This said, Spike tumbled into his boat, and was pulled ashore. As for Mulford, though he cast many an anxious glance toward the islet, he obeyed his orders, keeping the brig standing off and on, under easy canvas, but working her up toward the indicated passage.
Spike was met by Jack Tier on the beach of the little island.
“Muster the women at once,” ordered the captain, “we have no time to lose, for that fellow will soon be firing broadsides, and his shot now range half a mile beyond us.”
“You’ll no more move the widow and her maid, than you’ll move the island,” answered Jack, laconically.
“Why should I not move them? Do they wish to stay here and starve?”
“It’s little that they think ofthat. The sloop-of-war no sooner begun to fire than down went Mrs. Budd on the canvas floor of the tent, and set up just such a screaming as you may remember she tried her hand at the night the revenue craft fired into us. Biddy lay down alongside of her mistress, and at every gun, they just scream as loud as they can, as if they fancied they might frighten off Uncle Sam’s men from their duty.”
“Duty!—You little scamp, do you call tormenting honest traders in this fashion the duty of any man?”
“Well, captain, I’m no ways partic’lar about a word or two. Their ‘ways,’ if you like that better than duty, sir.”
“Where’s Rose? Is she down too, screaming and squalling?”
“No, Capt. Spike, no. Miss Rose is endeavoring, like a handsome young Christian lady as she is, to pacify and mollify her aunt and Biddy; and right down sensible talk does she give them.”
“Then she at least can go aboard the brig,” exclaimed Spike, with a sudden animation, and an expression of countenance that Jack did not at all like.
“Iray-y-therthink she’ll wish to hold on to the old lady,” observed the steward’s-mate, a little emphatically.
“You be d—d,” cried Spike, fiercely; “when your opinion is wanted, I’ll ask for it. If I find you’ve been setting that young woman’s mind ag’in me, I’ll toss you overboard, as I would the offals of a shark.”
“Young women’s minds, when they are only nineteen, get set ag’in boys of fifty-six without much assistance.”
“Fifty-six yourself.”
“I’m fifty-three—that I’ll own without making faces at it,” returned Jack, meekly; “and, StephenSpike, you logged fifty-six your last birthday, or a false entry was made.”
This conversation did not take place in the presence of the boat’s crew, but as the two walked together toward the tent. They were now in the verandah, as we have called the shaded opening in front, and actually within sound of the sweet voice of Rose, as she exhorted her aunt, in tones a little louder than usual for her to use, to manifest more fortitude. Under such circumstances Spike did not deem it expedient to utter that which was uppermost in his mind, but, turning short upon Tier, he directed a tremendous blow directly between his eyes. Jack saw the danger and dodged, falling backward to avoid a concussion which he knew would otherwise be fearful, coming as it would from one of the best forecastle boxers of his time. The full force of the blowwasavoided, though Jack got enough of it to knock him down, and to give him a pair of black eyes. Spike did not stop to pick the assistant steward up, for another gun was fired at that very instant, and Mrs. Budd and Biddy renewed their screams. Instead of pausing to kick the prostrate Tier, as had just before been his intention, the captain entered the tent.
A scene that was sufficiently absurd met the view of Spike, when he found himself in the presence of the females. The widow had thrown herself on the ground, and was grasping the cloth of the sail on which the tent had been erected with both her hands, and was screaming at the top of her voice. Biddy’s imitation was not exactly literal, for she had taken a comfortable seat at the side of her mistress, but in the way of cries, she rather outdid her principal.
“We must be off,” cried Spike, somewhat unceremoniously. “The man-of-war is blazing away, as if she was a firin’ minute-guns over our destruction, and I can wait no longer.”
“I’ll not stir,” answered the widow—“I can’t stir—I shall be shot if I go out. No, no, no—I’ll not stir an inch.”
“We’ll be kilt!—we’ll be kilt!” echoed Biddy, “and a wicket murther ’twill be in that same man, war or no war.”
The captain perceived the uselessness of remonstrance at such a moment, and perhaps he was secretly rejoiced thereat; but it is certain that he whipped Rose up under his arm, and walked away with her, as if she had been a child of two or three years of age. Rose did not scream, but she struggled and protested vehemently. It was in vain. Already the captain had carried her half the distance between the tent and the boat, in the last of which, a minute more would have deposited his victim, when a severe blow on the back of his head caused Spike to stumble, and he permitted Rose to escape from his grasp, in the effort to save himself from a fall. Turning fiercely toward his assailant, whom he suspected to be one of his boat’s crew, he saw Tier standing within a few yards, leveling a pistol at him.
“Advance a step, and you’re a dead man, villain!” screamed Jack, his voice almost cracked with rage, and the effort he made to menace.
