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VOL. II.



2. VOL. II.


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THE JUDGMENT, A VISION.


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TO JOHN TRUMBULL, ESQ., OF CONNECTICUT, THE AUTHOR OF McFINGAL, THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY HIS OBLIGED AND GRATEFUL FRIEND THE AUTHOR.

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Beside its intrinsic difficulties, the subject labors under a disadvantage too obvious to have escaped notice. It has so generally occupied the imaginations of believers in the Scriptures, that most have adopted respecting it their own notions: whoever selects it as a theme, therefore, exposes his work to criticism on account of its theology, as well as its poetry; and they who think the former objectionable, will not, easily, be pleased with the latter. The object, however, was not to declare opinions; but simply to present such a view of the last grand spectacle as seemed the most susceptible of poetical embellishment.

New York, April, 1821.

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I.

The rites were past of that auspicious day
When white-robed altars wreathed with living green
Adorn the temples;—when unnumbered tongues
Repeat the glorious anthem sung to harps
Of Angels while the star o'er Bethlehem stood;—
When grateful hearts bow low, and deeper joy
Breathes in the Christian than the Angel song,
On the great birthday of our Priest and King.
That night, while musing on his wondrous life,
Precepts, and promises to be fulfilled,
A trance-like sleep fell on me, and a dream
Of dreadful character appalled my soul.
Wild was the pageant:—face to face with Kings,
Heroes, and Sages of old note, I stood;
Patriarchs, and Prophets, and Apostles saw,
And venerable forms, ere round the globe
Shoreless and waste a weltering flood was rolled,
With Angels, compassing the radiant throne
Of Mary's Son, anew descended, crowned
With glory terrible, to judge the world.

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II.

Methought I journeyed o'er a boundless plain
Unbroke by vale or hill, on all sides stretched,
Like circling ocean, to the low-browed sky;
Save in the midst a verdant mount whose sides
Flowers of all hues and fragrant breath adorned.
Lightly I trod, as on some joyous quest,
Beneath the azure vault and early sun;
But while my pleased eyes ranged the circuit green,
New light shone round; a murmur came, confused,
Like many voices and the rush of wings.
Upward I gazed, and 'mid the glittering skies,
Begirt by flying myriads, saw a throne
Whose thousand splendors blazed upon the earth
Refulgent as another sun. Through clouds
They came, and vapors colored by Aurora,
Mingling in swell sublime, voices, and harps,
And sounding wings, and hallelujahs sweet.
Sudden, a Seraph that before them flew,
Pausing upon his wide-unfolded plumes,
Put to his mouth the likeness of a trump,
And toward the four winds four times fiercely breathed.
Doubling along the arch, the mighty peal
To Heaven resounded, Hell returned a groan,
And shuddering Earth a moment reeled, confounded,
From her fixed pathway as the staggering ship,
Stunned by some mountain billow, reels. The isles,
With heaving ocean, rocked: the mountains shook
Their ancient coronets: the avalanche
Thundered: silence succeeded through the nations.

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Earth never listened to a sound like this.
It struck the general pulse of nature still,
And broke, for ever, the dull sleep of death.

III.

Now, o'er the mount the radiant legions hung,
Like plumy travellers from climes remote
On some sequestered isle about to stoop.
Gently its flowery head received the throne,
Cherubs and Seraphs, by ten thousands, round
Skirting it far and wide, like a bright sea,
Fair forms and faces, crowns, and coronets,
And glistering wings furled white and numberless.
About their Lord were those Seven glorious Spirits
Who in the Almighty's presence stand. Four leaned
On golden wands, with folded wings, and eyes
Fixed on the throne: one bore the dreadful Books,
The arbiters of life: another waved
The blazing ensign terrible, of yore,
To rebel Angels in the wars of Heaven:
What seemed a trump the other Spirit grasped,
Of wondrous size, wreathed multiform and strange.
Illustrious stood the Seven, above the rest
Towering, and like a constellation glowing,
What time the sphere-instructed Huntsman, taught
By Atlas, his star-studded belt displays
Aloft, bright-glittering, in the winter sky.

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IV.

Then on the mount, amidst these glorious shapes,
Who reverent stood, with looks of sacred awe,
I saw Emmanuel seated on his throne.
His robe, methought, was whiter than the light;
Upon his breast the Heavenly Urim glowed
Bright as the sun, and round such lightnings flashed,
No eye could meet the mystic symbol's blaze.
Irradiant the eternal sceptre shone
Which wont to glitter in his Father's hand:
Resplendent in his face the Godhead beamed,
Justice and mercy, majesty and grace,
Divinely mingling. Celestial glories played
Around with beamy lustre; from his eye
Dominion looked; upon his brow was stamped
Creative Power. Yet over all the touch
Of gracious pity dwelt, which, erst, amidst
Dissolving nature's anguish breathed a prayer
For guilty man. Redundant down his neck
His locks rolled graceful, as they waved, of old,
Upon the mournful breeze of Calvary.

V.

His throne of heavenly substance seemed composed,
Whose pearly essence, like the eastern shell,
Or changeful opal, shed a silvery light.
Clear as the moon it looked through ambient clouds
Of snowy lustre waving round its base,
That, like a zodiac, thick with emblems set,
Flashed wondrous beams, of unknown character,

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From many a burning stone of lustre rare,
Stained like the bow whose mingling splendor streamed
Confusion bright upon the dazzled eye.
Above him hung a canopy whose skirts
The mount o'ershadowed like an evening cloud.
Clouds were his curtains: not like their dim types
Of blue and purple round the tabernacle,
That waving vision of the lonely wild,
By pious Israel wrought with cherubims;
Veiling the mysteries of old renown,
Table, and altar, ark, and mercy-seat,
Where, 'twixt the shadow of cherubic wings,
In lustre visible Jehovah shone.

VI.

In honor chief, upon the Lord's right hand
His station Michael held: the dreadful sword
That from a starry baldric hung, proclaimed
The Hierarch. Terrible, on his brow
Blazed the Archangel crown, and from his eye
Thick sparkles flashed. Like regal banners, waved
Back from his giant shoulders his broad vans,
Bedropt with gold, and, turning to the sun,
Shone gorgeous as the multitudinous stars,
Or some illumined city seen by night,
When her wide streets pour noon, and echoing through
Her thronging thousands mirth and music ring.
Opposed to him, I saw an Angel stand
In sable vesture, with the Books of Life.
Black was his mantle, and his changeful wings

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Glossed like the raven's; thoughtful seemed his mien,
Sedate and calm, and deep upon his brow
Had Meditation set her seal: his eyes
Looked things unearthly, thoughts unutterable,
Or uttered only with an Angel's tongue.
Renowned was he among the Seraphim
For depth of prescience, and sublimest lore;
Skilled in the mysteries of the Eternal,
Profoundly versed in those old records where,
From everlasting ages, live God's deeds;
He knew the hour when yonder shining worlds,
That roll around us, into being sprang;
Their system, laws, connexion; all he knew
But the dread moment when they cease to be.
None judged like him the ways of God to man,
Or so had pondered; his excursive thoughts
Had visited the depths of Night and Chaos,
Gathering the treasures of the hoary deep.

VII.

Like ocean's billows seemed, ere this, the plain,
Confusedly heaving with a sumless host
From earth's and time's remotest bounds: a roar
Went up before the multitude, whose course
The unfurled banner guided, and the bow,
Zone of the universe, athwart the zenith
Sweeping its arch. In one vast conflux rolled,
Wave following wave, were men of every age,
Nation, and tongue; all heard the warning blast,
And, led by wondrous impulse, hither came.

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Mingled in wild confusion, now, those met
In distant ages born. Gray forms, that lived
When Time himself was young, whose temples shook
The hoary honors of a thousand years,
Stood side by side with Roman Consuls:—here,
'Mid Prophets old, and Heaven-inspired Bards,
Were Grecian heroes seen:—there, from a crowd
Of reverend Patriarchs, towered the nodding plumes,
Tiars, and helms, and sparkling diadems
Of Persia's, Egypt's, or Assyria's Kings;
Clad as when forth the hundred gates of Thebes
On sounding cars her hundred Princes rushed;
Or, when, at night, from off the terrace top
Of his aërial garden, touched to soothe
The troubled Monarch, came the solemn chime
Of sackbut, psaltery, and harp, adown
The Euphrates, floating in the moonlight wide
O'er sleeping Babylon. For all appeared
As in their days of earthly pride; the clank
Of steel announced the Warrior, and the robe
Of Tyrian lustre spoke the blood of Kings.
Though on the Angels while I gazed, their names
Appeared not, yet amongst the mortal throng
(Capricious power of dreams!) familiar seemed
Each countenance, and every name well known.

VIII.

Nearest the mount, of that mixed phalanx first,
Our general Parent stood: not as he looked
Wandering, at eve, amid the shady bowers

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And odorous groves of that delicious garden,
Or flowery banks of some soft-rolling stream,
Pausing to list its lulling murmur, hand
In hand with peerless Eve, the rose too sweet,
Fatal to Paradise. Fled from his cheek
The bloom of Eden; his hyacinthine locks
Were changed to gray; with years and sorrows bowed
He seemed, but through his ruined form still shone
The majesty of his Creator: round
Upon his sons a grieved and pitying look
He cast, and in his vesture hid his face.

IX.

Close at his side appeared a martial form
Of port majestic, clad in massive arms,
Cowering above whose helm with outspread wings
The Roman eagle flew; around its brim
Was charactered the name at which Earth's Queen
Bowed from her seven-fold throne and owned her lord.
In his dilated eye amazement stood;
Terror, surprise, and blank astonishment
Blanched his firm cheek, as when, of old, close hemmed
Within the Capitol, amidst the crowd
Of traitors, fearless else, he caught the gleam
Of Brutus' steel. Daunted, yet on the pomp
Of towering Seraphim, their wings, their crowns,
Their dazzling faces, and upon the Lord
He fixed a steadfast look of anxious note,
Like that Pharsalia's hurtling squadrons drew
When all his fortunes hung upon the hour.

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X.

Near him, for wisdom famous through the East,
Abraham rested on his staff; in guise
A Chaldee shepherd, simple in his raiment
As when at Mamre in his tent he sat,
The host of Angels. Snow-white were his locks
And silvery beard that to his girdle rolled.
Fondly his meek eye dwelt upon his Lord,
Like one, that, after long and troubled dreams,
A night of sorrows, dreary, wild, and sad,
Beholds, at last, the dawn of promised joys.
With kindred looks his great Descendant gazed.
Not in the poor array of shepherds he,
Nor in the many-colored coat, fond gift
Of doting age, and cause of direful hate;
But, stately as his native palm, his form
Was, like Egyptian Princes, proudly decked
In tissued purple sweeping to the ground.
Plumes from the desert waved above his head,
And down his breast the golden collar hung
Bestowed by Pharaoh when through Egypt word
Went forth to bow the knee as to her King.
Graced thus, his chariot with impetuous wheels
Bore him toward Goshen, where the fainting heart
Of Israel waited for his long-lost son,
The son of Rachel. Ah! had she survived
To see him in his glory!—As he rode,
His boyhood, and his mother's tent, arose,
Linked with a thousand recollections dear,
And Joseph's heart was in the tomb by Ephrath.

