The hours flew like lightning until Friday arrived. I went to the convent in the morning, and in an interview with Sister Agatha informed her that in the evening she would probably be called to the sick bed of Ellen. Mr. Stowe bade us good-bye and sailed in the Havana steam-boat at noon, that his presence at the catastrophe might not seem suspicious. At sunset I bade farewell to dear little Ellen, who was indeed as pale as death, and in an hour afterward was on board the ship, where I found every thing in readiness for a hasty departure, the top-sails, jib and spanker were loosed, the anchor at the bows, and its place supplied by a small kedge, attached to the ship by a hawser, easily cut in case of need; the awnings were struck, and the decks covered with rigging and sails. The boat's crew who were to go on the expedition of the evening had already been selected, and were in high spirits at the probable danger, romance and novelty of the affair.
"By thunder! Frank," said Jack Reeves, shaking my hand furiously when I appeared on the forecastle, "you're a trump and no mistake."
"Arrah! now, Masther Frank, how yaller it is ye're lookin'; but it's you that's the boy to get the weather gage of Yaller Jack, let alone the nuns; wont we have a thumping time this night?"
"Why, Teddy, are you going with us? You are the last man I should have thought to enlist in an expedition of this kind!"
"Ay, ay, Masther Frank, its rather agen my conscience, to be sure; but it's the skipper's orders, and I alwus goes by that maxum, ' 'bey orders if you break owners.'"
"Then the skipper has ordered you to go—"
"Of coorse; in the first place he says that he'll send no man into danger widout tellin' him of it, the jewel, and then he just stated the case, and sez he, 'which of yees will go, b'ys?' an' wid that uz all stipt for'ard. 'What,' sez the owld man, sez he, 'Teddy, I thought you was a Catholic!' 'Faix! an' I am that, yer honor,' sez I, makin' a big sign of the cross, 'long life to the Pope and the clargy!' 'It's a nun we're goin' to abductionize to-night,' sez he, 'I thought you understood that.' 'I know that, yer honor,' sez I, 'but if you will jist plaze to order me to go, I can't help meself, and so your own sowl will be damned, beggin' yer honor's pardon,' sez I, 'and not mine.' The officers all laughed, and the owld man, sez he, 'Teddy, you're quite ingenuous!''Thank yer honor,' sez I, 'but I'll cotton to Ichabod Green in that line, since he invinted the new spun-yarn mill.'"
Soon after sundown the land wind from the south set in smartly, and by eight o'clock we were not a little fearful lest our kedge might drag. The captain's gig was brought to the stairs, and the party chosen for the expedition took their places, the first mate and ship's cousin and six stout seamen, well armed. Stewart was very nervous and silent; the only remark he made after we left the ship was when we swept by the end of the mole.
It was just nine o'clock when we hauled into the shade of the summer-house and its vines at the foot of Mr. Stowe's garden. I was commissioned to go to the house while the rest staid by the boat. On the stairs of the back verandah I met Mary Stowe.
"Is it you, Frank?" she asked.
"Ay, ay; is Cousin Clara here?"
"Oh, yes! in Ellen's room, and the Superior is in the parlor with mother. Ellen has been terribly sick, but she was well enough to whisper just now, 'Give Frank my best love.'"
"Here, Mary," said I, "give her this kiss a thousand times."
"Oh, heavens! what a pretty one! But I must go and send Sister Agatha to you; we've got a hard part to act when her flight is discovered. I say, Frank, give Langley my love; don't wonder at it now, adieu! I'll see you in two years."
"I waited impatiently for two minutes, which seemed two hours; at last I heard a light step on the stairs, and in a moment more held the runaway nun in my arms.
"Courage!" said I, "you are safe."
Throwing a cloak over her, we hastily ran down the orange-walk. I could not suppress a sigh as I passed the place where Ellen had told me that she thought she loved me. In a moment we reached the boat; Stewart stood upon the shore to receive us, caught the fainting form of Cousin Clara in his arms, and bore her apparently lifeless to the stern-sheets; the men shipped their oars, and I seized the rudder-lines, and gave the word of command.
"Push off—let fall—give way—and now pull for your lives."
The boat shot like lightning down the narrow river to its mouth, then across the broad bay, glittering in the first rays of the just risen moon. The band was playing as we rapidly shot past the barracks.
I sat near the lovers in the stern-sheets, and heard Stewart whisper, "Dearest, do you remember that old Castilian air?" The answer was inaudible, but from the long kiss that Stewart pressed upon the lips which replied to him, I judged that the reply was in the affirmative. At last the ship was reached, and the passengers of the boat were safely transferred to the broad, firm deck of the old Gentile.
The reader will excuse my describing the scene which ensued, for, as I have before said, and as the reader has probably assented, description is not my forte; beside, I am in a devil of a hurry to get the ship under weigh, or all will be lost.
The hawser was cut, and we wore round under our jib; the top-sails were hoisted and filled out before the breeze, and we began our voyage toward home. Sail after sail was set, and the noble old ship danced merrily and swiftly along, leaving the scene of my cousin's suffering far astern; and, alas! every moment adding to the distance between Ellen and me. The lights of the distant city, shining through the mazy rigging of the shipping before it, grew dimmer and more faint, and finally, entirely disappeared; the wide ocean was before us.
