STANZAS.

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,With spur and bridle undefiled.

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,With spur and bridle undefiled.

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,With spur and bridle undefiled.

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,

With spur and bridle undefiled.

But he has blood and fortune. I sincerely wish you would take him in hand and tame him: he is worthy of your attention, and if properly brought under, would make a great addition to good society.”

The next day Nivernois was walking in the street and had his attention attracted by a sign-board, which gave notice of a gallery of pictures. Having nothing better to do, he went into it. The collection was a good one, and he spent some time in looking at different productions of the old masters. The feeling which chiefly occupied his mind was regret that genius so exalted as many of these artists possessed should have left no monument more durable than a perishing canvass, which would one day cause all that marvellous skill to be nothing but a name. His eye was presently drawn to a portrait of a young lady of singular beauty. The picture was a fresh one, and he thought that he had seen the features before, but where or when, he could not remember. The side of the figure was presented, with the face turned round over the shoulder towards the spectator. Her dress was blue; a laced veil was on her head, and in her hand abouquetof flowers, around which was a band on which was the word “Love.”

“Beautiful creature!” said he aloud, as he gazed upon the portrait, “and whom do you love?”

“Thee,” faintly said a soft voice above him. He started and looked up. There was a gallery above, and upon it a door covered by a curtain. He saw the curtain move as if some one retreated rapidly through it, and he thought that he had caught a glimpse of a blue dress. He ran rapidly up to the gallery and through the curtained door, in hopes of discovering the speaker, perhaps the original of the portrait. He searched every apartment of the building, but in vain: no one was to be found. He returned to the picture and sat down before it.

“Love!” said he, “what is that? I never thought of it before.” The portrait hung near to an open door, through which the soft air of spring was bearing the enchanting odour of a bed of violets which grew in the garden: above was the rich softness of the blue sky. As he sat amid influences so soothing, and gazed upon the overpowering beauty of those splendid features, on which a hazy sunlight coming through a window in the roof, threw a more peculiar lustre there arose within the stern, constrained, and wholly intellectual being of this earnest, scheming man, the slow but strong movement of a passion which he never before had known. The rigid stress of mind, so long kept up—the high-wound force of feeling, so necessary, yet so painful—softened and melted away in the delicious mildness of sentiment that flowed in upon his nature. It wrestled, did that sentiment, with the cold hardness of that logical frame of being, as the still growing wind with the outer barriers of a thick forest, and gradually burst in and wandered where it pleased. The disdainful solitude of soul in which he had fortified himself against a hostile world, was changing into a spirit which fraternized with all the universe. It was the birth of sympathy within a bosom before entirely and fiercely personal.

“Where has it kept so long?—this soft, this delicate emotion?” said he. As the blue zephyr, born amidst the depths of the sky, raises and opens out the dried, mast-bound sail of some long-locked bark, and floats away the vessel into seas of unknown loveliness, so did this delicious sentiment expand and quicken that spirituality which had before lain senseless and collapsed. It diffused a joy and beauty like that of the golden sunshine gleaming into a clouded forest, flowing and flashing with an ever brightening splendor, rolling a yellow flowerage over the mind, vesting the trees in airy robes of silver, and spreading through the teeming woods a mysterious troop of shadows, the dusky-haired daughters of light. Like the refreshing rain upon the fevered earth, there fell upon his spirit a fragrant shower of soft hopes and immortal dreams. The rough and hardened bough was become a branch of leaves and fruits. He who had dwelt ever in the outwardness of thought, first entered the portals of the inner world of feeling: he who had been ever passionate only toDO, recognized a state in which toBEwas bliss, to move was ecstacy.

Such is the passionate constitution of genius that its mental nature, “like a cloud, moves all together, if it move at all;” the moral being of men of that stamp, intense and entire, never conceives an idea of character or life, but it straightway throws forth all its energy to realize that idea in its imaginary completeness: impelled towards evil, they dash downwards with a frenzied force and reach a depth of degradation at which colder sinners are astounded: when but one aspiration dawns in their bosom, they spring up from the shores of that gulph, and soaring above the clouds, wave in the sparkling sun their fresh-plumed wings with not one feather moulted: they can mould all their thinkings in the form and pressure of pure logic; and again their feelings will be expanding in all the chastened feelings of luxurious sentiments. These changes make genius a puzzle to its companions, but delicious to itself.

It is not wonderful then if this man rose from that seat another being. But the picture was still the centre and object of his thoughts. Rare indeed, and transcendant was the beauty of that countenance: a depth of passion, and an elevation of thought were characterized upon it, which fired the imagination of the youth who gazed. He thought that he had seen those features before; but where, and how? He had a faint impression that Miss Stanhope might be the person. But in fact, so little had he been interested in woman before, that he had scarce paid any attention to her appearance—had no distinct remembrance of her face. Supposing that the voice which he had heard had proceeded from the original of the picture, and that it indicated that he was loved by her, he was deeply anxious to discover who it was.

He pulled a bell which he discovered near the door, and there issued forth in reply from a small door, an old gray-haired man, very tall, and bent like a crozier.

“What picture is this?” said Nivernois.

“Why, it’s a portrait,” said the old man, with a look of great contempt at the simplicity of the question.

From the tone in which he shouted, it seemed that he added deafness to his other virtues.

“Of whom?”

“A lady,” roared the other, with increased scorn.

“True; but of what lady is it the portrait?”

“Oh, I don’t know;” and he began to hobble back to his cage.

“Is it for sale?”

“No: none of them are for sale; none of them; not one of them:” and he closed the door behind him.

Nivernois walked up to the picture, took it down from the nail, unscrewed the board behind it, and rolling up the canvass, put it under his arm and marched out of the room.

When he reached the street he saw a woman dressed in blue passing round the corner. From a glimpse which he had of her features he thought it was the picture-lady. He darted forward, but the street which she had turned into was vacant. There stood a large double house at the corner, and beyond it there was a garden wall of some length; he concluded that she must have gone into that house. He rushed in, and turning into the first door he came to, found himself in an elegant drawing-room in which there were a dozen persons paying morning visits.

