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Through the majestic forest shade The light of morn is faintly shining, Scarce straggling through the twilight made By leafy boughs entwining; As Nature, from the birth of Time, Deep in this lone sequestered wood, Had formed herself a bower sublime, Where she might dwell with solitude, And list the wild bird’s note, nor fear Man’s guilty foot could wander here, Or war’s unhallowed trumpet wake The slumbering echoes, rudely break The solemn, deep, unearthly still, Which to a stranger’s soul must thrill A sense of awe—as though he trod A temple consecrate to God! Yet war can penetrate e’en here To blight the beauties of creation, Till Nature’s calmest scenes appear Dark haunts of desolation. The murderer’s sword hath left the sheath, When from the bright pure heaven above, And smiling earth, there seemed to breathe But peace, and joy, and love. And even now, when blushing morn, On rosy clouds by zephyrs borne, Comes in her laughing loveliness The world to brighten and to bless, It were more meet that heaven should shroud Her radiant brow in some dark cloud, And dewy tears of morning flow For scenes of blood on earth below! See, in the forest’s thickest maze The dark-eyed Indian tribes assembling, Free as the pure fresh breeze that plays On leaves around them trembling. Wild Nature’s wilder sons,—each brow The radiant sun of western lands Hath kindled to a redder glow; In painted pride the savage stands, So differing in garb—in skin— In mien—he scarce might seem akin To Europe’s sons, did we not trace In the dark features of his face The same fierce passions, which declare The race of Adam here and there, And prove, alas! we share with all One common origin, and fall! But what white-bosomed victim here Stands bound, a cruel death awaiting, The dreadful preparations near Now firmly contemplating,— Now raising calm his thoughtful eye Where, through the boughs that intervene Of Nature’s verdant canopy, Bright glimpses are of heaven seen? Reflects he on the murderous doom Which destines him a bloody tomb, Sudden cut off, before his time, In honour’s course, in manhood’s prime,— On projects that with him must die, Hopes ripening to reality, But blasted ere their fruits afford To science its well-earned reward? Or thinks he on the distant land To which life’s earliest ties have bound him, Where last he grasped his father’s hand, And felt his mother’s arms around him? Above these savage yells of death Does memory hear the low deep prayer Her trembling lips could scarcely breathe, That God might shield him everywhere? ’Tis answered, yes, that prayer of love, Scarce heard on earth, has reached above! Though fixed his doom, though Death e’en now Stands prompt—he may not strike the blow! Twice did the trembling compass A respite,—wonder bade him live; But other succour now must save The hero from untimely grave. For lo! behold, with savage joy His foes their victim now surrounding, Eager to smite and to destroy, The woods with yells resounding! Calm and resigned he kneels in dust, Lays on the stone his manly head, And waits the crushing blows, that must Number him with the dead; When, like the bright celestial bow Which, when the angry tempests blow, And heaven’s bolts from high are hurled— Speaks peace and mercy to the world— Forward here springs an Indian maid, As light as fawn in forest glade, Her cheek with generous ardour glowing, O’er her slight form the dark hair flowing, While firm resolve, and feeling high, Sparkle in her soul-speaking eye. “O Father, spare the chief!” she cries, Before her parent interceding, Her claspÈd hands, and eloquent eyes, More than her accents pleading; “Was he not brave in war, and kind And true in peace? did he e’er break The solemn wampum league, or bind The captive to the stake? For him a wife afar may sigh, A lonely mother mourning die, For who shall now with sounding bow Bring down for them the elk or roe, Whose hatchet shall defend their home When hostile tribes with war-cries come! Oh! spare the white chief, that his voice His wife’s sad bosom may rejoice; Oh! spare him, that his hand may dry The teardrop in his mother’s eye!” But stern the Indian’s answer; vain Her pleading words, her warm endeavour, The murderers’ clubs are raised again To crush the brave for ever! Lo! from her knees the maiden springs, Rapid as lightning’s flash above, As guardian angels spread their wings O’er mortals that they love, Around the Doomed her arms are thrown, His form protected by her own, With him will she the worst await, And save his life, or share his fate! “Strike him!” she cries, “but ’neath the blow His blood and mine shall mingled flow; Strike him! but in the spirit-land With him shall Pocahontas stand, Nor live to say her tribe hath slain The chief for whom she prayed in vain!” There is a spell in woman’s eye When, injured Virtue’s cause defending, Her soul is roused to energy, Vigour with sweetness blending! Soft plumes that tremble in the air Have formed a breastplate strong to save, And woman’s heart will oft-times dare What might appal the brave! E’en the rude Indians feel the power Of courage equal to the hour, Catch virtues warm inspiring glow And more than mercy asked, bestow. Rise, Briton, rise, both safe and free, With life receive back liberty; Spring from the spot of sacrifice From which thou ne’er didst hope to rise; Or rather, once more prostrate fall To bless the God who saved from all! Not long the dark-eyed maiden hears His grateful words of deep devotion, They part—to meet in future years Beyond the heaving ocean. “Go, stranger, to thy distant home,” Thus flowed her simple, wild farewell, “When thy pale tribes to greet thee come, Then of the Red man’s mercy tell! And when the round sun leaves the sky To light the Indian forests high, Say thou hast left a daughter there, And bid him here thy greetings bear! And oh! if e’er a Red man be Thy captive, then remember me; If weary-footed Indian pray For shelter, turn not thou away, But to my race a father be, As thou hast found a child in me!” Sweet maid! she little dreamed how near The hour when she—a captive mourning— A Briton’s voice her grief would cheer, The White man’s debt returning; When Rolfe with tenderest care essayed The maiden’s flowing tears to dry, Until captivity he made More sweet than liberty! Amidst her grief, amidst her fear, Love’s melting tones first reached her ear, And oh! has life one dark distress That sweet voice cannot soothe or bless! It was as though the raging blast Had o’er some silent harp-strings past, And waked so soft, so wild a strain (As joy still owes its zest to pain), The spirit of the storm drew near, Closed his dark wings, and paused to hear! And with Rolfe’s heart she learned to share His hopes, on heavenward pinion soaring, And with him knelt in humble prayer, The Christian’s God adoring. The sacred tie has made them one, That tie which death alone can part, Love’s circlet on her hand hath shone, Love’s torch within her heart; And she hath quitted that wild shore Her tearful eyes shall view no more, And, wafted by the western wind, Left all that once she loved behind. Honours in Albion’s isle attend The Indian bride, the captive’s friend; From royal lips Her generous deed with fame is crowned. But precious to her soul, above All fame, her husband’s smile of love, Or Smith’s proud glance, when she would claim Once more a daughter’s cherished name. But oh! how close the sacred ties That to our native country bind us, In foreign scenes the heart still sighs For dearer left behind us! She longed to see the waving woods, Her dark-haired sire, her Indian shore, Her spirit yearned to cross the floods And view her native soil once more. But ere the vessel left the strand, Sickness, with damp and heavy hand Stayed the fair wanderer, like a spell Unseen, but irresistible, For death in his pale bark had come To waft her to a brighter home. Brief was the passage, but how vast The space in those short seconds past! One moment Rolfe in wild distress Hung o’er her fading loveliness, Met her long dying gaze of love, Saw her pale lips in blessing move, The next—and her immortal soul Had crossed the floods, and reached the goal, And he was left to mourn its flight, Till death, that severed them, should reunite! |
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