Spike muttered an oath too revolting for our pages; but it was such a curse as none but an old salt could give vent to, and that in the bitterness of his fiercest wrath. At that critical moment, while Rose was swelling with indignation and wounded maiden pride, almost within reach of his arms, looking more lovely than ever, as the flush of anger deepened the color in her cheeks, a fresh and deep report from one of the guns of the sloop-of-war drew all eyes in her direction. The belching of that gun seemed to be of double the power of those which had preceded it, and jets of water, that were twenty feet in height, marked the course of the formidable missile that was projected from the piece. The ship had, indeed, discharged one of those monster-cannons that bear the name of a distinguished French engineer, but which should more properly be called by the name of the ingenious officer who is at the head of our own ordnance, as they came originally from his inventive faculties, though somewhat improved by their European adopter. Spike suspected the truth, for he had heard of these “Pazans,” as he called them, and he watched the booming, leaping progress of the eight-inch shell that this gun threw, with the apprehension that unknown danger is apt to excite. As jet succeeded jet, each rising nearer and nearer to his brig, the interval of time between them seeming fearfully to diminish, he muttered oath upon oath. The last leap that the shell made on the water was at about a quarter of a mile’s distance of the islet on which his people had deposited at least a hundred and fifty barrels of his spurious flour, thence it flew, as it might be without an effort, with a grand and stately bound into the very centre of the barrels, exploding at the moment it struck. All saw the scattering of flour, which was instantly succeeded by the heavy though slightly straggling explosion of all the powder on the island. A hundred kegs were lighted, as it might be, in a common flash, and a cloud of white smoke poured out and concealed the whole islet, and all near it.
Rose stood confounded, nor was Jack Tier in a much better state of mind, though he still kept the pistol leveled, and menaced Spike. But the last was no longer dangerous to any there. He recollected that piles of the barrels encumbered the decks of his vessel, and he rushed to the boat, nearly frantic with haste, ordering the men to pull for their lives. In less than five minutes he was alongside, and on the deck of the Swash—his first order being to—“Tumble every barrel of this bloody powder into the sea, men. Over with it, Mr. Mulford, clear away the midship ports, and launch as much as you can through them.”
Remonstrance on the part of Señor Montefalderon would have been useless, had he been disposed to make it; but, sooth to say, he was as ready to get rid of the powder as any there, after the specimenhe had just witnessed of the power of a Paixhan gun.
Thus it is ever with men. Had two or three of those shells been first thrown without effect, as might very well have happened under the circumstances, none there would have cared for the risk they were running; but the chance explosion which had occurred, presented so vivid a picture of the danger, dormant and remote as it really was, as to throw the entire crew of the Swash into a frenzy of exertion.
Nor was the vessel at all free from danger. On the contrary, she ran very serious risk of being destroyed, and in some degree, in the very manner apprehended. Perceiving that Spike was luffing up through one of the passages nearest the reef, which would carry him clear of the group, a long distance to windward of the point where he could only effect the same object, the commander of the sloop-of-war opened his fire in good earnest, hoping to shoot away something material on board the Swash, before she could get beyond the reach of his shot. The courses steered by the two vessels, just at that moment, favored such an attempt, though they made it necessarily very short lived. While the Swash was near the wind, the sloop-of-war was obliged to run off to avoid islets ahead of her, a circumstance which, while it brought the brig square with the ship’s broadside, compelled the latter to steer on a diverging line to the course of her chase. It was in consequence of these facts, that the sloop-of-war now opened in earnest and was soon canopied in the smoke of her own fire.
Great and important changes, as has been already mentioned, have been made in the armaments of all the smaller cruisers within the last few years. Half a generation since, a ship of the rate—we do not say of thesize—of the vessel which was in chase of Spike and his craft, would not have had it in her power to molest an enemy at the distance these two vessels were now apart. But recent improvements have made ships of this nominal force formidable at nearly a league’s distance; more especially by means of their Paixhans and their shells.
For some little time the range carried the shot directly over the islet of the tent, Jack Tier and Rose, both of whom were watching all that passed with intense interest, standing in the open air the whole time, seemingly with no concern for themselves, so absorbed was each, notwithstanding all that had passed, in the safety of the brig. As for Rose, she thought only of Harry Mulford, and of the danger he was in by those fearful explosions of the shells. Her quick intellect comprehended the peculiar nature of the risk that was incurred by having the flour-barrels on deck, and she could not but see the manner in which Spike and his men were tumbling them into the water, as the quickest manner of getting rid of them. After what had just passed between Jack Tier and his commander,it might not be so easy to account for his manifest, nay, intense interest in the escape of the Swash. This was apparent by his troubled countenance, by his exclamations, and occasionally by his openly expressed wishes for her safety. Perhaps it was no more than the interest the seaman is so apt to feel in the craft in which he has long sailed, and which to him has been a home, and of which Mulford exhibited so much, in his struggles between feeling and conscience—between a true and a false duty.
As for Spike and his people, we have already mentioned their efforts to get rid of the powder. Shell after shell exploded, though none very near the brig, the ship working her guns as if in action. At length the officers of the sloop-of-war detected a source of error in their aim, that is of very common occurrence in sea-gunnery. Their shot had been thrown toricochet, quartering a low, but very regular succession of little waves. Each shot striking the water at an acute angle to its agitated surface, was deflected from a straight line, and described a regular curve toward the end of its career; or, it might be truer to say, anirregularcurvature, for the deflection increased as the momentum of the missile diminished.