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XI.

At hand, a group of Sages marked the scene.
Plato and Socrates together stood,
With him who measured by their shades those piles
Gigantic, 'mid the desert seen, at eve,
By toiling caravans for Memphis bound,
Peering like specks above the horizon's verge,
Whose huge foundations vanish in the mist
Of earliest time. Transfixed they seemed with wonder,
Awe-struck,—amazement rapt their inmost souls.
Such glance of deep inquiry and suspense
They threw around, as, in untutored ages,
Astronomers upon some dark eclipse,
Close counselling amidst the dubious light
If it portended Nature's death, or spoke
A change in Heaven. What thought they, then, of all
Their idle dreams, their proud Philosophy,
When on their wildered souls redemption, Christ,
And the Almighty broke? But, though they erred
When all was dark, they reasoned for the Truth.
They sought in earth, in ocean, and the stars,
Their maker, arguing from his works toward God;
And from his Word had not less nobly argued,
Had they beheld the Gospel sending forth
Its pure effulgence o'er the farthest sea,
Lighting the idol mountain-tops, and gilding
The banners of salvation there. These men
Ne'er slighted a Redeemer; of his name
They never heard. Perchance their late-found harps,
Mixing with Angel symphonies, may sound
In strains more rapturous things to them so new.

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XII.

Nearer the mount stood Moses; in his hand
The rod which blasted with strange plagues the realm
Of Misraim, and from its time-worn channels
Upturned the Arabian sea. Fair was his broad
High front, and forth from his soul-piercing eye
Did Legislation look; which full he fixed
Upon the blazing panoply, undazzled.
No terrors had the scene for him who, oft,
Upon the thunder-shaken hill-top, veiled
With smoke and lightnings, with Jehovah talked,
And from his fiery hand received the Law.
Beyond the Jewish Ruler banded close,
A company full glorious, I saw
The twelve Apostles stand. O, with what looks
Of ravishment and joy, what rapturous tears,
What hearts of ecstasy, they gazed again
On their beloved Master! what a tide
Of overwhelming thoughts pressed to their souls
When now, as he so frequent promised, throned,
And circled by the hosts of Heaven, they traced
The well-known lineaments of him who shared
Their wants and sufferings here! Full many a day
Of fasting spent with him, and night of prayer,
Rushed on their swelling hearts. Before the rest,
Close to the Angelic spears, had Peter urged,
Tears in his eye, love throbbing at his breast,
As if to touch his vesture, or to catch
The murmur of his voice. On him and them
Jesus beamed down benignant looks of love.

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XIII.

How diverse from the front sublime of Paul,
Or pale and placid dignity of him
Who in the lonely Isle saw Heaven unveiled,
Was his who in twelve summers won a world!
Not such his countenance nor garb, as when
He foremost breasted the broad Granicus,
Dark-rushing through its steeps from lonely Ida,
His double-tufted plume conspicuous mark
Of every arrow; cheering his bold steed
Through pikes, and spears, and threatening axes, up
The slippery bank through all their chivalry,
Princes and Satraps linked for Cyrus' throne,
With cuirass pierced, cleft helm, and plumeless head,
To youthful conquest: or, when, panic-struck,
Darius from his plunging chariot sprang,
Away the bow and mantle cast, and fled.
His robe, all splendid from the silk-worm's loom,
Floated effeminate, and from his neck
Hung chains of gold, and gems from Eastern mines.
Bedight with many-colored plumage, flamed
His proud tiara, plumage which had spread
Its glittering dies of scarlet, green, and gold,
To evening suns by Indus' stream: around
Twined careless, glowed the white and purple band,
The imperial sacred badge of Persia's kings.
Thus his triumphal car in Babylon
Displayed him, drawn by snow-white elephants,
Whose feet crushed odors from the flowery wreaths
Boy-Cupids scattered, while soft music breathed

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And incense fumed around. But dire his hue,
Bloated and bacchanal as on the night
When old Persepolis was wrapped in flame!
Fear, over all had flung a livid tinge.
A deeper awe subdued him than amazed
Parmenio and the rest, when they beheld
The white-stoled Levites from Jerusalem,
Thrown open as on some high festival,
With hymns and solemn pomp, come down the hill
To meet the incensed King, and wondering saw,
As on the Pontiff's awful form he gazed,
Glistering in purple with his mystic gems,
Jove's vaunted son, at Jaddua's foot, adore.

XIV.

Turn, now, where stood the spotless Virgin: sweet
Her azure eye, and fair her golden ringlets;
But changeful as the hues of infancy
Her face. As on her son, her God, she gazed,
Fixed was her look,—earnest, and breathless;—now,
Suffused her glowing cheek; now, changed to pale;—
First, round her lip a smile celestial played,
Then, fast, fast rained the tears.—Who can interpret?—
Perhaps some thought maternal crossed her heart;
That mused on days long passed, when on her breast
He helpless lay, and of his infant smile;
Or, on those nights of terror when, from worse
Than wolves, she hasted with her babe to Egypt.

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XV.

Girt by a crowd of Monarchs, of whose fame
Scarce a memorial lives, who fought and reigned
While the historic lamp shed glimmering light,
Above the rest one regal port aspired,
Crowned like Assyria's princes; not a crest
O'ertopped him save the giant Seraphim.
His countenance, more piercing than the beam
Of the sun-gazing eagle, earthward bent
Its haught, fierce majesty tempered with awe.
Seven years with brutish herds had quelled his pride,
And taught him there 's a mightier King in Heaven.
His powerful arm founded old Babylon,
Whose bulwarks like the eternal mountains heaved
Their adamantine heads, whose brazen gates
Beleaguering nations foiled, and bolts of war,
Unshaken, answered as the pelting hail.
House of the Kingdom! glorious Babylon!
Earth's marvel, and of unborn time the theme!
Say where thou stood'st:—or, can the fisherman
Plying his task on the Euphrates, now,
A silent, silver, unpolluted tide,
Point to thy grave, and answer? From a sash
O'er his broad shoulder hung the ponderous sword,
Fatal as sulphurous fires to Nineveh,
That levelled with her waves the walls of Tyrus
Queen of the Sea, to its foundations shook
Jerusalem, and reaped the fields of Egypt.

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XVI.

Endless the task to name the multitudes
From every land, from isles remote, in seas
Which no adventurous mariner has sailed:—
From desert-girdled cities, of whose pomp
Some solitary wanderer, by the stars
Conducted o'er the burning wilderness,
Has told a doubted tale: as Europe's sons
Describing Mexic' and, in fair Peru,
The gorgeous Temple of the Sun, its Priests,
Its Virgin, and its fire for ever bright,
Were fablers deemed, and, for belief, met scorn.
Around while gazing thus, far in the sky
Appeared what looked, at first, a moving star;
But onward, wheeling through the clouds it came,
With brightening splendor and increasing size,
Till within ken a fiery chariot rushed,
By flaming horses drawn, whose heads shot forth
A twisted, horn-like beam. O'er its fierce wheels
Two shining forms alighted on the mount,
Of mortal birth, but deathless rapt to Heaven.
Adown their breasts their loose beards floated, white
As mist by moonbeams silvered; fair they seemed,
And bright as Angels; fellowship with Heaven
Their mortal grossness so had purified.
Lucent their mantles; other than the Seer
By Jordan caught; and in the Prophet's face
A mystic lustre, like the Urim's, gleamed.

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XVII.

Now for the dread tribunal all prepared,
Before the throne the Angel with the Books
Ascending kneeled, and crossing on his breast
His sable pinions there the volumes spread.
A second summons echoed from the trump,
Thrice sounded, when the mighty work began.
Waved onward by a Seraph's wand, the sea
Of palpitating bosoms toward the mount
In silence rolled. No sooner had the first
Pale tremblers its mysterious circle touched
Than instantaneous, swift as fancy's flash,
As lightning darting from the summer cloud,
Its past existence rose before the soul,
With all its deeds, with all its secret store
Of embryo works, and dark imaginings.
Amidst the chaos, thoughts as numberless
As whirling leaves when autumn strips the woods,
Light and disjointed as the Sibyl's, thoughts
Scattered upon the waste of long dim years,
Passed in a moment through the quickened soul.
Not with the glozing eye of earth beheld;
They saw as with the glance of Deity.
Conscience, stern arbiter in every breast,
Decided. Self acquitted or condemned,
Through two broad glittering avenues of spears
They crossed the Angelic squadrons, right, or left
The Judgment-seat; by power supernal led
To their allotted stations on the plain.
As onward, onward, numberless, they came,

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And touched, appalled, the verge of Destiny,
The Heavenly Spirits inly sympathized:—
When youthful saints, or martyrs scarred and white,
With streaming faces, hands ecstatic clasped,
Sprang to the right, celestial beaming smiles
A ravishing beauty to their radiance gave;
But downcast looks of pity chilled the left.
What clenched hands, and frenzied steps were there!
Yet, on my shuddering soul, the stifled groan,
Wrung from some proud Blasphemer as he rushed,
Constrained by conscience, down the path of death,
Knells horrible.—On all the hurrying throng
The unerring pen stamped, as they passed, their fate.
Thus, in a day, amazing thought! were judged
The millions since from the Almighty's hand,
Launched on her course, earth rolled rejoicing. Whose
The doom to penal fires, and whose to joy,
From man's presumption mists and darkness veil.
So passed the day; divided stood the world,
An awful line of separation drawn,
And from his labors the Messiah ceased.

XVIII.

By this, the sun his westering car drove low;
Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud
Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold:
Along the horizon castled shapes were piled,
Turrets and towers whose fronts embattled gleamed
With yellow light: smit by the slanting ray,
A ruddy beam the canopy reflected;

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With deeper light the ruby blushed; and thick
Upon the Seraphs' wings the glowing spots
Seemed drops of fire. Uncoiling from its staff
With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung,
Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits,
Cast off upon the dewy air huge flakes
Of golden lustre. Over all the hill,
The Heavenly legions, the assembled world,
Evening her crimson tint for ever drew.

XIX.

