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31

CANTO SECOND.

Behold they come!—O'er the wide-tossing sea
Their ships adventurous throng. Their tall masts cleave
The dim horizon, and what seem'd but specks
On Ocean's bosom, spread wide, snowy sails
Curtaining the rocky shore. In crowds descend
The eager inmates, joyous to escape
Their floating prison and unvarying view
Of the eternal wave. Almost it seem'd
As if old Europe, weary of her load,
Pour'd on a younger world her thousand sons
In ceaseless deluge. Thus, when he whose eye
“Eclips'd by drop serene,” more clearly saw
Things hid from mortal vision, sang sublime
Of war in Heaven, the “seated hillocks” rose,
And uptorn mounts their myriad streams disgorg'd
Whelming the recreant angels.
Thither came
To Nature's boldest scenery, men who saw
No beauty in her charms, in the dark arch

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Of mountain forest springing to the skies
E'er since Creation, on the mighty cliff
Crown'd with rich light, or wrapt in sable clouds
No grandeur trac'd; for still their eyes were bent
In the dark caverns of the Earth to grope
For drossy ore.

The thirst of gold, which excited both the enterprize and the barbarity of the settlers of South-America, pervaded in some degree the colonists of Virginia. About the year 1607, a glittering earth was discovered in the channel of a small stream near Jamestown, and from that time, says Stith in his history, “there was no thought, no discourse, no hope, and no work, but to dig gold, wash gold, refine gold, and load gold.” Capt. Smith's representations of the folly of such conduct had no effect, and they persisted in loading a vessel for England with this drossy dust. “Two vessels,” says Judge Marshall, “returned thither in the spring and summer of 1608, one laden with this dust, and the other with cedar: the first remittances ever made from America by an English colony.”

These, in the chrystal stream

Fring'd with the silvery willow, in the foam
Of the wild thundering cataract, bearing on
A mighty tribute to the swelling sea,
Beheld no majesty, nor deign'd a glance
Save on the glittering sediment. To Heaven,
If it were possible, that to the seat
Of God such souls might soar, no thought of bliss
Could reach them there, except to gaze intense
Upon the golden pavement. Thither hied
Ambition, deck'd with nodding plumes, and proud
In martial port. What saw he to allure
His haughty glance, amid a simple race
Content like poor Caractacus to hold
Nought but a humble hovel? Yet he snatch'd
His trophies from the savage, with a hand
More savage still, nor did his stern soul shrink
To find his laurels tarnish'd with the blood
Of Innocence. Here too the patriot came

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Indignant at th' oppressor, proud to dwell
With liberty, though on the storm-rock'd cliff,
Where the stern Eagle broods. The Poet lur'd
His muse to emigrate,

Among the colonists of New England, who came under the protection of the son of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, in 1623, was the Rev. William Morrell, an Episcopal Clergyman, bearing a Commission from the Ecclesiastical Court in England to exercise superintendency over such churches as might be established in the new region. He was a man of classical taste, and described that part of the country which he explored, in an elegant Latin poem, a few specimens of which are subjoined with an attempt at translation. But he early made the discovery that the climate was uncongenial to his favourite art, and too frigid for the expansion of genius, and he returned to his native country, after an absence of one year.

“Hactenus ignotam populis ego carmine primus,
Te Nova, de veteri cui contigit Anglia nomen,
Aggredior trepidus pingui celebrare Minerva.
Fer mihi numen opem, cupienti singula plectro
Pandere veridico, quæ nuper vidimus ipsi:
Ut brevitèr vereque sonent modulamina nostra,
Temperiem cœli, vim terræ, munera ponti,
Et varios gentis mores, velamina cultus.
Anglia felici merito Nova nomine gaudens,
Sœvos nativi mores pertœsi coloni,
Indigni penitùs populi tellure feraci,
Mœsta superfusis attollit fletibus ora,
Antiquos precibus flectens ardentibus Anglos,
Numinis æterni felicem lumine gentem
Efficere: æternis quæ nunc peritura tenebris.”
—“Sunt etenim populi minimi sermonis, et oris
Austeri, risusque parum, sœvique superbi;
Constricto nodis hirsuto crine sinistro,
Imparibus formis tendentes ordine villos;
Mollia magnanima peragentes otia gentes,
Arte sagittiferâ pollentes, cursibus, armis
Astutæ; recto, robusto corpore et alto,
Pellibus indutæ cervinis, frigora contra
Aspera.”
—“Num sua lunari distinguunt tempora motu,
Non quot Phœbus habet cursus, sed quot sua conjux
Expletus vicibus convertat Cynthia cursus:
Noctibus enumerant sua tempora, nulla diebus,
Mosque düs Indis ést inservire duobus,
Quorum mollis, amans, bona dans, inimica, repellens
Unus, amore bonum venerantur: at invidus alter,
Dizos effundens cum turbine, fulgura nimbos.
Afficiensque malis variis, morbisque nefandis,
Et violentis: hunc gelidà formidine adorant.”
Hail, unknown World! in shades so long enroll'd!
My trembling voice reveals thee to the Old,
I, of rude wit, and undistinguish'd name,
Inscribe thy record on the scroll of fame,
Myself a stranger, choose the stranger's theme,
And first for thee invoke the poet's dream:
Oh! may some heavenly Muse th' attempt inspire
And pour her spirit o'er my shrinking lyre.
Thy genial breezes bear the blush of health,
Earth spreads her gifts, and Ocean yields his wealth,
Yet 'mid thy happy lot incessant sighs
Heave thy pure breast, and tears distain thine eyes,
Thy abject race a speechless sorrow wakes,
And still thine eye its supplication makes,
For some blest beam to light their hopeless tomb,
And snatch their souls from everlasting gloom.
—Men, spare in language, and of brow austere,
Averse from laughter, and in wrath severe,
Supreme in strength the stubborn bow to wield,
And bold in courage 'mid the blood-stain'd field;
Men of proud spirit, and of fierce design,
Tho' oft in lingering indolence supine,
Swift in the race as speeds the rushing storm,
With wind-swept tresses, and majestic form,
Clad in rude skins that mark the hunter's toil,
Throng the dark wild, but shun a cultur'd soil.
Not by the smile which ardent Phœbus gives,
When to her annual goal the Earth arrives,
Not by the changes of revolving Day,
Their time they measure, or existence weigh,
But by the lamp which gentle Cynthia burns,
As round our orb her silver axle turns,
And by the march of slow majestic Night,
Whose tardy vigils mock the trembling light.
—Two Pow'rs unseen, their humbled hearts confess,
One, full of good, omnipotent to bless,
And one, in clouds who veils his awful form,
His sport the lightning, and his voice the storm:
To that, in love, their grateful vows they pour,
And this, through fear, with abject rites adore.

Another poet, also, at a still earlier period, hazarded a transportation to our western clime. This was Stephen Parmenias, a man of great learning, who was born at Buda, in Hungary, about the middle of the 16th century. For the completion of his education, he visited the most celebrated European universities, and during his residence in England, forming a friendship for Sir Humphrey Gilbert, the half brother of Sir Walter Raleigh, decided to accompany him in his expedition to America, under the patronage of Queen Elizabeth. In the summer of 1583, they arrived at Newfoundland, and took possession of it, in the name of the British crown. The Hungarian poet preserved the memory of this expedition, in an elegant Latin poem, rich with classical allusions, but on his return to Europe the same year, unfortunately perished in a violent storm, together with the admiral, and nearly a hundred of the crew. The poem alluded to, and likewise a more particular account of this interesting Hungarian, may be found in the ninth volume of the “Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society.”

and fondly told

Of sylvan haunts, and fairy domes; but frost
Chain'd her light pinion, and the sun-beam cast
That cold regard, which like some icy chill
Still withers genius. Here, with footsteps slow
Came calm philosophers, shunning the throng
Who waste existence in an empty chase
Of frail ephemera, to merge the soul
In solitude, as in her element
Of purest health, and pause o'er Nature's chain
Where link by link, with mystic art she binds
Terrestrial to divine.
The Christian knelt
Upon this rocky strand, intent to build
His tabernacle where despotic pow'r
Might rear no image, and compel his soul
To offer homage—where the spirit's eye
Might seek its sire, uncheck'd by the dire bolt
Of persecution's thunder, and with awe
Amid the silence of his works, revere
The great Creator. Thus with varying aim

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Flock'd the firm Swede, bold Danube's patient sons,
The toiling Belgian, Albions patriot race,
And thine, Oh Caledon! blest land of song,
While fair Hibernia pour'd in throngs profuse
Her ardent offspring. Guided by the breath
Of southern gales, the bands of England steer'd
Where the proud waters of the mighty James,
And swift Potomac, mark'd the broad domain
Of great Powhatan. He more years had told
Than hoary Nestor. Thrice had he beheld
His fading race scatter'd like autumn leaves,

Powhatan told Captain Smith that he was “very old, and had seen the death of all his people thrice, so that not one of the first generation was living beside himself.” Mr. Jefferson, in his “Notes on Virginia, relates that at the first settlement of the English, the territories of Powhatan, were said to comprise 8000 square miles.


While he, unshorn and unsubdu'd, remain'd
King of the forest. To his region came,
Aiding the adventurous, one whose daring soul
Breath'd the high spirit of heroic deeds,
The brave, accomplish'd Smith.

Capt. John Smith, who accompanied the Colony, which, in 1607, planted itself at Jamestown, displayed so many uncommon talents, suited to the exigencies of those difficult times, that the early historians have been eloquent in his praise. Stith, in his History of Virginia, written in the year 1747, records in his antiquated style, the testimony of the soldiers, and fellow-adventurers of Smith. “They confess that in that age, there were many captains who were no soldiers, but that he was a soldier of the true old English stamp, who fought, not for gain or empty praise, but for his country's honour and the public good; that his wit, courage and success were worthy of eternal memory; that by the mere force of his virtue and courage, he awed the Indian kings, and made them submit and bring presents; that notwithstanding such a stern and invincible resolution, there was seldom seen a milder and more tender heart than his was; that he had nothing in him counterfeit or sly; but was open, honest, and sincere, and that they never knew a soldier before him, so free from the military vices of wine, tobacco, debts, dice, and oaths.” Judge Marshall, in his biography of Washington, in describing the expedients which Capt. Smith devised, and the dangers which he encountered for the protection of the colony, remarks, that “he preserved his health unimpaired, his spirits unbroken, and his judgment unclouded, amidst the general misery and dejection.” After his liberation from captivity by Powhatan, he concerted measures for the safety of the colony, and the welfare of his government, he undertook a bold expedition to explore the waters of the Chesapeake, and to make researches into the countries upon its shores. “He entered,” says Marshall, “most of the large creeks, and sailed up many of the great rivers to their falls. He made accurate observations on the extensive territories through which he passed, and on the various tribes inhabiting them, with whom he alternately fought, negotiated and traded. In the various situations in which he found himself, he always displayed judgment, courage, and that presence of mind, which is so essential to the character of a commander; and he never failed finally to inspire the savages whom he encountered, with the most exalted opinion of himself, and of his nation. When we consider that he sailed above three thousand miles in an open boat; when we contemplate the dangers, the hardships, he endured, and the fortitude, patience, and courage with which he bore them; when we reflect on the useful and important additions which he made to the stock of knowledge, respecting America, then possessed by his countrymen, we shall not hesitate to say that few voyages of discovery, undertaken at any time, reflect more honour on those engaged in them, than this does on Captain Smith.”

His dauntless mind

And vigorous frame, scorning fatigue and toil,
Had gathered laurels from the lofty heights
Of martial Europe, from the battle fields
Of sultry Asia, where pure christian blood
Mingling with the dark tide from Turkish veins,
Had stain'd the red-cross banners.

