University of Virginia Library

Beneath an aged Oak, whose hundred arms
Were lifted up, as in mute prayer, to God,
Silvered with many hundred years, whose locks
Of argent moss hung waving to the ground,
Fringing the margin of that Inland Sea,
Jeweled with myriad multicolored Shells—
Prone on the silver sand, alone, the last
Of all his Tribe, the Chief, Lamorah sat.
Beside him lay his Bow upon the ground;
Upon his back the well-stored Quiver hung,
His great Herculean form was clad in skins
Fantastically fringed with down of Swans,
And ornamented with the rarest beads.
His feet were sandaled with red Moccassins;
His Wampum Belt was fastened round his waist,
An Eagle-Plume crested his head, which waved
Aloft, swayed by the odorous winds which came
Laden with perfumes from the Isle of Flowers—
An Emblem of his mighty heart now free.
Close to his ear, in his right hand, he held
A rose-tipped Shell, which sung mysterious songs,
And soothed his weary soul to peace; for in
Its soft Æolian cadences it seemed
The soul of his Yamassa—his dead son—
Came back to lead him to the Land of Souls.
Long did he thus apply it to his ear,
Listening, entranced, with mute response to hear,
As if his soul found music in its song,
For often have the souls of mighty men
Come back, at midnight, to their native land
To rest, by moonlight, in the Ruby-Bells.
Rapt with the sense of its sweet melody,
He lost all memory of his native Isle,
Forgetting all things in the living world
Remembering nothing but his own deep joy,
Born of his memory of the Olden Time,
In days gone by, when he was in his prime,
And young Yamassa was his son on earth.
Long held he thus the Shell unto his ear,
Until the tears in one clear stream profuse
Of briny dew, born of the ever deep
And fiery joy that reveled in his heart,
Gushed down in torrents on his high cheek bone—
The rugged highway of his burning thoughts—
Like some clear stream rushing at noon
From the red bosom of the Ochre-Hills,
Through the warm Vallies of the Summer South,
Singing of childhood in its happiness.
Beneath this Jupiterian Oak,
The Pride of Pan, he sate him down,
Where he had sunk to silence on that day,
Far from the gardens of his Eden-Isle,
From which came perfumes floating on the breeze,
Making delicious all the air around—
Close by his rustic Boat, whose tapering prow
Lay moored supine upon the pebbly beach.
The golden cloud, like couches of the blest—
(Like that which Israel out of Egypt led—)
In dreary languor lay in mountain-piles
Half way to Heaven—sweet dreams of days well spent—
Like Beauty sleeping on the breast of Love;
While, far beyond, the binding Heavens, serene,
Looked down upon the abject world at rest,
Rolling beneath the singing Stars—the Choir
Of God's great universe—the azure vault
Resounding with the everlasting song
Of Man's great heart—the music of the storms—
Great Ocean's loud, sonorous, troublous voice—
And the eternal voices of the stars.
For three long fallings of the leaf, with four
Moons more, had he been living on this Isle.
For three long fallings of the leaf, had he
Been free from all mankind—from all his foes—
From all things, save the perfect peace he sought—
The presence of his God, whose voice he heard
In thunders of the storms, the only thing
He feared, or felt superior to his soul.

Then came young Julian to the great old Chief,
Drest in the garb that young Yamassa wore
When he was taken captive in the fight,
But whom Lamorah thought was dead. He knew,
At every falling of the leaf, the old man came
From some far distant land unknown to man,
Like spirits from the dead to those they love,
To strew rich Coral on his father's grave,
And pray beside him while he wept. So, when
Lamorah saw him in his own son's garb,
He ran to meet him from the silver sand,
Where he sat musing by the lonely Lake—
(For long had he been waiting there to see
Some stranger in the person of his son—)
And, rushing with impatient speed, fell on
The breast of Julian, crying out, “My son!
My son! Yamassa! is it you, my son?
Hast thou returned from Death—the Land of Souls?
Thy face is pale!—thou hast the White-Man's face!
Yamassa, is it you?—can Earth do this?
Or has Manito sent thee here to mock
My soul by giving thee the White-Man's face?—
I hate thy face—hate it as I do Hell!
Speak to my soul, Yamassa! speak, my son!”
“Father,” said Julian, “I am thine own son,
All souls are pale-face in the Land of Souls.
Where is my mother? brother Ostence?
