Not a man, and yet a man / by A.A. Whitman [electronic text]

NOT A MAN, AND YET A MAN.

THE MOVERS.

'Twas in the long ago, 'Twas in the age of woods Of Young America, That moving, rattling, slow Towards the Western plain, A single settler's train, Drawn on by oxen teams, Was seen, as when in dreams, Strange sights and solitudes, Upon our vision play.

The tall forests swim in a crimson sea, Out of whose bright depths rising silently, Great golden spires shoot into the skies, Among the isles of cloud-land high, that rise, Float, scatter, burst, drift off, and slowly fade, Deep in the twilight, shade succeeding shade. And by yon leaning rocks beneath the hill Whose sloping base, a peaceful streamlet laves, With fitful joyance bubbling in its waves,

The train guard pausing, winds his signal shrill. Long roll the echoes, and the patient train, In order halt along the silent plain. From under wagon covers eight or nine, Two anxious rows of female faces shine, And whispers buzz from lips to lips around: "That's Rodney's horn!" "Is this the camping ground?" Loud low the oxen, leaning in their gear, Replying heifers low along the rear; And ere the seated driver drops his threads, Come leaping on and toss their hornless heads. Mark how enjoyment this wild scene pervades, How ruddy maidens vie with ruddy maids; These gathering fagots from yon lofty wood; They ranging vessels and preparing food; While seated round, their lordly umpires rest On upturned stones, and view them doubly blest,

Such were the scenes the early travelers met, When they towards the West their faces set. Then, movers all their earthly ware would load, And drive a whole great farm of stock upon the road. Moving was moving then. The house cat e'en, High in her sleepy reign was onward seen, Riding, among utensils old and rare, And roost and all, the ancient cock was there; And thro' the silent forest blew his horn, By day occasional, but always night and morn.

SAVILLE.

Fair Saville! earliest village of the wood, To break the reign of ancient solitude, Where erst the dusky tennants of the shade, Along the Mississippi's waters strayed; Thou once did flourish on the lap of fame, When to thy rude abodes adventure's wand'ring footsteps came.

I turn with reverential step and slow, To trace the scenes my recollections know. Where now thy cliffs bleak winter's wiles oppose, When through the screeching air his blasts he throws, There warring totems once prolonged their stay, And then e'en with reluctance went their way. And where yon blossomed fields, and orchards green, Fresh meadows, and contented flocks are seen, There erst the Indian reared his wigwam rude, Deep in the wide forest's pathless solitude.

Dear to me yet, and every day more dear, Familiar sounds revive upon my ear; Familiar scenes come to me o'er the past, And I, recoiling from the Future vast, Revisit in my dreams and solitude, The pleasant places of thy borders rude.

Thus, when from tempest-brooding heav'ns I fly; When life's meridian's in a pensive sky, Back to the charms of other days I come, And seem a traveler returning home.

Then cumbrous backwoods life wide o'er the vale, Heard a responsive tongue in every gale. Loud baying hounds pressed hard the fleety deer, Replying horns pursued along the rear, Wild song attuned the breezy throat of morn; The plowman whistled to his growing corn, And lads with hoes, garrulous as they went, Close on his heels their nimble footsteps bent. And there was heard from morn till evening late The various accents of a happy state, The waste echoing to the axe remote, The anvil groaning as the blacksmith smote, The plashy labors of the slumb'rous mill, The brook reposing as the wheel stood still; Loud shouts arising childhood's sports among, And matrons scolding as their flax wheels sung.

And often gathered when the joyous Spring, Had livened Winter's latest lingering, When all the voiceless wastes of recent gloom Awoke to song and warbled into bloom; Beneath the spreading shades that arch yon green In happy groups the village train were seen.

Near where yon footpath climbs behind the town, And straggles off into a hazel down, Their wonted sports through shining hours would stray, Till time unnoticed brought the close of day; And silent wheeling, scarce above the fence, The crooked bat did aimless flights commence; Slow-toned the cow-bell, and sad whippoorwill Mourned in her darkling copse behind the hill. Then when the tasks of ev'ning all were done, Around the blazing hearth new sports begun; When corn was pestled for the next day's meals, The bands were slackened on their cumb'rous wheels, The woodsman from his labor had come home And plowmen from their furrows wearysome; Loud glee pursued the "blind man" round and round, Till roaring laughter tripped him to the ground. The "old gray witch," slow-motioned, then would stare, While the gay rompers felt a secret scare,— Went crouching from her, dodged from wall to wall, Or in the corners scrambling, tumbled all. Thus poured the murmuring tide of childish mirth, While sober converse leaned around the hearth, And weighty matters in each earnest breast, Beguiling time, prolonged the way to rest. Oh happy times of man's innocency! When earth was as like Heaven as could be, When simple relish made each sport more dear,

Delayed the seasons and prolonged the year.

Within yon rude-built pile with gables gray, With which the wanton blasts of Winter play, When all disconsolate they moan and fret, The simple council of the village met. Where mutual interests called them to consult Life's surest course, and probable result. Hark! yon small rusty bell shakes from its throat A few slow sounds, the assembling hour to note. No paid men patriotic speeches make, No brazen instruments their music wake, Nor pages pass their sparkling draughts around, And yet the weight of policies profound, Burdens each breast, and doctrines pure and sound, Consult a future people's liberties, Without the pomp of courtly vanities. Their theme the building of a colony, Their views as various as their interests be, The past is traversed with a sober gaze, Truths gathered from experience's ways, And probabilities dexterously thrown In Reason's scales, to balance up or down. Suggestions follow; till each one in turn, His neighbor's leading views succeeds to learn. Discussion then proceeds, orderly, clear, Each member striving simplest to appear, And each assuming rather to be taught,

Than teach the other, e'en if teach he ought. If different grounds their judgments mild divide, Each yields his own to take the other's side; Or, if one holds a point at one's expense, He argues only in his point's defense, And not against the others, shows how plain His views are to discover his friend's gain. Thus order o'er the council all prevails, And harshness ne'er reflection's ear assails. So when some peaceful stream pursues its course Down moaning falls and rapids gurgling hoarse, Each separate object finds a tongue distinct, But all together blend, and each in one's extinct.

These names were chief in council: 'Squire Grimes, A stern Lycurgus of the backwoods times, And pious parson Deems, of honored name, And mild Sir Maxey of lineal fame. A man of little more than medium size Was he, with soft brown hair and hazel eyes, A light gray even beard, an open face,An easy carriage, and a happy trace Of deep reflection in his general mien, That e'en by dull observers might be seen. Unlike the Cæsar of a forest shed, To daring deeds, and frontier perils bred, So sensitive his elevated mind,

For combat and disaster too refined, At bloody sights a horror seized his breath, And fears swum thro' his veins at thought of death. And such is man, to different fortunes born; When different schools his early life adorn, A hero dwindles to a merest lout When nothing calls the latent hero out.

The name of Gabriel Grimes, whene'er one spoke, The thought of law immediately awoke. His mien meant law, his voice and his attire,— In truth the very man seemed born a 'Squire. Not tall was he but round, and fat and tan, And twice as thick as any other man. Reserved, yet free, incautious, yet alert, He suffered ne'er his character a hurt By weightless talk. When others laughed he'd frown, When others frowned he'd laugh, and so renown, E'en as the jackal hunts the lion down, Ran after him all frothy mouthed; and praise Sounded her horn at his peculiar ways. 'Twas granted all the depths of law he knew, For what he did know, others ne'er saw thro'. His strength lay not in doing mighty things, But giving mighty inferences wings, And thus it is with many great of earth, Not what they are, but what we think them worth.

But David Deems, his opposite in all, Was pleasant, candid, unassuming, tall. A cloud of fleecy locks hung peacefully About his neck, according happily With his broad look of open charity, And ever in his careful placid face The sweet light shone of vital inward grace, Like dawnings of a better world—no glare Of hot ambitions e'er ascending there, Nor earth's polluting fires. His was no mien Of sanctity affected, while between His precepts and his practice, regions lay Untraversed in his life; but as the day, The cloudless lustre of his zealous soul Beamed solid forth, and held in mute control, Or stirred with song-cheer all within his reach. He practiced how to live as well as preach, And when he prayed, "Our debtors be forgiven," His soul and mind and strength conversed with Heaven, Denouncing sin, the rebel, trembling heard, And breathless hung upon his lightest word; Describing bliss, wretchedness raised her eyes, And with his lifted hand assayed to rise, To spurn cold earth and dwell beyond the skies. But when with pity streaming down his cheek, The pierced bleeding Lamb of God, so meek He pointed to, loud sobs responsive told

What sway o'er hearts a godly man may hold. Ah, God! for more such in these turbid days, Who preach to save souls, not to win mere praise, Who walk with men to lead them out of vice, And cause them to secure the "pearl of price."

'Twas then fair Saville that thy just renown Was trumpeted in all the pride of town. For all the hunting stations far and near, Thou wast a depot to all hunters dear. The tide of immigration drifting e'er, Far on thy desert shores, some pioneer; Soon far around, in distant wilds unknown, Rude lodges from adventurer's hands were strewn, And Husbandry went forth with sturdy hand, To clear the waste and dress a prosperous land. The voice of cleavers in yon valleys wide, Were heard from breaking morn till eventide; Loud rang their sudden axes blow on blow, Deep thro' the waste re-echoed from below, Great trees came crashing with a thundering sound, Heaved from their stumps, and groaned along the ground.

Lo! in the mountains where yon wild cascade Leaps thro' the sun and trembles in the shade, Or sings in the sad ear of loneliness; Where noteless birds come in the drowsiness Of pulseless Summer's unremitting heat, Where o'er the stream the forest branches meet,

Where rocks oppose the climber's sterile way— And gorges yawn beneath in rugged gray, High in the seat of Ancient Solitude, The border woodsman rears his cabin rude. Equipped with rifle, axe, and faithful dogs, Here dwells the sovereign of a hut of logs; By one attended of the fearless fair, A consort in the wilds well worth his care.

By day the husband ventures forth for food, Far from his lodge, within some friendly wood; At eve returning to that constant one, Who dared to bide his coming all alone. Then when the twilight spreads her mantle pale O'er wood and hill, and darkens in the vale, His axe, and ready loaded gun near by, His watchful mastiffs snugly napping nigh, The window latched, and stoutly barred the door, The day's adventures are recounted o'er. The bear is now pursued over fallen logs, Opposed by these, and pressed by eager dogs, The herd's seen pouring thro' the startled dell, The fleet stag's shot and hung up where he fell. Thus on, the current of narration flows, Deeper and deeper wearing as it goes, Till heavy slumber settles on their eyes; Converse moves sluggish, thoughts slower arise,

And faint and fainter flick'ring, sink the rays, That wander from the fagot's dying blaze, Till embers pale surviving—nothing more, Light them to rest to dream their chattings o'er.

Look where yon hunters two or three or more, The solitary wilds to westward now explore. Thro' mountain paths, by lakes and streams they roam, The woods their dwelling-place, the world their home! In beast skins clad, dark jungles wind they thro', With eager strides their desert way pursue, And with wild pleasure gaze on every prospect new. At times hopelessly lost these wandered long, The hostile tribes of savages among. By day their only show of safety Their excellence in sylvan strategy. The wild bird's song seemed as a mournful tale, And e'en a twig's fall turned their faces pale; And every little throat did omens bear, That shocked their senses with a seige of fear, Till restless hunger whetted valor keen, And dared the perils of the dismal scene. When thro' the darkling bosom of the dell The footsteps of the cautious ranger fell In measured silence on the Indian trail, And fierce alarm was tongued by every gale; When streamed the burning wigwam's lurid light Against the forest walls of troubled night,

And quick-eyed dragoons threaded every pass, O'er mountain rocks, and in the deep morass, Then cougar-footed strategy slunk in Before the lion tread of Discipline.

For these, fair Saville, these frontiersmen bold, Whose praise in song or story ne'er was told, For these, thou wast a haven where all turned, And where for all a genial hearth e'er burned. When fugitives to this free home of ours, Sought liberty beneath thy Western bowers; From shores whence bigotry, with flaming hand, Expelled poor conscience naked from the land, Pale wanderers flocked to thee in many a trembling band.

From torpid Norway's habitations drear, Where Summer smiles to soothe the frigid year In vain, and boisterous, railing torrents moan The bitter discord of their cheerless zone, And wintry blasts o'er naked landscapes shriek, While sparse fed herds migrate from peak to peak In dismal groups, to browse the thawing slope, Or huddle in the drowsy mountain cope; From fair Italia's hills of evergreen, O'er-canopied in stillest blue serene, From fields where Summer plants her fragrant train Beside the lucent streamlets of the plain; From old determined Britian [sicBritain]; morose Wales—

Where life's as stately as a ship with sails— From Scotia's genial bourne of soul and song, Where poverty, though simple, spurns the wrong, Where love and labor meet fraternally; Fair land of Burns and wand'ring minstrelsy; From Germany's wide realms of smoke and beer, Where dreamy metaphysics sits austere; From over-flowing, ever-bowing France, The home of fashions, fopperies and dance; From sacred Judah, and beyond the Nile, And from priest-ridden Erin's suppliant isle, Escaping bands from Famine, Tyranny And Ignorance, fled here for liberty. A home for empty indigence was here; The broken spendthrift found a friendly sphere, The hopeless suiter came in all his throes, To sport away the burdens of his woes; Here wealth and romance found a fit abode, And hand-in-hand with fame and fancy strode; Ambition, in his sanguinest career, Found a theatre for his conquests here; And grave philanthropy, advising stood, Disposed to do the unborn future good; And here apostles of the hidden life Implored kind Heaven to hold the winds of strife, Pronounced swift judgment on transgression's ways, Encouraged virtue, recommended praise,

Enlivened hope, taught faith to patient be, Cheered manly toil and lauded charity.

With strongest cords of mutual interest bound, All hands together were employed found. Engaged to arm against a common foe, The strength of unity they learned to know; And what convenience Art had them denied, United, willing hands full well supplied. They reared their cabins, built their forest forts Together, hunted, fished and held their sports. The sick they joined to nurse with sleepless care, To soothe the suffering, knew no pains to spare, And when from earth the patient spirit fled, They joined their mournful tributes to the dead. Thus plenty flourished on the lap of ease, And even danger's self was made to please. Bold industry at hardships learned to smile, Uproot vast wants and hew down woods of toil. So when the forest matron crowned her board With health and sustenance from her good hoard, The unknown wanderer had a welcome there, And indolence was e'en allowed a chair. Lo! where yon woodsman skirts the neighboring weald, And nears his smoking cot behind the field. His step aweary quickens at each pace, And satisfaction lightens his tired face As home he views; Home! isle in time's rough sea,

Where rests the voyager serene and free From hollow, howling sorrows, that surround His rock, and shake life's groaning depths profound— Where winds repose, in long unruffled peace,— Dear isle! where love's bright shine doth never cease— And where no sooner doth the bloomy train, Their sweetness drop, than blooms revive again. Lo, now the evening star in grandeur still Ascends yon upland wood and sheep cote hill, Like some pale maiden at the trysting late, Hard thro' the twilight peering o'er the gate; The loud cur at the hollow nightfall bays, And whispers flutter round the bright hearth's blaze, Then nearer draws the rustic to his seat, His warming heart outstrips his hasting feet; All day his manly arms to labor bared, Have wrought the task, returning want prepared. Blest be the man, who void of all pretense, Repays in ample sweat kind Providence, For all His goods, and great beneficence! And blest the consort of his lusty cares, Who seeks his pleasures and his labor shares. Behold the pilgrim leaning at their door, Water he begs and shelter—nothing more; The frowning wealth of some far distant land, Has driven him to leave with empty hand. See how the wond'ring little ones apprise

Their busy mother with their sparkling eyes. She to the stranger bows, extends a chair, And chides her bright-eyed cherubs if they stare. Hark! now the cotter's well-known steps draw near, And patter faster as the stile they clear. Soon in the door appears his open face, A flock of kisses fly to his embrace; The smaller, raised upon his manly breast, Chirp out, and crow, and carrol at the rest. And the kind housewife, hasty to obey A tender conscience, happy seems as they. Her eyes upon the hoary stranger bent, Speak her desire, and ask her lord's consent. All signs and looks unpleasant are repressed, And ample supper set before their guest; Who, having vanquished potent hunger quite, Is kindly pressed upon to stay all night!Blest be the man! his hands arrest his wants, His charity is great, but never vaunts. He now to quiet night's embrace repairs, And sleeps away his weariness and cares. Sweet be the visions of his manly breast, Nor by remorseful dreams of wealth, nor banished joys opprest.

These were the mighty days of little things, Ere soaring vanity had yet her wings. Her patron wealth was then but poorly known,

For gain was satisfied with but his own. Then aspirations of the noblest kind, Dear humble comfort to her hights confined. These were the good old times of simple worth, When love and reverence met at every hearth; When strong toil stretched beneath green plenty's tree, And worshipped home's best god dear Industry. Then gaunt-armed indiscretion, pale and sore, Groaning beneath disease's dreaded sting Through sleepless hours, was never known. The king Most terrible of all the hordes of bale, Intemp'rance, did not then the peace assail Of hopeful hearts, breathing out crime and hate, And houseless want and hearths all desolate. Then blushing beauty's cheek of tender hues, Showed not excessive drink and what ensues. Ah! fatal days of wantonness and wine, In which now youthful wealth assays to shine, Deriding with the jeers of native glee, The homespun customs of their ancestry! Regarding lights which made our land sublime, As smouldering embers on the hearth of time. In wilds remote from fame's resounding horn, Where courts were never dreamed of, kings were born, Or minds that might have worn star-gemmed renown, And added lustre to a James' crown With all the sovereign claims of Royalty,

Wisdom, valor, and sterling honesty. The way from office then was hedged by fines, The way to office now by party lines. Oh, God! for a return to simple ways, Such as crowned Saville in her valiant days, Ere yet the pluming warrior's barb'rous knife Cut down the flower on the lap of life!

But, Saville, pause! for God's sake pause! I beg! For thy fair bosom warms a viper's egg. The hatching ruin will thy young life sting, And pour a deadly poison thro' thy nature's spring. Thou hold'st one slave! Of barbarisms old An evil seed now in thy life takes hold.

Prosperity's big rain to cheer thee falls, And plenty overhangs thy garden walls; Soft blooming gladness in thy hedges peep, And green delight doth at thy waysides creep, Contentment murmurs in thy valleys low, And health's rejoicing streams from fruitful hillsides flow; But Justice n'er can say, "peace be in thee," While one beneath thy grinding heel pants to be free. Ah! can'st thou hold the life of one in chains, With eighty-five per cent. of Saxon in his veins? Oh, Saville, look at what a crime thy nature stains!

Thy Rodney, see, how noble he appears, Just on the summit of his tender years!

His Summers number scarce a single score, And yet his manly face seems marked by more. When pity calls, his brawny arm assumes A woman's softness, and as light becomes. But when the right enlists him to oppose, On whate'er grounds, whatever of her foes, His face as gentle as a sleeping child's, Would dare the fury of the roaring wilds; His nerves put on their fearless strength, and steeled By valor stern, the knife or rifle wield. Erect in air he stands full six-feet, three, Broad shouldered, strong, a goodly man is he. A lover of fair women, and as blind To her weaknesses as Egyptian night, A fondler with soft childhood, and as kind To its mistakes, as if mistakes were right; Skilled in the feats that backwoods life adorn, Although a stranger to the backwoods born, The shelly clamor of the Autumn trees,Or howl of beasts, or savages alike can please. And he a slave? Ah, Saville, can it be That such a noble heart can not beat free!

THE OLD SAC VILLAGE.

Ye who read in musty volumes Pages worn of Backwoods Times, Of the red man and the white man, In the thrilling days of danger, In the gall of border troubles, In the wastes of deadly revenge, And the ruffian hands of torture; And of long and fierce death grapples, With the bloody hands of combat, On the yawning edge of famine; Of adventure's rustling footsteps, When the knees of stoutest valor Smote together as they paused, where Lynx-eyed strategy lay crouching, On the bosom of still ambush, Ready from his hands to let loose A loud leash of swift cruelties; Ye who read these musty volumes, Till a strange sensation thrills you, As of Indians skulking near you, Lay aside your volume lightly, Hear me sing of Nanawawa.

Ye who pore for weary hours, In the deep wild nooks of legend,

In the forest-nooks of legend, Gath'ring up these strange old relics, For your idle thoughts to play with; Such as wigwams rude, and war posts, Belts of wampum, bows and arrows, Scalping-knives, and rough stone hatchets, Peace pipes and great council fires, Forest senates, and wise treaties, Forest seers and superstitions, And inconstancy and cunning, In the savage world of promise; Ye who pore for weary hours In these pathless nooks of legend, Wake, and hear of Nanawawa.

Ye who wander long delighted, In the distant realms of romance, On the mountain hights of romance, And in woody depths of romance, Getting lost in shady windings, Looking not to find your way out, But a wood to wander off in, And a nook to lose yourselves in; With majestic trees around you, Clasping in their arms of grandeur, Densest depths of sleeping silence, Clear, deep, still lakes, on whose margins Peaceful herds feed, dreams the heron,

On whose bosoms swift and light glide Birch canoes, arrowy darting, Like soft shadows, smooth and soundless; Floating thro' unbroken stillness, Save the distant fret of oar-locks, And the pebbly speech of bright waves; Ye who seek these depths of romance, Where the noon-beam parts the fore locks Of the forest looking shyly, Where a thousand wind-swung branches, Wild songs pour in Solitude's ear, And the heart of meditation Slowly beats and warms in beating; Pause, and hear of Nanawawa.

Ye who shut up in warm houses, Late on sombre Winter evenings, Lulled by pleasant roaring grate fires, And the cozy flap of curtains,And the chirp of vacant childhood, And the cheery streams of gaslight Meekly stealing, that pause, bashful, On the plushy lap of softness; Ye who thus shut up in houses, Dream of early life and hardships, Shut in humble frontier cabins, Far out on the unknown borders; Dream of weariness o'ercoming

The lost traveler on his journey Overtaken by the snow-storm; Lone at night and his path dimming, Sinking down to sleep his death sleep; Chilly leagues from any dwelling, And while loneliness bewails him, Through the drear woods shrieks the gray blast, Shrieks the eager flying North blast, As a hungry eagle shrieketh; Ye who shut up thus in houses, Dream of these fell border hardships; Hear me sing of Nanawawa. Ah! ye shall behold a beauty! On the lap of an old forest, In the wigwam of her fathers, By the cascades of her childhood Ye shall see a sylvan maiden, Meek as April's first fresh rose is, Sweet as blushing light e'er looked on, Brilliant as a melting dewdrop, But in love pensively youthful.