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—Buoyant Hope
Still smiling in his eye, while other brows
Were blanch'd with terror, or with wan despair
The giddy heights of Fame he had achiev'd,
The goal of strange adventure, and the maze
Of deep Romance, ere Manhood's tinge had bronz'd
His blooming cheek.

Captain Smith was born at Willoughby in 1759, and at the time of his slavery in Constantinople, when most of the romantic adventures of his life had terminated, the hero had only attained the age of 23 years.

The syren charms of wealth

Cluster'd around his cradle, and the lawns
Of Willoughby, replete with genial gales
Nurtur'd his roving boyhood. There he shar'd
Sport, such as hardihood and danger love,
Though it mocks at them. From historic lore
A restless, kindling impulse caught the flame
That fir'd heroic souls; and as he bent,
A silent student o'er his daily task,
Unfetter'd fancy bore him far beyond
His island home, to rove in distant climes,
And act in other ages, with the men
Of high renown. And when his joyous youth
Mark'd with a traveller's eye, the varied scenes
Of Europe's grandeur, not the beauteous Seine
Winding through flow'ry vales, or crown'd with domes
Of gay Parisian luxury, nor yet
Those arts by which the patient Hollander

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Props his scant birthright 'gainst usurping seas,
Nor Nature's majesty, when on the Alps
She rests her cloudy coronet, could charm
His sanguine heart, like the red chart of war
Graven on hero's monument, or drawn
In fearful lines upon the furrow'd earth
Where battles once were fought.
The rocky bounds
Of Caledonia next his step explor'd,
Seeking its monarch's court: for there he thought
Amid that brave and high-soul'd race to meet
Some kindred spirits. But the pedant king,
Offspring of beauteous Mary, soon to wield
The Stuart sceptre o'er high Albion's throne,
Allur'd by promises the youthful band
To throng around him, yet no food supplied
To cheer ambition. Smith's impetuous sword
Spurn'd at the thistly harvest, as he sought
Once more his native halls. But not the joys
Of softening home might lure that Spartan soul
Girding its armour on. From the fair domes
Where lingering Courtesy too oft detain'd
His coldly render'd time, the youth recluse
Turn'd to the forest, and 'mid deepest shades

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Chose out a silent spot. Riven from their trunks
Firm boughs of cedar with the knotty oak
He interwove, in architecture rude,
Forming a green pavilion. There he gave
His soul its favourite lore, the rudiments
Of warlike science; or on fiery steed
With glittering lance, evinc'd in graceful feat
Of manly daring, or of martial skill
His ponder'd theory. Thus the fam'd prince
Of eloquence, sublime Demosthenes,
Pent in his subterranean cell, pursued
The art he lov'd, or mid the Ocean's roar
Utter'd its precepts. Still this close recess
Was sacred from the interrupting foot
Of Idleness, from enervating sports
And light amusements of the giddy throng;
Hither no soft Indulgence gliding came
In Epicurean robe, nor Beauty's brow
Bent its keen glance of sarcasm to annoy
The military anchorite. But sounds
Of distant war, of battle grimly fought
Beneath the cloud of Turkish banners, came,
Loading the deep-ton'd gale. As the proud steed,
Long held in durance, hears the trumpet blast

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And struggling, rends the earth, thus the bold youth
Undisciplin'd, unsanction'd, unrestrain'd
By sage experience, rushes on his course.
This eager zeal he strove to sanctify
With high devotion's name, and, as he took
His rapid journey, often ask'd his heart
With angry emphasis, if it were meet
That ancient city where the Saviour pour'd
His dying blood, should bow its hallow'd head
To sacrilegious thraldom? Thus is Man
Prone with Religion's front to dignify
His doubtful deeds, baptising in Heaven's name
His earthly promptings.
Where Marseilles retreats
To rocky barrier,

Marseilles, the ancient Massilia, is situated at the foot of a rocky mountain near the sea. Its natural advantages for commerce were such, that its trade flourished even in the days of Gothic barbarism. The politeness and literature of its early inhabitants, were so conspicuous, that Livy pronounced it to have been as much polished as if it had risen in the midst of Greece; and Cicero denominated it the “Athens of the Gauls.”

from sea-beaten shore,

'Mid thronging masts, the traveller's glance espies
A parting sail, and up the vessel's side
Ascends with little question. Here he found
A throng of devotees, in pilgrim's weeds,
Bound to Loretto, there to consummate
Penance or vow.
Loudly they spake in praise
Of that fair shrine by wondering angels borne,
On outstretch'd pinions, from the Holy Land

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To glad Dalmatia, and from thence transferr'd,
Pitying the toil of weary pilgrim saints,
To happy Italy. Oft they describ'd
The cell with lingering rainbow ever bright,

The niche, in which the statue of the Virgin is placed in the “Casa Santa” of the church at Loretto, is adorned among other costly declarations, with 71 large Bohemian Topazes; near it stands an angel of cast gold, profusely enriched with gems and diamonds; and the lustre of the precious stones with which this cell is ornamented, has been compared by pilgrims to a rainbow, eclipsing the lamps with which it is contrasted. The chamber, containing this statue, is alleged by the adherents of the Romish church, to have been carried through the air by angels in the month of May, 1291, from Galilee to Tersato, in Dalmatia. From thence it was removed in the same manner, after having reposed somewhat more than four years, and set down in a wood in Italy, about midnight in the month of December, where it remained nearly 200 years, before it was noticed by any author of that country.


Which hath no need of sun, or silver moon,
Or glimmering lamp, and that blest Lady's form,
The glorious Virgin, whose meek brow hath pow'r
To cancel sin: and ever as they spake
Their eye with mortified, yet curious glance
Fell on the silent warrior.—Soon recedes
The crowded mart, and fades the Gallic coast
In the faint emerald of the tideless sea,
While the refreshing and propitious gales
Swell the dilated canvas. But the day,
That sunk in smiles, rose not; so dense a cloud
Involv'd her in its canopy. Low blasts
Moan'd hollow from the bosom of the deep,
And fluttering 'mid the heavy, humid sails,
The sea-birds shriek'd. Around the feverish moon
Hung a wan circle, livid as the spot
Where aspic poison creeps. Then as the wing
Of the black tempest wav'd 'mid mutinous winds
And mighty thunders, while the reeling bark
Alternate mounted on the slippery wave,

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Or roll'd in dark abysses, ye might see
Those frighted pilgrims, with dishevell'd locks
Telling their beads, and calling every saint
Of note throughout the calendar to help
Their great extremity.
The soldier thought
Of that Disciple, valiant in his faith,
Who on the mission of his Master's will
Went bound to Rome, and on that very sea
Encounter'd shipwreck. He remember'd too
The arm that sav'd him, and upon that prop
Rested his waiting eye, while the dread storm
Woke its third day of gloom. But the stern band
Bent a dark scowling glance on him who clasp'd
No rosary, nor in such awful hour
Ave Maria utter'd; and it seem'd
To their perverted minds, that for his sin
Such evil had pursued their innocence.
Pale Superstition's traitor eye reveal'd
Her darken'd purpose, ere its venom sprang
To the blanch'd lip, to purchase with his death
Imagin'd safety. In rash narrow minds
The blinding motive from the blasting deed
Hath no division. As the mariners

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Of Tarshish hurl'd the recreant prophet forth,
So these good pilgrims in their righteous zeal
To save themselves, cast out the stranger youth
Into the raging element. Proud waves
Broke over him, but with impetuous strength
He brav'd their fury. Long the foaming surge
With head uprais'd, and firm, undaunted breast
He baffled in his might. Long unappall'd
His spirit view'd the purpose of his life
Still unaccomplish'd, and believ'd that God
Would snatch him from the deep, though all its waves
And water-spouts pass'd over him.
But day
Sunk on her couch, and Evening quench'd the light,
The feeble light, that from the billow's crest
Had gleam'd upon the wanderer. Driven on
Like broken leaf before the blast, he seemed
A thing for storms to sport with, or the child
Of the dark surge, to which he wildly clung
As to a mother's breast. Alone he felt,
As if in wide Creation, nought but him
Surviv'd. Cold languor o'er the springs of life
Crept slowly, 'gainst his unresisting form
Rush'd the wild wave, and his despairing ear

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Heard the hoarse voice of waters and of winds,
As of a death-dirge. Midnight darkness prest
The wrathful deep, and drooping he resigns
His body to the tomb where myriads sleep,
Waiting that trump which warns the startled sea
To yield her dead. Ah! when the arm of Man
Resigns its power, the Omnipotence of God
Is nearest in deliverance. A rude shock
Convuls'd the victim's frame, as if it broke
The Spirit's casket on those marble rocks
Where slippery sea-weed binds the pearly cells
In depths unfathomable. His rent ear
Stunn'd by the thundering tide resigns its pain
To welcome silence, and his stiffen'd arms
Convulsive clasp the sharp and rugged rocks,
While his dim eye and fainting bosom hail
The house of Death; for thus the sufferer deem'd
That lonely isle, on whose deserted bound
God had prepar'd his refuge.
When he thought
Earth with her bars had clos'd around his pit
Forever; from that dungeon of despair
Jehovah had redeem'd him, to behold
The light among the living. There he lay,

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Long in Exhaustion's trance, while the spent storm
Swept by on drooping pinion. Then look'd forth
From her deep sable arch, the timid Moon,
And saw the slumberer on that rocky beach
With bloodless cheek, and panting breast that heav'd
Heavily, in low sobs: so strong did Life
Contend, and yet so bitterly had Death
Urg'd his expected victory. Young Morn
From her bright eye such genial warmth diffus'd
That up the sleeper sprang, his humid locks
Still dripping, and his countenance illum'd
With that inert expression, which displays
Its sceptic glances, when the muscles live
Before the intellect; while the lost mind
Coming from exile, like the strong man arm'd
Findeth her mansion empty. Thus, perchance,
Beam'd the wan features of the man entomb'd,
In that first moment, when returning life,
Caught from the touch of dead Elisha's bones,
Pervaded him: and well thy pencil's pow'r,
Allston! hath kindled that mysterious gleam
When in brief struggle the terrestrial strove
With the celestial, and dull matter mov'd
Ere the Creator's breathing spirit gave
Pure Thought its resurrection.

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Soon with eye
No longer vacant, though still unassur'd,
He, who had deem'd his mortal conflict o'er,
Strove with bewilder'd toil to wake the trace
Of shipwreck'd Memory. Almost it seem'd
That the strange fable caught from Pagan lore

The doctrine of Purgatory, which some have derived from the Platonic fancies of Origen, the Montanism of Tertullian, pretended visions, or doubtful expressions of the later fathers, was introduced in part towards the close of the fifth century, but not positively affirmed till the year 1140, nor made an article of faith, till the council of Trent.


