THE AUTOGRAPH OF GOD.

———

BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

———

The thirsty earth, with lips apart,Looked up where rolled an orb of flameAs though a prayer came from its heartFor rain to come; and lo! it came.The Indian corn, with silken plume,And flowers with tiny pitchers filled,Send up their praise of sweet perfume,For silver drops the clouds distilled.The modest grass is fresh and green—The fountain swells its song again;An angel’s radiant wing is seenIn every cloud that brings us rain.There is a rainbow in the sky,It spans the arch where tempests trod;God wrote it ere the world was dry—It is theAutograph of God.Up where the heavy thunders rolled,Where clouds on fire were swept along,The sun rides in a car of gold,And soaring larks dissolve in song.The rills that gush from mountains rude,Flow trickling to the verdant base—Just like the tears of gratitudeThat often steal adown the face.Great King of peace, deign now to bless—The windows of the sky unbar;Shower down the rain of righteousness,And wash away the stain of war;Though we deserve the reeking rod,Smile from thy throne of light on high—That we may read the name of God,In lines of beauty on the sky.

The thirsty earth, with lips apart,

Looked up where rolled an orb of flame

As though a prayer came from its heart

For rain to come; and lo! it came.

The Indian corn, with silken plume,

And flowers with tiny pitchers filled,

Send up their praise of sweet perfume,

For silver drops the clouds distilled.

The modest grass is fresh and green—The fountain swells its song again;An angel’s radiant wing is seenIn every cloud that brings us rain.There is a rainbow in the sky,It spans the arch where tempests trod;God wrote it ere the world was dry—It is theAutograph of God.

The modest grass is fresh and green—

The fountain swells its song again;

An angel’s radiant wing is seen

In every cloud that brings us rain.

There is a rainbow in the sky,

It spans the arch where tempests trod;

God wrote it ere the world was dry—

It is theAutograph of God.

Up where the heavy thunders rolled,Where clouds on fire were swept along,The sun rides in a car of gold,And soaring larks dissolve in song.The rills that gush from mountains rude,Flow trickling to the verdant base—Just like the tears of gratitudeThat often steal adown the face.

Up where the heavy thunders rolled,

Where clouds on fire were swept along,

The sun rides in a car of gold,

And soaring larks dissolve in song.

The rills that gush from mountains rude,

Flow trickling to the verdant base—

Just like the tears of gratitude

That often steal adown the face.

Great King of peace, deign now to bless—The windows of the sky unbar;Shower down the rain of righteousness,And wash away the stain of war;Though we deserve the reeking rod,Smile from thy throne of light on high—That we may read the name of God,In lines of beauty on the sky.

Great King of peace, deign now to bless—

The windows of the sky unbar;

Shower down the rain of righteousness,

And wash away the stain of war;

Though we deserve the reeking rod,

Smile from thy throne of light on high—

That we may read the name of God,

In lines of beauty on the sky.

IF I WERE A SMILE.

———

BY RICHARD COE.

———

If I were a smile, a beautiful smile,I would play o’er the infant’s face,And stamp such an heavenly impress thereThat never a tinge of sorrow or careShould ever its beauty efface,To appear the while,If I were a smile, a beautiful smile.If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh,In the breast of a maiden fair;I would speed me on angel wings above,And lie like a beautiful wounded doveAt the feet of my Saviour there,Till he heard my cry,If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh.If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear,In the eye of a Christian mild;I would flow at the sight of keen distress,As the dew-drop falls on the earth to bless,To calm the heart from tumult wildWere my task so dear,If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear.But as I am neither a smile nor sigh,Nor even a tear pearly bright;But an humble poet singing the while,The world of its sorrows and to beguile,I’ll scatter my songs with delightTo the passer-by,Till smiles take the place of the tear and sigh.

If I were a smile, a beautiful smile,

I would play o’er the infant’s face,

And stamp such an heavenly impress there

That never a tinge of sorrow or care

Should ever its beauty efface,

To appear the while,

If I were a smile, a beautiful smile.

If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh,In the breast of a maiden fair;I would speed me on angel wings above,And lie like a beautiful wounded doveAt the feet of my Saviour there,Till he heard my cry,If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh.

If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh,

In the breast of a maiden fair;

I would speed me on angel wings above,

And lie like a beautiful wounded dove

At the feet of my Saviour there,

Till he heard my cry,

If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh.

If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear,In the eye of a Christian mild;I would flow at the sight of keen distress,As the dew-drop falls on the earth to bless,To calm the heart from tumult wildWere my task so dear,If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear.

If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear,

In the eye of a Christian mild;

I would flow at the sight of keen distress,

As the dew-drop falls on the earth to bless,

To calm the heart from tumult wild

Were my task so dear,

If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear.

But as I am neither a smile nor sigh,Nor even a tear pearly bright;But an humble poet singing the while,The world of its sorrows and to beguile,I’ll scatter my songs with delightTo the passer-by,Till smiles take the place of the tear and sigh.

But as I am neither a smile nor sigh,

Nor even a tear pearly bright;

But an humble poet singing the while,

The world of its sorrows and to beguile,

I’ll scatter my songs with delight

To the passer-by,

Till smiles take the place of the tear and sigh.

A TRUE IRISH STORY.

———

BY REDWOOD FISHER.

———

“Erin-Go-Bragh,” the celebrated Irish song of an exiled patriot—Why it was written by a Scotchman, with an interesting account of Campbell the poet, and some account of Gen. A. McC——n, the Irish Patriot.

O, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger:The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not for me.Ah! never again in the green shady bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh.See Campbell’s Poems.

O, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger:The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not for me.

O, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger:

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not for me.

Ah! never again in the green shady bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh.See Campbell’s Poems.

Ah! never again in the green shady bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,

And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh.

See Campbell’s Poems.

In the year 1810, a native of Philadelphia resided in the city of Altona, and became intimately acquainted with Gen. McC——, who commanded the Irish patriots at the battle of Ballanahench.

The general was a real Irish gentleman, with a heart alive to every refined sympathy of human nature, and warmly attached to Americans and the American character. Never can it be forgotten by those who were so happy as to share his confidence, how his fine manly countenance would light up, as he listened to the answers his questions would draw forth, when inquiring into the private characters of any of our revolutionary sages or soldiers.

Often would the tears start into his eyes, when, at the social bowl, some unpublished anecdote would be elicited of the daring of Putnam, the Hannibal-like qualities of Greene and Marion, the persevering bravery of Rifle Morgan, or the daring of General Wayne in his battles with the savage foe.

His whole soul would appear to flash from his expressive eye, and he would burst forth with the exclamation: “Oh, Erin, oh my beloved country, from which, alas! I am banished, when will heroes such as these arise and burst the bands by which thou art enslaved?—Will a just God never hear thy prayers? Will the groans of enslaved millions, will the agonies of a brave and generous people never reach thy throne, and call down thy vengeance upon her persecutors? Excuse me,” he would say, “excuse the companion of the Emmets, the McNevens, and others, who were confined with me in Fort George, in Scotland, from whence I was transported hither—banished! What a word! banished from the home of my childhood—torn from the land where my forefathers dwelt!” On one occasion of this kind, when the most of the company had retired, in his own hospitable mansion, he invited his Philadelphia friend to remain and hear the sad story of his life.

He rose from the table, and going to a book-case, he produced a copy of Campbell’s poems, and turning to the beautiful song of Erin-go-bragh—“there,” said he, “is my history, I am the original Erin-go-bragh. My countrymen, I am told, often inquire how it happened that a Scotchman should write this national, this glowing account of the wrongs of my devoted countrymen. Listen to me, and I will truly tell you the whole story—that is, if I can tell it! If I can sufficiently compose myself, you shall hear it; and should you survive meyoumay publish it, that the mystery may be solved and the world may know how the heart of a Scotch poet was touched with the holy sympathy of our common nature, and has placed on record, in the most exalted and touching numbers, the feelings of an Irish exile. While confined in the fortress of Fort George I was, without any knowledge of what was to be my fate, conveyed to a seaport and put on board of an English frigate, to be banished I knew not whither!” (The name of the port of embarkation and of the vessel were given, but are not now remembered.) “On board of this vessel was Campbell, the Scotch poet, then about to make his pedestrian tour on the continent of Europe. It was not long before we became intimately acquainted, and as you may suppose my whole heart was filled with wo.

“During our passage to this place, we had many and very close conversations, pending which I poured into his attentive ear, in impassioned language, the sad—the overwhelming woes of my countrymen, and particularly my own hard fate.

“We were not very long in reaching our destination—we landed together at Altona, and what was my surprise to find my companion as destitute of money as myself. I had been hurried away without the knowledge of my friends, who had no intimation of my banishment, and coming from close confinement, was not overburdened with a wardrobe, much less with the necessary funds for decency, to say nothing of comfort.

“Campbell was as poor as myself, and in this condition we entered a very common inn, and were ushered into a room, not very well furnished, having nothing but an oaken table and a very few common chairs. We seated ourselves at opposite sides of the table, and gazed at each other with no enviable feelings, when, on examining our exchequer, we found the whole sum in the treasury amounted to no more than a crown. We called for a candle, for it was growing dark, and ordered, in consonance with our finances, a small bottle of rum. The light came, and you must believe me when I tell you it was a dip candle stuck in a black bottle. There was something so ludicrous in this, and in our general circumstances, that we both indulged in a hearty laugh, applying ourselves to the ‘Cruise Keen Lawn’ to keep up for a time the tone of our feelings.

“As our spirits were operated upon by the wretched liquor, which we drank more to drown the rising sigh than for any partiality for it, Campbell called for pen, ink, and paper. ‘Mr. McC.’ said he, ‘your story has deeply interested me, and a kind of notion has arisen that I should like to put it upon paper.’

“In a little time a miserable ink-horn was produced, and something which was called paper, but it was so stained, and otherwise disfigured, it seemed almost impossible, with the wretched pen that accompanied it, that legible characters could be traced upon it; and I could but indulge in my risible propensities, at the idea of any attempt to write with such materials.

“But the soul of the poet had been aroused, and he bade me again to refresh his memory with my tale, which I did by replying to such questions as he from time to time propounded to me. Every now and then he would pause, and pledge me in the tin cup with which we were furnished, for glasses there were none; when he would again commence to write, and before he had finished, so potent were the draughts in which we had indulged, that some of the last lines ran in any other direction than parallel to each other.

“At last he finished his labors, and the result of them was the song of Erin-go-bragh, the very song printed in his works, and which I now hand to you.

“This is a true history of that inimitable production, more full of feeling, in my opinion, than any thing he has ever written before or since.

“Read it to me,” said the general, “for if the king would withdraw the act which banished me, the object nearest my Irish heart, I could not read that song aloud!”