“Humph! humph!” said he, as he scrutinized the face of every woman in the circle, and found that the object of his search was not among them. He took up a volume that lay on the table, it was lettered “Love.” He walked towards a grand piano which stood open, with a piece of music on the frame. The music was entitled “Love.”

“Love!” said he; “Love! wherever I go this morning, it is still love. I will give you my ideas of love.” He took off his hat, and laying down his roll in it, seated himself before the instrument.

He began with some sad and heavy strains which might express the joylessness of a breast which was a stranger to sympathy. The music was cheerless, monotonous, and full of startling discords. Presently there struck into this painful turbulence a light strain of delicious melody, like a sunbeam bursting into the primal chaos. It extended and gathered strength, and the disorder of the rest gradually subsided, and melted away to give place to it. Then there arose the most brilliant and enchanting notes that that instrument had ever given forth; a flood of varied rapture flowed out. It was the picture of a world of bliss; a world whose turf was of the choicest flowers,—whose breezes were airs from paradise,—whose sky knew not the color of a cloud.

The performer turned his head round and got a glimpse through the window of some one passing along the street.

“There she goes!” he exclaimed, and seizing his hat and roll, rushed out with the same vehemence that he had entered, leaving the company not a little astonished at the oddity of his behaviour.

When he got into the street, nothing was to be seen; “I must discover that woman,” said he; “what is life to me, if I cannot find her? All my happiness is garnered in her being; to enjoy my own soul, I must possess her: to live, I must live with her. By the bye, I must have done rather an absurd thing in going into that house and playing on the piano, without knowing any body. By Jove, I’ll go back and apologize. Ah! ha! there is Mrs. Althorpe going in; she will present me.”

When they got into the room, the company which had been there had gone, and the lady of the house was sitting alone. Mrs. Althorpe called her Mrs. Stanhope.

“Madam,” said Mr. Nivernois, “I just met an eccentric friend of mine going out of the door, who I imagine must have made a most unauthorized entry into your house, in a fit of absence, and behaved in a very ridiculous manner, when in it. In fact, he requested me to offer on his behalf the fullest apology for his maniacal conduct, and to beg from your courtesy an act of oblivion. He is a harmless madman,—one of that numerous class who are suffered by their friends to go abroad without strait-jackets.”

“Any friend of yours,” said Mrs. Stanhope, “is extremely welcome to come into my house at all times; and even had the eccentricities of this gentleman been at all objectionable, we should have been more than compensated by the admirable display which he made upon the piano. As a pupil of Calebrenner’s, I consider myself something of a judge; and I never heard so rich a strain of harmony.”

“Why, as for that, I do not know that he differs materially from any one else. Everybody carries a Marengo, a Childe Harold, and a Sonnambula in his blood; the only difficulty is to get them out.”

“Pray, Mr. Nivernois,” said Mrs. Althorpe, with a certain look of a high bred woman, not unmixed with something of comic, “What is it you have under your arm.”

“Portable bliss,—the potentiality of a happiness beyond the dreams of one who is not a lover,—ecstasy in a roll,—perfect delight on canvass;” and he opened the picture and held it up.

Mrs. Althorpe made a sign to Mrs. Stanhope to be silent.

“Do you know whose portrait it is?” said Mrs. Althorpe.

“I cannot for my life discover.”

“Do you then so much wish to find the original?”

“A question, truly! I do.”

“Is it not beautiful?”

“Is not what beautiful?”

“The painting.”

“I cannot speak of these matters now. For the moment I am at war withvirtû. Itmaybe divine—perhaps it is so. One thing I feel—the impotence of the artist. What he has succeeded in en-canvassing speaks only to my soul of a more radiant loveliness—that of motion, of thought, of heart—for which the pencil has no outline, the pallet no dye.”

“You are an enigma, and my query is unanswered. I will put it in another form. Isshenot beautiful?”

“She is.”

“How did you become possessed of the picture?”

“I saw it in the exhibition, and as they refused to sell it to me, I cut it out and brought it away.”

Mrs. Althorpe fell back into her chair, overpowered by irresistible laughter at the oddness of the incident, and the solemn gravity with which Nivernois stood eyeing the picture. An idea occurred to her by which she might give this matter a turn to her mind.

“I cannot imagine, of course,” said she, “whose portrait it is. But if you will come to my house to-night, I shall have some young ladies there, and it is possible that the fair original may be among them. We shall havetableaux vivants, and I think you will find it pleasant.”

“I will come with the utmost pleasure, even if the lady be not there.”

“And when I say that the party will be pleasant, I imply thereby an invitation to Mrs. Stanhope, who of course can make it so. But, Mr. Nivernois, are you not afraid that the officers of justice will be after you for abstracting that picture?”

“Oh! I am only taking it to be copied; after that I shall take it back.”

“Well! put up your roll then, and we will go.”

When they had walked some distance, Mrs. Althorpe took leave of him, and bent her steps again towards Mrs. Stanhope’s.

In the evening, Mr. Nivernois went to Mrs. Althorpe’s. Thetableauxwere exhibited in the hall: the company stood at one end, and a curtain was drawn at the other, behind which was the frame. They went off with great effect. The first was the Magdalen of Corregio, a recumbent figure, “with loose hair and lifted eye,” the light thrown strongly upon a volume open before her. The second and third were scenes from the Corsair. While the fourth was preparing, Mr. Nivernois got engaged in explaining to a person near him a new method by whichtableauxmight be presented in a much more striking manner, and he did not take notice of the rising of the curtain, until he heard several of the company exclaiming, “Beautiful!”—“how beautiful!” He turned and beheld the very picture which he had that day been contemplating: the glorious features, the blue dress, the veil falling over the back, the head turned round over the shoulder. He stepped a little forward, and his keen eye caught the glance of the performer; there was a momentary wavering, a blush, the face was turned aside, and the curtain fell. Nivernois passed into a room at the side, and hastened towards the place where the pictures were shown. He found three or four persons there engaged in arranging the next performance. A door stood open in the rear leading into a large and very elegant garden. He looked out, and through the bright moonlight saw among the bushes a female figure. He rushed forth; the lady fled, but soon stopped by the limits of the ground, turned her head round, and again presented the living portrait of the morning. It was Miss Stanhope. He seized her hand in both of his.

