 | The battle of Niagara |  |
98
CANTO II.
The first night continues through the whole of this canto ..... Ontario described ..... Appearances .... Reflections ..... Apostrophe ...... Resemblances ...... American Indian ..... Apollo ..... Corruption and refinement ..... Hero appears ..... Indian ..... Both surprised ..... Combat ...... Hero visits his family ..... description.
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COME, sit thou with me!—what a heavenly night!
The winds blowing fresh—and the beautiful light
Shedding out such a luminous dampness above!—
So respectful and still:—and the scenery there—
How it moves up and down in the dim, holy air!
'Tis a midnight of awe—and a sabbath of love.
O lift up thine eyes—see the firmament spreading
A moveable vault of the deepest of blue—
Rolling on—rolling on—through infinity—shedding
For ever—its oceans of lustre and dew.
The winds blowing fresh—and the beautiful light
Shedding out such a luminous dampness above!—
So respectful and still:—and the scenery there—
How it moves up and down in the dim, holy air!
'Tis a midnight of awe—and a sabbath of love.
O lift up thine eyes—see the firmament spreading
A moveable vault of the deepest of blue—
Rolling on—rolling on—through infinity—shedding
For ever—its oceans of lustre and dew.
Come, sit thou with me!—we shall both learn to feel,
Like the men of old times—when Jehovah was near—
Come, sit thou with me!—and together we'll kneel,
And pour out our hearts to the God that is here.
And the breezes that come—and the branches that bow—
To the clouds trailing by—they shall all teach us how,
In past years, when these woods started green from the earth;
And that shore—and this hill—and that water had birth,
Their inhabitants held their communion with heaven—
In worship and trembling—like children forgiven—
How they knelt down alone, while the whole world slept,
Their hearts overburthened with pleasure—and wept.
Like the men of old times—when Jehovah was near—
Come, sit thou with me!—and together we'll kneel,
And pour out our hearts to the God that is here.
And the breezes that come—and the branches that bow—
To the clouds trailing by—they shall all teach us how,
In past years, when these woods started green from the earth;
And that shore—and this hill—and that water had birth,
Their inhabitants held their communion with heaven—
In worship and trembling—like children forgiven—
100
Their hearts overburthened with pleasure—and wept.
Here sleeps Ontario. Old Ontario, hail!
Unawed by conquering prow, or pirate sail:
Still heaving in thy freedom—still unchained—
Still swelling to the skies—still unprofaned—
As when thy earliest, freest children flew
Like hawks to battle—when the swift canoe—
From every shore, went dipping o'er the tide—
Like birds, that stooping from the far cliff ride—
A moment on the billow—shriek and rise,
With loaded talons wheeling to the skies.
The heaven's blue counterpart!—the murmuring home
Of spirits shipwrecked in the ocean-foam—
Reflector of the arch that's o'er thee bent;
Thou watery sky!—thou liquid firmament!
Mirror of garland-weaving Solitude—
The wild festoon—the cliff—the hanging wood—
The soaring eagle—and the wing of light—
The sunny plumage—and the starry flight
Of dazzling myriads in a cloudless night.
Peace to thy bosom, dark Ontario!
For ever thus, may thy free waters flow,
In their rude loveliness!—thy lonely shore
For ever echo to the sullen roar
Of thine own deep! thy cliffs for ever ring
With calling wild men, in their journeying—
The savage chant—the panther's smothered cry—
That, from her airy height, goes thrilling by!
Be ever thus—as now—magnificent—
In savage Nature's pomp—unbowed—unbent,
And thou wilt ever be omnipotent!
Be ever unapproachable—and free:
The home of Indians and of Liberty.—
But let thy woods be bowed—their sceptres shorn:
Thy blooming streamers from thy ramparts torn;
Thy fountains hushed—and the luxuriant green
Of oozy turf, that o'er thy haunt is seen,
Be trampled on and opened to the sun—
And all thy rich exuberance is done:
Let but the white man's summons once be heard,
And gone, for ever, is thy guardian Bird:
Be once thy torrents stilled—the shiny moss,
Thy grotto-hangings, that the dews emboss;
Thy glittering halls laid open to the light—
Thy mysteries revealed to the unholy sight:
Thy secret places to the sun betrayed;
And, in thy temples, men of blood arrayed;
The curtain of thy sanctuary rent—
Thy dwellings opened to the firmament:
Thy solitudes disturbed—thine altars stained:
Thy heights polluted, and thy depths profaned
With Indian blood, and thy dark offspring chained:
Thy battlements of rocks, and cliffs, and clouds—
Stripped of their garland flags, and hung with shrouds,
And bright with glittering spires: thine altars down—
Then what art thou? and where thy thrones? and crown?
Thy sceptres? and thy hosts?—for ever gone!
And thou—a savage in the world!—alone:
A naked monarch—sullen, stern, and rude,
Amid a robed and plumed multitude:
Sublime and motionless—but impotent—
Stripped of his arrows, and with bow unbent.
Who feels that terror of the Indian then,
Such as he felt in night and darkness, when
That Indian walked alone, the conqueror of men?
Unawed by conquering prow, or pirate sail:
Still heaving in thy freedom—still unchained—
Still swelling to the skies—still unprofaned—
As when thy earliest, freest children flew
Like hawks to battle—when the swift canoe—
From every shore, went dipping o'er the tide—
Like birds, that stooping from the far cliff ride—
A moment on the billow—shriek and rise,
With loaded talons wheeling to the skies.
The heaven's blue counterpart!—the murmuring home
Of spirits shipwrecked in the ocean-foam—
Reflector of the arch that's o'er thee bent;
Thou watery sky!—thou liquid firmament!
Mirror of garland-weaving Solitude—
The wild festoon—the cliff—the hanging wood—
The soaring eagle—and the wing of light—
The sunny plumage—and the starry flight
Of dazzling myriads in a cloudless night.
Peace to thy bosom, dark Ontario!
For ever thus, may thy free waters flow,
In their rude loveliness!—thy lonely shore
For ever echo to the sullen roar
Of thine own deep! thy cliffs for ever ring
With calling wild men, in their journeying—
The savage chant—the panther's smothered cry—
That, from her airy height, goes thrilling by!
Be ever thus—as now—magnificent—
101
And thou wilt ever be omnipotent!
Be ever unapproachable—and free:
The home of Indians and of Liberty.—
But let thy woods be bowed—their sceptres shorn:
Thy blooming streamers from thy ramparts torn;
Thy fountains hushed—and the luxuriant green
Of oozy turf, that o'er thy haunt is seen,
Be trampled on and opened to the sun—
And all thy rich exuberance is done:
Let but the white man's summons once be heard,
And gone, for ever, is thy guardian Bird:
Be once thy torrents stilled—the shiny moss,
Thy grotto-hangings, that the dews emboss;
Thy glittering halls laid open to the light—
Thy mysteries revealed to the unholy sight:
Thy secret places to the sun betrayed;
And, in thy temples, men of blood arrayed;
The curtain of thy sanctuary rent—
Thy dwellings opened to the firmament:
Thy solitudes disturbed—thine altars stained:
Thy heights polluted, and thy depths profaned
With Indian blood, and thy dark offspring chained:
Thy battlements of rocks, and cliffs, and clouds—
Stripped of their garland flags, and hung with shrouds,
And bright with glittering spires: thine altars down—
Then what art thou? and where thy thrones? and crown?
Thy sceptres? and thy hosts?—for ever gone!
And thou—a savage in the world!—alone:
A naked monarch—sullen, stern, and rude,
Amid a robed and plumed multitude:
102
Stripped of his arrows, and with bow unbent.
Who feels that terror of the Indian then,
Such as he felt in night and darkness, when
That Indian walked alone, the conqueror of men?
True, he may walk with his own fearless tread;
With out-stretched arm, and high uplifted head,
Of one familiar with the pathless wood,
The caverned chase, the haunts of solitude—
The midnight storm—the thunder-clap—and sleep
On jutting cliff—above a tumbling deep:
But where will be that reverential dread,
That hung upon the wild man, in his tread
Within his own dominions?—it is gone!—
And he stands there undreaded and alone.
With out-stretched arm, and high uplifted head,
Of one familiar with the pathless wood,
The caverned chase, the haunts of solitude—
The midnight storm—the thunder-clap—and sleep
On jutting cliff—above a tumbling deep:
But where will be that reverential dread,
That hung upon the wild man, in his tread
Within his own dominions?—it is gone!—
And he stands there undreaded and alone.
Such were thy children—Indian princes—now
Each stands subdued—with yet a monarch's brow.
But rend him from his home, and place him where
The heaven's bright blue is hidden—and the air
Breathes thick with pestilence—and there he dies,
With few to fear and none to sympathize.