And interwoven with the creed of Rome
Were true, and to some isolated nook
Of Purgatory, he had been condemn'd,
To expiate the errors which had stain'd
His former being. Well this spot might seem
The broken isthmus of a middle state
Remote from joys of either world; for nought
Like cheering verdure, or reviving shade
Of pensile bough was there. No cavern deep,
Like that of Patmos, where the lov'd of God
Saw holy visions, spread a cool recess
From the sun's fervour; and no transient gourd
Like that which shelter'd Jonah's head, and lull'd
His dark repining, rear'd its fragile stem
To blossom for a night. But the lone isle,
One naked rock, lash'd by th' eternal surge
Appall'd the eye. Not with such poignant woe
The solitary glance of Selkirk fell

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On lone Fernandez; there were bowers of shade,
Green earth, fair plants, nutritious roots and fruits
To cheer existence, there the bounding goats
Furnish'd his household flock, the gentle kids
Lay at his feet, and fondly seem'd to claim
Companionship.
—But here was nought to break
The rayless gloom of sceptred solitude,
Nor foot of animal, nor chirp of bird,
Nor e'en a shrub, on which might hang one nest,
For the poor hermit's heart to watch and love.
Words intermix'd with sighs at length burst forth,
And strange their utterance seem'd, where human tone
Had never woke before, the slumbering cell
Of unborn Echo—
“Ah! is this sad spot
My place of doom? No more must I behold
The countenance of man? Ne'er hear his voice
Answering to mine? Methinks the serpent's hiss
Were music to this ever-dashing wave.
The sight of the most loath'd of Nature's works,
Vile worm, or slimy snail, or swollen toad,
Were joy. Shall withering famine terminate
My dateless being on this nameless shore?

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Then what avails how drear the solitude
That hangs its blackening curtain o'er a grave
Which none may visit? A dissever'd link
From vast Creation's chain, no pitying voice
Of kindred or of friend shall e'er inquire
Whose bones lie bleaching on this blasted bourne
Of desolation. Hence! away ye hopes,
Pictur'd in childhood, treasur'd in gay youth,
Vain, airy bubbles! See, the lofty plans
Of proud Ambition, luring me to join
My name with heroes, see the glorious scroll
Unroll'd by Fancy, shrivel to the seal
Of blank Oblivion.”
With such groans, perchance,
Though stung to deeper agony, complain'd
The fugitive of Elba, from whose head
The crown had fall'n. His prison isle he pac'd
With frantic step, and o'er the sounding beach
Roving like maniac, tax'd with madd'ning curse
And ceaseless question, the unresting wave.
Yet was he not alone, for round him throng'd
Thin spectral shapes from Lodi's bloody field,
From Jena, Jaffa, Borodino's bound,
Dread Austerlitz, Marengo, Moscow's wreck,

47

From countless scenes they rose, and flitting sought
To gaze on their destroyer. Conscience shrunk
At solitude so populous, and Pride,
Which quell'd Remorse, wept at Ambition's goad,
Vexing, like him of Macedon, to find
Bounds to its conquest.
Would ye ask what throng'd
The mental temple, when in frowns he rov'd
Listning indignant to the Atlantic roar
On lone St. Helena? Did Memory's torch
Light up his past career, o'er blasted earth,
And wasted being, subjugated realms
And “seas of flame;”

Moscow, in its conflagration, was emphatically compared to an “Ocean of flame.”

—or Pity bear the wail

Of childless parent, and of sireless babe?
Did pale Remorse, lifting her serpent scourge,
Come with the manes of the mighty dead
Who fell by treachery? Did despair announce
The fearful miseries of the falsely great?
Or sad Contrition wake the pungent tear
That cleanses guilt?—
Peace! for his doom is seal'd.
Man may not scan the conflict of the soul
When the chill lip drinks the last bitter drop
Of life's exhausted cup. Man may not pass

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Verdict upon the heart, which the High Judge
Alone explores. Nor should he rashly hurl
His condemnations forth, since he, himself
With all his fancied, all his just deserts,
Is but an erring, trembling candidate
For his Creator's mercy.
Turn we now
To that lone exile on yon islet dark,
Who in the breathless struggle where fair Hope
Too weak for contest, copes with pallid Fear,
Descries a sail. Advancing where the rock
Strikes its sharp bastion farthest in the main,
His hand he waves in agony, and wastes
The remnant of his voice. Ah, see! a boat
Approaches him. Already he perceives
The quick dash of the oar, and the light foam
Rippling around its prow. Holy that sight,
As the ark's casement to the trembling Dove
Whose weary pinion o'er the shoreless waste
Droop'd as in death. Not once the exile thought
If friend or foe approach him, the proud Turk,
Or wily Arab, or brute Algerine,
All the stern ills that man inflicts on man,
Slavery, or galley-chain, or ceaseless toil

49

Seem'd in that hour of wild emotion, light
To everduring loneliness. The voice
Of Man once more accosts him, a kind arm
Supports his feeble steps to reach the boat
And scale the vessel's side, while fainting, pale,
And speechless, he admits the tide of joy
To whelm his soul. Stretch'd on the ready couch,
Reviv'd with welcome cordials and the tone
Of sympathy, the sufferer's heart expands
In boundless gratitude, to that blest Pow'r,
Who snatch'd him from his dungeon; while the bands
Of courteous France, who listened to his tale,
Exulting, that their gallant ship had sav'd
A fellow-creature, merg'd in that pure joy
The light aversion which their native coast
And sea-girt Albion cherish. Long they cruis'd
O'er the untroubled waters, mark'd the coast
Of sultry Afric, caught the fragrant gales
That fan Sicilian vineyards, cross'd the tide
Of the rough Adriatic, steer'd with care
Amid Ionian quicksands, and beheld
The Ægean wave with sprinkled lustre bright
Of emerald islets, where the classic Muse
Delights to linger. There old Tenedos

50

Frown'd upon ruin'd Ilion; Lemnos hush'd
Her Cyclopean forge; while Lesbian heights
Still seem'd to echo to Alcæus's harp,
And Sappho's fond complaint. There Samos spread
Her beauteous harbours o'er the violent wave,
While in perspective soft, her green fields gleam'd
In semi-annual harvest,

Between Samos and Icaria, the intensely deep blue colour of the water has been noticed by voyagers; and in the ‘Childe Harolde’ of Lord Byron, it is denominated the “dark blue sea.” Athenæus relates, that in Samos, the fig-trees, apple-trees, rose-trees, and vines, bore fruit twice in a year.

rich with tints

Of purple light; the clustering Cyclades
Girt in their rocky zone the Delphic isle
No more oracular, where glowing clouds
Of golden lustre, ting'd with crimson dies,
Canopy pure Parnassus.
—Rosy Rhodes,

The etymology of Rhodes, has been sought in the Greek word “Rhodon,” signifying a rose, with which flower that island abounded. The classical traveller, Clarke, observes, “from the number of appellations it has borne at different periods, it might at last have received the name of the Polynoman Island. It has been called Ophiusa, from the number of its serpents; Telchynis; Corymbria; Trinacria; Æthræa, from its cloudless sky; Asteria, because at a distance its figure appears like that of a star; Poessa; Atabyria; Oloessa; Macaria, and Pelagia. Some are of opinion that Rhodes was first peopled by the descendants of Dodanim, the fourth son of Javan. Both the Septuagint and Samaritan translation of the Pentateuch, instead of Dodanim use Rodonim; and by this appellation the Greeks always distinguished the Rhodians.”


No longer by its proud Colossus mark'd
Stretch'd its triangular scale, as if to catch
Those golden show'rs which testified the love
Of ardent Phœbus;

The exuberant fertility of the soil of this island gave occasion to those fables embellished by the poets, of golden showers which they pretended to have fallen upon it. They feigned also a story of the love of Phœbus for Rhodes, and asserted it to have been an uninhabitable marsh, until it was loved by him, and drawn from the waters by his powerful influence. But now, under Turkish oppression, the island no longer merits the appellation of “fortunate;” and the golden showers of fiction, are changed to the iron influence of tyranny and desolation.

while the Cretan vales

Cloth'd with their fruitage fair the awful base
Of that stern mountain, boastful of the birth
Of Jove the Thunderer.
Towards the setting Sun
Their course they bend, when, ploughing o'er the deep
Her transverse path with heavy laden keel,
A ship they spy, whose waving colours spoke

51

Of haughty Venice. Hasting they prepare
For naval combat. Decks are clear'd, light sails
Furl'd, lest their playful wantonness impede
Decisive action, while those engines dire
Which flash destruction o'er the echoing wave,
Unlash'd are levell'd, and from their deep vents
The tompions drawn. Inspir'd with warlike joy
The soul of Smith rush'd to his eagle eye,
Darting unwonted lightnings. Every spot
He seem'd to traverse; now, in grave debate
Consulting with the Master, how to pour
With best effect their battery on the foe;
Now, gliding o'er the deck with watchful glance
Of keen inspection; now, into the souls
Of wondering Frenchmen pouring that proud zeal
Which nerves a British tar. Thus the bold king,
Harry of Monmouth, cheer'd his doubting troops
For Agincourt's dread field; with his gay smile
Inspiring courage, brightening the wan brow
Of Apprehension, while his valorous heart
Impatient chode the interrupting night
Which “like a foul and ugly witch did limp
So lazily away.” Short space was here
In this wild contest on the briny plain

52

For courtesy or signal of attack:
The volleying broadsides deal Destruction's blast,
Life fled in purple streams, but still the wrath
Of Man subsided not. The shivering masts,
And sides transpierc'd, witness in fearful wounds
The strife of human passions, when they war
And yield not.
From the Gallic ship, a band
Forth sally, bright their boarding axes shine
Through sable wreaths of smoke, while they essay
With vigorous action to ascend the deck
Of the Venetian. Clamorous blows resound
And shouts outrageous, till the invaders, hurl'd
Back from their slippery footing, darkly plunge
Beneath the redd'ning element. Yet see!
Another band, unaw'd by Danger's front,
Dare the same fate, with desperate ardour fir'd,
And o'er the bowsprit rushing to the deck,
Wade through their comrade's blood.
How can I paint
The features of that scene? My pencil shrinks
From dies so deep! Oh! 'twas a fearful sight
To souls who love not carnage, to behold
God's image in the human form so marr'd,

53

And his blest work defac'd. The deed was done,
The hoarse, terrific din of battle o'er,
But many a gallant man, whose warm lip pour'd
Impetuous words to urge the contest on,
Saw not the victory, nor heard the shout
When Venice struck to France. O'er the smooth wave
Her trackless course the victor ship pursued;
Not quite unscath'd; but, as the knight, return'd
From tournament, heeds not his batter'd helm,
And sever'd cuirass, nor the puny wounds
That goad his side, since ever in his mind
The vivid image of his unhors'd foe
Banishes pain and loss. The exulting crew
Boastful in garrulous joy, incessant trac'd
Their chart of conquest, emulous to meet
A second enemy. But the lone youth,
Whose changeful fortunes we pursue, oft sigh'd
For sweet release from durance on the wave,
And like a landsman pin'd, whene'er he thought
Of the pure verdure, and salubrious breeze,
And busy haunts, where answering voices blend
In cheering echo. Him at lenght they sent,
In feeble boat to that delightful shore
Which spread a refuge for the Hero's toil,

54

Who from Troy's flame, wild ocean's adverse surge
And Juno's harsh inexorable hate
Scap'd through long wanderings.
Glad th'enfranchised youth
Mark'd the rough line of that peninsular coast.
Enraptur'd revell'd in the firm support
Of Earth, his mother, and once more beheld
Her brilliant garments, and alluring fruits,
With joy unutterable. Soon his course
In eager speed toward Rome's imperial seat
He pointed; for in boyhood's brightest hour
Thither, on Fancy's pinion, had he flown
To search and question Caesar's sepulchre:
And thither now, half doubting, as if dreams
Involv'd him in their tissue, he arriv'd.
With reverence gaz'd he on the Queen of earth,
Who in the mouldering of her gorgeous robes,
And ancient diadem, still rose in pomp
Of dread magnificence. His rapt eye saw
In warrior vision, when with sceptred pride,
Seated upon her seven-hill'd throne, she cast
The rays of her dominion on the wings
Of the unresting Sun, and bade them reach
All realms that saw his light. With pausing steps

55

Alone he wander'd, 'mid those mighty wrecks
Which Man had consecrated, but old Time
Respected not, and bade the unsightly weed
And slimy snail deface. Anon he mark'd
Strong massy fabricks, on whose fronts sublime
Dwelt hoar Antiquity, ruling the wrath
And spoil of ages. There unnumber'd fanes
Tower'd in the gracefulness of modern skill
Where cluster'd columns rear'd their cornice fair,
And fretted architrave, th' Ionic chaste,
Time-honour'd Doric, or Corinthian rich,
Or simple Tuscan. The admiring youth
Mark'd with a gaze intense of wondering awe
Vespasian's Coliseum, where, the Goth

The Coliseum, sometimes called the Flavian amphitheatre, was commenced by Flavius Vespasian, in the year 72, but finished by Titus, who employed upon it such of the Jews, as were brought in slavery to Rome. This vast structure was viewed with wonder by the Gothic conquerors; and the venerable Bede records a proverbial expression of the pilgrims of the north, by which in the 8th century they testified their admiration: “As long as the Coliseum stands, will Rome stand, when the Coliseum falls, Rome must fall, and with Rome, the world shall fall.”


