Osric: a Missionary Tale; with The Garden, and Other Poems.
Charlotte Elizabeth, 1790-1846
Charlotte Payne, -- creation of electronic text.
Electronic edition 263Kb
Copyright, British Women Romantic Poets Project
Shields Library, University of California, Davis, California 95616
2000
I.D. No. CharEOsric
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Available at: http://libdev2.ucdavis.edu/English/BWRP/Works/CharEOsric.sgm
Davis
I.D. No. 45
Nancy Kushigian, -- General Editor
Charlotte Payne, -- Managing Editor
Osric: a missionary tale: with The garden and other poems
Charlotte Elizabeth
Wm. Curry Jun. & Co.
[18--]
[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler
Collection, University of California , Davis
The editors thank the Shields Library,
Purchase of software has been made possible by a research grant from the
Librarians' Association of the
All poems, line groups, and lines are represented. All material originally typeset has been preserved, with the exception of running heads, the original prose line breaks, signature markings and decorative typographical elements. Page numbers and page breaks have been preserved. Pencilled annotations and other damage to the text have not been preserved. Pagination irregular: [i]-[ii], [1]-[3], 4, [iii]-[iv], [5]-134, [1]-53.
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[Title Page]
[Pagination irregular: [i]-[ii], [1]-[3], 4, [iii]-[iv], [5]-134, [1]-53. The two main sections are separately paginated.]
OSRIC;
A MISSIONARY TALE.
Page [ii]
PRINTED BY M. GOODWIN,
29.
OSRIC:
A MISSIONARY TALE; WITH
THE GARDEN,
AND
OTHER POEMS.
BY
CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.
DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO MRS. HANNAH MORE.
PUBLISHED BY WM. CURRY JUN. & Co.
AND SOLD BY
HATCHARD AND SON, FRANCIS WESTLEY, AND C. B. WHIT-
AKER, LONDON; IN EDINBURGH, BY WAUGH AND INNES,
AND W. OLIPHANT; IN GLASGOW, BY CHALMERS AND
COLLINS; AND IN BRISTOL, BY W. BULGIN.
TO
MRS . HANNAH MORE.
MY DEAR MADAM ,
IN adopting a nearly obsolete custom, and prefixing a dedication to my little work, I shelter myself behind individual obscurity and insignificance; and instead of marking the volume with my own name, desire to embellish it with yours.
But, strong as are the feelings that swell in my heart while so doing--feelings of personal affection and gratitude--of veneration for your truly Christian character, of admiring respect for the talents bestowed upon you, and yet more for the uninterrupted consecration of those talents to the glory of God; yet I dare not address you in the language of panegyric; for were I to do so, you would assuredly reply to me in that of reproof: and referring all to Him who worketh in us both to will and to do, tell me, in the words of your admired Paul, "By the grace of God I am what I am."
And this grace, my dear Madam, has not been bestowed in vain. You have laboured abundantly; and as the season of your rest approaches, we behold in you a delightful encouragement to go and do likewise. Under all the infirmities that length of days must naturally bring to these earth-born bodies of ours, and all the severe
pains that your Heavenly Father in His love sees meet for a time to chasten you with, we find you in patience possessing your soul, supported by the power of the everlasting arm, and with tranquil joy anticipating the call that shall bid you receive an imperishable crown, and cast it down before the throne of your Redeemer.
In the midst of temporal afflictions, occasionally aggravated by ill health, has this trifling volume been completed for the press. Like its author, it is one of the weak things of the world; but it is sent forth with much prayer for that blessing which can render the weakest effectual. Should it arrest the attention of one thoughtless reader, disposing him to inquire after the things that belong unto his peace; should it excite in one mind an emotion of sympathy for the many millions in heathen lands among whom the ray of the Gospel has not shone, nor the call to awake and arise been addressed to the souls dead in trespasses and sins; and should that emotion lead to one additional effort in the great cause of Missions, the prayer will be answered, and the writer satisfied.
With equal affection and respect, I subscribe myself, My dear Madam,
Your grateful friend
and servant,
THE AUTHOR.
ERRATA.
- In "Osric."--Page 7, line 1, for rear, read near.
- ---- 20, -- 1, -- heads, read head.
- ---- --, -- 17, -- horn, read hour.
- ---- 44, -- 18, dele ?
- ---- 52, -- 21, for rove, read rave.
- ---- 69, -- last, -- conqueror, read conquer.
- ---- 84, -- 3, -- lonely, read lovely.
- ---- 85, -- 18, -- steeps, read sleeps.
- ---- 93, -- 21, -- pang, read fang.
- ---- 99, -- 10, -- bear, read bar.
- ---- 101, -- 4, -- highly, read lightly.
- ---- 103, -- 12, -- bent, read lent.
- ---- 120, -- 8, -- fit, read fix.
- ---- 126, -- 7, -- ere, read e'en.
- In "The Garden."--13, -- 5, -- friends, read fiends.
- ---- 22, -- 5, -- gleaning, read gleaming.
- ---- 42, -- 8, -- remembrance, read remembrancer.
OSRIC,
A
Missionary Tale.
'TIS eve:--ascending high, the ocean
storm
Spreads in dark volumes his portentous form;
His hollow breezes, bursting from the clouds,
Now reach the sail, and whistle through the shrouds.
Roused by the roar of elemental strife,
The swelling waters tremble into life;
Lo! through the billows of that raging sea,
The storm beat vessel labours on her way,
With bending mast, rent sail, and straining sides,
High on the foaming precipice she rides,
Then reeling onward with descending prow,
In giddy sweep, glides to the gulf below:
Her fragile form conflicting billows rock,
Her timbers echo to the frequent shock,
While bursting o'er the deck, each roaring wave
Bears some new victim to a hideous grave.
The thunder-bolt rives the opposing blast,
And the blue death-fire plays upon the mast,
Nor mortal force, nor practised art avail,
The vessel drives, abandoned to the gale.
Above, more darkly frowns the brow of night,
Beneath, the waters glow more fiercely bright;
Ploughing a track of mingled foam and fire,
Fast flies the ship before the tempest's ire,
While reeling to and fro, the hapless crew,
Gaze on the wild abyss, and shudder at the view.
Dread was the night: but oh! how doubly dread
That scene, when tinged with morning's dusky red.
There, where her headlong course the vessel bends,
One rugged line of frowning rocks ascends,
In giant height, magnificently steep,
They rear their towering forms above the deep;
Wild and fantastic, bleak and black they rise,
And pile their mighty masses to the skies:
No friendly port that awful wall divides,
But one impervious bulwark spurns the tides.
To heap new horrors on the yawning grave,
A bounding iceberg glitters on the wave:
In wild dismay the mimic town they rear,
Where lofty spires and pinnacles appear:
High and majestic gleams its snow-capped head,
And wide beneath the main its fatal base is spread.
Retiring at the glance of cheerful day,
Far to the west the tempest rolls away,
Yet with faint hands and sinking hearts the crew,
Speed to their posts, and trim the ship anew,
For still the frozen isle with threatening sweep,
Hangs on their path, and thunders through the deep:
No skill can save them:--on that icy rock
The vessel strikes, and staggers from the shock,
The glassy base no kind support affords,
While waves rush fiercely through the severed boards,
Sinking apace, with tottering hull she floats,
Till the sad crew could loose the ready boats,
And loud the cry of desolation rose,
When o'er the lofty mast they saw the billows close.
They strain the oars, and spread their puny sails,
To catch the breathing of the softened gales:
Coasting all day along the rocky shore,
Some opening creek for shelter to explore,
Deeming that wild and rugged steep must own
An inlet to
As fades the day, the angry breakers rise,
And many an echo to their roar replies;
Warned by such sound, and by the rustling breeze,
They furl the sail, the diving oar they seize--
In vain--for, hurled upon the ruthless stone,
One boat, with all her little band, is gone!
Through the unclouded azure of the sky,
Resplendent and full-orbed, the moon rides high;
But bitter is the wind, and in the wave
The toil-worn seamen view their destined grave;
Behind the summit of a towering height,
Pale Cynthia seems to veil her from the sight;
While a curled billow rears his crest of pride,
And whelms the last frail bark beneath the tide.
"Mysterious Fate! O wherefore dost thou give
A wretch, so thankless for thy grace, to live?
O'er the fond sire, the spouse of faithful soul,
The duteous son, those spreading waters roll:
Such ties thou hast dissolved, remorseless sea--
Why waste thy idle clemency on me?"
So spake the sole survivor of the train
Whose breathless forms were tossed upon the main;
From the tall rock the wide expanse he viewed,
And thus his melancholy theme pursued:--
"There rode our gallant ship, while flattering gales
The painted streamers kissed, and fanned the sails;
There, round her path, the wanton waves would play,
As proud to bear her on her prosperous way.
Ocean, thou art the world's epitome,
Its friendship and its faith reside in thee;
When Fortune's favouring breezes ceased to blow,
Dark grew thy face, and ruffled was thy brow;
Those very tides that bent beneath her tread,
Roll in exulting malice o'er her head."
A passing smile of bitter irony
Gleamed, as his front was lifted to the sky--
"And thou, O fickle Moon, that roll'st above,
Thy wandering splendour is the light of love;
How sweetly on our peaceful track, erewhile,
Shone the soft ray of that endearing smile!
But where, kind Goddess, was thy silver beam
When the rock frowned, and death was in the stream?"
His soul had early writhed beneath the smart
Of base ingratitude, and treacherous art;
But late, surrounded by a listening throng,
Theme of the sage's pen, the poet's song;
Best of the good, and boldest of the brave,
Then, a forgotten exile on the wave;
And now, to name, to home, to country lost,
A cast-away upon a desert coast!
'Tis on the fairest bud, the tenderest flower,
The canker-worm displays its venomed power;
'Tis on the mighty oak, the spreading ash,
The thunder-bolt is hurled, and bent the flash.
The flower has lost its tint of early bloom,
Yet its torn fragments breathe a rich perfume:--
Lopped are the boughs, and gone the robe of green,
But still the towering trunk speaks what the tree has been.
OSRIC had felt
the arrow in his heart,
And proudly rose, superior to the smart;
Still, in the glances of his eagle eye,
Shone inward peace, and calm philosophy;
By temperance nurtured, on his native soil,
His hardy frame defied disease and toil:--
Oft when luxurious viands steamed around,
The hermit's fare his simple meal had crowned;
He knew the wants of nature to supply,
Those wants unsatisfied, to smile and die.
