';t^«.'%,«i^<%,<«^r3i 
 
 ^ LIBRAIIY OF CONGRESS- 
 
 '^i^^^^^^^$m^. I 
 
 UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. ^ 
 
ENSENORE, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 K^ 
 
 P.-" HAMILTON MYERS. 
 
 " Of most disastrous chances, 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field, 
 
 Of being taken by tbe insolent foe. 
 And sold to slavery . . . 
 It was my hint to speak." 
 
 SlIAKSPEAKE. 
 
 " One of those still lakes, 
 That in a shining cluster lie, 
 On which the south wind scarcely breaks 
 The image of tlie sky." 
 
 Bryaxt. 
 
 \.^ ' \Ui 
 
 ^ i'O 
 
 875 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 '30. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 DODD & MEAD, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 751 Broadway. 
 
 liV' 
 

 COPYKIGHT. 
 
 DoDD & Mead, 
 
 1875. 
 
 Boston : 
 
 Stereotyped and Printed by 
 
 Rand, Averv, & Co. 
 
PHEFACE. 
 
 " Ensenore," the principal poem in this collec- 
 tion, long ago achieved a local popularit}^, which 
 was due partly to the name of the distinguished 
 person who stood sponsor for it on its first publica- 
 tion (the world-lamented Seward), partly to the 
 beautiful scenery which it celebrates, and perhaps, 
 in a small degree, to some merits in the poem it- 
 self, — a little diamond-dust sparkling amidst much 
 chaflr. 
 
 Critics could afford to deal tenderly with it then, 
 as the production of very 3'oung 3-ears ; and al- 
 though it is deliberately, not to say defiantly re- 
 produced now, when the world is aglow with the 
 light of poetical genius of the highest order, it is 
 reall}' and truly so done at the urgent and repeated 
 request of man}" of its old admirers. 
 
 The literary firmament, like the celestial, has 
 room for stars of all degi-ees of magnitude ; and 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 one may well be content to obtain a small place in 
 such a galaxy, even if it should be so minute as to 
 require telescopic powers for its observation. 
 
 The second poem, "The Knight of St. Jagg," 
 is the production of maturer 3^ears, and is conse- 
 quently amenable to a closer criticism than its pre- 
 decessor. It is now printed for the first time, after 
 more than the Horatian period of seasoning, which, 
 it is hoped, has not had the effect to render it very 
 dry. 
 
 Most of the minor pieces have been published in 
 the leading magazines and weeklies ; and, inasmuch 
 as they have been culled from more than thrice 
 their number, the author thinks he has made sure 
 of the thanks of l^is readers, either for publishing 
 these, or for omitting the large remainder. 
 
[The author cannot refrain, even at the risk of 
 being charged with vanity, from prefacing his book 
 with the following beautiful lines written in compli- 
 ment to " Ensenore" by a distinguished divine and 
 poet, the late Rev. Dr. William Croswell of Bos- 
 ton.] 
 
 LAKE OWASCO. 
 
 " One of tlie seven fair lakes that lie 
 Like mirrors 'neatli the summer sky." 
 
 Ensexore. 
 
 Fair lake ! upon thy tranquil face 
 
 The gilded clouds, in rich array 
 Reflected, pass, and leave no trace, — 
 
 Types of thy people passed away ; 
 And he who through thy pictured page 
 
 Looks deepest down, with rapture sees, 
 Like relics of that long-lost age, 
 
 The glimmerings of dim mysteries. 
 
 Well may the statesman for such seats 
 
 Resign the empire's helm a while, 
 And deep within thy green retreats 
 
 The languid summer hours beguile. 
 Here Scipio had in joy repaired 
 
 With Lselius at- the senate's close, 
 And by thy shaded strand had shared 
 
 The charms of friendship and repose. 
 
 5 
 
Bright visions haunt thy storied dells ; 
 
 Nor may thy crystal waters drown 
 The mingled pomps of poets' spells, 
 
 And legends of thine old renown : 
 To fancy's ear they utter speech 
 
 In tones unsyllabled before ; 
 And every ripple on the beach 
 
 Seems faintly whispering "Ensenore.' 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 • 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ensenore : 
 
 Parti 11 
 
 Part II 20 
 
 Part III 47 
 
 Part IV m 
 
 Notes 87 
 
 Juan Bellaiee 105 
 
 Notes 143 
 
 The Fountain of Youth 149 
 
 Frank PvUBY IGO 
 
 Sir Walter Scott 168 
 
 The Comet's Address to the Earth . . . .173 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck 177 
 
 Osceola's Soliloquy 178 
 
 The Two Builders 181 
 
 Lines written on the occasion of the Funeral of 
 
 THE LATE Mrs. SeWARD, AT AuBURN, N.Y. . . 187 
 
 To One rs^ Hea\t:n 100 
 
 The Winter Grave 103 
 
ENSENORE 
 
 PART I. 
 
ENSENORE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Mohawk, from its western source, 
 
 Where silentl}' and calm it flows, 
 To where it takes a torrent's force 
 
 And dashes down the dark Cohoes ; 
 By that proud mart upon its shore, ^ 
 Where echoed once the cannon's roar, 
 When patriot blood flowed fast and free 
 On thy red field, Oriskany ; 
 And that where, towering to the skies. 
 Wild Astorogan's hills arise,^ 
 And many a place of humbler name, 
 Hapl}", as yet, unknown to fame, — 
 Now mirrors faithfully and true, 
 Within its silent depths of blue, 
 
 11 
 
12 ENSENORE. 
 
 The loft}' spire and gilded dome 
 And marble mansion by its side ; 
 
 And with the busy hamlet's hum 
 Min2:les the music of its tide. 
 
 II. 
 
 But not of these the minstrel's rhyme : 
 His tale is of the olden time, 
 
 When that dark stream no burthen bore, 
 Save where the gossamer canoe 
 Across its shaded surface flew, — 
 
 A hundred 3'ears agone, and more. 
 The}^ were not then, — the towns that rise 
 Like magic to the traveller's ej^es. 
 Wild Mohawk, in th}' ever}- glen 
 And every dale ; they were not then. 
 Pathless and proud, upon th}^ side. 
 Stood unhewn forests dark and wide ; 
 The red deer had his rambles there, 
 The wild-cat and the wolf their lair, 
 And where was only heard the cry 
 
 Of panther fierce, or savage 3'ell, * 
 The silvery echoes now reply 
 " To matin and to vesper bell. 
 
ENSENORE. 13 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet not through forest wilds alone, 
 
 Rolled even then th}' chainless tide : 
 One little colony had grown 
 
 In graceful beauty by thj^ side ; 
 'Twas but a germ, but, ere the blast 
 Of desolation o'er it passed. 
 Held man}' a happy home and hearth, 
 And many a heart of sterling worth, 
 And doubtless had its fitting share 
 Of human hopes and human care. 
 Who seeks it now will find it not ; 
 A city proud usurps the spot. 
 Whose glistening domes and towering spires, 
 
 And streets with trade and commerce rife, 
 Tell not the tale of midnight fires. 
 
 And fagot flames, and bloody strife. 
 Which left a scorched and blackened strand 
 Where now her halls of science stand. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Muse aspires not to relate 
 That hapless town's appalling fate : 
 How, bursting on the gloom of night, 
 The war-torch shed its lurid light, 
 
14 ENSENORE. 
 
 And how adown the vale, 
 Echoing from many a distant dell, - 
 Rang the red warrior's hideous 3'ell. 
 There live, who heard their grandsires tell, 
 
 And shudder at the tale. 
 It now avails not to recite 
 The stor}' of that fearful night, 
 Or sa}', 'neath the relentless hand 
 Of foes who fought with blade and brand. 
 How man}' fathers fighting died 
 E'en at their murdered children's side. 
 How many noble hearts were crushed, 
 How many lovel}' lips w^ere hushed, 
 
 And infant voices stilled : 
 A hundred years since then have sped, 
 And those who fell and those w^ho fled 
 Alike are numbered with the dead. 
 
 Their destiny fulfilled. 
 
 More recent daj's, alas ! disclose 
 Enough of human wdles and woes ; 
 The passing years are ushering in 
 Enough of vrretchedness and sin. 
 Nor need we turn the leaves of Time 
 So far, to find a page of crime : 
 
ENSENORE. 15 
 
 Yet, if to some belongs the meed 
 Of fame for high heroic deed, 
 For them, although the}^ ma}^ not claim 
 On histor3''s faithless page a name, 
 The bard may be allowed to stand 
 Within Tradition's cloudy land, 
 Recall its shadow}^ train to-day, 
 And, much presuming, seek to stay 
 From them awhile the threatened fall 
 Of drear oblivion's ebon pall. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And well the minstrel's meed is due 
 To them, the bold and fearless few, 
 Who on that night of death withstood 
 And stemmed the torrent tide of blood ; 
 Foremost of whom, 3'oung Ensenore^ 
 Long urged them to the unequal war, 
 Begged they would not ignobly fly, 
 And leave their helpless ones to die. 
 When each protracted moment proved 
 Safety and life to some the}' loved ; 
 " And hasten," to a youth he cried, 
 Who fought, unfaltering, at his side, — 
 
16 ENSENOr.E. 
 
 " Haste to our trembling friends, and sa}^, 
 We hold these fiends a while at ba^^, 
 And bid them Ay, as best the}' may." 
 
 VII. 
 
 In vain, alas ! that gallant band 
 
 Amid their fallen comrades stand ; 
 
 In vain for mothers, sisters, wives, 
 
 Yield one b}' one their valued lives : 
 
 Another part}" of the foe. 
 
 Unseen, had gained the town below ; 
 
 They saw at once the fearful proofs 
 
 In columned smoke and blazing roofs, 
 
 While rang the war-whoop through the air, 
 
 Mingled with shrieks of wild despair. 
 
 One moment gazed .those gallant men, 
 
 A moment paused ; and even then 
 
 While, hesitating 3'et to fly, 
 
 They sought their dauntless leader's eye, 
 
 Their messenger returning stood. 
 
 And pointed where the foe pursued ; 
 
 " A few," the breathless envo}^ said, 
 
 " A few, a safe retreat have made ; 
 
 The rest are far beyond your aid : 
 
 In vain 3'our valor, Ensenore," 
 
 He said, and, pointing to the shore, 
 
ENSENORE. 17 
 
 " Ye who, to rescue or repaj', 
 Would wait a more auspicious da}', 
 Quick, to 3'our boats, away ! away ! ** 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Th}' wild and terror-stricken wave, 
 Mohawk, a doubtful refuge gave ; 
 For, as adown thy darkened stream, 
 
 Beneath the stars' dim light they steer, 
 Comes ever and anon the scream 
 
 Of some new sufferer to their ear ; 
 The light by some new beacon given 
 
 Sheds on their water}' wa}' its glare, 
 And rises fearfully to heaven, 
 
 As if in lasting letters there 
 To write upon the changeless sky 
 A deed of such a damning d3'e, 
 
 IX. 
 
 A neighboring village gave, ere day, 
 
 Asylum to the few who fled ; 
 But, 'mid the sufferers, none as the}' 
 Who mourned their bright one snatched away 
 
 Might envy e'en the dead, — 
 An aged pair, to whom kind Heaven 
 A pure and sinless child had given, 
 
18 ENSENORE. 
 
 A gentle girl, on whose fair head 
 
 Scarce twenty- springs Iheir smiles had shed ; 
 
 Sole solace of their failing years, 
 
 Sole centre of their hopes and fears, 
 
 The only light of their lone hearth, 
 
 The only tie *twixt them and earth. 
 
 They saw her struggling with the foe, 
 
 And borne away : they did not know 
 
 If it were given at once to die, 
 
 Or a protracted death to live ; 
 But they had heard her last wild cry 
 
 Invoke the aid they could not give. 
 Tears are for those who lightly mourn ; 
 They came not to that pair forlorn. 
 
 X. 
 
 Mature in every youthful grace. 
 And more than beautiful of face. 
 Refined of heart, and free from guile. 
 Gladdening all bosoms with her smile, 
 An eye for whose effulgence bright, 
 
 Revealing thoughts of sinless love, 
 Elsewhere there seemed no kindred light, 
 
 Than its own radiant fount above, — 
 Such was Kathreen ; such she for whom 
 Were wrapt those aged hearts in gloom, 
 
ENSENORE. 19 
 
 And, like the patriarch of 3'ore, 
 In silent grief they sought the tomb, 
 Nor heeded words of comfort more. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Nor they alone that lost one wept : 
 
 Her image in another heart, 
 Enshrined and loved, had long been kept, 
 
 As of itself a part. 
 Say, Ensenore, when wild and high 
 Rang through the night thy battle-cry. 
 
 Till far responsive echoes woke ; 
 When, 'neath the flash of thy lone sword. 
 Fell back disma^'ed that savage horde, 
 
 As from the lightning stroke ; 
 When thy first feats in arms surpassed 
 The fame of man}' a hero's last, — 
 Was not the hope that nerved th\' arm, 
 To shield that lovely one from harm? 
 Now, desolate, Earth's regions wide 
 Hold none that's dear to thee beside. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet, while his heart was filled with woe. 
 One gleam of sunlight entered there, 
 
20 ENSENORE. 
 
 For Hope delights to set her bow 
 
 Amid thy blackest clouds, Despair ! 
 She 3'et might live, her lover thought : 
 The savage, though his breast were fraught 
 With vengeance for a murdered race, 
 Would pause to gaze on that dear face, 
 And, gazing, drop his nerveless arm, 
 Without the power or will to harm ; 
 And the}', each brave and 3'oung compeer, 
 Survivors of that night of fear, 
 
 The remnant of their chivahy. 
 Who round their broken altars kneel, 
 
 " With hearts of fire and nerves of steel,' 
 Would answer to his rall^'ing cr}', 
 And whether on the river's tide. 
 Or through the forests dark and wide, 
 
 Led their retreating path, 
 No covert should have power to hide 
 The miscreants from his wrath. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But ah ! 'neath reason's milder ra}', 
 He saw these bright dreams fade awaj', 
 A Xerxian arm}' might have poured 
 Its millions over lake and plain, 
 
ENSENORE. 21 
 
 And every deepening forest scoured, 
 Yet found not his Kathreen again. 
 Alas for him ! he did not dare, 
 With any force, essay to tear 
 The fawn from out the lion's jaws, 
 The lamb from 'neath the tiger's claws. 
 Alas for him ! Hope's fleeting light 
 Was like the electric flash at night. 
 Which gilds the gloom of heaven o'er. 
 Then leaves it darker than before. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But where is she, the hapless fair. 
 
 For whom a father's heart is rent. 
 For whom a mother's ceaseless prayer 
 
 Up to the throne of God is sent ? 
 When she, the lost, awoke to life, 
 She saw no more the uplifted knife. 
 The war-whoop rang not in her ear. 
 The victor's shout, the shriek of fear : 
 What marvel if the maiden deem 
 Her woes a fantasy or dream ? 
 " Mother ! " half doubtingly, she spoke ; 
 Oh, ne'er before such accents woke 
 The echoes of that gloomy spot, 
 
22 ENSENOEE. 
 
 Where, on the rough and leaves-strewn ground, 
 
 A hundred warriors la}- around 
 
 In sleep, calm, quiet, and profound, 
 
 Their murderous deeds forgot. 
 They slept, — their ruthless hands imbrued 
 All recently in human blood ; 
 Searcety beyond the light retired. 
 Of the fair town their brands had fired ; 
 Beneath the heavens where angels wept 
 O'er their atrocious deeds, — they slept. 
 
 XV. 
 
 With the first gleam of morning light, 
 That coward band commenced their flight, 
 For sudden vengeance, well thej^ knew. 
 Would their retreating steps pursue. 
 And far from the awakening ire 
 Of dreaded foemen they retire. 
 For, whereso'er the red deer roam, 
 All spots alike, to them, are home. 
 Yet little thought to fear they gave, 
 When once embarked upon the wave ; 
 The mettled steed that mocks the wind 
 Had scarcely left their fleet behind, 
 
 So rapid was their flight ; 
 And ere, adown the golden west, 
 
ENSEDORE. 23 
 
 The second sun had sunk to rest, 
 
 Their oar-blades flashed his light, 
 Where Trenton's wild and wizard stream* 
 Flows darkly, like a troubled dream. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Yet aot by fear alone impelled, 
 So far their westward course they held. 
 Congenial arts, war and the chase. 
 By turns emplo}' the savage race ; 
 
 And wanderers, like the Northern Hun, 
 It was their annual wont to pay 
 A Aisit to the lands that lay 
 
 Afar toward the setting sun. 
 There game profuse was ever found, 
 There was their chosen hunting ground. 
 Amid the seven fair lakes that lie ^ 
 Like mirrors 'neath the summer sky. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 There, oft, the fervid heat to shun. 
 What time the Lion holds the Sun,^ 
 The panting deer resort to lave 
 Their burning breasts within the wave ; 
 There, 'neath the cool translucent tide. 
 The Ann}' race were seen to glide, 
 
24 ENSENORB. 
 
 And in the overarching blue 
 Circling afar, the wild-fowl flew ; 
 Embowered within the silent wood 
 Reposed each calm and placid flood ; 
 Unknown to them the cumbrous keel, 
 Unknown the sound of plashing wheel, 
 Sped not before the evening gale, 
 As now, the light and snowy sail. 
 And all unheard in glen or glade 
 The voice or laugh of merry maid : 
 O'er silent lakes and silent streams 
 The morning shed its golden beams. 
 O'er deep ravine and wooded hill, 
 O'er solemn forests dark and still ; 
 And when at eve the gentle breeze 
 
 From far its spicy treasures bore, 
 Bowed 'neath its breath the graceful trees. 
 
 And waves went murmuring to the shore. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Such was the fairy land they sought, 
 A land with countless beauties fraught, 
 Far distant from the Mohawk's vale. 
 And long and faintly marked the trail. 
 They leave the river near its source. 
 And westward hold their devious course, 
 
ENSENORE. 25 
 
 Nor fear to leave upon the shore 
 Their birchen boats required no more : 
 Others await them at the lakes 
 Concealed like these b}' bush and brakes. 
 At times through trackless woods they rove, 
 
 The onlj' chart their wa}^ to show 
 By night, the glittering stars above, 
 
 By day, the humble moss below. "^ 
 Kathreen, compelled what time she could, 
 With them must thrid the pathless wood ; 
 And when her limbs, too lithe and frail, 
 With toil unwont, entirely fail, 
 On boughs from branching hemlocks torn, 
 A litter soft, the maid is borne. 
 But yet she had no cause to bless 
 Her foes for seeming tenderness. 
 For well — alas, too w^ell ! — she knows 
 The grace the Indian captor shows 
 To those of whom he has not need, , 
 Whene'er they fail in strength or speed, 
 Gleams in the glittering scalping-knife, 
 A brief discharge from tedious life. 
 And such a doom the captive maid 
 Had thought was hers ; for such she prayed, 
 Prayed with her faint and failing breath, 
 A suppliant for the boon of death. 
 
26 ENSENORE. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Three times the setting sun has shed 
 
 Its light upon their forest way ; 
 Three times the shades of night have fled, 
 While, in her guarded bough-built bed, 
 
 Kathreen, unsleeping, waits the day ; 
 And the}^, at earl}^ eve, have found 
 Their favorite western hunting ground, 
 Upon the shore of that fair lake. 
 
 Whose waters are the clearest, brightest, 
 Whose silver surges ever break 
 
 Upon her pebbled margin, lightest ; 
 Where dips the lark her sportive wings, 
 And where the robin redbreast sings, 
 And where, in many a shaded dell. 
 The viewless echoes love to dwell. 
 
E N S E N O R E. 
 
 PART II. 
 
