The ALIEN BOY.

’Twas on a Mountain, near the Western MainAnAliendwelt. A solitary HutBuilt on a jutting crag, o’erhung with weeds,Mark’d the poor Exile’s home. Full ten long yearsThe melancholy wretch had liv’d unseenBy all, saveHenry, a lov’d, little SonThe partner of his sorrows. On the dayWhen Persecution, in the sainted guiseOf Liberty, spread wide its venom’d pow’r,The brave, SaintHubert, fled his Lordly home,And, with his baby Son, the mountain sought.Resolv’d to cherish in his bleeding breastThe secret of his birth, Ah! birth too highFor his now humbled state, from infancyHe taught him, labour’s task: He bade him chearThe dreary day of cold adversityBy patience and by toil. The Summer mornShone on the pillow of his rushy bed;The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless pastOn the shagg’d eminence; while the young KidSkipp’d, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.At night youngHenrytrimm’d the faggot fireWhile oft, SaintHubert, wove the ample netTo snare the finny victim. Oft they sangAnd talk’d, while sullenly the waves would soundDashing the sandy shore. SaintHubert’s eyesWould swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with joy,When he observ’d the op’ning harvest richOf promis’d intellect, whichHenry’s soul,Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d.Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate,Would seek to know the story of his birth;Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skillEnquire, why he, and only one beside,Peopled the desart mountain? Still his SireWas slow of answer, and, in words obscure,Varied the conversation. Still the mindOfHenryponder’d; for, in their lone hut,A daily journal would SaintHubertmakeOf his long banishment: and sometimes speakOf Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;—Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenesFor ever faded,—lost!One winter time,’Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blastSwept o’er the stormy main. The boiling foamRose to an altitude so fierce and strongThat their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stoleTo the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyesMark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moonGleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a sceneWould make a Stoic shudder! For, amidThe wavy mountains, they beheld,alone,Alittle Boat, now scarcely visible;And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy,Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore!Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shoneUpon the outstretch’d Ocean. The black cloudsFlew swiftly on, the wild blast following,And, as they flew, dimming the angry mainWith shadows horrible! Still, the small boatStruggled amid the waves, a sombre speckUpon the wide domain of howling Death!SaintHubertsigh’d! whileHenry’s speaking eyeAlternately the stormy scene survey’dAnd his low hovel’s safety. So past onThe hour of midnight,—and, since first they knewThe solitary scene, no midnight hourE’er seem’d so long and dreary.While they stood,Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyesFix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenlyThe breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,Left the small wreck; and crawling on the sideOf the rude crag,—aHUMAN FORMwas seen!And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice,And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while heDescended to the sands: The moon rose high—The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d ManLook’d round aghast, when on the frowning steepHe marked the lonely exiles. Now he call’dBut he was feeble, and his voice was lostAmid the din of mingling sounds that roseFrom the wild scene of clamour.Down the steepSaintHuberthurried, boldly venturous,Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point,And unappall’d by peril. At the footOf the rude rock, the fainting marinerSeiz’d on his outstretch’d arm; impatient, wild,With transport exquisite! But ere they heardThe blest exchange of sounds articulate,A furious billow, rolling on the steep,Engulph’d them in Oblivion!On the rockYoungHenrystood; with palpitating heart,And fear-struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d,Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew;But, mid the elemental strife of sounds,No human voice gave answer! The clear moonNo longer quiver’d on the curling main,But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light,Enough to shew all things that mov’d around,Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weedsWav’d, as the night-blast swept them; and alongThe rocky shore the breakers, sounding lowSeem’d like the whisp’ring of a million soulsBeneath the green-deep mourning.Four long hoursThe lorn Boy listen’d! four long tedious hoursPass’d wearily away, when, in the EastThe grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All aloneYoungHenrystood aghast: his Eye wide fix’d;While his dark locks, uplifted by the stormUncover’d met its fury. On his cheekDespair sate terrible! For, mid the woes,Of poverty and toil, he had not known,’Till then, the horror-giving chearless hourOftotal Solitude!He spoke—he groan’d,But no responsive voice, no kindred toneBroke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas’d,And the bright Sun-beams glitter’d on the breastOf the green placid Ocean. To his HutThe lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch,The pillow still indented, met his gazeAnd fix’d his eve in madness.—From that hourA maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been;His garb with sea-weeds fring’d, and his wan cheekThe tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d,Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance,A Sea-beat wand’rer from the outstretch’d mainViews the lone Exile, and with gen’rous zealHastes to the sandy beach, he suddenlyDarts ’mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuitTo track him, where no footsteps but his own,Have e’er been known to venture!Yet he livesA melancholy proof that Man may bearAll the rude storms of Fate, and still suspireBy the wide world forgotten!