No sooner did the commanding officer of the sloop-of-war discover this fact, and it was easy to trace the course of the shots by the jets of water they cast into the air, and to see as well as to hear the explosions of the shells, than he ordered the guns pointed more to windward, as a means of counteracting the departure from the straight lines. This expedient succeeded in part, the solid shot falling much nearer to the brig the moment the practice was resorted to. No shell was fired for some little time after the new order was issued, and Spike and his people began to hope these terrific missiles had ceased their annoyance. The men cheered, finding their voices for the first time since the danger had seemed so imminent, and Spike was heard animating them to their duty. As for Mulford, he was on the coach-house deck, working the brig, the captain having confided to him that delicate duty, the highest proof he could furnish of confidence in his seamanship. The handsome young mate had just made a half-board, in the neatest manner, shoving the brig by its means through a most difficult part of the passage, and had got her handsomely filled again on the same tack, looking right out into open water, by a channel through which she could now stand on a very easy bowline. Every thing seemed propitious, and the sloop-of-war’s solid shot began to drop into the water, a hundred yards short of the brig. In this state of things one of the Paixhans belched forth its angry flame and sullen roar again. There was no mistaking the gun. Then came its mass of iron, a globe that would have weighed just sixty-eight pounds, had not sufficient metal been left out of its interior to leave a cavity to contain a single pound of powder.Its course, as usual, was to be marked by its path along the sea, as it boundedhalf a mile at a time, from wave to wave. Spike saw by its undeviating course that this shell was booming terrifically toward his brig, and a cry to “look out for the shell,” caused the work to be suspended. That shell struck the water for the last time, within two hundred yards of the brig, rose dark and menacing in its furious leap, but exploded at the next instant. The fragments of the iron were scattered on each side, and ahead. Of the last, three or four fell into the water so near the vessel as to cast their spray on her decks.
“Overboard with the rest of the powder!” shouted Spike. “Keep the brig off a little, Mr. Mulford—keep her off, sir; you luff too much, sir.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate. “Keep her off, it is.”
“There comes the other shell!” cried Ben, but the men did not quit their toil to gaze this time. Each seaman worked as if life and death depended on his single exertions. Spike alone watched the course of the missile. On it came, booming and hurtling through the air, tossing high the jets, at each leap it made from the surface, striking the water for its last bound, seemingly in a line with the shell that had just preceded it. From that spot it made its final leap. Every hand in the brig was stayed and every eye was raised as the rushing tempest was heard advancing. The mass went muttering directly between the masts of the Swash. It had scarcely seemed to go by when the fierce flash of fire and the sharp explosion followed. Happily for those in the brig, the projectile force given by the gun carried the fragments from them, as in the other instance it had brought them forward; else would few have escaped mutilation, or death, among their crew.
The flashing of fire so near the barrels of powder that still remained on their deck, caused the frantic efforts to be renewed, and barrel after barrel was tumbled overboard, amid the shouts that were now raised to animate the people to their duty.
“Luff, Mr. Mulford—luff you may, sir,” cried Spike.
No answer was given.
“D’ye hear there, Mr. Mulford?—it is luff you may, sir.”
“Mr. Mulford is not aft, sir,” called out the man at the helm—“but luff it is, sir.”
“Mr. Mulford not aft! Where’s the mate, man? Tell him he is wanted.”
No Mulford was to be found! A call passed round the decks, was sent below, and echoed through the entire brig, but no sign or tidings could be had of the handsome mate. At that exciting moment thesloop-of-war seemed to cease her firing, and appeared to be securing her guns.
[To be continued.
LOVE UNREQUITED.
———
BY ALICE G. LEE.
———
A sister’s quiet loveStirs my heart for thee,Ask me for none other,For it paineth me.Schiller’s Ballads.
A sister’s quiet loveStirs my heart for thee,Ask me for none other,For it paineth me.Schiller’s Ballads.
A sister’s quiet love
Stirs my heart for thee,
Ask me for none other,
For it paineth me.
Schiller’s Ballads.
I can but listen to thy words in sorrow—Words that are poured from a full, bursting heart.Thou couldst not thus the form of passion borrow;I know thou dost not act a studied part.For even now thine eyes, so true and earnest,Are seeking mine with such a pleading look;And as that searching gaze on me thou turnest,I know that falsehood thou couldst never brook.Yet I could almost wish deceit were dwellingWithin the soul laid bare before me now,That false, false words within thy breast were swelling,That I might read it on thy pallid brow.Or rather, that thou deemedst true and stainlessThe vows that have just trembled to mine ear;If then thy love could pass away all painless,And leave thee much of hope for gloomy fear.I did not dream that love so high and holyWas nursed so long in silence; and for me!My heart is far too humble, far too lowly,To think that such a passion e’er could be.I read within thine eyes the calm affectionA brother feels for one who, wild and weak,Looks up to a strong arm for kind protection;No other language did they seem to speak.And when my hand was warmly grasped at meeting,An answering pressure to thine own it gave.I did not mark thy pulse was wildly beating;How could Ithink from hopeless love to save?And till I met this eve thy look so thrilling,My spirit had not been by sorrow stirred;But now with tears my heavy eyes are filling,Tears, for the hopes which I this hour have heard.For all the dreams thy soul so long hath cherished,’Tis mine to bid them vanish at a sound,—Would, rather, that my own high hopes had perished!The spell of love not yet my heart has bound,And ’twould be sin to claim thy high devotion,When I could not return one half its worth;For calmest friendship is the sole emotionThat for thee, brother! in that heart hath birth.
