But let him, whose tears as yet fall not for any dear one beneath its sod, ascend again with me the Mount, and with retrospective gaze behold the living drama, which has passed before it. The great world around—the stage—lies still the same; but the actors, all—all have passed onwards to their final rest. Into the still gleaming past bend your attentive gaze. Lo, the features of the scenery are still the same—the bay’s unruffled bosom, and the islands; but no sail now floats upon its surface, no gilded spires in the distance loom, nor does the busy hum of man reach us, as listening we stand—nought we see but the far forest covering the main and islands, even to the waters. The coward wolf howls in yon distant glen—the partridge drums upon the tree tops—and the graceful deer e’en at our sides browses in conscious safety. Yon light dot moving upon the water?—’tis the painted Indian paddling his canoe. Yon smoke curling on the shore beneath us?—it is the Indian’s wigwam—The joyous laugh arising among the trees? It is his squaw and black-eyed children—the Indian reigns the lord—reigns free and uncontrolled.
But look again upon the waters floats a huge and clumsy galliot—its gay and gaudy streamers flaunting in the breeze; how the poor savages congregated on yonder point, gaze in wonder as it passes—’tis the Great Spirit, and the quaint figure with the plumed hat, and scarlet hose glistening with countless buttons, on its poop—some demi-god!—and as she onward moves, behold the weather-worn seamen’s faces in her rigging, how anxiously they return the gaze.—The forest children muster courage—they follow in their light canoes.—The galliot nears the Manahattoes—they ascend her sides—hawks, bells and rings, and beads, and the hot strong drink are theirs;—their land—it is the white man’s.—See with what confidence he ensconces himself upon the island’s borders—in his grasp, he has the fish—the furs—the game—the poor confiding Indian gives him all—and—behold the embryo city’s fixed!
But see!—Is that the Dutch boor’s cabin at our feet?—Is that the Indian seated on the threshold, while the Dutchman lolls lazily within!—Where—where then is the Indian’s wigwam?—gone!
Look up again—a stately fleet moves o’er the bay, in line of battle drawn; the military music loudly sounds—dark cannon frown from within the gaping ports, and crews with lighted matches stand prepared—they near the Manahattoes, and—and—the Orange flag descends—the Dragon and St. George floats from the flag-staff o’er the little town. Who is the fair-haired man that drinks with the Dutchman at his cottage door, while the poor Indian stands submissively aside?—“It is the Briton.”—I hear the laugh of youth—sure ’tis the Indian’s black eyed brood?—“’Tis the Englishman’s yellow haired, blue eyed children.”—Alas! alas! poor forest wanderer—nor squaw—nor child—nor wigwam, shall here be more for thee. Farewell—farewell.
The little town swells to a goodly city—the forests fall around—the farms stretch out their borders—wains creak and groan with harvest wealth—lordly shipping floats on the rivers—the fair haired race increase—roads mark the country—and the deer and game, scared, fly the haunts of men.—Hah!—the same flag floats not at the Manahattoes!—now, ’tis Stars and Stripes—See!—crowding across the river men in dark masses—cannon—muniments of war—in boats—on rafts—in desperate haste. Trenches and ramparts creep like serpents on the earth—horsemen scour the country—divisions—regiments—take position, and stalwart yeomen hurrying forward, join in the ranks of Liberty!—Hear! hear the wild confusion—the jar of wheels—the harsh shrill shriek of trumpets and the incessant roll of drums—the rattling musketry—the sudden blaze and boom of cannon—it is the roar of battle—it is the battle field!—Hear! hear the distant cry—“St. George and merry England.”—“Our Country and Liberty.”—Ah! o’er this very ground, the conflict passes—See! the vengeful Briton prostrate falls beneath the deadly rifle—while the yeomen masses fade beneath the howling cannon shot—and hark! how from amid the sulphurous cloud the wild “hurrah” drowns e’en the dread artillery.
The smoke clouds lazily creep from off the surface—the battle’s o’er and the red-cross banner floats again upon the island of Manahattoes.—And now again—the Stripes and Stars stream gently in the breeze.
The past is gone—the future stands before us. Ay! here upon this very spot, once rife with death, yonder cities shall lay their slain for centuries to come—their slain, falling in the awful contest with the stern warrior, against whom human strength is nought, and human conflict vain. Years shall sweep on in steady tide, and these broad fields be whitened with countless sepulchres—the mounds, covered with graves where affection still shall plant the flower and trail the vine—in the deep valleys, and romantic glens to receive their ne’er returning tenants; the sculptured vaults still shall roll ope their marble fronts—beneath the massive pyramid’s firm-fixed base, the Martyrs of the Prisons find their final resting-place—and on this spot the stately column shooting high in air, to future generations tell, the bloody story of yon battle-field.
All here shall rest;—the old man—his silver hairs in quiet, and the wailing babe in sweet repose—the strong from fierce conflict with fiery disease, and bowing submissively, the poor pallid invalid—the old—the young—the strong—the beautiful—all—here shall rest in deep and motionless repose.
Oh! Being!—Infinite and Glorious—Unseen—shrouded from our vision in the vast and awful mists of immeasurable Eternity—Creator—throned in splendour inconceivable, mid millions and countless myriads of worlds, which still rushing into being at thy thought, course their majestic circles, chiming in obedient grandeur glorious hymns of praise—God of Wisdom,—thou that hast caused the ethereal spark to momentarily light frail tenements of clay,—grant, that in the terrors of the awful Judgment, they may meet the splendours of the opening heavens with steadfast gaze, and relying on the Redeemer’s mediation, in boundless ecstacy, still cry—Where—Where then is Death!