Such was the story told to the writer, as nearly as it can be remembered, after a lapse of thirty-eight years. There are yet living in this city several persons who will recognize it, and an appeal to them for the accuracy with which it is here told, would confirm it in every particular; its only defect being the absence of power in the writer to impart to his readers any thing of the enthusiasm with which General McC. related it—nor the heart-stirring emotion ever exhibited by him when it became, as it often did, the subject of conversation.

As the reader may feel desirous to know what was subsequently the fate of the real and original Erin-go-bragh, he may be told that his friends found out where he was, remitted him funds, that he embarked in a profitable pursuit, and ever after lived in comparative affluence.

The story of his marriage is of so romantic a nature, that as he is now no more, and there is therefore no impropriety in giving it publicity, the writer is tempted to narrate it, as he has often listened to it from the lips of the general, at his own hospitable board, in the presence of his wife.

“ ‘There she is,’ he would say, ‘she is my preserver!’ Campbell and myself continued in our lodgings, and with Saturday night came the bill of expenses, but alas! our means were exhausted.

“When the bill for the first week was presented to us, ‘Well,’ said the poet to me, ‘what do you propose to do, general?’ To which I replied, ‘Do!—what do I propose to do, did you ask me? I might put the same question to you—but no! let an Irishman alone for getting out of a scrape. I will call up the landlord, and tell him our story; adding, that I expect ere long my relatives will find out whither I have been sent, and it cannot be, but that in a short time funds will be sent to me.’ Suiting the action to the word, I rang the bell, the landlord appeared, and I gave him our story in a few words, for though a German, he was well acquainted with our language. ‘An Irish general,’ said the apparently incredulous Boniface, ‘and a Scotch poet!’ He left us with the exclamation, and after he had gone, I proposed a walk, to which my companion assenting, we strolled around the city of Altona, and returned to our lodgings, without having met with any occurrence worthy of remark. Being somewhat fatigued, and having no book, or other means of occupation, we retired to our humble chamber, which had in it two single beds, by no means luxurious.

“Another week of anxiety passed away, and no advices reached me. The poet and myself were in a considerable stew. Another bill was presented, and to our great surprise we found our host very lenient indeed. He made no remark when presenting it—simply asked me had I received my funds, and on expressing my mortification that my reply must be in the negative, he left me with a polite bow.

“ ‘The accommodations,’ said the poet, ‘are here none of the best, but our host is an honest fellow, we have inspired him with confidence, and he appears content to wait!’

“I know not how it was, but I felt a strange sensation come over me, a feeling that relief was at hand. So strongly was I impressed with this belief that I communicated it to my friend, who laughed out at what he called my Irish modest assurance.

“ ‘Relief,’ he said, ‘may come when your relations hear of you, but my word for it, that will not be soon. No, no, there is no relief, and I must leave you for my continental tour.’

“He however yielded to my solicitation to walk, which was always my resource, and as we left the house, I said to him, ‘Campbell, when we come back I shall hear something.’

“ ‘If you do,’ said he, ‘it may be in the shape of a dun for our unpaid bills.’

“ ‘You will see,’ I replied; when we sallied forth, and were gone perhaps an hour. On returning to our room, judge of the sensation I experienced when I discovered on the oaken table, a neat envelope directed, in a female hand, ‘To Gen. A. McC.’ With an eagerness much more easily conceived than described, I broke the seal—not a line of manuscript did it contain—but for a moment my heart leaped with joy, for I found within the envelope a Schleswig Holstein bank bill of twenty dollars! Although my surprise was without bounds—‘Did I not tell you,’ said I to my friend, ‘that relief was at hand?’

“Our treasury was now replenished, and we had a fruitful subject of conversation. Addressing himself to his attentive listener, ‘I wish,’ said the general, ‘you could have seen the stride with which I paced up and down that room.’ Never in my whole eventful life had I such commingled sensations. My pride was gratified, that I could now discharge our indebtedness to our host, while I suffered the deepest humiliation in the reflection, that I was considered an object of charity by some unknown person! My curiosity was at fault to determine who it could be, and I shall never forget Campbell’s looks as he exclaimed, ‘You have conquered here, if you could not in Ireland. But it is Cupid who has been your aid. The hand-writing, the neatness of the billet, and its diminutive proportions, all declare it to be abillet-doux. My word for it, your Irish complexion and figure have taken captive the heart of some fair lady!’ This idea greatly added to my embarrassment, but the pride of being enabled to discharge our indebtedness, overcame for the moment all my other sensations, and strutting up to the bell, I rang it with so much violence, that our landlord ran up in an instant, and demanded to know what was the matter? ‘Bring your bill,’ said I, ‘that I may at once discharge it.’ I thought this would be the most agreeable intelligence I could give him. What, then, was our joint surprise, when he replied, ‘That, gentlemen, is of no kind of importance; I pray of you give yourselves no uneasiness on that score—you can pay me at your convenience.’ Saying this, he departed, leaving my friend and myself more deeply involved in the mystery which had not only supplied us with money, but which had also placed us in such ample credit.

“ ‘You see,’ said the poet, ‘you are known, and Cupid has taken you under his special protection. Let us call for wine, and pledge him, and the sweethearthe has enlisted in your service, in a bottle of the very best the house affords. Would for her sake and our own it were nectar!’

“The wine was ordered, and it was long before it made its appearance, for it was a fluid unknown within the precincts of our habitation; but it came at last, and though none of the best, never was the choicest Burgundy drunk with greatergusto, or a toast given with a more hearty glee than inspired us till we finished the second bottle.