I can but listen to thy words in sorrow—Words that are poured from a full, bursting heart.Thou couldst not thus the form of passion borrow;I know thou dost not act a studied part.For even now thine eyes, so true and earnest,Are seeking mine with such a pleading look;And as that searching gaze on me thou turnest,I know that falsehood thou couldst never brook.Yet I could almost wish deceit were dwellingWithin the soul laid bare before me now,That false, false words within thy breast were swelling,That I might read it on thy pallid brow.Or rather, that thou deemedst true and stainlessThe vows that have just trembled to mine ear;If then thy love could pass away all painless,And leave thee much of hope for gloomy fear.I did not dream that love so high and holyWas nursed so long in silence; and for me!My heart is far too humble, far too lowly,To think that such a passion e’er could be.I read within thine eyes the calm affectionA brother feels for one who, wild and weak,Looks up to a strong arm for kind protection;No other language did they seem to speak.And when my hand was warmly grasped at meeting,An answering pressure to thine own it gave.I did not mark thy pulse was wildly beating;How could Ithink from hopeless love to save?And till I met this eve thy look so thrilling,My spirit had not been by sorrow stirred;But now with tears my heavy eyes are filling,Tears, for the hopes which I this hour have heard.For all the dreams thy soul so long hath cherished,’Tis mine to bid them vanish at a sound,—Would, rather, that my own high hopes had perished!The spell of love not yet my heart has bound,And ’twould be sin to claim thy high devotion,When I could not return one half its worth;For calmest friendship is the sole emotionThat for thee, brother! in that heart hath birth.
I can but listen to thy words in sorrow—Words that are poured from a full, bursting heart.Thou couldst not thus the form of passion borrow;I know thou dost not act a studied part.For even now thine eyes, so true and earnest,Are seeking mine with such a pleading look;And as that searching gaze on me thou turnest,I know that falsehood thou couldst never brook.
I can but listen to thy words in sorrow—
Words that are poured from a full, bursting heart.
Thou couldst not thus the form of passion borrow;
I know thou dost not act a studied part.
For even now thine eyes, so true and earnest,
Are seeking mine with such a pleading look;
And as that searching gaze on me thou turnest,
I know that falsehood thou couldst never brook.
Yet I could almost wish deceit were dwellingWithin the soul laid bare before me now,That false, false words within thy breast were swelling,That I might read it on thy pallid brow.Or rather, that thou deemedst true and stainlessThe vows that have just trembled to mine ear;If then thy love could pass away all painless,And leave thee much of hope for gloomy fear.
Yet I could almost wish deceit were dwelling
Within the soul laid bare before me now,
That false, false words within thy breast were swelling,
That I might read it on thy pallid brow.
Or rather, that thou deemedst true and stainless
The vows that have just trembled to mine ear;
If then thy love could pass away all painless,
And leave thee much of hope for gloomy fear.
I did not dream that love so high and holyWas nursed so long in silence; and for me!My heart is far too humble, far too lowly,To think that such a passion e’er could be.I read within thine eyes the calm affectionA brother feels for one who, wild and weak,Looks up to a strong arm for kind protection;No other language did they seem to speak.
I did not dream that love so high and holy
Was nursed so long in silence; and for me!
My heart is far too humble, far too lowly,
To think that such a passion e’er could be.
I read within thine eyes the calm affection
A brother feels for one who, wild and weak,
Looks up to a strong arm for kind protection;
No other language did they seem to speak.
And when my hand was warmly grasped at meeting,An answering pressure to thine own it gave.I did not mark thy pulse was wildly beating;How could Ithink from hopeless love to save?And till I met this eve thy look so thrilling,My spirit had not been by sorrow stirred;But now with tears my heavy eyes are filling,Tears, for the hopes which I this hour have heard.
And when my hand was warmly grasped at meeting,
An answering pressure to thine own it gave.
I did not mark thy pulse was wildly beating;
How could Ithink from hopeless love to save?
And till I met this eve thy look so thrilling,
My spirit had not been by sorrow stirred;
But now with tears my heavy eyes are filling,
Tears, for the hopes which I this hour have heard.
For all the dreams thy soul so long hath cherished,’Tis mine to bid them vanish at a sound,—Would, rather, that my own high hopes had perished!The spell of love not yet my heart has bound,And ’twould be sin to claim thy high devotion,When I could not return one half its worth;For calmest friendship is the sole emotionThat for thee, brother! in that heart hath birth.
For all the dreams thy soul so long hath cherished,
’Tis mine to bid them vanish at a sound,
—Would, rather, that my own high hopes had perished!
The spell of love not yet my heart has bound,
And ’twould be sin to claim thy high devotion,
When I could not return one half its worth;
For calmest friendship is the sole emotion
That for thee, brother! in that heart hath birth.
AUTUMN.
[PRIZE POEM—for which the Premium of $150 was awarded by the Committee.]
———
BY JESSE E. DOW.
———
————————For him the handOf Autumn tinges every fertile branchWith blooming gold and blushes like the morn.Akenside.
————————For him the handOf Autumn tinges every fertile branchWith blooming gold and blushes like the morn.Akenside.
