 | Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative |  |
1. VOL. I.
NORMAN MAURICE;
OR, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE.
4
- Norman Maurice.
- Robert Warren, his kinsman and enemy.
- Richard Osborne, an attorney and creature of Warren.
- Harry Matthews, a friend of Warren.
- Col. Blasinghame, a fire-eater.
- Ben Ferguson, a leading politician.
- Col. Mercer, Politician of opposite party.
- Col. Brooks, Politician of opposite party.
- Major Savage, a friend of Blasinghame.
- Capt. Catesby, U. S. A., friend of Maurice.
- Citizens, Lawyers, &c.
- Mrs. Jervas, a widow.
- Clarice Delancy, her niece, afterwards wife to Maurice.
- Widow Pressley, a client of Maurice
- Kate Pressley, her grand-daughter.
- Biddy, a servant girl.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
5
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A parlor in the house of Mrs. Jervas, in Walnut-street, Philadelphia. Mrs. Jervas and Robert Warren discovered—the latter entering hastily and with discomposure.Mrs. Jervas,
[eagerly.]
Well?
Warren.
It is not well! 'Tis ill! She has refused me!
Mrs. J.
Has she then dared?
Warren.
Ay, has she! Something farther—
She does not scruple to avow her passion
For my most worthy cousin, Norman Maurice.
Mrs. J.
She shall repent it—she shall disavow it,
Or she shall know!—I'll teach her!—
Warren.
She's a pupil
With will enough of her own to vex a master!
Mrs. J.
I have a will too, which shall master her!
Is she not mine?—my sister's child?—a beggar,
That breathes but by my charity! I'll teach her,
And she shall learn the lesson set for her,
Or I will turn her naked into the streets,
As pennyless as she came. But, wait and see,—
You shall behold—
Warren.
Nay, wait till I am gone,
6
Has no sufficient notion of her duty,
And—
Mrs. J.
No, indeed!
Warren.
But you must make her wiser.
Mrs. J.
I will!
I've treated her too tenderly!
Warren.
But show her
Some little glimpse of the danger in her path,—
Shame and starvation—
Mrs. J.
She deserves them both.
Warren.
And keep my worthy cousin from her presence.
Mrs. J.
He darks these doors no more! The girl, already,
Has orders to deny him.
Warren.
You've done wisely.
A little time,—but keep them separate,—
And we shall conquer her;—ay, conquer him too,
For I've a little snare within whose meshes
His feet are sure to fall.
Mrs. J.
What snare?
Warren.
No matter!
Be ignorant of the mischief till it's over,
And we enjoy its fruits! Meanwhile, be busy,—
Pursue the plan you purpose, and to-morrow,
We shall know farther. I shall use the moments,
'Twixt this and then, in labors which must profit,
Or fortune grows perverse. See you to her,
While I take care of him.
Mrs. J.
Oh, never fear me—
I'll summon her the moment you are gone,
And she shall know—
Warren.
That you may summon her—
For we must lose no time—I take my leave.
[Ex. Warren.
7
The pert and insolent baggage! But I'll teach her!
I'll let her know from whose benevolent hand
She eats the bread of charity—whose mercy
It is, that clothes her nakedness with warmth.
[Rings. Enter Biddy.
Go, Biddy!—send my niece to me. [Ex. Biddy.]
A beggar,
That fain would be a chooser!—So, Miss!
Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
Dear Aunt!
Mrs. J.
Ay, you would dare me in another fashion,
But you have met your match; and now I tell you,
Clarice Delancy, 'tis in vain you struggle—
Clarice.
What have I done?
Mrs. J.
Oh! you are ignorant,
And innocent seeming as the babe unborn,
If tongue and face could speak for secret conscience,
That harbors what it should not. So, you dare
Avow a passion for that beggarly Maurice,
Whom I've forbid the house!
Clarice.
Forbidden Maurice!
Mrs. J.
Ay, indeed! forbid!
Clarice.
In what has he offended?
Mrs. J.
His poverty offends me—his presumption.
Clarice.
Presumption!
Mrs. J.
He has the audacity to think of you
In marriage—he would heir my property;—
The miserable beggar! who, but lately—
Clarice.
And, if the humble Clarice might presume,
There were no fitter husband! From the Fates
I do entreat no happier destiny
Than but to share, o'er all that wealth may proffer,
The beggary that he brings!
Mrs. J.
But you shall never!
8
And I will turn you naked from these doors
If you but dare—
Clarice.
Ah! that were guardianship,
Becoming the dear sister of a mother,
Who, when she left her hapless child to earth,
Ne'er dream'd of such remembrance, in the future,
Of what beseem'd the past. I've anger'd you,
But cannot chide myself, because my nature
Does not revolt at homage of a being
In whom no virtue starves. Suppose him poor!
Wealth makes no certain happiness to hope,
Nor poverty its loss. In Norman Maurice
I see a nobleness that still atones for
The lowly fortunes that offend your pride.
None richer lives in rarest qualities,—
More precious to the soul that feeds on worth,
Than all your city glitter. Do you think
To win me from a feast of such delights,
To the poor fare on common things that make
The wealth of Robert Warren? Madam—my aunt,—
I thank you for the bounty you have shown me!
It had been precious o'er most earthly things,
But that it hath its price, at perilous cost
To things more precious still. Your charity,
That found a shelter for this humble person,
Were all too costly, if it claims in turn
This poor heart's sacrifice. I cannot make it!
I will not wed this Warren,—for I know him—
And, if it be that I shall ever wed,
Will wed with Norman Maurice—as a man,
Whom most it glads me that I also know.
Mrs. J.
Never shall you wed with him while I have power
To keep you from such folly. You're an infant,
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Or precious for your heart. Be ruled by me,
Or forth you pack. I cut you off forever,
From fortune as from favor.
Clarice.
Welcome death,
Sooner than bonds like these!
Mrs. J.
Ungrateful girl!
And this is the return for all my bounty?
But you shall not achieve your own destruction,
If I can help it. This Maurice never darkens
My dwelling with his shadow. He hath made you
Perverse and disobedient—but he shall not
Thrive by your ruin. See that you prepare
To marry Robert Warren.
Clarice.
With the grave first!—
Its cold and silence, and its crawling things,
Loathsome, that make us shudder but to think on,
Sooner than he!—a base, unworthy creature,
Who steals between his kinsman and the friend,
That gave him highest trust and held him faithful,
To rob him of the treasure he most values.
The reptile that keeps empire in the grave
Sooner than he, shall glide into this bosom,
And make it all his own.
Mrs. J.
Silence, I say!—
Before I madden with your insolence,
And lose the memory of that sainted sister
That left you in my trust.
Clarice.
My poor, dear mother!
She never dream'd of this, in that dark hour
That lost me to her own!
Mrs. J.
I'm in her place,
To sway your foolish fancies with a prudence
You will not know yourself. Once more I tell you,
10
This Maurice— [noise without]
Ha! That noise?—
Maurice.
[in the hall without.]
I must, my girl!
Clarice.
'Tis Maurice now.
Mrs. J.
The insolent! will he dare!
Biddy.
[in the hall without.]
Mrs. Jervas says, sir—
Maurice.
[without.]
Ay! ay! she says!—
But when a lady means civilities,
'Tis still my custom to do justice to her,
By seeking them in person. There, my girl,
You've done your duty as you should. Now, please you,
I will do mine. [Entering the room.]
Madam—
Mrs. J.
Was ever insolence—
Biddy.
[entering.]
Mr. Maurice would, ma'am.
Mrs. J.
This conduct, sir—
Maurice.
Would be without its plea at common seasons,—
And he whose purpose was a morning visit,
The simply social object of the idler,
Who finds in his own time and company
The very worst offence, could offer nothing,
To plead for his intrusion on that presence,
Which, so politely, shuts the door against him.
Mrs. J.
Well, sir?
Maurice.
But I am none of these.
Mrs. J.
What plea, sir?—
Maurice.
Some natures have their privilege—some passions
Demand a hearing. There are rights of feeling,
That art can never stifle—griefs, affections,
That never hear the civil “Not at home!”
When home itself is perill'd by submission.
He's but a haggard that obeys the check,
When all that's precious to his stake of life
Is fasten'd on the string. Necessity
Makes bold to ope the door which fashion's portress
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That prompts me to a rudeness, which my nurture
Would else have shrunk from. But that I have rights
Which move me to defiance of all custom,
I had not vex'd your presence.
Mrs. J.
Rights, sir—rights?
Maurice.
Ay, madam, the most precious to the mortal!
Rights of the heart, which make the heart immortal
In those affections which still show to earth,
The only glimpses we have left of Eden.
Behold in her, [pointing to Clarice,]
my best apology—
One, whom to gaze on silences complaint,
And justifies the audacity that proves
Its manhood in its error. Clarice, my love,
Is there from any corner of your heart
An echo to the will that says to Maurice,
Your presence here is hateful?
[Takes her hand.]
Clarice.
Can you ask?
Maurice.
Enough!—
Mrs. J.
Too much, I say. Let go her hand,
And leave this dwelling, sir! I'm mistress here;
And shall take measures for security
Against this lawless insolence.
Maurice.
Awhile! awhile!
You are the mistress here;—I will obey you;—
Will leave your presence, madam, never more
To trouble you with mine. You now deny me
The privilege, that never act of mine
Hath properly made forfeit. You behold me
The suitor to your niece. You hear her language,—
How different from your own—that, with its bounty
Makes rich my heart with all the gifts in hers!
Sternly, you wrest authority from judgment,
To exercise a will that puts to scorn
12
Your calm return to judgment;—would entreat you
To thoughts of better favor, that might sanction,
With the sweet blessing of maternal love,
The mutual passion living in our hearts;
But that I know how profitless the pleading,
Which, in the ear of prejudice, would soften
The incorrigible wax that deafens pride.
I plead not for indulgence—will not argue
The cruelty that finds in charity
Commission for that matchless tyranny
That claims the right to break the orphan's heart
Because it finds her bread.
Clarice,
[aside to Norman.]
Spare her, Norman.
Maurice,
[aside to Clarice.]
Oh! will I not! Yet wherefore need I spare,
When, if the Holy Law be not a mock,
The justice which must break this heart of stone,
Will send her howling through eternity.
'Twere mercy, which in season speaks the truth,
That, in the foretaste of sure penalties,
May terrify the offender from his path,
And send him to his knees.
Clarice,
[aside to Maurice.]
For my sake, Norman.
Maurice,
[to Mrs. J.]
Yet, madam, in this freest use of power,
Which drives me hence, be merciful awhile,
And, if this heart, so dearly link'd with mine,
Through love and faith unperishing, must turn
Its fountains from that precious overflow
That kept my flowers in bloom—yet, ere the word,
That leaves me sterile ever thence, be said,
Suffer us, apart awhile, to speak of parting!
Words of such import still ask fewest ears,
And words of grief and hopelessness like ours,
13
As best declare the condition of the heart,
That's muffled for despair. But a few moments
We'll walk apart together.
Mrs. J.
It is useless!
What needs—
Maurice.
What need of sorrow ever! Could earth speak,
Prescribing laws to that Divinity,
That still smites rock to water, we should hear,
The universal voice of that one plea,
That claims for man immunity from troubles
Which make proud eyes o'erflow. Who should persuade
His fellow to opinion of the uses
That follow from his tears? What school, or teacher,
Would seek to show that chemistry had art,
To fix and harden the dilating drops
To brilliants as they fall,—such as no crown
In Europe might affect? One finds no succor,
Sovereign to break the chain about his wrist,
From all the fountains that o'ersluice the heart;
Yet will he weep, though useless. He who stands,
Waiting upon the scaffold for the signal,
That flings him down the abyss, still hoards each minute
That niggard fate allows. That single minute
Still shrines a hope;—if not a hope, a feeling,
That finds a something precious even in pain,
And will not lose the anxiety that racks him,
Lest he make forfeit of a something better
Which yet he cannot name. And, at the last,
I, whom you doom to loss of more than life,
May well implore the respite of a moment,
If but to suffer me to count once more,
The treasure that I lose. A moment, madam?
Mrs. J.
[walks up the stage.]
A single moment, then.
14
Oh! you are gracious!
A single moment is a boundless blessing
To him you rob of time! Clarice, my love.
Clarice.
My Norman!
Maurice.
Oh! is it thus, my Clarice—is it thus?
Clarice.
We have been children, Norman, in our dreams
We are the sport of fate!
Maurice.
And shall be ever,
If that there be no courage in our hearts
To shape the fates to favor by our will.
Clarice.
What mean you, Norman
Maurice.
What should Norman mean,
But, if he can, to grapple with his fortune,
And, like a sturdy wrestler in the ring,
Throw heart and hope into the perilous struggle?
What should I mean but happiness for thee,—
Thou willing, as myself? Who strives with fate,
Must still, like him, the mighty Macedonian,
Seize the coy priestess by the wrist, and lead her
Where yet she would not go! Suppose me faithful
To the sweet passion I have tender'd you,
And what remains in this necessity,
But that, made resolute by grim denial,
I challenge from your love sufficient courage,
To take the risks of mine!
Clarice.
Within your eye
A meaning more significant than your words,
Would teach me still to tremble. That I love you,
You doubt not, Norman! That my heart hath courage
To match the love it feels for you—
Maurice.
It hath—it hath!
If that the love be there, as I believe it,
That love will bring, to nourish needful strength,
A virtue that makes love a thing of soul,
15
My meaning—
Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Your moment is a long one, sir.
Maurice.
Ah, madam!
Who chides the executioner when he suffers
The victim his last words—though still he lingers
Ere he would reach the last? But a few moments,
And I have spoken all that my full heart
Might not contain with safety.
Mrs. J.
[retiring up the stage.]
Be it so, sir.
Maurice.
You hear, my Clarice. We've another moment:
But one, it seems, unless your resolution
Takes its complexion from the fate that threatens
And shows an equal will. If then, in truth,
You love me—
Clarice.
Oh! look not thus!
Maurice.
I doubt not;—
And yet, dear Clarice, if indeed you love me,
The single moment that this woman gives us,
Becomes a life;—to me, of happiness,—
To thee, as full of happiness as thou
Might hope to gain from me. She would deny us,—
Would wed thee to that subtle Robert Warren—
Clarice.
I'll perish first!
Maurice.
No need of perishing
When I can bring thee to security.
I knew thy straits—the tyranny which thou suffer'st
Because of thy dependence; and my struggle,
Since this conviction reached me—day and night—
Was, that I might from this condition snatch thee,
And, in thy happier fortunes, find mine own!
I have prepared for this.
Clarice.
What would'st thou, Norman!
Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Your moments fly.
16
I soon shall follow them.
Mrs. J.
[retiring again.]
The sooner, sir, the better.
Maurice.
She would spare me,
The argument which shows thee what is needful.
Clarice.
Speak! I have courage equal to my love!
Maurice.
I try thee though I doubt not! If thou lov'st me
Thou'lt yield, without a question, to my purpose,
And give me all thy trust.
Clarice.
Will I not, Norman?
Maurice.
Then, with the night, I make thee mine, Clarice!
Steal forth at evening. There shall be a carriage,
And my good hostess, whom thou know'st, in waiting.
Our future home is ready.
Clarice.
Let me think, Norman.
Maurice.
That's as your excellent aunt, who now approaches
May please:—but, surely, when to my fond pleading
You sweetly vow'd yourself as mine alone,
The proper thought that sanctions my entreaty
Was all complete and perfect.
Clarice.
But Norman, how—
How should I, in your poverty, encumber
Your cares with a new burden?
Maurice.
There is no poverty,
Which the true courage, and the bold endeavor,
The honest purpose, the enduring heart,
Crowned with a love that blesses while it burdens,
May not defy in such a land as ours!
We'll have but few wants having one another!—
And for these wants, some dawning smiles of fortune
Already have prepared me. Trust me, Clarice,
I will not take thee to a worse condition,
In one whose charities shall never peril
The affections they should foster.
Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Sir,—again!
17
Yes, yes—most excellent madam—yes—again!
There's but a single syllable between us,
Your niece hath left unspoken.—My Clarice!
Clarice.
I'm thine!
Maurice.
'Tis spoken!
And now I live again!
Mrs. J.
Well, sir—art done at last?
Maurice.
Done! Ay, madam—done!
You've held me narrowly to a strict account—
And yet, I thank you. You've been merciful
After a fashion which invokes no justice,
And yet may find it, madam. Yet—I thank you!
The word is said that's needful to our parting;
And that I do not in despair depart,
Is due to these last moments. Fare you well!
Be you as safe, henceforth, from all intrusion,
As you shall be from mine. Clarice—farewell!
Clarice.
Norman.
Maurice.
[embracing her.]
But one embrace!
Mrs. J.
Away, sir.
Maurice.
In earnest of those pleasant bonds hereafter,
That none shall dare gainsay. Clarice—Remember!
[Exit Maurice.
Clarice.
Go, Norman, and believe me.
Mrs. J.
Get you in!
[Exeunt.
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SCENE II.
A Lawyer's office in Philadelphia. Richard Osborne at a desk writing.Enter Robert Warren.
Warren,
[eagerly.]
Hast drawn the paper, Osborne?
Osborne.
It is here.
Warren.
The copy this?—
Osborne.
And this the original.
Warren,
[examining papers.]
'Tis very like! You've done it famously:
One knows not which is which; and Norman Maurice,
Himself, would struggle vainly to discover
The difference 'twixt the words himself hath written,
And these your skill hath copied to a hair.
We shall deceive him.
Osborne.
Why would you deceive him?
Warren.
Eh! Why? It is my instinct! Are you answer'd?
I hate him! Would you have a better answer?
Osborne.
Why hate him when his kindness still have served you?
This very obligation which hath bound him,
And given us cruel power o'er his fortunes,—
His purse—perhaps his honor—
Warren.
Why, perhaps?
Is it doubtful, think you, that this fatal writing,
Made public,—will disgrace him?
Osborne.
An error only,—
The thoughtless sport of boyhood—wholly guiltless
Of all dishonest purpose. We have used it,—
You rather—and the profit has been ours!—
19
Why treasure still this paper? More—why hate him?
Warren.
Let it suffice you that I have my reasons!—
And let me tell you, Osborne, that I love not
This sympathy which you show for Norman Maurice.
Beware! who goes not with me is against me!
Osborne.
I'm in your power, I know—
Warren.
Then let your wisdom
Abate its fond pretension as my teacher!
I'm better pleased with service than tuition;
Will hold you as my ally, not my master!
I have remarked, of late, that you discover
Rare virtues in my cousin! He hath fee'd you;
Employed you as attorney in his cases—
Osborne.
Not more than other counsellors.
Warren.
No matter!
It is enough that you are mine!
Osborne.
This jealousy—
Warren.
Is only vigilance! Each look of favor,
Bestow'd on him I loathe, is disaffection
In him that's bound to me.
Osborne.
This document?—
Warren.
The real one,—the original—is mine;
The copy you will yield him when he pays you;—
That he will do so, now, I make no question,
Though where his money comes from is my wonder.
Osborne.
The case of Jones & Peters, just determined,
Brings him large fees. Another action,
The insurance case of Ferguson & Brooks,
Secures him handsome profits. Other cases,
Have lately brought him, with new reputation,
Liberal returns of money.
Warren.
We'll have all!
See that you pile the costs—crowd interest—
20
The value of your silence and forbearance—
Leave nothing you have done without full charges,
While, what has been forborne, more highly rated,
Shall sweep the remaining eagles from his purse.
Osborne.
What bitterness is yours!
Warren.
Oh! quite ungracious,
Contrasted with the sweetness of your moods!
Once more, beware! Do as I bid you, Osborne,
Or you shall feel me. Yield him up this copy,
Which we shall see him, with delirious rapture,
Thrust in the blazing furnace,—little dreaming,
That still the damning scrawl that blasts his honor,
Lies here, in the possession of his foe!
Osborne.
Will nothing move you, Warren?
Warren.
His funeral only,—
To follow—while above his burial place,
I show this fatal paper,—still lamenting
That one with so much talent should have falter'd,
When virtue cried “Be firm!”—Oh! I will sorrow,
So deeply o'er his sad infirmity,
That they who come to weep above his grave,
Will turn from it in scorn. But, get you ready;—
You'll sup with me; and afterwards we'll seek him.
We must look smiling then as summer flowers,
Nor show the serpent crouching in the leaves.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Evening: Chestnut-street. Enter Maurice with Clarice.Maurice.
Thou'rt mine, my Clarice.
Clarice.
Wholly thine, my husband.
21
Now let the furies clamor as they may,
That the capricious fortune which had mock'd
Our blessings with denial, has been baffled
By the true nobleness of that human will,
Which, when the grim necessity looks worst,
Can fearlessly resolve to brave its fate.
Thou'rt mine, and all grows suppliant in my path
That lately looked defiance. We are one!—
This is our dwelling, Clarice:—let us in.
[They enter the house of Maurice.
SCENE IV.
The parlor of a dwelling in the residence of Maurice, handsomely and newly furnished. Enter Warren and Osborne.Warren.
I am amazed.
Osborne.
'Tis certainly a change
From his old lodging-house in Cedar-street.
Warren.
His run of luck hath crazed him, and he fancies
The world is in his string.
Osborne.
He's not far wrong!
His arguments have made a great impression;
Their subtlety and closeness, and the power
Of clear and forcible development,
Which seems most native to his faculty!
He was born an orator! With such a person—
A voice to glide from thunder into music,
A form and face so full of majesty,
Yet, with such frankness and simplicity,—
So much to please, and so commanding—
Warren.
Pshaw!—
You prate as do the newspapers, with a jargon
22
That, weighed against the ballad of an idiot,
Would show less burden and significance.
We'll spoil his fortune—
Osborne.
Hark! He comes.
Warren.
Be firm now!
See that you do it manfully—no halting.—
Osborne.
You still persist, then?
Warren.
Ay! when I have him here. [touching his breast.]
Enter Norman Maurice.
Maurice.
Be seated, sirs.
You bring with you the paper?
[To Osborne.
Osborne.
It is here, sir.
[Giving copy of document.
And here the separate claim—the costs and charges.
Maurice.
'Tis well! This first!—I pay this money, sir,
In liquidation of this wretched paper,
To which my hand appears, and, for which writing,
The world, unconscious of the facts, might hold me
A most unhappy criminal. Your knowledge
Includes this person's agency—my cousin—
As still, in moments of insidious fondness,
It is his wont to call me.
Warren.
Norman, nay!
Maurice,
[impatiently to Warren.]
Awhile, awhile, sir! we shall deal directly!—
I said [to Osborne,]
your knowledge of this boyish error,
Betrayed the agency of Robert Warren,
Which does not here appear. He made that guilty
Which in itself was innocent. These moneys,
Procured by him upon this document,
Were all by him consumed. You were his agent,
Perhaps as ignorant of his vicious deed,
As I, who am its victim. Was it so, sir?
23
I sold for him the bill, sir, knowing nothing,
And still believed it genuine.
Maurice.
He will tell you,
That, what I utter of his agency,
In this insane and inconsiderate act,
Is true as Holy Writ! Speak, Robert Warren!
Warren.
I have admitted it already, Norman.
Maurice.
[To Osborne.]
Be you the witness of his words hereafter.
Here is your money,—and I take this paper,
The proof of boyish error and misfortune,
But not of crime, in me. Thus, let it perish,
With that confiding and believing nature,
Which gave me to the power of one so base!
[putting it in the fire, and placing his foot on it while it burns.
Warren.
Norman! Cousin!
Maurice.
You cozen me no more!
And if your agent has the wit to gather
A lesson from your faithlessness to me,
You will not cozen him. Take counsel, sir,
And never trust this man!
[To Osborne.
Warren.
Norman Maurice!
Maurice.
[To Osborne.]
Our business ends! Will it please you, leave us now!
[Exit Osborne: Warren is about to follow when Maurice lays his hand on his shoulder.
Maurice.
Stay you! There must be other words before we part,
Not many, but most needful.
Warren.
Let me pray you,
To fashion them in less offensive spirit.
Maurice.
Why, so I should, could I suppose one virtue,
A life to leaven a dense mass of vices,
Remain'd within your bosom. You shall listen
Though every syllable should be a sting!
24
If, as I brand thy baseness on thy forehead,
Thy heart, with courage born of just resentment,
Should move thee to defiance! It would glad me,
In sudden strife, to put a proper finish
To thy deep, secret, foul, hostility.
Warren.
You have no reason for this cruel language.
Maurice.
Look on me as thou say'st the monstrous falsehood;
But lift thine eye to mine—and, if thy glance
Can brazen out the loathing in mine own,
I will forgive thee all! Thou dar'st not do it!
No reason, say'st thou?—Thou, whose arrant cunning,
Hath taken the profits of three toilsome years
To pay thy wage of sin,—and smutch'd my garments,
That else had known no stain!
Warren.
Have I not
Confess'd that wrong and folly?—
Maurice.
Wert repentant,
When making thy confession—
Warren.
So I am!
Maurice.
Traitor! I know thee better! Thy confession
But followed on detection! While thou mad'st it,
The busy devil, dwelling in thy heart,
Was framing other schemes of crime and hatred,
Outbraving all the past. Ev'n while my pity
Was taking thee to mercy, thou wast planning
New evil to my fortunes!
Warren.
Never, Norman!
By heaven! you do me wrong.
Maurice.
Pure Innocent,
The very angels look on thee with sorrow,
To see such virtue suffer such injustice!—
But hearken, while I paint another picture:
The fiends exulting in thy ready service,
25
As, with a spirit born of hell and hatred,
Thou pluck'st the flower of hope from happiness,
To plant the thorn instead.
Warren.
What crime is this?
Maurice.
I heard thy plea for mercy! I believed thee,
And, as thou wert the child of that dear woman
Who called my mother, sister, I forgave thee,
Most glad to listen to thy deep assurance
Of shame for each sad error. So, I took thee,
Once more, to confidence—my bosom open'd,
And show'd thee, shrined within its holiest chamber,
The image of the being that I loved!—
I led thee to her—taught her to behold thee,
My friend and kinsman; and, misdoubting never,
Still saw thee bend thy footsteps to her dwelling,
Nor dream'd that to the flowers that made my Eden,
Myself had brought the serpent!
Warren.
What means this?
Maurice.
What! Thou know'st nothing? Thou hast no conjecture
Of what the serpent sought within the garden!
Why, man, he whispered in Eve's innocent ears,
The oiliest nothings,—mingled with such slander
Of him who sought to make himself her Adam,
That—
Warren.
'Tis false!—I swear! I never did this mischief!
Maurice.
Liar! The oath thou tak'st is thy perdition!
Behold the evidence that proves thy blackness,
In contrast with its purity and truth!
Clarice! Come forth! My wife, sir!
Enter Clarice from within.
Warren.
Damnation!
[Warren rushes out.
26
Thus fled the fiend, touch'd by Ithuriel's spear,
Even from the reptile rising to the fiend,
And speeding from the Eden that his presence
Shall never trouble more. Henceforth, dear wife,
Our paradise shall still be free from taint;
A realm of sweetness unobscured by shadow,
And freshening still with flow'rs that take their beauty,
As favor'd still by thine. From this blest moment,
Our peace shall be secure!
Clarice.
And yet I fear,
This bold, bad man.
Maurice.
Bad, but not bold! Fear nothing!
I've pluck'd his sting! Thou know'st the cruel story;
I told thee all,—suppressed no syllable—
Of his perversion of a simple paper,
Wherein, in vain display of penmanship,
I gave him power for practice which he seized on,
Exposing me to ruin. In those embers,
The fatal proof lies buried. I am free;—
And in the freedom I have won from him,
And in the bondage I have sworn to thee,
I write the record of my happiness!
This day I feel triumphant as the hunter,
Who, on the wild steed that his skill hath captured,
Rifle in grasp, and bridle rein flung loose,
Darts forth upon the prairie's waste of empire,
And feels it all his own!
Clarice.
I share thy triumph—
Would share that waste with thee and feel no sorrow,
For all that love foregoes.
Maurice.
I take thy promise—
Will try thy strength, thy courage and thy heart,
As little thou hast fancied! Clarice, dear wife,
With dawn we leave this city.
27
How! to-morrow?
And leave this city, Norman?
Maurice.
Dost thou fail me?
Clarice.
No! I am thine! My world is in thy love;
I wish no dearer dwelling-place—would ask
No sweeter realm of home! Go, where thou wilt,
I cling to thee as did the Hebrew woman
To him who had his empire in her heart.
Maurice.
I bless thee for this proof of thy affection!
This is the city of thy birth and mine,
But that's our native land alone which suffers
That we take root and flourish;—those alone,
Our kindred, who will gladden in our growth,
And succor till we triumph. Here, it may be,
That, after weary toil, and matchless struggle,
When strength subsides in age, they will acknowledge,
That I am worthy of my bread,—may bid me,
Look up and be an alderman or mayor!—
And this were of their favor. The near neighbors,
Who grew with us, and saw our gradual progress,
Who knew the boy, and all his sports and follies,
Have seldom faith that he will grow the man
To cast them into shadow. We'll go hence!—
Clarice.
Whither, dear Norman?
Maurice.
Whither! Dost thou ask?
Both in God's keeping, Clarice—thou in mine!
I'll tender thee as the most precious treasure,
That city ever yielded wilderness.
Clarice.
I know thou wilt;—but what thy means, my husband
Thou told'st me thou wast poor.
Maurice.
Means! I have manhood!
Youth, strength, and men say, intellect—
Clarice.
You have! You have!
Maurice.
A heart at ease, secure in its affections
28
Wide is the world before me—a great people,
Spread o'er a realm, along whose verdant meadows
The sun can never set. I know this people—
Love them—would make them mine! I have ambition
To serve them in high places, and do battle
With the arch-tyrannies, in various guises,
That still from freedom pluck its panoply,
Degrade its precious rites, and, with vain shadows,
Mock the fond hopes that fasten on their words.
Clarice.
Could you not serve them here?
Maurice.
No! No!
Clarice.
Wherefore not?—
And oh! they need some saviour here, methinks!
Maurice.
Ay! They do need! But I am one of them,—
Sprung from themselves—have neither friends nor fortune,
And will not stoop, entreating as for favor,
When I would serve to save! They lack all faith
In him who scorns to flatter their delusions,
And lie them to self-worship. In the West,
There is a simpler and a hardier nature,
That proves men's values, not by wealth and title,
But mind and manhood. There, no ancient stocks,
Claim power from precedence. Patrician people,
That boast of virtues in their grandmothers,
Are challenged for their own. With them it answers,
If each man founds his family, and stands
The father of a race of future men!
Mere parchment, and the vain parade of title,
Lift no man into stature. Such a region
Yields all that I demand—an open field,
And freedom to all comers. So, the virtues
Flourish according to their proper nature;
And each man, as he works with will and courage,
29
Thither, dear wife!
Clarice.
I'm thine!
Maurice.
Thy ready answer,
Completes my triumph! Wings are at my shoulders,
And more than eagle empires woo my flight!
Yet, do I something fear,—Clarice—
Clarice.
What fear?
Maurice.
Thou'rt not ambitious.
Clarice.
But for thee, Norman;
If that, in service at thy shrine of glory,
Thou dost not lose the love—
Maurice.
Be satisfied
That, when my state is proudest, thou shalt be
The one, whom, most of all, these eyes shall look for,
This heart still follow with devoted service.
But, to thy preparations: I will follow;—
Before the dawn we shall have left this city.
[Clarice going.
That reptile— [musingly.]
Clarice.
[returning.]
Norman!
Maurice.
My Clarice!
[embracing her.
[Exit Clarice.
His fangs are drawn!—
Yet, somehow, he is present to my thoughts,
As if he still had power. But, let him dare,
Once more to cross my path, and he shall feel
His serpent head grow flat beneath my heel.
[Exit within.
END OF ACT FIRST.
30
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Scene: Missouri. A room in the cottage of Norman Maurice.Enter Maurice and Clarice.
Clarice.
Oh! Norman, this is happiness.
Maurice.
'Tis more,—
Security in happiness. Our blossoms
Fear not the spoiler. On your cheek the roses
Declare a joyous presence in the heart,
That makes our cottage bloom.
Clarice.
You triumph too,
In favor as in fortune. On all sides
I hear your name reëchoed with a plaudit,
That fills my bosom with exulting raptures
I never knew before.
Maurice.
Ah! this is nothing,
Dear heart, to the sweet peace that crowns our dwelling,
And tells us, though the tempest growls afar,
Its thunders strike not here. The fame I covet
Is still in tribute subject to your joys;
And, these secure—you, happy in my bosom—
My pride forgets its aim! Ambition slumbers
Nor makes me once forgetful of the rapture,
That follows your embrace.
[Knock without.
Clarice.
The widow Pressley.
Maurice.
Quick, welcome her.—Poor woman, we will save her.
Clarice.
I joy to hear you say so.—Come in, madam.
Enter Widow Pressley and Kate.
Maurice.
Welcome, dear madam; you must needs be anxious;
But still be hopeful. I have brought the action,
31
That we shall gain it—put the usurper out,
And win you back some portion of your wealth.
The truth is on our side,—the evidence
Sustains your claim most amply. We shall gain it!
Widow.
Alas! sir, but the power of this bad man—
Maurice.
Need not be powerful here.
Widow.
You know it not;—
His wealth, his violence—
Maurice.
Will scarce prevail.
Widow.
He buys or bullies justice at his pleasure;
No lawyer here would undertake my case
Lest he should lose a friend or make a foe;
And thus, for fifteen years—
Maurice.
He buys not me,
And scarce will profit by an insolence,
That hopes to bully here.
Widow.
Oh! sir, I tremble,
And cannot help but doubt. I know your talents;
All people speak of them,—and yet I fear!
With hopes so often lifted and defeated,
How should I dream of better fortune now?
The widow and the orphan find small favor,
In struggle with the strong and selfish man;
And this success you promise—
Maurice.
None may take
The sovereign accent from the lip of Fate
And say—this thing is written certainly—
But, if I err not, madam, better promise,
Of the clear dawn and the unclouded sunshine,
Ne'er waited on the night. I trust the Jury.
They have no fears to nurse, and seek no favors,
As do that class of men, the mean ambitious,
Who, for the lowly greed of appetite,
32
Cringe with a servile zeal to wealth and numbers,
And nothing show but baseness when they rise.
My faith is in the people.
Widow.
Mine in you, sir.
Maurice.
I will deserve your confidence. This person,
Who robb'd you of your fortune, would but vainly
Attempt to bully me. I am no bully,
But something have I in my soul which strengthens
Its courage, when the insolent would dare
Usurp the rights that I am set to guard.
Be hopeful, madam. Take no care for the morrow,
Though, with the morrow, our great trial comes!
God and his angels keep the innocent,
And, in his own good season, will redress
Their many wrongs with triumph.
Widow.
Sir, I thank you;—
And this poor child, the child of bitterness,
If not of wrath, shall bless you in her prayers,
That nightly seek her mother in the heavens!
Maurice.
[kissing the child.]
Your name is Kate, they tell me—a sweet name!
You'll pray for us to-night, Kate. With the morrow,
If my heart's hope do not deceive my heart,
Your prayers shall all be answer'd.—I'll think of her,
And of her sweet and innocent face to-morrow,
When striving with her enemy.
Kate.
I'll pray, sir,
As if you were my father.
Widow.
She has none, sir.
Maurice.
Losing or winning, daughter, still in me,
Look for a father who will cherish you.
Widow.
Farewell, good sir, I have not words to thank you.
Maurice.
You have a heart that overflows with speech,
33
Be hopeful and be happy.
[Exeunt widow and child.
We must gain it.
The proofs are clear—I cannot doubt the issue,—
And still a prescient something at my heart,
Awakes its triumph with assuring accents
That never spoke in vain. But, who are these?
[Enter Col. Mercer and Brooks.
Welcome, gentlemen.
Mercer.
We trust, sir, that you see in us your friends.
Maurice.
Such, since our brief acquaintance, you have seemed, sir,
And mine's a heart preferring to confide;
That still would rather suffer wrong of faith,
Than not believe in man.
Mercer.
You'll find us true;—
And thus it is, that, sure of our good purpose,
We come to counsel with you as a friend.
Maurice.
As friends, I welcome you. Be seated, sirs.
Brooks.
We do regard you, sir, as one to help us,—
In public matters. From our knowledge of you,
We've said among our friends, this is our man;
And, looking still to you to serve our people,
We hear with grief that you are in a peril
Whose straits, perchance, you know not.
Maurice.
Peril, sir?
Brooks.
You have brought action for the widow Pressley,
For the recovery of a large possession,
Withheld by Colonel Blasinghame—
Maurice.
'Tis true, sir,
Mercer.
You do not know this man.
Maurice.
I've heard of him.
Mercer.
But not that he is one whom men find prudent
To pass with civil aspect, nor confront
34
Such as few men possess, or dare contend with—
Has wealth in great abundance—is a person,
Most fearless and most desperate in battle,
Who better loves the conflict with his fellow
Than any gifts that peaceful life can bring;
Endow'd with giant strength and resolution,
And such a shot, from five to fifteen paces,
As still to shatter, wavering in the wind,
The slenderest wand of willow.
Maurice.
Famous shooting!
Brooks.
It were not wise to wake his enmity!
We look to you to serve our cause in Congress—
Make him your foe, and he opposes you;
His wealth—his popularity—the terrors,
His very name provokes,—all leagued against you—
You still a stranger.
Maurice.
Patiently, I hear;
And though I feel not like solicitude
With that you show for me, am grateful for it!
And now, sirs, let us understand each other.
I am a man who, in pursuit of duty,
Will hold no parley with that week day prudence
Which teaches still how much a virtue costs.
Of this man, Blasinghame, I've heard already,—
Even as you both describe him. It would seem,
Lest I should fail in utter ignorance,
He took a patient trouble on himself,
To school me in his virtues. Read this letter.
[gives letter.
Mercer., Brooks.
His hand!—his signature!
[they read.
Maurice.
Well, gentlemen, you see it written there,
What are my dangers if I dare to venture
This widow's cause against him. Favor me,
35
Mercer.
[reads aloud.]
Sir:—The suit of Pressley vs. Blasinghame will be prosecuted to conclusion, without regard to consequences, with the best strength and abilities of
Norman Maurice.
Maurice.
It is brief, sir.
Brooks.
'Tis a defiance, Maurice!
Maurice.
'Twas meant so, gentlemen. I am a man,
Or I am nothing! This poor widow's cause,
The very insolence of this Blasinghame,
Hath made my own! I'll die for it if need be.
Mercer.
Art principled 'gainst the duel?
Maurice.
Rather ask,
If, when my enemy takes me by the throat,
I do oppose him with an homily.
No man shall drive me from society!—
I take the laws I find of force, and use them,
For my protection and defence, as others
Employ them for assault.
Mercer.
You've practised then?
Maurice.
Never shot pistol.
Brooks.
Nor rifle?
Maurice.
Scarcely!
Mercer.
You are very rash, sir!
Maurice.
Ay! but rashness, sir,
Becomes a virtue in a case like this;
And the brave heart, untaught in human practice,
Finds good assurance from another source
That prompts its action right. This letter's written,
And goes within the hour. Let Blasinghame
Chafe as he may, and thunder to the terror,
Of those who have no manhood in themselves;—
He thunders at these portals still in vain!
To-morrow comes the trial—after that!—
36
I'll find the heart to meet it—as a man!
Mercer.
Then you are firm?
Maurice.
As are the rocks,
In conflict with the sea.
Mercer.
We joy to find you thus!
We'll stand by you through danger to the last.
Brooks.
Ay, Maurice, we are with you.
Maurice.
Friends, your hands!—
I am not used to friendship, but I love it,
As still a precious gift, vouchsafed by heaven,
Next best to love of woman! For this danger,—
Fear nothing! we shall 'scape it! Nay, 'twill give us,
Or truth is not of God, new plumes for triumph!
SCENE II.
The law office of Richard Osborne. Osborne discovered writing.Enter Warren.
Warren.
We're on the track at last, Look at that letter;
It comes from our old comrade, Harry Matthews,
And tells us miracles of Norman Maurice!—
Our worthy cousin has the run of fortune;—
She seems to crown him with her richest favors,
As some old bawd, grown hackney'd in the market,
Adopts a virgin passion in her dotage,
And yields to her late folly, all the profits
That follow'd the old vice. He's growing finely;
But I shall dock his feathers.
Osborne.
[reading.]
In Missouri.
Warren.
Ay, in St. Louis, that great western city,
37
You read what Matthews writes. In one short twelvemonth
He springs above all shoulders.
Osborne.
I look'd for it!
He's not the man whom fortune can keep under.
Warren.
What! you forget our precious document?
Osborne.
You will not use it now?
Warren.
Ah, will I not then?
If ever useful, now's the right time for it!
See you not that he rises like an eagle,
Already is in practice with the ablest,
Wins popular favor without working for it,
And stands i' the way of better politicians?
They fit his name to music for bad singers,
To whom none listen save at suffrage time.—
We'll spoil the song for him.
Osborne.
What would you do?
Warren.
You are dull, Dick Osborne! Have I yet to tell you
That, over all, conspicuous in my hate,
This minion of Fortune stands. His better luck
Hath robb'd me of the prize which most I treasured—
His better genius trampled mine to dust,—
Humbled my pride when at its height, and crush'd me,
Until I learn'd to loathe myself, as being
So feeble in his grasp.
Osborne.
He crushes you no longer!
Warren.
Can I forget the past? This memory
Becomes a part of the nature o' the man,
And of his future makes a fearful aspect,
Unless he cures its hurts. My path is where
My enemy treads in triumph! I shall seek it,
And 'twill be hard if hate, well leagued with cunning,
Is baffled of his toil. I seek St. Louis!
Osborne.
Beware! You'll make him desperate!
38
I hope so!
Osborne.
It brings its perils with it! Norman Maurice
Will rend his hunter!—
Warren.
If he be not wary!
But, fear you nothing. You shall go with me,
And see how deftly, with what happy art,
I shall prepare the meshes for my captive.
Osborne.
Me! go with you?—and wherefore?
Warren.
A small matter!—
While I shall drive the nail, you'll clinch the rivet.
I'd have you there to prove this document!
Osborne.
Spare me this, Warren!
Warren.
I can spare you nothing.
Osborne.
I do not hate this man! He hath not wrong'd me,
Cross'd not my path, nor, with a better fortune,
Won from me aught I cherish'd.
Warren.
Enough! Enough!—
Me hath he robb'd and wrong'd—me hath he cross'd—
His better fortune still a fate to mine!—
My injury is yours! You love me, Osborne,—
Will do the thing that I regard as needful,
The more especially as you have secrets,
No less than Norman Maurice. We shall go,
Together, as I fancy, to St. Louis!
Osborne.
This is mere tyranny, Warren.
Warren.
Very like it!
Guilt ever finds its tyrant in its secret,
And, twinn'd with every crime, the accuser stands,
Its own grim shadow, with the scourge and torture.
Osborne.
A dark and damnable truth! Would I had perish'd
Ere I had fallen, and follow'd, as you bade me!
Warren.
Spare the vain toil to cheat a troubled conscience,
And to your preparations. By the morrow,
We'll be upon the road.
39
But, for these papers?
Warren.
Confound the papers! They will wait for us,
But opportunity never! Get you ready,
And hush all vain excuses. If my sway
Be somewhat tyrannous, still it hath its profits:—
Be you but true, and from the Egyptian spoil,
There shall be still sufficient for your toil.
[Exit Warren.
Osborne.
I'm chain'd to the stake! He hath me in his power!—
How truly hath he pictured my estate!—
Thus he who doth a deed of ill in youth,
Raises a ghost no seventy years can lay!
I must submit; yet, following still his lead,
Pray Providence for rescue, ere too late:—
'Tis Providence, alone, may baffle Fate!
[Exit Osborne.
SCENE III.
The house of Mrs. Jervas in Walnut-street. Enter Mrs. J. and Robert Warren.Mrs. J.
Art sure of what you tell me?
Warren.
Never doubt it!—
Matthews, who writes me, is an ancient friend
Who knows this Maurice well. He sees him often,
Though it would seem that Maurice knows not him.
His rising fortunes favor you! 'Twere well
You sought your niece. You are her kinswoman,—
The nearest,—and the loss of all your fortune,
By failure of the bank—
Mrs. J.
But Maurice likes me not!
Warren.
Natural enough! You still opposed his passion;
But things are alter'd now. You've but to show him
40
That you denied his suit. But, go to her;—
He's doing well—is popular—grows wealthy;
And now that Fortune looks with smiles on him,
He well may smile on you! You'll live with them,
And we shall meet there.
Mrs. J.
We? Meet?
Warren.
Did I not love her?
Mrs. J.
Ah!—
Warren.
And should he die?—Should accident, or—
Mrs. J.
I see! I see!
Warren.
You are my friend, and you will show her—
Mrs. J.
Ah! trust me, Robert Warren—
Warren.
That's enough!
We understand each other. You will go,—
Her only kinswoman—to seek her out.
You have but her in the world! Say you have err'd;
It was because you loved her that you strove,
'Gainst one, who, whatsoe'er his worth and talent,
Was not o'erbless'd by Fortune! He may frown,
But cannot well deny you; and, for Clarice—
She will not, sure, repel her mother's sister.
Mrs. J.
I'll go! I need the succor of my kindred.
Warren.
We'll meet then; but you must not know me there!
'Tis not my policy to vex my rival,
Provoke suspicion, move his jealousy,
Or startle her by any bold renewal,
Of pleadings late denied. Should you discover
That he who, in their presence, stands before you,
Is other than he seems, you will know nothing;
Since that may spoil your game as well as mine.
Mrs. J.
You are a deep one!
Warren.
When I have your counsel!
This Maurice thought but humbly of your judgment.
41
By his own proud conceit and arrogance,
And held himself an oracle. 'Twere wise
If still you suffer'd him to fancy thus—
Check'd him in nothing—never counsell'd him—
For still I know he holds your wisdom cheaply,
And scorns the experience which might rise against
His own assured opinion. Such a person
Needs but sufficient cord—
Mrs. J.
And he shall have it!
Warren.
I'll seek your counsel soon, and you shall teach me
What is our proper action. You will find me
More ready to confide in your experience,
Than him whose cunning seem'd to baffle it.
Farewell then, madam, till we meet again.
[Exit Warren.
Mrs. J.
Farewell, sir! A most excellent young man!
This Maurice shall not carry it at will,—
He scorns me,—does he? He shall feel me still!
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
The hall in the cottage of Norman Maurice. Time—midnight. Enter Maurice in night-gown, as just started from his couch. His hair dishevelled—his manner wild and agitated—his whole appearance that of a man painfully excited and distressed.Maurice.
That I should be unmann'd! That a mere dream,
The blear and frightful aspects of a vision,
Should rouse me to such terror,—shake my soul
From the strong moorings of a steadfast will,
And drive it, a mere wreck, upon the seas,
No hand upon the helm! Ah! my Clarice.
[Enter Clarice.
42
My husband—
Maurice.
I would thou had'st not seen me thus, Clarice.
Clarice.
What means this terror—wherefore did you cry?
Maurice.
Surely I did not.
Clarice.
Yes, a terrible shriek,
As one who rushes desperate on his foe!
Maurice.
No mortal foe has ever from my lips,
Sleeping or waking, forced acknowledgment,
That humbles me like this—
Clarice.
What dost thou mean?
What fear?
Maurice.
What answer shall I make to thee?—
How tell thee, my Clarice, 'twas a mere dream,
That filled me with that agonizing fear,
Whose shriek thou heard'st. Yet, such a dream, my wife,
As still pursues me with its hideous forms,
And shakes me yet with terror. That a man,
Conscious of strength and will, with conscience free,
Should, in a mere disorder of his blood,
In midnight sleep, feel all his soul unsinew'd,
And sink into the coward!
Clarice.
Thou art none!
Maurice.
Yet such a vision—and methinks I see!—
Hist,—is there nothing crawling by the hearth,
Crouching and winding, and with serpent folds,
Preparing its dread venom?
Clarice.
There is nothing, husband—
The hearth holds only the small jar of flowers.
Maurice.
The reptile ever seeks such crouching place,
And garbs his spotty hide with heedless blossoms,
That know not what they harbor. Fling it hence!
'Twas on the hearth it crouch'd. But, hear me, wife;
That dream! 'Twas of a serpent on our hearth,
Thou heedless, with thy hand upon the flowers,
43
It wound about thee its insidious coil,
And, at the moment when I first beheld,
Its brazen head was lifted, its sharp fang
Was darting at thy heart! 'Twas then I shriek'd
And rush'd upon the monster thus, and smote!—
[Dashing the vase to pieces.
Heedless of every sting, I trampled it;
But, even as it writhed beneath my heel,
Methought, it lifted up a human face
That look'd like Robert Warren!
Clarice.
What a dream!
Maurice.
I cannot shake it off. Did'st hear a sound
Most like a hiss?
Clarice.
Nay, nay! 'twas but a dream!
Come—come to bed.
Maurice.
Why should I dream of him?
Clarice.
You think of him, perchance.
Maurice.
And, as a reptile!
The terrible image still before me crawls—
Oh! that I might, with but a bound and struggle,
Though still at life's worst peril, trample him!
Clarice.
Yet wherefore?
Maurice.
There are instincts of the soul,
That have a deep and true significance,
And, though no more in danger from his malice,
I feel within me that he works unsleeping,
In venomous toils against me.
Clarice.
But, in vain.
Come, Norman, come to bed. You frighten me.
Maurice.
Forgive me! There! I have thee at my lips,
I strain thee to my bosom with a joy
That leaves no rapture wanting—yet, methinks,
I hear a sound of hissing, and still see
44
Crawl after us—
Clarice.
My Norman!
Maurice.
I grieve thee!
I will forget this vision in the blessing
This grasp makes real to rapture. Let us in.
[He folds his arm about her, and they leave the apartment, he still looking behind him suspiciously—she looking up to him.
SCENE V.
The edge of a wood. A cottage in the distance. Enter Robert Warren, Osborne, and Harry Matthews. The former disguised with false hair, whiskers, &c.Matthews.
[pointing to cottage.]
Look!—you may see it now!
Warren.
There, then, he harbors?
A goodly cottage—he's a man of taste,
Not yet too old for sentiment, it seems;
Loves flowers and shade trees, and around his porches
I fancy that we see some gadding tendrils,
That wanton, with full censers, in his homage!
He should be happy there!
Matthews.
Why, so he is.
Warren.
You think so?
Matthews.
There's every thing to make him so. He's young—
Is on the road to fortune and to fame,
And has a handsome wife.
Warren.
The landscape's fair,—
Looks bright beneath the sunshine and exhales
A thousand delicate odors rich in life;
But, sometimes, there's a tempest in the night,
And where's your landscape then?
45
Be this his case,
It shall not cost me one poor hour of sleep,
For all the coil it makes. This man's our foe,—
Goes with our enemies in politics,
And will, though now he knows it not himself,
Be run, against our crack man, for the Senate.
Warren.
Who's he?
Matthews.
Ben Ferguson.
Warren.
Plain Ben?
Matthews.
Colonel Ben!
'Tis only when the man's a favorite,
We take the formal handle from his name
And sing it short for sweetness.
Warren.
Is he able?
Matthews.
We thought him so till this your Maurice came;—
Since then our favorite loses in the race.
Ben is a lawyer in first practice here
And had the field to himself since I have known him,
Till now—
Osborne.
Maurice and he have grappled then?
Matthews.
To Ferguson's defeat.
Osborne.
Before the jury?
Matthews.
Ay, every way—before the judge and jury,—
In court and out of court. At public meetings
They were in opposite ranks, and, with each issue,
Maurice hath risen still in popular favor,
While Ferguson declines. It will rejoice us,
If, as you say, you have some history
To floor this powerful foe!
Warren.
You need not doubt it.
But who are friends to Maurice, here,—the people?
Matthews.
Were it the people only, it were nothing.
They have not yet arisen to self-esteem,
And, kept full fed on vanity, are heedless,
46
Here, all their sympathies are held by others;
Men of much wealth and some ability,
Who, gladly, in this Maurice find an ally,
And join with him to use him. There's a party
Who long have lacked a leader. Norman Maurice
Brings them the head they seek. He guides their councils,
And, with such prudent skill and policy,
That still they fancy he is but their mouth-piece,
Even while he gives the breath of life to them.
I know that they will run him for the Senate.
Warren.
Can they elect him?
Matthews.
It is somewhat doubtful.
They never yet succeeded with their man,
Not having had the man to make success.
What they can do for him is not the question,
So much as what he may achieve for them.
I tell you, though not fearful for the issue,
It makes us something anxious. Now,—this secret—
If it be true, indeed, that,—
Warren.
Be you ready;—
I'll see your friends to-morrow. We'll sleep on it.
To-night, I'll fathom Maurice if I can,
And see how he enjoys his Western life.
Enough! I have him in my power! To-morrow!—
Matthews.
But what's the secret?
Warren.
It will keep till then.
Be sure, that when your game is to be play'd—
When Norman Maurice, at the height of favor,
Waits but the will to rise up Senator—
A single word shall damn him down to ruin,
And stifle every voice that shouts his name.
Osborne.
Yet, once more, Warren, ere it be too late,
Let me entreat and counsel—
47
You are doting!
Go you with Matthews, and, should I be missing,
You both can tell whither my steps were bent,
And what my power upon him.
Osborne.
[aside to W.]
Why incur
This danger,—for you too must see the danger,—
To feed this foolish malice?
Warren.
[aside to O.]
Is it foolish?—
Not when the profit's yours, the pleasure mine;—
And I, if fortune mocks me not with fancies,
Shall find a pleasure in the game I play at,
That you may never dream of! Be you easy—
There's little danger! I've securities
'Gainst him in you, and in his secret fears,
Not less than in the policy I use;
Besides, my habit, does it not disguise me?
Osborne.
He has the eye of an eagle!
Warren.
Pshaw!
Osborne.
Beware!—
His genius—you yourself confess it, Warren—
Hath always, when the final issue came,
Soar'd over you triumphant!
Warren.
Oh! Good night.
We'll meet again to-morrow!
[Exit Warren.
Osborne.
He'll pay for it!
He runs on ruin!
Matthews.
Not his own, methinks!
Osborne.
His own, though now it seems not. I've an instinct
That tells me Maurice cannot be o'erthrown.
Baffled he may be;—you may torture him—
Deny him his just place and high position,
One or more seasons; but he'll rise at last,
So firmly, that the very hands that struggle
To tear him from his throne, will help to build it.
48
Performance,—and this man is one of them!
What was his prospect when I knew him first?
He had no friends,—he had no fellowships,
No heedful care of parents—no tuition;—
He stood alone i' the world—unknown, unhonor'd—
Nay, something hated, as I hap to know,
For that he had some innate qualities,
Of pride, of strength, of soul and character,
That would not let him stoop! In spite of all,
He hath struggled through the strife and the obstruction;
Won friends; won homage; high position won;
And still hath grown, the more erect and noble,
At each assault upon his pride and fortune!
I feel that he must triumph!
Matthews.
You speak well,
The promise of our enemy! You differ,
Somewhat, from Robert Warren; yet, you know
This secret.
Osborne.
Ay—as Warren's; and I know,
The rise of Maurice is his overthrow!
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
The interior of the cottage of Norman Maurice. A table spread as if supper were just concluded. Maurice and Clarice discovered seated. Maurice balances a spoon upon the cup. Clarice watches him.Clarice.
You muse, my husband.
Maurice,
[pushing away the cup.]
'Tis with happiness!
Know you, Clarice, that fifteen months have pass'd
Since we were married?
49
Is it possible!
I had not thought it!
Maurice.
Time is wing'd with pleasure,
When that the heart, reposing where it loves,
Finds strength for fresher love in faith secure!
The world would seem to smile on me at last!
'Till we were wedded, such had been my fortune,
I question'd still the sunshine when it came;
And, in its sudden and capricious beauty,
Still dreaded something sinister and hostile.
But now I feel secure! With you beside me,
A fair, free world before me, and employment,
Grateful at once to intellect and feeling,
Affording thought due exercise for triumph,
Methinks, I have from fate a guaranty,
That she foregoes at last her ancient grudges;
And, it may be, despising our ambition,
Thus easily satisfied with love and quiet,
Turns her sharp arrows on some nobler victim,
Whose young audacity offends her pride!
Sure, Clarice, this is happiness.
Clarice.
It is more!
Such happiness as well might task the fancy,
To wing with words of sweetest poesy.
Maurice.
Then sing for me. I'm in the mood for music;
My heart is glad; my thoughts would wander freely;
Commercing with the indistinct, but sweet.
Clarice.
Nay, Norman, nay: I'm selfish in my gladness;
You sing not; but a something more than music
Swells in the verse that gathers on your lips;—
And this reminds me of the little ballad
You promised me,—once half recited me,
And fain would have me think your heart conceived it
When first it grew to mine!
50
And I said truly!
Thoughts passing fair had floated through my fancy—
Thoughts born of warmest tastes and pure affections,
Which yet had found no name! I had strange visions
Of grace and feminine beauty, such as never
The world had shown me living. Then I met thee,
And, on the instant, did they take thy image;—
And thus I first knew how, and whom, to love!
These fancies did I body forth in verses,
As one records a vision of the midnight,
That fills his soul with marvels; and the hour,
That brought me first acquainted with thy beauties,
Taught me what name to write above my record,
Which, until then, had none.
Clarice.
Norman—was it mine?
Maurice.
Thine, only, my beloved one!
Clarice.
Now, the verses,
In thy best manner, Norman.
Maurice.
What! repeat them?—
Wouldst ruin me, Clarice, in public favor;
Sap my distinction, lose me my profession,
Draw down the vulgar laughter on my head,
And make grave senators and learned statesmen
Shake reverend brows in sorrow at my folly?
Clarice.
Nay, you mock me now?
Maurice.
Wouldst have a lawyer,—
Subtle, and stern, and disputatious, still,—
Full of retorts and strange philosophies;
Whose dreams by night are of the close encounter
With rival wits and wary adversaries,—
Whose thoughts by day are still upon indictments,
Flaws, fees, exceptions, old authorities,
And worldly arguments, and stubborn juries,—
And all the thousand small details that gather,
51
Dragging and fettering down to lowly earth
The upsoaring mind that else might scale the heavens!—
Wouldst have him in the vagrancy of fancy,
Possess his soul with spells of poesy;
Having no fear that, lurking at his threshold,
His neighbor Jones or Jenkins, Smith or Thompson,
Some round and fat, but most suspicious client,
Bringing great fees,—his heart upon his action,—
Seeking the sourest aspect in his lawyer,—
Stands, rooted, with strange horror, as he listens
To most ridiculous rhymes, and talk of flowers,
Moonbeams, and zephyrs—all that staple sweetness,
That makes the fancies of young thoughtless bosoms;—
When most he hoped to hear of Chose in action,
Trespass, assumpsit, action on the case,
And other phrases, silly as the rhymester's,—
But that they sound in money, not in music!
No! No!—no poesy! 'Twere loss of client!
Clarice.
Nay, Norman, but you jest now! Speak the verses,
If need be, in low accents.
Maurice.
Lest Jones or Jenkins
Should turn about, possess'd with holy horror,
And seek some other lawyer! You shall have them!
They are yours, Clarice, for, truly, they embody
What still meseem'd the virtues of your nature;—
Tastes, sweet and delicate as evening glories
That tend upon the passage of the day,
And, twinn'd with gleam and shadows, through the twilight,
Betoken, as it were, the unknown beauties,
That make a happier future in the far.
Clarice.
You describe the verses!
Maurice.
It needs I should!
They take a mystic tone and character,
52
Thoughtful, not lyrical, nor passionate,
They need that you should pause upon each accent,
Or they will lose their due significance!
But, next to the grave folly of such doing,
Is the grave preface that still pleads for it.
You lead me erring, Clarice, to these trifles—
You, and the exulting feeling at my heart,
That deems this happiness sure!—Ha! That knock!
[Knock at the door—he starts.
Methinks it hath a meaning! A sharp instinct
Tells me that evil at our threshold lurks.
[Whispers.
Clarice.
Evil, my husband! Let me open it!
[Goes toward the door.
Maurice,
[interposing.]
You, Clarice! You mistake me.—There's an instinct,
That, though it speaks of evil, hath no fear!—
Who's there? [Aloud.]
Voice without.
A friend!
Maurice,
[throwing open the door.]
Enter, friend!
Enter Robert Warren as before, with valise in his hand.
Warren.
Pardon me this intrusion, but I'm wearied,—
I've travell'd far,—the last seven miles afoot,
Having lost my horse by the way.
Maurice.
You're welcome, sir,
To our poor fare, and shelter of our dwelling
'Till you recover. Clarice, see to it.
[Maurice points her to the supper table. She turns and leaves the room,—Warren follows her with his eye, while that of Maurice observes him.
Warren.
I thank you, sir.
Maurice.
Meanwhile, sit down and rest.
Give me your burden. 'Twill require some minutes
53
'Till then, forget your travel.
Warren.
You are kind!
How far, sir, are we from St. Louis, here?
Maurice.
Four miles only.
Warren.
You, perhaps, can tell me
Something of persons living in St. Louis;
I'm a collector from an Eastern city,
And have a claim upon one Harry Matthews.
Maurice.
[His brow slightly contracts.]
Harry Matthews!
Warren.
Or Henry Matthews: is he good, sir?
Maurice,
[coldly.]
It may be, sir; I know not!
Warren.
You know the man?
Maurice.
I have seen him often, sir, but know him [illeg.]
Warren.
The house I represent has had suspicions;—
A Philadelphia house.
Maurice.
Of Philadelphia!
Warren.
A famous city, sir; but you have seen it?
Maurice.
I know it well, sir.
[Catches the eye of Warren, which suddenly drops at the encounter.
Warren.
Ah! you've travell'd thither?
Maurice.
Have lived there, sir; and, now I think of it,
It may be you can answer me of persons,
Whom once I knew there;—there was Mrs. Jervas—
Warren.
A widow, sir, who lived in Walnut-street?
Maurice.
The same!—
Warren.
I've heard of her. She lost her fortune lately
By failure of the bank.
Maurice.
Indeed!
Warren.
And has left the city,
'Twas said, to seek her kindred in the West.
Maurice.
[To Clarice, who reënters.]
Hear you that, Clarice?