The next morning we were seventy miles from the nearest land of Cuba; and ten days afterward the marine lists of the Boston papers announced the arrival of the ship Gentile, Smith, from Matanzas.
Great was the joy of my father and mother, and good little sisters, at the unexpected appearance of Cousins Pedro and Clara. The money of the former, it may be recollected, had been brought to Boston in the Cabot, and placed in my father's hands, and though Pedro could not be called a rich man, still the sum now paid him by his uncle was very handsome. This, by advice, was invested in an India venture to send by the Gentile; and my Cousin Pedro, in consequence of this and my father's recommendation, was appointed supercargo of that ship by Mr. Selden, the merchant who had chartered her.
Captain Smith was removed to a new and larger vessel; and the Gentile's list of officers, when she cleared for Canton, stood thus, Benjamin Stewart, master; Pedro Garcia, supercargo; Micah Brewster, 1st officer; William Langley, 2nd do.; Frank Byrne, 3rd do. Jack Reeves was also in the forecastle, but Teddy staid by his old skipper.
It was a very pleasant day when we sailed from the end of Long Wharf; but we had got nearly under weigh before Captain Stewart came on board.
"That's always the way with these new married skippers," growled the pilot, as he gave orders to hoist the maintop-sail."
About a month ago, the senior partner of the firm of Byrne & Co. was heard to say, that he had in his employ three sea captains who had each one wooed his wife in broad daylight, in a garden of the city of Matanzas.
Weary, but now no longer girt by foes,He darkly stood beside that sullen wave,Watching the sluggish waters, whose reposeImaged the gloomy shadows in his heart;Vultures, that, in the greed of appetite,Still sating blind their passionate delight,Lose all the wing for flight,And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear,Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart,Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!"Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought,Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream,When, suddenly, his earA far off murmur caught,Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds,Up from his father's grave,That ever still some fearful echoes gave,Such as had lately warned him in his dream,Of all that he had lost—of all he still might save!Well knew he of the sacrilege that madeThat sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kingsWere in their royal pomp and purple laid,Refuge for meanest things;—Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite,And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell,By those dread magians nightly practiced there;And who the destined victim of their art;—But, as he feels the sacred amuletThat clips his neck and trembles at his breast—As once did she who gave it—he hath setHis resolute spirit to its work, and wellHis great soul answers to the threatning dread,Those voices from the mansions of the dead!Upon the earth, like stone,He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone,Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear!But soon he rose in fright,For, as the sounds grew near,He feels the accents never were of earth:They have a wilder birthThan in the council of his enemies,And he, the man, who, having but one life,Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife,Now, in the night and silence, sudden findsA terror, at whose touch his manhood flies.The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins,His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breathCurdles, as if in death!Vainly he strives in flight,His trembling knees deny—his strength is gone!As one who, in the depth of the dark night,Groping through chambered ruins, lays his handsOn cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains,The murdered man's remains—Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief,When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound,As of a strong man's grief;His heart denied its blood—his brain spun round—He sank upon the ground!'Twas but an instant to the dust he clung;The murmurs grew about him like a cloud—He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices,Most sighing sad, but with a sound between,As of one born to hope that still rejoices,In a sweet foreign tongue,That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud,To a new rapture for the first time seen!This better voice, as with a crowning spell,On the chief's spirit fell;Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud:"Ah! thou art there, and well!I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto meArt life no longer—thou hast brought me life,Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife.But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine,And I will wait until the terrible hourHath past, and I may wholly then be thine!Now am I sworn unto a wilder power,But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower,That ever, when Palenque possessed her towerAnd white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy raceMost queenly, and the soul of truth and grace;—Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep,And know not to resign—I would, but cannot weep!These are not tears, my father, but hot bloodThat fills the warrior's eyes;For every drop that falls, a mighty floodOur foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawnBegins of that last dayWhose red light ushers in the fatal fray,Such as shall bring us back old victories,Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn.Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom,Where all may read the doom,But none shall dream the horrid history!I do not weep—I do not shrink—I cryFor the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee,No other thought I see!My hope is strong within, my limbs are free.My arms would strike the foe—my feet would fly,Where now he rides triumphant in his sway—And though within my soul a sorrow deepMakes thought a horror haunting memory,I do not, will not weep!"Then swore he—and he called the tree whose growthOf past and solemn centuries made it wearAn ancient, god-like air,To register his deep and passionate oath.Hate to the last he swore—a wild revenge,Such as no chance can change,Vowed he before those during witnesses,Rocks, waters and old trees.And, in that midnight hour,No sound from nature broke,No sound save that he spoke,No sound from spirits hushed and listening nigh!His was an oath of power—A prince's pledge for vengeance to his race—To twice two hundred years of royalty—That still the unbroken sceptre should have sway,While yet one subject warrior might obey,Or one great soul avenge a realm's disgrace!It was the pledge of vengeance, for long years,Borne by his trampled people as a dowerOf bitterness and tears;—Homes rifled, hopes defeated, feelings tornBy a fierce conqueror's scorn;The national gods o'erthrown—treasure and blood,Once boundless as the flood,That 'neath his fixed and unforgiving eyeCrept onward silently;Scattered and squandered wantonly, by bands,Leaguered in shame, the scum of foreign lands,Sent forth to lengthen out their infamy,With the wild banquet of a pampered mood.Even as he swore, his eyeGrew kindled with a fierce and flaming blight,Red-lowering like the sky,When, heralding the tempest in his might,The muttering