GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.PART II.

[29]See Notesat the end of the Volume.[30]Scotland.[31]The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise.[32]A great whirlpool near the island of Jura.—See Notes.[33]See Notesat the end of the Volume.[34]The wampum, offered in token of amity.—See Notes.[35]The Indian God of War.[36]Spirit.—See Notes.[37]A kind of soup.—See Notes.[38]The Indians are distinguished both personally and by tribes by the name of particular animals, whose qualities they affect to resemble, either for cunning, strength, swiftness, or other qualities:—as the eagle, the serpent, the fox, or bear.—See Notes.[39]See Notesat the end of the Volume.[40]Calumet of peace.—The calumet is the Indian name for the ornamented pipe of friendship, which they smoke as a pledge of amity.—See Notes.[41]Tree-rocked cradle.—The Indian mothers suspend their children in their cradles from the boughs of trees, and let them be rocked by the wind.—See Notes.[42]Moccasins are a sort of Indian buskin.[43]From a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand presumes to be of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often find a draught of dew purer than any other water.[44]See Notes.

[29]See Notesat the end of the Volume.

[30]Scotland.

[31]The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise.

[32]A great whirlpool near the island of Jura.—See Notes.

[33]See Notesat the end of the Volume.

[34]The wampum, offered in token of amity.—See Notes.

[35]The Indian God of War.

[36]Spirit.—See Notes.

[37]A kind of soup.—See Notes.

[38]The Indians are distinguished both personally and by tribes by the name of particular animals, whose qualities they affect to resemble, either for cunning, strength, swiftness, or other qualities:—as the eagle, the serpent, the fox, or bear.—See Notes.

[39]See Notesat the end of the Volume.

[40]Calumet of peace.—The calumet is the Indian name for the ornamented pipe of friendship, which they smoke as a pledge of amity.—See Notes.

[41]Tree-rocked cradle.—The Indian mothers suspend their children in their cradles from the boughs of trees, and let them be rocked by the wind.—See Notes.

[42]Moccasins are a sort of Indian buskin.

[43]From a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand presumes to be of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often find a draught of dew purer than any other water.

[44]See Notes.

I.A valley from the river shore withdrawnWas Albert’s home, two quiet woods between,Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn;And waters to their resting-place sereneCame freshening, and reflecting all the scene:(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;)So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)Have guessed some congregation of the elves,To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.II.Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream;Both were at evening Allegany viewsThrough ridges burning in her western beam,Lake after lake interminably gleam:And past those settlers’ haunts the eye might roamWhere earth’s unliving silence all would seem;Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home.III.But silent not that adverse eastern path,Which saw Aurora’s hills the horizon crown;There was the river heard, in bed of wrath(A precipice of foam from mountains brown),Like tumults heard from some far distant town;But softening in approach he left his gloom,And murmured pleasantly, and laid him downTo kiss those easy curving banks of bloom,That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume.IV.It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence hadOn Gertrude’s soul, and kindness like their ownInspired those eyes affectionate and glad,That seemed to love whate’er they looked uponWhether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone,Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast,(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)Yet so becomingly the expression past,That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.V.Nor, guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,With all its picturesque and balmy grace,And fields that were a luxury to roam,Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!Enthusiast of the woods! when years apaceHad bound thy lovely waist with woman’s zone,The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee traceTo hills with high magnolia overgrown,And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.VI.The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,That thus apostrophised its viewless scene:“Land of my father’s love, my mother’s birth!The home of kindred I have never seen!We know not other—oceans are between:Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came,Of us does oft remembrance intervene?My mother sure—my sire a thought may claim;—But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.VII.“And yet, loved England! when thy name I traceIn many a pilgrim’s tale and poet’s song,How can I choose but wish for one embraceOf them, the dear unknown, to whom belongMy mother’s looks,—perhaps her likeness strong?Oh, parent! with what reverential awe,From features of thine own related throng,An image of thy face my soul could draw!And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!”VIII.Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;To soothe a father’s couch her only care,And keep his reverend head from all annoy:For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air,And woods a horizontal shadow threw,And early fox appeared in momentary view.IX.Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore.Tradition had not named its lonely spot;But here (methinks) might India’s sons exploreTheir fathers’ dust,[45]or lift, perchance of yore,Their voice to the great Spirit:—rocks sublimeTo human art a sportive semblance bore,And yellow lichens coloured all the clime,Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time.X.But high in amphitheatre above,His arms the everlasting aloes threw:Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the groveAs if with instinct living spirit grew,Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;And now suspended was the pleasing din,Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew,Like the first note of organ heard withinCathedral aisles,—ere yet its symphony begin.XI.It was in this lone valley she would charmThe lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn;Her cheek reclining, and her snowy armOn hillock by the palm-tree half o’ergrown:And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,Which every heart of human mould endears;With Shakespeare’s self she speaks and smiles alone,And no intruding visitation fears,To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.XII.And nought within the grove was heard or seenBut stock-doves ’plaining through its gloom profound,Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;When, lo! there entered to its inmost groundA youth, the stranger of a distant land;He was, to wit, for eastern mountains bound;But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned,And California’s gales his roving bosom fanned.XIII.A steed, whose rein hung loosely o’er his arm,He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,Close he had come, and worshipped for a spaceThose downcast features:—she her lovely faceUplift on one, whose lineaments and frameWere youth and manhood’s intermingled grace:Iberian seemed his boot—his robe the same,And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.XIV.For Albert’s home he sought—her finger fairHas pointed where the father’s mansion stood.Returning from the copse he soon was thereAnd soon has Gertrude hied from dark green woodNor joyless, by the converse, understoodBetween the man of age and pilgrim youngThat gay congeniality of mood,And early liking from acquaintance sprung;Full fluently conversed their guest in England’s tongue.XV.And well could he his pilgrimage of tasteUnfold,—and much they loved his fervid strain,While he each fair variety retracedOf climes, and manners, o’er the eastern main.Now happy Switzer’s hills,—romantic Spain,—Gay lilied fields of France,—or, more refined,The soft Ausonia’s monumental reign;Nor less each rural image he designedThan all the city’s pomp and home of human kind.XVI.Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;Of Nature’s savage glories he would speak,—The loneliness of earth that overawes,—Where resting by some tomb of old Cacique,The llama-driver on Peruvia’s peak,Nor living voice nor motion marks around;But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound,[46]That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.XVII.Pleased with his guest, the good man still would plyEach earnest question, and his converse court;But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not whyA strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.“In England thou hast been,—and, by report,An orphan’s name,” quoth Albert, “may’st have known.Sad tale!—when latest fell our frontier fort,—One innocent—one soldier’s child—aloneWas spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own.XVIII.“Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful yearsThese very walls his infant sports did see;But most I loved him when his parting tearsAlternately bedewed my child and me:His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:By kindred he was sent for o’er the sea,They tore him from us when but twelve years old,And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!”XIX.His face the wanderer hid—but could not hideA tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;—“And speak! mysterious stranger!” Gertrude cried,“It is!—it is!—I knew—I knew him well!’Tis Waldegrave’s self, of Waldegrave come to tell!”A burst of joy the father’s lips declare;But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:At once his open arms embraced the pair,Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care.XX.“And will ye pardon then,” replied the youth,“Your Waldegrave’s feignèd name, and false attire?I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth,The very fortunes of your house inquire;Lest one that knew me might some tidings direImpart, and I my weakness all betray;For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,I meant but o’er your tombs to weep a day,Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.XXI.“But here ye live,—ye bloom,—in each dear face,The changing hand of time I may not blame;For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,And here of beauty perfected the frame:And well I know your hearts are still the same—They could not change—ye look the very way,As when an orphan first to you I came.And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?”XXII.“And art thou here? or is it but a dream?And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more?”—“No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seemThan aught on earth—than e’en thyself of yore—I will not part thee from thy father’s shore;But we shall cherish him with mutual arms,And hand in hand again the path explore,Which every ray of young remembrance warms,While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms!”XXIII.At morn, as if beneath a galaxyOf over-arching groves in blossoms white,Where all was odorous scent and harmony,And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:There, if, oh, gentle Love! I read arightThe utterance that sealed thy sacred bond,’Twas listening to these accents of delight,She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyondExpression’s power to paint, all languishingly fond—XXIV.“Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone!Whom I would rather in this desert meet,Scorning, and scorned by fortune’s power, than ownHer pomp and splendours lavished at my feet!Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisiteThan odours cast on heaven’s own shrine—to please—Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze,When Coromandel’s ships return from Indian seas.”XXV.Then would that home admit them—happier farThan grandeur’s most magnificent saloon,While, here and there, a solitary starFlushed in the darkening firmament of June,And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soonIneffable, which I may not portray;For never did the hymenean moonA paradise of hearts more sacred sway,In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.