Clarice.
Is it possible?
It cannot be she means—
54
Perhaps. 'Tis like.
Warren.
She has a niece and nephew in the West—
'Twas so reported—who have sent for her,
They being very wealthy, she in want.
Maurice,
[with a smile.]
Indeed!
Clarice.
She has no nephew living, sir.
Warren.
[smiles.]
Ah! you know her, then?
Maurice.
She is this lady's aunt, sir;
And, it may be, this excellent Mrs. Jervas
Comes hither to her niece, who is my wife, sir.
I suppose, that, as the husband of the one,
I may be held a nephew to the other;
And loving, too, makes kindred. Well, Clarice,
You'll make the good lady welcome if she comes,
Which, now, I scarcely question.—Tell me, sir,
Of other persons in that goodly city;—
There was a mute, I knew, one Nicholas Foster,
Whom much I fancied—
Warren.
A rare machinist,
Though few conceived his talent.
Maurice,
[aside.]
Yet, you knew it!
Warren.
He's well as ever.
Maurice.
Sully, the master-painter,
A pure, good man, whose exquisite art endows
The beauty with a charm beyond her own,
Caught from his delicate fancy.
Warren.
He's still famous.
Maurice.
I would you could say fortunate as famous,
As still his art deserves.—I know not why,
But these inquiries sadden me, and yet—
There was one Richard Osborne—
Warren.
An attorney—
Maurice.
A most obscure one, though of certain merits,
Who might have been distinguish'd, having powers
55
But for his evil genius—
Warren,
[quickly.]
Ah! sir! He?—
Maurice.
Were you a student—an anatomist
Of character—instead of a collector;—
But—
Warren.
Yet would I hear, sir.
Maurice.
He, sir, I mean,
Were one whom it were well to analyze,
Did one design a new philosophy,
And sought in strange anomalies to embrace
The opposite things in nature. Fancy a creature,
Having the external attributes of man,—
The capacious brow—the clear, transparent eye—
The form erect—the voice most musical—
Quick talent, ready art, and specious language,
And something winning in his natural manner,
Beguiling still the unwary to belief—
Yet, as if made in mock of heaven's own purpose,
Having, in place of heart, a nest of vipers;
Whose secret venom, mastering all his powers,
Taints ever his performance—makes his doings,
When most they favor virtue, tend to vice—
Corrupts the word he utters, makes him false,
When most the truth should be his policy,—
And keeps him ever lothely in pursuit
Of purposes most loathsome. Know you, sir,
One Robert Warren?
[Laying his hand on Warren's shoulder, and eyeing him closely.
Warren,
[shrinking and stammering.]
Me, sir—Warren? No!
Maurice,
[flinging him away and rising.]
Liar and reptile, as thou still hast been,
'Twere thousand times more hopeful to endow
The serpent with the nature of the dove,
56
That, with its bitter, blights the Dead Sea shore—
Appease the tiger's thirst—the leopard's spots
Pluck from his side, and bind him with a straw—
Than change the designing devil at thy heart!
Warren.
What mean you, sir?
Clarice,
[seizing his arm.]
Oh! Norman, wherefore this?
Maurice.
What! See you not? Hath sense of happiness
So totally obscured the sense of wrong,
That memory lacks each faculty, and nature,
Losing the subtle instinct which still counsels
The innocent of his peril, stoops to wanton
With the fang'd viper in his villainous coil.
The dream! the dream! my Clarice. Get thee hence!
Leave me to deal with him. Away!
Clarice.
What's he?
Maurice.
What! do his looks not answer as the reptile's,
That speak his subtle snare and silent venom!
Doth not his coward crouching show his nature,
As now I stretch the arm of vengeance o'er him?
Must I confer a name upon the victim,
Even in the moment when I strike the blow,
Lest, in their ignorant blindness, men should fancy
This were a kinsman whom in wrath I slew!
Warren.
Beware!—this violence!
[Snatches a knife from the table.
Maurice.
Is justice only—
Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Husband!
Maurice.
What! See'st not still!
Clarice.
I see! I know!—and yet—
Maurice.
And yet, and yet, and yet! is the child's wisdom!
Shall we not be secure—never find refuge!
Shall hate pursue, and vengeance turn not on him!
Must we be driven from each world of peace,
57
When but a stroke is needful—
Clarice.
Oh! thou must not:
He shares our hospitality—our shelter!
Maurice,
[hurling the table over.]
He hath not touch'd the bread and sacred salt,
He shall not claim the Arab's privilege,—
He dies!—
Clarice.
For my sake, Norman, spare him!
Let him go hence; the past is over now.
Warren.
She counsels wisely, Norman. Lift no hand
Against me, for I come to you in peace.
Maurice.
In peace! In peace! And wherefore this disguise?
Thy fraudulent tale of travel—this false semblance,
False hair, false speech—unless with heart and purpose
False as of old! Didst think, that I, who knew thee,
By such damn'd treachery as thou still hast shown me,
Could be deceived by wretched arts like these?—
My blindness and my confidence so perfect,
That I should sleep and dream, while at my pillow
Thou crep'st at midnight, from the hearth that warm'd thee,
To fasten on my heart! Thou com'st, an outlaw!—
What hinders that I slay thee?—that I take thee,
Thus, by the throat, and, stifling fear and feeling,
Slaughter thee, as a bullock at the altar,
Thy blood would still profane!
Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Norman!
Oh! must thy Clarice plead to thee in vain?
Spare him, if but in gratitude to heaven,
For that we prosper in his hate's despite.
Maurice.
'Tis for that very reason I should slay him!
He comes to blight our brief prosperity,
To compass all our sunshine with his cloud,
And taint our flowers with poison.
58
Yet, beware!
She counsels thee with wisdom, Norman Maurice;
I am not friendless here. Did aught befall me,
Here, in thy dwelling, to my mortal hurt,
'Tis known that I came hither—'tis known farther,
That I have that to speak against thy fame,
Shall blacken it forever.
Maurice.
Ha, say'st thou that!
Well thou wouldst something more!
Warren.
Only a word—
And lest thy prudence should not check thy passion,
My providence— [showing pistol.]
Maurice.
What! thou hast weapons then!
Now, by my hopes—if it were possible,
To find thee but one moment flush with manhood!—
Look on me, villain, as I now confront thee,
But, lift thine eye to mine, and let thy aim
Be deadly as thy malice! Wretched coward—
Thus do I mock thy impotence.
[Rushes upon him and wrests the weapon from his hand.
Warren.
Spare me, Norman!
Clarice.
Husband, let him live!
Maurice.
Outlaw! that masks him with deliberate purpose—
[Takes Warren by the throat.
Warren.
Mercy, Norman!
Maurice.
That seeks by night my dwelling with a lie!—
Clarice.
Husband—dear husband!
Maurice.
That lifts his deadly weapon 'gainst my bosom—
Warren.
Thou stranglest me!
Clarice.
Have pity, Norman!
Maurice.
For thy sake, I spare him!—
Warren.
Thanks—oh, thanks!
Maurice.
Yet feel how better 'twere to crush him now,
Than suffer him—
59
I swear!
Maurice.
Oh!—if thou durst
Take name of God in vain to do hell service,—
I'll slay thee with a certainty of vengeance
That leaves no limb unhurt. For well I know
Thy heart is never then less free from malice,
Than when thy lips declare thy innocence.
Hence, ere I change my purpose. I will spare thee,
And fling thee from my threshold, but to show thee
How much I still forbear.
[Hurls him out headlong.
Clarice.
Oh, how I thank thee!
Maurice.
If evil follows on this mercy, Clarice,
Thine is the fault.
Clarice.
Oh, Norman, this man's hate—
Maurice.
While we can tear the falsehood from his brow
Is nothing, but—
Clarice.
Why should he follow us?
Maurice.
Oh! for some hellish purpose. But go in;
Leave me awhile.
Clarice.
Wilt thou not close the door?
Maurice.
Let it stay wide all night.
Clarice.
You go not forth?
Maurice.
One sleeps not when the wolf is in his close,
Lest that his howl should scare his infant's sleep—
And when I doubt if ill is at my threshold,
'Twere base to sleep upon the pillow of doubt.
But, go you in, dear wife!—you must not hear
The voice in anger you have heard in love.
Leave me awhile. This thing still troubles me,
But should not trouble you. Go to your prayers,
And leave the watches of the night to me.
God still presides o'er all. I see not yet,
The evil that this evil spirit brings,
But trust that we shall lack no help of angel,
60
Clarice.
Norman.
Maurice.
Dear wife!
Clarice.
Forget not that my life is in thy hands.
Oh, do not rashly purpose.
Maurice.
Never fear!
[Embrace. Ex. Clarice within.
Maurice.
What can he mean! That paper is destroy'd;—
Why should I fear his malice? Yet, so truly,
I know his equal baseness and design,
I feel that he hath purposes of mischief,
Which, if he lack'd the agencies of evil,
He ne'er had underta'en. No sleep for me,
When that the dark suspicions in my soul,
Engender still the foe. I must go forth!—
[Looks out.
Oh! God, how beautiful the calm o'er earth,—
How soft the night, that, with a veil of brightness
Wraps all the subject creatures—peace and sleep,
Sharing the dreamy blessing, as if evil,
Sped not malignant spirits through the air,
And never flower of earth had cover'd reptile!
[Goes forth.
END OF ACT SECOND.
61
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A chamber in the dwelling of Harry Matthews, in St. Louis. Robert Warren and Richard Osborne discovered.Osborne.
I warn'd you of the peril.
Warren.
Yet your wisdom
Had scarcely fancied that his glance could fathom
Disguise so good as mine!
Osborne.
I said his eye
Was like an eagle's. It were hard to say,
What, with his mind once roused into suspicion,
It could not penetrate.
Warren.
'Twould better please me,
If one, who should be in my service only,
Could find my foe less perfect.
Osborne.
And, to do so,
Should prove himself less true.
Warren.
Oh! your truth,
Were better shown in service than opinion!
My habit was good; and I had been secure,
But that, to sound him, I unseal'd myself;
And, like a witling, answered all his questions,
Of persons whom we once had known together.
Osborne.
Be sure, he first suspected ere he question'd.
Warren.
'Tis like enough! At all events he floor'd n[illeg.]
Disgraced me as he still hath done before
In frequent strife. The mask is thrown aside;
He knows me, here, his enemy; and now—
The open conflict!
Osborne.
What is now the game?
62
Why, when his hand was fix'd upon your throat,
Did you forbear the weapon?
Warren.
Ask me rather,
Why one is still superior to his fellow;
Why one is brave, another impotent;
Why I am feeble just where he is strong;—
And why, with will to compass his destruction,
My heart still fails me in the final effort!
Such still hath been the sequel of our issues!
He still hath master'd me with such a will,
My spirit droops before him, and I shudder,
To feel, that, with a hate so fix'd and fearful,
I lack the heart to drive the weapon home!—
But I shall do it yet!
Osborne.
And why the conflict,
Thus ever urged with fate so full of peril?
Now, while you may forbear, and pause in safety,
Forego the struggle, which hath still been hopeless;
Give him repose, and leave yourself at peace.
Warren.
Peace! with these passions!
Osborne.
They will wreck your own!
A something tells me such must be the issue,
In any strife with Maurice.
Warren.
Vain the counsel—
I cannot leave the conflict!
Osborne.
Why?
Warren.
Will not do so!
While still my hate must go unsatisfied—
My pride,—to say no more of other passions.
Osborne.
This woman—
Warren.
Not a word of her!
Osborne.
Smiles she,
That still you prosecute this doubtful struggle?
63
She may, perchance, when she is duly tutor'd,
That, on my whisper, hangs her husband's honor.
Osborne.
This is your purpose, then?
Warren.
You do not like it?
Osborne.
I am your slave,—the creature of your mood,
More at your mercy far than Norman Maurice,
Since he is innocent and I am guilty;—
What matter what I like?
Warren.
Why, that's well said!—
Enough for you I must pursue my victims,
While hate conceives a hell for him, or passion
Dreams still of heaven from her! This day, when Maurice
Leaves for the city, I shall seek his dwelling.
Osborne.
Again! untaught by late experience!
You seek his wife then?
Warren.
Why, not exactly.—
Perhaps you do not know that Mrs. Jervas
Arrived last night at midnight.
Osborne.
How can she
Assist you in this mad pursuit? You tell me
That Maurice still suspects her.
Warren.
Never matter—
She is my ally;—but, here's Harry Matthews:
He comes to take me to the secret council,
Where other plans mature against our foeman.
Osborne.
You will not breathe this secret to these people?
Warren.
I will but breathe it.
Osborne.
And withhold the proof?
Warren.
As suits my purpose. It is very likely,
I shall not call on you till the last hour,
When all is ready for his overthrow!
Of this be sure, Dick Osborne: I will pamper
My several passions as I can, and stint them,
In nothing, that may gratify their rage.
64
Matthews.
Art ready, Warren?
Warren.
Will be in a moment!
Matthews,
[to Osborne.]
You'll go with us?
Osborne.
Excuse me.
Warren,
[aside to Osborne.]
Why not go?
Osborne,
[aside to W.]
Sufficient, as they tell us, for the day
Its evil; when I can no longer 'scape it,
I'll mix in this conspiracy;—till then,
Let me go idle.
Warren,
[aside to Osborne.]
Hark you, Richard Osborne,
No faltering when the moment comes to speak;
The rod that does not yield to me, I break!
[Ex. Matthews and Warren.
Osborne.
And no escape! I dare not run on ruin,
And face the shame with which he threatens me;
Yet, with a tyranny so terrible,
That plies me with its torture night and day,
'Twere better throw increase of weight on conscience,
And, by embrace with deeds of deadlier aspect,
At least secure escape from sway like this!
Had I the heart for it! Could I find the courage!
'Twere but a blow!—a blow! I'll ponder it.
[Ex. Osborne.
SCENE II.
An apartment in the house of Col. Ferguson. Ferguson, Blasinghame, Matthews, Warren, and other persons discovered.Blasinghame.
The matter then resolves itself to this—
We know for certain, now, that this man, Maurice,
65
Ben Ferguson is ours.
Ferguson.
And why not you?
Blasinghame.
For the best reasons. No! my private business
Needs careful nursing now. This woman, Pressley,
Is like to give me trouble.
Matthews.
Her new lawyer
Is stubborn, then?
Blasinghame.
He seems to be a man;
And we shall suffer him to prove his manhood!
I wrote him of the merits of my case,
Concluding, with a civil exhortation,
As he was young, and but a stranger here,
That he should spare his teeth, nor peril them,
On nuts too hard to crack.
Matthews.
What said he then?
Blasinghame.
Oh! with an answer bold enough, I warrant.
Matthews.
He did not know his customer, I fancy.
Blasinghame.
I think not; and to lesson him a little,
One of my lambs was sent to him this morning—
Joe Savage!
Ferguson.
Joe's a rough teacher, colonel.
Blasinghame.
As God has made him, Joe. He'll do our business
As tenderly as if it were his own.
Ferguson.
But was there not some whisper of a secret
Touching this Norman Maurice, which, if true,
Would render any messages of honor,
Impossible, to him!
Blasinghame.
I did not hear;—
Unfold your budget.
Ferguson.
Harry Matthews, there,
Speaks of a secret in his friend's possession,
That's fatal to this man!
66
Ha! out with it!
'Twill save a monstrous trouble in our wigwam;
For, to say truth, this man is popular,
Grows every day in strength in the assembly,
And, I confess to you, I have my fears,
Touching the game before us. Our new members
Are not what I would have them; and old Mercer,
Catesby and Brooks, gain daily influence,
Under the cunning counsel of this Maurice.
If we can crush this fellow, who has talent,
And shows more stubbornness than I can relish,
'Twere better done before we lose our headway.
This man disposed of, they can find no other
To take the field with Ferguson.
Matthews.
Speak, Warren!
Warren.
There is a secret, gentlemen; a dark one
Which, told, were fatal to this Norman Maurice!
I will not tell it now; but wait the moment,
When, over all, conspicuous most, he stands,
With triumph in his prospect, and his spirit,
Exulting in the state he deems secure!
Then will I come between his hope and triumph;
Then show the guilty secret that degrades him,
Confound him with the proofs which now are ready,
And hurl him down to ruin, the more fatal,
For that I suffer'd him to rise so high.
Blasinghame.
But why not now? The man is high enough!
Warren.
The secret's mine, sir. When I'm done with it,
I'll bury it as did the Phrygian barber,
Where every reed that whistles in the wind
Shall make it into music for his ear.
Be sure of this, I'll yield it you in season,
Ere Maurice sits a Senator in Congress!
Matthews.
Well—that's sufficient!
67
Yes! Let him do that!
Meanwhile, there is a way to save himself.
This Maurice has my message—
Matthews.
He'll not fight!
Blasinghame.
If he would—
Matthews.
His honor would be rescued by his death?
Warren.
Scarcely; since 'tis for me to keep the secret,
Or free it, if I please! But, let me tell you,
That Maurice will not shrink from any combat!
I know him well. He is mine enemy,
But let me do him justice. He will fight,
Though all the devils of hell stood up against him.
Look to it, sir; [to Blasing.,]
your reputation's great,
But Maurice is no common opponent;
And you will need your utmost excellence,
To conquer him when once he takes the field!
Blasinghame.
Well! that's good news! My lamb is with him now;
We'll hear from him by noon.
Ferguson.
Before we part,
'Tis understood we put our troops in motion;
The strife will be a close one! Blasinghame
Hath truly spoken of this new assembly;
It puzzles me to fathom it. This Maurice,
Is, questionless, a man of wondrous power;
And, though I much prefer that we should beat him,
In a fair wrestle, with the usual agents,
Yet this is not so certainly our prospect,
As that we should forego this fatal secret,
That makes our game secure.
Warren.
You shall have it.
Blasinghame.
We meet to-night at Baylor's.
Matthews,
[to Warren.]
You'll be with us?
It may be that your fruit will then be ripe.
68
Ay, come, sir, with your friend.
Warren,
[to Matthews.]
Perhaps! We'll see;—
There may be other fruits upon that tree.
[Exeunt several ways.
SCENE III.
An apartment in the house of Norman Maurice. He appears seated at a table with books and papers before him. After a pause, he closes his books, folds and ties the papers in a bundle, pushes them from before him and rises.Maurice,
[solus.]
It is the curse of insecurity,
That cruel doubt that hangs upon possession
Glides with the midnight to the sleepless pillow,
And, with the laurel wreath that crowns the triumph,
Sows thick the thorns that make the brow to ache!
Did the endowment not imply the service,
Were we not each enjoin'd with a commission,
The task decreed, the struggle thrust upon us,
Making it manhood to comply with duty;
How better far—the treasure in our keeping,
Love at our bosom, peace upon our threshold,
When bliss can never hope increase of rapture,
And fear begins to dream of unknown danger,—
To fly the world—the conflict,—nay, the triumph,
And, bearing off the trophy we have won,
Hush the ambitious spirit in our hearts
That whispers, “Life hath more!” Have I won nothing,
That I should toil, as unrequited Labor
Still hoping yet to win? Am I a beggar,
Who, perilling nothing in each fearful venture,
Stakes all his hopes on change? With goods so precious,
69
Where Malice stands, with gibe of cruel slander,
And Envy lurks in readiness to steal?—
When the still shelter of the wilderness,
The depth of shadow, the great solitudes,
Beckon the heart with promise of their own,
Still singing, “Here is refuge!”
Wretched folly!—
As if the serpent could not find the garden;
As if the malicious Hate, by hell engendered,
Had not an equal instinct, how to fathom
The secret haunt where rapture hopes to hide!
Hate bears a will as resolute as love,
A wing as swift, an eye as vigilant,
And instincts, that, as still they keep it sleepless,
Prompt the keen search when Rapture stops for rest!
A sad presentiment of coming evil
Stifles each generous impulse at my heart,
That ever spoke in confidence. This Warren
Is here for mischief; with what hope to prosper—
That single proof destroy'd—I now divine not.
This woman, coming close upon his footsteps,
Confirms my apprehensions. They are allies—
She false as he, but feeble—his mere creature,
To beat the bush, while he secures the game!
Well! I must watch them with a vigilance
Due to the precious treasure in my trust;
And, swift as justice in avenging mission,
With the first show of evil in their purpose,
Crush them to earth, and—Well?
[Enter servant.
Servant.
Major Savage, sir.
Maurice.
Show him in.
[Enter Savage.
Savage.
Your name is Maurice?
Maurice.
'Tis sir. Yours?
70
Mine is Joe Savage,—Major of militia.
You got a letter, sir, a week ago,
From Colonel Blasinghame.
Maurice.
And answer'd it!
Savage.
That answer did not please him, Blasinghame.
Maurice.
I'm sorry for it, sir; but you'll believe me,
When I assure you, that, in penning it,
I never once conceived it necessary
To ask what were his tastes.
Savage.
Eh, sir: you did not!
Well, let me tell you, those who know him better,
Are something curious never to offend him.
But you, sir, are a stranger—do not know him
So well as others, born here in Missouri—
And so, he sends me to enlighten you.
Maurice.
I thank him, sir.
Savage.
Well, you have need to do so;
He does not use such courtesy in common,
But usually the blow before the word!
Maurice.
I'm lucky in his new-born courtesy.
Savage.
You are, sir! He's a rough colt, Blasinghame.
Maurice.
Kicks, does he?
Savage.
Kicks, sir! Why do you say kicks?
Maurice.
Surely, no act more proper to a colt.
Savage.
You are something literal, sir. I'm glad of it,
Since 'twill be easier to be understood!
Well, sir, I come to you from Blasinghame.
You know not, sir, in taking up this case
Of mother Pressley's, sir, that you are doing
That which, until your coming, not a lawyer
Had done here in Missouri.
Maurice.
Shame upon them!
Savage.
Shame, say you? Wherefore, when the right of it
Is all with Blasinghame!
71
Or with his cudgel!
Savage,
[laughs.]
Something in that, too. Well, sir,—I say!—
Maurice.
Well, sir!
Savage.
Now, as you something seem to know already
Of my friend's mode of managing his case,
I need not dwell upon the policy
Of stopping all proceedings ere the trial;—
In which event I'm authorized to tell you
That Blasinghame forgives your insolent letter,
And spares you as a stranger.
Maurice.
Merciful,
As he is powerful! But what if—having
No such afflicting terror of this person,
So terrible to his neighbors, in mine eyes—
I do reject this liberal grant of mercy.
Savage.
Then, sir, I bear his peremptory challenge,
Which leaves you, sir, without alternative,
Takes no apology, no explanation,
And only seeks atonement in your blood.
[Gives challenge.
Maurice.
Or his!
Savage.
Or his! But that's no easy matter, sir;
He's fought some thirty duels in his time,
Wing'd nineteen combatants, and slew the rest,
Nor had a scratch himself.
Maurice.
Why, we may say,
As Thumb, in the great tragedy—“Enter Thumb,
And slays them all!”
Savage.
You mock, sir!—
Maurice.
Not a bit, sir!
I marvel only, after hearing you,
That still I have the courage to resist.
Savage.
You will not, sir?
Maurice.
I fear me that I shall!
Savage.
What! you accept the challenge, then?
72
I'll keep it, sir, until this trial's over.
Savage.
Beware, sir, of evasion.
Maurice.
You, in turn, sir,
Beware of insolence. You have my answer;
When I have gain'd this suit of Widow Pressley,
I'll see to that of Colonel Blasinghame.
Savage.
I must have your answer now, or—
Maurice.
The door, sir,—
Unless, indeed, you should prefer the window.
Savage.
Well! You're a man, that's certain! Give us hand.
I'm a rough beast, and like you not the less,
Because you keep a muzzle for the bear;
I feel that you will meet with Blasinghame,
And I shall see it.
[Shakes hands.
Maurice.
Very like you will!
[Exit Savage.
The game becomes of interest!
[tap within.
Clarice!
[Opens to her, she enters.
Clarice.
Art busy, Norman?
Maurice.
Have been. But,—this lady?—
Clarice.
Will you not see her?
Maurice.
Not if I can help it.
Clarice.
She is my only kinswoman, my husband—
You will not drive her from me?
Maurice.
Your only!—
You were my only, Clarice—I your only,
Until her coming! Only to each other,
Was the o'erprecious bond that most endear'd you
To my affections, wife. I cannot suffer
That she should pass between your heart and mine—
She who loves neither.
Clarice.
Nay, Norman!
Maurice.
Nay, Clarice!
This cold, coarse, selfish, this dishonest woman,
73
Clarice.
Her error,
She pleads, was but, in a mistaken fondness,
To find a suitor, for her favorite niece,
With better hope of fortune than yourself.
Maurice.
Who broke the sacred seal upon our letters,
Mine read,—yours hurried to the flames, unsent—
And would have sold you to this Robert Warren,
My enemy—
Clarice.
She confesses all, and weeps!
Maurice.
Tears of the crocodile! Believe them not.
Plead for her nothing more! I tell you, Clarice,
I cannot hold my table sure and sacred,
With one so false beside me at the board!—
I cannot yield my home, now pure and peaceful,
To such a treacherous heart as that she carries.
My home is not my home, when doubts of safety
Haunt still my thoughts by day, my dreams by night.
She must go hence!
Clarice.
Oh! husband, pardon her!
She urges abject poverty!
Maurice.
More falsehood still!
But we'll provide her;—she shall never suffer,
From cold, or thirst, or hunger, my Clarice.
I will to-day seek lodgings in St. Louis;
To-morrow—
Clarice.
But, should her pride?—
Maurice.
She has no right
To nurse her pride at peril of our peace!
No more! I will not mock her poverty,
Offend her pride, reproach her evil doing—
Will speak her kindly, and will care for her,
So long as I have strength for any care;—
But will not suffer, for a single moment,
74
[Knock without.
Come in!
Enter Cols. Mercer and Brooks.
Friends, welcome!
[Clarice curtsies as they bow, and is about to retire.
Mercer.
If we be welcome,
Your lady need not leave us.
Brooks.
That which brings us,
Is business of your own, no less than ours,—
A grateful business still, we trust, to you—
Which, doing honor to your worth and virtue,
It may be grateful to your wife to hear.
Clarice.
If such its burden, I were glad to linger.
Maurice.
Do so, Clarice!—we, gentlemen, are one!
Marriage, with us, fulfils its ample mission,
Making a mutual need for both our hearts;
Whose sweet dependence knows no other refuge,
Than that which each bestows. It is our fortune,
To have no kindred which may pass between us,
To take from either heart the sweet possession
We hold in one another. But, be seated.
Mercer.
Court now in session, sir, your time is precious,
And this great case of yours, 'gainst Blasinghame,
Comes on to-day?
Maurice.
It does.
Mercer.
A moment then?
Our friends, sir, conscious of your great endowment,
Assured of your just principles and conduct,
Your sense of public trust and public duty,
Have, with unanimous voice, in a full caucus,
Deputed us to bear you their request,
That you will be our candidate for Senator,
In the next Congress.
75
And we now entreat you,
Suffer this nomination.
Maurice.
Friends, believe me,
I feel with proper sense, this compliment;
And, if my own desire, my young ambition,
Were the sole arbiter to shape my conduct,
Then would I say to you, with hearty frankness,
My wing and eye are set upon the station,
To which your accents now implore my flight.
But, though 'twould give me pride to serve our people,
In any station where their rights are vested,
I have some scruples—
Mercer.
Pray deliver them.
Maurice.
To be a candidate in common usage,
To take the field and canvass with the voter,
To use or sanction fraud—to buy with money,
Or other bribe, the suffrage of the people—
Is to dishonor them—degrade myself!
Brooks.
We ask not this.
Mercer.
It needs not.
Maurice.
Hear me, sirs.
Our liberties are in the popular vote,
Their best security, the popular heart,
Their noblest triumph in the popular will,—
And this can never be expressed with safety,
Until the unbias'd voice of public judgment,
Flinging aside each intermediate agent,
Rises, with proper knowledge of its person,
And cries—“Behold our man!”
Mercer.
You are our man!
Such is already what is spoken loudly
By thousands in Missouri.
Maurice.
I'll not deny it—
If I had one ambition o'er another,
76
'Twas for a station such as this you show me,
Where, standing on the platform of the nation,
I might stand up for man! And so, my studies,
The books I read, the maxims I examined,—
The laws I conn'd—the models set before me,—
All had some eminence like this in view,
That, with my training, should the occasion offer,
I might be ready still! But, in my progress,—
The better knowledge I have learn'd from men—
My doubts increase—my scruples grow—and now,
A sense of duty prompts me to declare,
Though each fond idol of the ambitious nature,
Be, from its pedestal, forever thrown,
I will not seek for office on conditions
Adverse to right and manhood. I will never
Become the creature of a selfish party—
Never use wealth or fraud to rise to power,—
Never use power itself to keep in power,
Nor see in him who favor'd my ascent,
A virtue not his own! Nor can I offer
One tribute to the vulgar vanity!
I will not bow, nor smile, nor deference yield,
Where justice still withholds acknowledgment.
Mercer.
We feel the justice of your sentiments.
Brooks.
They're needful to us now, when all's corruption.
Oh! could we but inform the popular mind.
Maurice.
This can be done where virtue is the teacher,
No students learn so quickly as the people.
They have no cliques to foster—no professions,
Whose narrow boundaries, and scholastic rules,
Frown on each novel truth and principle,
And, where they can, still hunt them down to ruin.
They take a truth in secret to their hearts,
77
Thenceforth to live forever!
Brooks.
We are agreed—
The people must be taught—what should we teach them?
Maurice.
In politics, to know the proper value
Of the high trusts, the sacred privileges,
They do confide their statesmen. Show to them,
On these depend their liberties and lives,
The safety of their children, and the future!
To yield such trusts to smiling sycophants,
Who flatter still the voter's vanity,
At the expense of his most precious fortunes,
Is to betray the land's security;
To sell the wealth most precious in our keeping,
And, for the thing most worthless, yield to fortune,
What fortune cannot purchase! We must teach,
That he who cringes meanly for the station,
Will meanly hold him in the nation's eye;
That he who buys the vote will sell his own;—
That he, alone, is worthy of the trust,
Who, with the faculty to use it nobly,
Will never sacrifice his manhood for it.
If, with these principles and these resolves,
Thus freely shown you, and invincible,
Our people, through their representatives,
Demand my poor abilities,—'twill glad me,
To yield me at their summons. This implies not
One effort of my own. You, sirs, may make me
A Senator, but not a Candidate.
Mercer.
This suits us well. On your own terms we take you;
We feel with you, a stern necessity
To check the abuse of the elective franchise!
Brooks.
But should we call a meeting to enlighten
The people, in respect to public measures
78
Maurice.
No, sir, surely!
I still have done so, upon all occasions,
Whene'er a novel principle demanded
Discussion.
Mercer.
Thanks, sir! There will be to-morrow
A general meeting at the Capitol,
Without respect to party.
Maurice.
I will be there!
Brooks.
Our quest is satisfied to our desire.
Mercer.
We will no longer trespass. Farewell, madam,
Farewell, sir. We shall meet again at court.
[Exeunt Mercer and Brooks.
Clarice,
[embracing him.]
Husband, you triumph! There should be no care
Upon your forehead now! Last night, you slept not.
Maurice.
And now, you dream! But clouds will come, Clarice,
Still, with the morrow! Care that flies the forehead,
Still finds a secret shelter in the heart!—
That timid knock!
[Knock without.
Clarice.
It is the widow Pressley.
Maurice,
[opening.]
Come in, madam!
Enter Widow Pressley and Kate.
Widow.
Oh! sir, the day has come!
Maurice.
That brings you back your property, I trust.
Widow.
Alas! sir! You encourage me to hope,—
And yet I fear!
Maurice.
It is that we are liable to fear,
That we must hope. If judgment be not erring
No less than justice, madam, mine's a hope
That grows the bolder with each hour of thought.
Be of good heart, dear madam. Check these sorrows,
That wear such needless furrows in your cheeks.
79
They're old ones, sir, plough'd twenty years ago.
Maurice.
Renew them not!
Widow.
And yet, if what I hear!—
Oh, sir! they tell me that this cruel man
Hath sworn a horrible oath against your life,
If he should lose his case.
Maurice.
Ah! swears he then!
That looks as if he felt some cause of fear!
Widow.
Do not make light of it, I do entreat you!
He's a most desperate ruffian when he's thwarted,
And has the blood of many on his hands!
'Twas said he left the army for his murders,
And in his duels—
Maurice.
Let me see,—“of thirty,
Wing'd nineteen combatants, and slew the rest!”
Clarice.
Oh! horrible! How can you jest upon it?
Maurice.
I jest!
Clarice.
In truth, you smile not!
Maurice.
Do not fear!
I do not think that he will murder me.
Clarice.
Yet be not rash, my husband; take precautions,
This weapon—
[hands him a small dagger.
Maurice.
What! your dagger, my Clarice,
This pretty Turkish trifle from your bodice,
The blade mosaic—handle wrought in pearl—
The sheath of exquisite morocco, dropp'd
In gold and green! This ornament for masking,
Were a frail weapon for a man's defence!
Nay, keep your dagger, child, I shall not need it.
Clarice.
Be not so confident.
Maurice.
Be not so timid!
Who looks for danger surely happens on it!
My papers there! You go with me, dear madam.
[To widow.
Widow.
Thanks, sir!
80
Maurice.
Be hopeful: you shall keep it once a[illeg.]
[Aside to Clarice.]
I feed this hapless woman with
Such as it glads me to indulge myself,—
Yet, should I err in judgment!
Clarice,
[aside.]
Oh! should you fail!
'Twould break her heart.
Maurice.
'Twere something worse than death!
[Aside to Clarice.
But we'll not fail! [aloud.]
The courage born of virtue
Hath still a holy sanction for its hope;
And he who strives with justice on his side,
May boldly challenge fortune for success,
If he be true himself!—We will not fail!
The carriage there! Come, madam—for the Court-house!
[Exeunt.
END OF ACT THIRD.
81
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A garden in the rear of the house of Norman Maurice. Walk through a thick shrubbery. Enter Robert Warren and Mrs. Jervas.Warren.
So! So! You heard it all, then?
Mrs. J.
Every syllable.
Warren.
Glorious! But how did you conceal yourself?
Mrs. J.
An ante-room conducts us to the hall
Where they were secretly at conference;
Thither, when she descended from my chamber,
I softly follow'd. The convenient key-hole
Gave me the means, at once to hear and see them.
Warren.
Your foresight shames my thought! And so, this Maurice,
Denies that you shall harbor in his dwelling?
But this you must do! Your security
Lies in his household only! He might promise you
Your lodging in St. Louis,—board and clothing—
Ample provision for your state in future—
But once you free his household of your presence,
He whistles you down the wind. No obligation
Would bind him to the care of you hereafter!
Mrs. J.
What then? He's very stubborn in his spirit!
Warren.
Why, to be sure! The very thing, dear madam—
Your sickness will not suffer your removal:
Fatigue of travel, grief, anxiety,
Will have their penalties; and your prostration
Is such, that all the world would say 'twas monstrous
To drive you,—you, a stranger in the country,—
82
Your notion is a good one! Norman Maurice
Is not the man to urge the matter on you—
An invalid,—with feeble frame,—hot fever—
Confined to bed,—mind somewhat wandering!—
You're right! Methinks you need no counsel, madam.
Mrs. J.
I see! 'Twill do!
Warren.
'Tis excellent! So, Maurice
Accepts the Senatorial nomination,
Though still his pride revolts at working for it.
Well! He's not Senator yet. The widow's case
Will bring its perils too; and, at the finish,
I'll interpose to blight his growing glories,
And show him—Hark! a footstep—
Mrs. J.
Here she comes!
Warren.
Auspicious! Here, away; and, while you leave us, open a brief conference with her.
Meanwhile, 'tis well you put your scheme in progress;
Take to your bed, and get your nostrums ready;
Spare not your groans and sighs—a little faintness
Might well arrest you suddenly in your speech!
And—but enough. The thicket! Here, away!
[They retire behind the copse.
Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
Now all my sorrows sink into the sea,
Since Norman rises to such noble height,
The first in his desert and his desire!
Methinks, till now, I doubted of his fortune,
Nor ever felt secure from sad mischance;
The gibe of envious tongues, the jeer of malice,
The snares of bitter foes, and those dark meshes,
That still the treacherous hands of Warren spread!
These do not fright me now, and, though his presence,
83
Would seem to shadow forth some evil purpose,
Yet can I not esteem it cause of fear,
Since it were vain for such as he to struggle
Against the noble fortunes of my husband.
Warren,
[coming out behind her.]
Indeed! and yet the shaft that slew the lion,
Was but a reed beside the sedgy stream!
Clarice,
[seeing him and starting.]
Ah!
Warren.
The little scorpion issuing from the rock,
First slew the steed whose skull he 'habited.
Clarice.
Thou here again!
Warren.
If but to teach thee in philosophy!—
A pebble in the hand of shepherd slinger,
Smote, so we learn from Sacred History,
The proudest giant in Philistia's ranks.
Clarice.
And he whose presence still offends a woman,
But little dreams what champion she may call.
Warren.
I knew your champion absent ere I ventured.
Your highest pitch of voice, and greatest need,
Would never bring him timely to your succor.
Clarice.
What means this threat?
Warren.
It is no threat, Clarice;—
You will not need a champion when I'm near you.
Clarice.
And if I did, methinks, in Robert Warren
I should be loth to seek one! Why come hither,
My husband's foe, pursuing still his fortunes,
And mine, with bitter malice!
Warren.
Thee with love!
Clarice.
Who wrongs the husband, cannot love the wife!
Warren.
Clarice, 'twas in my passionate love for thee,
First grew the passionate hate I bear thy husband!
'Till thou, with fatal beauty, came between us,
He was the twin companion of my pleasures.—
84
We still together went, by hill and valley,
Beside the stream, and through th' untrodden forest,
Having no faith but in our youthful friendship,
No joy, but in the practice shared together.
'Twas thou that changed my kinsman to a rival—
'Twas thou that changed our friendship into hate;
We fell apart, suspecting both, and loathing,
When first our mutual hearts inclined to thee!
Clarice.
He did not hate thee—had no jealousy,
But still confided to thee, even his passion;
And thou—alas! audacious that thou art,
How canst thou still forget that I too know thee,
A traitor to his trust!
Warren.
Have I denied it?
I would have won thee from my dearest kinsman.
My treachery to him was truth to thee!
Clarice.
And yet 'twas fruitless! Was it not enough
That thou shouldst fail? Why now—
Warren.
Enough!
Was every passion to be wreck'd forever,
In that which had denial in thy scorn?
With love denied, was vengeance—
Clarice.
Vengeance! Ha!
Is it his life thou aim'st at now, or mine?
Warren.
Neither!
Clarice.
What then? We're separate forever,—
Our lots are cast apart,—our lives divided,—
Why, when no profit comes to thee—no pleasure,
To us, at this dark crossing of our footsteps—
Why art thou here?—Why vex us with thy presence,
To thy own deep defeat?
Warren.
In your own thoughts,
Look for the answer to this teeming question.
85
Whate'er my vices or deficiencies,
I am no simpleton, but have a cunning
That scarce would keep me profitlessly working,
Still drawing fruitless waters in a sieve!
That I should press upon your husband's footsteps,
Would prove I still had hope of my revenge!
That I should seek thee in thy secret bower,
Would show me still not hopeless of thy love!
Clarice.
Oh! vain and insolent man!
Warren.
Hold, a little!
If hopeful still of you, 'tis through the prospect
Of vengeance on your husband.
Clarice.
Face him then!
Warren.
You but increase my eager thirst for vengeance,
When you remind me of the frequent struggle,
Which ended in my overthrow and shame.
Clarice.
Is't not enough, thus baffled and defeated?—
Why thus encounter still the shame and danger?
Warren.
And if my hope lay only in my fortune—
If still my triumph waited on my strength,
And, to the skill and vigor of mine arm,
I looked to win the vengeance that I covet—
I should forego the conflict, as you counsel,
And leave your world in peace, concealing mine!
Clarice.
Well, sir—you pause!
Warren.
I would have had your thought
Supply the words of mine; but, as it does not—
Know that I look to other means of vengeance;
Not through my strength, but in his feebleness—
Not in my virtue, but your husband's vices!
Clarice.
Oh! hence!
Warren.
Yet, hear me! at this very moment
Your husband seeks the pinnacle of power;
86
The highest place awaits him in the state—
The highest in the nation! At a word,
I can o'erthrow him from his eminence,
Can make his name a by-word and a mock,
Degrade him from his rank, and, with a secret—
Clarice.
Shallow and impotent, as base and worthless!—
Hence with your secret! Me can you delude not,
Though you delude yourself. I know this secret!
Warren.
What! Your husband's forgery?
Clarice.
Your forgery?
Think not to cheat me with your foul contrivance.
You prated of his skill in penmanship—
Defied it,—placed examples in his eye—
And he, confiding—dreaming not that one,
The kinsman who had shared his home and bosom,
Could meditate a falsehood or a crime—
Wrote, at your bidding, sundry names of persons;
And, with these names, without his privity,
Your hand devised the drafts which got the money—
Your hand expended what your guilt procured,
On your own pleasures, in his grievous wrong—
And he hath paid the debt. The fatal papers,
Which might have been a means of his undoing,
Were burned before mine eyes!
Warren.
Your eyes deceived you.
I'll not deny your story of the fraud;
But, for the papers—let me whisper you—
They were not burn'd—they live for evidence—
Are now in my possession—damning proofs,
For the conviction still of Norman Maurice.
Clarice.
Oh, false as hell! These eyes beheld them burning.
Warren.
Hark, in your ear! What you beheld destroyed,
Were but the copies of originals,
87
The originals are mine!
Clarice.
Have mercy, heaven!
What will you do with them?
Warren.
What you determine.
Clarice.
What mean you?
Warren.
What! can you not conjecture?
Clarice.
No, as I live!
Warren.
What should I do with them?
Appease my hatred, pacify my vengeance,—
Wait till this still triumphant enemy
Puts foot upon the topmost ring of the ladder,
Then cut away the lofty props that raise him,
And let him down to scorn and infamy.
Another day would make him senator,
But that I step between, and show these papers,
And then the thousand voices in his honor,
Pursue him with their hiss!
Clarice.
Hellish malice!
Oh, if there be a human nature in thee,
Forbear this vengeance.
Warren.
If it pleases thee!
Clarice.
How, if it pleases me?
Warren.
See you not yet?
The alternative is yours to let him perish,
Or win the eminence that still he seeks.
Clarice.
Tell me!
Warren.
Be mine!
Clarice,
[recoiling.]
Thine!
Warren.
Ay! for nothing less
Than the sweet honey dew that lines thy lips,
The heaven that heaves in thy embracing bosom,
Will I forego this vengeance.
Clarice.
God have mercy!
88
Thou hast no papers! I must see—
Warren.
Thou shalt!
Meet me, Clarice, at sunset, in yon thicket.
Clarice.
I dare not. In yon thicket—
Warren.
Dare you, then,
Behold your husband perish?
Clarice.
You but mock.
Warren.
Wilt have me swear?
Clarice.
What oath would bind a wretch
So profligate in sin? I will not come!
My husband's honor still defies your arts,
And mine defies your passion.
Warren.
You have doom'd him!
Clarice.
Oh, say not so! You would not have me madden.
Warren.
I swear it! what I tell you is the truth.—
I have these papers, own this fearful power
Upon his fame and fortune, and will use it—
Clarice.
And—if I come?
[Looking vacantly.
Warren.
And yield you to my passion,
The papers, with the fatal evidence,
Shall all be yours.
Clarice,
[aside.]
Be resolute, my soul!
Heaven help me in this strait and give me courage.
[Aloud.]
Bring you the papers, Robert Warren; and—
Warren,
[eagerly.]
You'll come?
Clarice.
If I have strength and courage, I will come.
[Exit Clarice, slowly.
Warren.
Then mine's a double triumph! Fool!—these papers
Shall serve a twofold purpose: win the treasure,
And yet confound the keeper when he wakes!
[Exit Warren.
89
SCENE II.
The porch of the Court-house of St. Louis. Norman Maurice about to enter, accompanied by the Widow Pressley and Kate, is detained by Mercer upon the threshold.Mercer.
A word with you, if you please.
Maurice.
Go in, madam,
And find yourself a seat until I come:
I'll follow soon.
[Widow and child enter.
Mercer.
This case will keep you late,
And we this evening hold a conference,
Touching the course of the debate to-morrow;—
Were it not better you took bed with us,
And, in the mean while, lest your wife grows anxious,
Advise her, by a billet, of your purpose?
Maurice.
Well thought of. I will do so.
[going.
Mercer.
Something farther:
Catesby here tells me—but he comes: here, Catesby.
What's this of Savage?
[Enter Catesby.
Catesby,
[to Maurice.]
You've won the Savage heart.
It seems that Blasinghame misdoubts your courage,
And, as you gave no reference on his challenge,
Inclines to violence; and has bid his lambs
Gather about him to behold the sport.
Maurice.
Ah, sport!
Catesby.
And this in utter scorn of Savage,
Who counsell'd patience till the time is over,
Fix'd by you for your answer. Blasinghame
Growls sullen, and shows Savage a cold shoulder:
'Twas he himself advised that you be watchful.
90
I thank him, and feel grateful to the Savage.
As for this Blasinghame, he'll have need to growl,
When we have done with him. But farther—Catesby—
Be you convenient, and, when court is over,
Meet us at Mercer's.
Catesby.
I shall stay the trial.
Maurice.
Good. Let us in then.
[Exeunt within.
Enter Blasinghame, Savage, and others.
Blasinghame.
That's enough, Joe Savage.
Savage.
Ay, if it answers.
Blasinghame.
Answers or not, I tell you, still enough.
Your counsel's something quite unlike yourself.
Savage.
And, for that very reason, may be wisdom.
Blasinghame.
Perhaps!—but I'm not used to sudden changes.
I will take farther counsel with myself.
Savage.
Doubtless, to find the way to wise conclusions.
I wash my hands of the business.
Blasinghame.
Pray do so!
But, see you Ferguson?
Savage.
He follows us,
Yonder, with Matthews and the stranger, Warren.
Blasinghame.
Well, if all fails to bring this Maurice down,
That fellow hath a secret.
Savage.
What is it?
Blasinghame.
Why, something that should please you,—quite pacific—
For final overthrow of this man, Maurice;
But let us in. I should be rather anxious,
Having at stake a fortune on this trial.
[Exeunt within.
Enter Ferguson with books and papers, accompanied by Warren.
Warren.
You have it all, sir. At the public meeting
You boldly challenge him with forgery,
91
And summon Richard Osborne to confirm them.
Ferguson.
We'll crush him at a blow.
Warren.
'Till then, nothing!
The shame must be complete, beyond recovery.
Let him stretch forth his hand to gain the station,
In sight of all, then, in remediless ruin,
Hurl him down headlong.
Ferguson.
You are sure of him—
Your facts—your proofs, your persons?
Warren.
Sure as fate!
Ferguson.
You will not fail us?
Warren.
Would you have me swear?
Have I been wrong'd, and do I hate this Maurice?
Will hate forego the prospect of revenge?
Revenge reject the draught that quenches thirst,
And he who long has dream'd of hidden treasure,
Turn from the golden prize, at last his own?
Not, if the hell that feeds this passion fiercely,
Bestow the needful resolution for it!
Ferguson.
And this man, Osborne?
Warren.
He has had his lesson—
He'll answer when you call him.
Ferguson.
All then is true?
Warren.
As true as need be for a lawyer's purpose,
As for a foe's.
Ferguson.
'Tis very pitiful—
For, though I like him not, this Norman Maurice
Is still a man of wondrous qualities;—
But for this lapse from virtue he had been
Most perfect.
Warren.
It is well he is not perfect,
Or he had put humanity to the blush,
By showing, in rough contrast, to her shame,
92
Ferguson.
I do not like this business, but our need
Will not permit that we discuss its merits;—
We'll see you with the morrow.
Warren.
With the hour,
That hears your accusation!
Ferguson.
Good!
[Exit Ferguson within.
Warren.
Ay, good!
It could not well be better for our purpose.
The mine is sprung, the victim still approaches,
Unconscious, and my hand must fire the train!
But here comes Osborne. I must speak him sternly;
He cannot silence me with womanish scruples,—
He shall not!—Well, our scheme works famously.
Enter Osborne.
Osborne.
Your scheme; not mine!
Warren.
When will your wisdom, Osborne,
Conceive that scheme of mine is scheme of yours,—
Or should be? Now, then, hear our present purpose.
Ferguson brings the charge!
Osborne.
What! you have told it?
Warren.
Only to him; and he will keep it safely,
'Till comes the proper moment for explosion.
When our young senator, in public meeting,
Rises to answer to the public summons,
And take the coveted laurel to his brow,
Then will we loose our thunderbolt, whose bursting
Tears him to atoms.
Osborne.
What am I to do, then?
What wretched part must I play in this business?
Warren.
A minor one, 'tis true, but quite important.
You'll be my echo. When I give the signal,
Confirm my statement and complete our proofs.
93
Are you not under pledges to his wife,
To yield her up these proofs?
Warren.
Ay, on conditions.
Osborne.
Well!
Warren.
What of that? Another means of vengeance!
See you not that I strike him, through her virtue,
But not the less denounce him to the public.
I'll wheedle her with a promise to my arms,
Then mock the easy confidence that listen'd
To one she dared despise.
Osborne.
Oh, Warren! Warren!
Whither would you carry me—where go yourself?
Warren.
To hell, if need be, so I gain my object!—
Achieve the conquest that to me is heaven,
Comprising, as it must, in equal measure,
At once the joys of passion and of hate!
For you—remember, Osborne—no more scruples!
You are mine—soul, body, thought and feeling, mine—
And these shall ply as still my passions counsel,
Or woe betide the rebel.
Osborne.
Better slay me!
Warren.
Nay, you're not fit to die yet; nor could serve me
Hereafter, half so usefully as now.
At dusk, I keep the meeting with our beauty,
And thence with Matthews to a secret meeting.
Look for me home at midnight; and to-morrow—
Remember! no evasion. Fix'd as fatal,
My will nor brooks dissuasion nor defeat.
[Exit Warren.
Osborne.
Had I the heart to perish, 'twere less pain,
Than bend beneath this scourge and bear this chain.
[Scene closes.
94
SCENE III.
An apartment in the dwelling of Norman Maurice. Enter Clarice, reading a note.Clarice.
Not with me till to-morrow! 'Tis an age!
The first night separate since we were married.
Yet better thus. How could I meet my Norman,
Having this deep concealment in my heart,
Nor shudder with a weight of shame, whose crimson
Would set my cheeks on flame! How stifle feeling,
To cling in fondness to his manly bosom,
Nor speak the terrible purpose in my heart,
That said, would stifle his! 'Tis better thus!
Enough, that when I meet him—meet him—yes!—
When his dear voice is sounding in mine ears,
Full of the conscious triumphs that await him,
I then may fling myself upon his breast,
And show the dire necessity that made me
The thing I dare not name,—and plead with him,
For each prompt sacrifice of feminine feeling;
The nerve that rose above the woman weakness,
As still the tribute to his fame and safety.
He will forgive—will bless;—and if he does not!—
Should he recoil from my embrace, and show me
The crimson proof of shame upon my garments,
And cry, “thy hands, that once were white and spotless,
Are red with guilt:”—but no—I dare not think it.
Let me not look that way. Impossible!
Shall I not, while they threaten, steel my heart,
Against this dread necessity, nor tremble,
95
I bathe this white and innocent hand in crime!
I shudder, yet I shrink not. Give the power,
God, to this heart, against the coming hour!
SCENE IV.
Open space before the Court-house of St. Louis. Groups of Lawyers and Citizens.1st Lawyer.
Didst hear the speech of Maurice in this case?
2d Lawyer.
'Twas terrible!
1st Lawyer.
I never heard the like!
And when he did discourse of Blasinghame,—
His first wrong to the widow—his denial
Of the poor orphan's right—his violence
To those who strove to serve her interests—
The picture that he painted was so monstrous,
That every heart grew cold.
3d Lawyer.
And Blasinghame,
Himself—didst note him?
2d Lawyer.
'Twas another picture!
1st Lawyer.
He sat a spectacle of ghastly fury,
That had moved pity, could we have forgotten
His looks at the beginning of the case.
At first, how bold he seem'd—with what defiance;
Next, with what doubt; then follow'd his dismay—
And last, his fury; while, with impotent rage,
And something, as it seem'd, of shame and horror,
In his own spite at what the other drew,
He crouch'd at last beneath the terrible scourging,
And half escaped from sight.
96
I saw him clutching
The panel that he lean'd on, as for help,
While, beaded on his forehead, the big sweat
Still gather'd as it fell; and, on his lips
The stain of red that mingled with the foam,
Show'd how he had even bitten through his lips,
In his great agony, and knew it not.
1st Lawyer.
The judge has charged the jury!
2d Lawyer.
He was charging
Just when I left. I could not stand it longer—
As much exhausted at the stern excitement,
As Blasinghame himself.
1st Lawyer.
For Ferguson,
The up-hill work was pitiful. To follow,
With such a case, a speaker such as Maurice,
Was quite as killing to himself as client.
Nobody heard, or cared to hear, his pleading—
Not even the jury.
2d Lawyer.
What will be the verdict?
1st Lawyer.
Why, who can doubt? The insuppressible groan,
That broke from every breast—the gaze of fury
That blazed in every eye, when, pointing slowly,
And shaking with such dire significance,
The hand of Maurice fix'd on Blasinghame,
As still, with holy horror in his accents,
He spoke his wonder, that, with guilt so hideous,
He still could brave the gaze of man and justice!—
That groan and glance declared the popular judgment,
And such will be the verdict.
2d Lawyer.
Hark! that cry—
1st Lawyer.
Declares it.
[Shouts in the porch as the people rush out of the Court-house.]
1st Citizen.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!
2d Citizen.
The widow's friend!
97
The people's man forever!
2d Lawyer.
There speaks the popular heart.
1st Lawyer.
A glorious voice,
That makes him senator.
2d Lawyer.
Hark! he comes forth.
Enter Maurice, with widow Pressley and Kate, followed by Mercer Brooks, Catesby, and others. Shouts.
Widow.
Ah! sir. God's blessing on you,—make us happy,
And take the half of all you've got for us!
Maurice.
Not for the world, dear madam! I'll not forfeit
The pure delight I feel in serving virtue
For its won sake! In lifting the down-trodden,
For sake of wrong'd humanity! No more.
[People shout.
1st Voice.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!
2d Voice.
The widow's friend!
3d Voice.
The people's man forever!
Maurice
, [to Mercer.]
Let us get hence.
Dear madam, take my carriage,
And bear the grateful tidings to my wife;
Remain with her to-day while I am absent;—
To-night, as still it's like, I shall be absent,
Rejoice her with our triumph. She expects you!
Widow.
I have no thanks—no words,—my tongue is frozen.
Maurice.
'Tis that the thaw is wholly at your heart!
Go hence. Escort her, Mercer, to the carriage.
[Exeunt Widow, Kate, and Mercer.
Catesby,
[whispering to Maurice.]
Look to it, Maurice—here comes Blasinghame!
Enter Blasinghame with others.
Blasinghame.
Where is he! Let me see! Ha, give me way!
[Forces through the crowd, rushes upon Maurice, striking him with a stick.
98
Maurice.
A blow—and I no weapon! But it needs none—
When, with such powerful passions in my heart,
I feel my sinews fortified with strength,
To drag a thousand tigers to my feet.
Thus, monster, that hast trampled on a people,
Defied their virtues—at their sufferings mock'd—
Thus, with my foot upon thy stubborn neck,
I trample—I degrade thee to the dust!
[Seizes Blasinghame by the throat, hurls him to the ground, and stands upon his neck. Shouts of the people.
1st Citizen.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!
2d Citizen.
The people's friend!
3d Citizen.
The champion of the widow!
Catesby,
[interposing.]
Enough, sir. Let him rise. I'll whisper him
Where he can find us.
Maurice.
Now, within the hour!
[Catesby and Savage lift Blasinghame.
Catesby.
Colonel Blasinghame!
Blasinghame.
Where is he? Give me way!
Maurice,
[confronting him.]
Here!
Savage,
[interposing.]
Enough of this!
I see! You'll be at Mercer's. [To M.]
Maurice.
Ay, now!
Savage.
No more! Come, Blasinghame.
Blasinghame.
You, Joe!
Well, you are true, boy, and I did you wrong.
Forgive me! You will see to this. This man
Hath had his cursed foot upon my neck!
You saw it!—ha! You saw it!
Savage.
He will meet you!
Blasinghame.
Ha, Joe! Your hand. But when?
Savage.
Within the hour!
99
Good! See to it. Ha, ha. Methinks—
Savage.
No more!—
Away with me at once; you must not linger.
Blasinghame.
Methinks I could drink blood. I'm very thirsty.
[Exeunt Blasinghame and Savage.
Catesby.
Come, let us get in trim. Are you a shot?
Maurice.
No!
Catesby.
Ah! that's unfortunate!
Maurice.
You think so?—
Never you matter, Catesby: I will kill him!
END OF ACT FOURTH.
100
ACT V.
SCENE I.
A chamber in the house of Col. Mercer. Norman Maurice and Catesby discovered.Catesby.
The challenge comes from Blasinghame. This gives us
Advantages, which we should rightly use,
'Gainst one so old in practice.
Maurice.
We shall use them:—
The weapon for example. Mine's the small sword.
Catesby.
The small sword! Blasinghame expects the pistol.
Maurice.
We have the right in this and other matters;—
I waive the rest; but this we must insist on.
'Twas still my fancy, upward from my boyhood,
That, next to lance and spear, the proper weapon
For honorable combat is the sword;—
Admitting grace of movement and decision,
Allowing still discretion to the champion,—
Obeying all the changes of his temper,
And, as the enemy betrayed his purpose,
Giving him power to spare or slay at pleasure,
Or simply to draw blood and to disarm.
Catesby.
You've learn'd to use the weapon!
Maurice.
But a little!
Some confidence, at least, in eye and motion,
Grew from my youthful practice; and a passage,
With the bright rapiers flashing in the sunlight,
Was ever such a pleasure to my spirit,
That I am half content to risk the duel,
For the excitement of the keen dispute!
'Tis long since I have exercised, but nature
101
I never yet have lost. 'Tis fortunate,
That I have made provision for this practice,
And have with me two reeds of Milan steel,
In all respects so equal, that a swordsman
Would linger long to choose.—But here comes Savage!
Enter Savage.
Savage.
Save you, gentlemen.
Maurice.
Your hand, sir. We are ready:
We know your business. Here is Captain Catesby,
Who will discuss with you the needful matters.
Catesby.
Our policy demands the immediate issue,
Lest friends or officers should interpose.
Within the hour,—or, at the least, by sunset,
This meeting should be had.
Savage.
You cannot have it
Too soon for Blasinghame. You know the man!
Well! what the weapon?
Catesby.
We shall choose the small sword.
Savage.
The small sword! Why—'tis not the usual weapon.
Maurice.
As much as any other. France and Poland—
Indeed, most countries of the continent,
Where'er society allows the duel,—
Employ it—
Catesby.
And, you know, in Louisiana?—
Savage.
The pistol's the more equal.
Catesby.
Were Blasinghame,
Or Maurice, feeble, and the other strong,
That were, perhaps, an argument, but—
Maurice.
And, if the question's courage, Major Savage,
As I am told your friend is pleased to make it,
Somewhat at my expense, then, let me tell you,
Cold steel will better try the manly bosom,
102
If I remember, Colonel Blasinghame
Hath served in the army, worn the soldier's weapon,
And will not scruple at its use in season.
Savage.
Your words decide it:
You have the right—the small sword be it then.
Maurice,
[giving swords.]
Here are two noble weapons—better never
Play'd in the spiral and conflicting circle,
Above the head whose life was made the forfeit
In the delirious conflict. Take them with you;
Your friend can choose from them, or note the measure
Of that which I employ.
Savage.
At sunset, then.
Catesby.
The place?—
Maurice.
If you will suffer me—there is,
By Baynton's meadow, a sweet bit of copse,
East of it, through which runs an Indian trail:—
It leads us to a patch of open lawn,
Level, and smooth, and grassy—a fit place
For one to fight, or sleep on!
Savage.
Be it there, then.
And now I leave you, gentlemen: an hour
Remains for preparation ere we meet!
[Exit Savage.
Catesby.
You are the coolest person—for a person
That never was in combat. You will kill him!
Maurice.
Not if I'm cool enough! I fain would spare him,
Now, that I see him not. But when before me,
And I behold in him the insulting tyrant,
That robs the feeble and defies the strong
I feel a passionate anger in my heart,
That makes me long to trample him to dust!
Catesby.
What more, but seek the surgeon and the carriage!
Maurice.
I'm ready when you please.
103
Within the hour!
[Exit Catesby.
Maurice.
My poor Clarice! she sits beside the window,
And with a vacant spirit still looks forth,
Unthinking, yet still dreaming that I come.
What a long night to both—and that to-morrow!
Well! it will chide her tears, and soothe my sorrow.
[Scene closes.
SCENE II.
The entrance of a thick wood near the dwelling of Norman Maurice. Sunset. Robert Warren discovered.Warren.
The sun is at its set, and yet she comes not.
Can she have faltered—what doth she suspect,—
What fear! It sinks, and hark—her footstep.
Now comes our triumph—now!
[Retires into the wood.
Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
Oh, if I err,
I that am feeble, and though feeble, loving,—
Devoted, where the sacrifice is needful,—
Willing to die for him whose dear devotion,
Hath made it my religion still to love him—
Oh, God have mercy on the hapless error,
That grows from love's necessities alone!
If in my death his triumph may be certain,
My breast is ready for the knife. I need
No prayer, no prompting to the sacrifice,
That saves him from the wreck of all his hopes,
And honor with them. Let me now not falter!
Forgive me, Heaven, in pity to the weakness
That knows not how to 'scape. If it be crime,—
The deed, which I have brooded o'er, until
104
By which I do avoid the loathlier crime;
Let not the guilt lie heavy on my soul,
As solemnly I do profess myself,
Most free from evil purpose, and most hating
That which meseems the dread necessity
That shadows all my fortune! God have pity,
And show the way, that still unseen before me,
Lies open for my rescue! Ha, 'tis he!
