people meet to worship the Great Spirit—I have promised to send thee—she
will be there; a tall woman, and slender and graceful as a reed upon the
hill-side. Her brow is fair as the coming of light, fair as thy own, my
child: and her dark hair falleth over it as the shadows of evening upon
snow. There she is,’ continued Rachel, taking a small miniature from her
own neck, and giving it to Mary, ‘some some cunning[12] man of thy
people hath put her face here; but not all. The kind look, and the
tears, and the sorrow are not here!’
“Mary took the picture and looked upon it, and kissed it, and thanked
God that again she was not an orphan—that again she was to find a
mother.
“‘Go,’ continued Rachel, ‘remember all I have told thee; observe the
scar over her left eye. She will know thee by thy little playthings—by
thy sweet voice, and by thy father’s soft blue eye.’ As she spoke she
gave some little toys to Mary, and then, motioning her away, she added,
in a thick and tremulous voice, ‘now go, and let Namoina—die!’
“‘Die!’ repeated Mary, ‘Die! what can my mother mean?’
“‘Come hither, child, at the rising of the sun, and thou wilt know what
I mean. Thrice hath the sun risen and set since food hath passed the
lips of Namoina; and when she eateth again, it will be among her fathers
in the hunting-grounds afar off.’
“‘I will bring thee food and drink; I will go now,’ said Mary, bursting
into tears.
“‘Go, but come not again! go, and return not! Namoina will find it hard
to die while the eye of her nursling is upon her.’
“Mary sprang back again to the side of Rachel. ‘O, my mother!’ she said,
‘thy hands are cold, and thy brow—what shall I do for thee? What shall I
do?’
“‘If thou wilt not go, sit down at my feet and listen to my death-song;
but touch me not—speak not, or the soul of Namoina will be a coward and
refuse to die.’
“Mary fell, rather than sat, down at the poor creature’s feet, and
listened to her with a bursting heart. I will repeat the song to you,
not exactly as it was chanted by Namoina, but as it has since been put
into verse. It still, however, retains its original spirit and meaning.
THE DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA.
‘I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest—
They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest.
The hills are glad with living things—the valleys bright with corn,
Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone.
‘The earth is cold—the hills are lone—the pleasant places sad,
And everything is desolate that once could make me glad.
The white man’s corn is growing now upon our fathers’ graves—
And Cowtantowit’s[13] children flee unto the western waves.
‘’Tis time Namoina should go—she cannot longer stay—
For as the rainbow from the cloud her tribe hath passed away;
Her heart is throbbing at thy voice, O wait thee, Mohaton!
She hears her father, too—the brave, the mighty Anawon;
She hears her little baby’s voice, soft as the wind at even—
And all her brethren beckon her unto the far-off heaven!
‘Child of the Rising-sun![14] my Flower! Namoina cannot stay;
For all the voices of her tribe are calling her away.
But one tear falleth on her cheek—it is to leave thee now
Within a world whose fearful blight may gather round thy brow—
But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee;
And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.
‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less bright
When poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light!
But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake,
And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!
‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear!
But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here!
The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell—
’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’
“Her voice died away gently, till only a low murmur was audible. The
setting sun flashed a moment over her features, and as it faded away,
they turned to a livid hue. She looked earnestly at Mary, as if she
would speak; her lips quivered in the attempt just once; her head sank
upon her bosom; and when Mary threw her arms about her, she knew, by the
chill, that poor Namoina was dead.
“The child sat down again at Namoina’s feet and hid her face in her lap,
and sobbed and wept passionately. And there she sat till it was almost
dark; and there her friends, who, alarmed at her absence, went in search
of her, found her.
“They removed the body to the house, and Mary watched by it through the
night; and the next day poor Namoina was decently buried. Her funeral
was respectably attended, and Mary mourned for her.
