Oliver Newman :: :: University of Virginia Library

At length the adverse gales have ceased;
The breath of morn is from the east,
Where, burnishing with gold the restless sea,
Uprose the sun in radiant majesty.
Unfelt that breath upon the seas,
Unheard amid the silent trees,
It breathes so quietly:
Yet have the seamen, on their way intent,
Perceived the auspicious sign. The sails are bent,
The anchor raised; the swelling canvas now
Fills with the fresh'ning breeze; the Cape recedes,
Its sandhills and its pines
In distance fade away.
Steady she holds her course; and still the day
Is young, when lo! the haven is in sight;
And ere from his meridian height the sun
Declines, within that haven's gentle breast,
From the long labours of her weary way,
The vessel comes to rest.

Scatter'd within the peaceful bay
Many a fair isle and islet lay,
And rocks and banks which threaten'd there

No peril to the mariner.
The shores which bent around were gay
With maizals, and with pastures green,
And rails and hedge-row trees between,
And fields for harvest white,
And dwellings sprinkled up and down;
And round about the cluster'd town,
Which rose in sunshine bright,
Was many a shelter'd garden spot,
And many a sunny orchard plot,
And bowers which might invite
The studious man to take his seat
Within their quiet, cool retreat,
When noon was at its height.
No heart that was at ease, I ween,
Could gaze on that surrounding scene
Without a calm delight.

Behold upon the quay a press
Of business and of idleness,
Where these new-comers land.
Kinsfolk with anxious questions meet;
And friends and light acquaintance greet
With jocund shake of hand:
The idlers ask the crew of what
Upon their way befell;
And all, and more than all they know,
The wondering sailors tell.
From tongue to tongue the tidings ran;
The lady's death,—the strange young man;
His moody ways, his gift of prayer,
The maid committed to his care,

His destined bride they nothing doubting deem'd;
And how, by sudden fit of pity moved,
From slavery he redeem'd
The children and the wife of Kawnacom,
(An act that all admired, but none approved,)
And to their savage tribe, they fear'd,
Reckless of counsel, would conduct them home.
All marvell'd at the tale; the many jeer'd:
“Mad as the Quakers!” some exclaim'd; and some
Pray'd that his rash and unenlighten'd will
Might cause no after-troubles in a state
Pester'd with errors and new fancies still.
Some shook their heads; the more compassionate
Observed, that where so kind a heart was found,
Pity it was the wits should not be sound.

“It is a madness which the world will cure,”
Leverett, the Governor, said, “too soon, be sure.”
Randolph had risen to leave him, when the youth
Enter'd the Governor's door. “Come, let me play,”
Quoth he, “the usher!” in his wonted way,
Mingling with sportive speech sarcastic truth.
“Your Excellency here beholds the Man!
The Quaker-Church of England-Puritan,
Knight-errant, preacher, and we know not what,
So many things he is, and he is not;
A hero, certes, if he would but fight;
A Solomon, if his notions were but right.
Should he into a lion's den be thrown,—
Look at those arms and eyes, and you might swear
That he would act the London 'Prentice there;
But trusting to the mind, forsooth, alone

He'd take the cubs, like lambkins, to his breast,
And, Daniel-like, by faith subdue the rest.
Then for the harder task of savage-quelling
He hath a talent which exceeds all telling.
Two full-bred devilings he has taught to greet him,
And kiss as lovingly as they would eat him;
And he hath bought their mother squaw, to teach
That pleasant lingo the six-nation speech;
Words, which would choke a Dutchman or a Jew,
Dumbfound old Nick, and which from me or you
Could not be forced by ipecacuanha,
Drop from his oratoric lips like manna.
So fine withal his temper proves, that it
Hath borne unhurt the file of my rough wit;
This to his honour I am bound to tell;
Would that he took true counsel half as well!
And now, sir, as your favour may befriend him,
To that in right good earnest I commend him!”

“A man of caustic speech!” the Governor said,
Following him with his eye, as forth he went:
“Yet hath this humour no unkind intent;
His commendation, sir, shall have its weight,
The rest we take as it is meant.”

The youth
To that urbane accoil, with grateful eye,
And gentle motion of the bending head,
Return'd a mute reply.
There was a troubled meaning in his look,
And o'er his brow an ashy paleness spread,
As forth he took
A little casket, and, with trembling hand

Presenting it to Leverett, said:
“Thus I discharge my mother's last command;
On her death-bed she told me I should need
No other friend with you in my behalf to plead.”

The Governor's countenance changed, as he received
That message from the dead;
And when he open'd and contemplated
The sad bequest,
Tears fill'd his eyes, which could not be represt.
It was a woman's picture, in her youth
And bloom portray'd, by Cooper's perfect skill.
The eyes, which death had quench'd,
Kept there their life and living lustre still;
The auburn locks, which sorrow's withering hand,
Forestalling time, had changed to early grey,
Disparting from the ivory forehead, fell
In ringlets which might tempt the breath of May;
The lips, now cold as clay,
Seem'd to breathe warmth and vernal fragrance there;
The cheeks were in their maiden freshness fair.
Thus had the limner's art divine preserved
A beauty which from earth had pass'd away;
And it had caught the mind which gave that face
Its surest charm, its own peculiar grace.
A modest mien,
A meek, submissive gentleness serene,
A heart on duty stay'd,
Simple, sincere, affectionate, sedate,
Were in that virgin countenance portray'd:

She was an angel now; and yet,
More beautiful than this fair counterfeit,
Even in heaven, her spirit scarce could be,
Nor seem from stain of ill, and evil thoughts, more free.
Time was, when Leverett had worn
That picture like a relic in his breast;
And duly, morn and night,
With Love's idolatry
Fix'd on its beauties his adoring sight,
And to his lips the precious crystal prest.
Time was, when, in the visions of his rest,
That image of delight
Came with sweet smiles, and musical voice, to bless
His sleep, and all his dreams were happiness.
And still, though course of time, and fatal force
Of circumstance, grave thoughts, and worldly cares
(Ah! how unlike the blissful hopes of youth,
From which it had been worse than death to part!)
Had fortified as well as heal'd his heart,
That vision, in her beauty and her truth,
Sometimes would visit him; and he,
With a confused but conscious faculty,
Knowing full well
That this, which seem'd, too surely could not be,
Struggled against the spell.
Unchanged and unimpair'd by thirty years,
Her image came, but only to distress
The heart she wont to bless,
Till from the painful unreality
He woke, disturb'd in spirit, and in tears.

But he was master of his waking soul,
And could control
All unbecoming passion, and all feeling
That needs repressing or concealing.
Howbeit he sought not to restrain
His deep emotion now, nor turn'd aside
His natural tears to hide, which freely fell;
But wiping them away a moment, eyed
Oliver's pale countenance and anxious brow,
Perusing there his mother's lineaments:
Then took his hand, and said, “Thou need'st not tell
Thy hapless name and perilous secret now,
I know them but too well.”