Warren,
[reënters.]
Methinks, Clarice, you come reluctantly.
Your husband's fate—the dangers that await him,
That do appear so terrible to me,
Would seem to touch you not.
Clarice.
I'll not believe it!
I tell you I must see these fatal papers—
Must feel them—spell and weigh each syllable,
Ere I believe you!
Warren.
Said I not you should?
Clarice.
Show me them. I'm here.
Warren.
Come hither, then.
Clarice.
What! in the deeper darkness of the wood?
No! Here!
Warren.
What! dost forget my recompense?
Wouldst thou the naked heaven behold our pleasures?
Clarice.
Oh, Heaven! sustain me! Let me not go mad;
That I may hear unmoved this foul assailant,
Nor show, to baffling of my hope and purpose,
The loathing that I feel!
[Aside.
Warren.
The proof is ready—
Wherefore dost thou linger?
Clarice,
[eagerly.]
Ha! then thou hast it—
Here, in thy bosom—here, in yonder wood.
Warren.
Even as thou sayest—here, within my bosom;
But 'tis in yonder wood that thou shalt see it.
105
[Takes the papers from his bosom and waves her to the wood.
Clarice.
Give me to see them.
Warren.
Yes!
Clarice.
But here!
Warren.
No—there!
[Waving papers and retiring.
Clarice.
Show me! I come!
[Following.
Warren.
Yet farther. Follow me!
By yon red oak, where the dark thicket spreads,
Where silence, and her twin, security,
Brood ever, and declare for loving hearts
Their meet protection in this lonely shade.—
Thither, Clarice!
[Retires from sight, beckoning with the papers.
Clarice.
Thither, then; I follow thee!
Thou dost implore thy fate! I follow thee
Where shadow and silence both invoke with speech,
Too potent for my feeble prayer and plaint,
A shadow and a silence yet more deep!
They awfully declare a hideous worship
Where Horror sits supreme, and summons me
To make befitting sacrifice. My soul,
Be firm of purpose now. Nerves, do not falter,
When that I do demand your resolute office.
I dare not call on Heaven to help my weakness,
But from the indulgent mercy, born of Heaven,
Implore the saving grace I may not merit.
Warren,
[within.]
Clarice!
Clarice.
Ha, then, I come to thee.
Fool! thou entreat'st a Fury to thy arms,
And not a woman. Thou wouldst have my love—
Partake of my embrace—my kiss—thou shalt!
My husband—'tis for thee!
Warren,
[within.]
Clarice!
Clarice.
He calls me!
106
Another voice is sounding in mine ears,—
And many voices! One of them is Norman's,—
He calls!—he, too, implores me to the wood!
There will he meet with Warren. If he meets him,
I know what then must happen. I must thither.
His voice again. It sinks into a murmur—
Mix'd murmurs follow of a crowd! What is it,
That rolls so dully in my brain, and makes me
Uncertain of my footstep? Oh! the horror
Of this strange weakness! Ha!
Warren,
[within the wood.]
Clarice!
Clarice.
He calls!
Thrice! Thrice! It is decreed. I come—I come!
[Exit within: a moment after a cry of agony, and then a sound as of a falling body. Reënter Clarice with papers in her hand, and garments all bloody.
Clarice.
Ha, ha, I have them! I could laugh! Ha! ha!—
But for this horrible silence. Yet, I have them!
He would have kept them from me—he. Ha, ha!
But would I suffer him when he threaten'd Norman,
My husband, with dishonor—my brave husband,
That even now is rising in the nation,
Among the great, in the high places of power,
Rank'd with the men most eminent. Dear Norman!
Ha!—ha! I'm very happy now. I have the papers,
The proof, and Norman is made Senator,
Spite of this wretched liar! He'll lie no more.
He wish'd for my embrace, and sure he had it!
Such close embrace, so sharp, so sudden, sweet,
It made him shriek and shrink with such a pleasure,
As men endure not twice.
[Groan within.
God! what is that!
A footstep! He pursues me for the papers.
[Thrusts them into her bosom.
107
He comes! Home—Norman—Home! Home! Home! my Norman!
[Exit wildly, looking behind her as she departs.
SCENE III.
The wood behind Baynton's meadow. Enter from opposite sides, Norman Maurice, Catesby, Surgeon; and Colonel Blasinghame Savage, Surgeon.Savage.
Can nothing reconcile our parties, Catesby?
Catesby.
The invitation to the field is yours:
Yours still must be each overture for peace.
Savage.
What will content you, Blasinghame?
Blasinghame.
His blood!
Savage,
[to Catesby.]
I'm sorry, but you hear?
Catesby.
To business, then!
Maurice is at his post; so, place your man.
[Maurice and Blasinghame confront each other.
Maurice.
Art ready, sir?
Blasinghame.
For vengeance! You have foil'd me—
Disgraced me in the eyes of all our people,
So, look to it, for by the God that made me,
I'll write my living tortures on your heart!
Maurice.
Your blood upon your head!
[They fight. Maurice disarms him.
Blasinghame.
Curse on the weapon!
Maurice.
Curse not the weapon!—curse the hand, the heart—
The cause,—which have betrayed you;—not the weapon!
Your life is at my mercy!
Blasinghame,
[folding his arms.]
Take it, then!
I would not live dishonor'd. You may slay me,
108
Maurice.
I will not slay you. I will conquer you.
Your life is mine. I give it you. Live on,
A wiser and a better man hereafter.
Blasinghame,
[tottering and turning away.]
My strength is gone from me; my heart is crush'd.
Look, Savage,—these are tears, and not of blood.
Come with me, for I falter.
[Going.
Savage,
[to Maurice.]
You're a man
Among ten thousand, Maurice. Now, forgive him.
He weeps. The strong man weeps.—I must go with him,
But know me for your friend.
[Exit Savage following Blasinghame.
Catesby.
'Twas nobly done.
When I consider Blasinghame's career,
His brutal murders, his long tyrannies,
The provocation you have had to slay him—
I marvel that you spared him. Sir, your triumph
Is now without alloy.
Maurice.
I'm glad you think so,
Yet deem the merit of forbearance small.
Had he been bolder, I had never spared him;
But could not strike him when, with folded arms,
He stood to meet the stroke. But—let's to Mercer.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
The chamber of Richard Osborne. Enter to him Harry Matthews.Matthews.
Where's Warren?
Osborne.
I've not seen him.
Matthews.
Not since when?
109
Noon yesterday.
Matthews.
Indeed. 'Twas then we parted.
He promised to meet with me last night at Baylor's.
Osborne.
And came not?
Matthews.
No. 'Twas probable his business—
For you must know his hands are full at present—
Was quite too grateful and too full of profit,
To make him leave it soon. I marvell'd not
That he should fail us then; but now, this morning,
When, by agreement, he should breakfast with us—
And here's the hour—that he should still be absent,
Seems something strange. He must be at the meeting,
Or we are done forever.
Osborne.
What's the meeting?
Matthews.
One of both parties, meant for caucussing,
Popular wholly in its character,
Whose temper will determine our Assembly
As to its choice of Senator in Congress.
Osborne.
Ay,—indeed.
Matthews.
You'll be there?
Osborne.
Yes; I promised him.
Matthews.
Who? Warren?
Osborne.
Yes.
Matthews.
I must go look for him.
We must not risk our fortunes by delay.
His voice may help to make our Senator.
[Exit Matt.
Osborne.
Would he were dumb or I! Alas! these murmurs,
How feeble—since the fetters are about me,
And but one way remains—to curse and perish.
[Exit.
110
SCENE V.
The open street. Ferguson and Matthews.Ferguson.
What quest was that, I pray?
Matthews,
[smiling.]
I must not tell it—
A lady's in the secret.
Ferguson.
Keep it then.
But give yourself no farther care for Warren.
His last words, when we parted yesterday,
Implied his absence till the latest moment.
He'll be with us to-day, when we are ready.
Matthews.
'Twill do no harm at least to hurry him.
Ferguson.
Have you seen Blasinghame?
Matthews.
This morning? No.
Ferguson.
You know not he and Maurice fought at sunset?
Matthews.
Indeed! How did they fight?
Ferguson.
With swords.
Matthews.
What then?
Ferguson.
Why, Maurice had him at his mercy!
Matthews.
And spared his life?
Ferguson.
He did, but had been much more merciful
To have taken it,—for he has crush'd the other!
Matthews.
How! Blasinghame!
Ferguson.
Has wither'd in a night.
Matthews.
Good Heaven! Impossible! What! Imbecile!
Ferguson.
He stares in vacancy—his hair's grown white,—
He trembles as with palsy, and he weeps,
Even as an infant!
Matthews.
What a change is this!
111
He's useless to us now; and Savage grows
More friendly now to Maurice than to me.
Matthews.
This Maurice wrecks us all.
Ferguson.
But, in an hour,—
Let Warren be but faithful to his pledges,
And we shall see his vessel in a tempest,
Such as no bark can weather.
Matthews.
Be it so—
My breath shall not be wanting to the blow!
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
The interior of the City Hall of St. Louis. A raised platform in the centre. Citizens crowding about it. Chairman presiding and seated with other distinguished men. On one hand, Ferguson and others—opposite, Norman Maurice, Mercer, Brooks, &c. Norman Maurice discovered speaking.Maurice.
Thus have we, sir, discuss'd the several questions
Involved in this upon the Constitution—
I trust that, on this instrument, I speak
The doctrines of Missouri. I would have it
A ligament of fix'd, unchanging value,
Maintain'd by strict construction,—neither warp'd,
Nor stretch'd, nor lopt of its now fair proportions,
By the ambitious demagogue or statesman,
Who, with the baits of station in their eyes,
Still sacrifice the State! Our policy,
Should hold ours as a linkéd realm of nations
Where each one sits secure, however feeble,
And, pointing to the sacred written record,
112
We hold to be the creature of our need,
Having no power but where necessity,
Still under guidance of the Charter, gives it.
Our taxes raised to meet our exigence,
And not for waste or favorites—our people
Left free to share the commerce of the world,
Without one needless barrier on their prows!
Our industry at liberty for venture,
Neither abridged, nor pamper'd; and no calling
Preferr'd before another, to the ruin,
Or wrong of either. These, sir, are my doctrines!
They are the only doctrines which shall keep us
From anarchy, and that worst peril yet,
That threatens to dissever, in the tempest,
That married harmony of hope with power,
Which keeps our starry Union o'er the storm,
And, in the sacred bond that links our fortunes,
Makes us defy its thunders!—Thus, in one,—
The foreign despot threatens us in vain.
Guizot and Palmerston may fret to see us
Grasping the empires which they vainly covet,
And stretching forth our trident o'er the seas,
In rivalry with Britain. They may chafe,
But cannot chain us. Balances of power,
Framed by corrupt and cunning monarchists,
Weigh none of our possessions; and the seasons
That mark our mighty progress, East and West,
Show Europe's struggling millions, fondly seeking,
The better shores and shelters that are ours.
Enough, sir—I have yielded my opinions,
Freely deliver'd, frankly argued, fairly,
With deference to the learning and the wisdom,
113
Chairman.
You have heard, citizens; what farther order
Is it your pleasure, that we—
Mercer.
Sir, it needs not!—
The ample range that this debate hath taken,
The spacious grasp of argument upon it—
How well discuss'd the questions—how complete
And clear, the several reasons which concluded,—
Leave none in doubt of what should be our judgment.
Methinks there's but one matter now before us,
And this decided, stays the whole discussion,—
By showing, in our preference for the man,
What still hath been our thoughts upon his measures.
Well have the advocates on both sides spoken,
Not equally, but well! For Ferguson,
His eloquence honors his experience past,
And ancient reputation;—but, methinks,
That none who listen'd to the speech of Maurice,
But must have yielded to his clear opinions;—
Enforced by illustrations near and foreign,
Such full analysis, such profound research—
Statements so fairly made,—objections battled
So fearlessly—and arguments sustain'd
With so much equal truth and eloquence!
His views are mine—are those of this assembly!
Nay more—I boldly challenge in their favor
The voices of Missouri! What remains—
But that we speak to her assembled wisdom?
This day they choose a Senator in Congress—
Whom shall we name to them of all our people?
1st Voice.
Why, Norman Maurice!
2d Voice.
Who but Norman Maurice?
3d Voice.
The widow's friend—the champion of the people!
114
Such is the popular will!
Ferguson.
A moment, sir!
If eloquence and talent, just opinion,
Were the sole requisite, for this high station,
I should be silent here, or probably,
Join with you in the shout for Norman Maurice.
But truth and virtue claim a place with talent,
And he who serves, our Senator in Congress,
Must know no smutch of shame upon his garments.
Maurice.
Ha! shame, sir?
Ferguson.
That was the word, sir.
Maurice.
Shame of mine?
Ferguson.
Of thine!
Maurice.
Speak, sir; I listen.
Ferguson.
It is charged, sir,
That Norman Maurice, ere he sought St. Louis,
Was once a resident of Philadelphia;
That there he forged a paper on a merchant,
Well known, by which he gain'd two thousand dollars!
Maurice.
A falsehood! false as hell! As God's in heaven,
I never did this thing!
Ferguson.
The proof is here!
Maurice.
The proof! What proof?
Ferguson.
Know you one Robert Warren?
Ha! you are silent, sir—you start, you redden!—
Maurice.
With scorn and indignation, not with terror!
I do know Robert Warren; that base reptile
Whom thrice I spared the scourge. Set him before me,
And you shall see whose tremors speak the guilty,
And whose the innocent, aroused to vengeance!
Ferguson.
Have then your wish! Accuser! Robert Warren!
Stand forth and answer!
[Pause.
Maurice.
He dare not!
115
He will!
Maurice.
Shout for your man again. Set him before me.
Ferguson.
Call at the door, there—call for Robert Warren.
Voice without.
Ho! Robert Warren, Robert Warren! Ho!
Enter Harry Matthews hastily, and in great agitation.
Matthews.
Who calls for Robert Warren? He is murder'd,—
Stabb'd with a dagger, and was found a corse,
Within the wood behind the house of Maurice.
Here is the dagger, found upon the body,
And crusted with his blood.
[Showing dagger.
Maurice.
Murder'd! Give it me!
[Seizes the dagger, looks at and drops it.
Great God! 'tis hers! [Aside.]
Matthews.
Behold the murderer!
He staggers! It is he hath done the deed!
Ferguson.
Ay, truly,—who so like to do the deed,
As one who needs to silence such a witness.
Maurice.
Thy bitter jealousy and hate delude thee,
And make thee but a liar. I convict thee,
Out of the mouths of thine own witnesses.—
When saw you Warren last? [To Matthews.]
Matthews.
Noon yesterday:
He left me then to seek your house.
Maurice.
My house!
What would he at my house?
Matthews.
I do not know.
But know that from that hour until the present,
When now we find him by your house a corse,
He has no more been seen.
Maurice.
'Tis fortunate,
That we may get the truth from fraud and cunning,
Even when it makes against them. Noon yesterday
116
Before a thousand eyes, till four o'clock!
Ferguson.
But after that?
Maurice.
My witness here is Mercer.
Mercer.
From that hour
Till sunset, he continued at my house,
Then left with Captain Catesby, to return
With dark, and to remain with us all night,
Most part in consultation with our friends,
Who did not separate until near the dawn.
Ferguson.
Then, till this hour?
Catesby.
With me! We slept together!
Maurice.
Man of a bitter malice, art thou answer'd?
Ferguson.
Thou 'scapest the murder, not the forgery.
Warren was not the only evidence;
Where's Richard Osborne?
Osborne,
[coming forward.]
Here!
Ferguson.
All do not fail us!
Your name is Richard Osborne! You know Maurice,
And know the crime which Warren charged upon him?
He named you as his witness.
Osborne.
He did wrong, then!
I know of no offence of Norman Maurice—
Yet know him well, and all I know of him,
Hath still approved him, to my sense and judgment,
The noblest, as he is the first of men!
1. People shout.
Hurrah for that!
2. People shout.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!
Ferguson.
Confusion!
Matthews.
I'm off.
[Exeunt Matthews and Ferguson.
People,
[with cries and hisses.]
Away with Ferguson[illeg.]
Mercer,
[to Maurice.]
Your triumph is complete!
Brooks.
All's well!
117
Tell me that!—
All's well!—You spoke! Did you not say, my wife?
What of her—speak!
Mercer.
You're ill! Your lips are very pale!
But courage, all your trial's over now.
Maurice.
Art sure of that? Let me but understand it!—
Mercer.
'Twould seem so!—What a foul conspiracy,
So fatally arrested. For this murder—
Maurice.
What of it?
Mercer.
'Tis very strange!
Maurice.
Very strange indeed!
Mercer.
But stranger still the audacious charge against you.
Who was this Warren?
Maurice,
[with an effort.]
Who? but here is one,
To put you in possession of the story.
He knows how dexterously a lie was founded,
Most monstrous, on the basis of a truth,
By this same Warren, to my injury.
[Osborne comes forward.
Osborne, I thank you for your ready answer,
And good opinion.
Osborne.
It was but your right.
Maurice.
What is that cry? my fears—
[Noise without.
Enter Kate, followed by Mrs. Jervas.
Kate.
Oh! Sir! Your wife!
Maurice.
My wife! Be still my heart. What of my wife?
Kate.
She's sick! Oh! very sick!
Mrs. Jervas.
She's broke blood-vessel!
Maurice,
[with a cry.]
God! thou hast sent
This Terror, like a fate into my house,
And wreck'd the hope that nestled there in peace!—
Hence, woman, from my sight!
My wife! My wife!
[Rushes out.
118
[to Catesby.]
Follow him with a surgeon.
Brooks.
What a day's history of storm and sorrow!
There is some cruel mystery in these doings,
Which we must fathom! This conspiracy,
For such it clearly shows, makes for our party;
Let's hasten to the use of it. They'll never
Hold up their heads again. The people's with us,
The assembly waits us and will crown our triumph!
SCENE VII.
A chamber in the house of Norman Maurice. Clarice reclines upon a couch. The widow Pressley stands at a little distance watching her.Widow.
Dear lady, you will die.
Clarice.
Do not come near me!
Widow.
You bleed! You suffocate!
Clarice.
And still he comes not.
You promised me to send for him. Oh, God—
Should they behold these papers. Ha! I hear him.
Do you hear nothing?
Widow.
Nothing!
Clarice.
I hear! 'Tis he!
Maurice,
[without.]
Clarice! my wife!
Enter Norman Maurice.
Maurice.
Speak! Tell me! Where!—Clarice.
[Seeing her.
Clarice.
Oh! now you come! Heaven bless! I'm dying, Norman!
[Raises herself feebly to his arms.
119
Dying!
Clarice.
I feel it; but—
Maurice.
The surgeon! God of heaven!—
Clarice.
He cannot help me now. Too late! no succor,—
I've but the words for blessing and farewell!—
I'm sinking;—but you're safe! Safe! Oh! the rapture,
To know it, and to whisper in your ears,
With the last loving words. He would have crush'd you—
Made infamous your name, my noble husband;
But stoop,—your ear—he'll trouble us no more.
He's silent—and I have the fatal papers;—
No copies—all the originals.—Ha! Ha!—
They're here—now take me,—closer—to your heart;
I leave you—lose you—Norman. Ah! your lips,—
How cold, but sweet, my Norman—cold—sweet—Norman!
[Dies.
Maurice.
Now sink my soul!—since the bright star is gone,
That made thy life and glory from the heavens—
That stored thee with all blessings. I am crush'd!
Ha! what are these!
(lays her down gently—the papers fall from her bosom.
Oh, God! I see it all.
Oh, bloody wretch, whose nature was a lie,
This was thy work,—not hers. 'Tis plain before me.
My poor Clarice! how faithful unto death,
Shielding me at the peril of thyself,
And, in the seeming dread necessity,
Doing the deed that from its delicate props,
Shook the fair fabric of thy innocent life!
My wife! My wife!
[Sinks down.
[Noise and voices without.]
People.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!
Enter Mercer, Brooks, and others.
Mercer.
Maurice, my friend, we triumph. You are Senator
120
Maurice.
Couldst wake her with thy tidings!
Mercer.
God! This is death!
Maurice.
It lies upon her silent lips like snow.
Oh! do not speak—she hears not! why should I?
Nor sorrow, nor joy shall fill these frozen eyes,
That see not me. She would have listen'd once,
How gladly,—and found music in the triumph,
That now can bring me none. My wife! My wife!
THE END.
121
ATALANTIS; A STORY OF THE SEA.
“Tis not vain or fabulous,—
Though so esteem'd by shallow ignorance,—
What the sage Poets, taught by th' heavenly Muse,
Storied of old in high immortal verse,
Of dire chimeras and enchanted isles,
And rifted rocks.”—
Milton.
Though so esteem'd by shallow ignorance,—
What the sage Poets, taught by th' heavenly Muse,
Storied of old in high immortal verse,
Of dire chimeras and enchanted isles,
And rifted rocks.”—
Milton.
The first edition of “Atalantis” was published in 1832. It has been subsequently revised, and, I trust, amended. I am not satisfied that the dramatic form was appropriately adopted, since it leads to expectations which the character of the poem will scarcely satisfy. The advantage of the dialogue consists simply in permitting that diversification of the descriptive portions, which, in a work so purely fanciful, would seem necessary to prevent monotony.—This poem, with those pieces which follow it, belongs to a class, the standards of which are almost entirely imaginative. The reader who looks here for the merely human sentiment, will find himself at fault. The province of poetry is too various for the application of laws derived wholly from individual tastes; and he who opens the pages of an author must always be prepared to ascend that mount of vision from which he has made his survey. The highest regions of the ideal, are unquestionably such as belong to the spiritual nature. To this nature, exclusively, verse which is solely imaginative must commend itself. It is not the less human, though it may be more remote and foreign, than that which simply appeals to mortal passions, and the more earthly purposes of man and life.
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- Onesimarchus, a King of Sea-Demons.
- Count Leon, a noble Spanish Knight.
- Mendez Celer, Captain of the Arragon.
- Ogré, a slave of Onesimarchus.
- Mariners, Demons, &c., &c.
- Atalantis, a Princess of the Nereids.
- Nea, her attendant.
- Lady Isabel, sister to Count Leon.
- Zephyr-Sprit.
- Tinina, a Fairy.
- Careta, a Fairy.
- Nanita, a Fairy.
- Loline, a Fairy.
PERSONS OF THE POEM.
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ACT I.
SCENE I.
An Islet of the Atlantic Ocean.ATALANTIS AND ONESIMARCHUS.
Atal.
Get thee hence, monster, I defy thee now,
As late I scorn'd thee. Thy base threats are vain,
And thy lures idle. All in vain thy prayer,—
And, in thy promise, do I nothing see
To move my spirit;—nothing to misguide
My firm persuasion, that so foul a thing
Should have no thought of mine.
Onesi.
I prithee, hold!
Be charier of thy feelings;—have a care,
If thou dost love thyself and wouldst be free!
Beseems thee not this proud authority,
In such condition as I hold thee now.
Look round thee, lovely Atalant!—Survey
My wondrous power, and heed the prison house,
Most fit for thee to flutter in,—not fly!
Thou art my captive, maiden, bound by spells,
Potent as night, that, struggle as thou mayst,
Mock thy best effort, and defy thy hopes.
Atal.
Foul tyrant, I despise thee and thy power,
And laugh at all thy threats. I know thee well,
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That makes thee what thou art!—
Onesi.
Dost know thyself?
Atal.
Ay, my own weakness, now,—yet nothing fear
Thy greater strength in this my overthrow.
Onesi.
Thou fear'dst not this?
Atal.
I did not; yet I knew,
Even ere the moment of captivity,
That thou hadst power for this. 'Twas in my scorn,—
In the full feeling of my pride and strength,
Mocking thy gross dominion,—that I grew
Improvident of caution.
Onesi.
Yet, beware!
Lest a new lesson counsel thee to fears
Thy scorn believes not now.
Atal.
Oh! get thee hence!
Think'st thou I am so shallow, not to know
Thy close impassable limit? Am I not,
Thrice guarded in myself, with power mine own,
Match'd unto thine, and know I not that thou—
Howe'er in captive bound thou keep'st me now,
Having robb'd me of the wand that serves my will,
By a foul trickery worthy of thyself,—
Hast not the might—unless I do forget
My better nature and give way to thine—
A wretched madness, most impossible!—
To graze with licensed breath the idlest hair,
That wantons from my shoulder. Get thee hence,—
I dread thee not, thou monstrous impotence!
Onesi.
Hold! or thou wilt impel me unto wrath,
When I would love thee!
Atal.
Do I fear thy wrath?
And prat'st thou of thy love, thou crooked game-make,
Thou gross deformity!—how I could laugh
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Made for pure spirits, and the delicate grace
Of the angelic youth and morning beauty,—
But that a prison laugh is seemly sad,
And turns into a sorrow.
Onesi.
So shall thine,
If thou bethink not oft'ner of thy bound!
Thou art a sprightly and most pleasant child,
But all unlearn'd by crude adversity,
Else wouldst thou teach thyself another mood,
And reason in the guise of circumstance.
Wert thou array'd in panoply of war,
With all thy armies on the equal field,
Naught wanting to thy might, the spoken taunt
Were not unseemly;—now, it hath an air
That ill becomes thy lip and present state.
Atal.
And wouldst thou teach, oh! rare philosopher,
The prudence of compliance with the law,
Of that worst fate, a base necessity?
Why, thou'dst disfigure truth, and all distort
The fairer argument into the foul,
Make right a truckler to expediency
And conjure virtue with the spells of fear,
Till she grows common, a base thing of time,
Having but present office. Thou hast err'd,—
For, but suppose me ignorant of good,
Untutor'd in truth's excellence, and all
That virtue wills to beauty,—thee I know,
And know to hate the lesson thou wouldst teach.
Onesi.
Thou'rt rash, fair damsel, rash and ill advised!
Beware of what thou say'st—to prudence hold;
Remember, when thy spirit would offend,
Thou art the captive to my greater power.
Atal.
Thy greater cunning—thy dishonest guile!
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And that is greater power, thou simple child;—
And, as thou art a captive, let thy speech
Mate with thy fortunes. I deny thee now
A farther range than suits my jealous mood;
And I shall guard thee well, and watch thy steps,
And check thee when thou trippest. On thy paths,
My slaves, that never close the eye, attend,
And, though thou seest them not—
Atal.
I see them not!—
Thou dost forget my nature and my power;—
Let me but wave my hand thus, with a will!—
What call you this blear imp?
[She waves her hand, and Ogré becomes visible.
Onesi.
Ha! thou base whelp?
Did I not warn thee?—wherefore didst thou lurk,
Thus nigh, to feel her spells?—but thou shalt learn.
Shall I not have obedience where I rule?
Ho! Runa! Merla! take this sodden slave
And bind him to his pits against the rock,
Till midnight—let the scourge be well applied,
While his shrieks wake the drowsy mariner,
Filling his head with storms, for which they make
Fit music, and foretell!
Ogre.
Master, oh, spare!
The day grows dark, and the night rushes on,
Long ere the accustomed hour. The cruel scourge
Will torture, and the wrath upon the wave,
Will dash me into madness 'gainst the rocks.
Onesi.
Take him hence! away!
Ogre.
Spare me,—'twas my zeal
To serve thee, that o'erstepp'd. But pardon now,
I err not thus again. Be pitiful!
Merla doth own for me a silent grudge,
And will outstretch thy order. He will bind
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Will tear my flesh, then mock me with keen gibes,
Until I faint, while the cold cavern waves
Do creep about and wrap me!
Onesi.
Not in vain:
Though he doth punish thee as thou hast said,
Thou shalt not perish. Hence with him. Ye stand
As if ye did delight in his discourse,
Insolent with himself.
Atal.
Oh! thou art stern—
A tyrant 'gainst all nature, that will spurn
The kneeling wretch, but for excess of zeal
Doing thy bidding truly.
Onesi.
'Tis for thee
I punish him, fair Atalant.
Atal.
For me!
Onesi.
Hath he not hung too closely on thy steps,
Intrusive, watching thee most narrowly
Beyond my will? Shalt thou not be secure
From what offends thee?
Atal.
'Tis thou offend'st me!
Make me secure from thee, and 'gainst thy slave
I shall have instant remedy.
Onesi.
Still thus!
Atal.
Ay, ever!—while the light lasts of my life,
Thought, feeling, best affection. 'Tis for me
That thou wouldst punish him?—then set him free;—
The wrong that he has done is done to me,
And I forgive it him.
Onesi.
It fits thee well,
This ready spirit of mercy which conceives,
And grants the boon ere spoken. Not so me,
'Twere a poor state, and brief the power, if thus,
O'er-zealous though it be, each slave should leap,
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The scourge shall lessen his o'er-ready zeal,
And midnight seas, and colds, and biting airs
Shall teach him penitence.
[Ogré is led off.
Atal.
Thou cruel king!
Hadst thou by other qualities of grace
Master'd the heart that feels for thee but scorn,
This merciless act of thine had set it free;
Had robb'd it of persuasion of thy worth
In every office; and, from virtuous meed,
Had pluck'd all fair deserving, that had else
Been yielded by just tribute.
Onesi.
Thou wrong'st me;—
And chid'st too harshly the o'ercoming sway,
Which keeps dominion safe, and makes it strong.
Wouldst thou not master? Is the woman heart
Unfriendly to the pleasant tastes of power?
I know thee better,—better know thy sex—
Esteem thee as the rest,—born with the love
Of measureless rule,—the will to reach afar,
Plucking down station, putting strength aside,
Till, in the midst, alone, o'er all thou stand'st,
All fearing, all adoring!
Atal.
How thou soar'st!
And this thy aim, how fruitlessly thy rule
Is wasted on the wretched slave that cowers,
Hopeless and still submissive, to his lord.
Onesimarchus, I despise thee more,
That I have seen thee in the wid'st extent
Of thy dominion.
Onesi.
'Tis well! But thou shalt feel,—
So shalt thou better know,—how great the power
Thou mock'st at, in thy ignorance and pride!
And though, unless by wanton will of thine,
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Yet shall I so constrain thee by my arts,
So work upon thy weakness—so forbid
All bent of inclination,—all desire,—
Curtailing every thought that does not tend
To the fierce satisfaction of my want,—
That thou shalt yield thyself in very dread,
Though thy heart loathe me in its secret mood,
And every sense grow outraged at the fate
To which thou still submit'st.
Atal.
Oh! shallow slave!
This is thy precious scheme! And there thou stand'st,
With thy red gloating eye stretch'd 'yond its sphere,
Glaring with foul and fiend imaginings—
Thy lip, that quivers with voluptuous rage,
Thicken'd with vicious fury,—thy scant brows,
Retreating wide and back, with wool o'erhung,
That links thee with the sooty African
Who wallows in thy worship;—there thou stand'st,
Blinded with beastly hope, that thou canst will
A spirit so pure as mine to leave its sphere,
And come, untended and unlighted, down,
From its bright mansions, to thy pool and cave!
Till now, my thought had been that, with thy power,
There was a sense to give it dignity,
And marshal thy gross attributes with state
Into considerate order. But not now,—
When I look on thee, so incapable,—
So wanting in that art, which, when it lacks,
Strength is a toiling giant up the hills
That never wins the summit—all my hate
Subsides into a feeling less than scorn,
Which cannot yet be pity. Prithee, go,—
Thou dost but move me to unseemly mirth,
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Onesi.
Nay! give it vent and words!
Thy wit is lively; thou hast eloquence;
I feel that thou might'st chafe me, were it not
That there will be a season too for me,
When I may answer thee.
Atal.
What canst thou more?
Thou hast done all in stealing me away
From mine own kingdom with thy felon arts:
And this shall find its punishment ere long,
For, even now, in Mergevan, my town,
I do, by precious instincts, see the array
Of thousands, whom my brothers, to the war,
Will haste with meet decision. Thou, methinks,
Hast proved their arms before;—a little while,
The proofs shall be renew'd,—and what shall then
Be thy fond refuge, when their mighty powers
Descend on thee to battle?
Onesi.
Let them come!
I shall be ready then—am ready now!
Thou speak'st with a rare confidence, but know,
I took thee not, thus boldly, from thy realms,
Till I had meetly, with commission'd force,
Prepared for all thy battles. Thou forget'st
The strength I bring—the powers that, in a trice,
From farthest ocean I can call at once,
Where the deep thickens to a bed of reeds;
And from the kings that o'er the whirlpools sway,
Gather'd to my allegiance, by a blast
Upon the shell I bear within my hand.
Thou seem'st to have forgotten too, methinks,
That, by my single arm, thy mother's first,
And thy own brother, fiercest of them all,
Fell, like an infant, impotent, o'erthrown!
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Was not your city of the rocks destroy'd
By the wild waves, which, in my wanton mood,
O'erwent and left them prostrate;—while thyself,
An infant then, rock'd in a purple shell,
'Twixt two obedient billows, scarce preserved,
Wast borne away, affrighted, in the arms
Of thy most humble follower. This, methinks,
Thy memory lacks, and I repeat it thee,
Not for the glory of mine own exploit,
But to remind me of the groundless hope
On which thou build'st for safety.
Atal.
It is well!
Thou hast chosen for thy wooing a fit style,
And most judicious, when that thou relat'st
Thy bloody traffic with thyself and mine.
Onesi.
Thyself hast moved me to 't.
Atal.
I blame thee not,
Rude monster, for the evil thou hast done,
And sought beyond thy utmost power to do!
'Tis in thy nature. There is on thy front
The character of the beast. Thy savage eye,
Fix'd in thy bloated and unmeasured face,
From which it glares like some red, baleful star,
Upon a dismal, dusk, unspeaking blank,—
Hath mark'd thee strongly. Labor as thou mayst—
Speak, like thy shell, in music—let thy words
Be like the honey dews, that, on the rocks,
Nursed in the hollows, nightly fall from heaven,
A solace for the storm-bird and the gull,—
Yet art thou fatal to the spells thou hast,
And bafflest thine own art. Thou canst not change;
The beast is high o'er all, a monstrous mock,
In contradiction of itself and strength—
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Grow poisonous in thy use.
Onesi.
Oh, thou dost well,
And wisely, urging me to anger thus,
Till thou dost dissipate that kindly sense,
At variance with my spirit, which my love,
Bids live in thy behalf. Dost thou not fear,
That, vex'd by thy sharp mock and wanton speech,
My love shall grow to hatred?
Atal.
Be it so!
I heed thee not—thy anger scorn, not fear;—
Thou art of those, being the foe to truth,
That are, when friendliest, most inimical,—
And dost most harm in doing seeming good,
And art most hateful, most injurious,
When most professing love! I fear thee not,—
Though by an active cunning—and yet less,
By active cunning than mine own neglect,—
Gaining the advance upon us, thou hast made
A prisoner and dire enemy of one,
Who, in another chance, and other time,
Had never made so little of her thought,
To waste it on thee.
Onesi.
Wilt thou nothing, then,
To gain thy freedom? Thou wilt surely smile,
Look pleased in some small sort, and speak him well,
Whose power alone can free thee.
Atal.
Trust not that!
I shall be free by other means, and soon!
I barter not my grace for mine own right;—
Lest that the gift, misused, grow valueless!—
Thou hast no boon in all thy store and might
Which I can give thee thanks for. In myself
The means of freedom rest.
133
[aside.]
Ha! in herself!
I snatch'd from her the powerful wand which made
The elements do her bidding. What remains?
Atal.
A power, which as it teaches me to know
The secret thought thou speak'st not, cannot be
Wrench'd from my firm possession.
Onesi.
We shall see!
Thy instincts may declare my thought, but cannot
Avail to give thee freedom. All in vain
Thy hope, whether within thyself it be,
Or in the armies which thy brothers raise—
Here, powerless in the conflict, useless all;—
For, in the air, I've thrown a circling spell,
Borrow'd from night and silence,—which, being gross,
Far grosser than the elements which make
Your finer tempers, ye may not withstand!
This will resist them! Into this, who comes,
Not fitted like ourselves to meet its power,
Blinded and shorn of strength, falls feebly down,
And straight is thrall'd forever. All around
Our island limit, where the ocean breaks,
This element is scattered;—like a wall,
Shutting out all invasion,—closing all,
Within, from commerce with the realm without!
Thus art thou girdled now. Denied thy wand—
Which, in yon rock, within a mystic frame,
Moulded by midnight spells, in halls where rule
Thousands of spirits dethroned, I have encased
And seal'd with magic, and the mighty word
Given me at creation as a spell,
That consummates my will;—thou canst not break
The narrow circle of thy prison bound,
And taste the finer element, whose breath
Might bring thee to thy power.
134
Thy prudence well
Hath counselled thee of dangers thou must dread—
Dangers best studied in thy strong defence
And wily combinations. But thy art
Is shallow like thy power. A little while,
Watch as thou mayst, the wand is mine again,
And whatsoe'er its faculty, be sure
It shall be raised against thee. Thou shalt be
O'erthrown when most secure; and, like the bird,
Slain by its stronger fellow, as thou saw'st
Upon the morn I fell thy prisoner,
Even from thy topmost pinnacle struck down,
Thy fall shall mate thy arrogance of flight,
Beneath the lowest, low. How should my soul,
Strong among giant spirits, hark or heed
Thy profferings or thy threats? What canst thou do
To bend my purer nature unto thine,
In base extremity, unless I yield,
Wanton, and shorn of the true woman strength,—
Which finds best nutriment in innocence,
And lives mature in its own delicate essence,
A power in due degree with chastity,—
To meet thy brutal want and foul desire,
Thou that art foulest! Thou hast 'vantage won,
And when I slept thou waked'st; and I now,
For a brief season, suffer that I slept,—
That the condition of all negligence,—
When, with a subtle and dishonest foe,
Such as thou art, in certain neighborhood,
We should have watch'd with armament prepared,
And every weapon bright, and high rock lit,
Kindled with sea-spar into ruddiness!
So hadst thou shrunk away, scared by the blaze,
Cowering, with backward terror, till the sun,
135
Leaping from off his billowy bed at morn,
No cloud about his brow, and strong from sleep,
Drives thee, with glittering shafts that never fail,
Blinded and bellowing to thy marshy gulfs.
Onesi.
Dost thou exult, and is my fate so sure,—
And shalt thou have thy liberty so soon,
As thou dost fancy? Then, a gentler speech
Had better graced thy lips as conqueror,
Over the feeble foe thou canst not fear.
But let me win thee to some fair constraint
Of seeming amnesty. A truce awhile,
To this so keen and profitless retort,
Which keeps us thus asunder. Let us each
Heed reason from the other. Thou hast said,
With hope 'yond expectation, that thou look'st
For soon and certain help. I see not this
Present or in far prospect; nor beyond,
In the imperfect future, can I frame
The aid thou look'st for from thy tribute realms.
These things affright me not as once before,—
My kingdom as it is, all well prepared
To keep its own, and conquer, right or wrong.
Its barriers shut out hope from thee, unless
Thou swerv'st my settled feeling, which thou mayst
By seasonable yielding—so shall both
Our anxious purpose win;—thy freedom thou,
And I, the sweet accomplishment of that
Which flames desire within me! Well I know
My power can go no farther than thou will'st,
In this so dear condition,—but thou art,
My prisoner still—and that may move thy wish,
Not capable of liberty unless
My will shall break thy fetters. Hear me then,
136
Atal.
Speak! I hear!
Onesi.
Become my bride,—nay, patiently!—smile not—
My queen, if better lists thee. On my throne,—
Thou hast beheld its state,—of emeralds made,
Each one a crowning and a marvellous gem,
Set round the spacious bosom of a shell
Torn from a fierce sea-monster—one who bore
The miracled wonder on his glittering back,
And battled for it as became its worth,
Nor lost it ere his life;—thy hand shall wield,—
Fit hand for such a rule!—a sceptred wand,
Pluck'd from an ocean cave of farthest Ind,
By ancient giants held,—a pillar'd spire,
Of holiest sapphire, which at evening burns
Deeper than ever sunlight, and around
Lights up the sable waters many a league,
From sea to shore, till the scared 'habitants
Fly to their cover in the wood, nor dream
How sportive is the sway of that Sea-Queen,
Who rides the waves and makes them smile by night.
Atal.
Oh! wonderful! most wonderful!
Onesi.
Dost scorn?—
But let me not be anger'd. Hear me still.—
These are but shown thee to declare the fruit,
The effect, perchance, but not the source of might,
So fertile as is mine. But thou shalt know,
That, of the full division of these seas,
One part of which thou hold'st, the great'st is mine;
My realm the wid'st; and, of the numerous powers
That hold dominion in these provinces,
Most are to me as tributary bound,
Sworn to my bidding, subject to my will,
Compell'd for peace and war! These, if I bid,
137
Unmatchable by all the tribes that swarm
Thy cities, when the starlight wakes the dance.
Atal.
I know not that! The kingdom which I hold
Though in extent less spacious, is not less
Proportion'd to the incidents of war!
Thou hast wide realm of sea, but scatter'd tribes;
Canst gambol hugely when the waves are smooth,
With uncouth legions; but when sounds the gong,
Struck sharply on our headlands, they go down,
Sudden, in search of shadowing slime and reeds,
Forgetting all their state and mocking thine,
Indifferent where they hide. Thou mayst o'ercome
The sluggish monster, that, upon the deep,
Slumbers at noonday,—winning, with his life
The useless glitter of his cumbrous shell;—
But, for becoming enemy, thou hast
But little armament of serious force,
Save, as I said, in fraud and stratagem.
Art answer'd?
Onesi.
Wouldst thou more?
Atal.
Oh! say thy thought!
Onesi.
Meetly indulgent for a captive maid.—
I will proceed, and leave thee to decide,
Whether, a free and queenly mistress, thou
Ascend'st a monarch's throne and shar'st his rule,
Strong in sustaining majesty and pride,
Or, vainly chafing at thy prison bar,
Rav'st for the freedom that but mocks thy sight,
In gleams of blessed sky, or sudden breath
Of zephyr from the seas, or glimpse of wing,
Lustrous in noonday sunlight, that thou see'st
Disparting the white clouds!
Atal.
Go on! Go on!
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Three princely cities own my single rule,—
Hamlets unnumber'd,—homes that, scatter'd wide,
Hath each a mighty circle for a court,
Might clasp your utter empire. Plain and cave
Are thus made rich in dwellings for a tribe.
Each rock hath its high palace. Not a wave
Spans its receding billow but o'erswims
Some golden habitation; where the light,
A mitigated splendor, like the moon,
Without its chill and solitude, comes down
From empires where a thousand suns abide,
Struggling with rival splendors to inflame
A thousand realms like ours. There, subtle gems,
With glories such as starlight flings on earth,
Adorn the innoxious serpents, that for aye
Through the long hours, with toil that mocks fatigue,
Nightly replenishing their founts of light,
Trail through the giant groves, and meet in vales
Whose lavish wealth, in absence of the sun,
Still recompense his beams. There shalt thou see
Rocks, in their own gifts marvellous, at stroke
Of wondrous masters, spring to palaces;
And, at a word, as thou hast cause to know,
Fair islands, flush with flowers, and rich in airs
Of most persuasive odor, break the deeps,
And gather in the sunlight. And again,
Even at the will of him whose sovereign power
Thou mock'st at in thy mood, evanishing,
Forget they had existence;—cheating thus
The gaze of simple mariner, who dreams
That, towards evening, he beholds the land
And cries it to his fellows,—who straight cheer
The hungering hope within them, while they spread
The broad and yellow sail, and urge their prows,
139
Some hazy cloud, that hangs with mocking skirts
Where slept the wooing land as night came down.
Atal.
Ay, thou art all a cheat! 'Tis like thyself
To mock the weary heart, and still to vex
The sick soul's expectation. But thy power,
As thou describ'st it in thy fairest speech,
And most imploring aspect, moves not me,
And wins me not in wonder or in love.
The simple mariner who needs the barque,
Which, in their reckless mood, the waves may wreck,
And wanton winds destroy, affords, methinks,
But little trophy, with his bleaching bones,
On desert sands, and isles beyond thy gulf,
To him who conquers thus, even by a will,
Without the joy of conflict. Spare, I pray,
Thy farther story. Breathe, and let me breathe,
Some purer air than that which from thy lips
Assails each wholesome sense with sickliness.
Onesi.
Wilt thou not hear me?
Atal.
Can I else than hear,
Close girt as my poor fortunes find me now?
Wer't in my will, thou shouldst play orator
To things of thy own fashion, not to me!
Thy jewel-headed serpents, the huge beast
Thou rid'st to war, and whom, when met by foes
Thou canst not baffle here, thou send'st to land,
To trample down the cities of the tribes
That only wet their feet within thy waves,
To bring down ruin on them. Go to these,
And tell them of thy prowess and thy wealth!—
Nor these, nor thee I heed, and would not hear.
Onesi.
Thou bind'st thy fetters faster with each word!—
But ho!—That signal breaks my farther speech.
140
Comes some adventurous barque that must be stay'd,
And punish'd for its crime. We must not have
Thy presence mock'd with such vile things of earth,
That know not of the rarest beautiful,
Such as adorns thy virtues—makes thy form
Itself a virtue of the beautiful,
That spells all best affections at a glance,
And makes them slaves forever. I must speed
And save thee from these wretches, who shall taste
That power which thou defy'st. But now look forth,
And see the great ship shatter'd into foam;
Fierce, rending wings among its cloud broad vans,
And mounting billows darting up its sides
To drag it down to ruin. Lend thine ear
To the wild music of men's cries;—their shrieks
That the storm mocks, and the ascending seas
Stifle in their own murmurs!—It will need,
Fair Atalant, I leave thee:—yet, ere day
Hath fully, in the chambers of the deep,
Ta'en off his pinions;—ere this gentle eve,
With eyes of ever-dropping dews, hath shut
The sweet unmurmuring flowers,—and bade the night
Summon upon her realm the spirit airs
That all subdue to silence—the voiced things
Of myriad elements and agencies,
That breathe beneath the moon—I shall return
To seek thee with a hope;—ah! not in vain,—
Eager for fitting answer to that prayer
That else must be the stern authority
Of will that breaks resistance. Till that hour,
Thou hast for calm reflection;—let it teach
A sweet response of sympathy to mine,
And love as yielding soft as mine is fond—
141
Atal.
Thou know'st I have no fear!
Get thee hence, monster, to thy work of dread,
Since prayer may never move thee. Thou'st no art
To work upon my terrors. My spirit is made
Of essence far more confident than thine.
Rather thou tremble, that, as I am pure,—
For so the ruler that we all obey
Hath will'd it—and most haply will'd it too—
I may command to use the spirits who rule
O'er the unclouded seasons—those who glide,
Through the illumined mansions of the night,
Teaching the stars their watches—those who sway,
With melodies of power, all elements—
And of the zephyr from the south and west,
The voice that comes with morning, and declares
The hour when day shall droop,—can call a spell
To dissipate the darkness, and dispart
Thy blackest shapes of storm.
Onesi.
When thou art free!
Atal.
Alas! that I were free,—then should'st thou feel,
And fly, and learn to spare!
Onesi.
Now, I despise
And, as you speak their agencies, defy
The entire realm of air, the stars, and all,—
Your spirit of the south and of the west,
Your voice of night and morning, and their spells;—
Your tiny tribes, your coral queen—the hosts,
Myriads of lesser power and feebler wing,
That make your choice dominion—all I scorn!
And, but that mine own want would have thee grace
With milder seeming this same prayer of mine,
I should devote thee, heedless of the youth,
The glory and the beauty of thy form,—
142
Stands up a rich perfection, born to shine,
In any world of loveliness, the first—
To the same ruin and destruction sure
Thou hold'st for the most hateful enemy.
I love thee not to pleasure thee, or give
A satisfaction craved. I please myself,
And nothing care for others. I play not
The wary hypocrite, but speak my thought,—
My will, even as it rises to my thought;—
Nor seek I for thy love, but only seek
For such equivalent as may suffice,
In love's own absence, my enamored sense.
Thou hear'st me?—and thou know'st me! It is well!
Be wise while thou art wary. I depart.
[Exit Onesi.
Atal.
Ay, go, thou loathsome! Thou hast fill'd the air
With foulness, and my breath is scarce more free
Than the poor form thou hast fetter'd by thy fraud!
Thou, as thy menace, from my thought depart:
I scorn thee and defy thy utmost power!
Thou hast no art to win me to thy will,
And, until I, forgetful of myself,
Do so declare me, thou canst never bend
My spirit to thy purpose. I behold,—
Though in what shape it come I may not see,—
My liberation sure. Awhile, awhile!
Sweet patience in my circumscribed bound,
Give me thy succor. Ere the moon shall soar
Thrice from her saffron chamber—ere the winds,
Sporting thrice round the red embodied day
Shall win him into smiles with melodies—
And, ere the wing'd stars, through the misty vault,
Gleam thrice upon the troubles of the night—
I shall be free this monster's pestilence.
Come hither to me, Nea. Thou, at least,
143
That knows not his own power, and little dreams,
Of captive but the one. Hither to me,
And let my sad eyes freshen with the sight,
The picture of the gentler clime and race,
In thy perfections, damsel. Wake thy shell,
And with a sweet song from its purple depths,
Call up the happier fancies that preside
O'er the dear hopes we see not. Let me lose
The turbulent thought within me!
SCENE II.
—The same.Atalantis, Nea.
Nea.
Mistress, here!
Atal.
Thy sweetest song, my Nea.—
Such as he sings, the spirit of the shell,
That brooding in his billows never sleeps,
For longing of his home, and still who hears
Its voices, breathing ever sighs of love,
In echo to his own, by ocean's marge,
Telling of purple islets in the deep,
Where first he won his wings and whence his voice.
SONG OF THE SHELL-SPIRIT.
I.
I am of the sprites of ocean,Dweller there, the gentlest one,
And I take my airy motion,
When the day is done;
It is mine, the voice that rouses
All the lovely tribes of sea,
From their tiny coral houses,
Glad to wake with me.
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II.
When the sun, in ocean sinking,Leaves to fairy power the earth,
When the night stars, slowly winking,
Bid the winds have birth:
Gently o'er the waters stealing,
Mine's the song that sweetly flies,
Wooing to one common feeling
Ocean, earth, and skies.
III.
Loveliest of the zephyr's daughters,Born to breathe in bloom and shine,
I can still the angry waters
With a breath of mine.
Not a stronger spirit rideth
O'er the rolling waves than I;
Not a lovelier shape abideth
'Neath the tropic sky.
Atal.
Sweet is the air thou sing'st! Ah! would 'twere true!
Would that our spirit of the shell had power,
Such as thou brag'st of;—it were easy then,
Flung by our billows on this sultry isle,
To conjure up a service at his wings,
Might give us present freedom. Thou hast themes,
Might better suit our state than this, which mocks
Our hearts' best wishes. One of these, my girl,—
Some ditty of old romance, such as our realm—
A spacious province, where the wand'ring thought
And wilder'd fancy, erring, may be lost—
Owns without limit. Thou canst meetly sing
Of bearded-white Ogrear, the giant king,
Who, with the music of his magic horn,
Subdued, and to his pastures midst the rocks,
145
Is a huge mountain, rolling on the deeps,
Unconscious of his load, though on his back,
Rode the old wizard's tribe—his giant sons
And daughters, an unnumbered family,
That sung in concert to the old man's horn,
Until the monster, drowsing in his path,
Yielded himself, as fast fix'd as an isle,
Through the long summer's day. This were a theme,
Might make us half forgetful that we weep
As fettered as was he. And other themes,—
The gloom that hangs above the prison-house,
Might challenge something from thy memory,
More kindred to the touch of mournful thoughts.
Let thy song teach us of the coming hour,—
Sad time,—when on the perillous journey bent,
We pass the untravell'd valley, till we find,
That other province of delay,—that home,
Of temporary refuge, dark or bright,
As suited to the service we have done,
In past conditions;—other seas, perchance,
Unvex'd by contact with rebellious power,
Such as offends us here;—a happy realm,
Whose provinces are lit by countless smiles,
From the benignant presence of a God,
Whose will is born of love!—or, saddest thought,
Descending from our grade, in baser shape,
Doom'd in the mansions of sea-weed to dwell,
Thence only darting, under cruel impulse,
And chasing, with a terrible agony,
The wild and staring mariner, grown weak,
And hopeless of the shore, his straining balls
Shall never more encounter.
Nea.
None of these!—
146
But I would rather from my memory call,
Some of those ditties sung in happier days,
Which thou hast bid me thrice and thrice repeat,
And ever with the tear within thine eye,
Which spoke thy pleasure—when, upon the close,
Thou didst, unconscious, with mine own chime in
The murmurs of thy melancholy voice,
Till the vex'd waters, wroth with overflow,
Subdued their sullen crests, in service rapt,
And, at thy feet, in murmurs like thine own,
Grew captive to our song. There is one strain
Methinks might glad thine ear, of Coraline—
One of those gentle damsels of the groves,
Whom sometimes we see sporting on the isles,
Amidst the flowers, when first upon the sky
The moon's bright sickle glows. She taught it me;—
It tells of love, and how they love, and speaks
So truly of the passion, that meseems,
It must have first been wrought within our cells,
And borrowed by these warblers of the wood.
Atal.
Sing, if it speaks of love. Such song, methinks,
Must only make more hateful our constraint,
Upon this loathsome isle. I hearken thee.
SONG OF CORALINE.
I.
Be at my side when the winds are awaking,Each from his cave, in the depths of the night;
Fly to our groves, till the daylight comes breaking,
Fresh from the east with his tremulous light.
When the stars peer out in the blue deeps of even,
When the crowd is at rest, and the moon soars apace,
147
Be thou, beloved, at the love-hallow'd place:
Come in thy beauty and lightness,
Bright-eyed and free-footed, oh! dearest one, come,
Filling the dark wood with brightness
And crowning the green hill with bloom;—
Such bloom—the heart-chosen for thousand sweet groves,
As is dear to the wood-nymphs and born of their loves.
II.
In the spirit of beauty, bewitchingly tender,Fly to my bosom, beloved of my heart;
Thy lip bearing sweetness, thine eye giving splendor,
Thy smile shedding rapture wherever thou art;
And while the pale moonlight is round and above thee,
While the leaves twinkle soft in the breeze o'er thy[illeg.]
Hear, dearest rose of my heart, how I love thee,
And treasure, sweet spirit, my vow.
Come! while the night-gems are glowing,
Each in his orb, over forest and sea,
Less glory, thought bright in their beauty, bestowing
Than that which now hangs about thee.
Fly to me, blest, in this gentlest of hours,
Outshining the planets, outblooming the flowers.
Atal.
Thy song delights me not—nay, not thy song
That fails, the softness of thy linked words,
Or melody of thy music;—in my heart,
Lies the defect of sweetness—which comes not
To take the shadow from our prison-house.
It is the captive's spirit that complains,
Not Atalantis.
Nea.
Would I could cheer thee, mistress.
Atal.
Thou shalt, my Nea.—Speed thee round this isle,
And mark what thou behold'st. 'Tis not in thee
To shrink from contact with the heavy earth,
Its damp and vapor. But to us, who are
148
That yields this monster tribute.
Nea.
We've some range,
Sweet mistress! and I prithee wend with me,
As near we may, the borders of the sea,
Looking towards our province. Better airs
Methinks, will come to cheer us into smiles,
From waters that we loved; and newer hopes,
As we look out upon the waste beyond,
Will freshen us with strength. Along the sea,
Some little range is left us. There we may
Call up sweet fancies from our dreams of hope,
And feel the wayward spirit wake to life,
Surveying the blue waters and our home!
Atal.
I'll go with thee! I pine for the sweet airs
Of my own Mergevan.
Nea.
They'll seek us out,
With loving consciousness of that we seek.
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ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Ocean: the islet of Onesimarchus in the background— a ship in the distance, approaching. The Zephyr-Spirit rides upon the billow.Zephyr-Spirit.
It is a gallant vessel, and it bends,
To the new islet of Onesimarch;—
That bigot and most brutal arbiter
Of eighty leagues of ocean. He hath rear'd,
In the past day, these undetected rocks,
Whose subtle currents, by his strategy,
Will suck the unconscious vessel to the snare;
Baffling the untutor'd mariner, whose skill
Might vainly hope escape, within the jaws
Of this dread artifice. Now, in the deep,
Will I dispose myself; and, by my art,
Conceal'd in folding billows, in the guise
Of green-hair'd maid of the waters, with a song
Still gently studied to invade his sense,
Will teach him of the danger he may 'scape
By seasonable flight. A human voice
'Tis mine to mingle with these ocean tones.
And, by a sweet mysterious sympathy,
That ever still its benefit declares
To the unslumb'ring instinct, will I teach
The error of his prow. Haply, by this,
His way he may regain, and newly trim
His prone and headlong sail, that, steering thus,
Must soon encounter with the treacherous rocks,
150
Of swift concealment from his eager sight,
A sudden cloud is spreading o'er yon heap
Of crested waters. There will I imbed
My many folds of form, while, with my voice,
I frame a music for this mariner,
Not to beguile him with fresh fantasies,
But wake him to the peril in his path.
[Scene changes to the deck of the ship. Count Leon musing at the side.
Leon,
[solus.]
I have been drowsing sure,—yet what a dream,
So strange to earth, so natural to romance;—
And such wild music;—hark!—it comes again.
SONG OF THE ZEPHYR-SPIRIT.
I.
I have come from the deeps where the sea-maiden twines,In her bowers of amber, her garlands of shells;
For a captive like thee, in her chamber she pines,
And weaves for thy coming the subtlest of spells;
She has breathed on the harpstring that sounds in her cave,
And the strain as it rose hath been murmur'd for thee;
She would win thee from earth for her home in the wave,
And her couch, in the coral grove, deep in the sea.
II.
Thou hast dream'd in thy boyhood of sea-circled bowers,Where all may be found that is joyous and bright,—
Where life is a frolic through fancies and flowers,
And the soul lives in dreams of a lasting delight!
Wouldst thou win what thy fancies have taught to thy heart?
Wouldst thou dwell with the maiden now pining for thee?
Flee away from the cares of the earth, and depart
For her mansions of coral, far down in the sea.
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III.
Her charms will beguile thee when noonday is nigh,The song of her nymphs shall persuade thee to sleep,
She will watch o'er thy couch as the storm hurries by,
Nor suffer the sea-snake beside thee to creep;
But still with a charm which is born of the hours
Her love shall implore thee to bliss ever free;
Thou wilt rove with delight through her crystalline bowers,
And sleep without care in her home of the sea.
Leon.
Most sweet indeed, but something in the spell
Proclaims it cold. Even were the precious love
Such as this music speaks of, 'twere enough
To palsy passion in the human heart,
And make its fancies fail.—My Isabel.
Enter Isabel.
Isabel.
What wraps you thus, sweet brother? Why so sad,
When thus so trimly speeds our swanlike bark
O'er the smooth waters? But a few days more,
We tread the lovely island that we seek,
Whose bowers of beauty and eternal spring
Recall the first sweet garden of our race,
Before it knew the serpent. Dost thou sadden,
That thus we near those regions? Art thou sick,
Dear brother, that such vague abstraction creeps
Over your eyes, that seem as 'twere in search
For airy speculations in the deep?
Leon.
Thou'rt right!—An airy speculation sure,
Since I can nothing see to speak for it,
And tell me whence it comes.
Isabel.
What is't thou mean'st?
Leon.
A moment,—stay! Now, as I live, I heard it
Steal by me, as the murmurs of a lute
From thy own lattice, Isabel.
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What heard'st?—
What is it that thou speak'st of?
Leon.
A strain of song,—
That crept along the waters from afar,
Softly at first, but growing as it came
To an embodied strength of harmony,
That spoke to all my joys. It bore a tone
Slight as a spirit's whisper, born of love
In aspiration,—such as innocent youth
Acknowledges at first, ere yet the world
Hath school'd it through its sorrows to caprice.
'Twas like thy own sweet music, Isabel,
When out among our Andalusian hills,
We play'd the dusk Morisco for a while,
Grown wanton in the moonlight with the flowers
That seem'd to sing us back. Oh! thou shouldst hear,
To sadden with its sweetness.
Isabel.
Thou hast dream'd!
Whence should such music come?
Leon.
Ay! whence indeed,
But from some green-hair'd maiden of the deep,
As still our legends tell us such there be,
That, sitting on the edge of lonely rocks,
Midway in ocean, loose their flowing locks,
And, with strange songs, discoursing to the waves,
Subdue their crests to service.
Isabel.
As the tale
Of Nicuesa pictures. Wouldst thou hear?
Leon.
Sing it, my Isabel.
Isabel.
'Tis something like
Thy fancy,—nay, has been the making of 't,
While thou wert dreaming. But thou didst not dream.
153
BALLAD.
I.
'Mong Lucayo's isles and waters,Leaping to the evening light,
Dance the moonlight's silver daughters—
Tresses streaming, glances gleaming,
Ever beautiful and bright.
II.
And their wild and mellow voices,Still to hear along the deep,
Every brooding star rejoices,
While the billow, on its pillow
Lull'd to silence, sinks to sleep.
III.
Yet they wake a song of sorrow,Those sweet voices of the night;
Still from grief a gift they borrow,
And hearts shiver, as they quiver
With a wild and sad delight.
IV.
'Tis the wail for life they wakenBy Samana's lonely shore;
With the tempest it is shaken,
The wide ocean is in motion,
And the song is heard no more.
V.
But the gallant bark comes sailing,At her prow the chieftain stands;
He hath heard the tender wailing—
It delights him—it invites him
To the joys of other lands.
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VI.
Bright the moonlight round and o'er him,And, oh! see, a picture lies
In the yielding waves before him,—
Woman smiling, still beguiling
From the depts of wondrous eyes.
VII.
White arms toss above the waters,Pleading murmurs fill his ears,
And the Queen of Ocean's daughters,
Heart alluring, love assuring,
Wins him down with tears.
VIII.
On, the good ship speeds without him,By Samana's lonely shore;
They have wound their arms about him,
In the water's—ocean's daughters
Sadly singing as before.
Unhappy Nicuesa!
Isabel.
Such his song,
And, with the ocean murmur in thy ears,
Thy fancy, in thy dream, hath made it thine.
Leon.
