CHANGE ON THE OTTAWA.
(A Fragment.)
I. Onward the Saxon treads. Few years ago, A chief of the Algonquins passed at dawn, With knife, and tomahawk, and painted bow, Down the wild Ottawa, and climbed upon A rocky pinnacle, where in the glow Of boyhood he had loved to chase the fawn; Proudly he stood there, listening to the roar Of rapids sounding, sounding evermore.
II. All else was silence, save the muffled sound Of partridge drumming on the fallen tree, Or dry brush crackling from the sudden bound Of startled deer, that snorts, and halts to see Then onward o’er the leaf-encumbered ground, Through his green world of beauty, ever free. Such was the scene—no white man’s chimney nigh, And joy sat, plumed, in the young warrior’s eye.
III. No white man’s axe his hunting grounds had marred, The primal grandeur of the solemn woods, When Summer all her golden gates unbarred, And hung voluptuous o’er the shouting floods,— Or when stern Winter gave the rich reward, All suited with his uncorrupted moods, For all was built, voiced, roofed with sun and cloud, By the Great Spirit unto whom he bowed.
IV. The grey of morn was edging into white, When down the rugged rock the Indian passed, Like a thin shadow. Soon the rosy light Lay on the maple leaf, the dew-drops cast A lustrous charm on many a mossy height, And squirrels broke out in chatter, as the blast Swayed the tall pine-tops where they leaped, and made Grand organ-music in the green-wood shade.
V. Again the Indian comes—some years have rolled,— Down the wild Ottawa, and stands upon His boyhood haunt, and with an eye still bold Looks round, and sighs for glories that are gone; For all is changed, except the fall that told, And tells its Maker still, and Bird-rock lone; Sadly he leans against an evening sky, Transfigured in its ebb of rosy dye.
VI. He sees a city there:—the blazing forge, The mason’s hammer on the shaping stone, Great wheels along the stream revolving large, And swift machinery’s whirr and clank, and groan, And the fair bridge that spans the yawning gorge, Which drinks the spray of Chaudière, leaping prone,— And spires of silvery hue, and belfry’s toll, All strike, like whetted knives, the red man’s soul.
VII. Wide the area of the naked space Where broods the city like a mighty bird, And the grave Sachem from his rock can trace Her flock of villages, where lately stirred The bear and wolf, tenacious of their place, And where the wild cat with her kittens purred;— Now while the shades of eve invest the land, What myriad lights flash out on every hand!
VIII. The dead day’s crimson, interwove with brown, Has wrapped the watcher upon Oiseau Rock, And o’er him hangs bright Hesper, like a crown, As if the hand of Destiny would mock His soul’s eclipse and sorrow-sculptured frown;— Thick as wild pigeons, dusky memories flock O’er the wide wind-fall of his fated race, And thus he murmurs to his native place:
IX. “Here dwelt within the compass of my gaze, All whom I ever loved, and none remain To cheer the languor of my wintry days, Or tread with me across the misty plain; A solitary tree, the bleak wind strays Among my boughs, which moaningly complain; Familiar voices whisper round and say, Seek not to find our graves! Away! Away!
X. The sire who taught my hands to hold the bow, The mother who was proud of my renown, On them no more the surly tempests blow, How little do they heed or smile or frown, The summer’s blossoms or the winter’s snow! With them, at last, I thought to lay me down, Where birds should sing, and wild deer safely play, And endless woods fence out the glare of day.
XI. Friend of my youth, my “Wa-Wa[5] Height,” adieu! No more shall I revisit thee, no more Gaze from thy summit on the upper blue, And listen to the rapid’s pleasing roar;— I go,—my elder brother!—to pursue The Elk’s great shadow on a distant shore, Where Nature, still unwounded, wears her charms, And calls me, like a mother, to her arms.”
XII. He ceased and strode away; no tear he shed, A weakness which the Indian holds in scorn, But sorrow’s moonless midnight bowed his head, And once he looked around—Oh! so forlorn! I hated for his sake the reckless tread Of human progress,—on his race no morn, No noon of happiness shall ever beam; They fade as from our waking fades a dream.
[5] Wa-Wa, or i.e. lit.—the Wild Goose.
THE BLIND MINSTREL OF THE
MARKET PLACE.