In the days that long ere these times, Went their way with loud importance, On the thrilling lips of warfare, And the tongue of backwoods valor, Told to many generations; There was a rude Indian village,

Far within a glen sequestered, In the basin of a clear brook, Near the waters of the Wabash, In the Mississippi valley. In this ancient birch bark village, With his daughter, Nanawawa, Dwelt the chief of all the Sac tribes, Old and austere Pashepaho, Powerful and warlike Stabber. On a hill, the Stabber's tent stood High above the other lodges, And the goodliest among them. Once upon the moon of bright nights, On a day in budding April, At his tent door sat the Stabber, With his chin leaned on his hands, sat Knitting thoughts above his sage brow, And pursuing speculations, Through the sober depths of study. "What a brilliant sun-set," said he, As the world of quiet West woods Slowly reddened into amber, And the sunset-spangled clouds threw Up their long arms tipped with fire, And sank down in sleepy glory, In a deep still sea of glory. "Sing a camp song, Nanawawa,"

"I will help you sing it over."Said he, turning to his daughter. "On the morrow is the full moon, And the great feast of the Sac tribes, When the Chiefs of all the nations Will come in to see the Stabber And report upon the country. They will tell me of their huntings, And of fishings in their clear streams, Of their pleasant sugar makings, And of fields of green maize growing; They will tell of wild adventures With the bear and with the bison, And will tell the great traditions Of their tribes and of their totems. Goodly presents they will bring me, Venison to make the feast with, Bear skins to adorn my tent with, Paints to make my old age youthful, Beads to brighten favor's dull eyes, Wampum to revive old friendships, And great words to move the heart with.

"Sing a camp song, Nanawawa, Sing until the time of sleep comes, I will join and help you sing it." Nanawawa sang a camp song, And the Stabber joined the singing,

Till asleep they sat and sang yet, Till they went to sleep a singing. Morning came, and as the hours Went their way, they brought crowds with them, Of the distant tribes and totems. Noon approached, and saw the great feast, In its highest wild demeanor, In the savage hights of ardor. Eating, drinking, gaming, dancing, Mingled in a ceaseless whirling To the sound of forest music. Evening came, and as the feast sank To repose, as sinks the warrior On his shield, of fields aweary And the long parade of armies, To the tent door of the Stabber, Chieftains came and stood in silence. Pashepaho in his tent floor, On his bear skins sat a smoking. Not a word said he to any, But a seat he motioned them to, And went dryly on a smoking As they settled close around him.

Young men, chiefs of the Ojibways, The Miamis, and Dacotahs, And the mighty Sacs and Foxes, Laid their presents rare and costly,

At the Stabber's feet; and seated On their armor, in great phrases Of their forest tongues, made speeches. On her tent floor, Nanawawa Looking not upon the young men, Heard their sounding words of valor. Tho' the eyes of great chiefs sought her, She would starve their eager glances, Turning from them on the tent floor.

Pashepaho's Speech to the Young Men.

Pashepaho heard the young men Till their lofty words had ended, And in accents stern, thus answered: "For your presents, I am thankful. By your speeches I'm encouraged. Peace now lighteth all the Nations As a noon sun lights the prairies. Time once was when peace was broken Up in all our Western borders. Horsed on fire, bloody battle Rode throughout our ancient forests. From his home within the sunrise, From his land of bells and steeples, From the regions of the East wind, The hoar dwelling place of Wabun, Then Spake the Great Father to us, To his red tribes spake in loud tones As of thunder in the forests. "Now be peaceable, my children, Dwell in friendship's tents together, You, my red sons and my white sons." Then he took his great war hatchet, That could strike with blows of thunder,

And into the mountains wandered, Went forth in the deepest valleys, And at one blow hewed a pine down, Fell a great pine of the valleys, That looked upward into Heaven, With the East winds in his left hand, And the West winds in his right hand, And the noon-beams in his forelocks; Took this old pine of the valleys, And to make a war-post, reared it. Then he spake again, in this wise: "Lo! the war-post now ascendeth! See the war-post of the nations, Now the Great Spirit beholds it; See it pointing into Heaven Like the finger of a giant! Bury now your hatchets neath it, And be peaceable my children, Dwell in friendship's tents together." Then the sky above the war-post, Grew as clear as any crystal, And the dreamy air was softened, And the dazing blue seemed higher, And the far off hills seemed farther, And all sounds were low and solemn. Then the red sons and the white sons, Neath the war-post sat together.

When the red sons spake in this wise: "Raise your eyes and look now, brothers, See it now is Indian Summer. Lo! the sky is all serene now, And the hills are all a sleeping, How the brown woods now are yawning? Now the slow streams sing in whispers. And the South wind passeth softly In her moccasins of damp moss. Lo! this now is Indian Summer, And the time to go a hunting. We will leave you now, and hasten To the mountains for a bear hunt. Our light canoes are waiting By the waters. Brothers, farewell. Then spake the Great Father to us, As we stood beside the waters, By the moorings of our canoes, And shook-hands with all our brothers.

"Thus your hunting grounds, my red sons, Shall extend; my white sons know them. From Kaskaskia to Cahokia, From St. Vincennes to St. Louis, Up the Wabash, Illinois, The Wisconsin, and Great Water, To the regions of the North wind, Where the bold St. Lawrence spreadeth

Out the fingers of his right hand; Where the dun moose snuffs the lake fog, Snuffs the cold breath of the North Lakes, And the slow bear baffles Winter, In his sullen reign of deep snows; Where the son of Giant waters Rocks the earth as in a cradle, And sings lullabys of thunder In the ear of old Forever, Till the darkness sighs and shudders, And the white hills quake and whisper, "Lo, Niagara is waking!" From this birth-place of the hoar blasts, To the wigwam of the South wind, In the myriad-voiced prairies, Where the wild goose sounds her pibroch, And the wild duck talks her nonsense, And the heron shoots her slant flights, From her dreamings in the long grass; These shall be—then loud he uttered— Hunting grounds for you forever." Then said Pashepaho, turning From his audience, and smoking, "Peace now lighteth up our forests, And our wigwams all are cheerful."

NANAWAWA'S SUITORS.

When the Stabber's speech had ended, And his presents all were gathered, And his pipe the chiefs had all smoked, Four young chiefs of goodly mein, came Round the princess of the forest, And upon the tent floor kneeling, Made obesience to her lowly. Then they rose and gave her presents, Costly beads and many colored One presented, one a necklace Of rare stones, one silver brooches For her hair, and one gold wristlets. All then went and sat in silence, Waiting for the maiden's answer. Pausing, seemed the maid more pretty. Youthful seemed in indecision. At the presents looked and suitors, Looked at one and then the others. Ah! how lovely now her soft eyes Shone as her young hands grew doubtful. Fairest daughter of the wigwams, Blithest warbler of the deep shades, Sweetest flower that e'er shined there, Having o'er her native sweetness Rarest hues of loneliness shed.

Ah! she was a lovely doubter! Beads about her perfect neck hung, Like the clusters of a ripe vine. Wristlets clasped her naked round arms, With reluctance seemed to clasp them, As a lover clasps a lover. Undecided, ah, how youthful, Ah, how rare was Nanawawa! Pashepaho silent sitting, With a true parental pride, watched His fair daughter thro' the pipe smoke That in clouds his head environed. At the door-way of the wigwam, Then a chief stood, a Dacotah, Leading a young captive with him, A fair child of some white settler. In the captive's face, the light shone Of intelligence and training. He the hopes showed of proud parents. Long his locks, and golden, floated To his shoulders, blue his eyes were, And as sunbeams penetrating. But captivity's cold buffets Pensive made him seem and forlorn. Then the presents of the young chiefs, Nanawawa threw back to them, Rose and met the young Dacotah,

Took the captive by the right hand, And the young chief by the left hand, And into the wigwam led them. "Here," said she, "This is my present, As the captive's hand she held to, Give me this lad for a present." "I have brought him for your present," Sighed the hopeful young Dacotah. Thus it was that Nanawawa Found a lover in her wigwam, Found a husband at her door-way. For within her heart she whispered, In her heart the thought she uttered, "I have found a husband surely." But a secret hid she kept it, Though she to her own heart told it, Pashepaho never knew it. Many days in happiness dwelt Nanawawa and the captive; For the Stabber took the captive, Smeared his face with many colors, Hung his golden locks with brooches, Armed him with a bow and arrows, And his son, the White Loon, named him; Nanawawa's brother called him. Meanwhile all the village loved him, Loved young Nanawawa's brother.

In their huntings and their fishings, All the young men of the village Sought companionship in White Loon. For the deer hunt he was ready, For the bison chase and bear hunt; And when Spring had warmed the rivers, And their flow from mountains quickened, On the bosom of the full tide, His canoe was seen with others. He was called the lucky fisher. Thus it was that in the Sac town, White Loon grew to be admired. And at every tent door pausing, In the morning or the evening, Groups of cheerful faces met him, With their dusky smiles of welcome. Old men talked of him with wise looks, And the young with brightened faces. Children spoke of him in whispers, And with little looks of wonder, Grouped behind him in the tent doors; For to them he was a prophet. He could tell of ghosts and genii, In the woods and in the waters; In the rolling Susquehanah, And the broad and rapid Hudson, And the blue and peaceful Huron,

He could tell of evil genii, Clasping hands upon the waters, And to elfin music dancing On the clear and moonlit waters. Thus it was he told the children Of a proud and faithless lover, And the genii of the waters, On the dark shores of Lake Huron. "In a land of lakes and great woods, In a green and distant country, On the high cliffs of Lake Huron, High as two pine trees together, In a wigwam of great oak trees, Lived a mighty chief of white men. Old the man, and long his beard was As the bow string of a warrior. Long his hair, and thick and white was, Like the pine's locks in a snow storm. This chief had a lovely daughter. Light was she, and full of sunshine, And her words were all as cheerful As a stream that glideth onward. And her songs were all as buoyant As the loud songs of a cascade. In her speech music of groves was, In her hair the gold of sunset, In her cheek the blush of sunrise,

On her brow the shade of twilight, In her eyes the blue of soft skies; And her teeth were rows of pearl beads. This fair squaw a young chief once loved, And her hand in marriage promised. But her heart was light and wayward, And smiled on him, but went from him, Till his eyes were mooned in frenzy, And he fell into Lake Huron. From the high cliffs that looked downward From behind the great oak wigwam, Genii, dancing on the lake's breast, Saw him fall, and seized him sinking, And with shouts of music, bore him To a land beneath the waters. Night by night then came his lover To the bluffs behind her wigwam, And long hours in the moonlight Gazed down on the sleepy waters. Thus she thought once when she went there: "Oh! I'm sorry! I am sorry! Since he's gone; Oh, now I'm sorry! Could he hear me in his dark grave Of the frightful rocking billows, I would say to him, forgive me! Speak, O waves, for now your hoarse words Breaking on the rocks may tell me!

Can he hear my heart lamenting?" Now the genii heard her sorrows, Formed a circle of enchantment, And upon the billows seated, Filled the ravished air with sweet sounds; Till the fair squaw, like her lover, Fell among them, and they seized her, And away with laughter bore her, In the blue and silent Huron. Now within the land of shadows, Far beneath the sad still Huron, In the deep home of the genii, These two lovers are seen riding E'er behind two harnessed moonbeams." And of giants in the mountains, White Loon also told the children. Thus he told them of the giants: "In a land of pines and great rocks, In a far off land of mountains, In the gateway of the sunrise, Where the East wind shakes the door latch On the wigwam of the sunrise. There were giants in the old days; Giants tall as mountain pine trees. When it stormed upon the mountains, And the woods were black with terror And their speech was low and dismal,

Then, when thunders rolled and rumbled On the stony streets of Heaven; In the wigwams of the valleys. Sat the stoutest warriors trembling, And in whispers low and fearful Muttered, 'Listen at the giants! Ugh, the giants now are angery, And will tear the very hills down!' " Thus it was that White Loon's wisdom Made him to his friends a prophet.

NANAWAWA'S LAKELET.

Where the dark ash upward towereth, And the maple drops her brown shade, And the rough oak spreads his broad arms, And the wild vine weaves her festoons; Where the noon breeze pants for sunlight, And the sunbeams wandereth shyly, And the night-winds wrestleth lightly, With the lone leaf of the forest; Where the moon-beams creepeth softly, In a dim veil looking faintly; In this ancient grand high forest, In the right hand of Kaskaskia, And the left hand of Cahokia, And the regions of the Wabash; Was the little rush bound lakelet, Of the forest—Nanawawa's. Tall trees in the solemn old woods, On the western slopes and hilltops, Threw their shadows in the bottoms. Parting ferns and water-lilies, And the rushes, that with wet lips Sipped the lakelet's clear, cool waters; Nanawawa's birch canoe flashed Light and noiseless as the shadow Of a cloud upon a meadow. In this fleet canoe sat White Loon,

But the oars held Nanawawa, And the boat plied with her bare arms, And to White Loon talked in whispers.

Now a moon rose o'er the forest Of the great Northwestern Country, And looked down into the lakelet As a maid looks in her mirror. All the air was in a slumber, And the forests, in a deep nap, Breathed not as soft light stole o'er them, Wrapt in fleecy garb of thin mists, Night had gently closed her eyelids, Clasping all the world in silence; Save the creek that in the lake leapt, Coming from the wooded hillside, Saying strange things to the clear moon. As the boat flashed thro' the moonlight, White Loon near to Nanawawa Drew his face, and spoke in this wise: "White Loon loves you, Nanawawa!" When these words fell, both her oars fell, And she upward at the moon gazed, With both hands dropped in the water. As the forest maiden's soul swam In her eyes, White Loon leaned o'er her, Drew her naked bosom to him, Drew her to him close and listened;

With his breathings half suspended, Listened to her words of music Dropping like a wasted shower Thro' the leafy depths of Autumn; "Nanawawa loves you, White Loon, "White Loon you must build a wigwam." White Loon raised his eyes and answered: "By yon cascade in the mountains, High above the village looking, I will build my great birch wigwam, Ere the wintry hours approacheth." And his heart with aspen lightness Turned toward a happy future. Forest-love brings forethought with it. Nuptial care dwells in the wildwood; In the Indian's poor wigwam Love's bright sunshine casteth shadows. Thus it was that White Loon, wooing On the lakelet of the forests, In the clear and placid moonlight, Saw a happy future rising And its pleasant tasks revealing. Thus it was he built a wigwam, Dressed it carefully with bear skins, And the door adorned with stag's horns, To abide the bridal entrance. Then it was he went a hunting,

Went far off into the mountains, Seeking food to meet the winter. Saying, as he clambered onward, With the eager warrior's hunted; "I will soon return, I'm hoping, Let our hunting time be short now."

DEATH OF PASHEPAHO.

Lo! the old Sac village slumbered In the basin of the Wabash, And the doorway of the vallies, Like some brown old matron napping On the threshold of her cottage, When her distaff lieth idle. All the plaintive vale was cooing, And the hazy hills were piping, And the mournful gales were flapping Thro' their somber realms of sere woods. Sang the crane migrating southward, Answered the itin'rant heron In her dank and grassy rev'rie, By the blue and pensive waters. Then it was that sate the Stabber;

In the middle of his tent floor; Sate with sober words and features, Talking of the times he once knew, Now with the departed past blent, Now deep in the grave of years laid. At his side sat Nanawawa, And her voice like running waters O'er a pebbly bed descanting, Sank upon his ears with rapture; With a wild and lonely rapture, As she asked him of the old times. "Nanawawa," said he, trembling, "You had better take a husband. From the great tribes of the west plains, Take a strong and valiant young chief, For I soon must go and leave you. From the wigwam of your mother, Sixteen years ago you followed; From the lone spot where we left her, Where the mournful vine entwines her, Where the wild briar blooms above her, Where the wild birds sing unto her; From that spot I love to think of, Sixteen years ago you followed To this wide and unknown country. Since that time you've e'er been with me, E'er been sunlight in my tent door,

Ever been the joy of old age; But my daughter, Oh! my daughter, Oh! my hind, my Nanawawa! I am now upon a journey, And you now cannot go with me!" Nanawawa could not answer, And for tears saw not the Stabber, As he leaned upon the tent floor, And went on to utter faintly: "What is that I hear a coming? Don't I hear the sound of footmen Coming from a distant country? Ah! I hear the tread of warriors, They are coming in a hurry! I behold great lands before me, Now I see green mountains rising, And I see the peaceful wigwams, Just across the river yonder! Nanawawa, I must leave you! Come and see me in the morning. Oh! my daughter, come and see me!" Nanawawa caught her father, Stooping o'er him, called and called him, Pressed his face against her pale cheek, Held his hands and watched his still lips. Then a wail burst from the wigwam; Pashepaho had ceased breathing!

SAVILLE IN TROUBLE.

Sing muse! of Saville and the direful day When beauty fell, to ruthless hands a prey; And life a sacrifice to savage hate, Smoked on the alter of a peaceful State. The pensive forest in his saddest wear, Leaned on the threshold of the Autumn sere, And mourned his ills in parting Summer's ear. And waters leaving for the distant main Sang their departure in a muffled strain. The dove complaining at the barn was heard, In wanton gales the naked orchards stirred. And scarce within the dreamy vision's reach The sheep cote elms flapped their rocky speech. In Saville, then, the border village rude, Full plenty's songs the ear of labor wooed, And lulled him on the lap of solitude. The sun had swum high on his blazoned way, Exulting in the power of his sway. And rural comfort's well-contented hum, Rejoiced in each household cherrysome. The milkmaid gossipped at her busy churn, The groaning windlass coughed at each slow turn, The distaff whirred and chattered in the door, The swift brooch danced along the sounding floor;

The matron scolded, and her hands applied, The loom reechoed and the wheel replied. Sir Maxey then, with horns, and hunters proud, For chase assembled in a roaring crowd. The champing horses pawed the anxious ground, And windy signals roused the kenneled hound. And as the mingling bands their saddles strode, The wayside trembled and deep groaned the road. Three miles from Saville, in the branchy West, The horsemen on their boist'rous way had pressed, When on the wild marge of a pathless wood, Whey reined their speed, and, list'ning, eager stood. The hounds had touched a trail upon the brink, Where late an antlered stag had come to drink, And cool, within the windings of a brook, That mused away thro' many a forest nook. Soon lively baying o'er the distance broke, The hills re-echoed and the forest spoke. The flying pack their goodly prey had sprung, St. Vincennes' pulseless woodlands deep among. Like eagles flashing from the vaulted blue, The firey steeds in level flight pursue. In winding glens their hoofy thunders break, And cliffs responsive all their voices wake. Sir Maxey, putting spurs, directs the course, And sweeps away upon his coal black horse. His comrades follow close in lengthy file,

Wind their glad horns and prime their guns the while. The woods before them part upon the eye, And pass in dizzy currents as they fly; And crouching thickets scamper as they near, And flee together as they disappear. Beyond the vision's bounds they thus have gone, Up hill and down, o'er streams and on and on. Meanwhile, alone on foot young Rodney hastes Along a passage that divides the wastes. Forbid to rank he cannot take his place With mounted hunters in the merry chase.

The day wore on, and yet no tidings gave,Of horse or hunter to the anxious slave,Till he, despairing, turned to watch a trail, That saunteringly wound along the vale.

The chase now hushed; the stag beyond his range, Had lost his loud pursuers in a forest strange; Till worn and hungry, these leisurely drew To where small fenceless fields adorned their view. Beyond, bark lodges here and there were seen, Where lofty woods climbed o'er a long ravine. And slowly nearing, on their wond'ring eyes, Soft circling smoke-wreathes from a village rise, And float in dreamy banks against the peaceful skies. They pause, look onward, know not what to say, When thus, Sir Maxey, spurring, leads the way: "Come on, we'll venture down and ask for food

And friendship in this city of the wood." The hunters follow at a timid pace, And apprehension kindles in each face.

They reach the village, slowly thro' it ride, And every part explore from side to side. They find it is deserted by all save Small groups of children and the aged brave. These sit in converse at their wigwam doors, While memory the valiant past explores. They on the neighb'ring slopes in peaceful plays, Their numbers gather and their voices raise. The squaws are lab'ring in their scanty fields, Content with what their wild industry yields; To bide their warriors' much desired return From distant hunting grounds and long sojourn.

The Autumn hills appear in brown repose, And, clothed in lofty forests, seem to dose. And solitude asserts her reign, remote From civilization's rest-disturbing throat. But, hoofy 'larm the woody silence breaks, The lone boughs flutter and the scene awakes. Around the hunters, childhood flocks to gaze, And age arising, looks in mute amaze Upon the daring strangers, who proceed To rifle tents, and load each ready steed With what few skins their wintry hunt can hoard, And swallow what poor food their empty stores afford.

The helpless fathers of the forest race Glance fearful each into the other's face, Pursue the pillagers with heated eyes, And empty out their souls in frequent sighs; While in their gath'ring frowns and gestures rude, Wild valor overleaps decrepitude, And such a flourish of contempt displays, As shows that stern resentment is ablaze. Ah! could they but recall the fleeting years, Or backwards journey to where disappears The dim seen past, and reach that stalwart time When nimble life exulted in its prime; Three-fold the numbers that their tents defile, Would meet destruction in their conduct vile. The hunters mount menacing as they go, And thro' the village disappearing slow, Betake them to the woods and brisker ride Along the neighb'ring forest's eastern side.

There where a peaceful streamlet ambles by Thro' dabbling ferns and gossips cheerfully With shaggy roots that reach into the flood, They spy a maid just bord'ring womanhood. Now ranging feathers in her head-gear fair, And with her fingers combing out her hair, She on the prone bank stands, where smoothly flows The liquid mirror, and her beauty shows. Now grand old sylvans raise their solemn heads,

And make obesience as she lightly treads Beneath their outstretched arms, and looks around To gather nuts upon the leaf-spread ground. The hunters see her, wayward, wild and sweet; She sees them not, nor hears their horses' feet. "Hold!" cries Sir Maxey, "What a lovely maid! Ah! what a princess of this ancient shade! Let me behold her! Quiet! Don't move! Did admiration e'er see such a dove? Young love no sweeter image ever drew Upon imagination's tender view. Her perfect form in idle movements seems The fleeting creature of our youthful dreams." A rougher comrade at his elbow growls, "A purty good 'un o' the dusky fowls, She's hard o' hearin', le'me try my gun; Give her a skere, and see the red wench run." His deadly eye directs, his rifle speaks, The maiden throws her arms and runs and shrieks; Towards the hunters pitiously flies, The mournful wastes lamenting with her cries, Till at their feet she sinks, and all is o'er, Poor bleeding Nanawawa is no more.

Kind Heaven reports the shameful news around, Far as her sorrowing winds can waft the sound; Soft echo in her grot hears with a sigh, And saddened hills refuse to make reply.

"I struck her," grunts the ruffian, looking down, "Let's leave," Sir Maxey mutters with a frown; And on they ride, and covenant to keep The crime a secret in their bosoms hidden deep.

