The lily and the totem, or, The Huguenots in
Florida a series of sketches, picturesque and historical, of the colonies of Coligni, in North America, 1562-1570 |
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 | APPENDIX. |
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 | The lily and the totem, or, The Huguenots in
Florida |  |
APPENDIX.
APPENDIX.
Originally, it was the design of the Author, to write a religious
narrative poem on the subject of the preceding history. The
following sections, however, were all that were written.
I.
THE VOICE.
A midnight voice from Heaven! It smote his ear,
That stern old Christian warrior, who had stood,
Fearless, with front erect and spirit high,
Between his trembling flock and tyranny,
Worse than Egyptian! It awakened him
To other thoughts than combat. “Dost thou see;”—
Thus ran the utterance of that voice from Heaven,—
“The sorrows of thy people? Dost thou hear
Their groans, that mingle with the old man's prayer,
And the child's prattle, and the mother's hymn?
Vain help thy cannon brings them, and the sword,
Unprofitably drunk with martyr blood,
Maintains the Christian argument no more.
Arouse thee for new labors. Gird thy loins
For toils and perils better overcome
That stern old Christian warrior, who had stood,
Fearless, with front erect and spirit high,
Between his trembling flock and tyranny,
Worse than Egyptian! It awakened him
To other thoughts than combat. “Dost thou see;”—
Thus ran the utterance of that voice from Heaven,—
“The sorrows of thy people? Dost thou hear
Their groans, that mingle with the old man's prayer,
And the child's prattle, and the mother's hymn?
Vain help thy cannon brings them, and the sword,
Unprofitably drunk with martyr blood,
Maintains the Christian argument no more.
Arouse thee for new labors. Gird thy loins
For toils and perils better overcome
464
By patience, than the sword. Thou shalt put on
Humility as armor; and set forth,
Leading thy flock, whom the gaunt wolf pursues,
To other lands and pastures. 'T is no home
For the pure heart in France! There, Tyranny
Hath wed with Superstition; and the fruit—
The foul, but natural issue of their lusts,
Is murder!—which, höt-hunting fresher feasts,
Knows never satiation;—raging still,
Where'er a pure heart-victim may be found
In these fair regions. It will lay them waste,
Leaving no field of peace,—leaving no spot
Where virtue may find refuge from her foes,
Permitted to forbear defensive blows,
Most painful, though most needful to her cause!
The brave shall perish, and the fearful bend,
Till unmixed evil, rioting in waste,
Wallows in crime and earnage unrebuked!
Vain is thy wisdom,—and the hollow league,
That tempts thee to forbearance, worse than vain.
Flight be thy refuge now. Thou shalt shake off
The dust upon thy sandals, and go forth
To a far foreign land;—a wild, strange realm,
That were a savage empire, most unmeet
For Christian footstep, and the peaceful mood,
But that it is a refuge shown by God
For shelter of his people. Thither, then,
Betake thee in thy flight. Let not thy cheek
Flush at the seeming shame. It is no shame
To fly from shameless foes. This truth is taught
Humility as armor; and set forth,
Leading thy flock, whom the gaunt wolf pursues,
To other lands and pastures. 'T is no home
For the pure heart in France! There, Tyranny
Hath wed with Superstition; and the fruit—
The foul, but natural issue of their lusts,
Is murder!—which, höt-hunting fresher feasts,
Knows never satiation;—raging still,
Where'er a pure heart-victim may be found
In these fair regions. It will lay them waste,
Leaving no field of peace,—leaving no spot
Where virtue may find refuge from her foes,
Permitted to forbear defensive blows,
Most painful, though most needful to her cause!
The brave shall perish, and the fearful bend,
Till unmixed evil, rioting in waste,
Wallows in crime and earnage unrebuked!
Vain is thy wisdom,—and the hollow league,
That tempts thee to forbearance, worse than vain.
