THE GOLD-FINDER.

I.To travellers by the seas, or on long plains,The distant objects, on the horizon’s verge,Show but their highest summits; so with Time.Time orbs so silently beneath our feet,We look around, and know not that we move,Or that the point whereon we stand, to-day,This moment, is our culminating point;The Past and Future dip as they recede,And only give to view the tops of things.Therefore, be happy now; the mental eyeMay take his pleasure, pleasure if it be,In gazing on the Cottage, or the Church;The Heart may fondly dwell upon the one,And think of days of piety, to be;And on the other, till the breath of HomeWaft to the soul more pleasant memoriesThan the West stealing o’er a field of hay;—Blest in our ignorance, we cannot seeThat, underneath the rose-grown eaves of HomeLurk fire and sickness, bickering and want;Or, where the steeple-cross shines in the sun,That damp, cold graves are nestling dark beneath.All Nature cries, “Be happy now.” The Bee,Whose angry labours wound the ear of Noon,Finds in the winter, from his garnered store,Quick spoliation, and a bitter death;The light-winged Butterfly, with truer scope,Ranges, all summer, through the garden-beds,And, ignorant of darker days to come,Enjoys a life-long holiday; the ManWho spake as never man did, bade us viewThe untended lilies of the desert-plain:“They toil not,” said he, “neither do they spin;And yet I say to you that Solomon,In all his glory, was not clad like these.”Michael De Mas knew not this holy truth;Alas!histhought was ever of the morrow:And yet he was no foolish homesick swain,Such as, amid the perils of the strife,The conflict of existence, pine and sighTo flee to some ideal resting-place,To feed on contemplation, or to wooSome simple Thestylis in beechen groves.To him the cry of subjugate despairRang, like a trumpet of encouragement;And brave resistance did but seem to himAnother step that led him to the heights.Ten years had poured their various gifts on earthOf death and life, of sunshine and of shade,Since Michael left his little school disgracedBy acts of lawless violence; and wentBack to a ruined parent’s ruined home,To feed his heart on innutritious dreamsAnd idle scorn of those he would not know.Once when the lights of English Autumn time,Clear, vigorous, spirit-cheering, morning lights,Were dancing on a thousand thousand trees,Were streaming on a thousand fertile fields,And smoking on a hundred cottage tops,He felt that these, once his, were his no more:A stranger ploughed his very garden plots;The Halls, where his forefathers fed the shire,Were fallen, and the stones and timbers sold;One-tenth of all the house, one-hundredth partOf the broad lands, and how much less part stillOf the respect and power that graced the name,Would cleave to him the heir. So slow had beenThe gradual alienation, that till nowHe had not felt it fully; but that morn(’Twas Sabbath) they had been to worship God,And even in the very Church, where onceThe service staid for them, and bells rang onTill good Sir Marmaduke, in coach of state,Drawn by six solemn Flanders steeds, and girtBy a full score of stalwart serving men,Approaching, gave the signal to begin,Even there a London Scrivener, with his broodOf pale and purse-proud children of the fog,Sate in their ancient place, beneath the crestWhich Black Sir Walter wore at Agincourt;Ay, over the cold stones, where lies at peaceThe knight who fell at Naseby, by his King,There sate his steward’s grandson.“Ah,” thought Michael,“The desolate abomination standsMost proudly where it ought not; ’tis not theseI blame, but gold, the cursed cause of all,Gold that o’erthrew my fathers, and raised these,These—and why not me also?” till he sworeThat gold, and gold alone, should be his god,As who alone rewards its worshippers.“Therefore,” he said, “dear Idol, I to theeFrom henceforth pay my vows; thou who dost raiseThe Beggar, till the Princes of the EarthBow low to kiss his stirrup; who dost givePower and distinction, virtue and renown.My name shall be among the fortunate,For I am of those whose will is Destiny.And then, perhaps, when Victory shall be mine,My Margaret will not turn away from me,As now, methinks, even she must wish to do.”The thought was inspiration: all on fire,He wrote to one, their noble house’s chief,Whose voice was heard at Eastern council boards;And with the ardour of a youthful heart,He urged his claim: “His Lordship knew him well,The soldier’s spirit He felt; for He was strong;—The influence of wind, or sun, or rain,Could never sap His sinews: were it hisTo draw a sword in yonder golden land,He promised them no niggard of himself,No slothful wearer of a scarlet coat,Most terrible to women.”Marvel notThat Michael took the final step alone;His Mother never knew a wish but his;His Father, ah, the sorrows of decay,And sorrow-taught indulgence, made him cold,Cold as the inmate of an idiot’s cell.II.Michael had gained his end, and India’s SunNow ruled his eager blood; some of his hopesWere crowned with triumph; he got store of gold,But lost his sense of honour.In days like those,Deceit and violence gave the rule of lifeTo men once wise and generous; they were poor,And they had power: Opinion, far awayRaved, like the idle murmurs of the Sea,Heard, in still summer evenings, from a hill.Blame them not over harshly; skill and valourGive power, which, even when marred and mixed with wrong,May bless those who abide its visitings.When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick cloudsHave hid the friendly faces of the stars,The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and thereSome wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by themImmunity from other lingering deaths,And that may seem an Evil; yet the air,Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear,And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine,And gives to men, for many and many a day,Prosperity and pleasure: so with these,God’s chosen messengers to work his will;They purify the poisoned moral gale,Cause peace and plenty wheresoe’er they go,And lead in happiness on a path of thorns.Among the foes of the English settlers, oneWas ever foremost; he—by what arts wonBoots not to trace—had made a friend of Michael,Who grew in power and riches day by day.But purer times were coming; there were heardDeserved, though little looked for then from those,Themselves not pure who raised them, murmurings;Surmise grew into knowledge; Michael’s friendsWere few; men stained as he pronounced his doom.Still there was hope; he never knew despair:The Rajah he had served should shelter him,And he would lead his Armies; he foresawMore wealth, more power, more means of growing great.III.He passed from low Bengal’s unbroken green,That, like a harlot, smiles but to betray,And with a troop of chosen cavaliers,Came to the Holy Land of Hindostan,Wearily wandering, whether the strong sunParched the wide champaign, and the furnace blastsCame howling, hot and dry, whirling the sandIn dense and overwhelming canopy,So that, for hours, the dark was palpable;Or whether, under the moist star of Eve,The village slumbered peaceful, great old treesIntensely still, and immemorial poolsSilently shining, save where, now and then,The Alligator glided from the bank,Warned by the chill of evening, or the girlsWith tinkling bangles, and the ringing laughOf youth, and happiness, and unrestraint,In coming down for water, scared awayThe timid monster of two elements.Once, as they halted in an ancient grove,Set by some hospitable hand, of old,And consecrate to travellers, now too nearThe fortress of a wild Mahratta Prince,The weary band were throwing by their arms,And, gathered in their separate brotherhoods,Prepared for evening’s rest; some made in earthTheir simple ovens, some set up the tents,Some slew the bleating kid, some kneeling, turnedTheir faces to the West, their Prophet’s shrine,And with much prostrate bending, prayed to HimWho made the morning and the even-tide.Suddenly came upon them, unawares,The soldiers of the castle, bound their arms,And drove them, harshly, o’er the plain, on foot,Weary and terror-stricken, through the gate,Into the presence hall, where sate their chief.Sternly he questioned Michael of his wealth,And with what hope he, from a foreign land,Was wandering, thus attended; who, in scorn,Answered him nothing; till “Away with him!Bind him there on the house-top, that the moonShed curses on his face, pale as her own,And our strong Sun burn up his alien blood;And straitly search, and bring me all his gold.”They laid him on a low, unfurnished couch,And left him, bound, alone; he could but lookUp to the sky, his head so fast was set,And so he lay, and strove to rest himself,But vainly; the sharp cords entered his flesh,The dews sank on his shuddering skin; the MoonRose, like a fire, among the mango boughs,And, slowly wending on her westward way,Smote him with deadly influence: so night passed,A night as long as three; the chilly dawnCame, grey, and weakly struggling with the Moon,Then threw a red flush over all the East,Whereat the Moon turned white, and hid herself,While the great Orb that is her lord arose,And swiftly mounted high: his pain increased,His body streamed, his brain was agonised,His sense was reeling; suddenly there cameA tingling stillness on his ears; his eyesClosed; and he scarcely knew of one who said,“Let be; unbind him; ’tis a warrior good.”Long days the fever lasted, but his strength,Nursed by the breezes of a hardier clime,Would not desert him; so that he arose,A bold, refreshed young giant: then the ChiefSpoke soothing words; and Michael hid his wrath,And answered calmly; till they made them terms,That Michael gave the service of his skillTo tame those wild Mahrattas, ruling themTo discipline, that they might grow more fierce,Like dogs, that wreak on foes their masters’ will.IV.Time held his course; the strong-willed man of bloodProspered in all he undertook, and throve,And gathered stores, and seemed to casual eyesA happy child of Fortune; yet there burnedTwo unextinguished furnaces of woeWithin him—lust of gold and of revenge:For his was not a spirit that e’er could yield,Or ever cease to think upon its wrongs.And therefore watched he, many days and years,How he might compass his employer’s ruin,And yet not risk his fortunes; the last sparkOf holier fire, his love for that fair girl,That cottage-flower of purity and truth,Margaret, the sister of his boyhood’s friend—That spark still smouldered in some inmost nookOf his sin-darkened bosom, for the fumesOf thought debased, rose ever, like a smoke,Dimming the smiles of Nature; the carouse,The fierce extremes of dalliance and of blood,Had almost made him something less than Man.At length came round the time he waited for;The fraud and rapine of the prince he servedRose to such height, as seemed, to the English chiefsA source of fear, if not at once abridged;And thereupon, they issued words of War.Full long the Rajah treated, hoping still,By terms, to pacify the alien powerWhich, even then, was growing terrible;But each concession, made a day too late,Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold;For, in those days, the illusion of the EastHad not yet vanished; like the peasant boyWho deems that London streets are paved with gold,Men, old in all the arts of peace and war,Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw,Might harbour still the treasures of romance.At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay,And, hoping that the neighbouring potentates,(Whose crooked policy still left in doubtWhich side they meant to favour) when they sawTheir countryman but once victorious,Would join to drive the usurper to the Sea,Resolved to stand the hazard of a fight.V.The season was the later Indian rains;The sorrowing sky, bereaved of her Lord,Was dark and full of weeping, and the heartOf Michael, though a bold one, had been trainedIn its cold native Island, to a loveOf the bright beams of Summer; and the SunEven when it dealt destruction, gave him joy:And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread,Such as the priests of old JerusalemFelt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept,From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful,Upon the fatal night before the storm,When the Shechinah left them audibly.Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on,And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts,Felt fear and wonder that he was alone.Around his tent he heard the mighty watersPlash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry;Within, the congregated insect lifeMonotonously hummed; he made two turns,Then, calling for his torch, took an old book,Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last giftOf a dear mother, given to him with sobs,And murmured blessings, when he left his home.He opened it, and face to face aroseThe dead old years he thought to have escaped,All chronicled in letters; there he sawAnswers to some of his, containing doubtsLong since become negations, some againEncouraging resolves of his, long broke,And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leafBut marked some downward step: Oh, in our lifeThere are no hours so full of speechless woe,As those in which we read, through misty eyes,Letters from those who loved us once; of whomSome have long ceased to love at all; the handThat traced the fond warm records still and cold;The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to allThat moves and mourns and sins upon the earth;And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged,Still live, still love, but live for us no more.He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heardThat sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,The strong spasmodic weeping of a man.And all that night in Michael’s tent there burned,Though foul with smoke, and swayed by gusty winds,A strong bright torch, fit emblem of his soul,That keen lamp of God’s lighting bright and strong.While, looking on a tress of golden hairThat lay before him, all night long he sate;This was the man who left in days gone by,A friend, and a friend’s sister, dear as he—A most kind mother, sinking with her cares—An apathetic father, worn with woe—A home in ruins—and a noble name,To be renewed, or ended, by himself.VI.All things had now combined; they were to marchAgainst the English army; thoughts long nursedHad taken form, to ripen into deeds.The rains were ended; and the army metIn an old city where he marshalled them;And, as he walked at evening, on the terraceOf the high castle where his dwelling was,He looked through fretted arches to the plain,And saw their tents dropped white and countless there,Like sheep without a shepherd—like poor sheepMarked for the slaughter—and he pitied them.Ere long, the dying despot of the daySank softly down, drowned in a sea of blood—Like the old Roman Wolf in Capreæ.Michael prepared for action: dark night fell,The tents were lost to sight, the shouting sank,The drums were silent, all the plain was dark;Only against the far horizon loomedThe uneven outline of the distant hills.He called his trusty troopers, and stole forth,Hoping to pass the camp all unobserved;But with that Host was one who loved him not,His own Lieutenant, nephew to the King,And higher in the soldiers’ hearts than he—This man had dogged his path for many a day—And when they came to the town’s outer gate,They found it strictly guarded; Michael rode,In anger, at the densest, shouting loud,“Smite, smite them, spare not, each man for his life.”His Arab Horse, that stood with gathered limbs,And head reined to his chest, sprang at the cry,And leaping, like a flame, plunged in the crowd;The rest was one confusion, without sight,Or sound—a breathless dream of ecstasy—Till he, and half a hundred mounted men,Were pouring o’er the plain, as pour the floods,When the dams burst, and winter drowns the fields.On came the fierce Lieutenant, and behindThundered a motley rabble, whose lean steedsCould ill sustain that violent career,And soon there were not left who followed himFive hundred horsemen; still the chase was hot;—Hot was the chase, and long—o’er scorched sands,And open cornfields, till the spent pursuersBegan to drop behind;—some, rolled on earth,Saw their girths broken, or their horses slain.Then Michael’s men drew bridle and stood still,Waiting the onset of the exhausted crew,Whose numbers now were scarce the double of theirs.First came the bold Foujdar. “Forward!” he cried;“Down with the false Feringhi” his last word;—A pistol flash, a groan, a drop of bloodOn the white drapery he wore—his horseWas riderless for ever. Michael turnedFierce on the cowed pursuers, “Get you back,And tell your master he is now to payMy long-held forfeit for foul injuries,Who dared to fling on me, when I was weak,The childish insults of a childish mind.”That night he was within the British lines;But his dear gold was gone; for at the gateHis waggon-bullocks and their driver slain,And half his guard cut off, he had but savedHis life alone, and some few jewels, storedUpon his person: once more, all his toil,His guilt, was foiled; he was a beggar still.VII.His ill-gained wealth was gone, but not his heart;And gain it seemed to that impatient spiritThat now he should not go, a man disgraced,To build his fallen ancestral home, long bareTo the invading scorn of low-born men.He would sail eastward, with what yet remained,Touch at some island of the Tropic seas,And take a freight of spices; thence set sailFor the rich ports of China, there to trade,And see the wonders of that unknown land;Thence o’er the broad Pacific, and so downBy Panama, and Valparaiso, homeBy the cold Land of Fire: thus would he voyage,And gain more wealth, and win himself a nameFor riches and adventure, courage bold,And knowledge of strange countries. Then no moreWould cleave to him the brand of his disgrace;—All bow the knee to him whom Fortune serves,And he would be her master: he would riseHigher and brighter o’er the heads of men,Blaze in their sight—no meteor, shortlived, vain,But rule them like the Day-God; then to himThe Senate and the Court should open their gates,The mammon-loving City name his name,His old ancestral mansion rear its head,And he would dwell at ease, for all abroadHe should behold the lands his fathers held,And breathe again his genial native air.Nature and he should both their youth renew,And all things have a beauty not their own.There, on the upland, shall a milder sunSmite the white cottage and the glistening vane;And nestle in the balmy stack, and float,A fruitful flood upon the southern wall;—There the great oak shall stir his solemn head,The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint,The poplar tremble, like the heart of man,Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;—The beech shall spread his venerable shade,The stately elms’ procession guard his walks,The birch-bark gleam through foliage, and the ashWave ruddy clusters;—willows there shall weep,And the wet alder shall delight to wadeKnee-deep in sluggish waters, where the kineTake the whole meadow with contented eye,Philosophers of nature.One dark thoughtAlone can mar these visions;—he must die,And leave the dear possessions: in this landWhere men are struck down in their hour of strength,That thought will oft intrude;—by day it fliesBefore the excitement that his life affords—The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field.In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream:Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul,(For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter,Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place,And left him there alone;—there was no pain;But a sense that all was lost for evermore,That this was now, and worse might be to come,Made the stagnation misery; till, behold,The sad and silent years wore on;—at lengthHis musing Spirit said within herself:—“Oh! for one breath of life; a day, an hour,Before the irrevocable change;—how greatMy power was, had I used it; now ’tis gone.Where is my wealth? a heap of rotten leavesBlown to the shores of folly, where it grew;My cherished body gone, perchance, for ever,Perhaps reserved to torment.” With the thoughtHe strove to utter such a cry, as, heardEchoing beyond the hollow halls of Hell,Upon the confines of the orbed Earth,Might warn the guilty, ere it was too late;—And with that cry he woke: the dawning daySaw him confused with horror; when it set,He was carousing to the lips in sin.Now was no hope! save that domestic joysMight give him pause, and win him from his sins—Sins not now pleasant, but so strong of growth,That, like old Ivy, they had hid the tree,And threatened its destruction.There was one,(Although he dared not name her) who had beenA cottage light, still seen, though far away,In the dark, stormy wilderness of life;Her love should win him yet;—for he had heardThat she was still unwedded; and he knewHer woman’s heart, in blessed ignorance,Might still be true to that which he had been.VIII.He sailed, in search of wealth, from Ganges’ mouth,But the ship’s prow was never seen again,Stemming the homeward waters—whether, whelmedIn stormy ocean, half way down she swayedAnd swung among the dolphins and the sharks;Or whether, on some calm Pacific night,Where on the farthest limits of the darkThere rose and fell the momentary flashOf lone inland volcanoes, some soft breezeHad run her slowly on the coral reefs,And the blue waves had rippled o’er her grave,There was a nine days’ wonder;—men inquired,Where was the man, whose wealth, without an heir,(So lost, so wonderfully won again,After he left the country, by the faithOf an old servant, thought to have been slain,)Was fabulously splendid? And some saidThere was a Will; all he might have was leftTo strangers—“to a Lady he had loved.”It was the year that filled the centuryFrom Michael’s birth, when he was seen again.A venturous band had wandered in the West,Till far from towns, or any haunt of men,They came upon a region by the sea.Rock-bound and bare it lay; and all the stormsThat hurled the ancient, white-topped, weary wavesOn California, since the world began,Had, day by day, and year by untold year,Heaped all their violence on its patient side,And wasted it unhindered;—such salt herbs,Such dwarf and barren trees as the keen airGave sufferance to, but rendered still more grimThe stony desolation of the place.Yet was that soil not barren, or the menHad never sought its distant boundaries;For they were of the eager Saxon race,And e’en their rude and weather-wasted garbBore mark of civilised life: “No foot of man,”Said one, “has trode these wastes from everlasting:Brothers, the land is virgin; part we here,And in the evening let us meet again,There, by the mouth of yonder natural cave,And share the general labours of the day—See, Edward, even now you tripped on gold.”They parted: in the evening, when they met,Their leader wore a sad and solemn look,And with few words he led them up the rocks,Into a stern wild scene. Far as they looked,Cliff heaped on cliff, and stone on fragment stone,The land’s brown ribs extended: here and thereSteep chasms it had, declining to the sea:—Some were the beds of streams, that evermoreWashed down the golden grain, and in a yearPaid to the treasury of the insatiate floodMore than the subjects of the richest KingsYield to their despots in a century;—But some of them were dry, and choked with stonesAnd logs of rotting timber, and deep sand;—Here, with the lumps of ore heaped high aroundThey found a human skeleton; hard by,A rusty cutlass, such as mariners use,Whereon was rudely graven, and half-effaced,The words “Michael De Mas;” and underneath,“I die of want upon a bed of gold.”

