 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
THE HAUNTED COVE.
Of all that ever charmed romantic eye.”
Keats.
The sun is low in the west, my love!
Few shafts are left in his golden quiver;
And we must cross, ere we reach the Cove,
Yon old red bridge that spans the river.”
Of valley and hill takes blushing leave,
And the red-breast chants a pensive lay
That tells of the coming hush of eve.
They reach the place where rankly waves
The springing corn on rifled graves—
Where the bleaching bones of the forest-lord
Pierce through the vegetating sward;
They pass the old elm-tree whose bough
Is green with a robe of clinging moss—
With flagging pace the bridge they cross,
And the place they seek is before them now.
Be this old walnut's fallen trunk,
And shrink not, though beneath your feet
The dark, rich soil hath carnage drunk;
For here your roving eyes behold
The scenery of that legend old
Which thou hast teased me oft to tell—
Now list! and heed its import well.
An isle from the level mainland sever,
Where the blue-bird first salutes the ear
With song when the vernal clouds appear,
And a quiet beauty lingers ever.
On the low and richly wooded shore
Are visible remains of yore;
And often, when the shelving clay
Is worn by the wash of waves away,
Rude implements of other days,
And skeletons arrest the gaze.
Direct your glance where the river bends,
And the bank, with a gentle slope, descends;
For there, encircled by the wood,
The village of the red-man stood.
Flinging shadows long and dark,
The island described in this legend is formed by a sweeping bend of the Genesee and the “Haunted Cove,” supposed to have been the ancient bed of the river. It was a favorite sugar orchard of the Indians, and maples of immense size, deeply scarred by the hatchet, are rooted in the rich vegetable mould. The remains of huts, mouldering and moss-covered, may yet be seen in the shadow of the old forest. The island is carpeted with wild flowers in the spring and summer, and bevies of light-hearted boys and girls flock annually thither to pluck and weave them into nosegays. In taking the “back foot of life's trail,” to use an Indian metaphor, I number among the greenest and brightest spots of memory—my boyish excursions in quest of blue-bells and wild fruit, to this enchanted place.
While round their leaning stems entwine
The folding arms of the leafy vine.
Long, long ago Conesus made
His dwelling in their graceful shade;
Above them curls, as in time of yore,
The smoke of his cone-like lodge no more,
With its rude walls hung with trophies torn
From the heads of fallen foes;
But his name by a rapid stream is borne,
That, in its channel deeply worn,
Near Avon foams and flows.
Far-famed for deeds, but loved him most:
Not by hereditary right
Rank did he win above them all,
But forced his way by skill in fight,
And wisdom in the council-hall.
When caught their ears his onset cry,
And often to their mountain-hold
He chased the Adiróndack bold:
Full deeply was his hatchet stained
When the vaunting Delaware he brained;
The fierce Ottawa's blood, in strife,
Had dimm'd the blade of his deadly knife,
And his name alone could wildly wake
Dread in the Hurons of the Lake;
For a whizzing shaft from his fatal bow
In dust laid their youthful sachem low;
I stand on the spot where he darkly fell,
And known is his grave to the Seneca well.”
The home of his savage enemy?
What madness tempted him to stray
From his own tribe so far away?”
The lady, with a shudder, said:
“A band, by old Conesus led,
The country of the Hurons sought,
When the deep green of summer fled,
And back a beauteous captive brought:
She was the bride of a noted chief,
And his heart was madly wrung with grief
When he came with his warriors from the chase,
And found his home a ruined place—
The huts of his people in ashes, and gone
The young bride he tenderly doated upon.”
And follow the relentless foe?”
‘Yes, Lillian! on their path he sped,
But few were the quiver'd braves he led:
The mazes of the forest dim
He threaded with unwearied limb,
Like a famished wolf on the trail of deer.
Steep hill he clomb, and river cross'd
In quest of the bride of his bosom lost,
And captors at whose girdles hung
The reeking scalps of old and young.”