Each stands subdued—with yet a monarch's brow.
But rend him from his home, and place him where
The heaven's bright blue is hidden—and the air
Breathes thick with pestilence—and there he dies,
With few to fear and none to sympathize.
Rest like the midnight, Mighty One!—and throw—
Thy shadow o'er thy children of the bow:
Who, in the wilderness, can calmly go
To do their worship in a lonely place,
By altars reeking with the she-wolf's trace:
And gaze intrepidly upon the skies,
While the red lightning in its anger flies—
When white men, in their terror, close their eyes:
For man is there sublime—he is a god!
Great Nature's master-piece! like him who trod
The banks of paradise, and stood alone,
The wonder of the skies—erect upon his throne.
Thy shadow o'er thy children of the bow:
Who, in the wilderness, can calmly go
To do their worship in a lonely place,
By altars reeking with the she-wolf's trace:
And gaze intrepidly upon the skies,
While the red lightning in its anger flies—
103
For man is there sublime—he is a god!
Great Nature's master-piece! like him who trod
The banks of paradise, and stood alone,
The wonder of the skies—erect upon his throne.
Not like the airy god of moulded light,
Just stepping from his chariot on the sight;
Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud,
With arm outstretched and bow-string twanging loud:
And arrows singing as they pierce the air,
With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair;
As if he paused upon his bounding way,
And loosened his fierce arrows—all in play;
But like that angry god, in blazing light
Bursting from space! and standing in his might:
Revealed in his omnipotent array—
Apollo of the skies! and Deity of Day!
In god-like wrath! piercing his myriad-foe
With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go:
Not like that god, when up in air he springs,
With brightening mantle, and with sunny wings,
When heavenly musick murmurs from his strings—
A buoyant vision—an embodied dream
Of dainty Poesy—and boyishly supreme:
Just stepping from his chariot on the sight;
Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud,
With arm outstretched and bow-string twanging loud:
And arrows singing as they pierce the air,
With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair;
As if he paused upon his bounding way,
And loosened his fierce arrows—all in play;
But like that angry god, in blazing light
Bursting from space! and standing in his might:
Revealed in his omnipotent array—
Apollo of the skies! and Deity of Day!
In god-like wrath! piercing his myriad-foe
With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go:
Not like that god, when up in air he springs,
With brightening mantle, and with sunny wings,
When heavenly musick murmurs from his strings—
A buoyant vision—an embodied dream
Of dainty Poesy—and boyishly supreme:
Not the thin spirit waked by young Desire,
Gazing o'er heaven till her thoughts take fire:
Panting and breathless in her heart's wild trance—
Bright, shapeless forms—the godlings of Romance:
Not that Apollo—not resembling him,
Of silver bow, and woman's nerveless limb:
But man!—all man!—the monarch of the wild!
Not the faint spirit that corrupting smil'd
On soft, lascivious Greece—but Nature's child,
Arrested in the chase! with piercing eye
Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky,
Where some red Bird goes languid, eddying, drooping,
Pierced by his arrows in her swiftest stooping!
Thus springing to the skies!—a boy will stand
With arms uplifted and unconscious hand
Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight—
And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light
Of worlds unseen, but by the Indian sight;
His robe and hair upon the wind at length,
A creature of the hills!—all grace and strength;
All muscle and all flame—his eager eye
Fixed on one spot, as if he could descry
His bleeding victim nestling in the sky.
Not that Apollo!—not the heavenly one,
Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun,—
But this—the offspring of young Solitude,
Child of the holy spot, where none intrude
But genii of the torrent—cliff, and wood—
Nurslings of cloud and storm—the desert's fiery brood.
Gazing o'er heaven till her thoughts take fire:
Panting and breathless in her heart's wild trance—
Bright, shapeless forms—the godlings of Romance:
Not that Apollo—not resembling him,
Of silver bow, and woman's nerveless limb:
104
Not the faint spirit that corrupting smil'd
On soft, lascivious Greece—but Nature's child,
Arrested in the chase! with piercing eye
Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky,
Where some red Bird goes languid, eddying, drooping,
Pierced by his arrows in her swiftest stooping!
Thus springing to the skies!—a boy will stand
With arms uplifted and unconscious hand
Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight—
And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light
Of worlds unseen, but by the Indian sight;
His robe and hair upon the wind at length,
A creature of the hills!—all grace and strength;
All muscle and all flame—his eager eye
Fixed on one spot, as if he could descry
His bleeding victim nestling in the sky.
Not that Apollo!—not the heavenly one,
Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun,—
But this—the offspring of young Solitude,
Child of the holy spot, where none intrude
But genii of the torrent—cliff, and wood—
Nurslings of cloud and storm—the desert's fiery brood.
Great Nature's man!—and not a thing—all light:
Etherial vision of distempered sight;
But mingled cloud and sunshine—flame and night.
With arrows—not like his of sport—that go
In light and musick from a silver bow:
But barbed with flint—with feather—reeking red,
The heart-blood that some famished wolf hath shed!
Etherial vision of distempered sight;
But mingled cloud and sunshine—flame and night.
With arrows—not like his of sport—that go
In light and musick from a silver bow:
But barbed with flint—with feather—reeking red,
The heart-blood that some famished wolf hath shed!
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Thou home of gallant men—Ontario—
I would, but cannot leave thee—I would go,
But thy great spirit holds me—may no sial
Ever unfold against thy mountain gale!
Thy waters were thus spread in cloudy blue,
But for thy white fowl and the light canoe.
Should once the smooth dark lustre of thy breast
With mightier burthens, ever be oppressed—
Farewell to thee! and all thy loveliness!
Commerce will rear her arks—and Nature's dress
Be scattered to the winds: thy shores will bloom,
Like dying flow'rets sprinkled o'er a tomb:
The feverish, fleeting lustre of the flowers,
Burnt into life in Art's unnatural bowers;
Not the green—graceful—wild luxuriance
Of Nature's garlands, in their negligence:
The clambering jasmine, and the flushing rose
That in the wilderness their hearts disclose;
The dewy violet, and the bud of gold,
Where drooping lilies on the wave unfold;
Where nameless flowers hang fainting on the air,
As if they breathed their lovely spirits there;
Where heaven itself is bluer, and the light
Is but a coloured fragrance—floating—bright;
Where the sharp note—and whistling song is heard,
Of many a golden beak, and sunny sparkling bird:
I would, but cannot leave thee—I would go,
But thy great spirit holds me—may no sial
Ever unfold against thy mountain gale!
Thy waters were thus spread in cloudy blue,
But for thy white fowl and the light canoe.
Should once the smooth dark lustre of thy breast
With mightier burthens, ever be oppressed—
Farewell to thee! and all thy loveliness!
Commerce will rear her arks—and Nature's dress
Be scattered to the winds: thy shores will bloom,
Like dying flow'rets sprinkled o'er a tomb:
The feverish, fleeting lustre of the flowers,
Burnt into life in Art's unnatural bowers;
Not the green—graceful—wild luxuriance
Of Nature's garlands, in their negligence:
The clambering jasmine, and the flushing rose
That in the wilderness their hearts disclose;
The dewy violet, and the bud of gold,
Where drooping lilies on the wave unfold;
Where nameless flowers hang fainting on the air,
As if they breathed their lovely spirits there;
Where heaven itself is bluer, and the light
Is but a coloured fragrance—floating—bright;
Where the sharp note—and whistling song is heard,
Of many a golden beak, and sunny sparkling bird:
There the tame honeysuckle will arise;
The gaudy hot-house plant will spread its dyes,
In flaunting boldness to the sunny skies:
And sickly buds, as soon as blown, will shed
Their fainting leaves o'er their untimely bed;
Unnatural violets in the blaze appear—
With hearts unwet by youthful Flora's tear;
And the loose poppy with its sleepy death,
And flashy leaf: the warm and torpid breath
Of lazy garlands, over crawling vines;
The tawdry wreath that Fashion intertwines,
To deck her languid brow: the streamy gold,
And purple flushing of the tulip's fold;
And velvet buds, of crimson, and of blue,
Unchangeable and lifeless, as the hue
Of Fashion's gaudy wreaths, that ne'er were wet with dew.
The gaudy hot-house plant will spread its dyes,
In flaunting boldness to the sunny skies:
106
Their fainting leaves o'er their untimely bed;
Unnatural violets in the blaze appear—
With hearts unwet by youthful Flora's tear;
And the loose poppy with its sleepy death,
And flashy leaf: the warm and torpid breath
Of lazy garlands, over crawling vines;
The tawdry wreath that Fashion intertwines,
To deck her languid brow: the streamy gold,
And purple flushing of the tulip's fold;
And velvet buds, of crimson, and of blue,
Unchangeable and lifeless, as the hue
Of Fashion's gaudy wreaths, that ne'er were wet with dew.