What lacked he yet?--he lacked the heaven-taught lore,
Prospering to bend, and chastened to adore.
His pliant mind, in philosophic schools,
Was warped to systems formed by specious rules;
With reason's dim, unaided eye, he saw
Creation swayed hy one unchanging law;
Evil and good promiscuously he found;
Rapture and woe trod their alternate round--
Man seemed the sport of Fortune, made in vain,
His life, a bark launched on the treacherous main;
Reason his pilot, fickle chance the breeze,
Death the sole port on those uncertain seas;
Thence, landing on an undiscovered shore,
The disembodied spirit might explore
Regions, in more than earthly splendour bright,
Or scenes of darkness, and eternal night;
But all was wrapped in one mysterious shroud,
Nor reason's keenest gaze could pierce the cloud.
Yet deemed he not but some Eternal Cause
Formed the high scheme, and fixed the wond'rous laws;
Wheeled the round earth, upon her viewless pole,
And gave the planetary spheres to roll;
Called Nature, blooming from her annual grave,
Swelled the dark tide, and curbed the rising wave;
Gave man the soul that sparkles in his eye,
And formed that soul for immortality:
Creator infinite, and Judge alone,
This God should summon them before his throne,
And speak a doom of bliss or woe on all,
Equal and just, and fixed beyond recal.
Yet more, he knew that, pitying mortal woe,
God's Son, incarnate, had sojourned below;
Had lived in poverty, and guiltless died,
For wretched man some blessing to provide.
But darkly were these living truths impressed,
With dubious outline, upon Osric's breast.
What marvel, then, God's work so faintly known,
Osric should rest his hope upon his own,
And build a towering castle on the sand,
And glory in the labours of his hand?
But clouds unlooked-for veil his summer skies,
The rain descends, the stormy winds arise,
And wave, succeeding wave, must yet assail,
Ere the strong fabric of his hope shall fail;
Show him the vengeance of a righteous God,
And leave him shelterless beneath the rod;
While the stern voice of Justice, from the sky,
Proclaims, "The soul that sinneth, it shall die."
Ask not the long dark story of his woes,
But view the sufferer, wrapped in sweet repose,
Beneath a crag, with dripping sea-weed hung,
His weary frame the cast-away hath flung;
Ev'n ruthless Memory slumbers o'er the tale,
And Fancy's unsubstantial mockeries fail;
No longer summoned, by her idle wand,
Unreal phantoms live at her command--
Shadows of joys for ever passed away,
Mistrustful bodings of the coming day,
Or visionary bliss, that Reason spurns,
Though the fond heart to such illusions turns,
As, deadly like the sun's untempered ray,
Strike to the brain, and while they dazzle, slay,
Quaffing unseen the moisture that supplies
Life's fragile stem, they dance, while the poor victim dies.
But all were banished now, and slumber spread
Her darkest, dreamless mantle, o'er his head,
Till morning's ray gleamed o'er the gilded wave,
And cheered the rude apartment of his cave.
The sunbeam resting on the sleeper's eye,
Roused him once more to life and memory:
He felt that strange, mysterious, waking pain,
That thrills the heart, and presses on the brain,
When some deep anguish of the former night,
But half remembered, floats before the sight;
The sickening soul turns inward from the view
Of deprivations terrible and new--
A loved-one whose expiring sigh is o'er,
Or living, parted--to return no more.
Osric arose, and gazed upon the scene;
No vestige told where death had lately been;
No corpse was cast upon the stony steep;
No wreck appeared upon the azure deep;
The wind was hushed, and leisurely the wave
Rolled, with soft dirges, o'er the seaman's grave;
And lo! he sees the fatal iceberg ride,
With languid motion, stealing o'er the tide.
Wonder and grief with admiration swell,
While his moist eyes upon its movements dwell;
It seemed as broken rocks and ruined towers,
Together met, were clad by snowy showers,
While here and there, a lovely palace shone
In crystal, gemmed with many a brilliant stone;
For in transparent ice he might survey
Prismatic hues, lent by the morning's ray,
So beauteous and so terrible, it glows
With summer tints, and frowns with winter snows.
Its frozen bulk seemed destined to retain
A giant strength, coeval with the main;
But suddenly, arrested in its course,
It paused, as owning some superior force,
Then trembling rose, with unexpected swell,
And in ten thousand glittering fragments fell,
Bursting, self-rent, with such tremendous roar,
Redoubled thunders echoed from the shore;
A sweeping whirlwind seemed to plough the tide,
And bid the agitated waves divide;
Engulfed in ocean's bed those fragments lie,
And all is tranquil sea, and cloudless sky.
An exclamation, in a tongue unknown,
Now told the wanderer he was not alone;
He turned, and started, to behold so near,
A band of swarthy Indians in the rear:
Half menacing they stood, with sullen air,
But what can daunt the courage of despair?
Hunger and toil had faded Osric's eye,
Yet could not quell his inborn majesty:
Equal to him the doom, or life, or death--
His native speech he deemed were idle breath:
With brow unruffled, and with lips unclosed,
On their dark visages his look reposed,
Admiring while they held their low debate,
In harsh deep accents, on the captive's fate.
Equipped for chase, yet well prepared for strife,
Each holds the hunter's spear, the warrior's knife;
A bear's rough hide, that from the neck depends,
Across the shoulder to the knee descends;
A slighter vest, with gay embroidery graced,
In plenteous folds, is gathered round the waist;
A belt was furnished by the slaughtered deer,
Where the broad axe and tomahawk appear;
While a young otter's undivided skin
Contains the hunter's simple stores within:
The garment's lower edge strong buskins meet,
And well-constructed sandals graced the feet.
Nor Europe's pale, nor Afric's sable stain,
O'er the strong features of the Indian reign;
Small, dark, and exquisitely formed, the eye
Darts forth an eagle glance of scrutiny;
The long straight hair, and thin o'erarching brow,
Are ebon black; the teeth as driven snow.
In every countenance might Osric trace
A semblance to the wild Egyptian race,
Or those who, groaning under
Were succoured by the arm of Jacob's God.
While yet the strange and warlike group he scanned,
The seeming chief approached him from the band,
And soon, in pleased astonishment, he hung
On the loved accents of his native tongue:
With speech imperfect, but in friendly tone,
The Indian bade him make his purpose known--
Unfruitful was the scene; why wander there?
What was his country? and his comrades where?
Short was the tale, and barely was it said,
Ere with rude haste the barren ground they spread.
Sweet as the manna, and the rock-born wave,
That God's free bounty in the desert gave
To famished
His mercy furnished for a thankless guest;
Thankless to Him, whose all-sufficient care
Feeds the unthinking wanderers of the air;
Thankless to Him who snatched him from the tide,
Preserved his being, and his wants supplied.
Their master's crib the very oxen know,
But man considers not from whom his blessings flow.
Osric in early youth had loved to store
His comprehensive mind with classic lore;
With glowing hope, and ardour unsubdued,
The opening vista of the world he viewed;
From academic shades and rural bowers,
That prospect seemed a wilderness of flowers;
He tried the path that bloomed so falsely fair,
The noxious reptile and the thorn were there;
Some foul deception, or some piercing grief,
In ambush lurked behind each fragrant leaf,
And all that shone with such alluring glow,
Three words comprised--vice, vanity, and woe.
Where was the view sublime, the mighty plan,
That almost deified the soul of man?
The flame that lightened o'er the lofty page
Of Grecian poet, philosophic sage?
Was Virtue from the world for ever flown,
Or only banished to some clime unknown?
Interest could wear her semblance for a while,
And Falsehood, robed like Truth, could stab and smile.
But he had seen each vizor rent away,
And their dark forms unveiled in open day,
Till, heart-sick and ashamed, he half believed
The poet senseless, and the sage deceived.
Yet would the pride of his unhumbled mind
Reject a view so mean of human kind:
He hoped the arts of luxury and gain
Alone had fixed the deep unwonted stain,
And nought of such corruption had defiled
The poor untutored offspring of the wild.
Oft had he mused on this consoling theme,
Beside the windings of his native stream;
And exiled now from his paternal land,
Disowned by those who grew beneath his hand,
Houseless and friendless, on a foreign shore,
When the rude Indian gave his little store,
And strove, with untaught hospitable wile,
His hopes to nourish, and his woes beguile,
It seemed as Fate had spread before his view
A living proof that stamped his system true;
And while new joys his ardent soul expand,
He links his fortunes to the roving band,
With them to traverse mountain, wood, and swamp,
And seek a welcome in their distant camp.
To rest they dedicate the passing day,
The morrow speeds them on their weary way.
In Osric's heart what strong emotions swell,
When wafting to the main his last farewell,
And when, receding from the rocky shore,
In distance he has lost the solemn roar,
And entered on a scene so wildly strange,
It seemed as magic art produced the change.
Since earliest break of morn they had pursued
A narrow pathway through the tangled wood;
In one unbroken mass above their heads,
The interlacing canopy was spread,
So closely blended, that the noon-tide ray
Died as the glance of faint departing day.;
Crossed and recrossing still, on every side,
A thousand ways the endless paths divide,
That he who ventured in the maze, nor knew
The secret symbols and mysterious clue,
Should in a cheerless labyrinth wander on,
Till strength and courage, hope and life were gone,
But, bold and confident, the Indian guide
Pressed on his way, and plucked the boughs aside;
Oft where he passed, his knife, with tempered blade,
In the strong bark the quick incision made;
With keen, cool eye, unhesitating tread,
Through the long day th' unvarying march he led,
And now, at evening's golden horn, they stood
Upon the farther confines of the wood.
O! never had fair Albion's bright domains,
Her fertile fields, and cultivated plains,
Her graceful hills, rich groves, and shining streams,
And harvests, ripening in autumnal beams,
Thrilled Osric's bosom with such full delight,
As the wild scene now bursting on his sight.
The farewell tints of day, retiring slow,
Reflected on a crystal surface, glow;
The sportive windings of that lake display
The pigmy harbour, and the mimic bay;
A thousand wave-born flowers, in naval pride,
Spread their broad leaves, and rest upon the tide:
Here on the bank, in rival grace, are seen
The little painted offspring of the green;
There the huge granite rocks abruptly rise,
And sparkle bright, in variegated dyes;
While far above, a nodding grove is spread,
Like the proud plumage on a warrior's head;
The lofty cedar, and majestic pine,
And fragrant spruce, their towering shade combine;
Of giant growth, the maple spreads around,
Distilling honey from the casual wound;
The changeful beechen tree, and mellow larch,
And silver birch, that broken craig o'erarch;
The endless garland of the woodland vine,
Round each tall trunk aspires, with graceful twine,
Then flings the light festoon from spray to spray,
And bends, with playful sweep, her downward way,
Falls on the frowning precipice beneath,
And decks its rugged brow with verdant wreath.