————————For him the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.
Akenside.
Season of fading glory! Oh how sad,
When through the woodland moans thy fitful gale,
Shaking the ripen’d nuts from loftiest bough,
And down the forest side and sylvan road
Whirling the yellow leaves with rustling sound.
Mountain and vale, and mead, and pasture wild,
Have quickly changed their robes of deepest green;
The summer flowers are withered, save a few
Pale tremblers by the sunny cottage door,
That linger, relics of the roseate band,
Till icy winter, wandering from the pole,
Sings their sad death-song on the snowy hills.
Though not a cloud appears to fleck the sky,
The sun at evening shines with tempered heat,
The solitary flicker bores the tree—
The carpenter of birds; and in the path,
The deadly rattlesnake, with flattened head,
And tongue of crimson darting from his mouth,
Watches the idle bird that marks his form,
Till the charmed victim, with affrighted cries,
Drops on his fangs, the vile seducer’s prey.
The hunter takes his way amid the woods,
Or by the ocean side, when far away
The wave that roll’d upon the beach has gone,
To lave a thousand isles of beauty ere
It breaks again in thunder on that shore.
The well-trained setter through the covert seeks
The bird thesportsman’s fancy prizes o’er
The feathered songsters of the woodland wild;
The covey starts, and soon the murd’rous aim
Brings down the plover, or the woodcock dun,
Or mottled pheasant, that puts trust in man,
And finds, as all have found, the trust abused.
On the brown stump the sprightly squirrel sits,
Filling his striped pouch with ripened grain,
While in the thicket near the rabbit glides,
And as his foot falls on the withered leaves,
A rustling sound in the dim woods is heard,
Rousing the chewitt and the piping jay,
And startling from the dead pines naked top,
With hoarsest cry, the reconnoitering crow.
The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights
On the old field, and sings her favorite strain—
A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy—
A little urchin stealing by his side,
With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles,
And eyes that twinkled perfect gems of fun—
Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak
The voice of death on wars victorious fields,
Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat,
Then, casting down his flopping hat of straw,
Rests fearless o’er his trembling playmate’s back,
Takes deadly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires!
Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around,
The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke,
The cat-bird cries “for shame!” and darts away
Before her leafy resting-place is seen;
And when the cloud of death has floated on,
The victim bird is found a gory thing,
While the proud hero of this manly sport,
Struts down the lane like Cæsar entering Rome.
The patient Angler threads the winding brook,
Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait;
And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds
Pass o’er the sun, the fish voracious darts
From the cool shadows of some mossy bank,
Swallows the bait with one convulsive act,
And learns too late that death was at the feast;
While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk,
And plays his victim with extended line,
Swiftly he darts, and through the glittering rings
The silken line is drawn with ringing sound,
Till wearied out with struggling that but serves
To drive the barbed weapon deeper still,
He seeks his quiet shelter ’neath the bank,
And thence in triumph to the shore is borne,
A prize that well rewards a day of toil.
Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite,
Shoots the smooth marble o’er the studded ring,
Or o’er the commons with a bound and shout,
Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch.
Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night
Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep.
Bearing his hazel wand of curious form,
The searcher after earth’s deep spring goes forth,
Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught,
Or later follower of the magic school.
Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds
The Indian warriors raise above their slain,
Then down in valleys, where the sun ne’er shines,
Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank,
He trudges, looking wiser than the one
Who passes o’er the busy brain his hand,
And wraps the senses in a sleep profound.
At length, above a vale where willows bend,
And grass grows greenest in the waning year,
His curious tell-tale turns toward the earth;
He stops, and with a shout of joy proclaims
The long sought spot where living water runs,
And where the well may sink, nor sink in vain.
The forest now awakes, while stroke on stroke
Falls on the hoary monarch of the wood,
Now shaking ’mid the scions that have towered
Beneath its shade for years. At length it falls,
And with terrific crash, bears down to earth
Each minor object that obstructs its way—
Down on the verdant carpet that has spread
Beneath its branches in the summer heat,
Behold it lying like a warrior stern,
Who, having grappled in the deadly fray,
Has sank amid his fellows in his pride—
But not to die, tho’ robbed of all its green,
Still shall it in the lofty steeple live,
Or in the battle-ship, whose thunder speaks
The voice of freedom on her ocean way.
The sail that wafts the admiral in his pride,
By it is held to catch the willing gale,
And on its giant breast the fabric rests,
That bears the sturdy warriors of the deep,
And floats them on in sunshine and in storm.
Its branches to the cottage-hearth are given,
And by the fire that feeds and grows on them
The chilly air is changed to breath of spring.
Food, shelter, comfort, from its fall proceed,
And thousands bless the hand that laid thee low.
Above the purple peaks that fringe the west
The swollen clouds obey the tempest’s call,
And rear their domes and battlements of mist,
With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold;
Now changing into shapes of demon form,
With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows,
And now, like waves of darkness from old night,
Scowling and breaking on the misty hills.
A drowsy stillness steals along the plain,
The leaves are motionless on every tree,
The twitt’ring swallow glides along the ground,
While the more cautious pigeon seeks the eaves.
