University of Virginia Library

Count Julian loved Ianthe well. She was
The fairest Maid in all the sunny South—
The summer South—where there are many fair—
The only Damsel in her father's house—
A Farmer's daughter, beautiful as pure,
Living in all the rich simplicity
Of cottage life alone among the flowers—
A fairer Flower herself—called by her Sire,
Ianthe, Lily of the Land of Love.
For, in the Halcyon Days of youth they met
By instinct, like two Doves in Harvest time—
Mating they knew not how—loving they knew
Not why—but still they came together—still
They loved, like two fond doves in mating-time—
Building upon the basis of their love
All hopes of joy on earth, all bliss in Heaven.

Ianthe was the playmate of his youth—
A Lady on the emerald Sea of life,
Whose saintly petals were not opened quite
When he beheld her first dawn in God's smiles;
But when the bud of her pure youth began
First to unfold itself to Heaven, then were
The snow white petals of her lily-limbs
Unfolded gently to his rapturous gaze.
Disclosing to his soul her inmost heart,
Lavishing upon him, with excess of joy,
The virgin redolence of purest love.
Her goodness was as boundless as the Heavens,
Because her love was infinite—for all
Pure love is infinite—knows no decay
In being lavished out upon the loved,
Because it is the image of God's love,
Which knows no diminution in its depths,
By being lavished out upon all worlds.

But old Lamorah, Mico of his Tribe,
A wild Ulysses, Bender of the Bow,
Leader of Mighty Men to fruitless war,
From Oostanalla to the Chestasee,
Where Talapoosa rolls her Mountain rills—
From old Echota's Holy Land above
To Ouith lacoochee's silver Vale below—
So long the White-Man's friend, became his foe.
The Tomahawk was now dug up again
From rusting underneath the Tree of Peace;
And old Lamorah swore never again
To smoke the Calumet of Peace with Man.
The Dove began to feel the Hawk was nigh;
The white Swan from the Silver Lake came back
Again with blood upon her snowy wings;
And never came the Angel of sweet Peace
To wipe it off, until Lamorah left
His native land for lands beyond the sea.

This old Lamorah had two sons—both brave—
But his Yamassa, Eagle of his heart,
The elder loved the better of the two,
Because he was the White-Man's foe.
For many times Lamorah, in his ire,
Would fling the White-Man's children in the air,
And catch them falling, on his pointed knife.
One day, when he was doing this, he saw one smile,
With his blue laughing eyes, right in his face,
And from that fatal hour, until his death,
He never smiled, but hell raged in his heart—
Feeding upon his soul forever more—
A Vulture that could never have enough,
But, ever famished, like the hungry grave,
Fed on, forever hungry—never full.
So to relieve his burning thirst for blood,—
The eternal Hell that raged within his heart—
He swore eternal vengeance on the Whites.
So, to the Cuscovilla's Vale he went
Against great Simighan, his father's foe,
Panting, like hell-hounds, for the White-Man's blood!
They fought—his Tribe was slain—slain every man,
Except his son Yamassa—he alone
Escaped—was taken captive in the fight—
Bound fast in chains—borne from the field
Back to the White-Man's Tents where he had slain
The innocent children, where he lay confined
In heavy chains, waiting his awful doom!
So, old Lamorah, to avenge his death,
Went, at the midnight hour, with torch in hand,
And fired the old man's house—that good old man—
And as they fled, escaping from the flames,
He caught his young Moon-Daughter in his arms,
And bore her swift away with him—away
To some far distant land unknown to man—
For never tidings came of where he went,
Leaving young Julian mourning for her loss—
Mourning that he could never more behold
The beauty of her Angel-face, nor drink
Delight again out of her heavenly smiles,
Wherein his soul had sunned itself to peace.
She was the Virgin of the first fond love,
Who lay upon his bosom like the Swan
Upon clear waters, while his soul grew white
To image back her form—the very first
That made him see the young Hind in his dreams.
Now, in the Spring-time of the year, when all
Things show their love to God—the birds show theirs—
The Earth, exprest in syllables of flowers,
Her love, (which is the Poetry of Earth—)
Sweet syllables of rarest redolence—
While sitting in her Bower of Bliss one day,
Wooed by the odorous Winds which played around
Her brow of living pearl, with downy touch
Soft as caresses from some Angel's hand—
She saw two Doves, the mother with her mate,
Building their nest low in a cedar tree.
Long did she watch them there, until the nest
Was built, wherein the mother sat, from day
To day, until she laid two little eggs;
When Ostense, Lamorah's living son,
From jealousy, because she watched them so—
Watched any thing but his dark, ugly face—
Drew forth his Locust-Bow and shot them dead!
So, after this, one day, when he was gone,
She clomb up to the nest—took out the eggs,
And with her lily, snow white hand, placed them,
With love-like innocence, in heavenly nest,
Between the oval apples of her breast,
Wherein they nestled in divine content,
Until they hatched two little doves, snowwhite,
Caught from the fair complexion of her breast,
Which ministered not only vitalizing warmth,
But gave, with her maternal tenderness,
A parent's Angel-nature to them like her own—
Making them meeker than the other birds,
Because their Angel-mother was more meek—
Which she caressed until they both were grown.
So, one day, while she sat within her Bower
Alone, unwatched by Ostense, who would
Not let her rest by day nor night, for his
Exceeding love for her,—she wrote upon
White satin with her own heart's blood,
And tied it to the snow-white Pigeon's wing,
And, whispering Angel's language in its ear—
Language of purest love, (as it now sate
Perched on the snow-white bough of her soft arm,
Fluttering its saintly wings with joy to hear
The amorous tidings she conveyed to it,)
She bade it fly to her dear Julian's Bower;
And, instantly, instinct with all her love—
(As instinct with the knowledge of the way,
Unknown—untraveled through the pathless air—)
Up from the bough of her soft arm it rose,
(Not by its absence lonely left, but clothed
With such celestial fairness that it seemed
A living Heaven of many suppliant Doves)
A living, swift-winged ship, full-sailed,
With God-directed instinct for the gale—
Like some pure Virgin's soul, at death, to Heaven—
And bent its flight swift for her Julian's Bower.
Three hours, with swift unerring wing, it flew,
And, at the fourth, anchored her rosy feet,
Love-laden in the harbor of his hand.
Rapt with surprise—with wonder more than new—
To see such heavenly Messenger on earth—
Fluttering so tamely on his tremulous arm—
Thinking it was Ianthe's soul from Heaven,
He took the satin letter from its wings,
The soft, love-laden letter—which he read—
Thrilling with tears of pure ecstatic joy—
Which after kissing many thousand times,—
Kissing the saintly Messenger as oft—
(As tame as love in its own Mistress' heart—)
Pressing it, fluttering, to his panting breast—
He placed it in his bosom near his heart,
And sitting down upon the moss-clad rock,
Beside the spring where he was waiting now,
(Waiting to hear some tidings of his love—)
He wrote on paper of the purest silk,
And, fastening his sweet answer to its wing,
Brimful of love, returned it back again,
And, straightway, started for St. Mary's Lake.