“But the child was now awakened to new hopes; she could think of nothing
but her mother. She was longing to see her, and yet she was almost
afraid; for she had loved her adopted mother so dearly she thought she
could not, perhaps, like her own mother as well; and the thought was
distressing to her. But, between the different agitations of hope and
fear, the two days that remained between the burial of her Indian friend
and the Sabbath, seemed to her the longest days she had ever known. She
had begged her father’s permission for William to take her to Seekonk on
the next Sabbath, and he had willingly granted her request; but she said
nothing of her hopes to her father or brother, from a delicate regard
for their feelings, because, at the best, she knew it would distress
them. They and the dear departed one who had nursed and loved her from
infancy, had been so long all-in-all to her, that her heart was
reluctant, even in secrecy, to cherish a hope independent of them. Then
poor Mary was perplexed by a thousand fears; she thought that it might
rain—or that her mother might be sick—or that there might be some
misunderstanding—or that, perhaps, the whole was but a raving fancy of
Namoina—or if the whole was true, (and this Mary firmly believed when
she looked in love upon the sweet features that never left her bosom,
but to be kissed and wept upon,) a thousand unthought of difficulties
might occur. In short, her fears, and doubts, and anxieties, were
innumerable. She could neither take food or rest, nor attend steadily to
her daily occupations; and she kept by herself as much as possible, and
spent most of her time in prayer.
“At last the Sabbath came. It was a beautiful October morning. The sun
went up gloriously and melted away the bright frost from the foliage;
and the forest—you have seen our woods in the autumn, children, and you
know how beautiful they are when the frost has turned the leaves.”
“Yes,” said Ann, “and do you remember the lines upon ‘Autumn,’ you gave
me the other day, where the sweet poet we love so dearly, compares our
autumn foliage to ‘a flood of molten rainbows?’ A beautiful thought—is
it not, grandmother?”
“True, my child,” said Mrs. Gray, turning an affectionate glance to the
bright eyes that were lifted up; “but your brother and cousins, I see,
are more interested about the fate of Mary, than the beauties of autumn.
“I said it was a lovely morning, and Mary would have thought so too at
any other time; for not even you, my dear Ann, have more poetry in your
heart, than Mary Wallace had. Her taste was not cultivated, it is true;
but the God of nature had dealt bountifully by her. She never looked on
the beauties of creation without beholding the Creator; and this spirit
is one of the highest and richest sources of poetry.
“But, as I said, or was going to say, her mind this morning was full of
other thoughts; and she could hardly have told even what season of the
year it was, though she loved the autumn dearly, and its beauties were
never before unmarked.
“She counted the toys Namoina had given her over and over again, that
she might be sure they were all there; and then she put them into a
little bag with a medal she had worn in infancy; and before William had
begun to dress, or the horse was brought to the door, she was quite
ready and waiting for him in the passage. She thought William had never
been so long in dressing before; and she kept calling to him, and
hurrying him. Her father, wondering at her unusual impatience, stepped
into the passage with a thought to chide her; but she stood there—such a
beautiful, bright creature, that he could not; and he paused and looked
upon her in silence. The excitement of her hopes had risen from her
heart to her face; the maple leaf was not richer than the bloom upon her
cheek, or the sunlight brighter than the flashing of her eye. A short
green mantle hung from her shoulders, and her light, straw grassy bonnet
could not hide the luxury of her brown hair.
“As she lifted her head at the sound of foot steps, the golden curls
swept back from her face, and as she looked upon her father her eye
filled with tears; and there was something in it that made the heart of
Simon Gray tremble. Mary sprang to his arms and clinging round his neck,
wept; for she thought it was almost wrong to seek another parent when
she already had one who loved her so very tenderly. But at the sound of
William’s footsteps on the stairs, she kissed her father, and, wiping
away her tears, was all bloom and hope again; and William could not help
pausing to look at her, ere he bounded to the saddle; and he thought she
had never been so beautiful before. But Mary trembled so she could not
spring up behind him as usual; her father was obliged to lift her; and
when he felt how she trembled, he feared she was ill, and asked her to
stay at home and not go to the meeting; but Mary assured him she was
perfectly well; so the kind-hearted man could make no other objection,
and they rode off.
“They arrived at the meeting-house before any others; and as the people
began to gather to the house, Mary trembled so she could hardly keep her
seat.
“One after another came in—one after another was examined; but poor Mary
could not think any one of them was her mother. At last a lady came and
sat nearly opposite Mary. The child’s heart bounded; she saw the same
dark hair and eye—the same white brow—but, O! it had no scar!—and tears
of disappointment filled her eyes. Another came; she was tall and
graceful; she had dark hair and eyes, and a very fair brow. ‘That is the
one! That is my mother!’ thought Mary, and she was just going to throw
herself into her arms and call her mother, when the lady—who probably
thought Mary very rude for staring at her so fixedly—turned quickly away
with such an angry expression of countenance, that the child could
hardly restrain her tears; and then the idea that the lady might be her
mother, made her tremble. Others came, and were, in turn, examined; but
not one of them could be compared with the picture she held in her
hand—the description given by Namoina—or the image in the heart of Mary.
