The Emigrant Part 2

x.x.xIII.

My Mary! though I yet am young in years, 'Tis like a dream, Love, of the olden time, When first they coyness yielded up its fears, And thy warm heart throbb'd tremblingly to mine,-- When we exchanged the faith we loved to make, And made the promise it should never break-- How happy, then, the future rose to view-- Our hearts the auguries that made it seem all true.

x.x.xIV.

A sense of coldness, like the atmosphere, When chilled by the rude winter's snowy blast, Has pa.s.sed between us now: and--lone and sear, Like the last autumn leaf that fell at last, Though on its parent stem it fain would stay, With days, perchance, as bright as yesterday-- Our hopes have fallen--yet, my Mary, yet, There is no lethean power can teach me to forget.

x.x.xV.

For, in that young affection's early dream, There was the presence and the soul of joy, Which, like the stars, though clouds obscure them, beam With hues of Heav'n, that earth cannot destroy: Dark desolation may be o'er our path, And the fierce lightnings rive it in their wrath, And scalding tears may weep their sources dry, Yet, will that love live on, on its own agony.

x.x.xVI.

E'en like--if we its hopes may personate-- Fall'n Marius, 'mid the ruins, when he stood And pondered darkly o'er his desperate fate, Alone, in th' o'erthrown City's solitude.

Oh! we may build a fairy home for love-- But, when 'tis blasted, how can we remove?

How from the ruins can the ruined part?

Or how rebuild the hope that, falling, crushed the heart.

x.x.xVII.

And, mused I now, as that stern exile mused, 'Mid fallen columns, cities overthrown, With Desolation all around diffused, I should seem less than I seem now alone-- For it would be companions.h.i.+p; but here There is no sympathy with mortal tear: The skies are smiling, and the forests rise In their green glory up, aspirers to the skies!--

x.x.xVIII.

And the wild river, laughing, laves its banks-- A babbler--like a happy-hearted girl, Dancing along with free and frolic pranks; The leaves, o'erhanging, tremble like the curl That plays upon her forehead as she goes-- While 'mid the branches, free from human woes, The wild bird carols to its happy mate, Glad in the present hour, nor anxious for its fate.

x.x.xIX.

But there is one tree blasted 'mid the green, Surrounding forest; and an eagle, there, Looks sadly o'er the gaily, glitt'ring scene, A mourner--with his bleeding bosom bare:-- No more! no more! he'll reach his eyry now, Or sport in triumph o'er the mountain's brow; His wing may hide the death-bolt as he dies, No more shall it expand to bear him to the skies.

XL.

How like the balmy breathing of the spring, Is the unfolding of Love's happy morn!

Then our nurst hopes, antic.i.p.ating, bring The May-day breaking, that shall bear no thorn: The thorn must have its birth-day with the rose-- When one is blighted, still the other grows, And grows the keener, as the seared leaves fall, And rankles in the heart when the storm scatters all.

XLI.

Be blessings on thee, Lady of my love!

As many blessings as thou did'st impart, When to my breast thou cam'st like a young dove, And made thy home in my all-happy heart.

Like the loved picture of his buried maid, Which the sad lover keeps, and weeps the shade, So Memory, to my early feelings true, Preserves its pa.s.sionate love in bidding hope adieu!

XLII.

No! "while there's life there's hope," at least, in love; Hope that the two shall not be always twain:-- Will it not find its home--that parted dove-- Though severed far o'er mountain and o'er main?

Though night o'ertake it, though the tempests rise, Alike, through cloudy, and through smiling skies, Onward it hastens; and, with panting breast, Nestles at home at last, and loves the more its nest.

XLIII.

Built o'er the Indian's grave, the city, here, To all the pomp of civic pride is giv'n, While o'er the spot there falls no tribute-tear, Not e'en his kindred drop--the dew of Heav'n.

How touching was the chieftain's homily!

That none would mourn for him when he should die; Soon shall the race of their last man be run-- Then who will mourn for them? Alas! not one--not one!

XLIV.

They all have pa.s.sed away, as thou must pa.s.s, Who now art wandering westward where they trod-- An atom in the mighty human ma.s.s, Who live and die. No more. The grave-green sod, Can but be made the greener o'er the best, A flattering epitaph may tell the rest-- While they who come, as come these onward waves, Forget who sleep below, and trample on their graves.

XLV.