E N S E N O R E-. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 OwAseo's waters sweetly slept, ^ 
 
 Owasco's banks were bright and green, 
 The willow on her margin wept, 
 
 The wild-fowl on her wave were seen, 
 And nature's golden charms were shed 
 As richty round her quiet bed. 
 From flowered mead to mountain brow, 
 A centur}^ since, as the}" are now ; 
 The same pure purple light was flung 
 
 At morn across the water's breast ; 
 The same rich crimson curtains hung 
 
 At eve around the glowing west. 
 We watch to-day, with beaming e3'e 
 
 And raptured heart, that glorious view ; 
 
 3* 29 
 
30 ENSENORE. 
 
 But then unnoticed spread the sky 
 
 Its canopy of spotless blue ; 
 Unnoticed, back to heaven the wave 
 That azure sky's pure semblance gave. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas evening : o'er the waters blue 
 The setting sun his radiance threw, 
 Flinging o'er hill and dale and stream 
 A mellowed light, a farewell beam ; 
 And where, afar, the forests rise, 
 With their green surface to the skies, 
 Shedding o'er that a shower of light, 
 While all beneath was dark as night. 
 Alas I not theirs alone the case, 
 
 (This tale their fabled tongues impart) 
 So smiles may linger on the face. 
 
 Long after they have left the heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 What boat flies round that mimic cape, 
 So silent on the silver stream, 
 
 Its second self in size and shape, 
 Reflected by the watery beam ? 
 
 Though all unheard its paddle's beat, 
 Unseen its wake upon the wave, 
 
ENSENORE. 31 
 
 The restless spirit's not more fleet, 
 
 At dawn, returning to the grave ; 
 Onward, still onward, fast and far, 
 
 Toward yon distant light that gleams, 
 Like the horizon's earliest star. 
 
 Amid the day's retiring beams. 
 It speeds — and, though there's many a mile 
 
 That beacon and that boat between, 
 'Twill reach its goal ere the first smile 
 
 From heaven's lamps illumes the scene. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A single oar that boat propelled,® 
 A single occupant it held ; 
 Who saw him, as he onward sped. 
 His cap of fur, his plume of red. 
 His gaudj' dress and painted face. 
 The trophies of his mountain chase, 
 His beaded belt compact^ tied 
 With all a ISTarraghansett's pride, -^"^ 
 The jewels pendent from his ear, 
 His oaken bow and quiver near, 
 His arm of bronze, inured to brave 
 
 Unscreened the summer's burning heat ; 
 The broidered moccasins that gave 
 
 A grace to his converging feet ;" 
 
32 ENSENOKE. 
 
 His sinewy frame, his noble air, 
 
 His lofty brow and martial frown, — 
 Who saw him thus might well declare 
 
 A sachem he of high renown. 
 Yet not a Narraghansett he, 
 Nor Delaware, nor Shawanee ; 
 Huron nor Ottawa his race,^ 
 Nor his a Tuscaroran face ; 
 Nor led he e'er to battle forth, . 
 The five fierce nations of the North. ^^ 
 The region where his tribe belong 
 Is unenshrined in tale or song : 
 That chart must yet be drawn, I ween. 
 On which their hunting grounds are seen. 
 
 V. 
 
 Who, then, is he, who braves the wrath 
 
 Of Indians in their forest home, 
 And treads alone his dangerous path. 
 
 Where the fierce Huron warriors roam, 
 A race whose war-creed knows no name 
 
 For mercy to a captive foe. 
 Save that which with a fiercer flame 
 
 Or surer stroke concludes his woe ? 
 Hopes he, though in profound disguise, 
 To shun the vigilance of ej^es 
 
EXSENORE. 33 
 
 Which mark upon his mountain height 
 The eagle in his loftiest flight ? 
 Steady must be his nerves, and calm, 
 Who in such strait shows not alarm ; 
 But, haply, his is errand high 
 Which he must gain, or, losing, die : 
 Else were his bark less fleetly bent 
 Toward his deadliest foemen's tent. 
 
 VI. 
 
 If, ere the cloud-escorted sun 
 
 Had sunk beneath th' horizon's edge, 
 While lingered yet his beams upon 
 
 Each verdant spot and rock}' ledge, 
 And, in a line of living light, 
 
 Their radiance o'er the waters threw, 
 The scene was such as never night 
 
 In all its solemn beauty knew ; 
 Yet fair bej'ond the power of pen. 
 
 The art of pencil, to portraj^. 
 In quiet beaut}', even then. 
 
 Thy silver wave, Owasco, lay. 
 What though thy charms, in twilight veiled, 
 
 Grew indistinct upon the eye ? 
 What though the far-off bark that sailed 
 
 Seemed floating in the adjacent sky? 
 
34 ENSENORE. 
 
 Though shrouded in the distance lives 
 Full many a prospect green and gay, 
 
 The fertile fancy ever gives - 
 
 More charms than darkness takes away. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Twas not a beacon on the shore, 
 
 By maiden's fairy fingers hung, 
 Which had its trembling radiance o'er 
 
 That m3^stic boatman's pathway flung ; 
 But on an elevated site. 
 
 Near where the savages had raised 
 Their wigwam walls, the glowing light 
 
 Of arid leaves and branches blazed. 
 Lighting afar the sylvan scene, 
 
 The dry and crackling fuel burned. 
 And, though their glittering knives were seen, 
 All terrorless was now their sheen. 
 
 To culinary purpose turned. 
 This was the light that served to guide 
 His pathway o'er the waters wide, , 
 
 And never had a watch-light given 
 
 To shipwrecked mariner such bliss. 
 As did the stranger's heart enliven. 
 
 When first he met the rays of this. 
 
ENSENOEE. 35 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Their tent had scarce been pitched an hour, 
 Scarce!}^ an hour their fire had glowed, 
 
 Ere, fearless, toward their merry bower, 
 That skilled and rapid boatman rowed. 
 
 Silent he moored his light canoe. 
 
 His bow upon his shoulder threw ; 
 
 Needs it to name that on the shore. 
 
 Beneath that guise, stood Ensenore? 
 
 Long on their trail the youth had been,' 
 
 And that same day had passed unseen. 
 
 That thus, as from a different wa}^ 
 
 He might appear by chance to stray 
 
 Near where their evening tent-fires glare, 
 
 And seem by them attracted there. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The various arts in peace and war. 
 Of that rude race, knew Ensenore ; 
 Full well their dialect he knew. 
 Their customs and their cunning too, 
 Could imitate their scalp-halloo," 
 
 And chant the warrior's dirge ;^^ 
 And fleet of foot, and strong of limb, 
 None in the chase could distance him 
 
 O'er vale or mountain verge. 
 
36 ENSENORE. 
 
 X. 
 
 Words may not tell the fearful power 
 Of thought and feeling in that hour : . 
 One moment more would serve to show 
 All that on earth he sought to know. 
 If yet she lived, — his loved Kathreen, 
 If 3'et she lived, and might be seen, 
 One onl}' glance of that dear face. 
 E'en there, within that fearful place, 
 Unnumbered dangers frowning near, 
 Himself an object of her fear, 
 Would still a thousand-fold repay 
 The pains and perils of his w^a}^ ; 
 And, though he deemed his deep disguise 
 Impervious e'en to Indian eyes. 
 If she were not, he little recks 
 How soon his head the death-cap decks ;^^ 
 His tortured heart would gladly make 
 A refuge of the flame and stake. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Approaching now the wigwam door, 
 A mien composed and calm he bore. 
 Entered, with still yet stately pace, 
 Unquestioned by that stoic race, 
 By whom 't were counted deep disgrace 
 
ENSENORE. 37 
 
 To show surprise or awe, whate'er 
 
 Betides of wonder or of fear. 
 
 The}^ question not their guest, and yet 
 
 AVhen their mute courtesies have passed, 
 And he has smoked the cahimet. 
 
 And joined them in their rude repast. 
 Full w^ell he knows, with anxious ear, 
 His name and tribe they'll wait to hear. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet did the}- not by word or sign 
 
 Their hospitable rites impair : 
 Such duties do they hold divine. 
 
 Nor stealthy look nor open stare 
 Once met the stranger's hurried view, 
 As round the crowd his dark e3'e flew ; 
 'Twas well for him, they viewed him not 
 When first on a secluded spot 
 Of their pavilion wild it fell. 
 Encountering one he knew full well. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 On a rude couch, alone, aloof, 
 
 Sat, half reclining, poor Kathreen. 
 His bosom had been pity-proof. 
 
 Who without tears that sight had seen : 
 
38 ENSENORE. 
 
 O'er her white robe, which yet retained 
 Its snowy hue, though travel-stained, 
 Neglected, hung her flowing hair. 
 And curled in untaught beauty there ; 
 One hand uplield her marble brow, 
 Perturbed and pale and clouded now, 
 And one — oh, well knew Ensenore 
 Each golden circlet that it bore — 
 Hung all unheeded at her side, 
 By many a wondering warrior eyed. 
 Though the first fear, the horror-trace. 
 Had vanished from her lovely face, 
 A settled look of hopeless woe 
 
 Of anguish unallo3'ed, was there, 
 And ceaseless was the silent flow 
 
 Of tears that told her deep despair. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The youth's first impulse was to start. 
 And clasp the maiden to his heart ; 
 At second thought, his flashing eye 
 
 Calm, passionless, and cold became, 
 While from his lips escaped a sigh 
 
 So slight it scarce deserved the name 
 Yet was it heard, — distinct and clear 
 It fell upon the captive's ear : 
 
ENSENORE. 39 
 
 There seemed some magic in the sound, 
 So wildly gazed the maid around ; 
 Her e3'e with brighter lustre burned, 
 More pale her ashen features turned, 
 While hopes and fears, a stormy train, 
 Swept lightning-like across her brain. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But when her mind more calm became. 
 And more composed her trembling frame, 
 With rapid eye the maiden scanned 
 Each warrior of that gloomy band. 
 Seeking the source of that light sigh. 
 
 That breathed of respite from her doom, 
 Awakening dreams of days gone by. 
 
 And hopes of happiness and home. 
 But ah ! more cold her bosom grew. 
 As o'er that crowd her quick e^-e flew. 
 And as from face to face it passed. 
 Each sterner, fiercer, than the last ; 
 Nor deemed she, when her eye approached 
 
 And lingered on the stranger chief. 
 That such an one could have encroached 
 
 On her prerogative of grief. 
 
40 ENSENOKE. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Meanwhile the 3'outh in gatt'ral tone, 
 
 In their own tongue, proceeds to tell 
 Of wandering from his tribe, alone. 
 
 Who in far western forests dwell. 
 As far beyond the tribes that stay 
 Near the great cataract's ceaseless spray ,^^ 
 As westward of the Hurons they ; 
 Where, on a shell-strewn island, stands 
 A bell not made by mortal hands, ^^ 
 By which, when they neglect to pay 
 
 Due sacrifice, their ears were stunned : 
 He could not tell how far the w^ay. 
 
 The sun went down but just beyond ! 
 Niperceans the}^, a race, he said. 
 Of whom himself, the honored head. 
 Was known afar, by friend and foe, 
 The firm and fearless Ivanough.^^ 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " I need not tell the story o'er 
 Known well," he said, " to you before, 
 How from the northern water's shore 
 Before the Iroquois we fled,^<^ 
 Compelled to leave the sacred dead. 
 
ENSENOEE. 41 
 
 Now all inihonorecl is the sod 
 
 That rises o'er their loved remains ; 
 By strangers' feet their graves are trod, 
 
 And much my father's ghost complains. 
 The time may come — I will not boast, 
 But I have 3'et a hard}^ host, 
 Whose hearts with hopes of vengeance burn 
 
 For their long 3'ears of grief and toil — 
 The time may come when I return 
 
 With blade and brand to claim m}' soil ; 
 Meanwhile m}' ro3^al rights I waive. 
 And as a pilgrim seek the grave 
 
 Where my ancestral relics lie ; 
 And, if that name protect me not 
 From foes who haunt that hallowed spot, 
 I am content to die." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 How oft upon his lonely route 
 
 He paused to chase the forest deer ; 
 How oft to catch the wil}' trout 
 
 In some bright brook that murmured near ; 
 And how, while pausing near the lake 
 His little bark canoe to make, 
 With which along its stream to glide 
 Toward the Ontario's distant tide, 
 
 4* 
 
42 ENSENORE. 
 
 Their curling smoke that climbed the sky 
 Had caught b}' chance his roving e^'e, 
 And lured him here, a weary guest, 
 By travel worn and heat oppressed, — 
 With ear attent, they hear him tell, 
 Their only comment, " It is well ! " 
 
 XIX. 
 
 His rich regalia then the}' view, 
 Admire awhile the royal hue 
 
 Of his imperial plume, 
 Nor doubted that, Avhere lay afar 
 His home beneath the western star, 
 
 Its ver}' nod were doom. 
 The}^ then relate their recent fight. 
 
 With exultation high, 
 And tell, how in the dead of night, 
 B}' their wrapt dwellings' blazing light. 
 
 They saw their victims die ; 
 And how their chieftain rescued there 
 
 From 'neath the upraised knife, 
 A maiden j^oung and pale and fair. 
 And bade them treat with fitting care 
 
 His future favorite wife. 
 Fair as that star of silver light 
 Which heralds the approach of night, 
 
ENSENORE. 4:3 
 
 "Was she, that captive maid, the}^ said : 
 And graceful as the sportive fawn. 
 Whose feet in 3'onder verdant lawn 
 
 Scarce crush the flowers on which the}' tread. 
 
 XX. 
 
 On secret expedition gone, 
 
 That chief, they said, almost alone 
 
 Had left their camp three nights before ; 
 Four chosen warriors with him went,^^ 
 All trebly armed ; their steps they bent 
 
 Toward the Ontario's shore. 
 They did not know nor dare to ask 
 The nature of their secret task. 
 But b}^ their dark and threatening look, 
 The many weapons which they took. 
 
 Their moccasins reversed, ^"^ 
 Full well they guessed, ere now, the blow 
 Upon some unsuspecting foe 
 
 With fearful force had burst. 
 But, ere he left, he bade them make 
 Their camp beside the Pleasant Lake ; 
 And thither yon fair maiden take. 
 That chief would join them soon, they said, 
 
 And much the}^ talked of pastime gay 
 When he, the Eagle- e^'e, should wed 
 
 The lost maid of Schenectada. 
 
I 
 
E N S E N O R E. 
 
 PART III. 
 
ENSENORE. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Tis morn ; and, 'neath the sportive wing 
 
 Of tlie " sweet south," the lieaves are waving, 
 And shoreward, gentl}^ murmuring, 
 
 Owasco's waves her beach are laving. 
 What maiden wanders on the shore, 
 
 And freights the zephvrs with her sighs, 
 Now breathes, unconscious, " Ensenore," 
 
 Now turns to heaven her pra3'erful eyes ? 
 'Tis slie, the lost of Mohawk's vale, 
 
 A captive in this distant land. 
 O'er whom the very breezes wail. 
 
 That sweep acix>ss that desert strand. 
 This had she deemed a day ot grace. 
 For forth unto the forest chase 
 
 47 
 
48 ENSENORE. 
 
 The warriors of the tribe had gone, 
 And, in the view of those who keep 
 Their tent adjacent, she might weep 
 
 In this secluded spot alone. 
 But, ah ! it may not be : she sees. 
 Emerging from the forest trees, 
 
 Another of that fearful race, 
 A hunter from his comrades stra3^ed, 
 His gaudy dress a chief betrayed, 
 
 But strange to her his face. 
 
 II. • 
 
 Kathreen, in that dread hour when flashed 
 
 Before her eyes the glittering knife. 
 Had seen the chief whose strong arm dashed 
 
 The blow aside that sought her life. 
 And had retained through her alarm 
 
 That scowling brow, that blood-red plume, 
 That braceleted and brawn}- arm 
 
 Averting her descending doom ; 
 But many a da}^ had passed, and yet 
 The maid and chieftain had not met ; 
 Though well she guessed that on his breath 
 Would hang her doom, of life or death ; 
 That his return — or soon or late — 
 Would be decisive of her fate. 
 
ENSENOEE. 49 
 
 And, by the fier}- plume that now 
 "Waved o'er that dark and lofty brow, 
 She guessed — her soul with horror rife — 
 The sachem this who saved her life. 
 
 III. 
 Nor were her growing fears alla3'ed, 
 When, distant far, a pause he made, 
 And bending to the earth his knee, 
 A token mute of amity, 
 He grasped his sturdy bow of oak, 
 And baclvward bent it till it broke. 
 From beaded belt his hatchet drew. 
 And far the shining weapon threw. 
 And then with stately step and slow 
 Advanced, still bowing oft and low ; 
 For, if she sees each friendly sign. 
 She fails its meaning to divine, 
 Nor does she wish her foe to part 
 With gleaming knife or pointed dart, 
 Would he but plant them in her heart. 
 And set her prisoned spirit free ' 
 From its unmeasured agony. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He pauses, speaks, " Kathreen ! Kathreeh ! " 
 She does not hear : her streaming eyes 
 
50 ENSENORE. 
 
 See but that savage face and mien, 
 
 Then with new strength she turns and flies. 
 
 " Kathreen ! Kathi^een ! oh, stay, love, stay ! 
 
 *Tis I that calls/' cried Ensenore. 
 
 In vain ! less fleet at close of day, 
 
 The eagle on his mountain way, 
 
 When hastening homeward with his prey : 
 That maid is seen no more. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh, that he could pursue her flight, 
 
 Nor add new terrors to her fright ! 
 
 That di'ead disguise, that painted face,-^— 
 
 Oh, how he cursed that hated race ! 
 
 How fast his maddened pulses pla}' I 
 
 He dare not go, he cannot sta}' ; 
 
 With burning brain and sickening fears, 
 
 He shouts again, but only hears 
 
 The elfin echo mock his cry, 
 
 '' O love, return I 'tis I, tis I ! '■ 
 
 VI. 
 
 Back to the camp the maid has fled, 
 The hunter to the chase returned, 
 
 Where, ere the summer's day had sped, 
 A name for daring high he earned ; 
 
ENSENORE. 51 
 
 None a less erring bow could bend, 
 Or surer aim, or farther send 
 The whizzing shaft, — none fleeter chase 
 The elk upon his mountain race ; 
 And much his comrades rough admire 
 His bearing bold, his gaj attire, 
 And in their rude salutes expressed 
 The praises due the stranger guest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The sun is rolling down the sk}-, 
 The evening breeze is floating by ; 
 Hushed are the notes of forest bird, 
 The whippoorwill alone is heard. 
 Sending her plaintive voice afar 
 Upon the silent evening air ; 
 And night has called the warriors back 
 From panther chase, and wild deer track ; 
 And in their tent each man repeats 
 The story of his hunting feats. 
 While all agree, no trophies bore 
 Compare to those of Ensenore. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 As some lone rose by summer blast 
 Uptorn and in the desert cast, 
 
52 ENSENORE. 
 
 Whose fading beauties still are fair, 
 Whose fragrance freights the forest air, — 
 So 'mid that dusky horde Kathreen 
 Pale, wretched, and forlorn was seen ; 
 Yet, on surrounding darkness thrown, 
 Her charms with dazzling radiance shone, 
 And to her lover's watchful eye 
 
 She seemed a being all divine, 
 One star upon a clouded sky, 
 • One sunbeam in Siberian mine. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Her trembling eye in terror viewed 
 
 The trophies o'er the tent-floor strewed, — ' 
 
 The savage panther's gory head. 
 
 The gentle deer j^et scarcely dead. 
 
 The catamount with glaring e3^e. 
 
 Frowning defiance e'en in death. 
 The hapless squirrel bleeding nigh. 
 
 And struggling with its failing breath. 
 Unwonted sights and sounds were these 
 To maiden nurtured at her ease. 
 Within a home with pleasures rife. 
 And all the luxuries of life ; 
 And when, from the revolting view, 
 Kathreen her saddened eye withdrew, 
 
ENSENORE. 63 
 
 From iinderueath the downcast lid, 
 The silvery tears successive slid, 
 And glistened on her cheek of snow, 
 With all the eloquence of w^oe. 
 
