POEMS.
1.
THE INDIAN MAID.
The leading incidents in this poem are historical. The descendants of Pocahontas are still to be found, I believe, in the United States.
Through the majestic forest shade
The light of morn is faintly shining,
Scarce straggling through the twilight made
By leafy boughs entwining;
As Nature, from the birth of Time,
Deep in this lone sequestered wood,
Had formed herself a bower sublime,
Where she might dwell with solitude,
And list the wild bird’s note, nor fear
Man’s guilty foot could wander here,
Or war’s unhallowed trumpet wake
The slumbering echoes, rudely break
The solemn, deep, unearthly still,
Which to a stranger’s soul must thrill
A sense of awe—as though he trod
A temple consecrate to God!
Yet war can penetrate e’en here
To blight the beauties of creation,
Till Nature’s calmest scenes appear
Dark haunts of desolation.
The murderer’s sword hath left the sheath,
When from the bright pure heaven above,
And smiling earth, there seemed to breathe
But peace, and joy, and love.
And even now, when blushing morn,
On rosy clouds by zephyrs borne,
Comes in her laughing loveliness
The world to brighten and to bless,
It were more meet that heaven should shroud
Her radiant brow in some dark cloud,
And dewy tears of morning flow
For scenes of blood on earth below!
See, in the forest’s thickest maze
The dark-eyed Indian tribes assembling,
Free as the pure fresh breeze that plays
On leaves around them trembling.
Wild Nature’s wilder sons,—each brow
The radiant sun of western lands
Hath kindled to a redder glow;
In painted pride the savage stands,
So differing in garb—in skin—
In mien—he scarce might seem akin
To Europe’s sons, did we not trace
In the dark features of his face
The same fierce passions, which declare
The race of Adam here and there,
And prove, alas! we share with all
One common origin, and fall!
But what white-bosomed victim here
Stands bound, a cruel death awaiting,
The dreadful preparations near
Now firmly contemplating,—
Now raising calm his thoughtful eye
Where, through the boughs that intervene
Of Nature’s verdant canopy,
Bright glimpses are of heaven seen?
Reflects he on the murderous doom
Which destines him a bloody tomb,
Sudden cut off, before his time,
In honour’s course, in manhood’s prime,—
On projects that with him must die,
Hopes ripening to reality,
But blasted ere their fruits afford
To science its well-earned reward?
Or thinks he on the distant land
To which life’s earliest ties have bound him,
Where last he grasped his father’s hand,
And felt his mother’s arms around him?
Above these savage yells of death
Does memory hear the low deep prayer
Her trembling lips could scarcely breathe,
That God might shield him everywhere?
’Tis answered, yes, that prayer of love,
Scarce heard on earth, has reached above!
Though fixed his doom, though Death e’en now
Stands prompt—he may not strike the blow!
Twice did the trembling compass[2] give
A respite,—wonder bade him live;
But other succour now must save
The hero from untimely grave.
For lo! behold, with savage joy
His foes their victim now surrounding,
Eager to smite and to destroy,
The woods with yells resounding!
Calm and resigned he kneels in dust,
Lays on the stone his manly head,
And waits the crushing blows, that must
Number him with the dead;
When, like the bright celestial bow
Which, when the angry tempests blow,
And heaven’s bolts from high are hurled—
Speaks peace and mercy to the world—
Forward here springs an Indian maid,
As light as fawn in forest glade,
Her cheek with generous ardour glowing,
O’er her slight form the dark hair flowing,
While firm resolve, and feeling high,
Sparkle in her soul-speaking eye.
“O Father, spare the chief!” she cries,
Before her parent interceding,
Her claspèd hands, and eloquent eyes,
More than her accents pleading;
“Was he not brave in war, and kind
And true in peace? did he e’er break
The solemn wampum league, or bind
The captive to the stake?
For him a wife afar may sigh,
A lonely mother mourning die,
For who shall now with sounding bow
Bring down for them the elk or roe,
Whose hatchet shall defend their home
When hostile tribes with war-cries come!
Oh! spare the white chief, that his voice
His wife’s sad bosom may rejoice;
Oh! spare him, that his hand may dry
The teardrop in his mother’s eye!”
But stern the Indian’s answer; vain
Her pleading words, her warm endeavour,
The murderers’ clubs are raised again
To crush the brave for ever!