A valley from the river shore withdrawn

Was Albert’s home, two quiet woods between,

Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn;

And waters to their resting-place serene

Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene:

(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;)

So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)

Have guessed some congregation of the elves,

To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.

II.Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream;Both were at evening Allegany viewsThrough ridges burning in her western beam,Lake after lake interminably gleam:And past those settlers’ haunts the eye might roamWhere earth’s unliving silence all would seem;Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home.

II.

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,

Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream;

Both were at evening Allegany views

Through ridges burning in her western beam,

Lake after lake interminably gleam:

And past those settlers’ haunts the eye might roam

Where earth’s unliving silence all would seem;

Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,

Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home.

III.But silent not that adverse eastern path,Which saw Aurora’s hills the horizon crown;There was the river heard, in bed of wrath(A precipice of foam from mountains brown),Like tumults heard from some far distant town;But softening in approach he left his gloom,And murmured pleasantly, and laid him downTo kiss those easy curving banks of bloom,That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume.

III.

But silent not that adverse eastern path,

Which saw Aurora’s hills the horizon crown;

There was the river heard, in bed of wrath

(A precipice of foam from mountains brown),

Like tumults heard from some far distant town;

But softening in approach he left his gloom,

And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down

To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom,

That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume.

IV.It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence hadOn Gertrude’s soul, and kindness like their ownInspired those eyes affectionate and glad,That seemed to love whate’er they looked uponWhether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone,Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast,(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)Yet so becomingly the expression past,That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.

IV.

It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had

On Gertrude’s soul, and kindness like their own

Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad,

That seemed to love whate’er they looked upon

Whether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone,

Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast,

(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)

Yet so becomingly the expression past,

That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.

V.Nor, guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,With all its picturesque and balmy grace,And fields that were a luxury to roam,Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!Enthusiast of the woods! when years apaceHad bound thy lovely waist with woman’s zone,The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee traceTo hills with high magnolia overgrown,And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.

Nor, guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,

With all its picturesque and balmy grace,

And fields that were a luxury to roam,

Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!

Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace

Had bound thy lovely waist with woman’s zone,

The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace

To hills with high magnolia overgrown,

And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.

VI.The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,That thus apostrophised its viewless scene:“Land of my father’s love, my mother’s birth!The home of kindred I have never seen!We know not other—oceans are between:Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came,Of us does oft remembrance intervene?My mother sure—my sire a thought may claim;—But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

VI.

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,

That thus apostrophised its viewless scene:

“Land of my father’s love, my mother’s birth!

The home of kindred I have never seen!

We know not other—oceans are between:

Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came,

Of us does oft remembrance intervene?

My mother sure—my sire a thought may claim;—

But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

VII.“And yet, loved England! when thy name I traceIn many a pilgrim’s tale and poet’s song,How can I choose but wish for one embraceOf them, the dear unknown, to whom belongMy mother’s looks,—perhaps her likeness strong?Oh, parent! with what reverential awe,From features of thine own related throng,An image of thy face my soul could draw!And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!”

VII.

“And yet, loved England! when thy name I trace

In many a pilgrim’s tale and poet’s song,

How can I choose but wish for one embrace

Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong

My mother’s looks,—perhaps her likeness strong?

Oh, parent! with what reverential awe,

From features of thine own related throng,

An image of thy face my soul could draw!

And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!”

VIII.Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;To soothe a father’s couch her only care,And keep his reverend head from all annoy:For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air,And woods a horizontal shadow threw,And early fox appeared in momentary view.

VIII.

Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;

To soothe a father’s couch her only care,

And keep his reverend head from all annoy:

For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,

Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;

While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,

While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air,

And woods a horizontal shadow threw,

And early fox appeared in momentary view.

IX.Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore.Tradition had not named its lonely spot;But here (methinks) might India’s sons exploreTheir fathers’ dust,[45]or lift, perchance of yore,Their voice to the great Spirit:—rocks sublimeTo human art a sportive semblance bore,And yellow lichens coloured all the clime,Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time.

IX.

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,

Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore.

Tradition had not named its lonely spot;

But here (methinks) might India’s sons explore

Their fathers’ dust,[45]or lift, perchance of yore,

Their voice to the great Spirit:—rocks sublime

To human art a sportive semblance bore,

And yellow lichens coloured all the clime,

Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time.

