University of Virginia Library

LEGEND OF THE ISLE.

There is an island in the Connecticut river, opposite the village of Gill, Mass., of some magnitude, known as “Kidd's Island.” Its name originated in a tradition that Kidd, the noted pirate, once buried thereon a portion of his ill-gotten booty; and this tradition is founded upon the death-bed confession of the pirate's African cook, who stated, among other things, that a part of the crew once ascended the Connecticut a good distance in boats, and upon an island above the “great falls”—(Turner's Falls?)—deposited an iron chest filled with gold and other indestructable precious spoils. Moreover, that after depositing the chest in the earth the crew cast lots among themselves, and the one upon whom the lot fell was slain upon the chest and his body buried with it. This bloody act was supposed to create a charm about the repose of the treasures; and thus guard it from the avaricious attempts of future money-diggers.—However true the tradition may be, it matters not; but certain it is that a believer in the buried plunder, many years since, after due consultation with a noted ‘conjuror,’ made actual attempt to obtain the treasures. Notwithstanding his sanguine hopes of success in the undertaking,—a naturally superstitious turn of mind, the midnight hour, the loneliness of the scene, and, above all, the awful charm which was supposed to enwrap the iron chest, completely bewildered the brain of the digger; and to the day of his death he affirmed the truth of the mysterious and awful things said to have been witnessed by him while engaged in the unholy attempt; and believed that his bar actually struck upon the lid of the chest; and that had he not spoken in an unguarded moment, he should have rejoiced in the possession of the untold treasures.

The remains of the midnight excavation are still to be seen by any one who may visit the isle.

Is there a man who loves a marvelous tale—
Some dreamy legend of enchanted lands,
As loves old Tantivy October ale,
Or I our river and its silvery sands?
Lend such attention as that tale demands.
The efforts of the muse less notice claim;
The faltering chords bespeak her awkward hands.
Wrapped in her homely robe, with progress lame,
She slowly takes the path which others run to fame.

---

23

Let learned muses wander, for a theme,
In Orient lands and fields of classic lore;
Mine draws her subject from her native stream,
And strikes her harp upon its pleasant shore.
In artful plumage neither will she soar
To taste the spring which Helicon distils;
Dearer to her the vine-clad cottage door,
Whose threshold-seat the evening minstrel fills,
And hears his echoed strains among the neighboring hills.

And thou, Connecticut, whose waters first
Baptised thy minstrel a New England born!
Purest of streams! yea, pure as those that burst
From the sweet well-springs of the realms of morn
And fab'lous Fancy's flowery meads adorn.
I think on those, when musing o'er thy flow,
Who wrought in boyhood in thy fields of corn;
Some, distant far, pursuing Fortune go;
Some, in a sailor's grave, sleep Ocean's waves below.

Say, has the rover from thy shores so free
Found realms thine own in beauty to outvie?
Did not thy dying ‘wanderer of the sea,’
He who with noble firmness e'en could die,
Recall thy scenes with memory's vivid eye,
And sigh to think he'd view them never more!
Roll seaward, waters, where his ashes lie
Whose memory consecrates for me thy shore;
And blend your lays with mine your noblest to deplore!

The valley of the Connecticut has furnished an unusual number of seamen both for the commercial marine, and the naval service of the United States. Many of these, early contemporaries of the writer, are “in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.” Particular allusion is had in this connection to the death at sea of Surgeon William Pitt Canning, of the United States Navy, who fell a victim to the scourge of the tropics and devotion to his duty, on the awfully memorable passage of the sloop-of-war Vandalia, from Port-au-Prince to Norfolk, Va., April 7, 1845.—See lines entitled “My Brother's Ocean Grave.”

---

24

I.

Few but have heard of famous Captain Kidd,
He who for plunder sailed upon the sea;
Of all the many wicked acts he did,
The which to tell were ill-befitting me;
And how, at last, he ‘hanged upon a tree,’
When Justice overtook him in his crimes;
And in a song gained immortality;—
His name I mention in my marvelous rhymes;
I sing of ancient men, a tale of olden times.

II.