But while at gaze, in solemn silence, Men
And Angels stood, and many a quaking heart
With expectation throbbed; about the throne
And glittering hill-top slowly wreathed the clouds,
Erewhile like curtains for adornment hung,
Involving Shiloh and the Seraphim
Beneath a snowy tent. The bands around,
Eyeing the gonfalon that through the smoke
Towered into air, resembled hosts who watch
The King's pavilion where, ere battle hour,
A council sits. What their consult might be,
Those seven dread Spirits and their Lord, I mused,
I marvelled. Was it grace, and peace?—or death?
Was it of Man?—Did pity for the Lost
His gentle nature wring, who knew, who felt
How frail is this poor tenement of clay? —

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Arose there from the misty tabernacle
A cry like that upon Gethsemané?—
What passed in Jesus' bosom none may know,
But close the cloudy dome invested him;
And, weary with conjecture, round I gazed
Where in the purple west, no more to dawn,
Faded the glories of the dying day.
Mild twinkling through a crimson-skirted cloud
The solitary star of Evening shone.
While gazing wistful on that peerless light
Thereafter to be seen no more, (as, oft,
In dreams strange images will mix,) sad thoughts
Passed o'er my soul. Sorrowing, I cried, “Farewell,
Pale, beauteous Planet, that displayest so soft
Amid yon glowing streak thy transient beam,
A long, a last farewell! Seasons have changed,
Ages, and empires rolled, like smoke, away,
But thou, unaltered, beamest as silver fair
As on thy birthnight! Bright and watchful eyes,
From palaces and bowers, have hailed thy gem
With secret transport! Natal star of love,
And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy,
How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray!
How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green,
Signal of rest, and social converse sweet,
Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheered
The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison!
Pride of the West! beneath thy placid light
The tender tale shall never more be told,
Man's soul shall never wake to joy again:
Thou set'st for ever,—lovely Orb, farewell!”
 

For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities.—

Heb. iv. 15.

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XX.

Low warblings, now, and solitary harps
Were heard among the Angels, touched and tuned
As to an evening hymn, preluding soft
To Cherub voices; louder as they swelled,
Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments,
Mixed with clear silver sounds, till concord rose
Full as the harmony of winds to Heaven;
Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies
To some worn Pilgrim first with glistening eyes
Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds
Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks,
The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine,
The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe,
Blent with the dulcet, distance-mellowed bell,
Come, like the echo of his early joys.
In every pause, from spirits in mid air,
Responsive still were golden viols heard,
And Heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.

XXI.

Calm, deep, and silent was the tide of joy
That rolled o'er all the Blessed; visions of bliss,
Rapture too mighty, swelled their hearts to bursting;
Prelude to Heaven it seemed, and in their sight
Celestial glories swam. How fared, alas!
That other Band? Sweet to their troubled minds
The solemn scene; ah! doubly sweet the breeze

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Refreshing, and the purple light to eyes
But newly oped from that benumbing sleep
Whose dark and drear abode no cheering dream,
No bright-hued vision ever enters, souls
For ages pent, perhaps, in some dim world
Where guilty spectres stalk the twilight gloom.
For, like the spirit's last seraphic smile,
The Earth, anticipating now her tomb,
To rise, perhaps, as Heaven magnificent,
Appeared Hesperian: gales of gentlest wing
Came fragrance-laden, and such odors shed
As Yemen never knew, nor those blest Isles
In Indian seas where the voluptuous breeze
The peaceful Native breathes, at eventide,
From nutmeg groves and bowers of cinnamon.
How solemn on their ears the choral note
Swelled of the Angel hymn! so late escaped
The cold embraces of the grave, whose damp
Silence no voice or stringed instrument
Has ever broke! Yet with the murmuring breeze
Full sadly chimed the music and the song,
For with them came the memory of joys
For ever past, the stinging thought of what
They once had been, and of their future lot.
To their grieved view the passages of Earth
Delightful rise, their tender ligaments
So dear, they heeded not an after state,
Though by a fearful Judgment ushered in.
A Bridegroom fond, who lavished all his heart
On his Beloved, forgetful of the Man

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Of many sorrows, who, for him, resigned
His meek and spotless spirit on the cross,
Has marked among the Blessed Bands, arrayed
Celestial in a spring of beauty doomed
No more to fade, the charmer of his soul,
Her cheek soft blooming like the dawn in Heaven.
He recollects the days when on his smile
She lived; when, gently leaning on his breast,
Tears of intense affection dimmed her eyes,
Of dove-like lustre.—Thoughtless, now, of him
And earthly joys, eternity and Heaven
Engross her soul.—What more accursed pang
Can Hell inflict? With her, in realms of light,
In never-dying bliss, he might have rolled
Eternity away; but now, for ever,
Torn from his Bride new-found, with cruel Fiends,
Or Men like Fiends, must waste and weep. Now, now,
He mourns with burning, bitter drops his days
Misspent, probation lost, and Heaven despised.
Such thoughts from many a bursting heart drew forth
Groans, lamentations, and despairing shrieks,
That on the silent air came from afar.

XXII.

As, when from some proud capital that crowns
Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze
Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog
Impervious mantled o'er her highest towers,
Bright on the eye rush Brahma's temples capped

29

With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets,
Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnished domes,
Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun,
So from the hill the cloudy curtains rolled,
And, in the lingering lustre of the eve,
Again the Saviour and his Seraphs shone.
Emitted sudden in his rising, flashed
Intenser light, as toward the right hand host
Mild turning with a look ineffable,
The invitation he proclaimed in accents
Which on their ravished ears poured thrilling, like
The silver sound of many trumpets heard
Afar in sweetest jubilee; then, swift
Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left
That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice
Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them
Seemed like the crush of Heaven, pronounced the doom.
The sentence uttered, as with life instinct,
The throne uprose majestically slow;
Each angel spread his wings; in one dread swell
Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets,
And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet,
And many a strange and deep-toned instrument
Of Heavenly minstrelsy unknown on Earth,
And Angels' voices, and the loud acclaim
Of all the ransomed, like a thunder-shout.
Far through the skies melodious echoes rolled,
And faint hosannas distant climes returned.

30

XXIII.

Down from the lessening multitude came faint
And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal,
All else in distance lost, when to receive
Their new inhabitants the heavens unfolded.
Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse
The Wicked caught of Paradise, whence streaks
Of splendor, golden quivering radiance shone,
As when the showery evening sun takes leave,
Breaking a moment o'er the illumined world.
Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by,
Slow turning to the light their snowy wings.
A deep-drawn agonizing groan escaped
The hapless Outcasts, when upon the Lord
The glowing portals closed. Undone, they stood
Wistfully gazing on the cold, gray heaven,
As if to catch, alas! a hope not there.
But shades began to gather, night approached
Murky and lowering: round with horror rolled
On one another their despairing eyes
That glared with anguish: starless, hopeless gloom
Fell on their souls, never to know an end.
Though in the far horizon lingered yet
A lurid gleam, black clouds were mustering there;
Red flashes, followed by low muttering sounds,
Announced the fiery tempest doomed to hurl
The fragments of the Earth again to Chaos.
Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing
Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals

31

Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes
Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged
Their dark, impure abyss, as sea-fowl dive
Their watery element.—O'erwhelmed with sights
And sounds appalling, I awoke; and found
For gathering storms, and signs of coming woe,
The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed
Serene and peaceful. Gladly I surveyed her
Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven,
And blessed the respite ere the day of doom.

33

SACHEM'S-WOOD; A SHORT POEM, WITH NOTES.


35

Fellow-Citizens:

The sweet-blowing breezes of these regenerated times have stimulated a before drooping fancy, (even in extremely warm weather!) to the task of weaving a few rhymes; which, as they relate to local matters, I beg you to accept, as a testimony of renewed pleasure and pride in my native State.

New Haven, 30 July, 1838.


37

Farewell to “Highwood”! name made dear
By lips we never more can hear!
That came, unsought for, as I lay,
Musing o'er landscapes far away;
Expressive just of what one sees,
The upland slope, the stately trees;
Oaks, prouder that beneath their shade
His lair the valiant Pequot made,
Whose name, whose gorgon lock alone,
Turned timid hearts to demi-stone.
Within this green pavilion stood,
Oft, the dark princes of the wood,
Debating whether Philip's cause
Were paramount to Nature's laws;—
Whether the tomahawk and knife
Should, at his bidding, smoke with life;—
Or pact endure, with guileless hands,
Pipes lit for peace, and paid-for lands,
With men, who slighted frowns from kings,
Yet kept their faith in humblest things,

38

The “Pillars” of our infant state,

Seven in number, with John Davenport and Theophilus Eaton at their head, the founders of New Haven, then a separate jurisdiction. (See Professor Kingsley's Historical Discourse on the Two Hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of New Haven.)


Shafts, now, in Zion's upper gate.
How changed, how softened, since the trail
Suddenly turned the finder pale;
Since Highwood's dells, a tangled brake,
Harboured the otter, deer, and snake;
Since to St. Ronan's sparkling brink
The wolf and wildcat came to drink;
Since our good sires, in their old hall,
Met armed for combat, prayer, and all!
Now, from this bench, the gazer sees
Towers and white steeples o'er the trees,
Mansions that peep from leafy bowers,
And villas blooming close by ours;
Hears the grave clocks, and classic bell,
Hours for the mind and body tell;
Or starts, and questions, as the gong
Bids urchins not disport too long.
A blended murmur minds the ear
That an embosomed City 's near.
See! how its guardian Giants tower,
Changing their aspects with the hour!—
There, Sassacus, in shade or glow,
Hot with the noon, or white with snow,
Dark in the dawn, at evening red,
Or rolling vapors round his head,
A type of grandeur ever stands,
From God's benignant, graceful hands!
Once, on his top the Pequot stood,
And gazed o'er all the world of wood,

39

Eyed the blue Sound, and scanned the bays,
Distinct in evening's mellow rays,
For ships, pursuing on the main,
As Mason tracked him o'er the plain.
Like a green map, lay all below,
With glittering veins where rivers flow.
The Island loomed, in soft repose;—
No spire, no mast, no mansion rose;—
Smokes, here and there, from out the screen
Denoted still an Indian scene;
One, only, native roof he sees,
Where Belmont now o'erlooks the trees.

The name by which its former owners designated the eminence on which Henry Whitney, Esq., is now erecting a seat,—in full and near view from the top of Sassacus. The time alluded to was the year 1637. New Haven was founded in 1638.


The distance stretched in haze away,
As from his Mount by Mystic bay,
Whence, as the calumet went round,
His eyes could measure all the Sound,
Or, in the boundless Ocean, find
Delight for his untutored mind.
Far eastward steals his glistening eye,
There, where his throne, his people lie,
Lie prostrate—subjects, children, power,
All, all extinguished in an hour.

“Thus,” (at the taking of Mystic Fort,) “parents and children, the sannup and squaw, the old man and the babe, perished in promiscuous ruin.”—

Trumb. Vol. I. p. 86.