But hark! what mean those distant shouts that rise And seem to flap and clamor in the skies? Flying this way, the pulseless air they wing, And nearer, clearer, shriller, faster ring. The forest rages, groan the loud hills sore, The hoarse earth murmurs and the heavens roar. Returning warriors flash the trees between; The fatal gun has called them to the scene. Blazing resentment fires their warlike blood, They've passed their dwellings and enraged pursued. And mark the hunter whom their wrath o'ertakes, For on his head a storm of ruin breaks. Sir Maxey's band their loud pursuers hear, And spurring onward leave them on the rear; For Saville wheeling quick each headlong steed, And dash between the forests with defiant speed. The raging warriors reach the bloody scene, See Nanawawa lifeless on the green, A moment pause and scan the mournful place, Still, crafty vengeance darkening in each face, The way the band went, narrowly then view, And all another route at once pursue. But one tall form his further flight restrains;

Lo! over Nanawawa's sad remains The White Loon bends, and kisses her pale cheek, And trembling lips that can no longer speak; While from his eyes the streams of loud grief start, And downwards pour the anguish of a manly heart.

As some wild wand'ring brook that surges hoarse, And chafes and struggles in its winding course Through tangled roots, and under mossy stones, And over foamy cat'racts makes its moans, Till headlong down the mountain's steepy sides, The smoother current unobstructed glides; Flows ev'ner as it meets the level main, And murmurs leisurely along the plain; So now the pluming bands their numbers drew, In fretful streams the pathless forests thro'. This way and that, low crouched, they galloped on, Stood list'ning, here and there, a hight upon; Moved down in level flight beyond the glade, And glided into silent ambuscade; And in the branchy covert pond'ring lay Beside the coming hunter's thoughtless way. As hungry cougars in the deep morass, To seize on unsuspecting herds that pass, Lie close and closer as their prey draws nigh, Glance at each other with impatient eye, And press the eager moments as they fly; So watch these cougars of the wilderness,

And so the moment of assault they press. With envious haste their barb'rous knives they clasp, And poise their hatchets in a deadly grasp, And leaning forward on their ponies wait, Like eagles on their pinions. Coming straight Along the gorge the hunter's chatting trot All unsuspecting; till the fatal spot They reach, when forth from stilly ambush nigh, The yelling furies on their pathway fly. Once from the tangling branches fairly freed, Wild retribution fledges savage speed, Straight on the hunter's right and left they wheel, And thro' their vitals plunge the reeky steel Swift as their iron strength the blows can deal.

All, save Sir Maxey, perish; he again Rides through the storm like lightning to the plain, Drives up his speed and shaves the lev'ler main. So when fierce eagle shoots along the skies, Breaks thro' the ambient clouds and downward flies, Above the landscape swings his open sail, And hangs in stately triumph o'er the vale. Forward he leans at each successive bound, As on and on he reaches o'er the ground. Hard bears his courser on th' unyielding reins, Close-scented danger swells his fiery veins, Dilates his nostrils, to his knees inclined, And pours their steamy volumes on the wind.

O'er log, stone, ditch, mound, shrub and brushy heaps, Away, away he unobstructed sweeps.In vain the heaving earth beneath him groans, In vain the rising distance makes her moans,In vain the wand'ring eye his flight pursues, In vain the ear his feet receding woos; Across their utmost limits both he shaves, Drown'd in the roiling depths of dusty waves. The passing gale behind him list'ning swings, To view the rival of her speedy wings, With breath suppressed, as when some maiden sees, A deer go fleeting by her 'mong the trees.

Meanwhile, away behind, disheartened not, The streaming warriors hard pursuing trot. What tho' the courser leave them like the wind? His trail they see and stopping they will find.

Five miles or more, from where began the flight, Along the summit of a woody hight, Sir Maxey reins his courser to the ground, And far and near for Rodney looks around.

As some dark cloud that spurns the rising gale, Athwart it rolls and deepens in the vale, Pours loud alarm upon the plains below; Where, in midfield, stands the deserted plow, And tall dread-breathing forests timid grow; So seemed the surging courser as he trode,

With bois'trous hoof, to plunge along the road.

Now plodding near along the deep wood-side, The expert of the wilds, Sir Maxey spied. A brace of fowls and bleeding doe are strung His rifle on and o'er his shoulder swung. Homewards he strides anticipating toast, Stewed fowl abundant, and savory roast. "Here! Rodney! Here!" Sir Maxey urgent cries, The expert pausing, lifts his downward eyes; Alarm is flashing in his master's face, With looks inquiring now he mends his pace, When thus Sir Maxey loud begins to cry: "Fly for your life! for God's sake, Rodney, fly! A tribe of Sacs are swarming on my rear Dreadful to see, but dreadful more to hear! They'll scalp us all and burn the town I fear." Towards the town the Champion lifts his eyes, And on his master fixing, thus replies: "No! let us meet them; hold your further flight, Retreat's in order ne'er before a fight. To fly will but reduce our wonted strength, And make resistance feebler, and at length Expose our village to the storming foe; Who, if repulsed, will reinforcements show. Lead not an enemy our helpless homes to know." As some loud boar who hears his baying foes, Upon his sedgy realms begin to close,

With groaning rage flies from his hidings dense, And throws his lordly strength on the defense; So Rodney, from his cov'ring in the wood, Flew to the breach, and waiting, firmly stood. Straight he beheld the warriors close at hand, Him they behold, his movements understand, Wheel from his rifle, and their flight renew, All, save two mightiest, to their man pursue. These now dismounted, turn their ponies loose And in the woods their vantage places choose, Peer thro' the thick boughs with a stealthy eye, Till at his mark one lets an arrow fly. Thro' flinching branches rings the feathered harm, And strikes its painful barb into his arm. E'en as some bear whom crouching hunters wound, Tears at the pain, and rages o'er the ground, Till in the copse the hidden foe he spies, And on his covert fierce as fury flies; So Rodney, when the flinty stroke he feels, The shaft plucks out, and from his cover wheels; Rages defiant thro' the sounding wood, Till near the wary foe his steps intrude. Quick as some stag, when horns and hounds assail His secret lair within the leafy vale; The pluming champion springs upon his feet; His and bold Rodney's eyes defiant meet. Loud as two bulls that roar upon the plain,

Plunge on each others frothy sides amain, Till wasted strength their foaming rage prevent, The dread combatants groan with dire intent.

Each dreads the onset for the glare of death Warms his foe's eyes, and fury wings his breath. The chief's arm ne'er by wilds nor dangers swerved, And Rodney's by successive hardships nerved, With nervous haste their leathern girdles feel, And on the gaze unsheath their deadly steel. Each lifted hand its ghastly freight displays,Each hurried glance the narrow field surveys; With each, defiance can no farther go, Unless it walk beyond a prostrate foe. As two tall beeches shaken by the wind Approach each other; now with heads inclined, Now rush away with quick impetuous roar, And now approach, inclining as before; So bending to and fro the champions stand, Till loud they rush together, hand-to-hand, Rough as the surge when sounding billows meet Between the schooners of an anchored fleet. Each in his left hand holds the other's right, And struggles o'er the ground in horrid plight, Now on their knees, now bounding in the air, And now half-stooped to earth, and groaning there. Their lips all death-like on their teeth they clench And grate defiance harsh at each long wrench,

That vainly strives the grasp to disengage, And in the foe's heart plunge the steely edge. The savage champion feels his waning strength Give away, and yielding to his fears, at length Pours forth three dreadful whoops of wild distress, That start the lone ear of the wilderness. An answer in the distance soon was heard, And parting a dense thicket now appeared A warrior fell, with cautious step and slow, As when some cougar scents a covered foe. New life to Rodney! Gracious Heaven save! A doubled danger doubly nerves the brave! He frees his knife with desp'rateness of strength, And in the savage sheaths its deadly length; And as he lifeless sinks with a loud groan, Bold Rodney at the other heaves a stone. Firm on his head the shrieking fragment flies, The dying warrior rolls his painful eyes, Sinks on the turf, that whitens with his brains, And hugs the clod that drinks his flowing veins.

The dauntless hero of the woody waste, To leave the scene of blood directs his haste; With gun in hand, surveys his passage well, And strides along the stream-divided dell; Arrives in Saville ere the sun goes down; Explains his wounds, and makes his combat known. With tongues of praise the village meets her slave,

The women soothing, cheering him, the brave.

No strength has courage, to the fears disguise In downcast glances of his serious eyes. The horrid brake conceals the skulky foe, And o'er him darkness falleth like a mantle low. "Ah! Sad mistake!" the fathers of the town In painful concert mutter up and down The mournful streets; "Ah me! a fatal freak! When wisdom yields to folly, valor's weak. Ah, indiscretion! parent of all woe, That causeth peace to rouse a crouching foe! The sober blacksmith threw his hammer down, And wiped the great drops from a sooty frown, His anvil mounted, and with words of steel Went on to utter what his heart did feel. And as the sun sank in the hills' embrace, His sad rays streaming in old Joseph's face, That vacant looked, a picture made of dread, That many strong hearts trembled as they read. And Gabriel Grimes, the 'Squire, 'mong his books Sat drown'd, assaying in his serious looks, To trace a legal thicket on his gaze, That showed no exit and no ent'ring ways.

"What? Ho!" Sir Maxey shouts with martial air, "Before a struggle yield not to despair. For these discretions valor makes amends,

We hold the means, but Providence the ends. Fly to your arms, and set a heavy guard, And coolness keep for strategy prepared. Have wives and children shut in doors till morn, And then will danger of his locks be shorn."

The honest cotters hear him with a sigh, And glance around them with a doubtful eye; Proceed toward the village church and stand In dread suspense, a hopeless little band. Now darkness lowers like a gloomy pall, The muffled drum proclaims a solemn call, And lights blown out reposeless courage waits The signal of the sentry at the gates. In converse low, the fathers watch in arms, For night's familiar sounds now seem alarms. The deep low baying of unusual curs, Discloses restlessness not wholly theirs, For honest dogs that stealthiness abhor, Which doth conceal the steps of savage war. Hark! List! a war-whoop starts the dismal fen! A moment lingers, and is heard again. Hope stops her flight, conjectures disappear, Attack is certain, and is crouching near. With noiseless tread the sylvan warrior steals, (Him darkness in her mantle's folds conceals,) Beneath the very cabin's walls, unseen, And yet may pass the peering watch between.

When Heav'n responsive to his sally cries, Will hideous grow, and shut her sickened eyes, And from the pitchy womb of darkness born, Red massacre behold the mournful morn. Ah! now must Courage meet the unsheathed test That makes stern manhood tremble in his breast. Escape hath shut her paths upon his eye And leaves him doomed to conquer or to die.

In age's low'ring look and muffled speech, The young see trouble, and with sobs beseech An explanation at the lips which hold The dreadful secret that cannot be told. Childhood avoids the wand of magic sleep; Forgetfulness assays in vain to steep His wakeful senses in her drowsy dews; Close on composure's heels alarm pursues. In solemn council lean the village sires, Where hope's last smold'ring ember-glow expires; Sir Maxey's indiscretions yet deplore, And thus in concert sad their minds explore: "Our ammunition most in hunting spent, Our numbers scattered and resistance bent, To send to Dearborn yet for aid remains The only prospect that our reason gains, That rises hopeful from disaster's plains. The troops perhaps, by timely warning may, In mounted march, rescue the sinking day.

But, who will go? Who'll dare these twenty miles, Of forest peril, night and savage wiles? Who'll bear the news, when he on foot must go, For not a horse can 'scape the wary foe!"

The young and valiant called upon to choose The way to glory or her hights refuse, In vacant looks this truth leave manifest, The glory-fires warm another's breast. Then, as a hunter calls his faithful dog, To dare the treach'rous sands and cross some bog, Sir Maxey to his bleeding servant cries: "Say, Rodney, can't you fly to Dearborn? Rise, Your rifle take, be quick! look sharp! be gone! Let what you do be well and quickly done."

As some firm rock that brawling floods oppose, In all their wanton rage, Rodney arose, Disgust red kindling in his manly face, Looked on the lords of his unhappy race, And spoke: "My masters, such your titles are, Let all irreverence from my thoughts be far; But I've till now a silent list'ner been, And have your timid operations seen. And now I ask, with but a servant's claim To audience, and in a servant's name, I ask, with what do brave men guard their wives, And homes, and children, but with their own lives?

With all your bosoms cherish as their own, With all they know, and all they've ever known, Exposed to danger, sueing you for aid, I ask, why have you this evasion made? If I, an alien to your house and hearth, The ignoble sharer of a slavish birth, Am called to take your parts, be well apprised, Your conduct is but cowardice disguised. Had I a single treasure to me dear, A single home joy bright, or, even were I owner of my life, my arm I'd bare, And thrust my fingers into peril's hair. But none of these, and not a cheer within My darkened breast, what may I hope to win? Naught but the praise of mere obedience, The fame of dogs! Nay! ere I journey hence, Bring down command to tent with kind request, Own me a man, and trust a manly breast. For be assured, although your slave am I, He will not cower, who will dare to die; He sees no terror in menace's eye. The gaping wounds I for my master wear, Already warn me that I unrewarded bear."

Now, Rodney ended, and a mute despair Fell on his hearers, for he breathed an air, So foreign to their knowledge of a slave, With liberty so audaciously brave;

That with the tameness of stupidity, They on their bosoms leaned their chins, to see Weak folly tamper with a lion; when Sir Maxey turned away, and never spoke again. In hope's wide fields there was no further day, And now their only star had passed away. As when beseiging cloud surround the hills, Whose troubled bosom night with terror fills, Rude shepherds tremble, in their darkened tent, To hear the mountains wail and woods lament; Till lo! upon the brim of vision far Appears the joyous-beaming morning star; So quaked these townsmen of St. Vincennes' wood, Till in their midst fair Dora Maxey stood, A ray of hope to all their bosoms dear, A day-break in their cloud-gloom'd land of fear. So young and gentle, so serenely wild, At once a heroine and a lovely child! The band dispersing with her conqu'ring eyes, In daring tones to Rodney she replies: "Brave servant, thou hast nobly said and true, Let valor wear his scars and glory too, But know that woman by her jealous lords Unhindered, in her great heart e'er awards To stalwart manhood, love, esteem and praise, And glories most in his most daring ways. By caste's frail grants let those win hearts who can,

What woman loves is manliness in man. Now she is here, for her thy life expose, And nobler years will her rewards disclose. The time now wings this way, when Gratitude Shall clasp thee to her bosom, and the good And great, and brave of all the valiant earth Will own, nay more, delight to own thy worth. To Dearborn then and spread the dreadful news, While danger's hights more timid souls refuse."

Now Rodney bow'd his face towards the ground, Until his bosom this expression found: "The humble subject of thy will I stand, For thy request to me is a command, The which to disobey's the coward's task, Mine is to do, fair one, and yours to ask.

Now Dora's lilly-touch with sweetest haste, Her father's weapons on his servant placed, And thus the fortunes of the hour decides; For he, with gun in hand and nimble strides, The speechless groups of villagers divides, With cougar caution slowly out proceeds, But faster goes as further he recedes, Till sent'nels past, deep in the howling night His footsteps sink, and he is out of sight.

While still suspense with throbbing int'rest waits, And slow-speeched dolour instances relates

Of grisly dangers conquered by the fates; Of savage bands, when border strength was small, Beat back from many a forest-cabin's wall, Of women moulding as their husbands fired, And children watching where the foe retired; Fair Dora leaning on her elbow, sate Within her window, o'er the village gate That eastward looked towards Dearborn, and prayed That Rodney's flight in no mishap be stayed.

THE FAIR CAPTIVE.

The idle winds at dawn that strayed Thro' wavy depths of joyous shade, The early chirp of breeze-swung boughs, The carol of the mountain brows, The far off brawl of farms that broke The drowsy silence of the morn, And eager baying which awoke Responsive to the flying horn, In covert near, or echoing dell, On Rodney's ear like omens fell; For troubled Dearborn he had found In need of all his garrison; And now for Saville sadly bound His pensive footsteps wander'd on.

Wild, strangely broken landscapes lay Along his solitary way. Soft gazing thro' the morning gray, To right and left against the sky, The border hills were stacked on high; And as upon his eye they rose, And shook their forests from repose, Their brighter aspect on they drew, A sober wear of filmy blue,

Like time's remotest visionary hue.

But Courage can no longer lie With folded arms, when on his eye There springs an opportunity. Tho' beaten oft upon his walls, And often tho' his banner falls, Whene'er the day a breach supplies, True Courage from defeat will rise, And to renew the conflict flies. Now in the lonely glen, or far Amid the rocks whose shoulders bar The toiling footsteps of young light, Wild Rodney turns a nimbler flight. No mountain stag, when clam'rous horns, Him of the rousing danger warns, Hath ever quicker brushed the dew, Or fleeter leapt the deep shades thro', Than Rodney fled with his sad tale To 'larm the cotters in the vale. His face with apprehension pale, To many a woodman's open door, The signal of disaster bore.

With gestures wild, to arms he called, With words of war their hearts appalled, And as the stout bands gathered; He, warning others, flew ahead.

The settler on the doorsill rude Of his poor forest-home, firm stood, And as the news more wild would run, He felt the triggers of his gun. And glancing thro' the forests wide To some near neighbor's 'gan to stride. Thus Rodney from the forests drew To meet the battle—not a few. And as the corn-fields raised a shout, And hills and valleys emptied out, Bold hearts, that would the rescue try, The hurried glance of many an eye; The ceaseless pacing to and fro Of those who waited; and the slow And guarded accent of each tongue That marked the speakers, them among, Disclosed how thick that Peril hung Her storm-swelled billows in the sky, And troubled Peace's canopy.

The vale fermenting, Rodney left, As lion-wild of young bereft; And tho' the wasty forests wheeled A speed that would have shamed the steeled And wildest travel of the horse, That snuffs up strength and leads the course. By distant lodge and lone abode, Where not a rudest fence, nor road,

A mark of civilization made Within the vast primeval shade, Untiring as the wind he strode. Miles off a weary hill upon, His early footsteps met the sun. His eyes as earnest as the streaks Of light that dashed along the peaks In living crimson; far away The nook sequestered did survey, 'Mid which his fated Saville lay.

A faint smoke rose, and slowly curled In pensive wreaths against the sky, And drifting farther off on high, Like visions of the glory-world; Hung sadly on the distant shore Of indistinctness; then passed o'er, Now dimly seen, now seen no more. What apprehensions thrilled him now! What dread conjectures clenched his brow Had Saville just from calm repose Awakened? Or had pluming foes Her cheerful homes in ashes lain, And heaped her sacred hearths with slain? The dilatory smoke seem'd born Of blazing plenty's stirring morn, Or rolling from a famished fire, That had in its devouring ire

Licked up all life that near it lay, And turned to eat itself away. Down from the hights his way along, From rock to rock, till lost among The lofty woods that bowed and sighed, He turned with yet untiring stride; And from the intervening vale, Emerged and stood aghast and pale.

Lo! all his hopes had crumbled to the dust; Saville had fallen in the direful fight; And from devouring Ruin's fire-jaws thrust Her poor remains, disgorged by sickened night In morning's lap, yet steamed an ember-smould'ring sight. Coal heaps where homes once stood, and bodies charred, Of innocence and beauty in the heaps; Scalped heads from love's keen knowledge even barred, By savage battle's hands; and little steeps, Where wound the village paths to field or wood, Made red and slippery with kindred blood, Were sights that filled the hero's saddened eyes; The tributes gathered by hostilities. Ah! how destruction's devastating hand There fell upon delights! How his eyes scanned With gorgon glee, the ghastly path he made Thro' Peace's bow'rs within the western shade! And like a jackal at the lion's side, There Folly laughed to see her fallen pride.

Lo! now the Champion bends his daring brow, And thro' the ruins plods pond'ringly slow; A sob suppresses, sighing, "Me! ah, me! O, Dora! fairest Dora! where is she?" A low'ring cloud encamps around his soul, And sorrow's big rain down his troubled cheek doth roll.

A tiny heel-print leaving, lo! he spies, In which there here and there a torn spray lies; A flash of joy light'nings in his eyes. The way it moves, with breathing hushed he views, And eager as a rolling flood, pursues. Thro' dense shades leaning, now he threads along, He gains commanding hills, high woods among. With fearless steps, divides the lowly vale, And like a mountain hart, the rocks beyond doth scale.

Of how he sped for eager miles away; How strange scenes filled the melancholy day, Of how the rustle of some waste-fed herd, How plantive woods that piped and chirped and stirred; Or how the distant cat'ract's pensive moan Alarmed or moved him, cannot here be shown; But on in wild pursuit he ponders still, And stands at sundown, on an oak-brow'd hill, When solemn night comes on with noiseless tread, And o'er the landscape doth her rayless mantle spread.

Not many paces had the night come on

Blund'ring with sable steps, when still, upon A log sat Rodney in despondent mood; When, lo! a light approached him in the wood. "What!" arising, cries he, in an undertone, "Is this which haunts me in these wilds alone? " And quick aside he noiselessly steals, To where a denser shade his halt conceals; When two old women of the skulky bands, Mope by with pots of water in their hands. Torches they bear, upon their way to shine, In oil steeped, and riven from the pine. He marks their movements with an eager eye, Their way pursues, and waits discovery. So when some mastiff thro' the sleeping folds, A stranger passing, loiteringly, beholds, He waiting lies, or follows crouching low, The errand of the visitor to know; When, if in thieving he his hands invest, A roaring chastisement will him arrest.

Now where beyond the vale a cliff ascends, Around whose base an unknown river bends, A smoking camp the peering watcher spies, And warlike satisfaction lights his eyes. Beneath the stooping boughs he can behold The busy squaws swarm'd round by warriors bold. Then in the rocks, a score of yards away, He like a crouching lion eyes his prey.

"Oh, Heav'n!" he gasps, and turns his painful eyes From where in hideous hands his Dora lies, To raving lusts a fair and tender prize, Fair as a moon that o'er the night's face steals, And gaping rocks and grizly wastes reveals, The sweet and patient face of Dora shone Upon these scourges of the wilds unknown. The rabble now in high confusion runs, Their knives the warriors grapple, now their guns. Claim the fair triumph ere the game decides, While shouting might the opposing voice derides. Soon other methods they to conquest choose, This one or that the tiny captive woos With wild expressions of languishing love, Like demons longing for the light above. With heated eyes they stare into her face, Drag her soft bosom in a rough embrace; Their beads display, their painted head-gear show; Like satyrs gibber, and like monsters blow. Sweet as the vespers of some plaintive stream, Or as the sounds in a mid-summer's dream, Dora lisps something with her fair hands clasped, When, "Ah, my God, she prays!" wild Rodney gasped. The camp-fires glare upon her lifted hands, And on her wrists disclose the bloody bands. When, in the night, the hero thrusts his form, Fierce as the lightning-arm that strikes the storm.