“Oh! glorious being!” he exclaimed, “accept the homage of my soul. Take all the worship of my being. I love you beyond the expression of all words.”

She timidly extended towards him the bouquet which she had.

“Give me the motto with the flowers,” said he, “and you make me the happiest of mankind.”

There was a soft consenting in her form and gestures, though she spoke not. He pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her glowing cheek, I do not know how often. He took her hand and they sat down upon a bench; a bed of violets beneath their feet, the bright young foliage around them, and above, the glittering moon smiling a pearly lustre on the floating clouds.

“Thou art, within my soul, a birth of happiness and peace. I have been, of all men, the most ambitious: not as valuing the opinions of the world, for I am not yet sunk so low; but that I might in the interest of action and creation find some comfort to my spirit. I have had some applause; as much as satisfied the most craving vanity of many around me. It wearied and fretted me unutterably, and as praise increased, I feared to go mad with the anguish of disappointment. In this distress of an intellect always seeking but incapable of finding, thy gentle beauty beamed upon my heart. It awoke therein life and a fountain of light. Yet was it not its own light, but the reflection of thy glorious lustre; as in the blank waters on a starry night we recognise the impassioned splendor of the heavens. I have placed thee within my heart; and henceforth shall I find thee, forever, a source of joy and a spring of inspiration.”

STANZAS.

———

BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDHAM.

———

“My harp also is turned to mourning.—Where is God my Maker, who giveth songs in the night?”

Theflush of young Hope, and the smile have departed,That tinted my cheek—that enlivened my brow;In sackcloth I sit, with the desolate-hearted,And hushed is the song of my mirthfulness now.All Nature rejoiceth to welcome gay Summer:The out-going morn “walks in beauty” more bright;And the streamlet replenished, forgetting its murmur,Is dancing along in the gush of delight.All, all save my heart, beats responsive to Nature!In vain doIhear the sweet warbling of birds,In vain the rejoicing of each living creature—The bleat of the lambs, or the low of the herds;My spirit returneth no echo of gladness;“The harp of the heart,” by affliction unstrung,Can only reply in the numbers of sadness,Or, silent with grief, on the willows is hung.Great Parent of Nature! if to the bleak mountains,The light of thy smile bringeth verdure again;Doth gladden the desert with palm trees and fountains,And scatter new beauties o’er valley and plain;If the wealth of thy bounty, in showers descending,Can make “the waste-places” bloom fresh as the rose;And thy rainbow of promise, in loveliness bendingUpon the dark cloud, hush the storms to repose;Oh! cannot the light of thy favor awakenThe well-springs of joy in a desolate heart,And clothe with new verdure the bosom forsakenOf all that could pleasure or solace impart?And hast thou not showers for thespirit’srefreshing,And songs in the night-time of sorrow to give?Then open thy windows and pour down a blessing—O smile! and this wilderness heart shall revive.

Theflush of young Hope, and the smile have departed,That tinted my cheek—that enlivened my brow;In sackcloth I sit, with the desolate-hearted,And hushed is the song of my mirthfulness now.All Nature rejoiceth to welcome gay Summer:The out-going morn “walks in beauty” more bright;And the streamlet replenished, forgetting its murmur,Is dancing along in the gush of delight.All, all save my heart, beats responsive to Nature!In vain doIhear the sweet warbling of birds,In vain the rejoicing of each living creature—The bleat of the lambs, or the low of the herds;My spirit returneth no echo of gladness;“The harp of the heart,” by affliction unstrung,Can only reply in the numbers of sadness,Or, silent with grief, on the willows is hung.Great Parent of Nature! if to the bleak mountains,The light of thy smile bringeth verdure again;Doth gladden the desert with palm trees and fountains,And scatter new beauties o’er valley and plain;If the wealth of thy bounty, in showers descending,Can make “the waste-places” bloom fresh as the rose;And thy rainbow of promise, in loveliness bendingUpon the dark cloud, hush the storms to repose;Oh! cannot the light of thy favor awakenThe well-springs of joy in a desolate heart,And clothe with new verdure the bosom forsakenOf all that could pleasure or solace impart?And hast thou not showers for thespirit’srefreshing,And songs in the night-time of sorrow to give?Then open thy windows and pour down a blessing—O smile! and this wilderness heart shall revive.

Theflush of young Hope, and the smile have departed,That tinted my cheek—that enlivened my brow;In sackcloth I sit, with the desolate-hearted,And hushed is the song of my mirthfulness now.All Nature rejoiceth to welcome gay Summer:The out-going morn “walks in beauty” more bright;And the streamlet replenished, forgetting its murmur,Is dancing along in the gush of delight.

Theflush of young Hope, and the smile have departed,

That tinted my cheek—that enlivened my brow;

In sackcloth I sit, with the desolate-hearted,

And hushed is the song of my mirthfulness now.

All Nature rejoiceth to welcome gay Summer:

The out-going morn “walks in beauty” more bright;

And the streamlet replenished, forgetting its murmur,

Is dancing along in the gush of delight.

All, all save my heart, beats responsive to Nature!In vain doIhear the sweet warbling of birds,In vain the rejoicing of each living creature—The bleat of the lambs, or the low of the herds;My spirit returneth no echo of gladness;“The harp of the heart,” by affliction unstrung,Can only reply in the numbers of sadness,Or, silent with grief, on the willows is hung.

All, all save my heart, beats responsive to Nature!

In vain doIhear the sweet warbling of birds,

In vain the rejoicing of each living creature—

The bleat of the lambs, or the low of the herds;

My spirit returneth no echo of gladness;

“The harp of the heart,” by affliction unstrung,

Can only reply in the numbers of sadness,

Or, silent with grief, on the willows is hung.