The heart-wrung savage turned aside,—
But no tears stained a Pequot's pride;
The dark hand spread upon his breast,
Only, the wampum grasped and pressed:
He turned,—he stopped,—took one last view,—
And then, like Regulus, withdrew.
These mountains, rivers, woods, and plain,
Ne'er saw the Pequot King again;

40

Far in the regions of the west,
The Mohawk sent him to his rest.
No Pale-face boasted; none made bold
To touch that lock, till he was cold.
Shall no memorial in the land
Remain of Sassacus? Like sand
Beat by the sea, shall every trace
Of the great spirit of his race,
Be swept away?—No longer, tame
Mountains by an ignoble name.
Let Sassacus for ever tower,
Changing his aspect with the hour!

Sassacus was the great prince of the nation.—“When the English began their settlements at Connecticut,” (a previous affair to the establishment of New Haven,) he had “twenty-six Sachems under him.”—“His principal fort was on a commanding and most beautiful eminence, in the town of Groton, a few miles southeasterly from Fort Griswold. It commanded one of the finest prospects of the Sound and the adjacent country, which is to be found on the coast. He had another fort near Mystic River, a few miles to the eastward of this, called Mystic Fort. This was also erected on a beautiful hill or eminence, gradually descending to the south and southeast.”—“The Pequots, Mohegans, and Nehantics could doubtless muster a thousand bowmen.”—The Narragansets said of Sassacus, that he “was all one God; no man could kill him.”—

Trumb. Vol. I. pp. 41–43.

The lock from his scalp, was carried to Boston by Mr. Ludlow, “as a rare sight, and sure demonstration of the death of their mortal enemy.”—

Ib. 92.

Of this formidable individual, Roger Wolcott, one of the old governors of Connecticut, says,

“Great was his glory, greater still his pride,
Much by himself, and others, magnified.”


In the soft west, as day declines,
The Regicide, his rival, shines;
Whose noble outline on the sky
Draws, and detains, the enamoured eye,
For, floating there, the steeds of eve
Flakes from their ruddy nostrils leave.
In his wild solitudes, of old,
The patriot Outlaws kept their hold.
When foreign optics that way dart,
A thrill electric wakes the heart;
Imagination hurries o'er
Our early annals, and before;
Flits, and is gone, from that lone Rock,
To the sad pageant of the block.
Seldom, a real scene you see
So full of sweet variety;
The gentle objects near at hand,
The distant, flowing, bold, and grand.

41

I 've seen the world, from side to side,
Walked in the ways of human pride,
Mused in the palaces of kings,
And know what wealth to grandeur brings;
The spot for me, of all the earth,
Is this, the dear one of my birth.
Go, search the page of Grecian lore,
Scan all the men, and deeds, of yore,
Read how the Kingless Power grew great,
And note how wolf-cubs found a state;
Go, feast among the Feudal brave;
Go, quaff with robbers in their cave;
Try, what distinction reason's eye
'Twixt towers and caverns can espy.
Then mark how our “Seven Pillars” rise,
Built up, like those which prop the skies,
On Justice, Truth, and Peace, and Love,
With Grace cemented from Above!
Where is the violence or wrong
Done to the weak, as we grew strong?
Where is the record of disgrace
We blush, or ought to blush, to face?
What landless Indian could declare
Our shameful arts to peel him bare?
Or, justly change, if armed with powers,
A mete or landmark claimed as ours?
The spot most blameless of the earth
Is this, the sweet one of my birth;
This, and the land where virtuous Penn
Followed his Saviour out, with men.

42

Vicarious agency, we know,
Is Heaven's proceeding here below.
Through others' faith, in others' stead,
Mercies find access to our head.
Our fathers' noble self-denial
Purchased a treasure we 've on trial;
Which low ambition, avarice, crimes,
May turn to dross in after times.
They, who, in Newman's barn, laid down
Scripture “foundations” for the town;

See Kingsley's Discourse; also Bacon's Historical Sermons.


The men, I say, whose practic mind
Left Locke and Plato far behind,
They drank the cup, they bore the pain,
And see! what crowns our native plain!
So, by another's taste and toil,
Highwood was snatched from common soil,
Its oaks preserved, and we placed here,
With thanks to crown the circling year.
Ah! what a race by him was run,
Whose day began before the sun;
Who, at the sultry hour of noon,
Felt action, action still a boon;
Who, at the weary shut of eve,
No respite needed, no reprieve;
But, in those hours when others rest,
Kept public care upon his breast!
Need we demand a cherished thought
For one whose lavish labors brought
Health, comfort, value, praise, and grace,
(Even for our bones a resting-place,)

43

To the loved spot for which he stood,
When neighbour townsmen gasped in blood?—
But Heaven leaves not to human praise
The recompense of well-spent days.
The cheerful morn, the short, sweet night,
The mind, as sunshine, ever bright,
Approving conscience, growing store;
(For though God took, he gave back more;)
A breast, like Hector's, of such space,
That strength and sweetness could embrace;
Power to endure, and soul to feel
No hardship such, for others' weal;
Ardor, that logic could not shake;
Resource, the nonplus ne'er to take;
A filial love of mother earth,
That made keen labor sweet as mirth;—
All, brought him to his age so green,
Stamped him so reverend, so serene,
A stranger cried, (half turning round,)
“That face is worth a thousand pound!”
Urged by a simple, antique zeal,
Which spoils-men are too wise to feel,
He traversed States like stents for boys;

Stints is the proper word.


Huge forests pierced o'er corduroys;—
Now, grain by grain, the folios sifted,
Through which some Proteus title shifted;—
Now, o'er deep fords, by night, as day,
O'er mountain ledges, picked his way;
Here, on his path, the savage glaring,
There, savage whites his gray head daring:—

44

Still,—rain, or snow, or mirk, or mire,—
Tracks were the tokens of the sire!
Tracks of a minim called Young Jin,
His sulky that you see me in!
The patient sparkle in his eye,
Said he would yet sup Jordan dry.

“He trusteth that he can draw up Jordan into his mouth; his nose pierceth through snares.”—

Job, of Behemoth.

Fancy oft bids affection mark
His little, onward-toiling ark,
Like a dark speck, on some hill's breast,
Climbing, to vanish in the West;
And asks, what thoughts sustained and cheered,
What were his hopes, and what he feared?
If aught he feared, 't was not that Eye,
Certain the upright to descry,
That watched through houseless wilds his way,
Kept him in darkness safe as day,
And, doubtless, soothed his journeyings lone,
As that meek Servant's of his own.
Like a ripe ear, at last he bends
Close on the brink, that trial ends.
None saw his spirit in decay,
Or marked his vigor ebb away.
Grace bade him lay his own white head,
For the last time, on his own bed,
Then, as to spare the gloom of death,
Took, at a draft, the Sachem's breath.

The sobriquet by which James Hillhouse was known in Congress and elsewhere.—The result of his labors in behalf of the Connecticut School Fund, alluded to in some of the foregoing lines, may be taken in the words of a scrupulous and well-informed narrator, it having been previously stated, that its affairs had fallen into an entangled condition. “The best friends of that fund, and those most acquainted with its history, have said, that they would have been happy to have realized from it, at that time, eight hundred thousand dollars. After fifteen years' management, he left it increased to one million seven hundred thousand dollars of solid property. The difference was to be ascribed to his skill, his fidelity, his accuracy, his patience, and his wonderful and indefatigable industry. While that fund shall be perpetuated, and shall continue to carry through all the streets of our cities, and every rude, secluded hamlet among our hills, the blessings of instruction, it will stand a monument to his faithful and disinterested patriotism.”—The toils he underwent, (for the property consisted chiefly in lands scattered in five States, some parts of them then very difficult of access,) and the expedients he resorted to, in accomplishing his great objects, cannot even be shadowed here. They were highly curious and interesting. He was literally “in journeyings often,—in watchings often,—in hunger and thirst, —in perils from robbers,—in perils in the wilderness,”— to say nothing of his perils nearer home, “among false brethren.” Once, he was frost-bitten; losing, in consequence, during the greater part of a winter, and far from his family, the use of one eye: but I have been assured that he did not, even then, spare the other. Once he was arrested as a criminal, by an enraged debtor, who, in his own neighbourhood, exercised a party influence, and but just escaped the indignity of a prison. Twice he was brought to death's door, by fevers taken in the unsettled and unwholesome regions he was obliged to visit. When persuaded, with some difficulty, that the public welfare required him at this arduous post, in the same spirit in which Mr. Jay, yielding to the arguments of Washington, undertook the ungracious task of the British treaty, he flung up his third term in the Senate of the United States, then just commencing, and entered on a series of exertions, in which he displayed a fortitude, a perseverance, and a practical sagacity, that have never failed to excite surprise. The power of bodily endurance would have been nothing without the infinite tact in business; skill would have fallen short of its objects without miraculous patience and perseverance; and nothing could have disarmed opposition, but that natural spring of sweetness in his disposition, which perpetually welled out in the midst of appalling labors, and converted, in many, many instances, the suspicious and intractable into sincere and zealous friends. The astonishing little animal he drove for six or eight of the first years, sometimes took the Sachem seventy miles in a day. On one occasion, he pushed her thirty miles after twilight, without stopping; having been dogged by two ruffians, in a desolate part of the country, who attempted to deprive him of his trunk. It contained, unknown to them, twenty thousand dollars of the public money. After putting them to flight, he thought it prudent to make as many tracks as possible. Her subsequent blindness he ascribed to the severe drive of that memorable evening. Her “going like a greyhound,” as she descended the Onondaga hollow, was described to me there, years after she was as stiff as the steeds of Rhesus.—As a friend once said of the business letters of Mr. Astor, Every word weighs a pound; or, as the leaves of the Sybil, which, though light enough for the wind, were full of ponderous meaning,—so, reader, couldst thou peruse these flimsy verses through my spectacles, thou wouldst find in some of them more “than meets the ear.” As an illustration of the words,

“Now, o'er deep fords, by night, as day,”
take the following:—After half a day's solitary travelling, the Sachem once came to a stream, apparently swollen with rain, to an unusual depth. It was necessary to cross it, or be frustrated of his objects, besides measuring back a weary way. He undressed himself, strapped his trunk of clothes, papers, &c., on the top of his sulky, and reached the opposite bank with no other inconvenience than an unseasonable bath. —Stranger, imagine not this Portrait to be a figment, or even an embellishment of the imagination. It is addressed to those who knew the man; and to those who knew him best, I appeal for its fidelity. Every line and epithet applied to him, could be substantiated by apposite anecdotes.— Though, perhaps, jam satis, I will add one more.