A stalwart warrior hands the pleading maid, And drags her roughly thro' the darkling shade, While to her tender remonstrance replies A monster's scowl, and laughter mocks her cries. The fiery watcher scans the dark field o'er, And finds a smooth way straight his feet before. Now all his strength he in his poised arm flings, The impatient moment checks its onward wings; Till like an eagle dropping from the skies, Right on the howling band the swift avenger flies.

A flash of steely lightning from his hand, Strikes down the groaning leader of the band; Divides his startled comrades, and again Descending, leaves poor Dora's captor slain. Her, seizing then within a strong embrace, Out in the dark he wheels his flying face; His victims leaves to struggle with surprise, And like a phantom thro' the forest flies. She, brave as steel, against his bosom lies; Gasps, "Rodney, is it you, or but a dream! Oh, have you come! Oh, are things what they seem?" He speaks not, but, with stalwart tenderness Her swelling bosom firm on his doth press. Leaps like a stag that flees the coming hound, And like a whirlwind rustles o'er the ground. Her locks swim in dishevelled wildness o'er His shoulders, streaming to his waist or more;

While on and on, strong as a rolling flood, His sweeping footsteps part the silent wood. Now low beneath the list'ning boughs he leant, Now thro' the tow'ring upland swifter bent, And on a hill, where in her gentler sway, The open sky lent vision one dim ray, He pausing stood, to cast a look around, And catch, if possible, some warning sound. But all was still; the wide world was asleep, Save that a waking night-wind there did creep. Then Dora, like a heroine fair and true, Cried, "Rodney! Rodney! Ah, I know 'tis you." "Yes, Dora," lisps the Champion, and applies His bloody knife to loose her painful ties; When, like a bird that mounts on airy wing, To dash into the light of joyous spring, She rose, she fluttered to his strong embrace, With streams of joy pouring down her upturned face. Heaven might envy such a scene as this, Since angels ken no more of perfect bliss Than, when disaster and a direful day Conspire to lead a fair young life away In captive chains, to red-eyed lusts a prey, Is felt by him whose fearless hand rescues, Tho' howling danger on his devious path pursues.

Miles further on the twain in converse stand, Where depth on depth of rayless wastes expand;

Together lean, and on their lone way peer, Listen, to catch night's voices; but hear Their hearts leap only, and the footfalls weird, That round the anxious lonely heart are always beating heard. From gaping wounds much Rodney's strength has flown; Against a tree he sets his rifle down, Submits to Nature's soft compelling sway, And there concludes to bide returning day. His blanket winds his manly form around, And spreads his weary length along the ground. "Here, Dora," then he speaks, "rest on my arm, My life shall stretch between you and all harm; Your frail and much worn strength some rest must have, Or you'll escape the foe to find a grave."

No word speaks Dora, but her timid eyes Survey the spot where her defender lies; Then as a lamb when prowling wolves appear, The horned defender of the folds will near, She 'proaches Rodney; stands in trustful mood And looks around her in the dismal wood. Reluctant now, and innocently shy, She kneels upon her turfy couch close by, Her hands extend, so delicately white, In earnest prayer unto the God of Night, In grace Divine upon her to descend, And o'er her guardian to in gentle mercy bend.

Then in his bosom nestles with deep sighs That bring great drops of sadness to his eyes. "Oh sleep, descend, and seal thy lovely sight!" Said Rodney in his heart; "no harm this night Can thee befall. And when the op'ning day Shall spread her gentler guidance on our way, My life shall guard the way before thy feet; Tho' dangers thronging thick, await us there to meet."

The bending heavens drop a tear and sigh, Old forest sent'nels spread their shelter nigh, And night winds burthened with their heavy dews, Strip off their chillness, and their soft sounds use, While in deep musings sits the pensive hour And fills composure's urn in slumber's quiet bower. Robing the hills in light and beauty, nowA late moon hangs upon yon mountain's brow, Looks stilly on the world's round sleeping face, Then veiled in silver clouds withdraws with queenly grace. Now Dora wakes from strange and fitful dreams, The brightest rival of the bright moon's beams. Soft light between the parting branches steals, And Rodney's stern, still, manly brow reveals. In him who slumbers, one can better read The master passions and the thoughts which lead; For, then the face, obedient to no call Of shrewd deceit, shows nothing false at all; But on the features silent truth doth write

Her plainest letters, in their plainest light. Thus, sighing, looked the fair young frontier maid Into the sleeper's open face, and said: "What deep marks there hath hardship's plow-share laid? Reserve how manly there! What self-control! What resolution! Ah a man of soul!" Then, as some bird that hails the bloom-crowned spring, O'er sunny meadows spreads her wayward wing, And joyous flits where all the woodlands sing; Dora, as wayward, lifts her lovely mouth, Sweet as the dewy blossoms of the South; On Rodney's forehead parts the tangled hair,And gently leaves affection's impress there.He wakes; and straightway Dora whispers: "Look How yonder moon lights up this lonely nook With silver glory! Could I but forget Dear Saville, and the scenes that haunt me yet, Rapt fancy here would build a wild retreat, And gladly linger in her forest seat." Then Rodney, rising: "Day is almost here, For now the Seven Stars do disappear; So, think not, Dora, o'er the past to brood, For loneliness abhors a theme of blood; The day may o'er your sorrows brightness fling; The saddest Winter hath a joyous Spring. Hope on, for this sweet dream I had to-night: I stood high on a farm-surrounded hight,

Where fruitful hills rose round the even view, Not indistinct, but robed in charming blue. There, sober herds in peaceful order strayed, And tinkling folds enliven'd the evening shade. Love's pensive reed wound the fair vales along, Or sauntered leisurely his flocks among. Now I reclining on my elbow leant, To sweet winds list'ning as they came and went, And tuned their many stringed pleasurement; When, o'er me bending, ere I saw from where, An angel stood in golden waves of hair Half drowned. Regarding me with care, she drew Nearer, kissed my forehead, and upward flew."

Then spake the angel of the hero's dream: "Surely some happy token that doth seem, And, could we but unveil the mystery, And now discover the vast yet to be, Some future bliss we both in it might see." And with evasive sweetness now she turns To where the mournful waste, her Saville's ashes urns.

Much she relates, and Rodney sorrowing hears, Sometimes with groans responsive, sometimes tears. The waiting town in deep suspense she shows, While brake and fen are howling with her foes. With heavy countenance and long drawn sighs, Danger asserts her reign in valor's eyes;

The women weep, and pray, and tear their hair, And raise a storm of turbulent despair. Children and women now are barred in doors, Without, the heavy footed tumult roars, And loud is heard the bloody-handed fray. The townsmen struggle, but are swept away. Out in the storm the screaming children fly, And frantic mothers follow where they fly, But this on Rodney's soul doth saddest stay Dora is dragged a captive in the wilds away.

Fair Dora ended here, and Rodney rose, Walked from the boughs that did their rest enclose, And said: "Let's journey, yonder comes the morn; See! how the mountains laugh the vanquished night to scorn! And hand in hand they meet the bright-eyed day, As on to Dearborn Rodney leads his lovely prize away.

FORT DEARBORN.

Fort Dearborn is a strong and goodly place, And o'er the frontier looks with valiant face To greet the hostile tread of savage harm, With tongue of thunder and an iron arm. Far up he stands, on a commanding ground, With grizly turrets rising high around: Block houses rude protect the outer posts, Where pass the sentries quick before the camping hosts.

Here, erst, as eagle drives the trembling dove O'er meadows broad, to shelt'ring cliffs above; Proud Black Hawk rose, stern monarch of the wood, The red Napoleon of Solitude, And drove young civilization from the West, To fly and hover in loud Dearborn's breast; Till peace returning, with a gentle hand, Beckoned her forth again to plant the flow'ry land.

Long since the Nation's battle-arm had cleared Her skirts of border outrages; and reared By daring hands, the settler's cabin stood, By every stream and in the mighty wood; Since labor found in ease's arms repose— This strong avenger of his race arose; And vindicating, or for woe or weal

The red-man's homes, unsheathed the battle steel, And made the border throat, alas! his bloody logic feel.

He saw neath mammon's desecrating tread, The turf-green dwellings of the sacred dead. The forest sachem, and the honored sire, No more, within their lofty homes, awoke the fire Of burning council in the patriot breast; His sun sunk now forever on the wigwam-smoking West. His leaping streams with cascade sadness mourned, His fleet canoe was from its moorings turned,His squaws and children bade their fields adieu, To starving on their tearful way pursue; And bloody-armed aggression followed where they flew. Oh! who can then approach the chieftain's shade, With ought but honor, e'en tho' he was made To tear his heart from ev'ry tend'rer tie, And to his loved ones with an arm of hostile succor fly? Great hero, peace! Thou and thy thousand braves, Too weak to stand, too proud to e'er be slaves, On valor's lips, shall to the list'ning years Be told: and urned in woman's love and tears, Thy name to Time's remote end carried down, Shall treasured be and claimed, by high Renown.

As some fierce comet rises in the West, With locks of flame—and in deep crimson drest— Swims ominously up a troubled sky,

With fury stationed in his fiery eye; While panting superstition drops a tear, Prophetic looks, and thinks Time's end is near; So, in Migration's pathway thou didst rise, The flaming terror of the border skies, And so aggression looked on thee with fearful eyes.

Young morn descending from her Eastern tour, Now on the mountains chased a panting show'r; The vap'rous slumbers of the valleys broke, And to the waking fields a sweet breath'd greeting spoke. On wings of song, enliv'ning cheer went round, O'er sad-voiced woods by Autumn suns embrowned, And o'er farm-studded vales, with here and there An orchard neat, that crowned some rustic's care, And friendly cot, beside the hillside stream, The rude ideal of his glory dream. Then, in a gate that looked from Dearborn West, Sir Maxey stood, and thus his soul exprest: "My Dora! Oh, my Dora! Where is she? Torn from my care, oh, saints, how can it be! To pine away in desert wastes and die, Or feed the savage lusts that on her breast may lie. My only Dora! Would I ne'er had been; Or that I never had my angel seen! Oh, my life's flower, doomed to droop and faint, Where ling'ring exile mocks thy lone complaint! Bereavement's hand poured out my grief to full,

And gave me sorrow from a ghastly skull; When from my side, that one who shared my cares, The burden-bearer of my weighty years— Was borne away, my home to light no more! E'en then Hope whispered of a sainted shore. But tongueless sits Despair, dark-plumed with dole, And strikes her painful beak into my soul! When something to my sad heart seems to say, "'Thy Dora pines in desert wilds away.'"

Two captains who upon their steeds had sate, And heard him thus lamenting in the gate; Now putting spurs, together eager cry: "Withhold thy woeful 'plaint, where chivalry Will test his strength. Say to us, aye, oh Sire, And we will rescue Dora ere the day expires."

"Aye," cries Sir Maxey, "hear a father's vows; Who rescues Dora, hath her for a spouse, And purse of gold besides. Now, Westward fly, And haste thy search, for we have this surety, Of him, the only one who scaped the foe, Her captors on a Westward way did go."

Swift as the shadows of a flying cloud, From Dearborn forth now rode the soldiers proud; But ere their morn of glory had begun,

High in their brightest sky, appeared a brighter sun. Rodney came leading Dora from a wood, And in their presence like a vision stood.

Their steeds they reined, they made a martial bow; On Rodney gazed, awed by his valiant brow; Glanced then at Dora, and together sighed: "Whose she shall be, the future must decide!" But ere their admiration found a tongue, She passed them by the village trees among.

"My life no more embraces pure delight,"Sighs one, "With that fair maiden out of sight!" The other echoes. "My life's shine is o'er, If I must see that beauty rare no more!" " But," then the other mourns, "her father vows, That who rescues her hath her for a spouse! When, if the valiant task hath now been done By yon stern slave, our prospects darken neath an eclipsed sun." "A slave contend," his friend indignant spoke, "In love's fair lists, and wear a master's yoke! A servant dog, a stalwart negro clown, Unhorse a knight, the queen of love to crown? Nay, thanks to Jove, the negro's proper sphere, Is by him wilfully abandoned ne'er, His longings suited to his station are; For faithfulness he craves a master's care,

And craves no more; he stoops a bashful face From azure looks, and love's white-arm'd embrace. Born to be ruled, kind nature seals his breast 'Gainst Cupid's darts and Hymen's visions blest. In him ambition's merest insolence, And chivalry is brazen impudence." "Between us then," the other aptly cries, "The open list, of flow'ry conquest lies, And let the god's to excellence award the prize."

Now, Dora turning from the perilous wild, Ran to a waiting father's long embrace, And kissed the streams of joy from his face. Brave Dearborn shouted o'er the rescued child, Till loud rejoicings from his iron throat, Rolled o'er the wastes and shook the hills remote. Round after round the cheering cannon rung, Old Solitude for once had found a tongue, And spoke responsive, her deep lone retreats among. All day the eyes of pleasure sparkled bright, Around the evening hearth the circling news gave light; The hand of valor, beauty's fair hand shook, And joy beamed forth in age's sober look. The tragic fate of Saville hindered not, So much was sorrow in their mirth forgot.

Lo! where yon gloomy walls ascend on high; Whose dismal windows meet the passing eye,

Where Memphis rises in her steepled pride,And gazes on fair Mississippi's tide, Where Memphis, robed in glitt'ring wealth doth rise, The boast of Tennessee, the pride of Southern skies. Turn there thy foot, thou who hast wandered long Thro' life's sad ways, and by the haunts of wrong; Thou who hast heard of mammon hardened souls, Who drank iniquity from brimming bowls, Or who hast dreampt of Slavery's grinding car, Mounted by Crime, and dragged by dogs of war; Followed by Famine, whose skeleton hand Compels submission from a trembling land; While empty Ignorance's idiot smile,The hard-gleaned tribute is, to custom vile: Turn there thy foot, thou who hast heard or read Of virtue, chained to lust's infamous bed; Pause at the door! The keeper comes! I hear His footsteps on the stony floor anear! The slow key grates, bolts move, oppressed I feel, The sullen prison opes its jaws of steel; And in the Hell of Slavery aghast I reel.

Among the sable inmates now I wend My way, and they in fervent aspect bend Their faces in the dust, cry, "Massa!" "Lord!" But their bright tearful eyes speak more than cry or word. They kiss their haughty keeper's iron hand, Pursue his way, or round him suppliant stand.

Ah! Christian, canst thou bear it? Turn thine eyes To where yon sorrow burdened mother lies! She upward looks, and wrings her anguish, see! Say to her, "Woman, oh, what aileth thee?" And thou shalt hear the tearful answer sad, "Two children, once to cheer my life I had; The one was three years old, a little girl, Her brow was clustered o'er with many a curl, Her eyes were bright, and blue as Summer's skies! But oh, my sweet faced darling!" loud she cries, "My babe! Dear Willie! Oh, my two-month's old! Was from my bosom snatched away, by cold And cruel hands—methinks I hear his cry— To pine without a mother's care and die! Behold that mother, Christian, she is hushed By yon stern keeper's glance, e'en though her soul is crushed. And yonder see hoar age from friendship torn, And from the goodly scenes where he was born! Burdened with grief, he leans toward the grave, And drags his chains, a poor unpitied slave.

This is the slave pen, reader, this the place Where boasting Slav'ry drives the sable race, To wait, as trembling sheep the slaughter wait, Their buyer's entrance at yon iron gate. Here tender hands of tearful remonstrance, Entreating age's humble upward glance,

The sudden out-bursts of the grief torn heart, The infant's 'plaint, from parent arms apart, The maniac's wail and gaunt-eyed hunger's sigh, That e'en doth bring a tear in Heaven's eye, Cannot in man's cold heart, awake dead sympathy.

Ah, Tennessee, hast thou a Hermitage,Where dwel'st a laurelled hero and a sage? Great sage! Proud leader of the daring band, Who loosed red havoc from the battle hand On Blount's poor fort, till hardy sea-worn tars, With crime acquainted, and athirst for wars, Withdrew, their heads hung, from the scenes of blood, Or o'er the mangled inmates weeping stood! Let Silence rest her hand upon thy mouth, And cease thy boasts, Oh, vain Chivalric South! Say to thy mem'ry, "Ah, lead me not back In yon deep ghostly past, with visions black!" Thou may'st forget that from their brake-bound seat, As free, true hearts, as e'er to freedom beat, Were dragged in chains, fastened by Slavery's laws, Or chased by bloodhounds, from whose gaping jaws, Dropped human gore, to stain the sacred soil That bloomed and grew beneath the hand of toil. 'Thou may'st forget, in a repentant soul, The wigwams of the wasted Seminole; And in the world's great temple, at the shrine Of patriotism, kneel neath hands divine.

Lo! where yon whirling to and fro Of men in business tide; doth so Intoxicate with eagerness; And in the eddy of voices hear, The shrill cry of the auctioneer! "Agoing! going!" rises clear. While crowds of anxious list'ners press, And doubt and gaze, and sigh and guess; Shrewd speculation, in the face Of business looks: his quick eyes trace The way of vantage, till he make A fortune, or a fortune break. Suspense's trembling speech is heard, For now the crier, word by word, Sinks lower, lower, "going, gone," The bargain 's clasped, the work is done; And now he calls another one. There, rising as the wave-dashed rock, Firm in his tow'ring scorn; There, standing on the buyer's block, See that sad form, but not forlorn. In other climes was he not born? Yes, where yon Western bowers spread Their green luxuriance o'er the head Of bare-armed labor, and the sound of rural sports, the long year round, Is heard on care's enlivened way;

He once hath known a brighter day. There where young industry's strong arms Hath in the forests hewn down farms, And in the vale his pastures spread, And by the waters clean flocks fed; Full harvests reaped upon the hills, And in the valleys built his mills; There, once he mingled, true and brave, A home-guard loved, and faithful slave. 'Tis Saville's Rodney, Dora's friend, A faithful servant to the end. And do you ask why he is sold? I answer, then you shall behold.

There is a famous spring by Dearborn's walls, Whose rush bound wand'ring to the heart recalls, Of frontier daring, olden memories, That oft bring brightness, oft tears to the eyes. Here erst the Sachem, in his plumy pride, Beheld his clans reposing at his side, When on the tongue of forest councils burned The words of war, or, when, in peace returned From weary hunting grounds, they cheerful lay, To watch the painted face of dying day. Here civilization met his savage foe, And with an arm of lightning laid him low, And on the open hights of triumph stood, Clasping this lucent treasure of the wood.

Here now the peaceful villagers repair, To soothe the burdened ear of cumb'rous care. Lo! yonder lab'rer, from his field comes by, And nears with quick'ning steps and brightened eye. Here trysting whispers linger in the shade, Where rustic courtship clasps his bashful maid, And sober converse, to the scene endeared, Tarries till vespers soft are in the village heard. Hail thou best blessing of the varied train, That cheers life's journey thro' earth's weary plain! Nectar for gods, and bright wines for the king, But draughts for lab'rers from the running spring.

Now Dora stood at this ancestral spot, And list'ning to the waters sing, forgot That she was waiting for her running over pot. Loud jovial labor in the field was done, And sounds of mellow night-fall had begun, The swallow told her stories in the eaves, The groaning wain creaked home beneath its sheaves, The swain garrulous in his empty weal, Debated with the hills, till sudden wheel Of rooky clamor from the elms, made His hair stand up, till he had crossed the shade. The shrill cock blew, the hillside barn behind; And crow belated, asks the sent'nel wind, Which way was nearest to his roosting mates. The reaper homeward sang thro' slamming gates,

And o'er the sheep-cote woods a moon hung pale, Like some lone shepherdess that hears a lover's tale. Now Dora wond'ring what the waters said, Leaned o'er the rocks and lingered in the shade, Till Rodney, standing at her elbow, spake: "You to obey, this only chance I take, Now to my aching heart the secret ope; May I to hear some pleasant tidings hope?" Then Dora answered, "Oh! my faithful slave, In my distresses well didst thou behave. The life of me, and of my father too, Are to thy manly, brave exertions due; But thou hast kindled, by thy interest, The fires of jealousy in many a breast. Hence, thou art sold. The two commanders here Have followed thee with bitterness severe, Till for thy safety, father has thee sold, Away to Memphis, Tennessee, I'm told. But Rodney, bear it! In God's strength be bold!"

IN THE HOUSE OF THE AYLORS.

Where Summer crowns with orange bloomsThe land of pines and cypress glooms; We wander forth by field and lane, In woody shades with plaintive strain. Ye lonely bayous catch the sound! Ye languid fen-brakes pass it round; Ye pensive hills your silence break, And let the mournful echo wake! Of errant Pride's chivalric deeds, Of frowning Caste's unholy creeds, And their worse, sin-begotten heir, Black Slavery, a lay I bring, And of her painted crimes dare sing.

When Satan, hurled down from the skies, O'er this terrene his fallen eyes In search of ruin hotly cast, Hell-bound, but harm-bent to the last; Those shores of ours, where Mexic's Sea Holds watch with the Atlantic, he Touched not in his tremendous flight; For, stooping there, the sons of light He spied encamped in battle form Around a captive ocean storm,

From which his equinoctial bent, Wheeled short, and further northward went.

Sweet land! conceived in chivalry, Brought forth in wild adventure, reared In conquest's arm, to rivalry And old ambitions long endeared!The fairest of thy sister train And fairer than thy mother Spain,Thou art of all the world a lone, Lone beauty of the fragrant zone. Thy sisters in their lurid North Surpass in wealth but not in worth; More native grace hast thou than they, Less wrathful winds and winters gray. Thou hast no somber-low'ring skies, In which the white-winged tempest flies; Where shiv'ring woods aloud bewail, All riven by the angry gale, Their cheerless, torn, and chilly state, Like empty beggars at your gate. But such thy distant sisters know, Within their wintry wastes of snow, And hills as speechless as the tomb, And sullen plains of voiceless gloom. But girdled in thy summer zone, As a maid who waits her lover, Or to meet him walks alone

Under twilight's dewy cover, Thou dost come to meet each year, Always smiling, never drear. And can it be, that thou, this goodly land, Could foster slavery with a jealous hand? Yea, when less comely States had seen the stain, Of crimson guilt upon their skirts too plain, They shook the galling traffic from the clutch Of commerce, and forbade her further such. But thou, when banished Slavery left the North, In wretchedness and shame, to wander forth, A heartless strumpet, seeking e'en a shed; Thou then did'st take her in and share thy bed! And can'st thou wonder that thy hardened heart Should make humanity's shoulders smart, When to errantic crime thou wast a bride, When Pagan barbarism wedded Roman pride?