clouds march forth and form on high.With sable banners and grim majesty.Beneath his frowning brow a shaft of fire,That told the lurking ire,Shot ever forth, outflashing through the gloomIt could not well illume,Making the swarthy cheeks on which it fellSeem trenched with scarréd lines of hate and hell.Then heaved his breast with all the deep delightThe warrior finds in promise of the fight,Who seeks for vengeance in his victory.For, in the sudden silence in the air,He knew how gracious was the audience there:He heard the wings unfolding at the close,And the soft voice that cheered him once beforeNow into utterance rose:One whispered word,One parting tone,And then a fragrant flight of wings was heardAnd she was gone, was gone—Yet was he not alone! not all alone!Thus, having sworn—the old and witnessing treeBent down, and in his branches registeredEach dark and passionate word;And on the rocks, trenched in their shapeless sides,The terrible oath abides;And the dark waters, muttering to their waves,Bore to their secret mansions and dim cavesThe low of death they heard.Thus were the dead appeased—the listening dead—For, as the warrior paused, a cold breath came,Wrapping with ice his frame,A cold hand pressing on his heart and head;Entranced and motionless,Upon the earth he lies,While a dread picture of the land's distressRose up before his eyes.First came old Hilluah's shadow, with the ringAbout his brow, the sceptre in his hand,Ensigns of glorious and supreme command,Proofs of the conqueror, honored in the king."Ilenovar! Ilenovar!" he cried:Vainly the chief replied;—He strove to rise for homage, but in vain—The deathlike spell was on him like a chain,And his clogged tongue, that still he strove to teach,Denied all answering speech!The monarch bade him markThe clotted blood that, dark,Distained his royal bosom, and that foundIts way, still issuing, from a mortal wound,Ghastly and gaping wide, upon his throat!The shadow passed—another took his place,Of the same royal race;The noble Yumuri, the only sonOf the old monarch, heir to his high throne,Cut off by cunning in his youthful pride;There was the murderer's gash, and the red tideStill pouring from his side;And round his neck the mark of bloody hands,That strangled the brave sufferer while he stroveAgainst their clashing brands.Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief noteHis noble cousin, precious to his love,Brother of one more precious to his thought,With whom and her, three happy hearts in one,He grew together in their joys and fears—And not till sundered knew the taste of tears;Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone,Him the survivor, the avenger—heWho vainly shades his eyes that still must see!Long troops came after of his slaughtered race,Each in his habit, even as he died:The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face,Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance,Nor turn away his glance!They melt again to cloud—at last they fade;He breathes, that sad spectator,—they are gone;He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon,A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid,Graceful as evening light, and with an eyeIntelligent with beauty, like the sky,And wooing as the shade,Bends o'er him silently!With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair,That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully,While with the other she directs his gaze,All desperate with amaze,Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear!What sees he there?Buried within her bosom doth his eyeThe deadly steel descry;The blood stream clotted round it—the sweet lifeShed by the cruel knife!—The keen blade guided to the pure white breast,By its own kindred hand, declares the rest!Smiling upon the deed, she smiles on him,And in that smile the lovely shape grows dim.His trance is gone—his heartHath no more fear! in one wild startHe bursts the spell that bound him, with a cryThat rings in the far sky;He does not fear to rouse his enemy!The hollow rocks reply;He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice,As if he did rejoiceThat death had done his worst;And in his very desperation blessed,He felt that life could never more be cursed;And from its gross remains he still might wrestA something, not a joy, but needful to his breast!His hope is in the thought that he shall gainSweet vengeance for the slain—For her, the sole, the oneMore dear to him than daylight or the sun,That perished to be pure! No more! no more!Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow,Late breathed before those spectre witnesses,His secret spirit mutters o'er and o'er,As 't were the very life of him and his—Dear to his memory, needful to him now!A moment and his right hand grasped his brow-Then, bending to the waters, his canoe,Like some etherial thing that mocks the view,Glides silent from the shore.
Weary, but now no longer girt by foes,He darkly stood beside that sullen wave,Watching the sluggish waters, whose reposeImaged the gloomy shadows in his heart;Vultures, that, in the greed of appetite,Still sating blind their passionate delight,Lose all the wing for flight,And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear,Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart,Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!"Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought,Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream,When, suddenly, his earA far off murmur caught,Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds,Up from his father's grave,That ever still some fearful echoes gave,Such as had lately warned him in his dream,Of all that he had lost—of all he still might save!Well knew he of the sacrilege that madeThat sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kingsWere in their royal pomp and purple laid,Refuge for meanest things;—Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite,And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell,By those dread magians nightly practiced there;And who the destined victim of their art;—But, as he feels the sacred amuletThat clips his neck and trembles at his breast—As once did she who gave it—he hath setHis resolute spirit to its work, and wellHis great soul answers to the threatning dread,Those voices from the mansions of the dead!Upon the earth, like stone,He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone,Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear!But soon he rose in fright,For, as the sounds grew near,He feels the accents never were of earth:They have a wilder birthThan in the council of his enemies,And he, the man, who, having but one life,Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife,Now, in the night and silence, sudden findsA terror, at whose touch his manhood flies.The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins,His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breathCurdles, as if in death!Vainly he strives in flight,His trembling knees deny—his strength is gone!As one who, in the depth of the dark night,Groping through chambered ruins, lays his handsOn cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains,The murdered man's remains—Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief,When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound,As of a strong man's grief;His heart denied its blood—his brain spun round—He sank upon the ground!