Lo! from her knees the maiden springs,
Rapid as lightning’s flash above,
As guardian angels spread their wings
O’er mortals that they love,
Around the Doomed her arms are thrown,
His form protected by her own,
With him will she the worst await,
And save his life, or share his fate!
“Strike him!” she cries, “but ’neath the blow
His blood and mine shall mingled flow;
Strike him! but in the spirit-land
With him shall Pocahontas stand,
Nor live to say her tribe hath slain
The chief for whom she prayed in vain!”
There is a spell in woman’s eye
When, injured Virtue’s cause defending,
Her soul is roused to energy,
Vigour with sweetness blending!
Soft plumes that tremble in the air
Have formed a breastplate strong to save,
And woman’s heart will oft-times dare
What might appal the brave!
E’en the rude Indians feel the power
Of courage equal to the hour,
Catch virtues warm inspiring glow
And more than mercy asked, bestow.
Rise, Briton, rise, both safe and free,
With life receive back liberty;
Spring from the spot of sacrifice
From which thou ne’er didst hope to rise;
Or rather, once more prostrate fall
To bless the God who saved from all!
Not long the dark-eyed maiden hears
His grateful words of deep devotion,
They part—to meet in future years
Beyond the heaving ocean.
“Go, stranger, to thy distant home,”
Thus flowed her simple, wild farewell,
“When thy pale tribes to greet thee come,
Then of the Red man’s mercy tell!
And when the round sun leaves the sky
To light the Indian forests high,
Say thou hast left a daughter there,
And bid him here thy greetings bear!
And oh! if e’er a Red man be
Thy captive, then remember me;
If weary-footed Indian pray
For shelter, turn not thou away,
But to my race a father be,
As thou hast found a child in me!”
Sweet maid! she little dreamed how near
The hour when she—a captive mourning—
A Briton’s voice her grief would cheer,
The White man’s debt returning;
When Rolfe with tenderest care essayed
The maiden’s flowing tears to dry,
Until captivity he made
More sweet than liberty!
Amidst her grief, amidst her fear,
Love’s melting tones first reached her ear,
And oh! has life one dark distress
That sweet voice cannot soothe or bless!
It was as though the raging blast
Had o’er some silent harp-strings past,
And waked so soft, so wild a strain
(As joy still owes its zest to pain),
The spirit of the storm drew near,
Closed his dark wings, and paused to hear!
And with Rolfe’s heart she learned to share
His hopes, on heavenward pinion soaring,
And with him knelt in humble prayer,
The Christian’s God adoring.
The sacred tie has made them one,
That tie which death alone can part,
Love’s circlet on her hand hath shone,
Love’s torch within her heart;
And she hath quitted that wild shore
Her tearful eyes shall view no more,
And, wafted by the western wind,
Left all that once she loved behind.
Honours in Albion’s isle attend
The Indian bride, the captive’s friend;
From royal lips[3] her praises sound,
Her generous deed with fame is crowned.
But precious to her soul, above
All fame, her husband’s smile of love,
Or Smith’s proud glance, when she would claim
Once more a daughter’s cherished name.
But oh! how close the sacred ties
That to our native country bind us,
In foreign scenes the heart still sighs
For dearer left behind us!
She longed to see the waving woods,
Her dark-haired sire, her Indian shore,
Her spirit yearned to cross the floods
And view her native soil once more.
But ere the vessel left the strand,
Sickness, with damp and heavy hand
Stayed the fair wanderer, like a spell
Unseen, but irresistible,
For death in his pale bark had come
To waft her to a brighter home.
Brief was the passage, but how vast
The space in those short seconds past!
One moment Rolfe in wild distress
Hung o’er her fading loveliness,
Met her long dying gaze of love,
Saw her pale lips in blessing move,
The next—and her immortal soul
Had crossed the floods, and reached the goal,
And he was left to mourn its flight,
Till death, that severed them, should reunite!
II.
BLANCHE.
Life’s deep afflictions not alone demand
Devout submission to th’ Almighty’s will,
The flower nursed by dew, by breezes fanned,
Yet may the slow-corroding canker kill,
While all around it smiles, it fadeth still;
Such is the thankless heart which—pleasure-cloyed—
Turns from surrounding good to fancied ill,
And forms within itself a cheerless void
’Mid blessings unacknowledged, pleasures unenjoyed.