X.But high in amphitheatre above,His arms the everlasting aloes threw:Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the groveAs if with instinct living spirit grew,Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;And now suspended was the pleasing din,Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew,Like the first note of organ heard withinCathedral aisles,—ere yet its symphony begin.

But high in amphitheatre above,

His arms the everlasting aloes threw:

Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove

As if with instinct living spirit grew,

Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;

And now suspended was the pleasing din,

Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew,

Like the first note of organ heard within

Cathedral aisles,—ere yet its symphony begin.

XI.It was in this lone valley she would charmThe lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn;Her cheek reclining, and her snowy armOn hillock by the palm-tree half o’ergrown:And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,Which every heart of human mould endears;With Shakespeare’s self she speaks and smiles alone,And no intruding visitation fears,To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.

XI.

It was in this lone valley she would charm

The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn;

Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm

On hillock by the palm-tree half o’ergrown:

And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,

Which every heart of human mould endears;

With Shakespeare’s self she speaks and smiles alone,

And no intruding visitation fears,

To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.

XII.And nought within the grove was heard or seenBut stock-doves ’plaining through its gloom profound,Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;When, lo! there entered to its inmost groundA youth, the stranger of a distant land;He was, to wit, for eastern mountains bound;But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned,And California’s gales his roving bosom fanned.

XII.

And nought within the grove was heard or seen

But stock-doves ’plaining through its gloom profound,

Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,

Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;

When, lo! there entered to its inmost ground

A youth, the stranger of a distant land;

He was, to wit, for eastern mountains bound;

But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned,

And California’s gales his roving bosom fanned.

XIII.A steed, whose rein hung loosely o’er his arm,He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,Close he had come, and worshipped for a spaceThose downcast features:—she her lovely faceUplift on one, whose lineaments and frameWere youth and manhood’s intermingled grace:Iberian seemed his boot—his robe the same,And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.

XIII.

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o’er his arm,

He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,

Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,

Close he had come, and worshipped for a space

Those downcast features:—she her lovely face

Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame

Were youth and manhood’s intermingled grace:

Iberian seemed his boot—his robe the same,

And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.

XIV.For Albert’s home he sought—her finger fairHas pointed where the father’s mansion stood.Returning from the copse he soon was thereAnd soon has Gertrude hied from dark green woodNor joyless, by the converse, understoodBetween the man of age and pilgrim youngThat gay congeniality of mood,And early liking from acquaintance sprung;Full fluently conversed their guest in England’s tongue.

XIV.

For Albert’s home he sought—her finger fair

Has pointed where the father’s mansion stood.

Returning from the copse he soon was there

And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood

Nor joyless, by the converse, understood

Between the man of age and pilgrim young

That gay congeniality of mood,

And early liking from acquaintance sprung;

Full fluently conversed their guest in England’s tongue.

XV.And well could he his pilgrimage of tasteUnfold,—and much they loved his fervid strain,While he each fair variety retracedOf climes, and manners, o’er the eastern main.Now happy Switzer’s hills,—romantic Spain,—Gay lilied fields of France,—or, more refined,The soft Ausonia’s monumental reign;Nor less each rural image he designedThan all the city’s pomp and home of human kind.

XV.

And well could he his pilgrimage of taste

Unfold,—and much they loved his fervid strain,

While he each fair variety retraced

Of climes, and manners, o’er the eastern main.

Now happy Switzer’s hills,—romantic Spain,—

Gay lilied fields of France,—or, more refined,

The soft Ausonia’s monumental reign;

Nor less each rural image he designed

Than all the city’s pomp and home of human kind.

XVI.Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;Of Nature’s savage glories he would speak,—The loneliness of earth that overawes,—Where resting by some tomb of old Cacique,The llama-driver on Peruvia’s peak,Nor living voice nor motion marks around;But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound,[46]That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.

XVI.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;

Of Nature’s savage glories he would speak,—

The loneliness of earth that overawes,—

Where resting by some tomb of old Cacique,

The llama-driver on Peruvia’s peak,

Nor living voice nor motion marks around;

But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,

Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound,[46]

That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.

XVII.Pleased with his guest, the good man still would plyEach earnest question, and his converse court;But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not whyA strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.“In England thou hast been,—and, by report,An orphan’s name,” quoth Albert, “may’st have known.Sad tale!—when latest fell our frontier fort,—One innocent—one soldier’s child—aloneWas spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own.

XVII.

Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply

Each earnest question, and his converse court;

But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why

A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.

“In England thou hast been,—and, by report,

An orphan’s name,” quoth Albert, “may’st have known.

Sad tale!—when latest fell our frontier fort,—

One innocent—one soldier’s child—alone

Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own.

XVIII.“Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful yearsThese very walls his infant sports did see;But most I loved him when his parting tearsAlternately bedewed my child and me:His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:By kindred he was sent for o’er the sea,They tore him from us when but twelve years old,And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!”

XVIII.

“Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years

These very walls his infant sports did see;

But most I loved him when his parting tears

Alternately bedewed my child and me:

His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;

Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:

By kindred he was sent for o’er the sea,

They tore him from us when but twelve years old,

And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!”

XIX.His face the wanderer hid—but could not hideA tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;—“And speak! mysterious stranger!” Gertrude cried,“It is!—it is!—I knew—I knew him well!’Tis Waldegrave’s self, of Waldegrave come to tell!”A burst of joy the father’s lips declare;But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:At once his open arms embraced the pair,Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care.

XIX.

His face the wanderer hid—but could not hide

A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;—

“And speak! mysterious stranger!” Gertrude cried,

“It is!—it is!—I knew—I knew him well!

’Tis Waldegrave’s self, of Waldegrave come to tell!”

A burst of joy the father’s lips declare;

But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:

At once his open arms embraced the pair,

Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care.

XX.“And will ye pardon then,” replied the youth,“Your Waldegrave’s feignèd name, and false attire?I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth,The very fortunes of your house inquire;Lest one that knew me might some tidings direImpart, and I my weakness all betray;For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,I meant but o’er your tombs to weep a day,Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.

XX.

“And will ye pardon then,” replied the youth,

“Your Waldegrave’s feignèd name, and false attire?

I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth,

The very fortunes of your house inquire;

Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire

Impart, and I my weakness all betray;

For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,

I meant but o’er your tombs to weep a day,

Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.

XXI.“But here ye live,—ye bloom,—in each dear face,The changing hand of time I may not blame;For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,And here of beauty perfected the frame:And well I know your hearts are still the same—They could not change—ye look the very way,As when an orphan first to you I came.And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?”

