Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative

A few words, by way of preface, will save us the necessity of burdening with notes the little story which follows. Accabee is the well-known name of a lovely, but neglected, farmstead, in the neighborhood of Charleston, on Ashley River. It was in earlier periods applied to a larger district in the same neighborhood. Keawah is the aboriginal name of the Ashley. The tribe of Accabee was probably of the same family with the Yemassees, the Edistos, and other groups, inhabiting the lower country of South Carolina. The Gaelic Chief spoken of in the text was Lord Cardross, who made a settlement at, or near, Beaufort, which, after a brief existence of four years, was destroyed by an incursion of the Indians and Spaniards.

It was a night of calm—o'er Ashley's waters
Crept the sweet billows to their own soft tune,
While she, most bright of Keawah's fair daughters,
Whose voice might spell the footsteps of the moon,
As slow we swept along,
Pour'd forth her own sweet song,
A lay of rapture not forgotten soon.

Hush'd was our breathing, stay'd the lifted oar,
Our spirits rapt, our souls no longer free,
While the boat drifting softly to the shore,
Brought us within the shades of Accabee;—
“Ah!” sudden cried the maid,
In the dim light afraid;
“'Tis here the ghost still walks of the old Yemassee.”

210

And sure the spot was haunted by a power,
To fix the pulses in each youthful heart;
Never was moon more gracious in a bower,
Making delicious fancy work for art;
Weaving, so meekly bright,
Her pictures of delight,
That, though afraid to stay, we sorrow'd to depart.

“If these old groves are haunted”—sudden then,
Said she, our sweet companion—“it must be
By one who loved, and was beloved again,
And joy'd all forms of loveliness to see:—
Here, in these groves they went,
Where love and worship, blent,
Still framed the proper God for each idolatry.

“It could not be that love should here be stern,
Or beauty fail to sway with sov'ran might;
These, from so blesséd scenes, should something learn,
And swell with tenderness and shape delight:
These groves have had their power,
And bliss, in bygone hour,
Hath charm'd, with sigh and song, the passage of the night.”

“It were a bliss to think so;” made reply
Our Hubert—“yet the tale is something old,
That checks us with denial;—and our sky,
And these brown woods that, in its glittering fold,
Look like a fairy clime,
Still unsubdued by time,
Have evermore the tale of wrong'd devotion told.”

211

“Give us thy legend, Hubert;” cried the maid;—
And, with down-dropping oars, our yielding prow
Shot to a still lagoon, whose ample shade
Droop'd from the gray moss of an old oak's brow:
The groves, meanwhile, lay bright,
Like the broad stream, in light,
Soft, sweet as ever yet the lunar loom display'd.

“Great was the native chief,”—'twas thus began
The legend of our comrade—“who, in sway,
Held the sweet empire which to-night we scan,
Stretching, on either hand, for miles away:
A stalwart chief was he,
Cassique of Accabee,
And lord o'er numerous tribes who did with pride obey.

“War was his passion, till the white man came,
And then his policy;—and well he knew,
How, over all, to plan the desperate game,
And when to rise, and when to sink from view;
To plant his ambush well,
And how, with horrid yell,
To dart, at midnight forth, in fury arm'd with flame.

“His neighbors by the Ashley, the pale race,
Were friends and allies 'gainst all other foes;
They dwelt too nearly to his royal place,
To make the objects of their commerce blows;
But no such scruple staid
His wild and cruel raid,
When, by Heléna's Bay, the Gaelic hamlet rose.

212

“And moved by Spanish wile that still misled,
Our chieftain, in one dark November night,
With all his warriors, darted from his bed,
And drove the Gaelic chief from his, in flight:—
Scalplocks and other spoils,
Rewarded well his toils,
And captives graced his triumph after fight.

“But, when the strife was wildest, and the fire
Play'd fiercest on the roofs of bough and leaf,
A fair-hair'd child, misdeeming him her sire,
Rush'd headlong to the arms of the red chief:—
'Twas not his hour to spare—
His fingers in her hair,
And tomahawk, lifted high, declared his savage ire.