Of him whose valor first inspired our strain, A slave to Aylor bound we sing again. The shady woodlands of his native West, To him are not: in richer verdure drest, A fairer aspect Florida presents, But not more pleasure; that which most contents A noble mind, the liberty to dare And do, the man, he now no more can share. To him what are luxurious verdure's sweets, And cypress shades, and orange-bloom'd retreats;

When for once dear delights his heart now hopeless beats? Lo! where yon hedge-bound fields beyond the way, Wave on the view exuberently gay, Exulting in their flow'ry excellence, And clasping in their green embrace, a dense Deep grove of sturdy pines whose solemn shade, Has o'er delicious seats a curtain made; There stood the Aylor house, when in its prime, A brave old structure of that princely time, When rank and title held unquestioned sway, And humble worth to fam'ly pride gave way. How often have I, turning to its bowers, In dreams sat down and wasted pleasant hours. How often traced its various changing scenes Of blossom'd fields, bright lanes, and rolling greens! This goodly mansion hath an olden fame, And memories that urn full many a name In honors bright and not a few in shame. Here hoary tenants, who in turn await Their scanty pensions at a master's gate; These, and full many an ebon patriarch, Of Afric's humble tribe, who wear the mark Of bondage, tell in tales of cabin lore, Sad things that run the eye with pity o'er. Thus of the Aylor line we are informed: "When erst colonial patriotism stormed New England's early hights, and stretched the hand

Of burning eloquence o'er all the land; And Puritanic piety, allured By Siren Freedom to the wilds, endured The long privations of the wilderness, With all the unction of true holiness, The Aylors mingled with the daring few, Who in the tyrant's face the blade of battle drew.

With vict'ry flushed on fortune's swelling tide, Young Aylor soon had won a lovely bride, The fairest flower of New England's pride. Ere long, embarked in love's light craft, they join With oars of labor, and their hopes incline To stem life's tide; to fortune's source explore, And in the future near touch happiness' shore. Soft are the winds that swell their first short sail, And mild their skies, ne'er angered by a gale. Glad waves arise to kiss their peaceful keel, And from their prow bright silv'ry ripples steal, New ambient hills their ravished vision thread, New argent fields and tinkling valleys spread; Love lends new relish as new scenes invite; Hope points to others not yet on their sight, And gently heaves the deep beneath their dove-like flight. To them the world is one ovation grand, Where fortune show'rs bright favors from her hand, And fancy beckons to a blissful land. Florida the inviting aspect shows,

And here full soon the Aylor mansion rose. There, husbandry soon stooped to till the soil, And ripened plenty filled the lap of toil. Bright Spring on Winter's parting steps pursued, With buds and flowers his ling'ring footprints strewed, Her cornfields spread, and orchards in the dell, And waited till the big rain's benediction fell.

Full, blue-eyed Summer, stately coming on, With shouting harvests stood the hills upon; The breath of wasting juices did inhale, With bloomy cotton whitened in the vale,Spread out the ripened cane along the steep, And waving rice fields in the swamp did reap.

Then Autumn came, with sickle keen in hand, And yellow sheaves beneath her arm; to stand And with her mellow voice to fill the land. The waning fields sank on the saddened view, And melancholy hills were robed in blue. Brown Autumn came, and at her solemn close, The swarthy hands of labor found repose. Then sports set in, and harmless games began, And through the livelong snowless winter ran. What cares had slaves to mar their peace with dole, And shut the light of mirth out from the soul, When life-long labor made them richer none— When nothing earned was theirs when work was done? What reasons they to look back with remorse,

When careful conduct made their state the worse Or better none? Their lives were not their own; Hence past and future were to them unknown. Hard labor's respite came, and as it neared, Their burdens lightened and their hearts were cheered. Religion, work and pastime, all in turn, They had; but art and science must not learn. And yet, contentment these vast wants supplied, And loaned the pleasures caste had them denied. The mind that never grasped hypotheses, Nor wandered in the maze of theories; Nor toil'd thro' demonstrations intricate, Nor groaned beneath old histories' vast weight, Can best afford in other paths well known, To seek for pleasures not so over grown The last day's labor was a day of feast, And toil-earned freedom for both slave and beast. The groaning barns were filled from floor to eaves, And all the barnyard stacked around with sheaves. Then, when the last full load of ripened corn Was gathered in, the master took his horn, And mounted high upon the rounded pile, Rode homewards, sounding, followed by a file Of empty wagons; while a lusty band Of slaves came shouting on at either hand. The shorn fields sank forsaken on their view, And as they nearer to the barnyard drew,

Slave cabins emptied out a roaring crowd, And gabbling hillsides answered them aloud. When shouts of triumph closed the boist'rous scene, The master king, and mistress crowned a queen. This edict then, thro' all her milder reign Of hut-bound realms, awoke a glad refrain In servitude's full heart. "Go waste the hours As you may wish, good slaves; the time is yours From now till blooming Spring shall come again, And spread her painted sweets upon the plain."

They then set in with ev'ry setting sun, And danced till they were tired of the fun. Loud rang the fiddle on three strings or four, But louder rang their feet upon the floor. The music, started once, as well might cease, For joy kept up the dance with lively ease. Now all hands joined, their circling knew no bound, Save that they paused to catch the music's sound; And when caught, all hands joined around again, They whirled away to overtake the strain. Then, balanced all, they stood out pair and pair, And trampled hugely down the flying air. Thus on they strode till night's last watch had flown, Or they had broke the smiling fiddler down; Who, sweating like a hunter in the chase, Dragged his bandanna o'er a hopeless face; Sore puzzled, grinned, and chided, out of breath,

"Ah! darkies, will you dance a man to death?"

Long ran their joyance thro' the grateful years, The slave as happy as his lord appears; For then true guardian, the master deemed, In all but rank his servants kindred seemed. With him communing at the Paschal feast, Where no distinctions met the humblest guest; And with him at the nuptial altar kneeling, His fervent prayer the holy union sealing; He, round his dying couch, with sleepless care, Life's comforts brought, and knew no pains to spare; Leaned tearful o'er him till his latest breath, And closed his faithful eyes to sleep the rest of death. But Avarice, whose reign is rife with woe, To earthly bliss the deepest venom'd foe, In this proud mansion found a lurking place, At first discovered as a youthful grace, At last unveiling all her frightful face. The air grew tainted from her baleful lungs, And Discord there unloosed her howling tongues. There Anger's raging thirst was slaked with blood Drawn from the back of groaning Servitude. From bad to worse the Aylor house went down; In phrenzy's bowl adversities they drown, Thro' halls of revel banished joys pursue, Exhaust old pleasures, madly pine for new; Chase wanton transports thro' the mazy dance,

And seek their wasted fortunes at the hand of chance. Then feuds and murder hurry to the scene, And fam'ly pride's dear bowers are there no longer green. An orphan heir to violence and shame, Now one lone Aylor, Mosher is his name, Holds undisputed all his lawful claim. The hand of love and beauty both he scorns, With broken vows, his wanton rites adorns, And in his mansion's every nook and hall, With open lewdness holds high carnival.

This brief narration, with its changes fraught, Hath us once more to meet with Rodney brought. The cabin dance, the banjo and the song, Are courted yet by Afric's humble throng. They drown their sorrows in a sea of mirth, And crush young griefs as soon as they find birth Neath dance's heel; and on the banjo string A theme of hope, that forces woe to sing. But one is there, to them a stranger born, Whose manly brow the marks of thought adorn. The low inventions of poor darkened mind, Can never in the threads of nonsense bind This mental Sampson; tho' by Slav'ry shorn Of rightful manhood, weakness he doth scorn. The abject sons of Afric's injured race, With cabin sports assay to cheer his face, But all in vain; their silly means repel,

Instead of please, the comrade they love well. He's with them, but not of them; for the light Of freedom flashing on him once, his sight Has trained beyond low Slav'ry's bounds to ken The hights, that he who treads will long to tread again.

All day he labors, speaking scarce a word; All night lamenting in yon groves is heard. His ear no more the torrent's voice shall woo, In deep shades musing long, or wand'ring thro'. His winding horn no more shall urge the chase, Where the proud Wabash doth his woods embrace! No more the flying stag shall dash the spray, And bend the hawthorn from his mountain way; And in the blossom'd fields of yellow sedge, In thickets brown, or in the briery hedge, His wary spaniel shall no longer spring, Nor whirring grouse, nor partridge swift to wing! His fields are gone! Farewell, ye sports of yore! Ye goodly seats on Mississippi's shore! And home is gone! All that makes labor sweet— His hearth is darkened, where he once did meet Bright chirping mirth around hoar comfort's feet. No loving eye shall on his threshold wait, No little footfalls meet him in the gate! No faithful yard dog to the fence shall come, To leap, and wag, and tongue his welcome home! Dear Western home, a tender, last farewell!!

No more shall Rodney in thy bowers dwell. Lo, in the cane and cotton, far away, He bends to toil thro' all the sultry day! Now on his life a weary journey takes Thro' regions where no day beam ever breaks. "Oh, God!" he mourns along the pensive hills, "The rayless gloom that now my bosom fills. My life ends here! existence tho', may creep Some further on, but now ambitions sleep!"

Thus, all night once, alone he sighed,In lanes and fields and forests wide, And strolling on, was lost from view, A deep dense pine shade wand'ring thro'. There, where a bright stream leaping downward, Moaned o'er falls and rambled onward, Like a waywardness of childhood, Or a wild dream; thro' the wildwood, And within a farthest recess Of the forest's leafy stillness, Where the damp boughs stoop'd and listened, And the waters flashed and glistened, Formed a fountain clear, still, blue, deep, In whose breast heaved Beauty asleep; There, while morn was just awaking, Slumbers from her eye-lids shaking, And her mountain stillness breaking, With her first sweet music making;

There, with eyes upon the ground bent, Yet he onward mourning slow went. All the waking woods were merry, But his heavy heart was dreary. So in deepening shades he wandered, Where this wild strange stream meandered; Knowing not, in his sad musing Where he went, blindly not choosing This or that path, as he went on With his eyes the ground still bent on. In his heavy soul he muttered— These words pensively he uttered: "Ah! bleak Norway's churl may feel not To complain against his cold lot, When he never knew a better; And the naked son of Afric, Led about from youth to manhood, In his desert haunt and wildwood; By the bloody hand of Traffic, May not groan to wear a fetter; But to him whose soul doth cherish Longings that can never perish, Who his arms in fetters galling Feels, while liberty is calling To her citadel before him, With her bright skies bending o'er him; But to him, how hard the fate is!

Ah, to him how dark the state is! Earth her every pleasure looses To his eyes, and hope refuses All attempts to mount on high, To her dwelling in the sky." While thus he mourned in this sad plight, Hard by his way, deep out of sight, A sudden mighty stir he heard, Of many a flapping bough and bird. He upward glanced a hurried eye, When thro' the parting branches nigh, Upon the brooklet's other side, A living beauty, lo he spied! In native sweetness clothed, she stood And all her fair proportions viewed With fawn-like timidness. She deemed Herself unseen, but watchful seemed. Alone within her soft retreat, The liquid mirror at her feet Returned her beauty to her eyes, Till, warmed with innocent surprise, She stood admiring. Now her hand, As graceful as a fairy's wand, She waved above the prattling stream; Then gentle as a reaper's dream, She shook down raven locks of hair, Upon the morning's dew-sweet air.

In deeper shades she now withdrew, But Rodney's eyes as fast pursue. There, half concealed, she looks more fair, And seems abashed, at e'en the air, That scarcely breathes upon her there.

* * * * * * *

A stolen glance at her fair parts, Stripped Rodney's bosom to the darts That Cupid's cunning strength let fly,Till, wounded thro' his dazzled eye, He sighed for breath, his bosom held, To hush its leapings as it swelled. He shut his eyes to look no more, But looked, worse wounded than before. Then thought to turn and steal away, And thought, and thought, but yet did stay. Her beauty like a full round moon, Uncovered in the branches, soon Appeared as fair as e'er was seen That lovely orb, green hills between. Then, step by step on tip-toe poise She stole, and ev'ry little noise To her had eyes. Back she withdrew Within the shade, and now in view Again in all her beauty rose, And full and clear stood list'ning, close Upon the marge, where grasses sweet

And blushing flow'rets kissed her feet. The wanton waves that played below, With am'rous descant ceased their flow, And with a strangely pensive speech, The maid to tarry did beseech. A moment gazing on the flood With Eve-like innocence she stood, And watched her perfect image there; While lost within her flowing hair Her small hand rambled. She had now Plunged in the panting stream below; Had not the sudden thickets stirred. The breathless maiden, shrinking heard Some farmer's lad, on errand soon, Towards her pipe his morning tune, Quick as the lark, that, song-hushed darts, When her still brush some footstep parts, She, hasty dressed, deep out of sight Within the thick boughs took her flight. Rodney pursued, not knowing why, Tho' oft to turn back he would try. A power in his feet that drew Resistless as the wind that blew, Kept him a going, fast or slow, And where, or how, he did not know. Glance after glance his dazzled view, Worse dazzled as the maiden flew

Beyond him, and as on he bent, He knew not what his bosom meant, In drinking breath on breath so fast, And being out of breath at last. But now his secret pleasure turned; Ah! in the distance he discerned His master skipping onward too, To keep the coy sight on his view. Then, Rodney turned and stole away, And toiling, mourned the live long day; But Mosher Aylor, stern as fate, Pursued, till thro' the Brentfords' gate He saw the beauty pass from sight, Like some sweet vision of the night.

Now Aylor passed a wretched day, And night's hours went their wingless way. On all his house he closed his door, And in a phrenzy paced the floor. With hands behind him clasped, he stood, Or leaning, sat, in sullen mood, And sighed, and groaned, and raved with pain, And rose and paced the floor again. Till midnight's silence reigned around, His discontent had reached no bound; From his vexed sea he saw no shore, He never had thus felt before. His wonted bowl, for him had lost

Its deep oblivion, and crost By broken dreams, his fevered breast, Refused the arms of balmy Rest. In this sad plight, a hideous cheer Before him stood! The haggard seer Of Aylor's shrine of wickedness, Has heard the accents of distress, That broke night's stillness, and has come, To move the trouble burdensome. Now Aylor spoke, when him he saw, On whom he long had looked with awe; "Here Micah! Micah! Micah! here! To my complaint, oh lend an ear. This morning as I strolled the wood, Deep thro' yon cypress solitude; Where shores of sweetest green ascend, And thick boughs in the waters bend; Fair as the light, I saw a maid Unclothe her beauty in the shade. I never felt a sting so bright; I ne'er saw such an earthly sight. Not radiant May with her perfumes, And songs, and show'rs, and painted blooms, And streams of crystal cheerfulness, Could vie with her in loveliness. But, like a bird of gorgeous hue, She vanished on my starving view!"

"Aye," cries the seer, "no doubt have I, That the same bird which you saw fly, Is the fair Creole visiting At neighbor Brentford's watering. She is a slave, a waiting maid, Brought down from New Orleans, 'tis said," "A slave! a waiting maid! a queen Why don't you say; for ne'er was seen A fairer cheek of Saxon hue Nor prouder eye of brilliant blue. Phoo, pshaw! a slave! a waiting maid! That light-beam sweet from Heaven strayed?" Loud cries the Seer, "A slave I know! And can be bought as I shall show, Dispel the phantoms of thy brain, And turn to thy right mind again; You must be sick!" "No," Aylor cries, "I'm dead in love!" The seer replies, Go pass in rest this far spent night, And by the time young morn's in sight, I'll bring the news to set thee right."

Now, Aylor, half consoled, adjourned His thoughts till morn, and then returned With Micah, to the Brentford seat, The owners of the maid to meet.

The room was darkened where they met, And all was quiet, save the fret

Of restless boughs, and whisp'ring leaves, That mingle o'er the ancient eaves. Now Aylor speaks, "For gold! for gold! Aye, you but say she will be sold, And you shall have your price all told." Awed by the speaker's fiery eye, The strangers whisper this reply: "If her we sell, of this beware She must receive your special care, Not as a slave of low degree, But as a ward, descended free. And this day's doings, ever keep From earth a secret hidden deep; For should the news, by any means, Escape your lips to New Orleans, And reach our aged father's ears, 'Twill grieve away his few frail years.. Know this, he loves Leeona more Than all his children ten times o'er. His frailty has a passion grown, And each day more his love has shown, Till she has to us all become The bane of pleasure, hope and home— The idol of his feeble days, The object ever of his praise. Here to this wat'ring near your home, He with reluctance let her come.

Now from her keep the fact concealed, That she is sold: for if revealed, She'll pine away, and droop and die, Or from your house attempt to fly. By wary speech, the truth we'll mask, If our aged father ask; "What hath befallen me? Where's my dear? Why hast thou left my Ona there?" This said, they drew aside and spake, Concerning what price they should take; And when agreed, they answered bold: "Two thousand dollars down in gold!" And Aylor with triumphant eyes, Threw them their gold, and seized his prize.

With trembling hands they count their gains, In haste divide with heartfelt pains; For well they know a sister's tears, And sweat, and blood, their purses fill. Ah! well they know a sister's years, Must now float onward at the will Of him, who with a shamless [sicshameless] cheek, To buy the hand of love would seek. The offspring of a father's crimes, The bitter fruit of broken vows, The charming bloom of hapless climes, The growth of unprotected boughs; Within the grasp of blighting lust,

A lovely ruin now is thrust. What tho' a father's heart shall break, In spite of race Caste, taught to ache, And yearn thro' age's kinder years, For those to whom Nature endears; What tho' he wakes with deepest groans, What tho' his sleep with anguish moans? When his first sorrow's bitter blast, By soothing words is guided past, His law-owned brood, will run at last Their race in peace; tho' doomed by spite, A sister thro' the stormy night Of bondage mourn, a sad, sad sight. What tho' his grief shall bow his head, And while from view all pleasures sink; He of a Quadroon's injured bed, In age's twilight stand to think, And often weep beside her grave? Society will whisper "Slave!"

His love was wayward, and his wing, Waved wand'ringly in life's warm Spring. He saw the Quadroon, and they loved— He and Leeona's mother, moved Liked sounds of some wild instrument Touched by the wind, and sweetly blent Their lives in lasting pleasurement. But Dame Caste turned her iron face,

And coldly frowned upon their course; And drove sad love from faith's embrace, With all the heartlessness of force.

'Twas thus by social interest's sullen voice, Another's hands was made to be his choice. And thus it is that many a love has grown, Where even Christians dare make it known. Where Hymen oft in gorgeous aspect shows, From true love blossoms not a single rose; While out in fenceless wastes of Nature spring, Discovered only in wild wandering, The purest blooms of love, whose fragrant breath, Live thro' all life and linger after death.

A sister's life is signed away, Her brethren can no longer stay To see her drink the bitter cup, Which they with sorrows have filled up. Leeona kisses them good-bye, Regards them with a tearful eye, And long entreats them to make known, Why she must there be left alone. And then sweet as the fair-eyed dawn, When her light steps first brush the lawn, She meekly looked in Aylor's face; And artless as a timid fawn, With all of innocence's grace,

She reached a trustful hand in his, A hand as pure as lilly is, And gently followed, till from view Within the Aylor seat they slow withdrew.

Now twilight waned and evening still, Darkened the vales, while from each hill Around came soft and lulling sounds. From just beyond the vision's bounds, One voice was heard sweetest of all,And pensive as a late rain's fallThrough Autumn leaves sad and lone The fading forests make their moan. This was Leeona's, poor girl, torn Away from childhood's hopes to mourn.Aylor, meanwhile in sullen mood, On his piazza list'ning, stood Roving thro' mental solitude. Full well he knew what Ona meant, By her sad walks, and loud lament, For he had caused it all. His overtures of stark deceit, She'd spurned and fled to this retreat, To whisper in her Father's ear, Complaints He ever stoops to hear. So Aylor in Remorse's thrall, Walked sullen thro' his ghostly hall, Within a nook of vine shades went,

And o'er his thoughts in silence bent. In Ona's heart though sad, there burned A hatred deep, for all his aims; And his entreaties, he discerned, Were wind, and fanned the angry flames. To her what were the Brazil's spicy breath, Or India's sweet pride, If life were fettered with a ghastly death, That pained but never died?

This night too, Rodney wand'red forth to stroll, And to the list'ning groves impart his soul. The vision bright, that charmed his wayward dream, Within this wood, beside the peaceful stream; Returned when here he lingered. Now her home To make at Aylor's she a slave had come, And Rodney knew it not; for by caste barred, He could not pass where wrong was standing guard. But love hath ways that are past finding out, And secret triumphs, that how brought about, No one can tell. Love hath an open eye, And watches little signs that others would pass by.

"I saw her here," thought Rodney to himself, "'Twas here she flitted by coy as an elf, And in yon boughs her disappearance made, When wanton sounds disturbed the morning shade. Could I but tell her. Ah! but fate forbids! Poor Hope can't open there her dazzled lids.

Yet I did see her, oh, I saw her here! And in my dreams she still doth bright appear. Thank Heav'n there's none too crushed by wrong to see, And beauty's the beholder's property." But now his hope thro' darker clouds declines, And thus within the sounding shade he pines: "No more to me ere life's short race be run, Shall e'er arise another happy sun. How shall I break the vision that me wounds, And drive it from my recollection's bounds!A poor seafarer, and his star gone down, From tempest-arms while clouds of heaven are thrown, And wave-tossed danger wails to seize his bark; Am I, now drifting thro' a wreck strewn dark. Oh, why kind Heaven, plant within my breast, A blooming sorrow—love begot unrest? Content to bear tho' let me journey on, Light yet may break life's dismal waste upon! Now in the cypress gloom, he hushed his strain, And homeward turned his mournful face again.

Eavesdropper winds, on errands from the South, In sandals tripping, and with dewy mouth, To Rodney turned, and whispered in his ear, The broken murmurs of a sweet voice near. A maiden sat within the fragrant shade, And to the night this lamentation made: "This life is all unreal as a dream,

Here woes chase woes, like waves upon a stream. Back yonder, just within the past I see A bow'ry home, where hands do becon me, To join the buoyant hearts of childhood's train, And tread the blossom'd paths of hope again. But here I am, away from home and friends, While o'er my head a cliff of sorrow bends, Strange bodings haunt my pillow in the night, And day uncovers terror to my sight. But, whom I saw last eve within this shade, Methought had by this time another advent made. A strong companion of a troubled heart, He seemed; oh, that to him I could impart My woes; oh, that I could but see him once!"—here She raised her eyes, and lo! the man was near. Away she started at a frightened pace, With red abashment kindling in her face. Oh, was it real, could all this be true? Was that the nymph, O what must Rodney do? "Stay, maid!" he cries, "my wounded soul implores, Stay, fair one, stay! until my tongue explores The hidden longings of a leaping heart; Hear what a wounded spirit would impart." Beyond the fence, and near the spring lawn gate, Leeona paused, the speaker's steps to wait. With timid mein, and from the other side, Now Rodney leans, where blossomed vines divide,

And gathers words with anxious haste to tell, The blushing beauty that he loves her well. She answers with a sigh, and turns away, And with her straggling locks begins to play, Looks up again to speak, and only sighs, But dazzles with the language of her eyes. Then Rodney sighs, and leans, her hand to reach And press, that he may aid his falt'ring speech. Her fingers touch him with a conquering thrill, Her eyes could wound, her timid touch can kill. He murmured something, what, no mortal knew, And pressed the gate ajar, and stumbled thro'; And as Leeona sauntered slow away, He whispered, but unheard, "Oh! angel, stay!" "Oh, moon, speed on thy coming," then he said, As blushing light beheld the tall slow maid, Walk from the boughs, towards the mansion rise, And flash around her over-pow'ring eyes.

