain features from the sight,
More foul than those Khorassen's seer
Hid behind veil of silver bright,
Tempting his victim to draw near?
How long will thy misleading lamp,
Through regions wrapped in smoke and fire,
To slaughter's cavern, red and damp,
Guide beardless boy and gray-haired sire?
Up, fearless battlers for the right,
And flood old groaning earth with light!
Bid nations ponder well and pause,
When blade corrupt ambition draws—
Oh! teach the world that conquest wears
A darker brand than felon bears;
Prolific fount, from earliest time,
Of murder, orphanage and crime!
III.
Obtained, at last, returning bandA view of fortress, rudely plann'd,
143
And wanting bastion, trench and mound.
Its anxious inmates, wild of face,
Rushed in a body from the place,
While rose, from forest edge, a cry,
Now plaintive, low—now shrill and high—
At the close of the expedition, the warriors repair to their village, and, in approaching, announce its results by various signals well understood among their families. According to the most approved custom, the evil tidings are first communicated. A herald advances before the troop, and for every kinsman who has fallen, sounds the death-whoop, a shrill, lengthened note, ending in an elevated key.
An interval is then allowed, during which the burst of grief excited by their tidings, may be in some degree exhausted. Then rises the loud, quavering sound of the war-whoop, which by its successive repetitions expressed the number of captives brought home as the fruits of victory.
The barbarous joy thus kindled, banishes for the moment all traces of lamentation. See Adair, Charlevoix.
“There was no prisoner put to the torture, or attired in the raven death-cap on this occasion, but the prisoners were paraded, and the scalps borne in the procession, as would have been the standard taken in civilized warfare in the celebration of a triumph. For every scalp and for every prisoner taken, the scalp-yell, or, as it is sometimes called, the “death halloo,” was raised in all its mingled tones of triumph and terror.”
Stone's Life of Brant.The imitative powers of the red man almost exceed belief. On one occasion, says Champlain, they constructed a wooden enclosure of a triangular form, each side nearly a mile long, with a narrow opening at the point, into which, by loud cries, and imitating the howling of wolves, they contrived to drive all the deer in the vicinity.
Each repetition of the call
Announcing an invader's fall.
News thus, to children of the shade,
By marked, expressive sound conveyed,
Telling of victory achieved,
All, with a frantic joy, received;
And hurried on to meet, the while,
Plumed martial forms in Indian file
Advancing:—slow and dignified
Their march across the clearing wide.
IV.
Red pole in front a savage bore,On which hung scalps begrimed with gore;
Behind him came the captive knight,
Wounded, and stripped of armor bright—
His figure of heroic mould
Fixing regard of young and old,
Who augured, from his dauntless air,
That torture he would bravely bear,
And, as beseemed a warrior, die
Giving no groan of agony.
V.
Changed was wild ecstasy to grief,When, looking vainly for their chief,
Ran glances of the troubled throng,
From man to man, the line along.
A melancholy wail and low
Told of a leader's overthrow;
144
The long procession timed its tread,
For lord had Can-ne-wa-gus lost;
In the Seneca dialect, the word Cannewaugus means “stinking water.” It was the aboriginal name of the far-famed Avon Springs, the medical properties of which have been found unsurpassed in the cure of various diseases. On the east side of the Genesee, near the old site of Cannewaugus, the pleasant village of West Avon crowns an elevated ridge of land, environed by romantic scenery, and overlooking the river's green and quiet valley.
And mourning tribe, from child to seer,
Deemed triumph bought at fearful cost,
Marred by the fall of one so dear.
VI.
Passed was the middle hour of day,Down poured the sun a milder ray,
When elders of the tribe convened,
To fix the doom of captive brave,
Beneath old oaks whose umbrage screened
Partly from sight the council grave.
From long-stemmed pipes rose fragrant fumes,
And curled around their eagle-plumes;
Awhile impressive silence reigned,
And sitting posture each maintained.
Men of inferior renown
Formed outer ring of faces brown,
And near, life giving to the scene,
Dark beldame of malignant mien,
And stripling, armed with tiny bow,
On noiseless feet moved to and fro,
A better view of Frank to gain
Who mighty Can-ne-hoot had slain.
VII.