Flight be thy refuge now. Thou shalt shake off
The dust upon thy sandals, and go forth
To a far foreign land;—a wild, strange realm,
That were a savage empire, most unmeet
For Christian footstep, and the peaceful mood,
But that it is a refuge shown by God
For shelter of his people. Thither, then,
Betake thee in thy flight. Let not thy cheek
Flush at the seeming shame. It is no shame
To fly from shameless foes. This truth is taught
465
By him, the venerable sire who led
His people from the Egyptians. Lead thou thine!
Forbear the soldier's fury. I would rouse
The Prophet and the Patriarch in thy breast,
And make thee better seek the peaceful march,
Than the fierce, deadly struggle. Thou shouldst guide,
With pastoral hand of meekness, not of blood,
The tribes that still have followed thee, and still,
Demand thy care. Far o'er the western deeps
Have I prepared thy dwelling! A new world,
Full of all fruits and lovely to the eye,—
Various in mount and valley, sweet in stream,
Cool in recesses of the ample wood,
With climate bland, air vigorous, sky as pure
As is the love that proffers it to faith—
Await thee; and the seas have favoring gales
To waft thee on thy path! Delay and die!”
His people from the Egyptians. Lead thou thine!
Forbear the soldier's fury. I would rouse
The Prophet and the Patriarch in thy breast,
And make thee better seek the peaceful march,
Than the fierce, deadly struggle. Thou shouldst guide,
With pastoral hand of meekness, not of blood,
The tribes that still have followed thee, and still,
Demand thy care. Far o'er the western deeps
Have I prepared thy dwelling! A new world,
Full of all fruits and lovely to the eye,—
Various in mount and valley, sweet in stream,
Cool in recesses of the ample wood,
With climate bland, air vigorous, sky as pure
As is the love that proffers it to faith—
Await thee; and the seas have favoring gales
To waft thee on thy path! Delay and die!”
II.
COLIGNY'S RESOLVE.
“And, if I perish!” the gray warrior said,—
“I perish still in France! If cruel foes
Beleaguer and ensare me to my fate,
The blow will fall upon me in the land
Which was my birth-place. Better there to die
The victim for my people, than to fly
Inglorious, from the struggle set for us
By the most cruel fortunes! Not for me
The hope of refuge in a foreign clime,
“I perish still in France! If cruel foes
Beleaguer and ensare me to my fate,
The blow will fall upon me in the land
Which was my birth-place. Better there to die
The victim for my people, than to fly
Inglorious, from the struggle set for us
By the most cruel fortunes! Not for me
The hope of refuge in a foreign clime,
466
While that which cradled me lies desolate
In blood and ashes! It is better here
To strive against the ruin and misrule,
Than basely yield the empire to the foe,
Whose sway we might withstand; and whose abuse,
Unchecked, were but the fruitful argument
For thousand years of woe! I would not lay
These aged bones to sleep in distant lands,
Though pure and peaceful; but would close mine eye,
Upon the same sweet skies—by tempests now
Torn and disclouded—upon which gladly first
They opened with delight in infancy.
This fondness, it may be, is but a weakness
Becoming not my manhood. Be it so!
I know that I am weak; but there's a passion,
That glows with loyal anger in my heart,
And shows like virtue. It forbids my flight;
And, for my country's glory, and the safety
Of our distracted and diminished flock,
Declares how much more grateful were the strife—
That proud defiance which I still have given
To those fierce enemies, whose sleepless hate
Hath shamed and struck at both. I deem it better
To struggle with injustice than submit;
For still submission of the innocent
Makes evident the guilty; and the good,
Who yield, but multiply the herd of foes,
That ravin when the retribution sleeps!
What hope were there for sad humanity,
If still, when came the danger, fled the brave?
In blood and ashes! It is better here
To strive against the ruin and misrule,
Than basely yield the empire to the foe,
Whose sway we might withstand; and whose abuse,
Unchecked, were but the fruitful argument
For thousand years of woe! I would not lay
These aged bones to sleep in distant lands,
Though pure and peaceful; but would close mine eye,
Upon the same sweet skies—by tempests now
Torn and disclouded—upon which gladly first
They opened with delight in infancy.
This fondness, it may be, is but a weakness
Becoming not my manhood. Be it so!