To travellers by the seas, or on long plains,The distant objects, on the horizon’s verge,Show but their highest summits; so with Time.Time orbs so silently beneath our feet,We look around, and know not that we move,Or that the point whereon we stand, to-day,This moment, is our culminating point;The Past and Future dip as they recede,And only give to view the tops of things.Therefore, be happy now; the mental eyeMay take his pleasure, pleasure if it be,In gazing on the Cottage, or the Church;The Heart may fondly dwell upon the one,And think of days of piety, to be;And on the other, till the breath of HomeWaft to the soul more pleasant memoriesThan the West stealing o’er a field of hay;—Blest in our ignorance, we cannot seeThat, underneath the rose-grown eaves of HomeLurk fire and sickness, bickering and want;Or, where the steeple-cross shines in the sun,That damp, cold graves are nestling dark beneath.All Nature cries, “Be happy now.” The Bee,Whose angry labours wound the ear of Noon,Finds in the winter, from his garnered store,Quick spoliation, and a bitter death;The light-winged Butterfly, with truer scope,Ranges, all summer, through the garden-beds,And, ignorant of darker days to come,Enjoys a life-long holiday; the ManWho spake as never man did, bade us viewThe untended lilies of the desert-plain:“They toil not,” said he, “neither do they spin;And yet I say to you that Solomon,In all his glory, was not clad like these.”Michael De Mas knew not this holy truth;Alas!histhought was ever of the morrow:And yet he was no foolish homesick swain,Such as, amid the perils of the strife,The conflict of existence, pine and sighTo flee to some ideal resting-place,To feed on contemplation, or to wooSome simple Thestylis in beechen groves.To him the cry of subjugate despairRang, like a trumpet of encouragement;And brave resistance did but seem to himAnother step that led him to the heights.Ten years had poured their various gifts on earthOf death and life, of sunshine and of shade,Since Michael left his little school disgracedBy acts of lawless violence; and wentBack to a ruined parent’s ruined home,To feed his heart on innutritious dreamsAnd idle scorn of those he would not know.Once when the lights of English Autumn time,Clear, vigorous, spirit-cheering, morning lights,Were dancing on a thousand thousand trees,Were streaming on a thousand fertile fields,And smoking on a hundred cottage tops,He felt that these, once his, were his no more:A stranger ploughed his very garden plots;The Halls, where his forefathers fed the shire,Were fallen, and the stones and timbers sold;One-tenth of all the house, one-hundredth partOf the broad lands, and how much less part stillOf the respect and power that graced the name,Would cleave to him the heir. So slow had beenThe gradual alienation, that till nowHe had not felt it fully; but that morn(’Twas Sabbath) they had been to worship God,And even in the very Church, where onceThe service staid for them, and bells rang onTill good Sir Marmaduke, in coach of state,Drawn by six solemn Flanders steeds, and girtBy a full score of stalwart serving men,Approaching, gave the signal to begin,Even there a London Scrivener, with his broodOf pale and purse-proud children of the fog,Sate in their ancient place, beneath the crestWhich Black Sir Walter wore at Agincourt;Ay, over the cold stones, where lies at peaceThe knight who fell at Naseby, by his King,There sate his steward’s grandson.“Ah,” thought Michael,“The desolate abomination standsMost proudly where it ought not; ’tis not theseI blame, but gold, the cursed cause of all,Gold that o’erthrew my fathers, and raised these,These—and why not me also?” till he sworeThat gold, and gold alone, should be his god,As who alone rewards its worshippers.“Therefore,” he said, “dear Idol, I to theeFrom henceforth pay my vows; thou who dost raiseThe Beggar, till the Princes of the EarthBow low to kiss his stirrup; who dost givePower and distinction, virtue and renown.My name shall be among the fortunate,For I am of those whose will is Destiny.And then, perhaps, when Victory shall be mine,My Margaret will not turn away from me,As now, methinks, even she must wish to do.”The thought was inspiration: all on fire,He wrote to one, their noble house’s chief,Whose voice was heard at Eastern council boards;And with the ardour of a youthful heart,He urged his claim: “His Lordship knew him well,The soldier’s spirit He felt; for He was strong;—The influence of wind, or sun, or rain,Could never sap His sinews: were it hisTo draw a sword in yonder golden land,He promised them no niggard of himself,No slothful wearer of a scarlet coat,Most terrible to women.”Marvel notThat Michael took the final step alone;His Mother never knew a wish but his;His Father, ah, the sorrows of decay,And sorrow-taught indulgence, made him cold,Cold as the inmate of an idiot’s cell.

