University of Virginia Library

They wandered forth by soft Fluvanna's stream
When o'er the twilight heaven smiled the rich eve
Of autumn, and the fleecy clouds of day
Hung on the pictured sky in fairy forms
Of beauty, changeful as the sunbow's tints
Upon the dark brown cliff; and o'er the verge
Of heaven the purple waves of light
Ebbed downward to the past eternity.
The balmy airs of that sweet season came
Like music from the harp of Memnon—faint,
Low and melancholy, then scarcely heard
Mid the dim groves, then quite inaudible,
Lulled into silence, like a syren charm;
When, swelling through all harmonies of sound,
Again they breathed through the thick woven boughs,
Shook the gray moss that hung in hoar festoons
From the high branches—o'er Fluvanna's stream
Spread curling crystal, tinged with evening's light,
And mid the wild flowers and the scented shrubs
Made melancholy music. 'Twas the hour
Of starlight intercourse, of whispered love,
And purified affection, which derives
Its beauty from its innocence, and throws
The light of Eden's rosy bowers o'er all
The passions of our earth-stained nature—'twas
The holy season of the untried heart,
When it dilates with those high feelings, born
In heaven and sent like seraphim below.
There is a holiness in daylight's close,
A pure enchantment in the twilight heaven,
Where beauty kisses glory, and bright forms
Fold their sun pinions in the ethereal air;
The bosom feels then, while it throbs for love,
And the eye gazes longingly on high,
How far from heaven its passions and its powers
Tend mid the cold realities of life.

By soft Fluvanna's stream they wandered on,
Down fair Ligonier's vale, where waters, woods,
And rich green verdure and bright golden harvests
Smiled glowingly, while over all the scene
The mighty Allegany from on high
Looked like a cloud-throned spirit o'er the world.
The last beams of the setting sun illumed
The dense pine forests and the cliffy dells,
And deep ravines, where torrents, all unseen,
Poured their wild music on the silent air,
And the fair floating clouds of evening hung
Upon the mountain's brow, as if to crown
Nature's proud monarch, while their outskirts fringed
His sides like a broad mantle wrought of Ind.
All earth seemed slumbering 'neath the smile of heaven
And the soft tendance of high spirits! peace
Waved her dove pinions in the cool night air,
As if the shout of war had never woke
The everlasting echoes of those hills.
And surely peace—the peace of kindling hearts,
Devoted to each other, smiled upon
Young Agnes and her lover; they had been
Companions from their childhood—wept and laughed
And played together from their earliest years;
They had gone hand in hand to the green fields,
And holy temple—side by side had knelt
And worshipped God more fondly that each saw
His image in the other! it was sweet
To mark their artlessness of love and hear
The converse of their hearts, while their bright eyes
Together read and their fair faces pressed
Unblushing; oh, if thou wouldst image out
Heaven in thy fancy, and its holy loves,
Bend o'er two infants, cradled in one couch,
Fed by one hand, in thought and word and deed
Blent from the dawn of being; then bright gleams
Of what pure spirits are spring forth and bloom!
Love had become their food of thought—the life
Of each, and it was holy, past all fear,
Or jealousy or passion; for each knew
The other faithful even unto death,
And trusted ever; ah! that such sweet love
Should lead but to the grave! that life's best hopes
Should be wild meteors, heralding despair!

Not in their wonted converse of light joy
They roamed along; not with accustomed smiles
Reached their vine arbour by Fluvanna side.
Each had been silent, save in few short words
Spoken unwittingly, as if to shun
The burden of their sorrows; till they came
Where trailing flowers, o'ergemm'd with pearly dew,
Hung blushing in perfume, like the past joys
Of loves more bright and fragrant than the scene.
Then tender words, and low wild sobs came forth,
And Agnes leaned upon De Grammont's breast,
And oft she raised her tearful eyes to heaven,
And called down blessings on the warrior; then
She clung around his neck, and wept again,
And prayed him not to go! The soldier's voice
Faltered, but his proud spirit blenched not now.
One wild, long kiss—a hurried, last farewell—
And Agnes is alone! far o'er the cliffs
Sound the proud charger's hoofs; upon a height,
O'erlooking all the vale, a horseman reins
His war-steed for a moment, and the eye
Of the fair girl has caught his high white plumes,
Waving aloft! the crash of parting boughs
O'er flinty bridle path is heard awhile,—
Then silence sinks on the deserted bower.