At length a man of many snows,A forest patriarch, arose;
Bright medal on his bosom shone,
And richly broidered was his zone;
Closely he drew his robe of skin
Around a shrunken frame and thin,
Then thus harangued his brethren sage
In the cracked, trembling tones of age:—
145
O'erran and conquered by your sires,
In vain hath Yonnondio tried
To quench, in war's ensanguined tide,
One of the Five Great Fires!
Its smoke-clouds rising, thick and high,
Have filled with tears his blinded eye;
Its angry blaze his hand hath burned—
The hatchets of my tribe are red—
But home the chief hath not returned
Who Yonnondio's fury spurned,
And forth the brave to battle led.”
VIII.
“At morn, upon the dew-webbed glade,His moccasin no impress made;
Swifter than eagles were his feet—
Who could in craft with him compete?
His voice was deeper in its tone
Than trumpet by the storm-king blown,
And his dread arm no second blow
In battle gave opposing foe.
By lightning of the Pale-Face slain,
Alone let not the Mighty stray,
Across a wide and dreary plain,
Toward the Green Isles of endless day.
I hear his whisper on the gale—
He calls upon yon captive pale
The briers from his path to clear:
Men of Ge-nun-de-wah, awake!
And high, around the blackened stake,
The funeral-pile uprear!”
IX.
To interjections of assentGave his dark auditory vent
146
And when, with flashing eye, they heard
Die on the breeze his closing word,
The ring its order broke:
A tribe's united lips poured out
One frightful and revengeful shout—
Hags laughed, and clapped their skinny hands
Till rattled loud their bracelet-bands;
In side-long dance like demons yelled,
Startling and mystic orgies held,
And sentenced prisoner abused,
To every term of insult used.
X.
They told him that his nation baseWere whiter far of heart than face—
That petticoat, not warrior's crest
And costume, would beseem him best,
And squaw, that gave him birth, did style
The mother of a coward vile.
'Mid taunting screams of fierce delight,
Tribesmen for cruelty renowned,
And decked with spoils of recent fight,
To painted post the Christian knight
With toughened ligature then bound.
Tormentors drew his foot upon
The fatal bear-skin moccasin;
And flaming torch placed o'er his head
“The captive is informed of his fate by being invested with moccasins of black bear's-skin, and having placed over his head a flaming torch, the sure indications of his doom.
Before the fatal scene begins, however, he is allowed a short interval to sing his death-song, which he performs in a triumphant tone.
He proclaims the joy with which he goes to the land of souls, where he will meet his brave ancestors, who taught him the great lesson to fight and the greater one to suffer.
He recounts his war-like exploits, particularly those performed against the kindred of his tormentors; and if there was any one of them whom he vanquished and caused to expire amid tortures, he loudly proclaims it. He declares his inextinguishable desire to cut their flesh, and to drink their blood to the last drop. The scene is considered, even when compared to the field of battle, as the great theatre of Indian glory. When two prisoners were about to be tortured by the French at Quebec, a charitable hand privately supplied a weapon with which one of them killed himself; but the other derided his effeminacy, and proudly prepared himself for the trial.”
Murray's British America, vol. i. p. 120.An emblem sure of fiery doom,
On his white hair a radiance shed,
And lit the wild-wood's leafy gloom.
XI.
No vain appeal for life he made—From arm of flesh hoped not for aid;
A glance, that seemed to say “adieu!”
On sublunary things he threw,
147
A fate with agony replete.
He longed, in that dark trial-hour,
On Blanche, his erring child, to gaze—
Erewhile his fondly cherished flower,
And light of his declining days;
He yearned upon her head to pour
A father's benison once more,
And hear his name pronounced in tone,
Gentle and low—her mother's own.
XII.
Pine splinters, resinous and dry,Light brush, and sere leaves of the wild,
A death-pyre forming loose and high,
Round the brave veteran were piled,
And redly shone a crackling brand,
To light it, in the prophet's hand;
But, ere the smoking fuel blazed,
Heard was the marked, peculiar cry
By Indian warrior ever raised
When camp-ground of his nation nigh.
Arrested by that signal loud
Was torture's work;—and on the crowd
A momentary silence fell;—
Then rose a shrill, responsive yell
As all imperfectly descried,
Through net-work of the leaves, at last,
De Grai and his recovered bride,
Young Wun-nut-hay, the green-wood's pride,
And cinctured forms, with faces dyed
In battle-paint, approaching fast.