Such flowers as travellers would not stop to bless,
Tho' seen by fountains in the wilderness:
Such heartless flowers, as Love would disavow;
And blooming Flora, if upon her brow
Their leaves had once been dropped, would feel as tho'
Pollution's lips were pressed upon its snow:
Not the white blossom, that beneath its green
And glossy shelter, like a star is seen;
Shrinking and closing from the beam of day—
A virgin flow'ret for the twilight ray:
Not the blue hare-bell, swelling o'er the ground,
And thinly echoing to the fairy bound
Of tripping feet, within its silky round:
Not the wild snow-leaf trembling to the moon,
But the tame sun-flower basking in the noon.
Tho' seen by fountains in the wilderness:
Such heartless flowers, as Love would disavow;
And blooming Flora, if upon her brow
Their leaves had once been dropped, would feel as tho'
Pollution's lips were pressed upon its snow:
Not the white blossom, that beneath its green
And glossy shelter, like a star is seen;
Shrinking and closing from the beam of day—
A virgin flow'ret for the twilight ray:
Not the blue hare-bell, swelling o'er the ground,
And thinly echoing to the fairy bound
Of tripping feet, within its silky round:
Not the wild snow-leaf trembling to the moon,
But the tame sun-flower basking in the noon.
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Where now red Summer, in her sporting, weaves
Her brightest blossoms with her greenest leaves;
Where the wild grape hangs dropping in the shade,
O'er unfledged minstrels, that beneath are laid:
Where all is fragrant, breathing negligence;
And Nature's budding child, sweet Innocence;
Where now her treasures, and her mysteries—
Like shrouded diamonds—or like sleeping eyes,
Are only seen by those, who kneel and take
Their first bright beaming, when they first awake:
Where now, fresh streamlets answer to the hues
Of passing seraph-wings—and fiery dews,
Hang thick on every bush, when morning wakes,
Like sprinkled flame; and all the green-wood shakes
With liquid jewelry, that Night hath flung
Open her favourite tresses, while they swung,
And wantoned in the wind—henceforth will be
No lighted dimness, such as that you see,
In yonder faint, mysterious scenery,
Where all the woods keep festival—and seem
Beneath the midnight sky—and mellow beam
Of yonder breathing light—as if they were
Branches and leaves of unembodied air:
Where fountains sing and sparkle to the skies,
In all their sweetest desert melodies—
The prisoned water will be made to play
In one eternal glitter to the day:
Unnatural freshness—arbours will be seen—
And tortured festoons of fantastick green:
The heavy grotto—and the loaded bower:
The green and tepid pond: the pale wall-flower:
The tasteless mingling of the savage pine,
With the bright tendrils of the garden vine:
The stooping willow, with its braided light,
And feathery tresses, changeable and bright:—
The airy mountain ash—the elm—and oak
Rising triumphant from the Thunderer's stroke;—
In all their rich exuberance, shooting out
Their restless sceptres, to the winds about,
The lordly monarchs of the vigorous wood!
Placed by the towering—upstart-poplar brood—
And all the foppery of silly Taste,
That grieves to see wild Nature so unchaste,
That—in her modesty—would barely hint
‘That such and such a shade, and such a tint
‘Might mingle better, if a little care—
‘A little grouping here—and contrast there,
‘Were just to—but no matter,’—they all know
Better than Nature, how her flowers should blow;
How her sweet birds should sing and fountains flow—
And where her trees should stand—her cliffs should rise,
In scattered pointings to the glorious skies.
Leave such cold bosoms, Nature! to their fate;
And be thou grand—luxuriant—desolate—
As it best pleaseth thee. These wretched fools
Would have Creation work by lines and rules.
Theirs is the destiny—be theirs the curse,
In their improvements still—to mount from bad to worse.
Her brightest blossoms with her greenest leaves;
Where the wild grape hangs dropping in the shade,
O'er unfledged minstrels, that beneath are laid:
Where all is fragrant, breathing negligence;
And Nature's budding child, sweet Innocence;
Where now her treasures, and her mysteries—
Like shrouded diamonds—or like sleeping eyes,
Are only seen by those, who kneel and take
Their first bright beaming, when they first awake:
Where now, fresh streamlets answer to the hues
Of passing seraph-wings—and fiery dews,
Hang thick on every bush, when morning wakes,
Like sprinkled flame; and all the green-wood shakes
With liquid jewelry, that Night hath flung
Open her favourite tresses, while they swung,
And wantoned in the wind—henceforth will be
No lighted dimness, such as that you see,
In yonder faint, mysterious scenery,
Where all the woods keep festival—and seem
Beneath the midnight sky—and mellow beam
Of yonder breathing light—as if they were
Branches and leaves of unembodied air:
Where fountains sing and sparkle to the skies,
In all their sweetest desert melodies—
The prisoned water will be made to play
In one eternal glitter to the day:
Unnatural freshness—arbours will be seen—
And tortured festoons of fantastick green:
The heavy grotto—and the loaded bower:
108
The tasteless mingling of the savage pine,
With the bright tendrils of the garden vine:
The stooping willow, with its braided light,
And feathery tresses, changeable and bright:—
The airy mountain ash—the elm—and oak
Rising triumphant from the Thunderer's stroke;—
In all their rich exuberance, shooting out
Their restless sceptres, to the winds about,
The lordly monarchs of the vigorous wood!
Placed by the towering—upstart-poplar brood—
And all the foppery of silly Taste,
That grieves to see wild Nature so unchaste,
That—in her modesty—would barely hint
‘That such and such a shade, and such a tint
‘Might mingle better, if a little care—
‘A little grouping here—and contrast there,
‘Were just to—but no matter,’—they all know
Better than Nature, how her flowers should blow;
How her sweet birds should sing and fountains flow—
And where her trees should stand—her cliffs should rise,
In scattered pointings to the glorious skies.
Leave such cold bosoms, Nature! to their fate;
And be thou grand—luxuriant—desolate—
As it best pleaseth thee. These wretched fools
Would have Creation work by lines and rules.
Theirs is the destiny—be theirs the curse,
In their improvements still—to mount from bad to worse.
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Be ever thus thou Wilderness! be wild
In thine own nakedness—young Nature's child!
Still hang her festoons o'er thy glittering caves:
Still far from thee the pageantry of slaves!
The dull cold blooming of the lifeless wreaths,
Plucked from the garden where Oppression breathes:
The misty poison of the sultry flowers,
That shed their sleep in artificial bowers:
May Architecture never rear her spires,
Or swell her domes to thy warm sunset fires;
Where now, o'er verdant pyramids and pines,
And dark green crowns, the crimson lustre shines!
Enough has now been done—thou art but free:
Art but a refuge now for Liberty—
E'en now the wakening thunder sometimes roars
Above thy prostrate oaks—the guardians of thy shores.
In thine own nakedness—young Nature's child!
Still hang her festoons o'er thy glittering caves:
Still far from thee the pageantry of slaves!
The dull cold blooming of the lifeless wreaths,
Plucked from the garden where Oppression breathes:
The misty poison of the sultry flowers,
That shed their sleep in artificial bowers:
May Architecture never rear her spires,
Or swell her domes to thy warm sunset fires;
Where now, o'er verdant pyramids and pines,
And dark green crowns, the crimson lustre shines!
Enough has now been done—thou art but free:
Art but a refuge now for Liberty—
E'en now the wakening thunder sometimes roars
Above thy prostrate oaks—the guardians of thy shores.
Roll not thy waves in light, Ontario!!
For ever darkly may thy waters flow!—
Through thy tall shores and blooming solitudes,
Sacred to loneliness—and caves—and woods:—
Roll not thy waves in light—or thou wilt see
Their bosoms heave no longer darkly free:
But whitening into foam beneath their load,
While Commerce ploughs upon her flashing road;
And thou mayest stand, and hearken to the cry
Of thy young genii mounting to the sky:
And feel the fanning of the last free wing,
That's shaken o'er thy brow, as it goes wandering:
And listen to the loud, tumultuous roar
Of martial thunders echoing from thy shore;
And thou—thy ramparts, cliffs, and citadels,
Where now Sublimity, with Freedom, dwells,
Will see thy conquerors on thy mountains rise,
With glittering banners rustling in the skies;
And see their streamers flash, and hear the song
Of victory o'er thee, go pealingly along.