'Twas but an instant to the dust he clung;The murmurs grew about him like a cloud—He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices,Most sighing sad, but with a sound between,As of one born to hope that still rejoices,In a sweet foreign tongue,That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud,To a new rapture for the first time seen!This better voice, as with a crowning spell,On the chief's spirit fell;Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud:"Ah! thou art there, and well!I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto meArt life no longer—thou hast brought me life,Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife.But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine,And I will wait until the terrible hourHath past, and I may wholly then be thine!Now am I sworn unto a wilder power,But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower,That ever, when Palenque possessed her towerAnd white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy raceMost queenly, and the soul of truth and grace;—Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep,And know not to resign—I would, but cannot weep!These are not tears, my father, but hot bloodThat fills the warrior's eyes;For every drop that falls, a mighty floodOur foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawnBegins of that last dayWhose red light ushers in the fatal fray,Such as shall bring us back old victories,Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn.Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom,Where all may read the doom,But none shall dream the horrid history!I do not weep—I do not shrink—I cryFor the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee,No other thought I see!My hope is strong within, my limbs are free.My arms would strike the foe—my feet would fly,Where now he rides triumphant in his sway—And though within my soul a sorrow deepMakes thought a horror haunting memory,I do not, will not weep!"
Then swore he—and he called the tree whose growthOf past and solemn centuries made it wearAn ancient, god-like air,To register his deep and passionate oath.Hate to the last he swore—a wild revenge,Such as no chance can change,Vowed he before those during witnesses,Rocks, waters and old trees.And, in that midnight hour,No sound from nature broke,No sound save that he spoke,No sound from spirits hushed and listening nigh!His was an oath of power—A prince's pledge for vengeance to his race—To twice two hundred years of royalty—That still the unbroken sceptre should have sway,While yet one subject warrior might obey,Or one great soul avenge a realm's disgrace!It was the pledge of vengeance, for long years,Borne by his trampled people as a dowerOf bitterness and tears;—Homes rifled, hopes defeated, feelings tornBy a fierce conqueror's scorn;The national gods o'erthrown—treasure and blood,Once boundless as the flood,That 'neath his fixed and unforgiving eyeCrept onward silently;Scattered and squandered wantonly, by bands,Leaguered in shame, the scum of foreign lands,Sent forth to lengthen out their infamy,With the wild banquet of a pampered mood.
Even as he swore, his eyeGrew kindled with a fierce and flaming blight,Red-lowering like the sky,When, heralding the tempest in his might,The muttering clouds march forth and form on high.With sable banners and grim majesty.Beneath his frowning brow a shaft of fire,That told the lurking ire,Shot ever forth, outflashing through the gloomIt could not well illume,Making the swarthy cheeks on which it fellSeem trenched with scarréd lines of hate and hell.Then heaved his breast with all the deep delightThe warrior finds in promise of the fight,Who seeks for vengeance in his victory.For, in the sudden silence in the air,He knew how gracious was the audience there:He heard the wings unfolding at the close,And the soft voice that cheered him once beforeNow into utterance rose:One whispered word,One parting tone,And then a fragrant flight of wings was heardAnd she was gone, was gone—Yet was he not alone! not all alone!
Thus, having sworn—the old and witnessing treeBent down, and in his branches registeredEach dark and passionate word;And on the rocks, trenched in their shapeless sides,The terrible oath abides;And the dark waters, muttering to their waves,Bore to their secret mansions and dim cavesThe low of death they heard.Thus were the dead appeased—the listening dead—For, as the warrior paused, a cold breath came,Wrapping with ice his frame,A cold hand pressing on his heart and head;Entranced and motionless,Upon the earth he lies,While a dread picture of the land's distressRose up before his eyes.First came old Hilluah's shadow, with the ringAbout his brow, the sceptre in his hand,Ensigns of glorious and supreme command,Proofs of the conqueror, honored in the king."Ilenovar! Ilenovar!" he cried:Vainly the chief replied;—He strove to rise for homage, but in vain—The deathlike spell was on him like a chain,And his clogged tongue, that still he strove to teach,Denied all answering speech!The monarch bade him markThe clotted blood that, dark,Distained his royal bosom, and that foundIts way, still issuing, from a mortal wound,Ghastly and gaping wide, upon his throat!The shadow passed—another took his place,Of the same royal race;The noble Yumuri, the only sonOf the old monarch, heir to his high throne,Cut off by cunning in his youthful pride;There was the murderer's gash, and the red tideStill pouring from his side;And round his neck the mark of bloody hands,That strangled the brave sufferer while he stroveAgainst their clashing brands.Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief noteHis noble cousin, precious to his love,Brother of one more precious to his thought,With whom and her, three happy hearts in one,He grew together in their joys and fears—And not till sundered knew the taste of tears;Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone,Him the survivor, the avenger—heWho vainly shades his eyes that still must see!Long troops came after of his slaughtered race,Each in his habit, even as he died:The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face,Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance,Nor turn away his glance!