Along the echoing harbour crowds appear, For ’tis the busy season of the year; Soft airs of June are whispering to the leaves, And happy swallows sport along the eaves. Far, hovering on the east’s remotest rim, A white-winged ship is seen, sublimely dim; Half on the watery plain and half in heaven, No fairer vision to the world is given. At nearer view, her topmast gives the breeze St. George’s Cross, renowned o’er all the seas; Slowly she paces up the shimmering tide, Britannia’s peerless child, old ocean’s bride; With majesty of mien she takes her place, While welcome beams on many a wishful face; Sweet thoughts of distant scenes, forever dear, Her presence brings to many a wanderer here Scenes which, however fair his lot be cast, The exile loves and longs for to the last. The jovial sailor, safe from ocean’s roar, Sings on the deck, or gaily leaps on shore; Careless of dangers past or to be met, His wish upon the present chance is set; If Prudence speaks, her voice is hushed to rest, His only business now is to be blest. Such was the aspect of the genial hour When first I felt the sightless minstrel’s power, And gazed upon that melancholy brow Which moved the pitying tear, and haunts me now. Stricken, but aye serene, he gropes his way Where busy hucksters all their wealth display, And prudent housewives roam from stall to stall, Till each has higgled round the range of all. Youthful, yet worn, his pallid cheek betrays That he has borne the pinch of evil days; His inner world, a lonely isle of thought, Afflicted with an unpropitious lot; His outer world, a blank,—contracted, strange,— The breadth his hand can reach, its utmost range. The landscape, stretching to the purple hills, With groves and cottages and gleaming rills, All nice gradations that belong to space, And which the humblest rustic loves to trace, If mentioned or described, perplex his mind, And force the silent comment, I am blind!— In vain for him the splendour of the skies Expanded floats above his lifted eyes. The blush of dawn, the noontide beams, the hues That clothe the west when fall the early dews,— These, and the softer glories of the night, Send no sweet message through his torpid sight.
But never having known the joy that springs From observation of external things, To him their absence is but partial loss, And half unconsciously he bears his cross. Taught, by a lofty faith, to nurse content, And prize the scanty good that God hath lent, He trusts the sacred source of perfect love, And hopes to see the light in worlds above. Thus safely anchored, bravely doth he try To earn the little that his wants supply, Nursing the manly virtue in his heart, That scorns the mendicant’s ignoble part. His violin, the only wealth he owns, Speaks to his soul in such endearing tones, That now, the sole companion of his life, He names, in quiet jest, My little wife.
To-day, while sounds of commerce everywhere, And hasty human footsteps jar the air, Upon the market place the minstrel stands, Tuning his instrument with pallid hands. Close by, the mighty river rolls along, And, solaced by its sympathetic song, He hastens, while his audience gather round, To emulate the sweetness of its sound. With practised ear, in listening attitude, He first interrogates the vocal wood; Its answers he receives with changing look, Anger, approval, pleasure, or rebuke. Till coaxing, fondling, with persuasive art, Pressing the yearner closer to his heart, The perfect soul of harmony he wakes, And o’er his face the light of gladness breaks. So must he regulate his rude desires, Who fain would tread the earth as heaven requires; Each captive vice must cower beneath his skill. Till made the pliant vassal of his will, Then angels, though unseen, will linger near, And whisper secrets of their native sphere.
Now speeds the bow, and from the panting strings Sweet meanings float afar on airy wings. No complicated task doth he assume, Such as may suit the genius of a Prume, But simple airs that charm the simple heart, Partaking more of nature than of art; Soft sounds and plaintive murmurs that express All earnest feelings, rapture, and distress, Love’s fever and the patriotic glow That prompts the eager hand to smite the foe; But chief the nimble notes that youthful feet, So dear to Terpsichora, love to greet, Inspire his elbow;—how it swirls and sways, As if to trace the dance’s witching maze! The young, the aged, homely face and fair, With shining looks and willing ears are there; The market-woman, dowered with double chin, And proud rotundity of abdomen; The scented dandy, with his twirling cane, Embroidered vest, and gorgeous golden chain; The bare-foot urchin, with his mottled face, Elbowing Master Ruffle for a place;— There, girt with scarlet sash, with whip in hand, The modest habitant secures his stand;— A gentle being, blessed with quiet days, Politeness blossoms out in all his ways:— O, ye who walk, and sit, and speak by rule! Forgetting Nature’s free and ample school, In him behold, and copy if you can, The royal pattern of a gentleman.
Vain the attempt to sketch the motley ring, Enough that generous fingers freely fling Such tokens as confess the minstrel’s skill, And testify how sweet is music’s thrill. Then long may he survive to wield the bow, And muse beside the river’s rushing flow, Apollo’s heir—his territorial space, The full circumference of the Market Place.