Great Parent of Nature! if to the bleak mountains,The light of thy smile bringeth verdure again;Doth gladden the desert with palm trees and fountains,And scatter new beauties o’er valley and plain;If the wealth of thy bounty, in showers descending,Can make “the waste-places” bloom fresh as the rose;And thy rainbow of promise, in loveliness bendingUpon the dark cloud, hush the storms to repose;

Great Parent of Nature! if to the bleak mountains,

The light of thy smile bringeth verdure again;

Doth gladden the desert with palm trees and fountains,

And scatter new beauties o’er valley and plain;

If the wealth of thy bounty, in showers descending,

Can make “the waste-places” bloom fresh as the rose;

And thy rainbow of promise, in loveliness bending

Upon the dark cloud, hush the storms to repose;

Oh! cannot the light of thy favor awakenThe well-springs of joy in a desolate heart,And clothe with new verdure the bosom forsakenOf all that could pleasure or solace impart?And hast thou not showers for thespirit’srefreshing,And songs in the night-time of sorrow to give?Then open thy windows and pour down a blessing—O smile! and this wilderness heart shall revive.

Oh! cannot the light of thy favor awaken

The well-springs of joy in a desolate heart,

And clothe with new verdure the bosom forsaken

Of all that could pleasure or solace impart?

And hast thou not showers for thespirit’srefreshing,

And songs in the night-time of sorrow to give?

Then open thy windows and pour down a blessing—

O smile! and this wilderness heart shall revive.

Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J.

Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

Archimitator! ’mid thy varied tone,That revels so acquisitively sweet,Rivalling e’en Nature’s self, when doth thine ownWild native air my rapt delusion greet?Hast thou a voice to echo every noteOf liquid melody that erst hath dwelt’Mid the greenwood, or where soft zephyrs float:Yet of thine own hath not, in ecstacy to melt?What modulation, what inflected grace,Breathes through the volume of that warbling spell!An intonation clear, that doth embraceThe woven minstrelsy from rock to dell.The spring-tide melody, the summer lay,The plaintiveness of darkly shadow’d night—Who hath her choral charms, as beaming day—These in their change are thine, to ’wilder and delight.That rich, full swell of sweetness and of force,That seem’d to wrap thy life-stream with the song,In its wild strength—as struggling springs their source,Break, and are borne in murm’ring sounds along:Say, was it thine?—thy Parent-giving strain,The innate warbling of thy purer soul,That gush’d, as if it would to bowers attainWhere flowers unwith’ring bloom, and strains divine e’er roll?But ah! again to earth that half-fled spriteSinks, in the beauty of some well-known air,Less free and joyous, in its raptur’d flight,Than the wild touching thrill that spoke thee there.Kindred of thine own vocalizing race,Yet of surpassing skill and strength of flow—Illimitably varied—where we traceThe wondrous spell of mystery, we seek to know.Gay, spry deceiver, from thy covert nigh,Methinks I hear the myriad of thy climePouring sweet incense through the southern sky,In the free rapture of each gift divine;Yet all successive—one continuous swellOf silvery softness from the fount of love;The mellow wood-notes, or the screaming yell,Attest thy perfect art—thy imitations prove.Oh, spirit-bird! to man thou hast been sent,To teach Omnipotence by gush of song,Bringing bright thoughts of goodness, that is blentIn all that gladdens—all that glides along—And if, perchance, this teaching be not vain,To win him upward, where he may rejoice’Mid holy love, pure scenes, and sacred strainOf heavenly praise, such as I hear from thee, thou voice!A. F. H.

Archimitator! ’mid thy varied tone,That revels so acquisitively sweet,Rivalling e’en Nature’s self, when doth thine ownWild native air my rapt delusion greet?Hast thou a voice to echo every noteOf liquid melody that erst hath dwelt’Mid the greenwood, or where soft zephyrs float:Yet of thine own hath not, in ecstacy to melt?What modulation, what inflected grace,Breathes through the volume of that warbling spell!An intonation clear, that doth embraceThe woven minstrelsy from rock to dell.The spring-tide melody, the summer lay,The plaintiveness of darkly shadow’d night—Who hath her choral charms, as beaming day—These in their change are thine, to ’wilder and delight.That rich, full swell of sweetness and of force,That seem’d to wrap thy life-stream with the song,In its wild strength—as struggling springs their source,Break, and are borne in murm’ring sounds along:Say, was it thine?—thy Parent-giving strain,The innate warbling of thy purer soul,That gush’d, as if it would to bowers attainWhere flowers unwith’ring bloom, and strains divine e’er roll?But ah! again to earth that half-fled spriteSinks, in the beauty of some well-known air,Less free and joyous, in its raptur’d flight,Than the wild touching thrill that spoke thee there.Kindred of thine own vocalizing race,Yet of surpassing skill and strength of flow—Illimitably varied—where we traceThe wondrous spell of mystery, we seek to know.Gay, spry deceiver, from thy covert nigh,Methinks I hear the myriad of thy climePouring sweet incense through the southern sky,In the free rapture of each gift divine;Yet all successive—one continuous swellOf silvery softness from the fount of love;The mellow wood-notes, or the screaming yell,Attest thy perfect art—thy imitations prove.Oh, spirit-bird! to man thou hast been sent,To teach Omnipotence by gush of song,Bringing bright thoughts of goodness, that is blentIn all that gladdens—all that glides along—And if, perchance, this teaching be not vain,To win him upward, where he may rejoice’Mid holy love, pure scenes, and sacred strainOf heavenly praise, such as I hear from thee, thou voice!A. F. H.

Archimitator! ’mid thy varied tone,That revels so acquisitively sweet,Rivalling e’en Nature’s self, when doth thine ownWild native air my rapt delusion greet?Hast thou a voice to echo every noteOf liquid melody that erst hath dwelt’Mid the greenwood, or where soft zephyrs float:Yet of thine own hath not, in ecstacy to melt?

Archimitator! ’mid thy varied tone,

That revels so acquisitively sweet,

Rivalling e’en Nature’s self, when doth thine own

Wild native air my rapt delusion greet?