XXI.

“But here ye live,—ye bloom,—in each dear face,

The changing hand of time I may not blame;

For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,

And here of beauty perfected the frame:

And well I know your hearts are still the same—

They could not change—ye look the very way,

As when an orphan first to you I came.

And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?

Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?”

XXII.“And art thou here? or is it but a dream?And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more?”—“No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seemThan aught on earth—than e’en thyself of yore—I will not part thee from thy father’s shore;But we shall cherish him with mutual arms,And hand in hand again the path explore,Which every ray of young remembrance warms,While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms!”

XXII.

“And art thou here? or is it but a dream?

And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more?”—

“No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem

Than aught on earth—than e’en thyself of yore—

I will not part thee from thy father’s shore;

But we shall cherish him with mutual arms,

And hand in hand again the path explore,

Which every ray of young remembrance warms,

While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms!”

XXIII.At morn, as if beneath a galaxyOf over-arching groves in blossoms white,Where all was odorous scent and harmony,And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:There, if, oh, gentle Love! I read arightThe utterance that sealed thy sacred bond,’Twas listening to these accents of delight,She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyondExpression’s power to paint, all languishingly fond—

XXIII.

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white,

Where all was odorous scent and harmony,

And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:

There, if, oh, gentle Love! I read aright

The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond,

’Twas listening to these accents of delight,

She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond

Expression’s power to paint, all languishingly fond—

XXIV.“Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone!Whom I would rather in this desert meet,Scorning, and scorned by fortune’s power, than ownHer pomp and splendours lavished at my feet!Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisiteThan odours cast on heaven’s own shrine—to please—Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze,When Coromandel’s ships return from Indian seas.”

XXIV.

“Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone!

Whom I would rather in this desert meet,

Scorning, and scorned by fortune’s power, than own

Her pomp and splendours lavished at my feet!

Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite

Than odours cast on heaven’s own shrine—to please—

Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,

And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze,

When Coromandel’s ships return from Indian seas.”

XXV.Then would that home admit them—happier farThan grandeur’s most magnificent saloon,While, here and there, a solitary starFlushed in the darkening firmament of June,And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soonIneffable, which I may not portray;For never did the hymenean moonA paradise of hearts more sacred sway,In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.

XXV.

Then would that home admit them—happier far

Than grandeur’s most magnificent saloon,

While, here and there, a solitary star

Flushed in the darkening firmament of June,

And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon

Ineffable, which I may not portray;

For never did the hymenean moon

A paradise of hearts more sacred sway,

In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.

[45]It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century.[46]The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.

[45]It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century.

[46]The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.