XIII.
The motley multitude beheldAnother spectacle disclosed,
When towering oaks, all gray with eld
Their trunks no longer interposed.
148
A pale-browed warrior wounded sore;
Though moss the wattled osiers lined
On which his helpless limbs reclined,
And moved, without rude jar, along,
His bearers, firm of tread and strong,
To stifle broken moan of pain
He tasked his ebbing strength in vain:
And though a day in flowery June
Not long had passed its fervid noon,
Shook the poor wretch, as if with cold,
And hollow cheek and glassy eye
Impressively beholder told
That his last hour was speeding by.
XIV.
Air rang with shouts when nearer drew,In ordered line, the comers new;
And when low boughs concealed no more
Bound victim by his funeral-pyre,
There came a sudden paleness o'er
The cheek of Blanche—and her old sire
Glared wildly on encircling foes,
Like one just woke from horrid dream,
And, clear above the din, arose
His frantic daughter's frightful scream.
XV.
“Give way, incarnate fiends, give way!”Shouted impetuous De Grai—
Wrath glittered in his proud dark eye,
His unsheathed dagger flashed on high,
And parted while he dashed along,
As keel divides rough waves, the throng.
On burning brand he fearless trode,
Through kindling fagots opened road,
149
Their blinding folds around him twined,
He cut, with quick, indignant stroke,
Bands that the fainting knight confined.
XVI.
“Ho! Senecas!—and will ye see,Unmoved, the foe yon captive free?
Down with the white intruder, down!
And scalp hack piece-meal from his crown!”
Aroused by taunt of wrinkled seer,
And grasping bow, war-axe and spear,
At once fierce forms begirt De Grai,
Bearing from stake Le Troye away;
As booming waters of the deep
Round some lone sea-rock darkly sweep
When evil powers the storm unchain,
And skill of mariner is vain.
Already leaving bloody trace,
Long, whistling shaft had grazed his face,
And flying hatchet from his head,
A glossy lock of brown had shred,
When cleared On-yit-ha, with a bound,
The living wall that hemmed him round,
And made, attention to command,
A haughty toss of lifted hand;
Then to full height his form updrew,
And thus rebuked the savage crew:—
XVII.
“Rash, shameless men! would ye o'erthrowLaws honored by the great of yore?
Drop tomahawk, unstring the bow,
And to its sheath the knife restore!
My brother, whom ye fain would slay,
Though wearing still the pallid shade
By fathers caught from ocean's spray,
Is clansman by adoption made.
150
My totem on his breast is stamped,
And Can-ne-hoot on him conferred
A name that rings like battle-word!”
They are exceedingly bigoted as to names. They give themselves those which are very expressive, denoting some interesting object in nature, or some historical event. They change their own names, as new events present occasions. They are much pleased when the white people assign them names; and in return they select names for their white friends, which are strikingly significant of some prominent trait in their character, showing that they are critical observers of human nature. “The Indians wear by way of amulet or charm, the feathers of certain birds whose names they bear, believing that they confer on the wearer all the virtues or excellencies of those birds.”
Allusion to their fallen chief,
From dusky throng called groan of grief,
And wond'ring orator inquired
Why thus they mourned?—then mischief fired
The wily Prophet's serpent eye,
And moved his lips in prompt reply:—
XVIII.
“His face great Ou-we-nee-you veilsBehind a black and lowering cloud;
For Can-ne-hoot a nation wails—
The monarch-pine in dust is bowed:
Protecting roof his branches cast
Above our heads when roared the blast;
Through rolling years his aged form
Defied red bolt of growling storm;
Mad whirlwinds wrestled with his trunk,
And from the dread encounter shrunk;
But never more to glad our eyes,
Above the forest-tops will rise
His brow undimmed by winter's blight,
His crown rejoicing in the light.”
XIX.
“Why tell On-yit-ha of the fameThat lustre gives paternal name?
No eulogist red warrior needs
From Erie to the Salt Lake known—
The tale of whose heroic deeds
Swift courier-winds abroad have blown.
In battle with yon pale-face fell
The ruler that we loved so well:
151
Rude covering of leaves below,
Pierced by the lightning of the foe.
XX.
“By young and old he was revered,Proud far-off tribes his anger feared
Death in a hundred wars he faced,
His lodge a thousand trophies graced.