They melt again to cloud—at last they fade;He breathes, that sad spectator,—they are gone;He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon,A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid,Graceful as evening light, and with an eyeIntelligent with beauty, like the sky,And wooing as the shade,Bends o'er him silently!With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair,That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully,While with the other she directs his gaze,All desperate with amaze,Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear!What sees he there?Buried within her bosom doth his eyeThe deadly steel descry;The blood stream clotted round it—the sweet lifeShed by the cruel knife!—The keen blade guided to the pure white breast,By its own kindred hand, declares the rest!Smiling upon the deed, she smiles on him,And in that smile the lovely shape grows dim.
His trance is gone—his heartHath no more fear! in one wild startHe bursts the spell that bound him, with a cryThat rings in the far sky;He does not fear to rouse his enemy!The hollow rocks reply;He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice,As if he did rejoiceThat death had done his worst;And in his very desperation blessed,He felt that life could never more be cursed;And from its gross remains he still might wrestA something, not a joy, but needful to his breast!His hope is in the thought that he shall gainSweet vengeance for the slain—For her, the sole, the oneMore dear to him than daylight or the sun,That perished to be pure! No more! no more!Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow,Late breathed before those spectre witnesses,His secret spirit mutters o'er and o'er,As 't were the very life of him and his—Dear to his memory, needful to him now!A moment and his right hand grasped his brow-Then, bending to the waters, his canoe,Like some etherial thing that mocks the view,Glides silent from the shore.
'Twas to a dark and solitary glen,Amid New England's scenery wild and bold,A lonely spot scarce visited by men,Where high the frowning hills their summits hold,And stand, the storm-beat battlements of old—Returned at evening from the fruitless chase,Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's coldAnd laid him mournful in his rocky place,The grief-worn warrior chief—last of his once proud race.He wrapt his mantle round his manly form,And sighed as on his cavern floor he lay;His bosom heaved with passion's varying storm,While he to melancholy thoughts gave way,And mused on deeds of many a by-gone day.Scenes of the past before his vision rose—The fearless clans o'er whom he once held sway,The bloody battle-field and vanquished foes,His wide extended rule, which few had dared oppose.He sees again his glad and peaceful home,His warlike sons and cherished daughters dear;Together o'er his hunting-grounds they roam,Together they their honored sire revere;But trickles down his cheek the burning tear,As fades the spectral vision from his eye:Low at his shrine he bows with listening ear,And up to the Great Spirit sends a cry,To bear him to his rest, and bid his sorrows die.Tired of the lonely world he longs to goAnd join his kindred and the warrior band,Where fruits for him in rich luxuriance grow,Nor comes the pale-face to that spirit-land:Ere he departs for aye, he fain would standAgain upon his favorite rock and gazeO'er the wide realm where once he held command,Where oft he hunted in his younger days,Where, in the joyful dance, he sang victorious lays.Up the bold height with trembling step he passed,And gained the fearful eminence he sought;As on surrounding scenes his eye was cast,His troubled spirit racked with frenzied thought,And urged by ruin on his empire brought,He uttered curses on the pale-faced throng,With whom in vain his scattered warriors foughtAnd on the sighing breeze that swept along,He poured the fiery words that filled his vengeful song:Fair home of the red man! my lingering gazeOn thy ruin now rests, like the sun's fading rays;'Tis the last that I give—like the dim orb of day,My life shall go down, and my spirit away.Loved home of the red man! I leave thee with pain,The place where my kindred, my brothers were slain;The graves of my fathers, whose wigwams were here;The land where I hunted the swift-bounding deer.No longer these hills and these valleys I roam,No more are these mountains and forests my home,No more, on the face of the beautiful tide,Shall the red man's canoe in tranquillity glide.The pale-face hath conquered—we faded away,Like mist on the hills in the sun's burning ray,Like the leaves of the forest our warriors have perished;Our homes have been sacked by the stranger we cherished.May the Great Spirit come in his terrible might,And pour on the white man his mildew and blightMay his fruits be destroyed by the tempest and hail,And the fire-bolts of heaven his dwellings assail.May the beasts of the mountain his children devour,And the pestilence seize him with death-dealing power;May his warriors all perish and he in his gloom,Like the hosts of the red men, be swept to the tomb.Scarce had the wild notes of the chieftain's songDied mournful on the evening breeze away,Ere down the precipice he plunged alongMid ragged cliffs that in his passage lay:All torn and mangled by the fearful fray,Naught save the echo of his fall arose.The winds that still around that summit play,The sporting rill that far beneath it flows,Chant, where the Indian fell, their requiem o'er his woes.
'Twas to a dark and solitary glen,Amid New England's scenery wild and bold,A lonely spot scarce visited by men,Where high the frowning hills their summits hold,And stand, the storm-beat battlements of old—Returned at evening from the fruitless chase,Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's coldAnd laid him mournful in his rocky place,The grief-worn warrior chief—last of his once proud race.
He wrapt his mantle round his manly form,And sighed as on his cavern floor he lay;His bosom heaved with passion's varying storm,While he to melancholy thoughts gave way,And mused on deeds of many a by-gone day.Scenes of the past before his vision rose—The fearless clans o'er whom he once held sway,The bloody battle-field and vanquished foes,His wide extended rule, which few had dared oppose.