While from the frequent fissure slow distils,
With whispering note, the streams of lesser rills,
A broad cascade foams down the mountain side,
Springs from the rock, and plunges in the tide.
Soft melancholy stole o'er Osric's breast,
As the fond thought arose--"here could I rest!"
And when at night the trembling moonbeam played
On the far bosom of the white cascade,
Whose mighty murmurs, half in distance drowned,
Scarce called an echo from the rocks around,
Where leafy shades, expanding deep and wide,
Waved in rich contrast to the shining tide:
Oh, then he felt, as they can feel alone
Who bear some sorrow, to the world unknown,
And shun, with sickly jealousy refined,
The cold, half sympathy of human kind,
Yet fancy every idle breeze that blows,
Sighs in compassion, and partakes their woes:
Dreaming of unsubstantial solace here,
They cannot rise beyond their native sphere.
Though heaven-born Mercy gives the mild command
To rest each weight upon Jehovah's hand,
Although Omnipotence would stoop to bear
Our puny burdens, and to soothe our care,
The lofty littleness of wayward man
Cleaves to his own, and scorns his Maker's plan,
Endures, with stubborn hardihood, the rod,
But hears not the appointing voice of God,
Nor listens to that long-enduring cry,
"Turn, thoughtless one--Oh wherefore wilt thou die!"
Still had the musing wanderer held his way
Beneath the spangled sky, and soothing ray,
But now, with sudden burst of splendour, blazed
The crackling pile his Indian friends had raised
To scare the prowling wolf--the crimson glow
Flashed on the lake, and dyed the mountain's brow.
Where is the beam that robed erewhile the hill
In silvery beauty? It is shining still,
But seen no more. From man's dark bosom driven,
How oft will earth-born flames chase the pure light of heaven.
The morn arose, and many a morning sun
Must rise, ere yet their changeful task be done;
To wind through woody solitudes their way,
Or bide on shadeless plains the sultry ray:
To pause, with some expansive lake in view,
And fell the tree, and form the slight canoe,
Launch that frail bark upon the level tide,
And fleeter than the circling swallow glide;
Then draw their vessel to the farther strand,
Poise its light form, and bear it o'er the land.
With panting breath, and weary foot, to climb
Where more than Alpine summits tower sublime;
Or, with deliberate, cautious step, to pass
The verdant treachery of the deep morass,
Where flowers, in wild uncultured beauty blow,
To shade the watery death that yawns below:
Fed by the liquid store, they shoot on high
To court the gaze of an unclouded sky,
And tints so glowing, forms so passing fair,
Had never crowned the florist's choice parterre;
So frail the sod that bears those living gems,
It trembles underneath their waving stems,
Where snakes, in vest of painted armour gay,
Amid the glossy foliage glide away:
The humming-bird steals to the flower's embrace,
Loveliest and least of all the feathered race,
Reclined in silken bells, concealed from view,
Feasts on perfumes and sips the honied dew,
Then spreads the azure wing, and tiny crest,
And seems a blossom severed from the rest,
And stolen by the breeze, who came to bear
Some velvet trophy from a scene so fair.
Such was the morn, and when the closing night
Called from repose the winged bands of light,
The sparkling fire-fly tribes, and bade them rise
A brilliant transcript, of the starry skies,
Spangling the leaf, and sporting round the flower,
Cheering, with mimic ray, the moonless hour,
While here the ruby, there the topaz glowed,
And emerald tints a glassy lustre showed,
Where, darting through the gloom, they rose on high,
As bearing some mysterious embassy
To distant shrubs, and o'er the glittering plain
Returned, in busy idleness, again:
A scene so wild, so beautiful, so new,
And so intangible--to Osric's view
It seemed the very book of fate displayed,
Destruction's self in witchery arrayed;
And all the sullen joy the cynic knows
Shone in his eye, as rapid thoughts arose
Of flowery snares, that lure mankind to pass
O'er the deep hollows of the world's morass,
Where noiseless ruin unsuspected lies
To watch her victim, and secure the prize.
The Indian guide, Ayuta, long had sate
In solemn councils, skilled in deep debate;
For wily prudence famed, by close intrigue
To form, with stronger tribes, the favouring league;--
Oft when some angry nation came from far,
To lift the ruthless tomahawk of war,
Ayuta's policy would hush the storm,
And raging foes to glad allies transform,
Above the dreadful hatchet close the ground,
And hand the calumet of peace around.
His fluent tongue could echo every tone,
And call each various dialect its own;
Nor could the eye of keen observance trace
One changeful passion in his studious face.
Late had he travelled through the eastern lands,
Long colonized by European bands,
And when in woods of game their journey lay,
And wide dispersed, the hunters sought their prey,
Ayuta would recline by Osric's side,
Where the dark spruce a fragrant shade supplied,
And tell how first to that unconquered shore
A floating house the white invaders bore,
Who craved a shelter from the piercing gale,
Till Spring's young breath should waft their homeward sail.
Preserved by Indian pity, they surveyed
The goodly land, and their kind hosts betrayed.
Departing with the Spring, ere Autumn fell,
Once more upon the coast, their streamers swell,
A various crew; by numbers bolder grown,
They claimed a tract of country for their own,
And when repulsed, from tubes, with sulphurous breath,
They bade fierce thunder roar, and scattered death.
Back to his woods the fear-struck native fled,
Whose labyrinths long defied the stranger's tread;
While these, increasing to a countless band,
Spread deep and wide, and triumphed o'er the land.
To ampler bounds their growing hosts aspire,
While far, and farther still, the hapless tribes retire.
Remote from ocean, toward the rosy west,
A mighty space the Indian yet possessed,
And leagued in amity the nations stood,
To guard the spreading lake, the sheltering wood;
But European policy would strive
To keep each petty discord long alive;
The white-man's plan had sad experience shown,
First to divide, then conquer them alone;
But the Great Spirit, foe to wrong and ill,
Loved his red children, and preserved them still.
So told the chief, and keen resentful smart
Thrilled every vein in Osric's rising heart:
"These are thy trophies, proud enlightened man;
This is thy high design, thy generous plan;
This grateful meed the artless Indian won,
By Christian piety these deeds are done!
Far nobler light illumed the savage breast,
That unsuspecting warmed a viperous guest,
Than spread religion's pageant o'er the sod,
Where ruffians ravaged in the name of God!"
Thus vaunts Philosophy; and she were right
If Belial's troop could pass for sons of light:
Religion owns them not: they bear the brand
Of Mammon on their front, and in their hand:
Go, view the record--he who runs may read--
What says it? Ye shall know them by their deed.
O who can tell the horrors of their lot,
When the stern judge exclaims, "I know ye not!"
Woe, double woe, be to the souls that lay
A stumbling-stone across a brother's way!
Woe, treble woe, to those who give a theme
That bids the vaunting enemy blaspheme,
While deeds of rage, and avarice, and shame,
Mar the sweet savour of the Christian name!
A mountain's brow the travellers had won,
And lo! their weary pilgrimage was done.
Borne from the deep recesses of the glen,
Ascending sounds told the abode of men;
And there, o'ercanopied with living green,
Low and uncouth, the Indian huts were seen,
Where lofty pine, and oak with spreading arm,
Joined, as to shield their feebler guests from harm.
Of conic form the lowly dwellings stood,
Detached, and scattered through the sheltering wood,
Built of rude stems, with beechen bark o'erlaid,
And boughs yet mantled in their leafy shade.
A broad, deep river, bending to the right,
Swelled in a lake, and rounded on the sight.
Beyond the spacious stream blue mountains rose,
Stretched in the majesty of calm repose.
The scene was natural and wild, as man
Had feared to trespass on creation's plan:
No patient hand had smoothed the rugged soil,
No harvest crowned the labourer's early toil;
Though female industry perchance might raise
On vacant spot, some patch of yellow maize,
Slight care to these the untaught farmer gave:
Canoes unnumbered dancing on the wave,
And nets of curious work, spread forth to dry,
Told where the Indian gained his best supply;
While hunting-spears, and trophies of the chace,
The rude interior of each dwelling grace.
When day's last beam was fading from the west,
Ayuta's hut received his willing guest;
With native fare the rugged board was spread,
And fragrant leaves composed the stranger's bed.
Visions of peace on Osric's fancy stole;
A current of unruffled years to roll,
Calm as the stream that softly murmured near,
And soothed, with plaintive note, his dreaming ear,
Free as the zephyr of the wood, that swept
The open hut, and fanned him while he slept.
And let him sleep--such visionary theme
May best befit the fabric of a dream.
Where'er thine eye can turn, or foot can tread,
Behold, O man! the books of knowledge spread.
Thy reason cons the lessson they impart,
But God alone can grave it on thy heart.
Thou seest the blossom open to the day,
Bloom for a little space, and fade away;
Thou seest the verdant leaf, like silken vest,
Clothe the dark tree, and shade the songster's nest,
Then pine and perish.--Not a breeze can blow
But tells thee all is vanity below,
While, rending some poor insect's web away,
It mars the labour of a summer day.
That breeze, if tainted by infectious breath,
May to thy bosom waft the seeds of death;
Or, swelled by angry storms, the ocean sweep,
And whelm thy trusted treasures in the deep.
In vain the page of wisdom courts thine eyes--
Though always learning, thou art never wise.
While all is changing, fading, dying round,
Thou dream'st some favoured spot may yet be found,
Where cloudless suns on flowers unfading shine,
To form a perfect lot, and that be thine.
Welcome each vision folly can pourtray,
So it beguile thee of the passing day,
Hide from thy guilty sight the threatening rod,
And drown that awful cry, "Prepare to meet thy God!"
How sped our Osric, in his ardent chace
Of virtuous bliss among the savage race?
The fleeting hours of summer-bloom are past,
And winter's dreariest night approaches fast;
The camp is black with wreaths of eddying smoke,
And tempests whistle through the leafless oak,
Rocking the hut where Osric courts repose,
A death-doomed captive, guarded by his foes.
Long had he basked beneath the specious smile
Of Indian faith, nor deemed such friendship guile.
He wore their garb, and bent his towering thought
To each rude task his wild instructors taught.