On the green prairies of the west,
And where, through wilderness remote,
Missouri rolls with turbid breast,
Pawnee and Omahaw he smote.
At their own hearths his arrow shot
The Chictaghic and Wyandot:—
He woke, on banks of southern stream,
Catawba from his midnight dream,
And victor paced the lonely shore
On which, in foam dissolving, breaks
Forever, with a solemn roar,
The dark blue SIRE of mighty Lakes.”
XXI.
Emotion of revenge and griefA passing moment shook the chief,
And covered with a cloud his face,
Then gave to nobler feelings place.
“The task is difficult, old SEER,
Deep groans of anguish to repress
While rings announcement in mine ear
That I am fatherless—
That he, the mighty one, is slain,
On whom the Five Great Tribes in vain,
When boughs, wrenched off by whirlwinds, fall
From tree of peace, henceforth will call.
The proudest seat, at council fire,
Is vacant made by death of sire;
152
For Eagle of this river-vale
In the bright fulness of renown,
And fighting for our homes, struck down:
But in our sorrow feel we not
That his must be a happy lot;
For spirits of the just and brave
Pass, when the war of life is done,
To a green land, that knows no grave,
Outspread below the setting sun.
XXII.
“In fair encounter with his foe,Eye meeting eye, and foot to foot,
Yon wounded chief, with locks of snow,
Shot down the mighty Can-ne-hoot;
And, like proud ancestors of old,
Heroes in reverence I hold
Regardless of their race and name:—
Enough that they are heirs of fame
Who scorn dishonorable deed,
And born their fellow-men to lead!
Yon Pale-Face, who my father slew,
Hath proved himself a warrior true;
And time the law hath hallowed made
That gives red native of the shade,
When death hath sadly thinn'd the band,
A right war-captive to demand,
The survivors of the slain, may demand revenge for their loss, or solicit that the captives be spared to supply the vacancy. The stranger, being received into one of the families as a husband, brother, or son, is treated with the utmost tenderness. Those who perhaps immediately before exhausted their ingenuity in tormenting him, now nurse the wounds they have made, and load him with caresses.
Be his complexion pale or red,
To fill void places of the dead!
XXIII.
“Though colored by the foam-flecked wave,Od-deen-yo is my brother brave:
Regard from Can-ne-hoot he won
Who called him his adopted son;
Proud eagle-feathers form his crest,
And gleams the turtle on his breast,
153
The grade of chieftainship make known.
Therefore to him the right belongs
To free you captive from his thongs,
And wash the death-paint from his cheek—
Ye, who that right dare question, speak!”
XXIV.
On-yit-ha's tone was stern and high—He paused in vain to hear reply;
By vengeful thought no longer fired,
The dark encircling throng retired;
Vanished all outward sign of strife,
Replaced in leathern sheath was knife;
Aside the knotty war-club flung,
Keen hatchet lowered, and bow unstrung.
XXV.
Meanwhile, by friendly arm upborne,His vesture blackened, scorched and torn,
From swoon the rescued Baron woke;
A moment on De Grai he gazed,
Repulsively his arm then raised,
And fiercely thus outbroke:—
“Hence! fell betrayer of my child,
Oh, once the pure and undefiled!
Hence! rather than owe life to thee,
Thou monster of iniquity
In fair exterior disguised!
Tortures more dreadful I would bear
Than fiend, in region of despair,
For Woe hath yet devised:”
And added, while he back recoiled
As if his person had been soiled
By some contagious thing and foul—
“On thee may black misfortune scowl!
154
To blast”—ere further word he said,
Smote on his car a piteous cry,
Rustled the leaf-clad thicket nigh,
And wildly toward the stern old man,
With outstretched arms, a lady ran,
And, falling at his feet, thus sued
In penitential attitude:—
XXVI.
“Father! thine erring Blanche forgive,Oh, breathe the word that bids her live!
Her heart, wild home of sin and fear,
Would break, thy malison to hear:
From thee she hath been absent long,
And thou hast suffered grievous wrong;
Ill was repaid thy watchful love;—
Forgetful of a God above,
She left thee, lured by lover's call,
Gray-haired, and lonely in thy hall:
That God hath visited with pain
Her throbbing pulse, and fevered brain;
A babe from her embraces torn,
Whose lonely grave, in woods unshorn,
Is black with shade both night and morn.
