“Hasty news to thee I bring,Henry, thou art now a king;Mark the words, and heed them well,Which to thee in sooth I tell,And recall them in the hourOf thy royal state and power.”
“Hasty news to thee I bring,Henry, thou art now a king;Mark the words, and heed them well,Which to thee in sooth I tell,And recall them in the hourOf thy royal state and power.”
“Hasty news to thee I bring,Henry, thou art now a king;Mark the words, and heed them well,Which to thee in sooth I tell,And recall them in the hourOf thy royal state and power.”
“Hasty news to thee I bring,
Henry, thou art now a king;
Mark the words, and heed them well,
Which to thee in sooth I tell,
And recall them in the hour
Of thy royal state and power.”
For the space of almost a minute after she had ceased, the prince gazed speechlessly on this novel being, awed alike by her strange demeanor, and her sepulchral eye. Nor were the words she chaunted without effect on her hearer. It was a superstitious age, and though few men of his day were less influenced by the supernatural than Henry, there was something in the sybil’s look which chilled his heart with a strange feeling, half fear, half awe. He had not recovered from his surprise, when a horseman rushed wildly up to the hut, and the prince had scarcely recognized one of his warmest friends, Beaumont, when that gentleman breathlessly exclaimed:
“The king is slain!—Tyrell’s arrow glanced from a bow and struck your royal brother to his heart!”
The words of Beaumont acted on the prince like the charm which dissipates a spell. He started, as if aroused from some strange dream, looked a moment in wild surprise at his companion, and gradually comprehending the strange and sudden transition in his fortunes, he sprung with a bound into his saddle, and plunging his rowels up to the heel in his horse’s side, exclaimed:
“Then this is no place for me—follow to Winchester, Beaumont,—and now for a crown and Maud!”
The next instant his horse’s hoofs were thundering across the stones, as he galloped furiously to the capital.
History relates how he reached Winchester, with his steed bathed in foam, and, without slackening his pace, dashed up to the door of the royal treasury, a few minutes in advance of Breteuil. History also tells how the energy of the young prince broke through the meshes of the wily traitor, and secured for Beauclerk the crown; but it does not add that, after the unwilling treasurer had surrendered the keys of the regalia, his new master said, half laughingly and half ironically, to the haughty peer who had so often neglected him when only a prince—
“Ah, my lord! did I not say I would win the race? I trow your steed is mine!”
The discomfited Breteuil bit his lip and was silent, but that night his best charger was sent to the royal stables; while the rest of the hunters, who were now fast pouring in from the chase, with the populace which at the first news of the Red King’s death had begun to shout “King Henry,” gathered around their young monarch and filled the air with their acclamations.
“Maud is right,” said the king to himself, as he beheld the enthusiasm displayed by his people, “to say nothing of the old sybil. Ah! what will my sweet one think when she hears this?”
Three months later and all the chivalry of the realm was gathered in the church at Westminster, while the populace without thronged every avenue to that princely cathedral. Never indeed had a prouder assemblage met at any royal ceremonial. The church blazed with jewels. Nobles in their robes of state; bishops and archbishops with mitre and crozier; countesses whose beauty out-dazzled their diamonds; knights and squires and pages of every rank; burghers with their chains of gold; men-at-arms encased in steel; halberdiers and archers; yeomen with quarter staffs, and foresters with arbalasts; men of every situation of life, and bright ladies, whose loveliness was beyond compare, were gathered in the gorgeously ornamented church, amid the waving of banners, the sound of music, the rustling of costly robes, and the smoke of ascending incense, to gaze on the marriage of their monarch to his fair and blushing bride. And there she stood before the altar in all her virgin beauty, her fair blue eyes suffused with tears of joy; while her manly lover stood at her side, the proudest cavalier in all that bright array. And when the archbishop ascended the pulpit, and demanded if any one there objected to the union, the whole audience shouted aloud “that the matter was rightly settled;” then again pealed forth the anthem, and again the incense rose in clouds to the fretted roof. The music ceased, the words were said, the crown was placed on the brow of the princess, and the hunter of the forest, amid the acclamations of his people, pressed to his heart theKing’s Bride.
“Do you believe in presentiments now?” said the young queen, half laughing, to her royal husband when they reached the palace.
“I am a convert to your faith whatever it may be, sweet one. Nay! you shall preach no sermon over my retraction, for thus I forbid the homily,” and the king drew the blushing Maud towards him and fondly kissed her.
Many an iron monarch has, since then, sat on the English throne, and many a fair princess has been led by her lover to the altar, but never has a happier or more beautiful pair wore the regal crown in the realm of our ancestors.
MERRY ENGLAND.
———
BY J. R. LOWELL.
———
Hurrahfor merry England,Queen of the land and sea,The champion of truth and right,The bulwark of the free!Hurrah for merry England!Upon thy seagirt isleThou sittest, clothed in righteousness,Secure of Heaven’s smile!When ruled the fairhaired Saxon,Yes, thou wert merry then;And, as they girt their bucklers on,Thy meanest serfs were men;And merry was the castle-hallWith jest and song and tale,When bearded lips with mead were whiteAnd rang the loud Washael!And, when grim Denmark’s black-browed prowsTore through thine Emerald sea,And many a wild blue eye was turnedIn savage lust on thee,—When, in the greenest of thy vales,The gusts of summer airBlew out in long and shaggy locksThe sea-king’s yellow hair,—Yet Alfred was in England,And merry yet againThy white-armèd Saxon maidens wereWhen, on the drunken Dane,The sudden thunders of thy warWith arrowy hail did pour,And grim jaws dropt that quivered yetWith savage hymns to Thor.Thy merry brow was fair and free,Thine eye gleamed like a lance,When thy good ash and yew did crushThe gilded knights of France;When Paris shook within her wallsAnd trembled as she sawHer snow-white lilies trampled downBeneath thy lion’s paw.Queen Bess’s days were merry days,Renowned in song and tale,Stout days that saw the last brown beadOf many a tun of ale;Queen Bess’s days were golden daysAnd thou full proudly thenDid’st suckle at thy healthy breastsThe best of Englishmen.Thou hast been merry, England,But art thou merry now,With sweat of agonizing yearsUpon thy harlot brow,Grimed with the smoke of furnacesThat forge with damned artThe bars of darkness that shut inThe poor man’s starving heart?Oh free and Christian England!The Hindu wife no moreShall burn herself in that broad realmSaint George’s cross waves o’er;Thou art the champion of the right,The friend of the opprest,And none but freemen now shall treadThine Indies of the West.But thou canst ship thy poison,Wrung from lean Hindu slaves,To fill all China with dead soulsThat rot in living graves;And, that thy faith may not be seenBarren of goodly works,At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st upTo Heaven three thousand Turks.Fling high your greasy caps in air,Slaves of the forge and loom,If on the soil ye’re pent and starvedYet underneath there’s room;Fling high your caps, for, God be praised,Your epitaph shall be,“Who sets his foot on English soilThenceforward he is free!”Shout too for merry EnglandYe factory-children thin,Upon whose little hearts the sunHath never once looked in;For, when your hollow eyes shall closeThe poor-house hell to balk,(Thank God for liberty of speech)The parliament will talk.Thank God, lean sons of Erin,Who reverence the PopeIn England consciences are freeAnd ye are free—to hope;And if the Church of England priestDistrain—why, what of that?Their consciences are freer stillWho wear the shovel-hat.The poet loves the silent past,And, in his fruitful rhyme,He sets the fairest flowers o’erThe grave of buried time;But, from the graves of thy dark years,The night-shade’s ugly blueAnd spotted henbane shall grow upTo poison Heaven’s dew.Woe to thee, fallen England,Who hast betrayed the word,And knelt before a Church when thouShouldst kneel before the Lord!And, for that scarlet womanWho sits in places high,There cometh vengeance swift to quenchThe lewdness in her eye.Woe to thee, fallen England,Who, in thy night-mare sleep,O’er a volcano’s heart dost tossWhence sudden wrath shall leapOf that forgotten TitanWho now is trodden downThat one weak Guelphic girl may wearHer plaything of a crown!That Titan’s heart is heaving now,And, with its huge uprise,On their sand basements lean and crackThe old moss-covered lies;For freedom through long centuriesLives in eternal youth,And nothing can for ever partThe human soul and truth.