Celuta, that young Dove! the White-man's child?
The Lily that Yamassa loved so well?”

When thus Lamorah cried aloud again:
“Art thou my son?—This is his Wampum-Belt!
This is his Bow!—this is his Quiver here!
These are the garments that he wore when slain!”
“Father!” said Julian, “I am thine own son!
All souls are pale-face in the Land of Souls!”
Then loud Lamorah cried,—“This is my son!
Yamassa from the Land of Souls!—Come home!”
Then on the silver-shining level Lake
Stretched out in measureless expanse beneath
The snowy splendors of the full-orbed Moon
That, though the silvered quiet of the night,
Came down to smile thereon with matron joy,
Like some fond mother on her infant child—
Laying there couched in dreamless, sweet repose
Low in the cradle of the rolling world—
They both embarked in their divine Canoe.
For now, beneath her Angel-smiles it lay,
Like some great happy soul in prayer to God,
Naked before high Heaven, stretched out upon
His death-bed, while around his lightning-soul,
Drawing God-loving strength from pious prayer,
Angels, invisible to all besides,
In shining garments, minister to him.
So, in their crescent-like Canoe, all night,
Unfettered from the pebbly breath, with one lone oar
Worked by Lamorah's brawny arms—they ploughed,
(Leaving no track behind of who sailed there
For after years, should any seek to find—)
The level field of waters till the dawn.
For as the Dawn broke slowly in the East,
Withering the Moon into the light of Heaven,
Afar off in the bosom of the Lake
Tinged with the radiance of the rising sun
All golden in the Temple of the Morn—
Looking like some great sea of molten gold—
(Like some great Emerald Mountain rising up—)
They saw the Eden Isle burst on their sight!
The Hills, like some great Caravan encamped,
At noontide, on the desert of the world—
Still billows of the World's great terrene sea—
(As if they were the mighty groves of Gods—
The rising stepstones to the Deity—
Bristled with lofty pines, that in the distance looked
Like mystic moss covering their purple backs—
Spread out in undulating lines afar—)
Were deluged with rich radiance, as they lay
Propping the thunder-clouds of Heaven, beneath
The golden glory of the springing Sun
Rising in such Empyreal pomp from out
The Emerald splendor of the Eastern Sea—
Flooding, with his great Seraph-splendor, all
The cavalcade of golden glory-clouds
That rolled, in lofty mountain-piles, on high,
Like incense from an Altar up to God—
Or that great Ladder Jacob saw at night.
On Bethel-plain, reaching from Earth to Heaven—
Pavillioning his glory. While to the right,
As they rowed on, nearing this Blessed Isle,
A flock of wild Swans, from the Jasper reeds,
With side-long wings, rose up, darkening the sun,
Whose clamorous shouts, redoubled by the Hills,
Filled the wide Heavens with jubilations loud;
And after circling on their snowy wings,
Glinting the glory of the golden sun—
Chequering the Lake with moving shadows—down
They all descended, with Seraphic sail,
On moveless wings, upon the Lake again,
Like living pearl, or Angels out of Heaven,
Far out of reach of farthest shot of man,
Floating among the reeds in jocund joy.
Upon the sand, close by the water's edge,
Where smote their little boat upon the shore,
Clusters of luscious grapes were scattered round
In prodigal profusion on the ground,
And ebon Muscadines of lustrous black,
Like drops of polished night, weighed down their vines,
So, that, the cool lips of the crystal wave,
Swayed by the presence of the noontide breeze,
Lapped them with liquid kisses from the shore,
Till they went dangling far away from land,
Like little ebon barques upon the Lake.

So, as he wandered through the Isle of Flowers,
He saw lanthe, like the crescent Moon
Cloudless in Heaven, in her own beauty clad,
As glorious to the Isle as she to night—
The Angel of the place—the joy of life—
Swimming about through all the placid Lake,
Drawn by two silver Swans together yoked,
Like some fair Naiad in her native stream;
While from the emerald Alleys crowned with flowers,
Born from the bosom of the oval Hills,
Replenishing the treasures of the Lake,
With waters pure, in serpentine soft flow,—
A liquid music came from all the streams,
Rising up, odor-like, around her form,
From out the bosom of the limpid Lake,
Soothing her sighing soul to heavenly peace.
This was the music of Celestial Love,
Speaking, in mystic language to her soul,
Sweet as the Choral Symphony of Stars,
Or heavenly harmony of the Pleiades.
