 | Verses of a life time |  |
107
ISAAC HAYNE, OR THE PATRIOT MARTYR OF CAROLINA.
AN HISTORICAL DRAMATIC SKETCH.
[_]
[The incidents are gathered from Ramsay's History, Garden's Anecdotes, Lee's Memoirs, and the Southern Review.]
Enter an American citizen. Speaks.—
Terrific war! how heavy are thy chains.
Bright though thou art to infancy, which sees
In nodding plume and keenly burnish'd sword,
But gaudy toys;—bright to the daring youth,
Whose ear excited finds discourse most rare
In trumpet note, artillery's deaf'ning roar,
And measured foot-fall;—bright to maiden glance,
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And bright to manhood, that forever pants
For deeds emblazoned on thy bloody page;
Still thou art dark to him, whose fettered arm
Makes impotent his will; and whose frail life
Hangs on the fiat of a mortal's word.
[Enter second Citizen.
Hast heard the fate of Hayne within this hour
Still doth the tyrant Commandant deny
The trial e'en to malefactors given?
SECOND CITIZEN.
He does: war's summary decree prevails:
He dies to-morrow.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Heaven! what savage haste!
Hayne! Hayne! for thee, America will weep
Stern tears, but soon shall Britain pay them back
In drops of blood!
SECOND CITIZEN.
Speak low, apart here. Hist!
[They retire.
109
FIRST LADY.
Hayne sentenced to an ignominious death?
Would that this arm could wield a warrior's blade!
America wants men, when such things are.
SECOND LADY.
Be calm, dear sister! this insensate war
Respects not woman's helplessness, nor leaves
Our shrinking sex from brutal wrong secure:
Oh! then, provoke it not, for even now
My soul doth shudder at the fate, o'er which
The future hangs its mantle.
FIRST LADY.
I could weep,
But my hot cheeks would drink the gushing tears;—
I'll not be still,—the echoes shall awake,
And answer “murder” to this deed!—I would
I were the night-mare on Lord Rawdon's breast,
To crouch in dreams and scream there, Murder! Murder!
What! Hayne, the soul of chivalry and truth,
Hayne, sentenced to the scaffold! while mean forms
Bask in life's sunshine, or go gliding down
To peaceful graves? It may not, shall not be!—
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Thy spirit frights me, Helen. Sure 't is not
For woman thus to judge of soldier-deeds.
Soft as these flowers, which silent ope around,
Yielding sweet perfume to the gentle breeze,
Woman should live, and distant from earth's strife,
Look ever to the sky in loveliness.
FIRST LADY.
Loveliness, Anna, is a word for peace.
Stern deeds are beauty now.—Our land is rous'd,
And claims from woman's hand a nobler task,
Than thus to sit in summer bowers, and tune
The fairy lute or list the wild bird's song.
See'st thou yon clustering vine, whose trumpet flowers
Toss in luxurious clusters on the wind?
'T is beautiful, I own, and so is woman:
But Anna, those bright blossoms hide a power
Called poison, and perchance, to our soft sex
God gives like art to injure when she 's crush'd,—
But time is lost; before the set of sun,
Hundreds of names clustered in full appeal,
Will show stern Balfour and the tory Lord,
That “rebel women” sometimes quit their bowers.
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FIRST CITIZEN.
A mournful stir runs through the city streets;
Men speak with lowering brows, in whispered tones,
And now an oath impatient, or a hand
Clinch'd suddenly, shows public mood.—What news?
SECOND CITIZEN.
A respite for a few brief hours is given,
That Hayne may bless his children ere he dies.
All has been urged, that pity, love, respect,
Could urge, yet all in vain.—Our Governor,
Borne on a litter, faint and overtasked,
Humbly besought, in low but earnest speech,
Those callous men; but he appealed in vain!
Then came intrepid women from their homes,
Bearing petitions blotted with their tears;
I marked each faltering step and pleading gaze,
And graceful gesture, as they urg'd their suit:
Rawdon, with courtly air and polished phrase,
Received them, but denied their modest claim,
While Balfour mingled scorn with harsh repulse;
Till, blinded by their tears, they turned away,
Hope's slight raft lost amid grief's ocean-tide.
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With mourning hearts, still sadder suppliants came
The prisoner's children,—no fond parents near
To aid. The eldest boy, with anxious brow,
Too early marked by care, advanced the first.