Who led his barbarous legions to the spoil
Of the despis'd magnificence of Rome,
Stood in amazement—
That Ellipsis vast
Reveal'd the hand of Titus, who resum'd
The work his dying sire left unfulfill'd.
From those arcades, those pillars that embrace
Within their pond'rous and wide-stretching grasp
That spacious amphitheatre, erst rose,
As from the Egyptian house of bondage, sighs

56

Of captive Israel, labouring and oppress'd;
Though no deliverer, call'd by Heaven, came forth
From his rush cradle on the turbid stream
To break their yoke. Still might the eye recall
Through mists of gath'ring ages, through the wreck
Of Devastation's wantonness,

Notwithstanding the Coliseum had in various instances been the subject of dilapidation, had furnished stone for the construction of the Farnese Palace, by Michael Angelo, and had even been thrown open as a common quarry; in the 14th century, for the use of the multitude, yet in the middle of the 16th century, its exterior circumference of 1612 feet still remained inviolate, and a triple elevation of fourscore arches was preserved, rising to the height of 108 feet.

that spot

Where the pavilion, with its purple pomp,

Persons of the highest dignity had places assigned to them in a part of the amphitheatre called the Podium, near the centre of which was the Imperial Pavilion, lined with silk, and embellished in the most splendid manner.


And proud, imperial blazonry, enshrin'd
The dignity of Rome; still might it mark
The Cunei,

The Cunei distinguished the seats appointed for the different classes of the people, so that every one might be conducted to the place allotted, by the laws of the amphitheatre, to his respective rank. The strictest attention was exercised, lest any might obtain a dignity of station to which he was not entitled; and the Cunei were under the direction of officers called Locarii, while the general care of the Coliseum was entrusted to the grand Villicus amphitheatri.

dividing with strict care

Patrician from Plebian, even in sports
Whose baseness levell'd all to the same rank
Of degradation, weighing jealously
Each vain distinction; there might still be trac'd
The radiatory passages, where throng'd
Crown'd Emperors, and savage beasts, and men
Abject as they; and there stood gaping wide
Those Vomitories,

The entrances to the passages and stair-cases were styled Vomitories; and the crowd passing through them to witness favourite exhibitions was immense. Justus Lipsius asserts, that the Coliseum was capable of accommodating 87,000 spectators on benches; and Fontana added 22,000 for the galleries, stair-cases, and passages. On the ground plan, the exterior surface of the ellipsis covered a superficies of 246,661 feet, (more than five and a half acres,) and consisted of eighty arches, opening into a spacious double corridor, from whence radiated eighty passages and staircases, leading either to two inner corridors, to the arena, or to the galleries.

whence the noisy crown

Issu'd abrupt. Swept by the winds of Heaven
Was that vast structure, open to the wrath
Of raging elements; no more was rear'd
The spreading Velum's

At the summit of the Flavian amphitheatre was a sixth story, or rather floor, appropriated to those who managed the Velum, which was an awning of various colours, occasionally stretched to protect the audience from rain, or the heat of the sun, and which, by means of cords and pullies, could be extended or withdrawn at pleasure.

gorgeous canopy

To shelter from the solar beam, or storm
Those pitiless throngs, deep gazing on the scenes

57

Of inhumanity. There, with vigorous arm
And rigid muscles, nerv'd to utmost strength
By uncomplaining Agony, wild wrath,
Undaunted courage, or intense despair,
Fought the stern Gladiators

The combats of Gladiators, were early exhibited at Rome, and the people became so strongly attached to these entertainments, that the emperors found it politic to indulge their barbarous taste. Julius Cæsar, during his ædileship, gratified the populace with combats between 320 pair of gladiators; and Gordian, before the imperial purple was conferred upon him, gave those shows twelve times in a year, in some of which 500 couple were engaged. Titus exhibited a show of gladiators, wild beasts, and representations of sea-fights upon the Coliseum, which lasted 100 days, and Trajan continued an exhibition of the same nature during one third of a year, in the course of which he brought out 10,000 gladiators. The master, by whom these miserable combatants were instructed in the science of defence, forced them to swear that they would fight till death, and if they displayed cowardice, they were made to expire by fire, sword, or whips, unless the voice of the emperor, or the people, gave them life.

: stung to rage,

The lordly Lion, the mad Elephant,
The foaming Tyger, the Hyena fierce,
Baffled the hunter's skill, or madly rush'd
Upon his spear, champing with bloody jaws
The murderous weapon. And alas! how oft
Drank that Arena's dust the peaceful tide
Flowing from Christian veins, when strong in faith
Those holy victims, pouring forth pure pray'rs
For persecuting foes, were given a prey
To monster's teeth.
There thou didst yield thy breath,
Ignatius, mitred prelate of that church,
Which first

“The disciples were first called Christians at Antioch.”—Acts xi. 26. Ignatius was the second bishop of this church, and, according to Eusebius, succeeded Euodius, near the close of the first century after the death of Christ. He suffered martyrdom in the amphitheatre at Rome, during the persecution of Trajan; and was venerated, even among his foes, for his years and piety.

upon its sacred banner bore

The name of Christ. Full on thy rapt ear pour'd
The melody of heaven,

Ignatius was the first who introduced antiphonal singing among the churches of the East, which, according to Socrates, the ecclesiastical historian, he first learnt from a vision, in which the glorified spirits of heaven appeared, singing in alternate measures, hymns of praise to the Everlasting Trinity.

where the blest choir

With harp and voice, in high alternate swell
Hymn'd the Eternal, till thy tranced soul
Wrapt in ecstatic vision, scorn'd the bounds
Of Earth's low confine. But a martyr's doom

58

Awaited thy decline; and thou didst meet
Its pangs, rejoicing that thy soul should haste
To its reward, while high devotion's pray'r
Ascended for the parricides who rent
Thy feeble span. Methinks the Lions pause
In their career. Did thine uplifted eye
Intently fix'd on Heaven imbibe new beams
Of awful lustre, till brute Instinct shrank
To mar that kneeling form, and clot with blood
Those silver locks?
Yet there was Beauty's eye,
Gazing unmov'd upon the ghastly wound,
And gasping bosom; hearts, which should have been
At every scene of woe, as liquid balm
Distill'd in Pity's heavenly dew, grew hard,
Grew obdurate as the flame-temper'd steel,
Till female softness turn'd her exile foot
From pagan Rome—
Sick'ning at thoughts like these
The youth with fond enthusiasm rush'd to seek
Trajan's fair victor column, where it rear'd
Its tow'ring shaft, pure as the snows that crown
The Alpine heights. Its pedestal display'd
Four birds of Jove, depending from whose beaks

59

In rich luxuriance flow'd the laurel wreath,
And ah! so well those polish'd leaflets twin'd
Their slender fibres, with so light a grace
Ruffled the Eaglets' plumage, that the art
Of bold Apollodorus seem'd to have taught
The cold and steadfast marble how to vie
With nature's life and beauty. There the youth
Knelt in low reverence, while in ardent tone
Burst forth his homage from unconscious lips—
“Awful and glorious Man! at whose dread name
Trembled far distant realms, while haughty Rome
Wove it with stars into her diadem,
Gem of her pride, and bond of loyalty.
Subjected Dacia felt thy vengeful sword,
Assyria was thy suppliant, the arm'd throngs
Of wide Armenia, the infuriate hordes
From Mesopotamian mountains, and the tribes
Barbarous and rude, from where the Euxine roars
To the vex'd Caspian, bent with vassal awe
Th' imploring glance on thee. Thy curb controul'd
The tossing Danube,

Trajan, in the year 104, constructed a bridge over the Danube, which was long admired as a relic of antiquity. After his conquest of Assyria, he descended the Tigris with his fleet, and had the honour of being both the first and the last Roman general who navigated the Indian Ocean.

and with force sublime

Treading the trackless deep, thy lofty prow
First to old Ocean's angry billows taught
Rome's will to reign.”

60

Ling'ring o'er Trajan's fame
In contemplation deep, the abstracted youth
Hung with a soldier's rapture; then with eye
Dazzled and dimm'd by countless monuments
That mark the lost illustrious, he explor'd
The arch of Titus, rich with victories
O'er humbled Judah.

The arch of Titus is of the composite order, and represents upon its frieze his conquest of Judea, a delineation of the river Jordan, with the captives who attended his triumph, and the spoil and sacred utensils from the desolated temple.

There with sinuous trace

O'er the fair sculpture, rapid Jordan rov'd,
While on its banks the weeping captives throng'd,
With heads declin'd. And there were sacred spoils
Scatter'd in careless triumph, the high trump
Whose silver sound warn'd to the Jubilee,
The golden Candlestick, whose wreathed branch
Fed with pure oil, shed o'er the sanctuary
Unsullied light, the table consecrate
To the shew-bread, which none but holy hands
Might touch unsinning, the mysterious ark,
The fearful tables of the Eternal Law,
The sacrificial altar, ah! what pangs
Wrung thee, deserted Zion, when these spoils
Were won by Rome. Thy broken, ruin'd towers,
Thy reeking stones, thy city furrow'd deep
By Desolation's ploughshare, the dire cross,
Stern sword, gaunt Famine, sated with thy sons,

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And that majestic, dedicated dome,
The temple of Jehovah, given to feed
The Gentile flame, and thy weak remnant made
A hissing, an astonishment, a taunt
To every nation; how these countless woes,
Immeasurable as th' unfathom'd sea,
Announce thy guilt, and verify the truth
Of HIM who cannot err; and will they not,
Oh! thou afflicted, tempest-tost, despis'd
And rest of comfort, will they not at length
Ope thy blind eye to Him, whom thou didst pierce
And crucify, that thou might'st mourn and live?
Who with a traveller's eye can search the bounds
Of Rome, nor pause to muse upon the tomb
Of Adrian, asking the insensate winds,
How they can winnow as unhallow'd dust
Its consecrated glory? Who can shun
To gaze upon the lofty column rear'd
To pious Antoninus, by the hand
Of good Aurelius, sharer of his fame
Virtue and dignity, who early wise
Learnt with a philosophic sway to quell
The passions' mutiny.

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, who erected the celebrated Antonino column, to the memory of Antoninus Pius, made such great and early proficiency in his studies, that at the age of twelve years he assumed the philosophical gown. With the gravity of a philosopher he blended no severity, but continued virtuous without pride, and grave without melancholy. Such was the enthusiasm of his gratitude to those who had aided him in the pursuits of knowledge, that he kept their images of gold in his domestic chapel, and offered garlands of flowers at their tombs.