’Twas on a Mountain, near the Western Main

AnAliendwelt. A solitary Hut

Built on a jutting crag, o’erhung with weeds,

Mark’d the poor Exile’s home. Full ten long years

The melancholy wretch had liv’d unseen

By all, saveHenry, a lov’d, little Son

The partner of his sorrows. On the day

When Persecution, in the sainted guise

Of Liberty, spread wide its venom’d pow’r,

The brave, SaintHubert, fled his Lordly home,

And, with his baby Son, the mountain sought.

Resolv’d to cherish in his bleeding breastThe secret of his birth, Ah! birth too highFor his now humbled state, from infancyHe taught him, labour’s task: He bade him chearThe dreary day of cold adversityBy patience and by toil. The Summer mornShone on the pillow of his rushy bed;The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless pastOn the shagg’d eminence; while the young KidSkipp’d, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.

Resolv’d to cherish in his bleeding breast

The secret of his birth, Ah! birth too high

For his now humbled state, from infancy

He taught him, labour’s task: He bade him chear

The dreary day of cold adversity

By patience and by toil. The Summer morn

Shone on the pillow of his rushy bed;

The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless past

On the shagg’d eminence; while the young Kid

Skipp’d, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.

At night youngHenrytrimm’d the faggot fireWhile oft, SaintHubert, wove the ample netTo snare the finny victim. Oft they sangAnd talk’d, while sullenly the waves would soundDashing the sandy shore. SaintHubert’s eyesWould swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with joy,When he observ’d the op’ning harvest richOf promis’d intellect, whichHenry’s soul,Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d.

At night youngHenrytrimm’d the faggot fire

While oft, SaintHubert, wove the ample net

To snare the finny victim. Oft they sang

And talk’d, while sullenly the waves would sound

Dashing the sandy shore. SaintHubert’s eyes

Would swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with joy,

When he observ’d the op’ning harvest rich

Of promis’d intellect, whichHenry’s soul,

Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d.

Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate,Would seek to know the story of his birth;Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skillEnquire, why he, and only one beside,Peopled the desart mountain? Still his SireWas slow of answer, and, in words obscure,Varied the conversation. Still the mindOfHenryponder’d; for, in their lone hut,A daily journal would SaintHubertmakeOf his long banishment: and sometimes speakOf Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;—Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenesFor ever faded,—lost!One winter time,’Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blastSwept o’er the stormy main. The boiling foamRose to an altitude so fierce and strongThat their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stoleTo the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyesMark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moonGleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a sceneWould make a Stoic shudder! For, amidThe wavy mountains, they beheld,alone,Alittle Boat, now scarcely visible;And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy,Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore!

Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate,

Would seek to know the story of his birth;

Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skill

Enquire, why he, and only one beside,

Peopled the desart mountain? Still his Sire

Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure,

Varied the conversation. Still the mind

OfHenryponder’d; for, in their lone hut,

A daily journal would SaintHubertmake

Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak

Of Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;—

Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes

For ever faded,—lost!

One winter time,

’Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blast

Swept o’er the stormy main. The boiling foam

Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong

That their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stole

To the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyes

Mark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moon

Gleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a scene

Would make a Stoic shudder! For, amid

The wavy mountains, they beheld,alone,

Alittle Boat, now scarcely visible;

And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy,

Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore!

Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shoneUpon the outstretch’d Ocean. The black cloudsFlew swiftly on, the wild blast following,And, as they flew, dimming the angry mainWith shadows horrible! Still, the small boatStruggled amid the waves, a sombre speckUpon the wide domain of howling Death!SaintHubertsigh’d! whileHenry’s speaking eyeAlternately the stormy scene survey’dAnd his low hovel’s safety. So past onThe hour of midnight,—and, since first they knewThe solitary scene, no midnight hourE’er seem’d so long and dreary.While they stood,Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyesFix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenlyThe breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,Left the small wreck; and crawling on the sideOf the rude crag,—aHUMAN FORMwas seen!And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice,And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while heDescended to the sands: The moon rose high—The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d ManLook’d round aghast, when on the frowning steepHe marked the lonely exiles. Now he call’dBut he was feeble, and his voice was lostAmid the din of mingling sounds that roseFrom the wild scene of clamour.Down the steepSaintHuberthurried, boldly venturous,Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point,And unappall’d by peril. At the footOf the rude rock, the fainting marinerSeiz’d on his outstretch’d arm; impatient, wild,With transport exquisite! But ere they heardThe blest exchange of sounds articulate,A furious billow, rolling on the steep,Engulph’d them in Oblivion!On the rockYoungHenrystood; with palpitating heart,And fear-struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d,Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew;But, mid the elemental strife of sounds,No human voice gave answer! The clear moonNo longer quiver’d on the curling main,But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light,Enough to shew all things that mov’d around,Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weedsWav’d, as the night-blast swept them; and alongThe rocky shore the breakers, sounding lowSeem’d like the whisp’ring of a million soulsBeneath the green-deep mourning.Four long hoursThe lorn Boy listen’d! four long tedious hoursPass’d wearily away, when, in the EastThe grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All aloneYoungHenrystood aghast: his Eye wide fix’d;While his dark locks, uplifted by the stormUncover’d met its fury. On his cheekDespair sate terrible! For, mid the woes,Of poverty and toil, he had not known,’Till then, the horror-giving chearless hourOftotal Solitude!He spoke—he groan’d,But no responsive voice, no kindred toneBroke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas’d,And the bright Sun-beams glitter’d on the breastOf the green placid Ocean. To his HutThe lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch,The pillow still indented, met his gazeAnd fix’d his eve in madness.—From that hourA maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been;His garb with sea-weeds fring’d, and his wan cheekThe tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d,Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance,A Sea-beat wand’rer from the outstretch’d mainViews the lone Exile, and with gen’rous zealHastes to the sandy beach, he suddenlyDarts ’mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuitTo track him, where no footsteps but his own,Have e’er been known to venture!Yet he livesA melancholy proof that Man may bearAll the rude storms of Fate, and still suspireBy the wide world forgotten!

Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shone

Upon the outstretch’d Ocean. The black clouds

Flew swiftly on, the wild blast following,

And, as they flew, dimming the angry main

With shadows horrible! Still, the small boat

Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck

Upon the wide domain of howling Death!

SaintHubertsigh’d! whileHenry’s speaking eye

Alternately the stormy scene survey’d

And his low hovel’s safety. So past on

The hour of midnight,—and, since first they knew

The solitary scene, no midnight hour

E’er seem’d so long and dreary.

While they stood,

Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyes

Fix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenly

The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,

Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side

Of the rude crag,—aHUMAN FORMwas seen!

And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice,

And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while he

Descended to the sands: The moon rose high—

The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d Man

Look’d round aghast, when on the frowning steep

He marked the lonely exiles. Now he call’d

But he was feeble, and his voice was lost

Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose

From the wild scene of clamour.

Down the steep

SaintHuberthurried, boldly venturous,

Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point,

And unappall’d by peril. At the foot

Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner

Seiz’d on his outstretch’d arm; impatient, wild,

With transport exquisite! But ere they heard

The blest exchange of sounds articulate,

A furious billow, rolling on the steep,

Engulph’d them in Oblivion!

On the rock

YoungHenrystood; with palpitating heart,

And fear-struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d,

Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew;

But, mid the elemental strife of sounds,

No human voice gave answer! The clear moon

No longer quiver’d on the curling main,

But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light,

Enough to shew all things that mov’d around,

Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weeds

Wav’d, as the night-blast swept them; and along

The rocky shore the breakers, sounding low

Seem’d like the whisp’ring of a million souls

Beneath the green-deep mourning.

Four long hours

The lorn Boy listen’d! four long tedious hours

Pass’d wearily away, when, in the East

The grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All alone

YoungHenrystood aghast: his Eye wide fix’d;

While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm

Uncover’d met its fury. On his cheek

Despair sate terrible! For, mid the woes,

Of poverty and toil, he had not known,

’Till then, the horror-giving chearless hour

Oftotal Solitude!

He spoke—he groan’d,

But no responsive voice, no kindred tone

Broke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas’d,

And the bright Sun-beams glitter’d on the breast

Of the green placid Ocean. To his Hut

The lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch,

The pillow still indented, met his gaze

And fix’d his eve in madness.—From that hour

A maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been;

His garb with sea-weeds fring’d, and his wan cheek

The tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d,

Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance,

A Sea-beat wand’rer from the outstretch’d main

Views the lone Exile, and with gen’rous zeal

Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly

Darts ’mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuit

To track him, where no footsteps but his own,

Have e’er been known to venture!Yet he lives

A melancholy proof that Man may bear

All the rude storms of Fate, and still suspire

By the wide world forgotten!

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