The poor child was doomed to be disappointed; and she sat down, and
leaned her head upon her hands, and thought she would never hope again.
“A low murmur, as of one in prayer, reached her ear. She lifted her
eyes, almost unwillingly, and on the opposite side of the room, she saw
a lady in deep mourning, kneeling before one of the rough benches, in
prayer. The garb of outward grief was an unwonted sight there, and every
eye was turned upon her. Yet there was a kindly expression in every
face, for the people, although their own simple creed and rigid habits
forbade the use of a peculiar garment as a sign of wo, could not help
respecting the piety of the stranger. Mary’s heart beat wildly at the
first glance, and she turned very pale, and then again her face was
flushed with the fever of excited feelings. After kneeling a short time,
the stranger slowly rose, and turned round upon the little assembly with
a melancholy, listless air. As she did so her face turned full in Mary’s
view; it was pale, and tender, and sorrowful. The child became, at once,
convinced that her search was ended; in that one glance she had seen
all; the tall and graceful form—the dark glossy hair—the fair, pale
brow—the scar—the resemblance to the picture—all that she sought was
there. She forgot every thing but that she had found her long-lost
parent; she flew along the narrow aisle, and when she reached the lady
just whispered, ‘Mother!’ and fell into her arms. The child had fainted.
“The strange lady seemed as much overcome as Mary. She held her closely
embraced in her arms, and gazed eagerly upon her pallid features. It
chanced at this moment that the miniature fell from Mary’s bosom, and
the medal on which was engraved her name. The stranger looked upon them
and uttered a faint scream; then she clasped the child close to her
heart; and when Mary opened her blue eyes and smiled upon her, she cried
out, ‘I know thee now, my daughter!—my own beloved daughter!’
“The whole congregation had gathered round with wondering looks and
curious faces; and even the good minister himself, instead of going to
his desk, mingled with the crowd, and seemed to enter into the spirit of
the scene.
“There was one powerfully interested; William had followed Mary from her
seat, wondering at her strange behavior; but from the moment when he saw
that she had found her own mother, he stood with his arms folded upon
his breast, the only silent one among the crowd.
“Simon Gray was immediately sent for, and it was established, beyond the
possibility of doubt, that Mary had indeed found a mother, and Mrs.
Wallace a long-lost daughter; and the minister offered up a solemn
public thanksgiving to God for their re-union.”
The children thanked their grandmother for telling them such a very
interesting story, and little Helen danced with joy, she was so glad
that Mary had found her mother.
“I have one more wish to be gratified, grandmother,” said George Gray;
“I should like to go to Quinsniket and see the place where Philip and
his followers were sheltered, and where Namoina died.”
“Your wish shall be indulged, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Gray. “When the
spring opens, I will take you all to pass a few weeks in the country,
and we will go to Quinsniket. You will find many traces of the Indians
still existing, in the names of different localities, and in the
recollections of the ancient inhabitants. The field where they planted
their corn, still called Indian oldfield, is to be seen a short distance
from Quinsniket; and the rock itself, so intimately connected with the
history of a fallen but once mighty race, still remains, as it were, a
monument to designate their grave. The spot where poor Namoina was
buried, is now within the limits of a little town. Her hut was afterward
rebuilt by a few wandering remnants of her tribe, and some of the
present inhabitants remember it. The hearth-stone is still to be seen;
and over it waves a honey-locust tree, which a distinguished gentleman,
since dead, planted to mark the spot where stood THE LAST WIGWAM.”
THE GENOESE EMIGRANT.
BY MISS E. M. ALLISON.
“It was the fatal pre-eminence of _Genoa_ to wind up the last act of
Italy’s direful tragedy.”
LADY MORGAN.
The tremulous moon’s light silvery gleam,
Plays over Genoa’s halls and bowers,
Gilds with a bright translucid beam
Her splendid domes and lofty towers.
Sardinia’s banners waving high
In pride of ancient rivalry,
Tell to the world the wretched fate
Of Genoa, and her fallen state;
That she a proud republic host
Once fair Italia’s pride and boast,
Which stood a landmark by the sea
To show the spot where all were free.