On one of his school-fund journeys, nearly thirty years ago, traversing a forest in Ohio, which, for many a long mile, had seemed as undisturbed by human occupants as on the day of creation, there suddenly glided into the path an armed Indian. The apparition was rather startling. The Sachem nodded, however, to his compatriot, and kept jogging on, as if unconcerned. The Indian surveyed him earnestly, from time to time;—but, whether Young Jin quickened or slackened her pace, he still kept at the wheel. After about six miles, the sulky drew up, and a four-pence-ha'penny was handed to its persevering attendant. The Redskin received it with a grunt, or nod of thanks, turned off into the woods, and was seen no more. If any evil purpose was harboured, perhaps the donor owed something, on this occasion, to those indisputable sachem marks, which distinguished both his person and aspect.

I wish it had been possible, consistently with brevity, to throw in a few more of the traits, which made even his children smile at the simplicity of his feelings, while they stood amazed at his power, and adored his goodness. His memorable relations (memorable at least to his family) with the Connecticut School Fund might be summed in the quaint address of Eliot, the spiritual friend of the Indians, to Robert Boyle:—“Right honorable, charitable, indefatigable, nursing father!” The words are singularly applicable, also, to his exertions in behalf of another public interest. For fifty years he was the Treasurer of Yale College; and during the first thirty he may be said to have been the Ways and Means of the Corporation;—by which I intend, that in all their pecuniary difficulties, and in their collisions with the State, (for there were Anti-Grammaticals in those days as well as these,) their main reliance was on his commanding influence, his resource and ingenuity, and on his single-hearted attachment to their interests. In such a state of despondency was that body in 1791–2, that he was called home from Congress to advise in the threatening aspect of their affairs. His counsel was,—unreservedly to open the whole condition of the Institution to the recently appointed and very able Committee of the Legislature, (composed, however, of individuals supposed to be desirous of some changes,) and the result was, a Report favorable and honorable to the College. About this time he conceived the idea of obtaining a grant in its favor of certain outstanding taxes, the nature of which will be found explained below, in the words of the Hon. Mr. Pitkin. By unflinching zeal, he carried the measure, contrary to the hopes of many equally sincere, but less sanguine friends. This grant laid anew the corner-stone of Yale College. When he assumed his office, in 1782, one of those shadowy White Wigs, which then rendered the Corporation illustrious, said to him:—“Young man, you are taking upon you an important trust. Remember! in the discharge of business, you must never serve the Devil;—but you may make the Devil serve you.” Whether that venerable and honorable Body ascribe the rescue of their institution from a state of want and decay, and its exaltation to its present pitch of usefulness, to any agency less orthodox than the Divine blessing on disinterested human efforts, we have not inquired.

The subject of this note, and the late illustrious President, who came into office in 1795, were co-workers and brothers, —yea, more than brothers,—in all that tended to the enduring prosperity of this favorite object of their care.


But other Highwoods meet the ear,
Making our home scarce ours appear.
Something uncommon, something wild,
Peculiar to the Forest child,

45

Would please me more than any name
To which another can lay claim.
So farewell Highwood!—“Highwood-Park
O'ersteps the democratic mark:
We never gave it, or desired,
We never owned it, or admired.
A Yankee,—Whig,—and gentleman,
Should be a plain republican;—
Proud he may be, (some honest pride
Would do no harm on t' other side,)
Proud for his country, but not full
Of puffy names, like Mr. Bull;
Proud of his good old Federal stock;
Ready to give for 't word or knock;
Fouling no nest in which he grew,
As many modern patriots do;
Flinching from no man's sneer or ire;
Sticking to truth, through print and fire;
Dead against demagogues and tricks;
Staunch as the Whig of Seventy-six,
Whose grass-grown remnants, yonder, feel
More genuine warmth for human weal,
Than all the “crib-fed” knaves and drones,
That praise and pick us to the bones.
Ancestral woods! must we forego
An epithet we love and know,
For some new title, and proclaim
That steady folk have changed their name.
'T were ominous;—it should not be;—
It looks like turning.—Hold! let 's see;—

46

The name, I swear, I won by wit,
I poached on no man,—stole not it,—
'T was branded on my rakes and hoes,
Before the other Highwood rose.
Yet legends say that Geoffrey Crayon,
Cruising round Weehawk one play day on,
(For where “auld Hornie!” has not he
Spooked 'twixt the prairies and the sea?)

To spook,—to saunter about inquisitively.—

Nursery.

There, where your eye, at once, controls
Sails from the tropics and the poles,
The belted city, glorious bay,
And, northward, God's and Clinton's way,
Down which an empire's harvests ride,

For their prospective magnitude, see the interesting report of Mr. Ruggles, to the New York Legislature, during the last session.—One's imagination can hardly advert to the North River, without thoughts of steamboats, western wheat, &c.; so I leave this couplet as it is, though it rings in my ear as if I had heard its like somewhere. I cannot possibly remember. If I have stumbled upon any other person's words or thoughts, they are much at his service.


And Fulton's smoking chariots glide;
Christened the trees, that then peeped o'er
The bastions of that haughty shore,
Highwood.—Pray how could I
Know, or suspect a thing so sly?—
And were that Highwood now the den

The residence of James G. King, Esq., opposite the city of New York.


Of foxes, or that kind of men,
Egad! I'd hurl the name so far,
It ne'er my tympanum could jar.
But when we reason something higher,
Observe, there, people we admire;
Of proven worth, urbane, and true;
Keeping the line their fathers drew;
A graceful vine, a noble shoot,
Each from a venerated root;

Namely, from Archibald Gracie, and Rufus King.


Good stock, good nurture, and a tone,
I hope as Federal as mine own,—

47

I scarcely can confess my pain,
And half am tempted to refrain.—
But memory's glass is at mine eye;—
And shadows pass of things gone by.
The Sachem's day is o'er, is o'er!
His hatchet (buried oft before)

His favorite toast among old friends, uttered with a beaming of the eye, which showed that no bitter reminiscence could be harboured in his heart, was,—“Let us bury the hatchet.” It embodied the spirit of his life.—It used to be said in the Senate Chamber, that he kept one of these implements, under the papers and red tape, in his desk; which he had been known to take out and lay carelessly by the side of his inkstand, when the debate waxed personal. No bad idea, by the bye. He, at any rate, averted many a désagrément, by pleasantly threatening to “take the tree.”—His father, William Hillhouse, of Montville, who, in the days of steady habits, came up on his Narraganset pacer, and took his seat in one hundred and six Legislatures, (then semi-annual,) was a tall, spare man, as dark as the Black Douglas himself, and did not particularly fancy being hit, upon his reputed Mohegan cross. Being the Patriarch of the eastern section of the State, and with a relish of wit, he usually had a circle round him at his lodgings. On a certain occasion, the Sachem, who had often, in the State Legislature, been opposed in argument to his father, but was then a young member of Congress, happened to call on the old gentleman during the Hartford session, at a moment when he was reading with great glee to the whole mess, a squib upon the Congress Men, from a Philadelphia newspaper. It was at the time a Library was talked of for Congress. The gist of the pleasantry lay in the adaptation of a Book to the private history of each of the prominent Members. The old man read on, chuckling, for some time: at last, looking up, he said, dryly: “Why, Jemmy, they don't notice you at all.”—“Read on, father.” He did so; and soon came to the volume to be ordered for his son, namely, a History of the Aborigines, to aid him in tracing his pedigree! For a rarity, the old gentleman was floored. Venerable image of the elder day! well do I remember those stupendous shoe-buckles, that long, gold-headed cane, (kept in Madam, thy Sister's best closet, for thy sole annual use,) that steel watch-chain, and silver pendants, yea, and the streak of holland, like the slash in an antique doublet, commonly seen betwixt thy waistcoat and small clothes, as thou passedst daily, at nine o'clock, A. M., during the autumnal session! One of his little granddaughters took it into her head to watch for her dear “Black Grandpapa,” and insist on kissing him in the street, as he passed. He condescended, once or twice, to stoop for her salute; but, anon, we missed him. He passed us no more; having adopted Church street, instead of Temple street, on his way to the Council Chamber. One of the earliest recollections of our boyhood is the appearance of that Council Chamber, as we used to peep into it. Trumbull sat facing the door,—clarum et venerabile nomen!—there lay his awful sword and cocked hat,—and round the table, besides his Excellency and his Honor, were twelve noble-looking men, whom our juvenile eyes regarded as scarcely inferior to gods. And, compared with many, who floated up, afterwards, on the spume of party, not a man of them but was a Capitolinus. As the oldest Counsellor,—at the Governor's right hand,—sat, ever, the Patriarch of Montville, (a study for Spagnoletto,) with half his body, in addition to his legs, under the table, a huge pair of depending eyebrows, concealing all the eyes he had, till called upon for an opinion, when he lifted them up long enough to speak briefly, and then they immediately relapsed. He resigned his seat at the age of eighty, in the full possession of his mental powers. The language of the letter before me is: “He has withdrawn from public life with cheerfulness and dignity.” He was able, at that age, to ride his Narraganset from New Haven to New London in a day, abhorring “wheel carriages.” At his leave-taking, I have been told, there was not a dry eye at the Council Board.


In earnest rusts; while he has found,
Far off, a choicer hunting-ground.
Here, where in life's aspiring stage,
He planned a wigwam for his age,
Vowing the woodman's murderous steel
These noble trunks should never feel;
Here, where the objects of his care,
Waved grateful o'er his silver hair;
Here, where as silent moons roll by,
We think of him beyond the sky,
Resting among the Wise and Good,
Our hearts decide for Sachem's-Wood.
Sachem's-Wood, 30 July, 1838.
 

East Rock.

West Rock.

He came into the Senate in 1796, in the place either of Chief Justice Ellsworth, or of Governor Trumbull, who both went out the same year; served the remainder of his predecessor's term, went through two terms of his own, and had commenced the third, when his resignation took place in 1810,—having been fourteen years in the Senate, and five in the House of Representatives. He was three times elected to Congress under the Old Confederation, but declined taking his seat. The foregoing dates are from the American Almanac, for 1834.

“Before the establishment of the present constitution, the State of Connecticut had, at various times, laid taxes, which were payable in certain evidences of debt against the State; for the purpose of paying the interest and part of the principal of this debt.

“Congress, in 1790, assumed State debts to the amount of $21,000,000, and the amount assumed for Connecticut was $1,600,000, and was to be funded, on certain terms, by those who held certain evidences of this debt. At the time of the assumption, a large balance of those taxes was due from the various collectors through the State, and was payable in the same evidences of State debt, as were assumed and authorized to be funded, under the act of Congress. If these balances should be paid into the State Treasury, in those evidences of debts, they must, of course, be cancelled, or considered as paid.

“In this situation, James Hillhouse, Esq., then, and long after, Treasurer of Yale College, and ever attentive and active in its pecuniary concerns, conceived the idea of having these balances transferred to that institution, and funded, under the assumption act, for its benefit. With this view, he induced an application, on the part of the College, to be made to the Legislature of the State, and he was acting manager in pursuing the application.