Farewel the polished lore of Rome and Greece!
The dance of war, the calumet of peace,
The rapid chace, the archer's deadly aim,
Divide his moments and his efforts claim,
On each traditionary tale that tells
Of Indian deeds, his pleased attention dwells,
While his eventful years of sorrow seem
A passing thought, a half forgotten dream.
Yet one there was, who, with prophetic fear,
Would breathe the frequent caution in his ear;
And Osric marvelled when young Zaila spoke
Of reeds that bowed beneath the hand, and broke;
Of icy plains formed on the level wave,
That tempt the step, then yield a liquid grave;
While the keen glance of her expressive eye
Would in mute eloquence the tale apply.
An aged chief had mourned a valiant son,
And now in Zaila blessed his only one;
The brightest plumage, he would cull, to deck
The raven hair that flowed upon her neck;
The costly bead and precious metal graced
Her well-turned arm, and bound her slender waist;
But Nature's hand, more bounteous than his own,
The spell of beauty round the maid had thrown.
Upon her brow, in simple majesty,
Peace reigned, and meekness in her downcast eye;
A pensive contemplation marked her mein,
As though she communed with some world unseen.
And Osric heard the sigh, and saw the tear,
When vice or folly urged their wild career;
And oft her firm rebuke their madness quelled,
If not convinced, yet humbled and repelled.
Months rolled away; and still Ayuta's guest
Abode in peace, confiding and caressed.
At length an embassy from far appears,
Of chiefs in war renowned, and sage with years.
The leaders of the camp in council meet,
With solemn words of amity to greet
The martial tribe, whose measured steps are led
Where mats and skins, in circling order spread,
Receive their wearied frames. With looks profound,
Silent and motionless, they sat around:
The vapour of the peaceful pipe arose,
And Osric, fearless of impending woes,
Pleased with the novel scene, attentive viewed
The savage pomp displayed by men so rude.
The elder chieftain of the stranger band
Rose, with a belt of wampum in his hand,
Of doubtful hue, as though his nation's mind
To peace or war was equally inclined.
Grave was his gesture, and his accent slow,
Tranquillity sat on his furrowed brow,
Though half-quelled flashes from his eagle eye
Bespoke a spirit martial, stern, and high.
The steady curb of politic controul
Restrained the swell of an impatient soul.
"Tribe of the Valley! hearken and behold--
This wampum-belt your brother's hands unfold,
In token that your brethren of the hill
With ancient amity would greet ye still.
When yonder sun rose from the briny deep,
He saw our steps descend our native steep,
And when he sank beneath the mount again,
He left us journeying o'er the dreary plain:
Rising and falling, still from day to day,
He marked us pacing on our lengthened way.
Our feet have bent the grass, impressed the sand,
Been laved by streams, bruised by the stony strand--
And wherefore this? Brethren, a voice was borne
On the strong breezes of the opening morn;
It told of leagues, and calumets of peace
With white invaders; of your camp's increase
By foreign bands. We credit not the tale:
We love our younger brethren of the vale,
But fear them not. Behold! your hands are free
To raise the tomahawk, or plant the tree."
He said, and waving his uplifted hand,
With dauntless eye surveyed the circling band,
Resumed his matted seat, and calmly spread
His wampum-strings, of sable, white, and red.
Short was the silence, for Ayuta stood,
With looks of peace, and their attention wooed:
Breathing, in terms of long accustomed art,
The guileful purpose of his faithless heart.
"Fathers, attend--your ancient brethren view--
Your hills have echoed to a voice untrue:
Not ours the deed to give a treacherous hand,
And greet the foreign spoilers of the land,
Who pluck the rose our country which adorns,
And pierce her children with the naked thorns.
A morning mist hath led your mind astray,
The sun shall rise, and banish it away.
Behold a stranger of that evil race
Who hunt our nation like a beast of chace:
We lured him to the snare, we soothed his soul,
We made him joyous with the juicy bowl,
Nourished with care, and trained with Indian skill--
Lo! Fathers, bear him to your distant hill;
And while his lingering death-pangs feed your view,
Confess your brethren of the vale are true.
The calumet receive, and aid our toil
To hide the hatchet in our native soil;
The peaceful tree, raised by united hands,
And fed with white man's blood, shall shade our mingled bands!"
While yet he spoke, the unsuspected foes
In double files their hapless prey enclose,
With spears and arrows pointed at his breast,
He deemed it all a vision or a jest--
Throughout his frame one chill of horror ran,
Then bitterly he smiled, "Aye, such is man!--
Strangers, ye bear the aspect and the name
Of fathers, statesmen, chiefs of conquering fame:
Can perfidy uphold, and fraud defend
A nation's glory? Will ye thus extend
The sanction of your age, your high applause,
To the foul breach of hospitable laws?
Is such dishonest triumph meet to crown
The brightness of your martial tribe's renown?
I came--no foe, in warlike garb arrayed,
Armed with the fiery tube, or burnished blade,
But a defenceless stranger, wooed to share
The social board, nor deeming it a snare."
The Chief rejoined, "Let prudence be confessed,
Rapacious wolves our peaceful camp molest;
We capture one--say, must the fact be proved,
That he erewhile, with ravening purpose, roved?
No--he's a wolf; no fuller charge we need,
He dies for crimes committed by the breed.
'Tis self-defence, the same instinctive plan
That guards the reptile's nest, the home of man:
It teaches thee to spend thy fleeting breath,
Pleading for life, and us to will thy death."
Midnight arrives;--no careful hand supplies
The lingering flame, that all unnoticed dies;
Yet falling fragments yield a transient blaze,
While on the rugged hearth the fire decays,
Too feeble now to pierce the distant shade
Where the poor captive's care-worn limbs are laid.
His savage guards had watched from twilight's hour,
In all the stern security of power,
Yet wakeful and alert; each grasped the spear,
The quiver and the well-strung bow were near,
And oft a lowering glance, with keen survey,
Explored the couch of skins where Osric lay.
A sullen calm had hushed the stormy swells
Of his indignant thought, and memory dwells
On many a strange vicissitude of woe,
That marked the windings of his path below.
The sceptic doubt, the glowing hope, in turn
Would cloud his soul, or bid his spirit burn.
No guiding Providence could he survey
Through the wild lab'rinth of his chequered way;
Then wherefore deem that aught of love divine
Should on his last dark hour of anguish shine,
Or bid the disembodied spirit rest
In the unclouded mansions of the blest?
Again, his conscience, unawakened, saw
No flagrant breach of his Creator's law,
In his short life; yet, with unsparing hand,
The scourge had followed him by sea and land,
And justice would require a blissful doom
Of peace and rapture in the world to come,
But all was speculation wild and vain
Within, and all without was feverish pain,
Rest, thou afflicted one! a Saviour's love
Hath willed thy glory in the realms above:
He girded thee, although thou hast not known
His saving strength, and He will seal thee yet His own.
Three warriors from the stranger tribe combined,
An ample guard, with false Ayuta joined.
No thought of rescue or escape had cheered
The captive's mind, no human hope appeared,
He knew their Indian watchfulness could keep
At wondrous bay the leaden wand of sleep,
But now, each fitful flash of light that played
On the dark group, their slumbering state betrayed:
With sudden start, the swarthy hand would clasp
The spear, and then relax its eager grasp;
At length Ayuta to the entrance crept,
Stretched his tall form across the door, and slept;
While, in a deep, unwonted torpor, near,
Each warrior bent upon his trusty spear,
Reclined, then sunk unconscious to the ground,
And dark oblivion shed her mantle round.
Osric beheld, and kindling, half arose
From his low couch, and gazed upon his foes;
He longed from false Ayuta's side to wrest
The knife he bore, and plunge it in his breast--
To brave the hazard of uncertain strife,
And dearly part with a devoted life.
While yet he pondered on the daring thought,
A rustling sound his quick attention caught,
From the low ragged roof--again it came,
Frequent and near,--Oh for one glancing flame
To gleam upon the spot! His head he raised,
And vainly through the deepening darkness gazed;
Few moments passed, till on his wondering eye
Shone the soft azure of a moonlight sky,
While through the breath he saw a figure bend,
And heard the words, "Be silent, and ascend."
A cord of solid strength is flung below,
The bending figure beckons him to go,
And could he pause? The cooling air of heaven
That kissed his brow, had new existence given--
He springs to freedom, from the gloomy cell,
And bids his sleeping guards a glad farewell.
The lonely hut, that formed his prison, stood
Midway between the camp and neighbouring wood;
Two silent guides appear, his steps to lead,
And swiftly from the haunts of man they speed:
No voice or sound the cautious stillness broke,
Till on the wood's dark confines Osric spoke--
''Ere yet we pierce the shade, your purpose say,
And whither ye conduct my dubious way?"
"To safety and to peace thou goest," replied,
In gentle accents, his more youthful guide.
He started--'twas a well-remembered tone--
Yet urged again, "Nay, make your object known."
"Osric! we censure not thy doubting mind,
By sad experience taught, thou know'st mankind,
And Indian faith hast proved; yet fear not now,
For treachery ne'er lurked on Zaila's brow;
This heart abhors the wile. I set thee free--
My life upon thy safety. Follow me."
With grateful wonder, with confiding love,
He followed through the mazes of the grove,
Wrapped in a rayless gloom, so deep and dread,
Some angel seemed to guide the Maiden's tread
In the wild path, and to her timid heart
A more than mortal energy impart;
While through the dreary wilderness around
The savage howls of hungry wolves resound;
The fox barks fiercely through the trembling brake,
And at their feet uncoils the hissing snake;
But onward they pursue their steadfast way,
Till, pale and feeble, gleams a distant ray;
Brighter it smiles, and soon their gladdened view
Rests on an open stream and slight canoe.
They pause, and Zaila motions with her hand
To launch the fragile bark, and leave the land:--
"Osric, farewell! thou freely mays't confide
In the firm faith of this thy future guide;
His care will lead thee to a safe retreat,
Where Christian love shall bathe thy weary feet;
And when thou offerest up thy grateful prayer,
Oh let the Indian Maid thy benediction share!"
A tear is bursting from the Wanderer's eye,
While his soothed bosom prompts the fond reply:--
"Zaila! a poor unfriended Exile gives
The only gift his wayward fortune leaves,
A heart, long steeled by stern adversity,
Now won, and softened into love by thee.
O let thy unprotected steps no more
The haunts of that inhuman gang explore,
Lest the deep thunderbolt of vengeance dread
Fall on thy gentle and defenceless head!