Ev'n hoary Time

Reveres that fabric, and commands the years

62

That in their revolution blindly wield
Destruction's besom, and exulting stamp
Oblivion's seal, to spare that marble spire
Its simple beauty, nor to rend the pile
Which bears the second Numa's spotless fame.
Half sunk in Earth, the wanderer trac'd his arch
Who on fair Albion's isle resign'd his breath,
Septimius Severus.
—Dark with throngs
Of flying Parthians, was its scroll sublime;
But gathering ages, dense with mouldering dust,
Obscur'd the Hero's emblem, with keen touch
Corroding what the impotence of Man
Pronounc'd immortal. With a statelier front,
Just where the dark base of the Cælian Mount
Confronts the Palatine, tower'd the white arch
Of the blest christian Emperor, Constantine,

The splendid reign of Constantine, when the Church past from a state of suffering to one of comparative power, when she was appointed to “arise from the dust, and put on her beautiful garments,” is well known to every reader of ecclesiastical history. Among the triumphs of Christianity which shed lustre on the annals of this prosperous prince, may be numbered the prohibition of the barbarous spectacles of gladiators, which was decreed by him in the East, on the first of October 325, and by Theodoric in the West, about the year 500.


Who bade the sword of persecution cease
To vex the bleeding church. There paus'd the youth,
Reviewing the recorded tints that glow'd
On memory's tablet; for his soul was proud
To hold communion with the awful shades
Of Emperors, and warriors, and stern Chiefs
Who rul'd the rage of battle. With less joy

63

Gaz'd he upon the fountains, sumptuous squares,
Rich palaces, majestic obelisks;
Beheld the vaunted Vatican display
Its pomp of painting, and time-honour'd scrolls
Innumerable; and even with slighter touch
Of strong emotion, mark'd that Basilick
Rising in deep and dread magnificence,
Beneath whose lofty dome pale Awe turns cold,
Offering a while, her trembling consciousness
Upon Devotion's altar.
Yet not long
Might spirit so active be content to dwell
Amid the tombs and mouldering monuments
Of buried glory. The hoarse blast of War
Kindling its ardour to the thrill of Joy,
Warn'd it away.
To throng'd Vienna's bound
The soldier went, for there were martial sounds,
Mustering of mighty men, shrill trumpets' blast,
Hoarse clang of armour, neigh of prancing steed,
Where brave Count Meldrich gallantly review'd
His gather'd legions. Strongly reinforc'd
By Transylvania's Duke, their blended aim
Against the Turk was destin'd, he who holds

64

In cruel thraldom, those delightful plains
Where ancient Greece her band illustrious rear'd
Of heroes and of sages.
There thy sword
Still glitters, Ypsilante!—May it deal
To the oppressor, justice, like the brand
Of mighty Scanderberg!

The interesting scene of modern Greece contending with her oppressors, for her ancient birthright, and her long-trampled liberty, leads the mind back to the noble exploits of Scanderberg the Great, Prince of Albania. He was sent, when young, as a hostage to Amurath II. by his father, who held his territory in subjection to the Turkish government. Here he received the best education consistent with the Mahometan system, and so early distinguished himself for courage and military ability, that he received the command of a body of troops, at the age of eighteen. The death of his father in 1432, filled him with an unconquerable desire to redeem his native principality from Turkish thraldom. Attending the Mahometan army into Hungary, he entered into an alliance with the celebrated Huniades, king of that country, and soon after began to contend for the liberties of Albania. After many years of warfare with Mahomet II. the successor of Amurath, he established his dominion, and compelled his foes to propose conditions of peace. His invincible courage was acknowledged throughout Europe; and in him the spirit of the ancient heroes and conquerors of Greece seems to have revived. He died at the age of 63, and from that period Albania has been the subject of Turkish oppression. Even foes were constrained to pay homage to the valour and greatness of Scanderberg, and when they besieged Lissa, the place of his sepulchre, they disinterred his bones, and had them set in silver, viewing them as precious relics and powerful amulets.

he who beheld

The sad Albanian weeping in his hut,
Saw from his famish'd babes the morsel torn
By stern rapacity, and nerv'd his arm
For righteous vengeance. Prince! Be Him thy guide
Who crown'd with victory Judah's prayerful King,
When the swarth Ethiops, and fierce Lubims came
Like lions, in their insolence to wreck
The shepherd's fold. Oh! is there not a time
In His eternal counsels, who doth break
The Tyrant's yoke, when the sword-planted faith
Of Mecca's dark impostor from its root
Shall perish? when the desolating rod
Of the vile Painim, shall no longer bruise
Earth's fairest climes? Behold it darkly press
The realm belov'd of Science, where her eye,
First waking from its cradle slumbers, scann'd
A globe benighted; see it crush the race

65

Whom Xerxes might not conquer, where the arts
Like quenchless stars, their constellation wreath'd
Round laurell'd Liberty: and lo! it threats
The Holy Land, like that portentous star
In the red skies o'er Zion's 'leagur'd height,
When Rome's dire Eagles hasted to their meat.
It subjugates that land, once bright illum'd
By blest Salvation's day-star, by the eye
Of priests and prophets, by the glowing wings
Of angel visitants, by the dread robe
Of the Eternal: hallow'd by the steps
Of Him of Nazareth, as forth he went
Seeking the lost, where palm-crown'd Olivet
Responded in low murmurs to his sigh
Of midnight pray'r, where sad Gethsemane
Receiv'd affrighted on her humid soil
The dews of agony, and Calvary
Bowing beneath the awful wrath of Heaven,
Shook to her inmost centre, at the voice
“Father! forgive!”
But now the kindling war
Assum'd a front of horrour. Siege on siege
Baffled the Turk's endurance, and confirm'd
The Christian courage. Fortified in vain,

66

Alba-Regalis, and Olumpagh fell,
Shaming the Moslem.

“During the sieges of Olumpagh, and Alba-Regalis, young Smith was the projector of stratagems, and the conductor of certain modes of attack, which manifested an unusual talent for the art of war, and rendered the most essential services to the Christian cause. The command of a horse, and the rank of first major, were conferred on him, as an acknowledgement of his high desert.”—

Biography of Capt. Smith.
Mid the warrior band,

Who by undaunted bravery, or skill
In varying stratagem, serv'd to sustain
The rising fortunes of the Christian arms
Smith stood conspicuous, while around his brow
The hard-won laurels cluster'd.
—Once, a siege
Protracted long, inflated with base pride
The renegado garrison. Then forth
From those invested walls, there proudly came
A haughty champion, as in older time
Philistia sent her giant to defy
The host of Israel. With insulting taunt
Rang his loud challenge; and amid the swords
That from their scabbards started to avenge
The holy cross aspers'd, the boon was given
To the exulting youth, whose fate we trace.
The contest came, and proudly on his lance
Bears he his country's honour. From the height
Of giddy rampart, thousand sunny eyes
Of ardent beauty, thousand helmed brows
Bend anxious o'er th' arena.

67

Rang'd around
Upon the brow of an opposing hill
In moony crescent stretch'd the bands of Christ,
While many a silent, interceding pray'r
Invokes the God of battles. The bold youth,
Whose burnish'd armour glitter'd in the ray
Of the resplendent Sun, while sable plumes
Like a dark cloud wav'd o'er his polish'd helm,
A second Hector seem'd. Strongly he reins
His fiery courser, and with spear in rest
Awaits his foe. He comes, and furious wrath,
Mingled with scorn, inspires him, as he hurls
His dark defiance.
The loud trumpet blast
Breathes the appointed signal. They advance,
They meet as lightning, and the unhors'd Turk
Rolls in his hearts-blood. From the ramparts rose
A howl of horrour when that champion fell,
As the hoarse watch-dog, in his vigil drear,
Bays the cold moon. But hast'ning to the field
Another foe appears. Towering and strong,
Like mighty Ajax; his red eye-ball dealt
Bitter derision, as Goliah scowl'd
Upon the stripling David. Strictly curb'd

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His mighty war-horse, with indignant rage,
Foams at restraint, ejects the wreathed smoke
From his spread nostril, and with armed hoof
Spurns the rent ground. They meet in fatal shock,
Their steeds recoil! God nerves the Christian's arm,
And on the earth the mail'd Colossus lay
Gnashing his teeth in death. The victor rode
Unhurt the dread arena: but, behold!
A third appears. Less furious than the last,
Yet more tremendous than the first, he rears
His front of hatred, while his measur'd step
Wary he rules, watchful, but yet serene
As cautious Fabius. Almost it might seem
As if those fallen foes, dissatisfied
To die but once, had risen, and blent in him
Their varying lineaments, pleas'd to create
A worse antagonist. On either side
Hung tremulous expectancy, o'er those
Who watch'd the combat.—
Thus stood ancient Rome,
And haughty Alba, with such gaze intense,
Breathless, and leaning on th' ensanguin'd spear,
When rose the last Horatius, in the blood
Of his two weltering brothers, to confront
The twin Curiatii.—

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Gallantly they met
At word of herald, but with careful eye
Adjusting the career, and with firm hand
Guiding the spear-shock. Lo! the Turkish steed
Plunges without his rider, and a groan.
Bursts from the city's height, responded long
In fitful shrillness, like the female wail
Over some favourite knight, whom minstrels style
The flower of chivalry. The deed was done.
The prize of conquest gain'd. No other foe
Again would dare that fatal tournament,
Nor e'en the insatiate soul of Mahomet
Could longer parley. Loud the shrill-ton'd trump
In pomp of chivalry announc'd the youth
Thrice victor; tears and acclamations greet
His glad return, while honours and rewards
Whelm him in rich profusion.

Smith, at his return from this eventful tournament, was attended by 6000 men at arms to the pavilion of the general, where he received the most flattering reception, and was presented with a noble war-horse, richly caparisoned, and a scimitar and belt of great value. The Duke of Transylvania gave him his own miniature set in gold, accompanied with the kindest expressions of regard, and issued letters patent of nobility, giving him for his arms three Turks' heads emblazoned on a shield. These were afterwards recorded in the herald's office in England, and became the permanent arms of Smith and his descendants.

Ah! but Man,

Brief Man, when in the spring-tide of his Fame,
Oft sees the ebbing flood forsake those sands
Where Joy had spread her sail; oft hears the blast
Awake against his glory, and disperse
The light ephemeron. From heaps of slain,
In dark, disastrous hour the youth is drawn,
Half lifeless,

This was at the unfortunate engagement of Rottenton, in 1602, when the carnage of the Christian army was very extensive. Smith was left on the field among the dead, but the pillagers perceiving that he still breathed, and supposing from the elegance of his armour, that his ransom would be ample, took great pains to restore his life. After this was effected, and no one sought his redemption, he was sold at auction with other prisoners, and purchased by a bashaw, as a present to his mistress, a lady of distinguished beauty.

pierc'd with wounds, while foeman's care


70

Solicits his revival, and preserves
Existence, rest of Liberty.
At length
Restor'd, he tastes of Slavery's bitter dregs,
And with revolting heart beholds the domes
Of high Constantinople, thither sent
A Bashaw's present to his lady love,
The fair Charitza. He with patient care,
Wrought in her beauteous garden, propp'd the trees
Laden with fruit, twin'd the luxuriant vines
Round fairy arches, cheer'd the imprison'd birds,
Or bore fresh water to the thirsty flowers.
Him, at his toil, the maiden oft observ'd
From her high lattice, where the fragrant gale
Murmur'd through painted vases; oft admir'd
His noble mien, and manly, graceful form,
With partial eye. And often would she muse
And wonder, if in his dear native land,
A mother he had left, a sister fond,
To weep for him, or if a stronger tie
Binding the heart-strings, forc'd some maid to pine
At his long absence. Then her plaintive lute
With thrilling softness she would touch, and wake
Some simple strain of captive youth, who won,

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His Lady's heart, and how the lovers fled
A father's frown, to some green isle of rest
Gay with perennial roses. Then her glance
Would rest upon the youth, whose features beam'd
With lustre, which the cloud of slavery
Strove vainly to eclipse, and she would sigh
She knew not wherefore; then indignant, wish
That he were not a Christian, and retire,
Perchance, to dream of him.
But other bonds
Than those of dalliance, were ordain'd to bind
His lofty soul. Driv'n from the beauteous shades

The partiality of Charitza exciting the jealousy of her mother, Smith was sent into Tartary, to her brother, the timor-bashaw of Nalbrits, on the Palus Mœotis.