The geese that o’er the green so stately stalked,
Take flight toward the west with heavy wing,
And scream a welcome to the coming rain.
The cattle from the hills come early home,
And from the fallow ground the lab’rer turns,
Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye
That reads the secrets of the heavens as well
As though it opened first in Chaldea’s land.
Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs,
And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust;
The town-returning wagon faster moves,
And down the hill, and o’er the sandy plain,
The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin;
And while the plover whistles on the moor,
The stage-horn breaks upon the startled ear.
But, hark! the storm-drum beats the tempest charge;
The groaning forest feels its rushing breath,
And bends its yellow head to let it pass;
The vivid lightning takes its errant way,
While echoing, ’mid the sparkling balls of hail,
Is heard the sound of its descending feet
In thunder. The hail drops fearfully around,
Strips the stout trees, and beats to earth the grain,
Wounds man and beast amid the open fields,
And strikes with deadly blow the wild fowl down.
Flash after flash lights up the dreaded scene,
And answering thunder speaks from every cloud;
While the deep caverns of the ocean swell
Their mystic voices in the chorus grand.
Men sit in silence now with anxious looks,
While timid mothers seek their downy beds,
And press their wailing infants to their breasts.
From her low lattice by the cottage-door,
The bolder housewife marks the pelting storm;
Sees the adventurous traveler onward go,
Seeking his distant hamlet, ere the night
Adds tenfold horrors to the dismal scene.
Swiftly the steed bounds o’er the woodland plain,
While hope beams brightly from the rider’s eye,
When lo! a crimson flash, with peal sublime,
Instant as thought, and terrible as death,
Around her bursts. Blinded, she starts, then seeing,
Looks again. The horse and his bold rider lie
Hushed in the marble-sleep that lasts through time.
And while the wind howls mournfully around,
The forest owns the baptism of fire.
The onset o’er, in mingled fire and hail,
Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls.
The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide
The earth’s brown bosom; and the foaming brooks
Go singing down the hills, and through the vales,
Like happy children when their task is done.
A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals,
And then, amid the broad and crimson glow,
O’er western hills, a golden spot appears,
That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes,
Like Heaven’s first smile upon the dying’s face.
’Tis gone, the rumbling of its chariot wheels
Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps;
While waves that roll’d in music on the shore,
Lashed into angry surges, foam and break
In notes of terror on the rocky lee.
’Tis gone, and on its bosom dark and wild
The bow of God is hung, in colors bright
And beautiful as morning’s blushing tints,
When the ark rested on the mountain top,
And the small remnant of a deluged world,
Looked out upon the wilderness, and wept.
—
Gently the Sabbath breaks upon the hills,
As when the first blest Sabbath marked the course
Of time. The golden sunbeam sleeps upon
The woods. No cloud casts o’er the scene a shade.
The six days’ labor ended, man and beast
Enjoy the season of appointed rest.
The fields are lonely, and the drowsy dells
Scarce catch the whisper of the gentle air;
And now is heard, for over hill and dale,
Up laughing valley, and through whisp’ring glen,
Gladdening the solitary place, and sadder heart,
The sweet-toned Sabbath-bell. Oh, joyful sound!
When from the Indian Isle the storm-tossed bark,
Furls its white pinion by its cradled shore,
And the tir’d sailor, on the giddy yard,
Cent’ring the thoughts of years in one short hour,
Looks to the land, and hears thy melting peal.
At such an hour the grateful heart pours out
Its praise, that upward soars like the blue smoke
Rising from its bright cottage-hearth to heaven;
And from the deep empyrian the ear
Of holy faith an answering note receives,
To still the mourning soul, and dry its tears.
Sweet is the Sabbath to a world of care,
When spring comes blushing with her buds and flowers;
When summer scents the rose, and fills the grain;
When autumn crowns her horn, and binds her sheaves,
And winter keeps his cold watch on the hills.
The wakeful cock from distant farm-yard crows
The passing hour—the miller stops his wheel
To gather headway for the coming task—
And by the turnpike-gate the loaded team,
With bending necks, stand panting, while beneath
The rustic shade the careless teamster waits—
With long-lashed whip, and frock of linsey-wool,
And hat of undyed felt cocked o’er his eye—
There draining to the dregs his foaming gourd,
Stands in his brogans every inch a King.
Approach him, sage professor, as you list,
With question subtil on a point abstruse:
Or with a query as to simple things—
Physics or metaphysics, old or new,
Law, written or unwritten, good or bad,
Logic, domestic or of foreign growth,
Knowledge, too deep to know and never known,
Or sluggish faith, that takes a teeming age
Of miracles, to make one soul believe;
Questions political, that sage to sage
Have past for centuries on, as truants wild
Toss prickly burs, for their unthinking mates
To catch, by moonlight, in the autumnal woods;
Talk of creation, or the Chinese wall,
Wander o’er Athen’s hill or sumac knoll,
Drink at Castalia’s fount or Jasper’s Spring,
And he is there to answer and confound.
Nature’s philosopher! untaught by schools,
Who knows, and can explain in one short hour,
More than the wide world knew in Plato’s day.
—
And there the blacksmith by his anvil stands—
Well may you mark his tall and robust form,
His forehead full, where intellect may dwell,
And eye that glances like the flying sparks
When the red bar comes dazzling from the forge.
