Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, 'My conscience yet is clear!
Jaspar-it is not yet too late-
I will not linger here."
"How now!" cried Jaspar, "why, I thought
Thy conscience was asleep:
No more such qualms! the night is dark,
The river here is deep!"
What matters that?" said Jonathan,
Whose blood began to freeze,
When there is One above, whose eye
The deeds of darkness sees!"
"We are safe enough," said Jaspar then,
"If that be all thy fear!
Nor eye below, nor eye above,
Can pierce the darkness here."
That instant, as the murderer spake,
There came a sudden light;
Strong as the mid-day sun it shone,
Though all around was night:
It hung upon the willow-tree,
It hung upon the flood;
It gave to view the poplar-isle,
And all the scene of blood.
The traveller who journeys there,
He surely hath espied
A madman, who has made his home
Upon the river's side.
His cheek is pale, his eye is wild,
His look bespeaks despair;
For Jaspar, since that hour, has made
His home unshelter'd there.
And fearful are his dreams at night,
And dread to him the day;
He thinks upon his untold crime,
And never dares to pray.
The summer suns, the winter storms,
O'er him unheeded roll;
For heavy is the weight of blood
Upon the maniac's soul!
"AND I could weep; "-the Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun;
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son!
Or bow his head in wo;
For, by my wrongs and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light us to the foe:
And we shall share, my Christian boy,
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!
"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:-
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!
"To-morrow let us do or die!—
But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?-
Seek we thy once-loved home?—
The hand is gone that cropp'd its flowers!
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!
"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd,
And by my side, in battle true,
thousand warriors drew the shaft?-
! there, in desolation, cold,
The desert-serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown,
Like me, are death-like old!
Then seek we not their camp-for there-
The silence dwells of my despair!
But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears!
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears
Amidst the clouds that round us roll!
He bids my soul for battle thirst—
He bids me dry-the last!-the first!
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul!
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief."
SHE listens;—“ "Tis the wind," she cries:
The moon, that rose so full and bright,
Is now o'ercast: she looks, she sighs,
She fears 'twill be a stormy night.
Not long was Anna wed. Her mate,
A fisherman, was out at sea:
The night is dark, the hour is late,
The wind is high-and where is he?
"Oh! who would love! oh! who would wed
A wandering fisherman, to.be
A wretched, lonely wife, and dread
Each breath that blows, when he's at sea!”
Not long was Anna wed. One pledge
Of tender love her bosom bore:
The storm comes down! the billows rage!
Its father is not yet on shore!
"Oh! who would think her portion bless'd
A wandering seaman's wife to be,
To hug the infant to her breast,
Whose father's on a stormy sea!"
The thunder bursts! the lightning falls!
The casement rattles with the rain!
And, as the gusty tempest bawls,
The little cottage quakes again!
She doesn't speak; she doesn't sigh;
She gazes on her infant dear—
A smile lights up the cherub's eye,
Which dims its mother's with a tear!
"Oh! who would be a seaman's wife!
Oh! who would bear a seaman's child!
To tremble for her husband's life!
To weep-because her infant smiled!"
Ne'er hadst thou borne a seaman's boy-
Ne'er had thy husband left the shore-
Thou ne'er hadst felt the frantic joy,
To see-thy Robin at the door!-
To press his weather-beaten cheek,
To kiss it dry and warm again,
To weep the joy thou couldst not speak―
So pleasure's in the debt of pain.
Thy cheerful fire, thy plain repast
Thy little couch of love, I ween,
Were ten times sweeter than the last-
And not a cloud that night was seen!
O happy pair! the pains you know
Still hand in hand with pleasure come;
For often does the tempest blow,
And Robin still is safe at home!
eye beheld when William plunged
Young Edmund in the stream;
No human ear, but William's, heard
Young Edmund's drowning scream.
Submissive all the vassals own'd
The murderer for their lord;
And he, as rightful heir, possess'd
The house of Erlingford.
The ancient house of Erlingford
Stood in a fair domain,
And Severn's ample waters near
Roll'd through the fertile plain.
And often the wayfaring man
Would love to linger there,
Forgetful of his onward road,
To gaze on scenes so fair.
But never could Lord William dare
To gaze on Severn's stream;
In every wind that swept its waves
He heard young Edmund scream.
In vain, at midnight's silent hour,
Sleep closed the murderer's eyes;
In every dream, the murderer saw
Young Edmund's form arise!
In vain, by restless conscience driven,
Lord William left his home,
Far from the scenes that saw his guilt,
In pilgrimage to roam.
To other climes the pilgrim fled-
But could not fly despair;
He sought his home again-but peace
Was still a stranger there.
Slow were the passing hours, yet swift
The months appear'd to roll;
And now the day return'd, that shook
With terror William's soul—
A day that William never felt
Return without dismay;
For well had conscience kalendar'd
Young Edmund's dying day.
A fearful day was that! the rains
Fell fast with tempest roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread
Far on the level shore.
In vain Lord William sought the feast,
In vain he quaff'd the bowl,
And strove with noisy mirth to drown The anguish of his soul
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