“But, in the light of her own blazing home,
He caught the entreaty in her soft blue eye,
Which, weeping still the while, would wildly roam,
From him who held, to those who hurried by;—
Strange was the emotion then,
That bade him stay his men,
And, in his muscular arms, lift that young damsel high.

“He bore her through the forest, many a mile,
With a rude tenderness and matchless strength;
She slept upon his arm—she saw his smile,
Seen seldom, and reached Accabee at length;
Here, for a term, he kept
The child, her griefs unwept,
With love, that did from her a seeming love beguile.

213

“Daughter of ancient Albyn, she was bright,
With a transparent beauty; on her cheek,
The rose and lily, struggling to unite,
Did the best blooms of either flower bespeak;
Whilst floods of silken hair,
Free flowing, did declare
The gold of western heavens when sinks the sun from sight.

“Our chief had reached his thirtieth summer—she
Was but thirteen; yet, till he saw this maid,
Love made no portion of his reverie:
Strife was his passion, and the midnight raid;
The dusky maids, in vain,
Had sought to weave their chain,
About that fierce wild heart that still from all went free.

“But, free no longer, they beheld him bound
By his fair captive; strife was now unsought;
The chase abandon'd; and his warriors found
Their chief no more where fields were to be fought;—
He better loved to brood
In this sweet solitude,
She still in sight, who thus her captor's self had caught.

“She little dream'd her conquest, for he still
Maintain'd her as his child, with tenderness;—
As one who seeks no farther of his will,
Than to protect and with sweet nurture bless;
Such love as sire might show,
Did that dark chief bestow,
When, with a gentle clasp, he met her child-caress.

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“She grew to be the blossom of his sight—
For her he snared the fawn,—for her he brought
Gay gauds of foreign fabric;—her delight
Being still the sweetest recompense he sought;—
And, when her feet would rove,
He led her through the grove,
Show'd her its devious paths and all its secrets taught.

“She grew apace in beauty as in years,
And he the more devoted:—until now
His eye beheld her growth and had no fears,—
But soon a shadow rose above his brow;—
That shadow, born of doubt,
Which finds love's secret out,
And, o'er its sunniest bower, still spans an arch of tears.

“This shadow had its birth with our dark chief,
When to his home, one eve, returning late,
He saw, with passion still subdued by grief,
A stranger with his beauty, in his gate;—
One of the pale white race,
Whose presence, in that place,
Brought to his heart a fear that troubled it like fate.

“Yet was he but a pedlar,—he who came,—
Thus troubling waters which had slept before;
He brought his glittering wares, and did but claim
To show them, and night's lodging to implore:
And, o'er his pack, with eyes
Of eager, glad surprise,
Stoop'd our young maid when stept the chief within his door.

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“His stealthy footsteps stirr'd no single sound;
They knew not of the eyes upon them set—
She, the gay thoughtless girl, in thought profound,
Deep in such wealth as had not tempted yet;
While his—the stranger's—gaze,
In a most pleasant maze,
Scann'd her bright cheeks, unseen, from eyes of glittering jet.

“A handsome youth, of dark and amorous glance,
Showing a grateful consciousness of power,
Yet thoughtless, in that moment of sweet trance,
How best to woo and win the forest flower;
Even at that moment, stood
The red-man from the wood,
Gazing, with instinct grief, that had its birth that hour.

“Quickly he broke the silence and came forth,
While the fair girl, upstarting from her dream,
Hurried his search into such stores of worth,
As did on eyes of young Aladdin gleam:—
Clipping his neck with arms
That spoke of dearer charms,
The maid Othello loved might she that moment seem.

“And, with a pleased, but still a sinking heart,
He yielded to her pleading: he had stores,—
Such treasures as the red-man might impart,
Of precious value, borne to foreign shores;
Spoils in the forest caught,
By tribute hunter brought,
Soft furs from beaver won by snares of sylvan art.

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“Sadly, the indulgent chief—but with a smile,—
Gave up his treasure at his ward's demand;
The precious gauds which did her eyes beguile,
Soon clasp'd her neck, or glitter'd in her hand.
All had she won—but still
There was a feminine will,
That led her glance astray beneath that stranger's wile.