Oh! deem ye not them sufferers alone
Whom poverty consumes, or cares oppress,
Who mourn o’er health departed, hopes o’erthrown,
Or—severed from a parent’s fond caress—
Find the world changed into a wilderness;
As deep the desolation of a mind
(With all to cheer it, and with all to bless)
That, to its own self-fostered gloom resigned,
Rejects the happiness God bade it seek and find.
My parents, faithful soldiers of the Cross,
Had o’er successive offspring closed the tomb,
And—ere my infant heart could know its loss—
They too had sunk beneath the mortal doom,—
My life, in sorrow passed, commenced in gloom.
Yet friends were left; the patriarch of our line
For my sake would a parent’s cares resume,
And his mild consort, then in life’s decline,
As she had watched my father’s youth would watch o’er mine.
With tenderness did they their charge fulfil,
In the retirement of a peaceful spot;
But ah! not theirs the strength to curb the will,
To train Christ’s soldier for a trying lot.
Offences gently chidden—and forgot,
The wavering denial, weak delay,
And threat—by punishment succeeded not,
Marred in the morn the promise of the day,
The Christian child’s first lesson should be to obey.
Cruel, misjudging tenderness! how soon
The plant by weakness nursed bore fruit in woe!
The branch which love with gentle hand might prune,
Reserved to fall ’neath God’s chastising blow!
Can they the toils of warfare undergo
Whose childhood knows no wish ungratified?
Oh! check the first advances of the foe,
Stay at the source the quickly-swelling tide,—
From reason’s dawn must thou for good or ill decide.
Time fleeted by,—I was a child no more,
But with my growth, alas! the evil grew.
I loved creation’s wonders to explore,
But on the world within ne’er fixed my view.
Eager the paths of science to pursue,
By praise encouraged, and by pride impelled,
The charmèd task each day would I renew,
And, while my bosom with vainglory swelled,
Measured myself by those I deemed that I excelled.
And was I happy? no, the unbridled mind
May soar too freely through the fields of air,
In its own liberty a bondage find;
My spirits were not bound by earthly care,
No loss had I to weep, no frowns to bear.
My own enjoyment was my single aim,
I sought it upon earth, nor found it there,
Satiety and disappointment came,—
“Oh, that I were a man to win the meed of fame!”
I longed for something lofty—undefined—
A kindred soul to mingle with my own,
A destiny more worthy of a mind
Now amidst uncongenial spirits thrown.
By friends surrounded—yet I stood alone:
Self was the gilded idol I adored;
Had I Christ’s strength and my own weakness known,
Soon had that idol felt the gospel sword,
Low levelled in the dust before my conquering Lord!
Yet was I ardent in religious cause,
Impiety I scorned—denounced—despised;
No warrior his holy weapon draws
With zeal more fervent than I exercised
When faithlessness in others I chastised;
My spirit kindled at the martyr’s tale,
There were my dreams of glory realized;
Oh! where their faith prevailed would mine prevail,
Could soul so ardent in the fiery trial fail?
I felt not then that in life’s loneliest way
A glorious warfare may the Christian wage;
Humbly to honour, meekly to obey,
In charity’s mild duties to engage,
And gently soothe the fretfulness of age,—
Such is the sacred post to woman given;
Home is her battle-field; the strife must rage
Till sin and self are from their empire driven:
Will not the victor rest with martyr-saints in heaven?
With weariness I viewed my rural life,
Hid from a world in which I hoped to shine,—
Better the press of care, the toil of strife,
Than thus in an insipid calm to pine,
Watching my aged guardian’s slow decline;
Youth was, I deemed, the season for delight,
E’en should its sorrows with its joys be mine,
The deepest shadows mark the brightest light,
Dim is the hour when both in one dull hue unite!
Sin may invite the soul; by discontent
The wayward soul herself inviteth sin;
I sought a trial—God the trial sent.
One formed a colder heart than mine to win,
Lighted the soul-consuming torch within:
Montoro sought my hand, his lips revealed
His love; I felt another life begin,—
To fervent love must self his empire yield,—
No, for that love itself was selfishness concealed!