How changed the face, to thee upcast,
Since looked on by a father last!
The rose that gave it bloom hath fled,
The joy that made it bright is dead.”
XXVII.
Awhile, in breast of haughty sire,Love waged tumultuous war with ire:
The former triumphed—and he raised
From earth the supplicant, and gazed
Intently on her bloodless face;
Then while the tears fell fast and warm,
Strained to his heart her drooping form
155
Though dawned and fled had many a day,
And thinner grown his locks of gray,
Since Blanche his castle-hold forsook
Without one parting word or look,
By him forgotten in that hour
Was her neglected lute and bower,
Filial ingratitude, the chief
Ingredient in his cup of grief;
His lonely home, unlighted hearth,
And hopes, frail blossoms, crushed to earth.
XXVIII.
The being circled by his arms,Though dimmed by agony were charms
Once lauded by the courtly throng—
That bard had made his theme of song,
Was lovely still:—and one recalled
By frozen bonds of death enthralled;
For in the blue of her soft eye
Gleamed the rich light of days gone by,
And seemed her glossy, chestnut hair,
The same her mother used to wear
When the proud nobles of the land
Were rival-suitors for her hand.
XXIX.
“Cling closely to this bosom old,Fair image of the lost and dear!
I cannot deem thy mother cold,
And in her shroud, while thou art near.
My prayer the Holy One hath heard,
And hither hath the wanderer sped
As speedeth to her nest the bird
When day-light leaves the mountain-head.
Although a blighted name is thine,
And stained the honor of my line,
156
My dreams and thoughts have been of thee.
XXX.
“Oh! I have borne what few can bear,And in my heart the bitter springs
Of grief been opened, while despair
Swept with rude hand the quivering strings;
But on my wretchedness a ray
Of comfort hath been shed to-day,
For I have looked upon my child,
Poor, houseless wanderer of the wild,
And heard her thrilling voice outpour
Its clear, melodious tone once more!
And can it be that flower so fair
Hath breathed contaminated air—
That worms within its heart lie coiled,
And every fragrant leaf unsoiled?
That never will the minstrel-strain,
Cheer my ancestral home again—
That soon its hospitable hearth
Will colder be than burial-earth,
While creatures haunt the ruin gray
Fostered by silence and decay?
The Demon lies, my daughter dear!
Who whispers ever in mine ear
That paramour of wretch thou art
All red of hand and black of heart!
The treach'rous murderer who gave
To Mordaunt an untimely grave!”
XXXI.
“By whom”—a feeble voice exclaimed—“Am I, poor dying sinner, named?”
The Baron turned abruptly round,
His eye directed by the sound,
And underneath an aged tree,
While summer-winds shook fitfully
157
De Lisle, the Jesuit, descried
Through grim disguise of paint that dyed
Contorted face, and troubled brow.
XXXII.
On bed of shaggy fells he lay,And, bending o'er him, Wun-nut-hay
A gourd-shell to his lips applied,
Filled from the streamlet's lapsing tide.
In haste a deep, reviving draught,
To cool his burning thirst, he quaffed;
Then, while his glance new lustre caught,
Impatiently Le Troye besought
By word and gesture to draw near;
As if the wretch, ere tongue grew cold,
At length dark secret would unfold
Cherished for many a year.
XXXIII.
Approaching, as the priest desired,The Baron of his state inquired;
Gazed, with commiserating glance,
Upon his changing countenance,
While, wet by drops from wound undressed,
Red grew the robe that wrapped his breast.
“A few more pangs will rend this form,
And closed will be a day of storm—
A few more groans these lips escape,
And life's frail golden chalice break.
XXXIV.
“When torn by lead, or biting steel,The lacerated flesh may heal;
But drug and rare balsamic weed
Were never known to work a cure
In bosoms guilty and impure,
With ulcers filled that inly bleed.
158
Lodged in my trunk, gives little pain
Compared with fires that night and day
Feed slowly on my shattered brain.
If I could weep repentant tears,
Methinks my pulse would calmer grow,
And taunting demon, in mine ears,
Would cease the trump of doom to blow:
But sooner would joy's roseate hue
Flush the cold features of a corse,
Than one reviving drop bedew
These withered cheeks—and, aye, remorse
Wakes memory of evil deeds,
Waving the black flag of despair
And, kissing cross and counting beads,
I murmur forth unanswered prayer.