To travellers by the seas, or on long plains,

The distant objects, on the horizon’s verge,

Show but their highest summits; so with Time.

Time orbs so silently beneath our feet,

We look around, and know not that we move,

Or that the point whereon we stand, to-day,

This moment, is our culminating point;

The Past and Future dip as they recede,

And only give to view the tops of things.

Therefore, be happy now; the mental eye

May take his pleasure, pleasure if it be,

In gazing on the Cottage, or the Church;

The Heart may fondly dwell upon the one,

And think of days of piety, to be;

And on the other, till the breath of Home

Waft to the soul more pleasant memories

Than the West stealing o’er a field of hay;—

Blest in our ignorance, we cannot see

That, underneath the rose-grown eaves of Home

Lurk fire and sickness, bickering and want;

Or, where the steeple-cross shines in the sun,

That damp, cold graves are nestling dark beneath.

All Nature cries, “Be happy now.” The Bee,

Whose angry labours wound the ear of Noon,

Finds in the winter, from his garnered store,

Quick spoliation, and a bitter death;

The light-winged Butterfly, with truer scope,

Ranges, all summer, through the garden-beds,

And, ignorant of darker days to come,

Enjoys a life-long holiday; the Man

Who spake as never man did, bade us view

The untended lilies of the desert-plain:

“They toil not,” said he, “neither do they spin;

And yet I say to you that Solomon,

In all his glory, was not clad like these.”

Michael De Mas knew not this holy truth;

Alas!histhought was ever of the morrow:

And yet he was no foolish homesick swain,

Such as, amid the perils of the strife,

The conflict of existence, pine and sigh

To flee to some ideal resting-place,

To feed on contemplation, or to woo

Some simple Thestylis in beechen groves.

To him the cry of subjugate despair

Rang, like a trumpet of encouragement;

And brave resistance did but seem to him

Another step that led him to the heights.

Ten years had poured their various gifts on earth

Of death and life, of sunshine and of shade,

Since Michael left his little school disgraced

By acts of lawless violence; and went

Back to a ruined parent’s ruined home,

To feed his heart on innutritious dreams

And idle scorn of those he would not know.

Once when the lights of English Autumn time,

Clear, vigorous, spirit-cheering, morning lights,

Were dancing on a thousand thousand trees,

Were streaming on a thousand fertile fields,

And smoking on a hundred cottage tops,

He felt that these, once his, were his no more:

A stranger ploughed his very garden plots;

The Halls, where his forefathers fed the shire,

Were fallen, and the stones and timbers sold;

One-tenth of all the house, one-hundredth part

Of the broad lands, and how much less part still

Of the respect and power that graced the name,

Would cleave to him the heir. So slow had been

The gradual alienation, that till now

He had not felt it fully; but that morn

(’Twas Sabbath) they had been to worship God,

And even in the very Church, where once

The service staid for them, and bells rang on

Till good Sir Marmaduke, in coach of state,

Drawn by six solemn Flanders steeds, and girt

By a full score of stalwart serving men,

Approaching, gave the signal to begin,

Even there a London Scrivener, with his brood

Of pale and purse-proud children of the fog,

Sate in their ancient place, beneath the crest

Which Black Sir Walter wore at Agincourt;

Ay, over the cold stones, where lies at peace

The knight who fell at Naseby, by his King,

There sate his steward’s grandson.

“Ah,” thought Michael,

“The desolate abomination stands

Most proudly where it ought not; ’tis not these

I blame, but gold, the cursed cause of all,

Gold that o’erthrew my fathers, and raised these,

These—and why not me also?” till he swore

That gold, and gold alone, should be his god,

As who alone rewards its worshippers.

“Therefore,” he said, “dear Idol, I to thee

From henceforth pay my vows; thou who dost raise

The Beggar, till the Princes of the Earth

Bow low to kiss his stirrup; who dost give

Power and distinction, virtue and renown.

My name shall be among the fortunate,

For I am of those whose will is Destiny.

And then, perhaps, when Victory shall be mine,

My Margaret will not turn away from me,

As now, methinks, even she must wish to do.”

The thought was inspiration: all on fire,

He wrote to one, their noble house’s chief,

Whose voice was heard at Eastern council boards;

And with the ardour of a youthful heart,

He urged his claim: “His Lordship knew him well,

The soldier’s spirit He felt; for He was strong;—

The influence of wind, or sun, or rain,

Could never sap His sinews: were it his

To draw a sword in yonder golden land,

He promised them no niggard of himself,

No slothful wearer of a scarlet coat,

Most terrible to women.”

Marvel not

That Michael took the final step alone;

His Mother never knew a wish but his;

His Father, ah, the sorrows of decay,

And sorrow-taught indulgence, made him cold,

Cold as the inmate of an idiot’s cell.

II.

Michael had gained his end, and India’s SunNow ruled his eager blood; some of his hopesWere crowned with triumph; he got store of gold,But lost his sense of honour.In days like those,Deceit and violence gave the rule of lifeTo men once wise and generous; they were poor,And they had power: Opinion, far awayRaved, like the idle murmurs of the Sea,Heard, in still summer evenings, from a hill.Blame them not over harshly; skill and valourGive power, which, even when marred and mixed with wrong,May bless those who abide its visitings.When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick cloudsHave hid the friendly faces of the stars,The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and thereSome wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by themImmunity from other lingering deaths,And that may seem an Evil; yet the air,Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear,And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine,And gives to men, for many and many a day,Prosperity and pleasure: so with these,God’s chosen messengers to work his will;They purify the poisoned moral gale,Cause peace and plenty wheresoe’er they go,And lead in happiness on a path of thorns.Among the foes of the English settlers, oneWas ever foremost; he—by what arts wonBoots not to trace—had made a friend of Michael,Who grew in power and riches day by day.But purer times were coming; there were heardDeserved, though little looked for then from those,Themselves not pure who raised them, murmurings;Surmise grew into knowledge; Michael’s friendsWere few; men stained as he pronounced his doom.Still there was hope; he never knew despair:The Rajah he had served should shelter him,And he would lead his Armies; he foresawMore wealth, more power, more means of growing great.