What though Montoro’s highborn parents frowned
Upon his union with a lowly maid;
Though upon means already slender found,
A second burden thus would now be laid,—
Although with darkened sight, and strength decayed,
My widowed grandsire claimed a daughter’s care,—
What was it to a soul by passion swayed?
His lonely dwelling now must strangers share,
No daughter’s voice to raise the hymn, or join the prayer.
’Twas on a summer morn I left my home,
Buoyant with hope and long-sought happiness,
Yet did a feeling of misgiving come
When, folded in the old man’s last caress,
He in his trembling accents strove to bless
The child who left him lonely, aged, and blind
E’en then my bosom would the thought oppress,
“Deserter from the post by God assigned,
Wilt thou again on earth a love so faithful find?”
’Twas but a transitory thought; my soul
Exulted in an earthly paradise;
Impetuous hope had reached its wished-for goal,
And I could bear to see the tear-drops rise
Within those dear and venerable eyes,
Could joyous from my childhood’s home depart;
For him I loved too great no sacrifice,
Care had no weight, and poverty no smart;
He was the treasure of my soul, the idol of my heart!
Time roused me slowly from my golden dream,
Love, born in smiles, survived to mourn in tears;
Earth’s brightest blessings are not what they seem;
Beneath the sober influence of years
Fancy’s gay blossoms fade, and truth appears.
When word or frown impatient care betrayed,
My wounded soul could not disguise her fears
That now my lord with colder feelings weighed
And felt the sacrifice which blinded love had made.
And what I felt I spoke; my untamed soul
The task of patient love had yet to learn,
Each word, each look, each feeling to control,
Harshness with meek submission to return,
By charms more lasting, love more lasting earn,
This to my spirit was a task unknown;
My lip would quiver, and my cheek would burn,
By glance reproachful and upbraiding tone
I marred Montoro’s happiness—and crushed my own.
Hardships and cares, by eager love defied,
Heavy upon my weary spirit pressed,—
The struggle between poverty and pride,—
Ill could my temper bear the bitter test,
Exhausted hope could find no place of rest;
I, for the love of one, had all resigned,
And now my heart in bitterness confessed,
Though faithful love might yet remain behind,
It was no more the light of joy, the sunbeam of the mind.
Yet I content, nay, happy might have proved,
Could I have meekly stooped the yoke to bear,
Nor sought perfection in the man I loved;
But I had hoped a heaven on earth to share,—
Too ardent hope rebounds into despair.
When pride or passion fix the nuptial chain,
Time must the gilding from the fetters wear,—
Love’s golden links alone unchanged remain,
Hallowed by faith, to be renewed in Heaven again.
I now approach the crisis of my woes.
One, known in early life, again I met;—
With proud disdain I had regarded those
Who—low by birth, by nature lower—yet
Their upstart confidence in riches set;
And could I calmly Agnes now behold
Her brow encircled with a coronet,
Endure her haughty smile, her greeting cold,
Who owed her triumph solely to the power of gold?
I felt the press of poverty, and she
Had only to desire—and to possess;
Yet why should sight of her prosperity
Add to my cup one drop of bitterness?
Her luxuries made not my comforts less.
I know it now, though my deluded heart
Would then have scorned its weakness to confess;
Envy had fixed within his venomed dart,
And love had no sweet balm to heal the wounded part.
Hate’s ready weapon, ridicule, I sought,
The lightest word may give the deepest wound,—
Montoro’s sparkling wit the impulse caught,
His jests, by malice circulated round,
Too soon a fatal destination found.
Words are but breath, but breath may kindle flame
Destined to level cities with the ground!
My God, from Thy dread wrath the judgment came,
But oh! my guilt, my wretchedness were still the same!
A fatal sword hung o’er my head unknown,
Yawned at my feet a precipice unseen!
One morn Montoro had gone forth alone,
Methought there was a sadness in his mien,
And tender had his words at parting been;
A long fond kiss upon our babe he prest,
Still in her cradle slumbering serene;
The tide of love gushed warmer in my breast,
His glance recalled the hours when first that love was blest.
Thrice the accumulating mound of sand
Marked in my glass the hours that passed away,
I turned it listlessly with weary hand,
And marvelled at Montoro’s long delay:
Heavy with mist and rain advanced the day;
My babe awoke and wept, her cry of fear
I strove to soothe with melancholy lay,
And bore her, sobbing, to the casement near,
And bade her infant accents call her father dear.