By commerce rear’d, her sons a race
Endow’d with wealth and martial grace,
Oft Austria from her walls expell’d
And long the daring French repell’d,
Now to tyranny bow
‘Neath their deadliest foe;
Yield their sceptre and land
To a tyrant’s command,
And though panting their dear cherish’d rights to regain,
Unresistingly bend ’neath the yoke they disdain.
Oh, Genoa, could none be found
To deal thee such a deadly wound,
To steal thy gem of brightest glow
To deck a worthless despot’s brow,
Supplant thy _cross_[15] and _golden crown_
That floated o’er thy ancient town;
But those the generous arms embraced
With hospitable welcome graced?
But whose is yon form on the lone beach side,
Wrapt in his mantle that streams o’er the tide?
Whose footsteps’ hurried sound,
No measure seems to beat
To aught that breathes around
Pale midnight’s calm retreat.
And see yon skiff on ocean wide,
Its pendants on the light breeze streaming,
Dashing along the sparkling tide,
A circle bright around it gleaming.
Approaching gently to the shore
Waits it to waft yon stranger o’er,
To seek in some far distant clime
A solitary home.
Through foreign lands to roam
And waste a joyless, sunless prime.
A branch lopped from the native tree
To wither where no eye may see
And reck its fallen destiny.
Genoa, to fly thy still-lov’d walls,
That hold to him the spell-bound halls,
Where dwelt his sires in days gone by
The guardian friends of liberty;
And where commingling now they lie
Beneath thy soft cerulean sky.
From every tie at once to sever,
To fly from scenes by time endeared,
Remembered joys to leave for ever
That round his natal spot are twined.
There bright ambition o’er him broke
In strains of martial story,
And first his ardent soul awoke
From youth’s gay dreams to glory
And bending from above
’Twas there immortal love,
His golden sunbeams flung around him,
And with his roseate fetters bound him;
With yet one firmer look entwined
To all, that must be now resigned.
The stranger watched a dark cloud hovering
In the blue sky,
And over Genoa’s walls it was lowering,
Nor passed it by.
And resting on the ether blue,
It hid the pale moon from his view.
He gazed—for deemed he in such skies
So dense a vapor ne’er could rise,
To sully the untainted light
That hallows an Italian night.
His brow was motionless—and none could tell
If sorrow there had been.
And from his still-fixed eye no tear-drop fell
To show of inward agony,
Or aught that passed within
His bosom’s sanctuary.
Once his eye glanced o’er the expanded sea,
With such a look as mocks at misery;
Who, as the poets tell,
At midnight leaves her cell
To sit the ocean rocks among,
Re-echoing the owlets’ song.
But soon again his glance is resting
On those turrets lofty and gray
Lit by a gleam of the moon’s ray.
His sires might leave them to be breasting
Their foreign foes, on earth or main;
More glorious to return again:
But he an alien from this shore,
Must quit them to return no more.
He could have fought for Genoa’s right,
His soul blenched not in thickest fight—
He could drench that arm deep in gore,
But not quail ’neath a foeman’s power.
He could have fought till latest gasp
To free from an invader’s grasp
His dear fraternity—his all—
If but her cross were on that wall.
That would have been a beacon light
To light him on his foes in fight,
Better than glare of torches bright.
Shall he then own a tyrant’s chain?
Let viler souls than his remain;
But if he plough the watery wave
Where shall he find a land of brave
Hearts, bound to Liberty? No more;
Such dreams are of an age that’s o’er;
And men are wiser grown—and knaves,
Choosing them quiet coward graves,
Not glorious ones, upon the land
Their fathers valor won and mann’d.
Liberty scorns with those to dwell
Who love her name but passing well—
Who hang it a boast on the lip for ever,
A lip-drop warming the soul, oh! never—
But ’mongst those, where her deep-cherished name
Burns in a bright and hallowed flame,
Who breathe it but forth in devotional sigh—
Who know but to _love her, and have her, or die_!
And now her pure white flag unfurled
Is waving o’er a western world.
And to that new-found world across the waves,
In yon proud ship the gathering storm that braves,
His onward course is steered. Yes! to that shore
Beyond the Atlantic’s wide resounding roar
His countryman[16] first traversed, and a name
Carved on the ’scutcheon of immortal fame.