XXXV.
“Accusing conscience in my heartPlunged deeply an envenomed dart,
When, breathing woe in every word,
Thy voice, addressing Blanche, I heard:
And, while around me dimly thronged
The phantoms of the buried past,
I prayed that those whom I had wronged
Forgiving glance on me would cast
Before my tortured soul took flight;
And listen, while the word was spoken,
Fraught with a power to reunite
The ties of love by slander broken.”
XXXVI.
“No brother of the craft am I,Who shrive the guilty ere they die:
In penance-cell I never stood,
And warrior's helm, not monkish hood,
Comports with my profession best.
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A holy man should be resigned
When passing to the Land of Rest:
Where the tree falleth, let it lie!
Nor doth it matter, when we die,
What hands the turf above us heap:
And, Priest! as calm will be thy sleep
Beneath the sunless forest-mould,
As in dark crypt of convent old.
XXXVII.
“Why should remembrance overpowerThy spirit in its parting hour?
What secret dread can breast of thine
Within its hidden depths enshrine?
Thy name, De Lisle, both far and near,
Is to thy wandering Order dear;
For banner of the Cross by thee
Displayed hath been on land and sea,
And rugged ways thy feet have trod,
Ambassador to man from God.”
XXXVIII.
The dying Jesuit repliedIn accent unto scorn allied:—
“Beneath a friar's dusky stole
May lurk a stern, revengeful soul;
And any hypocrite may make
Prayers, long and loud, at holy shrine,
Or, with meek, solemn look, partake
Of consecrated bread and wine.
Although my garb is coarse and plain,
And faded by the wind and rain,
A gallant livery I wore
When, inmate of thy castle-hall,
I gayly paced its marble floor,
And gazed upon its pictured wall.
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XXXIX.
“Start not!—I am no phantom dread,Though long have I been mourned as dead!
Not know me, Baron?—who from dust
The banner of thy fathers raised,
Reckless of pike and sabre-thrust,
And battle-fires that round him blazed?”—
“If told, De Lisle, by thee aright,
That gallant boy, so wise and brave
Beyond his years,”—rejoined the Knight—
“Is lying in a bloody grave:
When Blanche with her betrayer fled,
A swift, pursuing band he led,
But came not back:—”
“Foul lie,” exclaimed
The dying Jesuit—“I framed.
Mordaunt yet lives, but feebly thrill
His pulses that will soon be still,
And mist will cloud his eye ere day
Dies in the arms of evening gray.
XL.
“The peasant who, in thickest fight,Snatched from the dust thy banner bright,
And, dashing blood-drops from his face,
Shouted the war-cry of thy race—
The wretch, from straw-thatched hovel raised
To place in dome where grandeur blazed,
Who dared to sue, in height of pride,
A high-born maid to be his bride;
And, crossed in love, who darkly coined
A tale that three fond hearts disjoined,
And drove from France, far, far away,
Thy slandered daughter and De Grai,
Before thee lies!”—The Baron took
A backward step, with startled look,
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The grave had yielded up Mordaunt!
XLI.
Resumed the dying man:—“BeholdThis fine-wrought chain of yellow gold!—
The glittering thing thy daughter gave,
As guerdon meet to deck the brave,
When rode she forth, on palfrey fleet,
A weary, war-worn sire to greet,
Returning from that field where brand
Flashed for the first time in my hand.
Oh, fatal gift to me it proved!—
The donor from that hour was loved
Till came the well remembered morn
When hope was crushed by cruel scorn,
And, blasted by her look of pride,
Within me better feelings died.
XLII.
“My soul the lair of hate became,And when De Grai thy daughter won,
I breathed detraction on his name,
And the black web of falsehood spun.
Old man!—with him be reconciled—
Chaste was his passion for thy child!”
XLIII.
Gloom, on the visage of Le Troye,Was lighted up with sudden joy
To hear, from guilt's half-palsied tongue,
Truths, by remorse the prompter wrung,
That chased, from fame of young De Grai,
Clouds of imputed crime away,
And made his heart with rapture thrill
To know that Blanche was stainless still.
Awhile, fixed posture he maintained,
And deep emotion speech restrained;
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Upon the fond and faithful pair.