Michael had gained his end, and India’s Sun

Now ruled his eager blood; some of his hopes

Were crowned with triumph; he got store of gold,

But lost his sense of honour.

In days like those,

Deceit and violence gave the rule of life

To men once wise and generous; they were poor,

And they had power: Opinion, far away

Raved, like the idle murmurs of the Sea,

Heard, in still summer evenings, from a hill.

Blame them not over harshly; skill and valour

Give power, which, even when marred and mixed with wrong,

May bless those who abide its visitings.

When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick clouds

Have hid the friendly faces of the stars,

The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and there

Some wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by them

Immunity from other lingering deaths,

And that may seem an Evil; yet the air,

Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear,

And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine,

And gives to men, for many and many a day,

Prosperity and pleasure: so with these,

God’s chosen messengers to work his will;

They purify the poisoned moral gale,

Cause peace and plenty wheresoe’er they go,

And lead in happiness on a path of thorns.

Among the foes of the English settlers, one

Was ever foremost; he—by what arts won

Boots not to trace—had made a friend of Michael,

Who grew in power and riches day by day.

But purer times were coming; there were heard

Deserved, though little looked for then from those,

Themselves not pure who raised them, murmurings;

Surmise grew into knowledge; Michael’s friends

Were few; men stained as he pronounced his doom.

Still there was hope; he never knew despair:

The Rajah he had served should shelter him,

And he would lead his Armies; he foresaw

More wealth, more power, more means of growing great.

III.

He passed from low Bengal’s unbroken green,That, like a harlot, smiles but to betray,And with a troop of chosen cavaliers,Came to the Holy Land of Hindostan,Wearily wandering, whether the strong sunParched the wide champaign, and the furnace blastsCame howling, hot and dry, whirling the sandIn dense and overwhelming canopy,So that, for hours, the dark was palpable;Or whether, under the moist star of Eve,The village slumbered peaceful, great old treesIntensely still, and immemorial poolsSilently shining, save where, now and then,The Alligator glided from the bank,Warned by the chill of evening, or the girlsWith tinkling bangles, and the ringing laughOf youth, and happiness, and unrestraint,In coming down for water, scared awayThe timid monster of two elements.Once, as they halted in an ancient grove,Set by some hospitable hand, of old,And consecrate to travellers, now too nearThe fortress of a wild Mahratta Prince,The weary band were throwing by their arms,And, gathered in their separate brotherhoods,Prepared for evening’s rest; some made in earthTheir simple ovens, some set up the tents,Some slew the bleating kid, some kneeling, turnedTheir faces to the West, their Prophet’s shrine,And with much prostrate bending, prayed to HimWho made the morning and the even-tide.Suddenly came upon them, unawares,The soldiers of the castle, bound their arms,And drove them, harshly, o’er the plain, on foot,Weary and terror-stricken, through the gate,Into the presence hall, where sate their chief.Sternly he questioned Michael of his wealth,And with what hope he, from a foreign land,Was wandering, thus attended; who, in scorn,Answered him nothing; till “Away with him!Bind him there on the house-top, that the moonShed curses on his face, pale as her own,And our strong Sun burn up his alien blood;And straitly search, and bring me all his gold.”They laid him on a low, unfurnished couch,And left him, bound, alone; he could but lookUp to the sky, his head so fast was set,And so he lay, and strove to rest himself,But vainly; the sharp cords entered his flesh,The dews sank on his shuddering skin; the MoonRose, like a fire, among the mango boughs,And, slowly wending on her westward way,Smote him with deadly influence: so night passed,A night as long as three; the chilly dawnCame, grey, and weakly struggling with the Moon,Then threw a red flush over all the East,Whereat the Moon turned white, and hid herself,While the great Orb that is her lord arose,And swiftly mounted high: his pain increased,His body streamed, his brain was agonised,His sense was reeling; suddenly there cameA tingling stillness on his ears; his eyesClosed; and he scarcely knew of one who said,“Let be; unbind him; ’tis a warrior good.”Long days the fever lasted, but his strength,Nursed by the breezes of a hardier clime,Would not desert him; so that he arose,A bold, refreshed young giant: then the ChiefSpoke soothing words; and Michael hid his wrath,And answered calmly; till they made them terms,That Michael gave the service of his skillTo tame those wild Mahrattas, ruling themTo discipline, that they might grow more fierce,Like dogs, that wreak on foes their masters’ will.

He passed from low Bengal’s unbroken green,

That, like a harlot, smiles but to betray,

And with a troop of chosen cavaliers,

Came to the Holy Land of Hindostan,

Wearily wandering, whether the strong sun

Parched the wide champaign, and the furnace blasts

Came howling, hot and dry, whirling the sand

In dense and overwhelming canopy,

So that, for hours, the dark was palpable;

Or whether, under the moist star of Eve,

The village slumbered peaceful, great old trees

Intensely still, and immemorial pools

Silently shining, save where, now and then,

The Alligator glided from the bank,

Warned by the chill of evening, or the girls

With tinkling bangles, and the ringing laugh

Of youth, and happiness, and unrestraint,

In coming down for water, scared away

The timid monster of two elements.

Once, as they halted in an ancient grove,

Set by some hospitable hand, of old,

And consecrate to travellers, now too near

The fortress of a wild Mahratta Prince,

The weary band were throwing by their arms,

And, gathered in their separate brotherhoods,

Prepared for evening’s rest; some made in earth

Their simple ovens, some set up the tents,

Some slew the bleating kid, some kneeling, turned

Their faces to the West, their Prophet’s shrine,

And with much prostrate bending, prayed to Him

Who made the morning and the even-tide.

Suddenly came upon them, unawares,

The soldiers of the castle, bound their arms,

And drove them, harshly, o’er the plain, on foot,

Weary and terror-stricken, through the gate,

Into the presence hall, where sate their chief.

Sternly he questioned Michael of his wealth,

And with what hope he, from a foreign land,

Was wandering, thus attended; who, in scorn,

Answered him nothing; till “Away with him!

Bind him there on the house-top, that the moon

Shed curses on his face, pale as her own,

And our strong Sun burn up his alien blood;

And straitly search, and bring me all his gold.”

They laid him on a low, unfurnished couch,

And left him, bound, alone; he could but look

Up to the sky, his head so fast was set,

And so he lay, and strove to rest himself,

But vainly; the sharp cords entered his flesh,

The dews sank on his shuddering skin; the Moon

Rose, like a fire, among the mango boughs,

And, slowly wending on her westward way,

Smote him with deadly influence: so night passed,

A night as long as three; the chilly dawn

Came, grey, and weakly struggling with the Moon,

Then threw a red flush over all the East,

Whereat the Moon turned white, and hid herself,

While the great Orb that is her lord arose,

And swiftly mounted high: his pain increased,

His body streamed, his brain was agonised,

His sense was reeling; suddenly there came

A tingling stillness on his ears; his eyes

Closed; and he scarcely knew of one who said,

“Let be; unbind him; ’tis a warrior good.”

Long days the fever lasted, but his strength,

Nursed by the breezes of a hardier clime,

Would not desert him; so that he arose,

A bold, refreshed young giant: then the Chief

Spoke soothing words; and Michael hid his wrath,

And answered calmly; till they made them terms,

That Michael gave the service of his skill

To tame those wild Mahrattas, ruling them

To discipline, that they might grow more fierce,

Like dogs, that wreak on foes their masters’ will.

IV.