“To induce the Legislature to make the grant of these balances to the College, which were then unascertained, he proposed that the grant be made on the condition, that one half of the sum, which should be paid over to the College, and funded, should be transferred to the State by the Institution, for the use and benefit of the State itself.

“On these terms, Mr. Hillhouse, by his usual perseverance and untiring exertions, at last obtained the grant. He had great difficulties, and strong prejudices, to encounter, which no one but himself could have overcome. Some of the most intelligent members of the Assembly, professional men, on whom he had relied for support, deemed it an impracticable scheme, and, at first, almost refused him their aid, in attempting to carry it into effect. He then applied to another class of the Legislature, to the substantial farmers, and urged upon them the great importance of doing something for a College, which was the pride of the State, and explained to them his plan, by which not only the College, but the State itself, would be greatly benefited. He interested this class of men strongly in favor of his plan, and it was through their influence, tht the measure was finally carried through the Legislature.

“The amount of the balance of these taxes was larger than was apprehended, and the College received greater pecuniary benefit from this grant than from all others, except the late donation by individuals.”

Professor Kingsley observes: “The honor of originating this measure, and of securing its passage through the Legislature, belongs to the Treasurer, Mr. Hillhouse. No one has pretended, that, without him, any thing would have been, or could have been done, on the subject.”—

Sketch of the History of Yale College, p. 26.


209

THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH, A NORTHUMBERLAND BALLAD.

CANTO I.

Dark was the night, and wild the storm,
And loud the torrent's roar;
And loud the sea was heard to dash
Against the distant shore.
Musing on man's weak, hapless state,
The lonely Hermit lay;
When, lo! he heard a female voice
Lament in sore dismay.
With hospitable haste he rose,
And waked his sleeping fire;
And snatching up a lighted brand,
Forth hied the reverend sire.

210

All sad beneath a neighbouring tree
A beauteous maid he found,
Who beat her breast, and with her tears
Bedewed the mossy ground.
“O weep not, lady, weep not so,
Nor let vain fears alarm;
My little cell shall shelter thee,
And keep thee safe from harm.”
“It is not for myself I weep,
Nor for myself I fear;
But for my dear and only friend,
Who lately left me here:
“And while some sheltering bower he sought
Within this lonely wood,
Ah! sore I fear his wandering feet
Have slipt in yonder flood.”
“O! trust in Heaven,” the Hermit said,
“And to my cell repair;
Doubt not but I shall find thy friend,
And ease thee of thy care.”
Then climbing up his rocky stairs,
He scales the cliff so high;
And calls aloud, and waves his light,
To guide the stranger's eye.

211

Among the thickets long he winds,
With careful steps and slow:
At length a voice returned his call,
Quick answering from below:
“O tell me, father, tell me true,
If you have chanced to see
A gentle maid, I lately left
Beneath some neighbouring tree:
“But either I have lost the place,
Or she hath gone astray;
And much I fear this fatal stream
Hath snatched her hence away.”
“Praise Heaven, my son,” the Hermit said;
“The lady 's safe and well;”
And soon he joined the wandering youth,
And brought him to his cell.
Then well was seen, these gentle friends
They loved each other dear:
The youth he pressed her to his heart;
The maid let fall a tear.
Ah! seldom had their host, I ween,
Beheld so sweet a pair:
The youth was tall, with manly bloom;
She, slender, soft, and fair.

212

The youth was clad in forest green,
With bugle-horn so bright:
She in a silken robe and scarf,
Snatched up in hasty flight.
“Sit down, my children.” says the Sage;
“Sweet rest your limbs require;”
Then heaps fresh fuel on the hearth,
And mends his little fire.
“Partake,” he said, “my simple store,
Dried fruits, and milk, and curds;”
And spreading all upon the board,
Invites with kindly words.
“Thanks, father, for thy bounteous fare,”
The youthful couple say:
Then freely ate, and made good cheer,
And talked their cares away.
“Now, say, my children, (for perchance
My counsel may avail,)
What strange adventure brought you here,
Within this lonely dale?”
“First tell me, father,” said the youth,
“(Nor blame mine eager tongue,)
What town is near? What lands are these?
And to what lord belong?”

213

“Alas! my son,” the Hermit said,
“Why do I live to say,
The rightful lord of these domains
Is banished far away?
“Ten winters now have shed their snows
On this my lowly hall,
Since valiant Hotspur (so the North
Our youthful lord did call)
“Against Fourth Henry Bolingbroke
Led up his northern powers,
And, stoutly fighting, lost his life
Near proud Salopia's towers.
“One son he left, a lovely boy,
His country's hope and heir;
And, oh! to save him from his foes
It was his grandsire's care,
“In Scotland safe he placed the child
Beyond the reach of strife,
Nor long before the brave old Earl
At Bramham lost his life.
“And now the Percy name, so long
Our northern pride and boast,
Lies hid, alas! beneath a cloud;
Their honors reft and lost.

214

“No chieftain of that noble house
Now leads our youth to arms;
The bordering Scots despoil our fields,
And ravage all our farms.
“Their halls and castles, once so fair,
Now moulder in decay;
Proud strangers now usurp their lands,
And bear their wealth away.
“Nor far from hence, where yon full stream
Runs winding down the lea,
Fair Warkworth lifts her lofty towers,
And overlooks the sea.
“Those towers, alas! now stand forlorn,
With noisome weeds o'erspread,
Where feasted lords and courtly dames,
And where the poor were fed.
“Meantime, far off, 'mid Scottish hills,
The Percy lives unknown;
On strangers' bounty he depends,
And may not claim his own.
“O might I with these aged eyes
But live to see him here,
Then should my soul depart in bliss!”
He said, and dropt a tear.

215

“And is the Percy still so loved
Of all his friends and thee?
Then bless me, father,” said the youth,
“For I, thy guest, am he.”
Silent he gazed, then turned aside
To wipe the tears he shed;
And lifting up his hands and eyes,
Poured blessings on his head:
“Welcome, our dear and much-loved lord,
Thy country's hope and care:—
But who may this young lady be,
That is so wondrous fair?”
“Now, father, listen to my tale,
And thou shalt know the truth:
And let thy sage advice direct
My unexperienced youth.
“In Scotland I 've been nobly bred,
Beneath the Regent's hand,
In feats of arms, and every lore,
To fit me for command.
“With fond impatience long I burned
My native land to see:

216

At length I won my guardian friend,
To yield that boon to me.
“Then up and down, in hunter's garb,
I wandered as in chase,
Till in the noble Neville's house
I gained a hunter's place.
“Some time I lived with him unknown,
Till I'd the hap so rare,
To please this young and gentle dame,
That Baron's daughter fair.”
“Now, Percy,” said the blushing maid,
“The truth I must reveal;
Souls great and generous, like to thine,
Their noble deeds conceal.
“It happened on a summer's day,
Led by the fragrant breeze,
I wandered forth to take the air
Among the green-wood trees.
“Sudden a band of rugged Scots,
That near in ambush lay,
Moss-troopers from the border-side,
There seized me for their prey.

217

“My shrieks had all been spent in vain,
But Heaven, that saw my grief,
Brought this brave youth within my call,
Who flew to my relief.
“With nothing but his hunting-spear
And dagger in his hand,
He sprung like lightning on my foes,
And caused them soon to stand.
“He fought, till more assistance came;
The Scots were overthrown;
Thus freed me, captive, from their bands,
To make me more his own.”
“O, happy day!” the youth replied:
“Blest were the wounds I bare!
From that fond hour she deigned to smile,
And listen to my prayer.
“And when she knew my name and birth,
She vowed to be my bride;
But oh! we feared (alas, the while!)
Her princely mother's pride:
“Sister of haughty Bolingbroke,
Our house's ancient foe,
To me, I thought, a banished wight,
Could ne'er such favor show.

218

“Despairing then to gain consent,
At length to fly with me
I won this lovely, timorous maid;
To Scotland bound are we.
“This evening, as the night drew on,
Fearing we were pursued,
We turned adown the right-hand path,
And gained this lonely wood:
“Then lighting from our weary steeds
To shun the pelting shower,
We met thy kind conducting hand,
And reached this friendly bower.”
“Now rest ye both,” the Hermit said;
“Awhile your cares forego;
Nor, lady, scorn my humble bed;
—We'll pass the night below.”

219

CANTO II.

Lovely smiled the blushing morn,
And every storm was fled;
But lovelier far, with sweeter smile,
Fair Eleanor left her bed.
She found her Henry all alone,
And cheered him with her sight:
The youth consulting with his friend
Had watched the livelong night.
What sweet surprise o'erpowered her breast!
Her cheek what blushes dyed,
When fondly he besought her there
To yield to be his bride!—
“Within this lonely hermitage
There is a chapel meet;
Then grant, dear maid, my fond request,
And make my bliss complete.”
“O Henry, when thou deign'st to sue,
Can I thy suit withstand?
When thou, loved youth, hast won my heart,
Can I refuse my hand?

220

“For thee I left a father's smiles,
And mother's tender care;
And, whether weal or woe betide,
Thy lot I mean to share.”
“And wilt thou, then, O generous maid!
Such matchless favor show,
To share with me, a banished wight,
My peril, pain, or woe?
“Now Heaven, I trust, hath joys in store
To crown thy constant breast;
For, know, fond hope assures my heart
That we shall soon be blest.
“Not far from hence stands Coquet Isle,
Surrounded by the sea;
There dwells a holy friar, well known
To all thy friends and thee:
“'T is father Bernard, so revered
For every worthy deed;
To Raby Castle he shall go,
And for us kindly plead.

221

“To fetch this good and holy man
Our reverend host is gone;
And soon, I trust, his pious hands
Will join us both in one.”
Thus they in sweet and tender talk
The lingering hours beguile:
At length they see the hoary sage
Come from the neighbouring isle.
With pious joy and wonder mixed
He greets the noble pair,
And glad consents to join their hands
With many a fervent prayer.
Then straight to Raby's distant walls
He kindly wends his way;
Meantime in love and dalliance sweet
They spend the livelong day.
And now, attended by their host,
The Hermitage they viewed,
Deep-hewn within a craggy cliff,
And overhung with wood.
And, near, a flight of shapely steps,
All cut with nicest skill,
And piercing through a stony arch,
Ran winding up the hill.

222

There, decked with many a flower and herb,
His little garden stands;
With fruitful trees, in shady rows,
All planted by his hands.
Then, scooped within the solid rock,
Three sacred vaults he shows:
The chief a chapel, neatly arched,
On branching columns rose.
Each proper ornament was there
That should a chapel grace;
The lattice for confession framed,
And Holy-water vase.
O'er either door a sacred text
Invites to godly fear;
And in a little scutcheon hung
The cross, and crown, and spear.
Up to the altar's ample breadth
Two easy steps ascend;
And, near, a glimmering, solemn light
Two well-wrought windows lend.
Beside the altar rose a tomb
All in the living stone;
On which a young and beauteous maid
In goodly sculpture shone.