I know that I am weak; but there's a passion,
That glows with loyal anger in my heart,
And shows like virtue. It forbids my flight;
And, for my country's glory, and the safety
Of our distracted and diminished flock,
Declares how much more grateful were the strife—
That proud defiance which I still have given
To those fierce enemies, whose sleepless hate
Hath shamed and struck at both. I deem it better
To struggle with injustice than submit;
For still submission of the innocent
Makes evident the guilty; and the good,
Who yield, but multiply the herd of foes,
That ravin when the retribution sleeps!
What hope were there for sad humanity,
If still, when came the danger, fled the brave?
467
Fled only to beguile, in fierce pursuit,
The wolfish spoiler, leaving refuge none,
In heart or homestead? Not for me to fly—
Not though, I hear, Eternal Sire! thy voice.
Still speaking with deep utterance in my soul,
Commending my obedience. All in vain,
I strive to serve thee with submission meet,
And move to do thy will. The earth grows up,
Around me; and the aspects of my home,
Enclose me like the mountains and the sea,
Forbidding me to fly them. Natural ties,
That are as God's, upon the mortal heart,
Fetter me still of France! and yet thou knowest,
How reverent and unselfish were my toils,
In this our people's cause. I have not spared
Day or night labor; and my blood hath flowed,
Unstinted, in the strife that we have waged.
The sword hath hacked these limbs—the poisoned cup
Hung at these lips. The ignominous death,
From the uplifted scaffold, look'd upon me,
Craving its victim; the assassin's steel,
Turned from my ribs, with narrowest graze avoiding
The imperil'd life! Yet never have I shrunk,
Because of these flesh-dangers from the work
Whereto my hand was set. Let me not now
Turn from the field in flight, though still to lead
The flock that I must die for! This I know!
I cannot always 'scape. The blow will come!
Not always will the poisonous draught be spill'd,
Or the sharp steel be foil'd, or turn'd aside;—
The wolfish spoiler, leaving refuge none,
In heart or homestead? Not for me to fly—
Not though, I hear, Eternal Sire! thy voice.
Still speaking with deep utterance in my soul,
Commending my obedience. All in vain,
I strive to serve thee with submission meet,
And move to do thy will. The earth grows up,
Around me; and the aspects of my home,
Enclose me like the mountains and the sea,
Forbidding me to fly them. Natural ties,
That are as God's, upon the mortal heart,
Fetter me still of France! and yet thou knowest,
How reverent and unselfish were my toils,
In this our people's cause. I have not spared
Day or night labor; and my blood hath flowed,
Unstinted, in the strife that we have waged.
The sword hath hacked these limbs—the poisoned cup
Hung at these lips. The ignominous death,
From the uplifted scaffold, look'd upon me,
Craving its victim; the assassin's steel,
Turned from my ribs, with narrowest graze avoiding
The imperil'd life! Yet never have I shrunk,
Because of these flesh-dangers from the work
Whereto my hand was set. Let me not now
Turn from the field in flight, though still to lead
The flock that I must die for! This I know!
I cannot always 'scape. The blow will come!
Not always will the poisonous draught be spill'd,
Or the sharp steel be foil'd, or turn'd aside;—
468
And to the many martyrs in this cause,
Already made, my yearning spirit feels,
Its sworn alliance. I will die like them,
But cannot fly their graves! I dare not fly,
Though death awaits me here, and, soft, afar,
Sits safety in the cloud and beckons me.”
Already made, my yearning spirit feels,
Its sworn alliance. I will die like them,
But cannot fly their graves! I dare not fly,
Though death awaits me here, and, soft, afar,
Sits safety in the cloud and beckons me.”
III.
THE VOYAGE.
“And leave thy flock to perish?”—Thus the voice,
Reproachful to the patriarch.—“No,” he cried,
“They shall partake the sweet security,
Of the far home of refuge thou assign'st.
