MR. WHITE,—I offer a very threadbare excuse for the publication of the following verses. They are published "at the request of a friend," for whom, indeed, they were written. You have accused me of obscurity, and to prevent a repetition of your censure, I will here add a scrap of explanation. "The Last Indian" is something of a Salathiel; he has survived his whole race. Stanza VI, refers to the Aztecs and other tribes long ago extinct, and supposed to have lived once upon a time, among the higher valleys east and west of the Mississippi. A second and more hardy people, referred to in stanza V, perhaps drove the Aztecs, as the Huns drove the Goths, southward, upon the rich regions of Mexico. These dead Mexican tribes are described on their return—led by a kind of amor patriæ instinct—to their early homes in the north.
LARRY LYLE.
| I. |
I slept beneath a tree one Summer eve,
My couch a bed of blossom-beaded thyme,
My roof the bough which spirit fingers weave,
My slumber-song a brooklet's mellow chime:
I dreamed—and far away thro' space and time,
My liberated spirit joyfully
Forth went—a pioneer well skilled to climb
The cloudy crags and cliffs of mystery.
I dreamed—I speak my dream; and canst thou read it me? |
II. |
On the jagg'd summit of a mountain range,
More azure than the blue sky, sternly stood—
Like Sathanas of old—a wanderer strange,
Drinking deep grief, as one who meets the flood
Of bitterness in some parched solitude;
Before him spread, in undulations vast,
A Prairie sea, all isled with rock and wood;
And young winds closed their wings above its breast,
As faint bees close their wings when Summer days have passed. |
III. |
The Sun had come—a weary traveller—
Up o'er the hills of ether, for methought
'Twas many thousand years since Lucifer
Fell from his glory, and, with trial fraught
And leaden labor, Time had weakness brought
To Sun and Moon. Men saw the Sun upcome,
And marvelled at its lustre: Sages sought
That lustre's source, and said "at point of doom
Mysterious fires full oft the closing eye illume." |
IV. |
Methought a change came o'er the face of earth;
Hill, plain, and hollow shook as with the throe
Of mortal agony. The mountain girth
Shrunk, heaved, then burst asunder. In mad flow
The waters of great lakes foamed, battling through
Far scattered crags; and mighty rocks, down hurled
From mountain tops, laid bare the volcano—
The great volcano! and its flame unfurled,
Streamed redly, wrathfully, above the reeling world. |
V. |
A voice went forth, far louder than the roar
Of bounding rivers; and the summons broke
The deep sleep of earth's dead. Each burial shore
And tree-robed mound in groaning travail shook,
And giant skeletons from death awoke.
Barbarians seemed they, armed with spear and bow;
And thro' their ribs as thro' the winter oak
Winds whistled; while from bone lips evermo'
Uptrembled hollowly, horn murmurs, faint and low. |
VI. |
And, from the charnel valleys of the South,
A multitude, vast, vast beyond compare,
Moved darkly onward. Song and shout uncouth,
Betokened their wild joy; while on the air,
Forgotten instruments breathed music rare—
Sweet unknown tunes, as soft as hymn of rills.
The Mammoth and the Mastodon were there,
All yoked;—and then I heard far-groaning wheels:
The tomb had gaped—the dead tribes sought their early hills! |
VII. |
Amid the groan and rumbling heave of earth,
And noise of waters, came each silver tone.
But ere my wonder ceased, a storm had birth,
And rattling thunder mingled with the moan
And sob of nature. O'er car—skeleton—
A cloud-veil passed and hid them from my sight;
While o'er that cloud, far on a mountain throne,
A city rocked—illumined by the light
Of its own burning towers—fit type of frail man's might! |
VIII. |
And then the Sun waxed dim. The red Moon rode
Above the trembling nations, with an eye
Of wrath and anguish, and a brow of blood—
While one by one, afar, in the dun sky
The stars went out, as dew-drops, when winds sigh,
From grass and flower and thin leaf disappear.
Then no man saw the Sun! but still on high
The great Moon rode; and, ever redly clear,
Glared thro' thick fog and mist, till men grew dumb with fear. |
IX. |
The wanderer looked forth tremblingly, and lo!
A wide winged Eagle on the darkness came.
Her brood had died,—all died! and wild with wo
And reckless wrath, that terror might not tame—
Chasing the swart cloud from her eye of flame—
She sought the summit of that lonely peak.
She saw the Red Man, and with joyous scream,
Claimed fellowship; but to her iron beak
A single death-flash leapt, and wreathed her scornful neck. |
X. |
Innumerable mounds belched lurid streams,
And poured, in hot black showers, the cinder-rain;
I gazed and saw, as high the forked gleams
Sprang piercingly thro' volumed smoke again,
Earth's wan-faced myriads. From the Ocean-plain
Her living tribes had flown, to seek the light
And safety of that adamantine chain,
In shivering crowds; and wildered with affright,
They toiled in throngs to reach the mountain's farthest height. |
XI. |
And one, more daring, stood upon the brink
Of a volcano,—and his scathed hand raised,
Dripping with hissing lava. Some would shrink;
And many called on God; while some, amazed,
Stood statuelike: and some in madness seized
With Vampyre tooth, and laid their full veins bare.
And one—a blue-eyed maiden—upward gazed
In speechless wo, while gleamed her long fair hair
And ghastly cheek, beneath that flame's unearthly glare. |
XII. |
Methought, pale girl, that thou wert of the line
Of her I loved; and tears flowed full and fast,
To see a form so beautiful as thine
In the Volcano's death-light. This soon passed!
Again with strength I heard and saw. A blast
From unseen horn, rang wildly o'er the herd
Of dead and living men: The myriad vast
Wailed moaningly when each the strange blast heard,
And dead and living stood with stony brows upreared. |
XIII. |
Earth heaved anew, and toppling crags fell down
In darkness. Rivers turned and fled the main—
And galloping—like startled steeds back thrown
By some strong rampart—rushed in fear again
To their far founts, o'erwhelming rock and plain.
The fiend Tornado shrieked and wrung the wood,
Old Earth's scorched locks—until her ory brain
Lay shelterless and bare: while beryl-hued
And bubbling streams, breast, cheek, and cloven brow imbrued. |
XIV. |
Mine eye waned slowly into wakefulness;
The wild forms of my dream waxed faint and dim;
But ere they fled, methought the pallid race
Had crumbled into ashes; while o'er him,
Last of the injured, twin in death with time—
A strong joy swept. Woe's furrow had been ploughed
Deep in his heart; he was avenged!
As swim
O'er Autumn skies the fleets of shattered cloud,
So swam those scenes and passed. I turned and sobbed aloud. |
XV. |
A purfled Oreole sate upon a bough
Above me, and with gentle carollings
Shook the still air; e'er raining on my brow
The dewy globules, with her restless wings:
I love the bird,—I love the song she sings!
For that I heard it by a lonely stream
In days, when love and hope were rainbow things:
The sweet bird soothed me, but my brain will teem
Full many a mirthless eve, with fragments of that dream! |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.