Legends of New England (1831) : a facsimile reproduction / by John Greenleaf Whittier ; with an introduction by John B. Pickard [electronic text]

THE AERIAL OMENS.

[The Aurora Borealis, previous to the "Old French War" and the War of the Revolution, was uncommonly brilliant and of a strange and mysterious appearance. It was supposed that an army of fiery warriors were seen in the sky, with banners floating, and plumes tossing, and horsemen hurrying to and fro. The superstitions of that period are still fresh in the minds of our oldest inhabitants. The strange changes of the Borealis were considered by many as ominous of approaching war; and consequently excited no little apprehension. The breaking out of war soon after, completely confirmed this supposition; and many an aged Revolutionist will yet tell of the wonderful Northern Lights, and that he saw the battles of Saratoga and Bennington, pictured distinctly on the sky, long before their actual occurrence.]

A LIGHT is troubling Heaven!—A strange, dull glow Is trembling like a fiery veil between The blue sky and the Earth; and the far stars Glimmer but faintly through it. Day hath left No traces of its presence, and the blush With which it welcomed the embrace of Night Has faded from the sky's blue cheek, as fades The blush of human beauty, when the tone Or look which woke its evidence of love, Hath passed away forever. Wherefore then Burns the strange fire in Heaven?—It is as if Nature's last curse—the terrible plague of fire, Were working in her elements, and the sky Consuming like a vapor.

Lo—a change! The fiery flashes sink, and all along The dim horizon of the fearful North, Rests a broad crimson, like a sea of blood, Untroubled by a wave. And lo—above, Bendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white, Clearly contrasted with the blue above And the dark red beneath it. Glorious! How like a pathway for the sainted ones— The pure and beautiful intelligences, Who minister in Heaven, and offer up Their praise as incense; or, like that which rose Before the pilgrim-prophet, when the tread Of the most holy angels brightened it, And in his dream the haunted sleeper saw The ascending and descending of the blest!

Another change. Strange, fiery forms uprise On the wide arch, and take the throngful shape Of warriors gathering to the strife on high,— A dreadful marching of infernal shapes, Beings of fire with plumes of bloody red, With banners flapping o'er their crowded ranks, And long swords quivering up against the sky! And now they meet and mingle; and the ear Listens with painful earnestness to catch

The ring of cloven helmets and the groan Of the down-trodden. But there comes no sound, Save a low, sullen rush upon the air, Such as the unseen wings of spirits make, Sweeping the void above us. All is still. Yet falls each red sword fiercely, and the hoof Of the wild steed is crushing on the breast Of the o'erthrown and vanquished. 'Tis a strange And awful conflict—an unearthly war! It is as if the dead had risen up To battle with each other—the stern strife Of spirits visible to mortal eyes.

Steed, plume and warrior vanish one by one, Wavering and changing to unshapely flame; And now across the red and fearful sky, A long, bright flame is trembling, like the sword Of the great Angel at the guarded gate Of Paradise, when all the sacred groves And beautiful flowers of Eden-land blushed red Beneath its awful shadow; and the eye Of the lone outcasts quailed before its glare, As from the immediate questioning of God.

And men are gazing on that troubled sky With most unwonted earnestness, and fair

And beautiful brows are reddening in the light Of that strange vision of the upper air; Even as the dwellers of Jerusalem, The leagured of the Roman, when the sky Of Palestine was thronged with fiery shapes, And from Antonia's tower, the mailed Jew Saw his own image pictured in the air, Contending with the heathen; and the priest, Beside the Temple's altar, veiled his face From that most horrid phantasy, and held The censor of his worship, with a hand Shaken by terror's palsy.

It has passed— And Heaven again is quiet; and its stars Smile down serenely. There is not a stainUpon its dream-like loveliness of blue—No token of the fiery mysteryWhich made the evening fearful. But the hearts, Of those who gazed upon it, yet retain The shadow of its awe—the chilling fear Of its ill-boding aspect. It is deemed A revelation of the things to come— Of war and its calamities—the storm Of the pitched battle, and the midnight strife Of heathen inroad—the devouring flame,

The dripping tomahawk, the naked knife, The swart hand twining with the silken locks Of the fair girl—the torture, and the bonds Of perilous captivity with those Who know not mercy, and with whom revenge Is sweeter than the cherished gift of life.