I.O love! in such a wilderness as this,Where transport and security entwine,Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,And here thou art a god indeed divine.Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confineThe views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine!Nor, blind with ecstasy’s celestial fire,Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.II.Three little moons, how short! amidst the groveAnd pastoral savannahs they consume!While she, beside her buskined youth to rove,Delights, in fancifully wild costume,Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;’Tis but the breath of heaven—the blessed air—And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.III.What though the sportive dog oft round them note,Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;Yet who in love’s own presence, would devoteTo death those gentle throats that wake the spring,Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?No!—nor let fear one little warbler rouse;But, fed by Gertrude’s hand, still let them sing,Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,That shade e’en now her love, and witnessed first her vows.IV.Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,Where welcome hills shut out the universe,And pines their lawny walk encompass round;There, if a pause delicious converse found,’Twas but when o’er each heart the idea stole,(Perchance a while in joy’s oblivion drowned)That come what may, while life’s glad pulses roll,Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.V.And in the visions of romantic youth,What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?The torrent’s smoothness, ere it dash below!And must I change my song? and must I show,Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doomed,Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low!When where of yesterday a garden bloomed,Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed!VI.Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,When Transatlantic Liberty arose,Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven,But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;Her birth star was the light of burning plains;[47]Her baptism is the weight of blood that flowsFrom kindred hearts—the blood of British veins—And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.VII.Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams,Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,That fills pale Gertrude’s thoughts, and nightly dreams?Dismal to her the forge of battle gleamsPortentous light! and music’s voice is dumb;Save where the fife its shrill reveillè screams,Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields to come.VIII.It was in truth a momentary pang;Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe!First when in Gertrude’s ear the summons rang,A husband to the battle doomed to go!“Nay meet not thou,” she cries, “thy kindred foe!But peaceful let us seek fair England’s strand!”“Ah, Gertrude! thy belovèd heart, I know,Would feel like mine, the stigmatising brand!Could I forsake the cause of Freedom’s holy band!IX.“But shame—but flight—a recreant’s name to prove,To hide in exile ignominious fears;Say, e’en if this I brooked,—the public loveThy father’s bosom to his home endears:And how could I his few remaining years,My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?”So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers;At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty smiled.X.Night came,—and in their lighted bower, full late,The joy of converse had endured—when, hark!Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate;And heedless of the dog’s obstreperous bark,A form has rushed amidst them from the dark,And spread his arms,—and fell upon the floor:Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark;But desolate he looked, and famished poor,As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore.XI.Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched:A spirit from the dead they deem him first:To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched,From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed,Emotions unintelligible burst;And long his filmed eye is red and dim;At length the pity-proffered cup his thirstHad half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb,When Albert’s hand he grasped;—but Albert knew not him—XII.“And hast thou then forgot,” he cried, forlorn,And eyed the group with half indignant air,“Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the mornWhen I with thee the cup of peace did share?Then stately was this head, and dark this hairThat now is white as Appalachia’s snow;But, if the weight of fifteen years’ despair,And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe,Bring me my boy—and he will his deliverer know!”XIII.It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew:“Bless thee, my guide!”—but backward, as he came,The chief his old bewildered head withdrew,And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through.’Twas strange—nor could the group a smile control—The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view:—At last delight o’er all his features stole,“It is—my own,” he cried, and clasped him to his soul.XIV.“Yes! thou recall’st my pride of years, for thenThe bowstring of my spirit was not slack,When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men,I bore thee like the quiver on my back,Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;Nor foeman then, nor cougar’s[48]crouch I feared,For I was strong as mountain cataract:And dost thou not remember how we cheered,Upon the last hill top, when white men’s huts appeared?XV.“Then welcome be my death song, and my death!Since I have seen thee, and again embraced.”And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath;But with affectionate and eager haste,Was every arm outstretched around their guest,To welcome and to bless his aged head.Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;And Gertrude’s lovely hands a balsam shedOn wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled.XVI.“But this is not a time,”—he started up,And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand—“This is no time to fill the joyous cup,The Mammoth comes,—the foe,—the Monster Brandt,[49]With all his howling desolating band;—These eyes have seen their blade and burning pineAwake at once, and silence half your land.Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine:Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine!XVII.“Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,’Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth:[50]Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribeNor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:No! not the dog, that watched my household hearth,Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains!All perished!—I alone am left on earth!To whom nor relative nor blood remains,No!—not a kindred drop that runs in human veins![50]XVIII.“But go!—and rouse your warriors;—for, if rightThese old bewildered eyes could guess, by signsOf striped and starrèd banners, on yon heightOf eastern cedars, o’er the creek of pines—Some fort embattled by your country shines:Deep roars the innavigable gulf belowIts squarèd rock, and palisaded lines.Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show;Whilst I in ambush wait for vengeance, and the foe!”XIX.Scarce had he uttered—when Heaven’s verge extremeReverberates the bomb’s descending star,—And sounds that mingled laugh,—and shout,—and scream,—To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar,Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed;As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevailed:—And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.XX.Then looked they to the hills, where fire o’erhungThe bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung,Told legible that midnight of despair.She faints,—she falters not,—the heroic fair,—As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed.One short embrace—he clasped his dearest care—But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade?Joy, joy! Columbia’s friends are trampling through the shade!XXI.Then came of every race the mingled swarm,Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass,With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm,As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass,Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines:And first the wild Moravian yagers pass,His plumed host the dark Iberian joins—And Scotia’s sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.XXII.And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,To Albert’s home, with shout and cymbal throng:—Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,Old Outalissi woke his battle song,And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts,Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.XXIII.Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,Pale on his venerable brow its raysOf martyr light the conflagration throws;One hand upon his lovely child he lays,And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways;While, though the battle flash is faster driven,—Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,—Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.XXIV.Short time is now for gratulating speech:And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere beganThy country’s flight, yon distant towers to reach,Looked not on thee the rudest partisanWith brow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran,As round and round their willing ranks they drew,From beauty’s sight to shield the hostile van.Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,Nor wept, but as she bade her mother’s grave adieu!XXV.Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower,That like a giant standard-bearer frownedDefiance on the roving Indian power.Beneath, each bold and promontory moundWith embrasure embossed, and armour crowned,And arrowy frieze, and wedgèd ravelin,Wove like a diadem its tracery roundThe lofty summit of that mountain green;Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,—XXVI.A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;And for the business of destruction doneIts requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:There sad spectatress of her country’s woe!The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snowOn Waldegrave’s shoulder, half within his armEnclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm!XXVII.But short that contemplation—sad and shortThe pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!Beneath the very shadow of the fort,Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew,Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crewWas near?—yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,The ambushed foeman’s eye—his volley speeds,And Albert—Albert—falls! the dear old father bleeds!XXVIII.And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned;Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,Say, burst they, borrowed from her father’s wound,These drops?—Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!And faltering, on her Waldegrave’s bosom thrown—“Weep not, O Love!” she cries, “to see me bleed—Thee, Gertrude’s sad survivor, thee aloneHeaven’s peace commiserate; for scarce I heedThese wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.XXIX.“Clasp me a little longer on the brinkOf fate! while I can feel thy dear caress:And when this heart hath ceased to beat—oh! think,And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess,That thou hast been to me all tenderness,And friend to more than human friendship just.Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,And by the hopes of an immortal trust,God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am laid in dust!XXX.“Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,Where my dear father took thee to his heart,And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to roveWith thee, as with an angel, through the groveOf peace, imagining her lot was castIn heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.And must this parting be our very last?No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.XXXI.“Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,If I had lived to smile but on the birthOf one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,In future times—no gentle little one,To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?Yet seems it, e’en while life’s last pulses run,A sweetness in the cup of death to be,Lord of my bosom’s love! to die beholding thee!”XXXII.Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips! but still their blandAnd beautiful expression seemed to meltWith love that could not die! and still his handShe presses to the heart no more that felt.Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.Mute, gazing, agonising as he knelt,—Of them that stood encircling his despair,He heard some friendly words; but knew not what they were.XXXIII.For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrivesA faithful band. With solemn rites between,’Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,And in their deaths had not divided been.Touched by the music, and the melting scene,Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:—Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seenTo veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud—While woman’s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.XXXIV.Then mournfully the parting bugle bidIts farewell, o’er the grave of worth and truth;Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hidHis face on earth;—him watched, in gloomy ruth,His woodland guide: but words had none to sootheThe grief that knew not consolation’s name:Casting his Indian mantle o’er the youth,He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that cameConvulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!XXXV.“And I could weep;”—the Oneyda chiefHis descant wildly thus begun:“But that I may not stain with griefThe death-song of my father’s son,Or bow this head in woe!For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!To morrow Areouski’s breath(That fires yon heaven with storms of death),Shall light us to the foe:And we shall share, my Christian boy!The foeman’s blood, the avenger’s joy!XXXVI.“But thee, my flower, whose breath was givenBy milder genii o’er the deep,The spirits of the white man’s heavenForbid not thee to weep:—Nor will the Christian host,Nor will thy father’s spirit grieve,To see thee, on the battle’s eve,Lamenting, take a mournful leaveOf her who loved thee most:She was the rainbow to thy sight!Thy sun—thy heaven—of lost delight!XXXVII.“To-morrow let us do or die!But when the bolt of death is hurled,Ah! whither then with thee to fly,Shall Outalissi roam the world?Seek we thy once-loved home?The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:Unheard their clock repeats its hours!Cold is the hearth within their bowers!And should we thither roam,Its echoes, and its empty tread,Would sound like voices from the dead!XXXVIII.“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed?And by my side, in battle true,A thousand warriors drew the shaft?Ah! there in desolation coldThe desert serpent dwells alone,Where grass o’ergrows each mouldering bone,And stones themselves to ruin grown,Like me, are death-like old.Then seek we not their camp,—for there—The silence dwells of my despair!XXXIX.“But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thouIn glory’s fires shalt dry thy tears:E’en from the land of shadows nowMy father’s awful ghost appears,Amidst the clouds that round us roll;He bids my soul for battle thirst—He bids me dry the last—the first—The only tears that ever burstFrom Outalissi’s soul;Because I may not stain with griefThe death-song of an Indian chief!”

O love! in such a wilderness as this,

Where transport and security entwine,

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

And here thou art a god indeed divine.

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine

The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!

Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine!

Nor, blind with ecstasy’s celestial fire,

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

II.Three little moons, how short! amidst the groveAnd pastoral savannahs they consume!While she, beside her buskined youth to rove,Delights, in fancifully wild costume,Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;’Tis but the breath of heaven—the blessed air—And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.

