Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative

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.—

262

Wouldst hear this cruel tale, my child?”
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.

263

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

And on they started by the dawn,—
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.

265

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.

266

And from his breast they took the spoil,—
The money which had bought
Their souls for that old serpent, child,
That all this mischief wrought.

XVIII.

“The mischief all was wrought, and vain
To 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.

267

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—

268

Yet, while he looks, a silent skiff
Shoots outward from the banks,
Where osiers and the matted canes,
Stand up in solid ranks.

XXV.

“From out their solid ranks, the skiff
Shoots 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.

269

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 not
For 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:

270

‘How came ye over the river, friend?’
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.

271

XXXV.

“He had no thought, but in a swoon
For 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 man
Peer'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.

272

They hung him high where the cross roads meet,
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 tell
Such 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.”

University of Virginia Library

A STORY OF GOD'S JUDGMENT.

A LEGEND OF GEORGIA.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.