He sees again his glad and peaceful home,His warlike sons and cherished daughters dear;Together o'er his hunting-grounds they roam,Together they their honored sire revere;But trickles down his cheek the burning tear,As fades the spectral vision from his eye:Low at his shrine he bows with listening ear,And up to the Great Spirit sends a cry,To bear him to his rest, and bid his sorrows die.
Tired of the lonely world he longs to goAnd join his kindred and the warrior band,Where fruits for him in rich luxuriance grow,Nor comes the pale-face to that spirit-land:Ere he departs for aye, he fain would standAgain upon his favorite rock and gazeO'er the wide realm where once he held command,Where oft he hunted in his younger days,Where, in the joyful dance, he sang victorious lays.
Up the bold height with trembling step he passed,And gained the fearful eminence he sought;As on surrounding scenes his eye was cast,His troubled spirit racked with frenzied thought,And urged by ruin on his empire brought,He uttered curses on the pale-faced throng,With whom in vain his scattered warriors foughtAnd on the sighing breeze that swept along,He poured the fiery words that filled his vengeful song:
Fair home of the red man! my lingering gazeOn thy ruin now rests, like the sun's fading rays;'Tis the last that I give—like the dim orb of day,My life shall go down, and my spirit away.
Loved home of the red man! I leave thee with pain,The place where my kindred, my brothers were slain;The graves of my fathers, whose wigwams were here;The land where I hunted the swift-bounding deer.
No longer these hills and these valleys I roam,No more are these mountains and forests my home,No more, on the face of the beautiful tide,Shall the red man's canoe in tranquillity glide.
The pale-face hath conquered—we faded away,Like mist on the hills in the sun's burning ray,Like the leaves of the forest our warriors have perished;Our homes have been sacked by the stranger we cherished.
May the Great Spirit come in his terrible might,And pour on the white man his mildew and blightMay his fruits be destroyed by the tempest and hail,And the fire-bolts of heaven his dwellings assail.
May the beasts of the mountain his children devour,And the pestilence seize him with death-dealing power;May his warriors all perish and he in his gloom,Like the hosts of the red men, be swept to the tomb.
Scarce had the wild notes of the chieftain's songDied mournful on the evening breeze away,Ere down the precipice he plunged alongMid ragged cliffs that in his passage lay:All torn and mangled by the fearful fray,Naught save the echo of his fall arose.The winds that still around that summit play,The sporting rill that far beneath it flows,Chant, where the Indian fell, their requiem o'er his woes.
Methinks I see, within yon wasted hall,O'erhung with tapestry of ivy green,The grim old king Decay, who rules the scene,Throned on a crumbling column by the wall,Beneath a ruined arch of ancient fame,Mocking the desolation round about,Blotting with his effacing fingers outThe inscription, razing off its hero's name—And lo! the ancient mistress of the globe,With claspéd hands, a statue of despair,Sits abject at his feet, in fetters bound—A thousand rents in her imperial robe,Swordless and sceptreless, her golden hairDishevelled in the dust, for ages gathering round! R. H. S.
Methinks I see, within yon wasted hall,O'erhung with tapestry of ivy green,The grim old king Decay, who rules the scene,Throned on a crumbling column by the wall,Beneath a ruined arch of ancient fame,Mocking the desolation round about,Blotting with his effacing fingers outThe inscription, razing off its hero's name—And lo! the ancient mistress of the globe,With claspéd hands, a statue of despair,Sits abject at his feet, in fetters bound—A thousand rents in her imperial robe,Swordless and sceptreless, her golden hairDishevelled in the dust, for ages gathering round! R. H. S.
Fair Ursula sits alone in an apartment which seems fitted up for the reception of some goddess. She is not weeping, but her dark eyes are humid with tears. An air of melancholy rests on her young face, like a shadow on a rose-leaf, while her little hands are folded despairingly on her lap. The hem of her snowy robe sweeps the rich surface of the carpet, from out which one dainty little foot, in its fairy slipper of black satin, peeps forth, wantonly crushing the beautiful bouquet which has fallen from the hands of the unhappy fair one.
Every thing in this inviting apartment is arranged with the most exquisite taste and elegance. On tables of unique pattern are scattered the most costly gems of art andvertu—choice paintings adorn the walls—flowers, rare and beautiful, lift their heads proudly above the works of art which surround them, and in splendid Chinese cages, birds of gorgeous plumage have learned to caress the rosy lips of their young mistress, or perch triumphantly on her snowy finger. Here are books, too, and music—a harp—a piano—while through a half open door leading from a little recess over which amultaflorais taught to twine its graceful tendrils, a glimpse may be caught of rosy silken hangings shading the couch where the queen of this little realm nightly sinks to her innocent slumbers.
Eighteen summers have scarce kissed the brow of the fair maid, and already the canker worm of sorrow is preying upon her heart-strings. Poor thing, so young and yet so sad! What can have caused this sadness! Perhaps she loves one whose heart throbs not with answering kindness—perhaps loves one faithless to her beauty, or loves where cruel fate has interposed the barrier of a parent's frown!
No—her heart is as free and unfettered as the wind.