I did not sleep or dream, my Isabel;—
I heard this wondrous music, even now,
When first I summon'd thee. I grant it strange
That it should syllable to familiar sound,
Boyhood's first fancies, of fair isles that lie
In farthest depths of ocean,—jewell'd isles
Boundless in but imaginable spoils,
Such as boy-visions only can conceive
And boyhood's faith admit.
Isabel.
And still thou dream'st!—
155
Grown fresh beneath the force of circumstance,
And the wild fancies of this foreign world,
Still carry thee away,—till thou forget'st,—
As still the wisest may,—the difference
'Twixt those two worlds,—the one where nature toils,
The other she but dreams of.
Leon.
'Twas no dream!
It comes again! Now hark thee, Isabel—
It is no murmur of the deep thou hear'st!
It hath a voice not human,—not unlike—
And sings, as still a spirit might sing, that wills
To do humanity service. Hark!
Isabel.
I do!—
Yet I hear nothing.
Leon.
Sure, I did not dream!
'Twas like the zephyr through a bed of reeds
Sighing as 'twere at cheerlessness of home,
In the approach of winter.
Isabel.
Oh! no more!—
Thou art too led astray by idle thoughts,
Dear Leon;—dost possess thee of the hues,
Shed by the passing cloud, and mak'st thy heart,
Still the abiding place of hopeless fancies
That waste thy strength of will. Thou art too prone
To these wild speculations.
Leon.
Hear it now!
My fancy trick'd me not,—my sense was true,—
It comes again, far off, and very fine,
As the first birth 'twixt silence and his dame,
The mother of the voice. Now, Isabel,—
Thine ears are traitors if they do not feel
That music as it sweeps by us but now.
Isabel.
I hear a murmur truly, but so slight—
156
Drawn suddenly.
Leon.
Art silenced? It is there!
ZEPHYR-SPIRIT.
In the billow before thee
My form is conceal'd—
In the breath that comes o'er thee
My thought is reveal'd—
Strown thickly beneath me
The coral rocks grow,
And the waves that enwreath me,
Are working thee woe.
Leon.
Didst hear it, Isabel?
Isabel.
It spoke, methought,
Of peril from the rocks that near us grow.
Leon.
It did, but idly! Here can lurk no rocks
For, by the chart which now before us lies,
Thy own unpractised eye may well discern
The wide extent of the ocean—shoreless all;
The land, for many a league, to th' westward hangs,
And not a point beside it.
Isabel.
Wherefore then,
Should come this voice of warning?
Leon.
From the deep:
It hath its demons as the earth and air,
All tributaries to the master-fiend
That sets their springs in motion. This is one,
That, doubting to mislead us, plants this wile,
So to divert our course, that we may strike
The very rocks he fain would warn us from.
Isabel.
A subtle sprite—and, now I think of it,
Dost thou remember the old story told
157
Of an adventure in the Indian seas,
Where he made one with John of Portugal,—
Touching a woman of the ocean wave
That swam beside the barque and sang strange songs
Of riches in the waters;—with a speech
So winning on the senses, that the crew
Grew all infected with the melody,
And, but for a good father of the church
Who made the sign of the cross and offer'd up
Befitting prayer, which drove the fiend away,
They had been tempted by her cunning voice
To leap into the ocean.
Leon.
I do, I do!
And, at the time, I do remember me,
I made much mirth of the extravagant tale,
As a deceit of the reason;—the old man
Being in his second childhood, and at fits,
As wild, in other histories, as in this.
Isabel.
I never more shall mock at marvellous things;
Such strange conceits hath after time found true,
That once were themes for jest. I shall not smile
At the most monstrous legend.
Leon.
Nor will I!—
To any tale of foreign wonderment,
I shall bestow mine ear nor wonder more;
And every image that my childhood bred,
In vagrant dreams of fancy, I shall look,
To find, without rebuke, my sense approve.
Thus, like a little island of the deep,
Girdled by perilous seas, and all unknown
To prows of venture, may be yon same cloud
Specking, with fleecy bosom, the blue sky,
Lit by the rising moon. There, we may dream,
158
Throng the assembled fairies, perch'd on beams,
And riding on their way triumphantly.
There gather the coy spirits. Many a fay,
Roving the silver sands of that same isle,
Floating in azure ether, plumes her wing
Of ever-frolicsome fancy, and pursues—
While myriads like herself, do watch the chase—
Some truant sylph, through the infinitude
Of their uncircumscribed and rich domain.
There sport they through the night, with mimicry
Of strife and battle,—striking their tiny shields
And gathering into combat; meeting fierce,
With lip compress'd, and spear aloft, and eye
Glaring with desperate purpose in the fight;—
Then sudden—in a moment all their wrath
Mellow'd to friendly terms of courtesy—
Throwing aside the dread array and link'd,
Each, in his foe's embrace. Then comes the dance,
The grateful route, the wild and musical pomp,
The long procession o'er fantastic realms
Of cloud and moonbeam, through th' enamor'd night,
Making it all one revel. Thus, the eye
Breathed on by fancy, with enlargéd scope,
Through the protracted and deep hush of night,
May note the fairies, coursing the lazy hours,
In various changes, and without fatigue.
A fickle race, who tell their time by flowers,
And live on zephyrs, and have stars for lamps,
And night-dews for ambrosia; perch'd on beams,
Speeding through space, even with the scattering light
On which they feed and frolic.
Isabel.
A wild dream!—
And yet, since this old tale of Diaz Ortis,
159
Perchance, not all a dream.
Leon.
Yet, may we doubt!—
There may be something in this marvel still
Of human practice. Man hath wondrous powers,
Most like a God;—that, with each hour of toil,
Perfect themselves in actions strangely great.
Some cunning seaman, having natural skill,
As by the books we learn hath oft been done,
Hath 'yond our vessel's figure pitch'd his voice,—
With gay deceit of unsuspected art,
Leading us wantonly.
Isabel.
It is not so;—
Or, does my sense deceive? Look, where the wave
A perch beyond our vessel, grows in folds
That seem not like the element. Dost see?
Leon.
A marvellous shape that with the billow curls,
In gambols of the deep, and yet is not
Its wonted burden; for, beneath the waves,
I mark the elaborate windings of a form,
That heaves and flashes with an antic play,
As if to win our gaze.
Isabel.
Again—it sings.
ZEPHYR-SPIRIT
I.
By the planet at whose bid,I must close the heavy lid,
Ere the hour that wings my flight
I unfold me to your sight,
That your wondering thoughts may find,
Wherewith to awake the mind;—
To arouse ye with a fear,
Do I sing and wanton here;
160
Ye awaken to your fate:
Hearken to my voice and fly,
For the danger lurketh nigh.
II.
Deem me not a form of ill,Free to lure and injure still;—
Mine's the gentler task to save
From the perils of the wave.
When thou feel'st the tempest's shocks,
I send breezes off the rocks;
When the ocean's calm as death,
From me comes the tradewind's breath:—
For my essence is not made
Of the cold and gloomy shade,
But of gentlest dews of night,
And of purest rays of light.
III.
Heed me then, and turn thy prowFrom the rocks that wait thee now;—
Close beneath thee, do they sleep
In the hollows of the deep;
And thy sail is truly prone
Where the yellow sand is strown;
And no human power can save
From the terrors of the wave,
Smooth, and gently gliding, now,
With a whisper, round thy prow;
In an hour and all is o'er—
Thou wilt hear my voice no more.
Leon.
'Tis passing strange, and it were well to rouse
The master to this marvel. What, ho! there!
Hark ye, good Mendez Celer, lend awhile
Your presence here on deck.
161
Mendez.
Who summons me?
Ha! brave Don Leon, but thou look'st as wild,
As thou hadst spoke some monster of the deep,
And shipp'd his tidings in a sea of foam.
Hadst thou but weather'd awhile the Indian seas,
As I have done, where, from his fiery steep,
El Norté plunges headlong o'er the seas,
Smiting the billows with his scourge of wings
Till their gray scalps lie flat, methinks thine eyes,
That find a wonder in each hour of change,
Would soon grow slow to marvel.
Leon.
It may be,—
Yet there's a marvel here to challenge well
Thy old experience in these wizard seas.
Here swam a voice that spoke to us in song
Of most prevailing sweetness. There it rose—
Even from yon heap of waters, which thou see'st
Still stirring with an action not their own,
Unlike the rest of the ocean. Thou mayst note
Where the sea rises and the billows toss,
Still swelling in strange folds. 'Tis there it moves,—
From thence the music came.
Men.
What said the song?
A ditty of the marvellous love, I ween,
The girl of the ocean bears thee—was it not?
Leon.
No, in no wise!—the tones it used were soft,
And the words gentle, and the music sweet,
But yet it spoke no love and ask'd for none.—
It rather told of danger to our barque;—
Of rocks in certain and near neighborhood,
And shoals and sands, that, close beneath our prow,
Are lurking to ensnare.
162
Bah! good Don Leon!
'Tis, as we say in Palos, a poor devil
That goes without his brimstone.—A dull cheat
Who when he shows his hook forgets the bait.
Your sea-girl was a young one. Mark me now,
There is no land—no single spot of shore
Whereon a plank or spar might lie at ease,
Within a three day's sail of us. I've been
Some thirty years a mariner, and scarce,
In all that time, have been from off the seas
A month or two, at farthest, at a spell;
And this same route o'er which we travel now,
Comes to me as my nightcap or my prayers—
I put not on the one, nor say the other,
Yet both are done, the thanks to Mary Mother,
And I am none the wiser.
Leon.
It is strange
That we should hear this music!
Men.
Not a whit.
I've oftentimes heard from the Portuguese—
I'm rather one myself, belike you know,
My father having stray'd, at a wrong time,
From Lisbon to my mother's house at Palos,
And then it came about that I was born—
(Nothing ill-graced to Lady Isabel;)
And, as I say, it is a standing tale
With the old seamen, that a woman comes—
Her lower parts being fishlike—in the wave;
Singing strange songs of love, that so inflame
The blinded seamen, that they steal away
And join her in the waters; and, that then,
Having her victim, she is seen no more.
Leon.
And is it deem'd, the men thus wildly snared
Become a prey and forfeit life at once?
163
So must it be; and yet, there is a tale
That they do wed these creatures; which have power,
So to convert their nature, that they make,
As to themselves, the sea their element;
And have a life renew'd, though at the risk
And grievous peril of their Christian souls,
Doom'd thence unto perdition.
Leon.
And you then
Think nothing of this warning?
Men.
By your grace,
Surely, I hold it the wild lustful song
Of this same woman. She has lost, perchance,—
Since death must come at last who comes to all,—
Her late companion. Would you take his place?
If not, wax up your ears, and sleep secure,
There's naught to fear, and sea-room quite enough.
[Shock—the ship strikes.
God, and thou gracious Mary, what is that?
[Ship strikes again.
We're in our certain course—what may this mean?
Leon.
The vessel strikes—she strikes again and shivers,
Through all her frame, as if convulsed with horror,
She felt herself the pangs we soon must feel!
The devil speaks truth, for once, good Mendez Celer!
Men.
Oh, holy Mary, and thou gracious shield
Blessed Saint Anthony, lend us now your aid;
Speak fairly to the waters—see us through
This sad deceit. Below there—hands aloft!—
Ho, Juan! trim the sail,—out with the lead—
Helm down, Pedrillo—Hernan—luff yet more.
Jesu! She rides again—we yet may swim!
[Vessel strikes heavily upon the rocks.
It is all over! To your prayers at once!
There is no longer hope, nor chance of life,
164
We may have mercy and sweet countenance!
[The master takes a leaden image from his h[illeg.] and prostrates himself before it. Storm rises.
Gracious Saint Anthony, for fifty years
We've voyagéd in company, and now,
I pray thee, in this strait, that thou forsake not
Thy ancient comrade. To thy use I vow—
If thou wilt man our yards, and trim our sails,
And lift our ragged keel from off these rocks,—
A box of Cadiz candles—
Leon.
Be a man!
Rise, Mendez, to the peril and the storm.
Let us do something for ourselves, nor ask
The smiles of heaven upon our fears alone.
Shall we but crouch and perish, with no stroke
Made for our lives! For shame, sir—ply your men;
Nor with an idle prayer, which the waves mock
And the winds laugh at, show our feebleness.
If there be land so nigh, as by our glance,
The eye may seem to conjure, we may try,
The little we can do, to save our lives.
The boats—get out the boats!
Men.
In vain—in vain;
No boat may live in such a sea as that.
Look at this surf, that chafes like a wild beast,
And ramps, like something mad, upon the rocks.
This is the strangest chance I yet have known:—
By the chart we are in the open sea,
And here we meet with land, where land is none.
A moment since, and the whole sea was calm,
Now boils it like a cauldron—and the winds,
That late were almost breathless, now exclaim
In wrath, and yell like fiends above the sea.
165
To thee, to Jesu, and the saints alone,
May we now look for mercy!
[Storm increases. Ship strikes with increasing violence.
Leon.
So we perish!—
The ship is parting! We must try the boat,
Whate'er the peril from the raging sea!
Better, thus struggling in the embrace of strife,
To meet the fatal enemy, than thus,
With idly folded arms and shivering fears
That mock the very passion in our prayer
With broken utterance most unmeet for heaven,
Await him feebly here. Ho! man the boat.
Isabel.
Leave me not, brother, for a moment now!
There's not a pressing danger, or I do
Greatly mistake the courage in your eye,
That hath no touch of terror in its calm,
And looks the strength of safety.
Leon.
Yet, there is,
Dear Isabel, a danger of the worst,
Now pressing on our lives with terrible wrath,
That needs the soul's best fortitude and hope
To meet with manhood. We may yet escape,
So, take you heart. Look not with such an eye,
Or I may fail at this most perilous hour,
And sink into the woman. Be all firm,
And like our mother, dearest,—nor grow weak,
When I do tell you that the chances gather
Against our fondest hope.
Isabel.
And is it so?—
And you and I, dear Leon,—both so young,
So fond,—so full of life's best promises,—
Thus sudden cut from all—the loved, the loving,—
And by a fate so terrible!
166
Still hope!—
Since combating the fear that ushers death,
We little feel his shaft. Whatever haps,
Be firm, and cling to me. Keep close at hand,
And, with the mercy of God, through every chance,
Dear sister, I devote myself to thee.
Isabel.
I know thou wilt!—I will be at thy side,
Nor trouble thee with my terrors.
Leon.
Noble girl!
My safety shall be thine;—and if I fail,
'Twill somewhat soothe the pang of that sad passage
That still we go together. We have lived,
So truly in one another from the first,
And known no sense of pleasure not inwrought,
With twin affection in our mutual hearts,
That 'twill not move our chiding when the fate
Strikes both in one, and with a kindly blow,
Secures 'gainst future parting.
Isabel.
I'll not chide!
I will be firm,—and yet I dread the rage
And rushing of the waters. How they roar,
And lash themselves to madness o'er our bows!
I dread me, Leon, that my senses fail!
Mine eyes grow blind—I see thee not—Here, here!
My brother, leave me not.
Leon.
I'm here with thee!
Isabel.
Dost hear me when I speak,—dost hear me, brother?
I cannot hear myself. My voice is gone,
Drown'd in that horrible coil of storm and billow
That fain would wrap us all. That crash!—
[Shrieks.
Leon.
Hither!—
I have thee, poor unconscious!—child of sorrow,
That hast no farther feeling of thy woe!
Make way there.
167
The boat is ready, masters.
[The vessel parts. The seamen enter the boat. Leon lifts Isabel into it.
Men.
Delay not now for me—bear off, bear off,—
I go in no new craft—my log's complete.
This is my ninetieth voyage, and the last,
Though not the longest or most fortunate.
I cannot leave the ship—it is our creed—
Till she leaves me. We've sail'd together long—
And if I 'scaped the present, would not much
Survive her reckoning. Bid me well at home,
And say the manner of my death to all.
Tell old Bertiaz, should you ever make
The shore I never more shall touch again,
(He owns the vessel), that the “Arragon”
(Too fine a name for such a fate as this),
Is Arragon no longer. You may say—
'Twill do me good in my grave—I died in her.
[They leave her—she goes to pieces in their sight.
SCENE II.
—The Boat.Mariner.
There, she goes down,—the master still in her;
I see him on a spar, and—now he sinks.
Pull there more freely, boys. The swell she makes
May trouble us greatly. Fiercely, all at once,
Mark you, Don Leon, how the waters leap,
And the seas whiten. Here are ugly rocks.
Leon.
The billows rush on madly, as they were
Some battling armies. These are cruel waves,
That, fastening on our sides, still clamber high,
168
With fiend malignity and bent on wrath,
Than billows of the ocean. We shall scarce—
Unless good fortune and the blessed saints
Look kindly on us—overcome the space,
Growing as we o'erleap it, that, between,
Now keeps us from yon islet, which I mark,
Dim, in the distance, o'er the swell in front.
Pray ye, strike full your oars and all at once,
Cheerly and bold, becoming fearless men;—
And, if we live, God's blessing on your service,
But lack, ye shall not, your reward on earth.
My arm grows weary with the weight upon 't
Of this most precious burden; while a cloud
Like a thick pitchy wall, right in our way
Rests heavily on the waters, and denies
That I should see beyond. Give way, like men,
And enter the deep darkness unafraid.
[The boat disappears.
SCENE III.
—The ocean waste.Zephyr-Spirit.
Now, terribly through the waters comes the form
Of that fierce savage and malignant king,
Onesimarch. Behind him gathering rush
Clouds of his brutal followers, clad in wrath,
Howling for prey. Beneath their vexing spells
The deep boils like a whirlpool, and the waves,
So lately still and placid, wrought to rage,
Leap up about the poor ill-fated barque.
Now grappling to her prow, they drag her down,
169
Some of the monster's followers, well conceal'd,
With fierce and furious might, impel her down;—
Now mount her bending sides, now strike with force
Their own, against her weak and shrieking ribs—
Tear up her planks, and rushing through the space,
Rend her broad back, and o'er the flinty rocks
Drag the too yielding keel until it parts.
Onesimarch, himself, a hungry fiend,
With darker powers endow'd, with sulphur arm'd,
Hurls a perpetual lightning, which distracts
And dazzles the weak eye. He shapes their course,
And guides the tribute legions; working new joys
From out the wrongs he doth, for his own sense,
And for that potentest of all the fiends,
By whom his power is wrought. And now, they chant
A song of terror in the drowning ears
Of the wild seamen, cutting off all hope
That manhood may achieve against its fate.
SCENE IV.
—The same.Storm. Flight of Sea-Demons, singing.
I.
Fly! fly!Through the perilous sky,
Spirits of terror and tumult on high!
Even as we go,
Working the woe,
Of all that is hatefully happy below!
Speed! our mission, fierce and fatal,
Is to spoil superior things;
170
Crown'd with blight our demon wings!
Oh! the joy to rob the treasures,
Hopes of soul and beauty given,
From the race whose purer pleasures,
Are the special care of Heaven!
Joy, that thus, still doom'd to sorrow,
We may happier fortunes blight,
And from woe extremest borrow,
Still the power that yields delight.
To the terror, fiercely wending,
Speed we, till our work is done,
Still destroying, raging, rending,
Till the shadow chokes the sun!
II.
Speed! for the meedOf merciless deed,
Summons us fiercely with clamors of greed;
While the ship glides
Through the treacherous tides,
Break down her bulwarks and rush through her sides!
These are mortals, wretched creatures!
Yet from doom like ours set free;
Wrought of clay, and yet with features,
Such as make us rage to see!
Such the haughty sovereign presence,
That pursued with storm and flame!
From our homes of power and pleasaunce,
Drove us forth in grief and shame!
Him we dare not face with battle,
Now, as then, with fearless powers,
But his race of God-mark'd cattle,
Yields the proper spoil for ours.
In his likeness made, they languish,
For the wings he hath not given;
And, in trampling on their anguish,
Wage we still our war with Heaven!
171
III.
Why, oh! why,Breathing the sky
Orisons still should they offer on high;
Why should they pray,
Creatures of clay,
Whose faith is a fable, whose life is a day!
Mock the mortals with your voices,
Shouting death and hate and hell;
Fill their ears with horrid noises,
Ring for every soul the knell!
Tell them, while the ocean smothers
Life and hope, that, never more,
Shall the loved ones, wives and mothers,
See the forms so dear before!
Show them Death in grimmest aspect,
Cold, corruption, worms, and night;
And depict the penal prospect
Of the future world of blight,
Endless, for the guilt-unshriven,
Fetter'd fast by tyrant powers,
With no hope to be forgiven,
And a doom more dread than ours!
IV.
Lo! where in sight,Fierce as in fight,
Rising from ocean, our monarch of might;
With the storm for his steed,
He is here at our need,
The dreadful in strife, and the matchless in speed.
Full our legions,—dread battalions,
Sweep we now the ocean plain;
Cower the golden Spanish galleons,
Cower and sink beneath the main!
Vain the skill and power to stay us,
Vain the prayers that hope to spell;
172
And the power that conquers hell!
These we dread not in our mission,
When the victim wrought of clay,
Guilty grown, in his condition,
Yields himself beneath our sway.
Then he forfeits angel keeping,
Which had baffled else our hate;
And the doom of woe and weeping,
Makes him subject to our fate!
CHORUS.
From the regions south, and the regions north,Mount we, and speed we, and hurry we forth;
From where the sun fails, in the putrid gales,
Launch we afloat on our shadowy sails:
Darkening the sky, oh! how we fly,
Spirits of tumult and terror on high:
The whirlwind we fling abroad on its wing,
And the hurricane speeds to its work, as we sing!
Lo! the skies how they stoop, and the stars how they droop,
While the trailing storms follow our flight in a troop;
As downward we sweep, the black billows leap,
To welcome our flight, with a roar from the deep!
We are here, we are there; in the ocean, the air,
With a breath that is death, and a song that's despair!
Ho! for the master! The sulphur balls go!
How sweet is the shriek of the perishing foe!
Ho! for the master! The red arrows fly,
And burst in the blackness of billow and sky!
Papé Sathanas! We work for thee well!
Aleppé! There's clucking for triumph in Hell!
Hear'st thou the groans of the victims?—They pray—
Ho! ho! but how vainly!—too late i' the day!
173
The last hope away from the breast of despair!
Ho! for new flights and new victims,—Ho! Ho!
With the tempest for wings, and the lightning we go.
Papé Sathanas! we work for thee well!
Aleppé! There's clucking for triumph in Hell!
See Dante, Inferno, Canto vii:—
“Pape Satan, pape Satan aleppe,Cominciò Pluto colla voce chioccia.”
SCENE V.
—The Boat.Mariner.
Master, we strive in vain.
Leon.
We can but die.
Mar.
Why toil for it?
Leon.
As one who strikes his foe,
Though conscious that he battles without hope,
And dies in the brave conflict.—Ha! she stirs.
Isabel,
[recovering.]
Horrible sounds are rushing through my ears,
More like the cries of demons, mad for blood,
Than the hoarse billows and the roaring winds.
They dart into my brain, and seem to shout,
Triumphant, oh, my brother, o'er our fate;—
Speak of the sorrow in our father's halls,
That, with an anguish, far too great for speech,
Grows dumb and scorns expression. Could we live—
But live to see him once!—oh, bear me up;—
Desert me not, dear Leon, but entwine,
Closely, thy arm around; nor let these waves,
That seem impatient of their midnight feast,
Suck me into their black and ravenous jaws.
Leon.
Doubt me not, Isabel, in this dark hour!
Think'st thou I could desert thee, precious sweetness,
To whose frail nature and too delicate youth
Sweet elements should minister with love,
174
Will hold thee, while they have their hold in life,
And I have thought and sense to will the struggle
That wards the final danger from thy breast.
But, cling to me, my sister.
Isabel.
Will I not?
Why should we think of death?
Mar.
It comes! It comes!
[The boat strikes and goes to pieces.
Leon.
Isabel,—sister!
Isabel,
[faintly afar off.]
Here, Leon, here!
Leon.
Oh, Jesu! lost!
[Scene closes.
SCENE VI.
—The Ocean waste.Zephyr-Spirit.
'Tis done! The strife is over. Hope is none!
These cruel demons triumph, with a rage
That mocks at mortal strength. Prone to the deep,
I watch'd that hungry slave, Calemmia, seize,
Conceal'd in a dense billow, on the prow;
And, all despite the seaman's sturdy stroke,
The helmsman's firm direction, and the cheer
Of that strong human impulse, which did grow,
Upon the sight of land, into a hope,
Drag her among the sharp rocks, while the surfs
Beat her to pieces. She is scatter'd far—
A spar floats on the wave—a single oar,
Cast high among the sands, alone has reach'd
The mocking shores that wreck'd them. Yet, not so!—
I mark a floating form that struggles still,
With a most human love of life, afar.
Him may I succor, and, with safety now;—
175
Their toil of terror, have, for newer spoils,
Wrapt in a gathering cloud, departed hence,
Leaving all calm again. Curl'd in this wave,
I will beneath him glide, and bear him up;
Till, on the shore, beyond the ocean's swell,
He rests in safety. I can do no more—
Since, in gross contact with the heavy earth,
I lose the subtle power that makes my gift,
And forfeit, of the light ethereal nature,
The buoyant spirit that supplies its wing.
176
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The islet of Onesimarchus.Atalantis, Nea.
Atal.
This islet hath no quality of joy,
Fair to the sight, or fragrant to the sense,—
No beauty that upon its surface glows,
No treasure that within its bosom sleeps;—
It is the foul'st deception—all is gross,
And tainted with that sinborn leprousness
That marks the soul who will'd it into birth,
And raised its treacherous rocks along the deep.
No innocent beast hath dwelling in this clime,
No valley blooms with verdure. Not a flower
Gems the bleak sands, that, barrenly spread out,
Pain the unsatisfied and wandering eye,
That, seeing naught else, grows weary. Not a bird,
But, as he flies above, subdues his voice,
And, panting in his silence, quickens his wing,
Having a nameless terror. The foul taint
That poisons all things in this tyrant's sway,
Takes from them all their virtue. Not a shrub
Breathes fragrance to the breeze, whose whisper'd plaint
Would woo it still to fondness. Not an air
Enters these bounds, but flags and settles down
Clumsy and wingless; and the very stars
Do seem to leave their places in the heavens,
Looking down on it. Even we, who are
Of a tenacious temper, yielding naught,—
177
To the capricious influence,—we lose
Something of that refined and subtler sense,
Which gives us power to meet and match the sway
Of his low cunning and detested art.
How heavy is this silence! What a spell
Comes with the sullen muttering of the winds,
Now sweeping from the waters; and, how sad
Are the faint murmurs of yon moaning sea,
In the far distance chiding, as in grief,
For some new stroke of sorrow! All things yield—
So it would seem—a something to the spell,
That makes his power, and keeps us captive here;
Wrapping us in a circle, not to move,
Or strive, lest it undoes us. The shrill scream
Of one poor gull, that, o'er the whiten'd foam,
Hung with gray wing suspended, breaks no more
Fitfully on the ear;—and all of life
Seems resolute to pay its offering now
To that dread silence, which, in human sense,
Makes up the all of death!
Nea.
Even as thou say'st!—
'Tis a sad spot, fair mistress; sad for us,
That have been wont, in finer element,
To drink the nurture of a better lot.
Ah! how unlike the sweet life of the light,
Blessing the fair dominion thou hast lost;—
Lost for a season only,—yet too long,
Since such a dwelling as we find perforce,
Subdues the heart to sorrows not its own,
Which still must bide in memory. I feel
How dreary is the labor of restraint,
This watching, waiting,—when my wonted use,
Would have me winging an unlicensed flight,
178
Disparting their white billows night and morn,
With no more pause than to adjust my plumes,
Ruffled by zephyrs; then, with fresh device,
Soaring in wilder progress,—sea and sky,
Our ample field, and the delighted tribes,
Their habitants, come forth to share the chase.
Atal.
And lack'st thou now all wonted qualities—
Thy dance, thy song, whose melodies can make
The mad seas sleep when wildest, while the winds
Fold up their cloudy vans to hear thy lay?
Hast thou no strain to fit these drowsy hours
With wings of light and fragrance, while the thought
Grows wanton and forgetful of the grief
That burden'd it with gloom? Methinks, my girl,
'Twere in thy happy spells of verse to find
Some carol of our own domain, to take
The impatient soul, and in delicious dews
Steep the fine sense to sweet forgetfulness.
Sing me some ditty from our Mergevan,
While every flower, in gardens of the past,
Our hands have ever gather'd, the young page,
Whose name is Memory, faithful to his task,
Shall bring anew to joy us in our need.
Give me the song the Flower-Spirit once framed,
When through our gardens, far beneath the sea,
Wall'd in by wildest waters, we pursued,
For the first time, the summer festival.
SONG OF THE FLOWER-SPIRIT.
I.
I am the spirit that sleeps in the flower,Mine is the music of fragrance that flies,
179
That blooms in the favor of tropical skies:
I win the bird with new melody glowing,
To rise with the zephyr, and warble his strain;
And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing,
The minstrel is paid for his music again.
II.
Sorrow comes never where I am abiding,The tempests are strangers, and far from us rove;
I woo the zephyrs too hurriedly riding,
And gently they linger and fill us with love.
They pause, and we glow in their winning embraces;
They drink our warm breath, rich with odor and song;
Then hurry away to their desolate places,
And look for us hourly, and mourn for us long.
III.
We were born of the dews, and our destiny found us,Embraced by a sunbeam, all budding and bright;
On its wing, came from heaven the glory that crown'd us,
And the odor that makes us a living delight.
And when the warm blessings of summer stream on us,
Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air;
Leaping upward in joy to the spirit that won us,
And made us the tenants of regions so fair.
Atal.
The ocean hath no calm like what is here—
And, if the waters might unfold to us,
There hath been fearful strife upon their waves.
Here come its tokens. These are broken spars
From some tall ship, that lately sped along,
As oft-times I have seen them, with a grace
And majesty becoming in a queen
Ruling a thousand seas. It is a game
Onesimarch delights in, to destroy
180
Shaped like ourselves, though little taught to cope
In knowledge with ourselves. Inferior things
Of lower grade, who, when we have become
The tenants and possessors of a realm
Now far beyond our state, shall rise to ours,
As we enjoy it now. But what is here,
Grasping a shaft, and lifelessly spread out?
[Seeing the body of Leon.
Nea.
One of the creatures of that goodly barque,—
Perchance, the only one of many men,
That, from their distant homes, went forth in her,
And here have perish'd.
Atal.
There is life in him;—
His bosom swells, methinks, beneath my hand,—
With fitful pulse—most faint—now here—now gone!
Alas! I fear it may not come again.
How very young he is—how beautiful!—
Made with a matchless sense of what is true
In manly grace and mortal elegance;
And features, rounded in as soft a mould
As our own, Nea.
Nea.
His eye unfolds.
Atal.
Ah!
Stand aside, girl, and let me look on him.
I see not that he wakes.
Nea.
But now he did.
Atal.
Alas! he sleeps in death! How pitiful
That one so young, and princely in his port,
Should fall so soon a victim. He hath been,
I doubt not, a great noble with his people.
How should it be that such a form as this,
So lovely and commanding in its aspect,
Should rank below the people of our race?
181
Might stand compared with any of our chiefs.
Nea.
At least, in outward seeming.
Atal.
And this speaks,—
Where still the brow is lofty, and the form
Familiar, in erect and graceful carriage,—
For that which guides within.
Nea.
He looks well;—
Yet may he be a thing of seeming only,
Wanting in all that higher sense of soul,
Which makes the virtue of true excellence.
Atal.
Oh! I am sure there is no want in him;
The spirit must be true, the sense supreme,
The soul as far ascending, strong and bright,
As is the form they do inhabit in.
Breathe on him, Nea; fan him with thy wing
And rouse him, if thou canst. Oh! could I bring
The life into his cheek. Stay, yet awhile;—
Now, while his senses sleep, I'll place my lip
Upon his own—it is so beautiful!
Such lips should give forth music—such a sweet
Should have been got in heaven,—the produce there,
Of never-blighted gardens.
[Kisses him.
Leon,
[starts.]
Cling to me—
Am I not with thee now, my Isabel!
[Swoons again.
Atal.
Oh, gentle sounds—how sweetly did they fall,
In broken murmurs, like a melody,
From lips, that waiting long on loving hearts,
Had learn'd to murmur like them. Wake again,
Sweet stranger! If my lips have wrought this spell,
And won thee back to life, though but to sigh,
And sleep again in death,—they shall, once more,
Wake and restore thee.
Nea.
You arouse him not.
182
Alas! should life's string, overstrain'd, be crack'd,
No more to be reknit, I forfeit peace
Forever,—never more to hope for joy
In any life that follows.
Nea.
Oh! my mistress,
This passion of grief—
Atal.
Nea, now at last,
I feel that I do love! The sudden fire
Kindles at last, where never yet before
Its spark found nurture. If it be in vain!—
I, that had scorn'd the suppliant before,
I too, must be the suppliant for a love
That's born without a hope. The lesson comes
Too late, and I have but to weep o'er dreams
That have no waking promise for the heart,
And leave it but to tears. Alas! Alas!
[Throws herself upon Leon.
Nea.
Oh! yield not thus, my mistress, to a passion
That never can be blest. The best of love
Still teaches sorrow as his natural gift,
More sure than precious.
Atal.
Know you aught of Love?
Nea.
As of a power that's best esteemed in fancy,
In which he more abides than in the heart.
Love's but an artful tyrant. He first wins
By the most servile flatteries. He can stoop
The better to ascend; and pliant grows,
When most the secret purpose in his soul,
Makes him unyielding. Pleasant is his prayer;—
He will discourse you in the dove's own note,
Cooing and plaining, with such murmur'd sweets,
That pity learns to take the place of doubt,
And paves the way for trust. But, wait awhile,
And soon his habit changes. He grows apt,—
183
As readily as the old; and, sure of power,
Firm, with free footing walks, where late he crept.
Then, see you heed the master;—who will now
Claim, for his right, that which he lately sued,
As the poor meed of charity; and thus
Step by step upward, with insidious art,
And cunning most unequall'd, doth he rise,
Until you find your neck beneath his foot,
And you become his slave, who once was yours.
Atal.
Oh! terrible,—where heard you this of Love?
Nea.
From many teachers.
Atal.
Did they know him well?
They slander him, methinks.
Nea.
They suffer'd first!
Our minstrels note him thus!—Our maidens, taught
By many a hapless lesson, thus describe
His art and empire. They do further tell,
Beyond his tyrant habits, that his sweets
Are few and failing. Painful, do they say,
Are even the creature's pleasures, since they wake
Such doubts and dread misgiving for their loss,
As even their joys can't equal. The sick soul,
That grieves with Love's delusions, evermore dreams
Dreading its losses. It forever makes
A sombre cloud to gather in the sky,
And glooms the spirit. Looking far beyond
The glory in its gaze, it sadly sees
Countless privations, and far-coming storms,
Shrinking from what it conjures. Let them say
Green youth and greener maidens, as they may,
Of Love and of his raptures:—for my part,
I hold him a disease—a very ache,
And ague-fever, sore and troublesome;
184
And then of colds, and heats, and fantasies—
Realities most mournful, and, forsooth,
Imaginings, whose strange complexions be
Not a whit kinder. Love's a sorry slave,
And a sad master. As a slave, he steals
The jewel of our nature, and its lights,—
The heart and its affections;—which, having got,
He straight assumes the master:—they, in turn,
Being his willing instruments and doom'd,
When that the tyrant of his play grows sick,
To be the creature's victims at the last.
Atal.
I cannot think this truly said of Love!—
The minstrels do belie him, much, methinks,
For envy of his conquests; and, the maids—
They only do complain, whom he doth slight.
They never knew his nature. They, perchance—
Since what is winning still hath counterfeits—
Have seen some subtle semblance of his form,
His true spirit all being wanting; and were made,
Haply, the victims of some wanton art,
That hath betray'd them. It were wisdom poor,
And a most sad philosophy, to scorn
The blessing, as in nature's exigence,
It might grow forfeit. Better, with this rule,
Not live, since in the end we all must die.
Though there be doubts that love may yet be lost,
Still let me love;—the very doubt but shows
The worth of the possession. Not for me
The sway of kingdoms only. In my heart
There still hath been a void—a vacant place,
That ever seem'd to crave some image there,
Set up for worship. Till this happy hour,
The shrine hath been unoccupied and cold;
185
Suffuse the reluctant nature, and I glow
In the superior consciousness of hopes
That fill me with devotion. Here is one
Might teach me wherefore this.
Nea.
He breathes again;
There's life within him yet.—His lips, they part
In murmurs:—he will live. Shall we now leave him?
Atal.
Leave him, dost thou ask? alas! my Nea,
I cannot if I would. His image takes
Possession of the waste place in my soul,
And fills me with himself. Whether I go,
Or stay,—the fates forbid that we should part;—
And known, perchance, and loved too late, he still
Hath grown to such a presence in my thought,
That, though I lose him in the hour that finds,
I lose him not from love. Now, let us call
The life into his cheek. Some water bring,
Scoop'd out from yonder fountain near the sea.
There, fan him with thy pinions. See, his lips,—
Again they part, how sweetly!—and again,
I stoop to press them with my own that burn
With a strange fervor never felt before.
He wakes!—Ah me, he wakes! His eyes unclose
With a dim beauty. As they open, mine
Sink to the sands. I feel his glances now,
Stealing and searching through my throbbing heart,
Until it hath no secret. Doth he speak?
What says he, my sweet Nea?
Leon,
[struggling to his feet.]
Nay,—no more!—
Ah! sister, is it thou? That terrible thought
That thou wert swallow'd in the ravenous sea,
And the waves over thee! I saw thee sink—
Beheld thy outstretch'd arms—heard thy wild cry
186
And, struggling in the surf, 'gainst cruel hands,
That kept me from thee in the fearful hour,
I yielded thee as lost.—I have thee now—
We shall not part again.
[Embracing Atalantis.
Atal.
Ah!—
Leon,
[discovering her.]
Who art thou?
Where is my sister—give her to my arms;
Why dost thou keep her from me when I call?
Atal.
Oh! look not thus upon me, gentle youth:
I have not done thee wrong.
Leon.
My sister?
Atal.
She—
I know not.—
Leon.
Alas! alas! for me!—I am alone.
Atal.
Oh! not alone, for though we know not her,
The sister thou hast lost, we'll seek for her,
And strive to bring her to thy love again.
We too will love thee, if thou'lt suffer us,
And claim thy love in turn.
Leon.
Where am I then?
Oh! tell me, noble lady, tell me true,
What is the shore we stand on—where the ship
That bore us—the old master, and the men,—
And over all of these, the precious maid,
My sister, whom I swore to save from harm,
While strength was in my arms to strive for her.
Alas! that I am here, with life and strength,
And she—thou look'st as thou hadst love and truth,—
Spare me these pangs—withhold her not from me,—
I shall not sink into an agony,
Joy-troubled at her sight. I'm strong to bear
This happiness, if thou hast it to bestow,
And take my blessing for it. Give her me!
187
Alas! thou plead'st to me, dear youth, in vain;
I know not of the gentle maid you seek.
Thou only, of the creatures of the ship,
Hast found the refuge of the shore.
Leon.
She's gone,—
And I survive her! How can I survive?
With what a terror she entreated me,
Never to leave her; and I pledged my soul,
If I had power to save, she should not sink,
Or I should share her fate. My Isabel!
I could not save, and cannot now survive;—
I come to thee,—I come!
[Rushes towards the sea.
Atal.
Forbear! Forbear!
Oh! be not thus the murderer of thyself,
When heaven's own voice hath order'd thee to live.
For my sake as for thine! I kneel to thee.
Do not this wrong unto thyself, I pray,
Nor to the memory of the maid thou griev'st,
Who, if she loved thee, never could be blest,
At this, thy woeful sacrifice. Oh! hear!
Let me implore. Thy sister yet may live,
Cast on some other isle, as thou on this.
We'll seek her hence together, with a hope
That we may find her on the yellow sands,
And win her back to life.
Leon.
Oh! sweet thy words!
I will believe thee, lady, with a hope
That comes on golden pinions; for thine eye
Tells of a true sense prompting thee to speak,
In mercy, with a blessing won from truth;
While in thy voice a delicate music lies,
Spelling all sympathies that fill the heart.
Say, who art thou?
Atal.
My name is Atalantis.
188
But now a prisoner on this cruel isle,
Which, raised by magic from the hidden deep,
Wreck'd thee and fetters me. I have the sway
Of a large ocean empire which, in sight,
Extends beyond the sight, and far beneath
In winding ways and valleys of the sea.
I keep no state, but, as a captive, pine
In sight of my own kingdom, in the power
Of a dread monarch of the demon race,
A mighty potentate who keeps me here,
Seeking my love.
Leon.
How fell you in his power?
Atal.
'Twere a long speech to tell you of our realms,
The sway that's mine and his respectively,
And the slight space betwixt us; or to dwell
On the opposing powers we each possess:
It is enough, sweet youth, that yestermorn,
I and this maiden, o'er the quiet sea,
Idly disporting in our innocence,
Pass'd from our own dominions into his;
When, straightway he,—being ever on the watch,
And all unmatch'd for cunning—raised this isle,
At once, beneath us. In this sudden strait,
Frighted, I cast aside my magic wand,
Without which, I am nothing; and, with joy,
Knowing its powers, this monster seized it then,
And keeps me now his captive, close fenced in
By thickest spells, which, circling all this isle,
And having with our fine sense deadly hate,
We may not pass, unless he wills it so,
Or I regain my wand. Could that be done,
Its power is such that I could sink this isle,
189
Of his foul-brew'd enchantment.
Leon.
It is strange!
Methinks I wander in the Arabian tale,
And wear the enchanted ring.—This demon king—
Where is his castle where he harbors now?
I would behold him, and do battle for you.
I am a knight of Spain, well known in arms,
And wear the honors of the noblest courts,
Shining in Christendie.
Atal.
The arms you wield,
In fight with such as he, would nothing serve:
He deals in subtlest magic, and receives
Spells from gigantic spirits. 'Twas his power
Aroused the storm that overthrew your bark;
And now, on like employment bent, he speeds
Afar upon the ocean, with a host
Of most malignant followers in his train,
Rank for destruction. Could I get my wand,
In which a power of mightiest strength abides,
I'd battle him myself, and drive him back,
And whelm the barren isle which keeps us now!
Nay, more than this,—if that thy sister sleeps
Beneath the waters,—though I may not win
Her spirit back to life—with that same wand,
We both may penetrate the tumbling waves,
Without or hurt or harm,—with vision free,
To find her gentle beauties where they rest
On quiet beds of flowers beneath the deep.
There, with our magic art may we enwrap
Her fragile beauty in protecting spells,
That still her eyes shall shine as when in life,
Her cheeks still glow with love's own red,—her lips,
Though they no more with many a tone of joy,
190
Still look the sweetness they have ever worn,
Keeping the wonted freshness that they knew,—
When first they grew to thine. This shall we do,
And more, that nothing that thy sense may seek
Shall lack to make her lovely.
Leon.
Gentle Queen,
If this be so,—do with me as thou wilt,—
I am thy slave,—thy slave!
Atal.
Rather I thine!
If thou wilt love me, this will I perform;
Nay, though thou love me not, I still will do it,
For love I have for thee.
Nea,
[aside.]
No more a Queen!
How doth she yield herself unto this power,
Forgetting her dominion.
Leon.
Gentle Princess,
Shall we not get possession of this wand?
Methinks that I could do 't. But let me hear;
Teach me the way!—I shall not fear to meet
This monster, though with magic panoplied
And all foul arts. Trust then the toil with me,
I am a soldier of the holy cross,
And do defy the fiend and all his works.
Atal.
'Tis a brave spirit, but here can little do,
Save to adventure.—This, indeed, is much!—
Magic must baffle magic. 'Tis for thee,
Still to procure this wand, which thou canst win,
When I have arm'd thee with some little power;
Thou being of earthly essence, with no fear
From contact with the all-infectious spell
Girdling the island round. Within yon rock,
That hangs precipitous above the deep—
That should be far beneath it—by him raised,
191
Seal'd in with spells, and in a curious vase,
Itself a spell, the treasure lies enshrined.
These charms, to me, were naught, could I but reach
The chambers where they lie; for, with this ring,
Which now upon thy hand I place from mine,
I may command all seals, and bid them break.
Onesimarch knows this, and trusts them not;
But placing an earthborn taint upon the air,
He doth restrain my footstep.
Leon.
Let me go—
I will achieve the adventure, or will die.
Atal.
Not yet—it were in vain that you would pass,
With your enfeebled strength, the threatening gulfs
Of leaping waters, that, between this isle,
And the high rocks you aim at, spread themselves.
We must seek other aid—and, what are these,
Auspiciously, that gather on the sands,
In the fine haze of moonlight?
Nea.
Fairy tribes,
That, sporting in the moonbeams, saw below
This new creation of Onesimarch,
And straight came down, still glad in what is new,
To keep their revels on it.
Leon,
[aside.]
Wonders grow,
Fruitful as things of nature.
Atal.
[To Nea.]
This is well;—
Meet to our purpose, at the needful hour,
When they might succor us. We must persuade
The aid and office they will scarce deny
To one who holds them of a kindred race,
Though of another element. Away!
Seek their chief, Nea. Show him all our strait,—
Declare our want, and for his service now,
192
We wait thee here. [Exit Nea.]
Alas! sweet youth, thou look'st
With such a sadness on me!
Leon.
Not on thee;—
'Tis on my fate I look!
Atal.
I am thy fate!
And thou wilt hate me for it! Oh! forgive!—
If I have won thee now against thy will,
To this wild venture, I do free thee from 't;—
I would not have my freedom, did it bring
A moment's grief to thee.
Leon.
Thou little know'st,
Sweet Princess, of the lessons of my youth,
The training of my people, and the laws
Which make it still our duty as our pride,
To stake the issues all, of life and death,—
All that we pleasure and can peril most,—
In cause of love and beauty. I rejoice
That it is mine to combat thy mishap.
This is a venture of my heart's own choice,
Too precious to be yielded,—and, forgive,—
But little know'st thou of Spain's chivalry,
When thou believest that its valor shrinks
From any odds with fortune. 'Tis with me
A pride to seek for peril; and we hold,
Taught in our schools of faith and courtesie,
That, to the soul, no life is worth a care,
Lock'd up from noble deeds, lapsing away
Like a scant brook, beneath a sunny sky,
Scarce murmuring as it wanders to be lost,
In the embrace of the o'erwhelming sea.
Atal.
Oh! noble, brave philosophy!
Leon.
We fight,
That insolence should meet check and overthrow,
193
Be always sure of shelter from the base;—
And, when the peril is sought for one so fair,
Then do our masters teach us, it is one
On which the heavens look down approvingly
And the bright angels cheer.
Atal.
And yet thou griev'st;—
The sorrow grows to dews upon thy lids,
Even while thine eyes flash fire.
Leon.
My grief, alas!
Mark'd in my face, is from the wretched fear,
Now coursing through my brain, that she I seek,
The gentle girl, companion of my youth,
Bland as the moonlight, wooing as the shade,
And sweet as fairy music, deeply lies
Buried in these wild waters—never more,
To bless me with the music of her voice—
The magic of her smile—the calm delight
Of her not troublesome, devoted love!
Atal.
Oh! I have tears to share with thee for her!—
I may not give her back to thee, nor bid
The voice to that young lip, where, like a bird,
That had its life in music with the flowers,
It lapsed in long and loving melodies;
But I will toil in thy service, glad to be,
For thy bereavéd heart and fever'd brain,
Most like to her thou grievest. I will strive,
That thou shalt so esteem me. Not a tone,
Fashion'd by love's own mood, and most like hers,
But I shall teach my language;—not a look,
Worn by her gentlest features, but shall mine
Skilfully take from summer skies and flowers,
Requiting thy sad heart.
Leon.
Oh, sweetest maid—
194
And half restores me.
Atal.
All will I restore—
All thou hast lost,—and more. Believe me then—
And stay thy sorrows. I will all replace,
Of thy fond fancies, and, with love as true,
Coupled with better power to serve its hope,
I'll be to thee far more than she thou grievest,
Though her affection, from the innocent hour
Of thy confiding childhood and pure dreams,
Boundless as ocean, like the Mexique waves,
Knew but one course, and ever ran to thee.
Believe me, dearest, thou shalt nothing lose
Of the known raptures. Thou shalt many win,
Not in thy wealth before. Thou shalt not think,
Ere I shall know and satisfy thy thought.
Leon.
Too generous maid.
Atal.
And,—hear me, gentle prince!—
If to thy sleepless, striving memory,
There be some marks, some moods, some images,
Some sweet tone, some fond action, some dear song
Of childhood, or some innocent prank you've known
Together, roving amid natural bowers,—
Teach me the trick of it all;—teach me the tone,
The dear song, the fond action, the gay prank,
Known to thy happiest childhood;—show me the art,
That nothing may be wanting—that I may take
A presence like to hers upon thy sight,
And make thee rich again, possessing her.
Leon.
Thy words are queenliest, like thyself, sweet maid,
And balsam my deep wound,—if not to cure,
To soothe and stay its throbbing. Thou hast said,
In sweet tones, sweetest words, that soften much
The temper of my sorrows.
195
I am glad,
To offer to thy aid, to chide thy grief,—
Leon.
Yet, for this sweet and undeservéd love,
If I look coldly, unbecomingly,—
As feeling not its ministry, nor yet,
Beholding my own lack that makes it dear—
Impute it not, I pray, a crime in me.
I am not cold because my hope is so,
Nor yet ungrateful that I do not joy;—
I shall learn better to requite thy love,
In warmest language, when the pang is gone
Of this sad trial—if it ever goes.
Atal.
What do they call thee?
Leon.
Leon is my name.
Atal.
I'll call thee Leon;—call me Atalant,—
Thy Atalant,—for shall I not be thine?
Ah me! no longer may I be mine own!
Leon.
Beautiful Atalant!—
Atal.
But here they come,
Nea, and with her all the tricksy tribe,
That ride on beams, and travel with the stars;
And sing in place of speech; and fly to walk;
Now here, now gone; garb'd cunningly with flowers,
They know to seem at pleasure; and still bless'd,
With that which were our sorrow—constant change.
196
SCENE II.
—The Same.Enter Nea with Fairies. They circle the Princess and Leon singing.
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.
I.
Lo, we come, we come, we come,On the glassy moonbeams riding,
While no cloud, with eye of gloom,
Looks down on us chiding—
Where the silver sands spread out,
Fit for spirits gayly moving;
Tossing fruits and flowers about,
We are ever roving.
II.
Lo, we fly, we fly, we fly,All the world about us viewing,
Now in sea and now in sky,
Still our sport pursuing.
Where the moon is shining clear,
Where the winds are met together,
Do we daily gather there,
In the summer weather.
III.
Lo, we dance, we dance, we dance,On the land, and o'er the ocean;
Seizing on each happy chance,
With a glad commotion.
Where the summer's leaves are green,
Where the early birds are singing,
And the flowers are soonest seen,
We are with them springing.
197
IV.
Lo, we come, we come, we come,On our wings of light descending;
Wings that breathe, like flowers in bloom,
Perfumes never ending.
On the shining sands we meet,
In the bright and gentle weather,
Each with something new and sweet,
Dancing all together.
Atal.
Oh! ye are glad to-night, ye merry ones,
With a fresh spirit, methinks. What pleasant hap,
New privilege, or wild inheritance,
Works on your wings such fine delirium?
I somewhat marvel at your happiness,
Though happy always; yet your wont is dull
To the extravagant rapture of your mirth,
And your free song to-night.
Nanita.
Extravagant!
Our mirth, fair Queen, is very soberness;
We are the modestest fairies of the wild,
The gravest, quietest, best of little bodies,
That ever made mischief in a neighbor's fold,
And laugh'd to find our own. Why, people call us
The very prudes of faerydom. We shake
Our heads with gravity o'er state affairs,
And sit in council with old Oberon,
Who, when Titania wakes his jealousy,
Will straight prefer our wisdom to his own;—
As, at such times, indeed, he wisely may.
Atal.
Oh! pray you then forgive me! Now I see
That you are sober and quiet as you claim,
Having but little mirth, and, at no season,
Extravagant in its utterance. Your excess
Lay only in my sadness. 'Twas my grief
198
Thus born of freedom, little sorts with mine,
That grows with my captivity, and glooms
With the dread aspect of my prison-house.
Loline.
Yet is there much to gladden us to-night.
Have we not newly added to our realms
A goodly island, gracious in extent,
Whose beauteous sands, drawn out in lavish scope,
Persuades the moon's best smile upon our revels.
Atal.
If you knew all,—the story of this isle!—
Yet is there something more, or I mistake ye,
For which ye joy to-night.
Careta.
There is! There is!
Rightly you spoke, fair Princess, when you deem'd
Our joy unwonted. We are bless'd to-night,
Beyond our usual measure. You shall hear.
Perchance you know Zelina,—of our tribe,
The sweetest, merriest creature—full of fun,—
But glad to serve, and, with the happiest art,
To make the service pleasant as the will,
That prompts it to compliance. She is here—
Just freed from a captivity like yours;
Since in her sport, by some undreampt mischance,
She smote Titania's favorite nonpareil,
And broke its gossamer wing. The angry Queen,
For this, our little sister's innocent deed,
Doom'd her a prisoner in the zephyr's shell,
Till the first flowers that blossom in the spring
Should speak her into freedom. Till this time
Her fate was pitiful:—to use no wing,
Murmur no more, and mingle not, in song—
See none to comfort—hear no voice of love—
Dance no capricious revel on the sands,
But, with an unresisting sense, to float
199
Until the birth of that same flower of spring!
Found on the pleasantest shore beneath the sun,
Where first he soars in brightness from the seas,
We hail'd its presence, and have set her free;
And, from her prison, with delighted wing,
She soars with us to-night.
Lol.
Nor is this all—
Another captive hath to-night been freed,
We had deem'd lost forever to our sports.
This wanton fairy, sporting in the breeze,
Last moon, alone, was taken prisoner
By that same tyrant-king, Onesimarch,
That locks you in; and, 'twere a fit revenge,
That we should join with you, for these same wrongs,
To punish him in turn. Within yon rock,
He seal'd her up in crystal. By some chance,
Not yet discover'd, all her bonds were broke,
And she is here with us. Tinina!—here!
Behold the maiden. Princess. She knows all
The secrets of this tyrant's ocean-towers,
And, for your wand's recovery, will do
Aught that will seem most needful.
Atal.
[To Tinina.]
Fit a barque,
And make thy wing its sail, to waft this Prince
To the same rock that was thy prison late.
Himself will do the rest. 'Tis there, I learn,
My sceptre is sealed up.
Tinina.
The barque is here,
Even with a whisper, and my wing is ready;
Will 't please you go, my Prince?
Atal.
[timidly.]
Wilt thou go, Leon?
Leon.
'Twill please and make me proud.
Lol.
Tinina, hence!
200
I spell thee with a talisman of safety,—
And crown thee with a will and wing of strength;
Go hence in courage, and be bless'd in service;
And when thy task is done, regain our course,
Which now we take toward the Hundred Isles,
That smile in the Southern Cross. We wait thee there.
Princess, we gladden that our offices
Seem worth thy tasking, and shall find delight,
If that they prosper 'neath thy hope and ours.
Wings, be ye up and wheeling—up, I say!
FLIGHT OF FAIRIES, AND CHORUS.
We are they who fly by night,
When the maiden moon is bright,
And the silver beach is spread,
Out on ocean like a thread,
Meetly for a fairy's tread:
When the air of heaven is balm,
When the ocean waves are calm,
And the flowers of earth grow bright,—
We are they who fly by night!
[Exeunt Fairies.
Atal.
Now, Leon, if the task before thee seem
Unsuited to thy human strength,—
Leon.
No more!
Hold me, I pray thee, Princess, as a man
That better loves the struggle that proves manhood,
Than the base sleep that stagnates all his soul.
I seek the adventure.
Atal.
Then, this sylph will guide;—
Will bear thee safely o'er these tumbling gulfs,
To yon tall rock, now beetling black and vast
Above the whiten'd billows. Boldly speed,
201
The thing that rises threatening in thy path.
The mystic ring that wraps thy finger round,
Hath, in itself, a wondrous faculty,
To shield the wearer from the unlicensed power
Of spirits of evil.
Leon.
Atalant, I go,
Having a better talisman of safety,
In service which is noble, and in prayer
To him who checks and may subdue all spirits,
Than in this hoop of magic. See, this cross,
Which crowns the mortal weapon that I wear,
As life is over death!—this is my shield,
As, in the blade, I find my ample sword;
With these I go unfearing.
Atal.
Would thou went'st
With brow serene—with happier thought than now.
Leon.
Heed not the mood of this most heavy heart,
That clouds the brow thou look'st on. Some few days
Will hush the impatient grief that murmuring cries,
Seeking a loved one lost. When I return,
And thou hast led me where my sister lies,
Though she beholds not as I weep beside her,
Still will I strive to thank thee with a blessing,
Whose eyes shall look but love!
Atal.
Till then I live not!
Tinina
sings.
The wind is on the wave, and the billow rolls away,
And the star that is the guide to the voyager is bright,
But the fickle wind may change, should the voyager delay,
And the star beneath the demon cloud may perish from the sight.
The will, and the wing, are both ready while I sing—
And the service that makes music as for love it labors still,
202
And implores that the season be not forfeit to the will.
Then away, then away, ere we meet the coming day,
For the dewy haze is rising like a curtain o'er the sea;—
I have winds and waves and star, but they serve us not in war,
And the present bears the flower that's most precious unto me.
Leon.
The delicate song is sung in my behalf,
A counsel spoke in sweetness, as should be
All counsel for the loved one;—fairy, thanks!—
I'm with thee!—sweetest princess, fare thee well!
Atal.
I dare not bid thee go, but if thou wilt,
My heart has but one bidding—soon return.
[Exeunt Leon and Tinina.
Nea.
Sweet mistress!—
Atal.
Come with me to ocean's edge,—
That we may soonest hail his coming back,
Made happy in his safety.
Nea.
This is love!
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The Rock and Tower of Onesimarchus. Ogré chained at the base.Ogré.
Shall I not have revenge—shall he not feel,
This wanton wrong that he hath put on me,
In his unmeasured wrath? Must I submit
To wear the chains about my limbs, as now;
Still fearing, that, for every erring deed,
I may not 'scape the villain penalty,
But bend my shrinking back to meet the scourge,
When 't suits a fellow-slave to place it there!
I'll be revenged.—Already have I done
203
When that his storms were raging o'er my limbs,
Chafed into madness, the dismember'd rocks
I hurl'd into his secret halls above,
And the repeated crash gave token sure
Of a wild mischief—and I rest not here!
He cannot punish me more than he has done,
And, let the tyrant will it so or not,
I leave his service when my limbs are free.
Ha! What are these? How now! What seek you here?
Enter Leon and Tinina.
What is it that you lack? Speak, ere I strike,
And hurl you into pieces with this rock.
Leon.
Thou monstrous slave, what is it that thou sayst?
Dost threaten too? Stand by, and let me pass,
Or thus, I thrust my weapon to thy heart.
Tinina.
Forbear! Thou wert an infant in his grasp,
And he would crush thee at a single stroke.
Show him thy spell of power—but lift thy ring!
See, now, he trembles: keep it thus in sight,
And we shall pass. No strength is in his arm,—
He cannot hurt us now.
[They ascend and enter the rock.
Ogré.
Terrible power!
How has it fetter'd me, and taken away
Each nerve once strung for action. Lo! they come,
And bearing off my master's instruments.—
Well, let them go! I glad me he hath wrong!
I would that he were fetter'd in my place,
And I were free and had no master then;
How would I revel in all goodly things!—
What lusts would I delight in,—food and drink,
Until my senses swim, and sleep i' the sun,
Doing no service more! Ah! here they come.
204
Leon.
Slave, wouldst thou have thy freedom, and escape
The tyranny that tramples in this wise,
Loading thy limbs with chains, while the salt sea,
Enflames the galling tortures of the scourge?
Ogré.
That would I, mighty prince.
Leon.
Thou hast it then.
Throw by the chain thou wear'st and follow me.
Ogré.
I'll fling it in the sea. Shall I do more?
Bid me upheave this rocky battlement,
Wherein he keeps his magic, I'll not pause;—
Do thou but say the word.
Leon.
Nay, heed it not!
If she I serve do thus decree, thou mayst,—
Not else.
Ogré.
How now! you are no monarch then?
Whom serve you?
Leon.
The fair princess, Atalantis.
Ogré.
I do remember that she spoke for me,
And would have saved me from this scourge and rock.
A goodly princess—I will worship her.
Tinina
sings.
The bark is on the sea, and the breeze is in the sail,
And the star to guide us onward is now gleaming o'er the steep;
We have won the prize we sought, and the whisper of the gale
Would counsel us, the treasure, we have haply won, to keep.
Then away, then away, ere the tyrant seeks his prey,—
There's a murmur of the ocean that's unfriendly to our flight;
And the cricket at mine ear has a chirrup full of fear,
That but lately sung in music of a confident delight.
Leon.
Even as thou wilt, sweet maiden; let us hence
To her who waits in hope and innocence.
205
SCENE IV.
The Ocean between the rocks and the Islet.Atalantis, Leon, and Nea. Onesimarchus approaching with his Legions.
Onesi.
Ha! what is here—what fearful change is this?—
The rock of spells o'erthrown, and Atalant,
Again with wand restored, and, at her side,
The lowly instrument of her release.
I did not guard against a thing of earth,
And he hath wrought this ruin of my hopes.
She smiles upon him too—perchance she loves—
Hell!—that I cannot blast her with a look,
And him, the minion, that hath won her love!—
He shall not live, to triumph in that love,
Enjoying raptures still denied to me.
Rise waters—lift your heads—mount up and soar,
Engulfing all that may not ride upon ye;
And thou, dismember'd shore, again descend,
Down to the oozy depths from whence thou cam'st—
I need thee nothing farther—sink, I say.
[He waves his wand and the island descends.
Atal.
Now, Leon, place thy hand within mine own;
Fear not the billows—hearken not their roar,—
They cannot harm thee, thus accompanied.
Leon.
And ye, fair skies, farewell. Thou fatal isle,
Which robb'd me of my best beloved, farewell!