223

A kneeling angel, fairly carved,
Leaned hovering o'er her breast:
A weeping warrior at her feet:
And near to these her crest.
The cliff, the vault, but chief the tomb,
Attract the wondering pair:
Eager they ask, what hapless dame
Lies sculptured here so fair.
The Hermit sighed, the Hermit wept,
For sorrow scarce could speak:
At length he wiped the trickling tears
That all bedewed his cheek:
“Alas! my children, human life
Is but a vale of woe;
And very mournful is the tale
Which ye so fain would know.”.

224

THE HERMIT'S TALE.

“Young lord, thy grandsire had a friend
In days of youthful fame;
Yon distant hills were his domains,
Sir Bertram was his name.
“Where'er the noble Percy fought,
His friend was at his side;
And many a skirmish with the Scots
Their early valor tried.
“Young Bertram loved a beauteous maid,
As fair as fair might be;
The dewdrop on the lily's cheek
Was not so fair as she.
“Fair Widdrington the maiden's name,
Yon towers her dwelling-place;
Her sire an old Northumbrian chief,
Devoted to thy race.
“Many a lord and many a knight
To this fair damsel came;
But Bertram was her only choice;
For him she felt a flame.

225

“Lord Percy pleaded for his friend,
Her father soon consents;
None but the beauteous maid herself
His wishes now prevents.
“But she with studied, fond delays
Defers the blissful hour;
And loves to try his constancy,
And prove her maiden power.
“‘That heart,’ she said, ‘is lightly prized,
Which is too lightly won;
And long shall rue that easy maid,
Who yields her love too soon.’
“Lord Percy made a solemn feast
In Alnwick's princely hall;
And there came lords, and there came knights,
His Chiefs and Barons all.
“With wassel, mirth, and revelry,
The Castle rung around;
Lord Percy called for song and harp,
And pipes of martial sound.
“The minstrels of thy noble house,
All clad in robes of blue,
With silver crescents on their arms,
Attend in order due.

226

“The great achievements of thy race
They sung: their high command:
How valiant Mainfred o'er the seas
First led his northern band.
“Brave Galfred next to Normandy
With venturous Rollo came;
And, from his Norman Castles won,
Assumed the Percy name.
“They sung how, in the Conqueror's fleet,
Lord William shipped his powers,
And gained a fair young Saxon bride,
With all her lands and towers.
“Then journeying to the Holy Land,
There bravely fought and died:
But first the silver Crescent won,
Some Paynim Soldan's pride.

227

“They sung how Agnes, beauteous heir,
The Queen's own brother wed,
Lord Josceline, sprung from Charlemagne,
In princely Brabant bred.
“How he the Percy name revived,
And how his noble line,
Still foremost in their country's cause,
With godlike ardor shine.
“With loud acclaims the listening crowd
Applaud the master's song,
And deeds of arms and war became
The theme of every tongue.

228

“Now high heroic acts they tell,
Their perils past recall:
When lo! a damsel young and fair
Stepped forward through the hall.
“She Bertram courteously addressed;
And kneeling on her knee;—
‘Sir Knight, the Lady of thy love
Hath sent this gift to thee.’
“Then forth she drew a glittering helm
Well-plated many a fold,
The casque was wrought of tempered steel,
The crest of burnished gold.
“‘Sir Knight, thy Lady sends thee this,
And yields to be thy bride,
When thou hast proved this maiden gift
Where sharpest blows are tried.’
“Young Bertram took the shining helm,
And thrice he kissed the same;
‘Trust me, I'll prove this precious casque
With deeds of noblest fame.’
“Lord Percy, and his Barons bold,
Then fix upon a day
To scour the marches, late oppressed,
And Scottish wrongs repay.

229

“The knights assembled on the hills,
A thousand horse and more;
Brave Widdrington, though sunk in years,
The Percy standard bore.
“Tweed's limpid current soon they pass,
And range the borders round:
Down the green slopes of Tiviotdale
Their bugle-horns resound.
“As when a lion in his den
Hath heard the hunters' cries,
And rushes forth to meet his foes,
So did the Douglas rise.
“Attendant on their Chief's command
A thousand warriors wait:
And now the fatal hour drew on
Of cruel, keen debate.
“A chosen troop of Scottish youths
Advance before the rest;
Lord Percy marked their gallant mien,
And thus his friend addressed:
“‘Now, Bertram, prove thy Lady's helm,
Attack yon forward band;
Dead or alive I'll rescue thee,
Or perish by their hand.’

230

“Young Bertram bowed, with glad assent,
And spurred his eager steed,
And, calling on his Lady's name,
Rushed forth with whirlwind speed.
“As when a grove of sapling oaks
The livid lightning rends;
So fiercely 'mid opposing ranks
Sir Bertram's sword descends.
“This way and that he drives the steel,
And keenly pierces through;
And many a tall and comely knight
With furious force he slew.
“Now closing fast on every side,
They hem Sir Bertram round:
But dauntless he repels their rage,
And deals forth many a wound.
“The vigor of his single arm
Had well-nigh won the field;
When pond'rous fell a Scottish axe,
And clave his lifted shield.
“Another blow his temples took,
And reft his helm in twain;
That beauteous helm, his Lady's gift!
—His blood bedewed the plain.

231

“Lord Percy saw his champion fall,
Amid the unequal fight;
‘And now, my noble friends, he said,
Let 's save this gallant knight.’
“Then rushing in, with stretched-out shield
He o'er the warrior hung:
As some fierce eagle spreads her wing
To guard her callow young.
“Three times they strove to seize their prey,
Three times they quick retire:
What force could stand his furious strokes,
Or meet his martial fire?
“Now gathering round on every part
The battle raged amain;
And many a Lady wept her Lord,
That hour untimely slain.
“Percy and Douglas, great in arms,
There all their courage showed;
And all the field was strewed with dead,
And all with crimson flowed.
“At length the glory of the day
The Scots reluctant yield,
And, after wond'rous valor shown,
They slowly quit the field.

232

“All pale, extended on their shields,
And weltering in his gore,
Lord Percy's knights their bleeding friend
To Wark's fair Castle bore.
“‘Well hast thou earned my daughter's love,’
Her father kindly said;
‘And she herself shall dress thy wounds,
And tend thee in thy bed.’
“A message went, no daughter came;
Fair Isabel ne'er appears:
‘Beshrew me,’ said the aged chief,
‘Young maidens have their fears.
“‘Cheer up, my son, thou shalt her see
So soon as thou canst ride;
And she shall nurse thee in her bower,
And she shall be thy bride.’
“Sir Bertram at her name revived,
He blessed the soothing sound;
Fond hope supplied the nurse's care,
And healed his ghastly wound.

233

CANTO III.

One early morn, while dewy drops
Hung trembling on the tree,
Sir Bertram from his sick-bed rose,
His bride he would go see.
“A brother he had, in prime of youth,
Of courage firm and keen;
And he would tend him on the way,
Because his wounds were green.
“All day o'er moss and moor they rode,
By many a lonely tower;
And 't was the dew-fall of the night
Ere they drew near her bower.
“Most drear and dark the Castle seemed,
That wont to shine so bright;
And long and loud Sir Bertram called,
Ere he beheld a light.
“At length her aged nurse arose
With voice so shrill and clear:
‘What wight is this, that calls so loud,
And knocks so boldly here?’

234

“‘'T is Bertram calls, thy Lady's love,
Come from his bed of care:
All day I 've ridden o'er moor and moss
To see thy Lady fair.’
“‘Now out, alas!’ she loudly shrieked,
‘Alas! how may this be?
For six long days are gone and past
Since she set out to thee.’
“Sad terror seized Sir Bertram's heart,
And oft he deeply sighed;
When now the drawbridge was let down,
And gates set open wide.
“‘Six days, young knight, are past and gone
Since she set out to thee;
And sure, if no sad harm had happed,
Long since thou wouldst her see.
“‘For, when she heard thy grievous chance,
She tore her hair, and cried,
Alas! I 've slain the comeliest knight,
All through my folly and pride!
“‘And now to atone for my sad fault,
And his dear health regain,
I'll go myself, and nurse my love,
And soothe his bed of pain.

235

“‘Then mounted she her milk-white steed
One morn at break of day;
And two tall yeomen went with her,
To guard her on the way.’
“Sad terror smote Sir Bertram's heart,
And grief o'erwhelmed his mind:
‘Trust me,’ said he, ‘I ne'er will rest
Till I thy Lady find.’
“That night he spent in sorrow and care;
And with sad-boding heart,
Or ever the dawning of the day,
His brother and he depart.
“‘Now, brother, we'll our ways divide,
O'er Scottish hills to range;
Do thou go north, and I'll go west;
And all our dress we'll change.
“‘Some Scottish carle hath seized my love,
And bore her to his den;
And ne'er will I tread English ground
Till she is restored agen.’
“The brothers straight their paths divide,
O'er Scottish hills to range;
And hide themselves in quaint disguise,
And oft their dress they change.

236

“Sir Bertram, clad in gown of gray,
Most like a palmer poor,
To halls and castles wanders round,
And begs from door to door.
“Sometimes a minstrel's garb he wears,
With pipes so sweet and shrill;
And wends to every tower and town,
O'er every dale and hill.
“One day as he sate under a thorn
All sunk in deep despair,
An aged pilgrim passed him by,
Who marked his face of care.
“‘All minstrels yet that ever I saw,
Are full of game and glee;
But thou art sad and woe-begone!
I marvel whence it be!’
“‘Father, I serve an aged Lord,
Whose grief afflicts my mind;
His only child is stolen away,
And fain I would her find.’
“‘Cheer up, my son; perchance, (he said,)
Some tidings I may bear;
For oft when human hopes have failed,
Then heavenly comfort's near.

237

“‘Behind yon hills so steep and high,
Down in the lowly glen,
There stands a Castle fair and strong,
Far from the abode of men.
“‘As late I chanced to crave an alms
About this evening hour,
Methought I heard a Lady's voice
Lamenting in the tower.
“‘And when I asked what harm had happed,
What Lady sick there lay,
They rudely drove me from the gate,
And bade me wend away.’
“These tidings caught Sir Bertram's ear,
He thanked him for his tale;
And soon he hasted o'er the hills,
And soon he reached the vale.
“Then drawing near those lonely towers,
Which stood in dale so low,
And sitting down beside the gate,
His pipes he 'gan to blow.
“‘Sir Porter, is thy lord at home
To hear a minstrel's song?
Or may I crave a lodging here,
Without offence or wrong?’

