GNADENHUTTEN.

About the middle of the last century, the Moravians, so much distinguished by their exertions for the welfare of the most hapless portion of their species, established a missionary station at the northern base of the Blue Mountains, in what is now Northampton county, Pennsylvania, a few miles from the beautiful scenery of Mauch Chunk. This station they appropriately termed, “Gnadenhutten,” or “The House of Grace.”

The savage race which then inhabited those regions were divided in sentiment with respect to their benevolent visitors. Some regarded them with veneration; while others, and they the more numerous portion, looked upon them with a malignant suspicion, which resulted in a midnight attack, when the establishment was destroyed by fire and the inhabitants, male and female, young and old, butchered!

’Twas eve, the balmy breath of flowers,Came sweetly floating on the breeze;The recent rain-drops gemmed the bowers,And glistened on the leafy trees.And far into the eastern skyThe growling thunder-cloud had gone,Upon whose breast of inky dye,The radiant bow of promise shone.The setting sun beamed broad and bright,And far the lengthening shadows cast;On Gnadenhutten’s tower-crown’d height,He lingered long to look his last.And never had his parting ray,To light a lovelier scene been given;Since first he trod his radiant way,Across the azure vault of heaven.For not on hill, and vale, and stream,And glittering leaf and sacred towerAlone, was shed his evening beam—It lit devotion’s hallowed hour:For there was heard the solemn bell,That told the hour of rest and prayer;There sweetly rose the anthem’s swell,And holy words were spoken there.And o’er the heaven-directing page,The man of God enraptured hung;While wisdom’s aphorisms sage,Distilled like honey from his tongue.And there the forest-warrior stood,With bow unstrung and humbled pride;With longing soul for heavenly food,The dark-brown matron pressed his side.And tottering age, and vigorous youth,And childhood with its steadfast gaze,Heard wondrous words of heavenly truth;And knelt in prayer and joined in praise.And O! a holy look was given,To him who bent that book above;His brow was bright with light from heaven;His soul with heaven’s all brightening love.Nor was it that he loved to roam,He crossed the pathless ocean o’er;Nor yet to find a fairer home,Left he his own loved native shore.It was to point the forest sons,Up to the radiant throne of God;And show those dark, benighted ones,The way through Christ’s atoning blood;That far into the desert wild,From the refined abodes of men,With his loved wife and only child,He sought that distant forest glen.That matron’s brow was young and fair,Half hid ’neath locks of golden sheen;And lovely as a thing of air,Was little rosy Wilhelmine.With wavy curls of flaxen hair;And forehead rising pure and high;And breast as mountain’s snow-wreath fair;And eyes like stars in winter sky.Buoyant, and beautiful, and bright,A being made of smiles and bliss;With soul too full of heaven’s own light,To stay in such a world as this.And soon was that immortal flower—That bud of being, lent not given—From blighting sin and sorrow’s shower,Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven.’Twas night—the sky was cloudless blue,And all around was hushed and still,Save paddle of the light canoe,And wailing of the whippoorwill.The moon was like a silver thread,Just sinking in the green wood’s bosom;And swift from heaven the night-dew sped,With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom.And soft as balmy dews of nightUpon the beauteous blossom’s breast,Came slumber, and her finger light,On every closing eyelid pressed.’Twas night—dark night—no sound arose—The weary eye forgot its weeping;And wrapt in bonds of bland repose,The missionary band lay sleeping.But hark! upon the startled air,Wild, unexpected whoops arise!—And the red conflagration’s glare,Is brightening all the midnight skies!Up! sleepers, up! awake and fly,By the dread lamp your foes have lighted—To the dark green-wood’s bosom hie,Your homes are gone, your hopes are blighted.Up! sleepers, up! away, away!A canopy of smoke is o’er you;Around you fiery streamers play,And the dark savage is before you!Perchance some home-fraught dream of joy,In slumber’s silken links had bound them;They wake! ’tis but to hear the cryOf savage slaughter raging round them!They wake! ’tis but to mark the armOf death above each brow impending;Vain, vain, the shriek of wild alarm—And vain the prayer for life ascending.They died, as holy martyrs die—Their latest thought to God was given;Resigned their souls in agony,To wake in ecstacy in heaven.And perished all? One mother fled,Escaping both the brand and arrow;And to the midnight forest sped,Weary and weak, in pain and sorrow!Nor fled alone—in wild distress,A little one she fondly pressed,Sleeping in blessed unconsciousness,Rocked by the throbbings of her breast.For when the work of death was rife,’Midst savage yell and dying prayer,She fearless sought the thickest strife,And found that little slumberer there.Trembling beneath a shed she crept—The babe still hushed upon her bosom—Restrained each bursting throb, nor wept,Fearing to wake that slumbering blossom,And from her lowly hiding-place,Heard every yell of savage slaughter!And closer clasped in her embrace,The babe she deemed her fair-haired daughter.At length the long night passed away—The morning rose in all its glory—But smouldering ruins met his ray,And corpses cold, and pale, and gory.A midnight stillness reigned around—The savage foe had fled afar—The Lehigh with its moaning sound,Went wailing by the field of war.Uprose that matron young and fair,With trembling limb and beating heart—Why bursts her wild shriek on the air?And whence that horror-speaking start?She gazed upon that infant’s faceWith frenzied look and wild despair;Clasped to her breast, in fond embrace,An Indian babe lay sleeping there!Nor pined she long in hopeless grief,With every bond of being riven;Death smiling came, a sure relief,And angels winged her soul to heaven.