Go view the scene of action whence I draw
The theme which constitutes my faithful lay;
Near where a prophet bard a vision saw,
And sang about it in a by-gone day,
An Island rises in the stream midway;—
A lonely isle, where spirits of the drowned,
Forgetful of their homes, may seem to stray,
Wet from the chiming waves, whose drowsy sound
Plays dirges round the shores of their enchanted ground.

III.

Oft, when a boy, by Fancy led to stray
Alone along the river's leafy shore,
What time the musk-rat left his haunts to play,
And all the labors of the day were o'er,
How loved I on the darkening scene to pore!
How sweet on yonder isle was closing day,
Among the noble elms I see no more!
Stern maledictions choke my pensive lay:—
Frost nip the villain hands that cut those elms away!

---

25

IV.

To yonder isle, for years it was believed,
Kidd once ascended with his bandits bold,
And, glutted with the spoils they had achieved,
They buried there a chest containing gold;
And by tradition, indistinct, 't was told
How on that chest a chosen brave they slew
To guard the treasures in their iron fold.
From fiction it may be, the story grew
And what remains to sing I do not vouch is true.

V.

Upon our shores, for back in other years,
There lived a simple-minded, worthy soul;
His life a constant round of hopes and fears,
As one alternate on the other stole;
He might have ‘drowned his sorrows in the bowl;’
His hopes, poor man! he might have cherished there;
But how to reach bright Zion's blessed goal,
Was, after all, 't was thought, his chiefest care;
And now of heaven's joys no doubt he has his share.

VI.

A thin, spare man he was, of anxious look,
Of stooping figure, and of middling size;
A strict old-fashioned reader of the Book,
Yet one not blessed with unbeclouded eyes;
The one dim talent it was his to prize;—
Believer he in ‘signs,’ in lucky stars;
Was always clad in antiquated guise;
Lacked both the courage and the force of Mars;
And always came off vanquished in domestic jars.

---

26

VII.

Such was the man the hero of our song;
A superstitious being, fond of talk,
Who would beguile the snowy evenings long
With deeds of those who forth ‘at midnight walk
To bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk;’
His own experience, too, he'd linger o'er,—
How witches used his choicest plans to balk,
To blast his crops, and haunt his barns before
He nailed the horse-shoe fast above the folding door.

VIII.

One night this dreamer on his pallet lay;
His limbs were weary but he could not sleep;
He pondered o'er the hardships of the day,
How very sore it was to stoop and reap
When burning suns slow thro' the heavens creep;
To glean a living with unceasing toil,
While favored ones their slavish minions keep
To till for them the fructifying soil;—
Till with ungenerous rage our hero's blood did boil.

IX.

O, why should Fortune on a few bestow
Her shining treasures, with a lavish hand?
Fill up their coffers till they overflow,
And turn to gold for them the very sand;
And crown their worthless names with titles grand?
While the poor man, to ceaseless sorrow born,
Sees Ruin's taloned whelps around him stand,
Himself defenceless in their midst, forlorn,
Moaning a prayer for pity, but exciting scorn.

---

27

X.

O, is there not for me some gift in store
Shall heap with yellow gold my empty board!
How would my heart the giver good adore!—
(Rather than mammon may he be the Lord!)—
As never yet a being was adored.
How often, then, for charitable deed,
Should beggars' blessings on my head be poured!
The child of Want should on my bounty feed,
And humble worth no more a generous patron need.

XI.

The purse-proud fool, who scarcely heeds me now,
Should wither at my look of cold disdain;
Respectful friends should in my presence bow,
And slaves be proud to wear their master's chain—
He who could make them, and unmake again;
A lordly pile should fill the wishful eye
Where now a cottage peeps above the plain,
And stranger passengers, when going by,
Should stop and ask his name, who built yon mansion high.

XII.

Such were the thoughts that filled our hero's head,
As night apace on circling moments flew;
No wonder, then, that sleep his pillow fled,
Since such bright visions for the while seem true.
But, oh! they wither faster than they grew!
Hard 't is for man his destined lot to shun,
To leave the road that he must stumble through;
Youth is the rising, age the setting sun—
The evening often closes as the morn begun.

---

28

XIII.