I sorrow not to see thee downward go,
Troubling no mariner hence. One long last look,
Ye bright clouds, that remind me of my home—
206
Shall my eyes gladden with your glimpse again.
Now Isabel, I come!
Atal.
Thou hast no fear,
Dear Leon, from this danger?
Leon.
Little now,
Since, in the wonders that are shown to me,
I yield me to the fullest faith in all
That thou hast promised me.
Atal.
Thou soon shalt see,
How, as to me, these waters shall become
Familiar to thy nature. Thou wilt glide
Unharm'd between their billows, which shall lift
Thy form, with friendly succor, as thou will'st,
Making their arms thy servants.
Leon.
I believe,—
And round thy waist, sweet Atalant, I twine,
Fearless, my confident arm and murmur not.
I would not look upon the skies again,
That witness'd my late ruin; and the seas,
That wrought it all, beget no terrors now.—
We do not sink.
Atal.
Not yet!—Behold afar,
Where, gathering, grow vast legions—angry forms,
Gigantic, that in masses, or alone,
Dart onward, with a glittering panoply
That flames the crests of ocean far and wide,
While roll the constant thunders of the gong,
That calls them still to rise.
Leon.
I see! I see!
Atal.
These are the armies of my own domain,
Led by my gallant brothers. They go forth,
To fight and conquer this Onesimarch,
Who, strong in trick and artifice alone,
207
Already, see, he shrinks;—his hosts retire,
And his fierce rule departs.
Leon.
The land is gone!
Atal.
Yes, down we sink, and thou art all mine own:
I bear thee on the waters, for a while,
To prove the power I have to succor thee.
Now for the calm retreat, by ocean girt,
And stormy waves protected—now with me!
There in the sunny hours that lapse away,
Like angel messengers, and leave no pain,
Thy heart shall grow to gladness. Life shall be
A sweet, rich, gracious time,—a pure estate,
Beyond the strifes that trouble it with man:—
Free from controlling crowds—free from the jar,
The heat, the noise, the dust of human care.
Nature shall blight thee never, nor disease
Bind thee in loathsome sheets; nor tempests rise
To blasts thy fields, dispute thy fondest hope,
And, from thy wearied and exhausted heart,
Drink the sweet life-blood of thy innocent joy.
The breeze shall rather soothe thee with a breath,
Robb'd from celestial gardens. The blue waves,
Shall roll their tribute honors to thy feet;
Upon their bosom, many an offering placed,
Of fruits, fresh wafted from far Indian isles
Wooing thee with their fragrance. In the air,
Nature shall cast her odors, and thine eye
Shall never ope but to behold some new
And most luxuriant freshness in her form;
And, I shall love thee too, and toil untired
To give thee back the maiden whom thou seek'st.
Leon.
Ah! if thou couldst!—but no! The hope is vain,
And the wish idle. Yet the love thou givest,
208
The loss which still it weeps.
Atal.
Oh! do not weep.
I'll love thee in all fortunes. At the morn,
I'll lead thee through our waters, 'mid our caves,
Where, in unconscious brightness, cluster gems
Had set your world on fire. There shall you mark
Glad sea-maids that, attending on our steps,
Fill their deep shells with song; and, when the sun
Shines burningly at noon, in coral groves,
Thy head well pillow'd on my happy breast,
I'll sit and watch thy slumbers, blest to soothe
Thy ever beating pulse, and kiss thy lips,
When, murmuring in thy sleep, thou speak'st the name,
Of her thou still hast loved.
Leon.
No more of her.
I go with thee, sweet Atalant.—We sink!
Chorus of Sea-Nymphs as the island descends.
209
THE CASSIQUE OF ACCABEE;
A LEGEND OF ASHLEY RIVER.
A few words, by way of preface, will save us the necessity of burdening with notes the little story which follows. Accabee is the well-known name of a lovely, but neglected, farmstead, in the neighborhood of Charleston, on Ashley River. It was in earlier periods applied to a larger district in the same neighborhood. Keawah is the aboriginal name of the Ashley. The tribe of Accabee was probably of the same family with the Yemassees, the Edistos, and other groups, inhabiting the lower country of South Carolina. The Gaelic Chief spoken of in the text was Lord Cardross, who made a settlement at, or near, Beaufort, which, after a brief existence of four years, was destroyed by an incursion of the Indians and Spaniards.
It was a night of calm—o'er Ashley's waters
Crept the sweet billows to their own soft tune,
While she, most bright of Keawah's fair daughters,
Whose voice might spell the footsteps of the moon,
As slow we swept along,
Pour'd forth her own sweet song,
A lay of rapture not forgotten soon.
Crept the sweet billows to their own soft tune,
While she, most bright of Keawah's fair daughters,
Whose voice might spell the footsteps of the moon,
As slow we swept along,
Pour'd forth her own sweet song,
A lay of rapture not forgotten soon.
Hush'd was our breathing, stay'd the lifted oar,
Our spirits rapt, our souls no longer free,
While the boat drifting softly to the shore,
Brought us within the shades of Accabee;—
“Ah!” sudden cried the maid,
In the dim light afraid;
“'Tis here the ghost still walks of the old Yemassee.”
Our spirits rapt, our souls no longer free,
While the boat drifting softly to the shore,
Brought us within the shades of Accabee;—
“Ah!” sudden cried the maid,
In the dim light afraid;
“'Tis here the ghost still walks of the old Yemassee.”
210
And sure the spot was haunted by a power,
To fix the pulses in each youthful heart;
Never was moon more gracious in a bower,
Making delicious fancy work for art;
Weaving, so meekly bright,
Her pictures of delight,
That, though afraid to stay, we sorrow'd to depart.
To fix the pulses in each youthful heart;
Never was moon more gracious in a bower,
Making delicious fancy work for art;
Weaving, so meekly bright,
Her pictures of delight,
That, though afraid to stay, we sorrow'd to depart.
“If these old groves are haunted”—sudden then,
Said she, our sweet companion—“it must be
By one who loved, and was beloved again,
And joy'd all forms of loveliness to see:—
Here, in these groves they went,
Where love and worship, blent,
Still framed the proper God for each idolatry.
Said she, our sweet companion—“it must be
By one who loved, and was beloved again,
And joy'd all forms of loveliness to see:—
Here, in these groves they went,
Where love and worship, blent,
Still framed the proper God for each idolatry.
“It could not be that love should here be stern,
Or beauty fail to sway with sov'ran might;
These, from so blesséd scenes, should something learn,
And swell with tenderness and shape delight:
These groves have had their power,
And bliss, in bygone hour,
Hath charm'd, with sigh and song, the passage of the night.”
Or beauty fail to sway with sov'ran might;
These, from so blesséd scenes, should something learn,
And swell with tenderness and shape delight:
These groves have had their power,
And bliss, in bygone hour,
Hath charm'd, with sigh and song, the passage of the night.”
“It were a bliss to think so;” made reply
Our Hubert—“yet the tale is something old,
That checks us with denial;—and our sky,
And these brown woods that, in its glittering fold,
Look like a fairy clime,
Still unsubdued by time,
Have evermore the tale of wrong'd devotion told.”
Our Hubert—“yet the tale is something old,
That checks us with denial;—and our sky,
And these brown woods that, in its glittering fold,
Look like a fairy clime,
Still unsubdued by time,
Have evermore the tale of wrong'd devotion told.”
211
“Give us thy legend, Hubert;” cried the maid;—
And, with down-dropping oars, our yielding prow
Shot to a still lagoon, whose ample shade
Droop'd from the gray moss of an old oak's brow:
The groves, meanwhile, lay bright,
Like the broad stream, in light,
Soft, sweet as ever yet the lunar loom display'd.
And, with down-dropping oars, our yielding prow
Shot to a still lagoon, whose ample shade
Droop'd from the gray moss of an old oak's brow:
The groves, meanwhile, lay bright,
Like the broad stream, in light,
Soft, sweet as ever yet the lunar loom display'd.
“Great was the native chief,”—'twas thus began
The legend of our comrade—“who, in sway,
Held the sweet empire which to-night we scan,
Stretching, on either hand, for miles away:
A stalwart chief was he,
Cassique of Accabee,
And lord o'er numerous tribes who did with pride obey.
The legend of our comrade—“who, in sway,
Held the sweet empire which to-night we scan,
Stretching, on either hand, for miles away:
A stalwart chief was he,
Cassique of Accabee,
And lord o'er numerous tribes who did with pride obey.
“War was his passion, till the white man came,
And then his policy;—and well he knew,
How, over all, to plan the desperate game,
And when to rise, and when to sink from view;
To plant his ambush well,
And how, with horrid yell,
To dart, at midnight forth, in fury arm'd with flame.
And then his policy;—and well he knew,
How, over all, to plan the desperate game,
And when to rise, and when to sink from view;
To plant his ambush well,
And how, with horrid yell,
To dart, at midnight forth, in fury arm'd with flame.
“His neighbors by the Ashley, the pale race,
Were friends and allies 'gainst all other foes;
They dwelt too nearly to his royal place,
To make the objects of their commerce blows;
But no such scruple staid
His wild and cruel raid,
When, by Heléna's Bay, the Gaelic hamlet rose.
Were friends and allies 'gainst all other foes;
They dwelt too nearly to his royal place,
To make the objects of their commerce blows;
But no such scruple staid
His wild and cruel raid,
When, by Heléna's Bay, the Gaelic hamlet rose.
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“And moved by Spanish wile that still misled,
Our chieftain, in one dark November night,
With all his warriors, darted from his bed,
And drove the Gaelic chief from his, in flight:—
Scalplocks and other spoils,
Rewarded well his toils,
And captives graced his triumph after fight.
Our chieftain, in one dark November night,
With all his warriors, darted from his bed,
And drove the Gaelic chief from his, in flight:—
Scalplocks and other spoils,
Rewarded well his toils,
And captives graced his triumph after fight.
“But, when the strife was wildest, and the fire
Play'd fiercest on the roofs of bough and leaf,
A fair-hair'd child, misdeeming him her sire,
Rush'd headlong to the arms of the red chief:—
'Twas not his hour to spare—
His fingers in her hair,
And tomahawk, lifted high, declared his savage ire.
Play'd fiercest on the roofs of bough and leaf,
A fair-hair'd child, misdeeming him her sire,
Rush'd headlong to the arms of the red chief:—
'Twas not his hour to spare—
His fingers in her hair,
And tomahawk, lifted high, declared his savage ire.
“But, in the light of her own blazing home,
He caught the entreaty in her soft blue eye,
Which, weeping still the while, would wildly roam,
From him who held, to those who hurried by;—
Strange was the emotion then,
That bade him stay his men,
And, in his muscular arms, lift that young damsel high.
He caught the entreaty in her soft blue eye,
Which, weeping still the while, would wildly roam,
From him who held, to those who hurried by;—
Strange was the emotion then,
That bade him stay his men,
And, in his muscular arms, lift that young damsel high.
“He bore her through the forest, many a mile,
With a rude tenderness and matchless strength;
She slept upon his arm—she saw his smile,
Seen seldom, and reached Accabee at length;
Here, for a term, he kept
The child, her griefs unwept,
With love, that did from her a seeming love beguile.
With a rude tenderness and matchless strength;
She slept upon his arm—she saw his smile,
Seen seldom, and reached Accabee at length;
Here, for a term, he kept
The child, her griefs unwept,
With love, that did from her a seeming love beguile.
213
“Daughter of ancient Albyn, she was bright,
With a transparent beauty; on her cheek,
The rose and lily, struggling to unite,
Did the best blooms of either flower bespeak;
Whilst floods of silken hair,
Free flowing, did declare
The gold of western heavens when sinks the sun from sight.
With a transparent beauty; on her cheek,
The rose and lily, struggling to unite,
Did the best blooms of either flower bespeak;
Whilst floods of silken hair,
Free flowing, did declare
The gold of western heavens when sinks the sun from sight.
“Our chief had reached his thirtieth summer—she
Was but thirteen; yet, till he saw this maid,
Love made no portion of his reverie:
Strife was his passion, and the midnight raid;
The dusky maids, in vain,
Had sought to weave their chain,
About that fierce wild heart that still from all went free.
Was but thirteen; yet, till he saw this maid,
Love made no portion of his reverie:
Strife was his passion, and the midnight raid;
The dusky maids, in vain,
Had sought to weave their chain,
About that fierce wild heart that still from all went free.
“But, free no longer, they beheld him bound
By his fair captive; strife was now unsought;
The chase abandon'd; and his warriors found
Their chief no more where fields were to be fought;—
He better loved to brood
In this sweet solitude,
She still in sight, who thus her captor's self had caught.
By his fair captive; strife was now unsought;
The chase abandon'd; and his warriors found
Their chief no more where fields were to be fought;—
He better loved to brood
In this sweet solitude,
She still in sight, who thus her captor's self had caught.
“She little dream'd her conquest, for he still
Maintain'd her as his child, with tenderness;—
As one who seeks no farther of his will,
Than to protect and with sweet nurture bless;
Such love as sire might show,
Did that dark chief bestow,
When, with a gentle clasp, he met her child-caress.
Maintain'd her as his child, with tenderness;—
As one who seeks no farther of his will,
Than to protect and with sweet nurture bless;
Such love as sire might show,
Did that dark chief bestow,
When, with a gentle clasp, he met her child-caress.
214
“She grew to be the blossom of his sight—
For her he snared the fawn,—for her he brought
Gay gauds of foreign fabric;—her delight
Being still the sweetest recompense he sought;—
And, when her feet would rove,
He led her through the grove,
Show'd her its devious paths and all its secrets taught.
For her he snared the fawn,—for her he brought
Gay gauds of foreign fabric;—her delight
Being still the sweetest recompense he sought;—
And, when her feet would rove,
He led her through the grove,
Show'd her its devious paths and all its secrets taught.
“She grew apace in beauty as in years,
And he the more devoted:—until now
His eye beheld her growth and had no fears,—
But soon a shadow rose above his brow;—
That shadow, born of doubt,
Which finds love's secret out,
And, o'er its sunniest bower, still spans an arch of tears.
And he the more devoted:—until now
His eye beheld her growth and had no fears,—
But soon a shadow rose above his brow;—
That shadow, born of doubt,
Which finds love's secret out,
And, o'er its sunniest bower, still spans an arch of tears.
“This shadow had its birth with our dark chief,
When to his home, one eve, returning late,
He saw, with passion still subdued by grief,
A stranger with his beauty, in his gate;—
One of the pale white race,
Whose presence, in that place,
Brought to his heart a fear that troubled it like fate.
When to his home, one eve, returning late,
He saw, with passion still subdued by grief,
A stranger with his beauty, in his gate;—
One of the pale white race,
Whose presence, in that place,
Brought to his heart a fear that troubled it like fate.
“Yet was he but a pedlar,—he who came,—
Thus troubling waters which had slept before;
He brought his glittering wares, and did but claim
To show them, and night's lodging to implore:
And, o'er his pack, with eyes
Of eager, glad surprise,
Stoop'd our young maid when stept the chief within his door.
Thus troubling waters which had slept before;
He brought his glittering wares, and did but claim
To show them, and night's lodging to implore:
And, o'er his pack, with eyes
Of eager, glad surprise,
Stoop'd our young maid when stept the chief within his door.
215
“His stealthy footsteps stirr'd no single sound;
They knew not of the eyes upon them set—
She, the gay thoughtless girl, in thought profound,
Deep in such wealth as had not tempted yet;
While his—the stranger's—gaze,
In a most pleasant maze,
Scann'd her bright cheeks, unseen, from eyes of glittering jet.
They knew not of the eyes upon them set—
She, the gay thoughtless girl, in thought profound,
Deep in such wealth as had not tempted yet;
While his—the stranger's—gaze,
In a most pleasant maze,
Scann'd her bright cheeks, unseen, from eyes of glittering jet.
“A handsome youth, of dark and amorous glance,
Showing a grateful consciousness of power,
Yet thoughtless, in that moment of sweet trance,
How best to woo and win the forest flower;
Even at that moment, stood
The red-man from the wood,
Gazing, with instinct grief, that had its birth that hour.
Showing a grateful consciousness of power,
Yet thoughtless, in that moment of sweet trance,
How best to woo and win the forest flower;
Even at that moment, stood
The red-man from the wood,
Gazing, with instinct grief, that had its birth that hour.
“Quickly he broke the silence and came forth,
While the fair girl, upstarting from her dream,
Hurried his search into such stores of worth,
As did on eyes of young Aladdin gleam:—
Clipping his neck with arms
That spoke of dearer charms,
The maid Othello loved might she that moment seem.
While the fair girl, upstarting from her dream,
Hurried his search into such stores of worth,
As did on eyes of young Aladdin gleam:—
Clipping his neck with arms
That spoke of dearer charms,
The maid Othello loved might she that moment seem.
“And, with a pleased, but still a sinking heart,
He yielded to her pleading: he had stores,—
Such treasures as the red-man might impart,
Of precious value, borne to foreign shores;
Spoils in the forest caught,
By tribute hunter brought,
Soft furs from beaver won by snares of sylvan art.
He yielded to her pleading: he had stores,—
Such treasures as the red-man might impart,
Of precious value, borne to foreign shores;
Spoils in the forest caught,
By tribute hunter brought,
Soft furs from beaver won by snares of sylvan art.
216
“Sadly, the indulgent chief—but with a smile,—
Gave up his treasure at his ward's demand;
The precious gauds which did her eyes beguile,
Soon clasp'd her neck, or glitter'd in her hand.
All had she won—but still
There was a feminine will,
That led her glance astray beneath that stranger's wile.
Gave up his treasure at his ward's demand;
The precious gauds which did her eyes beguile,
Soon clasp'd her neck, or glitter'd in her hand.
All had she won—but still
There was a feminine will,
That led her glance astray beneath that stranger's wile.
“Their eyes commerced beside the blazing fire,
Hers still unconscious of the erring vein;
The chief beheld, in his, the keen desire,
And his heart swell'd with still increasing pain;
Yet, though the sting was deep,
His passion, made to sleep,
Look'd calm through eyes that seem'd a stranger still to ire.
Hers still unconscious of the erring vein;
The chief beheld, in his, the keen desire,
And his heart swell'd with still increasing pain;
Yet, though the sting was deep,
His passion, made to sleep,
Look'd calm through eyes that seem'd a stranger still to ire.
“His board was spread with hospitable hand,
Crisp'd the brown bread and smoked the venison steak;
An ancient squaw, still ready at command,
Pour'd the casina tea, their thirst to slake;
Then, as the hour grew late,
With calm and lofty state,
The chief himself, with care, the stranger's couch did make.
Crisp'd the brown bread and smoked the venison steak;
An ancient squaw, still ready at command,
Pour'd the casina tea, their thirst to slake;
Then, as the hour grew late,
With calm and lofty state,
The chief himself, with care, the stranger's couch did make.
“At sunrise they partook the morning meal,
And then the white man went upon his way;
Not without feeling—teaching her to feel—
How sweet to both had been his still delay:—
The nature, long at rest,
Rose, pleading, at her breast,
For that pale race from which, perforce, she dwelt astray.
And then the white man went upon his way;
Not without feeling—teaching her to feel—
How sweet to both had been his still delay:—
The nature, long at rest,
Rose, pleading, at her breast,
For that pale race from which, perforce, she dwelt astray.
217
“She long'd for their communion,—for the youth
Had waken'd memories, not to be subdued,
Of that dear home, and friends whose tender ruth
Possess'd her still in that sweet solitude;
And, saddening with the thought,
Her secret soul grew fraught
With hopes, with doubts, with dreams, o'er which she loved to brood.
Had waken'd memories, not to be subdued,
Of that dear home, and friends whose tender ruth
Possess'd her still in that sweet solitude;
And, saddening with the thought,
Her secret soul grew fraught
With hopes, with doubts, with dreams, o'er which she loved to brood.
“The chief beheld the trouble in her eye,
He felt as well the trouble in his heart,
And, ere the morrow's sun was in the sky,
He bade her make her ready to depart;—
He had a wider home,
Where love might safely roam,
Nor fear the stranger's foot, nor tremble at his art.
He felt as well the trouble in his heart,
And, ere the morrow's sun was in the sky,
He bade her make her ready to depart;—
He had a wider home,
Where love might safely roam,
Nor fear the stranger's foot, nor tremble at his art.
“Cassique among the Edistos, he bore
His treasure to the river of that name;
He sought the forests on its western shore,
Millions of acres he alone might claim;
Where the great stream divides,
He cross'd its double tides,
Still seeking denser empires to explore.
His treasure to the river of that name;
He sought the forests on its western shore,
Millions of acres he alone might claim;
Where the great stream divides,
He cross'd its double tides,
Still seeking denser empires to explore.
“At length, he paused beside a little lake,
A clear sweet mirror for the midnight star;
‘Soon, weary one, thy slumbers shalt thou take;
In sooth, to-day, our feet have wander'd far;
Yet look, and thou shalt see,
The wigwam smokes for thee,—
Those fires that gleam through woods show where our people are.
A clear sweet mirror for the midnight star;
‘Soon, weary one, thy slumbers shalt thou take;
In sooth, to-day, our feet have wander'd far;
Yet look, and thou shalt see,
The wigwam smokes for thee,—
Those fires that gleam through woods show where our people are.
218
“‘Here shalt thou have fond service—here the clime
Is sweet and healthful;—buskin'd, with thy bow,
Thou'lt wander forth with me, at morning's chime,
And I to snare or slay the game, will show:
Broad are the sheltering woods,
Bright are the streams, the floods,
And safe the realm that hence thy youthful heart shall know.’
Is sweet and healthful;—buskin'd, with thy bow,
Thou'lt wander forth with me, at morning's chime,
And I to snare or slay the game, will show:
Broad are the sheltering woods,
Bright are the streams, the floods,
And safe the realm that hence thy youthful heart shall know.’
“Thus counselling, he led her o'er the plain,
Down the smooth hill, beside the lakelet clear;
They tread the gloomy forest paths again,
Till sudden, the whole landscape opens fair;
‘Look! weary one,’ he cries;
‘Our realm before us lies,
Far spread as bird can fly, or speeds by day the deer.’
Down the smooth hill, beside the lakelet clear;
They tread the gloomy forest paths again,
Till sudden, the whole landscape opens fair;
‘Look! weary one,’ he cries;
‘Our realm before us lies,
Far spread as bird can fly, or speeds by day the deer.’
“In sooth, to one whose heart is all at rest,
With not a human care to call it thence,
It was a home that rapture might have bless'd,
Lovely to sight and dear to innocence;
Great trees, a welcome shade,
Of beech and poplar made,
Fortress of peace that love might deem his best defence.
With not a human care to call it thence,
It was a home that rapture might have bless'd,
Lovely to sight and dear to innocence;
Great trees, a welcome shade,
Of beech and poplar made,
Fortress of peace that love might deem his best defence.
“Long groves of pine and cedar led through wastes
Made lovely by wild flowers of every hue;
Through arching boughs and vines the river hastes,
Still with the song of birds that wander too;
A fresh green realm, unbroke
By plough, or woodman's stroke,
Rich in savannahs green, and lakes of skyey blue.
Made lovely by wild flowers of every hue;
Through arching boughs and vines the river hastes,
Still with the song of birds that wander too;
A fresh green realm, unbroke
By plough, or woodman's stroke,
Rich in savannahs green, and lakes of skyey blue.
219
“His was the realm, and at his bidding came
The tribes that peopled it; beneath his sway
They framed their rude society;—his blame,
Or praise, sufficient guide to shape their way;
Still, with the falling leaf,
The signal of our chief
Prepared them for the chase and counsell'd their array.
The tribes that peopled it; beneath his sway
They framed their rude society;—his blame,
Or praise, sufficient guide to shape their way;
Still, with the falling leaf,
The signal of our chief
Prepared them for the chase and counsell'd their array.
“And thus, for many a moon, within that shade,
Dwelling 'mongst vassals rude but loyal still,
Remote, but not in loneliness, our maid
Had all that love could sigh for, but its will;
Submissive still she found
The gentle tribes around,
The squaws received her law, the warriors too obey'd.
Dwelling 'mongst vassals rude but loyal still,
Remote, but not in loneliness, our maid
Had all that love could sigh for, but its will;
Submissive still she found
The gentle tribes around,
The squaws received her law, the warriors too obey'd.
“No censure check'd her walks—no evil eyes
Darken'd upon her childish sports at eve;
If o'er the chieftain's brow a trouble lies,
'Tis sure no fault of hers that makes him grieve;
For her he still hath smiles,
And, in her playful wiles,
He finds a charm that still must artlessly deceive.
Darken'd upon her childish sports at eve;
If o'er the chieftain's brow a trouble lies,
'Tis sure no fault of hers that makes him grieve;
For her he still hath smiles,
And, in her playful wiles,
He finds a charm that still must artlessly deceive.
“Her wild song cheers him at the twilight hour,
As, on the sward, beside her sylvan cot,
He throws him down, meet image of a power
Subdued by beauty to the vassal's lot;
With half unconscious gaze,
His eye her form surveys,
And fancies fill his heart which utterance yet have not.
As, on the sward, beside her sylvan cot,
He throws him down, meet image of a power
Subdued by beauty to the vassal's lot;
With half unconscious gaze,
His eye her form surveys,
And fancies fill his heart which utterance yet have not.
220
“She had expanded into womanhood
In those brief years of mild captivity,
And now, as 'neath his glance the damsel stood,
Nothing more sweet had ever met his eye;—
Fair, with her Saxon face,
Her form a forest grace
Had won from woodland sports of rare agility.
In those brief years of mild captivity,
And now, as 'neath his glance the damsel stood,
Nothing more sweet had ever met his eye;—
Fair, with her Saxon face,
Her form a forest grace
Had won from woodland sports of rare agility.
“Her rich blue eyes, her streaming yellow hair,
The soft white skin that show'd the crimson tide,
And perfect features—made her beauties rare,
That well the charms of Indian race defied;—
Her motion, as of flight,
Tutor'd by wild delight,
Brought to her form a grace at once of love and pride.
The soft white skin that show'd the crimson tide,
And perfect features—made her beauties rare,
That well the charms of Indian race defied;—
Her motion, as of flight,
Tutor'd by wild delight,
Brought to her form a grace at once of love and pride.
“And, as he gazed, with rapture ill suppress'd,
Inly the chief resolved that she should be
The woman he would take unto his breast,
Ere the next moon should ride up from the sea;
His child no more,—he felt
His soul within him melt,
To hear her voice in song, her thought in fancy free.
Inly the chief resolved that she should be
The woman he would take unto his breast,
Ere the next moon should ride up from the sea;
His child no more,—he felt
His soul within him melt,
To hear her voice in song, her thought in fancy free.
“She felt at last her power upon his heart,
As she beheld the language in his eye;
And, with this knowledge, came a natural art,
Which bade her glances unto his reply;
Made happy by her look
His soul new poison took,
He drew her to his breast, nor seem'd she to deny.
As she beheld the language in his eye;
And, with this knowledge, came a natural art,
Which bade her glances unto his reply;
Made happy by her look
His soul new poison took,
He drew her to his breast, nor seem'd she to deny.
221
“‘I shall go hence,’ quoth he, ‘the Hunter's Moon—
These sticks shall tell thee of the broken days;
When all are gone, I shall return,—and soon
The beauties that I hold within my gaze,
Shall bless, if thou approve,
This heart, and the fond love
That knows thee as the star the ocean stream that sways.’
These sticks shall tell thee of the broken days;
When all are gone, I shall return,—and soon
The beauties that I hold within my gaze,
Shall bless, if thou approve,
This heart, and the fond love
That knows thee as the star the ocean stream that sways.’
“And she was silent while he spake—her head
Sunk, not in sadness, and upon his breast;
Fondly he kiss'd her—other words he said,
And still, in dear embrace, her form caress'd;
Then parting, sped afar,
Led by the Hunter's Star,
Where the bear wallows in his summer nest.
Sunk, not in sadness, and upon his breast;
Fondly he kiss'd her—other words he said,
And still, in dear embrace, her form caress'd;
Then parting, sped afar,
Led by the Hunter's Star,
Where the bear wallows in his summer nest.
“She had no sorrow to obey the will
That ruled a nation: true, he slew her sire,
But he had been a gentle guardian still,
Baffling each danger, soothing each desire;
The power that he possess'd
Was grateful to her breast,
And warm'd with pride the heart, that lack'd each holier fire
That ruled a nation: true, he slew her sire,
But he had been a gentle guardian still,
Baffling each danger, soothing each desire;
The power that he possess'd
Was grateful to her breast,
And warm'd with pride the heart, that lack'd each holier fire
“That night there rose an image in her dreams,
Of the young trader seen at Accabee;
His fair soft face upon her memory gleams,
His keen, dark, searching eye, still wantonly
Pursues her with its blaze;
And she returns the gaze,
And thus her heart communes with one she cannot see.
Of the young trader seen at Accabee;
His fair soft face upon her memory gleams,
His keen, dark, searching eye, still wantonly
Pursues her with its blaze;
And she returns the gaze,
And thus her heart communes with one she cannot see.
222
“It was as if the chief, by the same word
That told his own fond purpose, had compell'd
The image of the person she preferr'd,—
And, seeing him in dreams, her soul was spell'd
With fancies that, in vain,
She strove to hush again—
She saw their shapes by day, by night their voices heard.
That told his own fond purpose, had compell'd
The image of the person she preferr'd,—
And, seeing him in dreams, her soul was spell'd
With fancies that, in vain,
She strove to hush again—
She saw their shapes by day, by night their voices heard.
“Saddened by this communion, she withdrew
From those who sought her; in deep forests went,
By lonely streams and shades, from human view,
Nursing a vague and vexing discontent;—
For the first time, a care
Hung on her heart like fear—
The shadows from a soul not wholly innocent.
From those who sought her; in deep forests went,
By lonely streams and shades, from human view,
Nursing a vague and vexing discontent;—
For the first time, a care
Hung on her heart like fear—
The shadows from a soul not wholly innocent.
“There is a fate beside us day and night,
Obedient to the voice within our hearts;
Boldly we summon, and it stands in sight;
We speak not, and in silence it departs;—
'Twas thus with her, as still
She roved with aimless will,
Beside the swamps through which the Edisto still darts.
Obedient to the voice within our hearts;
Boldly we summon, and it stands in sight;
We speak not, and in silence it departs;—
'Twas thus with her, as still
She roved with aimless will,
Beside the swamps through which the Edisto still darts.
“She spoke aloud, or did not speak, his name,
Whose image was the sole one in her breast;
But, suddenly, from out the woods he came,
And mutual glances mutual joy express'd:—
‘Ah! sought so long before,
I fear'd that, never more,
Mine eyes should see the form that kept my soul from rest.
Whose image was the sole one in her breast;
But, suddenly, from out the woods he came,
And mutual glances mutual joy express'd:—
‘Ah! sought so long before,
I fear'd that, never more,
Mine eyes should see the form that kept my soul from rest.
223
“‘How have I search'd for you in devious path,
Forgetful of the mercenary trade!
And now, though perill'd by the redman's wrath,
I seek you in forbidden forest shade;
For never, since that night,
When first you met my sight,
Hath beauty on my heart such sweet impression made.’
Forgetful of the mercenary trade!
And now, though perill'd by the redman's wrath,
I seek you in forbidden forest shade;
For never, since that night,
When first you met my sight,
Hath beauty on my heart such sweet impression made.’
“They sat beneath the shade of silent trees,
Close guarded by a thicket dense and deep;
There, onward, stole the river at its ease,
And, through the air, the birds made easy sweep;—
Those bowers were sweetly dight
For safety and delight;—
The stranger won the prize the chieftain still would keep.
Close guarded by a thicket dense and deep;
There, onward, stole the river at its ease,
And, through the air, the birds made easy sweep;—
Those bowers were sweetly dight
For safety and delight;—
The stranger won the prize the chieftain still would keep.
“He came, the dark-brow'd chieftain, from the chase,
Laden with precious spoils of forest pride;
His heart exulting as he near'd the place
Where the fair Saxon waited as his bride:
But who shall speak the grief
That shook that warrior chief,
When they declared her flight with yester-eventide.
Laden with precious spoils of forest pride;
His heart exulting as he near'd the place
Where the fair Saxon waited as his bride:
But who shall speak the grief
That shook that warrior chief,
When they declared her flight with yester-eventide.
“He had no voice for anguish or regret;—
He spake not of his purpose—but went forth,
With a keen spirit, on one progress set,
Now on the southern stream side, now the north;
Following, with sleuthhound's scent,
The way the lovers went,
Tracking each footfall sure, in leaf, in grass, and earth.
He spake not of his purpose—but went forth,
With a keen spirit, on one progress set,
Now on the southern stream side, now the north;
Following, with sleuthhound's scent,
The way the lovers went,
Tracking each footfall sure, in leaf, in grass, and earth.
224
“Nor did he track in vain! They little knew
The unerring instinct of that hunter race;
A devious progress did the twain pursue,
Through streams and woods, to baffle still the trace;
But how should they beguile
The master of each wile,
Each art pursued in war or needful in the chase?
The unerring instinct of that hunter race;
A devious progress did the twain pursue,
Through streams and woods, to baffle still the trace;
But how should they beguile
The master of each wile,
Each art pursued in war or needful in the chase?
“In fancy safe, and weary now with flight,
The lovers lay at noonday in the shade;
Soft through the leaves and grateful to the sight,
The sun in droplets o'er the valley play'd;
But two short leagues, and they
Should leave the perilous way,
On Keawah secure, in home by squatter made.
The lovers lay at noonday in the shade;
Soft through the leaves and grateful to the sight,
The sun in droplets o'er the valley play'd;
But two short leagues, and they
Should leave the perilous way,
On Keawah secure, in home by squatter made.
“Thus satisfied, with seeming certainty,
Won by the hour's sweet stillness, did the pair,
Shelter'd beneath the brows of an old tree,
Give freedom to the love they joy'd to share;
His arm about her press'd,
She lay upon his breast,
Life's self forgot in bliss that left no room for care.
Won by the hour's sweet stillness, did the pair,
Shelter'd beneath the brows of an old tree,
Give freedom to the love they joy'd to share;
His arm about her press'd,
She lay upon his breast,
Life's self forgot in bliss that left no room for care.
“They little dream'd that, lurking in the wood,
A witness to the freedom of their bliss,
The fiery chieftain they had baffled stood,
Fierce, with envenom'd fang and fatal hiss;
The lord of death and life,
He grasp'd the deadly knife,
And shook the tomahawk high but rarely known to miss.
A witness to the freedom of their bliss,
The fiery chieftain they had baffled stood,
Fierce, with envenom'd fang and fatal hiss;
The lord of death and life,
He grasp'd the deadly knife,
And shook the tomahawk high but rarely known to miss.
225
“But, ere he sped the weapon to its mark,
His heart grew gentle 'neath a milder sway;
True, they had left his dwelling lone and dark,
But should he make it glad were he to slay?
Nor, if the man he slew,
Could he again renew
The trust he gave the maid as in his happier day.
His heart grew gentle 'neath a milder sway;
True, they had left his dwelling lone and dark,
But should he make it glad were he to slay?
Nor, if the man he slew,
Could he again renew
The trust he gave the maid as in his happier day.
“Nor could he strike, with stern and fatal blow,
Her whose fair beauties were too precious still;
A noble purpose came to soothe his woe,
And crown, with best revenge, a generous will;—
Forth strode he from the wood,
And ere they knew, he stood,
With weapon bared, and look still resolute to kill.
Her whose fair beauties were too precious still;
A noble purpose came to soothe his woe,
And crown, with best revenge, a generous will;—
Forth strode he from the wood,
And ere they knew, he stood,
With weapon bared, and look still resolute to kill.
“As one who at the serpent's rattle starts,
Sharp, sudden sounded in the covert nigh,
They heard his voice, and both their guilty hearts
Sunk, hopeless, 'neath the expected penalty;
But, stifling his deep grief,
With few stern words, the chief,
Declared, though worthy death, the guilty should not die!
Sharp, sudden sounded in the covert nigh,
They heard his voice, and both their guilty hearts
Sunk, hopeless, 'neath the expected penalty;
But, stifling his deep grief,
With few stern words, the chief,
Declared, though worthy death, the guilty should not die!
“O'erjoy'd at respite scarcely yet believed,
The girl had risen and rush'd to clasp his knees,
But he whose faith had been so much deceived,
No homage now could pacify or please;
Calm, but with gloomy face,
He checks the false embrace,
And still, the crouching youth, with scornful eye, he sees.
The girl had risen and rush'd to clasp his knees,
But he whose faith had been so much deceived,
No homage now could pacify or please;
Calm, but with gloomy face,
He checks the false embrace,
And still, the crouching youth, with scornful eye, he sees.
226
“He bade them rise and follow where he led,
Himself conducted to the dwelling near;
Here, till the dawn, each found a separate bed;
With morning o'er the Keawah they steer;
Still guided he the way,
And, ere the close of day,
Once more the three to shades of Accabee repair.
Himself conducted to the dwelling near;
Here, till the dawn, each found a separate bed;
With morning o'er the Keawah they steer;
Still guided he the way,
And, ere the close of day,
Once more the three to shades of Accabee repair.
“‘Here,’ said he, ‘is your future dwelling-place,
This be, my gift, your heritage of right;
The holy man, of your own foreign race,
Shall, with the coming day, your hands unite;
And men of law shall know
That I these lands forego,
For her who still hath been the apple of my sight.
This be, my gift, your heritage of right;
The holy man, of your own foreign race,
Shall, with the coming day, your hands unite;
And men of law shall know
That I these lands forego,
For her who still hath been the apple of my sight.
“‘See that you cherish her with proper faith;—
If that you wrong her, look for wrong from me:
Once have I spared you, when the doom was death;
Beware the future wrath you may not flee;
Mine eye shall watch for hers,
And if a breath but stirs
Her hair too rudely,—look for storms on Accabee.’
If that you wrong her, look for wrong from me:
Once have I spared you, when the doom was death;
Beware the future wrath you may not flee;
Mine eye shall watch for hers,
And if a breath but stirs
Her hair too rudely,—look for storms on Accabee.’
“He did as he had promised; they were wed
By Christian rites,—and legal deeds convey'd
The heritage;—without a word then sped
The chief into his forests, seeking shade:
Months pass'd—a year went by,
And none beheld his eye,
Where still his thought, with love, through these sweet places stray'd.
By Christian rites,—and legal deeds convey'd
The heritage;—without a word then sped
The chief into his forests, seeking shade:
Months pass'd—a year went by,
And none beheld his eye,
Where still his thought, with love, through these sweet places stray'd.
227
“He grew to be forgotten by the twain;
Or if not wholly by the woman, she
Ne'er spoke of him,—ne'er look'd for him again,
Though much it might have gladden'd her to see;
For love had lost its flower,
And soon there came an hour,
When all her young heart's pleasure grew to pain!
Or if not wholly by the woman, she
Ne'er spoke of him,—ne'er look'd for him again,
Though much it might have gladden'd her to see;
For love had lost its flower,
And soon there came an hour,
When all her young heart's pleasure grew to pain!
“The first sweet flush of summer dalliance gone,
The first most precious bloom of passion o'er,
Indifference follow'd in the heart that won,
And scorn found place where rapture woke no more;
No kindly nurture bless'd
With love her lonely breast,
And soon even peace had fled the home so glad before.
The first most precious bloom of passion o'er,
Indifference follow'd in the heart that won,
And scorn found place where rapture woke no more;
No kindly nurture bless'd
With love her lonely breast,
And soon even peace had fled the home so glad before.
“And scorn grew into hate, and hate to wrath,
And wrath found speech in violence;—his arm
Smote the unhappy woman from his path;—
Submission could not soothe, nor tears disarm,
The cruel mood, the will,
True to past passions still,
Which Love and Beauty now, no more sufficed to charm.
And wrath found speech in violence;—his arm
Smote the unhappy woman from his path;—
Submission could not soothe, nor tears disarm,
The cruel mood, the will,
True to past passions still,
Which Love and Beauty now, no more sufficed to charm.
“The profligate husband, reckless of her woe,
Her meek submission and her misery,
Prepared, in secret, still another blow,
And bargain'd for the sale of Accabee;
Already had he drawn
The fatal deed—had gone,
Resolved, in other lands, remote, his wife to flee.
Her meek submission and her misery,
Prepared, in secret, still another blow,
And bargain'd for the sale of Accabee;
Already had he drawn
The fatal deed—had gone,
Resolved, in other lands, remote, his wife to flee.
228
“He little knew that eyes were on his flight,
That long had mark'd his deeds;—his way led through
The umbrageous groves of Eutaw:—long ere night
His footsteps to the white man's clearings drew;—
Exulting in the dream,
Successful, of his scheme,
He hails the cottage-smokes of him who bought, in sight.
That long had mark'd his deeds;—his way led through
The umbrageous groves of Eutaw:—long ere night
His footsteps to the white man's clearings drew;—
Exulting in the dream,
Successful, of his scheme,
He hails the cottage-smokes of him who bought, in sight.
“But now a voice arrests him as he goes—
Forth starts the red chief from the covering wood;
At once he knew him for the worst of foes;
Guilt quell'd his courage, terror froze his blood;
The horse is stay'd—in vain,
He jerks the extended rein,
Vainly applies the spur, and showers his flanks with blows.
Forth starts the red chief from the covering wood;
At once he knew him for the worst of foes;
Guilt quell'd his courage, terror froze his blood;
The horse is stay'd—in vain,
He jerks the extended rein,
Vainly applies the spur, and showers his flanks with blows.
“Stern was the summons—in a single word—
‘Down!’—and he yielded to the vigorous hand;
‘I gave thee all!’ were then the accents heard—
‘The woman from my bosom, and my land;—
I warn'd thee, ere I went,
Of wrath and punishment,
If hair upon her head, in wrath was ever stirr'd.
‘Down!’—and he yielded to the vigorous hand;
‘I gave thee all!’ were then the accents heard—
‘The woman from my bosom, and my land;—
I warn'd thee, ere I went,
Of wrath and punishment,
If hair upon her head, in wrath was ever stirr'd.
“‘I know thee, and thy deeds; and thou shalt die!’
‘Mercy!’ implored the profligate in vain.
Vainly he struggles—vainly seeks to fly—
Even as he strives, the hatchet cleaves his brain.
Quivering, he lies beneath,
While, from his leathern sheath,
The warrior draws his knife, and coldly scalps the slain.
‘Mercy!’ implored the profligate in vain.
Vainly he struggles—vainly seeks to fly—
Even as he strives, the hatchet cleaves his brain.
Quivering, he lies beneath,
While, from his leathern sheath,
The warrior draws his knife, and coldly scalps the slain.
229
“Another night, and on the Accabee,
Softly the moon was smiling through its grove;
Yet sad the woman hail'd its light, for she
No longer warm'd with hope, or glow'd with love:
Grief, and a wan despair,
Reign'd in her soul of care,
Whence love, expell'd by wrath, had long been forced to flee.
Softly the moon was smiling through its grove;
Yet sad the woman hail'd its light, for she
No longer warm'd with hope, or glow'd with love:
Grief, and a wan despair,
Reign'd in her soul of care,
Whence love, expell'd by wrath, had long been forced to flee.
“She crouch'd beside the hearth in vacant mood,
Silence and woe close crouch'd on either hand,—
Life's hope all baffled,—all the innocent brood
Of joys, that once had crowded at command,
Dead—gone like summer flowers;
Desolate all her hours,
Her life was now one dread, one deathlike solitude.
Silence and woe close crouch'd on either hand,—
Life's hope all baffled,—all the innocent brood
Of joys, that once had crowded at command,
Dead—gone like summer flowers;
Desolate all her hours,
Her life was now one dread, one deathlike solitude.
“With dreary gaze she watch'd the flickering fire,
Nor mark'd around the thickening growth of gloom;
She sees, unheeding, the bright flame expire,
Nor marks the fearful aspect in her room;
Beside her rest the brands—
'Tis but to stretch her hands:
Alas! her desolate soul for light hath no desire.
Nor mark'd around the thickening growth of gloom;
She sees, unheeding, the bright flame expire,
Nor marks the fearful aspect in her room;
Beside her rest the brands—
'Tis but to stretch her hands:
Alas! her desolate soul for light hath no desire.
“But lo! another form, beside her own,
Bends to the task;—sudden, the resinous pine
Flames up;—she feels she is no more alone;
She sees a well-known eye upon her shine,
And hides her face, and cries—
‘The Chief!’ His silent eyes
Still saddening o'er the shape too long and dearly known.
Bends to the task;—sudden, the resinous pine
Flames up;—she feels she is no more alone;
She sees a well-known eye upon her shine,
And hides her face, and cries—
‘The Chief!’ His silent eyes
Still saddening o'er the shape too long and dearly known.
230
“‘The man whom thou didst wed, will never more
Lay angry hand upon thee—he had sold
Thy land, and fled thee for another shore;
But that I wound him in the serpent's fold,
And took from him the power
That had usurp'd thy dower;
In proof of what I tell thee,—lo! behold!’
Lay angry hand upon thee—he had sold
Thy land, and fled thee for another shore;
But that I wound him in the serpent's fold,
And took from him the power
That had usurp'd thy dower;
In proof of what I tell thee,—lo! behold!’
“Thus speaking, he, beside her, on the floor,
Cast down the white man's written instrument;
Sign'd, seal'd, and witness'd; framed with legal lore;
Conveying—such the document's intent—
All these fair groves and plains,
The Accabee domains,
To one, of kindred race, whose name the paper bore.
Cast down the white man's written instrument;
Sign'd, seal'd, and witness'd; framed with legal lore;
Conveying—such the document's intent—
All these fair groves and plains,
The Accabee domains,
To one, of kindred race, whose name the paper bore.
“And she had sign'd it, with unwilling hand,
Ignorant of its meaning, but in dread;
Obedient to her tyrant's fierce command,
While his arm shook in threat'ning o'er her head;
'Twas in that very hour,
His blow, with brutal power,
Had stricken her to the earth, where long she lay as dead.
Ignorant of its meaning, but in dread;
Obedient to her tyrant's fierce command,
While his arm shook in threat'ning o'er her head;
'Twas in that very hour,
His blow, with brutal power,
Had stricken her to the earth, where long she lay as dead.
“He little dream'd that the avenger near,
Beheld him, and prepared his punishment;
You ask, Why came he not to interfere,
And stay, ere yet was wrought the foul intent;
Enough, the red man knows
His time to interpose:—
Sternly his hour he takes, with resolute will unbent.
Beheld him, and prepared his punishment;
You ask, Why came he not to interfere,
And stay, ere yet was wrought the foul intent;
Enough, the red man knows
His time to interpose:—
Sternly his hour he takes, with resolute will unbent.
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“Unerring, we have seen him in pursuit—
Unsparing, we have seen him in his blow;—
His mission was not ended; and, though mute,
He stood surveying her, who, cowering low,
Crept humbly to his feet,
As seeming to entreat,—
He had another task, which found the warrior slow.
Unsparing, we have seen him in his blow;—
His mission was not ended; and, though mute,
He stood surveying her, who, cowering low,
Crept humbly to his feet,
As seeming to entreat,—
He had another task, which found the warrior slow.
“But he was firm:—‘This paper is your own,—
Another proof is mine, that you will be
Safe from the blows of him so lately known;
He hath his separate lands henceforth from me;
Ample the soil I gave,
Beside the Eutaw's wave;
In token of my truth—this bloody scalplock see.’
Another proof is mine, that you will be
Safe from the blows of him so lately known;
He hath his separate lands henceforth from me;
Ample the soil I gave,
Beside the Eutaw's wave;
In token of my truth—this bloody scalplock see.’
“Then shriek'd the unhappy woman with affright,
Revolting at the trophy, dripping yet,
That, down upon the paper, in her sight,
With quiet hand, the haughty chieftain set;
‘Spare me! Oh, spare!’ she cries:
And crouching, with shut eyes,
Backward she crept, as if she safety sought in flight.
Revolting at the trophy, dripping yet,
That, down upon the paper, in her sight,
With quiet hand, the haughty chieftain set;
‘Spare me! Oh, spare!’ she cries:
And crouching, with shut eyes,
Backward she crept, as if she safety sought in flight.
“‘Fear nothing!’ said the chieftain; ‘'twas for thee,
I brought this bloody token of my truth,
To show thee, from this moment, thou art free
To the possession of thy life and youth;
Still hast thou beauty; still
Thy heritage—thy will;
Go, seek thy kindred pale, secure of love and ruth.
I brought this bloody token of my truth,
To show thee, from this moment, thou art free
To the possession of thy life and youth;
Still hast thou beauty; still
Thy heritage—thy will;
Go, seek thy kindred pale, secure of love and ruth.
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“‘From him, who, in thy thoughtlessness of heart,
Thou mad'st a master over thee, I save;
I slew thy father—I have done his part,
And give thee wealth more ample than he gave;
Henceforth, thou wilt not see
The Chief at Accabee;
Beware again lest passion make thee slave.
Thou mad'st a master over thee, I save;
I slew thy father—I have done his part,
And give thee wealth more ample than he gave;
Henceforth, thou wilt not see
The Chief at Accabee;
Beware again lest passion make thee slave.
“‘I leave thee now forever!’ ‘No!’ she cried:
‘Oh! take me to thy people;—let me dwell
Lone, peaceful, on the Edisto's green side,
Which, had I left not, I had still been well:—
Forgive me, that the child,
With heart both weak and wild,
Err'd, in not loving, where she might have loved with pride!’
‘Oh! take me to thy people;—let me dwell
Lone, peaceful, on the Edisto's green side,
Which, had I left not, I had still been well:—
Forgive me, that the child,
With heart both weak and wild,
Err'd, in not loving, where she might have loved with pride!’
“‘I had believed thee once; but now, too late!
Henceforth I know thee, only to forget.’
‘Thou canst not!’—‘It may be, that thus my fate
Hath spoken; but my resolute will is set,
In manhood,—and I know,
Though all of life be woe,
Thus better—than with faithlessness to mate.’
Henceforth I know thee, only to forget.’
‘Thou canst not!’—‘It may be, that thus my fate
Hath spoken; but my resolute will is set,
In manhood,—and I know,
Though all of life be woe,
Thus better—than with faithlessness to mate.’
“She crouch'd beneath his feet, incapable
Of answer to that speech; and his sad look,
As if his eyes acknowledged still a spell,
One long, deep survey of the woman took;—
She still unseeing aught,
Of that sad, searching thought,
Which, speaking through his eye, her soul could never brook.
Of answer to that speech; and his sad look,
As if his eyes acknowledged still a spell,
One long, deep survey of the woman took;—
She still unseeing aught,
Of that sad, searching thought,
Which, speaking through his eye, her soul could never brook.
233
Sudden as spectre, waving wide his hand,
He parted from her presence:—He was gone,
Into the shadows of that forest land;
And, desolate now, the woman lay alone,—
Crouching beside the hearth,
While thousand fears had birth,
Haunting her thought with griefs more fearful than the known.
He parted from her presence:—He was gone,
Into the shadows of that forest land;
And, desolate now, the woman lay alone,—
Crouching beside the hearth,
While thousand fears had birth,
Haunting her thought with griefs more fearful than the known.
“Our story here is ended. Of her fate
Nothing remains to us, but that she sold,
Of Accabee, the beautiful estate,
And sought her shelter in the city's fold;
The purchaser, meanwhile,
Made the dark forest smile,
And crown'd its walks with works most lovely to behold.
Nothing remains to us, but that she sold,
Of Accabee, the beautiful estate,
And sought her shelter in the city's fold;
The purchaser, meanwhile,
Made the dark forest smile,
And crown'd its walks with works most lovely to behold.
“A noble dwelling rose amidst the trees,
Fair statues crown'd the vistas—pathways broke
The umbrageous shadows,—and sweet melodies,
Among the groves, at noon and morning woke;—
And great reserves of game,
In which the wild grew tame—
And pleasant lakes, by art, were scoop'd for fisheries.
Fair statues crown'd the vistas—pathways broke
The umbrageous shadows,—and sweet melodies,
Among the groves, at noon and morning woke;—
And great reserves of game,
In which the wild grew tame—
And pleasant lakes, by art, were scoop'd for fisheries.
“Here pleasure strove to make her own abode;
She left no mood uncherish'd which might cheer;
Through the grim forests she threw wide the road,
And welcomed Beauty, while expelling care:
Wealth spared no toils to bless,
And still, with due caress,
Honor'd the daily groups that sought for pastime there.
She left no mood uncherish'd which might cheer;
Through the grim forests she threw wide the road,
And welcomed Beauty, while expelling care:
Wealth spared no toils to bless,
And still, with due caress,
Honor'd the daily groups that sought for pastime there.
234
“But still the spot was haunted by a grief;—
Joy ever sank in sadness:—guests depart;
A something sorrowful, beyond belief,
Impairs the charms of music and of art;
Till sadly went each grace,
And, as you see the place,
Gradual the ruin grew, a grief to eye and heart.
Joy ever sank in sadness:—guests depart;
A something sorrowful, beyond belief,
Impairs the charms of music and of art;
Till sadly went each grace,
And, as you see the place,
Gradual the ruin grew, a grief to eye and heart.
“The native genius, born in solitude,
Is still a thing of sorrow; and his spell,
Whatever be the graft of foreign mood,
Maintains its ancient, sorrowful, aspect well;—
Still reigns its gloomy lord,
With all his sway restored,
Lone, o'er his barren sceptre doom'd to brood.”
Is still a thing of sorrow; and his spell,
Whatever be the graft of foreign mood,
Maintains its ancient, sorrowful, aspect well;—
Still reigns its gloomy lord,
With all his sway restored,
Lone, o'er his barren sceptre doom'd to brood.”
Slow sped our skiff into the open light,—
The billows bright before us,—but no more
Rose love's sweet ditty on our ears that night;—
Silent the maid look'd back upon the shore,
And thought of those dark groves,
And that wild chieftain's loves,
As they had been a truth her heart had felt of yore.
The billows bright before us,—but no more
Rose love's sweet ditty on our ears that night;—
Silent the maid look'd back upon the shore,
And thought of those dark groves,
And that wild chieftain's loves,
As they had been a truth her heart had felt of yore.
235
ALBERT AND ROSALIE
I.
She sat beside the lattice and look'd forthUpon the waters. A smooth stream went by,
Playfully murmuring, and along its banks
Making a pleasant music. 'Twas the hour,
When, shooting through the light wave, his canoe
Bore him that loved her; when, in other days,
Her own love, deeply hallow'd by its truth,
Was sanctified by hope and trust in heaven—
In heaven and him! It was the hour, and there,
The waters lay in light—the silvery light
Of the May moon, that gliding through the trees,
Pour'd down her rich smile on them. A sweet breeze
Came from the opposite shore, and would have borne
The birdlike streamer of his little bark,
And made her sail swell out, as if it knew
And felt the love-assignéd office. 'Twas the hour,
But still he came not. A sad servitor
That ever watch'd her heart, and had a look
Of frowning sorrow, and was named Despair,
Rebuked her eyes that look'd for him in vain,
And bade her hope not. Wherefore look'd she then,
Thus ever, and still earnestly with hope,
That seem'd but a sweet sorrow? Who shall tell
If thought was in that fondness?—if the mind
236
Of sad abstraction, if the expression strong,
Had reason for its guide? It was, alas!
But the sad habit of her form that now
Kept her a watcher. Her fond eyes look'd forth,
Unmonitor'd by mind, from memory!—
She saw not the bright waters—not the moon—
Not the fair prospect!—All was vacancy,
To that unheeding mourner! She had gazed
Till all grew dark before her!—She had thought,
Till thought had swoll'n to madness!—She had felt,
Till feeling, like some fever, ate away
The heart it fed on.
II.
'Twas a cruel tale,Told by the villagers, of an early love,
And childish indiscretion:—such a tale,
As erring but fond natures, aptly leave
In every valley where warm spirits dwell,
And sunny maidens. Rosalie was young—
Lovely as young. A childish excellence,
Infantile grace, with archness intermix'd,
Play'd in her look, and sparkled in her eye,
Which glow'd with ravishing fires, from a dark orb,
That had a depth like heaven! A cheek, fair
And delicate as a rose-leaf newly blown;—
A brow like marble—lofty and profuse,
With the rich brown of her o'ergathering hair!—
These were her beauties—nor through these, alone,
Was she held worthy to be sought of love
In frequent worship. The rich, rosy lips,
That play'd and parted ever with a smile,
Becoming, with mix'd dignity and love,—
237
Her wild song, o'er those waters, silenced them,
And their rough murmurs, to the spell-bound ears
Of her enamor'd hearers. She would sing,
As if song were an element, and she,
The gay, glad bird, just fitted to extend
Her bright wings o'er its bosom and go forth,—
Bringing rich notes to earth from the high heaven,
To which sweet echoes ever bore them back!
And in her rustic home, and, with the crowd
That came about her ever, 'twas a sway,
Queen-like and undisputed, which she bore,
And which they gave her;—nor, in this abused;—
The power she wielded had its spells in love,
And gentleness, and true thought—never in scorn,
Or any wayward impulse or caprice,
Solicitous to humble or deny:—
The queen of loveliness, she was no less
The queen of modesty and maiden grace,
Unchallenged in each subject's heart, and there,
Having a home or palace, at her will.
III.
What wonder, then, if many lovers cameTo woo that maiden? Never maiden yet
Had sway like hers in the secluded vale,
Where stood her dwelling. From afar and near
Came the tall rustics in their Sunday garb
To see and seek her. From the distant hills,
Where fame and fond report had made her known,
They came on mix'd pretences. Having seen,
Their feet grew fasten'd, and their amorous hearts
Dissolved away to weakness, while they bow'd,
And spoke their several loves,—but spoke in vain.
238
And sought a kindred spirit for her own,
When she should give her heart,—and him she found—
So thought she fondly—for the youth was fair—
A gentle youth, to whom a better sphere,
And an occasional travel in far lands,
Had taught the polish of the citizen,
Subduing the rude manners, and bestowing
The grace of social life—the symmetry
Of movement and expression, while it takes
The sharp, rough edge from language, and refines,
To unobtrusive sweetness, the discourse,
That soothes the ear it never should assail.
He had departed from his native home,
Leaving his father's hills in early youth,
When Rosalie—herself a native there—
Was yet a child. Returning, she was then
A child no longer. With the rest he saw,
And, with a better fortune than the rest,
He sought her out and wooed her. 'Tis a tale—
A chronicle of sorrow, not of shame,
Sacred in memory, in the heart secure,
And sweetly dear, though sad!
IV.
We linger now,—We would not hasten in our narrative,
To its sad close. But on their early loves,—
The hours when they were happy—with no thought
To promise the thick sorrow that o'ercame
And tore their hearts asunder—let us pause.
She loved but him of all the valley round,
She saw but him of all the suitors there,
She heard but his discourse, knew but his form,
239
The sunset hour still brought him o'er the lake,—
The sunset hour still found her watching there,
Where now we see her. From the opposite shore,
Her eye could note his little, light canoe,
When first emerging from the reedy banks,
It broke the quiet waters into smiles.
She saw him trim his sail, and every change
Of movement she discerned; and, through her heart,
Seeing, as through a glass, where every hope
Had lent some light, and every love gave power,
She thought the very smile upon his lips
Grew visible to her gaze. Thus, day by day,
For months, in a sweet silence of discourse,
They moved and met each other with their hearts,
Having no other speech. But the time came,—
Too soon, perchance, though slow to youthful hope,—
When love should shape his language. 'Twas an hour,
In early spring—Love's season and the flowers',
Season of budding eyes, and blessing hearts!—
Nature was in her sweet virginity,
When they walk'd forth i' the garden. Lovely buds,
Clustering in leafy cells, gave promise meet
Of untold fruitage—brightly the sun shone,
Yet inoppressive, for his slanting rays
Came broken through the forest. All around,
Young flower and humming insect, bird and breeze,
Partaking of youth's happiest harmonies,
Murmur'd in gladness to the delicate sense
That flowed in its fresh feelings. Rosalie
Hung on her lover's arm, yet undeclared
His passion for her. The young maiden's heart
Gush'd with its sweet o'erfulness, while the tear
Of an unstudied joy upon her cheek,
240
In odor,—till he grew a worshipper,
Yet had no words, save in his eloquent eyes,
Which spoke that language of sublimer love,
Too pure for common syllables, too like
The high devotion of an innocent heart,
Looking through gentle fears, and blessing hopes,
As to its God! Together they walk'd on,
Till the groves thicken'd, and the silent trees,
Closed round them like a dwelling; with no eye
To peer into that holy home of love,
Scaring its trembling, tried inhabitants!
He spoke—he spoke at last! He spoke of love,
And the breeze echoed him, and murmur'd “love;”
And every flower and leaf had a sweet name,
Love-written, upon them; and a print of hearts,
United, grew, like flower and leaf together,—
And Rosalie and Albert, thence, were one!
V.
Silent before so long, their prison'd soulsThen gush'd in mutual language, and pour'd forth,
In homage to each other, the fond thoughts,
The dreams by night, the fancies through the day,
Which had possess'd and purified them long.
Their thoughts were so much music, and they spoke,
In sweetest measures;—even as the bird just 'scaped
From the close caging of some gentle dame,
Showing its freedom's consciousness in song
Not less than flight. Love was their monitor—
Love their companion—Love their pleasant charge.
In Rosalie it spoke in gentlest sighs,
A broken language,—in a start of song,
241
Even as the playful robin from the brake,
As suddenly retiring into shade,
And trembling at his own audacity.
She was a sweet dependant, and her arm
On Albert's, hung so fondly—and her head
Droop'd with her joy, like some dew-laden flower
Upon his bosom; and he loved the more
For such dependence. Noble and erect,
He clasp'd her to his heart, and his eye gleam'd
With pride and pleasure while surveying hers.
His sweet, melodious voice, deep, organ-like,
Went to her heart at every utter'd word,
Making his love a power, whose sway, secure,
And conscious of its own security,
Forbore to wrong, and with exaction sweet,
Solicited the boon, as 't were a boon,
When, in her heart, the spelling passion there
Proclaim'd it his own right. He was a man
Among the thousand! Unassuming, he
Might yet assume, unquestion'd. Gentleness,
And a strange strength—a calm, o'erruling strength,
Were mix'd within him so, that neither took
Possession from the other—neither rose
In mastery or in passion; but still grew
Harmoniously together.—In his strength,
The mighty oak had likeness—while gentleness,
Wound round him like the rosy parasite,
The flush spring gives it, wreathing its great might
With sweetest color, and adorning grace.