Hurrahfor merry England,Queen of the land and sea,The champion of truth and right,The bulwark of the free!Hurrah for merry England!Upon thy seagirt isleThou sittest, clothed in righteousness,Secure of Heaven’s smile!When ruled the fairhaired Saxon,Yes, thou wert merry then;And, as they girt their bucklers on,Thy meanest serfs were men;And merry was the castle-hallWith jest and song and tale,When bearded lips with mead were whiteAnd rang the loud Washael!And, when grim Denmark’s black-browed prowsTore through thine Emerald sea,And many a wild blue eye was turnedIn savage lust on thee,—When, in the greenest of thy vales,The gusts of summer airBlew out in long and shaggy locksThe sea-king’s yellow hair,—Yet Alfred was in England,And merry yet againThy white-armèd Saxon maidens wereWhen, on the drunken Dane,The sudden thunders of thy warWith arrowy hail did pour,And grim jaws dropt that quivered yetWith savage hymns to Thor.Thy merry brow was fair and free,Thine eye gleamed like a lance,When thy good ash and yew did crushThe gilded knights of France;When Paris shook within her wallsAnd trembled as she sawHer snow-white lilies trampled downBeneath thy lion’s paw.Queen Bess’s days were merry days,Renowned in song and tale,Stout days that saw the last brown beadOf many a tun of ale;Queen Bess’s days were golden daysAnd thou full proudly thenDid’st suckle at thy healthy breastsThe best of Englishmen.Thou hast been merry, England,But art thou merry now,With sweat of agonizing yearsUpon thy harlot brow,Grimed with the smoke of furnacesThat forge with damned artThe bars of darkness that shut inThe poor man’s starving heart?Oh free and Christian England!The Hindu wife no moreShall burn herself in that broad realmSaint George’s cross waves o’er;Thou art the champion of the right,The friend of the opprest,And none but freemen now shall treadThine Indies of the West.But thou canst ship thy poison,Wrung from lean Hindu slaves,To fill all China with dead soulsThat rot in living graves;And, that thy faith may not be seenBarren of goodly works,At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st upTo Heaven three thousand Turks.Fling high your greasy caps in air,Slaves of the forge and loom,If on the soil ye’re pent and starvedYet underneath there’s room;Fling high your caps, for, God be praised,Your epitaph shall be,“Who sets his foot on English soilThenceforward he is free!”Shout too for merry EnglandYe factory-children thin,Upon whose little hearts the sunHath never once looked in;For, when your hollow eyes shall closeThe poor-house hell to balk,(Thank God for liberty of speech)The parliament will talk.Thank God, lean sons of Erin,Who reverence the PopeIn England consciences are freeAnd ye are free—to hope;And if the Church of England priestDistrain—why, what of that?Their consciences are freer stillWho wear the shovel-hat.The poet loves the silent past,And, in his fruitful rhyme,He sets the fairest flowers o’erThe grave of buried time;But, from the graves of thy dark years,The night-shade’s ugly blueAnd spotted henbane shall grow upTo poison Heaven’s dew.Woe to thee, fallen England,Who hast betrayed the word,And knelt before a Church when thouShouldst kneel before the Lord!And, for that scarlet womanWho sits in places high,There cometh vengeance swift to quenchThe lewdness in her eye.Woe to thee, fallen England,Who, in thy night-mare sleep,O’er a volcano’s heart dost tossWhence sudden wrath shall leapOf that forgotten TitanWho now is trodden downThat one weak Guelphic girl may wearHer plaything of a crown!That Titan’s heart is heaving now,And, with its huge uprise,On their sand basements lean and crackThe old moss-covered lies;For freedom through long centuriesLives in eternal youth,And nothing can for ever partThe human soul and truth.
Hurrahfor merry England,Queen of the land and sea,The champion of truth and right,The bulwark of the free!Hurrah for merry England!Upon thy seagirt isleThou sittest, clothed in righteousness,Secure of Heaven’s smile!
Hurrahfor merry England,
Queen of the land and sea,
The champion of truth and right,
The bulwark of the free!
Hurrah for merry England!
Upon thy seagirt isle
Thou sittest, clothed in righteousness,
Secure of Heaven’s smile!
When ruled the fairhaired Saxon,Yes, thou wert merry then;And, as they girt their bucklers on,Thy meanest serfs were men;And merry was the castle-hallWith jest and song and tale,When bearded lips with mead were whiteAnd rang the loud Washael!
When ruled the fairhaired Saxon,
Yes, thou wert merry then;
And, as they girt their bucklers on,
Thy meanest serfs were men;
And merry was the castle-hall
With jest and song and tale,
When bearded lips with mead were white
And rang the loud Washael!
And, when grim Denmark’s black-browed prowsTore through thine Emerald sea,And many a wild blue eye was turnedIn savage lust on thee,—When, in the greenest of thy vales,The gusts of summer airBlew out in long and shaggy locksThe sea-king’s yellow hair,—
And, when grim Denmark’s black-browed prows
Tore through thine Emerald sea,
And many a wild blue eye was turned
In savage lust on thee,—
When, in the greenest of thy vales,
The gusts of summer air
Blew out in long and shaggy locks
The sea-king’s yellow hair,—
Yet Alfred was in England,And merry yet againThy white-armèd Saxon maidens wereWhen, on the drunken Dane,The sudden thunders of thy warWith arrowy hail did pour,And grim jaws dropt that quivered yetWith savage hymns to Thor.
Yet Alfred was in England,
And merry yet again
Thy white-armèd Saxon maidens were
When, on the drunken Dane,
The sudden thunders of thy war
With arrowy hail did pour,
And grim jaws dropt that quivered yet
With savage hymns to Thor.
Thy merry brow was fair and free,Thine eye gleamed like a lance,When thy good ash and yew did crushThe gilded knights of France;When Paris shook within her wallsAnd trembled as she sawHer snow-white lilies trampled downBeneath thy lion’s paw.
Thy merry brow was fair and free,
Thine eye gleamed like a lance,
When thy good ash and yew did crush
The gilded knights of France;
When Paris shook within her walls
And trembled as she saw
Her snow-white lilies trampled down
Beneath thy lion’s paw.
Queen Bess’s days were merry days,Renowned in song and tale,Stout days that saw the last brown beadOf many a tun of ale;Queen Bess’s days were golden daysAnd thou full proudly thenDid’st suckle at thy healthy breastsThe best of Englishmen.
Queen Bess’s days were merry days,
Renowned in song and tale,
Stout days that saw the last brown bead
Of many a tun of ale;
Queen Bess’s days were golden days
And thou full proudly then
Did’st suckle at thy healthy breasts
The best of Englishmen.