All day his hammer works his iron will,
The reaper’s sickle and the crooked scythe
The ponderous tire that binds the wagon-wheel,
And the small rivet of the schoolboy’s toy,
Come at his bidding from the metal crude. The patient ox
Waits for his iron shoes beside his door,
And the gay steed that bounds along the course
Neighs merrier when he plates his hoofs with steel;
The temple door on his stout hinges turns,
And in the vault of Mammon rests secure
The treasure guarded by his master-key.
Day after day he toils, as seldom toil
The slaves that drag their lazy length along—
Sleeping at noon that they may dance at night—
In the plantations of the sunny South;
Yet he unmurmuring bears the laborer’s curse,
To share his joys and roam the golden fields,
Erect in form and intellect—a man!
But when the evening comes with cooling breath,
Bringing the hour for labor’s sweet repose,
He clears his brow from every mark of toil,
And seeks his cottage by the village green;
There, having ate in peace his frugal meal,
He turns his mind, insatiate, to his books:
And, by the aid of Learning’s golden key,
Holds sweet communion with the ages past.
Behold! the scholar now in honest pride!
Around him sleep the mystic tomes of years,
Books that the western world ne’er saw before—
The manuscripts of monks, ere printing gave
The world a channel to a sea of thought,
Where all might sail, and drink in raptures in
The spirit-waters, sparkling from their founts.
His tongue can speak more languages than fell
From human lips at Babel’s overthrow;
Nor secret thing, to mortal spirit known,
Is hidden from his penetrating eye.
Versed in the deepest mysteries of the schools,
With memory stored with all the mind e’er grasped,
With talents rarely willed by Heaven to one,
And sympathetic heart that beats for all,
Nor knows an outcast at its feast of love,
Burritt now lives, the wonder of mankind.
Rabbis and sage professors call him learned,
And to his humble gateway come in crowds,
To hear the page of ancient lore rehearsed,
And catch the jewel-thoughts that fall from him
Who sits amid the learned a self-taught man.
—
In the dun forest, far away from noise
Of traveled road, beneath the giant trees,
Whose branches form a lofty canopy
O’er a great circle cleared by willing hands,
Where the gray ash obstructs the serpent’s path,
The happy Christians pitch their tents of prayer.
There naught is heard but soothing woodland sounds,
The tempered roar of distant waterfall,
The fox’s sharp bark, the heathcock’s cheerful crow.
The wildcat’s growl amid the deepest shade,
And the shrill scream of hunger-driven hawk,
As through the openings he pursues his prey.
Amid the tents upon the highest spot,
The preachers’ stand in humble form appears,
And by its side the horn with mellow note,
To give the signal meet for praise and prayer.
There all conditions come with hearts of love,
Married and single, sons and daughters fair,
The emigrants from every templed land;
The Saxon, in his pride of high descent,
The Gaul, with spirit-harp of finer strings,
The Pict, ne’er weaned from his romantic hills,
Where o’er the heather rolls the Highland tongue,
The Swiss, whose home is where his cottage smiles,
The light Italian, gayest of the gay,
And the coarse Hollander, who loves the marsh,
Nor deems a heaven a home without a ditch—
The river seaman of the mighty west,
Rude in their speech, but honest as they’re rude,
The man of cities, and the pioneer,
Whose axe first let the sunlight to the woods,
When nature in her lonely beauty slept
On the wide prairie and the sylvan hill—
The beaver-trapper, from the far-off stream;
The bison-hunter, from the saline lick;
And the wild Indian, in his forest dress,
All gather from their journeyings to keep,
In humble guise, a week of holier time.
And now the horn has echoed wide and shrill,
And the great congregation waits for prayer.
One takes the stand—a man not taught by schools—
In habit plain, with hands embrown’d by toil;
Blunt in his speech, yet reverent withall.
Now, scarcely understood, he lifts his voice
In praise to God. Then as his feelings catch
The inspiration of that hallowed hour,
Soars to a pitch of eloquence sublime,
While the deep woods are vocal with his prayer.
His words, like rain upon the thirsty ground,
Fall on the ear of that great multitude.
Now he describes a Savior’s matchless love—
His high estate, his exile from the throne,
His mocking trial, and his felon death;
The noonday sun in darkness veils its face,
And earthquake voices fill the trembling air,
While the old dead in shrouds, through Salem’s streets,
Go forth a ghostly company again,
Singing the song of Moses and the Lamb,
And making the proud Temple’s arches ring,
With the glad praises of Redeeming Love.
’Tis done! the mighty plan is carried out—
The last great Sacrifice for sin is o’er;
Then from the tomb he rolls the stone away,
And shows a risen Savior and a God!
The different hearers testify his power
In different ways. The truth, like a sharp sword,
Has cleaved its path. The flinty heart is crushed;
And the great deep of sin is broken up.
The old transgressors tremble by the stand—
The young in sin repent to sin no more.
A thousand voices join in one wild prayer,
And shrieks, and groans, and shouts of joy arise,
And Heaven keeps Sabbath o’er the autumn woods.