Now Rodney's soul fair realms of pleasure knew, And Time's face brightened as he onward flew. All sights to him from sadness now awake, For him the forests into music break, Thoughts of Leeona speed the moments by, And they with pleasure lighten as they fly. His life was now a dream, in which care lay Like labor's slumb'rous body, when the day To night, and rest and lulling sounds gives way.

Thus many a day his burden down he threw, And half the pangs of slav'ry never knew. And thus it is, love hath a charm for life, Whate'er the station, and whate'er the strife. Where'er we roam, where'er our lot be cast, In home's sweet shine, or in the raving blast, Love to the soul a ray of light doth bring, And scatter pleasures from his hopeful wing.His advent lights up e'en the slave's poor shed, And sweetens humble labor's daily bread.Without thee, Love, what were the shepherd's reed? Without thy blessings what the flow'ry mead? From thy rapt fountain patriotism flows, In thy fair province tall ambition grows, Proud aspirations lean toward the skies, And hight on hight great emulations rise. Tho' fortune smile in some voluptous land, Tho' fame weave laurels with a lavish hand, The homely swain of Scotia's thatch-built shed, Pines for his frugal meal of milk and bread, Longs for his oaten tune and herded vales, His shouting harvests and echoing flails. And why? because sweet love can make him yearn For early friendships, and his native bourne.

Some Sylvia charms the rustic's lowly dell, The water sweetens from his native well, The hills ennobles on his happy view,

His even plains with fresh delights doth strew; The rough face brightens of his daily care, With satisfaction crowns his scanty fare, Pours pleasures in the lap of lusty toil, And forces plenty from the stubborn soil. To him, no hills above his own arise, No vales so pleasant meet his ravished eyes, And clouds so peaceful soften no serener skies. To him no waters like the faithful rill, That murmurs by his cot beneath the hill, No tune so charming as his highland air, No flocks so even, and no lambs so fair. To him no land at all, no world besides The world of love, that in his heart abides. See where yon hero drives his way to war, With Feast or Famine harnessed to his car. O'er crumbled thrones, his flaming prowess lead, And at his wheels imploring Commerce bleeds! Some Cleopatra names the war-doomed lands, And thrusts the torch of battle in his hand.

Night after night our lovers met and parted; Night after night they grew more aching hearted, Took moonlight rambles in the secret shade, Wider and wider their excursions made, And ev'ry night longer and longer stayed. Oft arm-in-arm, with childlike dalliance, they, And devious eyes, pursue their lonely way,

Or turn aside beneath the arching groves, In scented nooks to prattle o'er their loves; Till smiling thro' the drowsy branches bright And peaceful, a late moon bids them "good night."

Again the shades of night were falling round, And every hilltop now a speech had found, When lost in bliss, the lovers met the moon, Beyond their wonted rambles; but there soon A crouching fury, who had scanned their walks And drunk the whispers of their secret talks, A master who can dare forbid their loves— Flies on them like a hawk on thoughtless doves. Leeona, clasping Rodney, starts and cries, And Aylor hard to tear her from him tries; Till Rodney's hand with warning aspect laid Upon his shoulder, his hot rage allayed. The shud'ring winds bore Aylor's threats around, The groves their bosoms hushed to catch the sound, But Rodney led his gentle Ona on, And with her stood the threshold safe upon.

Now to her room, Leeona sauntered slowly, A dim light on her table flick'ring lowly— And sat awhile to ponder her sad heart; A locket, gift from Rodney, took apart, Looked on his picture, held it to her breast, And with a sad, sad heart, assayed to rest.

Her light gone out, the room was dark, except That thro' her lattice a shy moon beam crept And looked into her troubled face, but fair, That now upturned was still in fervent prayer. She knew not that her faithful Rodney, near The wall beneath, her lightest word could hear, As thus she prayed: "Out of the storm, Oh, Lord! Thou wilt bring shine to those who trust Thy word! If draughts of bitter grief must first be ta'en, Oh! Thou dost fill with brimming joys again! Now in whatever land my Rodney mourn, Or 'mid whatever trials he sojourn, Like walls of strength around him, Oh, Thou King Of Saints Thy mighty arms of succor fling!" Lo! Rodney answers: "O, my Ona, dear, If thou dost pray, I know the Lord will hear!" Now to her feet the Creole bounds,On tip-toe to the window steals, Where blossomed vines her form conceals; But clank of chains, and bay of hounds, Stentorian oaths, and raving sounds, Burst on her ear, and freeze her speech, Ere yet her words can Rodney reach.

Now thronged about by twenty men, And savage bloodhounds, nine or ten, That howl with rage, and gnaw and bay, Like demons that from Tophet stray,

Thro' nether worlds to wing their way. Rodney, with irons loaded, she Must turn away, or bear to see. But as she turns, the hounds appear, And in their deep jaws Rodney tear. Unarmed he falls, with pain he groans, gust of loud oaths mocks his moans, While human monsters gather round, And fierce dogs drag him o'er the ground, Till he in cords of hemp is bound. "Oh, save!" gasped Ona, as she, poor Sweet child, sank swooning on the floor. A moment there, a fair corpse seemed, As in her face the sad moon beamed; Then frantic rose, and down stairs flew, And on her lover's bosom threw Her wild sweet form, his stout neck drew In her soft arms, and her cheeks fair Nestled on his, and with her streaming hair, Covered his bleeding shoulders that lay bare.

And this is Slav'ry! the wise faced creed, That stretched a helping hand to Afric's need. The holy Institution that was bound To raise the heathen, tho' the Heavens frowned! Ah! this was what a righteous Nation heard Pray in her temples, and expound the Word. This was Creation's good Samaritan,

And poor old Afric was the thief-torn man. Oh, who has not the dear good shepherd seen, Stand Moses-like, God and His hosts between, Bless Slavery as a child from Heaven born, Since Joseph was from poor old Jacob torn; Watch ever sleepless, o'er his peaceful fold, Unawed by dangers, uninduced by gold, And weep if one poor lamb from shelter cries? That is, one white lamb; if black, shut his eyes. Ah! Young America, for God's sake, pause, Hast thou such preachers, and hast thou such laws?

With ruffian hands, the maid was to her room Forced hurriedly, and shut within its gloom. Sad as the evening star's last glim'ring ray, Now from a swoon, pale Ona crept and lay Half conscious, till the night had far away Towards the morning sped. Wild phantoms wandered thro' her fevered brain, Sweet slumber from her eyes its flight had ta'en, And fainting hope had fled; When in night's silent depths she heard a sound, As of shy footfalls, that on tip-toe, wound Along the mansion's stairs, now quick and low, And now hesitatingly slow. Then all was still, save that she heard Upon the roof, light boughs that stirred, And clasp'd at winds, that with them played,

And off in outer stillness strayed. Again the cautious sounds revived, And stood there motionless as death, Till borne upon a husky breath, This sentence thro' the key hole blew: "Git up, my child, Ise cum fur you!" 'Twas "Aunt Ameriky,"—she knew— She bounded up, she followed fast Her sable guide, who hurried past Her master's door with breathless ease, And stood beneath the silent trees.

Then thus, low spake the good old guide, "In yonder room is Rodney tied, Where stands a locust on dis side. De white folks sell him in de morn, An he'll be left yer, shore's yer born, Go see him gal, bid him farwell, An' tell him what yers got to tell. An' I'll stand here de outside by, An' keep watchout wid open eye." Now near this room—a prison made In which to keep slaves till conveyed Into their buyer's custody— Leeona stole on cautiously.

Where thro' a crevice in the wall, A late moon lighted up his thrall,

The pale maid saw her lover lie, And called him with a burning sigh. He answers: "Ah! is that my dove?" And she, "Oh, have they bound you, love?"

The ebon angel of the night,Now flew away and out of sight, But soon returned with keys in hand, And knife, and giving this command: "Cum wid me, chile!" unlocked the room, And entering its sepulchral gloom, Stooped to her knees upon the floor, The knotty fast'nings to explore Of Rodney's arms; her knife apply, And loosing him, let Ona fly With outstretched arms to his embrace, Lean on his breast and look into his face.

A moment passed, and drinking Ona's sighs, The proud slave stood, while with his downward eyes He caught the azure of her tender gaze, And felt his kindling manhood all ablaze. "Naught have I borne!" he cries, "love, but for thee, These bloody tokens of the truth, oh, see! Would I could Northward fly and now be free! But where thou art not, all is bondage dire. I'm free in chains, if I but in the fire Of thy sweet eyes, may feel my heart inspire.

I now could arm, and would at once assay, The vile destroyer of my joys to slay; But then the law would drive me from thy sight, Then day were darkness in my soul's long night."

Now thus Leeona, gazing in the moon, "Haste, Rodney, lo, the day will open soon! Hie to the cave, on yonder side extreme Of that vast wood, where not the staunchest beam Of potent noon can thy dark seat invade; Keep hid by day, by night explore the shade. There we shall meet. I'll there late rambles take, And come to thee. The signal I will make Is a low song, when there's no danger nigh, Then we will walk; but hark, a footstep, fly! Nay, come now dearest to this further shade, Where our light converse may not be betrayed. Tread lightly, ah! speak low, for now I fear Suspicion walks abroad, with open ear On night's still lips. Haste, Rodney, come away! Still! there, thy heart unburden, make no delay. List! hush! a hoof, 'tis—no—my beating heart; That night bird, hark how lonely! Oh, I start! For now methinks his note doth omens bring Of sadness, all my poor heart saddening." No evening shepherd ever tuned a lay, Of sweeter accent, down his mountain way Homeward returning at the close of day,

Than Rodney's speech was in Leeona's ears, Till in the hall a certain step she hears.

His arms once more round 'Ona Rodney flings, And sudden freedom to his flight lends wings, Towards the cave he turns his flying face, This way and that, and leaps at every pace, To keep up with imagination's feet, That brush by him in noiseless retreat. The cave is reached, and wide apartments found, With easy access, hollowed in the ground. And ent'ring slow, now Rodney feels around, Finds shelves of stone, and seats and beds of stone, But windows, attics, and piazzas, none.

Meanwhile Leeona, noiseless as a sprite, Flies thro' the halls, and up the ancient flight Back to her room, and softly sinks to rest, Till morn shall chase the darkness towards the West. 'Mid all the jars that shook the Aylor seat, And hot suspicions, Rodney's dark retreat Was ne'er discovered; and Leeona true As only woman can be, 'scaping thro' The darkness, met him oft, and took him food, And gave him comfort in the dismal wood. Of how she met him, cheered him; noble slave! And lighted up the dungeon of his cave, And with him walked thro' moonlight rambles long,

Cannot be painted in our faithful song. Elijah, fed by ravens, it would seem, Might have thought all the world a monstrous dream; And Peter seeing wild beasts in a sheet Tied up, and angel's crying "slay and eat," May have been awed at his supply of meat. But what must he have thought, who chased by men And hounds, from human sight into a den, The angel of his love found stooping there, Him to refresh, and his abode to share?

FLIGHT OF LEEONA.

In bloom gemm'd depths, where Sylvan branches meet Above dim paths, that thread a still retreat; Where light on tip-toe shy, steals o'er your path, Like some chaste maid unrobing at the bath; There where old warrior pines on high doth tower, In fashion quaint is built the Aylor bower. Here 'Ona now a noon excursion made, And wandered peaceful thro' the silent shade. There, as she went, and could not turn nor stay, But ling'ringly pursued her lonely way, And gazed into the song-stirred woods beyond, She stooped to raise a wayside flow'r with fond And gentle touch, and with a sweet look try To coax the timid azure from its eye. And now she turns upon a mossy seat, Where sings a fern-bound stream beneath her feet, And breathes the orange on the swooning air; Where in her queenly pride the rose blooms fair, And sweet geranium waves her scented hair; There, gazing in the bright face of the stream; Her thoughts swim onward in a gentle dream.

Now, restless Aylor parts this dense retreat, And 'Ona finds reclining, fast asleep;

While, save that one lone bird doth chirping peep, Where's not a sound to raise its little feet Within the stooping boughs—the very air Seems half afraid to breathe upon her there! And water lilies, prattling in the stream, With speech subdued, enchanted list'ners seem. Leeona's long locks round her slim waist meet, The bright waves leap and sigh to kiss her feet, While her reluctant breasts to view disclose The lovely hues of life's serenest rose; And timid rising, like twin moons do seem, Just o'er the woody marge of some still stream.

Low Aylor peers the arching boughs beneath, Lust heaves his bosom and compels his breath, While thus he ponders, on his raving breast, His hand in trembling indecision prest: "I'll nearer steal, but then she might awake! Oh, in these boughs I'll stand, till mine eyes take Their feast of gaze! Ah! what a beauty she! My soul is drowning in a boundless sea Of what I can't express! And she is mine! My own slave! No, Leeona, no, I'm thine! I'll be thy slave, and thou my wife—my—no! There's negro in her veins! 'Twould never do! What Saxon hand a negro wench would woo, And let disgrace frown on him? But she's fair! Her cheeks, how radiant: ah! what eyes—what hair!

Thou angel slave! and mine! I'll nearer steal, And make her while these boughs shall us conceal. I'll proffer her a master's secret love, Protection, freedom or her heart I'll move To confidence and yielding secrecy, By signs of stooped superiority." Then, as some rough-armed hurricane that finds The hiding places of the little winds, Where insect horns their day long music keep, And starts zephyrus in her noontide sleep; So, filled with blasty lusts, now Aylor goes, Till on the sleeper fair his footsteps close. And as the fingers of a dream have caught The waving pinions of her free young thought, She hears his steps, sleep blends them with her dream, Till touch'd, she wakes and bounds up with a scream. Her master's low entreaties make her worse, She screams for aid, till screaming makes her hoarse. He grows more furious as she him defies; The helpless lamb to flee the lion tries, But fear o'ertakes her strength, and daunts her soul, Her senses reel, and reason yields control To blank unconsciousness, and what ensues, Refrain to ask, Oh! man, withhold my muse!

The bower's deepest bosom saddened seemed, As innocence's big libations streamed Fast down Leeona's pity-suing cheeks,

And her poor breaking heart gave vent to shrieks; And up to sympathizing Heaven she turned Her tear-dimmed eyes, that with entreaty burned. Oh, loveliness thou radiant visaged sprite, Thou lute-voiced warbler wooing to delight! By prince alike, and homely swain adored, By every gentleness of soul implored! When unprotected, howe'er cherished much; To thee how blighting is the lewd hand's touch, E'en as the woodside flow'ret plucked away— Torn from the bosom of enliv'ning May— Dost droop within the rough grasp of the swain, Thou witherest to ne'er revive again! And Slavery, thou worst of all the host Of human ills, I loathe, and like thee most! Thy name I spurn, thy grov'ling aims I hate, And all thy bitter creeds abominate; But like thee for the daughters thou hast borne, The jewels that doth thy vile neck adorn, The tender out-growth of unholy deeds, The rich-hued blossoms of offensive weeds.

Here, reader, lies a lab'rynth on our way, Thro' which perchance 'twould weary you to stray; Or yet perhaps with some unwonted sight, Or sound, mar all thy bosom's visions bright. Our steps, therefore, around it now proceed, Where to remoter realms our lovers lead.

But as we pass, there lingers on the ear, A strong man's mournings for his lover dear. For Rodney hears that his fair 'Ona's dead, And sleepless anguish bows his manly head, The nightly forests hear his wand'ring cries, And with her stony speech his cave replies.

'Twas eve in Florida serene and bright, And gently sighed the wind as sighs a maid When watching in an early moon's round light, Her lover's footsteps in the trysting shade. The woods breathed softly, and their even breath Was sweet with blossoms of the neighb'ring heath. And, save the lonely note of nightingale, The churlish out-bursts of the farm boy's vale, The horn owl's shout, and swamp bird's lone reply, No evening sound disturbed the sleepy sky.

Now near a dark and solemn wood, Close by the Aylor house I stood. The evening star, without a peer, Was sinking in his mild career, As sinks the warrior on his shield, When vict'ry holds a silent field, And no alarum breaks his rest, To build her watch fires in his breast. Soon, as a maid will half conceal To show her beauty, then with sighs,

Languishing looks, and yielding eyes, Will arm her sex with that appeal, Which conquers him who dares to feel; So, bursting from the wood's embrace, A moon in soft clouds dipped her face, Ascended then her peaceful throne Of green hills, and supremely shone.

I heard a wail of woman's woe; Now loud it bursted, and now low, Suppressed, as if in sudden flow, A hand had checked its bitter gush; Then followed an expressive hush, When, in the mansion's silent hall I saw a female proud and tall, Half covered in the myrtle's shade, Thro' which the moonlight faintly strayed. Her long hair stream'd below her waist In wild waves; and her bosom chaste Arose in pensive sweetness, bare, Beneath a face that pale with care, Some monster trouble seemed to dare. Her eyes with sullen lustre blazed, As up in Heav'n's still face she gazed, And clasped an infant to her breast, To gently hush its sweet unrest. I nearer to the woman stole, And lo! she was the fair Creole!

For unobserved, I reached the hall, And leaned against the shadowed wall, Just as the moon was fairly seen, Breaking white banks of clouds from 'tween.

I heard the Creole's softest sighs, And saw her flash her restless eyes Upon her rear; I now did know There was concealed some dreadful foe. I looked upon her lovely form, And felt my hurried blood run warm. Ah! she was beautiful, tho' not So fair as lovesick rhymers plot, Or whining prose mongers array, Among the novel's little way, Through which good sense doth never pass, But where the intellectual ass Delights to roam, or fast or slow, To see the strange white lilies grow, Or hear a big black giant blow!Ah! not so fair, but a rich rose, And brilliant as the stream that flows From Summer hills, with meadows sweet, And dewy corn-fields at their feet; While bleating pastures peaceful lie, Beneath an azure canopy.

But hovered o'er by raven-winged fears,

Assailing wrongs had dried her tears In their bright home; tho', as the rill, When Winter from his cheerless hill, Freezes the surface with his breath, But cannot stop the flow beneath; So her proud look of beauty showed That sorrow's stream beneath it flowed.

Oh! how I wished I knew wherefore Her wrongs, and her distresses sore! How then I could have met her foe, And brought her weal, or shared her woe! I raised my hands, I strove to speak, But long suspense had made me weak; I could but lisp a single word, And that too faintly to be heard. Then, ere I caught my reeling sense, I would have sprung to her defense, But horror froze my sluggish blood, And I aghast in silence stood. A whisper low breathed thro' the hall, And then there came a quick footfall. Leeona flashed a hurried eye, And "Oh, my Rodney!" then did cry, And to his brave arms weeping fly. A moment clasped in love they stood; Then he looked round in sullen mood, As calm as night, but stern as death,

Resentment warming every breath, And "fly, Leeona!" quickly gasped, And to his lips her small hand clasp'd. "They're on us now, and soon we'll be Beyond the reach of Liberty."'

"Hush! there they come! can't you hear Their angry footsteps hurrying near? Wait not a moment to be gone, By Heaven aided fly alone! I'll meet, and hold them here at bay, Or stain with blood their fiendish way." I strove now but could not withdraw, Nor look, nor shut my eyes for awe. A hurried sigh, a sob suppressed, Escaped Leeona's noble breast. All earth to her was in her arms, And she could tread on Scorpion harms, While this firm purpose swelled her heart— To live not from her babe apart. Now wild as the wild cat'ract moans, Thro' deep shades and replying stones, The murmur from her bosom rose: "God save my Etta from her foes!" Then on her shoulder swinging straight, The thoughtless infant's little weight, Forth from the mansion' s hall she stole, Like hope's last vision from the soul.

Her lips were clenched, her dark eyes staid, Her brow was knit and arched with shade, To Heaven's arms she looked for help, And fearless as the lion's whelp, Was winding thro' the silent grove, With no cheer but the moon above. Now fast and faster onward flew, Till indistinct upon the view, She seemed a shadow, then was seen No more the darkling trees between.

Now in the dismal mansion roared A storm of heavy steps that poured From aisle to aisle, and hall to hall, As if loud tongues in every wall Were loosed upon the night to call. The current foamed towards the door, From which had fled the Creole poor, And o'er the voices of the crowd One great grum throat was heard aloud, Like a crack'd trumpet madly blown, Or like a fierce boar's sally groan. "Let loose the hounds upon her track, Go, villians [sicvillains]! Speed and bring her back! Or leave her torn upon your way, And on her flesh let vultures prey!"

Now Aylor ceased, and his dread form,

Peerless in terror, issued forth, As wrathful as the dark browed storm That shuts the doorway of the North, And drapes the eagle's palace bright, In curtains of the misty night, Then grum as some old Indian king, He strode among the gaping throng Till like a Champion of the ring Of loud Olympus, stern and strong, Of matchless port, and manner proud, He rose above the gaping crowd Of men and dogs, and shook his hair. Dread silence seized the trembling air, Dumb terror made his minions quake, Their knees to smite, their fingers shake, And dogs beneath his nod and scowl, Began to gnaw their chains and howl.

The chains are loosed, and at a smack, Away fierce yelping fly the pack. Their deep, loud throats in full chase break, The darkling woods responsive speak, And far off hills from slumbers wake. The very night shades seem to fly, And dance and flutter on the eye; For dreadful sight is it to see, A woman from swift bloodhounds flee.

Then like some lion, when loud dogs invade, That flies ferocious from his roaring shade, His bristling kindred scatters from his path, And shakes the forests in his lordly wrath; So now brave Rodney from his cover springs, And right and left her loud pursuers flings. These at him stare with trembling fears opprest, He plucks a dagger from his heaving breast, Displays the ghastly warning to their eyes, And in pursuit of hounds and Creole flies.

Ah! ye whose eyes with pity doth run o'er, When mournful tales come from a heathen shore, Of babes by mothers thrown to crocodile; The scaly terror of the languid Nile; Of Brahma's car and Islam's wanton rites, And bloody raids on Zion's sacred hights! Ye who hear these and pray for God to come, Behold yon mother fleeing from her home! A master's child upon her frantic breast, And by a master's savage bloodhounds prest; And this, too, where in every steepled town, The crucifix on human wrong looks down! Think then no more of heathen lands to rave, While in America there breathes a slave!

Rodney pursues, and where the sickened moon Looks thro' the woods, comes on the Creole soon.