Share thou my lot; the Christian race will give
The means for patient industry to live;
Be mine--and sweet will seem the daily toil
That tills for Zaila the penurious soil,
Pursues the flying deer through tangled woods,
Or snares the gliding tenant of the floods.
In boyhood's days, in wild impetuous youth,
And riper years, I sought the phantom Truth;
My fancy robed a form in rainbow dyes,
And fondly chaced the visionary prize,
Till, weary of delusion, vice, and woe,
I deemed she never could reside below.
When Hope had spread her pinions to depart,
I find the treasure lodged in Zaila's heart.
Thou gav'st the caution, when my heedless ear,
Held it the language of ungenerous fear;
Thy pity came, to succour and to save
The dupe who scorned thee, from a well-earned grave;--
Reject me not; my grateful soul shall rest
On the pure truth of thy unspotted breast:
Let summer friends, like summer blossoms, fly--
Thy faith, an evergreen, can brave the winter sky."
The Maid a moment stood, as unresolved
To speak the thought that in her mind revolved;
Then from her lip the solemn accents part--
"Can such deliverance move thy stubborn heart?
Light was the risk, to drug thy treacherous foes
With drowsy herbs, and the low roof unclose;
Poor is the boon--a few uncertain years
Of lengthened progress in a vale of tears.
Thy love devote, thy praises breathe to Him
Who took the cup, kissed the o'erflowing brim,
And drained the very dregs of woe and wrath,
To save thy soul from everlasting death?
I see thou marvell'st how these wilds have heard
The joyful tidings of salvation's word--
Nay, rather blush they were not heard from thee--
Thy mind was fearless, and thy speech was free.
But no compassion in thy heart was found
For souls unnumbered perishing around,
Thy fellow-men, who drew their natal breath
In lands of darkness, and the shades of death,
Bound in the chain of ignorance and sin,
No help without, and not a hope within.
Thine had it been to see the day-star rise
On the deep gloom of these benighted skies,
To lift on high the banner of the Word,
And wield with dauntless hand the Spirit's sword,
Champion of heaven;--O hadst thou thus been found,
A thousand seraphs had encamped around
Thy shining path; the everlasting arms
Supported, led, and guarded thee from harms,
For He who bade through every nation preach
The Gospel, and his free salvation teach,
Had been thy shield, thy counsellor, and friend,
'Lo I am with you, even to the end!'"
"Zaila, that sacred privilege is given
To holy men, the ministers of heaven;
The solemn truths of such mysterious theme
Would ill my uncommissioned lips beseem."
"Nay, rather say those truths could never rest
In the dark cell of an unholy breast.
If in thy path a bleeding wretch be found,
Wilt thou refuse to staunch the flowing wound,
Nor seek with pitying hand to soothe the smart,
Because unlicensed in the healing art?
But fare thee well! may God direct thy feet
In peace and safety to a far retreat,
A sandy vale, where life's glad river flows,
A wilderness that blossoms as the rose;
'Twas there the heav'n-born ray of light divine,
Burst upon Zaila's soul--O may it gladden thine!"
Wondering, ashamed, and half-displeased, he stood,
Till that light form was lost within the wood,
Then slowly turned him to the stream, whose wave
To the pale ray a faint reflection gave;
The shallow boat was rocking on the tide,
And there the Indian stood, his future guide,
Whose folded hands and eye upraised, declare
The deep devotion of a mental prayer.
Unusual was the sight, and Osric saw,
With peevish scorn, half-quelled by solemn awe;
His conscience told that simple prayer was said
For him, a thankless wretch, who never prayed;
And Zaila's keen reproof had lodged a dart
Of strange disquiet in his swelling heart:
To meet the humbling guest high thoughts arose,
What! should the soul that scorned a thousand foes,
That through the world, defying and defied,
Bore high the banner of unvanquished pride,
Before such puny arms that banner furl?
A praying savage, and a preaching girl!
In haughty silence to the bank he drew,
A rough warm bear-skin lined the light canoe;
Gladly he stretched him on the narrow bed,
Another hide the careful Indian spread,
His little bark then hastened to unmoor,
And, nicely poising, paddled from the shore.
How sweet and soothing is the moonlight beam
That breaks the cloud, and smiles upon the stream!
How soft the calm that stills a throbbing breast,
When toil and anguish yield to tranquil rest!
And oh, how pleasant is the breeze that blows
Across the cheek where new-born freedom glows!
Osric confessed the charm, and soon subside
The angry waves of discontent and pride;
Beneath the still solemnity of night,
The shifting scene, robed in a silvery light,
Presents more varied beauties to his view
Than fancy's airy pencil ever drew.
Now, swiftly gliding on their liquid way,
Through the entangling wood their progress lay,
Whose bending stems inclined from either side,
And bowed to commune o'er the darkened tide.
And now they pass, where to the struggling wave
Unwilling rocks a scanty passage gave,
And, sternly frowning, overhung the bed,
Their giant sides with rugged heather spread;
While birds of night, with heavy pinion, soar,
And, screaming, ask who dares their haunt explore.
And now, retiring to a wider bound,
The rocks in ample crescent sweep around,
A grassy lawn slopes to the river's brink,
Where graceful willows bend the head, and drink,
While fading stalks of many a flower declare
How bright the summer garb that flourished there.
Enriched by frequent streams the current grows
To more majestic width, and freely flows.
But now the moon steals down the shaded sky,
And gentle sleep hath sealed the wanderer's eye.
A lovelier morning-beam had never smiled,
To gild a spot so beauteous and so wild,
Than that soft ray which through the foliage broke,
And cheered the lonely scene where Osric woke.
A bank, adorned with all the forest's pride,
Rose in a gradual slope on either side;
Mixed with the fir, and cedar, ever green,
Some leafless stems of oak and birch were seen,
And all the rich variety of hue
That cultivated woodlands never knew;
While dew-drops, small as clustered diamonds, gleam
Beneath the splendour of the rising beam.
With soothing sound the gurgling waters roll,
But sweeter notes along their surface stole,
When from the Indian's lip, in artless lays,
Rose to the Lord his morning hymn of praise.
Soft was the tone, not meant for mortal ear,
Too faint for earth to mark, but not for heaven to hear.
Yet Osric in such fixed attention hung,
He caught the meaning of the words he sung:--
"O Thou! who, through the perils of the night,
Hast safely brought us to the morning light,
While thousands have resigned their vital breath,
And all unsuccoured, slept the sleep of death,
Lord, what are we, that thou should'st thus display
Thy wondrous love, and guard us on our way?
Bidding the tempest of the winter cease,
And saying to the troubled waters, 'Peace!'
Touched with a feeling of our wants and woes,
Why ever thus thy pitying love disclose,
If not to lead us to a gracious throne,
To make our deeper need and sorrow known,
To mourn the curse of sin's polluting stain,
Pardon, and peace, and strengthening help to gain,
Thy covenant, O Lord, with night and day
Unbroken stands, while ages roll away;
The better covenant thy blood secures
Through time and through eternity endures.
O seal that promise on our inmost soul,
There write thy law, there fix thy firm controul,
And since thy word the sweet assurance gave
That 'twas thy chosen work to seek and save,
Lord, let the sun of righteousness arise,
With healing on his wings, to glad those darkened eyes."
He turned with gentle look, and, gazing, wept
O'er the poor wanderer, who in semblance slept,
Then the light oar with double speed he plied,
And urged his bark along the glittering tide.
Now to the stream a crisper curl was given,
And clouds were drifted o'er the face of heaven;
Deep folds of grey, tinged with a dusky red,
Above the eastern hills ascending spread;
Each following gust more piercing cold became,
Striking a painful chill through Osric's frame.
His pilot marked, with ever-watchful eye,
The quick transitions of the wave and sky,
Then spoke--"How close those gathering vapours crowd!
A tempest rides upon yon eastern cloud:
To-morrow's dawn may see an icy chain
Check this bold tide, now speeding to the main.
'Tis meet we find some sheltering spot, and form
A timely shelter 'gainst the coming storm,
Sure tokens of the falling snow appear,
A wintry visit, sudden and severe."
The first fair landing place the travellers seize,
And hide their little boat among the trees;
For Jacob (such the Indian's chosen name,
When to the sacred font erewhile he came,)
Feared lest the baffled foe might yet pursue,
And trace their cautious route by that canoe.
His careful hand his comrade then supplied
With hatchet, musket, and a bear's black hide.
A light repast they took, and onward went
To cross the wood, and climb the near ascent.
The summit gained, they find the rugged ground
With mountain-pines, and towering birch-trees crowned.
No fit retreat their anxious eyes survey,
While through the tangling shrubs they rend their way:
But downward slopes bespeak a neighbouring vale,
Whence rough and broken sounds the ear assail;
Those welcome notes rejoiced the Indian guide,
"Hear'st thou the roaring of that mountain tide?
Urge we the quick descent, secure to breathe
From our long labour, in the vale beneath."
Now mingled with the stately pine, they view
The lowlier fir, and beech of varying hue,
While in a smoother course, they lightly pass
O'er many-coloured moss, and velvet grass,
Till, issuing from the grove, in liquid light
The torrent bursts upon their dazzled sight.
Steep was the path, and wide the rocky bed
Where on their eager chace the billows sped:
Huge broken fragments in the channel lay,
To fret, but not impede its forceful way,
Above their heads the sparkling waters bound
Then in a dark deep eddy whirl around,
Now for a tranquil space forget to rove,
Now leap another rock, and curl the foaming wave.
The countless, undiscovered springs, that rise
Among the hills, combine their large supplies,
And here, engaged in never-ending race,
The dancing currents hold their noisy chace,
And seem among their native wilds to raise
Proud songs of liberty, and joyous hymns of praise;
While bowing woods, robed in eternal green,
Echo the sound, and smile upon the scene.
The rocks, that scarce that headlong stream confine,
Dripping with spray, like polished marble shine;
The trees, luxuriant, wear a brighter hue,
For ever freshened by the scattered dew:
Abruptly rising from the further side,
A lofty mountain waves its leafy pride;
Th' opposing bank presents a softer shade,
A swelling hill more sparingly arrayed;
And here, in silent joy, the pilgrims stood,
Tracing the progress of the mighty flood,
Which, bounding on its way with ceaseless roar,
Passed a rude angle, and was seen no more.
Still on the breeze tumultuous murmurs rose,
Till died the cadence in a distant close.