Ah! then perhaps her bosom friend, the chosen companion of her girlhood has proved unkind—some delightful project of pleasure perhaps frustrated, or, I dare say she has found herself eclipsed at Madame Raynor'ssoiréeby some more brilliant belle—no, no, none of these surmises are true, plausible as they appear! Then what is it? Perhaps—but you will never guess, and you will laugh incredulously when I tell you that poor, poor dear darling Ursula weeps because—because—
She is an heiress!
That is it—yes, weeps because she is the uncontrolled mistress of one hundred thousand dollars in houses, lands and gold, bright gold!
Poor little dear—looking upon fortune as a serious mis-fortune, and even envying those whose daily toil can alone bring them the necessaries of life; for, have they friends—they are true friends—there is no selfishness in the bond which unites them—while she, unhappy child that she is, owes to her rank and riches her thousand friends and the crowd of satellites worshiping before her! What a foolish notion to enter her little head! True, it is foolish. Lovers, too, in plenty sigh at her feet, and in the soft moonlight the air is tremulous with sighs and music, as from beneath her window steals the soft serenade. But Ursula curls her lip disdainfully, and orders her maid to shut out the sweet sounds. Ever that hateful gold comes between her and her lovers, and then she wishes her lot was humble, that she might be loved for herself alone!
Do you wish a portrait of the unhappy little heiress? Behold her then:
A perfect little sylph, resting on the tiniest of feet, with hands so charming that you would feel an almost irresistible desire to fold them caressingly within your own—the rich complexion of a brunette with the bloom of Hebe on her cheek—her hair like burnished jet—eyes large, lustrous and black—but (alas that there should be abut!) poor Ursula had an unfortunate cast in her left eye—in others words she squinted—yes, absolutely squinted!
Dear, dear what a pity!
Yet stop, don't judge the little heiress too hastily, for after all it was not a bad squint—indeed, if you knew her, you would say it was really a becoming squint, such a roguish, knowing look did it give her! Nevertheless, it was a squint, and poor Ursula, notwithstanding the bewitching form and features her mirror threw back, fancied this a deformity which cast aside all her graces. And here again thegoldjaundiced her imagination and whispered, "were it not formewhat a horrible squint you would have in the straight forward eyes of the world!
When her parents died Ursula Lovel was but an infant, yet as tender and affectionate as parents had been the good uncle and aunt to whose love and guardianship she was bequeathed. They had no children, and gladly took the little orphan to their bosoms with pity and love—and Ursula required all their watchful care, for she was ever a feeble child, giving no indications of that sprightly beauty and perfect health she now exhibited. Then indeed the squint was truly a deformity, for her thin, sallow countenance only made it far more conspicuous.
People should be more guarded what they say before children. One good old lady by a careless remark instilled into the mind of little Ursula a jealousy and distrust, which, but for the good sense maturer years brought to bear against such early impressions, would have rendered her unhappy for life. Propped up by pillows, she sat at a small table amusing herself by building little card houses, and then seeing them tumble down with all the kings and queens of her little city, when she heard her name mentioned in accents of pity by an old lady who had come to pay her aunt a morning visit.
"She is very plain—is not she? What a great misfortune that her father should have left her so much money! Poor thing, it will only prove a curse to her, for if she lives she will doubtless become the prey of some fortune-hunter."
Now what was meant by "fortune-hunter"—whether some giant or horrid ogress—the little girl could not tell, but that it was some dreadful thing waiting to devour her because she had money, haunted her mind continually. She was a child of fine capacity, and at school generally ranked the highest in her class—how many times her envious mates would say: "Well, well, it is a fine thing to be rich—it is your money, Miss Lovel, makes you so much favored—our teachers are both deaf and blind to your foibles!" What wonder, then, poor Ursula began to distrust herself, and to impugn the kindness of her teachers and friends, who really loved her for her sweet disposition, and were proud of her scholarship.
But don't think that she has been hugging such unhappy thoughts to her bosom ever since, because you have just found her lamenting that she is an heiress!
You shall hear. As childhood passed, health bloomed on her cheek, and shed its invigorating influence over the mind, and it was only when something occurred to arouse the suspicion of early childhood that she indulged in such feelings. She was intelligent and accomplished. Sang like a bird, painted to nature, and danced like a fairy. But there was something more than all this which contributed to her happiness—it was the power of doing good—a power which she possessed, and, through the judgment of her aunt, practiced. This excellent woman had taught her that money was not given her to be all lavished on self—that it was her duty, and ought to be her delight, to loose her purse-strings to the cries of the poor, and to scatter its glittering contents through the homes of the needy. And this did Ursula do—and was rewarded by the blessing of those she had relieved, and the happy consciousness of having mitigated the sorrows of her fellow mortals.
But now this particular evening when you have seen little Ursula drooping under the weight of gold which Fortune it appears has so thanklessly showered upon her, she has met with an adventure which brings before her with all its tenacity the impression so early engendered. And now, as she sits there so sad and sorrowful, she is sighing to be loved for herself alone, and wishes her lot had been humble, that she might trust to professions, and not be forever reminded of that wealth which she fears will always mask the sincerity of those around her.
Silly little girl! She would even exchange all the elegancies and luxuries of life to feed on love and roses!