Yet, who, that ever trod upon this sh.o.r.e, Since the rude red man left it to his tread, Thinks not of him, and marks not, o'er and o'er, The contrast of the living with the dead?

There the tall forest falls--that Indian mound Will soon be levelled with the ploughed-up ground-- Where stands that village church, traditions hold, The war-whoop once rang loud o'er many a warrior cold.

XLVI.

Where stole the paddle-plied and tottering bark Along the rough sh.o.r.es cragg'd and sedgy side,-- Where the fierce hunter, from the forest dark, Pursued the wild deer o'er the mountains wild,-- Now towering cities rise on either hand, And Commerce hastens by to many a strand, Not on her white wings, as upon the sea-- Yet borne as bravely on, and spreading liberty.

XLVII.

And here, where once the Indian mother dwelt, Cradling her infant on the blast-rocked tree, Feeling the vengeance that her warrior felt, And teaching war to childhood on her knee-- Now dwells the christian mother: O! _her_ heart Has learned far better the maternal part-- Yet, in deep love, in pa.s.sion for her child, Who has surpa.s.s'd thine own, wild woman of the wild?

XLVIII.

Our homes, and hearts, and Nature, the blue sky, Breathe these affections into all who live-- The flowings of their fountains cannot dry.

Who gave us life? 'Tis He, who bids them live!

And they have lived, here, in this forest-bower, In all the strength, the constancy, the power, The deep devotion, the unchanging truth Of Eden's early dawn, when Time was in his youth.

XLIX.

How patient was that red man of the wood!

Not like the white man, garrulous of ill-- Starving! who heard his faintest wish for food?

Sleeping upon the snow-drift on the hill!

Who heard him chide the blast, or say 'twas cold?

His wounds are freezing! is the anguish told?

Tell him his child was murdered with its mother!

He seems like carved out stone that has no woe to smother.

L.

With front erect, up-looking, dignified-- Behold high Hecla in eternal snows!

Yet, while the raging tempest is defied, Deep in its bosom how the pent flame glows!

And when it bursts forth in its fiery wrath!

How melts the ice-hill from its fearful path, As on it rolls, unquench'd, and all untam'd!-- Thus was it with that chief when his wild pa.s.sions flam'd.

LI.

Nature's own statesman, by experience taught, He judged most wisely, and could act as well; With quickest glance could read another's thought, His own, the while, the keenest could not tell; Warrior--with skill to lengthen, or combine, Lead on, or back, the desultory line; Hunter--he pa.s.sed the trackless forest through,-- Now on the mountain trod, now launch'd the light canoe.

LII.

To the Great Spirit, would his spirit bow, With hopes that Nature's impulses impart; Unlike the Christian, who just says his vow With heart enough to say it all by heart.

Did we his virtues from his faults discern, 'Twould teach a lesson that we well might learn: An inculcation worthiest of our creed, To tell the simple truth, and do the promised deed.

LIII.

How deeply eloquent was the debate, Beside the council fire of those red men!

With language burning as his sense of hate; With gesture just, with eye of keenest ken; With ill.u.s.tration simple, but profound, Drawn from the sky above him, or the ground Beneath his feet; and with unfalt'ring zeal, He spoke from a warm heart and made e'en cold hearts feel.

LIV.

And this is Eloquence. 'Tis the intense, Impa.s.sioned fervor of a mind deep fraught With native energy, when soul and sense Burst forth, embodied in the burning thought; When look, emotion, tone, are all combined-- When the whole man is eloquent with mind-- A power that comes not to the call or quest, But from the gifted soul, and the deep feeling breast.

LV.

Poor Logan had it, when he mourned that none Were left to mourn for him;--'twas his who swayed The Roman Senate by a look or tone; 'Twas the Athenian's, when his foes, dismayed, Shrunk from the earthquake of his trumpet call; 'Twas Chatham's, strong as either, or as all; 'Twas Henry's holiest, when his spirit woke Our patriot fathers' zeal to burst the British yoke.

LVI.

Isle of the beautiful! how much thou art, Now in thy desolation, like the fate Of those who came in innocence of heart, With thy green Eden to a.s.similate: Then Art her coronal to Nature gave, To deck thy brow; Queen of the onward wave!

And woman came, the beautiful and good, And made her happy home 'mid thy embracing flood.[6]

LVII.

Alas! another came: his blandishment, The fascination of his smooth address, That read so well the very heart's intent, And could so well its every thought express,--[7]

Won thy fair spirits to his dark design, And gave our country, too, her Cataline.