 | THE FOREST MAIDEN. The book of my lady |  |
52
THE FOREST MAIDEN.
The subject of this little sketch is familiar enough to all American
readers, and consequently needs nothing by way of preface.
As some additions, however, have been made to the history of the
event, as given by our historians, it may be as well to say, that
the personal feeling, which, in the poem, is made to prompt the
sanguinary passion of Powhatan, is purely gratuitous; and for
which there is no authority in the fact. Smith's life was attempted,
after he was in custody, by an Indian whose son he had
wounded or slain; and he was preserved with difficulty. Powhatan
had two sons, at the period referred to, both of whom were
unharmed in this adventure. The addition here made, was
intended to place in a stronger light the amiable spirit of Pocahontas,
and the great sacrifice, by her father, of his personal
feeling and native impulse, in his compliance with her entreaties.
The description of the chief incident in the narration is, in all
substantial particulars, historically correct.
Oh, lightly beamed the maiden's smile
In careless mood, in regal bower,
Ere yet the stranger's step of guile
Brush'd one soft beauty from the flower.
A wild girl of an Indian vale,
With deer-like pace, that would not tire—
And if her cheek be less than pale,
The sun had warmed it all with fire—
And sweet the light that filled her eye,
And in the woods, or on the water,
In frail canoe when darting by,
All knew her—Powhatan's young daughter
In careless mood, in regal bower,
Ere yet the stranger's step of guile
Brush'd one soft beauty from the flower.
A wild girl of an Indian vale,
With deer-like pace, that would not tire—
And if her cheek be less than pale,
The sun had warmed it all with fire—
And sweet the light that filled her eye,
And in the woods, or on the water,
In frail canoe when darting by,
All knew her—Powhatan's young daughter
53
He, Prince of many a mighty race,
Beloved and of unbounded power;
And she—the nation could not trace
A brighter or a gentler flower.
Among a savage people still,
She stood, from all their moods apart,
For dream of crime, and thought of ill,
Had never swayed her gentle heart.
A milder tutor had been there,
And 'midst wild deeds and wilder men,
Her spirit, as her form, was fair,
And gracious was its guidance then.
A Christian soul, though by its creed,
Untaught, amid her native wild,
Free from all taint of thought or deed,
A spotless and a gentle child.
Such, in her youth, and ere the blight
Of failing fortunes touched her race,
Was Pocahontas to the sight,
A form of love—a thing of grace.
Beloved by all—her father's pride,
Nor less his pride, than, all apart,
The pledge for which he would have died,
The very life-blood of his heart.
The king has sought the chase to-day,
And mighty is the proud array,
A nation gather'd there—
A bison herd—so comes the tale—
Is trampling down the quiet vale,
And none who love the land must fail,
To gather when they hear.
He went—the father from his child,
To meet the monster of the wild,
But, in his fond embraces caught,
Ere yet he went, he hears her thought,
And, in his pliant mood, reveals,
The love his inward spirit feels.
Beloved and of unbounded power;
And she—the nation could not trace
A brighter or a gentler flower.
Among a savage people still,
She stood, from all their moods apart,
For dream of crime, and thought of ill,
Had never swayed her gentle heart.
A milder tutor had been there,
And 'midst wild deeds and wilder men,
Her spirit, as her form, was fair,
And gracious was its guidance then.
A Christian soul, though by its creed,
Untaught, amid her native wild,
Free from all taint of thought or deed,
A spotless and a gentle child.
Such, in her youth, and ere the blight
Of failing fortunes touched her race,
Was Pocahontas to the sight,
A form of love—a thing of grace.
Beloved by all—her father's pride,
Nor less his pride, than, all apart,
The pledge for which he would have died,
The very life-blood of his heart.
The king has sought the chase to-day,
And mighty is the proud array,
A nation gather'd there—
A bison herd—so comes the tale—
Is trampling down the quiet vale,
And none who love the land must fail,
To gather when they hear.
He went—the father from his child,
To meet the monster of the wild,
But, in his fond embraces caught,
Ere yet he went, he hears her thought,
And, in his pliant mood, reveals,
The love his inward spirit feels.
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And hours are gone, since thus he went,
By her, in wayward impulse spent,
When, hark! the war-whoop shrilly sounding,
“Tis my father,” said the maid,
And like sprightly gazelle bounding
She has left the long arcade,
Where, from many a forest brought,
Blossoms wild, and leaf, and flower,
She with hand of taste had wrought
To a wild fantastic bower.
“Tis my father,” said the maid,
As the chaplet down she laid,
“But why should war-whoop's accent sound,
When the hatchet's under ground—
Sure, the Oneida, from afar,
Wakes no vengeful voice of war,
When they laid the hatchet low,
Scarce is gone three moons ago—
The leaf was burnt—the calumet
Wafted fumes that gladly met,
And the spirit from above
Bless'd the sacred sign of love.”
Powhatan gathers his warriors around—
A rock is his throne,
And his footstool, a stone,
And the coronet plumes his broad temples have bound,—
No courtier's servile brow is there,
But every head is raised in air,
And each strong chief, a warrior true,
A circle round the monarch drew.
The king, in conscious majesty,
Rolled around his fiery eye,
As the meteor hung on high,
To all it sees, and it can see,
Speaks of fearful things to be.
At his feet, upon the stone,
Sat the sylph-like girl alone—
By her, in wayward impulse spent,
When, hark! the war-whoop shrilly sounding,
“Tis my father,” said the maid,
And like sprightly gazelle bounding
She has left the long arcade,
Where, from many a forest brought,
Blossoms wild, and leaf, and flower,
She with hand of taste had wrought
To a wild fantastic bower.
“Tis my father,” said the maid,
As the chaplet down she laid,
“But why should war-whoop's accent sound,
When the hatchet's under ground—
Sure, the Oneida, from afar,
Wakes no vengeful voice of war,
When they laid the hatchet low,
Scarce is gone three moons ago—
The leaf was burnt—the calumet
Wafted fumes that gladly met,
And the spirit from above
Bless'd the sacred sign of love.”
Powhatan gathers his warriors around—
A rock is his throne,
And his footstool, a stone,
And the coronet plumes his broad temples have bound,—
No courtier's servile brow is there,
But every head is raised in air,
And each strong chief, a warrior true,
A circle round the monarch drew.
The king, in conscious majesty,
Rolled around his fiery eye,
As the meteor hung on high,
To all it sees, and it can see,
Speaks of fearful things to be.
At his feet, upon the stone,
Sat the sylph-like girl alone—
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The dark tresses streaming down,
Fell upon her shoulders brown,
While, with fires unwonted burned,
The deep glances, upward turned—
She, alone, at that dark hour,
Ventured nigh the man of power.
With soothing, but with doubting smile,
That fixed the monarch's gaze awhile,
But could not turn away the mood,
That even chilled the maiden's blood—
And with a trembling tone, that broke,
Strangely the stillness round, she spoke—
“My father breaks no word with me,
Yet is he come, and has not brought
The spotted fawn, I fain would see,
By tender hands, unharmed, caught.
The task to him I know were light,
To rouse the silver foot, and take,
Even in its weeping mother's sight,
The bleating captive from the brake.
Yet comes he not, to mark his toil,
And tell his full success, to me,
With one poor token of his spoil—
Not even the bison's head I see.
In vain, I ask—I ask it now,
My father, nor rebuke thy child—
Why is thy accent stern and wild,
And why the red spot on thy brow.
What may this mean?—No bison chase,
Nor failing sport, not often vain—
Ere roused that symbol on your face,
Or—must not bring it there again.
Nor in your look—where'er I turn,
In every eye that lowers around,
I mark a dreadful fury burn,
That wants not speech or sound.
Where is my brother.—”
Fell upon her shoulders brown,
While, with fires unwonted burned,
The deep glances, upward turned—
She, alone, at that dark hour,
Ventured nigh the man of power.
With soothing, but with doubting smile,
That fixed the monarch's gaze awhile,
But could not turn away the mood,
That even chilled the maiden's blood—
And with a trembling tone, that broke,
Strangely the stillness round, she spoke—
“My father breaks no word with me,
Yet is he come, and has not brought
The spotted fawn, I fain would see,
By tender hands, unharmed, caught.
The task to him I know were light,
To rouse the silver foot, and take,
Even in its weeping mother's sight,
The bleating captive from the brake.
Yet comes he not, to mark his toil,
And tell his full success, to me,
With one poor token of his spoil—
Not even the bison's head I see.
In vain, I ask—I ask it now,
My father, nor rebuke thy child—
Why is thy accent stern and wild,
And why the red spot on thy brow.
What may this mean?—No bison chase,
Nor failing sport, not often vain—
Ere roused that symbol on your face,
Or—must not bring it there again.
Nor in your look—where'er I turn,
In every eye that lowers around,
I mark a dreadful fury burn,
That wants not speech or sound.
Where is my brother.—”
56
“Let him speak,”
Said the old monarch— “I am weak.”
They brought a dead boy from the ring,
And placed him near the king.
Dumb was the maiden, as she fell,
Before the dead—smit as by sudden spell,
And motionless, save that her fingers strayed,
And took from out a deep gash on his breast,
That, thence she vainly but still fondly press'd,
A hacked and broken blade.
More darkly grows the monarch's brow—
“Ay, girl, you have no brother now,
And I, no son—the glorious race,
That with the day-god kept its place,
Ere many moons, shall cease to shine,
A broken and a blasted line.
And you may shed the infant's tear,
Ye cannot move the silent there,
Whose spirit all impatient stands,
And waves us with its bloody hands,
Asks for the shade of him who slew,
The sacrifice—a warrior true,
And shall he ask in vain?
Smoothing the path of shadows, heaven
A just and sweet revenge has given,
To recompense the slain.”
Impatient turn'd the warrior chief,
And bade a gloomy warrior nigh,
And utter'd a command, which grief
Had made imperfect—“Let him die,
At once and meet his settled fate;
And, if he feel his torture great—
If one suppress'd or sudden shrick,
His terror or his anguish speak,
Then shall my soul perchance deny,
The wretch, the blessed boon to die,
Said the old monarch— “I am weak.”
They brought a dead boy from the ring,
And placed him near the king.
Dumb was the maiden, as she fell,
Before the dead—smit as by sudden spell,
And motionless, save that her fingers strayed,
And took from out a deep gash on his breast,
That, thence she vainly but still fondly press'd,
A hacked and broken blade.
More darkly grows the monarch's brow—
“Ay, girl, you have no brother now,
And I, no son—the glorious race,
That with the day-god kept its place,
Ere many moons, shall cease to shine,
A broken and a blasted line.
And you may shed the infant's tear,
Ye cannot move the silent there,
Whose spirit all impatient stands,
And waves us with its bloody hands,
Asks for the shade of him who slew,
The sacrifice—a warrior true,
And shall he ask in vain?
Smoothing the path of shadows, heaven
A just and sweet revenge has given,
To recompense the slain.”
Impatient turn'd the warrior chief,
And bade a gloomy warrior nigh,
And utter'd a command, which grief
Had made imperfect—“Let him die,
At once and meet his settled fate;
And, if he feel his torture great—
If one suppress'd or sudden shrick,
His terror or his anguish speak,
Then shall my soul perchance deny,
The wretch, the blessed boon to die,
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Since I were woman to provide,
For my brave son a coward guide.”
The block is prepared, the weapon is bared,
And the chiefs are all nigh with their tomahawks rear'd,
The prisoner they bring, in the midst of the ring,
And the king bids the circle around him be cleared.
Unmoved, though in a hostile land,
And girded by a savage band,
Unknown to yielding mood—
His limbs, but not his spirit, bound,
How looks that gallant stranger round,
With high and fearless blood.
The block before him they display—
He shrunk not from the dread array,
But with a tone as high,
As their own song of death, he boasts,
Made by his arm, the thousand ghosts,
That wait to see him die.
Yet once, as o'er his mind there came,
The memory of a foreign name,
Perchance, a heart long tried—
And, as his memory active grew,
And to his thoughtful spirit drew
The wandering band, the brave, the few,
That late were at his side,—
His eye could scarce conceal the tear
That struggled, swelled and trembled there;—
Which, as the savage saw—
Dishonouring all his former fame,
And emblem of the deepest shame,
He spoke their fearful law.
“Be quick, nor long delay his death,
For fear, that, in his latest breath,
He taint my native land—
For my brave son a coward guide.”
The block is prepared, the weapon is bared,
And the chiefs are all nigh with their tomahawks rear'd,
The prisoner they bring, in the midst of the ring,
And the king bids the circle around him be cleared.
Unmoved, though in a hostile land,
And girded by a savage band,
Unknown to yielding mood—
His limbs, but not his spirit, bound,
How looks that gallant stranger round,
With high and fearless blood.
The block before him they display—
He shrunk not from the dread array,
But with a tone as high,
As their own song of death, he boasts,
Made by his arm, the thousand ghosts,
That wait to see him die.
Yet once, as o'er his mind there came,
The memory of a foreign name,
Perchance, a heart long tried—
And, as his memory active grew,
And to his thoughtful spirit drew
The wandering band, the brave, the few,
That late were at his side,—
His eye could scarce conceal the tear
That struggled, swelled and trembled there;—
Which, as the savage saw—
Dishonouring all his former fame,
And emblem of the deepest shame,
He spoke their fearful law.
“Be quick, nor long delay his death,
For fear, that, in his latest breath,
He taint my native land—
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I would not have the warrior die,
Nor sound his glorious battle cry,
Nor keep the fight-fire in his eye,
Nor boast his matchless brand.
But he—I pity, while I scorn
The tribe in which the wretch was born,
And, as I look around,
I glad me that I can descry,
Amid the brave men gathering nigh,
Not one who dreads the battle's sound,
Not one who fears to die!
They cast the prisoner on the ground,
With gyves from neighbouring vines they bound,
And on a jagged rock they laid,
His destined head, with fell parade!
His eye is full of stern despair,
The club is raised aloft in air—
Alas! he reads no pity there!
The warriors round, though taught to see
Such dreadful doom for aye impending,
Yet seem, with one accord to be,
In awful silence hush'd—
The arm that wields the mace is bending—
The instrument of death descending—
No mercy in the faces by,
Betokeneth humanity—
When forth that maiden rush'd,
From the low stone, where still affrighted,
She sat, her mental sense benighted,
And stayed the club in its descent,
Whilst on her fairy knee she bent,
Pass'd one arm o'er the prisoner's brow,
Laid her head on his own, and now—
As to the monarch's wond'ring eye,
Her own was turn'd appealingly,—
Bade the stern warrior strike the blow.
Nor sound his glorious battle cry,
Nor keep the fight-fire in his eye,
Nor boast his matchless brand.
But he—I pity, while I scorn
The tribe in which the wretch was born,
And, as I look around,
I glad me that I can descry,
Amid the brave men gathering nigh,
Not one who dreads the battle's sound,
Not one who fears to die!
They cast the prisoner on the ground,
With gyves from neighbouring vines they bound,
And on a jagged rock they laid,
His destined head, with fell parade!
His eye is full of stern despair,
The club is raised aloft in air—
Alas! he reads no pity there!
The warriors round, though taught to see
Such dreadful doom for aye impending,
Yet seem, with one accord to be,
In awful silence hush'd—
The arm that wields the mace is bending—
The instrument of death descending—
No mercy in the faces by,
Betokeneth humanity—
When forth that maiden rush'd,
From the low stone, where still affrighted,
She sat, her mental sense benighted,
And stayed the club in its descent,
Whilst on her fairy knee she bent,
Pass'd one arm o'er the prisoner's brow,
Laid her head on his own, and now—
As to the monarch's wond'ring eye,
Her own was turn'd appealingly,—
Bade the stern warrior strike the blow.
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How could that dark old king forbear,
Though writhing with his own despair,
To still her plaint—to grant her pray'r!
How could he check the angel grace,
That gave such beauty to her face,—
How stay the more than sweet control,
That, to the savage could impart,
Tho' all untaught, the Christian soul,
The woman's mood, the human heart!
Oh, true the pray'r, and short the strife,
She wins the captive's forfeit-life—
She breaks his chain, she bids him go,
Her idol, but her country's foe,
And dreams not, in their parting hour,
The bonds from him she tears apart,
Are nought in pang and fearful power,
To those he leaves around her heart.
Though writhing with his own despair,
To still her plaint—to grant her pray'r!
How could he check the angel grace,
That gave such beauty to her face,—
How stay the more than sweet control,
That, to the savage could impart,
Tho' all untaught, the Christian soul,
The woman's mood, the human heart!
Oh, true the pray'r, and short the strife,
She wins the captive's forfeit-life—
She breaks his chain, she bids him go,
Her idol, but her country's foe,
And dreams not, in their parting hour,
The bonds from him she tears apart,
Are nought in pang and fearful power,
To those he leaves around her heart.
| THE FOREST MAIDEN. The book of my lady | |