For ever darkly may thy waters flow!—
Through thy tall shores and blooming solitudes,
Sacred to loneliness—and caves—and woods:—
Roll not thy waves in light—or thou wilt see
Their bosoms heave no longer darkly free:
But whitening into foam beneath their load,
While Commerce ploughs upon her flashing road;
And thou mayest stand, and hearken to the cry
Of thy young genii mounting to the sky:
And feel the fanning of the last free wing,
That's shaken o'er thy brow, as it goes wandering:
And listen to the loud, tumultuous roar
Of martial thunders echoing from thy shore;
110
Where now Sublimity, with Freedom, dwells,
Will see thy conquerors on thy mountains rise,
With glittering banners rustling in the skies;
And see their streamers flash, and hear the song
Of victory o'er thee, go pealingly along.
Hail, sleepless monarch! Old Ontario!
Thou, of the woods, and of the Indian bow,
I see thy glories in their dark blue flow!
A lake of wonders!—where the stars appear
In the fair deep, more luminous and clear,
For their confusion! All thy dim shores lie
In moonlight's sleepy, soft tranquillity.
The air is cool, but motionless; about
Is something of enchantment, awe and doubt—
As in the fleeting scenery of a dream,
When landscapes come—and vanish!—like the beam
That blue voluptuous eyes emit in tears,
That trembles—brightens—fades, and disappears!
Something mysterious—holy—like the air
Of caverns, when some spirit has been there;
While yet the breathing incense that was shed,
Is faint and floating round, like sighings o'er the dead.
Thou, of the woods, and of the Indian bow,
I see thy glories in their dark blue flow!
A lake of wonders!—where the stars appear
In the fair deep, more luminous and clear,
For their confusion! All thy dim shores lie
In moonlight's sleepy, soft tranquillity.
The air is cool, but motionless; about
Is something of enchantment, awe and doubt—
As in the fleeting scenery of a dream,
When landscapes come—and vanish!—like the beam
That blue voluptuous eyes emit in tears,
That trembles—brightens—fades, and disappears!
Something mysterious—holy—like the air
Of caverns, when some spirit has been there;
While yet the breathing incense that was shed,
Is faint and floating round, like sighings o'er the dead.
No sound is on the ear: no boatman's oar
Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore:
But all is listening, as it were, to hear
Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere,
And calling on the desert to express,
Its sense of Silence in her loveliness.
What holy dreaming comes in nights like these!
When, like yon wave—unruffled by a breeze,
The mirrors of the memory all are spread,
And fanning pinions sail around your head:
When all that man may love—alive or dead,
Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things,
And nestle on his heart with their young wings:
And all perchance may come, that he may fear,
And mutter doubtful curses in his ear:
Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain
With indistinct forbodings, dim—and vain—
Who has not felt the unexpected tear?
Who has not shaken with an awful fear,
When, in the wilderness—alone—he trod—
Where, since there walked the Everlasting God—
No living foot hath been? where boundless woods—
Where sanctuaries—waters—solitudes—
In dreadful stillness—vaulted round—are spread,
Like some appointed place—for judgment on the dead.
Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore:
But all is listening, as it were, to hear
Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere,
And calling on the desert to express,
Its sense of Silence in her loveliness.
111
When, like yon wave—unruffled by a breeze,
The mirrors of the memory all are spread,
And fanning pinions sail around your head:
When all that man may love—alive or dead,
Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things,
And nestle on his heart with their young wings:
And all perchance may come, that he may fear,
And mutter doubtful curses in his ear:
Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain
With indistinct forbodings, dim—and vain—
Who has not felt the unexpected tear?
Who has not shaken with an awful fear,
When, in the wilderness—alone—he trod—
Where, since there walked the Everlasting God—
No living foot hath been? where boundless woods—
Where sanctuaries—waters—solitudes—
In dreadful stillness—vaulted round—are spread,
Like some appointed place—for judgment on the dead.
The moon goes lightly up her thronging way,
And shadowy things are brightening into day;
And cliff, and shrub, and bank, and tree, and stone,
Now move upon the eye—and now are gone!
A dazzling tapestry is hung around:
A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground;
The willows glitter in the passing beam,
And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream:
And all the full, rich foliage of the shore,
Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er;
And dances at the faintest breath of night,
And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light.
And shadowy things are brightening into day;
And cliff, and shrub, and bank, and tree, and stone,
Now move upon the eye—and now are gone!
A dazzling tapestry is hung around:
A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground;
The willows glitter in the passing beam,
And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream:
And all the full, rich foliage of the shore,
Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er;
112
And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light.
Far o'er the slumbering wave, amid the shade,
Millions of dancing lights are thick arrayed;
And interposing forms are seen to go,
With ceaseless step, unwearied, firm and slow—
In measured walking, like a cavalcade—
As if a band were marshalled for parade—
Before a line of fire, that redly throws
A glimmering richness, where that billow flows,
And some yet feebler lights are o'er the turf,
Like sea foam brightening faintly o'er the surf.
There, Pestilence hath breathed! within each tent
The midnight bow, with quenchless shaft—is bent;
And many a youthful hero wastes away,
In that—the worst of deaths—the death of slow decay.
Millions of dancing lights are thick arrayed;
And interposing forms are seen to go,
With ceaseless step, unwearied, firm and slow—
In measured walking, like a cavalcade—
As if a band were marshalled for parade—
Before a line of fire, that redly throws
A glimmering richness, where that billow flows,
And some yet feebler lights are o'er the turf,
Like sea foam brightening faintly o'er the surf.
There, Pestilence hath breathed! within each tent
The midnight bow, with quenchless shaft—is bent;
And many a youthful hero wastes away,
In that—the worst of deaths—the death of slow decay.
This dark, cool wave is bluer than the deep,
Where sailors—children of the tempest!—sleep;
And dropped with lights as pure—as still as those—
The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose,
Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray,
That Ocean's flashing surges send astray;
And when the foam comes loosely o'er its breast,
The sea-maid's bosom with its studded vest,
That mightier billows bear, is dark—is dull,
To this light silvery spray, so beautiful!
This is the mirror of dim Solitude,
On which unholy things may ne'er intrude;
That frowns and ruffles when the clouds appear,
Refusing to reflect their shapes of fear;
Ontario's deeps are spread to multiply
But sunshine—stars—the moon—and clear-blue sky,
The ocean—when at peace—is but the place
Where those who rule the tempest—dwell in space—
Direct the thunder—rock the established hill—
And steadfast shore;—whose countless myriads fill
All heaven and earth—and air—are wont to dwell,
And calm themselves to sleep upon its boundless swell.
Where sailors—children of the tempest!—sleep;
And dropped with lights as pure—as still as those—
The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose,
Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray,
That Ocean's flashing surges send astray;
And when the foam comes loosely o'er its breast,
The sea-maid's bosom with its studded vest,
That mightier billows bear, is dark—is dull,
To this light silvery spray, so beautiful!
This is the mirror of dim Solitude,
On which unholy things may ne'er intrude;
That frowns and ruffles when the clouds appear,
Refusing to reflect their shapes of fear;
113
But sunshine—stars—the moon—and clear-blue sky,
The ocean—when at peace—is but the place
Where those who rule the tempest—dwell in space—
Direct the thunder—rock the established hill—
And steadfast shore;—whose countless myriads fill
All heaven and earth—and air—are wont to dwell,
And calm themselves to sleep upon its boundless swell.
No pirate barque was ever seen to ride,
With blood-red streamer, chasing o'er that tide;
'Till late, no bugle o'er those waters sang
With aught but huntsman's orisons, that rang
Their clear—exulting—bold—triumphant strain,
'Till all the mountain echoes laughed again!
'Till caverns, depths, and hills, would all reply,
And heav'n's blue dome ring out the sprightly melody.
With blood-red streamer, chasing o'er that tide;
'Till late, no bugle o'er those waters sang
With aught but huntsman's orisons, that rang
Their clear—exulting—bold—triumphant strain,
'Till all the mountain echoes laughed again!
'Till caverns, depths, and hills, would all reply,
And heav'n's blue dome ring out the sprightly melody.
Within those depths no shipwrecked sailor lies,
Upon his foaming couch; whose dying eyes
Were closed amid the storm—with no one near,
To grasp his hand, or drop the manly tear:
With not one friend—one shipmate left to tell,
As 'tis in strife—how gallantly he fell.
Not one to tell the melancholy tale,
To her whose heart is on the rising gale.
Within that peaceful sanctuary sleep
No victim wanderers of the mighty deep;
No ocean-wreaths are there—no diadems,
Of bloody sea-weed, sprinkled o'er with gems,
That vanish when ye touch them, like the pearl
That glitters on the sea-maid's shining curl;
No wrecks of slaughter:—flags in battle rent;
By Victory scattered in the firmament:
Not one of all those trophies of the flood,
When ship encounters ship, and foams along in blood.