Thou hast been merry, England,But art thou merry now,With sweat of agonizing yearsUpon thy harlot brow,Grimed with the smoke of furnacesThat forge with damned artThe bars of darkness that shut inThe poor man’s starving heart?
Thou hast been merry, England,
But art thou merry now,
With sweat of agonizing years
Upon thy harlot brow,
Grimed with the smoke of furnaces
That forge with damned art
The bars of darkness that shut in
The poor man’s starving heart?
Oh free and Christian England!The Hindu wife no moreShall burn herself in that broad realmSaint George’s cross waves o’er;Thou art the champion of the right,The friend of the opprest,And none but freemen now shall treadThine Indies of the West.
Oh free and Christian England!
The Hindu wife no more
Shall burn herself in that broad realm
Saint George’s cross waves o’er;
Thou art the champion of the right,
The friend of the opprest,
And none but freemen now shall tread
Thine Indies of the West.
But thou canst ship thy poison,Wrung from lean Hindu slaves,To fill all China with dead soulsThat rot in living graves;And, that thy faith may not be seenBarren of goodly works,At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st upTo Heaven three thousand Turks.
But thou canst ship thy poison,
Wrung from lean Hindu slaves,
To fill all China with dead souls
That rot in living graves;
And, that thy faith may not be seen
Barren of goodly works,
At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st up
To Heaven three thousand Turks.
Fling high your greasy caps in air,Slaves of the forge and loom,If on the soil ye’re pent and starvedYet underneath there’s room;Fling high your caps, for, God be praised,Your epitaph shall be,“Who sets his foot on English soilThenceforward he is free!”
Fling high your greasy caps in air,
Slaves of the forge and loom,
If on the soil ye’re pent and starved
Yet underneath there’s room;
Fling high your caps, for, God be praised,
Your epitaph shall be,
“Who sets his foot on English soil
Thenceforward he is free!”
Shout too for merry EnglandYe factory-children thin,Upon whose little hearts the sunHath never once looked in;For, when your hollow eyes shall closeThe poor-house hell to balk,(Thank God for liberty of speech)The parliament will talk.
Shout too for merry England
Ye factory-children thin,
Upon whose little hearts the sun
Hath never once looked in;
For, when your hollow eyes shall close
The poor-house hell to balk,
(Thank God for liberty of speech)
The parliament will talk.
Thank God, lean sons of Erin,Who reverence the PopeIn England consciences are freeAnd ye are free—to hope;And if the Church of England priestDistrain—why, what of that?Their consciences are freer stillWho wear the shovel-hat.
Thank God, lean sons of Erin,
Who reverence the Pope
In England consciences are free
And ye are free—to hope;
And if the Church of England priest
Distrain—why, what of that?
Their consciences are freer still
Who wear the shovel-hat.
The poet loves the silent past,And, in his fruitful rhyme,He sets the fairest flowers o’erThe grave of buried time;But, from the graves of thy dark years,The night-shade’s ugly blueAnd spotted henbane shall grow upTo poison Heaven’s dew.
The poet loves the silent past,
And, in his fruitful rhyme,
He sets the fairest flowers o’er
The grave of buried time;
But, from the graves of thy dark years,
The night-shade’s ugly blue
And spotted henbane shall grow up
To poison Heaven’s dew.
Woe to thee, fallen England,Who hast betrayed the word,And knelt before a Church when thouShouldst kneel before the Lord!And, for that scarlet womanWho sits in places high,There cometh vengeance swift to quenchThe lewdness in her eye.
Woe to thee, fallen England,
Who hast betrayed the word,
And knelt before a Church when thou
Shouldst kneel before the Lord!
And, for that scarlet woman
Who sits in places high,
There cometh vengeance swift to quench
The lewdness in her eye.
Woe to thee, fallen England,Who, in thy night-mare sleep,O’er a volcano’s heart dost tossWhence sudden wrath shall leapOf that forgotten TitanWho now is trodden downThat one weak Guelphic girl may wearHer plaything of a crown!
Woe to thee, fallen England,
Who, in thy night-mare sleep,
O’er a volcano’s heart dost toss
Whence sudden wrath shall leap
Of that forgotten Titan
Who now is trodden down
That one weak Guelphic girl may wear
Her plaything of a crown!
That Titan’s heart is heaving now,And, with its huge uprise,On their sand basements lean and crackThe old moss-covered lies;For freedom through long centuriesLives in eternal youth,And nothing can for ever partThe human soul and truth.
That Titan’s heart is heaving now,
And, with its huge uprise,
On their sand basements lean and crack
The old moss-covered lies;
For freedom through long centuries
Lives in eternal youth,
And nothing can for ever part
The human soul and truth.
MARRIAGE.
———
BY RUFUS DAWES.
———
Theinmost region of the mind, where dwellsThe essences of unborn thought,—thoseendsIn which Effects, through Causes, dwell in power,Opened. ’Twas in vision, and I sawA palace of vast size—such as the eye,The natural eye of man, never beheld.Its massy walls of unhewn agate towered,Girt by a colonnade of crysolite;And there were ninety columns of huge bulk,Sustaining an entablature of gold,Diamond and ruby, glittering like the sun.The windows were each one a double plateOf spacious crystal, sliding from the touchEach side in golden frames. The porticoHung o’er a flight of alabaster steps,Extending to a lawn of delicate moss,Where browsed a flock of innocent, white lambs,That little children garlanded with flowers.Around the palace, orchard-trees were seen,Laden with fruit celestial, that hung downLike gems among the gold and silver leaves.Majestic vines, heavy with clustering grapes,In large festoons swung gorgeously betweenThe opulent boughs that dropped with nectarines.’Twas on a mountain’s summit, high and broad,Commanding a magnificent expanse,Where Art, in its essential excellence,Glowed in potential forms, where Nature, too,Un-ultimated in terrestrial things,Bloomed in angelic beauty. To the eastA river, brinked luxuriantly with flowers,Lapsed silently. The deep-enameled dome,Whose measureless horizon knew no bounds,Was draped with clouds that broke celestial rays,Shining down shadowless. Turning, I sawA pair of Consorts, whose exalted homeWas in this paradise. No forms of earth,No mortal lineaments—no reach of thoughtPoetic, when imagination wingsHomeward to Heaven, could in the least compareWith their angelic radiance;—they wereBeauty itself in form,—two, and yet one,—One angel male and female—a true Man.He was her Understanding, she his Will;Thence, but one mind in heavenly marriage formed.Her love was cradled in his thought, that lovedHer love and nursed it—as the tender dropsClasp the warm sunbeams, while the smile of HeavenBreaks in the rainbow. Such is genuine love.He in his form more radiantly shoneThan that sublime achievement of fine art,That shows the power of luminous Truth to killSinuous Error;—she, than Guido’s gemMore beautiful, more human, and more true.I saw, and lo! two dromedaries, eachBearing a golden basket, one of bread,The other of ripe fruit; they came and knelt.Each took and gave the other,—he the bread,She the ripe fruit. The dromedaries thenRose and departed. I beheld them kneelingBeside the river, and when they had drunkI saw them rise again and kiss each other,And then depart. I looked again, and lo!The consorts had withdrawn. They were the firstOf the new birth of Marriage here on earth—A promise for the future, when a Time,And Times, and half a Time shall be fulfilled.