“Time now passed more pleasantly. The second Saturday brought another note, addressed in the same hand-writing, containing a second bank-note of the same amount. Finding our finances so much improved we took better lodgings, and indulged ourselves with more of the creature comforts, for the unknown benefactor found us out in our new abode, and continued the supply, which enabled us to do so.

“I think,” continued the general, “it was in the fourth week that I was returning to my lodgings alone, in the dusk of the evening, when one of the flag-stones of the pavement being somewhat raised above its fellows, caused me to strike it with my foot, and being thus thrown from my equilibrium, I fell against the porch of a dwelling, in which was seated a lady, who did not attract my attention until I heard a voice, a sweet voice, which inquired if I was hurt. A voice in my native tongue uttering sounds of sympathy would have been accompanied with a charm, come from whom it might; but imagine the ecstasy with which I was thrilled when I heard the sweet voice which addressed me, and knew it to be from the lips of a fair daughter of the Emerald Isle—in plain English, an Irish woman.

“ ‘I hope you are not hurt, general?’

“ ‘General!’ she knows me then, thought I.

“ ‘Come,’ said she, ‘and rest yourself in the porch.’

“I could no longer contain myself. I had been dining out with an acquaintance—for I had by this time made one or two acquaintances—and the generous wine I had imbibed had opened my heart, alive as it was, to any and every accent of kindness to an exile. I could contain myself no longer.

“Tell me,” said I, “by what blessed influence I have been thus brought to listen to the sweet sympathizing accents of a country-woman, and one who appears to know me: for if I mistake not, you addressed me by my title—the sad, sad title which calls up all my afflictions, and revives the sad fate of my companions in a strife which failed to benefit our beloved country, proved fatal to one of the best men, and sent me hither a wandering exile.”

“There,” said he, pointing to his wife, then present, “there sits the angel of mercy, who poured into my attentive ears—till they reached my inmost soul—accents attuned to the most holy of all earthly consolations: accents of sympathy for me, and the most noble and heroic sentiments, applauding the course of our dear native land.”

“Now,” said the lady, “I pray of you do not get into your heroics:” and addressing their guest, she continued—“Receive what he says with many allowances, for on this subject he is insane. I forgive him, for he has suffered much in the cause of that dear land from which we both derive our birth; and you who know him know that he never thinks or speaks of dear Erin and his exile—of a spot for which he is ready to shed the last drop of his blood—that his whole soul is not on fire. Of this he may talk to you; and if you will listen to him he will do so till to-morrow’s sun shall warm you with his meridian rays—but I forbid him to talk of me and of our union.”

“Forbid!” said the husband, “there is no such word in the vocabulary. I will tell this to our friend, for you know I love him. I will tell him how you courted me, and how you saved me, and made me what I am, your happy husband.”

To this the fond wife would reply, deprecating the continuance of his narrative, which, however, did not prevent him from doing ample justice to every incident which occurred; from the time of their first accidental meeting as here related, until Hymen had sealed a union which had made both husband and wife as happy as they could be under the circumstances of his banishment. This was an eternal source of chagrin and mortification to his heroic soul; and never could Ireland be named within his hearing, that the tear did not start in his eye.

The substance of his love affair was, that the lady of whom we have spoken was an Irish lady, who had come when a young woman with her parents to Altona, had married a young German, who did not long survive their union. She was left in very comfortable circumstances, and hearing from the keeper of the inn that a person was an inmate with him, calling himself an Irish general, who had been banished, and who had not heard from his friends, and was without funds, she had sent him the weekly supply which so much astonished the poet and the general. The innkeeper—knowing the lady to be an Irish woman—had gone to consult her as to the probability of the general’s story, and had been told to withhold nothing, and that she would be responsible. Often did she tell the writer that she sent the money without any expectation of ever seeing the recipient, who was represented to her as so fine-looking in person, that he could not be an impostor. She believed him to be a veritable Irishman in distress, and—that was enough—had she never seen him, he was a countryman of hers, and had a right to any thing she could do for him—happy to have been furnished with an object to call forth her patriotic feelings, to exercise them in his behalf was her greatest delight. Pure accident had given her a knowledge of who was the cause of calling them forth, and his heart was touched and hers responded to his love—they had been several years married when the writer became an inmate with them—their home was the abode of peace and contentment, and a hospitality that knew no limits.

It was enough that their guest was an American to call forth all their patriotic feelings: and many were there—besides the writer of this imperfect sketch of so noble a character—that can join with the writer in esteeming it a high honor, and a source of extreme gratification to have been permitted to know and to enjoy the society of the “Original Erin-go-bragh.”

His sentence of banishment was remitted many years after the period here spoken of; and he was permitted again to return to the home of his childhood, and the land of his forefathers, for which he had bled, and for the redemption of which he was ever ready to lay down his life—but it was not so ordered. He died in peace, and was buried in the tomb of his ancestors. General Anthony McCann was the veritable and original “Erin-go-bragh.”

TO MISS LIGHT UNDERWOOD.

———

BY J. R. BARRICK.