Upon his foaming couch; whose dying eyes
Were closed amid the storm—with no one near,
To grasp his hand, or drop the manly tear:
With not one friend—one shipmate left to tell,
As 'tis in strife—how gallantly he fell.
Not one to tell the melancholy tale,
To her whose heart is on the rising gale.
Within that peaceful sanctuary sleep
No victim wanderers of the mighty deep;
No ocean-wreaths are there—no diadems,
Of bloody sea-weed, sprinkled o'er with gems,
That vanish when ye touch them, like the pearl
That glitters on the sea-maid's shining curl;
114
By Victory scattered in the firmament:
Not one of all those trophies of the flood,
When ship encounters ship, and foams along in blood.
August amid this scene, unclouded, stand
The everlasting hills that guard our land:
And rear their rocky helmets, where the sky
Hath pitched their tent upon immensity.
These are our forts! our battlements! our holds!
Our bulwarks! our entrenchments! Here unfolds
The rainbow-banner, and its lights are forth
In sudden splendours, like the streaming north:
An outspread eaglet o'er each standard stoops,
With unclosed beak, and wing that never droops:
And stars are busy there—and through the night,
A constellation blazes on the sight-
Eagles! and stars! and rainbows! all abroad,
Beneath a boundless sky, upon a mountain road!
The everlasting hills that guard our land:
And rear their rocky helmets, where the sky
Hath pitched their tent upon immensity.
These are our forts! our battlements! our holds!
Our bulwarks! our entrenchments! Here unfolds
The rainbow-banner, and its lights are forth
In sudden splendours, like the streaming north:
An outspread eaglet o'er each standard stoops,
With unclosed beak, and wing that never droops:
And stars are busy there—and through the night,
A constellation blazes on the sight-
Eagles! and stars! and rainbows! all abroad,
Beneath a boundless sky, upon a mountain road!
And LIBERTY, from whose imperial eye,
Unfettered limb, and step of majesty,
Perpetual sunshine brightens all the air,
When undisturbed by man—in wrath is there!
And prostrate armies now, are kneeling round:
They see the rolling clouds! they hear the sound
Of pealing thunders! While her martial form
Lightens tremendous in the gathering storm!
They breathe that buoyant mountain atmosphere,
And kindling in their eyes those lights appear,—
Those quenchless lights!—that despots, tyrants dread,
When man comes forth in might, and lifts his head
Sublime in desperation; when they hear
The song of trumpets bursting on their ear!
The shock of armies! and, afar, behold
Rebellion's crimson standard all unrolled!
When slaves are men—are monarchs—and their tread
Comes like the resurrection of the dead!
Man bursts his fetters! shakes his sheathless sword—
Stands on his grave, and battles with his lord
For sepulture or freedom—eye to eye—
And swears to live his equal, or to die,
In glorious martyrdom—to glorious Liberty.
Unfettered limb, and step of majesty,
Perpetual sunshine brightens all the air,
When undisturbed by man—in wrath is there!
And prostrate armies now, are kneeling round:
They see the rolling clouds! they hear the sound
Of pealing thunders! While her martial form
Lightens tremendous in the gathering storm!
They breathe that buoyant mountain atmosphere,
And kindling in their eyes those lights appear,—
Those quenchless lights!—that despots, tyrants dread,
When man comes forth in might, and lifts his head
115
The song of trumpets bursting on their ear!
The shock of armies! and, afar, behold
Rebellion's crimson standard all unrolled!
When slaves are men—are monarchs—and their tread
Comes like the resurrection of the dead!
Man bursts his fetters! shakes his sheathless sword—
Stands on his grave, and battles with his lord
For sepulture or freedom—eye to eye—
And swears to live his equal, or to die,
In glorious martyrdom—to glorious Liberty.
Then let the trumpet of the battle sound!
Then let the shuddering challenge peal around!
'Till all our ruffled eaglets start and wake—
And scream aloud—and whet their beaks—and shake
Their guardian wings, o'er mountain, wood, and lake!
The blast will but disturb the spirit there;
But rouse the she-wolf from her bloody lair;
But wake the fiery-harnessed multitudes;
The dark battalions of untrodden woods;
Whose viewless chiefs shall gird their armour on.
And lighten o'er the fields their valour won:
'Twill 'waken echoes in that solitude,
Less welcome than the panther's cry for food:
Less earthly—than the voices heard, when Night
Collects her angels on some stormy height,
And airy trumps are blown! and o'er the heaven
Ten thousand fearful challenges are given!
Then let the shuddering challenge peal around!
'Till all our ruffled eaglets start and wake—
And scream aloud—and whet their beaks—and shake
Their guardian wings, o'er mountain, wood, and lake!
The blast will but disturb the spirit there;
But rouse the she-wolf from her bloody lair;
But wake the fiery-harnessed multitudes;
The dark battalions of untrodden woods;
Whose viewless chiefs shall gird their armour on.
And lighten o'er the fields their valour won:
'Twill 'waken echoes in that solitude,
Less welcome than the panther's cry for food:
Less earthly—than the voices heard, when Night
Collects her angels on some stormy height,
And airy trumps are blown! and o'er the heaven
Ten thousand fearful challenges are given!
Those star-crowned hills! the gathering will be there,
Of heaven's dim hordes, the squadrons of air!
Erect and high, upon their stormy cars—
In meteor armour—rushing 'mid the stars,
The dusky champions of the earth and sky
Will seem encountering in their chivalry.
Yon moon-light tents, so gallantly outspread
By living hands, will then be filled with dead:
Whose home is space: the habitation, too,
Of yon perpetual host, that walk in blue:
That endless multitude! eternal source!
Of wonder and of worship in their course;
O, whither is your march? ye stars! and whence?
Ye blazing myriads of Omnipotence!
Ye suns! who burst from darkness with our earth,
Still coming forth in one continual birth!
Almighty miracles! who fill the air
With melody and light, as if ye were
A host of living harmonies,—ye roll,
Systems and worlds—all intellect and soul!
Interpreters of God! who've called to man,
From yon eternal vault, since time began:
Ye midnight travellers, who, nightly move
In everlasting pilgrimage above!
Ye blazonry of power! ye heraldry of love!
Of heaven's dim hordes, the squadrons of air!
116
In meteor armour—rushing 'mid the stars,
The dusky champions of the earth and sky
Will seem encountering in their chivalry.
Yon moon-light tents, so gallantly outspread
By living hands, will then be filled with dead:
Whose home is space: the habitation, too,
Of yon perpetual host, that walk in blue:
That endless multitude! eternal source!
Of wonder and of worship in their course;
O, whither is your march? ye stars! and whence?
Ye blazing myriads of Omnipotence!
Ye suns! who burst from darkness with our earth,
Still coming forth in one continual birth!
Almighty miracles! who fill the air
With melody and light, as if ye were
A host of living harmonies,—ye roll,
Systems and worlds—all intellect and soul!
Interpreters of God! who've called to man,
From yon eternal vault, since time began:
Ye midnight travellers, who, nightly move
In everlasting pilgrimage above!
Ye blazonry of power! ye heraldry of love!
There's one who stands to see that deep blue fold
Of glories—suns—and systems, all unrolled,
In speechless adoration,—with an eye
Of dampened light uplifted to the sky;
Who half forgets the signal that he gave,
And echoing answer o'er the distant wave:
For he is all alone upon the shore—
Alone—at night—what could he think of more?
He speaks not—moves not his uncovered brow,
If one might see—perchance is gathered now;
His attitude, so fixed, is that of thought—
Something of stern composure; as if wrought
With dangerous purpose to be done with speed,
Some quick-matured—but full-determined deed;
Now—o'er the dim blue waters you may see
His eye go flashing and impatiently:
And now his helm is shaken—and his hand
Is partly raised as if 'twere in command:
The dipping of an oar is heard—a boat so light,
It scarcely touched the wave, is now in sight:
Around the cliff it came, like some keen bird—
That passes by you 'ere her wing is heard;
Like the enchanted skiff that dreamers see,
Self-moved in moonlight breeze—light, swift, and cheerfully:
Of glories—suns—and systems, all unrolled,
117
Of dampened light uplifted to the sky;
Who half forgets the signal that he gave,
And echoing answer o'er the distant wave:
For he is all alone upon the shore—
Alone—at night—what could he think of more?