Theinmost region of the mind, where dwellsThe essences of unborn thought,—thoseendsIn which Effects, through Causes, dwell in power,Opened. ’Twas in vision, and I sawA palace of vast size—such as the eye,The natural eye of man, never beheld.Its massy walls of unhewn agate towered,Girt by a colonnade of crysolite;And there were ninety columns of huge bulk,Sustaining an entablature of gold,Diamond and ruby, glittering like the sun.The windows were each one a double plateOf spacious crystal, sliding from the touchEach side in golden frames. The porticoHung o’er a flight of alabaster steps,Extending to a lawn of delicate moss,Where browsed a flock of innocent, white lambs,That little children garlanded with flowers.Around the palace, orchard-trees were seen,Laden with fruit celestial, that hung downLike gems among the gold and silver leaves.Majestic vines, heavy with clustering grapes,In large festoons swung gorgeously betweenThe opulent boughs that dropped with nectarines.’Twas on a mountain’s summit, high and broad,Commanding a magnificent expanse,Where Art, in its essential excellence,Glowed in potential forms, where Nature, too,Un-ultimated in terrestrial things,Bloomed in angelic beauty. To the eastA river, brinked luxuriantly with flowers,Lapsed silently. The deep-enameled dome,Whose measureless horizon knew no bounds,Was draped with clouds that broke celestial rays,Shining down shadowless. Turning, I sawA pair of Consorts, whose exalted homeWas in this paradise. No forms of earth,No mortal lineaments—no reach of thoughtPoetic, when imagination wingsHomeward to Heaven, could in the least compareWith their angelic radiance;—they wereBeauty itself in form,—two, and yet one,—One angel male and female—a true Man.He was her Understanding, she his Will;Thence, but one mind in heavenly marriage formed.Her love was cradled in his thought, that lovedHer love and nursed it—as the tender dropsClasp the warm sunbeams, while the smile of HeavenBreaks in the rainbow. Such is genuine love.He in his form more radiantly shoneThan that sublime achievement of fine art,That shows the power of luminous Truth to killSinuous Error;—she, than Guido’s gemMore beautiful, more human, and more true.I saw, and lo! two dromedaries, eachBearing a golden basket, one of bread,The other of ripe fruit; they came and knelt.Each took and gave the other,—he the bread,She the ripe fruit. The dromedaries thenRose and departed. I beheld them kneelingBeside the river, and when they had drunkI saw them rise again and kiss each other,And then depart. I looked again, and lo!The consorts had withdrawn. They were the firstOf the new birth of Marriage here on earth—A promise for the future, when a Time,And Times, and half a Time shall be fulfilled.
Theinmost region of the mind, where dwellsThe essences of unborn thought,—thoseendsIn which Effects, through Causes, dwell in power,Opened. ’Twas in vision, and I sawA palace of vast size—such as the eye,The natural eye of man, never beheld.Its massy walls of unhewn agate towered,Girt by a colonnade of crysolite;And there were ninety columns of huge bulk,Sustaining an entablature of gold,Diamond and ruby, glittering like the sun.
Theinmost region of the mind, where dwells
The essences of unborn thought,—thoseends
In which Effects, through Causes, dwell in power,
Opened. ’Twas in vision, and I saw
A palace of vast size—such as the eye,
The natural eye of man, never beheld.
Its massy walls of unhewn agate towered,
Girt by a colonnade of crysolite;
And there were ninety columns of huge bulk,
Sustaining an entablature of gold,
Diamond and ruby, glittering like the sun.
The windows were each one a double plateOf spacious crystal, sliding from the touchEach side in golden frames. The porticoHung o’er a flight of alabaster steps,Extending to a lawn of delicate moss,Where browsed a flock of innocent, white lambs,That little children garlanded with flowers.Around the palace, orchard-trees were seen,Laden with fruit celestial, that hung downLike gems among the gold and silver leaves.Majestic vines, heavy with clustering grapes,In large festoons swung gorgeously betweenThe opulent boughs that dropped with nectarines.
The windows were each one a double plate
Of spacious crystal, sliding from the touch
Each side in golden frames. The portico
Hung o’er a flight of alabaster steps,
Extending to a lawn of delicate moss,
Where browsed a flock of innocent, white lambs,
That little children garlanded with flowers.
Around the palace, orchard-trees were seen,
Laden with fruit celestial, that hung down
Like gems among the gold and silver leaves.
Majestic vines, heavy with clustering grapes,
In large festoons swung gorgeously between
The opulent boughs that dropped with nectarines.
’Twas on a mountain’s summit, high and broad,Commanding a magnificent expanse,Where Art, in its essential excellence,Glowed in potential forms, where Nature, too,Un-ultimated in terrestrial things,Bloomed in angelic beauty. To the eastA river, brinked luxuriantly with flowers,Lapsed silently. The deep-enameled dome,Whose measureless horizon knew no bounds,Was draped with clouds that broke celestial rays,Shining down shadowless. Turning, I sawA pair of Consorts, whose exalted homeWas in this paradise. No forms of earth,No mortal lineaments—no reach of thoughtPoetic, when imagination wingsHomeward to Heaven, could in the least compareWith their angelic radiance;—they wereBeauty itself in form,—two, and yet one,—One angel male and female—a true Man.He was her Understanding, she his Will;Thence, but one mind in heavenly marriage formed.Her love was cradled in his thought, that lovedHer love and nursed it—as the tender dropsClasp the warm sunbeams, while the smile of HeavenBreaks in the rainbow. Such is genuine love.He in his form more radiantly shoneThan that sublime achievement of fine art,That shows the power of luminous Truth to killSinuous Error;—she, than Guido’s gemMore beautiful, more human, and more true.
’Twas on a mountain’s summit, high and broad,
Commanding a magnificent expanse,
Where Art, in its essential excellence,
Glowed in potential forms, where Nature, too,
Un-ultimated in terrestrial things,
Bloomed in angelic beauty. To the east
A river, brinked luxuriantly with flowers,
Lapsed silently. The deep-enameled dome,
Whose measureless horizon knew no bounds,
Was draped with clouds that broke celestial rays,
Shining down shadowless. Turning, I saw
A pair of Consorts, whose exalted home
Was in this paradise. No forms of earth,
No mortal lineaments—no reach of thought
Poetic, when imagination wings
Homeward to Heaven, could in the least compare
With their angelic radiance;—they were
Beauty itself in form,—two, and yet one,—
One angel male and female—a true Man.
He was her Understanding, she his Will;
Thence, but one mind in heavenly marriage formed.
Her love was cradled in his thought, that loved
Her love and nursed it—as the tender drops
Clasp the warm sunbeams, while the smile of Heaven
Breaks in the rainbow. Such is genuine love.
He in his form more radiantly shone
Than that sublime achievement of fine art,
That shows the power of luminous Truth to kill
Sinuous Error;—she, than Guido’s gem
More beautiful, more human, and more true.
I saw, and lo! two dromedaries, eachBearing a golden basket, one of bread,The other of ripe fruit; they came and knelt.Each took and gave the other,—he the bread,She the ripe fruit. The dromedaries thenRose and departed. I beheld them kneelingBeside the river, and when they had drunkI saw them rise again and kiss each other,And then depart. I looked again, and lo!The consorts had withdrawn. They were the firstOf the new birth of Marriage here on earth—A promise for the future, when a Time,And Times, and half a Time shall be fulfilled.
I saw, and lo! two dromedaries, each
Bearing a golden basket, one of bread,
The other of ripe fruit; they came and knelt.
Each took and gave the other,—he the bread,
She the ripe fruit. The dromedaries then
Rose and departed. I beheld them kneeling
Beside the river, and when they had drunk
I saw them rise again and kiss each other,
And then depart. I looked again, and lo!