———

I have been out this lovely eve,With Nature’s self to muse,While pleasant thoughts fell gently onMy heart like falling dews;And every star and every flowerThat gave their presence to the hour,And every voice of melody,Seemed laden with sweet thoughts of thee.I mused upon thy deep, high soulOf intellect and grace:I mused on all the lovelinessOf thy fair form and face:And thy bright smile unto my dreamsCame stealing like the glow that beamsFrom sky and star, in waves of lightUpon the far, dim shades of night.With every tone of moonlight sound,With every breeze of balm,With every fountain, lake and stream,So beautiful and calm,With every cloud, with every star,And every sound borne from afar,Thy voice seemed mingling with the whole,Of Music’s self the life and soul.And as I gazed up to the sky,And on the earth below,My thoughts went back a few brief months,’Mid saddening scenes of wo:When thou wert lost in rayless night,A wanderer from the sense of sight,When Nature’s self had ceased to cheerThy high heart with her beauty dear,I mused on the long night of woThat thou wert doomed to share,When not a hope was left to beamUpon thy dark despair:I thought how sad it was to beFrom earth and sky shut out like thee,To pine beneath a cloud of gloom,Hung o’er thee, like a raven’s plume.But now thou art restored again,To former sense of sight,And lookest back with fearful gazeOn that remembered night:And happy in thy mind’s high powersThou rangest Thought’s Elysian bowers,And canst behold with joyous eyes,The wide, green earth, and free blue skies.

I have been out this lovely eve,

With Nature’s self to muse,

While pleasant thoughts fell gently on

My heart like falling dews;

And every star and every flower

That gave their presence to the hour,

And every voice of melody,

Seemed laden with sweet thoughts of thee.

I mused upon thy deep, high soulOf intellect and grace:I mused on all the lovelinessOf thy fair form and face:And thy bright smile unto my dreamsCame stealing like the glow that beamsFrom sky and star, in waves of lightUpon the far, dim shades of night.

I mused upon thy deep, high soul

Of intellect and grace:

I mused on all the loveliness

Of thy fair form and face:

And thy bright smile unto my dreams

Came stealing like the glow that beams

From sky and star, in waves of light

Upon the far, dim shades of night.

With every tone of moonlight sound,With every breeze of balm,With every fountain, lake and stream,So beautiful and calm,With every cloud, with every star,And every sound borne from afar,Thy voice seemed mingling with the whole,Of Music’s self the life and soul.

With every tone of moonlight sound,

With every breeze of balm,

With every fountain, lake and stream,

So beautiful and calm,

With every cloud, with every star,

And every sound borne from afar,

Thy voice seemed mingling with the whole,

Of Music’s self the life and soul.

And as I gazed up to the sky,And on the earth below,My thoughts went back a few brief months,’Mid saddening scenes of wo:When thou wert lost in rayless night,A wanderer from the sense of sight,When Nature’s self had ceased to cheerThy high heart with her beauty dear,

And as I gazed up to the sky,

And on the earth below,

My thoughts went back a few brief months,

’Mid saddening scenes of wo:

When thou wert lost in rayless night,

A wanderer from the sense of sight,

When Nature’s self had ceased to cheer

Thy high heart with her beauty dear,

I mused on the long night of woThat thou wert doomed to share,When not a hope was left to beamUpon thy dark despair:I thought how sad it was to beFrom earth and sky shut out like thee,To pine beneath a cloud of gloom,Hung o’er thee, like a raven’s plume.

I mused on the long night of wo

That thou wert doomed to share,

When not a hope was left to beam

Upon thy dark despair:

I thought how sad it was to be

From earth and sky shut out like thee,

To pine beneath a cloud of gloom,

Hung o’er thee, like a raven’s plume.

But now thou art restored again,To former sense of sight,And lookest back with fearful gazeOn that remembered night:And happy in thy mind’s high powersThou rangest Thought’s Elysian bowers,And canst behold with joyous eyes,The wide, green earth, and free blue skies.

But now thou art restored again,

To former sense of sight,

And lookest back with fearful gaze

On that remembered night:

And happy in thy mind’s high powers

Thou rangest Thought’s Elysian bowers,

And canst behold with joyous eyes,

The wide, green earth, and free blue skies.

THE CONDOR HUNT.[2]

———

BY LIEUT. WM. F. LYNCH.

———

In each division of the American Continent, nature seems to have carried on her operations with boundless magnificence, and upon a gigantic scale. Chateaubriand, reclining by his watch-fire on the banks of the Niagara, where the thunders of its cataract were only interrupted by the startling yell of the Iroquois, could yetfeel, in the midst of tumult, the amazing silence and solitude of the North American forest. And the hardy mariner, whose bark has escaped the perils of the Southern sea, and is wafted along the western coast of Chili, looks with no less admiration upon the fertile plains gradually receding into the swell of the Andes, which literally lifts its smoking craters and towering eminences above the clouds, and upon its snow-capped and sunny summits, scarcely feels the undulations of the storms which gather and burst around its waist.

With the stars and stripes of the Union floating from the mast-head of our frigate, we were sailing along that part of the coast of Chili, where the waving line of the Andes rounds within a short distance of the Pacific, and were unusually solicitous, after the perils and privations of a tempestuous sea-voyage, to tread upon a soil on which nature, from her horn of abundance, has poured forth the choicest of her gifts.

Older sailors than ourselves had spoken of the generous hospitality of the Spanish colonists, and there were historical associations connected with this favored land, well calculated to render a visit agreeable. Who that has been nurtured in the lap of freedom, would not long to look upon the only race of native people on the western continent who had never been subdued, and who, to this day, tread the soil of their forefathers unvanquished and invincible?

The Araucanians, who inhabit the southern portion of this delightful country, like the Saxons of the European continent, are the only native race who have successfully repelled every invader, and who, happier than the Saxon, still rejoice in their unbridled freedom.

