Accept my pledge of purpose high, That calls me to your northern sky. Much have I heard, and longed to view These spreading coasts, and waters blue, These rosy skies, and beaming shores, Replete with all their sylvan stores. Nor less my interest in that race Who poise the dart, and lead the chase; And, with a pride of kin and sire, Still light up here their council fire. Tradition hath informed me well Of deeds in which ye yet excel: Your skill by water, rift and rock, The war-path and the battle’s shock; And all those arts, through which ye sing, “I am the wild-wood’s subtle king.” Take of my proffered pledge: we stand Thus heart in heart, as hand in hand.
MONGAZID.
So be it, sire: the heavens turn black On all who from this pledge draw back.
CANTO II.
THE SACRED ISLAND.
A DISCOVERY.
[Scene. The broad expanse of the Lake. An assemblage of Indian canoes on the water. One, in advance, bearing the national flag of the United States. Time—morning.]
The golden sun with early ray, Saw Ethwald on his ocean way, With silent Azid for his guide, And mission-father by his side: His birchen vessel light and gay Speeds swan-like o’er the liquid way— The sky is calm—the morning air Scarce stirs that mass, so vast, so fair— That, like a sheet of waving gold, The eye may not undimm’d behold; Yet is there motion—bark and crew Dance lightly on that ocean blue, And ever, as up and down they ride Upon that broad, eternal tide, The strained sight descries the while, Short glimpses of that holy isle, Like dreams of bliss, that, fair and sheen, Flit in the moment they are seen. Nearer and nearer as they ply, A gathering mist swells up the sky, And every object, dun or fair, Spreads wild distorted through the air— The trees like shrouded spectres stand, To guard that evil haunted land— The pointed cliffs spread broad and square, Like castles with their banners fair, And motley shapes of monstrous size Start up, and glare before the eyes. To all but Azid’s fearful view The scene is glorious, grand, and new, But wondrous not—they know and prize The gay refractions of these skies; But Azid—ghastly forms pursue, All that he fears he sees in view! At first he mutters—then he speaks, Cold drops bedew his aged cheeks; But ere he lifts th’ imploring eye, T’ appease the spirit of the sky, An offering meet of sacred things Upon the misty wave he flings, But chief that herb whose sacred fame And power, the tribes Ussáma name. Then with brief word and solemn air Recites the simple hunter’s prayer. “’Tis now with Thee—Great Spirit free, My rite is done—it is with Thee!”
Now western breezes briskly play, And sweep those fleecy forms away; In broken fields they wheel on high, And show that treasur’d island nigh, In all its loveliest verdure drest, Like sanctuary of the blest, Where peace hath rear’d her forest throne, To man and all his works unknown. With joy they reach the silver strand, With joy they gaze—they leap to land, Like beings from a higher sphere, Dropt down to dwell and worship here.
On all its cliffs and arching bays, They pour intent their ardent gaze— Each airy, wild, fantastic sight, They scan with ever new delight, As if the very earth-clod there Had something more than earthly fair, And every rock that wall’d the shore Were jewel set, or bright with ore; Each pebble on the saffron sands, They search with prying, chemic hands, By glass or magnet, lest perchance Aught should escape a grosser glance: The fragile little helix shell Along the shore their steps impel, Intent each speck’d and striped whorl To find a mass of orient pearl: The fallen trunk they search with care, For mark of ancient hatchet there; Or scan the antler bleach’d and dry With curious, searching, eager eye.
Hours thus elapse: and every hour Is fraught with some expressive power; But now a task must be essayed, They seek the island’s central shade; And first they pass a thicket green, Where birch and aspen intervene, And next a grove of sombre hue, Where spruce and fir arrest the view; A hill succeeds, and then a wold, With pines encumber’d, sere and old, That stretch their branches dead and bare, High forked amid the upper air— Beyond, a beetling rock is seen, Of massy granite—crown’d with green, And from its clefts a limpid stream Pours on the sight its silver gleam, And murm’ring on its downward way Speeds idly to a neighb’ring bay.