Upon his arm, despondingly leaned one,
Whom the strong ties of sisterhood and love
Link'd to his injured sire; and when he saw
Her pallid lip, and felt her shrinking form
Start at the glitter of the foeman's arms,
He braced himself anew, and proudly stood,
As if his boyhood felt the nerve and power
To guard her from a host of coming ills.—
Then came the girl, a creature sylph-like bright,
Yet with soft, liquid eyes, that drooped beneath
The falling lids; while sorrow's frost had blanched
Her rose-cheek colored by eleven springs.
In close embrace she clasp'd the hand of one,
A younger blossom, on whom nursery cares
Were yet employed, but who, not versed in tears,
Stood by his father's foes to plead with smiles.
They knelt, that touching group! and would have spoke,
But stifling grief denied them utterance,
And all that they could cry was, “Save my father!”
Once from the eldest boy these words were wrung,
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Take not my father too!”—but 't was too low
To reach his ear, and if it had, his heart
Was closed and ice-bound to the thrilling cry.
But when the stern denial was returned,
Which sealed his father's fate, the elder son
Look'd round with desperate glance, and clenched his hands,
While a quick shriek of agony burst forth
From those young mourners, and in wild despair
Reeling, they fell into each other's arms,
And thus were borne, in agony, away.
[A pause.
FIRST CITIZEN.
A restless fever burns within my soul;
My daily tasks are hateful, and I turn
Instinctively to grasp my idle sword.
[They retire.
PROVOST PRISON.
Hayne alone, walking calmly as if in meditation—listens as the bell strikes twelve.
HAYNE
speaks.
St. Michael's chime! Oh what a throng of scenes
From day to day its signal ushers in.
The infant's welcome birth it heralds, or
The bridal hour,—while often floats its peal
In solemn requiems round the couch of death:
And like a requiem sounds it now to me,
For I am dying; death is felt by him
Who in the settled gloom of midnight, knows
To-morrow's shades must gather o'er his grave.
My wife, my buried one! on whose still couch
The planted flowers have scarcely oped in bloom;
And ye, fair buds of being, who did close
So soon your veined lids in death;—I come!
I come!—too thankful that this treacherous earth
O'er you has lost its power:—Ye rest secure!
Ye war not with the reveries, conjuring up
Dim, phantom forms, that in the midnight crowd
Too often round my pillow; nor the dreams
(Thank God! they are but dreams,) where faces peer
In madd'ning glee upon my spirit's eye:
Nor, worse than all, that looking for of death,
Untimely and degrading, where the soul
Leaves not the placid clay in quiet peace,
But all is struggling horror!—Blessed ones!
Your bed is green, and there, through flickering leaves
The sun slants downward on the springing stems,
And moonlight slumbers gently on the dew.
Not by your grave the mob's coarse shout is heard,
But summer birds trill their sweet lays of joy.
The executioner, with death-bronzed look,
Frowns not upon that spot, but gushing tears
Drop tenderly from loving eyes.—'T is well!
My children! would that I could thus be laid
Where, from the burnished oak, the hoary moss
Waves its grey banner to the passing breeze.—
Alas! my noble boys and orphan girl,
Who still contend with life's tumultuous waves,
My whole heart sickens and my head is faint
With thoughts of you,—left fatherless.
O God!
How tenderly would I have nursed their youth,
Rest of that blessed mother's fostering love,
Whose gentle eye is shrouded o'er by death,
Nor longer beams above their breathing sleep,
Shedding a constant sunlight over all.
Death had been soften'd, dear ones! could but I
Have lain my cheek to yours, and felt your hands
Press down my dying lids with filial care,
And borne a message of your love to her,
Who waits to greet her household in the skies.
And thou, my country! I had hoped to see
The star of conquest lighting up thy brow.
Yet 'neath the waves of woe upon my soul,
I feel an under-current of stern joy,
That I may die for thee.—Oh! many a hand
Now feeble, will be nerved with sudden strength
When the sad story of my wrongs is heard.—
Touch'd by my fate, the daughters of the South
Shall bend in mingled thought around my grave,
Aveng'd by brother-swords. New England's sons
Hearing the tale, and bracing up their souls
Shall rush upon the foe, fierce as the winds
Athwart their icy hills. Posterity
Will not unkindly dwell upon my name.
From day to day its signal ushers in.
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The bridal hour,—while often floats its peal
In solemn requiems round the couch of death:
And like a requiem sounds it now to me,
For I am dying; death is felt by him
Who in the settled gloom of midnight, knows
To-morrow's shades must gather o'er his grave.