Neither Diego Almagro, with his brutal treachery, nor Valverde, with his unsparing cruelty, could ever subdue or intimidate a race of freemen whose liberties still survive the frequent convulsions by which they have been agitated. The flame of freedom among this gallant people, like the volcanoes of their native mountains, seems destined to burn on for ever unextinguished. But I proposed to speak of the Condor Hunt on the plains of Chili.

Every one has heard of the Condor or Great Vulture of the Andes, rivaling in natural history, the fabled feats of the Roc of Sinbad. Even the genius of Humboldt has failed to strip this giant bird of its time-honored renown, and his effort to reduce the Chilian Condor to the level of the Lammergyer of the Alps, is a signal failure.

Although he has divested this mountain-bird of all its fictitious attributes, and stripped a goodly portion of romantic narrative of its wildest imagery, yet the Condor still floats in the solitude of the higher heavens, the monarch of the feathered race. The favorite abiding-place of this formidable bird is along a chain of mountains in our southern continent, whose summits, lifted far above the clouds, are robed in snow, which a torrid sun may kiss but never melt. Above all animal life, and beyond the limit of even mountain vegetation, these birds delight to dwell, inhaling an air too highly attenuated to be endured by other than creatures peculiarly adapted to it. From the crown of these immense elevations they slowly and lazily unfold their sweeping pinions, and wheeling in wide and ascending circles, they soar upward into the dark blue vault of heaven, until their great bulk diminishes to the merest speck, or is entirely lost to the aching sight of the observer.

“All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—Lone wandering—but not lost.Thou art gone—the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form.”

“All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—

The desert and illimitable air—

Lone wandering—but not lost.

Thou art gone—the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form.”

In those pure fields of ether, unvisited even by the thunder-cloud, regions which may be regarded as his own exclusive domain, the Condor delights to sail, and with piercing glance survey the surface of the earth, toward which he never stoops but at the call of hunger. Surely this power to waft and to sustain himself in the loftiest regions of the air—the ability to endure, uninjured, the exceeding cold attendant upon such remoteness from the earth, and to breathe with ease in an atmosphere of such extreme rarity—together with the keenness of sight that, from such vast heights can minutely scan the objects beneath, as well as the formidable powers of this bird, when the herds are scattered before him; were sufficiently admirable to entitle the Condor to our attention, and to give us promise of goodly sport in the approaching Condor or Lasso Hunt.

A large landed proprietor, a descendant of one of the early Spanish patentees, to whom we had been indebted for abundant supplies of fruit and provisions, as well as for numberless civilities, conveyed to us at length the welcome tidings that the Condor, numerous as the sands of the shore had stooped from his sublime domain, to the base of the mountain, and that the hunt would commence in the morning.

The sun had scarcely risen in the heavens, when our party of from twenty-five to thirty, sprang from the boats to the beach. The plain before us ran in a gently ascending slope to the base of the hill about one mile distant. The hunt was up—and the field in the distance was dotted with scampering herds of cattle and groups of horsemen, mingled in one dusty mêlée, the sight of which lent wings to our speed, as vaulting into the deep Spanish saddles, prepared by our worthy host, we sprang onward to the field of blood. Impelled by the cravings of resistless appetite, the Condor, regardless of danger, pressed forward to assail the herds of the plain; while the watchmen, having sounded the alarm, the numerous population turned out, as well to protect their cattle, as to hunt the mountain-bird—the Chilian’s manly pastime.

From the midst of a canopy of dust, spread wide over the plain, there came forth sounds of noisy conflict, resembling the heady current of a “foughten field;” and mountain and hill-side were shaken by the shouts of the hunters, the tramp of scampering horsemen, and the bellowing of enraged and affrighted cattle. The Condor, alone, rapid as the cassowary of the desert, pursued in silence his destined prey. As we rapidly approached, we perceived one of the herd bursting from the western extremity of the cloud of dust, lashing his bleeding side with his tail, and his blood-shotten eyes starting wildly from their sockets, while foaming at the mouth, he bellowed loudly with pain. With a wonderful unity of purpose, he alone was closely pursued by the whole flock of birds, who, disregarding the other animals, seemed to follow, as with a single will, this stricken one, who was at the same time cautiously avoided by his terrified companions. Like all gregarious birds, the Condor appeared to have a leader, who, rushing at their head, into the midst of the herd, pounced with his greedy beak upon this devoted animal, the fattest and the sleekest of the multitude, and tore a piece of flesh from his side. Attracted by the sight or the scent of blood, the whole flock, like a brood of harpies, joined in the mad pursuit. Swift of foot as the fleetest racer, they kept close to his side, ever and anon striking with unerring sagacity at his eyes.

Tell me not of the gladiators of martial Rome, or of the Tauridors of modern Seville—they were pastimes for children, compared with the thrilling excitement of the Condor Hunt. Away they fled, and away we hurried in the chase. A thousand horsemen were wheeling rapidly in pursuit—a thousand cattle, terrified and frantic, swept over the plain—and a thousand Condors mingled in the crowd—until, by the rapid movement, herd and Condor were again hidden from the view in clouds of dust. A loud shout soon after attracted us to the scene of conflict. Bursting forth once again from the cloud of dust into which he had vainly rushed, the devoted animal plunged madly forward, yet more closely followed by the whole field of vultures. Black with dust, and streaming with blood from a hundred wounds inflicted by the remorseless beaks of his pursuers, he still fled onward, but with diminished speed. As if looking to man for assistance in his extremity, he rushed through the midst of our cavalcade, and the Condor, regardless of our presence, hung upon his side, or followed in his foot-prints.