 X. 
 
 She had not doubted that the chief 
 With crimson plume and beaded belt, 
 
 Who, as in mockery of her grief. 
 Upon the pebbled beach had knelt, 
 
 Was he for whom — a destined wife — 
 
 Had been preserved her hapless life ; 
 
 And when she heard the boisterous mirth. 
 
 To which the maddening bowl gave bkth,^^ 
 
 As, seated round the festive board 
 
 Rudely but plentifull}' stored. 
 
 The dusky warriors threw aside 
 
 Their air of cold and cautious pride, 
 
 With hasty glance, the captive maid 
 
 Their dark and stalwart frames survej^ed, 
 
 Seeking the object of her fear. 
 
 And dreading she should find him near. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Nor sought she long : the warrior's sash 
 Was o-listeninor almost at her side, 
 
54 ENSENORE. 
 
 She saw his dark e^x's haiight}^ flash, 
 
 That seemed to speak of power and pride, 
 And heard his voice ! Strange that its tone, 
 Uttering a kinguage all unknown, 
 Should summon, lik-e a passing dream. 
 
 The memorj' of her hours of mirth. 
 The murmuring of the mountain stream. 
 
 The joj's of the paternal hearth ; 
 Rapid and wild and undefined 
 
 The mental panorama passed. 
 Gilding the clouds that o'er her mind 
 
 Their dark and fearful shadows cast. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The feast went on ; and some relief, 
 The wretched maiden felt, that she 
 
 Remained unnoticed b}^ the chief 
 Amid the growing revelry ; 
 
 But, when she marked his courteous air 
 
 Toward all his savage comrades there, 
 
 She doubted whether this could be 
 That chieftain known so well to fame. 
 
 That, even in her infancy, 
 
 . She trembled at his name ; 
 
 Nor doubted long, for even then, 
 
 Followed by four athletic men 
 
ENSENORE. 55 
 
 Armed each with bow and battle-knife, 
 Yet reeking from the recent strife, 
 The sachem entered at the door. 
 And crossed, with statel}' step, the jfloor. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Two hearts beat wildly at that sight : 
 Kathreen turned pale with new affright ; 
 And Ensknore — w^hen his first view 
 
 Told him the Eagle-Eye was near, 
 'Twas well his artificial hue 
 
 Was fixed beyond the reach of fear ; 
 'Twas but a moment : he became 
 
 Himself again at second breath. 
 Remembering that he pla3^ed a game. 
 
 Where one false move were certain death. 
 Too well he knew each Indian trait 
 
 To show one symptom of surprise, 
 And, seeming still with drink elate. 
 
 He quietly withdrew his eyes. 
 Called for the bowl, with careless laugh, 
 And quaffed, or seemed at least to quaff. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Meanwhile the chief, in silent pride, 
 Glanced at the revellers at his side, 
 
66 ENSENORE. 
 
 A moment bent his flashing e3'e 
 Upon the maiden trembling nigh, 
 And unaddressed, addressing none, 
 Seated himself apart, alone, 
 Then fired his favorite calumet. 
 
 And seemed unconscioos of the world, 
 As round his lengthened locks of jet ^ 
 
 The fragrant wreaths in silence curled. 
 
 XV. 
 
 An Indian chieftain is content 
 His valor on his foes to vent ; 
 He does not seek in awe to hold 
 His kinsmen and his clansmen bold ; 
 No abject fear for him the}' feel. 
 Nor know the courtly art to kneel ; 
 And if, upon the warriors' cheer 
 
 A slight restraint his presence threw, 
 It was not from a servile fear. 
 
 But from respect, the feeling grew. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 At length the stern and stalwart chief 
 
 In quiet dignit}' arose. 
 And in emphatic tones and brief, 
 
 Told of encounter with his foes. 
 
ENSENOEE. . 
 
 The daring of bis little band, 
 Tbe willing beart, tbe read}^ hand, 
 The charging shout, the fatal blow. 
 The victor}', and the djing foe ; 
 Then pointed with an Indian's pride 
 To scalps yet reeking at bis side. 
 And counted, with a miser's care. 
 To see that each red tuft was there. 
 All listened as the warrior spoke. 
 
 And with approving smiles replied ; 
 And, when be closed, loud shouts awoke. 
 
 Of triumph and of martial pride, 
 And scoffs and taunts were idl}' shed 
 On the mute relics of tbe dead. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then, as tbe sachem's eye was seen 
 
 Upon the unknown brave to dwell," ^ 
 Arose a 3'outh of gentle mien 
 
 And soft and silver voice, to tell 
 The history of the favored guest 
 Who sought for shelter there and rest ; 
 And said that 'mid their fair domain 
 
 The pilgrim's stay would be but brief. 
 Though he would willingly remain 
 
 To grace the nuptials of the chief. 
 
68 ENSENORE. 
 
 " 'T is well : see thou the banquet spread,'* 
 The haughty Eagle-E^'e replied ; 
 
 " To-morrow's setting sun shall shed 
 Its beams upon the chieftain's bride." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The feast, resumed, bade fair to last 
 Until the midnight hour was past ; 
 For soon grew voluble each tongue, 
 And loud the tent with laughter rung. 
 The maiden watched, w^ith trembling eye, 
 Their mirth and madness rising high. 
 And marvelled when she saw the guest, 
 More ga}^ and boisterous than the rest, 
 Urging deep draughts, while he alone. 
 Seeming to drink the most, drank none. 
 She heard the stranger's voice grow loud, 
 She saw him rise amid the crowd, 
 And point, with exultation high. 
 To the red trophies hanging nigh ; 
 But while each eje is fastened there, 
 And shouts ring wildly through the air, 
 Vlhy turns the maiden's cheek more pale? 
 Wh}' do her sight, her senses, fail? 
 
ENSENORE. 69 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "Whence or from whom, she could not tell ; 
 But 'twas a folded paper fell, 
 
 Alighting at her feet ! 
 She held her breath in verj' fear 
 The savages should pause to hear 
 
 Her heart's tumultuous beat. 
 But, b}' each dark and scowling brow, 
 Far other thoughts emplo}^ them now ; 
 Thej', by their guest's wild speech enchained. 
 All heedless of the maid remained, 
 AYho, unobserved, the billet gained. 
 And, by a taper's wavering beams. 
 Perused, still fearful lest she dreams. 
 One glance sufficed that note to scan ; 
 Few were its Avords, and thus the}' ran : 
 " At midnight on Owasco's shore, 
 The stranger chieftain, — Ensenore." 
 
 XX. 
 
 The wild-bird drops his merry wings, 
 
 And falls, unfluttering, on the green, 
 "When the sure rifle 'neath him rings. 
 
 Less quickly far than fell Kathreen. 
 Slight help for her, the swooned, is found ; 
 The warriors, wondering, press around. 
 
60 ENSENORE. 
 
 And none of all that stoic race, 
 Who gaze on her seraphic face, 
 Pay less regard, show less concern, 
 Than that dark stranger proud and stern ; 
 Yet with quick eye marked Ensenore 
 Where fell the note upon the floor, 
 And, seizing it with feigned surprise. 
 Displaj^ed it to their wondering eyes, 
 As doubtless holding some strange charm, ^® 
 Potent, perhaps, to work such harm, 
 Which, of her sad existence tired. 
 The maid had gazed on, and expired. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But ah ! what power in pen or tongue 
 To tell the agony that wrung 
 
 The lover's generous heart. 
 Compelled to see, with reckless air. 
 His loved all pale and lifeless there, 
 
 Nor dare his aid impart ? 
 Yet all the woes of earth combined, 
 
 The prospect of an age of pain. 
 All that e'en savage skill could find 
 
 Of torture, would have frowned in vain 
 To hold him back, if he alone 
 Might for the fatal act atone. 
 
ENSENORE. 61 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Pure as the first pale tints of day, ^ 
 
 And faintly delicate as they, 
 
 At length the coming color seeks 
 
 The surface of her snowy cheeks ; 
 
 A tremor o'er her pale lips flies ; 
 
 The blue-veined eyelids slowl}^ rise ; 
 
 And, as returning memor^^ brought 
 
 The re-united links of thought, 
 
 Vanished at once each terror- trace. 
 
 And sudden jo}' suffused her face. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Long had the maiden's guileless breast 
 
 Within its secret depths concealed 
 One pure affection unconfessed. 
 
 And scarcel}^ to herself revealed ; 
 And he to whom her gentle heart 
 
 Had yielded up its priceless worth. 
 That love, which, like the flowers that start 
 
 .Unnoticed from the vernal earth. 
 Blooms but more beauteously alone, 
 Unculled, uncherished, and unknown ; 
 He who had mingled with each theme 
 Of waking thought or midnight dream, — 
 
62 ENSENORE. 
 
 He stood before her, — come to save, 
 Or share with her a captive's grave. 
 And she was loved : the thought of this, 
 
 In spite of fear, in danger's spite, 
 Poured o'er her heart a flood of bliss, 
 
 Of deep and unalloj' ed delight ; 
 For, oh ! if any pain hath power 
 Upon the soul in such an hour ; 
 If any grief there be to chill 
 The heart's first joy, the rapture-thrill, 
 "When love, the growth of growing years. 
 Attested by a thousand tears, 
 (Which has with flame unfaltering burned. 
 
 Though fanned by Hope's expiring breath) 
 Is first acknowledged and returned, — 
 
 It must be something more than death. 
 
 xxiy. 
 
 Their eyes a passing moment meet, 
 And linger in communion sweet ; 
 This silent language of the soul 
 Could none construe and none control ; 
 It told in her blue, brilliant eye 
 Of strong affection rising high, 
 
• ENSENORE. 63 
 
 All sense of fear and pain above ; 
 In his, the answering light that woke 
 With an electric radiance spoke 
 
 The deathless energy of love. 
 
 XXY. 
 
 And who shall blame the hapless maid, 
 
 If after long and deep distress, 
 When this first radiant hope of aid 
 
 Dawned brightl}" on her wretchedness, 
 Forgetful of the foes who frowned 
 In sullen silence still around, 
 And thinking onh^ of thai? 3'outh, 
 The love, the constancy and truth. 
 Which led him to desert his home. 
 
 And take his lone and fearful way 
 Through wilds where savage monsters roam, 
 
 And men more savage still than they. 
 Which gave him fortitude to brave 
 For her the desert and the w^ave ; 
 For her to stand, that very hour, 
 Within his deadliest foemen's power ; 
 Unconscious that to others' ears 
 
 A talismanic charm it bore, — 
 She turned away, with falling tears. 
 
 And breathed the name of Ensenore ! 
 
64 ENSENOEE. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 'Twas lightly spoken, but 'twas heard ! 
 A dozen warriors at the word 
 Started like lightning from the ground, 
 And gazed with flashing e3^es around. 
 While on their swarthy features glow 
 
 Alternate looks of hate and fear. 
 As if the}^ thought to see their foe, 
 
 With retribution armed, appear. 
 No marvel if that name they knew, 
 For with the firm and faithful few 
 Who had, upon that night of blood, 
 Awhile their whelming hosts withstood, 
 That name had been the rallying cry, 
 Which, echoing to the vaulted sky. 
 
 Sent sudden terror through their band ; 
 And many a Huron mother wept 
 For the returnless ones who slept 
 
 Fallen beneath his single hand. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But not on him, their courteous guest, 
 A moment did suspicion rest ; 
 Or, if it did, it was allayed 
 AYhen, quickly coming to their aid, 
 
ENSENORE. 65 
 
 The strano^er asked what si^rns of harm 
 
 Thej^ were that seemed to give alarm, 
 
 And offered as their scout to go 
 
 If aught they feared of lurking foe. 
 
 And when, at length, their fears suppressed, 
 
 They one by one retired to rest, 
 
 He passed near where the maiden la}'. 
 
 And, looking still another wa}', 
 
 " Sleep not, Kathreen ! " he whispered low, 
 
 Then threw himself upon the ground, 
 And, far as outward sign could show. 
 
 None slept more suddenl}' or sound. 
 
 6* 
 
ENSENORE. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
ENSENORE. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 I. 
 
 'TwAS midnight ; and the clouded sky 
 
 O'er-canopied that darkened tent ; 
 The bird of nighr flew wildlj' b}' ; 
 
 The forest 'neath the blast was bent ; 
 Not darker, deeper is the gloom 
 That dwells within the rayless tomb ; 
 Came from the lake the sullen roar 
 Of billows beating on the shore ; 
 And, as the frequent lightning threw 
 
 A sudden glory o'er the scene, 
 The opposing forests rose to view, 
 
 And all the watery waste between, 
 Where crested waves each other chase, 
 *' Like snowv coursers on the race." 
 
70 ENSENOKE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Beyond his hopes, auspicious fate 
 
 Thus far had favored Ensenore : ' 
 Worn out by revel long and late, 
 
 The warriors slept upon the floor, 
 And, through the tent, a taper shed 
 
 But just enough of light to show 
 Where, safe, the fugitives might tread, 
 
 Nor fear to rouse a sleeping foe ; 
 But words are powerless to portray 
 
 The ecstasy of hope and fear 
 Which o'er the maiden's breast held sway 
 
 Alternate, as the hour drew near ; 
 And seemed her throbbing heart to burst 
 
 When Ensenore' s low voice she heard. 
 Bidding her make the trial first, 
 
 That, if the dreaming sentinel stirred, 
 His ready dagger might secure 
 A sleep for him that should endure. 
 
 III. 
 
 But watchful ears they need, I ween, 
 AVho hear thy fairy feet, Kathreen ! 
 The summer's dew or winter's flake. 
 Or moonbeams falling on the lake. 
 
ENSENORE. 71 
 
 As soon the slumberer's rest mioht break. 
 
 •o' 
 
 White as the snowy robe she wore, 
 
 With spirit-step she treads the floor, 
 
 And glides unchallenged through the door. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Upon the beach the maiden stood, 
 Where wildly dashed the angry flood, 
 And listened long in A^ain to hear 
 The sound of footsteps coming near ; 
 Alone the screech of boding owl 
 
 Is heard from the surrounding trees. 
 Or from afar " the wolfs long howl" 
 
 Borne onward with the passing breeze. 
 Slowl}^ the lagging moments wear. 
 Fraught with suspense and growing pain. 
 Still puts she back her clustering hair. 
 
 And looks and listens still in vain. 
 
 V. 
 
 Faintly she calls : her breath is lost 
 Mid dash of billows- tempest-tost ; 
 But she is answered ! one long cry 
 From countless voices rends the sky ! 
 One warrior dashes wildly by. 
 
72 ENSENORE. 
 
 And calls on her in tones that wake 
 The echoes o'er that boisterous lake ; 
 'Tis he, discovered and pursued, 
 In search of whom the pathless wood 
 Is filled with flitting lights that glare 
 Like spectres through the midnight air ; 
 He finds, he clasps her in his arms. 
 And, though those demon-like alarms 
 Ring loud and louder in his ear, 
 The lights grow brighter, come more near, 
 They are not heard, they are not seen ; 
 He clasps his own loved, lost Kathreen. 
 
 VI. 
 
 One moment, and that trance is .past. 
 That dream of bliss, perhaps his last : 
 Bearing the maid within his arms. 
 What way he hears the least alarms. 
 
 Fleet as the hunted elk he flew 
 Toward a cove where 3'esternight, 
 Concealed in readiness for flight. 
 
 He moored his light canoe. 
 Meanwhile the foe at random shot 
 Where'er they knew their friends were not, 
 And hurtling arrows round him rained, 
 Yet all unharmed the cove he gained, 
 
ENSENORE. 73 
 
 Sought for his faithful bark, and found 
 The withe with which that bark was bound ! 
 Like summer friend in hour of need, 
 That boat which had with pride and speed 
 Across the sunn}' waters sailed, 
 Now, when its aid were safet}^, failed. 
 It rides the waves afar from land. 
 Cut loose b}' some designing hand, 
 Or by the billows' swell alone : 
 It matters not : his boat is oone. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Well maj' his spirit falter now, 
 Well may despair o'ershade his brow ; 
 His heart beats high with new alarm ; 
 Kathreen hangs senseless on' his arm ; 
 Before him rolls the blackened wave, 
 Behind, those human blood-hounds rave, 
 And, hark ! the very vault of heaven 
 With one loud cr}^ of hate is riven, — 
 So earthless and so dread a yell, 
 By demons from their home in hell, 
 He thought had ne'er been given. 
 7 
 
74 ENSENORE. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet, for a passing moment, play 
 
 Hope's meteor-lights upon Ms soul : 
 One half-mile hence, within a bay, 
 A fleet of birchen barges lay ; 
 While passing in the chase, that day. 
 
 On the blue waves he saw them roll. 
 Now if he can that harbor gain — 
 Alas ! that hope is also vain : 
 Unnumbered torches shed their light, 
 
 Flitting, like fire-flies, o'er the bay, 
 And there, to intercept his flight, 
 
 A band of well-armed warriors stay, 
 While others scour both wood and shore 
 Now Heaven help lost Ensenoee ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 He kneels beside the dashing wave, 
 Kathreen's death-colored face to lave ; 
 And as her slowly-opening eyes, 
 Beaming with terror and surprise, 
 Appeal to Heaven's protecting power 
 For succor in that fearful hour. 
 He hurries briefly to relate 
 Their sad extremity of fate. 
 
ENSENORE. 75 
 
 And, pointiug to the blackened sea, — 
 " Kathreen, I live or die with thee. 
 One hope remains ; 'tis slight, 'tis frail ; 
 Speedy our fate, if that should fail ; 
 Look, by the lightning's lengthened blaze. 
 Where, on the crested billows, pla3's 
 My little bark : saj^, durst thou brave 
 AYith me the tempest and the wave ? " 
 ' ' I dare ! ' ' her murmuring voice replied, 
 And onward, in the swelling tide, 
 The}' rush unpausing, undismayed, 
 And in fast-deepening waters wade. 
 But when compelled at last to swim 
 The instructed maid encircles him 
 With one light arm, while his are free 
 To buffet with the billow}^ sea. 
 
 X. 
 
 Well serves him now each feat of skill. 
 To pause and float, or turn at will. 
 For pastime learned in earlier day, 
 When with the mountain waves at plaj^ ; 
 But better serves his vigorous arm. 
 
 His daring and his dauntless mind. 
 Which not the shouts of wild alarm 
 
 That still came floatiuo- on the wind 
 
76 ENSENORE. 
 
 Could for a moment quell, 
 Though o'er his spirit bold at length, 
 When in the waters failed his strength, 
 
 Despair's dark shadow fell ; 
 But even then, with failing e3^e. 
 He sees his bark careering nigh : 
 That sight revives his powers ; and now 
 His hand is laid upon its prow. 
 
 XL 
 
 Brief breathing spell to him is given. 
 
 And hurried thanks ascend to Heaven ; 
 
 For even now upon the shore, 
 
 Where they had stood short space before, 
 
 A cloud of savages they view. 
 
 Searching for Ensenore's canoe ; 
 
 In vain they search the shore ; but hark ! 
 
 They spy upon the wave the bark ; 
 
 Then through the forest wild and high 
 
 Rang forth their fearful battle-cry, 
 
 And the rude breeze that hurried by 
 
 Onward, with rapid pinion, bore 
 
 The gathering cry of " Ensenore ! " 
 
 While Echo from her far retreats 
 
 The fearful signal sound repeats. 
 
ENSENOKE. 77 
 
 XII. 
 
 As rush upon their game the pack 
 When loosened first upon the track, 
 So toward their guarded harbor flew 
 Along the beach that vengeful crew ; 
 And soon, well-manned, each bark canoe 
 
 Across the billow wild is dancing. 
 While, like the mj'stic lights that glare 
 At midnight in the churchj^ard air, 
 
 The torches o'er the waves are glancing. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The light that o'er the landscape flies, 
 When clouds autumnal skim the skies. 
 Speeds not as, in that hour of dread. 
 Young Ensenore's lone vessel sped ; 
 The flitting shades that ever chase 
 Those sunbeams o'er the landscape's face 
 Fl}' not as each adverse canoe 
 Across the foaming billows flew. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Southward, toward the Owasco's source, 
 Kept Ensenore his rapid course, 
 
78 ENSENORE. 
 
 And ever, as the frequent flash 
 Revealed the fugitives to view, 
 
 Commingling with the thunder's crash, 
 Rang long and loud the death-halloo. 
 