Hast thou a voice to echo every note

Of liquid melody that erst hath dwelt

’Mid the greenwood, or where soft zephyrs float:

Yet of thine own hath not, in ecstacy to melt?

What modulation, what inflected grace,Breathes through the volume of that warbling spell!An intonation clear, that doth embraceThe woven minstrelsy from rock to dell.The spring-tide melody, the summer lay,The plaintiveness of darkly shadow’d night—Who hath her choral charms, as beaming day—These in their change are thine, to ’wilder and delight.

What modulation, what inflected grace,

Breathes through the volume of that warbling spell!

An intonation clear, that doth embrace

The woven minstrelsy from rock to dell.

The spring-tide melody, the summer lay,

The plaintiveness of darkly shadow’d night—

Who hath her choral charms, as beaming day—

These in their change are thine, to ’wilder and delight.

That rich, full swell of sweetness and of force,That seem’d to wrap thy life-stream with the song,In its wild strength—as struggling springs their source,Break, and are borne in murm’ring sounds along:Say, was it thine?—thy Parent-giving strain,The innate warbling of thy purer soul,That gush’d, as if it would to bowers attainWhere flowers unwith’ring bloom, and strains divine e’er roll?

That rich, full swell of sweetness and of force,

That seem’d to wrap thy life-stream with the song,

In its wild strength—as struggling springs their source,

Break, and are borne in murm’ring sounds along:

Say, was it thine?—thy Parent-giving strain,

The innate warbling of thy purer soul,

That gush’d, as if it would to bowers attain

Where flowers unwith’ring bloom, and strains divine e’er roll?

But ah! again to earth that half-fled spriteSinks, in the beauty of some well-known air,Less free and joyous, in its raptur’d flight,Than the wild touching thrill that spoke thee there.Kindred of thine own vocalizing race,Yet of surpassing skill and strength of flow—Illimitably varied—where we traceThe wondrous spell of mystery, we seek to know.

But ah! again to earth that half-fled sprite

Sinks, in the beauty of some well-known air,

Less free and joyous, in its raptur’d flight,

Than the wild touching thrill that spoke thee there.

Kindred of thine own vocalizing race,

Yet of surpassing skill and strength of flow—

Illimitably varied—where we trace

The wondrous spell of mystery, we seek to know.

Gay, spry deceiver, from thy covert nigh,Methinks I hear the myriad of thy climePouring sweet incense through the southern sky,In the free rapture of each gift divine;Yet all successive—one continuous swellOf silvery softness from the fount of love;The mellow wood-notes, or the screaming yell,Attest thy perfect art—thy imitations prove.

Gay, spry deceiver, from thy covert nigh,

Methinks I hear the myriad of thy clime

Pouring sweet incense through the southern sky,

In the free rapture of each gift divine;

Yet all successive—one continuous swell

Of silvery softness from the fount of love;

The mellow wood-notes, or the screaming yell,

Attest thy perfect art—thy imitations prove.

Oh, spirit-bird! to man thou hast been sent,To teach Omnipotence by gush of song,Bringing bright thoughts of goodness, that is blentIn all that gladdens—all that glides along—And if, perchance, this teaching be not vain,To win him upward, where he may rejoice’Mid holy love, pure scenes, and sacred strainOf heavenly praise, such as I hear from thee, thou voice!

Oh, spirit-bird! to man thou hast been sent,

To teach Omnipotence by gush of song,

Bringing bright thoughts of goodness, that is blent

In all that gladdens—all that glides along—

And if, perchance, this teaching be not vain,

To win him upward, where he may rejoice

’Mid holy love, pure scenes, and sacred strain

Of heavenly praise, such as I hear from thee, thou voice!

A. F. H.

A. F. H.

THE REEFER OF ’76.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”

———

I wasstanding one sultry afternoon, by the weather railing, gazing listlessly over the schooner’s side, and indulging in such reveries as crowd upon the mind in our moments of idleness, when my attention was called to the cry of the look-out that a sail was hovering to windward; and gazing out in that direction I was soon enabled to detect a white speck far up on the seaboard in that quarter, bearing as much resemblance, in the eye of an unpractised observer, to the wing of a sea-gull, as to what we knew it really to be—the royal of a man-of-war. In an instant all was bustle on our decks. The men below poured up the gangway: the skulkers came out from under the sides of the guns; the officers gathered eagerly in a knot abaft the mainmast; spy-glasses were put in requisition, shrewd guesses were made respecting the flag of the stranger, and all the curiosity which the sight of an unknown sail produces on board a man-of-war, was displayed in its full force amongst us.

“I think she carries herself like a Frenchman,” said the first lieutenant.

“Pardon me,” said the skipper, “but she lifts as if she were an Englishman.”

“I could swear her to be a Hollander,” said a lieutenant, who had served a while in the navy of the States.

“And were you not all so sure,” interposed a weather-beaten quarter-master, whose boast it was that he had been at sea for more than forty years, “I should say yon saucy braggart was a real Spaniard, such as Kid would have given ten years of his life to be alongside of, for a matter of a bell or so;” and having delivered himself of these remarks, the old fellow coolly turned his quid, and squirted a stream of tobacco juice like the jet of a force-pump, over the schooner’s side.

“At any rate, gentlemen,” said the captain, “the stranger doesn’t seem to bring down much of a breeze with him, so that we shall have plenty of time to form our conclusions before it becomes necessary to act. If he should even prove to be an enemy, night may be here before he gets within range, and under cover of the darkness we can easily escape him. The littleFire-Flyhas done too much mischief, and been too lucky heretofore, to be lost now.”

The day had been unusually sultry. A light breeze had ruffled the ocean in the morning, but about two bells in the afternoon watch the wind had died away, and an almost dead calm had succeeded. The sea became as flat as a mirror, its polished surface only heaving in long gentle undulations, like the bosom of some sleeping monster. Not a ripple broke upon its whole extent. The sky was cloudless: the rays of the sun, pouring almost vertically downwards, and penetrating even through the awning overhead, heated the deck till it became like a furnace beneath the feet. The air was close, stifling, noisome. The men cowered under the shade of the bulwarks, or hung panting over the schooner’s side. The sea glowed like molten silver. Occasionally a slight gurgling sound under the cutwater would remind us that the deep was not wholly motionless; but excepting this, and now and then the feeble creaking of a block, no sound broke the oppressive silence around.