“Their eyes commerced beside the blazing fire,
Hers still unconscious of the erring vein;
The chief beheld, in his, the keen desire,
And his heart swell'd with still increasing pain;
Yet, though the sting was deep,
His passion, made to sleep,
Look'd calm through eyes that seem'd a stranger still to ire.

“His board was spread with hospitable hand,
Crisp'd the brown bread and smoked the venison steak;
An ancient squaw, still ready at command,
Pour'd the casina tea, their thirst to slake;
Then, as the hour grew late,
With calm and lofty state,
The chief himself, with care, the stranger's couch did make.

“At sunrise they partook the morning meal,
And then the white man went upon his way;
Not without feeling—teaching her to feel—
How sweet to both had been his still delay:—
The nature, long at rest,
Rose, pleading, at her breast,
For that pale race from which, perforce, she dwelt astray.

217

“She long'd for their communion,—for the youth
Had waken'd memories, not to be subdued,
Of that dear home, and friends whose tender ruth
Possess'd her still in that sweet solitude;
And, saddening with the thought,
Her secret soul grew fraught
With hopes, with doubts, with dreams, o'er which she loved to brood.

“The chief beheld the trouble in her eye,
He felt as well the trouble in his heart,
And, ere the morrow's sun was in the sky,
He bade her make her ready to depart;—
He had a wider home,
Where love might safely roam,
Nor fear the stranger's foot, nor tremble at his art.

“Cassique among the Edistos, he bore
His treasure to the river of that name;
He sought the forests on its western shore,
Millions of acres he alone might claim;
Where the great stream divides,
He cross'd its double tides,
Still seeking denser empires to explore.

“At length, he paused beside a little lake,
A clear sweet mirror for the midnight star;
‘Soon, weary one, thy slumbers shalt thou take;
In sooth, to-day, our feet have wander'd far;
Yet look, and thou shalt see,
The wigwam smokes for thee,—
Those fires that gleam through woods show where our people are.

218

“‘Here shalt thou have fond service—here the clime
Is sweet and healthful;—buskin'd, with thy bow,
Thou'lt wander forth with me, at morning's chime,
And I to snare or slay the game, will show:
Broad are the sheltering woods,
Bright are the streams, the floods,
And safe the realm that hence thy youthful heart shall know.’

“Thus counselling, he led her o'er the plain,
Down the smooth hill, beside the lakelet clear;
They tread the gloomy forest paths again,
Till sudden, the whole landscape opens fair;
‘Look! weary one,’ he cries;
‘Our realm before us lies,
Far spread as bird can fly, or speeds by day the deer.’

“In sooth, to one whose heart is all at rest,
With not a human care to call it thence,
It was a home that rapture might have bless'd,
Lovely to sight and dear to innocence;
Great trees, a welcome shade,
Of beech and poplar made,
Fortress of peace that love might deem his best defence.

“Long groves of pine and cedar led through wastes
Made lovely by wild flowers of every hue;
Through arching boughs and vines the river hastes,
Still with the song of birds that wander too;
A fresh green realm, unbroke
By plough, or woodman's stroke,
Rich in savannahs green, and lakes of skyey blue.

219

“His was the realm, and at his bidding came
The tribes that peopled it; beneath his sway
They framed their rude society;—his blame,
Or praise, sufficient guide to shape their way;
Still, with the falling leaf,
The signal of our chief
Prepared them for the chase and counsell'd their array.

“And thus, for many a moon, within that shade,
Dwelling 'mongst vassals rude but loyal still,
Remote, but not in loneliness, our maid
Had all that love could sigh for, but its will;
Submissive still she found
The gentle tribes around,
The squaws received her law, the warriors too obey'd.

“No censure check'd her walks—no evil eyes
Darken'd upon her childish sports at eve;
If o'er the chieftain's brow a trouble lies,
'Tis sure no fault of hers that makes him grieve;
For her he still hath smiles,
And, in her playful wiles,
He finds a charm that still must artlessly deceive.

“Her wild song cheers him at the twilight hour,
As, on the sward, beside her sylvan cot,
He throws him down, meet image of a power
Subdued by beauty to the vassal's lot;
With half unconscious gaze,
His eye her form surveys,
And fancies fill his heart which utterance yet have not.