238

“‘My lord,’ he said, ‘is not at home
To hear a minstrel's song:
And, should I lend thee lodging here,
My life would not be long.’
“He played again so soft a strain,
Such power sweet sounds impart,
He won the churlish Porter's ear,
And moved his stubborn heart.
“‘Minstrel, (he said,) thou play'st so sweet,
Fair entrance thou shouldst win;
But, alas, I'm sworn upon the rood
To let no stranger in.
“‘Yet, minstrel, in yon rising cliff
Thou 'lt find a sheltering cave;
And here thou shalt my supper share,
And there thy lodging have.’
“All day he sits beside the gate,
And pipes both loud and clear:
All night he watches round the walls,
In hopes his love to hear.
“The first night, as he silent watched,
All at the midnight hour,
He plainly heard his Lady's voice
Lamenting in the tower.

239

“The second night the moon shone clear,
And gilt the spangled dew;
He saw his Lady through the grate,
But 't was a transient view.
“The third night, wearied out, he slept
Till near the morning tide;
When, starting up, he seized his sword,
And to the Castle hied.
“When, lo! he saw a ladder of ropes
Depending from the wall;
And o'er the moat was newly laid
A poplar, strong and tall.
“And soon he saw his love descend
Wrapt in a tartan plaid;
Assisted by a sturdy youth
In Highland garb y-clad.
“Amazed, confounded at the sight,
He lay unseen and still;
And soon he saw them cross the stream,
And mount the neighbouring hill.
“Unheard, unknown of all within,
The youthful couple fly.
But what can 'scape the lover's ken?
Or shun his piercing eye?

240

“With silent steps he follows close
Behind the flying pair,
And saw her hang upon his arm,
With fond, familiar air.
“‘Thanks, gentle youth,’ she often said;
‘My thanks thou well hast won:
For me what wiles hast thou contrived!
For me what dangers run!
“‘And ever shall my grateful heart
Thy services repay:’—
Sir Bertram could no further hear,
But cried, ‘Vile traitor, stay!
“‘Vile traitor, yield that lady up!’—
And quick his sword he drew.
The stranger turned in sudden rage,
And at Sir Bertram flew.
“With mortal hate their vigorous arms
Gave many a vengeful blow:
But Bertram's stronger hand prevailed,
And laid the stranger low.
“‘Die, traitor, die!’—A deadly thrust
Attends each furious word.
Ah! then fair Isabel knew his voice,
And rushed beneath his sword.

241

“‘O stop,’ she cried, ‘O stop thy arm!
Thou dost thy brother slay!’”—
And here the Hermit paused and wept:
His tongue no more could say.
At length he cried, “Ye lovely pair,
How shall I tell the rest?
Ere I could stop my piercing sword,
It fell, and stabbed her breast.”
“Wert thou thyself that hapless youth?
Ah! cruel! fate!” they said.
The Hermit wept, and so did they:
They sighed; he hung his head.
“O blind and jealous rage,” he cried,
“What evils from thee flow?”
The Hermit paused; they silent mourned:
He wept, and they were woe.
“Ah! when I heard my brother's name,
And saw my Lady bleed,
I raved, I wept, I curst my arm,
That wrought the fatal deed.
“In vain I clasped her to my breast,
And closed the ghastly wound;
In vain I pressed his bleeding corpse,
And raised it from the ground.

242

“My brother, alas! spake never more,
His precious life was flown.
She kindly strove to soothe my pain,
Regardless of her own.
“‘Bertram,’ she said, ‘be comforted,
And live to think on me:
May we in heaven that union prove,
Which here was not to be!
“‘Bertram,’ she said, ‘I still was true;
Thou only hadst my heart:
May we hereafter meet in bliss!
We now, alas! must part.
“‘For thee, I left my father's hall,
And flew to thy relief,
When, lo! near Cheviot's fatal hills,
I met a Scottish chief,
“‘Lord Malcolm's son, whose proffered love,
I had refused with scorn;
He slew my guards, and seized on me,
Upon that fatal morn:
“‘And in these dreary, hated walls
He kept me close confined;
And fondly sued, and warmly pressed,
To win me to his mind.

243

“‘Each rising morn increased my pain,
Each night increased my fear!
When, wandering in this northern garb,
Thy brother found me here.
“‘He quickly formed this brave design
To set me captive free;
And on the moor his horses wait,
Tied to a neighbouring tree.
“‘Then haste, my love, escape away,
And for thyself provide;
And sometimes fondly think on her
Who should have been thy bride!’
“Thus pouring comfort on my soul,
Even with her latest breath,
She gave one parting, fond embrace,
And closed her eyes in death.
“In wild amaze, in speechless woe,
Devoid of sense I lay:
Then sudden all in frantic mood
I meant myself to slay:
“And, rising up in furious haste,
I seized the bloody brand:

244

A sturdy arm here interposed,
And wrenched it from my hand.
“A crowd that from the Castle came,
Had missed their lovely ward;
And seizing me, to prison bare,
And deep in dungeon barred.
“It chanced, that on that very morn
Their chief was prisoner ta'en:
Lord Percy had us soon exchanged,
And strove to soothe my pain.
“And soon those honored, dear remains
To England were conveyed;
And there within their silent tombs,
With holy rites, were laid.
“For me, I loathed my wretched life,
And oft to end it sought;
Till time, and thought, and holy men
Had better counsels taught.
“They raised my heart to that pure source,
Whence heavenly comfort flows:
They taught me to despise the world,
And calmly bear its woes.

245

“No more the slave of human pride,
Vain hope, and sordid care,
I meekly vowed to spend my life
In penitence and prayer.
“The bold Sir Bertram now no more,
Impetuous, haughty, wild;
But poor and humble Benedict,
Now lowly, patient, mild:
“My lands I gave to feed the poor,
And sacred altars raise;
And here, a lonely anchorite,
I came to end my days.
“This sweet, sequestered vale I chose,
These rocks, and hanging grove;
For oft beside this murmuring stream
My love was wont to rove.
“My noble friend approved my choice;
This blest retreat he gave:
And here I carved her beauteous form,
And scooped this holy cave.
“Full fifty winters, all forlorn,
My life I 've lingered here;
And daily o'er this sculptured saint
I drop the pensive tear.

246

“And thou, dear brother of my heart!
So faithful and so true,
The sad remembrance of thy fate
Still makes my bosom rue!
“Yet not unpitied passed my life,
Forsaken or forgot;
The Percy and his noble Son,
Would grace my lowly cot.
“Oft the great Earl, from toils of state
And cumbrous pomp of power,
Would gladly seek my little cell,
To spend the tranquil hour.
“But length of life is length of woe!
I lived to mourn his fall:
I lived to mourn his godlike Son,
Their friends and followers all.
“But thou the honors of thy race,
Loved youth, shalt now restore:
And raise again the Percy name
More glorious than before.”
He ceased, and on the lovely pair
His choicest blessings laid;

247

While they with thanks and pitying tears
His mournful tale repaid.
And now what present course to take
They ask the good old sire;
And, guided by his sage advice,
To Scotland they retire.
Meantime their suit such favor found
At Raby's stately hall,
Earl Neville and his princely spouse
Now gladly pardon all.
She suppliant at her nephew's throne
The royal grace implored:
To all the honors of his race
The Percy was restored.
The youthful Earl still more and more
Admired his beauteous dame:
Nine noble sons to him she bore,
All worthy of their name.
 

Robert Stuart, Duke of Albany. See the continuator of Fordun's Scoti-Chronicon, cap. 18, cap. 23, &c.

Ralph Neville, first Earl of Westmoreland, whose principal residence was at Raby Castle, in the Bishopric of Durham.

Adjoining to the cliff, which contains the Chapel of the Hermitage, are the remains of a small building, in which the Hermit dwelt. This consisted of one lower apartment, with a little bed-chamber over it, and is now in ruins: whereas the Chapel, cut in the solid rock, is still very entire and perfect.

In the little island of Coquet, near Warkworth, are still seen the ruins of a Cell, which belonged to the Benedictine Monks of Tinemouth Abbey.

This is a Bull's Head, the crest of the Widdrington family. All the figures, &c., here described, are still visible; only somewhat effaced with length of time.

Widdrington Castle is about five miles south of Warkworth.

See Dugdale's Baronage, &c.

In Lower Normandy are three places of the name of Percy: whence the family took the surname of De Percy.

William de Percy, (fifth in descent from Galfred, or Geffrey de Percy, son of Mainfred,) assisted in the conquest of England, and had given him the large possessions in Yorkshire, of Emma de Porte, (so the Norman writers name her,) whose father, a great Saxon lord, had been slain fighting along with Harold. This young lady, William, from a principle of honor and generosity, married: for, having had all her lands bestowed upon him by the Conqueror, “he (to use the words of the old Whitby Chronicle) wedded hyr that was very heire to them in discharging of his conscience.” See Harl. MSS. 692. (26.) He died in Asia, in the first Crusade.

Agnes de Percy, sole heiress of her house, married Josceline de Lovain, youngest son of Godfrey Barbatus, Duke of Brabant, and brother of Queen Adeliza, second wife of King Henry the First. He took the name of Percy, and was ancestor of the Earls of Northumberland. His son, Lord Richard de Percy, was one of the twenty-five Barons, chosen to see the Magna Charta duly observed.

Wark Castle, a fortress belonging to the English, and of great note in ancient times, stood on the southern bank of the river Tweed, a little to the east of Tiviotdale, and not far from Kelso. It is now entirely destroyed.

i. e. sword.

Hotspur.

King Henry the Fifth, A. D. 1414.


248

[50]

The account given in the foregoing Ballad of young Percy, the son of Hotspur, receives the following confirmation from the old Chronicle of Whitby:

“Henry Percy, the son of Sir Henry Percy, that was slayne at Shrewesbery, and of Elizabeth, the daughter of the Erle of Marche, after the death of his father and grauntsyre, was exild into Scotland in the time of King Henry the Fourth: but in the time of King Henry the Fifth, by the labour of Johanne the Countes of Westmerland, (whose daughter Alianor he had wedded in coming into England,) he recovered the King's grace, and the countye of Northumberland, so was the second Erle of Northumberland.

“And of this Alianor his wife, he begat IX Sonnes and III Daughters, whose names be Johanne, that is buried at Whytbye; Thomas, Lord Egremont; Katheryne Gray of Rythin; Sir Raffe Percy; William Percy, a Bishopp; Richard Percy; John, that dyed without issue; [another John, called by Vincent, Johannes Percy senior de Warkworth;] George Percy, Clerk; Henry that dyed without issue; Anne;”—[besides the eldest son and successor here omitted, because he comes in below, viz.]

“Henry Percy, the third Erle of Northumberland.”
Vid. Harl. MSS. No. 692. (26.) in the British Museum.
THE END.
 

i. e. remained an exile in Scotland during the reign of King Henry the Fourth. In Scotiâ exulavit tempore Henrici Regis Quarti. Lat. MSS. penes Duc. North.

See his Great Baronage, No. 20, in the Herald's office.