A Lily among lilies throned she lay,
Lolling upon the hyaline Lake above,
When, suddenly, alarmed at his approach,—
Thinking that Ostence had come again
To mar her rich felicity—she rose—
When from her lily-limbs, fair as the Moon
To young Endymion on the Carian Mount,
The soft pellucid waves, in beaded dews,
Made odorous by the sweetness of her form,
Trickled in amorous showers, like dewy rain
Wept by the Evening's azure eyes from out
The snow-white petals of some lily-bell.
So rose she from the bosom of the Lake,
Like bright Naitha from her Sais-throne,
Or Rhodope, the Beautiful, from out
Th' Eternal Pyramid—so dewy-bright—
Like lily in the morning sun—she looked
Like Venus when she rose up from the sea,
Wafted by Zephyrs to the Cyprian Isle,
Where all the seasons waited with delight,
With open arms, to welcome her on shore.
So stood his soul to welcome her to bliss.
Mild as an incarnation of the Moon,
She rose as pure in her own innocence
As thought-encircled Truth from out the soul
Of him who contemplates the works of God
In silent adoration—like that Boy,
The Grecian God of Silence, clothed in light,
Half risen from the Mystic Lotus Flower—
As graceful as that Abysinian tree
Bending before the face of him who seeks
Its shade—her Coral Chaplet on her brow—
The ebon Cross that Julian gave to her,
With Via Cœli written on its front,
In rich mosaic of pure gold, with chain
Of virgin gold suspended round her neck.
The lute-like voices of the Dryades
Hid in the Willows weeping on the Lake,
In mystic sweetness, hailed her as she rose.
Thus looked she, when she first arose, to him.
For, as the Grecian Sculptor gazed with joy
Ineffable, upon his matchless work of Art—
The rich embodiment of all his dreams
Of Infinite Perfection—so he gazed,
Enraptured, on the naked loveliness
Of that bright Beauty, shrined in all her rich
Perfections, in the hyaline Lake alone,
Whose soft pellucid sparkles rippled round
The White Isle of her Heavenly Form, as if
Reluctant now to lose so soon so much
Of heavenly loveliness on earth—which she
Perceiving, conscious of her innocence—
Now hid her face, blushing with purest shame,
Which he observing, rapt with perfect joy,
With manly modesty, retired awhile
Behind the moss-clad rock which stood upon
The margin of the Lake, from which he watched
Her all unseen. Then, turning round, with half
Averted face, to see if he were gone—
(Her eyelids drooping on her violet eyes—)
She made her Naiad-like retreat out at
The other side—leaving the sighing Lake
Sighing that it should lose so much of Heaven—
While from the opening rose-bud of her form,
In delicate freshness of divinest youth,
An amorous odor came of virgin love,
Anthosmial in its redolence divine,
Which Edened all the Isle. Then, snatching up
Her snow-white Zone from off the shore, she fled
Into the neighboring Bower, where, all alone,
Seen only by the blushing Flowers, that kiss'd
With their delicious, amorous, odorous lips
Her more delicious, amorous, odorous form
A fairer Flower herself—she clad herself—
Or, rather, she was by the graces clad.
The robe she wore was made of down of Swans.
The Sandals of her delicate feet were black—
Made by Lamorah of the Roe-buck's skin—
Both jeweled from the instep to the toes
With multi-colored beads of various shapes.
The languid quarters folded down below
Her oval instep, snowy white, were gemmed
With vari-colored beads profusely placed,
Three rows of beads different from all the rest,
With beads of different kinds in every row.
The Cap she wore was lined with down of Swans,
And plumed with feathers from the Heron's wing,
And rare Flamingoes, tipped with down of Doves.
Her hair, in one rich flood of wavy gold,
Poured down upon her alabaster neck
Like rays of morning light, unshorn by clouds,
Upon some far-off hill of virgin snow.
Upon her lily-finger, emblem of her truth,
In memory of the man she loved, she wore
The jeweled ring that Julian gave to her
Before they parted—long before the great
Lamorah, Mico of his Tribe, stole her
Away to wander on this Blessed Isle.