What would he more? Let others reap the gain
That springs from genius’s creative brain—
’Tis ever so:—while grief and toil must win
The portals that to glory’s shrine let in.
But there are toils that win no high renown;
Griefs that the loftiest spirit can bow down:
And such were his, who, standing by that prow,
Felt the worst ills that fate on man can throw;
But felt them as a man, resolved to bear,
And snatch a brand to show what yet he dare
If Heaven permit; if not, to seek a tomb,
Columbia, in thy forest’s thickest gloom,
Where none can brand him with his fathers’ fame,
And say he ill deserves their glorious name.
Ah! thought most true which all of grief contains,
And owning most the spirit most disdains.
’Tis night—and musing on the deep he stands,
The abstracted emigrant from other lands.
His form majestic bending o’er the tide,
Marks he impatiently how slow they glide
O’er the unfathomed depth that lies below;
Or doth but watch the sparkles as they glow
Among the envious billows’ angry play,
That foam and toss on high the beauteous ray:
Not that the glories of the sea or sky
Absorb the thoughts that in his bosom lie,
Panting to burst from their sepulchral home
In all the ghastliness of livid gloom.
Why is his head uncovered to the air?
As if the keenest wind came hotly there.
Aye, even with the elemental wrath,
His troubled spirit a communion hath.
Then stalk before his view in mournful maze,
Unburied phantoms of departed days;
With withered hopes around them wildly flung,
Like flowers to which no breath of odor clung;
Nor hue of brightness—such as o’er the dead
The gifts of fond affection vainly shed
Become, ere the same morn that saw them bloom, hath fled.
So on him comes the memory of the past,
In floating shadows thickly seen and fast,
Their spectral forms in grim array
Press on him as in battle-fray.
And he resists them not with hostile force,
As he would once turn back the assailants’ course
In the hot tide of war—but vainly throws
A weak retaliation on those foes
Who urge a contest with the soul—and there
Strike their keen shafts envenomed by despair.
Now in a milder mood his light guitar
Swells o’er the crested billows dashing far.
Sweet is the voice of music and of song—
But sweetest when it floats the ocean waves along
SONG.
“My loved guitar, send forth thy deepest gush
Of mournful melody, in one farewell,
Where all regretful tenderness may rush,
And leave the spirit halcyon in its cell.
Halls of my sires, that I no more shall view,
Land of my home—a long—a last adieu!
“’Tis well! Better the eagle should go forth
Than have his eyrie for a prison tower.
There on the mountains of the stormy north
More glad to soar, than in bright sunny bower
With chain of silken fetters idly bound,
Compell’d to wheel in measured circles round.
“My lov’d guitar, not this thy touching force
Of soul-like cadence, that was wont to bring
The crystal tear-drops from the heart’s deep source
Of her, to whom it was my joy to sing;
While o’er her brow the light of love would break,
Beauteous as morning’s first encrimsoned streak!
Clari!—but I must let that name no more
Sweep o’er these strings.—Maiden more fair
Than any minstrel’s love in days of yore!
And dearer, too!—but I must strive to tear
That name from out my heart; where it so long
Hath dwelt like odor, or the breath of song.
“Yet still one long—one passionate adieu
As ’twere my soul sigh’d forth, to thee I send.
Oh that it humbly at thy feet could sue
For one last thought, that thou wouldst deign to bend
On the lone exile from his land, and thee,
Who ne’er may claim thee now—his bride to be.
“And thou! my native land—a last farewell!
Farewell the grandeur of thy marble halls!
Farewell the hope again with thee to dwell!
Farewell the ambitious beat to glory’s calls!
All! all adieu! My native land, no more
These exiled feet shall press thy much lov’d shore!”
SONNET.
ON A SLEEPING INFANT.
Sleep’s dewy veil hath sealed thy curtained eyes,
And lapped thine earliest cares in peaceful rest,
Fair babe; yet soon all radiant shalt thou rise,
Smiling new rapture to thy mother’s breast.
Oh may no darker clouds obscure the skies
Of thy bright promise—mayest thou never know
The cold world, stripped from its deceitful guise
Of hollow seeming and love’s empty show;
Nor learn, with heart convulsed and passion-tost,
That parents may forget, and friends grow chill,
That health—home—fortune—country may be lost—
That mortal idols are but mortal still;
But slumber thus when earth’s last woes are o’er,
Thus wake to light and life for evermore.
CHILD OF MY HEART.