220

“She had expanded into womanhood
In those brief years of mild captivity,
And now, as 'neath his glance the damsel stood,
Nothing more sweet had ever met his eye;—
Fair, with her Saxon face,
Her form a forest grace
Had won from woodland sports of rare agility.

“Her rich blue eyes, her streaming yellow hair,
The soft white skin that show'd the crimson tide,
And perfect features—made her beauties rare,
That well the charms of Indian race defied;—
Her motion, as of flight,
Tutor'd by wild delight,
Brought to her form a grace at once of love and pride.

“And, as he gazed, with rapture ill suppress'd,
Inly the chief resolved that she should be
The woman he would take unto his breast,
Ere the next moon should ride up from the sea;
His child no more,—he felt
His soul within him melt,
To hear her voice in song, her thought in fancy free.

“She felt at last her power upon his heart,
As she beheld the language in his eye;
And, with this knowledge, came a natural art,
Which bade her glances unto his reply;
Made happy by her look
His soul new poison took,
He drew her to his breast, nor seem'd she to deny.

221

“‘I shall go hence,’ quoth he, ‘the Hunter's Moon—
These sticks shall tell thee of the broken days;
When all are gone, I shall return,—and soon
The beauties that I hold within my gaze,
Shall bless, if thou approve,
This heart, and the fond love
That knows thee as the star the ocean stream that sways.’

“And she was silent while he spake—her head
Sunk, not in sadness, and upon his breast;
Fondly he kiss'd her—other words he said,
And still, in dear embrace, her form caress'd;
Then parting, sped afar,
Led by the Hunter's Star,
Where the bear wallows in his summer nest.

“She had no sorrow to obey the will
That ruled a nation: true, he slew her sire,
But he had been a gentle guardian still,
Baffling each danger, soothing each desire;
The power that he possess'd
Was grateful to her breast,
And warm'd with pride the heart, that lack'd each holier fire

“That night there rose an image in her dreams,
Of the young trader seen at Accabee;
His fair soft face upon her memory gleams,
His keen, dark, searching eye, still wantonly
Pursues her with its blaze;
And she returns the gaze,
And thus her heart communes with one she cannot see.

222

“It was as if the chief, by the same word
That told his own fond purpose, had compell'd
The image of the person she preferr'd,—
And, seeing him in dreams, her soul was spell'd
With fancies that, in vain,
She strove to hush again—
She saw their shapes by day, by night their voices heard.

“Saddened by this communion, she withdrew
From those who sought her; in deep forests went,
By lonely streams and shades, from human view,
Nursing a vague and vexing discontent;—
For the first time, a care
Hung on her heart like fear—
The shadows from a soul not wholly innocent.

“There is a fate beside us day and night,
Obedient to the voice within our hearts;
Boldly we summon, and it stands in sight;
We speak not, and in silence it departs;—
'Twas thus with her, as still
She roved with aimless will,
Beside the swamps through which the Edisto still darts.

“She spoke aloud, or did not speak, his name,
Whose image was the sole one in her breast;
But, suddenly, from out the woods he came,
And mutual glances mutual joy express'd:—
‘Ah! sought so long before,
I fear'd that, never more,
Mine eyes should see the form that kept my soul from rest.

223

“‘How have I search'd for you in devious path,
Forgetful of the mercenary trade!
And now, though perill'd by the redman's wrath,
I seek you in forbidden forest shade;
For never, since that night,
When first you met my sight,
Hath beauty on my heart such sweet impression made.’

“They sat beneath the shade of silent trees,
Close guarded by a thicket dense and deep;
There, onward, stole the river at its ease,
And, through the air, the birds made easy sweep;—
Those bowers were sweetly dight
For safety and delight;—
The stranger won the prize the chieftain still would keep.

“He came, the dark-brow'd chieftain, from the chase,
Laden with precious spoils of forest pride;
His heart exulting as he near'd the place
Where the fair Saxon waited as his bride:
But who shall speak the grief
That shook that warrior chief,
When they declared her flight with yester-eventide.