The consorts had withdrawn. They were the first
Of the new birth of Marriage here on earth—
A promise for the future, when a Time,
And Times, and half a Time shall be fulfilled.
INDIAN TRADITIONS.—No. II.
FORT POINT.
———
BY D. M. ELWOOD.
———
“His spirit wraps the misty mountain,His memory sparkles o’er the fountain;The meanest rill—the mightiest river—Rolls mingling with his name forever.”
“His spirit wraps the misty mountain,His memory sparkles o’er the fountain;The meanest rill—the mightiest river—Rolls mingling with his name forever.”
“His spirit wraps the misty mountain,
His memory sparkles o’er the fountain;
The meanest rill—the mightiest river—
Rolls mingling with his name forever.”
Thebeautiful towns and villages of Connecticut, bordering on Long Island sound, are not surpassed in quiet loveliness by any others in New England. The loveliest, perhaps, of them all, is Norwalk, situated in the western part of the State, on a river of the same name, which flows sweetly along through the centre of the town. The title, we confess, is neither euphonious nor romantic: but we would not have it changed even for the sweetest word that ever passed human lips. It was given it by the Aborigines on the day when the territory was first purchased from them, and refers, if we mistake not, to its extent northward from the sound, called by the Indians theNorth walk. It is, indeed, one of the most lovely spots in Nature. Its quiet harbor is studded with verdant islands of every size and form, while across the green waters Long Island is seen, its dim outline scarcely distinguishable from the blue expanse beyond. The sound through its whole length is spotted with sheets of snowy canvass spread to catch the breeze, and anon the majestic steamer, like some huge leviathan, comes laboring on her way, proudly dashing aside the foaming waters from her prow, and leaving far behind a whitened, widening track. But when the Storm King is abroad, the crested waves pursue each other in continual chase, and the long, swelling billows break upon the shore, sending forth their rich music in the deep organ tones of nature.
On the eastern side of the river, and directly opposite the present steamboat landing, is a large circular mound, some twenty feet high, and covering a surface of about an acre. It is perfectly level on the top, and bordered with large, tall cedars. It is now commonly known by the inhabitants in the vicinity asOld Fort Point.
There is a tradition respecting the object and the erection of this mound, which I have with difficulty procured, and which maybe interesting to many who have visited the place, if not to strangers. For its truth, in all particulars, I will not vouch, but give it substantially as it has come down to us.
About two centuries ago, there lived, on the level country about what is now Fort Point, but what was then called Naumkeag, one of those large tribes of native Indians, which, at the time when this land was first visited by Europeans, were scattered over the country from the shores of the Atlantic to the great valley of the west. The Indians had not then been degraded by their intercourse with the whites. The peculiarities of their nature had not been modified by the influence of civilization. Their tastes had not been pampered, nor their appetites excited by the fatal “fire water” introduced by their destroyers, nor their bodily strength wasted by diseases, loathsome and deadly, and till then unknown among them.
From the feathered flocks of the forest and the finny tribes of the sea, they derived an ample subsistence; the shores, too, abounded in shell fish, and the forests with game, so that want and famine were never dreamt of by the happy and proud inhabitants of Naumkeag.
Many years before the time of this sketch a large colony separated from the principal tribe and moved northward, settling themselves in the mountainous regions of Massachusetts. This colony embraced about a quarter of the whole tribe at Naumkeag—and being composed mostly of young men and their wives, they soon became nearly as powerful as the people whom they had left.
Although many miles lay between them, these two tribes long kept up a friendly intercourse with each other, and forgot not that they had sprung from the same common stock. Miles were passed over almost as easily by those hardy foresters as they are by us at the present day, even with the help of iron roads and steam carriages. Great power of endurance was natural to their constitution, and especially was the fatigue of a long and rapid journey borne without inconvenience.
There was one of the Wannamoisetts, as those who had removed from Naumeag now called themselves, who was more frequent by far in his visits to the sea shore than any other of his tribe. Every second moon found him treading the forest with his face toward the south. His journey usually occupied from two to three days. Occasionally he remained at Naumkeag for a week at a time, though for the most part, his visits were less protracted.
Mononchee had of course some object or incentive for being thus frequent and regular in his attendance at the home of his ancestors. His very distant relationship to the tribe would hardly demand such an excess of filial affection. The truth was, there was a magnet of attraction in the person of a young maiden of Naumkeag, the sister-in-law of the chief, Wappaconet; and a powerful magnet it was too,—for there was not another in the whole village that possessed a brighter eye or a more perfect form. Her step almost realized the description of the poet,
“————and fell,Trembling and soft, like moon-light on the earth.”
“————and fell,Trembling and soft, like moon-light on the earth.”
“————and fell,Trembling and soft, like moon-light on the earth.”
“————and fell,
Trembling and soft, like moon-light on the earth.”
Noalwa was not insensible to the attentions of her constant swain; on the contrary, his wooings were quite successful. His bravery and his manly strength—his tall and well formed person, and flashing eye, were well calculated to win the admiration, and, in due course, the affections of the gentle being upon whom his own desires centered; and the many soft things that he whispered in her ear, (for even an Indianin lovecan utter the sweetest phrases with a honied mouth,) found a deep lodgment in her heart. And it was noticed that when the period of his visits was near at hand, her step was still lighter than usual, and her eye danced with a new, but soft fire, though at such times she spoke less, and seemed thoughtful but not sad.
One evening—it was in the beginning of June, that season so favorable to young lovers—Mononchee surprised Noalwa sitting under a large tree close upon the shore. The hour and the place seemed as if under the influence of enchantment. The scene was like a fairy land. The broad sound was spread out before her, upon whose surface the clear moon shed her softened rays, which, as from a mirror, were reflected back on every side, giving to all things around an unnatural and unearthly brightness. There seemed a spell upon the air. It stirred not—but hung over the earth and the sea as if to heal every imperfection on the face of nature by its bland and genial influence.
Noalwa had not been long there. An unwelcome intruder had invaded the hour which she had set apart for solitude and for communion in spirit and in fancy with her absent but adored lover. The intruder had hardly left her sight ere he was banished from her thoughts, and as it was about a week earlier than the customary time of Mononchee’s coming, she was thinking how long the days would be till she saw him, when she felt a warm kiss upon her cheek. She screamed not—spoke not—for a deep-seated feeling at her heart told her that those were no forbidden lips that could kindle such raptures in her soul.
She gazed up at the face and form that was bending over her with all the fondness of a first love, and the young Indian placed himself by her side and gently drew her to his bosom. Then followed a conversation in low, deep, earnest tones, that both came from, and reached the heart.
“The Wannamoisett is good—very good, to come so soon and gladden the heart of Noalwa,” murmured the girl as he pressed her to his breast.
“Who would not come early and often if Noalwa loved him?” replied he. “Her beauty is brighter than the sun! Her eye is clearer and softer than the moon which leaves a broad trail of light upon the water. She sings more sweetly than the Tichanet,[4]and when she laughs the whole air is full of pleasant sounds.”
“Did the Wannamoisett see any of my people as he came hither?” asked she.
“None—for I came down by the shore. Ah! yes, I did see one—Annawon, the Namasket.”
Noalwa hung her head.
“Where did Mononchee meet him?” said she.
“I saw him here!” vehemently replied the warrior, “here—standing on this very spot. I saw his hand grasp yours; nay, kneeling at your feet. I saw his eager look whilst you poured into his ear words which should have been kept for Mononchee!”