Behind a little plain, on sloping ground,
A clump of trees the travellers' search had found,
Whose taper stems, in native order placed,
A small rude circle sheltered and embraced.
Within the narrow bound they first proceed
To clear the brushwood and intrusive weed,
Then mounting high on two inclining trees,
With straining arm each bushy top they seize,
These firmly bound present a crested dome;
And next by several paths the builders roam,
From birchen trunks the pliant rind they tear,
And spreading branches to their dwelling bear;
Wove with the circling stems, and overlaid
With moss and twisted bands, the fence was made,
While solid bark, warm, light, and water-proof,
Patched the rude fabric, and secured the roof.
Smote by the axe, the neighbouring branches shed
For fuel, wood, and leaves to form a bed.
Osric with glowing smile the dwelling eyed--
"Thus, and so soon, are nature's wants supplied!
Yet senseless man inhales the tainted breath
In crowded dens of folly, shame, and death,
And scorns the richest boons his God has given,
The simple fruits of earth, the beam of heaven,
The stately canopies of waving woods,
The solemn music of the rolling floods,
The note of feathered harmony, the rest
So dear and sacred to the reas'ning breast.
Free as the air by birth, by choice a slave,
He spurns a native throne to clasp a painted grave.
Throughout creation's wide and wondrous plan,
The speck, the blemish of the work, is man."
"And is there then," the thoughtful Indian
cried,
"No balm in Gilead for the wounds of pride?
Pride is the deep-struck malady within,
The root of sorrow, and the gate of sin:
God's word was this, 'Transgress, and ye shall die;'
'Transgress, and be as Gods,' the tempters cry;
Pride heard, nor feared Jehovah's wrath to prove,
And pride rejects the message of His love.
Pride brought the ills thy hasty words condemn,
And pride hath wrought on thee to censure them.
Plain is my speech, and slight the lore I know,
Yet can my lips the latent evil show,
For long I bowed beneath the yoke of sin,
And served that tyrant lord, enthroned within;
The voice of conscience and of God defied,
In all the daring impotence of pride.
Chief of a num'rous tribe, in war renowned,
My name was echoed through the lands around;
Placed on a giddy eminence I stood,
By nature bold, by men accounted good,
For from this lofty station glancing down,
My heart condemned all vices but its own.
And deemed itself a pure and hallowed spot,
A bright exception from the general blot.
But God in mercy drew me to the cross,
And showed my richest gain to be but loss.
He bade me pray, heard the imperfect prayer,
Raised my sad soul from darkness and despair;
His hand the quickening stream of life hath given,
And fed me with the living bread from heaven,
Though round my course conflicting billows roar,
He guards and guides me to the happy shore,
And gives an anchor that can never fail,
Moored to the mighty Rock, and fixed within the vail."
A glow of hope, a gleam of holy joy,
Tinged his dark cheek, and sparkled in his eye.
But now the dreary night comes on apace,
And blacker clouds the scowling sky deface,
The torrent rages with a louder swell,
And sweeping blasts th' approaching storm foretel.
Their fire the wanderers rouse, but slowly came
From the damp wood a pale reluctant flame;
Sparely they diet on their slender store,
And form with pointed stakes a nightly door,
On either side the central fire they spread,
A bear-skin mantle on each leafy bed,
Nor can the raving of the tempest keep
From lids so wearied the repose of sleep.
The morning comes, but clouds of falling snow
Obscure the beam, and veil the wonted glow,
While not a feature nor a tint remains
Of all that marked the hills, the woods, the plains,
Save where between the banks of dazzling white
The rapid torrent bounds from height to height;
But dark and dingy dyes the waters bear,
The sparkling spray appears no longer fair,
For all is black, contrasted with the hue
Of glaring white that palls the sickening view.
Beneath that snowy mass the groves have sunk,
It loads the boughs, and drifts upon the trunk,
Hems round the strangers in their narrow home,
And crowns the pigmy hut with alabaster dome.
While Osric viewed the scene with pensive eye,
The Indian came, a comment to supply.
"Praise be to Him, the prayer of faith who heard,
For wind and storm fulfil his awful word,
And He alone the burdened cloud restrained,
Till thou, poor captive, hadst deliverance gained.
How had thine own, or Zaila's gentle tread,
O'er yielding snow all undiscovered sped?
How could my frail canoe the blast abide,
Or stem the fury of the storm-lashed tide?
Smooth thy bent brow, and breathe the voice of praise
To Him whose mercy crowns thy thankless days;
And spares thee yet, to learn the joyful song
Of ransomed souls that in His temple throng."
Osric rejoined, with mingled pride and shame,
"Know'st thou not, Chief, I bear the Christian name?
My earliest steps that sacred temple trod,
My lisping tongue confessed the living God,
The cross was signed upon my infant brow,
And riper judgment ratified the vow,
To Him whose will my thread of being twined,
And Him, the bleeding Saviour of mankind.
No other hope, no other faith I own,
But seek eternal life through Him alone,
For He, my righteous Judge and pitying Lord,
The sin will pardon, and the good reward.
Such is the creed my native land receives,
Each tongue proclaims it, and each heart believes,
But why thine own and Zaila's faith agree
With God's pure word, I yet must learn from thee."
Now to their cold but needful task they go,
To clear a pathway through the drifted snow,
And seek the cowering game in covert near,
By man uninjured yet, and void of fear.
But when the early shades of evening came,
Again they rested by the cheerful flame;
While Jacob tells how the good shepherd sought,
And to the fold his Indian wanderers brought.
"My former state 'twere needless to describe;
I reigned sole chieftain of a warlike tribe,
And when I saw my nation's foes increase,
I fought, and purchased a victorious peace.
Youthful in years, but deemed in counsel sage,
Renown and power my every thought engage;
Still seeking, still of all I sought possest,
An aching void was yawning in my breast,
The craving of a soul that never dies,
And cannot live on earthly vanities.
While, goaded by disquiet, I pursued
With feverish haste what seemed the public good,
Restless, and driven like the changeful wind,
I thought 'twas zeal to benefit mankind.
Applauding throngs would press upon my tread,
To war or council when the way I led,
Or bowed in impious rites my reason scorned--
Within all vile, and all without adorned.
"Such was my state, when first the man of God
Alone, unarmed, our martial valley trod.
Round his sweet home the eastern billow rolls,
But love impelled him here, the love of souls.
Not his to praise a God obscurely known,
Or with a Saviour's merits blend his own,
Not his of virtue and reward to dream,
Far other thoughts inspired his lofty theme.
He spoke of man, rebellious, ruined, lost,
His pardon purchased at a countless cost,
So dearly purchased, yet so freely given
By Him who vanquished hell and opened heaven.
He told, that as the branch, the leaf, the fruit,
All draw their being from the living root,
And severed from that root are worthless, spurned,
Bound in a bundle for the flames, and burned,
So nourished, so supported, and allied,
In Christ, their root, His branches must abide;
He, the true vine, the mystic sap conveys;
Unfed by Him the drooping bough decays;
And man's best work, in his Creator's eye,
Is but a shrivelled leaf, a dead deformity.
" 'Go,' he would say, 'and in the forest near
Plant the dry polished shaft of yonder spear,
There bid the rootless stem to life expand,
And wave luxuriant branches o'er the land:
The hope were vain--closed is each pliant pore,
The circling juice revisits them no more.
By guilt dissevered from the living tree,
Through Adam's fault, so dead and dry are we;
Nor profitless alone, for tainting sin
Pollutes our lives, defiles our hearts within;
Jehovah's purity our race disclaims,
His justice dooms us to eternal flames:
But mercy hath revealed an open path,
A covert from the tempest of His wrath.'
And day by day the oft-repeated strain
We heard, 'Repent, believe, be born again.'
With inward joy I listened to the sound,
And deemed it well applied to all around;
My conscience loathed the crimes I daily saw,
My mind did homage to the moral law;
Pleased with the code that heav'n-sent preacher taught,
Oft by his side the lowly hut I sought,
Approving, while he urged his message home,
'Forsake your sins--flee from the wrath to come.'
The law and reason to my view had shown
Their deep corruptions--Satan veiled my own.
"Ardent in all my schemes, I purposed now
To plight in public my baptismal vow.
I knew a thousand voices would combine
To echo promptly back the tones of mine,
For I was loved:--my heart will not forget,
I loved them well--and well I love them yet."
While to his brow his dark-brown hands he prest,
A stealing tear relieved the chieftain's breast,
And all the tides of troubled memory roll
In melting sadness over Osric's soul;
Short was the pause, returning peace illumed
The Indian's mind, and calmly he resumed.
"Soon to the Preachers dwelling I repaired,
Revealed my purpose, and my hope declared,
With boastful smile; I paused for his reply.
No answering hope beamed in his downcast eye;
Deep solemn thought was teeming in his look,
And strong emotion struggled while he spoke:
His form he raised, his open brow displayed,
In truth's unbending majesty arrayed,
Awful, as one commissioned from above,
Tender, as yearning with a brother's love,
Calm, as unheeding aught that man could do,
But kindling while his theme to deeper import grew.
" 'I grieve, O chief, thy infant plan to
blight,
Praiseworthy is thy wish, thy purpose right
To banish idols, and to build a shrine,
For purer worship formed, and rites divine,
And thus thy nation by example draw
To own Jehovah's name, and keep his law.
And if indeed the strict command He gave
To sinful man, could justify and save;
If outward washing could remove the stain,
And blanch to pristine purity again,
My willing hand the cleansing stream should give,
My joyful lips proclaim, obey, and live;
But vain such empty rite, and vain the thought
To keep the holy law by Moses taught,
For though the mind assent, and call it good,
Alas! We cannot do the things we would;
For we are carnal, vile, self-sold to sin,
Offences multiply, lust wars within,
While for one tarnish of corruption's breath
The righteous law condemns, and thunders death.
O think not the baptismal stream is given,
That man by pious works may merit heaven!
I cannot cause iniquity to cease,
I will not soothe you in a treacherous peace,
Nor dare I seek my Master's fold to fill
With flocks that do not heed his voice and will.
To heal a healthy soul He was not sent,
Nor call the just and righteous to repent,
Nor o'er the rags of pride to which we cling,
A veil of specious holiness to fling:
He heals the sick; He bids the outcast come
To find a welcome in his Father's home;
He clothes the naked in a spotless dress,
The garment of imputed righteousness,
And those who madly would exalt their own,
Despise the word that makes his mercy known.