“He had no voice for anguish or regret;—
He spake not of his purpose—but went forth,
With a keen spirit, on one progress set,
Now on the southern stream side, now the north;
Following, with sleuthhound's scent,
The way the lovers went,
Tracking each footfall sure, in leaf, in grass, and earth.

224

“Nor did he track in vain! They little knew
The unerring instinct of that hunter race;
A devious progress did the twain pursue,
Through streams and woods, to baffle still the trace;
But how should they beguile
The master of each wile,
Each art pursued in war or needful in the chase?

“In fancy safe, and weary now with flight,
The lovers lay at noonday in the shade;
Soft through the leaves and grateful to the sight,
The sun in droplets o'er the valley play'd;
But two short leagues, and they
Should leave the perilous way,
On Keawah secure, in home by squatter made.

“Thus satisfied, with seeming certainty,
Won by the hour's sweet stillness, did the pair,
Shelter'd beneath the brows of an old tree,
Give freedom to the love they joy'd to share;
His arm about her press'd,
She lay upon his breast,
Life's self forgot in bliss that left no room for care.

“They little dream'd that, lurking in the wood,
A witness to the freedom of their bliss,
The fiery chieftain they had baffled stood,
Fierce, with envenom'd fang and fatal hiss;
The lord of death and life,
He grasp'd the deadly knife,
And shook the tomahawk high but rarely known to miss.

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“But, ere he sped the weapon to its mark,
His heart grew gentle 'neath a milder sway;
True, they had left his dwelling lone and dark,
But should he make it glad were he to slay?
Nor, if the man he slew,
Could he again renew
The trust he gave the maid as in his happier day.

“Nor could he strike, with stern and fatal blow,
Her whose fair beauties were too precious still;
A noble purpose came to soothe his woe,
And crown, with best revenge, a generous will;—
Forth strode he from the wood,
And ere they knew, he stood,
With weapon bared, and look still resolute to kill.

“As one who at the serpent's rattle starts,
Sharp, sudden sounded in the covert nigh,
They heard his voice, and both their guilty hearts
Sunk, hopeless, 'neath the expected penalty;
But, stifling his deep grief,
With few stern words, the chief,
Declared, though worthy death, the guilty should not die!

“O'erjoy'd at respite scarcely yet believed,
The girl had risen and rush'd to clasp his knees,
But he whose faith had been so much deceived,
No homage now could pacify or please;
Calm, but with gloomy face,
He checks the false embrace,
And still, the crouching youth, with scornful eye, he sees.

226

“He bade them rise and follow where he led,
Himself conducted to the dwelling near;
Here, till the dawn, each found a separate bed;
With morning o'er the Keawah they steer;
Still guided he the way,
And, ere the close of day,
Once more the three to shades of Accabee repair.

“‘Here,’ said he, ‘is your future dwelling-place,
This be, my gift, your heritage of right;
The holy man, of your own foreign race,
Shall, with the coming day, your hands unite;
And men of law shall know
That I these lands forego,
For her who still hath been the apple of my sight.

“‘See that you cherish her with proper faith;—
If that you wrong her, look for wrong from me:
Once have I spared you, when the doom was death;
Beware the future wrath you may not flee;
Mine eye shall watch for hers,
And if a breath but stirs
Her hair too rudely,—look for storms on Accabee.’

“He did as he had promised; they were wed
By Christian rites,—and legal deeds convey'd
The heritage;—without a word then sped
The chief into his forests, seeking shade:
Months pass'd—a year went by,
And none beheld his eye,
Where still his thought, with love, through these sweet places stray'd.

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“He grew to be forgotten by the twain;
Or if not wholly by the woman, she
Ne'er spoke of him,—ne'er look'd for him again,
Though much it might have gladden'd her to see;
For love had lost its flower,
And soon there came an hour,
When all her young heart's pleasure grew to pain!

“The first sweet flush of summer dalliance gone,
The first most precious bloom of passion o'er,
Indifference follow'd in the heart that won,
And scorn found place where rapture woke no more;
No kindly nurture bless'd
With love her lonely breast,
And soon even peace had fled the home so glad before.

“And scorn grew into hate, and hate to wrath,
And wrath found speech in violence;—his arm
Smote the unhappy woman from his path;—
Submission could not soothe, nor tears disarm,
The cruel mood, the will,
True to past passions still,
Which Love and Beauty now, no more sufficed to charm.