“Be it so then,” cried the maiden, her lips quivering with insulted pride, and her heart torn with the agony which the unjust but perhaps reasonable suspicion of her lover caused, “be it so! for I told him to go—ere he told me a tale of love—to his tent and behold the wasted form and the sunken eye of Tituba, his wife, once loved and cherished—now neglected. I told him that I could never be his, and that any one who suspected Noalwa would so dishonor herself as to break her faith with another, could not be worthy of her love. Mononchee suspects her, and to him let her words be applied.”
“But why suffer the Namasket to hold your hand? Why play with the serpent just ready to strike deep his fangs?”
“Mononchee is a keen-eyed warrior,” said the maid in irony, “he saw the hawk, but not the wren that drovehim from her nest. He saw Annawon at the feet and holding the hand of Noalwa, but did not observe with what scorn she looked upon him—did not mark how she spurned and drove him from her.”
“I was deceived,” answered the repentant lover; “Noalwa has a pure heart, and never again will I distrust her. Seest thou that moon hanging yonder over the clear water? When it is again round and full, as it is to-night, Mononchee will come to take Noalwa for his wife. Will she be ready to go with him then to dwell where the hills are high and the deer are plenty?”
“I am yours—yours only,” and her blushing face was hid in his bosom.
After sitting for about an hour, the young man arose. “I must return,” said he, “to my people. Remember the full moon, Noalwa,” and he strode rapidly away.
A few days after the above occurrence the Namaskets were invited by the Wannamoisetts to partake of a grand feast of deer and bears’ flesh at their village in the mountains. Accordingly a large party of the active men of the tribe started one morning, and the evening of the next day found them with their friends at Cohammock. The Wannamoisetts had made their preparations on a grand, and, for them, magnificent scale. Piles of plump deer and still richer bears’ meat lay around, while kettles of dried sweet corn and beans, of the last year’s growth, were already simmering over the small fires, that the hard kernels might become well softened and ready for use on the morrow.
With the gray dawn of morning, all was bustle and activity in the village of Cohammock. The Indian matrons were early bestirring themselves that nothing might be left undone to mar the festivities of the occasion. Innumerable fires were kindled—the wooden spit and the seething pot, the two indispensable and almost the only culinary implements in use among them, were put in requisition. Whilst the preparations were going slowly on, the men of the tribe as well as their guests were idling listlessly about, their appetites every moment rendered sharper by the odor of the smoking viands that were soon to form their savory meal.
And truly the banquet was not unworthy the occasion. Just as the sun had reached the “middle point in the heavens,” piles upon piles of boiled and roasted flesh were spread under the shade of the tall sycamores that grew undisturbed in all parts of the village. A large bowl of the finestsuccotashwas placed before each guest, and if the quantity eaten be the standard of quality, never was there served up a better dinner than was that day disposed of in the rude village of Cohammock.
At length the repast was finished. Both guests and entertainers, with a prudence truly commendable, ate as if expecting a famine for a month, at least, to come, and nothing remained but to indulge in that supreme of Indian luxuries, tobacco. Pipes were brought, but alas! there was not a particle of the weed to be found. Some miscreant, a fair representative of that variety of our race at the present day—ever ready to engender strife, had stolen and destroyed all that was to be found in the village.
This was a deficiency that could be supplied by no other article. Venison or succotash or any other part of the edible entertainment could have been dispensed with, but the burning propensities of an Indian must be indulged. The Wannamoisetts were as much mortified as their guests were offended at this unfortunate occurrence, but it was with difficulty the Namaskets could be persuaded that it was not an intentional insult; so jealous were the natives of their own honor! Contrary to their previous intention, they left their kinsmen in the early part of the same afternoon, not caring to remain till morning with those who had, in their view, been so parsimonious in their hospitality.
Let us return again to the sea shore at Naumkeag. A month after the feast of Cohammock, a party of the Wannamoisett warriors were present at a grand collation, prepared by Wappacowat, the Namasket chief. Much were they gratified by this expression of his friendship, for they had always regretted the affair at their own village, and feared that an open rupture would be the consequence. They dreaded this, still cherishing some little spark of fraternal affection for those whom they had unmeaningly offended.
During the banquet, so busily were the Wannamoisetts engaged in despatching the shell and other fish which their friends had made ready, that they did not observe that Wappacowat and his followers partook but sparingly, so that by the time they had eaten almost to suffocation, and were illy prepared for the least exertion, the Namaskets had taken only what was just sufficient to stimulate them for any enterprise.
At length Wappacowat gave the signal to his followers to bring the calumet, and as he did so, a close observer might have discovered a gleam of gratified animosity shoot across his iron features and glisten in his snaky eye. Quickly moved his warriors, and the devoted guests half stupified by the vast quantities of food they had taken, saw the pipes well filled with the luxurious plant, but did not discover the tomahawk and the knife which they had concealed under their deer skin robes. They sat not smoking long, for suddenly the Namaskets rose and each one buried his tomahawk into the brain of the Wannamoisett next him. All—all were slain. So well had the treacherous, fratricidal plan been matured, that not a single one was left to carry to the desolate village of Cohammock the tale of blood and guilt. Ah! yes, there was one—Mononchee—the betrothed of Noalwa, who having neglected the feast that he might spend the time apart with the fair one, came into the village just as the last reeking scalp had been torn from the cloven skull. Looking an instant on the appalling spectacle, he uttered a furious yell and sprang like a deer towards the river. A dozen tomahawks flew after him, and as many dark warriors started in pursuit, but in vain, for with a few powerful strokes the brave youth gained the opposite bank, and bounding into the woods, effected his escape.
They were buried on the spot where they fell. Perhaps no shade of remorse passed over the minds of the murderers, but they could not leave the victims there for their flesh to rot and their bones to whiten in the sun. They were buried several feet below the surface, and the gloomy shades of night fell thick around before the last mangled body was hidden from the sight. And as the rising wind swept through the thick-topped pines and tall buttonwoods around, it wailed and sighed mournfully, as if singing a melancholy dirge over the graves of the gallant dead. And by the midnight hour it blew in hoarse and awful tones, and the death shouts and groans of the dead were heard commingling with the blast; and when the night was darkest, and all save the growling of the wind and these unnatural noises, was still, a lurid flame sprang up from the centre of the spot where the feast had been, and cast a sickening light on all things, and the earth opened around, and the bodies of the Wannamoisett warriors, bloody and mangled as they were, arose and danced around it, singing their war songs in unearthly tones, together with their wild requiem for the dead. Ghastly and horrible they looked, and as they danced, the blood flowed from their opening wounds, till it reached the strange fire, which instantly shot up in one lurid column of flame till it attained the blackened clouds, when it disappeared as suddenly as it had burst forth; the spectral revellers sank back again into their fresh graves, and all was dark and silent as before.
But when the morning broke the Namaskets beheld a spectacle scarcely less hideous than that of the preceding night. Their victims had been buried, as their custom was, in a sitting posture, and during the night they had all risen, so that their heads were fully visible above the surface of the ground. The bloody mark of the tomahawk was still there, and every scalp was torn off—and the eyeballs, projecting far from the sockets, were fixed and glassy, but of a burning red,—glowing like living fire. And from them rays of dingy red streamed all over the village,—and wherever one of the murderers went, those rays followed him, and pierced him, and seemed as if they were burning out his heart.