Where soft Charitza render'd durance light,
He bends a vassal to the lordly sway
Of her stern brother. Here he learnt the toils
That wait the slave; contemptuous, bitter Scorn,
Unceasing Labour, and the gloomy waste
Of rifled Hope. Oppression's galling chain
Wrought no despair, but urged th' indignant soul
To vengeful madness. When the tyrant's wrath
Heap'd insolence with outrage, his bold hand
Aveng'd it in his blood,

Smith, exasperated by the personal brutalities of his master, struck him dead with a threshing bat, in his barn, about a league from his mansion. Burying the body beneath the straw, he arrayed himself in the clothes of the dead bashaw, mounted his horse, and with only a knapsack of corn for his subsistence, fled for three days with the utmost precipitation through the deserts of Circassia. Accidentally finding the main road to Muscovy, he travelled upon it 16 days, under the greatest pressure of hunger and fatigue, until he reached a garrison on the Russian frontier, where he found a safe refuge and a cordial welcome.

as Moses' zeal

Slew mocking Egypt's supercilious son,
And hid him in the sand. The flying youth,

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An apprehensive fugitive, the prey
Of meagre Famine, rov'd Circassian wilds,
Nor dar'd ev'n with a trembling voice to hail
His blood-bought Liberty, till in the walls
Of Russia's frontier, he receiv'd the hand
Of pitying Friendship. Then, as if on wings
With which the liberated bird ascends
The trackless fields of ether, he survey'd
Europe's exhaustless stores,

After taking a range through various countries of Asia and Europe, he met at Leipsic his faithful patron, the Duke of Transylvania, who presented him with 1500 ducats to repair his decaying finances, and furnished him with letters of recommendation, setting forth his military services. He then took an extensive circuit through Germany, France and Spain. He passed also into Africa, and was allured, says his biographer, “by the rumours of war, and the native affinity of his mind for dangers, to spend some time at the court of Morocco.” This must have been at the period of those competitions for the sovereignty which succeeded the death of Muley Achmet in 1603, and which were finally decided by the succession of his youngest son, Muley Sidon, who reigned until the year 1630.

and o'er the sea

When once like Jonah he had been cast forth
To the wild fury of the elements,
Gliding with prosperous gales, explor'd the coast
Of fruitful Barbary. There 'mid fragrant groves
Where glides the zephyr's wing, with sweets surcharg'd,
The wily Arab, the dark-minded Moor,
Unpitying Turk, and persecuted Jew,
Roam in wild hordes, unconscious of the charms
That Nature spreads around; as the dull swine
Heeds not the trodden pearl. Westward he prest,
Over Mulluvian waters, whose fair banks
Fring'd with the rose-bay on its graceful stem

The Nereum Oleander, a beautiful tree, delighting in moist situations, adorns the margin of the Mulluvia, a considerable river, which rises in Mount Atlas, and pursues its course to the Mediterranean, partly dividing Algiers from Morocco.


Glitter'd in varying beauty. There he saw
Shelter'd by hoary Atlas, 'mid cool groves
Of lofty palm, Morocco's scatter'd mosques

73

With snowy minarets, her princes' homes,
Painted pavilions like the gold-streak'd even,
Shaming the low and wretched huts where herd
The abject people. There, devoid of state
Crown or regalia, sits the Emperor
Upon his barbe, and 'neath the simple shade
Of his umbrella, holds his Meshoar,

In the empire of Morocco, there is no code of laws, but the will of a despotic monarch disposes of wealth, liberty, opinion, or existence, without appeal. Wherever he happens to be, he grants public audience four times a week, for the distribution of justice, sitting on horseback, while a groom holds an umbrella over his head. This the Moors call holding the “Meshooar;” though there is also a place in the city of Morocco distinctively styled “the Meshooar,” because devoted to these audiences. It is surrounded by walls, and situated between the old palace and the magnificent pavilions erected by Sidi Mahomet.


Dooming his crimeless vassals with the tone
Of lawless despotism.
But the youth sigh'd
For climes of liberty, and turning sought
That which the foot of Slavery may not press
Ere her sad spirit hears a heavenly voice
Exclaim, “Be free!” and her loos'd manacles
Vanish, as fell imprison'd Peter's chain
Before the Angel. The capricious sea
Again he woos, to view that native land:
The winds were peaceful, but the wrath of man
Troubled the waters. Fearful engines breathe
Forth from their dark, cylindric chambers, blasts
Of thundering terror o'er the ignited wave.
Twice had the Sun his flaming coursers quench'd,
And lay'd his gold locks ere he sought his rest,
Yet still the deep foundations of the main

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Echoed those battle thunders.

Smith returned to his native country by the way of France, and in his passage across the channel in a French galley, was in a desperate conflict with two Spanish ships of war, which continued nearly three days, and terminated in the discomfiture of the Spaniards.

Haply scap'd

He sees white Albion's cliffs their welcome beam
Upon his eye, and revels in the bowers
Of his soft infancy. The rapturous joy,
That hail'd his glad arrival, past, he breaks
The transient dream of rest, and bold embarks
A hardy pioneer to this New World,
Hewing out danger's path.

Capt. Smith was one of the original company to which James I. under the date of April 10th, 1606, granted letters patent for the colonization of America. He was appointed to a seat in the first council of what was then denominated the “South Colony,” and though he met with the opposition which envy testifies to superior merit, he was afterwards elected president of that body. He embarked with his associates from England, with Capt. Grosnold, on the 19th of December 1606, but did not arrive on the coast of Virginia, until past the middle of the succeeding spring.

With watchful eye

Ev'n as a father shields the son he loves,
He nurs'd the infant colony, which hung
In deathful hesitancy, and with care
Shelter'd that vine, which in the wilderness
The cold storm threaten'd.
—But the rugged brow
Of Chieftains frown'd upon him, for his wiles
Perplex'd their own. Baffled at length, and foil'd
In stratagem, he tastes the captive's lot,
And borne in triumph sees the royal tent
Of Worowocomoco. There enthron'd
Sat great Powhatan.

The Indian monarch at this audience was seated on a throne somewhat resembling a bedstead, clothed in a flowing robe composed of the skins of the Racoon, with a fanciful coronet of feathers upon his head. His residence was at Worowocomoco, and his sway not only extensive but imperial, in the true signification of the term; for he exercised dominion over thirty tributary kings.

Flowing robes array'd

His form, and a bright coronet of plumes
Wav'd o'er his brow. Upon his features sat
A native majesty, uncheck'd by age
Which knew of no infirmity, and seem'd

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Well to befit the high imperial lord
Of thirty subject kings. Around him rang'd
His chiefs in solemn council, while their eyes
Bent darkly on the earth, seem'd to portend
An ominous doom. But still the prisoner read
Nought like stern hatred on those thoughtful brows
That ponder'd o'er his fate.
—On the green turf
They spread a table, generously heap'd
With all their choicest viands; the fair haunch
Of savory venison, victims from the flood,
And from the air, and fresh from hasting hands
The juicy corn-cake. No such kind repast
In gentle friendship heralded thy death,
Poor Ugolino.

The death of Count Ugolino and his sons, by hunger, in the prison of Pisa, during the contest of the Guelphs and Ghibellines, at the close of the thirteenth century, furnished a subject for one of the most striking historical pictures of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and is described by Dante in his “Inferno,” with great poetical energy.

“Dreams wak'd me ere the dawn, when in their sleep
I heard my children groan, and call for bread,
Oh cruel! should no pity touch thy soul
To think how much a father's heart presag'd?
If now thou shedd'st no tears, what have thy eyes
Been us'd to weep at? Now my boys awoke;
The hour arriv'd, when each expected food,
As wonted, would be brought him; but his heart
Mistrusted, when each thought upon his dream,
And I—oh horrible! that instant heard
The dungeon's iron doors more firmly lock'd:
In desperate silence on my sons I gaz'd,
I could not weep—my breast was turn'd to stone.
The little victims wept, and one began,
(My dear Anselmo,) ‘Father! why that look!
What ails my Father?’
Ah! I could not weep,
Nor answer all that day, nor yet that night,
Till on the world another morn arose.
As faintly through our doleful prison gleam'd
The tremulous ray, so I could view again
Each face, on which my features were imprest,
Both hands I gnaw'd in agony and rage.
Sweet innocents! They thought me hunger-stung,
And rising on a sudden, all exclaim'd,
‘Father! our anguish would be less severe
If thou would'st feed on us. This fleshly vest
Thou didst bestow; now take it back again.’
I check'd my inward nature, lest my groans
Should aggravate their anguish. All were mute
That bitter day, and all the morrow.
Earth!
Why didst thou not obdurate earth! dispart?
The fourth sad morning came, when at my feet
My Gaddo fell extended. ‘Help,’ he cried,
‘Canst thou not help me, father?’ and expir'd.
Thus wither'd as thou see'st me, one by one
I saw my children ere the sixth morn, die.
Then seiz'd with sudden blindness, on my knees
I grop'd among them, calling each by name
For three days after they were dead. At length
Famine and death clos'd up the scene of woe.”
Thou didst frantic grope

Amid thy famish'd sons, till thou couldst hear
No more those moving skeletons implore
For water and for bread; and when those lips
Hunger had seal'd forever, thou didst live
Writhing in burning pangs, day after day
Of untold misery, till Mercy broke
The long protracted, agonizing thread
That held thee from the grave.

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—With courteous care
These sons of Nature gave the parting rite
Of hospitality, and gaily strove
The prisoner to sustain the festive hour
With cheerful voice. But as the phantom guest
Marr'd Macbeth's banquet, so the morsel fail'd
To gratify the sense, and bitter dregs
From the sweet draught clave to the victim's lip,
For on his soul the ghastly visage glar'd
Of beck'ning Death. The fatal feast was o'er:
And to his doom the pinion'd captive led.
Yet no exulting shout, no taunting hiss
Broke on the deep solemnity; it seem'd
A deed of stern, reluctant policy,
Averting evil, not avenging hate.
Heroic Andrè! Thou, perchance didst fall
Amid such sadness; for the bursting sigh
Of sympathy, from strangers and from foes,
Bore tribute to thy virtues, and deplor'd
Thine ignominious fate.
But now are rear'd
Four massy clubs, high o'er the victims head,
While the grim warriors, with averted face
Await the signal. One brief interval

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Of anguish'd thought convuls'd the sufferer's mind:
That all his honours, all his high designs,
All his ambition's concentrated hopes
Must end by savage hands. Pride stamp'd her seal
Of cold reluctance, on a brow unblanch'd
By fear of Death. To fall in laurell'd fields
Mid shouts of victory, as heroes die,
Seem'd enviable glory. 'Mid the throng
That gaz'd in silence on the prostrate foe,
As if half doubtful whether death had power
O'er him like others, one young, timid maid
Sat near the throne.

The Princess Pocahontas, in many instances, besides the rescue of Capt. Smith, signified a firm friendship for the English colony. From famine and secret conspiracy, she was more than once the instrument of deliverance. “Oft times,” says Capt. Smith, in his history of Virginia, “in the utmost of my extremities, hath that blessed Pocahontas, the daughter of the great king of Virginia, saved my life.” With the heroic magnanimity of a noble soul, she united the softness and tenderness of the feminine character. Yet notwithstanding all her acts of disinterested kindness to the English, she was treacherously decoyed by them on board one of their vessels, and carried to Jamestown. Still their sense of honour moved them to treat her with all that respect which her correct deportment and high rank deserved.

“The motive to this step,” says Judge Marshall, in his Life of Washington, “was a hope, that the possession of Pocahontas would give the English an ascendancy over Powhatan, her father, who was known to dote on her. In this, however, they were disappointed. Powhatan offered first, corn, then friendship, if they would immediately restore his daughter, but refused to come to any terms until that reparation was made for what he resented as an act of treachery. During the detention of the Princess at Jamestown, she made an impression on the heart of Mr. Rolfe, a young gentleman of estimation in the colony, who also succeeded in gaining her affections. They were married with the consent of Powhatan, who by this event was entirely reconciled to the English, and ever after continued their sincere friend.” After the arrival of Pocahontas in England, with her husband, a petition was addressed in her behalf to Queen Anne, by Capt. Smith, bearing the date of June 1616, in the course of which he mentions, “Being taken prisoner by the power of Powhatan, I received from this great savage exceeding great courtesy, especially from his son Nantaquas, the manliest, comeliest, boldest spirit that I ever saw in an Indian, and this sister Pocahontas, the king's most dear and well-beloved daughter, whose compassionate, pitiful heart of my desperate estate, gave me much cause to respect her. I being the first Christian that this proud king and his grim attendants ever saw, and thus enthralled in their barbarous power, I cannot say that I ever felt the least occasion of want, which was in the power of these my mortal foes to prevent. After some six weeks falling under these savage courtiers, at the moment of my own execution, she hazarded the beating out of her own brains to save mine, and then Nantaquas so prevailed with his father, that I was safely conducted to Jamestown, where I found about 38 miserable, poor and sick creatures, to keep possession for all those large territories of Virginia. Such was the weakness of this poor commonwealth, that had not the Indians fed us, we directly had starved. And this relief, most gracious Queen, was commonly brought us by the Lady Pocahontas, who, notwithstanding all the changes when inconstant fortune turned our peace into war, would not spare to dare to visit us; and by her our jars have been often appeased, and our wants still supplied. When her father, with the utmost of his policy and power, sought to surprize me, having but eighteen with me, the dark night could not affright her from adventuring through the darksome woods, and with tearful eyes giving me the intelligence, with her best advice how to escape his fury, which had the king known he had surely slain her. She, under God, was the instrument to preserve this colony from death, famine, and utter confusion: for if in those times it had been once dissolved, Virginia might have lain unto this day, as it was at our arrival.”

The age of Pocahontas, at the time of her saving the life of Capt. Smith, is usually fixed at thirteen years, though Mr. Davis, in a note to his song of the “Angel of the Wild,” represents her as a child of only eleven years. As this poetical effusion happily displays the tender sensibility of that noble heroine, it is extracted as a close to this note.

THE ANGEL OF THE WILD.
“Sunt lachrymæ.”—
Virg.
Now blazes bright the wigwam-hall,
The plumed Chiefs are circled wide,
Above the crowd with lordly call
Sits Powhatan, in frowning pride.
The captive Smith, in bonds is brought,
His head reclines upon a stone,
The fatal club of Death is sought,
While tawny maids his fate bemoan.
When lo! with scream of anguish loud,
A tender child, in gorgeous vest,
Runs to the stranger through the crowd,
And kneeling, clasps him to her breast.
See, see, her arms around him twin'd,
And hear her pour the piteous wail;
As if for hopeless love she pin'd,
Her tresses loose, her dear cheek pale.
“Stay, stay the club!” exclaims the king,
And hush the white man's dire alarms.”
Then rushing through the shouting ring
He strains his daughter in his arms.
Fair Spirit! nurs'd in forest wild,
Whence caught thy breast those sacred flames
That mark thee Mercy's meekest child
Beyond proud Europe's titled dames.
Scalps and war-weapons met thy gaze,
And trophies wove in blood-stain'd wreath;
Thy birth-star was the funeral blaze,
Thy lullaby the song of death.
But Pity sought thee in the wild,
Invisible, thy cradle rock'd,
Seraphic Love his offerings pil'd
And heavenly graces round thee flock'd.
Soft tears of Pity wound

Their copious course, and her imploring hands
Unconsciously she rais'd tow'rd him who seem'd
Her sire, but from those trembling lips no sound
Gain'd utterance. At length the trance of Fear
Vanish'd, and from those dove-like eyes shone forth
A dazzling spirit. That meek child, who seem'd
To shrink as the Mimosa, now evinc'd
More than a warrior's daring. Like the winds,
Rushing in wildness tow'rd th' imprison'd foe,
His head she clasp'd.
“Now let the death-stroke fall!”
Boldly she cried, “for ere it reach that head

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This shall be crush'd.” The warriors' uprais'd arm,
For execution bar'd in vigorous strength
Unconsciously declin'd, and deep respect
Ev'n for a child, wander'd with soft'ning trace
O'er their hard features. That unwonted sight
The monarch could not brook; his soul was mov'd
To mark his daughter's bearing, and he bade
To loose the prisoner's bonds, and loud exclaim'd,
“Rise! and be free.”
Thus thou the royal maid
Of swarthy Egypt, through thy pitying heart
Didst save a humbled nation. Thou didst hear,
An infant wailing in his slimy ark,
'Mid the green rushes on the river's brink,
And hadst compassion. Ah! how slightly deem'd
Thy haughty father, that his palace proud
Nurtur'd the Hebrews' hope: as little thought
The Indian Monarch, that his child's weak arm
Fostered that colony, whose rising light
Should quench his own forever. Thus a flower,
Nurs'd in the forest, shed its healing balm
Upon our wounded sires. Shrinking they felt
The serpent's venom, and this noble plant
Solac'd and sav'd them. By the grateful hand

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Of fond Refinement gather'd, on the breast
Of Piety it hung, and meekly drank
The breath of fairer climes: but early shed
Its withering bloom in peace. What though this flower
A giddy world might scorn, because its leaves
The sun had darken'd, what if her proud glance
Saw in its form nor grace nor comeliness;
Might not its incense rise as pure to Him
Who weigheth spirits?
The unbidden tear
Rushing, Oh! Indian Princess, o'er thy grave
Effac'd my theme a moment, turn'd my eye
From those tall ships that land their ceaseless freight
On the new coast. I see our ancestors,
A thoughtful band, escaping from the frown
Of a hard parent. Resolute they seem,
Though sad of heart; while their exploring eye
Wanders o'er Plymouth's beach, and thickets dark,
All tenantless. A feeble light they struck
On a cold shore, and oft its livid spire
Trembling, and narrowing, like a lance's point
Seem'd to expire; but still a viewless breath
Would fan and feed it, though loud torrents fell
And the wild desert howl'd.

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Do I behold
The men of peace approach, with smile serene,
Reaching the hand of amity, to greet
The Indians as their brethren? Meek they stand,
And weaponless, save with the shield of truth
And equity. How from their leader's eye
Beams the calm lustre of an upright soul,
Brighten'd by pure benevolence, as shines
The Queen of Heaven upon the lunar bow.
Firm as th' Athenian sage, to whom the scenes
Of life or death, the dazzling pomp of wealth,
Or hemlock draught were equal, is the port
Of the Colonial Sire, the Friend of Man,
While with the diamond seal of Truth he stamps
His oathless treaty.

Clarkson, in his life of William Penn, describes the manner in which his great treaty with the Indians was confirmed, in the year 1682. “The religious principles of Penn,” says his biographer, “which led him to the practice of the most scrupulous morality, did not permit him to look upon the king's patent, or legal possession according to the laws of England, as sufficient to establish his right to the country, without purchasing it by fair and open bargain of the natives, to whom it properly belonged. He had instructed commissioners who arrived in America before him, to buy it of the latter, and to make with them a treaty of eternal friendship. This, those commissioners had done, and now, by mutual agreement between him and the Indian chiefs, it was to be solemnly ratified. He proceeded, therefore, accompanied by his friends, consisting of men, women, and young persons of both sexes, to Coaquannoc, the Indian name for the place where Philadelphia now stands. On his arrival, he found the sachems and their tribes assembling. They were seen through the woods, as far as the eye could reach, and looked frightfully both on account of their number and their arms. The Quakers are reported to have been but a handful in comparison, and without any weapon; so that dismay and terror must have seized them, had they not confided in the righteousness of their cause. It is much to be regretted, when we have accounts of minor treaties, between William Penn and the Indians, that no historian has any particular detail of this, though so many mention it, and all concur in considering it the most glorious of any in the annals of the world. There are, however, relations in Indian speeches, and traditions in Quaker families, descended from those who were present on the occasion, from which we may learn something concerning it. It appears that though the parties were to assemble at Coaquannoc, the treaty was made a little higher up, at Shackamaxon. Upon this site, Kensington now stands, the houses of which may be considered as the suburbs of Philadelphia. There was at Shackamaxon, an elm tree of a prodigious size. To this, the leaders on both sides repaired, approaching each other under its widely-spreading branches. William Penn appeared in his usual dress. He had neither crown, sceptre, mace, sword, halberd, or any insignia of eminence. He was distinguished only by wearing a sky-blue sash round his waist, made of silk net-work, and of no larger dimensions than an officer's military sash, which, except in colour, it resembled. On his right hand was Col. Markham, his secretary and relative; on his left, his friend Pierson, followed by the train of Quakers. Before him were carried various articles of merchandize, which, when they came near the Sachems, were spread upon the ground. He held a roll of parchment, containing the confirmation of the treaty of purchase and amity, in his hand. One of the Sachems, who was the chief of them, then put upon his own head a kind of chaplet, in which appeared a small horn. This, according to scripture language, and among the primitive eastern nations, was an emblem of kingly power; and whenever the Chief who had a right to wear it, put it on, it was understood that the place was made sacred, and the persons of all present inviolable. Upon putting on this horn, all the Indians threw down their bows and arrows, seating themselves round their Chiefs, in the form of a half moon upon the ground. The principal Sachem then announced to William Penn, by the aid of an interpreter, that the nations were ready to hear him. He then said, that the Great Spirit, who made him and them, who ruled the heavens and the earth, and was acquainted with the innermost thoughts of man, knew that he and his friends had a hearty desire to live in peace and friendship with them, and serve them to the utmost of their power. It was not their custom to use hostile weapons against their fellow-creatures, therefore, came they to this treaty unarmed. Their object was not to do injury, and thus provoke the Great Spirit, but to do good. They had met them on the broad path-way of good faith and good will, so that no advantage was to be taken on either side, but all was to be openness, brotherhood and love. After these and other words, he unrolled the parchment, and by means of the same interpreter, conveyed to them, article by article, the conditions of the purchase, and the words of the contract then made for their eternal union. Among other things, they were not to be molested in their lawful pursuits, even in the territory they had alienated, for it was to be common to them, as well as to the English. They were to have the same liberty to do all things therein, relating to the improvement of their grounds, and providing sustenance for their families, which the English had. If any dispute should arise between the two, it should be settled by twelve persons, half of whom should be English, and half Indians. He then paid them for the land, and made them many presents beside, from the merchandize which was spread before them. Having done this, he laid the roll of parchment on the ground, observing again, that the ground should be common to both people. He then added, that he would not do like the inhabitants of Maryland, that is, call them only children or brothers; for parents were sometimes unkind to their children, and brothers would often differ; neither would he compare the friendship between them to a chain, which the rain might rust, or a tree fall upon and break; but he should consider them as the same flesh and blood with the Christians, the same as if a man's body was to be divided into two parts. Taking up the parchment, he then presented it to the Sachem who wore the horn in his chaplet, and desired him and the other Sachems to preserve it carefully for three generations, that their children might know what had passed between them, when they were no longer living to repeat it. It is to be regretted that the speeches of the Indians, on this memorable day, have not come down to us. It is only known that they solemnly pledged themselves, according to the manner of their country, to live in love with William Penn and his children as long as the sun and moon should endure. Thus ended this famous treaty, of which more has been said in the way of praise, than of any other ever transmitted to posterity.”