Of ravishers his forest flower?”
“No!—for the Senecas, when near
The village of their tribe, sent out,
Fearful of danger in the rear,
Their fleetest warrior as a scout,
Who soon, with fox-like bound, came back
Announcing foemen on their track.
Conesus, belted for the fight
These tidings heard with grim delight,
And for his rash pursuer laid
On the bank of this cove an ambuscade.
No sign could trace of peril nigh
Until a startling whoop arose
Succeeded by the twang of bows,
And the sudden fall of a warrior tried,
With a ringing death-shriek, by his side.
The victims of that fatal snare
Fought with the fury of despair;
Like wolves, athirst for blood, and gaunt,
That madly on the hunter spring
When round their dark and savage haunt
Contracts the deadly ring,
This method of hunting formed on a grander scale the favorite amusement of the princes of Tartary, when, as it is beautifully described by Somerville in his “Chase,”
“On the banks of Genina, Indian stream,Line within line, rose their pavilions proud.”
Previous notice having been given out that the “Circular Hunt” will take place upon an appointed day; in many parts of the western states the hunters for many miles around take their respective stations, and, at a preconcerted signal, commence marching towards each other. The game consisting of wolves, bears, deer, and numerous other smaller animals, encircled within the living wall, huddle closer and closer together, and,—
—with vain assault contend to breakThe impenetrable line.
They are soon dispatched by the approaching assailants, or their comrades placed in the centre of the circle, upon an elevated platform with rifles and other instruments of death.
Battled their little band, while grew
Fewer their numbers, and more few.
The cover of o'ershadowing trees
While groans, and yells were on the breeze;
But summoning their might for one
Terrific shock, disdained to shun
The red encounter, knife to knife,
And plied their weapons in the strife
With deadly aim, and active bound,
While the fierce Senecas gave ground
Before their maddening rush for life.
By frantic calls for instant aid;
And stood awhile, with trembling limb,
For the voice was not unknown to him;
Then—fearful sight! his hapless bride
Bound rudely to a tree, descried,
In battle or previous to battle, the forest warrior secures his prisoner, if too hard pressed to convey him from the field, by fastening him with strips of tough bark, or thongs of deer skin, to the trunks of trees. This mode of preventing the escape of captives is sometimes adopted, previous to torturing them at the stake; and striplings frequently exercise their skill, and amuse themselves by hurling hatchets at, without hitting or materially wounding them. Even women and maidens enjoy the spectacle, and intensely watch for some expression of fear while the bright, whirling weapon grazes the skin, or severs a lock of hair in its passage. If the pinioned brave endures the trial with a defying glance, and unshaken nerves, he is sometimes spared at the urgent intercession of some bereaved father, or childless mother, and adopted in place of the dead. The fortitude of General Putnam was tested in this manner, by the Indians of Canada, in the old French war.
And ruddy spot on her breast betrayed
Where some coward's knife had entrance made.
Oh! fatal pause!—a whistling dart
Clove its red pathway to his heart,
And uttering nor groan, nor yell,
On high the chieftain sprang, and fell,
While, toward him, old Conesus sped
To tear the scalp-lock from his head.”
“Did the bride escape, or was her doom
More dark, more dread than an early tomb?”
“When the haughty victor came to free
His captive bound to the rugged tree,
The blood from her veins had ebb'd away,
And her soft, dark eye was dimmed for aye.
Instead of a prize of beauty rare
His couch to tend—his lodge to share,
A ghastly corse he found alone,
Voiceless and cold as a figure of stone.
And the quick, wild bark of the fox is heard,
And a vivid flash the fire-fly shoots,
Two spectral forms—old hunters say—
The Huron chief and his dusky bride,
Along the shore are seen to stray
In gory garb, and side by side,
Until they vanish in the grove
That skirts the bend of the Haunted Cove.”
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |