 | THE AERIAL OMENS. Legends of New-England |  |
132
THE AERIAL OMENS.
[The Aurora Borealis, previous to the “Old French War” and the War
of the Revolution, was uncommonly brilliant, and of a strange and mysterious
appearance. It was supposed that an army of fiery warriors were seen
in the sky, with banners floating, and plumes tossing, and horsemen hurrying
to and fro. The superstitions of that period are still fresh in the minds
of our oldest inhabitants. The strange changes of the Borealis were considered
by many as ominous of approaching war; and consequently excited
no little apprehension. The breaking out of war soon after, completely confirmed
this supposition; and many an aged Revolutionist will yet tell of the
wonderful Northern Lights, and that he saw the battles of Saratoga and Bennington,
pictured distinctly on the sky, long before their actual occurrence.]
A light is troubling Heaven!—A strange, dull glow
Is trembling like a fiery veil between
The blue sky and the Earth; and the far stars
Glimmer but faintly through it. Day hath left
No traces of its presence, and the blush
With which it welcomed the embrace of Night
Has faded from the sky's blue cheek, as fades
The blush of human beauty, when the tone
Or look which woke its evidence of love,
Hath passed away forever. Wherefore then
Burns the strange fire in Heaven?—It is as if
Nature's last curse—the terrible plague of fire,
Were working in her elements, and the sky
Consuming like a vapor.
Is trembling like a fiery veil between
The blue sky and the Earth; and the far stars
Glimmer but faintly through it. Day hath left
No traces of its presence, and the blush
With which it welcomed the embrace of Night
Has faded from the sky's blue cheek, as fades
The blush of human beauty, when the tone
Or look which woke its evidence of love,
Hath passed away forever. Wherefore then
Burns the strange fire in Heaven?—It is as if
Nature's last curse—the terrible plague of fire,
Were working in her elements, and the sky
Consuming like a vapor.
133
Lo—a change!
The fiery flashes sink, and all along
The dim horizon of the fearful North,
Rests a broad crimson, like a sea of blood,
Untroubled by a wave. And lo—above,
Bendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white,
Clearly contrasted with the blue above
And the dark red beneath it. Glorious!
How like a pathway for the sainted ones—
The pure and beautiful intelligences,
Who minister in Heaven, and offer up
Their praise as incense; or, like that which rose
Before the pilgrim-prophet, when the tread
Of the most holy angels brightened it,
And in his dream the haunted sleeper saw
The ascending and descending of the blest!
Another change. Strange, fiery forms uprise
On the wide arch, and take the throngful shape
Of warriors gathering to the strife on high,—
A dreadful marching of infernal shapes,
Beings of fire with plumes of bloody red,
With banners flapping o'er their crowded ranks,
And long swords quivering up against the sky!
And now they meet and mingle; and the ear
Listens with painful earnestness to catch
The fiery flashes sink, and all along
The dim horizon of the fearful North,
Rests a broad crimson, like a sea of blood,
Untroubled by a wave. And lo—above,
Bendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white,
Clearly contrasted with the blue above
And the dark red beneath it. Glorious!
How like a pathway for the sainted ones—
The pure and beautiful intelligences,
Who minister in Heaven, and offer up
Their praise as incense; or, like that which rose
Before the pilgrim-prophet, when the tread
Of the most holy angels brightened it,
And in his dream the haunted sleeper saw
The ascending and descending of the blest!
Another change. Strange, fiery forms uprise
On the wide arch, and take the throngful shape
Of warriors gathering to the strife on high,—
A dreadful marching of infernal shapes,
Beings of fire with plumes of bloody red,
With banners flapping o'er their crowded ranks,
And long swords quivering up against the sky!
And now they meet and mingle; and the ear
Listens with painful earnestness to catch
134
The ring of cloven helmets and the groan
Of the down-trodden. But there comes no sound,
Save a low, sullen rush upon the air,
Such as the unseen wings of spirits make,
Sweeping the void above us. All is still.