My wife, my buried one! on whose still couch
The planted flowers have scarcely oped in bloom;
And ye, fair buds of being, who did close
So soon your veined lids in death;—I come!
I come!—too thankful that this treacherous earth
O'er you has lost its power:—Ye rest secure!
Ye war not with the reveries, conjuring up
Dim, phantom forms, that in the midnight crowd
Too often round my pillow; nor the dreams
(Thank God! they are but dreams,) where faces peer
In madd'ning glee upon my spirit's eye:
Nor, worse than all, that looking for of death,
Untimely and degrading, where the soul
Leaves not the placid clay in quiet peace,
But all is struggling horror!—Blessed ones!
Your bed is green, and there, through flickering leaves
The sun slants downward on the springing stems,
And moonlight slumbers gently on the dew.
115
But summer birds trill their sweet lays of joy.
The executioner, with death-bronzed look,
Frowns not upon that spot, but gushing tears
Drop tenderly from loving eyes.—'T is well!
My children! would that I could thus be laid
Where, from the burnished oak, the hoary moss
Waves its grey banner to the passing breeze.—
Alas! my noble boys and orphan girl,
Who still contend with life's tumultuous waves,
My whole heart sickens and my head is faint
With thoughts of you,—left fatherless.
O God!
How tenderly would I have nursed their youth,
Rest of that blessed mother's fostering love,
Whose gentle eye is shrouded o'er by death,
Nor longer beams above their breathing sleep,
Shedding a constant sunlight over all.
Death had been soften'd, dear ones! could but I
Have lain my cheek to yours, and felt your hands
Press down my dying lids with filial care,
And borne a message of your love to her,
Who waits to greet her household in the skies.
And thou, my country! I had hoped to see
The star of conquest lighting up thy brow.
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I feel an under-current of stern joy,
That I may die for thee.—Oh! many a hand
Now feeble, will be nerved with sudden strength
When the sad story of my wrongs is heard.—
Touch'd by my fate, the daughters of the South
Shall bend in mingled thought around my grave,
Aveng'd by brother-swords. New England's sons
Hearing the tale, and bracing up their souls
Shall rush upon the foe, fierce as the winds
Athwart their icy hills. Posterity
Will not unkindly dwell upon my name.
But, Heavenly Father! this is not the hour
To cling thus fervently to earthly things;—
Let these low clouds of thought, though colored up
With deathless hues of love and loyalty,
Roll off, and leave me with myself and Thee.
To cling thus fervently to earthly things;—
Let these low clouds of thought, though colored up
With deathless hues of love and loyalty,
Roll off, and leave me with myself and Thee.
[Meditates.
EAST-BAY. TWO AMERICANS.
FIRST SOLDIER.
Noonday burns:
Bright sunshine, yet deep gloom is o'er the scene,
A shade like death. I could not join the crowd,
But wrapt in bitter musings, here remained.
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Scarce ruffles yonder vessel's snowy sail;
And the blue wave, with such a gentle plash
As summer rivers yield, kisses the bastion:
White clouds rest lightly on the upper deep,
The oars-man's stroke falls clearly, and behold!
The very winds disdain to lift on high
The British flag, on yonder distant tower.
Nature is still, but what a tempest wild
Rages in human hearts. I cannot breathe
This air, and the midsummer's sun is faint
To the hot fire that kindles up my soul.
O God! sustain him! 't is a fearful thing,
With perfect sense and strong corporeal power,
To quit this gladsome earth.
SECOND SOLDIER.
The town's quite alone,
A few t' exult, but oh! far more to weep
Have joined the funeral throng. I could not bear
The spectacle. The image haunts me now
Of that dark prison scene.
FIRST SOLDIER.
When wert thou there?
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Last evening, and my inmost heart retains
The vision still. A messenger I went,
And saw them all—the children and their sire.
And through my future life, on memory's height
That scene will stand, like some lone, broken column,
Sad, but most beautiful! Beside the door
At which I entered, stood a Hessian guard.
Alas! my country! do I live to tell
Of foreign hirelings, who thus lord it o'er thee?
A coffin was at hand, shrouded above
With sable pall, save where an open space
Display'd the garniture of white within.
I little marked the prison; but we know
War decks not oft, with niceties of show,
The grated chamber, where the sentenced lie,
Though downy pillows willing slaves have spread,
And busy love, with an untiring zeal,
Has ministered through life to each slight wish.
The vision still. A messenger I went,
And saw them all—the children and their sire.