Upon the dreary prospect forth I gazed;
Poured from the lowering sky incessant rain,
The trees their dark and dripping branches raised,
Reflected dimly on the flooded plain,
Trickled the raindrops down the misty pane;
The wind in sudden gusts our dwelling shook,
Then sank, in mournful murmurs to complain;
With heavy heart the casement I forsook,
While to my early home her flight sad memory took.
“Where is the happiness I thought to find
When forth I went, a young rejoicing bride?
Springs grief from earthly trials, or a mind
For ever restless and dissatisfied?
Montoro’s love outweighed the world beside,—
Is it his wife’s misfortune or her sin
That petty cares so oft our hearts divide?
Oh, that another era might begin,
And life’s storms but enhance the holy peace within!
“My childhood’s friend I in his age forsook,—
The old man sleeps beneath the grassy sod!
To frown of care is changed the joyous look
With which Montoro once life’s garden trod;
God gave me life,—I have not lived to God!
My threefold duties I neglected see,—
Great God! suspend awhile thy chastening rod!
Oh, come, my husband, life henceforth shall be
Devoted unto piety and thee!”
He came—but oh! how did Montoro come?
Why did I live to look on his return?
Bleeding and pale they bore him to his home.
Life glimmered faintly,—I had yet to learn
The hopeless grief that must for ever burn
Within the widow’s desolated breast:
Enough—mine eyes have seen Montoro’s urn;
One tie is left—one treasure still possest,—
The shadow of despair is cast on all the rest!
There is no wretchedness where sin is not,—
Religion may relieve the darkest woes,
All—save remorse—be softened or forgot—
But where can she—the guilty—find repose,
Whose anguish from her own transgression flows?
My pride—my envy bade Montoro die,
His life embittered, stained with blood its close!
Aye, weep ye who can weep—but I—but I
My heart weeps tears of blood, and yet mine eyes are dry!
III.
PRIDE.
Proud—and of what! poor vain and helpless worm
Crawling in weakness through thy life’s brief term,
Yet filled with thoughts presumptuous, bold, and high,
As though thy grovelling soul could scan the sky,
As though thy wisdom, which can not foreshow
What one day brings of coming weal or woe,
Could pierce the depths of far futurity,
And all the wingèd shafts of fate defy!
Art proud of riches? of the glittering dust
Each day may rob thee of, and one day must,
When mines of wealth will purchase no delay,
When dust to dust must turn, and clay to clay,
And nought remain to thee of all possest,
Save one dark cell in earth’s unconscious breast!
Or proud of power? on this little ball
Some petty tract may thee its master call,
Some fellow-mortals, bending lowly down,
Bask in thy smile, or tremble at thy frown;
Great in the world’s eyes, in thine own how great,
How swells thy breast with conscious pride elate!
And art thou great? lift up—lift up thine eyes,
Survey the heavens, gaze into the skies,—
View the fair worlds that glitter o’er thy head,
Orb above orb in bright succession spread,
Beyond the reach of sight, the power of thought,—
Then turn thy gaze to earth, and thou art—nought;
The globe itself a speck—an atom thou!
Oh, child of dust, shall pride exalt thee now?
In one thing only thou mayst glory still,
And let exulting joy thy bosom fill,—
Glory in this—and what is all beside,—
That for this worm—this atom—Christ hath died!
Does conscious genius fire thy haughty mind,
Genius, that raises man above his kind,
The lofty soul that soars on wing of fire,
While crowds at distance marvel and admire?
Oh! while the charmed world pays her homage just,
Remember every talent is a trust,
A treasure God doth to thy care confide,
A cause for gratitude, but none for pride.
If thou that precious talent misapply,
To spread the flood of infidelity,
To strew with flowers the paths which sinners tread,
To hide one treacherous snare by Satan spread,—
How blest, how great, compared to thee, the man
Whose life obscurely ends as it began,
To whose meek soul no knowledge ere was given
Save that—of all most high—that lifts the soul to Heaven.
For, as the sun’s pure radiance, streaming bright,
Transcends the glow-worm’s dim and fading light,
The wisdom to that man vouchsafed from high
Excells the earth-born fires that flash—and die!