His soul, refined beyond the rustic world,
Had yet no city vices. He had kept,
Its whiteness unprofaned, and he could lift
242
Having no fear—his hope to Rosalie,
As to an object of abiding love,
Without one taint of base or sinful thought.
VI.
True joy, still born of heaven, is bless'd with wings,And, tired of earth, it plumes them back again,
And so we lose it. A sad change came o'er
The fortunes of that pair, whose loves have been
Our theme of story:—a sad change, that oft
Comes o'er love's fortunes in all lands and homes,
Nor spares the humblest. Rosalie was young
In fancy, as in years. Truly she loved,
And yet not wisely. Had her heart replied
To any question of its love for him,
To whom she pledged it, she had warmly spoke
For its devotion; but her fancy, quick,
Roving, and playful, was not yet subdued
To that sweet-tempered, fond exclusiveness,
Which shuts out every object from the thought,
Save of that one to whom all thought is given.
The early train of her admirers gone—
The crowd that flatter'd her with looks and words,
That gave her homage, and pronounced her praise,
In sweet eulogium, vanish'd,—she grew sad.
The praises of her lover were in looks,
And constant, sweet devotion—seldom in words:—
And sometimes, too, he spoke her chidingly,
Though still in truest love. He spoke to her
As one who lived forever in his thought,
A part of him and it—the dearest part;
But yet he spoke her truly,—with no burst
Of fraudulent praise, that runs away with truth,
243
In the deluded bosom. Calm, serene,—
His thoughts were clear and honest; and his words,
Still chosen most gently, were not yet disguised
To please the ear of tingling vanity.
Though loving him beyond all other men,
She would have had him, like the rest that came,
A flattering wooer. His substantial worth,
She valued truly; but, not yet content,
She deem'd it might be mingled with those sweets,—
False sweets that lead to sadness!—which were dear
To youthful fancy and a thoughtless heart;—
And, in the wantonness of her sportive moods,
Still craving this frail incense, she would turn
Capriciously away, when most he sought
Her ear and presence; and, in gayest crowds,
Lose the dear hour so rich in love's esteem,
And barter truest pleasures and noblest thoughts,—
Trifling with feelings which should be secure
As they are sacred,—for the idlest game
That ever butterfly pursued in May.
VII.
Yet did he not reproach her. At the firstHe gently pray'd that she might live for him,
And know and love him better. Much he strove
To teach her, that, thus bound for life together,
Her study, like his own, should be to make
Her heart familiar with its offices—
Those offices of sweet domestic love,
Which cannot dream of gay society,
And the insidious flattery of the crowd
Having no fireside duties. Fondly still,
With indirect speech, he told his wishes o'er,
244
And none but love could utter. But her ear
Turn'd from him, with a playful, sad caprice,
And she would leave him,—or, in mood more wild,
Reply in tones impatient,—till at last
The youth grew into sadness, as he fear'd,
When they were wedded, that her love might change
Even into hatred, as he could not bring
His nature to a level with the herd
Whose flatteries so misled her. He grew sad,
And yet he sought her; still entreating her
With his own love, which was all earnestness,
Not to make forfeit of the better faith,
The substance for the shade, and sacrifice,
For the capricious freedom of the hour,
The holy, hopeful, best security,
That grows in heart of confidence alone.
Oh! very earnest was he in these prayers;
His soul, the very safety of his being,
Were treasured in that passion! Few his friends,—
An orphan without kindred;—slight the ties
That bound him to all others. None of strength
Did he acknowledge, save the one with her;
And that was his whole life. Wonder not, then,
He trembled at her sad infirmity:—
The loss of Rosalie was loss of all.
VIII.
One night there was a bridal in the vale,A rustic bridal. Mirth and pleasant cheer,
Sweet music and gay lights, laughter and glee,
Assembled young and old. All that could make
A dear occasion dearer, mingled then,
And the vale rang with joy. Our lovers came,
245
Had Rosalie look'd lovelier. 'Mid the crowd,
She was beheld of all the crowd alone—
She was the bright star to which every eye
Seemed turn'd as in devotion—the gay light
Of every fancy—the fair queen who sway'd
O'er every heart, even then, as in the time
When all were wooers, and no heart, preferr'd,
Had bound her to itself. In her sweet song,
They gather'd round, and had fond memories
Of hours when hope was theirs. They praised her strains
And watch'd the eloquent pleasure in her eye
That said their praise was sweet. From song to song
They led her with beguiling flatteries,
And when the dance began, they crowded round,
Contending for her hand.
There was one dance,
Brought from a foreign land—a winning dance,
Whose sweet voluptuous twinings witch the heart
Into a sad forgetfulness, and arouse
Strange fevers and wild fancies in the blood.
'Twas from a land where vice, in many a form,
Had sapped society, and torn away
The pillars of religion; where the name
Of wife is but another name for all
Of shame and prostitution; where the pride
Of virtue is unknown; where character
Is but a thing of barter and stale use,
And fashion makes a crime necessity.
IX.
“You will not mingle, dearest Rosalie,Among these waltzers?” It was thus he spoke,
As he beheld the suitors for her hand
246
Her form in the impassion'd, free caress
Of that voluptuous motion.
“And why not!”.
Straightway she answer'd.
“Was it not your thought,
No less than mine, dear Rosalie, that this dance
Better belong'd to races like th' Italian,
Than a frank, earnest people such as ours,
In whom simplicity, the soul of virtue,
Forbids the goad of passion, lest we drive
The blood to fearful phrensies! Didst thou not
Join with me in the thought, that the pure heart
Must shrink from the embrace with stranger forms;—
Embrace so free as this—as if each touch
Took something from its purity;—for virtue
Is like the down upon the peach;—the flush
Of beauty on the flower;—the golden lustre
That flecks with delicate variety
The slight wing of the butterfly;—one touch
Being fatal to the excellence, whose glory
Lives in its very unapproachableness.
The barriers of opinion in a people,
Belong to their necessity and nature—
Subject them to the abuse of foreign custom,
And we make forfeit all security.
Custom makes barriers still for chastity,—
O'erthrow these barriers, idle though they seem,
And Passion saps the citadel.—Dear Rosalie,
Thou wilt not join these waltzers?”
“But I will!”
Thus the capricious damsel, to the youth,
Who earnestly besought her, still replied—
As, turning from him, she bestow'd her hand
247
Having the victory—for he had urged
The cause of that fond movement; and, to her,
The pledged wife of another, had discuss'd
The question of that nice propriety,
Which woman must not argue, and yet feel!
“But I will dance it, Albert, as I please,
Or not, if so it please me. And why not?—
I am not yet a bond-woman methinks,
And such constraint as this, would best beseem
A petty household tyranny,—the rule
Of modern Blue Beard, than the free regard
Of one who seeks for sympathies, not slaves.”
And, with these words, she join'd the whirling group,
While Albert turn'd away and left the hall.
X.
Next morning came a letter to the maid,And this its language:
“Dearest Rosalie,—
Still dear, though, from this moment, I resign
All claim to call thee so exclusively—
I leave thee. When this scrawl thou read'st, my feet
Shall be beyond these mountains—other climes
Will soon receive me, and on distant waves,
The foreign bark shall bear me,—still from thee.
Farewell—farewell.
“Oh, it had been my thought,
That, from the moment thou didst give thyself
To my fond pleadings, I should cease to be
What I am now—a weary wanderer!
“That hope is gone forever. Thou hast said
The words which have unlink'd our mutual hearts,
They being no longer kindred. Thou hast broken
248
Ah! may it be a sorrow but to one!
“And I must bear that sorrow. Thou to me,
Wast all—art all! I may not hope again,
To find thee in another—and I dare not
Seek for another in thee. Those cruel words—
Why didst thou speak them!—they have doom'd us both
To isolation;—me, to the worse doom,
Of hopelessness. 'Tis nothing now I live for—
Yet never heart could love thee, as did mine.
And still I love thee—love thee recklessly,
As loving thee in vain. Henceforth, I live,
As one denied. I cannot love another—
I would not pray such freedom. I have not
The elastic temper of the froward boy,
To change capricious with the monthly moon,
Nor share the blight with each sweet star that sets.
My mind is too subdued—my character,
Too fix'd—too firm! I must be resolute
In love, as in all other qualities,—
Having no changing moods—earnest in all,
Unvarying as the needle, and as true,
Though the storms howl. Such is my nature now.
Vicissitude has tried me—poverty
Counsell'd, and taught me due stability—
Affliction chasten'd; travel, here and there,
'Mong strangers in far wilds and realms unknown,
Taught me their several sorrows, and prepared me,
To better love the quiet walks of home!
“I have no home. It had been in thy heart,
But thou denied'st it lodgment—better pleased
To make a tenant there of idlest moods,
Enjoyments light and worthless, when in mine,
Thou hadst a temple—pure, inviolate,
249
Would thine had been to me but thus devote,
I then had been a hermit. In its cells,
My thoughts and feelings had been saintly forms,
Filling each several niche. Morning and night,
Had found me there a doting worshipper,
And I had hung it round with sweetest store,
The dearest flowers of love—the purest sweets
That follow young enjoyment, and that make,
For twin hearts, of the gloomy caves of earth,
A happy home like heaven.
“Thou hast decreed,
And all these dreams are vanish'd. I would be
Thy tyrant, Rosalie!—ah, happy she
Who loves the gentle tyranny of truth.
Thou wouldst not be a bond-woman!—dear to me,
The sweet bond-service I had pledged to thee.
Thou'dst do or not, as so it pleasured thee—
Ah, me! how different from thy thought was mine!
To do thee pleasure—ay, at mine own pain,—
Was sure to be my sweetest pleasure still;—
And to make slaves of my best sympathies,—
Slaves in thy service,—seem'd to my poor heart,
Their happiest office.
“We have differ'd much—
Too much for love! If these be thoughts of mine,
And thou dost scorn them, having thoughts unlike,—
We are not fit for each other! We must part—
And it is wisdom! When I gave my love,
And pledged my best affections unto thee—
I pledged thee what, next to thy sacred love,
I valued more than all the world beside.
Thou hast not so esteem'd my offering—
Thou hast not so esteem'd my principles,
250
Keep bound with true respect, and mutual pride:—
'Tis well we part.
“Yet think not, Rosalie—
The wayward, sad caprice of the last night,
Sole cause of my resolve. I might have sigh'd
And sorrow'd o'er that error, yet forgiven:—
The sin lies deeper. When thou show'st another,
That difference grows betwixt thy heart and mine,
Thou dost invite a foreign arbitration—
Thou makest our secret thought a public thing,
And to the prying eye, and busy tongue
Of peevish envy, and a tattling scorn,
Thou dost unveil the sacred, vestal fire,
Which the mysterious love design'd for us—
For those who love alone!
“If, in my heart,
Or in my deed, or language, I had done
A wrong to thee or thine—where shouldst thou seek
Arbitrament?—where carry up thy cause,
In fond appeal?—where clamor for redress?—
Where, but in my heart!—in our secret shade,
In sacred moments, when, to love devote,
We met in mutual fondness! There, hadst thou come,
And said, as late in public thou didst say,
‘Thou art my tyrant—thou wouldst 'slave me quite,
Make me thy bond-woman, and of sympathies
Generous and freely given, make wretched slaves!’—
Ah, Rosalie! hadst thou but thought of this,
I had not now—but let it pass—no more,—
It is all idle now!
“Once more, farewell!
Be happy, and forget me, Rosalie;—
And shouldst thou love another, let my words
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Nothing in rashness—so that ye may keep
The troth between ye as a sacred thing,
Beyond the gaze of the herd, beyond its speech,
Beyond its judgment!—value it beyond
The moment-pleasure always, till thy heart,
Shall grow into a kindred life and thought,
With him to whom thou giv'st it.
“And I pray,—
'Twill be no wrong to him, dear Rosalie—
That, in thy happier moments, when with him,
Thou joy'st in life's most dear realities,—
The pleasant fireside, the cheerful friend,
The gladsome child, and the indulgent lord,—
Thou wilt bestow me one sad memory—
One blessing—and forgive me, that, in thus
Tearing myself away from thee and life,
Perchance, I wound thy pride, or touch thy heart,
With unavoidable pain. Forgive me this,
And other errors, as, this dreary night,
When all is sleepless sorrow at my heart,
I do forgive thee, who art cause of all!
Farewell—farewell.” And thus the letter closed.
XI.
She had no tears—no language. From her lipsThere broke no sound of sorrow, but her eye,
As if her sense yet lack'd the news it brought,
Did reperuse that fatal messenger,
In fear and hope. A little while she paused,
And then she sought her chamber, with no word
To those around. She had no strength for speech,
And did not dare, in the uncertain mood
Of her sad spirit, to look up and meet
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By various questions and inquisitive glance,
To learn her secret;—for the tale was known—
How soon love's errors and misfortunes grow
The pastime of the cold and common crowd!—
That Albert had departed from the vale,
In foreign journey. And she turn'd away—
She sought to be alone with her own heart,
And long and sad their secret conference.
Her heart rebuked itself, her mind rebuked,
And all her feelings, self-retributive,
Reproach'd her with her error. Long the strife
They waged within her bosom, till she sank
In prayer, self-humbled—prostrate on the floor,
In true contrition.
“In a heedless hour,”
'Twas thus she murmur'd,—“in a heedless hour,
My erring spirit, with a fond caprice,
Hath sported with its happiness too much;—
Father, forgive me—be the punishment
Forborne in mercy—teach him to forgive,
And, oh, restore him to me. In my grief
I do not heed the shame of such a prayer.
Restore him—teach him also to forgive.”
When she came forth again, her look was changed—
Her heart had been subdued. She had been weak,
She was now strengthen'd; yet her sorrow grew
From that same strengthening; for the scales were gone
That dimm'd her vision; and the full extent
Of her own loss grew clear and palpable!
Her error had been one of wantonness—
The last that love hath ever yet forgiven,
True love, that worships with a lofty heart
And even mood. She felt that she had erred,
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Whom most she loved—calm, true, and resolute,
Might prove inflexible. No trifler he,
Capricious with sweet feelings and fond ties,—
But stern, unbending in his principles!
His rigid purpose, noble and severe,
Tenacious pride, and changeless character,
Had been her boast, and best security!
It was her joy that no caprice of mood,
No passing influence of the idle time,
No popular show, no clamor from the crowd,
Could move him, erring, from the path of right,
Love's path and hers,—those sacred principles,
Which make all happiness, or make it naught!
How could she hope a change in such a man,
How love him still, if so that he could change,
Even to pity her? Her thought approved,
Though her heart grieved, his rigor and resolve.
XII.
“Ah, sweet,” cried he, who, of a thousand sweets,Hath sung most sweetly—“sweet, when winter frowns
And folds his ice-chain round us—sweet to dream
Of spring's enamoring charms, and gentle reign!
The hopeless heart thus cherishes the form
Of that which was a hope; even as we seal
The ashes of the loved one in an urn
We keep beside us, till we half forget
That it is ashes. Memory thus endows,
Even as a god, the insensate clay with life,
And hallows to the lone one, in a dream,
The old sweet faith, the perish'd love, and all,
That made earth worthy to its worshipper!
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With that creative genius, till we think
The past may be the future—if it be
That memory comes alone!—no guardian she,
But a stern tyrant, taught in cruel arts,
And sleepless as the agony of guilt.”
It was a sweet hope, counsell'd her to hope
Against conviction.
“He will come again,—
'Tis but awhile—he cannot long forbear—
He must forgive me, as, so help me heaven,
I had forgiven him even crueller wrongs,
And harsher words, than these.”
He did not come!—
That night—the next—the next—and weeks, went by,
Till hope grew sad and sicken'd in her heart,
And on her face a visible hand was laid,
As of a burning grief, a sleepless woe,
That would not be appeased.
And soon her friends
Beheld the change upon her, and they spoke
Harshly of Albert: then she chided them
Most sadly into silence, and forbade
That they should speak again upon her griefs,
Still was she not ungrateful for the care
That sought to comfort; and, as day by day,
Her face grew paler and her step more slow,
Her heart became more gentle than its wont,
And with a meekness, dovelike, and from heaven,
She won a fresher love from all that knew.
XIII.
And what of him—so sudden and so stern,So quick of apprehension, so resolved,
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So stern a judge of hers—what now of him?
What art may paint his feelings to the sense,
What eye perceive them, as, that fatal night,
He fled the insensate revel! He felt crush'd,
And the devoted feelings of his heart,
So long her homagers, now all recall'd,
Came home rebellious from that sweeter realm,
Where they had spent the hours so joyously.
They came to torture, and he fled with them,
Even as a fugitive—he fled from them,
Or strove to fly; but they pursued him close,
And tore him as he fled! In foreign lands
He made himself a home—if that may be
A home, which is a prison-house and scourge!
He made himself new comrades, day by day,
And fled from each in turn. He still went on,
And sought new dwellings, only to behold
Smiles change to frowns—seeking new friends and flowers,
To find the one grow cold—the other die.
The curse of hopelessness, and a premature blight,
Clung to him in his journey, and the doom
Of desolation was unchanged to him!—
In crowds, in camps, in cities, and in fields,
Where'er he fled, whatever home he sought,
'Twas written still, and Albert was alone.
XIV.
A bloody war waged in a neighbor land,And the perpetual strife in his own mood
There led him, as if seeking sympathy,
To fields of danger. In the ranks of war
He soon became a leader. Fierce his ire,
Hot his pursuit, impetuous in assault,
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Fatal his muscular arm. His men grew fond,
And joy'd in such a leader. Rash, not bold,
He hourly sought new dangers. Numbers stood
Between him and his aim. He counted not
The dense array, but, striking right and left,
He plunged where foes were thickest. Walls arose,
High, steep, and massive—ranging cannon poured
The rattling shot, like hail, upon his path,—
But did not stop him. Soon the walls were gained,
The banner of the foe beneath his foot,
His voice in victory shouting.
Where was death?
The foe he struck could answer, but the chief,
Who sought for the grim enemy in vain,
Went through the strife unharméd. The sharp sword
Swept by him edgeless—the directed ball,
Fatal, if sent against another breast,
Swerved harmlessly from his,—his doom was still
To live, though thousands perish'd—but alone!
And she!—the news was brought her that he fought
The battles of the Texians. That he stood
Upon the Alamo's walls, when the fierce tribes
Of Mexico, in numbers overspread
And crowded down the defenders—it was said,
That, striking to the last, each stroke a death,
The gallant chief was slain by many hands,
O'erpower'd, not conquer'd;—and the tale was told
By one most thoughtless, in a sudden tone,
That went even like an ice-bolt to her heart,
And froze its hope forever. From that hour,
The last sad change, foretelling all the rest,
Came o'er the maiden. Much they strove to cheer,
Or chide, her prisoner-mood, but all in vain.
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By change to cheer her; but she sicken'd there!—
The idle song of love, which fill'd her ears,
Was then a sadness! It reminded her
Of those she once had sung, when he was by
A listener in the moonlight. From the dance
She shrank away in horror!—What a throng
Of images most fearful came with it!
New suitors sought her, but they left her soon
As hopeless as herself! Nothing could change
The spirit of that mourner—nothing move
Her sorrow from its deep devotedness!—
Life's harmonies had gone, its strings that once,
Beneath Hope's finger, did discourse so long,
And such sweet music, gave but discord forth,—
Despair, not Hope, the one musician now!
XV.
A little longer, and our strain is done—The story of love's sorrow is soon told,
A word will tell it always. Rosalie,—
'Twas but a few days when we saw her last,
There, sitting by her lattice, looking forth
Upon these waters. See the lattice now;—
How vacant, and how cheerless it appears.
We seek her elsewhere. But a week ago,
She sat, where last we saw her. It was night,
A soft and mellow evening, calm and clear.
A thousand beautiful forms were in the sky,
Light forms of fleece, that hung around the moon,
Like robes of regal splendor;—a sweet breath
Of perfume fill'd the air, and pleasant sounds,
Of winds and waters meeting, rose aloft,
In harmony to the spirit.
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Feebly, to one who tended her, she spoke,—
“Bring it, I pray thee:”—
And the damsel brought
The well-known instrument, so cherish'd once
When he was by, and yet untouch'd so long.
She play'd a soft, prelusive, pensive air,
And then the notes grew wanton. Fitfully,
Shadows of ancient melodies arose,
And vanish'd from the strings; until her hand
Seem'd resting only on the instrument,
Which sounded with the beatings of her pulse,
Unprompted by her will;—but, suddenly,
Her mood grew firm, and, most commandingly,
A bold and ranging melody she framed,
With nicest variations; and, awhile,
The strain was like the first flight of a bird,
Waking, at morning, with rejoicing wing,
And soaring, soaring upward, even to heaven.
Then, as the high tones of the instrument,
Grew soften'd as by distance, with her voice
She coupled sweetest thoughts, most gently framed
By suited language. Mournfully, she sang
A ditty of the saddest circumstance—
Of fortune long denied, and tenderest love,
That should have been, like some well-treasured flower,
Worn in the genial bosom, left to pale
Its leaves in hopeless blight; and, at the close,
Fondly and gently, thus she spoke of him!
“Yet, will I not reproach thee, though thou hast
Dealt most unkindly, Albert. 'Twas a fault,
A most unmaidenly fault—those words of mine:—
Yet might have been forgiven—should have been
Chidden, and then forgotten. 'Twas a child,
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My heart was with thee.
“But, 'tis over now;—
Thou wilt forgive me when I am no more,
And, as thy nature is all gentleness,
Even when thy word is sternest, well I know
Thou wilt reproach thyself, that thou hast been
So rigid with me.”
A faint cry below,
Broke in upon her speech—a cry of woe—
And, in another moment, through the leaves,
Came darting a strange form—yet not so strange,
When the next glance survey'd him. It was he—
'Twas Albert—and he came all penitent,
And sorrowing for his sternness. In his arms,
She sank most fondly, and yet speechlessly.
“Forgive me, dearest Rosalie!” he cried:
“Too long forgetful of thy worth and claims,
I come to thee at last;—forgive me all—
I was too rash—too cruel,—thou hast been
The sufferer at my hands, and I have wrong'd thee
Beyond atonement,—yet, I pray thee smile:
Look up and say—look up, my well beloved,
And bless me with thy smile—and, with thy words,
Say, thou forgivest me.”
The dim eyes unclosed,
The bosom heaved in sighs—a bright smile spread,
From the sweet lips, and from the kindling eye,
Over her pallid face, and then it pass'd,
Even like some soft and rosy cloud at eve,
Suddenly, from the sight.
“I am forgiven!—
That eye hath said it—from those lips it came,
Even though they spoke not,—and this heaving breast,
260
Yet, speak to me, beloved,—speak to me!—
What means this silence?—speak to me—but once!
But once!—Help, there!—some water—quickly bring,
Or she will die in my arms!—God!—she is dead,
And I have slain her!”
Truly, had he said.
The parted breath that would have spoke in mercy,
Had made its way to heaven. He was alone—
The destiny of Albert was not done—
And forth he fled—and still he fled, alone.
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A STORY OF GOD'S JUDGMENT.
A LEGEND OF GEORGIA.
I.
A grandam, by the cottage door,At evening, when the sun
Left hues among the forest trees
That gilded every one,
Thus, in the grandchild's listening ear,
Who gather'd at her knee,
“A tale of God's own judgment, child,
Thy mother tells to thee.
II.
“A tale of God's own judgment, child,And how the deed was known,
And how they took the murderer,
And punishment was done—
Give ear, and thou shalt hear, my child,
And heedful be thy sense,
For know that crime, or soon or late,
Will have intelligence.
III.
“Will have intelligence, my child,And find a tongue, whose sound,
Like church-bell in the wilderness,
Will rouse the people round.—
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The young boy, at her knee,
Upstarted, and, with accent wild,
Cried, “Gran'am, tell it me!”
IV.
“Once on a time,” in good old phrase,The dame began the tale;—
“Just where the town of Macon stands
There ran the Indian trail;—
'Twas there the cruel deed was done,
There was no Macon then,
And but a single house was there,
Kept by two aged men.
V.
“These old men in the wilderness,They kept the house that stood
Upon the Indian trail that ran,
For ages, through the wood;
And there the traveller stay'd by night,
Who journey'd out in quest
Of those rich prairie lands that make
So famous all the West.
VI.
“Thus bent for Al'bamá, my child,A seeking lands one day,
Three strangers to the old men's house,
Came riding on their way;
Two were rough men, with heavy beards,
And very coarse of speech,
But the young one was a gentleman,
And far above their reach.
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VII.
“Ay, far above their reach was he,That gentlemen so fair,
With a sweet smile and countenance,
And long and sandy hair,—
He talk'd with them, and freely told
The business that he had;—
For, you see, there was a maiden fair,
Whose smiles had made him glad.
VIII.
“Her smiles had made him glad, my child,And he was bent to find
A pleasant spot and fruitful lands,
To satisfy her mind—
And they were to be wed as soon
As, finding what he sought,
He should convey the tidings home,
Of lands which he had bought.
IX.
“He had the wealth to buy the lands,And with never a thought or care,
In evil hour he show'd the bills,
In the wallet that he bare;
Nor mark'd the eyes, so dark with sin,
They fix'd upon the book,
Nor how they suddenly cast them down,
Lest he should see the look.
X.
“He did not see the look, alas!Else he were much to blame,
To go a-travelling on with them,
When the next morning came.
264
The twain were first abroad,—
But soon the youthful gentleman
Came riding down the road.
XI.
“And riding down the road so wild,You would have thought the three,
So frank was that young gentleman,
Were all one company.
And pleasantly enough they went,
Till towards noon they came
To an old Indian settlement—
Chilicté was its name.
XII.
“Chilicté was its name, my child,But all deserted then—
'Twas by the burial-place alone,
You knew the homes of men;
The woods grew thick about the spot,
And the hills rose darkly round,
And a hush in the air fill'd the soul with fear,
Of the stillness so profound.
XIII.
“But the owl he made his dwelling there,And as the sun went down,
He hooted aloud to the silent air,
And he claim'd it for his own:
The night-hawk wheel'd, and the bat went round
In his dizzy circles fast,
And the owl drew nigher, with every hoot,
To the road, as the travellers pass'd.
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XIV.
“O'er the road he sat, on a blighted bough,And down he stared as they sped beneath,
And his great eyes gloom'd 'neath his hornéd brow,
With a fearful look of death.
With a stifled breath the three went on,—
The path grew hard to find,
And while the youth rode on with one,
The other dropp'd behind.
XV.
“He dropp'd behind with cruel thought,And while his comrade spoke,
With heavy arm and loaded whip,
He struck a sudden stroke—
And down the light-hair'd stranger fell,
As quickly and as low
As heavy ox, that swims and reels
Beneath the butcher's blow.
XVI.
“It was a butcher's blow he gave,And wild the stranger cried,
To spare his life, and let him live
For his young and promised bride.
But they had not a thought for her,
And spoke an idle jest—
Then knelt, and stuck the fatal knife,
Twice, deep into his breast.
XVII.
“Twice, deeply did they stick the knife,And no more prayer had he:
One blow had been enough for life—
He perish'd instantly.
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The money which had bought
Their souls for that old serpent, child,
That all this mischief wrought.
XVIII.
“The mischief all was wrought, and vainTo wish it now undone;—
They took the body up, and hid
The secret from the sun.
And in a hollow of the hills,
In that old Indian town,
They stript the dead youth silently,
And dropp'd the body down.
XIX.
“They dropp'd him down, nor buried him,But left him bleeding, bare;
Though well they knew, at night, the wolf
And wild-cat would be there.
And then, with fear that look'd behind,
They rode upon their way,
And thought they heard upon the wind,
A voice that bade them stay.
XX.
“A voice that bade them stay, they heard,And then a laugh and scream,
And such they heard in after years,
In many a midnight dream—
But on they rode, nor linger'd then,
And, day by day, they went,
Till, like the wealth of drinking men,
The money soon was spent.
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XXI.
“The money soon was spent, and so—(Now years had past)—they thought,
To part awhile, and each pursue
The scheme his fancy taught;
And one went down to New Orleans,
The other, hardier yet,
Took the same road on which, before,
The murder'd youth he met.
XXII.
“The murder'd youth, on that same road,He met, long years before,
And, with a sinner's hardihood,
The spot he travell'd o'er—
Till as the evening shadows fell,
In glimpses, through the trees,
The reedy-rimm'd Ockmulgé stream,
By Macon town, he sees.
XXXIII.
“By Macon town—‘what change is here!The place is not the same.’
He looks,—a city rises there,
He does not know its name.
The old fort is in ruins too,
He marks the broken guns,
Some tumbled to the very brink,
Where dark Ockmulgé runs.
XXIV.
“He sees the dark Ockmulgé run,And now he draws him nigh,
But neither boat nor boatman comes,
Although he shouts full high—
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Shoots outward from the banks,
Where osiers and the matted canes,
Stand up in solid ranks.
XXV.
“From out their solid ranks, the skiffShoots silent o'er the stream,
The murderer stares—he shuts his eyes—
He feels as in a dream:
For who should paddle then that skiff
Upon the swelling flood,
But the same youth, that, years before,
He murder'd down the road.
XXVI.
“The youth he murder'd down the road,The knife stuck in his breast!—
Two cruel wounds, and each a death,
Yet there he would not rest.
Wild grew the murderer's spirit then,
And white as chalk his cheek—
And when the boatman's bark drew nigh,
He had no word to speak.
XXVII.
“He had no word to speak to him—The boatman waved his hand;
And with no thought, yet full of fear,
He came at his command—
And trembled much, though much he strove
His shiv'ring dread to hide;—
And held the bridle of his steed,
That swam the skiff beside.
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XXVIII.
“The good steed swam beside the skiff,And though he held the rein,
It were a speech too much to say
He thought of him again.
His thought was of that boatman there,
And of the wicked time,
When, journeying o'er that very road,
He did the deed of crime.
XXIX.
“The deed of crime was in his thought,And all his limbs were weak;—
He strove in vain—his tongue was parch'd,
And no word could he speak:
A cold wind went through all his bones,—
His hair stood up on end,—
To slay him then, had surely been
The kindness of a friend.
XXX.
“But the kindness of a friend is notFor him who slays, like Cain,
The brother, who, confiding, goes
Beside him on the plain—
And so, the murderer reach'd the shore,
And with a desperate speed,
He dash'd the passage-money down,
And leapt upon his steed.
XXXI.
“He leapt upon his steed and flew,Nor look'd upon the way;
Nor heeded that remember'd voice
That loudly bade him stay:
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Cried one who mark'd his flight,—
‘When the boat was swamp'd in the heavy fresh
And the ferryman drown'd, last night?
XXXII.
“‘The ferryman drown'd last night, friend,And the boat lies high and dry,—
And well I know no steed can ford,
When the river runs so high.’
There was fearful sense in every word,
And the murderer's brain grew wild,
For still he heard, for evermore,
The cryings of a child.
XXXIII.
“The cryings of a child he heard,And a voice of innocence—
Then a pleading note, and a prayer of doom,
To the awful providence.
And, ever and anon, a crash,
Of the terrible thunder, came,—
And he shut his eyes, for out of the wood,
There leapt a flash of flame.
XXXIV.
“There leapt a flash of flame, and so,With a blindness strange, he flew,
And the goodly steed that then he rode,
Alone the pathway knew,—
And the blood grew cold in his bosom, when
He reach'd the town he sought,—
And down he sank on the tavern steps,
And he had no farther thought.
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XXXV.
“He had no thought, but in a swoonFor a goodly hour he lay;
And the gathering crowd came nigh, and strove
To drive his sleep away.
And while they wonder'd much, he woke,
His eye glared strange with light—
For the face of the murder'd man did seem
Still full before his sight.
XXXVI.
“Still full the eyes of the murder'd manPeer'd ever as he lay;
And with fury then, the murderer rose,
Like one in a sudden fray—
And he drew from his bosom a deadly knife,
And, with no let, he ran,
And plunged it deep in the breast of him
Who look'd like the murder'd man.
XXXVII.
“He look'd like the murder'd man no more,For as with the stroke he fell,
The madness fled from the murderer's sense,
And he knew his own brother well.—
'Twas that same brother, who with him slew
The youth, many long years gone;
And the fearful doom for that evil deed
Will now be quickly done.
XXXVIII.
“'Twill soon be done, for the judge is there,And he reads the doom of death,—
And the murderer told of his evil life,
With the truth of a dying breath.
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Close down by the gravel ford;
And they left his farther doom, my child,
To the ever blessed Lord.”
XXXIX.
Upstarted then the listening boy,—“Now tell me, oh, tell me, dame,—
And what of the sweet young lady,
And what of her became?
Who told her, then, of the gentle youth,
And how, in that savage glen,
The knife was stuck in his bosom,
By the hands of those cruel men?”
XL.
“Out, out, my child,—was it right to tellSuch a tale to the maiden true?—
They had no name for the murder'd man,
And the story she never knew.
And they had no word to comfort her,
And paler her cheek grew, day by day,—
Till the cruel grief, ere a year had gone,
Had eaten her heart away.”
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THE LAST FIELDS OF THE BILOXI;
A TRADITION OF LOUISIANA.
[_]
The Bay of Pascagoula is a lovely and retired spot, lying at nearly equal travelling distances between the cities of Mobile and New Orleans. It has long been famous among persons of taste in those cities for its quiet beauties; but more so on account of a very singular and sweet superstition which pertains to it. A remarkable, and most spiritual kind of music, is heard above and around its waters, from which it is supposed to issue. The sound is fitful, occurring by day and night, at all hours, sometimes with more or less strength and fulness, but always very sweet and touching in its strains. Some compare it to the wind-harp, which, indeed, it sometimes most wonderfully resembles. Others liken it to the humming of an insect of great and curious powers. The Indian tradition explanatory of this music,— which no philosophical speculation has yet ventured to disturb,—is one of a beauty not often surpassed. The story goes that the whole Southwest was once controlled, and in the possession of a people called the Biloxi; that these people had attained a very high, if not a perfect civilization—that they were versed in various arts, profound lovers of music, and were finally enervated by the arts which they possessed. They were overrun and conquered by the fiercer tribes coming from the West. They made a last stand on the borders of the sea, by Pascagoula, when driven from all other positions. Here they erected a fortress, the ruins of which are still said to be seen; though the work so described as theirs was probably erected by some of the roving bands of Spanish and French who first brought European civilization into the country. The last struggles of the Biloxi were protracted, as became the efforts of a brave nation fighting for life and liberty. But they fought in vain. Famine came in to the assistance of their enemies, and unconditional submission or death were the only alternatives. They chose the last; and men, women, and children proceeded to the sacrifice —which was as solemn, and perhaps more touching, than that of the citizens of Numantia under like circumstances. Throwing open the gates of their fortress, at a moment when the assailants were withdrawn, they marched down to the waters of the bay, singing their last song of death and defiance. With unshaken resolution they pressed forward until the waters finally engulfed them all. None survived. The strange spiritual music of the Bay of Pascagoula is said to be the haunting echo of that last melancholy strain. Such is one of the traditions respecting this mysterious music; and the one which we most prefer. Another legend is agreeably reported by Mr. Gayarré, in his late work on the picturesque and romantic in the history of Louisiana. It is due to the reader that he should be put in possession of this other version of the story. Gayarré describes the music as occurring mostly at the mouth of the Pascagoula River, and as seeming to float upon the waters, particularly in a calm moonlight. “It seems to issue from caverns or grottoes in the bed of the river, and sometimes oozes up through the water, under the very keel of the boat which contains the inquisitive traveller, whose ear it strikes as the distant concert of a thousand æolian harps. On the banks of the river, close by the spot where the music is heard, tradition says there existed a tribe different in color and in other peculiarities from the rest of the Indians. Their ancestors had originally emerged from the sea, where they were born, and were of a light complexion. They were a gentle, gay, inoffensive race, living chiefly on oysters and fish, and they passed their time in festivals and rejoicings. They had a temple in which they adored a mermaid. Every night when the moon was visible, they gathered round the beautifully carved figure of the mermaid, and with instruments of strange shape, worshipped that idol with such soul-stirring music as had never before blessed human ears.
“One day, a short time after the destruction of Mauvila or Mobile, in 1539, by Soto and his companions, there appeared among them a white man, with a long gray beard, flowing garments, and a large cross in his right hand. He drew from his bosom a book, which he kissed reverentially, and he began to explain to them what was contained in that sacred little casket. Tradition does not say how he came suddenly to acquire the language of those people when he attempted to communicate to them the solemn truths of the Gospel. It must have been by the operation of that faith which, we are authoritatively told, will remove mountains. Be it as it may, the holy man, in the course of a few months, was proceeding with much success in his pious undertaking, and the work of conversion was going on bravely, when his purposes were defeated by an awful prodigy.
“One night, when the moon at her zenith poured on heaven and earth, with more profusion than usual, a flood of light angelic, at the solemn hour of twelve, when all in nature was repose and silence, there came, on a sudden, a rushing on the surface of the river, as if the still air had been flapped into a whirlwind by myriads of invisible wings sweeping onward. The water seemed to be seized with convulsive fury; uttering a deep groan, it rolled several times from one bank to the other with rapid oscillations, and then gathered itself up into a towering column of foaming waves, on the top of which stood a mermaid, looking with magnetic eyes that could draw almost every thing to her, and singing with a voice which fascinated into madness. The Indians and the priest, their new guest, rushed to the bank of the river to contemplate this supernatural spectacle. When she saw them, the mermaid tuned her tones into still more bewitching melody, and kept chanting a sort of mystic song, with this often-repeated ditty:—
‘Come to me, come to me, children of the sea,Neither bell, book, nor cross, shall win ye from your queen.’
“The Indians listened with growing ecstasy, and one of them plunged into the river, to rise no more. The rest, men, women, and children, followed in quick succession, moved, as it were, with the same irresistable impulse. When the last of the race disappeared, a wild laugh of exultation was heard; down returned the river to its bed with the roar of a cataract, and the whole scene seemed to have been but a dream. Ever since that time is heard occasionally the distant music which has excited so much attention and investigation. The other Indian tribes of the neighborhood have always thought that it was their musical brethren, who still keep up their revels at the bottom of the river, in the palace of the mermaid. Tradition further relates that the poor priest died in an agony of grief, and that he attributed this awful event, and victory of the powers of darkness, to his not having been in a perfect state of grace when he attempted the conversion of those infidels. It is believed, also, that he said on his death-bed, that those deluded pagan souls would be redeemed from their bondage and sent to the kingdom of heaven, if, on a Christmas night, at twelve of the clock, when the moon shall happen to be at her meridian, a priest should dare to come alone to that musical spot, in a boat propelled by himself, and should drop a crucifix into the water. But, alas! if this be ever done, neither the holy man nor the boat are to be seen again by mortal eyes. So far, the attempt has not been made; skeptic minds have sneered, but no one has been found bold enough to try the experiment.”
The reader has now both the leading traditions before him, and can choose between them. It will be seen, that, in the narrative which follows, I prefer the former version of the legend. The Poet is supposed to be a spectator of the scene,—one greatly ravished with the quiet and sweet beauty of the landscape, and beguiled by it into a long train of dreamy speculations, which insensibly conduct him to the state of mind when he shall be most susceptible to spiritual influences. It is then that he is suddenly made aware of the awakening murmurs of the mysterious music. The reflections which precede the revelation are designed as a natural prelude to the strain.
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I.
Beautiful spread these waters 'neath mine eye,Glassy and bright, with myrtles overhung;
Blue stretch the heavens above them—in their depths,
Far down reflected—arch more beautiful,
Seen through the mellowing medium of the wave,
Than in its native empire,—spann'd above,
Blazing, all cloudless, with the noonday star.
I wander by the islets near the sea,
That, from the Mexique bay, a tribute deep,
Rolls in on Pascagoula. There it sinks,
And sleeps with faintest murmurs; or, with strife
Brought from more turbulent regions, still bears on,
With threatening crest, and lips of whitening foam,
To battle with Biloxi. Short the strife!
Feebler at each recoil, its languid waves
Fling themselves, listless, on the yellow sands,
With a sweet chiding, as of grief that moans,
Oblivious not in slumber, of the strife,
That slumber still subdues. A dream of peace
Succeeds, and all her images arise,
To hallow the fair picture. Ocean sleeps
Lock'd in by earth's embrace. Her islets stand
Gray sentinels, that guard her waste domain,
And, from their watch-towers station'd by the deep,
276
Numberless, wild, in their blue armor clad,
Forever bent on spoil. A sweet repose
Hangs o'er the groves, and on the sloping shore
And the far ocean. Not a murmur chides
The sacred silence. From the lone lagoon,
The patriarch of the ancient pelican,
Leads forth his train; though not with plashy wing
Break they the glassy stream, whose buoyant wave
Maintains each breast, and still reflects each form,
Without a riple on its face to mar
The perfect image. Gliding thus, they steer
To islands of green rushes, where they hide
In sports most human;—in white glimpses seen,—
Or by the light tops of the reeds that stoop,
Divided in the press of struggling forms.
But rapture hath a reign as short as peace—
The wild fowls' sports are ended. They repose
By the still marge of lakes, that, in the embrace
Of groves of cane and myrtle, steal away,
And crouch in sleep secure; while through the Gulf
Rolls the black hurricane. The summer noon
Prevails. A universal hush
Absorbs the drowsy hours, and Nature droops
With sweetness; as upon the listless eyes
Of beauty, steal the images of dreams,
Made up of star-crown'd hopes and truest loves,
And joy's own purple prospects. The still air
Falters with perfume of delicious fruits;—
The orange flings its fragrance to the seas,
Wooing the zephyr thence; and lo! he comes
Fresh from the toiling conflict with the deep,
Upon whose breast, subduing and subdued,
He snatches fitful rest. The glassy wave,
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Into complaining ripples. Now, his breath
Sweeps the rush islands, while the tall reed stoops
Its feathery crest to ocean. The gray sands,
Whirl'd suddenly beneath his arrowy tread,
Pursue his flight in vain;—and now he glides
Over the sacred bay, whose clear serene
Is whimpled by his wing. Anon, he stirs
The orange blossoms,—drinks full surfeit thence,
And sleeps among their leaves.
II.
I lay me downIn the sweet keeping of the wilderness,
Listless and blest as he! No wild to me,
Though lonely, all the silent groves and streams,
That slumber in my glance. For I have been
A wanderer, and denied all human ties:—
I made my friends among the hills and streams
Least loved or sought by man. To me, they wear
Aspects of love and kindness. Voices call,
And fair hands beckon me from alleys green,
Amidst a world of shadow;—solitudes
That woo the thoughtful footstep, and persuade
To realms of pensive silence,—beautiful groves,
Sad only, as their beauty blooms unsought.
III.
These win me from my path. I turn aside;My heart drinks in the sweetness of the scene
I gaze on;—and how lovelier grows the spot,
To him who comes in love! I bow my head—
Where still she holds her matchless sov'reignty—
To all endowing Nature. Here she sits
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And high umbrageous forest. At her feet,
Broad lakes spread forth their bosoms to the skies,
Whose beauties still they bear. Sweet fountains swell
From loneliest depths, among the hidden dells,
That, crouching 'neath the sway of sullen hills,
Yet send their crystal sorrows down the stream,
In secret channels; that the world may seek,
And free them from their darksome prison-place.
Tree, flower, and leaf, consorting with her mood,
Impress their calm on mine. I lay me down,
Within her solemn temple. Altars rise
About me, of green turf; and tufted beds,
Of grassy and blue flowers, beneath my head,
Pillow it gently. Mightiest subjects stand
Around me, grouped, and bending still, to serve—
Thick-bearded giants, that spread wide their arms,
And shield me from the burning shafts of noon.
IV.
Now, sweeter than the soft recorder's voice,Or lute of ravishing syren, in mine ear,
This gentle diapason of the woods—
This sacred concert,—airs with bending pines,
Whose murmurs melt to one, and part again
With new accords,—with now a catch of song,
From bird that starts and sleeps. The fancy glows
In spiritual converse, as I dream
Of the old fated men of these sweet plains,—
Departed—all their dwelling-places waste,
And their wild gods grown powerless!
Powerless?—No!
They have a spell for fancy, and a charm
To waken echoes in the dreaming heart;
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Extort unfailing homage. For the Past,
They live, and live forever! That which speaks
For the sole moral of the faded race,
Dies not when it hath perished. Song will speak,—
Tradition, and the venerable groves,
With mounds, and fragments of old implements,
Even for the heathen;—as in temples, books,
Old columns, and the echoes of deep strains
From Phœbus-smitten minstrels, still survive
The proofs of mightier nations—godlike proofs,
That challenge human toil, the tooth of time,
And speak when he is voiceless. These connect
Races which mingle not; whose separate eyes—
By years and ocean separate—never saw
Their mutual aspects; yet, by sympathies,
Born of like trials, strifes, and mightiest deeds,
Yearn for communion,—yearn to see and love;
And when the earthquake threatens, bear, in flight,
Each glorious token of the transmitted race.
V.
Thus lives the savage god. Here, still, he rovesAmong his hills made consecrate. Here, still,—
By this broad glassy lake, among these groves
Of yellow fruits and fragrance,—o'er yon isles,
The limit of his reign,—his old gray eye
Still ranges, as if watchful of the trust
His sway no more may compass.
—Yet, no more
Gather the simple tribes that bow'd the knee,
In love, or deprecation of his wrath;—
No more from plain to hill-top glows the pile
Fired in his sacrifice;—and, to glad his ear,
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A wild and antique song of faith and fear,
No more! no more!
VI.
—'Tis sure a dream that stirsThese sounds within my soul; or, do I hear
A swell of song,—sweet, sad, upon mine ear,
That, like a wayward chant from out the sea,
Rises and floats along the yellow sands!
A note most like the wind-harp, hung in trees
Where the coy zephyr harbors. Still it comes,
In more elaborate windings; with a tone
Most human, and a fitfulness of sound
That speaks for various woes, as if it link'd
The deep, despairing, still defying cry,
From man in his last struggle,—with the shriek
Of passionate woman, not afraid to die,
Though pleading still for pity,—and the scream
Of childhood, conscious only of the woes
It feels not, but beholds in those who feel,
Unutterable still! A long-drawn plaint,
It swells and soars, until the difficult breath
Fails me;—I gasp;—I may not follow it
With auditory sense! It glows—it spreads—
'Till the whole living atmosphere is flush
With the strange harmony; and now it sinks,
Sudden, but not extinguished! A faint tone
Survives, in quivering murmurs, that awhile
Tremble like life within the flickering pulse
Of the consumptive. Losing it, we hush
Our breathing; and suspend the struggling sense,
Whose utterance mars its own; and still we hear
Its mellow and lone cadences, that float,
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Superior rise, of winds and waving trees!
VII.
It is a sweet tradition of these shores,Told by the Choctaw, that, when ages gone,
His savage sire descended from the west,
A dark and desperate hunter,—all these woods,
From the rich valleys where the Missouri bounds,
To mix his turbid waters with the streams
Of him, the Sire of Waters, —to the blue hills
Of Apalachia,—dwelt a numerous race,
Named “The Biloxi.” Towns and villages,
Cities and colleges, and various arts,
Declared their vast antiquity. They were proud—
More proud than all the living tribes of men;
Wiser, and versed in many sciences;
And, from their towers of earth, that sought the skies,
In emulous mountain-stretches, watch'd the stars,
In nightly contemplation. With a skill
Wondrous, by other tribes unmatchable,
They rear'd high temples, which they fill'd with forms
Of love and beauty. In their thousand homes,
Joy was a living presence. There they danced
At evening; while the mellow song went forth,
Married to fitting strains, from instruments
Of curious form, but fill'd with strangest power,
That, when the savage hearken'd, half subdued
His bloody thirst, and made the reptile's fang
Forget his venomous office. By these arts
Were they at last betray'd. They soon forgot
The vigorous toils of manhood, and grew weak,
Incapable of arms. Voluptuous joys,
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The strength of their young people, till they grew,
Like the rank grass upon the bearded plain,
Fit for the fire and scythe.
VIII.
—The Choctaw ChiefLook'd, from his dusky hills, upon their vales,
Exulting. When he heard their songs of love,
That floated upward on the perfumed air,
And saw, below, their loose, effeminate forms
Link'd in voluptuous dance,—he shouted loud
His scornful satisfaction; while he bade
His warriors nigh, to look upon their homes,
And mark their easy victims. They, below,
By happiness made deaf and arrogant,
Heard not the mighty discord, which, above,
Mock'd their soft harmonies. Their dream went on;
The midnight dance and revel; the sweet song
Of love and gold-eyed fancy; and the prayer,
Unbroken, of true genius, in his cell,
Toiling, with pen or pencil, to prepare
His triumph for the adoring eyes of day!
IX.
But with day came the conflict. The fierce tribes,With hellish shout, that shook the affrighted walls
Till the high temples quaked, rush'd down the vale,
Smiting with heavy mace; or, from above,
Shooting their poison'd arrows at each mark,
Unerring. Though surprised, the Biloxi fought
Fiercely, and with an ardency of soul
Superior to their strength. The savage press'd
More resolute when baffled. Day by day,
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Despoil'd by the barbarian. Thousands fell
In conflict; yet the thousands that remain'd
Breathed nothing but defiance. With each loss,
Rose a new spirit in their hopeless breasts,
That warm'd them with fresh courage; and they swore
A terrible oath, with link'd hands, each in each,
And all, to their old deities, to yield
Life first, and freedom never! Well they kept
Their sacramental pledges. They could die,
But could not conquer. Yielding sullenly
Each foothold, they departed from the towns
They could no more maintain; and, fighting, fled;
Till from the hills of Memphis—from the springs
Of Loosahatchie—from the golden ridge,
Where the gay streams of Noxabee arise,—
Contented captives that complain not oft
Against the rocks, that, from the western streams,
Bar their free passage—gradual still they fled—
Still turning, still at bay, and battling oft
The dread pursuer.
X.
—To this spot they came—They pitch'd their tents where Pascagoula flows,
Through shallows of gray shells, and finds its way
To the embraces of the purple Gulf.
“Here!” said the Prince—his subjects gather'd round—
“Make the last stand! The land beneath our feet
Slips rapidly, and farther flight is none,
Save to the ocean. We must stand and die!”
XI.
Sad were their hearts, but fearless. Not a lipSpoke for submission. Soul and arm were firm;
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Their earthen ramparts. On the narrow walls
Of their rude fortresss, in that perilous hour,
Ranged their few champions. To the hills, their eyes
Turn'd ever, till the savage rose in sight.
Then took they up their weapons. Flight no more
Was in their choice; but, in its place, there came,
From hopelessness, resolve—and such resolve,
As makes man terrible as fate. They stood,
Silent, with lips compress'd. No answering shout
Admonish'd the invader of the strength
Thus newly found; and down his warriors rush'd,
As to an easy conquest. But they shrunk,—
And wonder'd whence should come the singular might,
So sudden, of a race so feeble late!
Days, weeks, and months, and the Biloxi fought,
Invincible. Their narrow boundary grew
More strong and powerful, in the invader's eyes,
Than had been their sole empire. Spring, at length,
Put on her flowers. Green leaves and blossoming fruits
Declared for mercy; but the barbarian tribes,
Strengthen'd by fiercer thousands from the west,
Maintain'd the leaguer. Rescue there was none;
Despair had no more strength, for famine sapp'd
The hearts of the Biloxi.
XII.
One bright noonBeheld them met in council—women and men;
The mother newly made, with the young babe,
Unconscious, striving at her bloodless breasts;—
For all are equal in the hour of woe,
And all are heard, or none!—
It needed not
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They saw it in the tottering march—the face,
Pinch'd by lean famine;—the imperfect speech,
That falter'd with the syllable prolong'd;—
The hollow eyes from which a spiritual glare
Shot out like death. They saw it in all sights,
And sounds, that fate, in that protracted term
Of struggle and endurance, still vouchsafed;—
And there was silence—a long, dreary pause
Broken by feminine sobs. Then spoke the Prince,
Last of a line of kings!—
—“Shall we submit
To bonds and probable torture, or go forth,
Made free by death?”
Brief silence follow'd then:—
In that brief silence, memories of years,
And ages, crowded thick. Years of delight—
Ages of national fame! They thought of all
The grace of their old homes,—the charm, the song,
Pure rights and soothing offices,—and pride,
Made household, by the trophies, richly strown,
Through court and chamber, of creative art;—
All lost!—and then the probable doom of bonds,—
The only slavery,—the superior race
Bow'd to the base and barbarous!—and one voice
Proclaim'd the unanimous will of all—to die!
XIII.
That eve, while yet within the western heavens,Linger'd the rosy sunset—while the waves
Lay calm before them in the crystal bay,
And the soft winds were sleeping—and a smile,
As of unbroken peace and happiness,
Mantled the glittering forest green, and far,
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That shone like precious gems;—the destined race
Threw wide their fortress gate. Thence went they forth
In sad procession. At their head, the Prince,
Who still had led their fortunes;—then, the chiefs,
And soldiers—few, but fearless;—the old men—
Patriarchs, who still remain'd,—memorials
Of the more fortunate past—and, last of all,
The women and the children. 'Twas an hour,
When Nature craved a respite from her toils;
And, from the strife withdrawn, the savage foe
Were distant, in their woodland tents retired.
These started with strange wonder to behold
The solemn march, unwitting of its end
And glorious aim; nor strove they to disturb
The rights which they divined not. On they went,
That ancient nation. Weapons bore they none;
But with hands cross'd upon their fearless hearts,
The warriors led the way. The matron clung
To her son's arm, that yielded no support.
The infant, hush'd upon its mother's breast,
Was sleeping; but the mother's sobs were still
Audible with her song;—and, with her song,
Rose that of thousands, mingling in one strain!
The art which in their happier days had been
Most loved among them, in spontaneous voice,
Unsummon'd , pour'd itself upon the air,
As, slowly, but with steps unfaltering still,
March'd the pale band, self-destined to the deep!
Never had Ocean in his balmiest hours,
Look'd less like death—less terrible, less wild!
An infant's slumber had not been more free
From all commotion. Beautiful and bright,
In the declining sunset, lay the scene
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Like the fair prospect, was the united song,—
That epicedium o'er a nation's fate,
Self-chanted, which went with them to the waves,
And still survives them—breathing, from their graves,
The story of their empire,—of its fame,—
Its fall, and their devoted faith that knew
No life unbless'd with freedom. Sweetest strain!—
Once more it rises into sounds, that grow
Human in strength; and now, it floats away,
Subdued and sinking, as in that sad hour
When its last breathings from the warrior's throat
Stopp'd suddenly; and through the desolate air
Went a more desolate hush that told the rest!
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THE HUNTER OF CALAWASSEE;
A LEGEND OF SOUTH CAROLINA.
I.
When bites, in bleak November, the blast that rives the tree,And scatters wide the yellow leaves, so sweetly sad to see,
Its voice's moaning murmur, borne through the trembling wood,
Awakes the heedful hunter up, and stirs his drowsy blood;—
In ancient times a summons meet, for all who struck the deer,
He will not be the last to heed, who's still the first to hear;
He plucks the rifle from its rest, he winds the yellow horn,
And sweet the music of the sound through all the forest borne.
II.
'Way down where ghostly cypress and dodder'd oaks spread free,By the winding fen of Calawass, and on to Ocketee,
The mellow notes go searching far, the bloodhound's bay is full,—
Shame light upon that hunter now whose bosom's beat is dull!
There's life within that bugle note, steeds snort and riders shout,
And life, in every bound they take, is gushing gladly out;
A spirit rends the thicket,—upstarts the couchant deer,
Shakes from his sluggish flanks the dew, and bounds away in fear.
III.
“Now sound your horns,” cried Kedar, “and let the hunt be up,And bring me, ere we start, my boy, a strong and stirring cup;
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The blood, that should be bounding still, lies lazily at rest;
Not long to rest, for, by my soul, and all the saints! I swear,
This day I perish, or I kill the buck that harbors here,—
That one-horn'd buck;”—“Nay, swear not so, dear master,” thus he cried,
The aged slave, who then drew nigh and stood by Kedar's side.
IV.
“Now, out upon thy coward soul!” cried Kedar to the slave;“Thou wast a man upon a time,—my father thought thee brave;
But age has dull'd thy spirit—thy limbs have need of rest,
This air's too keen for such as thou—go, harbor in thy nest;
Fool-fears have quell'd thy manhood, and, in this buck I seek,
Thou find'st a foe whose very name 'twould white thy lips to speak;
But though he be the fiend himself, and stand before my eyes,
This day I hunt him down, I say, and deer or hunter dies!”
V.
Then sadly spoke that aged slave—“Oh, master, swear not so—Leave hunting of this one-horn'd buck, that's like no beast we know;
He makes no slot, no entry leaves, though through the closest brakes
Of bush, or cane, or thicket swamp, his headlong course he takes:
Still bears the same erected port, and never frays a head;—
Two seasons have you hunted him, and still with evil sped;
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The first”—“Now, fool,” then Kedar cried, “be still for very s[illeg.]
VI.
“Sound, hunters, ere this idle tale arrest the sluggish blood,And lend to braver hearts than his yon aged dotard's mood;
It is my oath this day to track that buck unto his den,
And we shall see if he or me shall live for hunt again;—
Two seasons hath he baffled us, 'twere shame if still he may,
And I am sworn, and heed my oath, to end the toil to-day;
And Lauto, you shall stay behind—I would not have you drive;
If such the fears that fill your heart, the hunt can never thrive.”
VII.
“I'll go, my master,” cried the slave, with sorrow in his tone,“If fears are in old Lauto's heart, they're fears for you alone;
Here, Willow, Wand, and Wallow!”—three dogs of famous breed,
That had a boast from Rollo's pack, the Norman's, to be seed:—
He sounded then most cheerily, that aged slave, and cried,
'Till, from the kennel, all the pack, came bounding to his side;
He took the route his master bade, and with a heavy heart,
That shook with fears he could not name, did Lauto then depart.
VIII.
'Twas standing in a cypress grove, that, by the Ocketee,Kept crowding shadows that forbade the searching eye to see,
Young Kedar waited long to hear the music of the hounds,
That told the hunt was up, and fill'd the wood with cheering sounds;
No sound he heard, yet, on his sight, that one-horn'd deer arose,
As speeding on, he left behind, in secret, all his foes:—
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And lifting up his rifle then, he stood with ready aim.
IX.
Three strides the buck hath taken, his single horn on high,And then he stay'd his forward flight, and look'd with steady eye;
He look'd upon the cypress grove where Kedar watching stood,
Then, turning, took his easy way toward the distant wood.
This madden'd Kedar then to see, and to his steed he gave
Free rein and rashing spur, and went as if some devil drave;
With shriek and shout he bounded on, and wonder'd to behold
How easy was the gait he went, that deer, along the wold.
X.
And still nor horn nor hound he heard, and nothing did he see,Save that one deer that, fleeing, seem'd as not to care to flee;
This vex'd young Kedar to behold—a madness fill'd his blood,
And shouting as he went, he flew, with fury through the wood;
He heeded not for stop or stay—he look'd not once behind,
His soul was in that fearful chase—his spirit on the wind;—
A twilight shade came o'er the earth, and through the wood a moan,
Yet nothing did he see or hear, but that one deer alone!
XI.
The cypress groves he leaves behind, where, with impatient heart,Three goodly hours he watch'd that day, from all the rest apart;
The long pines gather round him now, and now the thicket stays,
Yet on, with headlong haste, he goes, through wild and rugged ways;—
The deer, still wiling as he wends, keeps ever in his sight,
Yet indirect his forward course, as careless still of flight;—
More furious grew that hunter then, to see his mocking pace,
And feel at last, his noble steed was failing in the race.
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XII.
No warning sign like this he heeds, but with his oath in mind,Young Kedar, in that keen pursuit, is striving with the wind;
The rowel tears his charger's flanks until they glisten red,
The thong now smites his burning sides and now his aching head;
Yet docile still, in all his pain, though fainting with the chase,
He strives, that noble beast, to keep, unfailing, in the race;
The madness grows in Kedar's soul, and blinds his thought and will,
Such madness as must vex the heart of him that's doom'd to ill.
XIII.
And he that has no eye to see his weary charger's pain,As little heeds the baffling wood through which his feet must strain;
The giant pines have faded far—the knotted thicket shakes
Its purple berries round his brow at every bound he takes;
The swamp is nigh, the horse's hoofs in ooze are plashing fast,
God save him, if he mean to save—such chase can never last!
The river's edge is nigh, and dusk, its solemn shadows rise,
And what a heavy silence hangs and broods along the skies.
XIV.
Before him sleeps the sluggish swamp that never sees the day,And through its bosom, bounding on, the deer still keeps his way;
Another leap he gains the stream—another effort more—
And deeply in the charger's flanks, the rashing rowel tore;—
A sound is in young Kedar's ears—his hounds are close behind—
And 'tis old Lauto's cry that cheers upon that sudden wind;—
A warning cry that vainly seeks to drive the spell away,
And check the fiend that lies in wait and hungers for his prey.
XV.
Mad shouts from Kedar answer'd then old Lauto's kindly cry,—“Ha! ha! I have him now!” was still the hunter's wild reply;
293
He sinks—he can no farther run—he lies by yonder tree;—
Upon him, Cygnet!—he is ours—one goodly effort more,
By death and all the saints, he's mine!—ha! ha! our hunt is o'er!”
And still the noble steed obeys, and through the swamp he goes,—
The swamp is past, and, round his feet, the dark Che-che-see flows.
XVI.
The dark Che-che-see flows along, in tribute to the main,But stops not Kedar's rash pursuit—he spurs his steed again;
And breathing hard, the patient steed now takes the gloomy stream,
While roll'd the thunder cloud above, and sunk the westering gleam.
Old Lauto reach'd the river's edge, with dim and straining eye,
And something like a struggling steed, a moment did he spy;
But soon the waters closed above—he look'd beyond, and there
Still went, a failing shadow now, with easy pace, the deer!
