 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
RALLE
[_]
I have often admired the heroic conduct of Ralle, the Jesuit, in sacrificing himself for the safety of his followers. When inhumanly attacked by the English, instead of assembling his warriors, he conjured, nay commanded them to escape—and advancing alone and unarmed to the side of a cross, which he had himself erected, he received the fire of the English.
Morn stooped upon the hills; and the red sun
Looked out upon the forest, through whose vast
And trackless solitude, in silentness
The calm Penobscot rolled its darkened tide
To the embrace of ocean. Silence lay
On the interminable wild—the cliffs
Grey and o'er hung with woods gave back no more
The lengthy echoes of the hunter's gun.
The clang of arms was hushed—the white man's track
Returning from the victory, might no more
By the keen hunter's practiced eye be traced
Along the forest openings. Nature's mood
Was one of settled calmness—but the breast
Of man was stormy, and his passions rose
To open variance with the tranquil scene.
Looked out upon the forest, through whose vast
And trackless solitude, in silentness
The calm Penobscot rolled its darkened tide
To the embrace of ocean. Silence lay
On the interminable wild—the cliffs
Grey and o'er hung with woods gave back no more
The lengthy echoes of the hunter's gun.
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Returning from the victory, might no more
By the keen hunter's practiced eye be traced
Along the forest openings. Nature's mood
Was one of settled calmness—but the breast
Of man was stormy, and his passions rose
To open variance with the tranquil scene.
And well might those who gathered sternly now
Around their desolated dwellings feel
A bitterness of spirit which the charm
Nature revealeth in her tenderest hours
May not subdue—for that calm loveliness,
Gentle and holy as its workings are,
On the best feelings of a heart unroused
By maddening impulses, has no power
On the wrung spirit where the sense of wrong
Deadly and deep is sternly gathering up
Its desperate resources for the hour,
When the long treasured purpose of revenge
Should deeply be accomplished. In such mood
The delicate and beautiful things of earth
Rise on the view with tantalizing power,
And the deep quietude of nature seemeth
But mockery to the agitated heart.
Around their desolated dwellings feel
A bitterness of spirit which the charm
Nature revealeth in her tenderest hours
May not subdue—for that calm loveliness,
Gentle and holy as its workings are,
On the best feelings of a heart unroused
By maddening impulses, has no power
On the wrung spirit where the sense of wrong
Deadly and deep is sternly gathering up
Its desperate resources for the hour,
When the long treasured purpose of revenge
Should deeply be accomplished. In such mood
The delicate and beautiful things of earth
Rise on the view with tantalizing power,
And the deep quietude of nature seemeth
But mockery to the agitated heart.
The sun passed up the heavens—the hunters stood
Beneath the deep oak shadows. They had laid
The mangled body of their martyr down
To his last sleep, even on the very spot
Where he had taught them with unwearied zeal
To bow devotion's knee, and offer up
The aspirations of his guileless heart
To the pure fount of blessedness; they smoothed
The green turf o'er him, and beside his head
They reared the holy symbol of the cross.
Beneath the deep oak shadows. They had laid
The mangled body of their martyr down
To his last sleep, even on the very spot
Where he had taught them with unwearied zeal
To bow devotion's knee, and offer up
The aspirations of his guileless heart
To the pure fount of blessedness; they smoothed
The green turf o'er him, and beside his head
They reared the holy symbol of the cross.
The rites were all accomplished. They drew up
Around the new-made grave—the veteran brow
Graven with battle, and the proud dark eye
Of the wild forest maid. Sorrow was there
With indignation blended, far too deep
For utterance by words—but the bent brow,
Clothed in unusual darkness, and the eye
Flashing with strange inquietude, revealed
The purposing of vengeance. Oft the hand
Of the stern hunter gathered in its grasp
The ponderous battle axe; and the low hum
Of many voices, strengthening as it passed
Down the long lines of sullen warriors told
That cliff and glen would shortly echo back
The fearful cadence of their battle hymn.