From the altered movement of the animal after he had passed us, with his head on high, plunging and blundering over the uneven ground, it was evident that his course was no longer directed by sight. His eyes were gone—they had been torn from their bleeding sockets!

Wearied and panting, his tongue hangs from his mouth, and every thirsty beak is upon it. Still onward he flies, hopeful of escape—and onward presses the Condor, secure of his prey. The animal now appeared to be dashing for the water, but his declining speed and unequal step rendered it doubtful whether he could reach it. He seemed suddenly to despair of doing so, for wheeling round with one last and desperate effort, he gathered himself up in the fullness of his remaining strength, and rushed into the midst of the herd, as if he sought by mingling in the living mass, to divert the attention of his pursuers. But the mark and the scent of blood was upon him, and on the track of blood the Condor is untiring and relentless. Beast and bird once again were lost to view beneath the curtain of dust which overspread the trembling plain. But, in a few moments, pursued by every bird, he broke from the midst of the herd, and made a few desperate plunges toward the water, and reeling onward, fell at length bleeding and exhausted, on the very margin of the sea!

“Sternitur exanimisque tremens procumbit humis bos.”

In an instant he was buried up among his pursuers, his flesh torn off, yet quivering, by hungry beaks, and his smoking entrails trailed upon the ground. In the distance, on the verge of the horizon, the last of the herd might still be discerned, flying upon the wings of the wind from the fate of their companion.

Our host gave the signal, and we hurried to the spot to rescue the carcass, with a view to visit upon the Condor vengeance for the mischief he had done, and the blood he had spilled. At our near approach they took reluctantly and lazily to wing, and wheeling in oblique circles, they were soon seen floating over the crest of the mountain, dark specks in the firmament. The hunters, prepared with stakes about seven feet in length, commenced driving them in the ground, a few inches apart, and in a circular form around the carcass, leaving a small space open. As soon as we retired from the spot, the birds descended upon the plain, and entering the inclosure, renewed their feast, and again took wing. In the course of a few hours, the huntsmen returned, and throwing into the pen an additional supply of food, drove down other stakes in the open space, leaving just sufficient room for the admission of the Condor.

The birds, more numerous than ever, returned to their filthy banquet.

Meanwhile, having refreshed our horses, and partaken of the hospitality of our worthy host, we once more took the field for vengeance on the gorged and lazy foe. As the wings of these birds have a sweep of seventeen feet,they are not readily unfurled, so that when the Condor has alighted on the plain, he is only enabled to rise by running over a space of fifteen or twenty rods, and gradually gathering wind to lift himself on high. While in the midst of their ravenous feast, a few of the hunters warily approached and closed the opening; and thus, unable to soar aloft from a spot so confined and crowded, the Condors were captive. But a Chilian scorns thus to slay a foe. Armed with a lasso, each of the natives sits upon his horse, eagerly awaiting the turning loose of half a dozen birds from the inclosure.

They are out—and away scamper the Condor, fleet as the winds of heaven—and away, in rapid pursuit, wheels the mounted Chilian, swinging around his head the noose of the unerring lasso, which, falling upon the neck of the bird, makes him captive. The line is played out, and away sweeps the powerful bird, and away the practiced horseman after him. Springing upward, the Condor now unfolds his wings and flutters in such width of circle as the rope will permit—and now shoots perpendicularly upward—and now falls headlong, and is trailed exhausted on the ground.

The lengthened shadows of evening had fallen along the plain before the sport was up, and the last Condor was captured. We returned to our ship, well pleased with the entertainment, and swinging into our hammocks sunk into deep slumber, for which the exercise of the day had prepared us—but our sleep was not too sound for refreshing visitations from friends far away,

“O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea.”

[2]From Naval Life, published by Chas. Scribner, N. Y.

[2]

From Naval Life, published by Chas. Scribner, N. Y.

BEAUTIE.

———

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

———

Thou wert a worship in the ages olden,Thou bright-veiled image of divinity;Crowned with such gleams, imperial and golden,As Phidias gave to Immortality!A type exquisite of the pure Ideal,Forth shadowed in perfect loveliness—Embodied and existent in the Real,A peerless shape to kneel before, and bless!With the world’s childhood didst thou spring to being!A thing of light!—afeltdivinity!A stainless spirit, born of Love undying,Nurst in that Eden of an earlier day.Thence wandering on the morn of thyawakening,Like a Dream-vision through the world didst go,Filling its darkness with bright things, and makingThe wild waste blossom, and the desert glow.Still o’er the Earth, thy shining foot-prints tarry,Upon the mountain-tops thy step yet strays;Through the rich woods thy rainbow plume floats airy,And on the sea thy form of glory plays!Thy purple pinions fan the brow of morning;Thy sun-bright splendors on the noonday rest,Eve wears the silvery veil of thy adorning,And night by thee in queenly robes is drest.Oh, Beautie! still doth thy bright spirit lingerIn the green vale where Jove was nurst of old:Where the Babe Thunderer listened to the singerOf “many-fountained Ida,” as ’tis told!Still hauntest thou the violet-crowned city—The Trojan Mountain, and the Cretan Hill?Wanders thy soul yet, in the Syren’s ditty—Speaks forth thy heart from the Lost Glory still?We have rare legends of thy marvelous presence—In Egypt’s Queen and bright Zenobia’s form;In lovelorn Sappho thrilled thine airiest essence—In proud Aspasia’s intellectual charm!Nor was thy soul (through Raphael’s pencil) wantingIn Fornarina’s soft seraphic face!And, thanks to Petrarch, Laura’s form is hauntingOur hearts with dreams of rare and breathing grace.Once more! thou art the well-beloved ofNature!Thine empire sweet, is o’er the grand old earth;And well thy soft hand printeth on each featureThe brightness of thine own Immortal birth!Thou touchest with rich hues and scents the blossom;With emerald lines thou pencilest each leaf;Pearlest with dew the lonely flower-bells bosom,And flingest thy glory o’er the golden sheaf.Joy to thy presence, all-pervading spirit!Well may we worship at thy magic shrine;There isno giftthat mortals may inheritSo favored and god-blest, and dear as thine.And still tome, thy worshiper, oh, Beautie!Come as a guest divine—an angel-friend;Give me to see thee, in each darker duty,And radiate my life-path to the end!