Yet falls each red sword fiercely, and the hoof
Of the wild steed is crushing on the breast
Of the o'erthrown and vanquished. 'Tis a strange
And awful conflict—an unearthly war!
It is as if the dead had risen up
To battle with each other—the stern strife
Of spirits visible to mortal eyes.
Steed, plume and warrior vanish one by one,
Wavering and changing to unshapely flame;
And now across the red and fearful sky,
A long, bright flame is trembling, like the sword
Of the great Angel at the guarded gate
Of Paradise, when all the sacred groves
And beautiful flowers of Eden-land blushed red
Beneath its awful shadow; and the eye
Of the lone outcasts quailed before its glare,
As from the immediate questioning of God.
And men are gazing on that troubled sky
With most unwonted earnestness, and fair
Of the down-trodden. But there comes no sound,
Save a low, sullen rush upon the air,
Such as the unseen wings of spirits make,
Sweeping the void above us. All is still.
Yet falls each red sword fiercely, and the hoof
Of the wild steed is crushing on the breast
Of the o'erthrown and vanquished. 'Tis a strange
And awful conflict—an unearthly war!
It is as if the dead had risen up
To battle with each other—the stern strife
Of spirits visible to mortal eyes.
Steed, plume and warrior vanish one by one,
Wavering and changing to unshapely flame;
And now across the red and fearful sky,
A long, bright flame is trembling, like the sword
Of the great Angel at the guarded gate
Of Paradise, when all the sacred groves
And beautiful flowers of Eden-land blushed red
Beneath its awful shadow; and the eye
Of the lone outcasts quailed before its glare,
As from the immediate questioning of God.
And men are gazing on that troubled sky
With most unwonted earnestness, and fair
135
And beautiful brows are reddening in the light
Of that strange vision of the upper air;
Even as the dwellers of Jerusalem,
The leagured of the Roman, when the sky
Of Palestine was thronged with fiery shapes,
And from Antonia's tower, the mailed Jew
Saw his own image pictured in the air,
Contending with the heathen; and the priest,
Beside the Temple's altar, veiled his face
From that most horrid phantasy, and held
The censor of his worship, with a hand
Shaken by terror's palsy.
It has passed—
And Heaven again is quiet; and its stars
Smile down serenely. There is not a stain
Upon its dream-like loveliness of blue—
No token of the fiery mystery
Which made the evening fearful. But the hearts
Of those who gazed upon it, yet retain
The shadow of its awe—the chilling fear
Of its ill-boding aspect. It is deemed
A revelation of the things to come—
Of war and its calamities—the storm
Of the pitched battle, and the midnight strife
Of heathen inroad—the devouring flame,
Of that strange vision of the upper air;
Even as the dwellers of Jerusalem,
The leagured of the Roman, when the sky
Of Palestine was thronged with fiery shapes,
And from Antonia's tower, the mailed Jew
Saw his own image pictured in the air,
Contending with the heathen; and the priest,
Beside the Temple's altar, veiled his face
From that most horrid phantasy, and held
The censor of his worship, with a hand
Shaken by terror's palsy.
It has passed—
And Heaven again is quiet; and its stars
Smile down serenely. There is not a stain
Upon its dream-like loveliness of blue—
No token of the fiery mystery
Which made the evening fearful. But the hearts
Of those who gazed upon it, yet retain
The shadow of its awe—the chilling fear
Of its ill-boding aspect. It is deemed
A revelation of the things to come—
Of war and its calamities—the storm
Of the pitched battle, and the midnight strife
Of heathen inroad—the devouring flame,
136
The dripping tomahawk, the naked knife,
The swart hand twining with the silken locks
Of the fair girl—the torture, and the bonds
Of perilous captivity with those
Who know not mercy, and with whom revenge
Is sweeter than the cherished gift of life.
The swart hand twining with the silken locks
Of the fair girl—the torture, and the bonds
Of perilous captivity with those
Who know not mercy, and with whom revenge
Is sweeter than the cherished gift of life.
| THE AERIAL OMENS. Legends of New-England | |