He speaks not—moves not his uncovered brow,
If one might see—perchance is gathered now;
His attitude, so fixed, is that of thought—
Something of stern composure; as if wrought
With dangerous purpose to be done with speed,
Some quick-matured—but full-determined deed;
Now—o'er the dim blue waters you may see
His eye go flashing and impatiently:
And now his helm is shaken—and his hand
Is partly raised as if 'twere in command:
The dipping of an oar is heard—a boat so light,
It scarcely touched the wave, is now in sight:
Around the cliff it came, like some keen bird—
That passes by you 'ere her wing is heard;
Like the enchanted skiff that dreamers see,
Self-moved in moonlight breeze—light, swift, and cheerfully:
An Indian springs on shore: his light canoe
Hath vanished like a spectre from the view:
Something he murmurs in the sullen tone
Of one who is abandoned: all alone—
Left to contend with many; and his eye,
So rooted—deadly, bodes some danger nigh:
Hush! hush—a rustling—and a fearful pause—
A sword is half unsheathed—the Indians draws
His arrow to the head; but why?—no sound—
Of thundering tread, is echoing on the ground:
No footstep comes—no cautious—stealing foe—
The garland-float is heard, and watery-flow—
And nothing else, o'er blue Ontario.
One rapid glance! his soul is all revealed;
Battle is near—his swarthy brow is sealed
With Indian-meaning, and his serpent eye
Is black and glittering with a changeless dye;
The stranger too—as if he scarcely breathed,
Stands stooping—listening—with his blade unsheathed;
Silent as death they are; one glance—a single glance
Was but exchanged—in their deep, pulseless trance—
One glance! it was enough—and each was sure
Of all his fellow would perform—endure.
Yet—none of that of companionship is here,
The union of the vulgar, when in fear:
No talk—no whisper—but the steady eye
Of dangerous-boding—stern tranquillity:
The strong, cool brow—the upright, martial tread
Of planted strength—the boldly lifted head.
One glance! a white man's glance—the Indian feels
What none but Nature's savage man conceals—
The swell of sympathy—of brotherhood,
In danger and in death—in solitude.
Hath vanished like a spectre from the view:
Something he murmurs in the sullen tone
Of one who is abandoned: all alone—
Left to contend with many; and his eye,
So rooted—deadly, bodes some danger nigh:
118
A sword is half unsheathed—the Indians draws
His arrow to the head; but why?—no sound—
Of thundering tread, is echoing on the ground:
No footstep comes—no cautious—stealing foe—
The garland-float is heard, and watery-flow—
And nothing else, o'er blue Ontario.
One rapid glance! his soul is all revealed;
Battle is near—his swarthy brow is sealed
With Indian-meaning, and his serpent eye
Is black and glittering with a changeless dye;
The stranger too—as if he scarcely breathed,
Stands stooping—listening—with his blade unsheathed;
Silent as death they are; one glance—a single glance
Was but exchanged—in their deep, pulseless trance—
One glance! it was enough—and each was sure
Of all his fellow would perform—endure.
Yet—none of that of companionship is here,
The union of the vulgar, when in fear:
No talk—no whisper—but the steady eye
Of dangerous-boding—stern tranquillity:
The strong, cool brow—the upright, martial tread
Of planted strength—the boldly lifted head.
One glance! a white man's glance—the Indian feels
What none but Nature's savage man conceals—
The swell of sympathy—of brotherhood,
In danger and in death—in solitude.
Now—o'er the waters ye may faintly see
A shadowy vision coming silently:
A rushing now is heard—and spreading large
With sail upon the wind—there comes a barge:
And yet, methinks, its lightly lifted prow,
Upon its glossy path, goes wondrous slow;
It comes—as drifting from the guarded strand,
And looks as tho' in peace—unarmed—unmanned:
This has a quite aspect—but that sail
Is sharply trimmed, as if it might prevail,
In ruder nights than this, against a fiercer gale.
A shadowy vision coming silently:
119
With sail upon the wind—there comes a barge:
And yet, methinks, its lightly lifted prow,
Upon its glossy path, goes wondrous slow;
It comes—as drifting from the guarded strand,
And looks as tho' in peace—unarmed—unmanned:
This has a quite aspect—but that sail
Is sharply trimmed, as if it might prevail,
In ruder nights than this, against a fiercer gale.
A bird of prey, perhaps—that folds its wing—
And sits upon the wave in slumbering;
That stoops at night—but stay! she goes about—
Is that a signal?—there!—that light thrown out?
By heaven 'tis answered!—answered from the land!
From yonder beetling steep is stretched a brand!
The waters foam—up comes the boat in pride!
Leaving a path of light along the tide;
And 'ere the soldier can put forth his blade,
He is a prisoner!—Round him are arrayed
A hidden band, that started from their shade:
A band with bayonets levelled at his breast—
The circle narrows—nods each threatening crest:
Contracting slowly, they approach—as they
Still feared a single warrior, when at bay:
‘Yield,’ cries the foremost, loudly,—fiercely—‘yield!’
The stranger would reply—but sees concealed
Beneath a stooping oak, his dark ally,
With bended bow—and cool, and patient eye,—
He waves his hand—the arrow's point is dropp'd—
The death shaft of a foe, upon its flight, is stopp'd;
The summons is repeated: ‘Yield!’ he cries,
With anger flashing from his youthful eyes:
A pause—a change of attitude betrays
A naked blade to his imperious gaze.
A backward step—‘a dagger—thus revealed’—
What could he think?—‘Stranger!—that point concealed!’
‘Concealed!’ the stranger echoed—and it came,
With startling emphasis, and kindling flame;
Then—turning silently, he shook his head
In calm disdain, and with his lordly tread,
And gathered cloak, he stood—as one who feels
That every spirit round him, prostrate kneels:
He grasps his trusty hilt:—he moves away:
The circle widens:—all who meet, obey
The calm command—firm step—intrepid eye
Of one familiar with such victory:
Amid the working of that mighty spell
He had escaped—but some low murmurs fell,
And each arose in heart: their wandering eyes
Now lowered in silent threat—now sought their prize:
The charm was broken, and their strength returned;
And each reproached his comrade, while he burned
To wipe away, for ever, this disgrace,
And meet his foe, once more!—but face to face.
'Tis done—their prayer is granted—their pursuit
Is short indeed. Again they all are mute;
He stands too proudly—and is found too near,
To leave them their last hope—that he had fled in fear.
And sits upon the wave in slumbering;
That stoops at night—but stay! she goes about—
Is that a signal?—there!—that light thrown out?
By heaven 'tis answered!—answered from the land!
From yonder beetling steep is stretched a brand!
The waters foam—up comes the boat in pride!
Leaving a path of light along the tide;
And 'ere the soldier can put forth his blade,
He is a prisoner!—Round him are arrayed
A hidden band, that started from their shade:
A band with bayonets levelled at his breast—
The circle narrows—nods each threatening crest:
Contracting slowly, they approach—as they
Still feared a single warrior, when at bay:
‘Yield,’ cries the foremost, loudly,—fiercely—‘yield!’
The stranger would reply—but sees concealed
Beneath a stooping oak, his dark ally,
With bended bow—and cool, and patient eye,—
He waves his hand—the arrow's point is dropp'd—
The death shaft of a foe, upon its flight, is stopp'd;
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With anger flashing from his youthful eyes:
A pause—a change of attitude betrays
A naked blade to his imperious gaze.
A backward step—‘a dagger—thus revealed’—
What could he think?—‘Stranger!—that point concealed!’
‘Concealed!’ the stranger echoed—and it came,
With startling emphasis, and kindling flame;
Then—turning silently, he shook his head
In calm disdain, and with his lordly tread,
And gathered cloak, he stood—as one who feels
That every spirit round him, prostrate kneels:
He grasps his trusty hilt:—he moves away:
The circle widens:—all who meet, obey
The calm command—firm step—intrepid eye
Of one familiar with such victory:
Amid the working of that mighty spell
He had escaped—but some low murmurs fell,
And each arose in heart: their wandering eyes
Now lowered in silent threat—now sought their prize:
The charm was broken, and their strength returned;
And each reproached his comrade, while he burned
To wipe away, for ever, this disgrace,
And meet his foe, once more!—but face to face.
'Tis done—their prayer is granted—their pursuit
Is short indeed. Again they all are mute;
He stands too proudly—and is found too near,
To leave them their last hope—that he had fled in fear.
Their angry leader is the first to break
The sullen loneliness; the first to wake
Some sound—he cares not what—so it be life;
Something less awful—be it even strife.
‘Stranger!’ he cries again, ‘your arms! your sword!—
‘Or’—pausing faintly—‘or’—the evening word.
The stranger smiled—advanced his foot,—and said;
While all stood awe-struck at his martial tread,
And something rustled in the neighbouring shade—
‘Where is your leader?—let him take my blade!’
‘I am the leader!’—
‘You! and by what right
‘Arrest ye thus a traveller at night?’
They marked his port—his keen, unshifting eye;
His half-raised lip, and stand of majesty—
His calm—serene—and almost taunting tone—
And yet—they knew their prize!—he was alone.
‘A traveller!—yes—and 'ere to-morrow's light
He will be hanged for travelling thus at night.’