They shall go forth from bondage and from death:
The path made free to them, their feet shall take;
My counsels shall direct them, and my soul
Still struggle in their service. Those who fly,
Best moved by fond obedience,—with few ties
To fasten the devoted heart to earth,
And looking but to heaven;—and those who still,
With that fond passion of home which fetters me,
Prefer to look upon their graves in France,—
Shall equally command my care and toil,
Though not alike my presence. They who go forth
To the far land of promise which awaits them,
Mine eye shall watch across the mighty deep,
And still my succors reach them, while the power
Is mine for human providence; and still,
Even from the fearful eminence of death,
Reproachful to the patriarch.—“No,” he cried,
“They shall partake the sweet security,
Of the far home of refuge thou assign'st.
They shall go forth from bondage and from death:
The path made free to them, their feet shall take;
My counsels shall direct them, and my soul
Still struggle in their service. Those who fly,
Best moved by fond obedience,—with few ties
To fasten the devoted heart to earth,
And looking but to heaven;—and those who still,
With that fond passion of home which fetters me,
Prefer to look upon their graves in France,—
Shall equally command my care and toil,
Though not alike my presence. They who go forth
To the far land of promise which awaits them,
Mine eye shall watch across the mighty deep,
And still my succors reach them, while the power
Is mine for human providence; and still,
Even from the fearful eminence of death,
469
My spirit, parting from its shrouding clay,
Survey them with the thought of one who loves,
Glad in the safety which it could not share!”
Even as he said,—a little band went forth
Still resolute for God;—having no home,
But that made holy by his privilege;
Their prayers unchecked, their pure rites undisturbed,
They bending at high altars, with no dread,
Lest other eyes than the elect should see,
Their secret smokes arise.
To a wild shore,
Most wild, but lovely,—o'er the deeps they came;
Propitious winds at beck, and God in heaven,
Looking from bluest skies. From the broad sea,
Sudden, the grey lines of the wooing land,
Stretched out its sheltering haven, and afar,
Implored them, with its smiles, through gayest green,
That to the heart of the lone voyagers,
Spoke of their homes in France.
“And here,” they cried,
“Cast anchor! We will build our temples here!
This solitude is still security,
And freedom shall compensate all the loss
Known first in loss of home! Yet naught is lost,—
All rather gained, that human hearts have found
Most dear to hope and its immunities,
If that we win that freedom of the soul,
It never knew before! Here should we find
Our native land,—the native land of soul,
Survey them with the thought of one who loves,
Glad in the safety which it could not share!”
Even as he said,—a little band went forth
Still resolute for God;—having no home,
But that made holy by his privilege;
Their prayers unchecked, their pure rites undisturbed,
They bending at high altars, with no dread,
Lest other eyes than the elect should see,
Their secret smokes arise.
To a wild shore,
Most wild, but lovely,—o'er the deeps they came;
Propitious winds at beck, and God in heaven,
Looking from bluest skies. From the broad sea,
Sudden, the grey lines of the wooing land,
Stretched out its sheltering haven, and afar,
Implored them, with its smiles, through gayest green,
That to the heart of the lone voyagers,
Spoke of their homes in France.
“And here,” they cried,
“Cast anchor! We will build our temples here!
This solitude is still security,
And freedom shall compensate all the loss
Known first in loss of home! Yet naught is lost,—
All rather gained, that human hearts have found
Most dear to hope and its immunities,
If that we win that freedom of the soul,
It never knew before! Here should we find
Our native land,—the native land of soul,
470
Where conscience may take speech,—where truth take root,
And spread its living branches, till all earth
Grows lovely with their heritage. From the wild
Our pray'rs shall rise to heaven; nor shall we build
Our altars in the gloomy caves of earth,
Dreading each moment lest the accusing smokes,
That from our reeking censers may arise,
Shall show the imperial murderer where we hide.”
And spread its living branches, till all earth
Grows lovely with their heritage. From the wild
Our pray'rs shall rise to heaven; nor shall we build
Our altars in the gloomy caves of earth,
Dreading each moment lest the accusing smokes,
That from our reeking censers may arise,
Shall show the imperial murderer where we hide.”
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| The lily and the totem, or, The Huguenots in
Florida | |