Sudden a fancy fired the schemer's brain,
Bright, e'en at first, and growing still more fair;
He felt at once a respite from his pain,
And gave a free discharge to every care
Save the bright castle building in the air,
His sanguine ravings waked his ancient bride
Who heard the oath that he unconscious sware,
And deemed her good man did the night-mare ride
Through some infernal place, where demons foul abide.

XIV.

Morn rose at last above the eastern chain
Of hills, that mark the river's winding way;
Connecticut, that stole beneath the plain,
Gave to the air her misty mantle grey;
And bared her silver bosom to the day.
Up sprang the black bird from her dewy nest
And warbled sweet aloft her early lay;
While hark'ning puss his playful mate caress'd,
And Summer smiled around, in all her verdure dress'd.

XV.

Now in these days, upon the neighboring shore,
There lived a man of whom strange things were told;
A wizzard, at the least, if nothing more,
Who could the darkest mystery unfold,
And for whose soul the de'il a writ did hold;
For thus did gossips of the day declare:—
He for the subtle art the same had sold;
And when he died, the Regent of the Air
Would come to claim his own, and take him, ‘hide and hair.’

---

29

XVI.

If sheep were missing from their wonted fold,
Or roosts were plundered, would the loser go
And see the conjuror, he might be told
About his loss, and how effected, too,
Before himself had said that it was so!
'T is true, some hinted it was plain to see
Why the old man should all about it know;
But others thought it still a mystery,
For fortunes, too, he told, and like strange things did he.

XVII.

Scarce had the thirsty sunbeams drank the dew,
Save where it lay beneath some leafy screen,
When, to consult the conjuror, Ballou,
Our hero issuing on his way was seen,
With bold determination in his mien.
He with his shadow seemed to run a race;
(And what a shadow was the goal, I ween!)
Hope lit the rigid features of his face,
And oft his gesturing arm bespoke the mental chase.

XVIII.

When doting man is led by meteor whim,
What bright successes on his thoughts await!
He deems the world was made alone for him,
And he the spared favorite of fate,
Whom Heaven journals ‘good,’ and Nature, ‘great.’
So Jack, that bears the phosphorescent fire,
Deludes at night the poor inebriate;
He sees at last the faithless lamp expire,
And bides a wretched time in fathoming the mire.

---

30

XIX.

At length upon a hermit-cottage door,
The good man did the scripture promise test;
Cold perspiration ran from every pore,
And fear, with hope alternate, filled his breast,
As with a trembling hand the latch he press'd:
Slowly the door reluctantly gave way
To usher in the dark magician's guest;
But, standing like a frighted deer, at bay,
He wist not how to act, and knew not what to say.

XX.

The light dim-struggling thro' the dingy panes,
Gave to the smoky walls a twilight hue;
A wind-harp sang in melancholy strains
Whene'er without the passing zephyr blew
And softly stole the casement crevice through.
Beneath the window's dungeon-colored ray
A dark, unvarnished board was spread to view;
Death's head and cross-bones in its centre lay,
Which, when our hero saw, he wished himself away.

XXI.

Beside the board, in antiquated chair,
The conjuror was seated at his trade.
He turned him round, and with a fixed stare,
From head to foot his speechless guest surveyed,
Till a grim smile upon his features played;
Then ope'd a volume huge of mystic lore,
Whose yellow pages Faustus might have made;
And while he conned his uncouth lesson o'er,
The stranger heard a tongue he never heard before.

---

31

XXII.

Then lifting up his eyes from off the book
He on his guest a look of science threw:—
‘He that would fish must firstly bait the hook;—
No fishes nibble here until you do.’
Our hero took the hint, and forthwith drew
From out his fob the heart-case that he tanned,
When, years agone, a fatted ox he slew;
Its contents o'er with wishful eyes he scann'd,
And dropped a part thereof into the wizzard's hand.

XXIII.

Then with the air of one who breathless all
Awaits the footsteps of the fated deer,
He leaned for succor on the friendly wall
And listened to the language of the seer:—
‘Adversity's cold winds have blown you here!
So drifts a helmless hulk upon the seas;
But let the thought your drooping spirits cheer,
The very wind that does the beggar freeze
Wafts others gaily on to honor and to ease.’

XXIV.