“The profligate husband, reckless of her woe,
Her meek submission and her misery,
Prepared, in secret, still another blow,
And bargain'd for the sale of Accabee;
Already had he drawn
The fatal deed—had gone,
Resolved, in other lands, remote, his wife to flee.

228

“He little knew that eyes were on his flight,
That long had mark'd his deeds;—his way led through
The umbrageous groves of Eutaw:—long ere night
His footsteps to the white man's clearings drew;—
Exulting in the dream,
Successful, of his scheme,
He hails the cottage-smokes of him who bought, in sight.

“But now a voice arrests him as he goes—
Forth starts the red chief from the covering wood;
At once he knew him for the worst of foes;
Guilt quell'd his courage, terror froze his blood;
The horse is stay'd—in vain,
He jerks the extended rein,
Vainly applies the spur, and showers his flanks with blows.

“Stern was the summons—in a single word—
‘Down!’—and he yielded to the vigorous hand;
‘I gave thee all!’ were then the accents heard—
‘The woman from my bosom, and my land;—
I warn'd thee, ere I went,
Of wrath and punishment,
If hair upon her head, in wrath was ever stirr'd.

“‘I know thee, and thy deeds; and thou shalt die!’
‘Mercy!’ implored the profligate in vain.
Vainly he struggles—vainly seeks to fly—
Even as he strives, the hatchet cleaves his brain.
Quivering, he lies beneath,
While, from his leathern sheath,
The warrior draws his knife, and coldly scalps the slain.

229

“Another night, and on the Accabee,
Softly the moon was smiling through its grove;
Yet sad the woman hail'd its light, for she
No longer warm'd with hope, or glow'd with love:
Grief, and a wan despair,
Reign'd in her soul of care,
Whence love, expell'd by wrath, had long been forced to flee.

“She crouch'd beside the hearth in vacant mood,
Silence and woe close crouch'd on either hand,—
Life's hope all baffled,—all the innocent brood
Of joys, that once had crowded at command,
Dead—gone like summer flowers;
Desolate all her hours,
Her life was now one dread, one deathlike solitude.

“With dreary gaze she watch'd the flickering fire,
Nor mark'd around the thickening growth of gloom;
She sees, unheeding, the bright flame expire,
Nor marks the fearful aspect in her room;
Beside her rest the brands—
'Tis but to stretch her hands:
Alas! her desolate soul for light hath no desire.

“But lo! another form, beside her own,
Bends to the task;—sudden, the resinous pine
Flames up;—she feels she is no more alone;
She sees a well-known eye upon her shine,
And hides her face, and cries—
‘The Chief!’ His silent eyes
Still saddening o'er the shape too long and dearly known.

230

“‘The man whom thou didst wed, will never more
Lay angry hand upon thee—he had sold
Thy land, and fled thee for another shore;
But that I wound him in the serpent's fold,
And took from him the power
That had usurp'd thy dower;
In proof of what I tell thee,—lo! behold!’

“Thus speaking, he, beside her, on the floor,
Cast down the white man's written instrument;
Sign'd, seal'd, and witness'd; framed with legal lore;
Conveying—such the document's intent—
All these fair groves and plains,
The Accabee domains,
To one, of kindred race, whose name the paper bore.

“And she had sign'd it, with unwilling hand,
Ignorant of its meaning, but in dread;
Obedient to her tyrant's fierce command,
While his arm shook in threat'ning o'er her head;
'Twas in that very hour,
His blow, with brutal power,
Had stricken her to the earth, where long she lay as dead.

“He little dream'd that the avenger near,
Beheld him, and prepared his punishment;
You ask, Why came he not to interfere,
And stay, ere yet was wrought the foul intent;
Enough, the red man knows
His time to interpose:—
Sternly his hour he takes, with resolute will unbent.

231

“Unerring, we have seen him in pursuit—
Unsparing, we have seen him in his blow;—
His mission was not ended; and, though mute,
He stood surveying her, who, cowering low,
Crept humbly to his feet,
As seeming to entreat,—
He had another task, which found the warrior slow.