Beside her stood her dappled Fawn, whose head,
Of delicate shape, was lifted high above
Its shoulder now in princely pride, whereon,
In graceful carelessness, her lily-hand
Of rosy-white, like lilies in the sun,
Was placed caressingly, whose touch did seem
To tame it to the meekness of the lamb,
And sooth its soul to peaceful human joy;
While, with its golden sparkling eyes that burnt
With the celestial light of one in love—
(Two Heavens of innocence meek as the Dove—)
Eyed its fond mother on the neighboring hill,
Cropping the velvet emerald moss that laced,
With verdant sheen, the ponderous rocks around.
Thus on its tapering limbs it mutely stood,
With lustrous, golden eyes, in childlike joy,
Courting her blandishments with artless ease,
And the soft soothings of her delicate hand—
Seeming, in guileless joy, though standing still,
An incarnation of most perfect peace,
And instinct with the soul of swiftest flight.
Its trumpet-nostrils, lifted high in air,
Clear as the Hollyhock when first in bloom—
Seemed scenting odors from the Isle of Balm.
Its velvet skin, soft as the down of Swans,
Was dappled with pure white on either side,
And looked like petals of the snow-white pea
On Autumn's russet leaves dropt sparingly.
Such was the plaything of her innocent youth—
An emblem of herself—her Sylph-like shape—
All innocence—all truth—all love—as pure
As Heaven—the Angel-Dian of the Isle—
Loved for its rare simplicity—its wild,
Untameable docility—which seemed
An incarnation of swift Liberty—
The birth of motion ever to be born,
For by the gentle wafture of her hand,
Would it skip playfully from hill to hill,
In wanton gambols various as the winds;
Then, after joyful vaultings in the air,
Printing the greensward with its silver feet—
Threshing out harvests of the newblown flowers—
Till roses mixed with lilies made it seem
Like damasked snow—(an emblem of her cheeks—)
Return to her again, like Joy to Love—
Delighted with the joy of giving joy—
Which she, with pensive smiles, returned again,
By combing back, with her soft, lily-hand,
The velvet down upon its tender skin,
Till, ravished with the fullest joy within,
Born of the sense of her magnetic touch—
Now growing weary of the glorious world,
(Its languid lids, fringed with the purest jet
Tight-closing over its bright golden eyes—)
Would fall asleep standing there by her side.
Thus would it sleep for hours, did she not call
It with her soft sweet voice to wake again;
For when she cried, Gazelle! up it would jump,
Alive again, as if her voice had given
To its new-wakened soul an Angel's wings.
But Julian soon arose from where he sat,
Impatient grown to gaze once more on Heaven—
(On whose bright threshhold he now seemed to stand,
And hear the songs of Seraphim within—)
And followed her to her sweet Hiding-place.
Seeing him thus approach her Sacred Bower,
Blushing rich crimson as he entered in—
With down cast eyes she turned away from him,
And would have fled, had he not stayed her thus:
“Ianthe! virgin Dian of this Isle!
Worthy to be the Queen of all the world!
Fairest of all the fair-ones ever born!
My Morning Star! my ever-more Delight!
My joy on earth! my hopes of bliss in Heaven!
Behold! it is your Julian clasps you now!”
“What! Julian? Julian! is this you? Oh! God!
Is this my Julian? this my love? my Heaven?”
When Julian clasped her to his panting breast,
Glowing with rapture far too big for words,—
And, that she looked so beautiful in tears,
Wept tears of perfect joy to see her weep—
Embracing her ten thousand, thousand times,
In one long embrace of entwining love—
Prolonged till they seemed melted into one—
She hanging, weeping, on his panting breast—
Panting like some sweet Dove in mating-time—
Her lily-hands clasped firmly round his neck—
The white sea of her bosom, passioned-stormed,
Beating in milky waves against his own—
Such deep Angelic love now filled her soul
It could not be exprest but by the aid
Of Sorrow—Christian-sister of pure Joy—
As if an Angel now should weep because
She was in Heaven—had too much heavenly bliss.
And when the rapture of divine delight
Had settled to the calmness of sweet peace—
The quick short beatings of deep joy were merged
Into the slow, sad sighings of content—
Printing her lovely lips with kisses pure—
United now never to part again—
Twined in each other's arms, they laid them down,
Couched upon Swan-down, where they spent, unseen,
The whole night long in passion's amorous play—
Mingling their burning, rapturous souls in one—
Happy beyond all else that Earth could give—
Till, sated with excess of heavenly bliss—
Consumed by their own desires they fell asleep.
Nor woke again until the next day noon.