At length, however, a slight breeze was seen ruffling the sea upon the seaboard; and when the wind came up toward us, curling the ocean here and there into mimic breakers, and when especially it swept with refreshing coolness across our decks, we experienced sensations of the most exquisite delight, and such as no one can imagine, who has not felt, after a sultry calm, the first kiss of the long-wished-for breeze. A new life was imparted into our men. The sails were set, and we once more began to hear the sound of the wind in the hamper, and of the waves rushing along our sides. It was, however, only a two-knot breeze. Such, with but little variation, it had continued to be up to the discovery of the stranger.

For half an hour and more after our look-outs had detected the sail to windward, we managed to keep away sufficiently to maintain the distance we had first possessed. But gradually the wind freshened; the billows began to roll their white crests over in the sun-light; the sails strained under the press of the breeze; and the waters, rippling loud and fast under our bows, went plashing along our sides with a gurgling noise, and then hissed by the rudder as they were whirled away astern.

“What a provoking breeze!” said Westbrook. “Here we are at a convenient distance, as O’Shaughnessy would say, from yonder chap, having besides the whole night before us to plan an escape from his clutches, and lo! a breeze springs up just when it ought to be calm, leaving us at the mercy of our huge friend up here, with a prospect of dangling from a yard-arm if he turns out to be an Englishman.”

“Shure an we’ll blow ourselves out of water,” said O’Shaughnessy himself, happening to overhear the conclusion of Westbrook’s remark, “rayther than do that same.”

“And into it also, eh!” said Westbrook.

O’Shaughnessy made no reply, but shrugging his shoulders, the conversation dropped.

The strange sail had by this time been made out to be a three-decker, and so rapidly did he gain on us that we now counted upwards of forty guns on a side. As the breeze freshened, moreover, his velocity increased. Throwing out fold after fold of canvass, until a pyramid of snowy duck rose towering above his decks, and the water rolled in cataracts of foam beneath his gigantic bows, he seemed determined to overtake us before the breeze which he brought with him could by any possibility subside.

Meanwhile we made every effort to escape; but without success. The very freshness of the breeze, owing to our comparatively light canvass, was in favor of our adversary. In vain we threw out every sail; in vain the ropes were hauled as taut as they could be drawn; in vain as a last resort, our sails were wet down even to the trucks—every endeavor to increase our speed only appeared to weary out our crew, without altering the relative velocity of the two ships.

“By my faith! but yonder fellow sails well,” said the skipper, “I little thought anything that carried canvass could come up in this style, hand over hand, to the saucyFire-Fly. What think you, Mr. Stevens?”

The lieutenant shook his head, and answered,

“I fear, sir, we shall have to choose betwixt a surrender or a hopeless fight.”

“Ay, ay—that’s true,” said the skipper, abstractedly, “but he’s not overhauled us yet, and there’s many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip, you know.”

“Pray God it may be so now!”

By this time the man-of-war had come up within long cannon-shot of the schooner, and just as the lieutenant finished his ejaculation, the stranger luffed beautifully up a point or two, and the next minute a sheet of flame streamed out from one of her bow-guns, and a shot whistling past us aloft, plunged headlong into the sea to leeward. At the same moment a roll of bunting shot up to the gaff of the stranger, and slowly unrolling blew out upon the air.

“The English cross—by all that’s holy!” ejaculated the skipper.

There was a dead silence of more than a minute. Each one looked into his neighbor’s face. The captain, with a compressed lip and a disturbed brow, gazed, without speaking, on the man-of-war; while the discipline of the service, as well as the sudden knowledge of our peril, were sufficient to restrain the officers from conversation. Directly, however, the Englishman luffed again; another sheet of fire blazed from her bows; and a ball, sent this time with more certainty of aim, went through our fore topsail just above the foot.

“Show him the bunting,” growled the captain through his clenched teeth, “and get ready the long gun.”

We looked at each other in mute astonishment. I thought of Paul Jones in a like emergency. But no one dreamed of expostulation, even if such a thing had been allowable from inferiors. The flag was brought.

“Send the bunting aloft.”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

The huge ensign, at the word, fluttered to the gaff, and whipping out on the breeze, disclosed the cognizance of the commonwealth, emblazoned on its surface. No sooner did it unclose its folds than the man-of-war luffed rapidly, and several points more than at either the preceding times; while simultaneously a sheet of continuous fire rolled along his side, and a shower of balls, ploughing up the sea betwixt the two vessels, fell like hail around the schooner. At the same moment I heard a noise like rattling thunder at my side, and looking up I saw the mainsail coming down by the run. Quicker than thought it lay a wreck across the schooner.

“We are sinking,” shouted a voice. It was that of the purser. The terror of the speaker betrayed itself in every tone. “God have mercy on us, for we are going down.”

“Silence, fool!” sternly said the skipper, and then raising his voice he thundered, “what have they hurt?”

“They’ve cut away the throat halyards, and the peak has parted with the strain,” answered the first lieutenant, who, with Westbrook and myself had sprung at once to ascertain the real cause of the alarm.

“Let new ropes be reeved—all hands to your duty—let drive with the long gun.”

The old gunner had been calmly waiting until the momentary confusion should subside; and now, with his usual flourish, he applied the match.

“Hit him, by the Lord Harry—and cut down his topsail,” ejaculated the old sea-dog in high glee, as the stranger’s fore-topsail fell from the cap.