’Twas eve, the balmy breath of flowers,Came sweetly floating on the breeze;The recent rain-drops gemmed the bowers,And glistened on the leafy trees.

’Twas eve, the balmy breath of flowers,

Came sweetly floating on the breeze;

The recent rain-drops gemmed the bowers,

And glistened on the leafy trees.

And far into the eastern skyThe growling thunder-cloud had gone,Upon whose breast of inky dye,The radiant bow of promise shone.

And far into the eastern sky

The growling thunder-cloud had gone,

Upon whose breast of inky dye,

The radiant bow of promise shone.

The setting sun beamed broad and bright,And far the lengthening shadows cast;On Gnadenhutten’s tower-crown’d height,He lingered long to look his last.

The setting sun beamed broad and bright,

And far the lengthening shadows cast;

On Gnadenhutten’s tower-crown’d height,

He lingered long to look his last.

And never had his parting ray,To light a lovelier scene been given;Since first he trod his radiant way,Across the azure vault of heaven.

And never had his parting ray,

To light a lovelier scene been given;

Since first he trod his radiant way,

Across the azure vault of heaven.

For not on hill, and vale, and stream,And glittering leaf and sacred towerAlone, was shed his evening beam—It lit devotion’s hallowed hour:

For not on hill, and vale, and stream,

And glittering leaf and sacred tower

Alone, was shed his evening beam—

It lit devotion’s hallowed hour:

For there was heard the solemn bell,That told the hour of rest and prayer;There sweetly rose the anthem’s swell,And holy words were spoken there.

For there was heard the solemn bell,

That told the hour of rest and prayer;

There sweetly rose the anthem’s swell,

And holy words were spoken there.

And o’er the heaven-directing page,The man of God enraptured hung;While wisdom’s aphorisms sage,Distilled like honey from his tongue.

And o’er the heaven-directing page,

The man of God enraptured hung;

While wisdom’s aphorisms sage,

Distilled like honey from his tongue.

And there the forest-warrior stood,With bow unstrung and humbled pride;With longing soul for heavenly food,The dark-brown matron pressed his side.

And there the forest-warrior stood,

With bow unstrung and humbled pride;

With longing soul for heavenly food,

The dark-brown matron pressed his side.

And tottering age, and vigorous youth,And childhood with its steadfast gaze,Heard wondrous words of heavenly truth;And knelt in prayer and joined in praise.

And tottering age, and vigorous youth,

And childhood with its steadfast gaze,

Heard wondrous words of heavenly truth;

And knelt in prayer and joined in praise.

And O! a holy look was given,To him who bent that book above;His brow was bright with light from heaven;His soul with heaven’s all brightening love.

And O! a holy look was given,

To him who bent that book above;

His brow was bright with light from heaven;

His soul with heaven’s all brightening love.

Nor was it that he loved to roam,He crossed the pathless ocean o’er;Nor yet to find a fairer home,Left he his own loved native shore.

Nor was it that he loved to roam,

He crossed the pathless ocean o’er;

Nor yet to find a fairer home,

Left he his own loved native shore.