The painted savage, who amid the crowd
Has stood unmoved for days, awakes to life;
His giant breast in wild commotion heaves,
His heart would speak, nor wait to reach his lips;
He stands and vainly calls to his relief
His savage nature; but, alas! ’tis gone.
Then falling on his face amid the woods
That often echoed to his war-whoop fell,
He casts his weapons at his Savior’s feet,
And lays aside his garments stained with blood.
His voice in accents of his soul now speaks,
His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream,
And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks,
Sweet Alleluia to the King of Kings!
The angel hovering o’er that forest scene,
Bears up the tidings on exulting wing,
And soon from the high pinnacles of bliss,
The Seraph harps in sweetness make response,
Alleluia!
The thrilling song in gentle murmuring falls
Upon the anxious ear, like music heard
On the calm ocean at the midnight hour;
Speaks to the broken heart in whispers sweet,
An dies away amid the forest hum,
Alleluia!
The night has come, and one by one the lights
Go out amid the trees, and the vast multitude
Is hushed in sleep.
—
The harvest moon sails up its cloudless way,
Full round and red—the farmer’s evening friend,
Lengthening the hours of labor, when the hand
Finds more than it can do within the day.
How gently falls its light upon the plains,
The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods;
The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn,
And in the bush begins her matin song.
A moment rings the solitary strain,
And then no sound is wafted to the ear,
Save the wild whisper of the dying wind,
Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast.
Sweet voyager of night! whose fairy bark
Sails silently around the dusky earth,
Whose silver lamp in chastened splendor burns,
Trimmed by the hand that fashioned thee so fair,
And sent thee forth on thy eternal way,
The nearest and the brightest to our eyes
Of Heavens innumerable host—sail on
Thy joyous way, in beauty ’mid the stars,
And catch the song of those bright sentinels,
Who watch the outposts on the bounds of time,
Sending in vain their rays to pierce the gloom
Of drear immensity. The lover’s eye—
Whether he grasps the wreck amid the waves,
Or treads in pride the well appointed deck
Of richly freightedgalleon; or is doom’d,
Like Selkirk, in his lonely isle, to dwell
More desolate because his ear had heard,
In Scottish valley, the sweet Sabbath bell;
Or chases, with the seamen of the north,
The monster-whale, by Greenland’s sounding shore,
Where crystal icebergs lift their glittering peaks,
And bathe with rainbow hues the snowy vales;
Or robs the otter of his glossy coat,
Where the Oregon sings her endless hymn
To the Pacific’s waters; or gathers
Birds’ nests ’mid the endless summer isles,
Where waves the cocoa-nut and lofty palm
O’er crystal billows, ’mid whose coral groves
The fish of brightest tints in beauty swim—
In health or sickness, joy or sorrow, turns
Inquiringly to thee, and speaks of love—
Love that endures when strength and reason fails.
So the poor idiot on the moonlit hill,
Patting his dog, his last and truest friend,
Looks up with eye of more than usual fire,
And, ’mid his idle chattering, speaks the name
Of one who loved him best in boyhood’s dream.
Thompson, sweet village! throned upon thy hills,
With happy homes, and spires that gleam above
Thy sacred altars, where the fathers taught,
And generations learned the way to God—
How pleasant, with remembrance’s eye, to view
The varied landscape changing autumn spreads
O’er sunny vales that slumber at thy feet;
Where roll the babbling brook and deeper stream,
Winding, like threads of silver tissue, wrought
By Moorish maidens on their robes of green.
Around thee rise a host of smiling towns,
Bearing the names of mightier ones abroad.
There Dudley, glittering on the northern sky,
Stands on her lofty height supremely fair,
While westward, Woodstock with her groves is seen,
In rural beauty blest; and at her feet,
Wrapt in a silver cloud, sweet Pomfret vale,
Spreads its gay bosom, dear to childhood’s hour.
The iron-horse now darts with lightning speed
Through the green valleys that my boyhood knew,
And at each turn the lovely river makes,
At the mere plashing of the wild swan’s wing,
A babbling village rises from the flood;
And there the halls of labor lift their domes
At Mammon’s call, and countless spindles twirl
The snowy thread, that soon is changed to gold;
While far around is heard the dash of wheels,
And the unceasing roar of swollen dams.
The dead leaves dance upon the river’s breast,
With tufts of cotton-waste, and here and there
A golden apple, dropped by careless boy,
Floating along toward the ocean’s flood.
On the grey oak the fisher-bird awaits
The speckled trout, or chaffin, tinged with gold;
While ’neath the rock the swimmer leaves his clothes,
And ’mid the cooling wave in gladness sports
His ivory limbs, nor heeds the near approach
Of roaming bard, or red-cheeked factory girl,
Who climbs the rustic bridge, nor casts an eye
Toward her Leander, naked in the flood.
On such fair maidens no Duennas wait,
To scare young love from answering love away;
No convent-gates are closed to bar her will,
Nor Hotspur brothers, armed with deadly steel,
In secret wait to guard that honor safe,
Which, but for such restraint, had long since fled.
Beyond the swampy meadow, fringed with flags,
The ancient forest waves its gaudy head,
O’er which the eagle takes his lonely way—
The mighty hunter of the upper air.
There, in the mossy dells, where all is still,
Save when uncertain murmurs come and go