Old Lauto is somewhat more learned in his terms than most of the drivers of the southern country; and, for the sake of his brethren, some little explanation may be given here. These are all terms of the chase in ancient English hunting; and are furnished to me, at second hand, from Gascoigne's “Commendation of the noble Arte of Venerie.” The slot is the print of a stag's foot upon the ground; entries are places through which deer have lately passed, by which their size is conjectured; frayings are the pillings of their horns; and a deer is said to “fray a head” when he rubs it against a tree to cause the outer coat to fall away in the season of renewal. These nice traits of the hunt, by which the hunter learns all that is desirable to know of the game he seeks, form, however, but a small number of those in the collection of the experienced in this “noble arte.”
Old Lauto is somewhat more learned in his terms than most of the drivers of the southern country; and, for the sake of his brethren, some little explanation may be given here. These are all terms of the chase in ancient English hunting; and are furnished to me, at second hand, from Gascoigne's “Commendation of the noble Arte of Venerie.” The slot is the print of a stag's foot upon the ground; entries are places through which deer have lately passed, by which their size is conjectured; frayings are the pillings of their horns; and a deer is said to “fray a head” when he rubs it against a tree to cause the outer coat to fall away in the season of renewal. These nice traits of the hunt, by which the hunter learns all that is desirable to know of the game he seeks, form, however, but a small number of those in the collection of the experienced in this “noble arte.”
Old Lauto is somewhat more learned in his terms than most of the drivers of the southern country; and, for the sake of his brethren, some little explanation may be given here. These are all terms of the chase in ancient English hunting; and are furnished to me, at second hand, from Gascoigne's “Commendation of the noble Arte of Venerie.” The slot is the print of a stag's foot upon the ground; entries are places through which deer have lately passed, by which their size is conjectured; frayings are the pillings of their horns; and a deer is said to “fray a head” when he rubs it against a tree to cause the outer coat to fall away in the season of renewal. These nice traits of the hunt, by which the hunter learns all that is desirable to know of the game he seeks, form, however, but a small number of those in the collection of the experienced in this “noble arte.”
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THE SHIP OF THE PALATINES.
[_]
The tradition upon which the following legend is founded, is still, at the present day, somewhat current in the “Old North State.” Within the last twenty years, indeed, we have seen in the newspapers a statement of the reappearance of the spectre ship of the Palatines, “all a-fire,” and have been edified with the affidavits of good citizens, so solemnly impressed with the truth of the apparition, that they have not scrupled to make oath to the fact before the magistrates. The tradition—it will hardly escape the literary reader—is somewhat like that upon which Dana founds his poem of the “Buccancer;” but it is of simpler structure, and not the less suitable, perhaps, because of its simplicity, for metrical purposes. I have treated it according to the tradition, without seeking to graft upon it any of my own inventions.
A shaft of sudden light, as if a glance,
Shot from the fiery eyes of sinking day,
Lights the green edges of the western wave,
And purples it with beauty. Yet the sun
Now flames on Asian summits. Midnight sways
His abdicated realm upon our shores,
And his successor, the pursuing moon,
Hath vanish'd in his wake. A cloudy veil
Hangs o'er her mansion, and the twiring stars
Grow dim along her track. Once more that blaze,
A sulphury column o'er the midnight waste,
Darts upward and prolongs a fitful glow,
Leaping from wave to wave.
“A ship on fire,
Crowd sail, and let us reach it!”
Thus the cry
Ran through our vessel, and each straining eye,
Piercing the solid depth of dark between,
Beheld—through fancies that with quicken'd birth,
Peopled all the scene with persons at their need—
The wreck'd and perishing wretches,—the strong man,
And trembling woman, and unconscious child,
As, hanging o'er the eternal precipice,
They cried to Heaven for succor,—cried and sank!—
Preferring the sure sentence of the deep,
To that dread doom, that, darting on their steps,
With thousand forkéd, fiery tongues pursued!
Shot from the fiery eyes of sinking day,
Lights the green edges of the western wave,
And purples it with beauty. Yet the sun
Now flames on Asian summits. Midnight sways
His abdicated realm upon our shores,
And his successor, the pursuing moon,
Hath vanish'd in his wake. A cloudy veil
Hangs o'er her mansion, and the twiring stars
Grow dim along her track. Once more that blaze,
A sulphury column o'er the midnight waste,
Darts upward and prolongs a fitful glow,
Leaping from wave to wave.
“A ship on fire,
Crowd sail, and let us reach it!”
Thus the cry
Ran through our vessel, and each straining eye,
Piercing the solid depth of dark between,
295
Peopled all the scene with persons at their need—
The wreck'd and perishing wretches,—the strong man,
And trembling woman, and unconscious child,
As, hanging o'er the eternal precipice,
They cried to Heaven for succor,—cried and sank!—
Preferring the sure sentence of the deep,
To that dread doom, that, darting on their steps,
With thousand forkéd, fiery tongues pursued!
One moment of deep terror!—but the hand
Touch'd not the cordage. The uplifted voice,
Of order, lapsed in silence. It was gone,
That sudden blaze, as suddenly; and night,
A vast and shapeless shadow, frown'd in place.
Yet was the semblance, to each eye that saw,
A burning vessel, a majestic barque,
Limm'd in consuming flame—erect, yet doom'd—
From gunwale up to top, from stem to stern,
In fiery lines articulate and clear,
Each spar, and shaft, and lineament a-blaze,
Glorious in ruin!
Thus, in western wilds,
The traveller, in belated journey, sees
A vision of destruction,—not like this
A vision only; but reality,
So wildly, terribly beautiful, as takes
Possession of all senses. The tall wood
Is traversed by a tempest of bright flame,
That, coursing far, on seraph wing, defies
Restraint; leaps up to the inflammable pine,
And fastens, like a tiger, on its heart.
The monarch tree, with sky achieving spire,
And limbs spread out like patriarchal arms,
Exchanging all its garniture of green,
Is clothed in fiercest crimson—kingly shroud
For more than kingly shape. The mighty shaft,
Consuming, yet unshrinking!—the broad limbs
Blazing, but still extended—while the vine,
Supported long on those paternal arms,
Crackles, and curls, and shrivels, in the flame,
Like cordage on the vessel lately gone.
Touch'd not the cordage. The uplifted voice,
Of order, lapsed in silence. It was gone,
That sudden blaze, as suddenly; and night,
A vast and shapeless shadow, frown'd in place.
Yet was the semblance, to each eye that saw,
A burning vessel, a majestic barque,
Limm'd in consuming flame—erect, yet doom'd—
From gunwale up to top, from stem to stern,
In fiery lines articulate and clear,
Each spar, and shaft, and lineament a-blaze,
Glorious in ruin!
Thus, in western wilds,
The traveller, in belated journey, sees
A vision of destruction,—not like this
A vision only; but reality,
So wildly, terribly beautiful, as takes
Possession of all senses. The tall wood
Is traversed by a tempest of bright flame,
That, coursing far, on seraph wing, defies
Restraint; leaps up to the inflammable pine,
And fastens, like a tiger, on its heart.
The monarch tree, with sky achieving spire,
And limbs spread out like patriarchal arms,
Exchanging all its garniture of green,
296
For more than kingly shape. The mighty shaft,
Consuming, yet unshrinking!—the broad limbs
Blazing, but still extended—while the vine,
Supported long on those paternal arms,
Crackles, and curls, and shrivels, in the flame,
Like cordage on the vessel lately gone.
There is a deep and serious faith in man,
Nursed in his secret soul, and strengthen'd there,
By numerous stern and solemn instances,
That finds a latent but close sympathy,
Betwixt his own and that mysterious world
To which our shadows hasten. Earth may cloud,
Not wholly darken, that superior light
Which burns within us. This, immortal hands
Trim nightly; and upon our startled ken,
Purged of its sullen and unfruitful humors,
Betray brief glimpses of the thing that was,
And thing that may be. Purposes of dread,
To us, obscure and wondrous—not for us
To fathom or examine—in HIS will,
Whose will is monarch over all that lives,
Life's single source and Sov'reign,—rise in forms
That soothe, or awe, or waken—shake with fright,
Or startle into meritorious deed
And righteous duty. Innocence o'erborne,
Finds succor when most fearful; wan Despair
Grows hopeful, though the gleam upon his eye,
That wins him, with new confidence, to life,
Be germined by the vaporous fogs that rise
From ancient charnels and forbidden graves,
Where rot the unknown race;—and crime that lurks,
Ever in dread, a thing of hate and fear,
Is dragg'd to make confession of his guilt
By some inexorable shade,—some shape—
That moves the unwitting tongue, the unwilling hand,
In inauspicious moment, to betray
The one dread secret. Murder will come out,
And find a voice, and challenge scrutiny,
Though seas roll o'er the victim, and long years
Brood o'er the terrible hour that saw the deed!
Nursed in his secret soul, and strengthen'd there,
By numerous stern and solemn instances,
That finds a latent but close sympathy,
Betwixt his own and that mysterious world
To which our shadows hasten. Earth may cloud,
Not wholly darken, that superior light
Which burns within us. This, immortal hands
Trim nightly; and upon our startled ken,
Purged of its sullen and unfruitful humors,
Betray brief glimpses of the thing that was,
And thing that may be. Purposes of dread,
To us, obscure and wondrous—not for us
To fathom or examine—in HIS will,
Whose will is monarch over all that lives,
Life's single source and Sov'reign,—rise in forms
That soothe, or awe, or waken—shake with fright,
Or startle into meritorious deed
And righteous duty. Innocence o'erborne,
Finds succor when most fearful; wan Despair
Grows hopeful, though the gleam upon his eye,
That wins him, with new confidence, to life,
Be germined by the vaporous fogs that rise
From ancient charnels and forbidden graves,
Where rot the unknown race;—and crime that lurks,
Ever in dread, a thing of hate and fear,
Is dragg'd to make confession of his guilt
297
That moves the unwitting tongue, the unwilling hand,
In inauspicious moment, to betray
The one dread secret. Murder will come out,
And find a voice, and challenge scrutiny,
Though seas roll o'er the victim, and long years
Brood o'er the terrible hour that saw the deed!
There is a wild tradition of these shores,
Still told by ancient men,—who, in such blaze
As that which lately dazzled and withdrew,
See but a phantom beacon, set by heaven,
To mark the period and the place of crime.
Familiar to their eyes that spectral light,
With each returning year; and learned scribes
Have set their hands and signets to the tale
In solemn record.
Once upon a time—
Thus runs the story—ere our fathers yet
Flung off the sway of British sov'reignty,
A little band of German Palatines,
Having fond hopes from change—it may be, lured
By vague, wild dreams of freedom,—left their homes,
And charter'd a frail vessel, which they fill'd
With wives, and sons, and daughters,—all their wealth
Of family and treasure. But the last
They screen'd from curious eyes, and, meanly garb'd,
No other seem'd than helpless destitutes,
Bless'd if the pittance, needful for the day,
Were, by the hand of charity, bestowed.
Thus habited—thus lowly in the sight
Of strangers they embark'd. They cross'd the seas,—
God smiled upon their voyage, till the shores
Of Carolina, gathering on their gaze,
Rose up in welcome, on the ocean's marge.
Then joy was in their hearts. The smiling sun
Look'd on them from blue summits. Green, the groves
Woo'd them with promised shelter; while the fruits,—
Fragrant and purple, that, in southern lands,
Spring, undemanding labor, at the word
Of sweet and sovereign nature,—to their glance
Made all one Eden. Joy, in every heart,
Burst forth from tongue and eye;—and children all,
Thus gladden'd, they forgot the prudent cares
That garb'd them late in seeming poverty.
The peril of the seas was at an end—
Their world before them. They had homes to build,
And time was precious;—wherefore then delay?
They brought their stores to light. Their eager hands
Unveil'd their treasures. Little family gauds,
Of gold and jewels, hidden through the past,
Long centuries of danger and distress,
Display'd by happy hands—on heaving hearts,—
And cups of silver in more precious grasp
Of dearest children. Confident, at last,
Of fortune,—in the hope that, baffled long,
No more could be denied—they yielded them
To every sweet assurance.
“With the morn,”
Thus rang their eager voices in all ears,
With iteration fond, rehearsing hope,—
“Our feet shall tread these shores—our fingers pluck
Their fruits—our forms beneath yon sacred shade
Of forests, that have felt no hand but heaven's,
Catch precious dews of slumber. Heaven be praised,—
For its dear mercies—for this best of all!”
Still told by ancient men,—who, in such blaze
As that which lately dazzled and withdrew,
See but a phantom beacon, set by heaven,
To mark the period and the place of crime.
Familiar to their eyes that spectral light,
With each returning year; and learned scribes
Have set their hands and signets to the tale
In solemn record.
Once upon a time—
Thus runs the story—ere our fathers yet
Flung off the sway of British sov'reignty,
A little band of German Palatines,
Having fond hopes from change—it may be, lured
By vague, wild dreams of freedom,—left their homes,
And charter'd a frail vessel, which they fill'd
With wives, and sons, and daughters,—all their wealth
Of family and treasure. But the last
They screen'd from curious eyes, and, meanly garb'd,
No other seem'd than helpless destitutes,
Bless'd if the pittance, needful for the day,
Were, by the hand of charity, bestowed.
Thus habited—thus lowly in the sight
Of strangers they embark'd. They cross'd the seas,—
God smiled upon their voyage, till the shores
298
Rose up in welcome, on the ocean's marge.
Then joy was in their hearts. The smiling sun
Look'd on them from blue summits. Green, the groves
Woo'd them with promised shelter; while the fruits,—
Fragrant and purple, that, in southern lands,
Spring, undemanding labor, at the word
Of sweet and sovereign nature,—to their glance
Made all one Eden. Joy, in every heart,
Burst forth from tongue and eye;—and children all,
Thus gladden'd, they forgot the prudent cares
That garb'd them late in seeming poverty.
The peril of the seas was at an end—
Their world before them. They had homes to build,
And time was precious;—wherefore then delay?
They brought their stores to light. Their eager hands
Unveil'd their treasures. Little family gauds,
Of gold and jewels, hidden through the past,
Long centuries of danger and distress,
Display'd by happy hands—on heaving hearts,—
And cups of silver in more precious grasp
Of dearest children. Confident, at last,
Of fortune,—in the hope that, baffled long,
No more could be denied—they yielded them
To every sweet assurance.
“With the morn,”
Thus rang their eager voices in all ears,
With iteration fond, rehearsing hope,—
“Our feet shall tread these shores—our fingers pluck
Their fruits—our forms beneath yon sacred shade
Of forests, that have felt no hand but heaven's,
Catch precious dews of slumber. Heaven be praised,—
For its dear mercies—for this best of all!”
Thus, like fond children, full of fresh delights,
In little groups, they throng'd the vessel's deck,
Each glad with pleasant purposes—his toils,
His petty schemes of future happiness—
Where build, what plant, what hours to care devote,
And what to recreation—what the flowers
Of this new world;—and—these were maiden thoughts—
How sweet, when garlanded with blue and pink
The evening dance beneath the spreading oak,
Love darting keenest glances from the grove,
And, in its shadow, weaving subtlest charms
To soothe and still subdue half-willing hearts!
Thus dreaming each, with some particular joy
To feed on, as the soul's best nutriment,
They mused together; framing at the last,
For absent dear ones in the father-land,
Glowing dispatches, in whose bright details
Hopes in a moment grew to certainties—
With fond entreaties to the ancient sire,
And timorous grand-dame, doubtful of the seas,
To follow, and their forest-homes partake.
299
Each glad with pleasant purposes—his toils,
His petty schemes of future happiness—
Where build, what plant, what hours to care devote,
And what to recreation—what the flowers
Of this new world;—and—these were maiden thoughts—
How sweet, when garlanded with blue and pink
The evening dance beneath the spreading oak,
Love darting keenest glances from the grove,
And, in its shadow, weaving subtlest charms
To soothe and still subdue half-willing hearts!
Thus dreaming each, with some particular joy
To feed on, as the soul's best nutriment,
They mused together; framing at the last,
For absent dear ones in the father-land,
Glowing dispatches, in whose bright details
Hopes in a moment grew to certainties—
With fond entreaties to the ancient sire,
And timorous grand-dame, doubtful of the seas,
To follow, and their forest-homes partake.
Noon pass'd, and evening came, and courtly night,
With all her proud, but pale patrician throng,
Sweet, but how stately! Lingering to the last,
While yet the shores lay visible to sight,
Our blue-eyed wanderers hung with eager eyes
Upon the yellow sands, the green-plumed pines,
Tall warriors, set as watchers on the deep,
In close array and serried rank and file.
But, with the darkness they withdrew—with hearts
How joyful—with a thousand hopes in one,
And that how full of child-significance,
In the one word—“To-morrow!”
But to them,
That morrow, with its wealth of promises,
Came never! Fatal was their sad mistake—
That vain display of treasure, shown to eyes
Which gloated, with an eager, fierce delight,
On the bright vision. In the master's heart
Rose up the hungry fiend of avarice;—
A greedy pang, a lust that had no fear,
Work'd fearfully within him. In his eyes
Glitter'd the secret thirst, that might have taught,
Meet prudence to his simple passengers,
Had they been vigilant watchers with their eyes,
Less greedy than their hearts. But they had grown
Suspicionless beneath prosperity;
Saw not the malice—had no instinct dread
Of that so sudden passion which should work,
Even in the moment of their sweetest hope,
For their destruction. From their eyes he shrank,
The master—sought his cabin—conn'd his charts—
Fled from temptation—but his brooding thought
Clung to the one possession. Through the day,
A single image glanced before his gaze,
Of all those golden spoils within his grasp,
Blinding and dazzling; baffling the better nature
Stifling the pleading conscience, and with iron,
Of heated avarice, searing Pity's eyes.
He had no other thought. Within his ears,
Ever a single voice was whispering—
So softly, so soliciting!—that said,—
“Midnight will hide the deed—an hour is all—
Wherefore thy terror—thou shouldst be a man,
And make thyself forever!”
'Twas enough!
The demon triumph'd. Then the master sought
His crew, and with like argument o'ercame
The germ of mercy in their stubborn souls.
They swore, with linkéd hands, a horrid oath,
Fidelity, in blood, to one another—
And hell,—and then they whisper'd o'er their plans
Of cruelty and safety. With the night,
When darkness fill'd the close abode where slept
Their wearied victims,—silently they stole,
Each to his hateful task. With stealthy care
The fatal knife was lifted o'er the breast
Of each strong sleeper. At a signal given,
They struck, and struck together,—but one blow—
And writhing, but scarce shrieking in his pain,
The sleeper slept forever. One hoarse cry,
Stifled in utterance,—one spasmodic fling
Of upward striving arms,—and all was hush'd
In burdensome silence;—so oppressive then,
That the fierce criminal, shuddering at his post,
Paused, hopeful, that his victim still might groan,
And half implored the mercy of the struggle,
That he might feel the deed was yet undone!
But brief cessation from their bloody toils
Claim'd terror. Conscience flung aside and hush'd—
Then follow'd the last dreadful sacrifice!—
Women and children—shrieking innocents,
Pleading and clinging to their murderers,
And wondering that the father came not nigh—
The husband, brother,—while the threat'ning blade,
Blood-dripping gleam'd above their dying eyes.
All perish'd—prayer and supplication vain—
Mammon to Moloch made his sacrifice,
And, elbow-deep in blood, the murderers,
Stood cowering within the darkness, half afraid,
Lest, through the hold, the innocent starry eyes
Summon'd to look by each escaping soul,
Might pierce, in passing, and lay bare the deed.
A moment, and in contemplation brief,
The criminals found resolve. With hurried toils,
They gather'd up the wealth, whose fatal lures,
Had won them to the guilt of bloody hands,
And, with their ill-got treasure made secure,
They hasten'd to their boats. But first, to hide
All traces of their footsteps and their crime,
They plied with busy care the blazing brand;
And in the bowels of the fated ship,
Left flaming torches. Speeding to the shore,
They watch'd the fierce destruction. From the hold,
Shot up, in thousand tongues and jets of fire,
The raging flames ascended. On the masts,
The deck, the gunwale, spars and sails, they seized,
With sudden fury. All a-blaze, the ship
Darted along the deep, a form complete,
Complex in lineament, but subtly wrought
In lines of blazing light. And thus she sped—
No wind impelling—close beside the shore,
Where stood the gasping criminals—their eyes,
Wide-staring on that wond'rous spectacle.
Thus, to and fro, the livelong night she went,
They watching still, incapable of flight.
By day, a charr'd and dismal skeleton,
She frown'd upon them, as, in restless drift,
She floated slowly by the yellow sands—
Now gone from sight, now suddenly, once more,
Gliding above the self-same dreary spot
Which saw the deed most dark and damnable!
All day, as by some awful spell enchain'd,
They linger'd by the shore. Now, in the wood,
Hiding their trembling forms—now, peering forth,
With the deceitful hope that, from their eyes,
The dreaded sight was gone,—beneath the wave,
Hiding their secret. But when night once more
Swept with starr'd train along the accustom'd march,
Again the spectre vessel heaves in sight;—
The bright flames darting upwards, spreading fast
O'er sails, spars, cordage! Blazing as before,
Yet unconsuming still, the phantom barque
Bears right for shore. Too terrible the sight
Upon the eyes of those most wretched men.
They fled,—and in the forest wilderness,
'Mongst beasts of prey, and tribes more savage still,
Buried their heads, their secret and their hopes—
Never their fears! Years, generations pass'd:—
The living are the dead! What fate befel
These hapless and still hopeless criminals,
The chronicles reveal not;—but the tale,
Still told by wise and venerable men,
Declared they went unpunish'd, save by God,—
And that the spectre vessel, still a-blaze,
Upon that fearful anniversary,
Appears with night, and still must re-appear,
Until, upon each man child, from the loins
Of those most bloody men, the avenger's hand
Hath fatally fallen,—when the spectre ship,
Her work complete, all blazing as she goes,
Shall lay her aching ribs in ocean's caves!
With all her proud, but pale patrician throng,
Sweet, but how stately! Lingering to the last,
While yet the shores lay visible to sight,
Our blue-eyed wanderers hung with eager eyes
Upon the yellow sands, the green-plumed pines,
Tall warriors, set as watchers on the deep,
In close array and serried rank and file.
But, with the darkness they withdrew—with hearts
How joyful—with a thousand hopes in one,
And that how full of child-significance,
In the one word—“To-morrow!”
But to them,
That morrow, with its wealth of promises,
300
That vain display of treasure, shown to eyes
Which gloated, with an eager, fierce delight,
On the bright vision. In the master's heart
Rose up the hungry fiend of avarice;—
A greedy pang, a lust that had no fear,
Work'd fearfully within him. In his eyes
Glitter'd the secret thirst, that might have taught,
Meet prudence to his simple passengers,
Had they been vigilant watchers with their eyes,
Less greedy than their hearts. But they had grown
Suspicionless beneath prosperity;
Saw not the malice—had no instinct dread
Of that so sudden passion which should work,
Even in the moment of their sweetest hope,
For their destruction. From their eyes he shrank,
The master—sought his cabin—conn'd his charts—
Fled from temptation—but his brooding thought
Clung to the one possession. Through the day,
A single image glanced before his gaze,
Of all those golden spoils within his grasp,
Blinding and dazzling; baffling the better nature
Stifling the pleading conscience, and with iron,
Of heated avarice, searing Pity's eyes.
He had no other thought. Within his ears,
Ever a single voice was whispering—
So softly, so soliciting!—that said,—
“Midnight will hide the deed—an hour is all—
Wherefore thy terror—thou shouldst be a man,
And make thyself forever!”
'Twas enough!
The demon triumph'd. Then the master sought
His crew, and with like argument o'ercame
The germ of mercy in their stubborn souls.
301
Fidelity, in blood, to one another—
And hell,—and then they whisper'd o'er their plans
Of cruelty and safety. With the night,
When darkness fill'd the close abode where slept
Their wearied victims,—silently they stole,
Each to his hateful task. With stealthy care
The fatal knife was lifted o'er the breast
Of each strong sleeper. At a signal given,
They struck, and struck together,—but one blow—
And writhing, but scarce shrieking in his pain,
The sleeper slept forever. One hoarse cry,
Stifled in utterance,—one spasmodic fling
Of upward striving arms,—and all was hush'd
In burdensome silence;—so oppressive then,
That the fierce criminal, shuddering at his post,
Paused, hopeful, that his victim still might groan,
And half implored the mercy of the struggle,
That he might feel the deed was yet undone!
But brief cessation from their bloody toils
Claim'd terror. Conscience flung aside and hush'd—
Then follow'd the last dreadful sacrifice!—
Women and children—shrieking innocents,
Pleading and clinging to their murderers,
And wondering that the father came not nigh—
The husband, brother,—while the threat'ning blade,
Blood-dripping gleam'd above their dying eyes.
All perish'd—prayer and supplication vain—
Mammon to Moloch made his sacrifice,
And, elbow-deep in blood, the murderers,
Stood cowering within the darkness, half afraid,
Lest, through the hold, the innocent starry eyes
Summon'd to look by each escaping soul,
Might pierce, in passing, and lay bare the deed.
302
The criminals found resolve. With hurried toils,
They gather'd up the wealth, whose fatal lures,
Had won them to the guilt of bloody hands,
And, with their ill-got treasure made secure,
They hasten'd to their boats. But first, to hide
All traces of their footsteps and their crime,
They plied with busy care the blazing brand;
And in the bowels of the fated ship,
Left flaming torches. Speeding to the shore,
They watch'd the fierce destruction. From the hold,
Shot up, in thousand tongues and jets of fire,
The raging flames ascended. On the masts,
The deck, the gunwale, spars and sails, they seized,
With sudden fury. All a-blaze, the ship
Darted along the deep, a form complete,
Complex in lineament, but subtly wrought
In lines of blazing light. And thus she sped—
No wind impelling—close beside the shore,
Where stood the gasping criminals—their eyes,
Wide-staring on that wond'rous spectacle.
Thus, to and fro, the livelong night she went,
They watching still, incapable of flight.
By day, a charr'd and dismal skeleton,
She frown'd upon them, as, in restless drift,
She floated slowly by the yellow sands—
Now gone from sight, now suddenly, once more,
Gliding above the self-same dreary spot
Which saw the deed most dark and damnable!
All day, as by some awful spell enchain'd,
They linger'd by the shore. Now, in the wood,
Hiding their trembling forms—now, peering forth,
With the deceitful hope that, from their eyes,
The dreaded sight was gone,—beneath the wave,
303
Swept with starr'd train along the accustom'd march,
Again the spectre vessel heaves in sight;—
The bright flames darting upwards, spreading fast
O'er sails, spars, cordage! Blazing as before,
Yet unconsuming still, the phantom barque
Bears right for shore. Too terrible the sight
Upon the eyes of those most wretched men.
They fled,—and in the forest wilderness,
'Mongst beasts of prey, and tribes more savage still,
Buried their heads, their secret and their hopes—
Never their fears! Years, generations pass'd:—
The living are the dead! What fate befel
These hapless and still hopeless criminals,
The chronicles reveal not;—but the tale,
Still told by wise and venerable men,
Declared they went unpunish'd, save by God,—
And that the spectre vessel, still a-blaze,
Upon that fearful anniversary,
Appears with night, and still must re-appear,
Until, upon each man child, from the loins
Of those most bloody men, the avenger's hand
Hath fatally fallen,—when the spectre ship,
Her work complete, all blazing as she goes,
Shall lay her aching ribs in ocean's caves!
304
THE TRYST OF ACAYMA.
I.
Fair 'fall the Indian maiden, who sits by yonder stream,For, though her eyes are full of tears, she dreams a happy dream;
She waits Panaco's coming,—he left her for the shore,
Where, bursting through the Darien rocks, Atrato's waters roar;
A poison'd javelin fill'd his hand, a knife was by his side,
And countless were the valiant chiefs beneath his arm that died;—
A brave among the bravest, the first to lead was he,
When down the mountain warriors sped to meet the Caribbee.
II.
A fear is in Acayma's heart, and yet that heart is glad,For, bless'd with brave Panaco's love, it could not well be sad;
Three moons ago he sought her tent,—“Where is the maid?” said he,
“I seek but one of all the tribe that wanders by the sea.”—
His eye is on Acayma,—she dares not look on high,
Though well she knows, that happy hour, she stands beneath his eye,—
His hand is on the maiden's hand,—she felt her bosom heave;—
He kept the willing heart and hand, she had no power to give.
III.
'Twas by the rapids of the stream that down the mountain fell,Just where Biloxi's iron head looks o'er Senonee's dell;
“I'll watch these babbling waters, and they shall speak for thee;”
The maiden cried,—“and tell me why thou lingerest by the sea;—
305
And, sprinkling with the falling drops, he stay'd her idle speech;
Then laughing long, and looking back, he bounded down the steep,
And, in her very joy of heart, the maiden could but weep.
IV.
But weary grow the lengthening hours, and shadows of distressNow haunt the heart, that, in its love, still finds its loneliness;
The tears of joy that fill'd her eye when first Panaco went,
Are dry—but down the silent rocks her gloomy glance is sent;
A thousand fears are in her thought—she plucks and rends the flowers,
And anxious looks, where, in the sky, a heavy tempest lowers;
Though none may better guide the bark or trim the sail than he,
Still swells within her heart the hope he be not on the sea.
V.
Too rash and too resolved his soul, too prone to rove afar,To launch the boat, to lead the hunt, to urge the tribe to war;
She weeps to think, to meet her wish, and win her love, he speeds
Where yellow waters boil in rage among the cavern weeds:
He promised ere he left her, to bring for her that day,
The brightest pearl that ever slept 'neath the gulf of Urabay;
To rob the sea-maid of her shells, and from the snake-god's home,
Tear the green gem that lights his crest, and rend his crystal foam.
VI.
The noontide hour is going fast,—she lingers still and sighs,For thicker yet the shadows crowd, and gather on her eyes;
306
Than that which closes now in storm above the mountain's head;
Yet watches she the falling wave, and, to her trembling ears,
A murmur, like an omen comes—what is it that she hears?
'Tis sure Panaco's voice,—but no!—ah, sweet, delusive dream,
'Twas but some loosen'd rock above that tumbled down the stream.
VII.
She knows not of her sorrow yet,—she chides at his delay;Oh! would she thus reproach him, if she knew what made him stay?—
Could she dream that while she blamed him, he battled for his life,—
Could she see the Spanish foeman, and Panaco 'neath his knife?
Alas! for thee, Acayma,—what though thy lover swore,
He will not come to bless thee now,—he lies by yonder shore;
And though thy tears were torrents, like those adown yon glen,
They cannot move Panaco,—he will never come again.
The tradition is, that there is a great sea-snake of the Gulf, which the Indians call the king-snake, or god-snake, whose head is one entire emerald which lights the ocean for many leagues; that he sleeps in a cavern of the purest crystal, which is beautiful, in fantastic forms, like the combing foam of the sea when petrified.
307
VASCO NUNEZ;
OR THE PROPHECY OF THE ASTROLOGER.
A LEGEND OF DARIEN.
[_]
The reader needs no information in respect to the renowned Vasco Nunez de Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific, and one of the most noble of all the cavaliers that followed in the footsteps of Columbus and Hernan Cortes. Of the astrologer, Micer Codro, less is known; but the pathetic facts in his career, as far as we possess them, may be found in the pleasant and instructive volume of Irving, which he devotes to the companions of Columbus. The legend which follows supplies its own facts, and needs no further introduction.
I.
Triumphant on a peak of Darien,The eagle conqueror that, in one bold flight,
Had scaled each high impediment of cloud,
And stood above the summits of the storm,—
Balboa,—on the topmost crag that crown'd
The narrow isthmus, which between two seas
Spread barrier walls, denying their embrace,—
Rose, silent, with his eye uplift to heaven,
A moment, as in prayer and thankfulness,
Then, hopefully, he cast his glance below,
And trembled in his rapture.
'Neath him roll'd
The broad Pacific, never yet before
Unveil'd to European! What were then
Th' emotions of that conqueror, in whose toils
Such courage, with such great endurance mix'd,
Were the best proofs of virtue. Who shall tell
The struggling, glad sensations of the soul,
308
The hope so fruitful in great enterprise,
And noble consummation—on his eyes
Burst forth that mighty prospect—that deep sea,
In the virginity of its pure waves,
Unrifled of a charm—for the first time
Won to a mortal's arms!—or, who conceive,
When on the summit of that isthmus throned,
Higher than sovereign, and on either hand
Ranged the two sister seas, for the first time
Given to each other; he, that gallant chief,
Most noble and most valiant of the sons
Spain sent on this great service, stood alone,
And look'd upon his conquest? Who shall tell
The melancholy pride of his great soul,
When the achievement, long withheld, and won
Only by toil at last—the fearless toil
Of true adventure and achievement great,
That greater grew from trial—was his own;
And, to a spirit as aspiring, he
Added a name and triumph, scarce below
That of the “Admiral,” who led the way,
First, in this path of glory!—
With glad eye,
And soaring sense, and spirit almost drunk,
In its excess of rapture, dumb he stood,
And gazed upon the waters. Were these, then,
The billows of that Indian sea, which clasps
In its capacious bosom, those broad isles
Of boundless, unimaginable wealth,
In gold and gems o'erflowing, locking in
The spices and the perfumes of the East—
The world of spoil, the field of enterprise,
Meet for that ocean chivalry, to whom
309
The savages that sway them, have no bar?
Was this that glorious sea—or, prouder still,
Had fortune yielded to his daring aim
Some lonely, lock'd-up ocean of the wild,
Some savage realm of water, undisturb'd,
Save by the Indian's bark, when, at the dawn,
He plunges through its silvery depths, unscared,
For the pearl oyster, and at eve returns,
Laden and glutted with its precious spoils,
To his lone wigwam by the reedy shore?
Proud were the thoughts of that young conqueror,
But with a due humility, that taught
Meet homage to the Deity who gave
The genius for the conquest, and laid bare
The portals of the empire and the deep!
Tears glitter'd in his great eyes, while he gazed;
His gleaming sword was laid upon the heights,
And his strong hands uplifted; while his knees,
Taught by the gratitude swelling in his heart,
Bow'd at that primitive altar of the rock,
That glow'd in day's first sunshine. Thus, alone,
A moment, pray'd Balboa. No one shared
The spectacle that gladden'd his fond eyes,
Or felt the secret sentiment of pride
That in his heart taught worship—till he bade
The host ascend the summits which his feet
Had singly scaled, and gather at a glance,
The marvellous empire hidden in the waste,
Whose secrets thus were won.
They came, they saw;
Like him, the host sank prostrate on their knees,
While audible hearts of worship breathed in prayer,
And one strong shout from that fierce chivalry
310
As, at the bidding of their chief, the cross,
Hewn from the tallest pine, was lifted up,
A symbol of their service and their faith,
In triumph o'er their heads. Then every eye
Grew pregnant with its tears—some upward turn'd
To heaven in thanks and gladness—others again,
In wonder not to be appeased, and love,
That had its source in wonder and delight,
To the broad realm of ocean at their feet.
II.
'Twas midnight, and the stars were in the heavens,
Each the proud centre of a countless host,
Each with a world of glory in its glance
Such as the orient knows not. Not a cloud
Dull'd their profusion; and upon that sea,
Soft, with a billowy rising, and a swell,
Like the voluptuous heavings, in the breast
Of some warm princess of the passionate East,
They flung their emulous and repeated lights,
With a most profligate glory. From the south,
Where, all day, it had wander'd seeking flowers,
And whence, with wing embarrass'd still with spoil,
It came diffusing odor, stole the wind,—
That robber of the close that feeds the waste,
And stirr'd with gentlest ripplings the great sea,
Until, with musical murmurs to the shore,
It roll'd its little billows to the reeds,
That straightway took a voice most like their own,
And join'd the natural concert;—sweet, sad tones,
The music of that spirit whose brooding wing
Ever gives tone to earth's vast provinces,
Her seas, and sloping shores, and the great heights,
Her mountains, vast world-citadels, that need
The blue wings of such spirit to subdue
Their rudeness, and such voices as it knows,
To harmonize, and with due sympathies,
Blend meetly, the wild aspect of the crag
With valleys, and the swelling tides of sea!
'Twas midnight, but the chieftain did not sleep!
Still, as he lay upon the summit crag,
Glided on the gradual hosts of starry eyes,
Sweet smiling in his own; and to his ear,
Still upward rose those voices of the wave,
Bidding him welcome; and around the heights,
With song of winds in commerce with the pines,
Such music of the wilderness as best
Persuades the sense to rapture, while the dream
Finds ever a shape of beauty for the eyes,
And still a ravishing feeling for the soul,
That sweetly takes possession of a thought,
Then wholly given to nature. There he lay,
Fond listening to those tones of land and sea,
With speech mysterious to the worshipping sea,—
Voices to voices calling, hill to hill,
And ocean to old forests, through still hours,
Keeping up a solemn chorus, and soft chant,
Such as soothes solitude on lonely heights,
And takes away the sorrow from the waste.
Each the proud centre of a countless host,
Each with a world of glory in its glance
Such as the orient knows not. Not a cloud
Dull'd their profusion; and upon that sea,
Soft, with a billowy rising, and a swell,
Like the voluptuous heavings, in the breast
Of some warm princess of the passionate East,
They flung their emulous and repeated lights,
With a most profligate glory. From the south,
Where, all day, it had wander'd seeking flowers,
And whence, with wing embarrass'd still with spoil,
It came diffusing odor, stole the wind,—
That robber of the close that feeds the waste,
And stirr'd with gentlest ripplings the great sea,
Until, with musical murmurs to the shore,
It roll'd its little billows to the reeds,
That straightway took a voice most like their own,
And join'd the natural concert;—sweet, sad tones,
The music of that spirit whose brooding wing
Ever gives tone to earth's vast provinces,
Her seas, and sloping shores, and the great heights,
311
The blue wings of such spirit to subdue
Their rudeness, and such voices as it knows,
To harmonize, and with due sympathies,
Blend meetly, the wild aspect of the crag
With valleys, and the swelling tides of sea!
'Twas midnight, but the chieftain did not sleep!
Still, as he lay upon the summit crag,
Glided on the gradual hosts of starry eyes,
Sweet smiling in his own; and to his ear,
Still upward rose those voices of the wave,
Bidding him welcome; and around the heights,
With song of winds in commerce with the pines,
Such music of the wilderness as best
Persuades the sense to rapture, while the dream
Finds ever a shape of beauty for the eyes,
And still a ravishing feeling for the soul,
That sweetly takes possession of a thought,
Then wholly given to nature. There he lay,
Fond listening to those tones of land and sea,
With speech mysterious to the worshipping sea,—
Voices to voices calling, hill to hill,
And ocean to old forests, through still hours,
Keeping up a solemn chorus, and soft chant,
Such as soothes solitude on lonely heights,
And takes away the sorrow from the waste.
How could he sleep? The creature of his dreams,
That for so long had brought him wakeful hours,—
The vague conceit, the great expectancy,
The wondrous fond illusion, the wild hope,
The quenchless thirst, the matchless passion, all,
That show'd him ever glimpses of great heights
Attain'd, and empire won, and fame secure,
For the still worshipping future,—all the dreams
That wrought his soul's ambition from the hour
He first had dream'd of glory,—were his own!—
The prize of a long dream was his at last!
The crown of a long strife was realized!
That hour had changed him, and possession won,
He was no more the creature he had been,
When boyhood was a season of delight,
And hope had many a semblance. When, amid
The festive throng, for mirth and music bent,
At evening by the waters, or attuned
To a more fell employment, he was found
Rashly adventurous, daring still the first,
Where all were daring—in the tented field,
Join'd in close combat with the tawny Moor,
A kingdom on his arm. The ruthless mood,
Indifferent to aught but valorous deed
And bloody retribution—all were gone!
And, in their stead, a loftier spirit came,
Keeping him watchful. His adventurous mind
Felt its own wing, and knew its strength at last
And soar'd into the heavens; and, eagle-like,
He brooded 'mong those mountains through the night,
And meditated, with the matin chime,
His flight across the waters;—where to lead
He knew not; but his dreams, his waking dreams,
Peopled the wilds beyond, with glorious forms
And empires of the sun. He too would give
To Castile and to Leon a new world;
And more than he, the mighty Genoese,
Another ocean with its tribute wealth,
And uncomplaining waters.
He would yield
His country such a treasure, and a realm,
Of such unbounded wealth and eminence
As should eclipse each jewel in her crown,
The gift of former sons. Thus mighty souls
Commune with their own purposes. Their pride,
That seeks the conquest, sees the hour beyond,
When, with a generous, free magnificence,
They fling the golden guerdon they have brought,
On shrines which still embody to their souls
A power for love and worship. Sovereign thus
Find loyalty, faith, and sweet humility;
And beauty, the fond homage of a heart
That never dared to breathe its passionate love,
Yet yearn'd the while to bless and to endow.
That for so long had brought him wakeful hours,—
The vague conceit, the great expectancy,
The wondrous fond illusion, the wild hope,
The quenchless thirst, the matchless passion, all,
That show'd him ever glimpses of great heights
Attain'd, and empire won, and fame secure,
312
That wrought his soul's ambition from the hour
He first had dream'd of glory,—were his own!—
The prize of a long dream was his at last!
The crown of a long strife was realized!
That hour had changed him, and possession won,
He was no more the creature he had been,
When boyhood was a season of delight,
And hope had many a semblance. When, amid
The festive throng, for mirth and music bent,
At evening by the waters, or attuned
To a more fell employment, he was found
Rashly adventurous, daring still the first,
Where all were daring—in the tented field,
Join'd in close combat with the tawny Moor,
A kingdom on his arm. The ruthless mood,
Indifferent to aught but valorous deed
And bloody retribution—all were gone!
And, in their stead, a loftier spirit came,
Keeping him watchful. His adventurous mind
Felt its own wing, and knew its strength at last
And soar'd into the heavens; and, eagle-like,
He brooded 'mong those mountains through the night,
And meditated, with the matin chime,
His flight across the waters;—where to lead
He knew not; but his dreams, his waking dreams,
Peopled the wilds beyond, with glorious forms
And empires of the sun. He too would give
To Castile and to Leon a new world;
And more than he, the mighty Genoese,
Another ocean with its tribute wealth,
And uncomplaining waters.
He would yield
His country such a treasure, and a realm,
313
As should eclipse each jewel in her crown,
The gift of former sons. Thus mighty souls
Commune with their own purposes. Their pride,
That seeks the conquest, sees the hour beyond,
When, with a generous, free magnificence,
They fling the golden guerdon they have brought,
On shrines which still embody to their souls
A power for love and worship. Sovereign thus
Find loyalty, faith, and sweet humility;
And beauty, the fond homage of a heart
That never dared to breathe its passionate love,
Yet yearn'd the while to bless and to endow.
Thus, on the rocks of Darien, lay the chief,
Brooding with sweet, proud fancies, while the stars
Lapsed overhead above, and still below
Lay his exhausted followers, wrapt in sleep,
That knew no dream like his. At last, a voice
Aroused him, and the weight of a strong hand,
But not in anger, on his shoulder fell.
He started from his trance. Beside him stood
One of the wise men of that dreaming age,
A fond, self-mortified spirit,—one who sought
Its thoughts in realms forbidden—an old man,
Whose spirit, through long abstinence and toil,
Deep study, musings vast and infinite,
And rigorous penance, in its age had grown
Familiar with the stars. To him they were
Not less than wizard lights, and presences,
Of soul and speech. To him they bared the seals
That held the future, and they laid the past
Before him as an open scroll, writ full
Of all familiar characters. Unveil'd to him,
All time grew present;—and, in rocky cells,
In ruin'd castles, and secluded caves,
By seas, in lonely forests, and afar
From human converse, still he conn'd the page,
Nightly, of mortal story. He could read
All futures. He could conjure shapes at will,
Into the speaker's presence;—so his fame
Ran 'mongst the Spanish host;—and such as he
Was ever sought and honor'd by the chief
That toil'd in wild adventure. Thus they made
Apparent, the large glory in their search;
Their wild, ambitious reachings, and the dream
That still ennobles conquest, with the thirst
For something, which the world may not bestow.
Such was the aged man, who, on that night,
Stood by the musing conqueror, as he lay
Upon the mountain peak of Darien.
He rose, and they together look'd below,
Where, flashing ever out beneath the stars,
Gleam'd the calm waters, the Pacific plain,
Repeating all the glories in the heavens.
Thus look'd they both in silence for awhile,
Till the young chief, with gladness in his tones,
Cried to the aged man:
“Hast thou no voice,
My father, for this triumph? Here, at last,
We have laid bare the secret of the West,—
New worlds,—new oceans,—people—countless lands,
And empires yet to win. What toil was ours!
Yet vainly have these perilous heights and wilds
Opposed us in our march—vainly our fears,
Striven to retard—vainly these barbarous tribes
Raised their red spears, or hurl'd their feathery shafts.
These have we overcome, and Balboa now
May vaunt his conquests on the kindred page
That glows with Colon's glory. Have I not
Given a new ocean to our sovereign's rule,
A tributary world, a myriad race
Of subjects, and a vast and nameless wealth,
Not to be number'd? Have I not outspread
Here, to the embraces of a foreign breeze,
That blossoms in its odor, borne afar,
Doubtless, from gardens of the orient realm,
Hard by to Ophir—his unconquer'd flag;
And, on this rock, beheld from either sea,
Planted the sacred standard of our faith,
The hallow'd cross; in token that the wild
Is now the care of Christ, henceforth to be
The creature of his people? These are deeds,
Good father, that shall never be forgot;
And Balboa's name, when he shall be no more,
Shall have its chronicler to spell the ear,
And on the lips of story sound as well,
As any in the record. How will 't read,
With “Vasco Nunez de Balboa,” to write
“Colon the Admiral”—“world-finders both:”
Brooding with sweet, proud fancies, while the stars
Lapsed overhead above, and still below
Lay his exhausted followers, wrapt in sleep,
That knew no dream like his. At last, a voice
Aroused him, and the weight of a strong hand,
But not in anger, on his shoulder fell.
He started from his trance. Beside him stood
One of the wise men of that dreaming age,
A fond, self-mortified spirit,—one who sought
Its thoughts in realms forbidden—an old man,
Whose spirit, through long abstinence and toil,
Deep study, musings vast and infinite,
And rigorous penance, in its age had grown
Familiar with the stars. To him they were
Not less than wizard lights, and presences,
Of soul and speech. To him they bared the seals
That held the future, and they laid the past
Before him as an open scroll, writ full
Of all familiar characters. Unveil'd to him,
314
In ruin'd castles, and secluded caves,
By seas, in lonely forests, and afar
From human converse, still he conn'd the page,
Nightly, of mortal story. He could read
All futures. He could conjure shapes at will,
Into the speaker's presence;—so his fame
Ran 'mongst the Spanish host;—and such as he
Was ever sought and honor'd by the chief
That toil'd in wild adventure. Thus they made
Apparent, the large glory in their search;
Their wild, ambitious reachings, and the dream
That still ennobles conquest, with the thirst
For something, which the world may not bestow.
Such was the aged man, who, on that night,
Stood by the musing conqueror, as he lay
Upon the mountain peak of Darien.
He rose, and they together look'd below,
Where, flashing ever out beneath the stars,
Gleam'd the calm waters, the Pacific plain,
Repeating all the glories in the heavens.
Thus look'd they both in silence for awhile,
Till the young chief, with gladness in his tones,
Cried to the aged man:
“Hast thou no voice,
My father, for this triumph? Here, at last,
We have laid bare the secret of the West,—
New worlds,—new oceans,—people—countless lands,
And empires yet to win. What toil was ours!
Yet vainly have these perilous heights and wilds
Opposed us in our march—vainly our fears,
Striven to retard—vainly these barbarous tribes
Raised their red spears, or hurl'd their feathery shafts.
These have we overcome, and Balboa now
315
That glows with Colon's glory. Have I not
Given a new ocean to our sovereign's rule,
A tributary world, a myriad race
Of subjects, and a vast and nameless wealth,
Not to be number'd? Have I not outspread
Here, to the embraces of a foreign breeze,
That blossoms in its odor, borne afar,
Doubtless, from gardens of the orient realm,
Hard by to Ophir—his unconquer'd flag;
And, on this rock, beheld from either sea,
Planted the sacred standard of our faith,
The hallow'd cross; in token that the wild
Is now the care of Christ, henceforth to be
The creature of his people? These are deeds,
Good father, that shall never be forgot;
And Balboa's name, when he shall be no more,
Shall have its chronicler to spell the ear,
And on the lips of story sound as well,
As any in the record. How will 't read,
With “Vasco Nunez de Balboa,” to write
“Colon the Admiral”—“world-finders both:”
The Magian paused a space, and to his eye—
Where brightness, strangely mingled up with gloom,
Wore an appalling lustre, not unlike
Such as our dreams for spirit forms provide—
A darker shade, a deeper, sadder hue,
And, it might be, a large but single tear,
Gather'd unbidden. Calmly then he spoke.
Where brightness, strangely mingled up with gloom,
Wore an appalling lustre, not unlike
Such as our dreams for spirit forms provide—
A darker shade, a deeper, sadder hue,
And, it might be, a large but single tear,
Gather'd unbidden. Calmly then he spoke.
“My son, at Palos, by the convent walls
Of La Rabida, your old mother dwells:
I saw her, when we last departed thence,
On this adventure. Not to me unknown,
The future, as you found it. You were then,
Already, known to glory—so men call
Words from their fellow-men—and 'twas her pride
To speak of you as all the country spake.
I could not check the current of her speech,
Nor were it kind to do so; but, aroused,
And ravish'd with the subject, when she grew
Wild with imagined triumphs and great spoils,
And all the gauds of fortune—in my heart
I sorrow'd for her strange simplicity.
I did not tell her that her eyes in vain
Would, till the sunset, o'er the waves look out
For her son's caravel. I did not say,
What, well persuaded, I might well have said,
That all your triumphs were to end at last
In a base dungeon and a bloody grave,
And ignominious scaffold—
“Ah! you start!
But 'tis my grief, as 'tis thy destiny,
That I should mourn for that I must foresee,
And thou escape not. Hearken, then, awhile.
Thou wilt remember, on our voyage out,
I traced thy fortune. Thou didst seek of me
Its features; but thy quest I still withstood,
As aiding not thy service to be known,
And, haply, moving thy too soaring thought,
Too much to dwell upon it. But with me
It grew a settled study. From my art—
Of which in praise I speak not, when I say
It has not fail'd me oft—I linger'd o'er
Thy varying fortunes. Every step thou took'st,
Whether in peace or war, in court or camp,
In ease or peril, I beheld at large.
I saw thee trace thy journey to the wild—
Thy each reverse—thy final, full success,
Until the mighty waters, which now roll
Incessant to our feet, proclaim'd thy fame;
And to the daring soldier gave the praise
Of calm forethought, deliberation wise,
And an intelligent sense that all confirms
In this thy conquest. Here then are we now—
So far, the fortune I have traced is true!”
Of La Rabida, your old mother dwells:
I saw her, when we last departed thence,
316
The future, as you found it. You were then,
Already, known to glory—so men call
Words from their fellow-men—and 'twas her pride
To speak of you as all the country spake.
I could not check the current of her speech,
Nor were it kind to do so; but, aroused,
And ravish'd with the subject, when she grew
Wild with imagined triumphs and great spoils,
And all the gauds of fortune—in my heart
I sorrow'd for her strange simplicity.
I did not tell her that her eyes in vain
Would, till the sunset, o'er the waves look out
For her son's caravel. I did not say,
What, well persuaded, I might well have said,
That all your triumphs were to end at last
In a base dungeon and a bloody grave,
And ignominious scaffold—
“Ah! you start!
But 'tis my grief, as 'tis thy destiny,
That I should mourn for that I must foresee,
And thou escape not. Hearken, then, awhile.
Thou wilt remember, on our voyage out,
I traced thy fortune. Thou didst seek of me
Its features; but thy quest I still withstood,
As aiding not thy service to be known,
And, haply, moving thy too soaring thought,
Too much to dwell upon it. But with me
It grew a settled study. From my art—
Of which in praise I speak not, when I say
It has not fail'd me oft—I linger'd o'er
Thy varying fortunes. Every step thou took'st,
Whether in peace or war, in court or camp,
In ease or peril, I beheld at large.
317
Thy each reverse—thy final, full success,
Until the mighty waters, which now roll
Incessant to our feet, proclaim'd thy fame;
And to the daring soldier gave the praise
Of calm forethought, deliberation wise,
And an intelligent sense that all confirms
In this thy conquest. Here then are we now—
So far, the fortune I have traced is true!”
“What more, what more?” impatient, then, the chief
Ask'd of the aged man. “Let me know all—
I do esteem thy art, and well believe
Thou lovest me as thy son. Thou wilt not speak
What 'twere not well to hear; and well I know,
Thy wisdom, if ill fortune do betide,
May guide my wilder'd bark, and bring it safe.
Speak then at once, nor think that at thy speech,
Though fearful be its form, my soul shall quake,
Or my knees tremble. Let me know it all,
That I may battle boldly with my fate,
However vain the struggle, as becomes
A son of Spain, a warrior of the wild,
A spirit prone to combat with the seas,
And brave them at their wildest. Speak, old man;
Give thy thought words, and let my fortune stand
Before me on the instant.”
Ask'd of the aged man. “Let me know all—
I do esteem thy art, and well believe
Thou lovest me as thy son. Thou wilt not speak
What 'twere not well to hear; and well I know,
Thy wisdom, if ill fortune do betide,
May guide my wilder'd bark, and bring it safe.
Speak then at once, nor think that at thy speech,
Though fearful be its form, my soul shall quake,
Or my knees tremble. Let me know it all,
That I may battle boldly with my fate,
However vain the struggle, as becomes
A son of Spain, a warrior of the wild,
A spirit prone to combat with the seas,
And brave them at their wildest. Speak, old man;
Give thy thought words, and let my fortune stand
Before me on the instant.”
The magian spoke:
“When in the gather'd stars thy fate I read,
In one remote and solitary light,
I saw its bane, and baleful influence.
A single star, thus quarter'd in the heavens.
Teem'd with malicious auguries, and shook
All fires malign upon thee. It was then
I sought its secret power, and early read,
That, while afar, in the extremest east,
It kept its foreign station, thou wert safe;
But when, with daring wing, it took its way,
And, where the evening hangs her golden lamp
O'er the sun's chambers, shook its lurid fires,
That hour to thee was perilously dark,
And death, a bloody, ignominious death,
Was gather'd in its verge. That hour's at hand!—
Look forth into the west. Behold, apart,
From all communion with its fellow lights,
Where, with audacious blaze and angry beam,
That fate casts forth its fires. Redly it burns,
And, as exulting in the near approach
To the destruction of its victim, takes
A subtle halo round it. There are stars,
That to the eye of mortals seem but stars,
Yet are they evil spirits. Such is this.
They are not of the class with which they roam,
Their lights are not like those which burn around,
Nor have they the like genial influence;
They hold a fearful power o'er earthly things,
Man, and the worlds about him. O'er the earth,
And on the waters, they still exercise;
They have their moods, and, bitterly at war
With all God's works, they seek for their annoy;
Impede their fortunes, or attend them on,
Even to success, as, with thee, this hath done,
That, when they hurl them down to the abyss,
The height shall be a perilous one they leave.
The gentler lights of heavenly providence
Shrink from their foul contagion, till they stand
Apart, and from the rest all separate.
Some they precipitate from their high spheres,
Leaping into their places; the dethroned,
Extinguish'd in the deeps of all their light,
Find there a dwelling-place, to their new life
More apt and fitting. Such powers have these
O'er men and stars, as these do err and shoot,
Out from their proper places. Over thee
Yon planet hangs its spell, and thou art mark'd
Its victim, surely—all thy triumph naught—
Thy spoils for other spoilers, and thy deeds
Naught valued, nothing doing for thy life,
But all against thee. Jesu be thy shield!”
“When in the gather'd stars thy fate I read,
In one remote and solitary light,
I saw its bane, and baleful influence.
A single star, thus quarter'd in the heavens.
Teem'd with malicious auguries, and shook
318
I sought its secret power, and early read,
That, while afar, in the extremest east,
It kept its foreign station, thou wert safe;
But when, with daring wing, it took its way,
And, where the evening hangs her golden lamp
O'er the sun's chambers, shook its lurid fires,
That hour to thee was perilously dark,
And death, a bloody, ignominious death,
Was gather'd in its verge. That hour's at hand!—
Look forth into the west. Behold, apart,
From all communion with its fellow lights,
Where, with audacious blaze and angry beam,
That fate casts forth its fires. Redly it burns,
And, as exulting in the near approach
To the destruction of its victim, takes
A subtle halo round it. There are stars,
That to the eye of mortals seem but stars,
Yet are they evil spirits. Such is this.
They are not of the class with which they roam,
Their lights are not like those which burn around,
Nor have they the like genial influence;
They hold a fearful power o'er earthly things,
Man, and the worlds about him. O'er the earth,
And on the waters, they still exercise;
They have their moods, and, bitterly at war
With all God's works, they seek for their annoy;
Impede their fortunes, or attend them on,
Even to success, as, with thee, this hath done,
That, when they hurl them down to the abyss,
The height shall be a perilous one they leave.
The gentler lights of heavenly providence
Shrink from their foul contagion, till they stand
Apart, and from the rest all separate.
319
Leaping into their places; the dethroned,
Extinguish'd in the deeps of all their light,
Find there a dwelling-place, to their new life
More apt and fitting. Such powers have these
O'er men and stars, as these do err and shoot,
Out from their proper places. Over thee
Yon planet hangs its spell, and thou art mark'd
Its victim, surely—all thy triumph naught—
Thy spoils for other spoilers, and thy deeds
Naught valued, nothing doing for thy life,
But all against thee. Jesu be thy shield!”
Brief was the respite;—a short season pass'd,
The omen was complete;—the augury
Had its fulfilment! He who, at that hour,
Beheld himself—by all the world beheld—
Successful—born for conquest and renown,—
Died on the block; the moral rounded well
To closing of a mighty history,
Such as too commonly sculptures mortal glory,
Where Shame sits watchful how to mock the triumph,
And Hate despoils the conqueror! In the grasp,
The full possession of his matchless heights,
The power pass'd from him to his enemy's hands;
And he who built the altar, was the first
To shed his blood on it in sacrifice,
Yet hopeless of atonement. The base spirit
Triumph'd above the noble; as the viper
Crawls to the bosom of the sleeping lion,
And stings him where he lies. Thus overcome,
Among his foes at Acla, Balboa died,
A hero's glory and a felon's doom
Closing a perilous life of many toils
And true adventure. The magician's speech
Was sooth—and he, whom worlds could not contain,
So vast his spirit—whose far-darting soul
Saw, from its skyey pinnacle, the new
And boundless shores he conquer'd—he, the brave—
The noblest in renown, where all were brave—
Perish'd, unheard, unheeded—not an eye
To weep his fortunes; not a single arm
To do his nature justice, and redress
The wrongs of men and nations. Thus he died—
The world he conquer'd yielding him—a grave.
The omen was complete;—the augury
Had its fulfilment! He who, at that hour,
Beheld himself—by all the world beheld—
Successful—born for conquest and renown,—
Died on the block; the moral rounded well
To closing of a mighty history,
Such as too commonly sculptures mortal glory,
Where Shame sits watchful how to mock the triumph,
And Hate despoils the conqueror! In the grasp,
The full possession of his matchless heights,
The power pass'd from him to his enemy's hands;
And he who built the altar, was the first
To shed his blood on it in sacrifice,
Yet hopeless of atonement. The base spirit
Triumph'd above the noble; as the viper
Crawls to the bosom of the sleeping lion,
And stings him where he lies. Thus overcome,
Among his foes at Acla, Balboa died,
A hero's glory and a felon's doom
Closing a perilous life of many toils
320
Was sooth—and he, whom worlds could not contain,
So vast his spirit—whose far-darting soul
Saw, from its skyey pinnacle, the new
And boundless shores he conquer'd—he, the brave—
The noblest in renown, where all were brave—
Perish'd, unheard, unheeded—not an eye
To weep his fortunes; not a single arm
To do his nature justice, and redress
The wrongs of men and nations. Thus he died—
The world he conquer'd yielding him—a grave.
321
THE SIOUX BOY;
AN INDIAN LEGEND.
Deep hidden in the forest wild,
Where yet the savage wander'd free,
A manly Sioux Boy beguiled
The hours beneath a tree;
And gayly, in his native tongue,
Mix'd lay of love and war he sung.
Where yet the savage wander'd free,
A manly Sioux Boy beguiled
The hours beneath a tree;
And gayly, in his native tongue,
Mix'd lay of love and war he sung.
Yet, to himself, for none were near,
Nor chief, nor maid, to list the strain,
And, save mine own, no other ear
Might know his pride or pain.
Yet, subject to his secret thought,
This ditty for himself he wrought.
Nor chief, nor maid, to list the strain,
And, save mine own, no other ear
Might know his pride or pain.
Yet, subject to his secret thought,
This ditty for himself he wrought.
“O! soon upon the Pawnee's trail,
Sweet Manné, will thy Ontwa go;
And I shall hear his woman wail,
And meetly use the bended bow,
And hurl the spear, and bare the knife,
And win, or lose, the forfeit life.
Sweet Manné, will thy Ontwa go;
And I shall hear his woman wail,
And meetly use the bended bow,
And hurl the spear, and bare the knife,
And win, or lose, the forfeit life.
“I glad me that the time is come
To win among the tribe a name,
And, in thy tent, no longer dumb,
To tell thee of my flame;
How much I'll love,—how bravely do,
To teach thee how to love me too.
To win among the tribe a name,
And, in thy tent, no longer dumb,
To tell thee of my flame;
How much I'll love,—how bravely do,
To teach thee how to love me too.
322
“I'll make thy home of sheltering reeds,
And store it with each forest prize;
For thee, the red deer bounds and bleeds;
For thee, the spotted panther dies;
Soft furs shall frame thy couch by night,
And gentlest steeds shall bear thy flight.
And store it with each forest prize;
For thee, the red deer bounds and bleeds;
For thee, the spotted panther dies;
Soft furs shall frame thy couch by night,
And gentlest steeds shall bear thy flight.
“Oh, 'mongst our people thou shalt be
Made glorious by thy Ontwa's love;
I'll triumph in the fight for thee,
And win the spoils of field and grove;
And when they see how brave my hand,
They'll make me leader of the band.