Time held his course; the strong-willed man of bloodProspered in all he undertook, and throve,And gathered stores, and seemed to casual eyesA happy child of Fortune; yet there burnedTwo unextinguished furnaces of woeWithin him—lust of gold and of revenge:For his was not a spirit that e’er could yield,Or ever cease to think upon its wrongs.And therefore watched he, many days and years,How he might compass his employer’s ruin,And yet not risk his fortunes; the last sparkOf holier fire, his love for that fair girl,That cottage-flower of purity and truth,Margaret, the sister of his boyhood’s friend—That spark still smouldered in some inmost nookOf his sin-darkened bosom, for the fumesOf thought debased, rose ever, like a smoke,Dimming the smiles of Nature; the carouse,The fierce extremes of dalliance and of blood,Had almost made him something less than Man.At length came round the time he waited for;The fraud and rapine of the prince he servedRose to such height, as seemed, to the English chiefsA source of fear, if not at once abridged;And thereupon, they issued words of War.Full long the Rajah treated, hoping still,By terms, to pacify the alien powerWhich, even then, was growing terrible;But each concession, made a day too late,Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold;For, in those days, the illusion of the EastHad not yet vanished; like the peasant boyWho deems that London streets are paved with gold,Men, old in all the arts of peace and war,Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw,Might harbour still the treasures of romance.At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay,And, hoping that the neighbouring potentates,(Whose crooked policy still left in doubtWhich side they meant to favour) when they sawTheir countryman but once victorious,Would join to drive the usurper to the Sea,Resolved to stand the hazard of a fight.

Time held his course; the strong-willed man of blood

Prospered in all he undertook, and throve,

And gathered stores, and seemed to casual eyes

A happy child of Fortune; yet there burned

Two unextinguished furnaces of woe

Within him—lust of gold and of revenge:

For his was not a spirit that e’er could yield,

Or ever cease to think upon its wrongs.

And therefore watched he, many days and years,

How he might compass his employer’s ruin,

And yet not risk his fortunes; the last spark

Of holier fire, his love for that fair girl,

That cottage-flower of purity and truth,

Margaret, the sister of his boyhood’s friend—

That spark still smouldered in some inmost nook

Of his sin-darkened bosom, for the fumes

Of thought debased, rose ever, like a smoke,

Dimming the smiles of Nature; the carouse,

The fierce extremes of dalliance and of blood,

Had almost made him something less than Man.

At length came round the time he waited for;

The fraud and rapine of the prince he served

Rose to such height, as seemed, to the English chiefs

A source of fear, if not at once abridged;

And thereupon, they issued words of War.

Full long the Rajah treated, hoping still,

By terms, to pacify the alien power

Which, even then, was growing terrible;

But each concession, made a day too late,

Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold;

For, in those days, the illusion of the East

Had not yet vanished; like the peasant boy

Who deems that London streets are paved with gold,

Men, old in all the arts of peace and war,

Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw,

Might harbour still the treasures of romance.

At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay,

And, hoping that the neighbouring potentates,

(Whose crooked policy still left in doubt

Which side they meant to favour) when they saw

Their countryman but once victorious,

Would join to drive the usurper to the Sea,

Resolved to stand the hazard of a fight.

The season was the later Indian rains;The sorrowing sky, bereaved of her Lord,Was dark and full of weeping, and the heartOf Michael, though a bold one, had been trainedIn its cold native Island, to a loveOf the bright beams of Summer; and the SunEven when it dealt destruction, gave him joy:And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread,Such as the priests of old JerusalemFelt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept,From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful,Upon the fatal night before the storm,When the Shechinah left them audibly.Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on,And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts,Felt fear and wonder that he was alone.Around his tent he heard the mighty watersPlash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry;Within, the congregated insect lifeMonotonously hummed; he made two turns,Then, calling for his torch, took an old book,Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last giftOf a dear mother, given to him with sobs,And murmured blessings, when he left his home.He opened it, and face to face aroseThe dead old years he thought to have escaped,All chronicled in letters; there he sawAnswers to some of his, containing doubtsLong since become negations, some againEncouraging resolves of his, long broke,And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leafBut marked some downward step: Oh, in our lifeThere are no hours so full of speechless woe,As those in which we read, through misty eyes,Letters from those who loved us once; of whomSome have long ceased to love at all; the handThat traced the fond warm records still and cold;The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to allThat moves and mourns and sins upon the earth;And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged,Still live, still love, but live for us no more.He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heardThat sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,The strong spasmodic weeping of a man.And all that night in Michael’s tent there burned,Though foul with smoke, and swayed by gusty winds,A strong bright torch, fit emblem of his soul,That keen lamp of God’s lighting bright and strong.While, looking on a tress of golden hairThat lay before him, all night long he sate;This was the man who left in days gone by,A friend, and a friend’s sister, dear as he—A most kind mother, sinking with her cares—An apathetic father, worn with woe—A home in ruins—and a noble name,To be renewed, or ended, by himself.

The season was the later Indian rains;

The sorrowing sky, bereaved of her Lord,

Was dark and full of weeping, and the heart

Of Michael, though a bold one, had been trained

In its cold native Island, to a love

Of the bright beams of Summer; and the Sun

Even when it dealt destruction, gave him joy:

And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread,

Such as the priests of old Jerusalem

Felt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept,

From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful,

Upon the fatal night before the storm,

When the Shechinah left them audibly.

Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on,

And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts,

Felt fear and wonder that he was alone.

Around his tent he heard the mighty waters

Plash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry;

Within, the congregated insect life

Monotonously hummed; he made two turns,

Then, calling for his torch, took an old book,

Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last gift

Of a dear mother, given to him with sobs,

And murmured blessings, when he left his home.

He opened it, and face to face arose

The dead old years he thought to have escaped,

All chronicled in letters; there he saw

Answers to some of his, containing doubts

Long since become negations, some again

Encouraging resolves of his, long broke,

And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leaf

But marked some downward step: Oh, in our life

There are no hours so full of speechless woe,

As those in which we read, through misty eyes,

Letters from those who loved us once; of whom

Some have long ceased to love at all; the hand

That traced the fond warm records still and cold;

The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to all

That moves and mourns and sins upon the earth;

And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged,

Still live, still love, but live for us no more.

He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heard

That sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,

The strong spasmodic weeping of a man.

And all that night in Michael’s tent there burned,

Though foul with smoke, and swayed by gusty winds,

A strong bright torch, fit emblem of his soul,

That keen lamp of God’s lighting bright and strong.

While, looking on a tress of golden hair

That lay before him, all night long he sate;

This was the man who left in days gone by,

A friend, and a friend’s sister, dear as he—

A most kind mother, sinking with her cares—

An apathetic father, worn with woe—

A home in ruins—and a noble name,

To be renewed, or ended, by himself.

VI.

All things had now combined; they were to marchAgainst the English army; thoughts long nursedHad taken form, to ripen into deeds.The rains were ended; and the army metIn an old city where he marshalled them;And, as he walked at evening, on the terraceOf the high castle where his dwelling was,He looked through fretted arches to the plain,And saw their tents dropped white and countless there,Like sheep without a shepherd—like poor sheepMarked for the slaughter—and he pitied them.Ere long, the dying despot of the daySank softly down, drowned in a sea of blood—Like the old Roman Wolf in Capreæ.Michael prepared for action: dark night fell,The tents were lost to sight, the shouting sank,The drums were silent, all the plain was dark;Only against the far horizon loomedThe uneven outline of the distant hills.He called his trusty troopers, and stole forth,Hoping to pass the camp all unobserved;But with that Host was one who loved him not,His own Lieutenant, nephew to the King,And higher in the soldiers’ hearts than he—This man had dogged his path for many a day—And when they came to the town’s outer gate,They found it strictly guarded; Michael rode,In anger, at the densest, shouting loud,“Smite, smite them, spare not, each man for his life.”His Arab Horse, that stood with gathered limbs,And head reined to his chest, sprang at the cry,And leaping, like a flame, plunged in the crowd;The rest was one confusion, without sight,Or sound—a breathless dream of ecstasy—Till he, and half a hundred mounted men,Were pouring o’er the plain, as pour the floods,When the dams burst, and winter drowns the fields.On came the fierce Lieutenant, and behindThundered a motley rabble, whose lean steedsCould ill sustain that violent career,And soon there were not left who followed himFive hundred horsemen; still the chase was hot;—Hot was the chase, and long—o’er scorched sands,And open cornfields, till the spent pursuersBegan to drop behind;—some, rolled on earth,Saw their girths broken, or their horses slain.Then Michael’s men drew bridle and stood still,Waiting the onset of the exhausted crew,Whose numbers now were scarce the double of theirs.First came the bold Foujdar. “Forward!” he cried;“Down with the false Feringhi” his last word;—A pistol flash, a groan, a drop of bloodOn the white drapery he wore—his horseWas riderless for ever. Michael turnedFierce on the cowed pursuers, “Get you back,And tell your master he is now to payMy long-held forfeit for foul injuries,Who dared to fling on me, when I was weak,The childish insults of a childish mind.”That night he was within the British lines;But his dear gold was gone; for at the gateHis waggon-bullocks and their driver slain,And half his guard cut off, he had but savedHis life alone, and some few jewels, storedUpon his person: once more, all his toil,His guilt, was foiled; he was a beggar still.

