ADVERTISEMENT. Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796.
GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.
PART I. I. On Susquehana’s side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania’s shore! II. Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies, The happy shepherd swains had nought to do But feed their flocks on green declivities, Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, From morn till evening’s sweeter pastime grew, With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew; And aye those sunny mountains half-way down Would echo flageolet from some romantic town. III. Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes— And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: And every sound of life was full of glee, From merry mock-bird’s song, [29] or hum of men; While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, The wild-deer arched his neck from glades, and then Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. IV. And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, For here the exile met from every clime, And spoke in friendship every distant tongue: Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung, Were but divided by the running brook; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook, The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook. V. Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelay— But who is he that yet a dearer land Remembers over hills and far away? Green Albin! [30] what though he no more survey Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochs [31] rolling from the mountain bay, Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar! [32] VI. Alas! poor Caledonia’s mountaineer, That want’s stern edict e’er, and feudal grief, Had forced him from a home he loved so dear! Yet found he here a home, and glad relief, And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee: And England sent her men, of men the chief, Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, To plant the tree of life,—to plant fair Freedom’s tree! VII. Here was not mingled in the city’s pomp Of life’s extremes the grandeur and the gloom; Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp, Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature’s doom, Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. One venerable man, beloved of all, Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, To sway the strife, that seldom might befall: And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall. VIII. How reverend was the look, serenely aged, He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, Undimmed by weakness’ shade, or turbid ire! And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, Some high and haughty features might betray A soul impetuous once, ’twas earthly fire That fled composure’s intellectual ray, As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day. IX. I boast no song in magic wonders rife, But yet, oh, Nature! is there nought to prize, Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life? And dwells in daylight truth’s salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathise?— Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise, An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, Or blest his noonday walk—she was his only child. X. The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude’s cheek— What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire A Briton’s independence taught to seek Far western worlds; and there his household fire The light of social love did long inspire, And many a halcyon day he lived to see Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, When fate had reft his mutual heart—but she Was gone—and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee. XI. A loved bequest,—and I may half impart— To them that feel the strong paternal tie, How like a new existence to his heart That living flower uprose beneath his eye, Dear as she was from cherub infancy, From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by, Her lovely mind could culture well repay, And more engaging grew; from pleasing day to day. XII. I may not paint those thousand infant charms; (Unconscious fascination, undesigned!) The orison repeated in his arms, For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:) All uncompanioned else her heart had gone Till now, in Gertrude’s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone. XIII. And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower, Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament;[33] The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went, Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night. XIV. Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young— The dimple from his polished cheek had fled; When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, The Oneyda warrior to the planter said, And laid his hand upon the stripling’s head, “Peace be to thee! my words this belt [34] approve; The paths of peace my steps have hither led:[33] This little nursling, take him to thy love, And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove. XV. “Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe; Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace: [33]Upon the Michigan, three moons ago, We launched our pirogues for the bison chase, And with the Hurons planted for a space, With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk; But snakes are in the bosoms of their race, And though they held with us a friendly talk, The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk. XVI. “It was encamping on the lake’s far port, A cry of Areouski [35] broke our sleep, Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation’s fort, And rapid, rapid whoops came o’er the deep; But long thy country’s war-sign on the steep Appeared through ghastly intervals of light, And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep, Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight, As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight. XVII. “It slept—it rose again—on high their tower Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies Then down again it rained an ember shower, And louder lamentations heard we rise: As when the evil Manitou [36] that dries The Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire, In vain the desolated panther flies, And howls amidst his wilderness of fire: Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire! XVIII. “But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, So died their warriors by our battle-brand; And from the tree we, with her child, unbound A lonely mother of the Christian land:— Her lord—the captain of the British band— Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand; Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away, Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray. XIX. “Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls Of fever-balm and sweet sagamitÉ: [37]But she was journeying to the land of souls, And lifted up her dying head to pray That we should bid an ancient friend convey Her orphan to his home of England’s shore;— And take, she said, this token far away, To one that will remember us of yore, When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave’s Julia wore. XX. “And I, the eagle of my tribe, [38] have rushed With this lorn dove.”—A sage’s self-command Had quelled the tears from Albert’s heart that gushed; But yet his cheek—his agitated hand— That showered upon the stranger of the land No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled A soul that was not wont to be unmanned; “And stay,” he cried, “dear pilgrim of the wild, Preserver of my old, my boon companion’s child!— XXI. “Child of a race whose name my bosom warms, On earth’s remotest bounds how welcome here? Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms, Young as thyself, and innocently dear, Whose grandsire was my early life’s compeer. Ah, happiest home of England’s happy clime! How beautiful e’en now thy scenes appear, As in the noon and sunshine of my prime! How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time! XXII. “And, Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now, Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore? Or thought I, in thy father’s house, when thou Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor, And first of all at his hospitable door To meet and kiss me at my journey’s end? But where was I when Waldegrave was no more? And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend In woes, that e’en the tribe of deserts was thy friend?” XXIII. He said—and strained unto his heart the boy;— Far differently, the mute Oneyda took[39] His calumet of peace, and cup of joy; [40]As monumental bronze unchanged his look; A soul that pity touched, but never shook; Trained from his tree-rocked cradle [41] to his bier The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive[39]—fearing but the shame of fear— A stoic of the woods—a man without a tear. XXIV. Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock Of Outalissi’s heart disdained to grow; As lives the oak unwithered on the rock By storms above, and barrenness below; He scorned his own, who felt another’s woe: And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, Or laced his moccasins, [42] in act to go, A song of parting to the boy he sung, Who slept on Albert’s couch, nor heard his friendly tongue. XXV. “Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet. [39]Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man’s hand Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet; While I in lonely wilderness shall greet Thy little foot-prints—or by traces know The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, And poured the lotus-horn, [43] or slew the mountain roe. XXVI. “Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun! But should affliction’s storms thy blossom mock Then come again—my own adopted one! And I will graft thee on a noble stock: The crocodile, the condor of the rock,[44] Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars; And I will teach thee, in the battle’s shock, To pay with Huron blood thy father’s scars, And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!” XXVII. So finished he the rhyme (howe’er uncouth) That true to nature’s fervid feelings ran; (And song is but the eloquence of truth:) Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man; [44]But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey’s plan In woods required, whose trainÈd eye was keen As eagle of the wilderness, to scan His path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green. XXVIII. Old Albert saw him from the valley’s side— His pirogue launched—his pilgrimage begun— Far, like the red-bird’s wing he seemed to glide; Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun. Oft, to that spot by tender memory won, Would Albert climb the promontory’s height, If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun; But never more, to bless his longing sight, Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright. [29] See Notes at the end of the Volume.
GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.
PART II. I. 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 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 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 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 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. 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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?” 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 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 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 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.
GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.
PART III. 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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! 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. 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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’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. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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! 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 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!” [47] Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war.
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