Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert)

“Fortune, or rather the good foresight of Anne Burras at length brought them to a little basin, sunk a few feet into the ground, at the bottom of which bubbled a clear spring, almost the only one in that sandy region. Here, Fenton, who led the van, approaching with the silent caution of a cat, discovered his little lost sheep. The Indians had kindled a fire to cook a piece of venison, and sat quietly smoking their long pipes. Just as they were taking aim, the boy suddenly passed between them and the Indians. Foster shuddered, and dropped the muzzle of his piece. Again he raised his deadly rifle, and again, just at the actual moment, the boy glided between the savages and death.”—

J. K. Paulding, Old Times in the New World.

There was a fountain in the wilderness,
A small lone basin, undefiled and bright,
Beneath the shadow of the forest king,
The immemorial oak, whose giant form,
With gnarled trunk, and tortuous branches old,
And wreathèd canopy of moss and vines,
Filled the transparent mirror. From its depth
Of limpid blackness leaped the living spring,
A gush of silvery gems, that rose and burst,
Studding, but ruffling not, its glassy sheen.

It was the height and hush of summer noon:
There was no warbling in the air, nor hum
Of bird or bee; the very breeze was dead,
That evermore amid the vocal leaves
Is blithe and musical; the brooklet's flow
Through the dank herbs was voiceless; and the spell
Of silence brooded, like a spirit's wing,
O'er the pure fountain and the giant tree.
Worn with the heat, the burthen, and the toil,
They rested them beside the lucent marge,

The maiden and her captors. Stern and still
The tawny hunters sat; the thin blue smoke
Upcurling from the tube that steeped their souls
In opiate dreams of apathy; the glare
Of the red firelight flashing broad and high
On their impassive features, shaven brows,
And scalp-locks decked with the war-eagle's plume.
Beside them, yet aloof, their delicate prize,
The forest damsel lay—the forest flower,
Untimely severed from its parent stem,
Blighted yet beautiful,—her fair young head
Bowed to the earth, her pale cheek wet with woe,
And those sweet limbs, that wont to fix all eyes,
Wounded and weary. Yet her heart was strong
In glorious confidence: her calm clear eye
Soared upward; and although the lips were mute,
Heart-orisons arose—more fragrant far
Than vapory perfumes, sweeter than the peal
Of choral voices, when some cloistered pile
Thrills to the organ's diapason deep
In pomp sublime of regal gratitude.
And he, the seedling gem, that nestled there
In that pure bosom—never more, perchance,
Oh! never more to glad a parent's soul
With beaming smiles and sportive innocence.
No; they were not deserted. Hagar found
In the salt wilderness a living well;
And Hezekiah saw, at dawn of day,
The shouting myriads of Sennacherib
Stretched, horse and rider, on the bloodless plain,
By angel-swords of pestilence divine.
Yea, on the cursed tree the perishing thief
At the tenth hour received the word of grace,
When hope itself was hopeless. Who believes
Shall never be forsaken—never fall.
She heard them rustling in the tufted brake,

The snapping boughs beneath their cat-like tread;
The leaves that shivered, though the clouds aloft
Hung motionless, betrayed them. They were nigh—
Her friends—her rescuers! She did not spring
In frantic joy to meet them. Eye—hand—tongue,
With more than Roman hardihood of heart,
Were still and silent. Yet she marked the range
Of the bright rifles, and she dragged him down—
Down to her bosom—in the living chain
Of her white arms, that trembled not, spellbound
By agonizing hope more keen than fear.

Rang the report! The stream of vivid fire
Swept o'er her, and the bullets hurtled near,
Fearfully near, yet harmless. She is free,
Clasped in a father's, in a lover's, arms!
And they, their brief career of conquest run,
The red-men sleep, no more the yells to raise
Of fiendish war, or light the pipe of peace.

University of Virginia Library

THE RESCUE.