Hast thou, O chief, through heavenly teaching seen
That thou art sick, and naked, and unclean?
And wouldst thou come, and lead thy kindred race,
Poor helpless suppliants, to the throne of grace,
And casting all self-confidence away,
Live on that unbought grace from day to day,
And seek through faith alone the blessings given,
A heart renewed, and purged from ancient leaven,
Direction for the mazy road of life,
Strength for the race, and courage for the strife?
The race, the strife, where fierce malignant foes,
Unseen, shall cross thy path, thy way oppose.
If this be thy desire, my hand shall shed
Th' appointed stream upon thy favoured head,
And may the Lord before thy spirit place
The laver of regenerating grace!
May new creation to thy soul be given,
Born of the Holy Ghost, and sealed an heir of heaven!
But if thou com'st to act the trifler's part,
Content to change thy creed, but not thy heart,
If policy would make the rite her own,
Ordained for penitence and faith alone,
Oh what am I, that I should dare degrade
Jehovah's mission to a sordid trade,
And with a hollow vain illusion snare
Th' immortal souls of men, that claim my deepest care!'
"Offended and amazed, I turned away,
Though with mild tone he wooed my longer stay,
Withdrawn beneath the forest's twilight shade,
His words I pondered, and my soul surveyed.
I asked, could such deception dwell within?
Condemning sinners, could I cherish sin?
Dishonour and disgrace the name I loved,
And violate the law my mind approved?
The barb had struck; I felt the burning smart,
And deep conviction laboured in my heart.
My spotless fame and boasted virtues seem
The mocking shadows of a feverish dream,
My outward deed, my secret thought, I saw
Weighed in the balance of a perfect law,
While conscience, bursting through the riven veil,
Viewed TEKEL written on the mounting
scale.
When meted by the sinful race around,
Righteous and pure my every act was found,
But to the spirit of the law applied,
I called for rocks my guilty head to hide.
Who can declare the agonizing smart,
The keen disquiet of a sin-sick heart,
When God, the way of mercy to prepare,
Reveals the hidden nest of vipers there!
The embryo crimes that hourly spring to life,
Malice, and lust, and blasphemy, and strife,
Crush one with vig'rous hand; ere that be dead,
Another and another rears the head,
And to the tortured soul, with poisoned breath,
Each whispers judgment and eternal death.
"Slowly, but surely, thus the Lord withdrew
The mist of nature that obscured my view,
And many a day reluctant pride confined
From mortal eye the anguish of my mind;
Till, racked and wearied with accusing thought,
Once more the slighted man of God I sought
In his far hut, whose little lonely light
Guided my footsteps through the gloom of night.
Methought that narrow spot of sacred ground
Diffused a halo of repose around,
For when I gained the meek abode of peace,
I felt the tumult in my bosom cease.
Wishing unmarked the dwelling to explore,
With noiseless step I reached th' unfastened door.
The teacher sate--upon his knee there lay
The chart that guided his mysterious way,
The word inspired:--a glimmering taper shed
Its downward ray upon the page he read,
But purer light upon his spirit beamed,
A holy joy in every feature gleamed,
And as the starry diadem of night
In ebon darkness glows more dearly bright,
That Christian's soul, illumed with peace divine,
By contrast deepened all the gloom of mine.
Anon his lifted hand he slowly spread,
And raised with sudden smile his bending head,
Full on his broad fair brow the taper shone--
I gazed, and listened to the low-breathed tone;
First indistinct, then swelled in triumph high,
While expectation sparkled in his eye.
" 'Lord of all lords, of kings the mighty King!
Saviour, to thee the lands shall incense bring--
Yes, from the rising to the setting flame
The Gentiles shall adore, and magnify thy name!'
"He ceased; with throbbing breast I nearer
drew,
And still reluctant met his wondering view,
My humble guise his glad attention won,
Ere my o'erburdened heart the tale begun:
But oh the rapture of the smile that played
Across his furrowed cheek when all was said!
Awhile he probed the wound with needful care,
Lest aught of dark deceit might fester there,
But when he saw the self-abhorring shame
That rent my conscience, and my soul o'ercame,
While to myself my stubborn nature seemed
Too hard to melt, too vile to be redeemed;
With every winning call his mind had stored
From God's own Book, he drew me to the Lord.
'Behold the Lamb! the spotless sacrifice,
For thee he suffers, and for thee He dies!
Lo, the rich stream that murderous malice drains
Is the last drop from those exhausted veins,
Shall in a tide of mercy o'er thee roll
And wash and purify thy guilty soul.
His dying agony thy pardon wins,
He bore thy sorrows, and sustained thy sins.
His stripes have healed thee, He was bruised to save,
For thee the Lord of life hath slumbered in the grave.
With glory fraught, behold the conqueror rise,
While shouting seraphs throng the bending skies,
Captivity is bound in captive chains,
Vanquished are death and hell, and Jesus reigns!
For rebel man receiving gifts divine,
Hark! he invites thee: sinner they are thine.
He makes repentance, faith, and hope thy own,
Thy pardon seals, removes the heart of stone,
And gives, while confidence and love increase,
The spirit of adoption, grace, and peace:
With God's whole armour girds thee for the fight,
And bids thee more than conqueror in His might;
Stedfast through Him, thy everlasting friend,
Pledged to uphold, and keep thee to the end.
With tenderest accent thy regard he wins,--
'Come ye who groan beneath a weight of sins,
My hand shall ease ye from your labouring care,
My yoke is mild, my burden light to bear.'
Ye homeless crew, to want and woe resigned,
Naked, and poor, and hungry, maimed and blind,
No longer through the lanes and hedges tread,
Slain is the victim, and the feast is spread:
The King invites you to His royal home,
The Spirit and the Bride re-echo, come,
Let him who hears repeat the joyous sound,
Bear it, ye gales, the circling globe around!
The stream of life is flowing broad and free,
Poor parching soul, it flows to nourish thee!"
Soothed and assured by God's unchanging word,
My fainting heart found refuge in the Lord.
And soon, surrounded by the gazing crowd
With contrite tears before the font I bowed,
Nor from the frowning throng disguised I ought
Of what Jehovah's pardoning love had wrought.
Tho' many heard me with a stern disdain,
A few more favoured listened not in vain;
A little flock was gathered to the fold;
But rumour's voice of rising faction told
Had I, whom conquest to my tribe endeared,
With warrior boldness at the font appeared
In regal pride, they had been lightly freed
From the frail trammels of their careless creed.
But when I bent a mourning sinner there,
My guilt and God's compassion to declare,
Fiercely against the Gospel's humbling plan
Rose all the in-born enmity of man.
Awhile in stifled murmurs they complained,
As though disgrace the Indian name had stain'd;
And long with every soothing word I strove
To win their souls, and to regain their love;
But now revolt grew loud--the council sate,
And discord triumphed in the hot debate:
Intestine war was nigh: the choice was mine
To yield the sceptre, or the cross resign;
The Lord forsook me not; I bade farewell
To the blue mountains and the verdant dell,
The flowery chains that bind the heart to home,--
What were they, balanced with the joys to come?
We wandered forth, a little exiled band,
And found a dwelling in a distant land.
Pilgrims and strangers on this rolling sphere,
Why seeks frail man a habitation here?
Enough--too much--if we possess a shed,
Where Jesus had no shelter for His head.
Let it, O Lord, our portion ever be
Cheerly to take the cross, and follow thee;
Content, if through the wilds of woe and pain
The power of thine arm our feebleness sustain!"
The
Within that patient Indian's peaceful breast,
Sleeps he not well, who knows the Lord has spread
A guard of angels round his lowly bed?
Nor smile, ye scoffing ones, as though the thought
By folly or presuming pride were taught;
The hosts of heaven, God's written word declares,
Go forth to tend upon salvation's heirs.
Seest thou a Christian, outcast and forlorn,
Exposed to hatred, calumny and scorn?
Know, though embattled worlds conspire to wound
The angel of the Lord encamps around
That child of woe; and brings deliverance near,
In the dread moment of distressful fear.
Why doubt ye this? because the carnal mind
By nature dark, incredulous, and blind,
Shrinks from the Gospel light that would expose
The cowering ambush of infernal foes,
And, reckless of their number, craft and rage
Would in its own good strength the battle wage,
And dreams it yet unaided shall prevail,--
A feather warring with the driving gale!
Even such our Osric was, and long he braved
With courage undismayed, each storm that raved,
Man was his study, nature all his book
Whence his dark view of humankind he took,
And haughtily maintained his towering place
The self-appointed censor of the race.
But warily his comrade had supplied
With skilful hand a caustic to his pride;
He, an unlettered Indian of the wood,
On the same fancied eminence had stood,
And in the sketch that simple tale had shown
Of Jacob's mind, the wanderer viewed his own,
He strove to trace him through his blissful change,
But all was dark, and intricate, and strange.
Amid conflicting feelings, undefined,
One clear impression dwelt upon his mind;
The deed, the purport of his Indian friend
Sprung from a motive--pointed to an end--
His motive was untarnished, pure, sublime,
His object fixed beyond the grasp of time,
And all the tenor of his upright plan
To God was glory, and good-will to man--
To his own soul contentment and repose,
A life of usefulness, a tranquil close,
While more than hope seemed to his spirit given
A calm assurance of the joys of heaven.
What was his own design? through certain woe
To chace imaginary bliss below.
His life a vision, and impervious gloom
Shrouding the wide domain beyond the tomb.
Restless, he pondered through the stormy night,
And gladly hailed the welcome blush of light.
The tumult of the elements was lost
In the still, deep intensity of frost;
No swarthy clouds repelled the heav'nward view,
The pleasant vault above was clear and blue,
And half transparent shone the dancing tide,
While sparkling crystal fringed each stony side.
Now the keen frost that bound the truant spray
Arrests the little streams that steal away,
Transfixed on rocky fragments ere they pass,
They rise in slender pinnacles of glass,
In feathery plumage seem to nod above
In wreaths depend, spread in a mimic grove,
Or fling the pigmy arch of triumph wide,
Brittle as fame, and vain as human pride.
The sharp rude air more vigorous life supplies,
Bidding the nerves contract, the spirits rise;
Emboldened now, the various game around
From covert move and try the frozen ground;
The bear unwieldy, and gigantic deer,
With cautious step, at their invaders peer,
Then fleetly speed away, and as they go
Dash from the trembling woods a storm of snow.