‘Then let it blow!’ exclaimed our doting man,
Whose tongue, restrained, had burst aloose at last;
‘I'll weather well the tempest if I can,
Whoever else may founder in the blast.
My colors, see, they're nailed upon the mast!
The pirate's crimson stain is on their fold;
Come, look with wizzard ken into the past,
For by your subtle arts I would be told
Where bloody Kidd concealed that chest of glittering gold.

---

32

XXV.

The conjuror took his hazel wand in hand,
And figured for a while upon the floor;
Anon his horoscope and globe he scann'd,
Then fell to muttering his fancies o'er:—
‘Boötes seems begrimmed with human gore,
And fiery Mars with tenfold lustre burns!
Dire meteors fly, and fearful brilliance pour;
Saturn, all greedy, for his children yearns;
And Juno to the earth her shapeless Vulcan spurns!’

XXVI.

Meanwhile, to every point from east to west
His wand did like magnetic needle veer;
At length it halted, trembling to a rest.—
‘Bellum horrifficmendum!’ cried the seer,
‘The charmed treasure which you seek is near!
Why nods to me the river-god his head?
Ah! cujus caput?—yes, I see it clear!—
Hard by the spot where you were born and bred,
The pirate's booty lies within its island bed.’

XXVII.

‘Does it? indeed!’ again our hero spake.
‘Somehow I must have dreamed as much before;
But, tell me, wondrous man, without mistake,
The how, and when, I may obtain the ore;—
Here, take my meagre purse!—I would 't were more.’
(O, bright anticipation! in thy sun
How melts the heart long frozen to the core!
How freely forth the stingy pennies run
When dollars are at stake, and guineas may be won!)

---

33

XXVIII.

So, while he spoke, the wizzard's face grew black,
And scowling o'er his book with earnest gaze,
He looked like hunter searching out the track,
Where doubtful signs his straining eyes amaze;
Or, like a wrecker, peering thro' the haze,
When on the deep he hears the drowning cry;—
He scann'd the changing moon, her ancient ways,
The pictured stars he read with curious eye;
Then to his guest he spoke, and thus his sage reply:—

XXIX.

‘There is a charm, which I can scarce dispel,
That holds the treasures which you would obtain;
But harken to perform what I shall tell,
And, ten to one, you will not hear in vain;
Depart therefrom, you'll sing another strain!—
The fifteenth night, that from her sky serene,
September's moon shines on the harvest plain,
Rise from your bed the midnight hours between,
And seek the island shore all noiseless and unseen.

XXX.

‘Upon its southern point there grows an elm—
It's braved the floods and storms for many a year—
Which pilots recognize with starboard helm
When up the stream their freighted barks they steer.
The midnight moon will shine upon it clear;
Twelve paces from its base, by measure made,
The shadow of its forks will plain appear;
Upon that spot descend with bar and spade,
For bloody Robert's wealth is underneath you laid.

---

34

XXXI.

‘Most horrid sounds and sights you'll hear and see,
Which might the lion-hearted terrify,
But on your part let perfect silence be;
All unconcerned your labors earnest ply,
Whatever fills your ear, or meets your eye;
The golden treasures are by silence won;
And should you speak, you'll know the reason why.
Keep all a secret—tell it unto none;
And now depart from hence, and see that all is done.’

XXXII.

With lightsome heart our hero left the spot
Where he such precious knowledge had obtained;
The birds sang sweetly, but he heard them not;
From viewing Nature's charms his eyes refrained,
He saw them not—for all his thoughts were chained
Upon one mental and enchanting view;
In wild anticipation he had gained
More than was buried by the plundering crew,
And treasure even more than far-famed Crœsus knew.

XXXIII.

At length the hopeful journey and the day,
With him alike were tending to a close;
But still from home content a while to stay,
Upon a neighbor hill a seat he chose,
That watched above the sleeping vale's repose.
Like molten silver flowed the river there;
That blessed island from its bosom rose,
Where he was soon the midnight feat to dare,
And free his heart and hands of all their cankering care.

---

35

XXXIV.

His pipe he lit. The vapor upward curled,
And, wreathing, wrought round his bewildered head;
Its fragrance stole his senses from the world,
Save one fond thought by recollection led
To watch the treasures in their ‘island bed,’
And half invoke a blessing on the seer;
Till in his dreamy trance he fancied
The clink of dollars in his ready ear,
And woke enraged to find his nibbling sheep were near.

