Oliver Newman :: :: University of Virginia Library

They are on their way, and they have enter'd now
The forest that from earliest time hath stood,
By human culture unsubdued.
Strangelier assorted company
Than this, which through that ancient wood
Their solitary course pursued,
No errant knight might chance to see,
Wandering, in good King Arthur's days,
Through Faery or Loegria land,
Where most adventures were at hand.
Liken'd the gentle Annabel might be
To sweet Serena, ere the blatant mouth
And cankerous tooth
Had with their venom stain'd her harmless youth.
And he who paced beside her steed
Might seem, in form, and strength, and manly grace,
Like Calidore, when he had laid aside
His glorious thoughts and martial pride,
And, as a shepherd, in the sylvan shade,
Woo'd Pastorella for his bride,
Contented to forego for her the meed
Of high desert; and with true love
How largely for ambition overpaid!
Such Oliver might seem, and such the maid.

But lighter hearts, I ween, of yore
The errant knights and damsels bore,
In ages when the shield and lance
Gave law through all the realms of Old Romance;
Who roam'd at hap, or on adventure bent,
Searching the seas, the isles, and continent;
When they, in bower, in hermitage, and hall,
Were welcomed every where by all,
Or underneath the greenwood tree
Took up their inn contentedly.

For in that pensive maiden's mien
Had recent sorrow left its trace,
And plainly too might there be seen
A present trouble in her face:
She fear'd the melancholy meeting,
When grief would mar her father's greeting;
And hardly less, I ween, the pain
With which she soon must part
From one whose image would remain
The inmate of her heart.
For wishes, from herself till now conceal'd—
Conceal'd, if not represt—
And thoughts, to which the will had not consented,
Forlornly as she felt them now reveal'd,
Her secret soul unwillingly confess'd,
Unwillingly repented:
And hopes, that had arisen she scarce knew how,
Were first acknowledged when they fail'd her now.

Think not that Oliver was free
The while from painful sympathy:

What more had he required his lot to bless,
Than in the depth of those clear eyes was seen—
The modest, meek, confiding gentleness,
That soften'd while it sanctified her mien;
Those looks, devoid of art,
Whose mild intelligence he loved to meet;
The voice, that, varying still, but always sweet,
Still found a chord responsive in his heart?
If ever at his fate he half repined,
If ever o'er his calm and constant mind
The doubt, the trouble, and the cloud, were brought,
'Twas at the thought,
That cruel circumstance two souls must sever,
Whom God, he surely felt, would else have join'd for ever.

Uneasy now became perforce
The inevitable intercourse,
Too grateful heretofore:
Each in the other could descry
The tone constrain'd, the alter'd eye.
They knew that each to each could seem
No longer as of yore;
And yet, while thus estranged, I deem,
Each loved the other more.
Her's was perhaps the saddest heart;
His the more forced and painful part:
A sense of proper maiden pride
To her the needful strength supplied.
Then first perhaps the Virgin thought
How large a dower of love and faithfulness
Her gentle spirit could have brought
A kindred heart to bless;

Herself then first she understood
With what capacities endued;
Then first, by undeserved neglect
Roused to a consciousness of self-respect,
Felt she was not more willing to be won
Than worthy to be woo'd.

Had they from such disturbant thoughts been free,
It had been sure for them
A gladsome sight to see
The Indian children, with what glee
They breathed their native air of liberty.
Food to the weary man with toil forespent
Not more refreshment brings,
Than did the forest breeze upon its wings
To these true younglings of the wilderness:
A happy sight, a sight of hearts content!
For blithe were they
As swallows, wheeling in the summer sky
At close of day;
As insects, when on high
Their mazy dance they thread
In myriads overhead,
Where sunbeams through the thinner foliage gleam,
Or spin in rapid circles as they play,
Where winds are still,
Upon the surface of the unrippled stream:
Yea, gamesome in their innocence were they
As lambs in fragrant pasture, at their will
The udder when to press
They run, for hunger less
Than joy, and very love and wantonness.

Nor less contentment had it brought
To see what change benevolence had wrought
In the wild Indian mother, whom they first
Had seen, her spirit strong
Madden'd by violence of wrong,
For vengeance in her inmost soul,
With natural but with ferine rage, athirst.
That soul unhoped-for kindness had subdued:
Her looks, and words, and actions, now combined,
Express'd, in that composure of the mind
Which uneffaceable sorrow had left behind,
A lively ever-watchful gratitude.
Oliver seem'd to her a creature
Less of this earth than of celestial nature;
And Annabel as well
Had won from her a love like veneration;
(So goodness on the grateful heart can gain;)
Though charms of European tint and feature
No beauty to an Indian eye convey,
Regarded with disdain,
As if they were the original stamp and stain
Of an inferior clay,
Proved in some earlier, inexpert creation,
And then, for degradation,
When the red man was fashion'd, put away.

Pamya was troubled now, for she had seen
Their alter'd mien:
Some change there was, she knew not what, nor why,
Some infelicity;
Which yet she might descry

Rose not from wrath nor alienated will;
For in their converse still
The tones were such as meet
The ear of love, and still
The smiles they interchanged, though sad, were sweet:
Yet plainly she could tell, all was not well.
They too could read in her observant eye
Its apprehension and its sympathy:
And surely she, had but her speech been free,
Had prest, how earnestly! for explanation,
And sought to bring about
The full and perfect reconciliation
Dearly desired by both, she did not doubt.
Their hearts were merciful and meek she knew,
And could not to each other but be true:
But on her tongue the curse of Babel hung,
And when the eager wish her breast was swelling,
Eye-speaking thoughts were all she could impart,
Intelligibly telling
The deep indwelling yearnings of the heart.

Four days they travell'd through the endless wood,
Measuring their journey still to reach at eve
Some settler's home, and sure of their receiving
Such hospitality, sincere, though rude,
As men who felt no want, and had no vice
Of chilling avarice,
In their plain kindness found a joy in giving.
The fifth morn rose, and with the morn rose they,
That they might reach that day
Their journey's end; and through the forest wide
Did they their weary way

Hold on from early dawn till eventide;
But ere the light of eve
Began to fade, their guide,
Accustomed to descry
With instantaneous eye
The slightest trace of man, a smoke espied,
Staining a little space of open sky:
“Yon is the place we seek!” he said; nor knew
What a cold feeling, at the words, ran through
The veins of Annabel, and Newman too.