 Such shouts the native warriors use 
 
 Their foe to frighten or confuse ; 
 
 But cool of mind, and strong of limb. 
 
 No artifices baffle him ; 
 
 One powerful arm his boat propelled,"^' 
 
 And one the trembling maiden held ; 
 
 No word was said, no glance was given ; . 
 
 In silence rose her pra3^ers to Heaven ; 
 
 While, floating free and unconfined, 
 
 Streamed her long tresses on the wind. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Though for a while his vessel gained, 
 Such vantage might not be maintained 
 
 By his unaided oar ; 
 And, though bej'ond his foemen's view, 
 'Twere vain to hold his course, he knew, 
 
 And vain to seek the shore. 
 Skilled to discern the faintest trail 
 
 Of human step on sand or sod. 
 When morning's light should flood the vale, 
 Full well he knew they would not fail 
 
 To strike the path he trod. 
 
ENSENORE. 79 
 
 On eveiy side was danger near ; 
 Yet yielded not the youth to fear, 
 But, when the space that la}^ between 
 Was such that nothing might be seen, 
 No sound could reach their eager ear, 
 With quick and well-directed oar 
 
 He seeks the centre of the lake, 
 Turns his light bark, and, dashing o'er 
 
 The waves that round his vessel break, 
 Like fox that doubles on his track, 
 With lightning speed he hurries back, 
 AVhile the dim lights that glisten far. 
 
 Trembling beneath the breeze's breath, 
 To him, are like the beacon-star. 
 
 That bids the sailor shun his death. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 With silent but with rapid stroke. 
 The muffled oar the waters broke. 
 Though slight had been the need of fear 
 Of au}^ save the practised ear 
 
 Of Indian on the chase, , 
 And little peril from the sight 
 Of e'en an Indian eye that night, 
 Save when the red electric light 
 
 Illumed the water's face. 
 
80 ENSENORE. 
 
 Now near and nearer comes the foe, 
 
 A furlong scarcely lies between, 
 And their wild-waving torches throw 
 
 A lurid light upon the scene. 
 More near ! he sees each scowling brow ! 
 " O Heaven ! withhold th}^ lightnings now ! " 
 With throbbing heart, suspended breath, 
 And face as colorless as death. 
 His pale lips painfully compressed. 
 His oar upraised and held at rest, 
 Silent he sat, with flashing eye, 
 And watched their dark forms flitting by, 
 And heard, in tones of muttered ire, 
 Himself condemned to funeral pyre. 
 So rapidly they glided past. 
 He breathed not till he saw the last. 
 Then dropped his oar into the wave. 
 And to his boat new impulse gave. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Though every breath augments the space 
 Between them and their foemen now. 
 
 Yet still unslackened is the race 
 
 Of that true l^ark, and still her prow 
 
 Points outward to the central wave. 
 
 And, where the proudest billows rave, 
 
ENSENORE. 81 
 
 Leaps, laughing, o'er their foaming crest. 
 At home amid their wild unrest ; 
 Nor till the early beams of day 
 Through the far east had found their wa^'. 
 They paused, where, at the lake's extreme, 
 Its waters dwindle to a stream. 
 And there, beneath the waters blue, 
 Far in the depths, his light canoe 
 Young Ensenore concealed from view. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And there in Nature's temple wide, 
 Where Nature's priests alone preside. 
 
 Whose carpet is the velvet sod. 
 Whose dome, the glittering arch that spans 
 The vast creation of His hands. 
 
 Whose light the smile of God ; 
 While from the fragrant flowers arise 
 Their morning incense to the skies. 
 To Him who shields, — that pair impart 
 The grateful homage of the heart ; 
 And the bright stream that murmurs by, 
 The winds that through the forest fly, 
 The birds whose matin carol gave 
 Its treble to the roaring wave. 
 
82 ENSENORE. 
 
 Together, in their varjing ways, 
 Respond unto their Maker's prase. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The storm had passed, the clouds were gone, 
 And the pale stars that o'er them shone 
 Still held with the unfolding day 
 O'er the clear sky an equal swaj^. 
 When, through the dark and silent wood. 
 Their path of peril they pursued. 
 What days of toil, what nights of fear, 
 Made np their long and lone career. 
 What tears of gratitude were shed. 
 What vows of love to Heaven were sped, 
 What dangers threatened, woes befell, 
 'Twere tedious now and vain to tell. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Suffice, that ere the seventh sun 
 His cloud-pavilioned goal had won, 
 The loved, the lost, the rescued now, 
 With freshened cheek and sunny brow, 
 Beheld a father's smiling face. 
 Returned a father's fond embrace, 
 
ENSENORE. 83 
 
 Nor tried with words her bliss to speak, 
 When, with a jo}^ that verged on heaven, 
 
 She kissed from off a mother's cheek 
 The tears b}- speechless rapture given. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Suffice, that when before the shrine 
 
 Where hands are joined when hearts combine, 
 
 In Ensenore's dark chestnut hair 
 
 That ciu'led around his forehead fair. 
 
 In his complexion clear and bright. 
 
 His dark e^-e's soft and gentle light. 
 
 And in his mild j'et manly face, 
 
 Kathreen in vain essayed to trace 
 
 Some semblance of that chieftain red, 
 
 From whom, scarce three brief weeks before. 
 With trembling footsteps, she had fled 
 
 Upon Owasco's distant shore. 
 
NOTE S 
 
lij" O T E S. 
 
 IS'OTE 1. 
 
 By that proud mart. P. 11. 
 The city of Utica, near the source of the Mohawk, is 
 situated within a few miles of " that bloody field in which 
 Herkimer fell." 
 
 Note 2. 
 Wild Astorocjan^s hills arise. P. 11. 
 Astorogan is the Indian name for some one of the many 
 masses of rocks in the vicinity of what is now the roman- 
 tic village of Little Falls, a spot which, for wild and mag- 
 nificent sceneiy, is without a parallel throughout the whole 
 valley of the Mohawk. 
 
 Note 3. 
 Foremost of whom, young Enseno7-e. P. 15. 
 Ensenore is an Indian name. It belonged to a native 
 chieftain of Virginia, of whom Mr. Thatcher saj^s that 
 "he was the best friend, next to Granganimo, whom the 
 English had ever found among the natives." It is per- 
 haps unnecessary to say that it is adopted here rather fur 
 
 87 
 
88 NOTES. 
 
 its singular euphony, than for any other cause ; though the 
 author considers it not a violent presumption to suppose 
 that the name of so celebrated a chief, friendly to the 
 Europeans, would become ingrafted upon their own less 
 elegant patronymics, and perpetuated among their children. 
 
 ^OTE 4. 
 WJiere Trenton'' s wild and wizard stream. P. 23. 
 The West Canada Creek, in which are the celebrated 
 Falls of Trenton, connects with the Mohawk near the 
 beautiful village of Herkimer; and the ancient trail of 
 the Iroquois, from the western part of the State, struck 
 the river somewhere near this point. The author has this 
 information from the late Gen. Abraham Gridley, a gen- 
 tleman celebrated for his knowledge of Indian history and 
 habits. 
 
 Note 5. 
 Amid the seven fair lakes that lie 
 Like mirrors hieaih the summer sky. P. 23. 
 There are seven beautiful lakes in the western part of 
 the State of New York, varying from ten to forty miles in 
 length, all of which discharge their waters into the Ontario 
 through the Oswego River; to wit, the Cayuga, Seneca, 
 Canandaigua, Owasco, Otisco, Skaneateles, and Crooked 
 Lake. 
 
 Note 6. 
 Wliat time the Lion holds the sun. P. 23. 
 The months of July and August are supposed to havf* 
 been peculiarly favorable for the chase, as well as for pisca- 
 
NOTES. 89 
 
 tory sports, in the vicinity of the Seven Lakes. It con- 
 tinues to be a favorable season for the latter amusement. 
 
 Note 7. 
 By night the glitteriwj stars above, 
 By day the humble moss below. P. 25. 
 *' The polar star has been very generally noticed by the 
 Indians, as ' the star that never moves ; ' and this, when 
 visible, is always their travelling guide in the night time. 
 In cloudy weather, whether by day or night, they have 
 astonishingly sure and speedy modes of ascertaining direc- 
 tions and distances. They will travel a line to almost any 
 given point of the compass, for any given time, by observ- 
 ing, as they run, the difference in the moss, or in the thick- 
 ness of the bark on the northern and southern sides of the 
 trees, together with various other minute circumstances, 
 which a white man would scarcely notice if pointed out to 
 him. Well may they say, as they sometimes do to white 
 men, ' How can we go icrong, when we know ichere we are 
 going to?^ '^ — Thatcher. 
 
 Note 8. 
 Owasco^s waters sweetly slept. P. 29. 
 The ancient trail of the Iroquois, from the Mohawk west- 
 ward, led past the northern extremity of this lake, and 
 crossed the outlet somewhere within the bounds of the 
 present city of Auburn. The author is under obligation 
 for this piece of information, to the same gentleman re- 
 ferred to in Note 4, who was personally and familiarly 
 acquainted with many of the head men of the Five Nations. 
 
 8* 
 
90 NOTES. 
 
 An aged Indian by the name of Antonie, who was second 
 chief of the Oneida^, under tlie celebrated Skenandoah, 
 informed him of this fact ; and said that one of their cus- 
 tomary camping grounds was near a large elm-tree, which 
 is still standing in the highway on the eastern line of the 
 city above named. Their trail westward from Auburn 
 must have pursued pretty nearly the course of the present 
 Seneca turnpike, as it led over Cayuga Lake in the vicinity 
 of the present bridge, where they kept canoes, or ferry- 
 boats, constantly, for the accommodation of any of their 
 people. 
 
 This was at a later day than the one referred to in the 
 text, and at a time when the Iroquois were undisputed sov- 
 ereigns of the country. 
 
 Note 9. 
 
 A single oar that boat propelled. P. 31. 
 
 The Indian canoes are sometimes made very small and 
 
 slight, and capable of being propelled with extreme rapidity, 
 
 by means of a single oar, or scull, as it is sometimes termed, 
 
 which is placed in the stern. 
 
 Note 10. 
 With all a Narraghansetf s pride. P. 31. 
 This is not the common, but is, I believe, the most cor- 
 rect orthography of this name. I follow Mr. Thatcher. The 
 Narraghansetts were one of the most powerful of the 
 New England nations, and were a remarkably brave and 
 high-spirited people. "They were," says Mr. Thatcher, 
 " composed of various small tribes, inhabiting a large part 
 
NOTES. 91 
 
 of the territoiy whicli afterwards formed the colony of 
 Ehode Island. Their dominion extended also over the 
 islands in the bay of their own name." 
 
 Note 11. 
 The broidered moccasins that gave 
 A grace to his converging feet. P. 31. 
 The habit of walking with the toes inclining inward, if 
 not universally prevalent among the aborigines, is at least 
 so far so as to render it a national peculiarity. Whether or 
 not it is owing to any peculiar conformation of that part of 
 the anatomical system, I am not able to say. I should 
 suspect it to be a mere matter of custom, and practised at 
 the expense of convenience, taste, and nature, for fashion's 
 sake alone, were it not that the savages could hardly be 
 supposed, at so early a day, to have exhibited such strong 
 indications of an approach to civilization. 
 
 XOTE 12. 
 Huron nor Ottawa his race. P. 32. 
 The Huron s and Ottawas were the savages who enacted 
 the dreadful tragedy at Schenectady. They were, of course, 
 friendly to the French Government ; and it was by such 
 fearful means as the destruction of English settlements, 
 and the massacre of their inhabitants, that the French 
 provincial government sought to awe the Iroquois, and 
 bring them over to their own interests. The Iroquois, as 
 long as they remained friendly to the English, were a com- 
 plete barrier to the progress of the French arms ; and it was 
 supposed that they would change their allegiance (or rather 
 
92 NOTES. 
 
 their alliance, for they disclaimed being subjects of any 
 crown) when they saw that the English settlements were 
 unable to protect themselves. Vide Dunlap's N.Y. 
 
 Note 13. 
 The five fierce nations of the North. P. 32. 
 
 The Five Nations, so called by the English, were the Mo- 
 hawks, Oneidas, Cayugas, Onondagas, and Senecas. 
 Gov. Clinton, in a discourse delivered before the New 
 York Historical Society in 1811, says, '' The Virginian 
 Indians gave them the name of Massawomekes ; the Dutch 
 called them Maquas, or Makakuase; and the French, 
 Iroquois. Their appellation at home was the Mingoes, and 
 sometimes the Aganuschian or United People." 
 
 By those whose knowledge of the aborigines is mainly 
 derived from works of fiction, they will be best recollected 
 as the Mingoes, who were the objects of such continual 
 hatred and detestation to Mr. Cooper's Leather-stocking. 
 It is not a matter of surprise that the Delawares, of whom 
 Leather-stocking was an ally, should have hated the Iro- 
 quois. They were to the Five Nations what the sand is to 
 the whirlwind. 
 
 Gov. Clinton, in an address delivered at Schenectady 
 in 1823, before the New York Alpha of the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society, says, '* The alluvial lands of the river, rich as the 
 soil formed by the overflowings of the Nile, were the prin- 
 cipal residence of that ferocious and martial race, the true 
 old heads of the Iroquois, a confederacy which carried 
 terror, havoc, and desolation from the Gulf of St. Lawrence 
 to the Gulf of Mexico, and which aspired to universal empire 
 over the savage nations." 
 
NOTES. 93 
 
 It is presumed that Gov. Clinton alludes here to the 
 Mohawk tribe only, as " that ferocious and martial race, 
 the true old heads of the Iroquois," 
 
 While on the subject of this interesting people, it may not 
 be amiss to quote the following, from another distinguished 
 source, — the late Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell, who in a discourse 
 before the same society last named, in 1821, says, " The place 
 upon which this city (Schenectady) stands furnishes an ample 
 theme for contemplation. Here, and in the region situated 
 to the Avestward, lived the once formidable confederacy of 
 the Iroquois, of whom the Mohawks were the most distin- 
 guished. They appear to have descended from the Tartars 
 of Asia, and, by gradual approaches from the shores of 
 Alaska, to have reached the country situated south of the 
 Great Lakes. They brought the complexion, features, and 
 manners of their ancestors, and even their dogs are of the 
 Siberian breed. They are called Indians, either because 
 they resembled the inhabitants of India, or because they 
 were supposed to have descended from India. 
 
 '■ Between these ferocious hordes on the one hand, and the 
 white settlers on the other, the unfortunate Delawares, who 
 were probably tinctured with Malay blood, were beaten as 
 metal between the anvil and hammer, or broken to pieces 
 after the manner of grain betwixt the millstones. 
 
 ''Yet in this very spot, where barbarous and even canni- 
 bal rites have been performed, Schenectady soon arose, and 
 in less than two centuries has grown to its present popu- 
 lation and wealth. Schenedadea, or the pine-wood landing ; 
 Cohokesackie, or the land of owls ; Senajahat, or the stingy 
 road; Canajoharie, or the place where the water of the 
 
94 NOTES. 
 
 / 
 creek wliirls like the simmering of a caldron over the fire ; 
 KahoJialatea, the river since called Hudson ; Tioghdaronde, 
 the place where rivers or streams empty into others ; and 
 Canneoglononitade, the river that glides along toward its 
 precipice at the Cohos, — are a few of the appellations 
 that remain." 
 
 According to the late learned Mr. Thatcher, whose inves- 
 tigations and laborious researches into Indian history ought 
 to secure to him the gratitude of the public, since he 
 is now placed beyond the reach of their reward in any 
 other shape, " Their career of victory, which began with 
 the fall of the Adirondacks, was destined to be extended 
 beyond all precedent in the history of the Indian tribes. 
 They exterminated the Eries, or Erigas, once living on the 
 south side of the lake of their own name. They nearly 
 destroyed the powerful Anderstes and the Chouanons or 
 Showanons. They drove back the Hurons and Ottawas 
 among the Sioux of the Upper Mississippi, where they 
 separated themselves into bands, "proclaiming, wherever 
 they went, the terror of the Iroquois." The Illinois on the 
 west also were subdued, with the Miamies and the Shawa- 
 nese. The Niperceneans of the St. Lawrence fled to Hud- 
 son's Bay to avoid their fury. " The borders of the 
 Ontaonis," says an historian, '' which were long thickly 
 peopled, became almost deserted." The Mohawk was a 
 name of terror to the farthest tribes of New England ; and 
 though but one of that formidable people should appear 
 for a moment on the hills of the Connecticut or Massa- 
 chusetts, the villages below would be in an uproar of 
 confusion and fear. Finally, they conquered the tribe of 
 
NOTES. 95 
 
 Virginia west of the Alleglianies, and warred against the 
 Catawbas, Cherolvees, and most of the nations of the Soutli. 
 These tribes, of course, had no part in the massacre at 
 Selienectadj'. Says Gov. Clinton. " The syrapatliizing 
 and patlietic speech of the faitliful Mohawks, on that 
 melanclioly occasion, may be ranked among the most 
 splendid effusions of oratory." 
 
 Note 14. 
 Could imitate their scalp-halloo. P. 35. 
 
 "For everj^ scalp, and for every prisoner taken, the 
 scalp-yell, or, as it is sometimes called, the death-halloo, was 
 raised in all its mingled tones of triumph and terror. The 
 scalp-yell is the most terrific note which an Indian can raise ; 
 and, from the numbers that had fallen during this expedi- 
 tion, it was often repeated." — Col. Stone's Life of Brandt, 
 vol. i. p. 388. 
 
 ISI'OTE 15. 
 And chant the icarrior^s dirge. P. 35. 
 
 The death-song of the warrior is common, I believe, to 
 all the Xorth-American tribes of Indians, and, like the 
 fabled song of the swan, it is believed to be not only the last, 
 but the first display of their musical powers. It consists 
 generally of an improvised recitative of their own acts of 
 valor, and, if at the stake, mingled with taunts of cowardice 
 upon their captors, which, craft and subtlety to the last, is 
 doubtless designed to provoke a more speedy termination of 
 their sufferings. The following from Mr. Cooper's '' Last of 
 the Mohicans" will be recollected as the language of Chin- 
 
96 NOTES. 
 
 gachgook and his son Uncas, two Delaware chiefs, when, as 
 they supposed, about falhng into the hands of the Hurons 
 at Glenn's Cataract. The taunt of Uncas is in allusion to 
 one of the Huron warriors who had taken his station in the 
 upper branches of a tree, to shoot from thence upon their 
 encampment, and who had been dislodged by one of their 
 rifles, and dropped dead into the river. " Chingadujook. — 
 'Let the Mingo women go weep over their slain! The 
 great snake of the Mohicans has coiled himself in their wig- 
 wam, and has poisoned their triumph with the wailings of 
 children whose fathers have not returned. Eleven warriors 
 lie hid far from the graves of their tribes since the snows 
 have melted ; and none will tell where to find them when 
 the tongue of Chingachgook shall be silent. Let them 
 draw the sharpest knife, and whirl the swiftest tomahawk, 
 for their bitterest enemy is in their hands. Uncas, my 
 boy, topmost branch of a noble trunk, call on the cowards 
 to hasten, or their hearts will soften, and they will change 
 to women ! ' 
 
 " ' They look among the fish for their dead!' returned 
 the low, soft voice of the youthful chieftain. ' The 
 Hurons float with the slimy eels ; they drop from the oak 
 like fruit that is ready to be eaten : and the Delawares 
 laugh." 
 
