Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,
Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore;
Tradition had not named its lonely spot;
But here (methinks) might India's sons explore
Their fathers' dust,' or lift, perchance of yore,
Their voice to the great Spirit :-rocks sublime
To human art a sportive semblance bore,
And yellow lichens color'd all the clime,
And early liking from acquaintance sprung; Full fluently conversed their guest in England's tongue.
And well could he his pilgrimage of taste Unfold, and much they loved his fervid strain, While he each fair variety retraced
Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. Now happy Switzer's hills-romantic Spain,—
Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by Gay lilied fields of France, or, more refined,
But high in amphitheatre above,
His arms the everlasting aloes threw :
Breathed but an air of heav'n, and all the grove
As if with instinct living spirit grew,
Rolling its verdant gulf of every hue;
And now suspended was the pleasing din,
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within
Cathedral aisles-ere yet its symphony begin.
It was in this lone valley she would charm
The ling ring noon, where flow'rs a couch had strewn;
Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm
On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown:
And aye that volume on her lap is thrown
Which every heart of human mould endears;
With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone,
And no intruding visitation fears,
To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweet
And nought within the grove was heard or seen
But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound,
Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird,
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;
When, lo! there enter'd to its inmost ground
A youth, the stranger of a distant land;
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound;
But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd,
And California's gales his roving bosom fann'd.
A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm,
He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,
Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a space
Those downcast features:-she her lovely face
Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame
Were youth and manhood's intermingled grace:
Iberian seem'd his boot-his robe the same,
And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.
For Albert's home he sought-her finger fair
Has pointed where the father's mansion stood.
Returning from the copse he soon was there;
And soon has Gertrude hied from dark greenwood;
Nor joyless, by the converse, understood
Between the man of age and pilgrim young,
That gay congeniality of mood,
1 It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century.
The soft Ausonia's monumental reign;
Nor less each rural image he design'd
Than all the city's pomp and home of human-kind.
XVI.
Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;
Of Nature's savage glories he would speak,-
The loneliness of earth that overawes,-
Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique,
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak,
Nor living voice nor motion marks around;
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,
Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound,'
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.
XVII.
Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply
Each earnest question, and his converse court;
But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why
A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.
"In England thou hast been,-and, by report,
An orphan's name (quoth Albert) mayst have known.
Sad tale!-when latest fell our frontier fort,-
One innocent-one soldier's child-alone
Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as
my own.-
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1 The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.
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 rush'd amidst them from the dark,
And spread his arms,-and fell upon the floor:
Of aged strength his limbs retain'd the mark;
But desolate he look'd, and famish'd, poor,
As ever shipwreck'd wretch lone left on desert shore.
XI.
Uprisen, each wond'ring brow is knit and arch'd:
A spirit from the dead they deem him first:
To speak he tries; but quiv'ring, pale, and parch'd,
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-proffer'd cup his thirst
Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb,
When Albert's hand he grasp'd;—but Albert knew
"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?
But this is not a time," he started up,
And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand-
This is no time to fill the joyous cup,
The Mammoth comes, (18)-the foe, the Monster
Brandt,
With all his howling desolating band;-
These eyes have seen their blade, and burning pine
Awake at once, and silence half your land.
Red is the cup they drink, but not with wine:
Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine!
"Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,
'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth: (19)
Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribe
No! not the dog, that watch'd my household hearth,
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:
Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains!
All perish'd!-I alone am left on earth!
To whom nor relative nor blood remains,
No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins! (20)
1 Cougar, the American tiger.
2 Brandt was the leader of those Mohawks, and other sar1 Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war. 18, at the end of this poem. ages, who laid waste this part of Pennsylvania.-Vide note
Then came of every race the mingled swarm,
Far rung the groves, and gleam'd the midnight grass,
With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm;
As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass,
Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,
Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines :
And first the wild Moravian yagers pass,
His plumed host the dark Iberian joins-
Short time is now for gratulating speech:
And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began
Thy country's flight, yon distant tow'rs to reach,
Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan
With brow relax'd to love? And murmurs ran,
As round and round their willing ranks they drew,
From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.
Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,
Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu!
Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tower,
That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd
Defiance on the roving Indian power.
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
With embrasure emboss'd, and armor crown'd,
And arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin,
Wove like a diadem its tracery round
The lofty summit of that mountain green :
Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene.
A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done
Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow:
There, sad spectatress of her country's woe!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!
But short that contemplation-sad and short
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,
Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew;
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?-yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds,
Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds,
And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle And Albert-Albert-falls! the dear old father bleeds!
And in, the buskin'd hunters of the deer,
To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng:
Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,
Old Outalissi woke his battle-song,
And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,
Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts,
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,
And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.
Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,
Pale on his venerable brow its rays
Of martyr light the conflagration throws;
One hand upon his lovely child he lays,
And one th' uncover'd crowd to silence sways;
While, though the battle flash is faster driv'n,-
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,
He for his bleeding country prays to Heav'n,-
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be for-
giv'n.
And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound,
These drops?-Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!
And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown-
"Weep not, O love!"-she cries, "to see me bleed-
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone
Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed
These wounds;-yet thee to leave is death, is death
indeed!
"Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hopes of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust '
"Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast
In heav'n; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?
And we shall share, my Christian boy!
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!
"But thee, my flow'r, whose breath was giv'n
By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heav'n
Forbid not thee to weep:-
Nor will the Christian host,
No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heav'n-of lost delight!
XXXVII.
"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,Of her who loved thee most:
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth
Of one dear pledge;-but shall there then be none,
In future times-no gentle little one,
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,
Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!"
"To-morrow let us do or die!
But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs!
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,—
Of them that stood encircling his despair,
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!
"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd?
He heard some friendly words;—but knew not what And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah! there in desolation cold,
The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mould'ring bone
And stones themselves to ruin grown
Like me, are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp,-for there-
The silence dwells of my despair!"
"But hark the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Ev'n from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
From Outalissi's soul;
The only tears that ever burst
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!"
Note 1, page 13, col. 1.
From merry mock-bird's song.
"THE mocking-bird is of the form, but larger, than the thrush; and the colors are a mixture of black, white, and grey. What is said of the nightingale, by its greatest admirers, is what may, with more propriety, apply to this bird, who, in a natural state, sings with
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