This daring bravado appeared to inflame the haughty Englishman beyond all endurance, for, after the momentary vacillation in his course occasioned by the loss of so important a sail, he put his helm down again, and without losing headway to fire any more unimportant shot, rapidly approached us. Our fate was now, to all appearance, sealed. We gave ourselves up for lost. Dismal recollections of all we had heard respecting the prison-ships of our enemy, or of the more summary punishment of death sometimes inflicted on our countrymen, came crowding on our minds. We looked into each other’s faces in silence, but, though no word was spoken, on every countenance we read the determination of a brave man, to die sooner than to submit. Such a resolution may seem strange to others, but we were like men to whom defeat is worse than death. We could not submit. To us the horrors of a prison-ship were more appalling than those of a grave. We were resolved, if we could not effect an escape, to die at bay.

“I would give a year’s pay,” at length ejaculated the skipper, but in a low tone so as not to be heard by the crew, “if this breeze would but die away here. We should then have a chance, however slight. But to be cooped up like a rat in a hole—it is too bad!”

The sentence had scarcely been concluded, when, as if in answer to the skipper’s aspiration, the breeze blew out in a sudden gust, and then died rapidly away, until it had almost subsided.

“Ah!” said the captain, “my wish has had a magical effect. I’ faith, we’re dropping the Englishman already. Oh! for two hours of calm.”

“And we shall have it soon, though not for long,” said the old quarter-master, for the first time for nearly an hour taking a complete survey of the sky, and shaking his head knowingly, but with something of an ominous gesture. As he concluded his scrutiny, he said, “there’s something brewing off here to leeward which will make us before many hours reel like a drunken man, or my name isn’t Jack Martingale.”

“What mean you?” said the lieutenant.

“You’ve mayhap never sailed in these latitudes, or you would have seen a hurricane afore now,” said the quarter-master. “Well, yonder tiny cloud, down there on the sea-board in a line with that second ratlin, holds in itself such a capful of wind as will drive the stoutest ship like a feather before it—ay! or send Noah’s ark itself, which the parson says was bigger than a fleet of ninety-fours, skimming away swifter than a sea-gull over the seas.”

We all turned in the direction to which the old fellow pointed us, and sure enough, about five or six degrees above the horizon, might be seen a small dark insignificant looking cloud, hanging like a speck upon the azure surface of the sky. Had we not known the quarter-master’s superior experience, the younger portion of our group might have discredited his prophecy. As it was, we were almost incredulous. Yet as we gazed on the little cloud, we noticed that it slowly but steadily increased in size. Our attention, however, was at this moment recalled from the signs to leeward by the renewed demonstrations of an attack on the part of the ninety-four.

The wind, during our short colloquy, I have said, had blown fiercer than ever, and then nearly died away. This partial calm, however, had been of short duration. In a few minutes the breeze was seen ruffling the sea again, from a quarter of the horizon, however, several points to the leeward of its old position. After blowing freshly for a few minutes this gust too ceased. Meantime the enemy had gained little, if anything, upon us, and no doubt fancying he perceived the signs of unsettled weather in the sky, and therefore wishing to bring the chase to a speedy termination, he luffed up once more, and opened a fire on us with his bow guns. It now become a struggle of the most exciting character. Our mainsail had by this time been repaired, and the time lost to the foe in luffing nearly counterbalancing his superior sailing, we were enabled to keep just within long cannon shot of the Englishman, and, by maintaining this distance, to protract our surrender until a chance ball should happen to disable us, or night should set in to favor our escape.

“He gains nothing on us now, I think,” said the skipper, “but his guns are well served. That was truly sent,” he suddenly added, as a ball whistled by within a few feet of his head, and then plunged into the sea some fathoms off.

“And there comes the breeze again,” said the lieutenant, “how the Englishman walks up toward us!”

It was even as he said. The breeze which, during the last five minutes, had been chopping about the horizon, now blowing in fitful gusts, and now dying away into an almost perfect calm, came out, as the lieutenant spoke, from its old quarter, and heeling the tall ninety-four over until his coppers glanced in the sunlight, sent him like an arrow from the string across the deep. We could see the breeze ruffling the sea ahead of the enemy, and keeping provokingly but a few cables’ length in his advance for many minutes before it reached ourselves, and when at length it bellied out our canvass, and we began to forge along, the man-of-war had lessened by one-third the distance that had intervened betwixt us. As if re-inspired by his advantage, the Englishman began to fire on us with rapid and murderous velocity. Ball after ball came whizzing after us, some tearing up the bulwark, some madly splintering the hull, and more than one cutting its terrific passage along our decks. In vain we made the most desperate exertions to increase our speed. The strength of the breeze was a disadvantage against which our comparatively light canvass could not contend. Every moment, we saw, lessened the distance between us and the foe. It seemed madness to contend further. Already the ninety-four was in dreadful proximity. The schooner was becoming terribly cut up in her hull, and it seemed a miracle that her spars had hitherto escaped. If we should be crippled, and we knew not but the next shot might do it, how could we expect any mercy from our foe? Rebels already in the eye of our pursuers we had nothing to hope for if captured. Every one felt this. No one therefore dreamed of a surrender. As the wounded men were carried below, their departing looks were directed frowningly on the enemy,—and the last words of the dying were to conjure their messmates never to give up.

“Never flinch, my hearties,” ejaculated the gunner, as one of his crew was struck by a splinter; and had to be carried below. “Give it to ’em, for villains and tyrants as they are. Hah! I have him in a line there. Stand by all now,” and giving a last squint along his piece, he applied the match, and gazing after the shot as it went whistling away, exclaimed, “hit him on the quarter. I wonder who’s hurt,” he added, as a sudden commotion was seen on the enemy’s deck; “somebody of more note than a mere topman, I guess, or they wouldn’t be in such a flurry about it.”

“And that’s the answer,” said Westbrook, as a ball struck us forward, scattering the bulwark about the deck, and killing a man outright at the gunner’s side.

“Swab her out there,” said the imperturbable old sea-dog, without flinching in the least, “and we’ll revenge poor Harry Ratline. By the Lord above, I’ll make them pay for this. Work faster, you lubberly scoundrel,” he continued, cuffing the powder-boy. “There, that will do. And now let’s see what damage you’ll do, old red-mouth!” and patting his piece familiarly, he applied the match, and stooping on his knees after the recoil, glanced along the gun to mark the path of his ball. It struck the ninety-four just by the fore-chains, entering the first port aft. It needed nothing to tell the deadly revenge of the shot. Even amid the roar of the contest we could almost fancy we heard the shrieks of the wounded and dying from that fatal discharge.