 Charlevoix relates that an Indian of the Ottogami, or 
 Fox tribe, was tortured by the Illinois. After loading 
 them with all the insults he could think of, he looked 
 round, and saw among their number a Frenchman from 
 Canada, whom he knew. He called out to him to " asaist 
 the Illinois m tormenting Jiim.^^ — *' And why should I assist 
 
NOTES. 97 
 
 themf " cried the Frenchman. " That I may have the com- 
 fort of dying hy the hands of a man," said the prisoner; 
 *'m?/ greatest grief is that I never killed a max." Here an 
 Illinois interrupted him, and said that he had killed such 
 and such persons, naming several of the Illinois tribe. 
 " ifa, ha! The Illinois, indeed T' said the captive with an 
 air of contemptuous defiance. " The Illinois! I have killed 
 enough of them truly, but I have never killed a man ! " His 
 enraged foes probably soon paid him for this speech, as 
 he expected and hoped, with a death-blow. — Thatcher^ s 
 Indian Traits, vol. ii. p. 30. 
 
 Note 16. 
 If she were not, he little recks 
 How soon his head the death-cap decks. P. 36. 
 
 Col. Stone, in describing a dance of thanksgiving of the 
 Iroquois at Kanadeseaga,- in 1778, after the massacre at the 
 village of Cherry Valley, as witnessed by Mrs. Campbell, 
 one of their prisoners, says, "There was no prisoner put to 
 the torture, or attired with the raven death-cap on this 
 occasion ; but the prisoners were paraded, and the scalps 
 borne in procession, as would have been the standards taken 
 in civilized warfare in the celebration of a triumph." 
 
 I have not been able, on investigation, to find any further 
 authority for this matter of the " raven death-cap," and am 
 inclined to suspect it a mere embellishment of the imagina- 
 tion on the part of the biographist of Thayendanegea. 
 
98 NOTES. 
 
 Note 17. 
 As far beyond the tribes that stay 
 Near the great cataract's ceaseless spray. P. 40. 
 " The Eries, or Erigas, lived on the south side of the lake 
 which now bears their name." — Thatcher. 
 
 Note 18. - 
 ^^^lere on a shell-strewn island stands 
 A bell not made by mortal hands. P. 40. 
 " There is a rock situated on an island in Lake Huron, 
 which, on being struck, rings like a church-bell. The 
 French named the island La Cloche." — Thatcher. 
 
 Note 19. 
 
 Niperceans they, — a race, he said, 
 Of whom himself, the honored head. 
 Was known afar by friend and foe, 
 The firm and fearless Ivanough. P. 40. 
 Thatcher spells the name of this tribe Niperceneans ; but 
 it is so difficult to say when one has arrived at the correct 
 orthography of an Indian name, that it may be excusable 
 to occasionally drop a supernumerary letter or syllable for 
 the sake of melody. 
 
 lyanough was the name of "the courteous sachem of 
 Cummaquid," who is described as "not exceeding twenty- 
 six years of age, very personable, gentle, courteous, fair 
 conditioned, and, indeed, not like a savage, save for his 
 attire." — Journal of a Plantation. 
 
NOTES. 99 
 
 Note 20. 
 Before the Iroquois wefled. P. 40. 
 The story here related by the pretended sachem is matter 
 of history. The Niperceneans fonnerly lived on the bor- 
 ders of the St. Lawrence, and were driven thence by the 
 Five Nations. How Ensenore became cognizant of the 
 fact, may be something of a question, but one which it 
 is scarcely necessary to examine here. 
 
 Note 21. 
 
 Four cJiosen warriors with him loent, 
 
 All trebly armed. P. 43 
 Mr. Thatcher relates the following anecdote of a chief 
 of the Adiiondacks, as taking place at a time when that 
 tribe had become nearly exterminated by the Iroquois: 
 "He and his four comrades solemnly devoted themselves 
 to the purpose of redeeming the sullied glory of the nation, 
 at a period when the prospect of conquest, and perhaps of 
 defence, had already become desperate. They set out for 
 Trois Bivferes in one canoe ; each of them being provided 
 with three muskets, which they loaded severally with two 
 bullets connected by a small chain ten inches in length. 
 In Sorel River they met with five boats of the Iroquois, 
 each having on board ten men. As the parties rapidly 
 came together, the Adirondacks pretended to give them- 
 selves up for lost, and began howling the death-song. This 
 was continued till their enemy svas just at hand. They 
 then suddenly ceased singing, and fired simultaneously on 
 the five canoes. The charge was repeated with the arms 
 
.100 NOTES. 
 
 which lay ready loaded, and the slight birches of the Iro- 
 quois were torn asunder, and the frightened occupants 
 tumbled overboard as fast as possible. Piskaret and his 
 comrades, after knocking as many of them on the head as 
 they pleased, reserved the remainder to feed their revenge, 
 which was soon afterwards done by burning them alive in 
 the most cruel tortures." 
 
 The author supposes Mr. Thatcher may have been mis- 
 taken in the name and tribe of the chief who performed 
 this exploit, and that to Eagle-Eye of the Hurons the credit 
 in fact belongs. Be this as it may, there seems, by the text, 
 to have been some heroic act performed by the Huron, 
 similar, at least, as far as regards the number of his coad- 
 jutors. 
 
 Note 22. 
 Their moccasins reversed. P. 43. 
 "Accustomed, as an Indian must be, to all emergencies 
 of travelling, as well as warfare, he took the precaution of 
 putting the hinder part of his snow-shoes forward, so that, 
 if his footsteps should happen to be observed by his vigilant 
 enemy, it might be supposed he was going the contrary 
 way." — Thatcher. 
 
 Note 23. 
 To which the maddening howl gave birth. P. 53. 
 That the infuriating "fire-water" was introduced among 
 those tribes of Indians who were in alliance with the Euro- 
 peans at a still earlier day than the one referred to in the 
 text, appears by a speech of the celebrated chief Garan- 
 
NOTES. 101 
 
 gula to M. De Labare, governor of Upper Canada, in 1684; 
 in which lie speaks of the " Jesuits who break all the kegs 
 of rum brought to our castles, lest the drunken Indians 
 should knock them on the head." 
 
 Note 24. 
 And round Jus lengthened locks of jet. P. 56. 
 The hair of the American savages, says Thatcher, still 
 more decidedly than their color, distinguishes them from 
 all other people. It is uniformly, in each of the sexes, 
 black, until changed by age. It is often described, also, as 
 lank, and hanging in knots. 
 
 Note 25. 
 
 Upon the unknown brave. P. 57. 
 
 A brave is a warrior distinguished for his prowess. The 
 
 title, I believe, involves no other rank. I suppose the term 
 
 to be of modern use only among the natives, and to be 
 
 borrowed from the English adjective. 
 
 Note 26. 
 As doubtless holding some strange charm, 
 Potent, perhaps, to work such harm. P. 60. 
 The savages believe in charms and spells, but, in their 
 unlettered state, have not the most remote conception of 
 the nature of written communication, unless through the 
 medium of pictures and symbols. 
 
 Note 27. 
 One powerful arm his boat propelled. P. 78. 
 See Note 10. 
 9* 
 
THE 
 
 KNIGHT OF ST. JAGO, 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE; 
 
 Or, Tlie Kniglit of St. Jago. 
 AN HISTORICAL POEM. 
 
 I. 
 
 "Who seeks for Nature's changeless smile 
 Must seek it in the central isle 
 Of that fair group which lies afar 
 In beauty, 'neath the southern star, — 
 That isle upon whose verdant shore, 
 Three centuries agone, and more, 
 O'erlooking far both field and flood, 
 The New World's first emporium stood. 
 
 II. 
 
 If in tradition's cloudy land 
 The Muse may be allowed to stand. 
 Recall its shadowy forms to-day. 
 And, much presuming, seek to stay 
 
 105 
 
106 JUAN BELLA [RE. 
 
 With daring hand the threatened fall 
 
 Of drear oblivion's ebon pall, 
 
 Here shall she weave, in idle rh3'me, ^ 
 
 A legend of that fairj- clime, — 
 
 A checkel-ed tale of human life, 
 
 Of jovs and woes and passion's strife, 
 
 Of gentle hearts and spirits bold, 
 
 On histor3''s faithless page untold. 
 
 III. 
 
 Of old the vaunted flag of Spain, 
 Though sullied oft with crimson stain, 
 Assumed alliance with the cross, 
 That faith which holds all wealth as dross ; 
 And, 'neath that sacred sign enrolled, 
 Her sordid subjects fought for gold. 
 Yet not all mockery was the claim 
 Of conquest in Messiah's name : 
 Where Mars and Mammon had unfurled 
 Their banners to the western world, 
 Some faithful souls were sent to tell 
 (Thanks to the pious Isabel !) 
 Of their eternal weal made sure. 
 Who here believe, obe,y, endure. 
 And for the heathen world to ope 
 The fountains of perennial hope. 
 
 * A part of this stanza is borrowed from the preceding poem. 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 107 
 
 All blind to gold and deaf to fame, 
 A small but holy band they came 
 O'er miknowu seas, 'neath unknown sk}^, 
 Bearing their heaven-lit torches high, 
 Gilding the gloom which densely lay 
 As Zebulon's of ancient da3^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of these Anselmo ranked alone : 
 His life one blaze of virtue shone. 
 His equal mind, calm, fixed, and pure, 
 Force could not fright, nor pleasure lure ; 
 Oppression found in him a foe ; 
 A friend, the suffering sons of woe ; 
 And the vice-regal court in vain 
 Sought his connivance to obtain, 
 While ruling with an iron rod 
 That beauteous heritage of God. 
 
 V. 
 
 Beside Anselmo' s humble home 
 
 A stranger oft was seen to roam, 
 
 Of gentle mien, and saddened air, — 
 
 A victim of corroding care. 
 
 The simple natives of the isle 
 
 Called him " the man without a smile.'* 
 
108 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Though whispered rumors spoke his fame, 
 None knew his histor}^ or his name, — 
 A name on battle-fields once known. 
 Familiar as the trumpet's tone, — 
 Juan Bell aire, the brave and young, 
 In many a minstrel's carol sung ; 
 Juan Bell aire, still 3^oung and brave. 
 Without a hope this side the grave. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Him, friendless, did Anselmo seek, — 
 Anselmo, like his Master meek. 
 Glad to administer relief 
 To every grade and hue of grief. 
 Each soon the other's heart had won 
 With love like that of sire and son ; 
 Nor long to such a friend and guide 
 The knight his secret thoughts denied. 
 'Twas eve, and, with departing day, 
 The town's dull hum had died away ; 
 The sky, with ros}^ clouds o'ercast, 
 Told where the setting sun had past ; 
 And, fresh from flowery fields, the breeze 
 Was rustling through the acacia-trees, — 
 When, in a cool sequestered grot 
 Beside Anselmo's rustic cot, 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 109 
 
 Bellaire his promised tale began ; 
 And thus, in brief, the stor}' ran : — 
 
 VII. 
 
 SIR juan's tale. 
 
 Of this fair isle, well known to fame, 
 
 Which bears our native countr3''s name,* 
 
 And, with its sisters of the sea. 
 
 Owns that dear land's supremac}'. 
 
 Thou knowest ; nor does it need to tell 
 
 Of him whose fame thou knowest as well, — 
 
 Whom this New World was proud to own 
 
 Vicegerent of the Spanish throne ; 
 
 For who that boasts Castilian birth 
 
 Knows not of Don Gonsalyo's worth? 
 
 Good cause have I to speak his praise : 
 
 The patron of my earliest da^s. 
 
 And at whose side, in valor nursed, 
 
 I proved my maiden armor first. 
 
 Against the turbaned infidel. 
 
 Where cross and crescent rose and fell 
 
 O'er many a field and forti-ess strong. 
 And where, among the knights who bore 
 Their banners to that bloody war, 
 
 *Hispaniola, afterwards called St. Domingo and Hayti. 
 10 
 
110 JUAN BELL AIRE. 
 
 Fierce, obstinate, and long. 
 By which Granada's gorgeous lands 
 Were rescued from barbaric hands, 
 The Don Gonsalvo ranked alone, — 
 A terror to the Moorish throne. 
 And chiefest bulwark of our own. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The gracious sovereign of Castile 
 Rewarded well his subject's zeal ; 
 And seldom state has power, I trow, 
 Such ro3^al guerdon to bestow. 
 This island realm were ample meed 
 For firmest faith and boldest deed : 
 Its seas are calm, its skies are clear. 
 Summer and spring compose its 3'ear ; 
 And its rich depths of sea and soil 
 Alike repa}' the delver's toil, — 
 This with exhaustless stores of gold. 
 And that with priceless pearls untold. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But when, to cross this western main, 
 Gonsalvo left the shores of Spain, 
 A jewel thence he brought more fair 
 Than all the caves of ocean bear ; 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. Ill 
 
 More precious than the isle he sought 
 Although of beaten gold 'twere wrought, 
 And strewn with gems as thickl}^ o'er 
 As ever pebbles strewed the shore. 
 I need not sa}^ 'twas mortal maid, 
 Who thus the wealth of w^orlds outweighed ; 
 Fairer than fanc3''s brightest dream, 
 (Thou'lt strangely of the stor}' deem) , 
 Yet mine her heart, if love as true 
 As ever mortal bosom knew. 
 Plighted 'neath Andalusian sk}'. 
 Could form a title or a tie. 
 
 X. 
 
 But how shall I with words essay 
 
 Th}^ charms, sweet Inez, to portra}'? 
 
 Such form of fairy loveliness 
 
 As deigns sometimes our dreams to bless, 
 
 Then skyvrard, from our dazzled sight, 
 
 Floats like a cloud of silver light ; 
 
 An azure e3'e that seemed akin 
 
 To the untainted soul within. 
 
 And cast across her radiant face 
 
 A mingled intellect and grace ; 
 
 A voice, which, like a spirit call. 
 
 Held the enraptured ear in thrall, — 
 
112 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 All these were hers, though limniiigs faint 
 Of one whom language may not paint. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Sa}' not earth has no perfect joy : 
 Ours was a bliss without alloy. 
 No ban paternal checked our love, 
 No adverse fate against us strove ; 
 And, o'er the future's shrouded night, 
 Hope flung a long, long track of light. 
 GoNSALVo knew his daughter's worth, 
 And, from the period of her birth, 
 (For which a fond, devoted wife 
 Had paid the forfeit of her life) , 
 No othfer tie his heart had known : 
 Her had he loved, and her alone. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Each epoch of her life had brought 
 To him new stores of happy thought : 
 When feebly first she strove to frame, 
 "With faltering lips, a father's name ; 
 When next she ran, with tottering feet. 
 And outstretched arms, her sire to meet ; 
 And when in girlhood's joj'ous hour. 
 Her harp was heard in hall and bower, 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 113 
 
 Or, 'mid the maiiy-hiied parterre 
 (Its fairest flowers eclipsed by her) , 
 She trimmed the fragrant eglantine, 
 Or taught the jasmine where to twine, 
 Or decked with wreaths her loved gazelle, 
 While o'er its neck her ringlets fell, — 
 He felt within his bosom ope 
 New founts of happiness and hope, 
 And felt how futile were renown 
 His closing da3^s with jo}^ to crown, 
 Unless he saw the bliss secure 
 Of one so perfect and so pure. 
 
 xni. 
 
 What lineage mine, or what degree 
 
 Of fame in ranks of chivalry ; 
 
 Of her, whom noblest sons of Spain 
 
 And bravest knights had sought in vain, 
 
 How little worthy, or how well. 
 
 It fits not me, perhaps, to tell. 
 
 Some meed of valor I had won, 
 
 Perhaps some deeds of daring done, 
 
 And borne me well with steed and spear 
 
 As one but little used to fear ; 
 
 But since allowed her name to bear, 
 
 Her gage in battle-field to wear, 
 
 10* 
 
1 
 
 114 JUAN BELLAIKE. 
 
 Such fear as good St. Michael knew 
 When o'er heaven's battlements he drew 
 
 The sword o^ wrath divine, 
 And hurled his Maker's haughtj' foe 
 Down to the burning fields below, — 
 
 Such fear has since been mine ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I said the skies of hope were bright ; 
 But, like the skies o'er Carmel's height, 
 What time the prophet knelt in pra3'er, 
 A speck-like cloud was rising there. 
 Doomed to forestall the swiftest flight, 
 And wrap the firmament in night. 
 While thousands sought, in fortune's quest, 
 This famed Dorado of the west. 
 Till these far islands of the sea 
 Had thinned the ranks of chivahy. 
 And old Castile could scarcel}" boast 
 Enough of knights for tilting joust, — 
 I need not say what secret charm 
 Had sta^'ed my lance, or checked my arm. 
 
 XV. 
 
 In vain perpetual spring would smile 
 Across each green and flower}^ isle, 
 
 \ 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 115 
 
 And vainl}' would the acacia-trees 
 
 AYith fragrance freight each passing breeze ; 
 
 Eden itself were barren spot, 
 
 If there, dear Inez, thou wert not. 
 
 But now, when 'neath auspicious fate, 
 
 And vested with vice-regal state, 
 
 GoNSALVO with a gallant train 
 
 Prepared to cross the western main, 
 
 And her to bear, the smile of whom 
 
 Would fortune's darkest skies illume, — 
 
 The thought was rapture's thrill to me, 
 
 M}' heart stood still with ecstas}'. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Six ships composed Gonsalvo's fleet. 
 
 Their stores were in, — their crews complete ; 
 
 But, while we lingered at Seville 
 
 For favoring breeze our sails to fill. 
 
 Came tidings of the king's command. 
 
 That I should join a valiant baud 
 
 Prepared b}^ deeds of high emprise 
 
 Before our gracious sovereign's eyes, 
 
 The Queen of Beauty, and her train 
 
 And knights and nobles of the reign. 
 
 To prove our prowess on the Moor, 
 
 And make our vaunted valor sure. 
 
116 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Such challenge to the tournament 
 Granada's vanquished knights had sent.^ 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Who slights such honors of the crown 
 Thenceforth would vainl}' seek renown ; 
 The lists were for a distant da}^, 
 Not one the read}^ fleet could sta}' ; 
 And with that sun's declining light 
 Vanished its lessening sails from sight, 
 Vanished the angel from m}' side, — 
 Inez m}' love, my plighted bride, 
 While, wakened from m}^ blissful dream, 
 I wept by Guadalquivir's stream. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But sadl}' for my forced delay 
 Did one dark knight of Islam pay. 
 When came at last the trial day : 
 Thrice were our equal charges foiled ; 
 Thrice from the shock our steeds recoiled ; 
 But when, with concentrated force. 
 Again we dashed along the course, 
 The Moslem rolled upon the plain, 
 Ne'er to set lance in rest again. 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 117 
 
 I meant it not : I mourned it well, — 
 The death of that brave infidel. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I might with much detail repeat 
 Each bold exploit and skilful feat, 
 Which during those eventful da3's 
 Won for each band deserving praise, — 
 The final issue of the test. 
 As b}' our heathen foes confessed, 
 My transient triumph when I knelt, 
 And on m}^ burning temples felt 
 The wreath b}' beauty planted there. 
 While lengthened plaudits shook the air ; 
 But sadder themes, alas ! are mine : 
 I bow not now at glory's shrine. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Twelve months elapsed of doubt and pain : 
 At last a venturous bark again. 
 With white wings open to the breeze, 
 Sought the far west's uncharted seas ; 
 I trod its deck with heart elate. 
 But, mindful of my former fate. 
 Trembling beheld the capstan wind, 
 Unsafe till Spain was left behind. 
 