The stranger's hand fell sudden on his hip,
‘Hanged!’ he replied, and higher curled his lip,
And lightnings left his eye!—and forth he stood
Like something raised within that solitude
By some unholy rite—upraised in wrath,
By some unhallowed step upon his path;
He struggled—heaved as if he gasped for breath—
And all was silent then, as in the hour of death.
The sullen loneliness; the first to wake
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Something less awful—be it even strife.
‘Stranger!’ he cries again, ‘your arms! your sword!—
‘Or’—pausing faintly—‘or’—the evening word.
The stranger smiled—advanced his foot,—and said;
While all stood awe-struck at his martial tread,
And something rustled in the neighbouring shade—
‘Where is your leader?—let him take my blade!’
‘I am the leader!’—
‘You! and by what right
‘Arrest ye thus a traveller at night?’
They marked his port—his keen, unshifting eye;
His half-raised lip, and stand of majesty—
His calm—serene—and almost taunting tone—
And yet—they knew their prize!—he was alone.
‘A traveller!—yes—and 'ere to-morrow's light
He will be hanged for travelling thus at night.’
The stranger's hand fell sudden on his hip,
‘Hanged!’ he replied, and higher curled his lip,
And lightnings left his eye!—and forth he stood
Like something raised within that solitude
By some unholy rite—upraised in wrath,
By some unhallowed step upon his path;
He struggled—heaved as if he gasped for breath—
And all was silent then, as in the hour of death.
At last the swelling of his chest subsides—
The lightnings pass away—a cold smile rides
Upon the writhing of his mighty brow,
And glittering breast—from which his mantle's flow
Is opening in the tumult of his heart,—
Like the last splendours of the storm, that part,
And o'er the rolling clouds in softness sleep—
Or tender moon-light on the troubled deep;
‘Hanged!’ he repeated—‘hang a soldier—no!—
‘Soldiers are never hanged.’—Forth stepped his foe:—
‘No more—your arms!—a dastard midnight spy
‘Should never—never—like a soldier die!’
‘A spy!—enough’—and forth his faulchion flew;
A shrill, quick summons to his band he blew—
Threw off his cloak—against the high rock stood,
And bade him take his sword, who ‘dared and would!’
Charge!’ cried the leader, ‘charge!’ and drew his brand;
‘Already they encounter, hand to hand—
But pause—for lo!—they meet with men and steeds—
An arrow from the distant shade proceeds—
The foremost falls—an Indian rushes out,
And mingles with the horsemen's furious shout,
And sabres streaming clash—his thrilling cries:
Short is the conflict—half the foot band dies.
‘Secure them,’ cried the chief—I must away—
‘Speed to the camp—return by break of day.
The lightnings pass away—a cold smile rides
Upon the writhing of his mighty brow,
And glittering breast—from which his mantle's flow
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Like the last splendours of the storm, that part,
And o'er the rolling clouds in softness sleep—
Or tender moon-light on the troubled deep;
‘Hanged!’ he repeated—‘hang a soldier—no!—
‘Soldiers are never hanged.’—Forth stepped his foe:—
‘No more—your arms!—a dastard midnight spy
‘Should never—never—like a soldier die!’
‘A spy!—enough’—and forth his faulchion flew;
A shrill, quick summons to his band he blew—
Threw off his cloak—against the high rock stood,
And bade him take his sword, who ‘dared and would!’
Charge!’ cried the leader, ‘charge!’ and drew his brand;
‘Already they encounter, hand to hand—
But pause—for lo!—they meet with men and steeds—
An arrow from the distant shade proceeds—
The foremost falls—an Indian rushes out,
And mingles with the horsemen's furious shout,
And sabres streaming clash—his thrilling cries:
Short is the conflict—half the foot band dies.
‘Secure them,’ cried the chief—I must away—
‘Speed to the camp—return by break of day.
The barge hath fled—the Indian, where is he?
The savage man—the naked—he is free!
Again appears the skimming light canoe—
Forth from its covert, o'er the watery blue,
With wondrous impulse now, it swiftly flies,
Like some young spirit o'er the wintry skies:
Now underneath the cliff—now up a stream
Of ruffled shade, it passes like a dream:
The savage man—the naked—he is free!
Again appears the skimming light canoe—
Forth from its covert, o'er the watery blue,
With wondrous impulse now, it swiftly flies,
Like some young spirit o'er the wintry skies:
Now underneath the cliff—now up a stream
Of ruffled shade, it passes like a dream:
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Now shooting 'thwart a tranquil, lovely sheet
Of shining light, as it goes as still and fleet,
As that ethereal bark that sails on high,
Amid the lustre of a dark blue sky:
Now on the flowery bank a light appears—
A cottage nestles:—and an oak uprears,
With all its giant branches, wide outspread,
Above the lonely cot—its thunder-blasted head.
And there the stranger stays: beneath that oak,
Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke
Of heaven's own thunder—yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves—
As though it dared the elements, and stood
The guardian of that cot—the monarch of that wood.
Of shining light, as it goes as still and fleet,
As that ethereal bark that sails on high,
Amid the lustre of a dark blue sky:
Now on the flowery bank a light appears—
A cottage nestles:—and an oak uprears,
With all its giant branches, wide outspread,
Above the lonely cot—its thunder-blasted head.
And there the stranger stays: beneath that oak,
Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke
Of heaven's own thunder—yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves—
As though it dared the elements, and stood
The guardian of that cot—the monarch of that wood.
Beneath its venerable vault he stands:
And one might think, who saw his out-stretched hands,
That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,
Had touched him with its holy, calm appeal:
That yonder wave—the heaven—the earth—the air
Had called upon his spirit for her prayer.
His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene:
The oak—the cot—the wood—the faded green—
The moon—the sky—the distant moving light—
All!—all are gathering on his dampened sight.
His warrior-helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade
Beneath a window, on the turfare laid:
The panes are ruddy thro' the clambering vines
And blushing leaves, that Summer intertwines
In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant Spring,
O'er flower-embosomed roof led wandering.
His pulses quicken—for a rude old door
Is opened by the wind: he sees the floor
Strewed with white sand, on which he used to trace
His boyhood's battles—and assign a place
To charging hosts—and give the Indian yell—
And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tell,
How he had fought with savages, whose breath
He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death.
And one might think, who saw his out-stretched hands,
That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,
Had touched him with its holy, calm appeal:
That yonder wave—the heaven—the earth—the air
Had called upon his spirit for her prayer.
His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene:
The oak—the cot—the wood—the faded green—
The moon—the sky—the distant moving light—
All!—all are gathering on his dampened sight.
His warrior-helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade
Beneath a window, on the turfare laid:
The panes are ruddy thro' the clambering vines
And blushing leaves, that Summer intertwines
In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant Spring,
O'er flower-embosomed roof led wandering.
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Is opened by the wind: he sees the floor
Strewed with white sand, on which he used to trace
His boyhood's battles—and assign a place
To charging hosts—and give the Indian yell—
And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tell,
How he had fought with savages, whose breath
He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death.
Hark!—that sweet song!—how full of tenderness!
O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press
Of lulling thoughts!—so soothing and so low;
Like singing fountains in their faintest flow—
It is as if some holy—lovely thing,
Within our very hearts were murmuring,
The soldier listens, and his arms are prest
In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:
Now—on the very window where he stands,
Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:
And now—ah heaven!—blessings on that smile!—
Stay, soldier stay—O, linger yet awhile!
An airy vision now appears, with eyes—
As tender as the blue of weeping skies
Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue,
When sunset glitters on its falling dew;
With form—all joy and dance—as bright and free
As youthful nymph of mountain Liberty:
Or naked angels dreamt by poesy:
A blooming infant to her heart is prest;
And ah—a mother's song is lulling it to rest!
O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press
Of lulling thoughts!—so soothing and so low;
Like singing fountains in their faintest flow—
It is as if some holy—lovely thing,
Within our very hearts were murmuring,
The soldier listens, and his arms are prest
In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:
Now—on the very window where he stands,
Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:
And now—ah heaven!—blessings on that smile!—
Stay, soldier stay—O, linger yet awhile!
An airy vision now appears, with eyes—
As tender as the blue of weeping skies
Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue,
When sunset glitters on its falling dew;
With form—all joy and dance—as bright and free
As youthful nymph of mountain Liberty:
Or naked angels dreamt by poesy:
A blooming infant to her heart is prest;
And ah—a mother's song is lulling it to rest!
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A youthful mother! God of heaven! is there
A thing beneath the skies, so holy or so fair!
A thing beneath the skies, so holy or so fair!
A single bound!—our chief is standing by,
Trembling from head to foot with ecstacy—
‘Bless thee!’—at length he murmured—‘bless thee, love!