Made glorious by thy Ontwa's love;
I'll triumph in the fight for thee,
And win the spoils of field and grove;
And when they see how brave my hand,
They'll make me leader of the band.
“There shall be songs in other days,
Of what thy Ontwa's strength hath done,
And chiefs to come shall speak with praise,
Of scalp-locks from the Pawnee won;
And they shall tell of thee, as blest,
The young fawn at the warrior's breast.
Of what thy Ontwa's strength hath done,
And chiefs to come shall speak with praise,
Of scalp-locks from the Pawnee won;
And they shall tell of thee, as blest,
The young fawn at the warrior's breast.
“'Neath summer sky, o'er sunny plain,
Together, fearless, shall we speed:
I'll house thee from the winter rain,
In spring to pleasant pastures lead;
And thou shalt see me, with the bow,
Pursue, and slay the buffalo,
Together, fearless, shall we speed:
I'll house thee from the winter rain,
In spring to pleasant pastures lead;
And thou shalt see me, with the bow,
Pursue, and slay the buffalo,
“And bring thee from the morning chase,
Unhurt, the meek and spotty fawn;
And proudly at thy feet I'll place,
The skin from panther drawn;
Torn from him with a warrior's art,
While yet the life is at his heart.
Unhurt, the meek and spotty fawn;
And proudly at thy feet I'll place,
The skin from panther drawn;
Torn from him with a warrior's art,
While yet the life is at his heart.
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“ And thou shalt shape the moccasin,
And well repay thy warrior's deeds,
When thou shalt work the red deer's skin,
Gay with thy many color'd beads,
Meet for a chief, when at our home
An hundred braves his guests become.”
And well repay thy warrior's deeds,
When thou shalt work the red deer's skin,
Gay with thy many color'd beads,
Meet for a chief, when at our home
An hundred braves his guests become.”
Thus mused the boy beneath his tree,
Of love's delights, and warrior's pride,
A long and gladsome reverie,
Where he the chief, and she the bride,
Swept through the sylvan future still,
A realm of love, and free from ill.
Of love's delights, and warrior's pride,
A long and gladsome reverie,
Where he the chief, and she the bride,
Swept through the sylvan future still,
A realm of love, and free from ill.
With very joy at last he slept,—
He dream'd of bliss, and had no fear
That nigh the hateful Pawnee crept,
Like serpent, close beside his ear;
He wakens only into life
To feel within his heart the knife!
He dream'd of bliss, and had no fear
That nigh the hateful Pawnee crept,
Like serpent, close beside his ear;
He wakens only into life
To feel within his heart the knife!
One moment's consciousness he knew,
Before the fatal blow was sped;
The red blade flashes on his view,
He feels it circling round his head;
And dies;—his fancy not more sooth
Than that which cheats the white man's youth.
Before the fatal blow was sped;
The red blade flashes on his view,
He feels it circling round his head;
And dies;—his fancy not more sooth
Than that which cheats the white man's youth.
324
THE SYREN OF TSELICA;
A TRADITION OF THE FRENCH BROAD.
[_]
The tradition of the Cherokees asserts the existence of a Syren, in the French Broad, who implores the Hunter to the stream, and strangles him in her embrace, or so infects him with some mortal disease, that he invariably perishes. The story, stripped of all poetry, would seem to be that of a youth, who, overcome with fatigue and heat together, sought the cool waters of the river, and was seized with cramp or spasms; or, too much exhausted for reaction, sunk under the shock. It does not much concern us, however, what degree of faith is due to the tradition. Enough that such exists, and that its locality is one of the most magnificent regions, for its scenery, in the known world. Tselica is the Indian name of the river.
'Twas in summer prime, the noontide hour,
Sleep lay heavy o'er the sunny vale;
Droop'd the sad leaves 'neath the fiery vapor,
Droop'd and panted for the evening gale.
Sleep lay heavy o'er the sunny vale;
Droop'd the sad leaves 'neath the fiery vapor,
Droop'd and panted for the evening gale.
Gloomy, lonely, and with travail weary,
Down the mountain slopes the stranger came;
Droop'd his eyes, and in his fainting bosom
Lay the pulsing blood, a lake of flame.
Down the mountain slopes the stranger came;
Droop'd his eyes, and in his fainting bosom
Lay the pulsing blood, a lake of flame.
Oh, how cool in sight the rushing river,
With its thousand barrier-rocks at strife,
All its billows tossing high their foam wreaths,
As if maddening with the impatient life.
With its thousand barrier-rocks at strife,
All its billows tossing high their foam wreaths,
As if maddening with the impatient life.
Wild, with ceaseless shout they hurried onward,
Laughing ever with their cheerful glee,
O'er the antique rocks their great limbs flinging,
With a frantic joy was strange to see.
Laughing ever with their cheerful glee,
O'er the antique rocks their great limbs flinging,
With a frantic joy was strange to see.
325
They, of all, possess'd the life and action,
Silence else had sovereign sway alone,
All the woods were hush'd, and the gray mountain
Look'd with stony eyes from crumbling throne.
Silence else had sovereign sway alone,
All the woods were hush'd, and the gray mountain
Look'd with stony eyes from crumbling throne.
Sad the youth sank down in the great shadows,
Close beside the waters as they ran,
Very hopeless was he of his travail,
Very weary since it first began.
Close beside the waters as they ran,
Very hopeless was he of his travail,
Very weary since it first began.
Friends and fortune he had none to cheer him,
And the growing sorrow at his heart
Wrought the bitter thought to bitter feeling,
And he yearn'd to perish and depart.
And the growing sorrow at his heart
Wrought the bitter thought to bitter feeling,
And he yearn'd to perish and depart.
“Why,” he murmurs, “still in toil unresting,
Should I strive for aye in fruitless strife;
Where the hopes and loves that used to glad me,
When I first began the race of life?
Should I strive for aye in fruitless strife;
Where the hopes and loves that used to glad me,
When I first began the race of life?
“Where's the pride of triumph that was promised,
That should crown me with the immortal wreath;
Where the fond heart that in youth embraced me—
Gone, forever gone—and where is Death?
That should crown me with the immortal wreath;
Where the fond heart that in youth embraced me—
Gone, forever gone—and where is Death?
“Give me peace, ye skies and rocks: ye waters,
Peace yourselves ye know not, but your flow
Tells of calm and rest beneath your billows—
Coolness, for the fiery griefs I know.”
Peace yourselves ye know not, but your flow
Tells of calm and rest beneath your billows—
Coolness, for the fiery griefs I know.”
Thus, with languid soul beside the river,
Gazed he sadly as that hour he lay;
Gloomy with the past, and of the future
Hopeless,—hence his guilty prayer that day.
Gazed he sadly as that hour he lay;
Gloomy with the past, and of the future
Hopeless,—hence his guilty prayer that day.
326
Brooding thus, and weary, a song rises,
From the very billows, soft and clear;
Such as evening bird, with parting ditty,
Pours at twilight to the floweret's ear.
From the very billows, soft and clear;
Such as evening bird, with parting ditty,
Pours at twilight to the floweret's ear.
Wild and sweet, and passionate and tender;
Now full, now faint; with such a touching art,
His soul dissolves in weakness, and his spirit
Goes with the throbbing sweetness at his heart.
Now full, now faint; with such a touching art,
His soul dissolves in weakness, and his spirit
Goes with the throbbing sweetness at his heart.
He looks with strain'd eyes at the lapsing waters,
And gleaming bright beneath the billows, lo!
Flashes white arms, and glides a lovely damsel,
Bright eyes, dark locks, and bosom white as snow.
And gleaming bright beneath the billows, lo!
Flashes white arms, and glides a lovely damsel,
Bright eyes, dark locks, and bosom white as snow.
He sees, but still in moment glimpses only,
Gleams of strange beauty, from an eye all bright,—
As when some single star, at midnight, flashes
From the cold cloud, above the mountain's height.
Gleams of strange beauty, from an eye all bright,—
As when some single star, at midnight, flashes
From the cold cloud, above the mountain's height.
As raven black as night float free her tresses,
Outflung above the waves by snowy arms,
Now o'er her bosom spread, and half betraying,
While half concealing still her sunny charms.
Outflung above the waves by snowy arms,
Now o'er her bosom spread, and half betraying,
While half concealing still her sunny charms.
And then again ascends her song of pleading—
“Ah, but thou failest with the noonday heat,
Thy brow is pale with care, thine eyelids drooping,
Thy soul is sad, and weary-worn thy feet.
“Ah, but thou failest with the noonday heat,
Thy brow is pale with care, thine eyelids drooping,
Thy soul is sad, and weary-worn thy feet.
“Oh! come to me, and taste my waves of cooling;
I'll soothe thy sorrows; I will bring thee rest;
Thy fainting limbs grow strong in my embraces,
Thy burning cheek find pillow on my breast.
I'll soothe thy sorrows; I will bring thee rest;
Thy fainting limbs grow strong in my embraces,
Thy burning cheek find pillow on my breast.
327
“Oh! come to me!” was still the loving burden,
With charm of such a sweetness in its swell,
That every fancy in his bosom kindled,
And every feeling woke to work the spell.
With charm of such a sweetness in its swell,
That every fancy in his bosom kindled,
And every feeling woke to work the spell.
Wild was the dreamy passion that possess'd him;
Won by the syren song, and glimpsing charms,
He leapt to join her in the wave, but shudder'd
At the first foldings of her death-cold arms.
Won by the syren song, and glimpsing charms,
He leapt to join her in the wave, but shudder'd
At the first foldings of her death-cold arms.
Fiercely against her own she press'd his bosom;—
'Tis the ice-mountain whose embrace he feels;
Within his eyes she shot her dazzling glances:
'Tis Death's own stony stare the look reveals.
'Tis the ice-mountain whose embrace he feels;
Within his eyes she shot her dazzling glances:
'Tis Death's own stony stare the look reveals.
He breaks away, the shore in horror seeking;
But all too late,—the doom is in his heart:
He sinks beside the fatal stream, and dying,
Deplores the prayer that pleaded to depart.
But all too late,—the doom is in his heart:
He sinks beside the fatal stream, and dying,
Deplores the prayer that pleaded to depart.
His dying sense still hears the fatal Syren;
She sings her triumph now, her love no more:
A fearful hate was in the eldritch music,
And terror now, where beauty sway'd before.
She sings her triumph now, her love no more:
A fearful hate was in the eldritch music,
And terror now, where beauty sway'd before.
No more the pleasing wile, the plaintive ditty:
He strives in vain the wizard strain to flee;
“Death,” ran the song,—no more of peace and pity,
“To him who madly seeks embrace with me!”
He strives in vain the wizard strain to flee;
“Death,” ran the song,—no more of peace and pity,
“To him who madly seeks embrace with me!”
328
THE CITY OF THE SILENT.
When, in the twilight hour and pensive mood,
Thought seeks repose, and Passion sleeps subdued,
Why doth the eye with mournful fondness rest,
On the dark shadows gathering in the west?
Why doth the soul delight to follow fast,
O'er that dim realm from which the sun hath pass'd?
No more his smiles persuade the upward eye,
No more his glories gladden in the sky;
The rainbow tints, the children of his beams,
Dear to our sight as music to our dreams,
That hung around, pavilioning his throne
With hues and gleams more lovely than his own,—
That closed his eyes, that caught their dying sign,
And soothed, with office sweet, his sad decline,—
Themselves, in shadowy folds of cloud and dun,
Depart, like mourners, following still the sun;
Forego the glorious empire which, awhile,
Glow'd in the sweetness of his dying smile,
And all their happy heritage of light
Yield to dusk eve and pall-enshrouding night.
Thought seeks repose, and Passion sleeps subdued,
Why doth the eye with mournful fondness rest,
On the dark shadows gathering in the west?
Why doth the soul delight to follow fast,
O'er that dim realm from which the sun hath pass'd?
No more his smiles persuade the upward eye,
No more his glories gladden in the sky;
The rainbow tints, the children of his beams,
Dear to our sight as music to our dreams,
That hung around, pavilioning his throne
With hues and gleams more lovely than his own,—
That closed his eyes, that caught their dying sign,
And soothed, with office sweet, his sad decline,—
Themselves, in shadowy folds of cloud and dun,
Depart, like mourners, following still the sun;
Forego the glorious empire which, awhile,
Glow'd in the sweetness of his dying smile,
And all their happy heritage of light
Yield to dusk eve and pall-enshrouding night.
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Yet, still we gaze,—and, through the gloomy waste,
Pore, with fond search, for all the realm they graced;
Our living cares and purposes forgot,
Our wealth unvalued, or remember'd not,
Why do we thus, with eager vision strain,
And strive with thoughts themselves that strive in vain?
Why grasp at each bright mirage that no more
Can cheer the fancy which it charm'd before?
Pore, with fond search, for all the realm they graced;
Our living cares and purposes forgot,
Our wealth unvalued, or remember'd not,
Why do we thus, with eager vision strain,
And strive with thoughts themselves that strive in vain?
Why grasp at each bright mirage that no more
Can cheer the fancy which it charm'd before?
'Tis that an image from the heart is cast,
That shows how rich our empire in the past!
There, twins of rapture, Hope and Memory strive
Our skies to brighten, and our joys revive;
These, when the clouds about our vision roll,
Bestow the beauteous prospect on the soul,—
There still we grasp the beings loved and lost,
There shield our flowers, uninjured, from the frost,—
There shrine each feature in whose smile we felt
The fancies kindle, and the feelings melt,
The hope grow warm, the impulsive passion rise
That caught its sunlight from the loved-one's eyes,—
And still, in dreamy consciousness of bliss,
Feel Love's last hour of rapture sweetening this.
Thus link we still, with shadows that depart,
Dear aspects always shining in the heart,
Soothe the keen sorrow which their loss deplores,
By fondest search through memory's haunted stores,—
By dreams, that freshen to the soul, by night,
What day and care would ever take from sight.
These paint them, sweet and smiling as of yore,
And all the virtues teach they taught before;
Their forms unseen, with memory's help we trace,
Still fresh, the beauties of each well-known face,
The genial blessings which their presence brought,
And all the dear delights they yielded thought;—
Thus do they soothe the pangs their parting gave,
And, through their memories, gladden from the grave,
Even as the flowers their odors still unfold,
Where long before they perish'd, through the mould;—
Thus still they bloom around the silent hearth,
Thus make a sacred altar-place of earth,
Thus help us shrine the dear ones pass'd from day,
And catch their smiles long after their decay.
That shows how rich our empire in the past!
There, twins of rapture, Hope and Memory strive
Our skies to brighten, and our joys revive;
These, when the clouds about our vision roll,
Bestow the beauteous prospect on the soul,—
There still we grasp the beings loved and lost,
There shield our flowers, uninjured, from the frost,—
There shrine each feature in whose smile we felt
The fancies kindle, and the feelings melt,
The hope grow warm, the impulsive passion rise
That caught its sunlight from the loved-one's eyes,—
And still, in dreamy consciousness of bliss,
Feel Love's last hour of rapture sweetening this.
Thus link we still, with shadows that depart,
Dear aspects always shining in the heart,
Soothe the keen sorrow which their loss deplores,
By fondest search through memory's haunted stores,—
By dreams, that freshen to the soul, by night,
What day and care would ever take from sight.
These paint them, sweet and smiling as of yore,
And all the virtues teach they taught before;
Their forms unseen, with memory's help we trace,
Still fresh, the beauties of each well-known face,
The genial blessings which their presence brought,
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Thus do they soothe the pangs their parting gave,
And, through their memories, gladden from the grave,
Even as the flowers their odors still unfold,
Where long before they perish'd, through the mould;—
Thus still they bloom around the silent hearth,
Thus make a sacred altar-place of earth,
Thus help us shrine the dear ones pass'd from day,
And catch their smiles long after their decay.
The thoughtful wanderer thus, while musing lone,
O'er realms whose ruins speak for empires gone,
With reverent search the temple still explores,
Copan re-peoples, and Palenque restores;
Bends, in mute homage, at each mouldering shrine,
And broods o'er altars once believed divine!—
No sun-shaft kindles now the sacred height,
Where spake the Prophet once in words of might;
No holy chant ascends from virgin choirs,
From golden censer, now, no cloud aspires;
The song is hush'd—the prayer is dumb,—and still
That heart whose humbler faith survived its will;
No passion strives, no virtue lifts its eye,
And all is fled that might have fold us why!
Silence, alone, with finger on cold lips,
But shows the nation through its drear eclipse,—
Eclipse that smote, with power decreed to crush,
Pride's mighty heart, and all its voices hush!
Vainly the Pilgrim, from the Past implores
The curious legend of these speechless shores,
What races fill'd their cities,—what the Fate,
That found them weak, and left them desolate?—
What deeds were theirs—what mighty works they wrought?
What Faith they cherish'd?—what their toils of Thought?
From the bleak ruin comes no answering tone:
Realms of the silent! still they sleep unknown!
O'er realms whose ruins speak for empires gone,
With reverent search the temple still explores,
Copan re-peoples, and Palenque restores;
Bends, in mute homage, at each mouldering shrine,
And broods o'er altars once believed divine!—
No sun-shaft kindles now the sacred height,
Where spake the Prophet once in words of might;
No holy chant ascends from virgin choirs,
From golden censer, now, no cloud aspires;
The song is hush'd—the prayer is dumb,—and still
That heart whose humbler faith survived its will;
No passion strives, no virtue lifts its eye,
And all is fled that might have fold us why!
Silence, alone, with finger on cold lips,
But shows the nation through its drear eclipse,—
Eclipse that smote, with power decreed to crush,
Pride's mighty heart, and all its voices hush!
Vainly the Pilgrim, from the Past implores
The curious legend of these speechless shores,
What races fill'd their cities,—what the Fate,
That found them weak, and left them desolate?—
What deeds were theirs—what mighty works they wrought?
What Faith they cherish'd?—what their toils of Thought?
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Realms of the silent! still they sleep unknown!
Yet, not the less, with reverent awe we glide
Through each dark portal, once of power and pride;
A human sense and sympathy, with spell
Of thought and worship still, the soul compel:
With what a speech these crumbling piles declare,
How stern the rule,—the realm how rich and fair!—
What various fortunes sped their march of state,—
How Wealth grew prodigal and Genius great;
What ages pass'd, of virtues crown'd with sway,
How slow their steps from conquest to decay;
How subtly stole the conqueror on their sleep—
Their dream how soothing, and their doom how deep!
Here man hath been Heaven's minister—and foe!
Hath felt, like us, the tides of joy and woe;
Hath, like our living races, known his hour
Of hope and triumph, and strode on to power;
In fond fruition of each earthly bliss,
Hath found his sole sufficient world in this;
Scorn'd the sage counsels of the reverend sire
That taught the moderate aim and meet desire,
Defied the seer who show'd the scourge and yoke,
Nor fear'd the danger, till he felt the stroke;
In pride of place hath mock'd the blessings given,
And lost Earth's gifts, despising those of Heaven!
Through each dark portal, once of power and pride;
A human sense and sympathy, with spell
Of thought and worship still, the soul compel:
With what a speech these crumbling piles declare,
How stern the rule,—the realm how rich and fair!—
What various fortunes sped their march of state,—
How Wealth grew prodigal and Genius great;
What ages pass'd, of virtues crown'd with sway,
How slow their steps from conquest to decay;
How subtly stole the conqueror on their sleep—
Their dream how soothing, and their doom how deep!
Here man hath been Heaven's minister—and foe!
Hath felt, like us, the tides of joy and woe;
Hath, like our living races, known his hour
Of hope and triumph, and strode on to power;
In fond fruition of each earthly bliss,
Hath found his sole sufficient world in this;
Scorn'd the sage counsels of the reverend sire
That taught the moderate aim and meet desire,
Defied the seer who show'd the scourge and yoke,
Nor fear'd the danger, till he felt the stroke;
In pride of place hath mock'd the blessings given,
And lost Earth's gifts, despising those of Heaven!
In these memorials, silent though they stand,
We read the dangers of each living land;
They teach the moral to our shrinking hearts,
That, with our virtue's loss, our strength departs;
That the proud empire, wallowing still in crime,
Must lose, at last, the power to cope with Time;
Must drink the dregs of bitterness and blight,
And veil its glories all in gloom and night!
We read the dangers of each living land;
They teach the moral to our shrinking hearts,
That, with our virtue's loss, our strength departs;
That the proud empire, wallowing still in crime,
Must lose, at last, the power to cope with Time;
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And veil its glories all in gloom and night!
'Tis even for this, with reverent sense we tread
These silent dwellings of the unknown dead;
'Tis that the echo from their lonely towers,
Speaks for the fate that yet may fall on ours;
Recalls such histories as we feel our own,
And shows the skeleton behind the throne!—
Their homes are ruins, but they once were bright,
With living beauty bursting on the sight;
Here, in the dance, while music gush'd in air,
Swam the gay groups insensible to care;
These groves, now silent, heard each whispering voice,
Whose low fond accents bade some heart rejoice;
And song, that seem'd to bring the heaven it sought,
Was here to soothe the wearied brain of Thought!
The purple trophies of their golden state,
'Tis ours, in fancy, thus to re-create;
Evoke their hero-aspects, chiefs of fame,
And point old morals with each new-born name;
Their Bards arouse,—their Sages,—as they speak,
With voices wise and powerful, like the Greek,
And strain all senses, gazing into night,
Still, for the glorious phantoms gone from sight!
These silent dwellings of the unknown dead;
'Tis that the echo from their lonely towers,
Speaks for the fate that yet may fall on ours;
Recalls such histories as we feel our own,
And shows the skeleton behind the throne!—
Their homes are ruins, but they once were bright,
With living beauty bursting on the sight;
Here, in the dance, while music gush'd in air,
Swam the gay groups insensible to care;
These groves, now silent, heard each whispering voice,
Whose low fond accents bade some heart rejoice;
And song, that seem'd to bring the heaven it sought,
Was here to soothe the wearied brain of Thought!
The purple trophies of their golden state,
'Tis ours, in fancy, thus to re-create;
Evoke their hero-aspects, chiefs of fame,
And point old morals with each new-born name;
Their Bards arouse,—their Sages,—as they speak,
With voices wise and powerful, like the Greek,
And strain all senses, gazing into night,
Still, for the glorious phantoms gone from sight!
Yes! here they toil'd—here triumph'd—here they won
A glorious height of empire like the sun,
Here set, like him, in clouds—perchance, to rise,
With him, triumphant still, in other skies!
Even through the shroud about their empire cast,
We catch faint glimpses of their wondrous past;
The spirit of ancient days, if good or great,
Gilds even the ruins of its former state;
With pleasing sadness we explore each shrine
Our kindred races once esteem'd divine;
The horizon dark, still keeps some sacred gleams
That all our living instinct crowds with dreams,—
Dreams that to human consciousness appeal,
And teach those truths Time never can reveal!
Here, living, breathing, burning souls, in strife
That led to mightiest conquests, sprang to life,
With fierce ambition pluck'd the crown of Fame,
And left a monument, without a name!—
Their altars sacred, though obscure their faith,
Their labors living, though themselves in death,
We bend in awe beneath each mournful shade,
And yield our worship where the God hath sway'd.
We know their might, their faith, the soul, the will,
In the great shrines their Fate hath left us still.
These were their temples,—noble, vast, and high,—
They honor'd thus no lowly Deity!
For sure, the ambition which can nobly raise,
Must crave a sovereign worthy all its praise,
And each conception greatly born of Thought,
Finds still a kindred God for him who wrought.
The grand achievement thus declares a flight,
That seeks its ideal on the loftiest height,
And where, of worship, it avows the need,
Demands a God superior to its deed.
Thus the Egyptian Magian, working well
To make his temples grand and durable,
With sleepless aim and subtle hope aspires
To a far future worthy such desires,
And taught his soul, with eager sense, to lift
The wing and eye to her immortal gift!
So the Athenian, exquisite in taste,
In wisdom strong, in great conception chaste,
Still felt that earth was not alone the sphere
To his soul's want compatible and dear.
Each virtue found its God, each fancy grace,
Each Deity his fitting shrine and place:
But one was wanting yet, superior still
To all that soothed his sense, or sway'd his will;
His mind, unsatisfied by all below,
He raised one shrine to Him he did not know;
Taught by etherial Plato still to crave,
That hope, o'er all, which soars but from the grave.
A glorious height of empire like the sun,
Here set, like him, in clouds—perchance, to rise,
With him, triumphant still, in other skies!
Even through the shroud about their empire cast,
We catch faint glimpses of their wondrous past;
The spirit of ancient days, if good or great,
Gilds even the ruins of its former state;
333
Our kindred races once esteem'd divine;
The horizon dark, still keeps some sacred gleams
That all our living instinct crowds with dreams,—
Dreams that to human consciousness appeal,
And teach those truths Time never can reveal!
Here, living, breathing, burning souls, in strife
That led to mightiest conquests, sprang to life,
With fierce ambition pluck'd the crown of Fame,
And left a monument, without a name!—
Their altars sacred, though obscure their faith,
Their labors living, though themselves in death,
We bend in awe beneath each mournful shade,
And yield our worship where the God hath sway'd.
We know their might, their faith, the soul, the will,
In the great shrines their Fate hath left us still.
These were their temples,—noble, vast, and high,—
They honor'd thus no lowly Deity!
For sure, the ambition which can nobly raise,
Must crave a sovereign worthy all its praise,
And each conception greatly born of Thought,
Finds still a kindred God for him who wrought.
The grand achievement thus declares a flight,
That seeks its ideal on the loftiest height,
And where, of worship, it avows the need,
Demands a God superior to its deed.
Thus the Egyptian Magian, working well
To make his temples grand and durable,
With sleepless aim and subtle hope aspires
To a far future worthy such desires,
And taught his soul, with eager sense, to lift
The wing and eye to her immortal gift!
So the Athenian, exquisite in taste,
In wisdom strong, in great conception chaste,
334
To his soul's want compatible and dear.
Each virtue found its God, each fancy grace,
Each Deity his fitting shrine and place:
But one was wanting yet, superior still
To all that soothed his sense, or sway'd his will;
His mind, unsatisfied by all below,
He raised one shrine to Him he did not know;
Taught by etherial Plato still to crave,
That hope, o'er all, which soars but from the grave.
The vast but ruin'd piles of these unknown,
Demand meet temples for the state and throne;
And not in vain our search—around us start
The halls of learning, and the homes of art.
This was the Senate House—the Forum there,
Where plebeian thousands came to feel and hear;
And still, on fancy's ear, the living swell
Of eloquence, omnipotent to spell,
Shakes with electric fires that thrill and dart,
With seraph-mission, through the nation's heart.
With patriot prescience it declares the fate—
That last, perchance, which left them desolate!—
Still summoning up, the State to save at last,
All that was glorious in the grateful Past!—
Their prophets well foresaw the approaching storm,
And bade their revels cease, their warriors arm;
Show'd the dark speck, no larger than a hand,
Destined to shroud in blackness all the land,
Yet show'd in vain;—Cassandra-like, decreed
To speak the truth, with none the truth to heed:
They danced, they slept—untimely slept—and woke
To feel the ruin, and to wear the yoke,
To fly their homes, to crouch in them as slaves,
Or find—last hope of freemen—freemen's graves!
Demand meet temples for the state and throne;
And not in vain our search—around us start
The halls of learning, and the homes of art.
This was the Senate House—the Forum there,
Where plebeian thousands came to feel and hear;
And still, on fancy's ear, the living swell
Of eloquence, omnipotent to spell,
Shakes with electric fires that thrill and dart,
With seraph-mission, through the nation's heart.
With patriot prescience it declares the fate—
That last, perchance, which left them desolate!—
Still summoning up, the State to save at last,
All that was glorious in the grateful Past!—
Their prophets well foresaw the approaching storm,
And bade their revels cease, their warriors arm;
Show'd the dark speck, no larger than a hand,
Destined to shroud in blackness all the land,
Yet show'd in vain;—Cassandra-like, decreed
To speak the truth, with none the truth to heed:
They danced, they slept—untimely slept—and woke
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To fly their homes, to crouch in them as slaves,
Or find—last hope of freemen—freemen's graves!
The truth that teaches nothing of the race,
Which, in its ruins, shows how proud its place,—
That writes no record on its mighty towers,
At least assures us of a life like ours:—
Shows us the very yearnings that we know,
Still to achieve, and leave a name below:
A fond ambition, struggling 'gainst decay,
To wrench from Time the sceptre of his sway,
Still to assert, though we no more may see,
O'er future souls, the soul's proud sovereignty,
To challenge worship, though our sun be set,
And win that homage that pursues us yet!
Which, in its ruins, shows how proud its place,—
That writes no record on its mighty towers,
At least assures us of a life like ours:—
Shows us the very yearnings that we know,
Still to achieve, and leave a name below:
A fond ambition, struggling 'gainst decay,
To wrench from Time the sceptre of his sway,
Still to assert, though we no more may see,
O'er future souls, the soul's proud sovereignty,
To challenge worship, though our sun be set,
And win that homage that pursues us yet!
Thus build we shrines of marble—towers, whose height
Declare our pride of aim and people's might,
Rear temples, columns, and inscribe on each,
Names that shall yet lend eloquence to speech,
And life to language,—with a voice sublime,
Pealing, through wrecks of years, o'er tracts of Time!
All nations feel this yearning—thus they raise
The tower and tomb for future love and praise,
Heedful of memories that shall fondly keep
A filial watch o'er their ancestral sleep,
Recall each virtue precious as their own,
And make with pride the sire's great actions known.
Declare our pride of aim and people's might,
Rear temples, columns, and inscribe on each,
Names that shall yet lend eloquence to speech,
And life to language,—with a voice sublime,
Pealing, through wrecks of years, o'er tracts of Time!
All nations feel this yearning—thus they raise
The tower and tomb for future love and praise,
Heedful of memories that shall fondly keep
A filial watch o'er their ancestral sleep,
Recall each virtue precious as their own,
And make with pride the sire's great actions known.
That fond solitude that makes them strive
Their names and triumphs thus to keep alive,
Moves still a care more sacred, at the close,
Which shrines their ashes in supreme repose.
The frail, decaying form which once enshrined
The immortal spirit, the imperial mind,
Thus, by its trust, made sacred, too, we store
As the dear casket which the jewel bore:—
Not worthless now, because no more we hear
Its voice of soul and sweetness on the ear;
Not honor'd less, because no more our sight
Glows in the beauty of its kindred light;—
But cherish'd still, and treasured to the last,
For its dear memories in the haunted past.
Their names and triumphs thus to keep alive,
Moves still a care more sacred, at the close,
Which shrines their ashes in supreme repose.
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The immortal spirit, the imperial mind,
Thus, by its trust, made sacred, too, we store
As the dear casket which the jewel bore:—
Not worthless now, because no more we hear
Its voice of soul and sweetness on the ear;
Not honor'd less, because no more our sight
Glows in the beauty of its kindred light;—
But cherish'd still, and treasured to the last,
For its dear memories in the haunted past.
With eyes that weep to see, yet weep to lose,
We yield the loved one to his long repose;
With reverent hands the kindred dust we bear,
To sacred shadows of the wood repair,
Far from the crowded mart, the world whose strife
Still mocks at death, and seldom honors life,
There lay we down the form that cannot know
How fond our homage, and how great our woe.
With tender love,—with tearful eyes,—we trace
For his last dwelling some selected place,
Some shady copse, or isle—some spot of green,
By oak and elm secure with leafy screen;
Where the Magnolia towers—where tribute vines
Steal up to clamber o'er supporting pines;—
Some spot most precious to the musing hour
Of him whose relics cold we thus embower;—
Some sunny bank, whence, gazing on the west,
His living eye with all the landscape blest,
It was his wont, from friendship still to crave,
The spot he couch'd on might be made his grave;—
A spot to heart subdued, and cheer'd by faith,
To make the spirit half “in love with death,”—
Peace in the prospect, peace upon the sea,
And sunny smiles about each guardian tree,
No voice of man to vex the solitude,
But breezes softly whispering through the wood.
We yield the loved one to his long repose;
With reverent hands the kindred dust we bear,
To sacred shadows of the wood repair,
Far from the crowded mart, the world whose strife
Still mocks at death, and seldom honors life,
There lay we down the form that cannot know
How fond our homage, and how great our woe.
With tender love,—with tearful eyes,—we trace
For his last dwelling some selected place,
Some shady copse, or isle—some spot of green,
By oak and elm secure with leafy screen;
Where the Magnolia towers—where tribute vines
Steal up to clamber o'er supporting pines;—
Some spot most precious to the musing hour
Of him whose relics cold we thus embower;—
Some sunny bank, whence, gazing on the west,
His living eye with all the landscape blest,
It was his wont, from friendship still to crave,
The spot he couch'd on might be made his grave;—
A spot to heart subdued, and cheer'd by faith,
To make the spirit half “in love with death,”—
Peace in the prospect, peace upon the sea,
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No voice of man to vex the solitude,
But breezes softly whispering through the wood.
The filial love that honors thus the dead,
And shrines the form from which the soul hath fled,
Wide as the world, and various as the race,
Howe'er remote the time, or far the place,
Alike in all, acknowledges the same,
How dear to love the loved-one's precious frame;—
How dear to pride the ashes once so bright,
With all that hope could warm, or joy delight.—
To natural instincts true, the heart requires
Meet shrines and emblems for departed sires;
Feels well the alliance 'twixt the soul and clay,
That makes us shrink to see the last decay,—
Moves us to cherish the delusive thought,
That, with the one, the other still is fraught—
That, of the living spirit, lately ours,
With sense so keen, and will of wondrous powers,
So quick to feel and glow, so prompt to hear
Love's wooing accent, and bewitching prayer,—
All is not lost, and we shall yet behold
The form arise, the eye grow bright and bold,
The soul return and fold its wandering wing,
And the cold arms embrace us while we cling.
And shrines the form from which the soul hath fled,
Wide as the world, and various as the race,
Howe'er remote the time, or far the place,
Alike in all, acknowledges the same,
How dear to love the loved-one's precious frame;—
How dear to pride the ashes once so bright,
With all that hope could warm, or joy delight.—
To natural instincts true, the heart requires
Meet shrines and emblems for departed sires;
Feels well the alliance 'twixt the soul and clay,
That makes us shrink to see the last decay,—
Moves us to cherish the delusive thought,
That, with the one, the other still is fraught—
That, of the living spirit, lately ours,
With sense so keen, and will of wondrous powers,
So quick to feel and glow, so prompt to hear
Love's wooing accent, and bewitching prayer,—
All is not lost, and we shall yet behold
The form arise, the eye grow bright and bold,
The soul return and fold its wandering wing,
And the cold arms embrace us while we cling.
Even with such dream, so vague but precious still,
The ancients honor'd death with pomp and skill,
Forgot no rite to pride or worship dear,
And spread meet flowers and emblems on the bier;
Bade music sound, with dirge-becoming woe,
And lighten'd Death's sad brow with state and show;
The grave became a temple, grand in gloom,
And lamps sepulchral shone within the tomb,
Symbols of that pure element of light
That Earth may dim, but not extinguish quite!
Back, through the vista of five thousand years,
How simply sad each varied rite appears;
How strangely same, yet multiplied, the plan
Which shrined and honor'd the remains of man!
The Egyptian rear'd his pyramid, which shows
At once his monarch's pride, and people's woes;
With precious unguents pluck'd from Time his prey,
And kept the loved-one's features from decay;
Through plates of glass the unconscious visage show'd,
And framed, in mightiest cells, the last abode;
Circled the sleeper with the pomps of art,
Dear to his fame, or grateful to his heart:
Thus, o'er the gloomy walls, the painter spread
The storied progress of the conqueror-dead;
Each great achievement of his pride or might,
His towers of state, his triumphs won in fight;
How, with keen lust, he tore, with savage hand,
His bloody trophies from each neighboring land;
What myriads march'd to swell his despot train,
What nations battled, and what hosts were slain!
Lofty in chariot, arm'd with wrath, we see
His onward stride to death or victory;
Trace him, with Fire and Famine in his wake,
Through the red surges which his battles make;
Behold the tower go down, the city flame,
And join the rabble shout that calls it fame;
For one wild moment, reckless still of life,
Share in the wild delirium of the strife;
The rush of steeds, the wreck of spears, the dread
Lock of the victor-living with the dead!
So well, portraying all the powers of ill,
The servile painter shows the courtier's skill;
Enslaved by power, and scarcely true to art,
Heedless of all that's precious to the heart,
On brows of Guilt, the laurel crown bestows,
And makes us glory still in human woes;
These, following fast upon his march appear,
But neither wake the pang, nor force the tear;
Though, in procession sad, the captive crowd
Leash'd at his heels, still cry their griefs aloud,
We yield no pity, but in pride elate,
Turn, where the conqueror sits and sways in state.
The ancients honor'd death with pomp and skill,
Forgot no rite to pride or worship dear,
And spread meet flowers and emblems on the bier;
Bade music sound, with dirge-becoming woe,
And lighten'd Death's sad brow with state and show;
The grave became a temple, grand in gloom,
338
Symbols of that pure element of light
That Earth may dim, but not extinguish quite!
Back, through the vista of five thousand years,
How simply sad each varied rite appears;
How strangely same, yet multiplied, the plan
Which shrined and honor'd the remains of man!
The Egyptian rear'd his pyramid, which shows
At once his monarch's pride, and people's woes;
With precious unguents pluck'd from Time his prey,
And kept the loved-one's features from decay;
Through plates of glass the unconscious visage show'd,
And framed, in mightiest cells, the last abode;
Circled the sleeper with the pomps of art,
Dear to his fame, or grateful to his heart:
Thus, o'er the gloomy walls, the painter spread
The storied progress of the conqueror-dead;
Each great achievement of his pride or might,
His towers of state, his triumphs won in fight;
How, with keen lust, he tore, with savage hand,
His bloody trophies from each neighboring land;
What myriads march'd to swell his despot train,
What nations battled, and what hosts were slain!
Lofty in chariot, arm'd with wrath, we see
His onward stride to death or victory;
Trace him, with Fire and Famine in his wake,
Through the red surges which his battles make;
Behold the tower go down, the city flame,
And join the rabble shout that calls it fame;
For one wild moment, reckless still of life,
Share in the wild delirium of the strife;
The rush of steeds, the wreck of spears, the dread
Lock of the victor-living with the dead!
So well, portraying all the powers of ill,
339
Enslaved by power, and scarcely true to art,
Heedless of all that's precious to the heart,
On brows of Guilt, the laurel crown bestows,
And makes us glory still in human woes;
These, following fast upon his march appear,
But neither wake the pang, nor force the tear;
Though, in procession sad, the captive crowd
Leash'd at his heels, still cry their griefs aloud,
We yield no pity, but in pride elate,
Turn, where the conqueror sits and sways in state.
With ruder pomp, in more barbaric taste,
His burial rites the Abyssinian graced;
Like the Egyptian, striving 'gainst the worm,
With costly balms preserved the mortal form;
But not with numerous swathings wrapt the dead,
His fancy counsell'd to unveil instead:
Most heedless, in his vanity, of shame,
Transparent amber clothed the naked frame;
Thus, to all eyes reveal'd, his farther rite,
Raised on high pillars, placed the corse in sight;
Thus, mocking Life with Death, and Time with Fate,
He left the loved one in his hideous state,
The sun still daily shining, but in vain,
On eyes that never smile on sun again!
His burial rites the Abyssinian graced;
Like the Egyptian, striving 'gainst the worm,
With costly balms preserved the mortal form;
But not with numerous swathings wrapt the dead,
His fancy counsell'd to unveil instead:
Most heedless, in his vanity, of shame,
Transparent amber clothed the naked frame;
Thus, to all eyes reveal'd, his farther rite,
Raised on high pillars, placed the corse in sight;
Thus, mocking Life with Death, and Time with Fate,
He left the loved one in his hideous state,
The sun still daily shining, but in vain,
On eyes that never smile on sun again!
In better taste, with tribute more refined,
The Etrurian chief his sepulchre design'd;
That wondrous race, of whom the little shown,
Reveals such promise in the vast unknown;
Kin to the Egyptian, father to the Greek—
If true the legend and conjecture speak—
In arts and arms that gloriously achieved,
And still survive the worship they believed;
That left to Rome their gods, without their faith,
And live in marble, though they sleep in death;
A night of twenty centuries, like a spell,
Oppressing Genius that achieved so well,
Denying History, curious still to pierce
The purple pall that hangs about her hearse,
And, hush'd on every theme that might have taught,
Still speaking vaguely, wondrously, to Thought!
The Etrurian chief his sepulchre design'd;
That wondrous race, of whom the little shown,
Reveals such promise in the vast unknown;
Kin to the Egyptian, father to the Greek—
If true the legend and conjecture speak—
In arts and arms that gloriously achieved,
340
That left to Rome their gods, without their faith,
And live in marble, though they sleep in death;
A night of twenty centuries, like a spell,
Oppressing Genius that achieved so well,
Denying History, curious still to pierce
The purple pall that hangs about her hearse,
And, hush'd on every theme that might have taught,
Still speaking vaguely, wondrously, to Thought!
How, as with pick and axe, exploring deep
In vaults that shelter well their ancient sleep,
We break through caves of marble that reveal
What pride hath wrought, and Time would still conceal—
How do we start, as on our vision rise,
Perfect as when their children closed their eyes,
Stately in helm and armor, robes and gold,
Their Lucumones as they sway'd of old!—
Princes and chiefs, whose deeds of answering fame
Thrill'd through their world, yet have for ours no name!
The weight of earth, for near three thousand years,
Press'd on the marble vault that hides their biers,
Preserving well from touch, and rude decay,
The haughty forms of manhood and of sway.
In vaults that shelter well their ancient sleep,
We break through caves of marble that reveal
What pride hath wrought, and Time would still conceal—
How do we start, as on our vision rise,
Perfect as when their children closed their eyes,
Stately in helm and armor, robes and gold,
Their Lucumones as they sway'd of old!—
Princes and chiefs, whose deeds of answering fame
Thrill'd through their world, yet have for ours no name!
The weight of earth, for near three thousand years,
Press'd on the marble vault that hides their biers,
Preserving well from touch, and rude decay,
The haughty forms of manhood and of sway.
There he reclines,
as when he sought the strife,
Clad in bright armor, looking as in life,
The proud Lucumo!—They have scarcely gone,—
'Twould seem—who laid and seal'd him up in stone!
What awe pervades the soul, as thus we gaze
On this life-seeming state of ancient days!
No cunning effigy, the work of art,
Wrought in the marble, wanting sense and heart,
But the once powerful chieftain as he shone,
By nations honor'd, and to thousands known;—
Himself, at length, his limbs composed, his breast
Expanding, as with happiest slumbers bless'd.
Even as we gaze, life seems to stir beneath,
The bosom heaves as with returning breath;
We look to see him rise,—we pause to hear
His trumpet peal of battle from the bier!
But death is in the movement;—'tis the light
That heaves the frame, and stirs him to the sight;
Smote by the insidious air, the unwelcome day,
The crumbling corse sinks sudden to decay;
Time, mock'd so long, upon his subject darts,
The clay dissolves, the linkéd armor parts;—
The sceptre-grasping hand, the helméd brow,
And the mail'd breast that perfect seem'd but now,
Subside to dust, and mock the fond surprise,
That hail'd the vision late with awe-struck eyes.
Clad in bright armor, looking as in life,
The proud Lucumo!—They have scarcely gone,—
'Twould seem—who laid and seal'd him up in stone!
What awe pervades the soul, as thus we gaze
On this life-seeming state of ancient days!
No cunning effigy, the work of art,
341
But the once powerful chieftain as he shone,
By nations honor'd, and to thousands known;—
Himself, at length, his limbs composed, his breast
Expanding, as with happiest slumbers bless'd.
Even as we gaze, life seems to stir beneath,
The bosom heaves as with returning breath;
We look to see him rise,—we pause to hear
His trumpet peal of battle from the bier!
But death is in the movement;—'tis the light
That heaves the frame, and stirs him to the sight;
Smote by the insidious air, the unwelcome day,
The crumbling corse sinks sudden to decay;
Time, mock'd so long, upon his subject darts,
The clay dissolves, the linkéd armor parts;—
The sceptre-grasping hand, the helméd brow,
And the mail'd breast that perfect seem'd but now,
Subside to dust, and mock the fond surprise,
That hail'd the vision late with awe-struck eyes.
We glide below: with curious search we gaze
On these proud mansions of ancestral days;
Here wealth and care have vainly striven to prove
How proud their homage, and how fond their love;
What toils they used, what precious unguents brought,
With what sad skill the funeral garments wrought;
What sacrifice of gold and pomp was made,
For the great chief whose relics here they laid!
Art spared no service! On the walls behold,
How fresh the colors twenty centuries old;
How rich the painting—with what free design,
Warm in each tint, and bold in every line;
A wondrous story, which reveals a faith
That sees the soul escaped, surviving death;
Shows the group'd forms, in long procession led,
Surrounding fond, or following slow, the dead.—
There, stately still, the enfranchised ghost survey,
Led, by the rival Genii, into day—
The day that lets in judgment on the past,
Bright with great joys, or dread with clouds o'ercast.
There the good Angel, seeking still to save,
Receives and guides the freed one from the grave;
Beckons with smiling hope that soothes the fear,
And shows his “Esar” merciful and near.
Not so the Evil Genii, who withstand
The gentle guidance of his guardian hand;
They bar the way to mercy, and, with thirst
Of eager malice, hoping still the worst,
Declare, of evil deeds, the dark account,
That should deny the ambitious soul to mount.
The painter leaves in doubt the fearful strife,
Whose issue broods with doom or glorious life,
But, of his aim and hope enough are shown,
To prove his promise not unlike our own,
Show that his faith still sought an upward goal,
And challenged wings for each immortal soul!
On these proud mansions of ancestral days;
Here wealth and care have vainly striven to prove
How proud their homage, and how fond their love;
What toils they used, what precious unguents brought,
With what sad skill the funeral garments wrought;
What sacrifice of gold and pomp was made,
For the great chief whose relics here they laid!
Art spared no service! On the walls behold,
How fresh the colors twenty centuries old;
How rich the painting—with what free design,
Warm in each tint, and bold in every line;
A wondrous story, which reveals a faith
That sees the soul escaped, surviving death;
342
Surrounding fond, or following slow, the dead.—
There, stately still, the enfranchised ghost survey,
Led, by the rival Genii, into day—
The day that lets in judgment on the past,
Bright with great joys, or dread with clouds o'ercast.
There the good Angel, seeking still to save,
Receives and guides the freed one from the grave;
Beckons with smiling hope that soothes the fear,
And shows his “Esar” merciful and near.
Not so the Evil Genii, who withstand
The gentle guidance of his guardian hand;
They bar the way to mercy, and, with thirst
Of eager malice, hoping still the worst,
Declare, of evil deeds, the dark account,
That should deny the ambitious soul to mount.
The painter leaves in doubt the fearful strife,
Whose issue broods with doom or glorious life,
But, of his aim and hope enough are shown,
To prove his promise not unlike our own,
Show that his faith still sought an upward goal,
And challenged wings for each immortal soul!
The Greek! The Roman! At each mighty name,
How glow the great stars on the towers of Fame!
What triumphs crown'd their arms, their arts refined,
And lifted theirs o'er all the works of mind;
To gods raised mortals—for the mortal wrought
A refuge sure in deathless realms of thought—
From thought evoked philosophy, and wove
Bright laurels for the academy and grove!
That they should perish, should succumb, at length,
Spite of their ardent souls and matchless strength,
Perhaps was needful, lest, defying Fate,
They should forget how mortal was their state,—
Forget their subject destiny, and prove
Ungrateful rebels to the power of Jove!
How glow the great stars on the towers of Fame!
What triumphs crown'd their arms, their arts refined,
And lifted theirs o'er all the works of mind;
To gods raised mortals—for the mortal wrought
A refuge sure in deathless realms of thought—
From thought evoked philosophy, and wove
Bright laurels for the academy and grove!
That they should perish, should succumb, at length,
343
Perhaps was needful, lest, defying Fate,
They should forget how mortal was their state,—
Forget their subject destiny, and prove
Ungrateful rebels to the power of Jove!
Their arts, their subtle tastes, refined and proud,
Still mock'd the worm, and shudder'd at the shroud:
Still strove against corruption, and decreed
The fire their flesh, and not the grave, should feed.
Should earth, o'er which, in matchless might, they trod,
Lords of the world that trembled at their nod—
Should earth, the lowly, hide, as if in shame,
The imperial aspect and majestic frame?—
Should filial homage so forget the sire,
His pride, his fame, each deed and each desire,
Nor seek to cherish still, with ceaseless care,
The dust of one so precious, proud and fair?—
Preserve each vestige of the great, and shrine
In during gold the relics deem'd divine?
Still mock'd the worm, and shudder'd at the shroud:
Still strove against corruption, and decreed
The fire their flesh, and not the grave, should feed.
Should earth, o'er which, in matchless might, they trod,
Lords of the world that trembled at their nod—
Should earth, the lowly, hide, as if in shame,
The imperial aspect and majestic frame?—
Should filial homage so forget the sire,
His pride, his fame, each deed and each desire,
Nor seek to cherish still, with ceaseless care,
The dust of one so precious, proud and fair?—
Preserve each vestige of the great, and shrine
In during gold the relics deem'd divine?
They dress the pyre with frankincense and spice,
Woods of rich perfume, and of rare device;
Slay the white oxen on the pile, and spread
With fat of sheep and lambs, the honor'd dead;
Gather the slaughter'd victims to the pile,
With flagons crown'd of honey and of oil;
Libations red, from golden bowls they pour,
Then from their brows the amber tresses shore;
These strew the dead. The corse upon the pyre,—
They light the scented torch, and feed the fire;
Watch through the night until it sinks from view,
Then, with ambrosial wines, the flames subdue.
This duty done, with reverent hands and care
They take the sacred ashes from the bier;
These, in a golden vase inurn'd, they hide,
By household love and worship deified;—
Nor kept in vain, since destined to receive,
In time, the ashes of the fond who grieve;
All, at the last, each honor'd one in turn,
May hope to mingle in the self-same urn,
In death unite the hearts, which, true in life,
Kept faith, unbroken still, by storm or strife!
Woods of rich perfume, and of rare device;
Slay the white oxen on the pile, and spread
With fat of sheep and lambs, the honor'd dead;
Gather the slaughter'd victims to the pile,
With flagons crown'd of honey and of oil;
Libations red, from golden bowls they pour,
Then from their brows the amber tresses shore;
These strew the dead. The corse upon the pyre,—
They light the scented torch, and feed the fire;
Watch through the night until it sinks from view,
Then, with ambrosial wines, the flames subdue.
This duty done, with reverent hands and care
344
These, in a golden vase inurn'd, they hide,
By household love and worship deified;—
Nor kept in vain, since destined to receive,
In time, the ashes of the fond who grieve;
All, at the last, each honor'd one in turn,
May hope to mingle in the self-same urn,
In death unite the hearts, which, true in life,
Kept faith, unbroken still, by storm or strife!
These rites, barbarian still, with all their state,
Were but false tributes to the good and great.
Better our Christian rule, whose simple trust
Confides the dust, with tears, to kindred dust;
Holds in meet reverence still, the sacred clay,
The soul's fair mansion in its mortal day;
But builds its home from human homes apart,
Nor mocks corruption with the toys of art;
To the fresh earth, with meek and holy rite,
Conveys the shrouded clay from common light;
Midst sacred gloom of trees, midst shadows meet,
That mingle well the solemn with the sweet;
Where banks of thyme and daisy scent the ground,
While waters murmur nigh with slumberous sound;
Where the light hangs with mild autumnal ray,
And makes a sabbath of the livelong day;
As sacred here, by Etiwando's wave,
As Mamre's plain, or old Machpelah's cave.
Were but false tributes to the good and great.
Better our Christian rule, whose simple trust
Confides the dust, with tears, to kindred dust;
Holds in meet reverence still, the sacred clay,
The soul's fair mansion in its mortal day;
But builds its home from human homes apart,
Nor mocks corruption with the toys of art;
To the fresh earth, with meek and holy rite,
Conveys the shrouded clay from common light;
Midst sacred gloom of trees, midst shadows meet,
That mingle well the solemn with the sweet;
Where banks of thyme and daisy scent the ground,
While waters murmur nigh with slumberous sound;
Where the light hangs with mild autumnal ray,
And makes a sabbath of the livelong day;
As sacred here, by Etiwando's wave,
As Mamre's plain, or old Machpelah's cave.
Even as we watch, with sad and wistful eye,
Where each gay phantom leaves the twilight sky,—
Through glooms material seeking still to trace
Each sweet expression, and beguiling grace;
From “cold obstruction” striving still to wrest
The features once so precious to the breast;
So, through the shadowy doubt of mortal gloom,
Through the grave's shroud, and through the marble tomb,
We trace the immortal spirit in its flight,
And hail its shining progress through the night;
Glow with new life, as on each rising wing,
We mark the colors of eternal spring,
And, for ourselves, find better strength to rise,
As thus we trace its passage through the skies!
Where each gay phantom leaves the twilight sky,—
Through glooms material seeking still to trace
345
From “cold obstruction” striving still to wrest
The features once so precious to the breast;
So, through the shadowy doubt of mortal gloom,
Through the grave's shroud, and through the marble tomb,
We trace the immortal spirit in its flight,
And hail its shining progress through the night;
Glow with new life, as on each rising wing,
We mark the colors of eternal spring,
And, for ourselves, find better strength to rise,
As thus we trace its passage through the skies!
Even as we muse, with homage that is prayer,
O'er each gray ruin once a temple fair,
And read the tale of empires through the shroud
That wraps the Genius once so strong and proud—
Grope through their vaults, explore with awe the rite
That makes their dead still sacred in our sight;—
The past grows subject to our present need,
And all the future blossoms as we read!—
If precious thus the nation's grave, unknown,
How, to our children, dearer still our own!
How fit the care that guards the holy place,
Crowns it with trees, and shapes its walks with grace;
Removes each noxious weed,—with tracts of green,
Soothes the sad eye, and solaces the scene;
Decrees, that hallowing peace shall still persuade
The living hearts that loved us, to its shade!
O'er each gray ruin once a temple fair,
And read the tale of empires through the shroud
That wraps the Genius once so strong and proud—
Grope through their vaults, explore with awe the rite
That makes their dead still sacred in our sight;—
The past grows subject to our present need,
And all the future blossoms as we read!—
If precious thus the nation's grave, unknown,
How, to our children, dearer still our own!
How fit the care that guards the holy place,
Crowns it with trees, and shapes its walks with grace;
Removes each noxious weed,—with tracts of green,
Soothes the sad eye, and solaces the scene;
Decrees, that hallowing peace shall still persuade
The living hearts that loved us, to its shade!
Here will they come, when wearied in the strife,
And gain, from walks of death, the strength for life;
Here fondly read each record that declares
To what bright virtues they become the heirs;
What patriot sires have done, to crown with fame,
The son's, the citizen's, the nation's name;
How Moultrie fought,—the scene beneath our glance,—
In our first struggle for deliverance;—
Trace, with sweet tears of homage, mix'd with pain,
The mournful legend of the martyr'd Hayne;
Turn, still obedient to the patriot spell,
To read how, rashly brave, young Laurens fell;
And, field and forum, equally in sight,
The shrine of Rutledge hail on loftiest height!
How, from the sea, returning to our shores,
Each kindred eye this sacred realm explores;
Reads at a glance, and reading still, reveres
Our State's proud record of two hundred years;
Sees, in each tomb, a tale of generous strife,
That crown'd our name with pride, our land with life;
And, from each shaft that rises o'er the steep,
Tells where the hero and the statesman sleep;
Cries, breathless, to his comrades, as he sees
There rest the Pinckneys, Gadsdens, Rutledges;
Yon column honors Marion, —and the spire,
White-shafted, 'neath the sun that glows like fire,
Our city rear'd in sadness, but in pride,
To one who, battling, in his harness died,
Late for his glory,—for our peace too soon,
The wondrous man of statesmen, our Calhoun!
And gain, from walks of death, the strength for life;
Here fondly read each record that declares
To what bright virtues they become the heirs;
What patriot sires have done, to crown with fame,
346
How Moultrie fought,—the scene beneath our glance,—
In our first struggle for deliverance;—
Trace, with sweet tears of homage, mix'd with pain,
The mournful legend of the martyr'd Hayne;
Turn, still obedient to the patriot spell,
To read how, rashly brave, young Laurens fell;
And, field and forum, equally in sight,
The shrine of Rutledge hail on loftiest height!
How, from the sea, returning to our shores,
Each kindred eye this sacred realm explores;
Reads at a glance, and reading still, reveres
Our State's proud record of two hundred years;
Sees, in each tomb, a tale of generous strife,
That crown'd our name with pride, our land with life;
And, from each shaft that rises o'er the steep,
Tells where the hero and the statesman sleep;
Cries, breathless, to his comrades, as he sees
There rest the Pinckneys, Gadsdens, Rutledges;
Yon column honors Marion, —and the spire,
White-shafted, 'neath the sun that glows like fire,
Our city rear'd in sadness, but in pride,
To one who, battling, in his harness died,
Late for his glory,—for our peace too soon,
The wondrous man of statesmen, our Calhoun!
Yet, not to these alone, the gifted, great,
Our sacred shrines and shades we consecrate;
Their tombs, the landmarks to the patriot eye,
With great historic names that cannot die,
Command the homage justly due to fame:—
But other loved and lost ones have their claim.
Not to our wonder, but our love, they plead,
With quiet virtues and unwritten deed;
This realm a city, where the humblest stand,
In place with those, the loftiest of the land;
Not great, but good; not raised to glory's height,
But dear to love, and precious in its sight;
By memory cherish'd when their toils are done,—
In hearts still warm, though hidden from the sun;
Bewept with tears, that soften as they fall,
And sought with prayers, though still beyond recall.
Their lowlier tombs in sacred groves shall rise,
Where Grief, unwatch'd, may watch with shrouded eyes!
Hither shall Love repair, in future hours
To dress and deck the cherish'd turf with flowers;
Here linger fond, while slowly sinks the day,
And fancy still a voice that pleads to stay.
Hither shall Reverence come,—the son, the friend,—
Mute with dear memories, and devoutly bend;
Here Contemplation veil her lofty brow,
Passion deplore, and meek Repentance bow;
Hope, from old ashes, light her torch anew,
And Duty learn what pathways to pursue.
The Sire, decreed to see his first-born fail,
Stricken, like the flower in wild autumnal gale,
Here, by the fractured column which he rears,
Find still a soothing virtue in his tears.
Hither, the Mother, widow'd in the hour
When Love was joyous most in bloom and flower,
Her orphan brood shall bring; and, by the sod
Where sleeps the Sire, describe the ways of God;
Train their young hearts to tenderness, and chide,
By sense of mortal loss, their mortal pride.
Our sacred shrines and shades we consecrate;
347
With great historic names that cannot die,
Command the homage justly due to fame:—
But other loved and lost ones have their claim.
Not to our wonder, but our love, they plead,
With quiet virtues and unwritten deed;
This realm a city, where the humblest stand,
In place with those, the loftiest of the land;
Not great, but good; not raised to glory's height,
But dear to love, and precious in its sight;
By memory cherish'd when their toils are done,—
In hearts still warm, though hidden from the sun;
Bewept with tears, that soften as they fall,
And sought with prayers, though still beyond recall.
Their lowlier tombs in sacred groves shall rise,
Where Grief, unwatch'd, may watch with shrouded eyes!
Hither shall Love repair, in future hours
To dress and deck the cherish'd turf with flowers;
Here linger fond, while slowly sinks the day,
And fancy still a voice that pleads to stay.
Hither shall Reverence come,—the son, the friend,—
Mute with dear memories, and devoutly bend;
Here Contemplation veil her lofty brow,
Passion deplore, and meek Repentance bow;
Hope, from old ashes, light her torch anew,
And Duty learn what pathways to pursue.
The Sire, decreed to see his first-born fail,
Stricken, like the flower in wild autumnal gale,
Here, by the fractured column which he rears,
Find still a soothing virtue in his tears.
Hither, the Mother, widow'd in the hour
When Love was joyous most in bloom and flower,
Her orphan brood shall bring; and, by the sod
Where sleeps the Sire, describe the ways of God;
348
By sense of mortal loss, their mortal pride.
All, from the shrines of grief shall strengthen faith,
All gather lessons from the lips of death;
In fields of silence, find best gifts of speech;
Through worlds of darkness, worlds of brightness reach;
Grow strong with wrestling at the tomb with Thought,
And there win triumphs never won unsought!
Arm'd with the Cross, and glad beneath its weight,
There matchless Love shall conquer matchless Hate;
From sin the victim pluck, from wrath the doom,
From death the living—glory from the gloom!—
Grave, where thy victory now?—O Death, thy sting?—
Lo! the freed spirit on triumphant wing!
Joyous in conquest, hark! the white-robed train,
The Prince of Peace that welcome to his reign:
His trump of victory sounds—his legions rise,
Myriads of might, in congregated skies;
By Mercy led, they gather fast to save,
Time has no sway, no prison now the grave;
Glad eyes unclose, the bonds of Death are riven,
And white-wing'd Faith, with Love, ascends to Heaven!
All gather lessons from the lips of death;
In fields of silence, find best gifts of speech;
Through worlds of darkness, worlds of brightness reach;
Grow strong with wrestling at the tomb with Thought,
And there win triumphs never won unsought!
Arm'd with the Cross, and glad beneath its weight,
There matchless Love shall conquer matchless Hate;
From sin the victim pluck, from wrath the doom,
From death the living—glory from the gloom!—
Grave, where thy victory now?—O Death, thy sting?—
Lo! the freed spirit on triumphant wing!
Joyous in conquest, hark! the white-robed train,
The Prince of Peace that welcome to his reign:
His trump of victory sounds—his legions rise,
Myriads of might, in congregated skies;
By Mercy led, they gather fast to save,
Time has no sway, no prison now the grave;
Glad eyes unclose, the bonds of Death are riven,
And white-wing'd Faith, with Love, ascends to Heaven!
Delivered at the Dedication of the Grounds of Magnolia Cemetery, near the city of Charleston, on the 19th day of November, 1850.
At Magnolia Cemetery, you look out and see Fort Moultrie, whence the British were beaten in the Revolution.
THE END.
| Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative | |