Oliver Newman :: :: University of Virginia Library

Days pass, winds veer, and favouring skies
Change like the face of fortune; storms arise;
Safely, but not within her port desired,
The good ship lies.
Where the long sandy Cape
Bends and embraces round,
As with a lover's arm, the shelter'd sea,
A haven she hath found
From adverse gales and boisterous billows free.

Now strike your sails,
Ye toilworn mariners, and take your rest
Long as the fierce north-west
In that wild fit prevails,
Tossing the waves uptorn with frantic sway.
Keep ye within the bay,
Contented to delay
Your course till the elemental madness cease,
And heaven and ocean are again at peace.

How gladly there,
Sick of the uncomfortable ocean,
The impatient passengers approach the shore;

Escaping from the sense of endless motion,
To feel firm earth beneath their feet once more,
To breathe again the air
With taint of bilge and cordage undefiled,
And drink of living springs, if there they may,
And with fresh fruits and wholesome food repair
Their spirits, weary of the watery way.

And oh! how beautiful
The things of earth appear
To eyes that far and near
For many a week have seen
Only the oircle of the restless sea!
With what a fresh delight
They gaze again on fields and forests green,
Hovel, or whatsoe'er
May bear the trace of man's industrious hand;
How grateful to their sight
The shore of shelving sand,
As the light boat moves joyfully to land!

Woods they beheld, and huts, and piles of wood,
And many a trace of toil,
But not green fields or pastures. 'T was a land
Of pines and sand;
Dark pines, that from the loose and sparkling soil
Rose in their strength aspiring: far and wide
They sent their searching roots on every side,
And thus, by depth and long extension, found
Firm hold and grasp within that treacherous ground:
So had they risen and flourish'd; till the earth,
Unstable as its neighbouring ocean there,

Like an unnatural mother, heap'd around
Their trunks its wavy furrows white and high;
And stifled thus the living things it bore.
Half buried thus they stand,
Their summits sere and dry,
Marking, like monuments, the funeral mound;
As when the masts of some tall vessel show
Where, on the fatal shoals, the wreck lies whelm'd below.

Such was the ungenial earth; nor was the air
Fresh and delightful there:
A noisome taint upon the breath it bore;
For they who dwelt upon that sandy shore,
Of meadows and of gardens took no care;
They sowed not, neither did they reap:
The ocean was their field, their flocks and herds
The myriad-moving armies of the deep;
The whale their mighty chase, whose bones bestrew'd
The sandy margin of that ample bay,
And all about, in many a loathly heap,
The offal and the reeking refuse lay,
Left there for dogs obscene and carrion birds a prey.

Oliver, as they approach'd, said thoughtfully;
“It was within this bay
That they, into the wilderness who bore
The seeds of English faith and liberty,
First set their feet upon the shore.
Here they put in, escaping from the rage
Of tempests, and by treacherous pilotage

Led, as it seem'd to fallible men, astray:
But God was with them; and the Providence
Which errs not, had design'd his people's way.”

“A blessed day for England had it been,”
Randolph exclaim'd, “had Providence thought good,
If the whole stern round-headed brotherhood
Had follow'd, man and woman, great and small;
New England might have prosper'd with the brood,
Or seas and sharks been welcome to them all.”

“Alas, how many a broken family
Hath felt that bitter wish!” the youth replied;
And, as he spake, he breathed a silent sigh.
“The wounded heart is prone to entertain
Presumptuous thoughts and feelings, which arraign
The appointed course of things. But what are we,
Short-sighted creatures of an hour,
That we should judge? In part alone we see,
And this but dimly. He, who ordereth all,
Beholdeth all, at once, and to the end:
Upon His wisdom and His power,
His mercy and His boundless love, we rest;
And resting thus in humble faith, we know,
Whether the present be for weal or woe,
For us whatever is must needs be best.”

Thus, while he spake, the boat had reach'd the land;
And, grating gently, rested on the sand.
They step ashore; the dwellers gather nigh:
“Whence comes the vessel? whither is she bound?”
Then for Old England's welfare they inquire;—

Eager alike for question and reply,
With open lips and ears attending round;—
What news of war, and plague, and plots, and fire?
Till satisfied of these, with cheerful care
The board and bowl they hasten to prepare;
Each active in his way,
Glad of some lawful business, that may break
The tedium of an idle Sabbath-day.

But, from the stir of that loquacious crew,
Oliver meantime apart from all withdrew.
Beyond the bare and sapless pines, which stood
Half-overwhelm'd with sand,
He pass'd, and entering in the wood,
Indulged his burthen'd heart in solitude.
“Thou Earth! receive me, from my native land
An unoffending exile! Hear my claim!
In search of wealth I have not sought thy shore,
Nor covetous of fame,
Nor treading in the ambitious steps of power;
But hiding from the world a hapless name,
And sacrificing all
At holiest duty's call,
Thou barbarous Land, of thee I only crave—
For those I love—concealment and a grave.”

Thus he relieved his breast; yet did not dare
Allow himself full utterance, even there:
To part he gave a voice; and then, in fear,
Shaped with his lips, inaudibly, the rest:
With that the very air
Might not be trusted; and he look'd around,

Alarm'd, lest human ear
Had caught the unfinish'd sound.
Some tears stole down his cheek, now not repress'd,
And, kneeling on the earth, he kiss'd the ground.

Unbidden thoughts then took their course, and drew
The future and the past before his view:
The haunts, the friendships, and the hopes of youth—
All, all forsaken;—no dear voice,
Ever again to bid his heart rejoice!
Familiar scenes and faces
Only in dreams should he behold again;
But, in their places,
The wilderness, wild beasts, and savage men!

Soon from that poignant thought
His soul upon the wings of hope took flight;
And strong imagination brought
Visions of joy before his inward sight.
Of regions yet by Englishmen unsought,
And ancient woods, was that delightful dream,—
The broad savannah, and the silver stream.
Fair bowers were there, and gardens smiled,
And harvests flourish'd in the wild;
And, while he made Redeeming Love his theme,—
Savage no longer now—
The Indians stood around,
And drank salvation with the sound.
One Christian grave was there,
Turf'd well, and weeded by his pious care,
And redolent of many a fragrant flower
And herb profusely planted all about.

Within his bower
An old man sate, in patience and in peace,
While the low sands of life ran out,
Awaiting his release.
That old man laid his hand upon his head,
And blest him daily, when the day was done;
And Heaven was open to him, and he saw
His mother's spirit smile, and bless her son.

Thus to the voluntary dream resign'd
He lay, while blended sounds of air and sea
Lull'd his unconscious mind
With their wild symphony.
The wind was in the pines, awakening there
A sea-like sound continuous, and a swell
At fitful intervals, that mingled well
With ocean's louder roar,
When the long curling waves,
Reach after reach in regular rising, fell
Upon the sandy shore.
Long might he there have lain, but that, in tones
Which seem'd of haste to tell,
Once, twice, and thrice pronounced he heard his name:
Too sweetly to his ears the accents came,
Breathed from the gentle lips of Annabel.

With hurried pace she comes, and flush'd in face,
And with a look, half-pity, half-affright,
Which, while she spake, enlarged her timid eyes:
“O, sir! I have seen a piteous sight!”
The shuddering maiden cries;
“A poor wild woman. Woe is me! among

What worse than heathen people are we thrown?
Beasts, in our England, are not treated thus,—
Our very stones would rise
Against such cruelties!
But you, perhaps, can reach the stony heart,—
Oh come, then, and perform your Christian part.”

She led him hastily toward a shed,
Where, fetter'd to the door-post, on the ground
An Indian woman sate. Her hands were bound,
Her shoulders and her back were waled and scored
With recent stripes. A boy stood by,
Some seven years old, who with a piteous eye
Beheld his suffering mother, and deplored
Her injuries with a cry,
Deep, but not loud,—an utterance that express'd
The mingled feelings swelling in his breast,—
Instinctive love intense, the burning sense
Of wrong, intolerable grief of heart,
And rage, to think his arm could not fulfil
The pious vengeance of his passionate will.
His sister by the door
Lay basking in the sun: too young was she
To feel the burthen of their misery;
Reckless of all that pass'd, her little hand
Play'd idly with the soft and glittering sand.

At this abhorred sight,
Had there been place for aught
But pity, half-relieved by indignation,
They would have seen that Indian woman's face
Not with surprise alone, but admiration:

With such severe composure, such an air
Of stern endurance, did she bear
Her lot of absolute despair.
You rather might have deem'd,
So fix'd and hard the strong bronze features seem'd,
That they were of some molten statue part,
Than the live sentient index of a heart
Suffering and struggling with extremest wrong:
But that the coarse jet hair upon her back
Hung loose, and lank, and long,
And that sometimes she moved her large black eye,
And look'd upon the boy who there stood weeping by.

Oliver in vain attempted to assuage,
With gentle tones and looks compassionate,
The bitterness of that young Indian's rage.
The boy drew back abhorrent from his hand,
Eyed him with fierce disdain, and breathed
In inarticulate sounds his deadly hate.
Not so the mother; she could understand
His thoughtful pity, and the tears which fell
Copiously down the cheeks of Annabel.
Touch'd by that unaccustom'd sympathy
Her countenance relax'd: she moved her head
As if to thank them both;
Then frowning, as she raised her mournful eye,—
“Bad Christian-man! bad English-man!” she said:
And Oliver a sudden sense of shame
Felt for the English and the Christian name.