O LOVE! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a god indeed divine.
Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine
The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!
Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine!
Nor blind with ecstasy's celestial fire,
Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.
Three little moons, how short, amidst the grove,
And pastoral savannas they consume!
While she, beside her buskined youth to rove,
Delights, in fancifully wild costume,
Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;
"Tis but the breath of heaven-the blessed air-
And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.
What though the sportive dog oft round them note,
Or fawn or wild bird bursting on the wing;
Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring;
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?
No!-nor let fear one little warbler rouse;
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing,
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, [vows.
That shade e'en now her love, and witnessed first her
IV.
Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,
Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,
Where welcome hills shut out the universe,
And pines their lawny walk encompass round;
There, if a pause delicious converse found,
'Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole,
(Perchance awhile in joy's oblivion drowned)
That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll,
Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.
And in the visions of romantic youth,
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth!
The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below!
And must I change my song? and must I show,
Sweet Wyoming! the day, when thou wert doomed,
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bow'rs laid low!
When where of yesterday a garden bloomed.
Death overspread his pall, and black'ning ashes gloomed.
Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,
When transatlantic Liberty arose,
Not in the sunshine, and the smile of heaven,
But wrapt in wirlwinds and begirt with woes:
Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes,
Her birth star was the light of burning plains ;*
*Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war.
Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows
From kindred hearts-the blood of British veins-
And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.
Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,
Or siege unseen, in heav'n reflects its beams,
Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,
That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly dreams:
Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams
Portentous light! and Music's voice is dumb;
Save where the fife its shrill reveillé screams,
Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,
[to come. That speaks of madd'ning strife, and blood-stained fields
It was in truth a momentary pang;
Yet how comprising myriad shapes of wo!
First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang,
A husband to the battle doomed to go!
"Nay, meet not thou," (she cries,)" thy kindred foe!
But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand!”.
Ah, Gertrude! thy beloved heart, I know
Would feel like mine, the stigmatizing brand,
Could I forsake the cause of freedom's holy band!
"But shame—but flight—a recreant's name to prove, To hide in exile ignominious fears;
Say, e'en if this I brooked, the public love
Thy father's bosom to his home endears:
And how could I his few remaining years,
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?"
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers;
[smiled.
At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,
And pale through tears suppressed the mournful beauty
Night came, and in their lighted bow'r, full late,
The joy of converse had endured-when hark!
Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate;
And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark,
A form has rushed amidst them from the dark,
And spread his arms, and fell upon the floor:
Of aged strength his limbs retain the mark;
But desolate he looked, and famished poor,
As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore.
Upris'n each wond'ring brow is knit and arched:
A spirit from the dead they deem him first:
To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched
From lips, as by some pow'rless dream accursed,
Emotions unintelligible burst;
And long his filmed eye is red and dim;
At length the pity-profferred cup his thirst
Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert's hand he grasped ;—but Albert knew not
"And hast thou then forgot," (he cried forlorn,
And eyed the group with half indignant air)
"Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn
When I with thee the cup of peace did share?
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair,
That now is white as Appalachia's snow ;
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair,
And age hath bowed me, and the tort'ring foe,
Bring me my boy-and he will his deliverer know!”
It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,
Ere Henry to his loved Oneida flew ;
"Bless thee, my guide!"—but, backward as he came, The chief his old bewildered head withdrew, [through. And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him 'Twas strange-nor could the group a smile control— The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view :—
At last delight o'er all his features stole,
"It is-my own," he cried, and clasped him to his soul.
"Yes thou recall'st my pride of years, for then The bowstring of my spirit was not slack,
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men,
I bore thee like the quiver on my back,
Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;
Nor foemen then, nor congar's couch I feared,*
For I was strong as mountain cataract :
And dost thou not remember how we cheered,
Upon the last hill top, when white men's huts appeared?
"Then welcome be my death song, and my death!
Since I have seen thee, and again embraced."
And longer had he spent his toil worn breath!
But, with affectionate and eager haste,
Was every arm outstretched around their guest,
To welcome, and to bless his aged head.
Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;
And Gertrude's lovely hand a balsam shed
On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled.
"But this is not a time," he started up,
And smote his breast with wo denouncing hand
*Congar, the American Tiger.
|