Oh! where shall pride securely harbour then,
Where urge his claims to rule the minds of men?
Blest Eden knew him not,—where all was fair,
Where all was faultless,—pride abode not there.
The glorious angels are above his sway,
Their bliss to minister—to serve—obey;
We—only we—poor children of a day,
Tread haughtily the ground for our sakes curst,
And wear with pride the chains our Surety burst!
Would that the world could know and truly prize
That which is great in the Creator’s eyes!
The poor man, bending o’er his scanty store,
Who, with God’s presence blest, desires no more;
Who feels his sins, his weakness, though his ways
Be just and pure beyond all human praise;
Whose humble thoughts well with his prayer accord,
“Have mercy upon me, a sinner, Lord!”
Who, heir of an eternal, heavenly throne,
Rests all his hopes on Christ, and Christ alone!
Wisest of men—for he alone is wise;
Richest of men—secure his treasure lies;
Greatest of men—his mansion is on high;
His Father—God; his portion—immortality!
IV.
A DREAM OF THE SECOND ADVENT.
I dreamed that in the stilly hush of night—
Deep midnight—I was startled from my sleep
By a clear sound as of a trumpet! Loud
It swelled, and louder, thrilling every nerve,
Making the heart beat wildly, strangely, till
All other senses seemed in hearing lost.
Up from my couch I sprang in trembling haste,
Cast on my garments, wondering to behold
Through half-closed shutters sudden radiance gleam,
More clear, more vivid than the glare of day!
What marvel, then, that with a breathless hope
That gave me wings, forth from my home I rushed,
Though heaved the earth as if instinct with life,
Its very dust awakening! Can it be—
Is this the call, “Behold the Bridegroom comes!”
Comes He, the long-expected—long-desired?
Crowds thronged the street, with every face upturned,
Gazing into the sky—the flaming sky—
Where every cloud was like a throne of light.
None could look back, not even to behold
If those beloved were nigh; one thrilling thought
Rapt all the multitude—“Can He be near!”
Then cries of terror rose—I scarcely heard;
And buildings shook, and rocked, and crashing fell—
I scarcely marked their fall; the trembling ground
Rose like the billowy sea—I scarcely felt
The motion, such intensity of hope—
Joy—expectation—flooded all my soul,
A tide of living light, o’erwhelming all
The hopes and fears, the cares and woes of earth!
Could any doubt remain? Lo! from afar
A sound of “Hallelujah!” ne’er before
Had mortal ear drunk in such heavenly strain,
Save when on Bethlehem’s plain the shepherds heard
The music of the skies!
Behold! behold!
Like white-winged angels rise the radiant throng
That from yon cemetery’s gloomy verge
Have burst, immortal—glorious—undefiled!
Bright as the sun their crowns celestial shine,
Yet I behold them with undazzled eye!
Oh! that yon glittering canopy of light
Would burst asunder, that I might behold
Him whom so long, not seeing, I have loved!
It parted—lo! it opened—as I stood
With clasped hands stretched towards heav’n, my eager gaze
Fixed on the widening glory!
Suddenly,
As if the burden of the flesh no more
Could fetter down the aspiring soul to earth,
As if the fleshly nature were consumed—
Lost in the glowing ecstasy of love—
I soared aloft, I mounted through the air
Free as a spirit, rose to meet my Lord
With such a cry of rapture—that I woke!
Oh! misery, to wake in darkness, wake
From vision of unutterable joy,
Instead of trumpet-sound and song of heaven,
To hear the dull clock measuring out time,
When I had seemed to touch eternity!
In the first pang of disappointed hope,
I wept that I could wake from such a dream.
Until Faith gently whispered, “Wherefore weep
To lose the faint dim shadow of a joy
Of which the substance shall one day be thine?
Live in the hope,—that hope shall brighten life
And sanctify it to its highest end.”
Fast roll the chariot wheels of time. He comes!
The Spirit and the Bride expectant wait,—
Even so come, Lord Jesus! Saviour—come!
Footnotes
[1]The expression used by one who now rests in Christ.
[2]Captain Smith, the captive here mentioned, twice diverted the Indians from their murderous intentions, by drawing their attention to the marvels of the needle.
[3]Pocahontas was presented to James I.