So intensely occupied had been every thought, during these last few minutes, that I had not noticed the gradual subsidence in the wind; but my attention was at this moment aroused to it by an exclamation of O’Shaughnessy at my side, and turning my gaze to leeward, I saw at once the cause of his wonder.

How long had elapsed since we had noticed the speck on the horizon to which the old quarter-master had called our attention I have no means of determining; but, owing perhaps to the rapidity with which all the subsequent events had transpired, it seemed to be scarcely five minutes. In that interval a radical change had come over the heavens. The whole of the larboard horizon was covered with a dense black cloud, extending to the very zenith, and spreading with incredible velocity around the seaboard and over the vault of heaven. Even as I gazed, the rising clouds began to encroach on the western firmament, until only a narrow speck of sky, through which the declining sun shone out with a ghastly lustre was seen in that quarter of the horizon. In a moment more the massy curtain of cloud obscured even this opening, and nothing was seen above or around us but the wild and ominous darkness, which, reflected from the unruffled surface of the deep, and struggling with the few faint gleams of light that yet remained, wrapt everything in its own sepulchral gloom. Never shall I forget the expression of my companions’ faces in that death-like obscurity.

The wind, meanwhile, had for the twentieth time within the last hour died away, and we now lay moving unquietly on the troubled surface of the deep. The man-of-war was to be seen in his old position, and as he rose and fell sluggishly in the distant gloom, his white canvass gleaming out with sepulchral effect through the darkness, one might almost have fancied that the shadowy foe was some gigantic spirit ship, hanging like an evil genius upon our quarter. As if awed by the sudden change which had come over the firmament, both vessels had simultaneously ceased firing. The pause on the part of the Englishman, however, was only momentary. The outlines of his shadowy form were soon illuminated by the red glare of his guns, bringing his tall masts out in bold relief against the gloomy back-ground, and shedding a sulphurous hue on everything around. The sullen booming of the guns; the ghastly light flung over the deep; the low unquiet murmurs of the sea; and the darkness gathering more and more terrific over the firmament and reflected back from the sea until it seemed as colorless as ink, made up a scene whose sublimity and horror no pen can describe. The men looked like ghosts, as they flitted to and fro across the decks; and on every countenance was impressed the feelings of the awestruck owner.

“Cannot yonder fellow see the doom that awaits him, unless he gives over firing, and prepares for the squall?” said the old quarter-master.

Even as he spoke a low hollow murmur was heard as if coming out of the deep, which struck a nameless terror into our hearts. It was the sure presage of the coming hurricane. The men were already aloft getting in the sails, but as that murmured sound struck on the skipper’s ear, he shouted,

“Loose and let run—in with every thing—lose not a second—cut with and cut all.”

He had hardly commenced speaking when the dark canopy of clouds on the starboard seaboard lifted up, as if by magic, several degrees from the horizon, displaying a long lurid, yet sickly streak of light, against which the surges rose and fell in bold relief. At the same instant that low wild sound was heard again rising out of the deep; then a hoarse murmur, the like of which I had never listened to before, issued from the lurid seaboard; then an ominous pause of a moment, and only a moment, succeeded; and, while we gazed in mute wonder on each other at these extraordinary phenomena, a deep, smothered rumbling sound was heard, growing rapidly nigher and nigher, and increasing in loudness as it approached; the sea on the starboard horizon became a mass of foam; and, with a rushing noise, the tempest swept down upon us, hissing, roaring, and screaming through our rigging, as if a thousand unearthly beings were riding by upon the blast. The men had scarcely time to see the approaching danger, and hear the captain’s cry,

“Down, for your lives, down—cut all, and slide by the backstays,” before we were lying almost on our beam ends, while the sea flew over us in a dense shower of spray, almost blinding our sight.

“Hard up!” thundered the skipper.

“Ay, ay, sir!”

It was a period of fearful peril. For several moments, during the first force of the squall, we knew not whether our little craft would right again. The mingled roar of the wind and water meanwhile was terrific, and sufficient of themselves to paralyze the stoutest heart. As far as the eye could see, on every hand, the sea was as flat as a table, and covered with foam. The pressure of the hurricane even on our bare poles was tremendous. Every one was forced to grasp a rope, to keep himself from being blown bodily overboard. At length, however, with a painful effort, our gallant craft slowly righted, staggered a moment uncertainly beneath the squall, and then catching the hurricane well aft, went off like a thunderbolt before the gale.

“Thank God!” ejaculated the skipper, drawing a long breath.

“Amen!” was my silent response.

During these few last moments of thrilling suspense, I had forgotten the Englishman altogether, but he now recurred to my thoughts, and I looked eagerly ahead for him. The driving spray, however, shut out everything, except in our immediate vicinity, from our sight. At length, however, my attention was arrested by seeing a tall spar rising over the mist on our lee-bow, and, rushing on to it with inconceivable velocity, we were soon on the weather quarter of the foe. Never shall I forget that sight. The huge ship was lying on his beam-ends, and his mizen-mast had already been cut away in an unsuccessful attempt to right him. The sea rolled over him, as we approached, in cataracts. For an instant we gave ourselves up for lost, as we were driving right on to the unhappy stranger. At that moment, however, we saw his mainmast go over his side. He righted slowly. We were now so near that I could have pitched a biscuit on board.

“Hard up—ha-a-rd!” thundered the Englishman.

“Luff—luff!” roared the skipper, as we drove on to the quarter of the foe.

It was a thrilling moment. For the space of a second we seemed dashing right into the foe, and a stifled shriek burst from every lip; but just as we gave up all for lost, the two vessels shot apart, grazed each other in passing, and then rushed like maddened coursers each on his own course. In less than a quarter of an hour, the foe had vanished in the mists upon our larboard quarter.

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