Around the new-made grave—the veteran brow
Graven with battle, and the proud dark eye
Of the wild forest maid. Sorrow was there
With indignation blended, far too deep
For utterance by words—but the bent brow,
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Flashing with strange inquietude, revealed
The purposing of vengeance. Oft the hand
Of the stern hunter gathered in its grasp
The ponderous battle axe; and the low hum
Of many voices, strengthening as it passed
Down the long lines of sullen warriors told
That cliff and glen would shortly echo back
The fearful cadence of their battle hymn.
... One warrior came
Forth from the dusky multitude, and drew
His tall form proudly up. The mark of years
Was on his venerable brow; but yet
His keen eye was undimmed; and though his form
Was like the oak on which the storm has left
A thousand traces—yet like that proud tree,
Unbending as in its primordinal strength
So stood that ancient of the tribe. His arm
Had been in many battles—and his voice
Had swelled the war cry on his native hills
Through many a hard-fought day. Closer he drew
His mantle folds about him; and inspired
With nature's living eloquence, he spoke—
Forth from the dusky multitude, and drew
His tall form proudly up. The mark of years
Was on his venerable brow; but yet
His keen eye was undimmed; and though his form
Was like the oak on which the storm has left
A thousand traces—yet like that proud tree,
Unbending as in its primordinal strength
So stood that ancient of the tribe. His arm
Had been in many battles—and his voice
Had swelled the war cry on his native hills
Through many a hard-fought day. Closer he drew
His mantle folds about him; and inspired
With nature's living eloquence, he spoke—
“Brothers! our hands have lain
The valley-turf upon the sleeper's head,
And the green foliage of the oak is spread
Above the foully slain.
The valley-turf upon the sleeper's head,
And the green foliage of the oak is spread
Above the foully slain.
“'Tis done! and now ye turn
Impatient glances toward the white man's path,
And for the dark and stormy work of death
Your dreadless spirits burn.
Impatient glances toward the white man's path,
And for the dark and stormy work of death
Your dreadless spirits burn.
“Brothers, he foully died,
That upright man and faithful! Who is here
Warrior or maid, that he hath not dropped the tear
O'er him who was our pride?
That upright man and faithful! Who is here
Warrior or maid, that he hath not dropped the tear
O'er him who was our pride?
“Yet wherefore grasp the spear,
And raise your chant so thrillingly on high?
Can deeds of vengeance light the sleeper's eye,
Or slaughter soothe his bier?
And raise your chant so thrillingly on high?
Can deeds of vengeance light the sleeper's eye,
Or slaughter soothe his bier?
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“Alas! have ye forgot
The holy counsels of the man we mourn,
That ye would now in desperation spurn
The lesson he hath taught?
The holy counsels of the man we mourn,
That ye would now in desperation spurn
The lesson he hath taught?
“Was his the arm to wave
The sign of onset? Was his war-cry known,
Where the deep vale of stormy fight had grown
One dark promiscuous grave?
The sign of onset? Was his war-cry known,
Where the deep vale of stormy fight had grown
One dark promiscuous grave?
“Ah no: yet was his heart
Unmatched for manly daring—ye have seen
In danger's hour, how nobly and serene
He bore his trying part.
Unmatched for manly daring—ye have seen
In danger's hour, how nobly and serene
He bore his trying part.
“Then lift not o'er his sod
The sign of vengeance—raise no war-song there—
But with the undoubting confidence of prayer,
Resign your cause to God.”
The sign of vengeance—raise no war-song there—
But with the undoubting confidence of prayer,
Resign your cause to God.”
They felt the deep rebuke—those dark men knew
The spirit of the fallen had been breathed
Upon their ancient chief; and casting down
The implements of death, they bowed themselves
Humbly in prayer around their leader's grave.
The spirit of the fallen had been breathed
Upon their ancient chief; and casting down
The implements of death, they bowed themselves
Humbly in prayer around their leader's grave.
Boston Statesman, April 19, 1828
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