All things had now combined; they were to march

Against the English army; thoughts long nursed

Had taken form, to ripen into deeds.

The rains were ended; and the army met

In an old city where he marshalled them;

And, as he walked at evening, on the terrace

Of the high castle where his dwelling was,

He looked through fretted arches to the plain,

And saw their tents dropped white and countless there,

Like sheep without a shepherd—like poor sheep

Marked for the slaughter—and he pitied them.

Ere long, the dying despot of the day

Sank softly down, drowned in a sea of blood—

Like the old Roman Wolf in Capreæ.

Michael prepared for action: dark night fell,

The tents were lost to sight, the shouting sank,

The drums were silent, all the plain was dark;

Only against the far horizon loomed

The uneven outline of the distant hills.

He called his trusty troopers, and stole forth,

Hoping to pass the camp all unobserved;

But with that Host was one who loved him not,

His own Lieutenant, nephew to the King,

And higher in the soldiers’ hearts than he—

This man had dogged his path for many a day—

And when they came to the town’s outer gate,

They found it strictly guarded; Michael rode,

In anger, at the densest, shouting loud,

“Smite, smite them, spare not, each man for his life.”

His Arab Horse, that stood with gathered limbs,

And head reined to his chest, sprang at the cry,

And leaping, like a flame, plunged in the crowd;

The rest was one confusion, without sight,

Or sound—a breathless dream of ecstasy—

Till he, and half a hundred mounted men,

Were pouring o’er the plain, as pour the floods,

When the dams burst, and winter drowns the fields.

On came the fierce Lieutenant, and behind

Thundered a motley rabble, whose lean steeds

Could ill sustain that violent career,

And soon there were not left who followed him

Five hundred horsemen; still the chase was hot;—

Hot was the chase, and long—o’er scorched sands,

And open cornfields, till the spent pursuers

Began to drop behind;—some, rolled on earth,

Saw their girths broken, or their horses slain.

Then Michael’s men drew bridle and stood still,

Waiting the onset of the exhausted crew,

Whose numbers now were scarce the double of theirs.

First came the bold Foujdar. “Forward!” he cried;

“Down with the false Feringhi” his last word;—

A pistol flash, a groan, a drop of blood

On the white drapery he wore—his horse

Was riderless for ever. Michael turned

Fierce on the cowed pursuers, “Get you back,

And tell your master he is now to pay

My long-held forfeit for foul injuries,

Who dared to fling on me, when I was weak,

The childish insults of a childish mind.”

That night he was within the British lines;

But his dear gold was gone; for at the gate

His waggon-bullocks and their driver slain,

And half his guard cut off, he had but saved

His life alone, and some few jewels, stored

Upon his person: once more, all his toil,

His guilt, was foiled; he was a beggar still.

VII.

His ill-gained wealth was gone, but not his heart;And gain it seemed to that impatient spiritThat now he should not go, a man disgraced,To build his fallen ancestral home, long bareTo the invading scorn of low-born men.He would sail eastward, with what yet remained,Touch at some island of the Tropic seas,And take a freight of spices; thence set sailFor the rich ports of China, there to trade,And see the wonders of that unknown land;Thence o’er the broad Pacific, and so downBy Panama, and Valparaiso, homeBy the cold Land of Fire: thus would he voyage,And gain more wealth, and win himself a nameFor riches and adventure, courage bold,And knowledge of strange countries. Then no moreWould cleave to him the brand of his disgrace;—All bow the knee to him whom Fortune serves,And he would be her master: he would riseHigher and brighter o’er the heads of men,Blaze in their sight—no meteor, shortlived, vain,But rule them like the Day-God; then to himThe Senate and the Court should open their gates,The mammon-loving City name his name,His old ancestral mansion rear its head,And he would dwell at ease, for all abroadHe should behold the lands his fathers held,And breathe again his genial native air.Nature and he should both their youth renew,And all things have a beauty not their own.There, on the upland, shall a milder sunSmite the white cottage and the glistening vane;And nestle in the balmy stack, and float,A fruitful flood upon the southern wall;—There the great oak shall stir his solemn head,The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint,The poplar tremble, like the heart of man,Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;—The beech shall spread his venerable shade,The stately elms’ procession guard his walks,The birch-bark gleam through foliage, and the ashWave ruddy clusters;—willows there shall weep,And the wet alder shall delight to wadeKnee-deep in sluggish waters, where the kineTake the whole meadow with contented eye,Philosophers of nature.One dark thoughtAlone can mar these visions;—he must die,And leave the dear possessions: in this landWhere men are struck down in their hour of strength,That thought will oft intrude;—by day it fliesBefore the excitement that his life affords—The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field.In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream:Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul,(For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter,Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place,And left him there alone;—there was no pain;But a sense that all was lost for evermore,That this was now, and worse might be to come,Made the stagnation misery; till, behold,The sad and silent years wore on;—at lengthHis musing Spirit said within herself:—“Oh! for one breath of life; a day, an hour,Before the irrevocable change;—how greatMy power was, had I used it; now ’tis gone.Where is my wealth? a heap of rotten leavesBlown to the shores of folly, where it grew;My cherished body gone, perchance, for ever,Perhaps reserved to torment.” With the thoughtHe strove to utter such a cry, as, heardEchoing beyond the hollow halls of Hell,Upon the confines of the orbed Earth,Might warn the guilty, ere it was too late;—And with that cry he woke: the dawning daySaw him confused with horror; when it set,He was carousing to the lips in sin.Now was no hope! save that domestic joysMight give him pause, and win him from his sins—Sins not now pleasant, but so strong of growth,That, like old Ivy, they had hid the tree,And threatened its destruction.There was one,(Although he dared not name her) who had beenA cottage light, still seen, though far away,In the dark, stormy wilderness of life;Her love should win him yet;—for he had heardThat she was still unwedded; and he knewHer woman’s heart, in blessed ignorance,Might still be true to that which he had been.

His ill-gained wealth was gone, but not his heart;

And gain it seemed to that impatient spirit

That now he should not go, a man disgraced,

To build his fallen ancestral home, long bare

To the invading scorn of low-born men.

