 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
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THE GREENLAND CONVERT.
Mid-winter in the arctic zone,
On Greenland's sterile shore,
The frozen bay forgets to moan,
Though wildest tempests roar;
No morn the shuddering skies to cheer,
No sun the noon to light,
Unpitying darkness, long and drear,
Commingleth day with night.
On Greenland's sterile shore,
The frozen bay forgets to moan,
Though wildest tempests roar;
No morn the shuddering skies to cheer,
No sun the noon to light,
Unpitying darkness, long and drear,
Commingleth day with night.
Close in each subterranean cell
The shivering tenants clung,
While snows on snows incessant fell,
And whirlwind banners swung;
Around the seal-fed lamp they drew,
That spark of life to fan,
Which gleam'd with feeble radiance through
Those effigies of man.
The shivering tenants clung,
While snows on snows incessant fell,
And whirlwind banners swung;
Around the seal-fed lamp they drew,
That spark of life to fan,
Which gleam'd with feeble radiance through
Those effigies of man.
Keen frosts, like subtle serpents, stole
To every secret nook,
And from the pulses of the soul
Their lingering fervour took.
Dire sounds! the fearful icebergs quake,
The solid rocks are riven,
As though opposing thunders spake
Harsh words of war in heaven.
To every secret nook,
And from the pulses of the soul
Their lingering fervour took.
Dire sounds! the fearful icebergs quake,
The solid rocks are riven,
As though opposing thunders spake
Harsh words of war in heaven.
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Oppress'd by sorrow's hopeless ban,
In this most dreary place
There dwelt a desolated man,
The last of all his race;
One daughter, when the rest were dead,
Long with her loving tone
Sustain'd his heart, but she had fled,
And he was left alone.
In this most dreary place
There dwelt a desolated man,
The last of all his race;
One daughter, when the rest were dead,
Long with her loving tone
Sustain'd his heart, but she had fled,
And he was left alone.
“Beata! in the blissful clime
Where now thy lot is cast,
Doth the young floweret reach its prime
Unsmitten by the blast?
Is there a sky without a cloud?
An undeclining day?
No famine-pang? no icy shroud?
My angel-daughter, say!
Where now thy lot is cast,
Doth the young floweret reach its prime
Unsmitten by the blast?
Is there a sky without a cloud?
An undeclining day?
No famine-pang? no icy shroud?
My angel-daughter, say!
Oh, speak once more, with one sweet tone
Confirm the promise blest,
Whose spirit hush'd the parting groan
When thou didst sink to rest:”
Thus rose amid the rayless gloom
Poor Agusina's moan,
As with his lost one in the tomb
He held communion lone.
Confirm the promise blest,
Whose spirit hush'd the parting groan
When thou didst sink to rest:”
Thus rose amid the rayless gloom
Poor Agusina's moan,
As with his lost one in the tomb
He held communion lone.
Oft, in the sacred Book of God,
With tearful toil he sought,
Till in his soul affliction's rod
A peaceful moral wrought;
Till humbled at his Saviour's feet
In penitence he lay,
And felt his pagan passions fleet
On prayer's soft breath away.
With tearful toil he sought,
Till in his soul affliction's rod
A peaceful moral wrought;
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In penitence he lay,
And felt his pagan passions fleet
On prayer's soft breath away.
Stern sickness rack'd his aged frame,
Unwonted torpor stole,
And death all unresisted came
To claim the ransom'd soul,
Which, spreading wide a wondering wing,
With song of triumph past
From vengeful winter's sharpest sting,
High o'er the shrieking blast.
Unwonted torpor stole,
And death all unresisted came
To claim the ransom'd soul,
Which, spreading wide a wondering wing,
With song of triumph past
From vengeful winter's sharpest sting,
High o'er the shrieking blast.
Red torches pierced the midnight gloom
As with the dead they hied,
And burst Beata's stony tomb
To lay him by her side;
The lip so oft her sire that blest,
No filial welcome gave,
As brow to brow, and breast to breast,
They fill'd that frost-bound grave.
As with the dead they hied,
And burst Beata's stony tomb
To lay him by her side;
The lip so oft her sire that blest,
No filial welcome gave,
As brow to brow, and breast to breast,
They fill'd that frost-bound grave.
Strange music mid the funeral rite!
Sad dirges, soft and slow!
Whence cometh, in this realm of night,
Such melody of wo?
A chapel-bell! Who bids it speak
In this forsaken bourne?
And thus, with Sabbath sweetness, break
The trance of those who mourn?
Sad dirges, soft and slow!
Whence cometh, in this realm of night,
Such melody of wo?
A chapel-bell! Who bids it speak
In this forsaken bourne?
And thus, with Sabbath sweetness, break
The trance of those who mourn?
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Thou know'st not? Praise to God above!
The meek Moravian band,
With all their habitudes of love,
Have dared this fearful land:
Hast thou not heard how Greenland's wild,
Her everlasting snows,
Beneath their husbandry have smiled,
And blossom'd as the rose?
The meek Moravian band,
With all their habitudes of love,
Have dared this fearful land:
Hast thou not heard how Greenland's wild,
Her everlasting snows,
Beneath their husbandry have smiled,
And blossom'd as the rose?
Their steps these saintly teachers turn'd
To yon sepulchral bed,
And o'er their buried convert mourn'd
As for a brother dead;
And there, with anthems' holy breath,
With prayers of heavenward trust,
They mark'd, as with a living wreath,
Poor Agusina's dust.
To yon sepulchral bed,
And o'er their buried convert mourn'd
As for a brother dead;
And there, with anthems' holy breath,
With prayers of heavenward trust,
They mark'd, as with a living wreath,
Poor Agusina's dust.
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