II.

Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove

And pastoral savannahs they consume!

While she, beside her buskined youth to rove,

Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;

And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;

But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;

’Tis but the breath of heaven—the blessed air—

And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.

III.What though the sportive dog oft round them note,Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;Yet who in love’s own presence, would devoteTo death those gentle throats that wake the spring,Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?No!—nor let fear one little warbler rouse;But, fed by Gertrude’s hand, still let them sing,Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,That shade e’en now her love, and witnessed first her vows.

III.

What though the sportive dog oft round them note,

Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;

Yet who in love’s own presence, would devote

To death those gentle throats that wake the spring,

Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?

No!—nor let fear one little warbler rouse;

But, fed by Gertrude’s hand, still let them sing,

Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,

That shade e’en now her love, and witnessed first her vows.

IV.Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,Where welcome hills shut out the universe,And pines their lawny walk encompass round;There, if a pause delicious converse found,’Twas but when o’er each heart the idea stole,(Perchance a while in joy’s oblivion drowned)That come what may, while life’s glad pulses roll,Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.

IV.

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,

Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,

Where welcome hills shut out the universe,

And pines their lawny walk encompass round;

There, if a pause delicious converse found,

’Twas but when o’er each heart the idea stole,

(Perchance a while in joy’s oblivion drowned)

That come what may, while life’s glad pulses roll,

Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.

V.And in the visions of romantic youth,What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?The torrent’s smoothness, ere it dash below!And must I change my song? and must I show,Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doomed,Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low!When where of yesterday a garden bloomed,Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed!

And in the visions of romantic youth,

What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!

But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?

The torrent’s smoothness, ere it dash below!

And must I change my song? and must I show,

Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doomed,

Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low!

When where of yesterday a garden bloomed,

Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed!

VI.Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,When Transatlantic Liberty arose,Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven,But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;Her birth star was the light of burning plains;[47]Her baptism is the weight of blood that flowsFrom kindred hearts—the blood of British veins—And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.

VI.

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,

When Transatlantic Liberty arose,

Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven,

But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,

Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;

Her birth star was the light of burning plains;[47]

Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows

From kindred hearts—the blood of British veins—

And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.

VII.Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams,Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,That fills pale Gertrude’s thoughts, and nightly dreams?Dismal to her the forge of battle gleamsPortentous light! and music’s voice is dumb;Save where the fife its shrill reveillè screams,Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields to come.

VII.

Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,

Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams,

Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,

That fills pale Gertrude’s thoughts, and nightly dreams?

Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams

Portentous light! and music’s voice is dumb;

Save where the fife its shrill reveillè screams,

Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,

That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields to come.

VIII.It was in truth a momentary pang;Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe!First when in Gertrude’s ear the summons rang,A husband to the battle doomed to go!“Nay meet not thou,” she cries, “thy kindred foe!But peaceful let us seek fair England’s strand!”“Ah, Gertrude! thy belovèd heart, I know,Would feel like mine, the stigmatising brand!Could I forsake the cause of Freedom’s holy band!

VIII.

It was in truth a momentary pang;

Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe!

First when in Gertrude’s ear the summons rang,

A husband to the battle doomed to go!

“Nay meet not thou,” she cries, “thy kindred foe!

But peaceful let us seek fair England’s strand!”

“Ah, Gertrude! thy belovèd heart, I know,

Would feel like mine, the stigmatising brand!

Could I forsake the cause of Freedom’s holy band!

IX.“But shame—but flight—a recreant’s name to prove,To hide in exile ignominious fears;Say, e’en if this I brooked,—the public loveThy father’s bosom to his home endears:And how could I his few remaining years,My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?”So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers;At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty smiled.

IX.

“But shame—but flight—a recreant’s name to prove,

To hide in exile ignominious fears;

Say, e’en if this I brooked,—the public love

Thy father’s bosom to his home endears:

And how could I his few remaining years,

My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?”

So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers;

At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,

And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty smiled.

X.Night came,—and in their lighted bower, full late,The joy of converse had endured—when, hark!Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate;And heedless of the dog’s obstreperous bark,A form has rushed amidst them from the dark,And spread his arms,—and fell upon the floor:Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark;But desolate he looked, and famished poor,As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore.

Night came,—and in their lighted bower, full late,

The joy of converse had endured—when, hark!

Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate;

And heedless of the dog’s obstreperous bark,

A form has rushed amidst them from the dark,

And spread his arms,—and fell upon the floor:

Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark;

But desolate he looked, and famished poor,

As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore.

XI.Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched:A spirit from the dead they deem him first:To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched,From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed,Emotions unintelligible burst;And long his filmed eye is red and dim;At length the pity-proffered cup his thirstHad half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb,When Albert’s hand he grasped;—but Albert knew not him—

XI.

Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched:

A spirit from the dead they deem him first:

To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched,

From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed,

Emotions unintelligible burst;

And long his filmed eye is red and dim;

At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst

Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb,

When Albert’s hand he grasped;—but Albert knew not him—

XII.“And hast thou then forgot,” he cried, forlorn,And eyed the group with half indignant air,“Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the mornWhen I with thee the cup of peace did share?Then stately was this head, and dark this hairThat now is white as Appalachia’s snow;But, if the weight of fifteen years’ despair,And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe,Bring me my boy—and he will his deliverer know!”

XII.

“And hast thou then forgot,” he cried, forlorn,

And eyed the group with half indignant air,

“Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn

When I with thee the cup of peace did share?

Then stately was this head, and dark this hair

That now is white as Appalachia’s snow;

But, if the weight of fifteen years’ despair,

And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe,

Bring me my boy—and he will his deliverer know!”

XIII.It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew:“Bless thee, my guide!”—but backward, as he came,The chief his old bewildered head withdrew,And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through.’Twas strange—nor could the group a smile control—The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view:—At last delight o’er all his features stole,“It is—my own,” he cried, and clasped him to his soul.

XIII.

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,

Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew:

“Bless thee, my guide!”—but backward, as he came,

The chief his old bewildered head withdrew,

And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through.

’Twas strange—nor could the group a smile control—

The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view:—

At last delight o’er all his features stole,

“It is—my own,” he cried, and clasped him to his soul.

XIV.“Yes! thou recall’st my pride of years, for thenThe bowstring of my spirit was not slack,When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men,I bore thee like the quiver on my back,Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;Nor foeman then, nor cougar’s[48]crouch I feared,For I was strong as mountain cataract:And dost thou not remember how we cheered,Upon the last hill top, when white men’s huts appeared?

