THE INDIAN’S REVENGE.
SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.
[Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded are recorded in Carne’s Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.]
“But by my wrongs and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski’s breath
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!”
Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming.”
Scene.—The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herrmann, the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.
Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone, swift canoe
Shooting across the waters?—No, a flash
From the night’s first, quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert’s own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e’en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald—they little know
Of what is solitude! In hours like this,
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home-path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The cluster’d faces of his children shine
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit’s grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill’d! Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnise
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!
Hark! a step,
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound—
’Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.
(He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed.)
Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye
Discerns thy face.
Enonio. My father speaks my name.
Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase return’d?
The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?
Enonio. The warrior’s arrow knows of nobler prey
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave
The lone path free.
Herrmann. The forest way is long
From the red chieftain’s home. Rest thee awhile
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak
Of these things further.
Enonio. Tell me not of rest!
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift.
I must begone.
Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior! thou must stay!
The Mighty One hath given me power to search
Thy soul with piercing words—and thou must stay,
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart
Be grown thus restless, is it not because
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up
Some burning thought of ill?
Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should I rest?—
Last night the spirit of my brother came,
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak,
And said, “Avenge me!” In the clouds this morn
I saw the frowning colour of his blood—
And that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon
Alone beside the sounding waterfall,
And through its thunder-music spake a tone—
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves—
And said “Avenge me!” Therefore have I raised
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again,
That I may send the shadow from my couch,
And take the strange sound from the cataract,
And sleep once more.
Herrmann. A better path, my son!
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep,
My hand in peace can guide thee—e’en the way
Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou love
That lost one well?
Enonio. Know’st thou not we grew up
Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness?
Unto the chase we journey’d in one path;
We stemm’d the lake in one canoe; we lay
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung
Upon my burning lips, my brother’s hand
Was still beneath my head; my brother’s robe
Cover’d my bosom from the chill night-air—
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love
Until he turn’d him from his father’s gods.
And then my soul fell from him—then the grass
Grew in the way between our parted homes;
And wheresoe’er I wander’d, then it seem’d
That all the woods were silent. I went forth—
I journey’d, with my lonely heart, afar,
And so return’d—and where was he? The earth
Own’d him no more.
Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then,
Hast turn’d thee from the idols of thy tribe,
And, like thy brother, bow’d the suppliant knee
To the one God.
Enonio. Yes! I have learn’d to pray
With my white father’s words, yet all the more
My heart, that shut against my brother’s love,
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire,
Burning my sleep away. In the night-hush,
Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things
Of the great forests, I have call’d aloud,
“Brother! forgive, forgive!” He answer’d not—
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls,
Cries but “Avenge me!”—and I go forth now
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore,
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say,
“I have avenged thee!”
Herrmann. Oh! that human love
Should be the root of this dread bitterness,
Till heaven through all the fever’d being pours
Transmuting balsam! Stay, Enonio! stay!
Thy brother calls thee not! The spirit-world
Where the departed go, sends back to earth
No visitants for evil. ’Tis the might
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice
Unto the forest and the cataract,
The angry colour to the clouds of morn,
The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son!
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch,
When of the murderer’s poison’d shaft he died,
I knelt and pray’d; he named his Saviour’s name,
Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee
In pity and in love.
Enonio, (hurriedly.) Did he not say
My arrow should avenge him?
Herrmann. His last words
Were all forgiveness.
Enonio. What! and shall the man
Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery,
Walk fearless forth in joy?
Herrmann. Was he not once
Thy brother’s friend? Oh! trust me, not in joy
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love,
Too late repentant of its heart estranged,
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train
Of sounds and shadows—and shall he escape?
Enonio, dream it not! Our God, the All-just,
Unto himself reserves this royalty—
The secret chastening of the guilty heart,
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies,
Leave it with him! Yet make it not thy hope:
For that strong heart of thine—oh! listen yet—
Must, in its depths, o’ercome the very wish
For death or torture to the guilty one,
Ere it can sleep again.
Enonio. My father speaks
Of change, for man too mighty.
Herrmann. I but speak
Of that which hath been, and again must be,
If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life
Of the bright country where, I well believe,
His soul rejoices. He had known such change:
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart,
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words
Which, from the Saviour’s cross, went up to heaven—
“Forgive them, for they know not what they do!
Father, forgive!”—And o’er the eternal bounds
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled,
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem,
Hath to his Master pass’d. He waits thee there—
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave,
Immortal in its holiness. He calls
His brother to the land of golden light
And ever-living fountains—couldst thou hear
His voice o’er those bright waters, it would say,
“My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!
That we may meet again.”
Enonio, (hesitating.) Can I return
Unto my tribe, and unavenged?
Herrmann. To Him,
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps
Have wander’d far and long! Return, my son,
To thy Redeemer! Died he not in love—
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God—
Breathing forgiveness midst all agonies?
And we, dare we be ruthless? By his aid
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother’s place
Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way
Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart
E’en with the dark stains on it, if true tears
Be o’er them shower’d. Ay! weep, thou Indian chief!
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold
Thy proud lips working—weep, relieve thy soul!
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour
Of its great conflict.
Enonio, (giving up his weapons to Herrmann.)
Father! take the bow,
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call
Forth to the chase once more. And let me dwell
A little while, my father! by thy side,
That I may hear the blessed words again—
Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills—
From thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart
The music and the memory of their sound
Too long have died away.
Herrmann. Oh, welcome back,
Friend, rescued one! Yes, thou shalt be my guest,
And we will pray beneath my sycamore
Together, morn and eve; and I will spread
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last—
After the visiting of holy thoughts—
With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes!
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!
(They go into the cabin together.—Herrmann, lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies.)
Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds
Now look’st on us, thy children! make this hour
Blessed for ever! May it see the birth
Of thine own image in the unfathom’d deep
Of an immortal soul,—a thing to name
With reverential thought, a solemn world!
To thee more precious than those thousand stars
Burning on high in thy majestic heaven!