It was to point the forest sons,Up to the radiant throne of God;And show those dark, benighted ones,The way through Christ’s atoning blood;

It was to point the forest sons,

Up to the radiant throne of God;

And show those dark, benighted ones,

The way through Christ’s atoning blood;

That far into the desert wild,From the refined abodes of men,With his loved wife and only child,He sought that distant forest glen.

That far into the desert wild,

From the refined abodes of men,

With his loved wife and only child,

He sought that distant forest glen.

That matron’s brow was young and fair,Half hid ’neath locks of golden sheen;And lovely as a thing of air,Was little rosy Wilhelmine.

That matron’s brow was young and fair,

Half hid ’neath locks of golden sheen;

And lovely as a thing of air,

Was little rosy Wilhelmine.

With wavy curls of flaxen hair;And forehead rising pure and high;And breast as mountain’s snow-wreath fair;And eyes like stars in winter sky.

With wavy curls of flaxen hair;

And forehead rising pure and high;

And breast as mountain’s snow-wreath fair;

And eyes like stars in winter sky.

Buoyant, and beautiful, and bright,A being made of smiles and bliss;With soul too full of heaven’s own light,To stay in such a world as this.

Buoyant, and beautiful, and bright,

A being made of smiles and bliss;

With soul too full of heaven’s own light,

To stay in such a world as this.

And soon was that immortal flower—That bud of being, lent not given—From blighting sin and sorrow’s shower,Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven.

And soon was that immortal flower—

That bud of being, lent not given—

From blighting sin and sorrow’s shower,

Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven.

’Twas night—the sky was cloudless blue,And all around was hushed and still,Save paddle of the light canoe,And wailing of the whippoorwill.

’Twas night—the sky was cloudless blue,

And all around was hushed and still,

Save paddle of the light canoe,

And wailing of the whippoorwill.

The moon was like a silver thread,Just sinking in the green wood’s bosom;And swift from heaven the night-dew sped,With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom.

The moon was like a silver thread,

Just sinking in the green wood’s bosom;

And swift from heaven the night-dew sped,

With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom.

And soft as balmy dews of nightUpon the beauteous blossom’s breast,Came slumber, and her finger light,On every closing eyelid pressed.

And soft as balmy dews of night

Upon the beauteous blossom’s breast,

Came slumber, and her finger light,

On every closing eyelid pressed.

’Twas night—dark night—no sound arose—The weary eye forgot its weeping;And wrapt in bonds of bland repose,The missionary band lay sleeping.

’Twas night—dark night—no sound arose—

The weary eye forgot its weeping;

And wrapt in bonds of bland repose,

The missionary band lay sleeping.

But hark! upon the startled air,Wild, unexpected whoops arise!—And the red conflagration’s glare,Is brightening all the midnight skies!

But hark! upon the startled air,

Wild, unexpected whoops arise!—

And the red conflagration’s glare,

Is brightening all the midnight skies!

Up! sleepers, up! awake and fly,By the dread lamp your foes have lighted—To the dark green-wood’s bosom hie,Your homes are gone, your hopes are blighted.

Up! sleepers, up! awake and fly,

By the dread lamp your foes have lighted—

To the dark green-wood’s bosom hie,

Your homes are gone, your hopes are blighted.

Up! sleepers, up! away, away!A canopy of smoke is o’er you;Around you fiery streamers play,And the dark savage is before you!

Up! sleepers, up! away, away!

A canopy of smoke is o’er you;

Around you fiery streamers play,

And the dark savage is before you!

Perchance some home-fraught dream of joy,In slumber’s silken links had bound them;They wake! ’tis but to hear the cryOf savage slaughter raging round them!

Perchance some home-fraught dream of joy,

In slumber’s silken links had bound them;

They wake! ’tis but to hear the cry

Of savage slaughter raging round them!

They wake! ’tis but to mark the armOf death above each brow impending;Vain, vain, the shriek of wild alarm—And vain the prayer for life ascending.

They wake! ’tis but to mark the arm

Of death above each brow impending;

Vain, vain, the shriek of wild alarm—

And vain the prayer for life ascending.

They died, as holy martyrs die—Their latest thought to God was given;Resigned their souls in agony,To wake in ecstacy in heaven.

They died, as holy martyrs die—

Their latest thought to God was given;

Resigned their souls in agony,

To wake in ecstacy in heaven.