And through my future life, on memory's height
That scene will stand, like some lone, broken column,
Sad, but most beautiful! Beside the door
At which I entered, stood a Hessian guard.
Alas! my country! do I live to tell
Of foreign hirelings, who thus lord it o'er thee?
A coffin was at hand, shrouded above
With sable pall, save where an open space
Display'd the garniture of white within.
I little marked the prison; but we know
War decks not oft, with niceties of show,
The grated chamber, where the sentenced lie,
Though downy pillows willing slaves have spread,
And busy love, with an untiring zeal,
Has ministered through life to each slight wish.
A thoughtful quiet sat upon his brow,
Varied at moments by some sudden gush
Of anguish from his friends, as the smooth lake,
When from a passing cloud the rain drops fall,
Breaking its stillness, chafes, but silently,
And then reflects all heaven in calm again.
Upon his knee nestled the youngest boy,
Who conscious seem'd of grief he thought to soothe
With pretty toying.—Double love was his.—
His fair twin-blossom had been laid asleep
In early death, within his mother's arms,
And shared her grave; therefore the father's voice
Grew tremulous, when he addressed the boy,
And therefore did he hide his face at times,
When nature was too strong, 'mid the child's curls.
Claspt in his other arm, leaned a fair girl,
Glowing and fresh in childhood's ripening bloom.
I did not see her face, for on his breast
She hung like a cropt lily, while loud sobs
Came deep and shivering from her youthful frame.
But once (her head uprais'd to wipe the tears
She did not strive to check) her eager glance
Fell on the ready coffin;—a wild shriek
Of piteous woe still ringing on my ear,
Burst from her lips; then to her father's neck
She clung, claiming protection. E'en as one
Resolved to bear his part, the elder boy
Stood silent, though the gushing tears burst forth
And roll'd unheeded down.
The martyr spoke;
And in that listening group a footfall slight,
Such the intense excitement of the scene,
Would have seemed loud as thunder; for a voice
So near the grave sounds like an oracle.
“'T is not so dread a thing, my friends, to die,
If the firm mind rallies its better thoughts,
And looks without this shell of earth. 'T is but
The foretaste of some few short years, or days
Perchance, when stern disease, with tyrant touch,
Harsher than hangman's hand, would act its part.
Oh! weep not thus: a coward had I been,
Ye might have wept, for bitter are the tears
That fall upon a recreant traitor's grave.
I chiefly grieve that this my tragic fate
May rouse the unholy passion of revenge,
And war, with hydra-head be arm'd anew.”
Varied at moments by some sudden gush
Of anguish from his friends, as the smooth lake,
When from a passing cloud the rain drops fall,
Breaking its stillness, chafes, but silently,
And then reflects all heaven in calm again.
119
Who conscious seem'd of grief he thought to soothe
With pretty toying.—Double love was his.—
His fair twin-blossom had been laid asleep
In early death, within his mother's arms,
And shared her grave; therefore the father's voice
Grew tremulous, when he addressed the boy,
And therefore did he hide his face at times,
When nature was too strong, 'mid the child's curls.
Claspt in his other arm, leaned a fair girl,
Glowing and fresh in childhood's ripening bloom.
I did not see her face, for on his breast
She hung like a cropt lily, while loud sobs
Came deep and shivering from her youthful frame.
But once (her head uprais'd to wipe the tears
She did not strive to check) her eager glance
Fell on the ready coffin;—a wild shriek
Of piteous woe still ringing on my ear,
Burst from her lips; then to her father's neck
She clung, claiming protection. E'en as one
Resolved to bear his part, the elder boy
Stood silent, though the gushing tears burst forth
And roll'd unheeded down.
The martyr spoke;
And in that listening group a footfall slight,
120
Would have seemed loud as thunder; for a voice
So near the grave sounds like an oracle.
“'T is not so dread a thing, my friends, to die,
If the firm mind rallies its better thoughts,
And looks without this shell of earth. 'T is but
The foretaste of some few short years, or days
Perchance, when stern disease, with tyrant touch,
Harsher than hangman's hand, would act its part.
Oh! weep not thus: a coward had I been,
Ye might have wept, for bitter are the tears
That fall upon a recreant traitor's grave.
I chiefly grieve that this my tragic fate
May rouse the unholy passion of revenge,
And war, with hydra-head be arm'd anew.”
There was a moment's pause, a lower tone,
In soften'd cadence, and I caught not all,
But solemn words fell broken on my ear,
“Children—religion—mother—grave—Almighty;”—
I heard no more, for gathering sobs arose
From every heart; the children to their sire
More closely clung, and I, with gushing tears,
Withdrew.