“But he was firm:—‘This paper is your own,—
Another proof is mine, that you will be
Safe from the blows of him so lately known;
He hath his separate lands henceforth from me;
Ample the soil I gave,
Beside the Eutaw's wave;
In token of my truth—this bloody scalplock see.’

“Then shriek'd the unhappy woman with affright,
Revolting at the trophy, dripping yet,
That, down upon the paper, in her sight,
With quiet hand, the haughty chieftain set;
‘Spare me! Oh, spare!’ she cries:
And crouching, with shut eyes,
Backward she crept, as if she safety sought in flight.

“‘Fear nothing!’ said the chieftain; ‘'twas for thee,
I brought this bloody token of my truth,
To show thee, from this moment, thou art free
To the possession of thy life and youth;
Still hast thou beauty; still
Thy heritage—thy will;
Go, seek thy kindred pale, secure of love and ruth.

232

“‘From him, who, in thy thoughtlessness of heart,
Thou mad'st a master over thee, I save;
I slew thy father—I have done his part,
And give thee wealth more ample than he gave;
Henceforth, thou wilt not see
The Chief at Accabee;
Beware again lest passion make thee slave.

“‘I leave thee now forever!’ ‘No!’ she cried:
‘Oh! take me to thy people;—let me dwell
Lone, peaceful, on the Edisto's green side,
Which, had I left not, I had still been well:—
Forgive me, that the child,
With heart both weak and wild,
Err'd, in not loving, where she might have loved with pride!’

“‘I had believed thee once; but now, too late!
Henceforth I know thee, only to forget.’
‘Thou canst not!’—‘It may be, that thus my fate
Hath spoken; but my resolute will is set,
In manhood,—and I know,
Though all of life be woe,
Thus better—than with faithlessness to mate.’

“She crouch'd beneath his feet, incapable
Of answer to that speech; and his sad look,
As if his eyes acknowledged still a spell,
One long, deep survey of the woman took;—
She still unseeing aught,
Of that sad, searching thought,
Which, speaking through his eye, her soul could never brook.

233

Sudden as spectre, waving wide his hand,
He parted from her presence:—He was gone,
Into the shadows of that forest land;
And, desolate now, the woman lay alone,—
Crouching beside the hearth,
While thousand fears had birth,
Haunting her thought with griefs more fearful than the known.

“Our story here is ended. Of her fate
Nothing remains to us, but that she sold,
Of Accabee, the beautiful estate,
And sought her shelter in the city's fold;
The purchaser, meanwhile,
Made the dark forest smile,
And crown'd its walks with works most lovely to behold.

“A noble dwelling rose amidst the trees,
Fair statues crown'd the vistas—pathways broke
The umbrageous shadows,—and sweet melodies,
Among the groves, at noon and morning woke;—
And great reserves of game,
In which the wild grew tame—
And pleasant lakes, by art, were scoop'd for fisheries.

“Here pleasure strove to make her own abode;
She left no mood uncherish'd which might cheer;
Through the grim forests she threw wide the road,
And welcomed Beauty, while expelling care:
Wealth spared no toils to bless,
And still, with due caress,
Honor'd the daily groups that sought for pastime there.

234

“But still the spot was haunted by a grief;—
Joy ever sank in sadness:—guests depart;
A something sorrowful, beyond belief,
Impairs the charms of music and of art;
Till sadly went each grace,
And, as you see the place,
Gradual the ruin grew, a grief to eye and heart.

“The native genius, born in solitude,
Is still a thing of sorrow; and his spell,
Whatever be the graft of foreign mood,
Maintains its ancient, sorrowful, aspect well;—
Still reigns its gloomy lord,
With all his sway restored,
Lone, o'er his barren sceptre doom'd to brood.”

Slow sped our skiff into the open light,—
The billows bright before us,—but no more
Rose love's sweet ditty on our ears that night;—
Silent the maid look'd back upon the shore,
And thought of those dark groves,
And that wild chieftain's loves,
As they had been a truth her heart had felt of yore.

University of Virginia Library

THE CASSIQUE OF ACCABEE;

A LEGEND OF ASHLEY RIVER.