To the commendation which the biographer of the Man of Peace bestows on this honourable transaction, we add the concise eulogium of Voltaire, who pronounced it to be “the only treaty which was ratified without an oath, and the only one which was never broken.”

Well might he who sigh'd

A fugitive from his paternal home,
Feel for the outcast;

Admiral Penn, being greatly displeased at his son's adoption of religious principles of an unpopular class, and which would preclude his preferment at court, treated him with severity, and twice indignantly sent him from the shelter of the paternal roof, but was eventually softened by his meekness and consistency of deportment, into reconciliation and the renewal of affection.

as sad Israel learnt

In sultry Egypt's tyrant clime, to know
The stranger's heart. With kind, assuring words,
And answering deeds, he binds the deathless chain
Of friendship; and though o'er his silent grave,
Time long hath wander'd, still at the blest name
Of the beloved Miquon, starts the tear
Of Indian gratitude.

Heckewelder observes, that “never will the tribe of the Delawares forget their elder brother Miquon, as they affectionately and respectfully call him. ‘The great and good Miquon came to us,’ they say, ‘bringing the words of peace and of good will.’ When they were told the meaning of the name of Penn, they translated it into their own language by Miquon, which means a feather or quill. The Iroquois also called him Onas, which in their idiom signifies the same thing.”—

Heckewelder, 1st volume.


81

Firm in his path
Trod his disciples, faithful as the race
Of Rechab, to their pious sire's command,

The commendations bestowed on the Rechabites, in the 35th chapter of the prophet Jeremiah, for their strict obedience to the injunctions of a departed father, might be in a degree applied to the followers of William Penn, for their inflexible adherence to his precepts with regard to our aborigines. Considered too, generally, by the other settlers, either as foes to be exterminated, or vassals to be oppressed, they received from these mild colonists the charities of brethren. Pennsylvania, rising on the basis of fair and open purchase, unpolluted by injustice, or persecution of the natives, in her institutions acknowledged their allodial right to the soil, and has ever been preserved from those desolating wars, which distressed the infancy of many of our territories, and threatened to destroy their existence.


To shun the inflaming draught. What though their faith
Sternness might persecute, or Scorn deride,
Flow'd it not from HIS accents who forbade
The vengeful deed? did it not harmonize
With His pure life, who gave his patient cheek
To the harsh smiters, and before his foes
Stood as the guileless Lamb? Comported not
Its precepts with the spirit of that Friend
Of wretched man, whose advent melody,
Whose intercession, and whose dying gift,
Alike were peace? And when his glorious reign
O'er Earth commences, when the shock of war,
The din of discord vanish, who shall lead
With purer joy, in reconciling bands
The Lion and the Lamb, than those who dwelt
An unresisting, unoffending race,
Calm, 'mid a boist'rous world? Are not the souls
Who flee from evil, violence, and strife,
Obtaining preparation for that clime
Where evil entereth not, nor woe nor pain,
For all is rest?

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Long had the natives drawn,
From the full store-house of the Christian's sins,
Weapons against his faith. Long had they heard
A language from his lips, which by his life
Was contradicted. Long, too long inquir'd,
Of a perfidious race, ye, who command
Us, Indians, to observe the righteous rule
Which ye transgress, by breaking that just law,
Dishonour ye not God? But here they mourn'd
Nor fraud, nor wrong; the purchas'd land they gave,
Unstain'd with blood, and on its borders dwelt,
As with their brethren. Soon that province rose
To wealth and power, while on the verdant banks
Of rolling Delaware, in beauteous state,
Love's city smiled.
Quick o'er the ample bound,
From those broad lakes, dark with eternal rain,
To the bright bow'rs where sleepless summer sports
With rosy Florida; and pressing west
O'er the vain barrier, and retreating tide
Of Mississippi, spread our ancestors,
Taking a goodly portion, with their sword,
And with their bow. But whether the rich soil
Peaceful was gain'd, or snatch'd in hostile wrath,

83

The natives suffer'd. Slow diseases came,
And swept them like the insect tribes away,
Before the ev'ning blast. Intemperance
Destroy'd her tens of thousands; Famine stern
Leagued with the pestilence, and in their path
The mortal scorn, and hatred of white men
Stalk'd, gleaning what was left.
—Ah! could'st thou rise
From thy dark bed of waters, wretched Chief!
Unhappy Orellana!

Orellana was chief of a powerful tribe in the neighbourhood of Buenos Ayres. With ten of his followers he was seized, and treacherously conveyed on board a Spanish ship, which, with a large crew of Spaniards, and a number of English and Portuguese prisoners, set sail from the mouth of the river La Plata, in the month of November 1745.

what a scene

Could'st thou unfold! From thy wide, fearless range
O'er woods and mountains, by the mighty tide
Of vast La Plata, from the subject vows
Of thine adoring tribe, from charities
Of kindred and of country, from the bonds
That to the heart's deep centre link the names
Of husband and of father, wert thou torn
By Spanish cruelty. The tall ship moves
From the dear strand, and the red-straining eyes
Of thy enslav'd companions, glare to thine
Unutterable things. Incessant wrongs
Harrow thy lofty spirit,

The Spaniards treated the Indians with great insolence and barbarity. It was common for the meanest officers in the ship to beat them most cruelly, and one of them, a very brutal fellow, ordered Orellano aloft, a service which he knew he was incapable of performing, and under pretence of disobedience beat him with such violence as to leave him bleeding on the deck, stupified with bruises and wounds. Orellana and his followers bore these outrages without complaint, but they were secretly meditating revenge on their oppressors.

the red scourge

Brandish'd by menial insolence, drinks oft
Thy blood, but haughtily comprest, thy lip,

84

Deigns no complaint. Humbled beneath the brute,
Thy high soul bends not, rising o'er its pangs,
Invincible; though oft a burning tear
Would start, to mark the accumulated wrongs
That crush'd thy faithful followers. 'Twas night!
And Silence leagued with rayless Darkness rul'd
The slumbering wave. What rends the startled ear
With wounding clamour, rousing from their cells
La Plata's sons, as if the angel's trump
Had warn'd the grave's cold tenants? 'Tis the cry
Of Orellana's vengeance. Ah! what strews
The decks with slain, and bids the purple tide
To flow, as from a wine-press? 'Tis the arm
Of Orellana. See him tow'ring stand,
With thong distain'd,

Previous to their bold attempt, the Chief, and his companions in wretchedness, had secretly employed their leisure in cutting thongs from raw hides, and in fitting to each extremity of them the double headed shot of the small quarter-deck guns. These, when swung around their heads, according to the custom of their country, were a dangerous weapon, in the use of which the natives of Buenos Ayres are trained from their infancy, and consequently very expert.

as erst on Lehi's sands,

Vindictive Sampson o'er Philistia's sons
Slaughter'd in heaps, the dying and the dead,
His simple weapon rear'd. The coward crew
Fly in wild terror, for the soul of guilt
Is dastardly. The gallant Chieftain call'd
His victor-band around him. None were lost:
The ten stood faithful, while beneath enclos'd
Hundreds of pale oppressor's shudd'ring cower'd,

The crew consisted of nearly 500 men, and the ship mounted 66 guns. That an Indian Chief, with only ten followers, ignorant of nautical management, unacquainted with the use of fire-arms, and unable to procure any weapon, except the knives used for their food, and the thongs already described, should be able to lay 40 Spaniards at their feet, and so to intimidate a formidable crew of more than 40 times their number, as to keep uninterrupted possession of the ship for two hours, and then that they should be attacked merely by shot fired at random through the cabin doors, and other crevices, by disciplined men who feared to approach them, is a fact without parallel in the pages of history.


In midnight darkness. But the tide of Fate,

85

Returns with whelming surge. To thee is giv'n,
A glorious conquest, Chieftain! but the torch
Of triumph lights thy miserable tomb.
They come from durance, but they dare not meet
The conqueror's glance. Not to the deck they rush,
Where reek their lifeless comrades, but conceal'd
In ambush dark, from clefts and crevices,
Aim at the foe. The fatal lead is sent
In ceaseless show'rs, and every moment wings
Destruction's shaft. Brave Orellana scorns
The dastard vengeance, and with glance that speaks
The dark contempt of a majestic soul,
Wrapping itself in death, he plunges deep
In Ocean's breast. His followers by his side,
Dare the same fate, counting the pitiless wave
More merciful than Man.
—Oh! ye who feel
Strong tides of sympathy convulse the soul,
When crush'd Messenia against Sparta rose,
To rend oppression's yoke, have ye no tear
For Orellana? Have ye not a sigh
For that sad race, of whose despairing lot
His was an emblem?

86

Yet amid the gloom,
Long strove their ancient Genius, struggling still
For life, and liberty, though awful Fate
Drew on the darkest hour. Like some tall form
Tow'ring in strength, against the storm he rear'd
His front reproachfully. The tempest came,
Strange thunders bellow'd, flashing meteors blaz'd
And hollow voices on the troubled blast
Warn'd him away. To the cold cliffs he hied,
That overhung the waters; but the surge
Tossing and raving, rear'd its haughty crest
Red with his children's blood. Groaning he sought
His island home, where as in Paradise,
The vales were wont to blossom, and the birds
Warble at his approach. There Ruin swept
With murderous besom, Tyranny the scourge
Plied ceaseless, and his high, indignant heart
Swell'd, as he rush'd to combat. But the dart
Hissing, from subtle Treachery's hand, transfix'd
His throbbing breast. The serpent's hideous coil
Twin'd round his bow'rs of bliss. Fainting, he turn'd
To his last refuge, to the stormy throne
Of cloud-encircled Andes, whose proud glance
O'erlooks the misty globe. But peace nor rest

87

Awaited him; from yawning chasms burst forth
Volcanic flames, and with their livid spires
Wreath'd round his tortur'd frame.
Beneath his feet
The marble summits cleft, and with the strife
Of warring elements, and rending rocks
Mingled his death-groans. Pitying Nature wept,
As the vex'd spirit of bold Freedom left
His favour'd home; and his forsaken sons
Fled to the forest, with wild beast to hold
Degraded fellowship. Goaded ev'n there
To desperation, on their foes they turn'd
Like the crush'd adder, spurn'd and impotent,
But spared for longer torments. Yet some beams
Of brightness linger'd round them; some faint trace
Of virtue, and of noble spirit lurk'd
Amid the ruins. Thus thy fallen king,
Assyria! feeding with vile herds, retain'd
Some portion of his dignity, that aw'd
His brute companions. In their lowly path
Renouncing Manhood's port, he grop'd, with locks
Bare to the dews of heaven, while side by side
An equal lot they shar'd; but if too near
With heads declin'd, they prest, to gaze intent

88

Upon his downcast eye, a flashing glance
Alarm'd the dastard throng, as if from earth
In robes of flame, had risen some frowning shade
Of buried majesty.