Reckless with fear and rage the murderers tore the bodies up from the ground and dug the graves still deeper and again they placed them in. But at midnight the red flame burst forth and the tempest howled fearfully. The phantom forms sprung up as before, and this time their flesh, from their shoulders downward, dropped off and was consumed by the fire, and a dense smoke arose, and a red cloud slowly gathered in the air, and hovered round and hung over the spot like a minister of vengeance. And in the morning their gory heads and glaring eyes had again struggled up above the surface. And when the fratricides saw them, a deadly terror crept over them and the demon of remorse began to prey upon their souls.
On the third night the scene was changed. The moon did not set at her accustomed hour, but hung just above the horizon, red as a sea of blood. And in the midst of the fire that shot forth from the earth at midnight, a form was seen like that of Wappacowat, the chief. But the ghostly images were there again, and they gathered round the form in the centre, and with their skeleton fingers tore off its flesh as fast as it was seared in the fire, and ground it in their teeth with ravenous appetite. When in the morning the dismayed villagers sought their chief they found him not, but tied to a stake where the midnight revel had been held was a skeleton, the bones all picked clean except the head, which had been cloven with a tomahawk, and from it the scalp was also torn, and in its features, distorted as if they had stiffened under the keenest tortures, they recognized the countenance of their king.
Dismay sat upon every guilty face, and a sullen gloom enshrouded every heart. The tribe finding it useless to bury deeper the bodies of their slain kinsmen now began to build over them—but every night one of their number disappeared, and in the morning his fleshless bones were found tied to the fatal stake; and still the heads rose, but every day there was one less than before. Then the dreadful truth flashed upon them that one of their own number must die in that fearful manner, for every one of the Wannamoisetts they had slain. As the number of their dead increased, which it did by one for every midnight hour, so did the number of spectre heads diminish. One murdered spirit was every night appeased, and appeared no more.
Still they kept on building that huge pile, and the dreadful occupation to which they clung as affording the only ray of hope that they might be delivered before their turn should come round, so wrought upon the guilty ones that they soon became almost as ghostly as the phantoms of the night which tortured them. But they faltered not in their task. Every day the heads were covered and every morning they were found in sight. And on the seventieth morning that mound was far higher than it now stands. There was then but one head remaining, for just seventy of the Wannamoisetts had been slain and just seventy were the murderers. At midnight of that day the strange revel was, for the last time, visible, for when the skeleton of Mononton, the last and most bloody of the fratricides was found, the last head had disappeared forever.
The remainder of the tribe left soon after in search of a more auspicious residence. Since the treacherous act of their brethren, famine had weakened them and the terrible plague laid many of their forest children low. But wherever they wandered, the curse of the Great Spirit followed them, and they dwindled away until finally there was no place left for them on the earth.
One fair evening in the next summer, two forms sat upon the very mound which forms the principal subject of this tale. One was a female of fairy proportions, and she looked abroad over the landscape with the eye of one to whom its beauties were familiar. Her companion’s face was buried in his hands, and his whole frame shook as if the recollection of some terrible scene were passing over his memory. And as the eye of Noalwa rested on him she, too, divining his thoughts, shuddered, saying,
“Mononchee! let us go hence, never again to return! I cannot bear to look upon these scenes where my people lived and where yours so sadly perished. These trees that we have planted around the mound which covers them will bear witness that their memory is still dear to us. Let us go, Mononchee!”
They went to dwell with those that were left of his people. Many and bright were their days. Plenty surrounded them. The tribe grew again and Mononchee became their chief. The trees which he planted around “Fort Point” sprang forth and flourished luxuriantly, and the large junipers that still remain are doubtless descended from that parent stock. But scarcely any other green thing will grow there; it seems a devoted place. Devoted let it be; sacred forever to the shades of those who are sleeping in its bosom.
[4]A wild forest bird.
[4]
A wild forest bird.
Unionville, Mass.
Unionville, Mass.
NEVER SHALL MY HEART FORGET THEE!
BALLAD—SUNG BYMR. SINCLAIR,COMPOSED BYGEORGE O. FARMER.
BALLAD—SUNG BY
MR. SINCLAIR,
COMPOSED BY
GEORGE O. FARMER.
———
Philadelphia:John F. Nunns,184 Chesnut Street.
———
musical score
Never shall my heart forget thee,Come what may of joy or ill;Love, the hour when first I met thee,Lives in mem’ry still.Beauty’s hallowed light was o’er thee!
Never shall my heart forget thee,Come what may of joy or ill;Love, the hour when first I met thee,Lives in mem’ry still.Beauty’s hallowed light was o’er thee!
Never shall my heart forget thee,Come what may of joy or ill;Love, the hour when first I met thee,Lives in mem’ry still.Beauty’s hallowed light was o’er thee!
Never shall my heart forget thee,
Come what may of joy or ill;
Love, the hour when first I met thee,
Lives in mem’ry still.
Beauty’s hallowed light was o’er thee!
musical score
Music’s spell was on thy tongue,Oh, to see was to adore thee,Maid of Avinlonge,Oh! to see was to adore thee,Maid of Avinlonge.Maid, the shades of night are falling,The blest hour of love draws nigh;Like the voice of beauty calling,Floats the bird-song by.Tho’ our fond hearts fate should sever,Darkly doomed to pine alone;Still as first they loved, foreverShould our souls love on.Though from dreams of hope awaking.I can scorn Fate’s ire to me,Smile, tho’ my own heart be breaking,If Fate wounds not thee!Never shall my lips deceive thee,My devotion ne’er decline,Dearest, until life shall leave me,My whole heart is thine.
Music’s spell was on thy tongue,Oh, to see was to adore thee,Maid of Avinlonge,Oh! to see was to adore thee,Maid of Avinlonge.Maid, the shades of night are falling,The blest hour of love draws nigh;Like the voice of beauty calling,Floats the bird-song by.Tho’ our fond hearts fate should sever,Darkly doomed to pine alone;Still as first they loved, foreverShould our souls love on.Though from dreams of hope awaking.I can scorn Fate’s ire to me,Smile, tho’ my own heart be breaking,If Fate wounds not thee!Never shall my lips deceive thee,My devotion ne’er decline,Dearest, until life shall leave me,My whole heart is thine.
Music’s spell was on thy tongue,Oh, to see was to adore thee,Maid of Avinlonge,Oh! to see was to adore thee,Maid of Avinlonge.
Music’s spell was on thy tongue,
Oh, to see was to adore thee,
Maid of Avinlonge,
Oh! to see was to adore thee,
Maid of Avinlonge.
Maid, the shades of night are falling,The blest hour of love draws nigh;Like the voice of beauty calling,Floats the bird-song by.Tho’ our fond hearts fate should sever,Darkly doomed to pine alone;Still as first they loved, foreverShould our souls love on.
Maid, the shades of night are falling,
The blest hour of love draws nigh;
Like the voice of beauty calling,
Floats the bird-song by.
Tho’ our fond hearts fate should sever,
Darkly doomed to pine alone;
Still as first they loved, forever
Should our souls love on.
Though from dreams of hope awaking.I can scorn Fate’s ire to me,Smile, tho’ my own heart be breaking,If Fate wounds not thee!Never shall my lips deceive thee,My devotion ne’er decline,Dearest, until life shall leave me,My whole heart is thine.
Though from dreams of hope awaking.
I can scorn Fate’s ire to me,
Smile, tho’ my own heart be breaking,
If Fate wounds not thee!
Never shall my lips deceive thee,
My devotion ne’er decline,
Dearest, until life shall leave me,
My whole heart is thine.
Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.
Theflint and steel lock, like the matchlock, has had its day; and the one is as likely as the other to supersede the detonator. There were some sportsmen who long retained the flint in preference to the copper-cap. Their partiality for the old system arose from their inability to depart from the manner of taking aim to which they had been accustomed—they fired too forward! It was said, too, that a barrel fired by a detonating lock, did not throw shot so efficiently as the other. That objection is now obviated by making barrels perfectly cylindrical throughout the whole length of the tube. We prefer the copper-cap lock for its simplicity, to any other system of firing by percussion.
A bad lock, in thesemarch-of-improvementdays, is rarely fixed to a gun. Since the use of detonators has become general, the quality of the lock is not of so much consequence to the sportsman as it was previously. The quickness of firing with the old flint and steel locks depended so much on the workmanship of the lock, that a properly-tempered and well-filed one was invaluable. The introduction of detonators has by no means improved the quality of the workmanship of the lock—it has rather deteriorated it. The fact is, the master gunmakers, finding the lock not so much looked at as formerly, are become indifferent to obtaining the assistance, or unwilling to incur the expense of first-rate workmen. The hardening and filing of a lock in an artist-like manner, requires no common skill. The best locks ever turned out were those made on the flint and steel principle, at the time when detonators first came into vogue; the smartness with which the percussion locks fired, obliged the makers of the flint and steel locks to bestow double diligence and labor on their work, conscious that a rival was in the field with whom it required no ordinary pains to compete. Flint locks, whether as applied to the fowling-piece or the musket, will soon be forgotten, or remembered only to give a romantic interest to some tale of other times, as the arbalast and long-bow serve only to remind us of our Norman and Saxon ancestors! It requires some mechanical knowledge and some experience, to decide on the merit of a lock. The vulgar method of trying one is this:—The operator draws back the hammer with his thumb, not touching the trigger with his finger, and if the works in the interior catch and snap smartly at the half-way, and when the hammer is drawn back, he may rely on the main-spring being sufficiently strong and free to fire the caps: then, with his thumb still on the hammer, he draws the trigger and lets the hammer glide slowly down upon the pivot. With a little practice he will be able, in some degree, to discriminate between a good lock and a bad one. To prove the difference in quality, he should take up a well-finished lock; that is, one of hard material, well filed, and having springs of a suitable and corresponding strength, and compare it with an inferior lock; by a nice touch he will perceive the difference: the hammer of the former slides backwards and forwards with a smooth, even force; whilst that of the latter runs rough and gritty, as if clogged with sand. If this somewhat uncertain mode of trial serve no other purpose, it will enable the shooter, when he takes up a gun that has been used since being cleaned, to discover whether the lock is sufficiently free from rust and dirt as to be fit for the day’s service; for most assuredly, if the lock be clogged, when thus worked backwards and forwards, it will not snap, or in sporting phrasetalk; and in that case it would be unsafe to use it. A detonating lock that will bear this trial, and will invariably fire the cap, may be pronounced quite good enough for any sporting purpose.
The triggers should be what are technically termedbox-triggers, and should be taken from the stock and cleaned at least once during the season, and oftener if very much exposed to dust, rain, or a damp atmosphere. They should be adjusted with scrupulous nicety, so as to require only a slight touch to draw them: they should not, indeed, fire as easily as the hair-triggers of duelling pistols, but should be fixed so firmly as that the sportsman should not be liable to discharge his piece, while bringing it up to his shoulder cocked, with his finger upon one of the triggers. The triggers may sometimes be regulated by filing, hardening, or softening the scear spring, or filing the wedge-like part of the scear which falls into the notches of the tumbler: and sometimes it is necessary to file that part of the trigger which comes in contact with the scear, but this operation requires to be carefully performed. A valuable lock should not be placed in the hands of an unskilful workman for the apparently trifling purpose of regulating the triggers, nor yet for any other purpose.
The wadding we should recommend is that made of felt, and anointed with some chemical preparation. We are not sure that this is the very best description of wadding, but we know of none better. New waddings are constantly invented. The metallic wadding, concave wadding, punched cards, or punched hat wadding, are any of them good, as regards shooting. The chief reason why we bestow a preference on the anointed wadding is, because the barrel is kept less foul, and may be fired so many times oftener without requiring cleaning, than when any other description of wadding with which we are acquainted is used. We are not partial to a tight wadding, but it should fit so that when the barrel is clean and smooth within, the charge will not stir. There is little fear of the charge stirring after a barrel has been fired a few times, as the place where the leading or foulness accumulates in greatest quantity is just above where the charge of shot lies.
Considerable improvement has been made in copper-caps since they were first introduced. The composition in all of them is now good; that which possesses the anti-corrosive principle is perhaps best. There is much difference in the copper of which they are made, but that is of little consequence when good locks with concave or well shielded hammers are used, otherwise those made of bad copper are said to be dangerous. We never heard of an accident from them. The shooter should be particular in procuring copper-caps of a proper size; for if they do not fit the pivots, considerable inconvenience will be experienced. When too small, they will not explode; and when too large, the cap on the second pivot is apt to fly off when the first barrel is fired. The shooter will find it convenient to carry a quantity of caps loose in his waistcoat pocket, with a reserve in a box (a metal box water-tight is best) to have recourse to should those in his pocket become wet. He should take care that there be nothing in his pocket to choke the caps; and by way of precaution, he should, before putting a cap on the pivot, see that there be no dirt in the cap, and that it be perfect.
The best powder does not soil the gun so much as inferior powder. After using good powder, a redness will be observed round the orifice of the pivot. After using coarse powder, a white or black appearance will present itself. The purer the powder is, the oftener may a barrel be fired without requiring to be cleaned.
When the measure on the flask is regulated as it ought to be, it will hold the requisite charge for a clean barrel on a warm dry day. It behoves the shooter, then, when the atmosphere is moist and the wind boisterous, to increase the charge of powder in each barrel in a trifling degree. However stormy the day may be, the shooter may prevent the particles of powder from being blown away while he is charging; but he cannot prevent them adhering to the damp leaded interior of the barrels. Indeed, if the barrels be damp, as they cannot fail to be if the air be so, and there be no wind at all, they cannot be held quite perpendicular, so that the whole charge of powder shall find its way to the breech. One-fifth of the charge will sometimes adhere. Doubtless, when tight wadding is used, the whole, or nearly the whole, of the charge finds its way to the bottom: but in what state? A portion of it is wet!—and the result is, that, when the piece is discharged, only four-fifths ignite!
The fowling-piece should be put by clean, oiled, and the barrels corked or stopped, and with the hammers upon the pivots. It should be kept in a cloth or woolen case, in a dry room, and, when not in constant use, occasionally rubbed with linen dipped in olive oil. The inside of the barrel should be frequently oiled, the oil being immediately wiped out with a dry cloth wrapped round the cleaning rod. Neat’s-foot oil is best for the lock, and linseed oil is recommended for the stocks, but it is so offensive that we prefer olive oil.
Large-grained powder is generally stronger than small-grained. It is well to be cautious that the grain is not so large as not to fill the nipple freely, or misfires will be the consequence. Powder which suits one gun may not suit another; the larger the bore of the gun, the larger should be the grain of the powder. An instrument for trying the strength of powder should not be trusted to: the best trial is with the gun in which the powder is intended to be used, and there can be no better target for trying the comparative strength of different powders, than an unbound book fixed firmly against something solid.
The heavier and harder the metal of which shot is made the better.[5]