XXXV.

Shall I digress to sing thee, Indian weed!
And praise thy virtues, slandered tho' they be?
The muse to thee before has blown her reed,
As many who have heard will witness me;
But thou art welcome to her minstrelsy!
For she, who now about the smoker sings,
At times, without thine aid, how dull is she!
But let thine incense rise!—on glancing wings
Like birds from spray to spray, from thought to thought she springs.

XXXVI.

Upon the hills—back in oblivious year—
That o'er the Indian Susquehannah frown,
While starving hunters cooked a slaughtered deer
A gracious spirit came from heaven down,
And first thy seed from her fair hands was sown.
'T was to reward them for a pious feat
She gave their duteous hearts this kindly cheer;
For, deeming that she smelled their savory meat
They, fasting, offered her the choicest bits to eat.

---

36

XXXVII.

On pious deeds a blessing is bestowed.
Lo! when the grateful goddess left the place
A new-called herb earth's teeming bosom showed—
Great chief of all the vegetable race!
This, for thy origin, the Indians trace.
Sprung from such wondrous source, indeed, thou art!
For what can sooner smooth the rigid face
Or e'en than sleep more pleasant dreams impart,
Or better lift the while its burden from the heart?

XXXVIII.

But to our tale again. Day after day
The sun slow dragged his intervening rounds.
Meantime our hero's farm neglected lay;
Rank weeds deformed his once well-tended grounds;
His fences fell, his cattle leaped their bounds;
Their master, vexed with more important care,
And wholly occupied with sights and sounds,
Would frequent to the river-shore repair
To see if all was right, and no molester there.

XXXIX.

His wife oft chid him at this timely rate:—
‘My dear! what, in the name of common sense,
Has taken such a hold on you, of late?
What plea have you to offer in defence
Of all your present sloth and impotence?
Rouse up, good man! bestir your lazy feet,
Or ruin sure will be the consequence;
Unless you labor what have we to eat?
For scarcely when we work the year's two ends will meet.’

---

37

XL.

‘'T is true good wife, we're poor,’ he would reply;
‘Together we in poverty were wed;
But let us never raise a murmuring cry
To Him who gives to us our daily bread;
Besides, somewhere I've either heard or read
‘Afflictions oft are blessings in disguise;’
I doubt not, then, but we shall still be fed;
Perhaps e'en at our door some blessing lies,
For One who cares for us far more than man is wise.’

XLI.

How easily may some contentment preach,
When secret hopes meanwhile inspire their tongue!
For even while the good man made this speech
A ragged urchin on his garments hung;
And, as aside its sunburnt locks he flung,
My poor, unconscious, ragged boy, thought he,
How oft in care for thee my heart's been wrung!
But Fortune smiles;—to-morrow thou may'st be
Heir to such splendid wealth that kings might envy thee.

XLII.

That very night the good man left his bed,
And putting on the garments that he wore,
Deemed, while the silence answered not his tread,
He for the last time shut a poor man's door.
Then silently he sought the river shore,
His stealthy footsteps making rapid stride;
Besides the spade and iron bar he bore,
‘The big ha’ bible, ance his father's pride,’
He hugged beneath his arm against his beating side.

---

38

XLIII.

Still was the hour, and sweet the midnight scene;
The moon that in the cloudless heavens shone
Sprinkled with pearls the dewy banks of green
As thick as grain by generous sower sown.
No sound was heard except the wavelet's moan,—
All else the dreadful silence of the grave,
Save when the otter, from his covert lone,
Sought in the stream his furry skin to lave,
And with a sportive plunge awoke the dimpling wave.

XLIV.

But he of whom I sing was soon afloat,
Viewing these glories with a heedless eye;
Stern, silent spectres, watching for his boat,
His fancy on the island shore could spy,
Which seemed to menace him from drawing nigh.
Poor man! how much he felt no mortal knows;
Despite his hopes and expectations high,
He felt like wretch who to his exit goes,
When first through glittering files, the waiting scaffold shows.

XLV.