‘My wife!—my boy:’—Their eyes are raised above.
His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone:
A choking transport drowns his manly tone:
He sees the closing of a mild, blue eye,
His bosom echoes to a faint low cry:
His glorious boy springs freshly from its sleep;
Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eye-beams leap,
As half in fear—along the stranger's dress—
Then—half advancing—yields to his caress:—
Then—peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye,
With the clear look of radiant infancy,
The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky.
Trembling from head to foot with ecstacy—
‘Bless thee!’—at length he murmured—‘bless thee, love!
‘My wife!—my boy:’—Their eyes are raised above.
His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone:
A choking transport drowns his manly tone:
He sees the closing of a mild, blue eye,
His bosom echoes to a faint low cry:
His glorious boy springs freshly from its sleep;
Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eye-beams leap,
As half in fear—along the stranger's dress—
Then—half advancing—yields to his caress:—
Then—peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye,
With the clear look of radiant infancy,
The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky.
The stranger now, is kneeling by the side
Of that young mother;—watching for the tide
Of her returning life:—it comes—a glow
Goes—faintly—slowly—o'er her cheek and brow:
A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds
A snowy breast—like twilight's melting clouds—
In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays
The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.
Of that young mother;—watching for the tide
Of her returning life:—it comes—a glow
Goes—faintly—slowly—o'er her cheek and brow:
A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds
A snowy breast—like twilight's melting clouds—
In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays
The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.
She lives! she lives—see how her feelings speak,
Thro' what transparency of eye and cheek!
Her colour comes and goes, like that faint ray,
That flits o'er lilies at the close of day.
O nature, how omnipotent!—that sigh—
That youthful mother, in her ecstacy,
Feels but the wandering of a husband's eye.
Her lip now ripens, and her heaving breast
Throbs wildly in its light, and now subsides to rest.
Thro' what transparency of eye and cheek!
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That flits o'er lilies at the close of day.
O nature, how omnipotent!—that sigh—
That youthful mother, in her ecstacy,
Feels but the wandering of a husband's eye.
Her lip now ripens, and her heaving breast
Throbs wildly in its light, and now subsides to rest.
And now a father grasps his martial hand;
A mother and a sister leaning stand—
A mother—in her adoration—there!—
With clasped hands and wildly streaming hair:
A sister—with a lip of pulpy red,
Swelling and trembling at his martial tread;
A father—and a soldier! one who feels
All that a father may—and yet his heart conceals.
A mother and a sister leaning stand—
A mother—in her adoration—there!—
With clasped hands and wildly streaming hair:
A sister—with a lip of pulpy red,
Swelling and trembling at his martial tread;
A father—and a soldier! one who feels
All that a father may—and yet his heart conceals.
There they all stand! and thro' their gathering tears,
The smile of gratitude and pride appears;
While o'er his manly form their glances fall;
To see his lordly height—so full—so tall;
The gallant bearing of hi swelling chest;
The lofty brow—commanding—and at rest!
His springing port—his strong, determined tread,
That sounded like a threat—the colour spread,
In health's effulgent brownness, o'er his cheek;
The glance of fire, in which there seemed to speak
The tamelessness of one, who'd spend his life
In battle and in storm—in tempest and in strife.
The smile of gratitude and pride appears;
While o'er his manly form their glances fall;
To see his lordly height—so full—so tall;
The gallant bearing of hi swelling chest;
The lofty brow—commanding—and at rest!
His springing port—his strong, determined tread,
That sounded like a threat—the colour spread,
In health's effulgent brownness, o'er his cheek;
The glance of fire, in which there seemed to speak
The tamelessness of one, who'd spend his life
In battle and in storm—in tempest and in strife.
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There stands the man of blood! now search his eye;
See ye aught there of that cool mastery,
That dwells on danger with untroubled look?
Aught of that deadly calmness, that will brook
No flame of challenge in another's gaze?
Aught of that desperate meaning, which betrays
The eye that is familiar with the deed
Of midnight battle, where the mighty bleed?
When valour—manhood—perish by the blow
From unseen hands, that lay the coward low?
No—ye may not. That youthful glance, less tame
Than the quick flashing of a meteor flame—
Is yet of generous omen—not the light
That burns vindictive on the blasted sight:
That streams from bloody falchions—lights the field
Of midnight slaughter, where the mighty yield
Their spirits to their God, in silent fight—
The war of murderers—wakened but in night!
His is the flashing eye that courts the day—
The pawing steed—the horn—the full display
Of columns—banners—martial minstrelsy—
The drums of earth—the echoes of the sky—
The trumpet-song of Death and cannon pealing high!
See ye aught there of that cool mastery,
That dwells on danger with untroubled look?
Aught of that deadly calmness, that will brook
No flame of challenge in another's gaze?
Aught of that desperate meaning, which betrays
The eye that is familiar with the deed
Of midnight battle, where the mighty bleed?
When valour—manhood—perish by the blow
From unseen hands, that lay the coward low?
No—ye may not. That youthful glance, less tame
Than the quick flashing of a meteor flame—
Is yet of generous omen—not the light
That burns vindictive on the blasted sight:
That streams from bloody falchions—lights the field
Of midnight slaughter, where the mighty yield
Their spirits to their God, in silent fight—
The war of murderers—wakened but in night!
His is the flashing eye that courts the day—
The pawing steed—the horn—the full display
Of columns—banners—martial minstrelsy—
The drums of earth—the echoes of the sky—
The trumpet-song of Death and cannon pealing high!
‘My son,’ the old man said, ‘to-morrow night—
‘I learn ye mingle in a glorious fight.
‘Remember then my words. This form, so old,
‘Once moved in blood, where mighty Battle tolled
‘The warrior-knell in storm. In that dread hour
‘My heart was always sad. The sinewy power
‘That strung my arm, was not the gallant tide
‘That leaps at the far trump in rushing pride.
‘The blaze that wrapped my eye, was not the fire
‘That kindles redly at the battle quire.
‘Religion, and my country nerved my arm,
‘Fed my young heart, and kept my eye-beam warm.
‘My gallant boy—I know thou art full brave,
‘That evening battle ground—may be thy bloody grave!’
‘I learn ye mingle in a glorious fight.
‘Remember then my words. This form, so old,
‘Once moved in blood, where mighty Battle tolled
‘The warrior-knell in storm. In that dread hour
‘My heart was always sad. The sinewy power
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‘That leaps at the far trump in rushing pride.
‘The blaze that wrapped my eye, was not the fire
‘That kindles redly at the battle quire.
‘Religion, and my country nerved my arm,
‘Fed my young heart, and kept my eye-beam warm.
‘My gallant boy—I know thou art full brave,
‘That evening battle ground—may be thy bloody grave!’
‘Oh no!’ the mother cries:—and now they weep
And pray—as we will pray when we're asleep,
With ashy lip—a suffocating prayer—that dies
In broken murmurs, and in struggling sighs:
As we will pray, when thro' the brooding shade
Unholy sights, by Terror's torch betrayed,
Come thronging, darkly, in delirium—
With heavy wing—with cloudy breath—and hum
Of one unceasing knell: in lonely woe—
In sullen boding—like the heavy flow
Of far, far waves, where one we love is sleeping—
When we are set—we know not how—a weeping.
And pray—as we will pray when we're asleep,
With ashy lip—a suffocating prayer—that dies
In broken murmurs, and in struggling sighs:
As we will pray, when thro' the brooding shade
Unholy sights, by Terror's torch betrayed,
Come thronging, darkly, in delirium—
With heavy wing—with cloudy breath—and hum
Of one unceasing knell: in lonely woe—
In sullen boding—like the heavy flow
Of far, far waves, where one we love is sleeping—
When we are set—we know not how—a weeping.
The young wife stoops,—as she would hide her tears;
And smile with hope, while bowing down with fears:
With heart that pants and flutters to be free,
Like some young nestling, stolen from its tree,
That heaves its bosom—shakes its dazzling plume,
A pulse of light and life, entrapped within a tomb!
And smile with hope, while bowing down with fears:
With heart that pants and flutters to be free,
Like some young nestling, stolen from its tree,
That heaves its bosom—shakes its dazzling plume,
A pulse of light and life, entrapped within a tomb!
Hark!—from the distant shore far trumpets sweep!
One last embrace: once more they meet and weep:
Around that dear, loved group, once more is shed
A farewell smile—a parting tear: then sped
The husband to the war! With unhung brand,
And helmeted for strife, he joins his band!
One last embrace: once more they meet and weep:
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A farewell smile—a parting tear: then sped
The husband to the war! With unhung brand,
And helmeted for strife, he joins his band!
| The battle of Niagara | |