XIV.

“Yes! thou recall’st my pride of years, for then

The bowstring of my spirit was not slack,

When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men,

I bore thee like the quiver on my back,

Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;

Nor foeman then, nor cougar’s[48]crouch I feared,

For I was strong as mountain cataract:

And dost thou not remember how we cheered,

Upon the last hill top, when white men’s huts appeared?

XV.“Then welcome be my death song, and my death!Since I have seen thee, and again embraced.”And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath;But with affectionate and eager haste,Was every arm outstretched around their guest,To welcome and to bless his aged head.Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;And Gertrude’s lovely hands a balsam shedOn wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled.

XV.

“Then welcome be my death song, and my death!

Since I have seen thee, and again embraced.”

And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath;

But with affectionate and eager haste,

Was every arm outstretched around their guest,

To welcome and to bless his aged head.

Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;

And Gertrude’s lovely hands a balsam shed

On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled.

XVI.“But this is not a time,”—he started up,And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand—“This is no time to fill the joyous cup,The Mammoth comes,—the foe,—the Monster Brandt,[49]With all his howling desolating band;—These eyes have seen their blade and burning pineAwake at once, and silence half your land.Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine:Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine!

XVI.

“But this is not a time,”—he started up,

And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand—

“This is no time to fill the joyous cup,

The Mammoth comes,—the foe,—the Monster Brandt,[49]

With all his howling desolating band;—

These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine

Awake at once, and silence half your land.

Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine:

Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine!

XVII.“Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,’Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth:[50]Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribeNor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:No! not the dog, that watched my household hearth,Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains!All perished!—I alone am left on earth!To whom nor relative nor blood remains,No!—not a kindred drop that runs in human veins![50]

XVII.

“Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,

’Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth:[50]

Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribe

Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:

No! not the dog, that watched my household hearth,

Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains!

All perished!—I alone am left on earth!

To whom nor relative nor blood remains,

No!—not a kindred drop that runs in human veins![50]

XVIII.“But go!—and rouse your warriors;—for, if rightThese old bewildered eyes could guess, by signsOf striped and starrèd banners, on yon heightOf eastern cedars, o’er the creek of pines—Some fort embattled by your country shines:Deep roars the innavigable gulf belowIts squarèd rock, and palisaded lines.Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show;Whilst I in ambush wait for vengeance, and the foe!”

XVIII.

“But go!—and rouse your warriors;—for, if right

These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs

Of striped and starrèd banners, on yon height

Of eastern cedars, o’er the creek of pines—

Some fort embattled by your country shines:

Deep roars the innavigable gulf below

Its squarèd rock, and palisaded lines.

Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show;

Whilst I in ambush wait for vengeance, and the foe!”

XIX.Scarce had he uttered—when Heaven’s verge extremeReverberates the bomb’s descending star,—And sounds that mingled laugh,—and shout,—and scream,—To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar,Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed;As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevailed:—And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.

XIX.

Scarce had he uttered—when Heaven’s verge extreme

Reverberates the bomb’s descending star,—

And sounds that mingled laugh,—and shout,—and scream,—

To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar,

Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.

Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed;

As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;

While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevailed:—

And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.

XX.Then looked they to the hills, where fire o’erhungThe bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung,Told legible that midnight of despair.She faints,—she falters not,—the heroic fair,—As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed.One short embrace—he clasped his dearest care—But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade?Joy, joy! Columbia’s friends are trampling through the shade!

XX.

Then looked they to the hills, where fire o’erhung

The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;

Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung,

Told legible that midnight of despair.

She faints,—she falters not,—the heroic fair,—

As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed.

One short embrace—he clasped his dearest care—

But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade?

Joy, joy! Columbia’s friends are trampling through the shade!

XXI.Then came of every race the mingled swarm,Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass,With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm,As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass,Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines:And first the wild Moravian yagers pass,His plumed host the dark Iberian joins—And Scotia’s sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.

XXI.

Then came of every race the mingled swarm,

Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass,

With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm,

As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass,

Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,

Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines:

And first the wild Moravian yagers pass,

His plumed host the dark Iberian joins—

And Scotia’s sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.

XXII.And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,To Albert’s home, with shout and cymbal throng:—Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,Old Outalissi woke his battle song,And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts,Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.

XXII.

And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,

To Albert’s home, with shout and cymbal throng:—

Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,

Old Outalissi woke his battle song,

And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,

Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts,

Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,

To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,

And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.

XXIII.Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,Pale on his venerable brow its raysOf martyr light the conflagration throws;One hand upon his lovely child he lays,And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways;While, though the battle flash is faster driven,—Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,—Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.

XXIII.

Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,

Pale on his venerable brow its rays

Of martyr light the conflagration throws;

One hand upon his lovely child he lays,

And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways;

While, though the battle flash is faster driven,—

Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,

He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,—

Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.

XXIV.Short time is now for gratulating speech:And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere beganThy country’s flight, yon distant towers to reach,Looked not on thee the rudest partisanWith brow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran,As round and round their willing ranks they drew,From beauty’s sight to shield the hostile van.Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,Nor wept, but as she bade her mother’s grave adieu!

XXIV.

Short time is now for gratulating speech:

And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began

Thy country’s flight, yon distant towers to reach,

Looked not on thee the rudest partisan

With brow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran,

As round and round their willing ranks they drew,

From beauty’s sight to shield the hostile van.

Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,

Nor wept, but as she bade her mother’s grave adieu!

XXV.Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower,That like a giant standard-bearer frownedDefiance on the roving Indian power.Beneath, each bold and promontory moundWith embrasure embossed, and armour crowned,And arrowy frieze, and wedgèd ravelin,Wove like a diadem its tracery roundThe lofty summit of that mountain green;Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,—

XXV.

Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower,

That like a giant standard-bearer frowned

Defiance on the roving Indian power.

Beneath, each bold and promontory mound

With embrasure embossed, and armour crowned,

And arrowy frieze, and wedgèd ravelin,

Wove like a diadem its tracery round

The lofty summit of that mountain green;

Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,—

XXVI.A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;And for the business of destruction doneIts requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:There sad spectatress of her country’s woe!The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snowOn Waldegrave’s shoulder, half within his armEnclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm!

XXVI.

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,

And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;

And for the business of destruction done

Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:

There sad spectatress of her country’s woe!

The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,

Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow

On Waldegrave’s shoulder, half within his arm

Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm!