In soften'd cadence, and I caught not all,
But solemn words fell broken on my ear,
“Children—religion—mother—grave—Almighty;”—
I heard no more, for gathering sobs arose
From every heart; the children to their sire
More closely clung, and I, with gushing tears,
Withdrew.
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FIRST SOLDIER.
Saw you the traitor meet his fate?
My duties called me here.
SECOND SOLDIER.
Oh! breathe it not
Again, my comrade, but this deed cries “murder!”
FIRST SOLDIER.
Speak not thus harshly. 'T is the chance of war.
SECOND SOLDIER.
“The chance of war!” to use thy worldly phrase,
Once made me prisoner to the foe. Wounded
And bowed with care, I lay, while thoughts of home,
Of Mary and my smiling babe, so play'd
Upon my heart-strings, I was moved to tears.
Hayne saw me, question'd of my health and state,
Soothed me with gentle words and Christian deeds,
And granted me soldierly exchange,
Yes, Britons whisper of his worthiness,
And his too short reprieve sprang from their claim
(Unask'd by him, but oh! how felt by me)
“Humanity to prisoners.”
122
What was
His bearing at the final scene?
SECOND SOLDIER.
Comrade,
Thou'st viewed a noble ship with sails all set,
Riding majestic on the ocean deep,
And when a vexing wind has crossed her path
Hast seen her yield a moment, then again
Righting herself press nobly on her way.—
'T was thus with him. When the base instrument
Of death first met his eye, he back recoil'd,
But soon regained his bearing calm on high.
There lingered, it is said, within his breast
A hope, that like a soldier he might die;
It was his last request, and was refused.
But, brother, there are men and moods can throw
A dignity o'er basest offices
I felt this truth imprest by him.
A crowd
Gathering and swelling from the Eastern Bay,
To where the woods upon the city's bound,
Northward arise, followed the soldier's steps.
His stripling son was there, and hardened hearts
Melted to sympathy with his young grief.
His father paused, and bade the weeping boy
Bear his remains to his ancestral tomb:
Then with the calm farewell man gives to man,
When slumber's couch is sought, addressed his friends,
And folding round his soul faith's radiant robe,
Arose to Heaven. Methought the earth grew dark;
Men walked as spectres, and my reason reel'd.—
Thou'st viewed a noble ship with sails all set,
Riding majestic on the ocean deep,
And when a vexing wind has crossed her path
Hast seen her yield a moment, then again
Righting herself press nobly on her way.—
'T was thus with him. When the base instrument
Of death first met his eye, he back recoil'd,
But soon regained his bearing calm on high.
There lingered, it is said, within his breast
A hope, that like a soldier he might die;
It was his last request, and was refused.
But, brother, there are men and moods can throw
A dignity o'er basest offices
I felt this truth imprest by him.
A crowd
Gathering and swelling from the Eastern Bay,
To where the woods upon the city's bound,
Northward arise, followed the soldier's steps.
His stripling son was there, and hardened hearts
123
His father paused, and bade the weeping boy
Bear his remains to his ancestral tomb:
Then with the calm farewell man gives to man,
When slumber's couch is sought, addressed his friends,
And folding round his soul faith's radiant robe,
Arose to Heaven. Methought the earth grew dark;
Men walked as spectres, and my reason reel'd.—
Comrade, to me it is a soothing thought,
(Although a stranger, once alas! a foe,)
That in his kindred burial-place in peace
The soldier rests. I've seen the sacred spot.
There many a pilgrim rev'rently shall turn,
Foeman and friend, and sadly, deeply muse,
While dwelling on the Patriot-Martyr's wrongs,
Who, doom'd to die a traitor's cruel death,
Ask'd but a soldier's doom, and was denied.
(Although a stranger, once alas! a foe,)
That in his kindred burial-place in peace
The soldier rests. I've seen the sacred spot.
There many a pilgrim rev'rently shall turn,
Foeman and friend, and sadly, deeply muse,
While dwelling on the Patriot-Martyr's wrongs,
Who, doom'd to die a traitor's cruel death,
Ask'd but a soldier's doom, and was denied.
And let me whisper my heart's prophecy.—
His high resolve will nerve Columbia's heart,
Brace freedom's arm anew, and teach her foes
“How nobly an American can die.”
His high resolve will nerve Columbia's heart,
Brace freedom's arm anew, and teach her foes
“How nobly an American can die.”
| Verses of a life time | |