As happy father hails a son
Returning from a distant land,
And breathes a hurried benison,
While hand is interlocked in hand,
So greeting the young Chevalier,
Whose arm upheld his daughter dear,
Bright drops the gray-haired warrior shed,
That had in bliss their fountain-head.
XLIV.
“Heir of that gallant friend”—he cried—“Who, shielding me in battle, died!
Pure in my sight again thou art,
And doubly precious to a heart
Too long by tales estranged from thee
That linked thy name with infamy.
While quaffing death's embittered cup,
Yon penitent his crime confessed,
And, with a groan, surrendered up
Long cherished secrets of his breast:
The cord that knit our soul in twain,
Was riven by his plotting brain,
And charges by dark hint conveyed,
Between us wide disruption made;
But sorrow's beating storm is o'er—
Affection's band will break no more.
Though he this grievous wrong hath done,
Oh, be not wroth with him, my son!
A pardoned foeman let him die,
For gleams contrition in his eye;
And, withered and untimely old,
The lost Mordaunt in him behold.”
XLV.
All turned their gaze upon the Priest—His pulse to throb that instant ceased;
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Betokened that he died in fear;
Or struggle, terrible to sight,
Marked the mysterious spirit's flight;
But faintly trembled, with a chill,
His wasted form—then all was still.
Gone from his cheek was fever's glow,
And crucifix his right hand pressed
To lips through which, in languid flow,
Oozed blood bedabbling chin and breast:
That dull gray shade his face o'erspread
Which dims the features of the dead—
Imparting to the stony mien
Look that is ne'er forgot, once seen.
His hair was touched with winter's rime,
Sad work of passion wild, not time;
And thought, anticipating age,
Though brief his mortal pilgrimage,
His brow had furrowed o'er, and drawn
Deep lines upon his visage wan.
XLVI.
Thus, from its tenement of clay,Passed soul of God-like gifts away,
Whose ill-directed aim and powers
Robbed life of sunshine, calm and flowers
Thus, ere the noon of manhood, died,
Blind slave of impulse, scorn and pride!
A being of no common mould;
He wandered from the way of right,
And sought polluted fires to light
Torch of ambition uncontroll'd.
XLVII.
He might have gained the lore of sage—Lived a proud land-mark of his age,
And name, on glory's record high,
Transmitted to posterity;
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And shipwreck of his honor made.
Peace to his ashes!—long ago
His corse was laid the sod below,
And forms an undistinguished part
Of cold earth now his fiery heart.
Wild red men trenched for him a grave
Kissed by the Genesee's dark wave;
But misty centuries have fled
Since hollowed was that narrow bed,
And hidden is the spot forever
By shifting channel of the river.
XLVIII.
TO THE READER.
Young leaves the brow of summer crownedWhen sire unsullied daughter found,
And blessing on De Grai, restored
To place in his regard, outpoured:
But faded drapery from the trees
Was shaken down by autumn-breeze,
When peal of bell and minstrel-strain,
And banner waving from the wall,
Told that the Baron trod again
The floor of his ancestral hall.
XLIX.
Through chambers, damp and long unused,Bright fires once more a warmth diffused;
The butler broached, with merry jest,
Old cask that held the cellar's best,
And vanished, from the banquet-room,
Spirits of loneliness and gloom.
From kennel darting with a bound,
A welcome whined the aged hound;
And tenants of the broad estate
Thronged gayly to the castle-gate,
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Greeting their lord right heartily!
With cries of joy, domestics old
Flocked their young mistress to behold;
Her sorrows fled,—her wanderings o'er,—
Beneath the roof of home once more,
While towered a form of manly pride,
Her faithful lover, by her side.
L.
Though blest the happy pair with allThat rank and riches could bestow,
In converse used they to recall
Long hours of exile and of woe:
And both in thought did often stray
Over the blue dividing main,
And tread, with fawn-eyed Wun-nut-hay,
The Genesee's green shore again;
Or wigwam, in his valley bright,
Depicture to the mental sight
Where dwelt, their hearts with joy elate,
On-yit-ha and his dusky mate;
The former proud of bright fusee,
Gift of Od-deen-yo o'er the sea,
With stock whereon, in bold relief,
Carved was the totem of the chief:
The latter decked with jewels rare,
Prized parting gifts of sister fair,
And chain, that once the Jesuit wore,
Wrought from the purest golden ore.
END OF CANTO SEVENTH.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |