poor little Hope could do to save thee;" and she darted forward with
the eager step which Bonyton so well remembered. As they approached
the falls, the light of the burning tree, kindled by the hands of
Bridget _below_ the falls, flickered and glared upon the waters; the
winds had died away; the stars beamed forth, and nothing mingled with
the roar of waters, save an occasional screech of some nocturnal
creature prowling for its prey.
Ever and ever poured on the untiring flood, till one wondered it did
not pour itself out; and the heart grew oppressed at the vast images
crowding into it, swelling and pressing, as did the tumultuous waves
over their impediment of granite--water, still water, till the nerves
ached from weariness at the perpetual flow, and the mind questioned if
the sound itself were not silence, so lonely was the spell--questioned
if it were stopped if the heart would not cease to beat, and life
become annihilate.
Suddenly the girl stopped with hand pointing to the falls. A black
mass gleamed amid the foam--one wild, fearful yell arose, even above
the roar of waters, and then the waves flowed on as before.
"Tell me, what is this?" cried John Bonyton, seizing the hand of
Bridget, and staying her flight with a strong grasp.
"Ascashe did not know I could plunge under the falls--she did not know
the strength of little Hope, when she heard the name of John Bonyton.
She then went on to tell how she had escaped the cave--how she had
kindled a signal fire _below_ the falls in advance of that to be
kindled above--and how she had dared, alone, the terrors of the
forest, and the black night, that she might once more look upon the
face of her lover. When she had finished, she threw her arms tenderly
around his neck, she pressed her lips to his, and then, with a
gentleness unwonted to her nature, would have disengaged herself from
his arms.
"Why do you leave me, Hope--where will you go?" asked the Sagamore.
She looked up with a face so pale, so hopeless, so mournfully tender,
as was most affecting to behold. "I will go under the falls, and there
sleep--oh! so long will I sleep, John Bonyton.
He folded her like a little child to his bosom. "You must not leave
me, Hope--do you not love me?"
She answered only by a low wail, that was more affecting than any
words; and when the Sagamore pressed her again to his heart, she
answered, calling him John Bonyton, as she used to call him in the
days of her childhood.
"Little Hope is a terror to herself, John Bonyton. Her heart is all
love--all lost in yours; but she is a child, a child just as she was
years ago; but you, you are not the same--more beautiful--greater;
poor little Hope grows fearful before you;" and again her voice was
lost in tears.
The sun now began to tinge the sky with his ruddy hue; the birds
filled the woods with an out-gush of melody; the rainbow, as ever,
spanned the abyss of waters, while below, drifting in eddies, were
fragments of canoes, and still more ghastly fragments telling of the
night's destruction. The stratagem of the girl had been entirely
successful--deluded by the false beacon, the unhappy savages had
drifted on with the tide, unconscious of danger, till the one terrible
pang of danger, and the terrible plunge of death came at the one and
same moment.
Upon a headland overlooking the falls stood the group of the cavern,
stirred with feelings to which words give no utterance, and which find
expression only in some deadly act. Ascashe descended stealthily along
the bank, watching intently the group upon the opposite shore, in the
midst of which floated the white, abundant locks of Bridget Vines,
visible at a great distance. She now stood beside the Sagamore,
saying,
"Forget poor little Hope, John Bonyton, or only remember that her life
was one long, long thought of thee."
She started--gave one wild look of love and grief at the Sagamore--and
then darted down the bank, marking her path with streams of blood, and
disappeared under the falls. The aim of the savage had done its work.
"Ascashe is revenged, John Bonyton," cried a loud voice--and a dozen
arrows stopped it in its utterance. Fierce was the pursuit, and
desperate the flight of the few surviving foes. The "Sagamore of Saco"
never rested day nor night till he and his followers had cut off the
last vestige of the Terrantines, and avenged the blood of the unhappy
maiden. Then for years did he linger about the falls in the vain hope
of seeing once more her wild spectral beauty--but she appeared no more
in the flesh; though to this, men not romantic nor visionary declare
they have seen a figure, slight and beautiful, clad in robe of skin,
with moccasoned feet, and long, white hair, nearly reaching to the
ground, hovering sorrowfully around the falls; and this strange figure
they believe to be the wraith of the lost Bridget Vines.
THE SACHEM's HILL.
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
'T was a green towering hill-top: on its sides
June showered her red delicious strawberries,
Spotting the mounds, and in the hollows spread
Her pink brier roses, and gold johnswort stars.
The top was scattered, here and there, with pines,
Making soft music in the summer wind,
And painting underneath each other's boughs
Spaces of auburn from their withered fringe.
Below, a scene of rural loveliness
Was pictured, vivid with its varied hues;
The yellow of the wheat--the fallow's black--
The buckwheat's foam-like whiteness, and the green
Of pasture-field and meadow, whilst amidst
Wound a slim, snake-like streamlet. Here I oft
Have come in summer days, and with the shade
Cast by one hollowed pine upon my brow,
Have couched upon the grass, and let my eye
Roam o'er the landscape, from the green hill's foot
To where the hazy distance wrapped the scene.
Beneath this pine a long and narrow mound
Heaves up its grassy shape; the silver tufts
Of the wild clover richly spangle it,
And breathe such fragrance that each passing wind
Is turned into an odor. Underneath
A Mohawk Sachem sleeps, whose form had borne
A century's burthen. Oft have I the tale
Heard from a pioneer, who, with a band
Of comrades, broke into the unshorn wilds
That shadowed then this region, and awoke
The echoes with their axes. By the stream
They found this Indian Sachem in a hut
Of bark and boughs. One of the pioneers
Had lived a captive 'mid the Iroquois.
And knew their language, and he told the chief
How they had come to mow the woods away,
And change the forest earth to meadows green,
And the tall trees to dwellings. Rearing up
His aged form, the Sachem proud replied,
That he had seen a hundred winters pass
Over this spot; that here his tribe had died,
Parents and children, braves, old men and all,
Until he stood a withered tree amidst
His prostrate kind; that he had hoped he ne'er
Would see the race, whose skin was like the flower
Of the spring dogwood, blasting his old sight;
And that beholding them amidst his haunts,
He called on Hah-wen-ne-yo to bear off
His spirit to the happy hunting-grounds.
Shrouding his face within his deer-skin robe,
And chanting the low death-song of his tribe,
He then with trembling footsteps left the hut
And sought the hill-top; here he sat him down
With his back placed within this hollowed tree,
And fixing his dull eye upon the scene
Of woods below him, rocked with guttural chant
The livelong day, whilst plyed the pioneers
Their axes round him. Sunset came, and still
There rocked his form. The twilight glimmered gray,
Then kindled to the moon, and still he rocked;
Till stretched the pioneers upon the earth
Their wearied limbs for sleep. One, wakeful, left
His plump moss couch, and strolling near the tree
Saw in the pomp of moonlight that old form
Still rocking, and, with deep awe at his heart,
Hastened to join his comrades. Morn awoke,
And the first light discovered to their eyes
That weird shape rocking still. The pioneers,
With kindly hands, took food and at his side
Placed it, and tried to rouse him, but in vain.
He fixed his eye still dully down the hill,
And when they took their hands from off his frame
It still renewed its rocking. Morning went,
And noon and sunset. Often had they glanced
From their hard toil as passed the hours away
Upon that rocking form, and wondered much;
And when the sunset vanished they approached
Their kindness to renew; but suddenly,
As came they near, they saw the rocking cease,
And the head drop upon his naked breast.
Close came they, and the shorn head lifting up,
In the glazed eye and fallen jaw beheld
Death's awful presence. With deep sorrowing hearts
They scooped a grave amidst the soft black mould,
Laid the old Sachem in its narrow depth,
Then heaped the sod above, and left him there
To hallow the green hill-top with his name.
VISIT TO GREENWOOD CEMETERY.
BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
City of marble! whose lone structures rise
In pomp of sculpture beautifully rare,
On thy still brow a mournful shadow lies,
For round thy haunts no busy feet repair;
No curling smoke ascends from roof-tree fair,
Nor cry of warning time the clock repeats--
No voice of Sabbath-bell doth call to prayer--
There are no children playing in thy streets,
Nor sounds of echoing toil invade thy green retreats.
Rich vines around thy graceful columns wind,
Young buds unfold, the dewy skies to bless,
Yet no fresh wreaths thine inmates wake to bind--
Prune no wild spray, nor pleasant garden dress--
From no luxuriant flower its fragrance press--
The golden sunsets through enwoven trees
Tremble and flash, but they no praise express--
They lift no casement to the balmy breeze,
For fairest scenes of earth have lost their power to please.
A ceaseless tide of emigration flows
On through thy gates, for thou forbiddest none
In thy close-curtained couches to repose,
Or lease thy narrow tenements of stone,
It matters not where first the sunbeam shone
Upon their cradle--'neath the foliage free
Where dark palmettos fleck the torrid zone,
Or 'mid the icebergs of the Arctic sea--
Thou dost no questions ask; all are at home with thee.
One pledge alone they give, before their name
Is with thy peaceful denizens enrolled--
The vow of silence thou from each dost claim,
More strict and stern than Sparta's rule of old,
Bidding no secrets of thy realm be told,
Nor slightest whisper from its precincts spread--
Sealing each whitened lip with signet cold,
To stamp the oath of fealty, ere they tread
Thy never-echoing halls, oh city of the dead!
'Mid scenes like thine, fond memories find their home,
For sweet it was to me, in childhood's hours,
'Neath every village church-yard's shade to roam,
Where humblest mounds were decked with grassy flowers,
And I have roamed where dear Mount Auburn towers,
Where Laurel-Hill a cordial welcome gave
To the rich tracery of its hallowed bowers,
And where, by quiet Lehigh's crystal wave,
The meek Moravian smooths his turf-embroidered grave:
Where too, in Scotia, o'er the Bridge of Sighs,
The Clyde's Necropolis uprears its head,
Or that old abbey's sacred turrets rise
Whose crypts contain proud Albion's noblest dead,--
And where, by leafy canopy o'erspread,
The lyre of Gray its pensive descant made--
And where, beside the dancing city's tread,
Famed Pere La Chaise all gorgeously displayed
Its meretricious robes, with chaplets overlaid.
But thou, oh Greenwood! sweetest art to me,
Enriched with tints of ocean, earth and sky,
Solemn and sweet, to meditation free,
Most like a mother, who with pleading eye
Dost turn to Him who for the lost did die--
And with thy many children at thy breast,
Invoke His aid, with low and prayerful sigh,
To bless the lowly pillow of their rest,
And shield them, when the tomb no longer guards its guest.
Calm, holy shades! we come to you for health,--
Sickness is with the living--wo and pain--
And dire diseases thronging on, by stealth
From the worn heart its vital flood to drain,
Or smite with sudden shaft the reeling brain,
Till lingering on, with nameless ills distrest,
We find the healer's vaunted armor vain,
The undrawn spear-point in our bleeding breast,--
Fain would we hide with you, and win the boon of rest.
Sorrow is with the living! Youth doth fade--
And Joy unclasp its tendril green, to die--
The mocking tares our harvest-hopes invade,
On wrecking blasts our garnered treasures fly,
Our idols shame the soul's idolatry,
Unkindness gnaws the bosom's secret core,
Long-trusted friendship turns an altered eye
When, helpless, we its sympathies implore--
Oh! take us to your arms, that we may weep no more.
THE HALL OF INDEPENDENCE.
BY GEO. W. DEWEY.
This is the sacred fane wherein assembled
The fearless champions on the side of Right;
Men, at whose declaration empires trembled,
Moved by the truth's immortal might.
Here stood the patriot band--one union folding
The Eastern, Northern, Southern sage and seer,
Within that living bond which truth upholding,
Proclaims each man his fellow's peer.
Here rose the anthem, which all nations hearing,
In loud response the echoes backward hurled;
Reverberating still the ceaseless cheering,
Our continent repeats it to the world.
This is the hallowed spot where first, unfurling,
Fair Freedom spread her blazing scroll of light;
Here, from oppression's throne the tyrant hurling,
She stood supreme in majesty and might!
THE LAST OF THE BOURBONS.
A FRENCH PATRIOTIC SONG,
WRITTEN BY ALEXANDRE PANTOLEON,
THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND DEDICATED TO THE NATIONAL GUARD OF FRANCE, BY
=J. C. N. G.=
Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chesnut Street, Philad'a.--Copyright
secured.
[Illustration:
Des Bourbons c'est la chu te Dit la Li-ber-te Leur scep-tre dans la
lut-te Mes mains l'ont bri se; J'ai chas-
'Tis the last of the Bourbons Shouts freedom with joy, As her legions
in triumph Be-fore her de-ploy, And the
se de ma lan ce, Le cou-pa-ble roi, Et j'ai ren-du la France,
Mai-tres-se de soi.
throne of the des-pot Is dashed at her feet, Which her men in coarse
blouses, With Mar-seillaise greet.
_Ad. lib._]
[Illustration:
Vi-ve, vi-ve, vi-ve la Li-ber-te! Vi-ve, vi-ve, vi-ve la Li-ber-te!
Hur-rah! hur-rah! hur-rah! for Li-ber-ty! Hur-rah! hur-rah! hur-rah!
for Li-ber-ty!
Tempo. CHORUS.
A-bas les ty-rans! A-bas les ty-rans! Vi-ve, vi-ve, vi-ve la
Li-ber-te!
Ty-rants shall no more our coun-try con-trol! Hur-rah! hur-rah!
hur-rah! for Li-ber-ty!]
II.
Oh thou spirit of lightning
That movest the French
From the hands of the tyrant,
The sceptre to wrench.
Thou no more wilt be cheated
But keep under arms
Till the sway thou upholdest
Is free from alarms!
Hurrah! hurrah! &c.
II.
J'entends gronder la foudre
Des braves Francais
Ils ont reduit en poudre
Le siege des forfaits.
Leurs eclairs epouvantent
Les rois etrangers
Dont les glaives tourmentent
Des coeurs opprimes.
Vive, vive, &c.
III.
Tis too late for an Infant
To govern a land
Which a tyrant long practiced
Has failed to command.
For the men of fair Gallia
At home will be free,
And extend independence
To lands o'er the sea!
Hurrah! hurrah! &c.
III.
Desormais soyez sages
Restez tous armes
Protegeant vos suffrages
Et vos droits sacres.
Comblez l'espoir unique
De France! en avant!
Vive la Republique!
A bas les tyrans!
Vive, vive, &c.
TO AN ISLE OF THE SEA.[15]
BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR.
Bright Isle of the Ocean, and gem of the sea,
Thou art stately and fair as an island can be,
With thy clifts tow'ring upward, thy valleys outspread,
And thy fir-crested hills, where the mountain deer tread,
So crowned with rich verdure, so kissed by each ray
Of the day-god that mounts on and upward his way,
While thy wild rushing torrent, thy streams in their flow,
Reflect the high archway of heaven below,
Whose clear azure curtains, so cloudless and bright,
Are here ever tinged with the red gold at night;
Then with one burst of glory the sun sinks to rest,
And the stars they shine out on the land that is blest.
Thy foliage is fadeless, no chilling winds blow,
No frost has embraced thee, no mantle of snow;
Then hail to each sunbeam whose swift airy flight
Speeds on for thy valleys each hill-top and height!
To clothe them in glory then die 'mid the roar
Of the sea-waves which echo far up from the shore!
They will rest for a day, as if bound by a spell,
They will noiselessly fall where the beautiful dwell,
They will beam on thy summits so lofty and lone,
Where nature hath sway and her emerald throne,
Then each pearly dew-drop descending at even,
At morn they will bear to the portals of Heaven.
Thou art rich in the spoils of the deep sounding sea,
Thou art blest in thy clime, (of all climates for me,)
Thou hast wealth on thy bosom, where orange-flowers blow,
And thy groves with their golden-hued fruit bending low,
In thy broad-leafed banana, thy fig and the lime,
And grandeur and beauty, in palm-tree and vine.
Thou hast wreaths on thy brow, and gay flowers ever bloom,
Wafting upward and onward a deathless perfume,
While round thee the sea-birds first circle, then rise,
Then sink to the wave and then glance tow'rd the skies!
While their bright plumage glows 'neath the sun's burning light,
And their screams echo back in a song of delight.
Thou hast hearts that are noble, and doubtless are brave,
Thou hast altars to bow at, for worship and praise,
Thou hast light when night's curtains around thee are driven
From the Cross which beams out in the far southern heaven,
Yet one spot of darkness remains on thy breast,
As a cloud in the depth of a calm sky at rest.
Like a queen that is crowned, or a king on his throne,
In grandeur thou sittest majestic and lone,
And the power of thy beauty is breathed on each gale
As it sweeps o'er thy hills or descends to the vale;
And homage is offered most boundless and free,
Oh, Isle of the Ocean, in gladness to thee,
So circled with waters, so dashed by the spray
Of the waves which leap upward then stop in their way.
And lo! thou art loved by a child of the West,
For the beauty and bloom of thy tropical breast,
Yet dearer by far is that land where the skies
Though colder bends o'er it and bleak winds arise,
Where the broad chart of Nature is boldly unfurled,
And a light from the free beameth out o'er the world.
Yes, dearer that land where the eagle on high
Spreads his wings to the wind as he cleaves the cold sky,
Where mountain, and torrent, and forest and vale,
Are swept by the path of the storm-ridden gale,
And each rock is an altar, each heart is a shrine,
Where Freedom is worshiped in Liberty clime,
And her banners float out on the breath of the gale,
Bright symbols of glory which proudly we hail,
And her bulwarks are reared where the heart of the brave
Refused to be subject, and scorned to be slave.
[Footnote 15: Santa Cruz.]
SONNET:--TO ARABELLA,
BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
There is a pathos in those azure eyes,
Touching, and beautiful, and strange, fair child!
When the fringed lids upturn, such radiance mild
Beams out as in some brimming lakelet lies,
Which undisturbed reflects the cloudless skies:
No tokens glitter there of passion wild,
That into ecstasy with time shall rise;
But in the deep of those clear orbs are signs--
Which Poesy's prophetic eye divines--
Of woman's love, enduring, undefiled!
If, like the lake at rest, through life we see
Thy face reflect the heaven that in it shines,
No _idol_ to thy worshipers thou'lt be,
For he will worship HEAVEN, who worships _thee_.
PROTESTATION.
No, I will not forget thee. Hearts may break
Around us, as old lifeless trees are snapt
By the swift breath of whirlwinds as they wake
Their path amid the forest. Lightning-wrapt,
(For love is fire from Heaven,) we calmly stand--
Heart pressed to answering heart--hand linked with hand.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Endymion. By Henry B. Hirst. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor &
Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
It was Goethe, we believe, who objected to some poet, that he put too
much water in his ink. This objection would apply to the uncounted
host of our amateur versifiers, and poets by the grace of verbiage. If
an idea, or part of an idea, chances to stray into the brain of an
American gentleman, he quickly apparels it in an old coat from his
wardrobe of worn phrases, and rushes off in mad haste to the first
magazine or newspaper, in order that the public may enjoy its
delectable beauty at once. We have on hand enough MSS. of this kind,
which we never intend to print, to freight the navy of Great Britain.
But mediocrity and stupidity are not the only sinners in respect to
this habit of writing carelessly. Hasty composition is an epidemic
among many of our writers, whose powers, if disciplined by study, and
directed to a definite object, would enable them to produce beautiful
and permanent works. So general is the mental malady to which we have
alluded, that it affects the judgments of criticism, and if a
collection of lines, going under the name of a poem, contains fine
passages, or felicitous flashes of thought, it commonly passes muster
as satisfying the requirements of the critical code. Careless writers,
therefore, are sustained by indulgent critics, and between both good
literature is apt to be strangled in its birth.
Now it is due to Mr. Hirst to say that his poem belongs not to the
class we have described. It is no transcript of chance conceptions,
expressed in loose language, and recklessly huddled together, without
coherence and without artistic form, but a true and consistent
creation, with a central principle of vitality and a definite shape.
He has, in short, produced an original poem on a classic subject,
written in a style of classic grace, sweetness and simplicity,
rejecting all superfluous ornament and sentimental prettinesses, and
conveying one clear and strong impression throughout all its variety
of incident, character and description. It is no conglomeration of
parts, but an organic whole. This merit alone should give him a high
rank among the leading poets of the country, for it evidences that he
has a clear notion of what the word poem means.
We have neither time nor space to analyze the poem, and indicate its
merits as a work of art. It displays throughout great force and
delicacy of conception, a fine sense of harmony, and a power and
decision of expression which neither overloads nor falls short of the
thought. In tone it is half way between Shelley and Keats, neither so
ideal as the one nor so sensuous as the other. Keat's Endymion is so
thick with fancies, and verbal daintinesses, and sweet sensations,
that with all its wonderful affluence of beautiful things it lacks
unity of impression. The mind of the poet is so possessed by his
subject that, in an artistic sense, he becomes its victim, and wanders
in metaphor, and revels in separate images, and gets entangled in a
throng of thoughts, until, at the end, we have a sense of a beautiful
confusion of "flowers of all hues, and weeds of glorious feature," and
applaud the fertility at the expense of the force of his mind. The
truth is that will is an important element of genius, and without it
the spontaneous productions of the mind must lack the highest quality
of poetic art. True intellectual creation is an _effort_ of the
imagination, not its result, and without force of will to guide it, it
does not obey its own laws, and gives little impression of real
power. Art is not the prize of luck or the effect of chance, but of
conscious combination of vital elements. Mr. Hirst, though he does
give evidence of Keats' fluency of fancy and expression, has really
produced a finer work of art. We think it is so important that a poem,
to be altogether worthy of the name, should be deeply meditated and
carefully finished, that we hazard this last opinion at the expense of
being berated by all the undeveloped geniuses of the land, as having
no true sense of the richness of Keats' mind, or the great capacity
implied, rather than fully expressed, in his Endymion.
Mere extracts alone can give no fair impression of the beauty of Mr.
Hirst's poem as a whole, but we cannot leave it without quoting a few
passages illustrative of the author's power of spiritualizing the
voluptuous, and the grace, harmony and expressiveness of his verse:
And still the moon arose, serenely hovering,
Dove-like, above the horizon. Like a queen
She walked in light between
The stars--her lovely handmaids--softly covering
Valley and wold, and mountain-side and plain
With streams of lucid rain.
She saw not Eros, who on rosy pinion
Hung in the willow's shadow--did not feel
His subtle searching steel
Piercing her very soul, though his dominion
Her breast had grown: and what to her was heaven
If from Endymion riven?