But screwing up his courage to the test,
He on the haunted shore a landing made;
And with a painful panic in his breast
The seer's instructions, one by one, obeyed:—
Twelve paces from the elm, by measure laid,
He found all as the conjuror had told;
Then soon the turf was broken by his spade,
And anxiously he raised the fragrant mould,
While down his palid cheeks the perspiration rolled.

---

39

XLVI.

A gnarled root impeded his descent,
And seizing hold the same, in act to draw,
O, what a groan the horrid silence rent!
You might have heard his heart that beat in awe!
It seemed a dead man's arm, worm-gnawed and raw,
And from it gushed a stream of stagnant gore!
But, shutting hard his eyes on what they saw,
He mentally a prayer repeated o'er,
Then with renewed strength he fell to digging more.

XLVII.

Anon came slowly moving up the flood
A phantom boat, and near the island drew;
The helmsman's headless trunk was spouting blood!
Like murderous demons looked the spectral crew,
As if intent some fearful deed to do!
The poor man's courage fled before the sight;—
Upon his quaking knees himself he threw
And clasped the blessed volume in affright;
Nor did he quit his hold till all again was right.

XLVIII.

But how should he obtain the ‘root of evil’?
And wherewithal should he o'ercome his fears?
We read ‘wi’ usqueba’ we'll face the devil,’—
Our man resolved to test its virtues here,
For who but Nick himself, might next appear!
He raised the potion to his lips, and thought—
'T was not, indeed, forbidden by the seer;
Enough thereof to drown his fears he sought,
Then moistening his palms, he like a Trojan wrought.

---

40

XLIX.

And now, a full half hour he wrought in peace,
With little to molest or make afraid;
And soon he looked to see his labors cease,
For deep and wide was the descent he made.
Alternately he plied the bar and spade;
Nor did he once a timely thought bestow
Upon the ponderous transfer, without aid.
Full oft in weighty matters is it so;—
A sequel often shows we've much to learn and know.

L.

Sudden, loud yells terrific rent the air!
Horror possessed the poor man's soul anew;
For, borne against the tide, a man-of-war
Around the bend below, came full in view
With bellying sails, tho' scarce a zephyr blew;
The wail of wo, of agony the scream,
Mixed with fierce yells, and imprecations, too,
Rose from her gloomy decks; and it would seem
As if the fiends of hell were sailing on the stream.

LI.

The digger leaned upon his spade amazed,
And pressed his hand upon his laboring brain;
All speechless on the mystery he gazed,
Then rubbed his gloating eyes, and looked again,
The certainty thereof to ascertain;
It melted into moonlight—it was gone!
And, slowly as it passed, a solemn strain
Yet, sweet as those by airy pipers blown,
Alarmed him with the wild enchantment of its tone.

---

41

LII.

He raised his bar on high, with reckless hand,
And plunged it down, scarce knowing what he did;
It penetrated deep the moistened sand,
And rang beneath upon the ponderous lid,
And clinked the golden bars of Robert Kidd!
‘By heavens! 't is here!’ the joyful digger cried;
‘O! did I speak?’—(as recollection chid)—
While, with a sound like Turner's thundering tide,
Forever from the spot the charmed chest did glide!

LIII.

Star of the morn! whose dull, inconstant gleam
Is fading at the opening gates of day,
How fit an emblem is thy waning beam
Of hopes, once bright as was thy rising ray,
Now gone, like thee dissolved in light away!
Our air-built halls—how bright, yet how untrue!
Like the miräge, that with its fair display,
Oft landsmen in the cloud of ocean view,
Which, while thereon they gaze, fades into heaven's blue!

The tale is told; and Luna's height
Proclaims the lengthened march of night.
Already locked in sleep's embrace,
The ‘sanguine lad’ is on the chase;
The ‘pauvré neighbor’ rubs his eyes,
And ventures sundry comments wise

---

42

Based here and there upon a word
By dint of winking he has heard.
The grandsire lights his pipe anew,
And calls the story very true,
For he had heard it years before,
Told by the digger, o'er and o'er.
The grand dame, hitching in her chair,
To give herself a wakeful air,
Yawns forth the question,—‘let us see!
He lost the money did'nt he?’