The angry hounds have overta'en their prey, And round Leeona, madly mingling, bay. Deep thro' the wastes their fiendish voices ring, Fierce with their tongues, wood, plain and hillock sing; And now they close upon her, thick around; Ah! God, they seize and drag her to the ground! Lo! Rodney nears, he hears his 'Ona's cries, Right on the hounds with flashing steel he flies; They on him furious turn, with eyes that glare Like furies' fell, jaws gaping, and teeth bare; This one and that he seizes as they lunge Upon him, and their dread fangs in him plunge. Deep thro' their reeking sides his blade he drives, They reel away and empty out their lives; Till with their warm blood dropping from his hands, He master of the situation stands!

Ah! ye whose hearts with swifter currents beat, When fabled gods in equal combat meet, Shout loud the challenge, swing their shields immense, While armies hang around in dread suspense, Lift their vast lances, like the lightnings driven, Jar all the plain and shake the vault of heaven; Behold this hero of the real fight, This man who dares the wiles of swampy night; Whose fearless bosom, lit with valor's fire, Withstands the monster bloodhound in his ire;Whose faithful heart to love's first impulse true

Will dare to suffer and is brave to do.

Now Rodney listens, his surrounding views, And thro' the pines his dismal way pursues. Leeona follows on his journey dark, Where night-owls laugh and wary foxes bark; Till thro' the branches op'ning day's in sight, With rosy smiles and locks of streaming light.

We wander now in grasses long and damp, O'er oozy mosses of a dismal swamp, Thro' languid brakes, and under monster trees, Thro' whose vine loaded boughs noon never sees. Here nature sleeps her long, long torpid nap In silence, on the Tropic's tangled lap; Here yellow streams with lazy murmurs creep On slowly, talking in their sluggish sleep; Here hideous reptiles in their slimy reign Crawl aimless ever, and an apish train Of forest hoodlums day long orgies hold; And birds, although their plumage gleam with gold, And divers colors, sing not; in this wood, This habitation of dark solitude, Our lovers, for their lives escaping, fly Into the arms of dismal safety. The scaly venom of the pathless brakes About them here a sure protection makes, For who will dare the danger of the bogs?

And here is crocodile a match for dogs.

Here hope our lovers found, And love about them wound Her silver cords the tighter; As fears vanish'd away, And they from day to day Felt life's burdens grow lighter. Ona saw Rodney's manhood, he Her fortitude and constancy; Thus, each could in the other see Enough to keep the loving eye With pleasures running over. As Eve and Adam, innocent Within the charms of Eden went, And nothing of the wide world knew, Save what lay just betwixt the two; So wandered these, the wild shade thro', Lover absorbed in lover.

Far from their home within the wood, Once Rodney went to search for food, And ready make, for he next day Must toward the North Star take his way. Leeona biding, sandals knit Of fibres from the cypress split, A basket rude of willows wove, And gathered fruits within the grove.

Thus wand'ring round, she missed her track, And lost, could not her way find back. At last despairing, sad she stood, Then on her devious way pursued,

The sun upon his western way, Had nearly reached the verge of day, Baptizing in his orange sheen The lofty groves of cypress green; When in the swamp grass, long and dank, Leeona reached some bayou's bank. Lo! all around was strange and lone, And silence on her dismal throne Held her dark sway in every nook; Save that one swamp bird yonder, shook A mournful noise from his throat, That sounded something like a note; And that one tiny wren did say Some feeble things anear her way, Scarce able when it flew to shake a spray.

Leeona turned to scan the wood, When lo! beyond her scarce a rood, A horrid human form she viewed! A tall old man in skins half guized, Half savage and half civilized, With a great cudgel in his hand, Towards her gazing still did stand.

About his waist a leathern thong Bound his long locks, they were so long. Uncombed and matted close they lay, And age's touch had made them gray. His gaunt arms were of monstrous length, The ghastly signs of wasted strength. "Ah!" Ona sighed, "What shall I do?" And, as she thought, unseen, withdrew; But slow the ghostly hermit stalked Around her hiding-place, then walked Straight in the bush to where she lay Breathless, stood squarely in the way, Swung his great cudgel round and round, Chattered and gnashed, and stamped the ground, Rolled his wild eyes, growled like a bear, And thrust his fingers in his hair.

A true heroine of the cypress gloom, Now there to lie, the Creole saw her doom— A reckless madman had her in his hand— She sprang up, and did at his elbow stand, And cried out, "Look sir, see my pretty child!" At this, the raving specter grimly smiled, Let fall his cudgel, muttered some strange speech, And for the babe his dreadful claws did reach. "Have you seen Nanawauea?" then he cried, "She died long time ago, and then I died; Who wrongs the red man, wrongs the race of man;

You hurt my wigwam now, sir, if you can!" Leeona answered, pointing him away, For no auspicious moment long will stay: "Your Nanawawa lives in yonder glen, Make haste and find her— come and tell me then." Now both hands in his hair the madman threw, Dashed off and laughed, and gibbered as he flew. "Dark mystery," Leeona leaving, said, "Hath in that human waste her mansion made! Ah! now within his once love-lighted breast, The owly phantom builds her broody nest. And that high seat where wisdom once did dwell, Is now inhabited by visions fell, And recollections harrassing, among Which, a dreadful secret holds her tongue! And 'Nanawawa;' love-balmed name survives— Above that heap of mental ruins lies! Poor wretch, unconscious of existence save With the loved dead, thinks he's beyond the grave! 'Who wrongs the red man.' Why he speaks of wrongs, To that the secret of his words belongs; Wrong! wrong! Yea wrong! We all that monster know, The blight and bane of earth, and source of woe!

Now Rodney's voice and heavy footsteps broke Upon the Creole's ear, as thus he spoke: "Leeona, here am I! What were those sounds? And what went by me with such dreadful bounds?"

Leeona told him; list'ning still he stood, Then talking low they slowly left the wood, Began their steps toward a Northern clime, And looked on Florida for their last time.

THE RUNAWAY.

Awake, my muse, ye goodly sights among, The land of Boone and Kenton claims my song. Thro' other scenes our lovers take their flight, See where their wand'ring footsteps pass in sight. Lo! where yon pleasant valleys meet the eyes, And goodly hills their forests lifting rise! Here, as we pass, along our cheerful way, Small farms adjoining, stretch in green array. And small farm houses, looking great trees thro,' And neat dressed orchards, dot th' enlivened view; And their quaint roofs by Autumn suns embrowned, With wind-mills rude, and bird-box turrets crowned, Look thro' the branchy elms and locusts high, And send a rustic welcome to the eye.

See where yon flocks their even pastures browse, And lowing homeward, hear the sober cows, And hear yon plowman whistling as he plows. Here circling plenty meets returning suns, And lucid cheer in ev'ry valley runs, Loud satisfaction fills the evening air, And jovial comfort soothes the ear of care.

Thrice hail! proud land, whose genius boasts a Clay! The Cicero of slavery's palmy day, The gifted champion of Compromise, Whose mien majestic filled a nation's eyes; And on the eloquence of whose wise tongue A learned Senate in rapt silence hung; A Senate, too, whose fame no one impugns, Of Websters, Randolphs, Marshals and Calhouns. And could a land that boasts a mind like this— That bord'ring on the clime of freedom is— Suffer a harlot with her whorings vileTo peacefully pollute her gen'rous soil?Yes, green Kentucky with her native pride, Proclaiming trust in the great Crucified, Flaunting her prestige in the world's wide face, Boasting descent and precedence of race, And by the greatest of all statesmen led, Shared the pollutions of a slavish bed. All o'er her fields, the blood-hound's savage bay Pressed the poor sable trembling runaway,

And sometimes by the home of Henry Clay! In all her woods, the wail of wild distress Was heard, as tattered starving wretchedness Fled in the shrieking wrath of wintry storm; Wrapping her babe in rags to keep it warm! Can I forget the tears a parent shed When her dear hand she placed upon my head, And me embracing, tremulously said: "My heart is sick whene'er the sad winds blow, And all the ground is buried deep in snow, For I remember, when I was a child, The night was dark, the raving winds were wild, The earth was still, the snow lay deep and white, When at our door there came a footstep light. We opened, and a strange black woman's face. Looked in; she held a child in her embrace And said: "Ize nearly froz to deaf', oh wont You let me in? Oh! don't say no! Oh don't!" She came in, but before we said a word, Her master's voice was in the quarters heard! She knew the sound, her babe close to her drew, And back into the wintry tempest flew. The morning came, and chilly miles away, In snow half hid the lifeless mother lay! But in her arms the babe alive did sleep, And when discovered, woke, but did not weep! And lo! uncovered to the mournful light,

'The mother's face was black—the babe's was white!"

I love Kentucky; tho' she merit scorn I can't despise the land where I was born. Her name I cherish, and expect to see The day when all her sons will cherish me. Her many sins have all in common been With other sisters' who their sins have seen. Yes, I will pray for that good time to come When I can say: Kentucky is my home. And this I now ask at my country's hand, If I must die in some far distant land, Then let my countrymen, when I am dead, Where I was born, make my eternal bed.

But here our lovers are again; Awake, my muse, thy wonted strain! The hounds at day-break struck a trail In deep Green River's lonely vale, And thro' the dusk of dewy morn, Echoed the hunter's rousing horn. "What is it?" flew from tongue to tongue, As to his horse each rider sprung. A moment in their saddles still, They heard the baying on the hill Not far away, and full well knew A runaway before them flew, The chase began, the horses dashed

Away, and thro' the bushes crashed, Like birds that flutter on the wing All thro' the wild copse scattering. Each horseman pressing for the lead Bore on and on, with champing speed. On, on and on, and on, o'er hills, And winding valleys, leaping rills And fallen trunks like startled hinds, Wild as a flood, as swift as winds. The hounds' loud clamor rolled and broke Morn's drowsy stillness, and awoke The sleepy hills, that answered back The lusty tonguing of the pack. Within his quiet farmhouse wood, The early rustic list'ning stood, The plowman whistling in his lane, Paused, listened, paused and paused again, Surmised, went on, went on, surmised, And at their loud speed stood surprised; As o'er his fences passing near, He heard them in their mad career.

Their loud tongues on the morning breeze Now Rodney heard, as if the trees Were yearning in their sympathy, And stretched, and sighed and whispered "fly."

And fly he did, and as away he sped,

Soon of the pack a length'ning space ahead; His nimble limbs grown strong by punishment, Bore manly up as on and on he went. O'er fences high, and gullies wide he leapt, Skimmed level fields and thro' the briars crept, Now pricked by these, now by the wanton thorn, And now by knotty bamboos hung and torn. His footsteps now had gained a wooded hight, Now fields and houses all were out of sight; He paused to listen, heard his heart's quick beat, And thought. it was the sound of coming feet. Another instant and the flying slave, Was trying if his legs could well behave. Thro' pond'rous woods and darkling shades he ran, Three miles or more from where his flight began, Sometimes along the wild boar's narrow way, Sometimes where hunted wolves in cover lay. He soon could hear the fierce hound on his rear, Baying out inbred hate, and drawing near. Loud in the distance angry signals wound, And furious yells urged on the flying hound. Dread oaths were muttering on the morn's still air, Enough to hush the jungle's roaring lair.

Now Rodney, bursting from the wood,An instant on the high bluffs stood And gazed upon Green River's flood, That tossed and growled and rolled beneath,

Like torments in the vaults of death. The rocks look'd down with angry awe, And feeble shrubs leant back and saw. Few moments more the worst must bring, For now the worst had poised its wing! The hounds are on him! "Save! oh save!" Right downward leaping cries the slave, But not into a watery grave! With arms of steel he mounts the wave, He grapples with the dizzy tide, Turns downward, where the cliffs doth hide, And then with strokes manful to see, He pulls for life and liberty. Meanwhile the hounds have ceased to bay, The hunters look and turn away, And "Ah! he's drowned!" all seem to say.

Three nights or more curtain the skies, And now we turn our weary eyes To where the Creole mother flies. Thro' dangers led by friends at night, By day concealed from mortal sight, Thus far, secure has been her flight.

A storm was low'ring, and the sun was low, The Creole's weary steps were short and slow, The air grew sightless, and the fields were still, The woods were restless on the solemn hill,

The earth seems shrinking from the threat'ning skies, As night on rayless wings athwart the sun's path flies. All nature trembles! Lo! the cloud-folds break, The mountains with their thunder-tongues awake, While livid lightnings glare on every peak, And with their arms of flame, their warring lances take. The startled clouds flee out into the deep Of troubled night; and headlong down each steep Rush dizzy torrents from the flood-drenched hills, And foam along the overflowing rills. But hark! in all this storm a woman's wail! A mother's anguish doth the ear assail! Beneath yon beetling rocks, oh raise thine eyes, To where Leeona lifts her tender cries! See now she sinks into the cliff's embrace, And turns to heaven her entreating face In tearful beauty! Hark! for help she cries! And thunders answer from the wrathful skies! Between the surges of tumultous winds, Her cry a passage thro' the tempest finds. "Oh God! my child! my child!" she wails distrest, And clasps the tender sorrow to her breast. But like the vaulty whispers of the tomb, Her words come back from hollow-throated night's deep gloom. Oh! Heaven, can'st thou thus be pitiless, And hear, unmoved, the cry of loveliness?

Cause thy rebellious winds to war no more, The loud disturbers of a nightly shore! Ah! how the torrents now are pouring down, They seem as if the whole earth they would drown; But this last flood descending, hope creates, For when it slackens, then the storm abates.

The rain has ceased; but the belabored wood Yet waves and trembles in a troubled mood. The frantic Creole lifts a piercing cry, Hoping to rouse some woodsman dwelling nigh; But in the bluffs above her wolves reply. "Oh! Heaven," shrinking in the rock she gasps, And in her arms her infant tighter clasps, "The wolves are howling, Ah! What shall I do? Beset by beasts and human monsters too!" Then like some doe when dogs and horns surround, That starts, stops, listens, starts with sudden bound, Flies from her covert, leaps rock, fence and hedge, And leaves the baying dangers of the sedge. Right so Leeona stops, and starts, and leaps, And bounding onward leaves the howling steeps. The flashing heavens make her footing good In darksome paths, through the abodeless wood, As on she flies, a spirit of the night, But knows not where her heaven assisted flight.

Day came—an ugly, wet and sluggish day—

When in the woods, far on Leeona's way, A band of sun-browned cleavers she beheld, That near their lonely homes their forests felled. Their great rough arms, as rough as oak limbs are, Dropt on their knees, and to their elbows bare; Held up their chins, as from their logs they gazed Upon the fleeing woman, sore amazed. And when she came to them with tales of woe, They pressed around her eagerly to know From whence she was, and whither she would go. And then they grouped and muttered to themselves, Smote on their breasts, and seized their pond'rous helves, And breathing out a gale of oaths and threats, They led her to their humble forest seats.

Of how the Creole, by these woodsmens' [sicwoodsmen's] aid, Her further flight toward Ohio made; Of how she wandered two long months, beset By shrewd suspicions, and by mistrust met, By day concealed, by night hurried along, Cannot be uttered on the tongue of song, But raise your eyes to where the verging land Of Bondage touches Freedom's holier strand.

Low in the cheerless West, deceitful rays Kindle their fires to a feeble blaze. The leafless woods send up a ceaseless howl, As looking down upon them with a scowl,

From voiceless hills, the wintry blasts doth stand, And shake their shrieking tops from hand to hand. The hoarse Ohio chafes his bleak shores gray, And sullen, rolls to warmer climes away.

But list! is that the moaning of a gale Disconsolate, within yon leafless vale? Draw nearer, listen, now it rises high, Now lower sinks, recedes, and now comes nigh. Is it the blast of all its mildness shorn? Ah! no, 'tis poor Leeona that dost mourn! See where on yonder rising rock she stands, And holds her tattered garments in her hands; Scarce able to rescue them from the wind, That flings them, with her streaming locks behind; Unwraps her perfect limbs, that white and bare, Empurple in the bitter Northern air. From her bare feet blood trickles down the stone! Ah, God! Why is she here? Why thus alone? Oh, what hath driven her from home away, And Comfort's hearth, upon this ruthless day?

Ah! see her driven from warm Care's embrace A lone sweet exile of the Creole race! By heaven forsaken, and denied by earth, As if too crime-stained to deserve a birth. By native streams no more in peace to rove, And hear the sylvan music of the grove.

No more to pluck the fruits of gen'rous growth, And gather flowers of the fragrant South, How can she meet the fierce wrath of the North, Houseless and clotheless, thus to wander forth? Ah! Ask you? Turn to where yon hounds pursue, And circle swift the clam'ring forests thro.' Hark! how loud horns resound upon her rear, Oh! heaven save her! Is no helper near? Must she beneath the angry tide be borne, Or by the savage hounds be seized and torn?

Beyond the river is a fisher's hut, Close in a cove beneath tall forests shut; Beyond the hut a narrow path climbs o'er The crescent bluffs, and winds along the shore. Within this hut Ben Guildern sate all day, Mending his nets and lines, and smoked away. He dreamed of this wide world and all its cares, Its hopes and doubts, its pleasures, pains and snares, Of man's pilgrimage to a better bourne, Where toil shall rest, and man shall cease to mourn; And of the days and other faces gone, Ere he was left to pass thro' life alone; Of pleasant tasks his manly arms had wrought, Of slumbers sweet that toil remitting brought; And of the many times he climbed that hill, And found a wife and children waiting still; And supper smoking, and a ready plate,

When all day's luckless toil had made him late. "All gone!" within his wave-tossed soul he sighs, And o'er the waters lifts his tear-dimmed eyes, "A cold and blustry night the boat went down, And my poor wife and babes were left to drown!"

He sees a signal from the other shore— A woman beckons him to set her o'er; He hears the hounds, and not a word is said, A fugitive he sees imploring aid; His boat is launched, and from her moorings thrown, The tide awaits her, rolling up and down, A moment near the shore she slow doth move, And waits another and another shove; This way and that the eddy smooth she tries, Ventures and darts, and with the current flies. So when the speedy roe is brought to bay, Where rising cliffs oppose her woody way, Within some nook embraced by rocks and logs, She turns her head upon the bristling dogs, Bends here and there until her way is clear, Flies through her foes and leaves them on the rear.

Seized by the heaving tide, the feath'ry boat, Midway the river down begins to float, But Guildern with his strong arms grasps the oars, Plies all his strength, and up the current soars. The angry billows clamor at his keel,

And on his prow in sudden fury wheel, Till, at an angle of a good degree Above the hound-pressed Creole pausing, he Wheels short his flight, athwart the current shaves, And shoreward glides before the rolling waves. So when the untiring mistress of the winds Discovers in the covert feeding hinds, Midway she meets the current of the skies, And by its adverse strength succeeds to rise, Till high above the destined point she swings, Drops from the clouds and shaves on level wings.

The shore is touched, the Creole boards the boat With child in arms, and all are now afloat. Old Guildern speaks not, but plies all his skill, And looks the firm monition, "now be still," Leeona's heart with hope and awe is swelled, She meets an eye that danger never quelled, A face as rough as wintry hills, but bland, An arm of massive strength, but gentle hand, And mien of dreadful soberness, that braves The sullen fury of the wind and waves. The boat is now far out into the stream, And as her quick oars in the low sun gleam, Rides up and down the wave, and o'er and o'er, And level swims towards the other shore. Ah! nobly bearing up her precious freight, How steadily she rocks beneath the weight!

Her keel has touched, it cleaves the yellow sand, Thank God! thank God! they land, they land! they land!

Within a fisher's hut all night, And leaving by the early light Of bleak December's lurid morn, Leeona passes into sight, Cast down and faint, and travel-worn.

From naked hills loud shrieking flew the blast, And out of hearing moaned along the waste, Like some torn beggar all disconsolate, That mutters from harsh Opulence's gate; As 'Ona trudged along her lonly way, Beneath a nightly vault of starless gray.

Her murmuring infant shivered in the blast, As houses by her way she hurried past, Where rustic comfort sat with smiling pride, At honest labor's genial fireside. Thus thro' the hoary landscape's wintry scorn, She forced her mind's consent to journey on till morn.

The clouds dispersed as night wore slowly on, And stars from their high glist'ring fields looked down, Till late the moon-top'd hills in white arose, And peerless night unveiled her shivering realms of snows.

Ah! bent and trembling, see that gentle form,

Where shelt'ring rocks oppose the wrathful storm, Chased like some beast, that hovers with her young In yawning caves, and desert rocks among. Her tender infant in her arms is prest, Hushed are its cries—it gently seems to rest. Where vagrant swine their wintry beds have made Of leaves and branches from the forest shade, Now 'Ona stoops to rest her darling's head, When lo! she starts, she shrieks—her child is dead! Her wounded bosom feels a nameless dart, A ghastly sorrow clutches at her heart— Nor fear assails, tho' now to leave she tries, But trying stays, her babe embraces, cries, The cold cliffs groan, and hollow night replies. The dismal gorges murmur at the sound, And empty fields spread echoless around.

Beside her babe the weeping mother kneels, With anguish dumb its pulseless hands she feels; Its placid cheek against her face is prest, Her ear is leant upon its silent breast; Her hopes are gone! and Heaven's pure ear hears Deep grief entreating thro' a flood of tears. Above the cliffs where winds a country way, A voice is heard in cautious tones to say: "Leeona! Oh Leeona! Oh my dear! Is it my 'Ona's mournful voice I hear?"

The Creole hushed, afraid to trust her soul, That felt a mighty burden sudden roll; Quick claspt her bosom in aching suspense, But now distincter heard the voice commence: "Leeona! Oh, my 'Ona! are you near?" The Creole answers, "Rodney, I am here!" Rodney had heard along Leeona's way, Of her wild flight, and her pursued all day. Now down the cliffs in breathless haste he flies, And clasps his life, as thus to him she cries: "Oh! see, my Rodney; see where baby lies!"

The bosom that had life-long sorrow borne, The heart which had so long been taught to mourn, With real manly sympathetic heaves, Bent o'er the little corpse and raised it from the leaves. "Poor harmless comer!" then he gently said, "Better for thee that thy pure soul has fled With angel watches to the waiting skies, Where peace e'er flows, and happier climes arise. Conceived in trouble and in sorrow born, Thy life rose clouded in its very morn, And wore along with unpropitious suns; But to a happy close at last it runs! Sweet be thy rest upon this lonely shore, Rocked in the cradle of the winds no more, And ne'er awakened by the tempest's roar."

This said, to roll the stone away he stoops, And in its bed a hasty resting scoops, Commits his tender burden to the ground, In poor Leeona's last torn apron wound. She from a mother's anguish pours out cries, Bends o'er her infant where entombed it lies, Its calm cheek moistens from her tender eyes, Its pale lips kisses o'er and o'er and o'er, And deeper sobs with each long last once more, Till Rodney's kindly touch she feels implore; Then murmurs "good-bye, good-bye, mamma's May!" And with a loud wail tears her wounded heart away.

