Oliver Newman A New-England Tale (Unfinished): With Other Poetical Remains. By the late Robert Southey |
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 | Oliver Newman |  |
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.
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.
Many a fair isle and islet lay,
And rocks and banks which threaten'd there
36
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.
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,
37
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.
| Oliver Newman | |