The startled birds from forth the branches spring,
And for new shelter spread the shivering wing;
Braced by the air, enlivened by the beam,
Gaily they float and flutter near the stream,
And yield, their little pains and pleasures o'er,
Victims to swell our traveller's needful store.
These while pursuing their uncertain prey,
With cheerful converse sped the short-lived day,
And Osric found they journeyed to behold
The British Pastor and his Indian fold,
Who far from warring tribes a spot possess,
That piety and peace combine to bless,
A plain whose soil a rich abundance yields,
Where patient labour tills the fertile fields,
While circling hills a native bulwark raise,
And every cave resounds Jehovah's praise.
"Here Zaila, with her wounded sire had fled,
While raging foes pursued their doubtful tread;
A hunter, beating through the woods around
The fainting fugitives exhausted found,
Supplied their craving wants with glad relief,
And to the Pastor led the bleeding chief.
And as beside its captive dam, the fawn
Unshackled trips, by filial fondness drawn,
So fraught with young simplicity and grace,
His Zaila tends upon her father's pace.
The wounds were rude, and tedious was the cure,
But native courage armed him to endure,
And native stubborness alas! could blind,
To the clear Gospel ray that chieftain's mind.
Like the deaf adder, from the charmer's tongue,
Frowning he turned away: but Zaila hung
On every tone that sought her heart to move
With the sweet theme of her Redeemer's love;
Yet secretly believing, she represt
Before her sire, the zeal that warmed her breast.
'Twas so the preacher counselled, for a while,
Until the Lord with pitying grace should smile
On prayer unceasing, that besought His might,
To turn that sinner's darkness into light.
Homeward at length he wills his way to wend,
And Zaila on his step will still attend.
His stern displeasure into silence awed
The timid voice that wooed him to the Lord,
With lamb-like meekness bending to his frown,
She took the cross, sure prelude to the crown.
Her heart was sad, yet all resigned her mein--
But wherefore thus describe what thou hast seen,
What thou hast loved? She dwelt for many a day,
A harmless dove among the birds of prey,
And on th' unhallowed spot where Satan reigned,
A secret worshipper of Christ remained.
Thou cam'st, an honoured guest, and Zaila deemed
The light revealed from heaven would then have beamed
On her dark country: for she simply thought
The white man's lip must of his God have taught.
The hope was vain--yet pity was awake
O'er thy misfortunes, for her teacher's sake;
His countryman thou wert and well she knew
Her tribe was hollow, and their heart untrue;
Their selfish policy, unjustly wise,
Beheld in thee some future sacrifice,
And prized thee well. A secret envoy sought
Our peaceful plain, and Zaila's greeting brought;
Told of thy state, and her foreboding fear
Of treachery within, and danger near.
I came, and while our doubtful schemes we planned,
From distant hills arrived that warlike band.
'Twas Zaila freed thee. To the Lord alone
Be praise, for all the mercies He hath shown."
Osric his guide with growing friendship viewed;
Humility had softened, not subdued
The native ardour of the Indian's look,
And noble candour breathed in all he spoke;
Manly and firm, in peril undismayed,
Yet mild and pleasing as the noon-tide shade.
Strange to his breast was that self-righteous pride,
Unseemly boast conveying, "Stand aside,
For I am holier far." Ye favoured race,
Of faith partakers, and renewed by grace,
Take heed, lest oft ye lay a stumbling-stone
Between the sinner and a Saviour's throne;
Thankful that ye are not as others are,
The Pharisee remember, and, beware.
Where should the leaven, where the light be found,
But leavening the lump, shining on darkness round?
Each blending with its contrast, each with good
Quelling the evil mind, the sullen mood:
The chilling aspect of rebuke austere
May blight the budding promise of the year.
Commend with joy, reluctantly reprove,
By sufferance win, and overcome by love.
O for the gentleness of Paul, who prest
His wayward nurslings to a fostering breast!
Whose heart, to yearning tenderness awake,
A curse could welcome for his brethren's sake,
Excusing others, while himself he paints
The chief of sinners, and the least of saints.
Now Jacob deems, that, from obstruction freed,
The frost-bound earth invites them to proceed:
Equipments meet they hasten to prepare,
The smoke-tanned covering of the slaugtered bear,
To form a double guard from piercing cold,--
Hard pointed staves their sliding steps t' uphold,
Wide spreading shoes to cross the yielding snow,
Where dangerous hollows might be veiled below,
A store of flints, and pouches well supplied
With game, or newly dressed, or firmly dried.
A few short days, and they forsake the spot,
Yet turn to gaze upon their snow-capped cot,
And list once more to the enlivening sound
Of the rude waters that unheeding bound;
Whence come the pangs that Osric's heart assail?
What linked him to that narrow frozen vale?
Who taught their rugged dwelling-place to wear
Aspect so sweet? The son of peace was there;
And such the charm of heaven-descended peace,
Her breathing bids the war of passion cease
In rebel hearts that pass her quiet cell,
While half they sigh, "Here it were good to dwell!"
Now sterner tasks the travellers' strength demand,
With slippery step they mount the frozen land,
Or through the mazy forest labouring go,
Surrounded, bedded, canopied with snow.
Unequal paths deceive their sinking tread,
And crystal showers descend upon their head,
For when they pluck th' opposing branches by,
Ten thousand spars fall glittering from on high.
While from each pore the toil-drawn moisture steals,
It turns to frost; their very breath congeals;
No respite must relieve that panting breath,
They may not pause, for here repose were death;
Yet nought from Osric's lip one murmur drew,
To him 'twas welcome all, for all was new.
As evening fell, a warmer spot they found,
Where firs of fadeless green stood clustering round.
Each loaded bough its feathery freight resigns,
Bends to their will, and in a fence entwines;
They clear the narrow ground, extend the skin,
And slowly raise the lingering flame within,
Then take a short repose, and speed their way,
Long ere the mellowing east proclaims the day.
A mighty plain before their sight is spread,
Heav'ns spangled arch is stretched above their head,
The moon is hovering on the distant west,
And more than half-extinguished glides to rest,
Revealing where a ridge of mountains high,
In dark, dim outline, breaks upon the sky.
Through frosty ether viewed, the stars appear
Intensely brilliant, and more closely near:
It seemed as that resplendent vault would show
Her new-born myriads to the world below,
The blazing orbs their shifting rays combine,
In throngs so vast, and lustre so divine.
Yet no increase was there of native light,
Ether more pure unveiled them to the sight.
So, in Jehovah's great accounting day,
When each delusive mist is purged away,
And truth, unclouded, bursts on mortal eyes,
How many to eternal joy shall rise,
And sparkle like the stars, who now pursue
Their willing task, obscured from public view,
And, like the stream that glides beneath the ground,
Bid the rich fruits of righteousness abound,
Themselves unseen--unnoticed they depart,
And no man lays their destiny to heart;
Yet in the Lord they rest, for they are His,
Their works shall follow to the world of bliss,
And though the earth be wrapped in endless night,
Their splendour shall abide in everlasting light.
How wistfully the mourner's tearful eye
Rests on the softness of the starry sky!
Those gentle fires so kindly, brightly glow,
Contrasted with this cold, dark world of woe,
The pensive soul such sacred music hears
In the majestic movement of the spheres,
The wounded heart so opes to drink the balm
Distilling in this little hour of calm,
I would not bid a human voice intrude
At such mute season, with reflection rude,
But seek the Lord, in deep and silent prayer,
To meet the heaven-ward gaze, and fix it there,
And lead it on, by paths to man unknown,
Through the bright barrier to the brighter throne.
While countless fires above our pilgrims glow,
Unsullied whiteness veils the plain below,
A mimic sea, whose every hillock gave
The semblance of an undulating wave,
And tracks where rapid deer had ploughed their way,
Rose like a curling ridge of foamy spray.
The western hills supplied a rocky coast,
The rest was in the dim horizon lost.
It seemed a desert, where no vital breath
Could long abide; the very realm of death.
Day came and went, and night returning, found
Our patient travellers near the utmost bound
Of that wide plain; Aurora's northern beam
Breaks on their path with light and changeful gleam,
A tall and radiant column first it stood,
Whose base was resting on the darksome wood,
Then, quickly spreading on the dazzled sight,
O'er the broad heaven expands a sheet of light;
Now in a thousand forms evolving parts,
In glittering spear and blazing arrow darts,
Now in a yellow lambent flame decays,
Then emulates the sun, and sets in vivid rays.
For ever lonely, and for ever new,
Oh how can nature pall upon the view!
How at her charms can sickly fashion sneer,
The worldly slight them, or the pious fear?
Though some there be, by rigid scruples taught,
To deem even flowers and stars with peril fraught,
Go thou, and learn of David to descry
The glories of the firmament on high,
God's works and wonders in the mighty deep,
In earth, and all that on her surface creep;
Yea, wisely ponder in thy frequent thought,
How fearfully he hath thy body wrought;
And learn of David's Son the lesson given,
In lilies of the field, and fowls of heaven,
Creation typifies redemption's plan,
God gave his marvels to be marked by man;
He who beholds them with regardless eyes,
Contemns the hand that formed them as unwise.
So thought the Indian Chief, and aptly drew
Some sweet instruction from each passing view.
Philosophy and native taste combined,
Enriched with all their treasures Osric's mind,
But Jacob's spirit, taught by God alone,
With light so pure, and joy so holy shone,
Such glowing thoughts his simple faith inspired,
His wondering comrade listened and admired,
And bore unconscious witness to the word
Of holy writ, "who teacheth like the Lord?"
Succeeding suns in watery splendour rose,
Ere their long task was tending to a close.
Then smilingly the Indian spoke--"At length,
One trial more of courage and of strength
Will place us on a safe and pleasant road,
Whose windings open on our sweet abode.
To-morrow's dawn upon our sight will beam
In bright reflection from a mighty stream,
Whose frost-bound surface shall our steps uphold;
That past, three steeps will bring us to the fold."
Short seemed the fleeting day that cheerly led
Through a thin forest their enlivened tread,
But Jacob inly trembled, when he saw
Unwelcome tokens of the humid thaw;
The crystal rind that wrapped the branches round
Bursting untouched, was strewed upon the ground,
Unwonted dew stood on the fingery leaf
Of each green spruce, as in prophetic grief,
And, for the biting breeze that sharply came,
Uneasy languor steals upon the frame.
"Haste, with redoubled speed," the Indian cried,
"This moisture will unchain th' impatient tide.
A short delay, all art and strength are vain,
Our only prospect now, the stream to gain,
Ere from their brittle bound the waves find ve