Here sadness ends, A new sun lends His beams to light our way, And pleasant sights, And fair delights Unite to raise our lay. Where Freedom is what Freedom means, Our lovers pass to other scenes.

SUSSEX VALE, CANADA.

Sweet vale of the Sussex! the pride of the Queen, Whose life has a reign of beneficence been; The flow'r of Britana's possessions afar In the cold land, that lies beneath the North star. No slaveholder's foot e'er polluted thy soil, No slave in thy fields ever bended to toil. As Bunyan's poor Christian who, fleeing for life, Left the land of Destruction, and children and wife, And saw as the shadow of Calv'ry he crost, His burden rolled down and forever was lost; So, when the poor fugitive, foot-sore and wan, From the land of oppressors for liberty ran; He found that his shackles would crumble and fall, As he stood in the shadow of proud Montreal.

Asylum, fair Sussex, art thou of the free, And of all the oppressed, that to thy arms flee From "the land of the free, and home of the brave "— Ah! land of the bound and the hell of the slave.

O, Sussex! dear Sussex! the scenes I remember, As down thee I wander'd in yellow September! The gay tinted woods in the sunset's gold gleaming, The creek down thy midst like a sheet of light streaming, The busy mill near it, and brown barns above,

And blithe childhood shouting in the deep still grove; The lowing of herds, and the milkmaid calling; And the tinkling of folds thro' the twilight falling.

And lo! a neat cottage with windows of green, Scarce thro' the thick boughs of yon elms is seen! There now the free lovers, that once were the slave, The maid of the rice swamp and Rodney the brave, Are dwelling in wedlock's dear holiest ties, The objects of comment and pride for all eyes. The stranger who passes thro' Sussex must hear On the lips of the cottager, far and near, The love of these new comers pointedly told, And telling it over, it never grows old.

THE LITTLE GREEN COTTAGE.

Canadian farmers came oft to the little green cottage, To see their new neighbors and hear them tell over their troubles. The tales of their pilgrimage e'er to their hearers had new charms; And instances, once told, cloyed not in repeating them over.

Thus it was that farmers, as rough as the oaks in their forests, But open, and clever, and frank as the brooks in their meadows, Came oft in the twilight and sat in the door of the cottage, And said: "We would hear of the land of the poor sable bondman." And forward they leant, and sat mute as they heard the dark stories That sully the brow of America's proudest endeavors. And regarding Leeona with pity, they sighed: " Lord have mercy;" As her words, soft and tender, fell on their great hearts with sweet pathos. With wonder they look'd as they heard of the bayou and cane-brake; Their breasts smote and murmured to hear of poor fugitive mothers

Chased down by fell bloodhounds, and dragged from the cypress swamps bleeding. And their faces flamed red, and they plucked their long beard for resentment, To hear of slave-holders who bought pure beauty and defiled it; Blighting the hopes of the sweetest, the fairest, and youngest; Adorning their harems with flowers all ruined but lovely! And wringing from hoar age's heart submission to these vile abuses. But they raised their broad hats, and shouted and stamped with boist'rous gladness, To hear of Leeona escaping with Rodney her lover.

Thus it was that many an evening Rodney's friends came around him, And far went the fame of the heroine of the savannas. The same brave Rodney whose blows were too hard for the savage;Whose feet were too swift, and whose arms were too strong for the bloodhound, In his secret heart felt his whole life's fairest triumph When he saw his Leeona the pride of all the great farmers. Certain was he in his poverty and humble endeavors; His little green cottage, tho' lowly, had its attractions— Leeona, the womanly model of gentleness lived there. Not young was she now, and radiant as she was aforetime,

Not thoughtlessly shy and blushing with reluctance so fawnlike, Her arms were not smooth and round as they once were; her cheeks not so ruddy; Her eyes were not so brilliant, and playful, and winning; But softened by love, they beamed steadier and overcame more. They were not the first stars that peep shyly thro' the whisp'ring twilight, But the last sober-beaming ones that patiently linger Above the familiar wood that watches the homes of our childhood. She was not the bright light that once dazzled and charmed with its brilliance; But settled and modest, the amiable light of the hearth-stone, That draws all close about it, and sets all near hearts a chirping.

The wife of a good man, content to be his and to love him, Ambitious to rival herself in his strong affections, And ready always to lay hold with her hands and be happy. A good wife was she, and loved all who loved her good husband; And ever was ready to set him in the eyes of her friends By kindness. Thus was she the idol of Rodney and his friends.

Not least among those who frequented the little green cottage Was Father Eppinck, the good priest of the parish of Sussex. A great and good man was he, and a true shepherd to all of his fold. Were any by poverty shorn of the comforts of this life, His mantle of care he threw around them, with love warmed. Were the young gone astray in the dangerous wastes of transgression, He followed their way, and returned with them prest to his bosom, Were the old with woes pregnant, and burdened with great tribulations, He led them, and gently pointed them to a more blessed future. Thus it was that he came to the home of Leeona and Rodney, With treasures of kind words. He called them his two loving children, And always on leaving, he left them his best benediction. He too loved Leeona, and came to hear of her pilgrimage.

'Twas a balmy afternoon in the joyous vale of the Sussex, And the voices of Autumn were heard in all of the north land. The fields were shorn of their harvests, and the golden sheaves were gathered in, And stacked in the barn-yards. The mill complained in the valley,

The distant glen echoed and sang with the music of axes, And the wain came down from the deep woods groaning beneath its logs. The forests wore gay colors, but sighed and were melancholy. Then Father Eppinck, as he sate in the door of the cottage, Lifted up his eyes and beheld the fair vale of the Sussex. He saw the sweet tokens of peace that appeared in the heavens;And he heard the voice of contentment that went up from the earth beneath; The sweet words of plenty he heard, and the loud shouts of strong health; And then he raised his voice and said: "O my God, I bless Thee! For the rolling seasons and the full year, I magnify thee! I thank thee for the hills and the high rock, and the great forests. I thank thee for the pleasant valleys and their full fields of grain, For their flowing streams, and the burdened orchards on their green banks. I thank thee for plenty, for health, and for homes; but, oh my God! I extol thee for freedom, the hope of the church of the Savior. Here peace spreads her white wings, and sun never looks on a bondman.

Here earth yields her increase, and no slave's sweat ever falls upon it. Oh God I bless thee for Canada and the Crown of England!"

When Father Eppinck had finished this saying, with kind wordsHe turned to Leeona and Rodney and said: "Now I leave you. I go up to Montreal by the first coach to-morrow. If the morning be fair, I hope to be off before cock crow. A month shall I be gone, and now that the Autumn is far spent, My coming to Sussex again will be in the Winter. What time I am in Montreal, I will be in the house of a merchant, A good man, whose wealth has kept pace with his increasing goodness; A Christian, whose devotion to Christ and his holy Apostles In alms deeds is shown. Samaritan-like he goes forward Into the highways of this life, and gathers up the wounded Spirit, and bears him in the arms of his wealth to the inn of comfort; And when nakedness cries in the street, he hears her, and lends her help, And asks not; 'But why are you naked? Why did you not save in harvest? '

And his lovely wife, the center of Montreal circles,

A brave hearted, noble, merciful and fair life consort, Throws around him the arms of encouragement in all his good deeds. She is happiest always among those that her hands have made happy. Her heart is a fountain of kind words, and like Aquila of old, She delights in the church of God, in Christ and his holy Apostles. Her accomplishments drag after her a train of admirers; Her beauty a train of worshippers, her charity a host Of grateful lovers; while her affectionate fidelity Lights up her home so that her husband says: 'A star is Dora.'"

Now Rodney hung his head when this last word, Dora, fell on his ears; And as he bade Father Eppinck adieu, he looked up and sighed; And the light of recollections flashed across his manly face Like a burst of sun that thro' white clouds lights waving harvests.

ONE SNOWY NIGHT.

The laughter of sleigh bells was heard on the lips of the snow storm All day long, and passers were scarcely seen thro' the falling flakes Hurriedly going, wrapped close, and one not speaking to another. 'Twas bitter cold, and the stiffened forests tossed in the northern blast; And the great old pines, as the gale smote their snowy heads, grumbled, And seemed in their anguish to mutter: "Let loose our hair and our whiskers!" The slow wreathes of smoke curled dreamily thro' the still branches That burdened with snow, stooped down and were sad-hearted and silent. All sounds of the barn-yard were hushed in the chill breath of Winter. The cottage was still, and within doors the cotter kept quiet.

The nightfall came, and still the flakes were coming thickly down. "How it snows," said Leeona, as she shut the neat door of her cottage.

Then she drew her chair near Rodney, and sat before a a warm fire of logs. This night the little green cottage was unusually cozy; The cat on the rug sung low to the slumbering puppy, Who yelped in a dream, and nipped at the heels of a rabbit. The light of the fire-place, streaming across the clean hearth, Glared on the walls, and flashed from the chairs and the tables, Like the recollections of childhood flinging their cheer across life's path.

Now thus to her lord spoke the heroine of the Savannas: "The approaching Christmas throws the shadows of mirth into Sussex. Never before was there such buying of presents among us; Never before such love without dissimulation."

Of a sudden Leeona hushed and fixed her eyes upon Rodney. "Whoa!" cried a voice at the door, as rough as the oaths of a seaman, "Still, Sorrel!" and a sleigh had stopped at the door of the cottage. Leeona rose up quickly, but Rodney sat still and listened Till she had opened the door and looked out in the darkness.

A dim lamp in the driver's hand streamed thro' the falling flakes And discovered two men in the sleigh and one woman. The men in their great coats wrapped dismounted, and then the woman, Muffled in heavy furs, and veiled, stepped down between them; When the driver reined his horses and dashed away in the silence. The strangers entered the door and Father Eppinck before them, And bowing, he said: "These are my friends of whom I spoke aforetime."

Rodney arose and stood erect in speechless wonder and silence, As the tall and lovely form of Dora, the heroine of Saville, Stood in the midst of the floor of his humble dwelling, and reachedThe white hand of recognition, saying, with the sweetness of other days "Do mine eyes behold thee, oh Rodney, my dearest benefactor! I have heard of you here and have come to remove you to Montreal. My home is a home for you, and the days of your toil are ended."

For the tears of gladness and gratitude the manly hero Of a thousand trials hard could not speak, but he seized the small hand Extended, and wept a benediction of tears upon it, and kissed it. His great stern face of simple fidelity and manhood brave, Was now lighted up with a glow exceeding portrayal, And in its effulgence approaching those who stand in white robes Ever, within the tidal glory of the Throne Eternal. There were greetings then, and the joy of all hearts was running over; And there countenances all shone with the light of the Kingdom of Heaven.

THE END OF THE WHOLE MATTER.

A tall brave man of gray three score, The sable columns rode before, The knightliest of the knightly throng, The bravest of the brave and strong Who on the field of Nashville stood Against the hosts of gallant Hood; When noble Thomas, mild and brave, Against the armed master, threw the former slave.

Rodney had left his home in foreign lands, And laid his life into our country's hands, His struggling kindred's conquests proud to share, For he beheld acknowledged manhood there. And this the grandest day that ever rose Upon his life, at its eventful close Was bringing with it recollections sweet, That made his old heroic heart with youth's emotions beat

His country's banner, soiled and battle-torn, In sable hands before the columns borne, Streamed in the setting sun's deep golden light, And rivaled Heaven in her blazon bright. The drums of victory clamored on his ear; The bugle's wail of rest was ringing clear, Thunder of wheels was in the distance roaring,

And into camp the weary victors pouring. He saw that Slav'ry's days were numbered now, Far death's cold damp hung on her pallid brow.

And looking now upon his left and right, Two proud sons who had ridden thro' the fight With him, rode there with martial mien and brave, The off'rings which Leeona's bosom gave The country that had chased her as a slave. He saw his sons, and prouder felt than heWho took Rebellion's sword from famous Lee.

This was the day when Southern chivalry Beheld black manhood clothed in liberty, Step from the shadow of his centuries Of bondage, shake dejection from his eyes, And to the awful verge of valor rise. The day that heard the negro, scarred and maimed, On sovereign battle's lips a man proclaimed.

The hosts of Sherman marching to the sea, Beneath Rebellion's trembling canopy Swept like a thunder storm, whose lightnings catch The shaking hills with hands of flame, and snatch Their mighty forests down. The Nation then Lifted her hands to Heaven and praised the men Who cleaved their way by hard incessant blows, From where the hills of Cumberland arose, And at the Northern door of Slavedom held

Their watch, to where the Mexic Ocean swelled; Wrenching fair victory from brave hands and true As e'er on foe the steel of battle drew, The Alpine strength of strongholds sweeping down, And treading under foot each hostile town. Then fair applause warmed her white hands with claps, And bright-faced greetings at all doors gave raps, Gray bearded gratitude bowed on his knees, And cheering cities flamed with jubilees.

But soon a change came o'er the Nation's face, The light of mirth to clouds of fear gave place. The chiming bells that jubilantic rung, Now hushed their throats or spoke with doleful tongue. The mazy dance held her light-booted feet, And music soft suppressed her murmurs sweet. Sad-faced religion sought the church once more, And faith went back to do her first works o'er.

The gallant Hood, intrepid Sherman knew Would cleave the Slaveholder's domains in two, So, as that military comet went To Southward, he his swift flight Northward bent. The Union struck at proud Rebellion's heart; Rebellion aimed at her same vital part, And doubtless had a wound most painful made, Had not the Union's negro arm displayed Such valiant strength in warding off the blow, And striking down the strong and gallant foe.

As Rodney rode to camp this glorious day, He heard a dying soldier by his way, Half hidden 'mong his mangled comrades pray. His tortured soul of ruin conscious cried, Raved thro' its mansion dark from side to side, Rose to the eyes. and stood with dreadful glare, Ran to the heart, and fluttered, groaning there, And shuddering in the awful shades of woe, Sank down in mortal dread and pleaded not to go. As hope forever bade her host farewell, Now mem'ry came into the soul's dark cell, And with the wrongs of unrepented yore, Manacled her, and chained her to the floor. Remorse then followed with the criminal's scourge, Her pris'ner seized, and dragged towards the verge Of mis'ry bottomless, and 'mid the smoke Of black torment, that rolled and spread and broke, Laid on her lash of scorpions with heavy stroke.

"Oh, Lord!" the sufferer cries, "have mercy now! I would pray right, Lord Jesus, teach me how! Ah! I've insulted thee, I know, I own, But Savior, make thy boundless mercies known; Oh, life misspent, could I but now recall! Leeona, Rodney, ah! forgive me all. Help! water! water! water, or I die!" "Who's here?" cries Rodney, quickly turning by, The dying man stares on the speaker brave,

In ghastly silence, as the whisper "save!" Falls from his lips; then like a madman yells, And rolls his painful balls within their fevered cells.

Rodney forgets the wrongs of other years, As wretchedness' bitter cry he hears; The red wounds that with parched lips appeal To heav'n he sees, and can't his tears conceal. He kneels upon the ground where Aylor lies, His canteen to his quiv'ring lips applies, The sinking body in his arms doth rest, And leans his throbing head against his breast. Now stooping o'er, the hero hears the cry: "Rodney, I know, forgive me ere I die! Leeona tell"—he fixes here his eyes, And still in death, on Rodney's bosom lies.

And now my country let us bury all Our blunders sad beneath grim battle's pall. Gathered beneath the storm's heroic folds, While our dear land an aching bosom holds,Let us forget the wrongs of blue and grey, In gazing on the grandeur of the fray. Now let the vanquished his repentant face, Lean in the victor's merciful embrace, And let the victor, with his strong arm heal The bleeding wounds that gape beneath his steel. And may no partial hand attempt a lay

Of praise, as due alone to blue or grey. The warrior's wreath may well by both be worn, For braver man than either ne'er was born. They both have marched to death and victory, They both have shown heroic misery, And won the soldier's immortality. But scars of honor that they both yet wear, The proudest testimonials of their valor are.

And where our sons their battle lances drew, Fought not their sable comrades bravely too? Let Wagner answer 'mid the reeking storm,That mingles with black dead proud Shaw's fair form. Ask it of Fisher, and a thousand more Brave fields that answer with their lips of gore. And while America's escutcheon bright, Is bathed in war-won Freedom's glorious light, Forget it not, the colored man will fight. More patriotism Sparta never knew, A lance more knightly Norman never threw, More courage never armed the Roman coasts, With blinder zeal ne'er rode the Moslem hosts, And ne'er more stubborn stood the Muscovite, Than stood the hated negro in the fight.

The war was God-sent, for the battle blade, Around the seething gangrene, Slavery, laid, By Heaven's arm, this side and that was prest,

Until the galling shame dropt from the Nation's breast. War was inevitable, for the crimes That stained our hands (and in the olden times Engendered) now were Constitutional,And spreading thro' the Nation's body all. Deep rooted where the vital currents meet Around the heart of government, their seat Evaded Legislation's keenest skill, Or bent the stoutest edge of human will. 'Twas then that God the raving Nation threw Upon her own war lance and from her drew, By accidental providence, a flood Of old diseases that lurked in her blood.

Whom Moses witnessed 'mid old Sinai's smoke, Whose arm from Judah's neck had torn the yoke, And with it broken Egypt's bones of pride, And with his chariots strown the Red Sea tide; Who stripped the golden crimes from Babel's throne, And made his pow'r to Baal's adorers known; He stood among us and His right arm bared To show His ways by seers of old declared. While millions trembled at Oppression's nod, Oppression sank beneath the finger touch of God. Line upon line the centuries had wrought, And precept upon precept vainly taught, The prophets had of old been heard to cry, While signs and wonders figured in the sky,

And then the Incarnation of all good, By Jordan's wave and in the Mount had stood, And with His hand of gentleness and love Transcendent, that a heart of stone could move, Had touched the ties of every human woe, And loosing fettered mind, said: "Let him go." And His great heart to patience ever moved, And always gentle e'en if He reproved, Bore this sweet sentence from his sinless Home: "To preach deliv'rance to the bound I'm come." But even then, our country shook her head, Her eagle wings of independence spread, One tipped with fires of the Tropic's glow, The other lashing in the realms of snow, And in her pride declared that God's own Son Had licensed Slavery's dark crimes, every one. And tho' we shackled Afric's sable hands, And scourged her where the smoking altar stands, And tho' we loaded down her captive feet With iron chains, right by the mercy seat, And tho' we laid her virgin bosom bare, And forced her where the fires of off'ring glare; We smote our conscience with a palm of ease, And thanked God that his pure eye ever sees! Who then can wonder that the Lord would smite The haughty neck that did Him thus despite?

Now let us in the light of future years,

Forget our loss and sacrificial tears, And thank kind heav'n that tho' we erred and strayed, We to the good path our return have made.

Hail dawning Peace! Speed on thy glorious rise! And with thy beams unseal the nation's eyes. Let Islam in the blaze of scimitar Proclaim his rites, and gorge the fangs of war, But peace be unto thee, land of our sires, Whose sacred altar flames with holier fires! Let lawlessness no longer stagger forth With his destructive torch, nor South nor North; And let the humblest tenant of the fields, Secured of what his honest labor yields, Pursue his calling, ply his daily care, His home adorn and helpless children rear, Assured that while our flag above him flies, No lawless hand can dare molest his joys.

Lo! from yon hights, land of the rising star, The hands of Freedom beckon from afar, And mid the glad acclaims of roused mankind Fling her immortal standard to the wind; Speed there thy flight, and lead the glorious train That swell the lofty tributes of her reign. Thy hands are wrested from the tyrant's hold,

Thy name on Time's illustrious page enrolled, And thy escutcheon bright, embossed with gold.

From Erie's rock-watched shores to Mexic's sands, No more the bondman wrings his fettered hands; No more entreaty's sable face thro' tears, Looks on for succor thro' the weary years; For Freedom's holy dawn is now begun, And earth rejoices 'neath her rising sun. Requited toil content pursues his care, Walks with bold strides as free as heaven's air; The gen'rous fields put on their aspect sweet, And forests blithe their hymns of God repeat. Dear western woods! thou harbors of the free, With youthful hearts we wander back to thee, And ere these numbers hush, once more would lie Beneath thee stretched and gaze upon the sky. Thou art more proud than Windsor's lofty shade, By poet sung, or by the sage portrayed. No lordly despot o'er thy ample grounds, Sways ancient titles and proclaims his bounds; But each poor tenant owns his humble plot, Tills his neat farm and rears his friendly cot. The weary trav'ler 'long thy roads may lie, As peaceful as the brook that rambles by, From boughs that drop with plenty gather food, And o'er his dear ones rear a shelter rude. Thou noble seats! fit theme of bard or sage,

Beneath thy bow'rs leans venerable age, While from the summit of his stalwart years, His life's calm twilight slowly disappears, And hope's sweet sunrise in the future nears. And where smooth paths thy solemn shades divide, Walks buoyant toil with young love at his side, And charmed by songs that ev'ry zephyr shakes From boughs around, his hopeful journey takes. And flaxen childhood there the live-long day, In blithe sports whirls and wanders far away.

Oh comrade freemen strike your hands to stand Like walls of rock and guard our father-land! Oh guard our homes and institutions free, The price of blood and valor's legacy. Awake to watch, ye sovereign sons of toil! If despot feet e're touch our country's soil, Fly to the standard that by freemen born, The glory of a hundred years has worn, Blood-stained, yet bright, streaming, but battle-torn, And rally till the last drop from the veins Of free America flows on our plains. Eternal vigilance must light the tower, Whose granite strength can bide the evil hour, Whose wave-dashed base defies the tempest's shock, Builded upon the everlasting rock. At last, proud land, let potent wisdom write Her name above thy brow in glorious light,

And suffer ne'er thy hands to idle rest Till learning lights thy humblest subject's breast. In cities tall, and in the hamlet rude, Suffer no partial hand to e'er exclude A single poor from fair instruction's halls, But write EQUALITY on all her walls. An equal chance in life, and even start, Give every one and let him play his part. But who could, with complacence on his face, First bind one's feet, then challenge for a race? I would not own I was a thing so small, I'd rather own I was no man at all, Than show that I must some advantage take, The race of life respectably to make. Say my facilities must all be best, Then write excelsior upon my crest? Nay, rather let me weed the hardest row, And rise above by toiling from below.

Free schools, free press, free speech and equal laws, A common country and a common cause, Are only worthy of a freeman's boasts— Are Freedom's real and intrinsic costs. Without these, Freedom is an empty name, And war-worn glory is a glaring shame. Soon where yon happy future now appears, Where learning now her glorious temple rears, Our country's hosts shall round one interest meet,

And her free heart with one proud impulse beat, One common blood thro' her life's channels flow, While one great speech her loyal tongue shall know. And soon, whoever to our bourne shall come, Jew, Greek or Goth, he here shall be at home. Then Ign'rance shall forsake her crooked ways, And poor old Caste there end her feeble days.

THE END.