118 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Ne'er did returning exile gaze 
 
 With tear-dimmed eyes, through mist and haze, 
 
 More glad to catch the first faint view 
 
 Of the loved land his boj-hood knew, 
 
 Than I, from wearj^ bondage freed, 
 
 To see my native coasts recede. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 They fell behind the wave at last, 
 But when a second week had passed, 
 And we beheld in ocean merge 
 Those isles, so long the western verge 
 Of the known world to Christian men, 
 Thoughtful and sadly gazed we then ; 
 And many a hardy cavalier 
 Brushed from his cheek the unbidden tear. 
 Well might we gaze : thenceforth no more. 
 While westward three long months we bore, 
 The bending skies enclosed a shore ; 
 Their moving circle still embraced 
 Nought but a wide and watery waste. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Misgivings filled the hardy crew : 
 
 Nought of these boundless seas they knew ; 
 
 I 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 119 
 
 No friencll}' beacon's frequent light 
 
 Here rose upon the starless night 
 
 Ancl, often as some watchful e3'e 
 
 Seemed the far distant land to sp}', 
 
 The filmy soil dissolved in air, 
 
 Frail as the hopes that placed it there. 
 
 Strange doubts were felt, strange evils feared ; 
 
 And when the trembling needle veered,^ 
 
 No longer faithful to the pole, 
 
 Pervading horror seized the whole. 
 
 Our port was passed, the}^ said, and found 
 
 A sea which had no western bound, 
 
 And in whose desert depths afar. 
 
 Powerless would prove the sailor's star. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But, midst our growing gloom and doubt, 
 
 From cross-trees rang the merry shout, — 
 
 " Land! land! iqjon the iceatlier beam! " 
 
 And, gilded b}' a sudden gleam, 
 
 We saw it like an emerald bar 
 
 In verdant beaut}' stretching far. 
 
 And sent our answerins^ cheers on hiojh 
 
 In one long, wild, tumultuous cr}' ! 
 
 I seem to hear it while I speak ; 
 
 It shook the pennant on the peak ! 
 
120 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Some leapt and danced with boundless glee, 
 Some fell upon the bended knee, 
 And one went mad with ecstasy. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Instinctive now the willing crew 
 To wait expected orders flew, 
 And soon we made, with shifted sail, 
 A zigzag course against the gale, 
 Such path as politicians know, 
 Ne'er aiming where we meant to go. 
 But soon the breezes fell away. 
 And motionless our vessel lay 
 All powerless on the water left, 
 Like body of its soul bereft. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 In vain we sent new sails on high 
 To coax the zephyrs from the sk}', 
 Foremast and mizzen and towering main 
 With canvas crowded all in vain : 
 Still three long miles lay stretched between 
 Ourselves and that bright marge of green ; 
 And had it been that gorgeous isle, 
 Produced by necromantic wile, 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 121 
 
 Which, if beheld till set of sun 
 With e3'e unwinking, ma}^ be won, 
 But, if the gazer turns his head, 
 Sinks in the might}' deep, like lead, 
 Methinks we should have gained the prize, 
 So fixed were our delighted ej-es. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The wind that sweeps the Indian seas 
 Seldom exceeds a grateful breeze, 
 And oft, as on the inland lakes. 
 No breath their silver surface breaks ; 
 But when across the frightened main 
 Speeds the resistless hurricane. 
 The boiling depths convulsive rise 
 In foaming ridges to the skies. 
 So sleep, alas ! in seeming rest, 
 The passions in the human breast ; 
 So rise, at times, bejond control, 
 And shake and agitate the soul. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Such wag the heaven-directed blast 
 Which once across these waters passed, 
 When, gloating o'er his golden freight, 
 BoDiLLA sought his native state, — 
 11 
 
122 JUAN BELLAIKE. 
 
 BoDiLLA, by whose cruel rage, 
 The hero of this modern age,* 
 Disgraced b}' manacle and chain. 
 Went captive to the court of Spain ; 
 Himself was called to loftier court : 
 Ere scarce he left this island port 
 God sent his minister of wrath, 
 The fierce tornado, on his path. 
 And fifteen ships, with flowing sail, 
 Went down before that vengeance gale ! ^ 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Alas for us ! our own distress. 
 If less it were, was only less : 
 I woke that night from peaceful dream, 
 To see the lightning's lurid gleam 
 Flashing across the foaming crest 
 Of the vexed ocean's heaving breast ; 
 The answered shouts on deck to hear. 
 That told impending danger near ; 
 The dismal creaking of the shrouds ; 
 The flapping of the canvas clouds ; 
 And over, under, midst the whole. 
 The thunder's long, hoarse, deafening roll. 
 * Columbus. 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 123 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 On deck with reeling steps I went 
 Just as the whole broad firmament, 
 And all the vast expanse below, 
 Were radiant with the lightning's glow. 
 The rushing waves, th' inclining sliip. 
 The captain with his pallid lip, 
 The sailors clinging to the 3'ards, 
 The group that clustered by the guards, 
 The reef that roared upon the lee, — 
 I saw them all, then ceased to see ; 
 Such starless, ray less, total night 
 Followed that brief and dazzling light. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Why dwell upon that hour of fear ? 
 Each flash revealed the rocks more near. 
 *Twas vain to strive : our gallant crew 
 Had done what mortal men could do. 
 Then, conscious of the coming wreck. 
 Heedless of orders, thronged the deck. 
 Their brave commander at his post 
 Calmly surveyed the rugged coast 
 To see, amid the impending strife. 
 What chance might yet remain for life. 
 
124 JUAN BELL AIRE. 
 
 Brave men exchanged a sad farewell : 
 
 Others with terror lifeless fell, 
 
 While prayers and shrieks, a mingled sound, 
 
 In wild confusion rose around. 
 
 Now seemed some dark and giant form 
 
 Rushing beside us through the storm ; 
 
 Now one hoarse shout above the blast 
 
 Eang from the quarter-deck, " Stand fast ! " 
 
 Dread expectation held each breath 
 
 All clinging with the gi-asp of death : 
 
 Then came — O God ! what tongue can tell, 
 
 What heart upon that picture dwell ? — 
 
 The conflict of the keel and rock I 
 
 The ci^sh, the universal shock ! 
 
 The falliHg masts, and whelming waves, 
 
 And madmen leaping to their gi^aves^ 
 
 And others, with despairing cry 
 
 And spectral face, swept swiftly b3'. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Day dawned- upon a sea that bore 
 
 No trace of elemental w^ar. 
 
 But lay all placid and serene. 
 
 Skirted by banks of living green, 
 
 While rocks that harmless seemed as they, 
 
 Guarding the coast adjacent la}', 
 
JUAN BELLAIEE. 125 
 
 And on their sunken sides sustained 
 What little of our bark remained, 
 A shattered and dismantled hull 
 Saved by the tempest's timely lull. 
 But few survived that night of woes, 
 And some, like me, to envy those 
 For whom the wind of autumn moans 
 Around those huge sepulchral stones. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 How strange and dark are Heaven's decrees ! 
 How fathomless their m^^steries ! 
 I had one friend and comrade there. 
 And caught his look of wild despair, 
 When swept across that stranded ship 
 With the loved name upon his lip. 
 Of one whose heart would break for him. 
 Whose eye with watching would grow dim ; 
 While I, alas ! was spared to know 
 How taste the bitter dregs of woe, — 
 To know, if whelmed in that dark sea. 
 There had been none to weep for me. 
 I doubt me not 'tis right and just ; 
 'Tis deadly error to mistrust : 
 The}' sa}- the coming state of bliss 
 Will solve the m3'steries of this. 
 11* 
 
126 JUAN BELL AIRE. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 And now the toilsome task ensued 
 
 To pass the intervening flood, 
 
 And with some rescued stores to reach 
 
 As best we might the neighboring beach ; 
 
 And, ere the weary work was done, 
 
 Once more the sea ingulfed the sun. 
 
 At such an hour, in such a plight, ' 
 
 Amid the gathering shades of night, 
 
 Eight shipwrecked men worn down with toil. 
 
 We reached and rested on tlie soil, 
 
 Yet, mindful of our sovereign's fame. 
 
 Made formal seizure in his name. 
 
 Scarce worthy of the pains it proved, 
 
 Inhabited by nought that moved, 
 
 Save singing birds unused to own 
 
 Subjection to terrestrial throne ; 
 
 And v/ell, methinks, our realm might spare 
 
 To those bright citizens of air 
 
 A province so minute and fair. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The history of the ensuing year, 
 Made up of grief, fatigue, and fear, 
 And passed in forced seclusion here. 
 Shall not anno}" thy friendly ear. 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 127 
 
 At eveiy point our signals flew 
 Till from the encircling seas they drew 
 A bark we long had watched, and wept 
 While 3'et a doubtful course it kept. 
 From Spanish soil, with Spaniards fraught, 
 Bound to the very isle we sought. 
 Judge with what joy our bosoms beat 
 To find its deck beneath our feet ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 'Neath sunn}' skies, o'er sunn}' seas, 
 We sped with light and favoring breeze, 
 Till twice the calm and cloudless even 
 Disclosed the diamond depths of heaven ; 
 When next the sun's returning ra3'S 
 Revealed to our expectant gaze 
 Our promised land, as bright and green 
 As that from Pisgah's summit seen. 
 Coasting along its verdant beach, 
 The second da}' sufficed to reach 
 Domingo's spacious bay and port 
 Crowned with her city and her fort. 
 How glowed my heart with ecstasy 
 That long-imagined sight to see ! 
 How niost with happiness elate, 
 To view those marble halls of state, 
 
128 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Where soon I hoped, a welcome guest, 
 From weary wanderings I should rest, 
 And her dear smile, obtained at last, 
 Should pay for every peril past. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Impeached, tried, judged, condemned in haste, 
 
 Deposed, degraded, and disgraced, 
 
 Confined, escaped, fled with his child 
 
 For refuge to some distant wild, — 
 
 Such tidings of Gonsalvo first 
 
 Upon my failing, senses burst. 
 
 Few words and sad -shall serve to tell 
 
 How such a fearful fate befell, 
 
 B}' arts at which the fiends of hell 
 
 Must stand astonished and aghast. 
 
 And own themselves on earth surpassed. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Most proud, most powerful, and most vain 
 Of all the haughty peers of Spain, 
 Heir of a house that ranked alone 
 Betwixt the nobles and the throne, 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 129 
 
 And made of buried bones its boasts, 
 And a long line of titled ghosts, 
 Galinda, waiving rank and pride, 
 Had sought my Inez for his bride, 
 iSTot dreaming that a modern lord, 
 Who owed his title to his sword, 
 Could hesitate with jo}' to claim 
 Alliance with his ancient name. 
 His suit, repelled though oft renewed. 
 At length engendered deadlj' feud : 
 Long he revolved, with awful ire, 
 A plot to crush the loving sire. 
 And her, survivor of his woes. 
 To gain upon what terms he chose. 
 
 xxxvni. 
 
 Think not with grief my senses fail : 
 I have high warrant for the tale. 
 To him — a curse upon the art 
 That swayed his unrelenting heart ! — 
 To him, adviser of the crown, 
 I owed that station of renown ^- 
 Which held me prisoner still in Spain, 
 When sailed Gonsalvo o'er the main ; 
 His hand, though then, alas ! untraced. 
 Had round his mighty victim placed 
 
130 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 In eveiy post of power his spies 
 
 Skilled to construct stupendous lies ; 
 
 And when at length foul rumors came 
 
 Aspersive of Gonsalvo's fame, 
 
 And even, coupled with his name, 
 
 The charge of treason stalked abroad, 
 
 Linked with rapacity and fraud. 
 
 It was Galinda's counsel still. 
 
 Gave bias to the roj^al will. 
 
 Whose mind, with age and illness dim, 
 
 Doubted and feared and hoped with him. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 And when at length a potent court 
 Of trial and of last resort. 
 Unwillingly the king decreed. 
 Himself, with feigned dislike indeed, 
 As modest merit ever must, 
 Received the magisterial trust, 
 With power, — a3"e, doubt it if thou wilt, 
 On proof of Don Gonsalvo's guilt. 
 To fix without appeal his fate, 
 And take himself the helm of state. ^ 
 Thus, with a hate that knew no ebb, 
 Galinda wove his wicked web, — 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 131 
 
 A web whose single threads though light, 
 And drawn at first too fine for sight, 
 Conjointl}' formed a mesh at last 
 Which held his straggling victim fast. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Not India's wealth nor India's throne 
 Had ever proved a lure alone, 
 Enough to tempt o'er storm}' seas 
 Galinda from his home of ease ; 
 But passions fierce and foul possessed' 
 The portals of his tortuous breast ; 
 These, with ambition's powerful aid. 
 And avarice joined, his bosom swayed. 
 He went ; and in Domingo's bay 
 'His gallant fleet at anchor la}'. 
 Ere his unconscious victim heard 
 Of crime alleged, or charge preferred. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The rest thou knowest : of what avail 
 To dwell upon each dread detail ? — 
 What perjured witnesses arrayed. 
 What mockery of a trial made. 
 GoNSALVo, doomed to speedy death, 
 In durance drew permitted breath. 
 
132 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Whence, by some figenc}^ unknown 
 
 Escaped, he fled, bat not alone ; 
 
 For, though of fortune's smiles bereft, 
 
 His heart's best treasure still was left, 
 
 More prized than wealth, or power, or praise, 
 
 Or civic wreaths, or martial ba3's. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Devoid of peace, unknown to rest. 
 
 Twelve months of careful, toilful quest 
 
 I made throughout the desert wilds 
 
 Of this and the adjacent isles. 
 
 Vain was the search : that clouded fate 
 
 To which Galinda's baffled hate. 
 
 Backed b}' his power, could find no clew, 
 
 Defied m}' feebler efforts too ; 
 
 'Twas when hope's light had left my breast, 
 
 I felt what other ills oppressed. 
 
 And,- stretched upon a bed of pain. 
 
 Dreamed all my miseries o'er again. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 O Death ! the dread and scourge of those 
 In whom life's current calmly flows. 
 Whose temperate pulse, with equal beat, 
 Measures the moments as the}" fleet, 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 133 
 
 Who bail with jo}^ each rising sun, 
 And cahuly sleep when da}' is done ; 
 Who never knew the grief to bend 
 O'er dust that once had been a friend, — 
 O Death, how changed to me thy mien ! 
 How cahn thine aspect, liow serene I 
 No iron crown thy temples wore, 
 No dart thy rattling fingers bore ; 
 But on th}' brow a look of love 
 Proclaimed thy mission from above, 
 And in thy grasp a golden ke}' 
 Promised to set my spirit free. 
 But even thou canst mock with hope : 
 Thy shadow}^ gates but seemed to ope, 
 Gave but one glimpse of outer da}-, 
 And left me prisoner still in cla}'. 
 
 END OF SIR JUAN's STORY. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 He who had watched the listener's face. 
 And marked each flitting feeling's trace, 
 Surprise and grief, rapture and wrath, 
 Each following its precursor's path. 
 But yielding all at length to joy 
 Calm, certain, fixed, without alloy, 
 12 
 
134 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Had marvelled much such signs to see 
 Produced b}- tale of misery. 
 With kindling e^^e, and flushing cheek, 
 Thrice did Anselmo strive to speak : 
 In vain, — upon his faltering tongue, 
 Half formed, the trembling accents hung ; 
 Then pointing where, without the grot, 
 In beauty stood his vine-clad cot. 
 Now glistening in the lunar ray. 
 Arose, and thither led the way. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Arrived within, in eager haste. 
 The priest by secret means displaced 
 What, seeming firm and solid wall, 
 Gave entrance to a lighted hall. 
 Whence oped another exit still 
 Arranged with eye-defying skill. 
 Bell AIRE, not doubting rites divine 
 To witness at some inner shrine. 
 Approached without a hope or fear. 
 Till distant music reached his ear ; 
 Appalled, dismayed, he paused, and heard 
 It was enough — one onl}' word. 
 How reason reeled upon her throne. 
 By word and look alike were shown ; 
 
 I 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 135 
 
 With freiiz3''s fire his dark eye burned, 
 
 Full ou the trembling priest he turned ; 
 
 "Who, what art thou, old man," he said, — 
 
 ' ' Angel or fiend to raise the dead ? 
 
 Is she on earth, or I in heaven? 
 
 Speak, ere n\y tortured brain is riven ! " 
 
 With pallid lips the priest again 
 
 Essayed the mj^stery to explain. 
 
 But, mastered by emotion still. 
 
 No answering voice obeyed his will. 
 
 A secret signal served instead, 
 
 Well known within, and soon obe3^ed ; 
 
 Ceased suddenl}' the distant song. 
 
 Light steps were heard the halls along. 
 
 And Inez, radiant with charms. 
 
 Fell fainting in her lover's arms. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Fanc}^, with her Daguerrean power. 
 May paint, perhaps, that jo3'ous hour, — 
 The maiden's bliss, the sire's delight, 
 The voiceless raptui-e of the knight, 
 Anselmo's pleasure scarcely less 
 Blest with ability to bless ; 
 Fanc}", I sa}^, of matchless skill. 
 Has power, perhaps, the sketch to fill : 
 
136 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 Such scene to draw, such joys define, 
 Needs more presumptuous pen than mine. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 No longer here the Muse need dwell. 
 
 Or pause each light detail to tell ; 
 
 What wa}- the priest his friends had freed, 
 
 How sheltered in their ntmost need, 
 
 How each ingenious search defied, 
 
 Or how GoNSALVo's wants supplied ; 
 
 The fairer task be hers, to show 
 
 How fortune's skies, whose sudden glow 
 
 Thus broke upon a cheerless night, 
 
 Grew still more beautiful and bright. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 That monarch dread who claims his own 
 Alike from cottage and from throne. 
 His dart through Spain's regalia thrust, 
 And turned a mighty king to dust. 
 XiMENES, wise and good and great, ^ 
 Assumed the vacant helm of state, — 
 XiMENES, worthy well to sway 
 The mightiest sceptre of his day. 
 None saw with more nnclouded view 
 Dark error's tortuous windings through ; 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 137 
 
 None, heedless more of human wrath, 
 Trod Truth's iUuminated path. 
 Himself a priest, the regent knew 
 Anselmo's worth, and prized it too : 
 Once brethren they of St. Jerome, 
 Ere dut}' called the one to roam, 
 And one, severer trial still, 
 The lofty heights of power to fill. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Rumor, who shouts with trumpet tone 
 To make plebeian follies known, 
 Spoaks but in broken whispers when 
 She tells the crimes of might}^ men. 
 Such whispers of Galinda's wrong 
 Had filled the parent countr}^ long, 
 And now in growing volume came, 
 Backed by Anselmo's spotless name. 
 Once more was formed tribunal high 
 Empowered the island cause to try. 
 And strictest justice to award 
 Where'er might fall her venging sword. 
 Nought could the vice-king's rank avail. 
 Or gold, to turn the unswerving scale ; 
 With scarce a pitying voice to wail, 
 
 12* 
 
138 JUAN BELLAIRE. 
 
 He fell from loft}" height sublime, 
 Crushed b}' accumulated crime ; 
 GoNSALVo's cup of woB was drained ; 
 His name no more suspicion stained ; 
 To former rank and wealth restored, 
 The islands owned their rightful lord. 
 Raised by the same judicial breath 
 That doomed his t3Tant foe to death. 
 
 Most fragrant is the summer flower 
 When passing storms have ceased to lower, 
 And brightest are the stars of night 
 When bursting clouds reveal their light ; 
 So she from occultation long 
 (Sweet burden of the Muse's song) 
 Dawned on the admiring world once more, 
 More bright and beauteous, than before. 
 How more than radiant, more than fair. 
 Those matchless beauties to Bellaire, 
 With what a rich and deep excess 
 Of all the young heart's tenderness 
 He prized that dear and gentle girl, 
 Each word, each look, each floating curl 
 That fell in many a fairy fold, 
 Wreathing her snowy neck with gold ; 
 
JUAN BELLAIRE. 139 
 
 How with repressless rapture yiewed, 
 
 When, all their earl}' vows renewed, 
 
 Anselmo, at the altar's side, 
 
 Pronounced Heaven's blessing on his bride, — 
 
 Let him decide, and him alone, 
 
 "Who has such treasui-e for his own. 
 
( 
 
NOTE S 
 
NOTES. 
 
 1. 
 
 Tlie knight of SU Jago, 
 
 The most eminent of the military orders of Castile was 
 that of St. Jago, or St. James of Compostella. " The cava- 
 liers of this fraternity were distinguished by a white man- 
 tle, embroidered with a red cross, in fashion of a sword, 
 with the escalop shell below the guard, in imitation of 
 the device which glittered on the banner of their tutelar 
 saint when he condescended to take part in their engage- 
 ments with the Moors." — Peescott. 
 
 2. 
 
 Such challenge to the tournament 
 Gh-anada's vanquished knights had sent. 
 
 Stanza xvi. 
 
 " The Moorish and Christian knights were in the habit of 
 exchanging visits at the courts of their respective masters. 
 The latter were wont to repair to Granada to settle their 
 affairs of honor by personal rencounter in the presence of 
 its sovereign." — Peescott. 
 
144 NOTES. 
 
 3. 
 
 And when the trembling needle veered. 
 
 Stanza xxii. 
 
 That a similar dread was inspired among the companions 
 of Columbus when the variation of the needle was first 
 noticed, appears by Dr. Eobertson: " By the 14th of Sep- 
 tember the fleet was above two hundred leagues to the west 
 of the Canary Isles, at a greater distance from land than 
 any Spaniard had been before that time. There they were 
 struck with an appearance no less astounding than new. 
 They observed that the magnetic needle in their compasses 
 did not point exactly to the polar star, but varied towards 
 the west ; and as they proceeded this variation increased. 
 This appearance, which is now familiar, though it still re- 
 mains one of the mysteries of nature, into the caiise of 
 which the sagacity of man hath not been able to penetrate, 
 filled the companions of Columbus with terror. They 
 were now in a boundless and unknown ocean, far from the 
 usual course of navigation; nature itself seemed to be 
 altered, and the only guide which they had left was about 
 to fail them." 
 
 And fifteen ships, with flowing sail. 
 Went down before that vengeance gale. 
 
 Staxza xxvii. 
 
 It is necessary to resort to a note for the purpose of giv- 
 ing entire a name so justly consignable to infamy as that 
 of Francis de Bovadilla. The extraordinary character of 
 
NOTES. 145 
 
 his commission from the Spanish government, his gross 
 abuse of power, and the sudden and signal vengeance of 
 Heaven for his crimes, are correctly hinted at in the text, 
 and will be found related in full by all the writers on that 
 interesting age. Bovadilla embarked for Spain with a fleet 
 of eighteen sail, and was scarcely out of sight of port when 
 overtaken by a violent hurricane. Only three vessels es- 
 caped. Himself and his friends with an immense amount, 
 of treasure were lost. One of the ships which escaped con- 
 tained all the effects of Columbus. 
 
 With power, aye, doubt it if thou wilt, 
 On proof of Bon Gonsalvo^s guilt, 
 To fix ivithout appeal his fate. 
 And take himself the helm of state. 
 
 Stanza xxxix. 
 
 This remarkable power was actually vested in Bovadilla, 
 and led to the gross wrongs referred to in a preceding note. 
 
 "It was impossible," says Dr. Eobertson, "to escape con- 
 demnation, when this preposterous commission made it the 
 interest of the judge to pronounce the person whom he was 
 sent to try guilty." 
 
 6. 
 
 Xim^enes, wise and good and great. 
 
 Stanza xlviii. 
 
 Francisco de Cisneros Ximenes was a cardinal and a 
 Spanish statesman. Ferdinand, at his death, by the unani- 
 13 
 
146 NOTES. 
 
 mous advice of his counsellors, left Ximenes regent of the 
 kingdom until the arrival of his grandson, Charles I. 
 
 "The variety, the grandeur, and the success of his 
 schemes," says Robertson, during a regency of twenty 
 months, leave it doubtful whether his sagacity in counsel, 
 his prudence in conduct, or his boldness in execution, de- 
 serves the greatest praise. • 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
THE FOUNTAII^ OF YOUTH. 
 
 AN EXTRACT. 
 
 [The existence of a fountain whose waters restore to old 
 age the bloom and vigor of youth is among the beautiful 
 dreams of a past age. 
 
 Some of the successors of Columbus believed that this 
 magical fount was situated in that land of floral charms 
 now known as Florida; and the celebrated Ponce de 
 Leon actually fitted out an expedition, and went in search 
 of it. 
 
 The story in the text is supposed to be related by one of 
 his companions and fellow-visionaries.] 
 
 By many an ancient legend taught, 
 Full long and anxiously I sought, 
 "With weary limb and failing eye, 
 That lake beneath the southern sky 
 Whose magic wave has power, they say. 
 To wash the trace of time awaj^, 
 
 13* 149 
 
150 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 Drive from the brow each mark of care, 
 And leave its earl}^ radiance there ; 
 Restore the light of da^-s gone by 
 To faded cheek and sunken e3'e ; 
 Ke-animate the drooping head, 
 
 And limbs that totter towards the tomb, 
 And over all the person shed 
 
 Youth's early freshness and its bloom. 
 
 How long I sought, how fruitlessl}', 
 I need not tell : yourself may see. 
 Full man}- a sparkling fount I found 
 Out-gurgling from the grassy ground, — 
 Now in some cool sequestered grove 
 Where graceful willows drooped above, 
 And gentle flowers that bloomed beside 
 Were mirrored in its glassy tide ; 
 And now beside some lofty hill 
 Whence upward sprang the sparkling rill. 
 While far the scattered spray was seen. 
 And mimic rainbows spanned the green. 
 
 In each, in all, I paused to lave. 
 And drank unsparing of the wave. 
 Then gazed within their depths to see 
 If m}'' young years came back to me ; 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 151 
 
 But still I saw reflected there 
 
 My wrinkled brow and whitened hair : 
 
 Yet once — Oh ! never shall that day 
 
 From my fond memory fade awa}^, 
 
 When first, with hope and strength renewed, 
 
 And rapture-thrilling heart, I viewed 
 
 Thy dark and silent wave, St. Jude ! 
 
 The sk}^, with rosy clouds o'ercast. 
 
 Told where the setting sun had past. 
 
 Just as I reached that sacred shore, 
 And, fresh from flower}^ fields, the breeze, 
 Rustling amid the acacia-trees, 
 
 A grateful fragrance bore. 
 
 Worn down with toil and thirst and heat, 
 Scarce served my swoln and failing feet 
 
 To bear me to the water's side ; 
 But when upon the verdant bank 
 Of that clear fount I knelt, and drank 
 
 Of its refreshing tide, 
 I rose elastic from the soil, 
 Unconscious of my day of toil ; 
 I felt my vigor come again, 
 I felt new life in every vein ; 
 And, wild with one delirious thought, 
 Again in that blue mirror sought 
 
152 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 To find the charms m}^ features wore 
 Ere 3'outh and hope and love were o'er. 
 
 Imagine, ye who stand amazed 
 
 To hear the tale repeated now, 
 The rapture-thrill with which I gazed 
 
 Upon a calm and ^^outhful brow, 
 And glowing cheek and raven hair, 
 And ruby lips, reflected there ! 
 A moment of ecstatic bliss 
 So perfect and so pure as this, 
 Of hope so high, of jo}^ so bright, 
 Of such intense and wild delight, 
 Has never been to mortal given 
 " Without the golden gates of heaven.*' 
 'Twas but a moment, and it passed, — 
 Hope's brightest picture, and her last ; 
 For b}' this beauteous vision's side, 
 Unseen before, I then descried. 
 More haggard by the contrast made, 
 My own dark countenance portrayed. 
 
 Bewildered with surprise and awe, 
 I turned my trembling head, and saw 
 Standing beside me on the green 
 A maid of such celestial mien, 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 158 
 
 So bright, so radiant, and so fair, 
 I deemed some habitant of air 
 With pinions furled was lingering there. 
 But when from mj- brief trance I woke, 
 And knelt to her, and would have spoke, 
 (Vainly I tried : upon my tongue 
 Half formed the faltering accents hung) , 
 " Rise, rise, old man," the vision said : 
 " Bow not to me that silvered head ; 
 If aught of favor thou canst seek 
 From one so helpless and so weak, 
 As mortal to his fellow speak." 
 
 Her voice so rich, so soft and clear, 
 
 Like music lingered on my ear ; 
 
 And, if I had believed her more 
 
 Than maid of mortal birth before, 
 
 A task still difficult was mine, — 
 
 Less now to hold her than divine ; 
 
 But half convinced, and still afraid, 
 
 Her gentle mandate I obej-ed, 
 
 And, rising from the flowery bed, 
 
 '' Whoe'er, whate'er thou art," I said, — 
 
 " One of some band of n3^mphs who rove, 
 
 The guardians of this sacred grove. 
 
154 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 Or maid of mortal mould to whom 
 This wave has given perpetual bloom, — 
 Oh, listen to an old man's pra3'ers, 
 The victim of a thousand cares, 
 Who^ born beneath unkindlj^ star, 
 
 Opposed its influence long in vain, 
 Then fled his hapless home afar. 
 
 In hopes be3'ond the western main 
 Some home to find like this of thine. 
 On which that star could never shine. 
 Vain the attempt m}' foe to fly ! 
 The earth is changed, but not the sky ; 
 Across the land, across the sea. 
 Pursuing still it frowned on me. 
 
 " Yet in the record of my fate 
 
 All is not dark and desolate : 
 
 The crisis of ni}^ life draws near, 
 
 And, if the perils of this 3'ear 
 
 Are safely passed, henceforth my name 
 
 Renowned shall long be known to fame. 
 
 Thus did my horoscope foretell 
 
 B3' him, the great Mortelli, cast : 
 M3^ former life has proved it well, 
 
 I judge the future b3^ the past ; 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 155 
 
 Though much I marvelled what coalcl stay 
 
 The sands of life at this late da}", 
 
 Endue this dim and failing eye 
 
 With power new regions to descry, 
 
 Or on this palsied hand bestow 
 
 Strength to oppose a savage foe, 
 
 Till when, b}- Ponce de Leon taught. 
 
 With him these flowery shores I sought, 
 
 Convinced that in this region sprung 
 
 That stream so long by poets sung. 
 
 And e'en b}' savage seers foretold. 
 
 Whose shores were strewn with gems and gold. 
 
 And whose rejuvenating wave 
 
 Immortal life and vigor gave. 
 
 "But scarce we touched the tempting coast, 
 E'er met by an opposing host, 
 (Some demon band, I doubt me not. 
 Who guard this wild and wizard spot) , 
 Our followers to their vessels fled, 
 And left their brave commander de,ad. 
 And me to make what terms I could 
 With these wild tenants of the wood. 
 I counted life by moments then ! 
 Before me stood three hundred men, — 
 
156 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 If men they were : I doubt it much, 
 
 Although in size and figure such, — 
 
 "While broke the billows at my feet 
 
 Forbidding rescue or retreat. 
 
 At once a hundred bows were bent, 
 
 A hundred poisoned shafts were sent ; 
 
 But I was clad in Milan mail. 
 
 And, harmless as the summer hail. 
 
 They backward flew with ringing sound, 
 
 And fell in piles upon the ground. 
 
 While m}^ fierce foemen gazed in awe, 
 
 Nor seemed to credit what the}^ saw. 
 
 Their superstitious fears I guessed. 
 
 And drew my pistols from my breast. 
 
 And, with my youthful skill inspired, 
 
 Singled their leaders out, and fired. 
 
 Transfixed with terror and amaze 
 
 The}^ saw the unwonted weapons blaze ; 
 
 They saw, without a seeming blow, 
 
 Two of their braves in death laid low. 
 
 And thought that, armed with heaven's own wrath. 
 
 Some spirit-warrior crossed their path ; 
 
 And then, with wild and flashing eye 
 
 And rapid step, I drew more nigh. 
 
 Pointed the harmless tubes around. 
 
 And stood sole master of the ground. 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 157 
 
 On every side, in wild affright, 
 The pale survivors urged their flight, 
 Until, the wide savannahs crossed. 
 Their forms were in the distance lost. 
 
 " Throughout the coast the panic spread : 
 Where'er I came, mj' foes had fled ; 
 None dared the mystic foe withstand 
 Who hurled the lightnings with his hand. 
 What other incidents befell. 
 What toils were mine, I need not tell ; 
 Long was my pilgrimage, and drear. 
 But ends, I trust, successful here. 
 Thou knowest my quest, fair lady : speak ! 
 Is this the fountain that I seek ? 
 True, here is neither gold nor gem. 
 But little do I reck of them ; 
 Give but my squandered jems again. 
 Release me from disease and pain. 
 And, once restored to 3'outh and health, 
 I'll laugh at rank and power and wealth. 
 Say, does this silent wave contain 
 The virtues sought so long in vain ? 
 If so, thou'lt teach me hoAv to gain 
 Its secret power ; and, oh ! if not, 
 Wilt guide me to that sacred spot, 
 u 
 
158 THE FOTJNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 And my first years of youth shall be 
 Devoted, if thou wilt, to thee 
 As slave, companion, guide, or friend, 
 To cherish, counsel, or defend." 
 
 " Dark is the road, and drear the way," 
 With solemn accents did she say ; 
 " The region of immortal bloom 
 
 Is entered through a fearful vale 
 Girt with a garniture of gloom, 
 
 At w^hich the boldest well might quail. 
 Across its gathered darkness shed, 
 
 One only star illumes the night. 
 But not to all w^ho thither tread 
 
 Is given its mild and guiding light." 
 
 But I with eager haste replied, 
 " Danger and death I have defied ; 
 A thousand perils I have passed, 
 And shrink not from the worst and last : 
 Protract no more my w^oes, I pray. 
 But, if thou canst, define the way.'* 
 " I can," she said with radiant eye. 
 And pointed smiling to the sky ; 
 ' ' The pathway to that magic wave 
 Leads through the portals of the grave , 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 159 
 
 By thy wan cheek and furrowed brow, 
 Thou art not distant from it now. 
 Heaven is that land with beauties fraught, 
 Death the dark vale through which 'tis sought ; 
 This sacred sign," she said, — and pressed 
 A cross that glittered on her breast, — 
 " A spubol of that faith whose light 
 Alone illumes its cheerless night." 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 'TwAS Christmas Eve : the snow fell fast, 
 Fell through the twilight dun and gray ; 
 
 And now a breeze, and now a blast, 
 The wind went whistling on its way. 
 
 Through all the city's whitened streets 
 Gift-bearing people homeward sped ; 
 
 In car and stage were crowded seats. 
 And crowded roofs were overhead. 
 
 Pedestrians bending to the storm 
 Signalled in vain the autocrat, 
 
 Who stamped to keep his great feet warm, 
 Jehu in oil-cloth coat and hat. 
 160 
 
FRANK RUBY. 161 
 
 But all was mirth, each heart was gay ; 
 
 Well could the}' storm aud tempest stem : 
 'Twas eve of blessed holiday-, 
 
 And happy homes awaited them, — 
 
 Homes in which jo^'ous shouts would ring, 
 Homes radiant with the light of bliss,. 
 
 Where red-lipped children climb and cling, 
 To win the first paternal kiss. 
 
 Piled presents and the fireside glow, — 
 On such a scene one fain would dwell ; 
 
 But of this night of sleet and snow 
 I have another tale to tell. 
 
 Frank Rub3''s j^ears were fort^'-five ; 
 
 '' And half that period, and more," 
 He said, " I've labored hard to drive 
 
 The wolf of huno;er from the door. 
 
 Yet here we are, this night of storm : 
 Our cabin floor is bare and rough. 
 
 Our fuel scant, we are not warm. 
 We seldom have quite food enough. 
 
 14* 
 
162 FRANK RUBY. 
 
 Our children are too thinly clad, 
 
 Though the}^ are good as good can be ; 
 
 And Edwin, oh, my darling lad ! 
 He sleeps beneath the briny sea." 
 
 Patient and pale, beside him stood 
 
 His wife, and begged he would not grieve 
 
 She told him that the Lord w^as good, 
 And this his blessed Christmas Eve. 
 
 ' ' Perhaps he looks upon us now 
 
 In pit}^," so the woman said : 
 Frank Rub3''s was a wrinkled brow, 
 
 Frank Ruby shook a doubting head. 
 
 ' ' To-morrow all the town wdll feast : 
 I longed to get some treat for 3'ou, 
 
 But did not dare to spend the least. 
 Because the rent is almost due." 
 
 " 'Tis right," she said, " for I have dared 
 (Remember, it is Christmas time !) 
 
 To spend : nay, husband, be not scared ! 
 It was for them^ and but a dime. 
 
FRANK RUBY. 163 
 
 " 'Twas but this once ; you know, my dear, 
 
 They never had a to}^ before : * ' 
 Is it the rattling wind the}' hear, 
 
 Or mortal hand that shakes the door? 
 
 They haste to ope, they bring a light : 
 
 An old man bending 'neath a pack 
 Begs food and shelter for the night ; 
 
 His white hair streams adown his back. 
 
 The}' help him in ; he scarce can hear 
 The words of welcome which they speak ; 
 
 And 3'et he feels the warmth and cheer, 
 For smiles light up his aged cheek. 
 
 He lowers his bundle to a chair ; 
 
 Shakes from his clothes the clinging snow, 
 Shakes it from cap and beard and hair. 
 
 Then sits beside the fire's full glow, — 
 
 And laughs while Frank piles on the wood, 
 And rubs his hands before the blaze ; 
 
 And when the good wife brings him food, 
 He laughs again, but little sa3's, — 
 
164 FRANK RUBY. 
 
 And little they, so deaf is he, 
 
 So busy with his frugal meal. 
 And with that cup of steaming tea, 
 
 Whose warmth his very heart-strings feel. 
 
 Two little Christmas stockings hung 
 Gaping beside the roaring hearth ; 
 
 " And have you children? Are they young? '' 
 The old man asked with air of mirth. 
 
 They nodded, and he shook with glee.^ 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " he said, " I've guessed aright, 
 
 And, surel}^ down this wide chimney 
 Old Santa Clans will come to-ni2:ht." 
 
 They made his bed before the fire, 
 
 With blankets which they ill could spare ; 
 
 And, wearied all, they soon retire. 
 But not without an evening prayer. 
 
 Morn came, and still the snow did fall. 
 
 Frank feared his ancient guest would stay 
 He knew there was not food for all : 
 
 Alas, for such a Christmas Da}' ! 
 
FRANK KUBY. 165 
 
 He hears his children leap from bed, 
 
 He hears their voice of nois}^ mirth, 
 As shivering (each in nightgown red) 
 
 They hasten to the fireless hearth. 
 
 " O father, father ! come and see 
 What Santa Clans brought me and sis, — 
 
 Our stockings fall as full can be ; 
 And on the top, see, what is this? " 
 
 They rush to him in eager strife ; 
 
 Their little hands outstretched the^^ hold : 
 In each he sees — as sure as life ! — 
 
 A bright broad disc of coined gold. 
 
 " What can it mean? It is some trick ! " 
 
 Husband and wife astounded say : 
 They rise, they dress themselves full quick, 
 
 The}^ haste to where the stranger lay. 
 
 Their ancient guest he sleepeth well : 
 Frank Ruby gives him man}' a shake ; ' 
 
 He seems enchained b}" some spell ; 
 Never was man so hard to wake. 
 
166 FRANK RUBY. 
 
 Once more ! he rises nimbly now, 
 He stands erect in manly grace ; 
 
 He tears the white wig from his brow, 
 And flings the false beard from his face. 
 
 " My son, my son ! " the father cries, 
 Dame Ruby swoons upon his neck ; 
 
 'Tis Edwin stands before their eyes, 
 Saved from the sinking vessel's wreck. 
 
 To paint a pleasure great as this, 
 
 A jo}^ so tender, so divine, 
 Such lasting ecstasy of bliss, — 
 
 Needs more presuming pen than mine. 
 
 The parents think not of the pelf. 
 The " eagles " roll upon the floor : 
 
 They only think of Edwin's self, 
 Nor ask nor ffuess if he has more. 
 
 Not so with him, the boisterous youth, 
 Who from the land of gold had come, 
 
 And who had labored hard, in truth, 
 
 To gain and brinsj some thousands home. 
 
FRANK RUBY. 167 
 
 ''I've also brought 1113' own strong arm," 
 He said, " nor e'er again will stray ; " 
 
 Frank Ruby feared no future harm, 
 Frank Ruby Tiept that holiday. 
 
 He called his poorer neighbors in ; 
 
 A smoking turkey graced his board : 
 He laughed, as they may laugh who win, 
 
 And thenceforth trusted in the Lord. 
 
SIE WALTEE SCOTT. 
 
 [A lock of Sir "Walter's hair, presented to the author by the 
 late Col. William L. Stone, was the talisman which gave rise 
 to the following lines,] 
 
 There's magic in each silver thread 
 That o'er the soul-lit brow has curled, 
 
 Of him whose lofty genius shed 
 Its light upon a dazzled world ; 
 
 Whose thoughts were pearls in gold enshrined^ 
 
 And who in rich profusion flung 
 The rainbow colors of his mind 
 
 O'er every thing he said or sung. 
 
 At midnight, by my lamp's pale raj^, 
 
 The outward world awhile forgot, 
 Thus musing long I gazed where lay 
 
 A relic of Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 168 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 169 
 
 And soon my dimly lighted room, 
 
 As Memory's conjurations wrought, 
 Teemed with the fairy forms with whom 
 
 His fancy filled the world of thought. 
 
 Here pranced proud Marmion's fiery steed. 
 Frowned 'neath his cowl the Palmer there, 
 
 And tearful, by the banks of Tweed, 
 Sat the deserted Lady Clare. 
 
 Here flashed the sword of Snowdoun's knight 
 
 Defiance to a hundred foes ; 
 There Scotland's king restored to right 
 
 The Douglas and his mountain rose. 
 
 Here, in her vestal robes arrayed, 
 
 Upon the loft}- parapet, 
 Undaunted stood the Jewish maid, 
 
 And scorned the craven Templar's threat. 
 
 There passed in glittering pomp and pride 
 The ro3'al train to Kenil worth, 
 
 And Leicester's young and hapless bri'de 
 Wept by her hope-deserted hearth. 
 
 15 
 
170 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Here towered the Tolbootli, fraught with scenes 
 
 Of terror and of midnight strife ; 
 There Jeanie Deans — sweet Jeanie Deans — 
 
 Knelt for an erring sister's life. 
 
 Young Waverley — his perils o'er, 
 Pressed to his heart his gentle bride ; 
 
 And, dauntless still, Vich Ian Vohr 
 
 Shouted " Long live King James ! " and died. 
 
 Hector and Lovell fought again, 
 The gaberlunzie lingering nigh ; 
 
 Monkbarns, with Caxon in his train, 
 And Dousterswivel, hurried b}^ 
 
 Glendinning here, with m3'stic rite, 
 Invoked the maid of Avenel, 
 
 And 'neath his sword, in single fight, 
 Vaunting Sir Piercie Shafton fell. 
 
 Fair Edith Bellenden in vain 
 For her unlo^^al lover wailed ; 
 
 And hapless Headrigg here again 
 The tower of Tillietudlem scaled. 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 171 
 
 Meg Merrilies the gypsy there, 
 
 The Dominie and Dinmont too ; 
 And Bertram here — the long lost heir 
 
 Of EUangowan — rose to view. 
 
 Here passed Rob Ro}^ in tartan plaid, 
 
 The bravest of his own brave band ; 
 There with drawn sword proud Helen bade 
 
 The bailie Nicol Jarvie stand. 
 
 Again, 'neath SjTia's burning skies, 
 The Soldan and Sir Kenneth fought ; 
 
 Again, in Nubian disguise, 
 
 His camp the exiled warrior sought. 
 
 Once more upon the sacred plain, 
 
 At sound of trump, the mailed knights met. 
 And Scotland's noble prince again 
 
 Knelt to the fair Plantasenet. 
 
 Now on Lochleven's midnight wave 
 The royal barge in silence sped ; 
 
 Now from the walls the warders gave 
 Alarms that misht have raised the dead. 
 
172 Sm WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Eang the wild watch-bell long and loud, 
 
 Rattled the musketr}^ again, 
 And round their queen the nobles crowd, 
 
 To shield her from the leaden rain. 
 
 Here Highland chiefs and Lowland lords 
 And Christian knights of Palestine : 
 
 There Saracens with jewelled swords, 
 And maids with love-lit ejes, were seen. 
 
 They came, — a bright but shadowy throng. 
 
 Summoned b}^ talismanic spell 
 From lands of chivalry and song, 
 
 Of fairy green and haunted well. 
 
 Thank heaven, the charms are unconfined 
 AVith which the ideal world is fraught ! 
 
 No mountains bar the human mind : 
 No seas divide the world of thought. 
 
THE COMET'S ADDEESS TO 
 THE EAETH. 
 
 Fai^ Earth, when from the Omnipotent 
 We on our several courses went, 
 
 Thy Eden walks were trod 
 B}^ two of 3^outhful bloom and grace, 
 Unfallen founders of a race. 
 
 The favorites of God. 
 
 I saw thee in an after age. 
 
 And helped the waters to assuage, 
 
 Which drowned thy guilty ones ; 
 And sped from thee again, afar 
 Careering with my fiery car. 
 
 From thine to distant suns. 
 
 Centuries passed on : I went and came ; 
 Thy beauty ever was the same, 
 
 15* 173 
 
1T4 THE comet's address to the earth. 
 
 But changed the human race ; 
 Ages elapsed ; and from on high 
 The daj'spring of their hope drew nigh, 
 
 And dawned the day of grace. 
 
 I passed, and saw the holy hill 
 AVhere the Redeemer did fulfill 
 
 Jehovah's pledge to man : 
 The sun refused to lend his light, 
 And, hastening from the fearful sight, 
 
 Again my course I ran. 
 
 Unnoticed in the olden days, 
 My coming car met not the gaze 
 
 Of philosophic eye ; 
 But, from my sunlit path above, 
 I marked the fleeting records of 
 
 Man's immortality. 
 
 I heard the ancient empires ring 
 In praise of Macedonia's king, 
 
 When Persia's millions slain 
 Gave the last glory to his plume : 
 I came again, and sought the tomb 
 
 Of Philip's son in vain. 
 
THE comet's address TO THE EARTH. 175 
 
 I passed when every breeze unfurled 
 Thy banners, Mistress of the World : 
 
 I came again ; and then, 
 Where once thy emperors had led 
 Their legions forth, I heard it said 
 
 Imperial Rome had been. 
 
 And I have come again, and see 
 A new republic great and free, 
 
 A wonder and a fear ; 
 I go upon nw distant bourne : 
 Alas ! upon m}' far return, 
 
 What shall I witness here ? 
 
 Poet, philosopher, and sage. 
 Look on me ! In another age 
 
 Successors to your fame 
 Will gaze enrapt as you do now. 
 With kindling eye and soul-lit brow : 
 
 Will the}' i^ronounce your name ? 
 
 Ye of the palace and the crown. 
 Whose names are coupled with renown. 
 
 Gaze on me now, that when 
 Once more above your world I dwell, 
 I ma}' to wondering nations tell 
 
 Such things as 3'e have been. 
 
176 THE comet's address to the earth. 
 
 Yes, let the infant take the glass ; 
 For, ere this wa}^ again I pass, 
 
 Deca}' shall mark the spot 
 Where his great-grandchild's hoary head 
 Has long enjoyed a silent bed 
 
 Unnoticed and forgot. 
 
 Look, aged man, in whose dim eye 
 Glow visions heavenly and high : 
 
 Mine are the faintest rays 
 That emanate from that high heaven 
 To which thy heart and hopes are given ; 
 
 Take thou the glass, and gaze. 
 
 Farewell ! I'll look for thee, bright star, 
 When, from my wanderings afar. 
 
 Hither again I flee ; 
 But, when this point I reach again, 
 Perhaps, alas ! I'll look in vain, 
 
 Coeval globe, for thee. 
 
FITZ-GEEElSrE HALLECK. 
 
 As when the feverish skimberer wakes 
 
 From troubled dreams at night, to hear 
 The hallowed melody that breaks 
 
 From some far lute upon his ear, 
 And listens breathless to the last, 
 
 Dwelling upon its dying tone, 
 Onl}^ to feel his bliss is past, 
 
 And he is sad again and lone, — 
 
 So from its troubled visions woke 
 
 My heart beneath the potent spell 
 Which in thy classic pages spoke. 
 
 Thou ' ' of the lyre and magic shell ! ' ' 
 And so, each gem perused, I gaze 
 
 With lingering sadness on the last. 
 As he who in Zahara stra3's 
 
 Laments the loved oases passed. 
 
 177 
 
OSCEOLA'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 AN EXTRACT. 
 
 They call me savage : I am so : 
 My tears were never taught to flow 
 For common griefs ; and he who sees 
 His nation like their forest trees 
 Thinning and falling one by one, 
 Till each proud patriarch is gone. 
 Without a witnessed tear to show 
 The secret workings of his woe, — 
 May well look on with stoic eye 
 To see his countr}-' s/oemeri die. 
 
 The}'' say an equal war I wage 
 With women, and with helpless age, 
 And infants on their mothers' knees : 
 It is not so ; trophies like these 
 
 178 
 
Osceola's soliloquy. 179 
 
 I do not seek, I do not shun ; 
 
 I reck not of them lost or won ; 
 
 M}' voice as soon could stop the blaze 
 
 When kindled on the prairie plain, 
 As soon control the flash that plays 
 
 Around the towering temple's van%, 
 As sta}' the hand of n\y brave men 
 When echoing far through vale and glen, 
 O'er forest wild, and barren hill, 
 The}' hear the war-cry loud and shrill. 
 
 If, in the war-creed of our race^ 
 The name of mercy has no place. 
 It has been blotted thence by those 
 To whom by birthright we are foes ; 
 Through our once happy hunting grounds 
 Dail}^ the laborer's axe resounds, 
 And the destro3'ing w^oodman roves 
 Heedless amid our council groves : 
 But 'neath the rod of Manitou, 
 The red man scruples not to bow : 
 We saw in this His ruling hand, 
 
 And yielded to disgrace and toil 
 As strangers in our fathers' land. 
 
 And aliens on our native soil. 
 
180 Osceola's soliloquy. 
 
 This did we bear, and would have borne 
 
 We gave up all, with tearless eye, 
 Claiming the pittance in return 
 Beside our fathers' graves to mourn, 
 
 Beside our fathers' graves to die. 
 Our restless conquerors willed not thus : 
 
 Unsated with the soil they've won. 
 They say a better home for us 
 
 Lies far towards the setting sun ; 
 A land in whose green hunting grounds, 
 Unscared by man, the game abounds. 
 And where, thej^ say, is ample room 
 For us our empire to resume. 
 
 It may not be : how bright, how fair 
 
 That distant land, it matters not ; 
 Our father's spirits are not there, 
 
 Nor there their sacred burial spot. 
 No : we have sworn upon their graves. 
 
 Their listening spirits lingering nigh, 
 That, ere the Mississippi's waves 
 
 Divide us from them, we will die ! 
 
THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 St. Matt. vii. 24-27. 
 
 " Here will I build," the wise man said : 
 " My walls to this firm rock I'll wed, 
 Partaking of its might ; 
 Such added strength will well repa}^ 
 The work of many a weary day, 
 And many a sleepless night." 
 
 " Why all this labor? " Stultus asks • 
 
 " I try not such Herculean tasks, 
 
 Nor seek superfluous toil ; 
 
 Behold my own foundation laid 
 
 Where easily the shining spade 
 
 Divides the crumbling soil." 
 
 Time passed ; the builders' work was done 
 Twin structm-es towered beneath the sun ; 
 
 181 
 
182 THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 The choice 'twere hard to tell ; 
 For while the vernal season smiled, 
 And while the summer airs beguiled, 
 
 All seemed to prosper well. 
 
 But sadder, darker da3^s drew on : 
 
 The storm-king from his gra3'wacke throne, 
 
 Leapt with mist- wreathed brow ; 
 A mighty deluge swept the plain. 
 Resistless rushed the hurrricane ! 
 
 Where are those houses now ? 
 
 The one, on adamantine sills, 
 Stands like the everlasting hills. 
 
 Serene amid the blast ; 
 The other — lo ! its crashing beams 
 Sink in the quicksand's opening seams, 
 
 Its short-lived glories past. 
 
 O man of pleasure ! man of sin ! 
 Or — boasting innocence within — 
 
 O man of morals pure ! 
 Look to thy house ! See how it stands 
 Imbedded in the treacherous sands ; 
 
 Our Rock alone is sure. 
 
THE TWO BUILDERS. 183 
 
 The storm loill come ere Ions: at best : 
 
 Already in th}" Rearing west 
 
 Its lurid flashes glare ; 
 Wait not to meet its whelming shock : 
 Fly, fly to the eternal Rock,- 
 
 And find thy safety there. 
 
ELEGIAC. 
 
LIIJTES 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE FUNEKAL, OF THE LATE 
 MRS. SEWAKD, AT AUBURN, N.Y. 
 
 Only a few grief-laden weeks have passed 
 
 Since through the world that requiem was rung, 
 
 At which remotest nations stood aghast, 
 
 For which our own with sable clouds was hung. 
 
 The echo of that dirge comes back to-da}', 
 And peals around th}^ tomb, O loving wife ! 
 
 While we commit unto its kindred cla}^ 
 This second victim of the assassin's knife. 
 
 We little thought what heart that blow would reach, 
 Which Heaven ordained its loftier mark should 
 miss ; 
 
 Yet there were some who whispered, each to each. 
 With pallid lips, of such a grief as this. 
 
 187 
 
188 LINES. 
 
 Who knew thee best, knew how through war's long 
 night, 
 Waitmg the dawn, th}^ heart its vigils kept, 
 And how, with love intense and tripartite. 
 
 For countr}', husband, sons, thou watched and 
 wept. 
 
 I see " sweet Auburn " hushed and dark to-day, 
 (From far, with vision purified and strong) * 
 
 Dark with the crape-clouds that o'erhang the w^y, 
 Where that sad pageant slowly winds along. 
 
 I see St. Peter's walls and turret brown ; 
 
 I hear the solemn music of her choirs. 
 Her funeral bell that vibrates through the town, 
 
 And wakes a sad response from sister spires. 
 
 I see. Fort Hill, thy portals open wide. 
 
 Those gates where mourners bid farewell to bliss ; 
 
 And, pouring through, a long and living tide 
 Rolls onward to yon high necropolis. 
 
 Room for a sister here ! Make room 
 
 For virtue, goodness, unpretending worth : 
 
 For 3^e can spare amid these aisles of gloom, 
 'Tis all she asks, — a little spot of earth. 
 
 * These stanzas were written in New York, and were first 
 pnblished in the New York Times. 
 
LINES. 189 
 
 A little spot beneath these heavens clear, 
 
 These ancient trees with overshadowing bongh, 
 
 Where song-birds come, such as she asked to hear 
 When the death-damps were gathering on her 
 brow. 
 
 O God ! we bless thee even while we grieve, 
 And tenderly return this dust to dust : 
 
 'Tis but the ruined temple here we leave ; 
 The ransomed spirit walks among the just. 
 
TO OE"E 11^ HEAVEH. 
 
 Sweet spirit, who awhile with me 
 Sojourned amid this vale of tears, 
 
 Gilding my clouded destiny 
 
 With the pure loA^e of thy j^oung 3^ears, — 
 
 Loved, while on earth allowed to dwell 
 With youth and beauty on thy brow, 
 
 More than all marshalled words can tell, 
 And only less than worshipped now, — 
 
 Sweet spirit, in those realms of light 
 
 Where, freed from earthly taint and sin, 
 Th3^self, all purified and bright, 
 
 Through Christ's dear grace hast entered 
 in,— 
 190 
 
TO ONE IN HEAVEN. 191 
 
 I see thee, tliaiik the God of love, 
 
 With faith's undimmed, undoubting eye, 
 
 Amid the radiant bands that move 
 On golden pinions through the sky. 
 
 I see thee with that very smile, 
 Kindled by gleams of coming day, 
 
 With which thy features glowed the while 
 Thy gentle spirit passed awa3\ 
 
 That smile lilve sunlight rich and free, 
 Leaping from vernal skies to earth, 
 
 Wakening the forest minstrels}^, 
 
 And calling gentle flowers to birth, — 
 
 Upon my mcked and frozen heart 
 With warm and genial influence fell ; 
 
 And long shall gentle feelings start 
 Its grateful presence there to tell. 
 
 True, it has ceased, long ceased to glow : 
 Nor more those pallid^lips may give ; 
 
 And T have felt what depths of woe 
 The human heart may feel, and live. 
 
192 TO ONE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 It ceased ; but as from out the west 
 The crimson beams of light decay, 
 
 Only because its glowing guest 
 Is flooding other worlds with day, 
 
 So only failed that smile of love 
 
 Which ne'er shall fail my heart to All 
 
 And so, in brighter worlds above. 
 Sweet spirit, thou art smiling still. 
 
THE WIITTER GEAVE. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF IRVING P. MYERS. 
 
 The winter sun shines coldly down 
 Upon a fresh and flowerless grave ; 
 
 The leaden skies above it frown, 
 And leafless boughs around it wave. 
 
 There is no sign on all the hill 
 
 Of life, nor sound of joy is heard ; 
 
 Hushed is the summer *s tinkling rill, 
 And hushed the carol of the bird. 
 
 The bees are gone : the butterflies 
 
 Are heirs of sunshine, not of gloom ; 
 Sweet emblems of the soul, thej^ rise. 
 
 Like it, from out a darkened tomb. 
 
 193 
 
194 THE WINTER GRAVE. 
 
 Yes, they shall burst their cerements, 
 And flutter forth to life and light : 
 
 Tliis miracle is plain to sense. 
 And needs not faith's profounder sight. 
 
 And these dead trees shall live again. 
 And spring and summer shall come back 
 
 With birds and blossoms in their train ; 
 No charm the J03-OUS June shall lack. 
 
 What do these transmutations teach ? 
 
 What do these symbols adumbrate, 
 Unless, like Heaven's own page, they preach 
 
 That earth is not man's final state? 
 
 The books are two, the lesson one. 
 Recorded by the hand of God, 
 
 For all who live beneath the sun. 
 And all who sleep beneath the sod. 
 
 The dead shall rise ! Vain scoffer, hence ! 
 
 No more your sophistries I dread ; 
 Enough to know, " Omnipotence 
 
 Stands pledged to raise the dead! '' 
 
THE WINTER GRAVE. 195 
 
 The dead sJicdl rise ! And we shall stand 
 
 Beside them in the pearly skies, 
 And hold them with a loving hand, 
 
 And look into their loving ej-es. 
 
 Tliis will be heaven before we gain 
 • The mount of giorj^ and of song ; 
 And this will compensate for pain, 
 And waiting wearily and long. 
 
 And 3'e, dark-robed, whose plaintive sighs 
 About this hallowed spot resound, 
 
 Who scarce can see, through tear-filled e3^es. 
 What here ye seek, Ms precious mound, — 
 
 Who here your floral offerings bring, 
 And plant, tear-moistened, one by one, 
 
 Cr3'ing, like Israel's smitten king, 
 ' ' O Absalom ! m?/ son ! . my son / " — 
 
 Look up ! There is no brazen wall 
 Between 3'ou and his better home ; 
 
 And there is hope for us, for all. 
 To scale the emp3'rean dome, — 
 
1S6 THE WINTER GRAVE. 
 
 And join our loved ones gone before, 
 In regions of perennial bliss, 
 
 Where we shall ne'er remember more 
 The anguish of a world like this. 
 
I