XXVII.But short that contemplation—sad and shortThe pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!Beneath the very shadow of the fort,Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew,Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crewWas near?—yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,The ambushed foeman’s eye—his volley speeds,And Albert—Albert—falls! the dear old father bleeds!

XXVII.

But short that contemplation—sad and short

The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!

Beneath the very shadow of the fort,

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew,

Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew

Was near?—yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,

Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,

The ambushed foeman’s eye—his volley speeds,

And Albert—Albert—falls! the dear old father bleeds!

XXVIII.And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned;Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,Say, burst they, borrowed from her father’s wound,These drops?—Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!And faltering, on her Waldegrave’s bosom thrown—“Weep not, O Love!” she cries, “to see me bleed—Thee, Gertrude’s sad survivor, thee aloneHeaven’s peace commiserate; for scarce I heedThese wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.

XXVIII.

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned;

Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,

Say, burst they, borrowed from her father’s wound,

These drops?—Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!

And faltering, on her Waldegrave’s bosom thrown—

“Weep not, O Love!” she cries, “to see me bleed—

Thee, Gertrude’s sad survivor, thee alone

Heaven’s peace commiserate; for scarce I heed

These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.

XXIX.“Clasp me a little longer on the brinkOf fate! while I can feel thy dear caress:And when this heart hath ceased to beat—oh! think,And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess,That thou hast been to me all tenderness,And friend to more than human friendship just.Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,And by the hopes of an immortal trust,God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am laid in dust!

XXIX.

“Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress:

And when this heart hath ceased to beat—oh! think,

And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just.

Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am laid in dust!

XXX.“Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,Where my dear father took thee to his heart,And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to roveWith thee, as with an angel, through the groveOf peace, imagining her lot was castIn heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.And must this parting be our very last?No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXX.

“Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,

Where my dear father took thee to his heart,

And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove

With thee, as with an angel, through the grove

Of peace, imagining her lot was cast

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.

And must this parting be our very last?

No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXXI.“Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,If I had lived to smile but on the birthOf one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,In future times—no gentle little one,To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?Yet seems it, e’en while life’s last pulses run,A sweetness in the cup of death to be,Lord of my bosom’s love! to die beholding thee!”

XXXI.

“Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—

And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,

If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,

In future times—no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?

Yet seems it, e’en while life’s last pulses run,

A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

Lord of my bosom’s love! to die beholding thee!”

XXXII.Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips! but still their blandAnd beautiful expression seemed to meltWith love that could not die! and still his handShe presses to the heart no more that felt.Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.Mute, gazing, agonising as he knelt,—Of them that stood encircling his despair,He heard some friendly words; but knew not what they were.

XXXII.

Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,

And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.

Mute, gazing, agonising as he knelt,—

Of them that stood encircling his despair,

He heard some friendly words; but knew not what they were.

XXXIII.For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrivesA faithful band. With solemn rites between,’Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,And in their deaths had not divided been.Touched by the music, and the melting scene,Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:—Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seenTo veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud—While woman’s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

XXXIII.

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives

A faithful band. With solemn rites between,

’Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,

And in their deaths had not divided been.

Touched by the music, and the melting scene,

Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:—

Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen

To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud—

While woman’s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

XXXIV.Then mournfully the parting bugle bidIts farewell, o’er the grave of worth and truth;Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hidHis face on earth;—him watched, in gloomy ruth,His woodland guide: but words had none to sootheThe grief that knew not consolation’s name:Casting his Indian mantle o’er the youth,He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that cameConvulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!

XXXIV.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell, o’er the grave of worth and truth;

Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid

His face on earth;—him watched, in gloomy ruth,

His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe

The grief that knew not consolation’s name:

Casting his Indian mantle o’er the youth,

He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came

Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!

XXXV.“And I could weep;”—the Oneyda chiefHis descant wildly thus begun:“But that I may not stain with griefThe death-song of my father’s son,Or bow this head in woe!For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!To morrow Areouski’s breath(That fires yon heaven with storms of death),Shall light us to the foe:And we shall share, my Christian boy!The foeman’s blood, the avenger’s joy!

XXXV.

“And I could weep;”—the Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus begun:

“But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father’s son,

Or bow this head in woe!

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!

To morrow Areouski’s breath

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death),

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy!

The foeman’s blood, the avenger’s joy!

XXXVI.“But thee, my flower, whose breath was givenBy milder genii o’er the deep,The spirits of the white man’s heavenForbid not thee to weep:—Nor will the Christian host,Nor will thy father’s spirit grieve,To see thee, on the battle’s eve,Lamenting, take a mournful leaveOf her who loved thee most:She was the rainbow to thy sight!Thy sun—thy heaven—of lost delight!

XXXVI.

“But thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o’er the deep,

The spirits of the white man’s heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:—

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father’s spirit grieve,

To see thee, on the battle’s eve,

Lamenting, take a mournful leave

Of her who loved thee most:

She was the rainbow to thy sight!

Thy sun—thy heaven—of lost delight!

XXXVII.“To-morrow let us do or die!But when the bolt of death is hurled,Ah! whither then with thee to fly,Shall Outalissi roam the world?Seek we thy once-loved home?The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:Unheard their clock repeats its hours!Cold is the hearth within their bowers!And should we thither roam,Its echoes, and its empty tread,Would sound like voices from the dead!

XXXVII.

“To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurled,

Ah! whither then with thee to fly,

Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:

Unheard their clock repeats its hours!

Cold is the hearth within their bowers!

And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

XXXVIII.“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed?And by my side, in battle true,A thousand warriors drew the shaft?Ah! there in desolation coldThe desert serpent dwells alone,Where grass o’ergrows each mouldering bone,And stones themselves to ruin grown,Like me, are death-like old.Then seek we not their camp,—for there—The silence dwells of my despair!

XXXVIII.

“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,

Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed?

And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there in desolation cold

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o’ergrows each mouldering bone,

And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp,—for there—

The silence dwells of my despair!

XXXIX.“But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thouIn glory’s fires shalt dry thy tears:E’en from the land of shadows nowMy father’s awful ghost appears,Amidst the clouds that round us roll;He bids my soul for battle thirst—He bids me dry the last—the first—The only tears that ever burstFrom Outalissi’s soul;Because I may not stain with griefThe death-song of an Indian chief!”

XXXIX.

“But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thou

In glory’s fires shalt dry thy tears:

E’en from the land of shadows now

My father’s awful ghost appears,

Amidst the clouds that round us roll;

He bids my soul for battle thirst—

He bids me dry the last—the first—

The only tears that ever burst

From Outalissi’s soul;

Because I may not stain with grief

The death-song of an Indian chief!”

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