He would sail eastward, with what yet remained,

Touch at some island of the Tropic seas,

And take a freight of spices; thence set sail

For the rich ports of China, there to trade,

And see the wonders of that unknown land;

Thence o’er the broad Pacific, and so down

By Panama, and Valparaiso, home

By the cold Land of Fire: thus would he voyage,

And gain more wealth, and win himself a name

For riches and adventure, courage bold,

And knowledge of strange countries. Then no more

Would cleave to him the brand of his disgrace;—

All bow the knee to him whom Fortune serves,

And he would be her master: he would rise

Higher and brighter o’er the heads of men,

Blaze in their sight—no meteor, shortlived, vain,

But rule them like the Day-God; then to him

The Senate and the Court should open their gates,

The mammon-loving City name his name,

His old ancestral mansion rear its head,

And he would dwell at ease, for all abroad

He should behold the lands his fathers held,

And breathe again his genial native air.

Nature and he should both their youth renew,

And all things have a beauty not their own.

There, on the upland, shall a milder sun

Smite the white cottage and the glistening vane;

And nestle in the balmy stack, and float,

A fruitful flood upon the southern wall;—

There the great oak shall stir his solemn head,

The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint,

The poplar tremble, like the heart of man,

Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;—

The beech shall spread his venerable shade,

The stately elms’ procession guard his walks,

The birch-bark gleam through foliage, and the ash

Wave ruddy clusters;—willows there shall weep,

And the wet alder shall delight to wade

Knee-deep in sluggish waters, where the kine

Take the whole meadow with contented eye,

Philosophers of nature.

One dark thought

Alone can mar these visions;—he must die,

And leave the dear possessions: in this land

Where men are struck down in their hour of strength,

That thought will oft intrude;—by day it flies

Before the excitement that his life affords—

The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field.

In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream:

Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul,

(For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter,

Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place,

And left him there alone;—there was no pain;

But a sense that all was lost for evermore,

That this was now, and worse might be to come,

Made the stagnation misery; till, behold,

The sad and silent years wore on;—at length

His musing Spirit said within herself:—

“Oh! for one breath of life; a day, an hour,

Before the irrevocable change;—how great

My power was, had I used it; now ’tis gone.

Where is my wealth? a heap of rotten leaves

Blown to the shores of folly, where it grew;

My cherished body gone, perchance, for ever,

Perhaps reserved to torment.” With the thought

He strove to utter such a cry, as, heard

Echoing beyond the hollow halls of Hell,

Upon the confines of the orbed Earth,

Might warn the guilty, ere it was too late;—

And with that cry he woke: the dawning day

Saw him confused with horror; when it set,

He was carousing to the lips in sin.

Now was no hope! save that domestic joys

Might give him pause, and win him from his sins—

Sins not now pleasant, but so strong of growth,

That, like old Ivy, they had hid the tree,

And threatened its destruction.

There was one,

(Although he dared not name her) who had been

A cottage light, still seen, though far away,

In the dark, stormy wilderness of life;

Her love should win him yet;—for he had heard

That she was still unwedded; and he knew

Her woman’s heart, in blessed ignorance,

Might still be true to that which he had been.

VIII.

He sailed, in search of wealth, from Ganges’ mouth,But the ship’s prow was never seen again,Stemming the homeward waters—whether, whelmedIn stormy ocean, half way down she swayedAnd swung among the dolphins and the sharks;Or whether, on some calm Pacific night,Where on the farthest limits of the darkThere rose and fell the momentary flashOf lone inland volcanoes, some soft breezeHad run her slowly on the coral reefs,And the blue waves had rippled o’er her grave,There was a nine days’ wonder;—men inquired,Where was the man, whose wealth, without an heir,(So lost, so wonderfully won again,After he left the country, by the faithOf an old servant, thought to have been slain,)Was fabulously splendid? And some saidThere was a Will; all he might have was leftTo strangers—“to a Lady he had loved.”It was the year that filled the centuryFrom Michael’s birth, when he was seen again.A venturous band had wandered in the West,Till far from towns, or any haunt of men,They came upon a region by the sea.Rock-bound and bare it lay; and all the stormsThat hurled the ancient, white-topped, weary wavesOn California, since the world began,Had, day by day, and year by untold year,Heaped all their violence on its patient side,And wasted it unhindered;—such salt herbs,Such dwarf and barren trees as the keen airGave sufferance to, but rendered still more grimThe stony desolation of the place.Yet was that soil not barren, or the menHad never sought its distant boundaries;For they were of the eager Saxon race,And e’en their rude and weather-wasted garbBore mark of civilised life: “No foot of man,”Said one, “has trode these wastes from everlasting:Brothers, the land is virgin; part we here,And in the evening let us meet again,There, by the mouth of yonder natural cave,And share the general labours of the day—See, Edward, even now you tripped on gold.”They parted: in the evening, when they met,Their leader wore a sad and solemn look,And with few words he led them up the rocks,Into a stern wild scene. Far as they looked,Cliff heaped on cliff, and stone on fragment stone,The land’s brown ribs extended: here and thereSteep chasms it had, declining to the sea:—Some were the beds of streams, that evermoreWashed down the golden grain, and in a yearPaid to the treasury of the insatiate floodMore than the subjects of the richest KingsYield to their despots in a century;—But some of them were dry, and choked with stonesAnd logs of rotting timber, and deep sand;—Here, with the lumps of ore heaped high aroundThey found a human skeleton; hard by,A rusty cutlass, such as mariners use,Whereon was rudely graven, and half-effaced,The words “Michael De Mas;” and underneath,“I die of want upon a bed of gold.”

He sailed, in search of wealth, from Ganges’ mouth,

But the ship’s prow was never seen again,

Stemming the homeward waters—whether, whelmed

In stormy ocean, half way down she swayed

And swung among the dolphins and the sharks;

Or whether, on some calm Pacific night,

Where on the farthest limits of the dark

There rose and fell the momentary flash

Of lone inland volcanoes, some soft breeze

Had run her slowly on the coral reefs,

And the blue waves had rippled o’er her grave,

There was a nine days’ wonder;—men inquired,

Where was the man, whose wealth, without an heir,

(So lost, so wonderfully won again,

After he left the country, by the faith

Of an old servant, thought to have been slain,)

Was fabulously splendid? And some said

There was a Will; all he might have was left

To strangers—“to a Lady he had loved.”

It was the year that filled the century

From Michael’s birth, when he was seen again.

A venturous band had wandered in the West,

Till far from towns, or any haunt of men,

They came upon a region by the sea.

Rock-bound and bare it lay; and all the storms

That hurled the ancient, white-topped, weary waves

On California, since the world began,

Had, day by day, and year by untold year,

Heaped all their violence on its patient side,

And wasted it unhindered;—such salt herbs,

Such dwarf and barren trees as the keen air

Gave sufferance to, but rendered still more grim

The stony desolation of the place.

Yet was that soil not barren, or the men

Had never sought its distant boundaries;

For they were of the eager Saxon race,

And e’en their rude and weather-wasted garb

Bore mark of civilised life: “No foot of man,”

Said one, “has trode these wastes from everlasting:

Brothers, the land is virgin; part we here,

And in the evening let us meet again,

There, by the mouth of yonder natural cave,

And share the general labours of the day—

See, Edward, even now you tripped on gold.”

They parted: in the evening, when they met,

Their leader wore a sad and solemn look,

And with few words he led them up the rocks,

Into a stern wild scene. Far as they looked,

Cliff heaped on cliff, and stone on fragment stone,

The land’s brown ribs extended: here and there

Steep chasms it had, declining to the sea:—

Some were the beds of streams, that evermore

Washed down the golden grain, and in a year

Paid to the treasury of the insatiate flood

More than the subjects of the richest Kings

Yield to their despots in a century;—

But some of them were dry, and choked with stones

And logs of rotting timber, and deep sand;—

Here, with the lumps of ore heaped high around

They found a human skeleton; hard by,

A rusty cutlass, such as mariners use,

Whereon was rudely graven, and half-effaced,

The words “Michael De Mas;” and underneath,

“I die of want upon a bed of gold.”

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