This unlucky evening she had shone as the most brilliant belle in the crowded assemblage of the fair and fashionable whom Madam Raynor had gathered into her splendid rooms. Tired at length with the gay scene around her, she had strolled off alone into the conservatory, and leaning against a pillar watched from a distance the giddy whirl of the waltz—the waving of feathers, the flashing of jewels, and the flitting of airy forms through those magnificent apartments. A few moments before she left the crowd, she had observed a stranger of very dashing air attentively regarding her, and then joining a friend of hers appeared to request an introduction. But young Allan was just about to join the dance, and ere it was finished Ursula had stolen away.
While engaged as before described, she observed the same gentleman leaning on the arm of Allan strolling toward the conservatory. Concealed by the shadow of a large orange-tree, they passed her unobserved—they then paused in their walk, when Ursula suddenly heard her own name mentioned, and then the following conversation unavoidably fell on her ear:
"Why she squints, Allan!"
"Well, what of that—those that know her best never think of it."
"Pardon me, I consider it a very great defect, and slight as this blemish appears in Miss Lovel, her money could never blind me to the fact if I knew her ever so well."
"I do not mean to imply," answered Allan, "that being an heiress renders the blemish imperceptible—no, it is her truly amiable disposition, her goodness, and engaging manners which makes her so beautiful to her friends."
"O, a pattern woman!" cried the other, "worse yet!"
"What do you mean by a pattern woman?"
"Why, one of those shockingly amiable, running round into dark alleys, charity-dispensing beings—patting white-headed beggar boys, and kissing dirt-begrimed babies—who speak in soft, lisping tones of duty and benevolence—read the Bible to sick paupers, go to sewing meetings and work on flannel—and—"
"There, that will do, Fifield," interrupted Allan, "making some allowance, you have drawn Miss Lovel's character to the life. Shall I introduce you?"
"O certainly, a cool hundred thousand outweighs all my objections against pattern women—I could swallow a sermon every morning with the best grace in the world, and even were she as ugly as Hecate, I could worship at her feet, and wear the yoke for the sake of the golden trappings!"
The young men now passed on, leaving poor Ursula wounded to the quick by the heartless remarks of the fortune-hunter. She did not join the gay assembly again, but requesting a servant to call her carriage, immediately returned home. Now can you wonder at the cloud on her brow?
But see, even while we are looking at her, it isclearing away—like a sunbeam, out peeps a smile from each corner of her rosy mouth, and hark! you may almost hear her merry laugh as clapping her bands she exclaims—
"Yes, yes, I'll do it! What a capital idea—excellent, excellent!" Then rising and bounding lightly to the inner door she threw it wide, saying—
"Here, Hetty, I have something to tell you—come quick."
And at the summons a pretty young girl, seemingly about her own age, made her appearance from the chamber.
"There, Hetty, I am better now," said Ursula, "how silly I am to let the remarks of such a person have power to move me! But I have such a grand project to tell you—come, while you are platting my hair, and, in the words of that same amiable youth, taking off all thesetrappings, I will let you into my secret."
Hetty took the comb and thridded it through the long tresses of her young lady, which, released from the silver arrow so gracefully looping them on the top of her head, now fell around her nearly to the floor.
"Hetty," exclaimed Ursula, suddenly throwing back her head and looking archly at the girl, "Hetty, do you want to see your mother?"
"O, Miss Ursula," cried Hetty, the tears springing to her eyes, "indeed, indeed I do!"
"Very well, I promise you then that in less than a week you shall be in her arms."
"O, my dear Miss Ursula, do you really mean so?" said Hetty, bending over and kissing the glowing cheek of her mistress.
"Yes, I really mean so—but dear, dear, you have run that hair-pin almost into my brain—never mind—only be quiet now—there, sit down, and I will tell you all about it." There was a roguish expression on Ursula's face as she continued: "Yes, you shall go home, and what's more, Hetty, I am going with you, and mean to live with you all summer, perhaps longer."
"Why, Miss Ursula!"
"Yes I do. And now you must assist me—you must promise me not to reveal to any one, not even to your mother, that I am the rich lady with whom you live. Remember I am a poor girl—poor as yourself—a friend of yours come into the country for—for her health—ha, ha, ha, Hetty, look at me—you must contrive to make me look paler, or shall this be ahectic?"
"But, Miss Ursula—it will never do—you who have always had every thing so beautiful around you—you can never live in our humble way!"
"Try me, try me, Hetty—for I am determined to lest my own individual merits, and see how far they may gain me the love and esteem of others when unsupported by the claims of wealth. Let me see, Hetty, I must have some employment aside from helping you to milk the cows and feed the pigs. Ah, I have it!" she cried, springing up and turning a pirouette—"listen—I will be amilliner! you know, aunt thinks I have a great knack at cap-making—O excellent idea—I will turn milliner for all the farmer's wives and daughters far and near." And catching up her embroidered mouchoir she began folding it into a turban, and then placing it gracefully on her little head, she turned to the laughing girl: "See there now—is not it exquisite—why my caps and turbans will turn the heads of all the swains in the village. You shall have one first, Hetty—you shall setyourcap, and heigh-ho for a husband!"
"But your uncle and aunt, Miss Ursula?"
"O, I shall tell them candidly my project. They will laugh at me, I know, and try, perhaps, to dissuade me; but, after all, they will let me do as I please."
Twelve! chimed a beautiful Cupid running off with Time, which, exquisitely wrought in gold and pearl, stood on the dressing-table.
In a few moments Hetty had drawn the rose-colored curtains around the couch of her young mistress, and left her to dreams as rosy.