And perished all? One mother fled,Escaping both the brand and arrow;And to the midnight forest sped,Weary and weak, in pain and sorrow!

And perished all? One mother fled,

Escaping both the brand and arrow;

And to the midnight forest sped,

Weary and weak, in pain and sorrow!

Nor fled alone—in wild distress,A little one she fondly pressed,Sleeping in blessed unconsciousness,Rocked by the throbbings of her breast.

Nor fled alone—in wild distress,

A little one she fondly pressed,

Sleeping in blessed unconsciousness,

Rocked by the throbbings of her breast.

For when the work of death was rife,’Midst savage yell and dying prayer,She fearless sought the thickest strife,And found that little slumberer there.

For when the work of death was rife,

’Midst savage yell and dying prayer,

She fearless sought the thickest strife,

And found that little slumberer there.

Trembling beneath a shed she crept—The babe still hushed upon her bosom—Restrained each bursting throb, nor wept,Fearing to wake that slumbering blossom,

Trembling beneath a shed she crept—

The babe still hushed upon her bosom—

Restrained each bursting throb, nor wept,

Fearing to wake that slumbering blossom,

And from her lowly hiding-place,Heard every yell of savage slaughter!And closer clasped in her embrace,The babe she deemed her fair-haired daughter.

And from her lowly hiding-place,

Heard every yell of savage slaughter!

And closer clasped in her embrace,

The babe she deemed her fair-haired daughter.

At length the long night passed away—The morning rose in all its glory—But smouldering ruins met his ray,And corpses cold, and pale, and gory.

At length the long night passed away—

The morning rose in all its glory—

But smouldering ruins met his ray,

And corpses cold, and pale, and gory.

A midnight stillness reigned around—The savage foe had fled afar—The Lehigh with its moaning sound,Went wailing by the field of war.

A midnight stillness reigned around—

The savage foe had fled afar—

The Lehigh with its moaning sound,

Went wailing by the field of war.

Uprose that matron young and fair,With trembling limb and beating heart—Why bursts her wild shriek on the air?And whence that horror-speaking start?

Uprose that matron young and fair,

With trembling limb and beating heart—

Why bursts her wild shriek on the air?

And whence that horror-speaking start?

She gazed upon that infant’s faceWith frenzied look and wild despair;Clasped to her breast, in fond embrace,An Indian babe lay sleeping there!

She gazed upon that infant’s face

With frenzied look and wild despair;

Clasped to her breast, in fond embrace,

An Indian babe lay sleeping there!

Nor pined she long in hopeless grief,With every bond of being riven;Death smiling came, a sure relief,And angels winged her soul to heaven.

Nor pined she long in hopeless grief,

With every bond of being riven;

Death smiling came, a sure relief,

And angels winged her soul to heaven.

1. Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi.

2. The sisters of Phaeton, whose tears, for the fate of their brother drowned in the river Eridanus, were metamorphosed into amber, according to the poets.

3. Eriphyle, the wife of Amphiaraus the prophet, who, bribed by a rich necklace, prevailed on her husband to be one of the seven chiefs against Thebes, under Adrastus, although she knew that he was fated to perish there if he should go—as he in fact did, being swallowed by an earthquake.

4. Tarpeia. The Roman virgin, who, agreeing to admit the Sabine troops then besieging the capitol, on condition that she should receive that which the soldiers wore on their left arms, meaning their golden bracelets, as the reward of her treachery, was overwhelmed and crushed to death by their bucklers; which Titus Tatius, their commander, ordered every warrior to cast upon her as he passed the gate.

5. Quintus Curtius, who devoted himself to his country’s safety, as described above.

6. Rousseau.

7.“Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand!”ROMEO AND JULIET.

“Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand!”ROMEO AND JULIET.

“Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand!”

ROMEO AND JULIET.

8. Anawon was a mighty chief under King Philip; and was one of the bravest and most sagacious warriors among all the tribes.

9. The Indians believe that, when they have a friend murdered, the soul of that friend cannot rest till they have avenged the death by killing the murderer or some of his connections.

10. Months.

11. The ocean.

12. Ingenious.

13. The Indian’s god.

14. The Indians call the white people the children of sunrise, because they came from the east.

15. The arms of Genoa.

16. Christopher Columbus.

17. Eclogue III. of Garcilasso de la Vega.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESSilently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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