'Tis night again—a lovely summer night,
Lit by the full fair moon, whose pearly beams
Gleam o'er the engirdling forest, and illume
The cottage garden and the willow grove;
And Agnes has arisen to look forth
On the still night—but not to watch the charms
Of nature; she had heard her grandsire speak
De Grammont's plaudit for high gallant deeds,
Achieved in neighbouring battles, and her heart
Throbb'd a high welcome for her hero-love.
She watched the mountain path where he must come,
And saw his form in every shadow thrown
Over the moonlight rocks; she heard his voice
In every breeze that waved the midnight groves.
Beguiled for ever—still beguiling! sounds
Came on her ear from the far woods, and she
Shaped them into De Grammont's voice, and oft
The throbbings of her heart became to her
The distant tramp of steeds.

While thus she caught
The voice and image of her own fond heart
And wrought them into being, quick and bright
Beneath the willow grove a bayonet gleamed,
And, on the instant, pealed a warning cry—
“Dear lady, fly! the Hessians!” ere the words
Had ceased to echo, flashed the levelled gun,
And on the green turf lay a bleeding corse;
And the next moment Agnes backward fell,
Rolling in blood; all conscious sense extinct.
Strange sounds were in her spirit, sounds of wrath
And stifled agony, and roaring fires,
And low death-wailing and demoniac shouts;
But nought distinct—as in a fevered dream,
They floated by her, but she knew them not.
She woke at last—she listened! faint and wild
With fear, she dragged her feeble limbs along,
And reached the hall; there by the lurid light
Of the loud crackling cottage, in his blood
Her slaughtered grandsire, and by him she saw
His only child—her only parent! There
The haughty Hessian chief stood gazing on!

'Tis morn upon the Alleganean heights,
And bright its earliest rays flash o'er the arms
Of conquering troops descending; loud and high
The trumpet wakes the echoes of the cliffs,
And o'er their proud array the banner waves
Of freedom and of glory. In the front
Careers a noble horseman, and a joy,
Beyond e'en battle's rapture, from his eyes
Flashes exulting as he looks below.
“'Tis the gray mist that baffles me,” he said,
As turning from the view, a sad, sick smile
Mocked secret apprehension. Now they reach
The lowest hill, and there he turns to gaze.
“I cannot see the cottage!” how his heart
Beat in its strong convulsions, as the hopes,
Long cherished, of this hour turned to despair!
In weariness and pain, in midnight watch,
And midday battle, he had looked to this—
This hour of recompense—and fondly thought
That Agnes' smile would change all wo to bliss.
He gazed as if his soul were perishing,
But the dark woods frowned in their loneliness—
No blue smoke rose—no sound of life was heard;
All—all was still and lone. How his heart shrunk
And trembled! but De Grammont hurried on,
As if his spirit fled from its own fears.
And he has gained the cottage—or the place
Where it once stood; there black and bloody ashes,
And cindered bones, and broken brands and prints
Of the assassins' footsteps gave dread note
Of the past horror. With a frenzied glare
Of agony unutterable he gazed,
And wild convulsions shook his heart; then wrath,
Deep, burning wrath, like lightning, from his eyes
Flashed balefully, and from his quivering lips
Thundered in awful accents—“Vengeance!” all
Lifted their voices in a blast of sound,
And uttered—“Vengeance!” Allegany heard
And through its wildest fastnesses and clefts
Pealed—“Vengeance! Vengeance!”

Long the close pursuit,
And patient, ere De Grammont's soul had rest.
Thrice in his heart's deep core his recking blade
De Grammont buried, and a fearful smile,
The last that ever lit his features, came,
Like midnight lightning o'er an open grave,
Over his face; then forth he went and fought
His country's battles with a desperate wrath,
That kept his soul from madness, and achieved
Immortal deeds, which on the hero brought
Praises and honours manifold; but he
Recked not of them; 'twas Agnes that inspired
The warrior's daring, and his heart knew not
A moment's rest, till 'neath the ruin's dust
And ashes, brave De Grammont slept in death!