Thou wert a worship in the ages olden,

Thou bright-veiled image of divinity;

Crowned with such gleams, imperial and golden,

As Phidias gave to Immortality!

A type exquisite of the pure Ideal,

Forth shadowed in perfect loveliness—

Embodied and existent in the Real,

A peerless shape to kneel before, and bless!

With the world’s childhood didst thou spring to being!A thing of light!—afeltdivinity!A stainless spirit, born of Love undying,Nurst in that Eden of an earlier day.Thence wandering on the morn of thyawakening,Like a Dream-vision through the world didst go,Filling its darkness with bright things, and makingThe wild waste blossom, and the desert glow.

With the world’s childhood didst thou spring to being!

A thing of light!—afeltdivinity!

A stainless spirit, born of Love undying,

Nurst in that Eden of an earlier day.

Thence wandering on the morn of thyawakening,

Like a Dream-vision through the world didst go,

Filling its darkness with bright things, and making

The wild waste blossom, and the desert glow.

Still o’er the Earth, thy shining foot-prints tarry,Upon the mountain-tops thy step yet strays;Through the rich woods thy rainbow plume floats airy,And on the sea thy form of glory plays!Thy purple pinions fan the brow of morning;Thy sun-bright splendors on the noonday rest,Eve wears the silvery veil of thy adorning,And night by thee in queenly robes is drest.

Still o’er the Earth, thy shining foot-prints tarry,

Upon the mountain-tops thy step yet strays;

Through the rich woods thy rainbow plume floats airy,

And on the sea thy form of glory plays!

Thy purple pinions fan the brow of morning;

Thy sun-bright splendors on the noonday rest,

Eve wears the silvery veil of thy adorning,

And night by thee in queenly robes is drest.

Oh, Beautie! still doth thy bright spirit lingerIn the green vale where Jove was nurst of old:Where the Babe Thunderer listened to the singerOf “many-fountained Ida,” as ’tis told!Still hauntest thou the violet-crowned city—The Trojan Mountain, and the Cretan Hill?Wanders thy soul yet, in the Syren’s ditty—Speaks forth thy heart from the Lost Glory still?

Oh, Beautie! still doth thy bright spirit linger

In the green vale where Jove was nurst of old:

Where the Babe Thunderer listened to the singer

Of “many-fountained Ida,” as ’tis told!

Still hauntest thou the violet-crowned city—

The Trojan Mountain, and the Cretan Hill?

Wanders thy soul yet, in the Syren’s ditty—

Speaks forth thy heart from the Lost Glory still?

We have rare legends of thy marvelous presence—In Egypt’s Queen and bright Zenobia’s form;In lovelorn Sappho thrilled thine airiest essence—In proud Aspasia’s intellectual charm!Nor was thy soul (through Raphael’s pencil) wantingIn Fornarina’s soft seraphic face!And, thanks to Petrarch, Laura’s form is hauntingOur hearts with dreams of rare and breathing grace.

We have rare legends of thy marvelous presence—

In Egypt’s Queen and bright Zenobia’s form;

In lovelorn Sappho thrilled thine airiest essence—

In proud Aspasia’s intellectual charm!

Nor was thy soul (through Raphael’s pencil) wanting

In Fornarina’s soft seraphic face!

And, thanks to Petrarch, Laura’s form is haunting

Our hearts with dreams of rare and breathing grace.

Once more! thou art the well-beloved ofNature!Thine empire sweet, is o’er the grand old earth;And well thy soft hand printeth on each featureThe brightness of thine own Immortal birth!Thou touchest with rich hues and scents the blossom;With emerald lines thou pencilest each leaf;Pearlest with dew the lonely flower-bells bosom,And flingest thy glory o’er the golden sheaf.

Once more! thou art the well-beloved ofNature!

Thine empire sweet, is o’er the grand old earth;

And well thy soft hand printeth on each feature

The brightness of thine own Immortal birth!

Thou touchest with rich hues and scents the blossom;

With emerald lines thou pencilest each leaf;

Pearlest with dew the lonely flower-bells bosom,

And flingest thy glory o’er the golden sheaf.

Joy to thy presence, all-pervading spirit!Well may we worship at thy magic shrine;There isno giftthat mortals may inheritSo favored and god-blest, and dear as thine.And still tome, thy worshiper, oh, Beautie!Come as a guest divine—an angel-friend;Give me to see thee, in each darker duty,And radiate my life-path to the end!

Joy to thy presence, all-pervading spirit!

Well may we worship at thy magic shrine;

There isno giftthat mortals may inherit

So favored and god-blest, and dear as thine.

And still tome, thy worshiper, oh, Beautie!

Come as a guest divine—an angel-friend;

Give me to see thee, in each darker duty,

And radiate my life-path to the end!

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