Chapter LIV

NEW YEAR’S HYMN,
WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE INDIAN MUTINY, 1857.

In the year that hath passed o’er us,
Many suffered woe and pain;
Time can ne’er the brave restore us,
Far in distant India slain.
Praying, praising,
Saints have joined the martyr-train.

But another year is dawning,
We are spared its light to see;
May each blessing, may each warning,
Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee—
Like Thy martyrs
Faithful unto death to be!

May Thy Word, salvation bringing,
Shine where darkness now appears;
Plenteous be the harvest springing,
That was sown in blood and tears;—
Light from darkness,
Joy from sorrow, hope from fears!

Blessed hope now set before us,
Satan’s slaves shall burst their thrall,
All the nations join the chorus
To the Lord who died for all;—
Ransomed millions
At the Saviour’s feet shall fall!

POEMS.

1.
THE INDIAN MAID.

The leading incidents in this poem are historical. The descendants
of Pocahontas are still to be found, I believe, in the United
States.

Through the majestic forest shade
The light of morn is faintly shining,
Scarce straggling through the twilight made
By leafy boughs entwining;
As Nature, from the birth of Time,
Deep in this lone sequestered wood,
Had formed herself a bower sublime,
Where she might dwell with solitude,
And list the wild bird’s note, nor fear
Man’s guilty foot could wander here,
Or war’s unhallowed trumpet wake
The slumbering echoes, rudely break
The solemn, deep, unearthly still,
Which to a stranger’s soul must thrill
A sense of awe—as though he trod
A temple consecrate to God!

Yet war can penetrate e’en here
To blight the beauties of creation,
Till Nature’s calmest scenes appear
Dark haunts of desolation.
The murderer’s sword hath left the sheath,
When from the bright pure heaven above,
And smiling earth, there seemed to breathe
But peace, and joy, and love.
And even now, when blushing morn,
On rosy clouds by zephyrs borne,
Comes in her laughing loveliness
The world to brighten and to bless,
It were more meet that heaven should shroud
Her radiant brow in some dark cloud,
And dewy tears of morning flow
For scenes of blood on earth below!

See, in the forest’s thickest maze
The dark-eyed Indian tribes assembling,
Free as the pure fresh breeze that plays
On leaves around them trembling.
Wild Nature’s wilder sons,—each brow
The radiant sun of western lands
Hath kindled to a redder glow;
In painted pride the savage stands,
So differing in garb—in skin—
In mien—he scarce might seem akin
To Europe’s sons, did we not trace
In the dark features of his face
The same fierce passions, which declare
The race of Adam here and there,
And prove, alas! we share with all
One common origin, and fall!

But what white-bosomed victim here
Stands bound, a cruel death awaiting,
The dreadful preparations near
Now firmly contemplating,—
Now raising calm his thoughtful eye
Where, through the boughs that intervene
Of Nature’s verdant canopy,
Bright glimpses are of heaven seen?
Reflects he on the murderous doom
Which destines him a bloody tomb,
Sudden cut off, before his time,
In honour’s course, in manhood’s prime,—
On projects that with him must die,
Hopes ripening to reality,
But blasted ere their fruits afford
To science its well-earned reward?

Or thinks he on the distant land
To which life’s earliest ties have bound him,
Where last he grasped his father’s hand,
And felt his mother’s arms around him?
Above these savage yells of death
Does memory hear the low deep prayer
Her trembling lips could scarcely breathe,
That God might shield him everywhere?
’Tis answered, yes, that prayer of love,
Scarce heard on earth, has reached above!
Though fixed his doom, though Death e’en now
Stands prompt—he may not strike the blow!
Twice did the trembling compass[2] give
A respite,—wonder bade him live;
But other succour now must save
The hero from untimely grave.

For lo! behold, with savage joy
His foes their victim now surrounding,
Eager to smite and to destroy,
The woods with yells resounding!
Calm and resigned he kneels in dust,
Lays on the stone his manly head,
And waits the crushing blows, that must
Number him with the dead;
When, like the bright celestial bow
Which, when the angry tempests blow,
And heaven’s bolts from high are hurled—
Speaks peace and mercy to the world—
Forward here springs an Indian maid,
As light as fawn in forest glade,
Her cheek with generous ardour glowing,
O’er her slight form the dark hair flowing,
While firm resolve, and feeling high,
Sparkle in her soul-speaking eye.

“O Father, spare the chief!” she cries,
Before her parent interceding,
Her claspèd hands, and eloquent eyes,
More than her accents pleading;
“Was he not brave in war, and kind
And true in peace? did he e’er break
The solemn wampum league, or bind
The captive to the stake?
For him a wife afar may sigh,
A lonely mother mourning die,
For who shall now with sounding bow
Bring down for them the elk or roe,
Whose hatchet shall defend their home
When hostile tribes with war-cries come!
Oh! spare the white chief, that his voice
His wife’s sad bosom may rejoice;
Oh! spare him, that his hand may dry
The teardrop in his mother’s eye!”

But stern the Indian’s answer; vain
Her pleading words, her warm endeavour,
The murderers’ clubs are raised again
To crush the brave for ever!
Lo! from her knees the maiden springs,
Rapid as lightning’s flash above,
As guardian angels spread their wings
O’er mortals that they love,
Around the Doomed her arms are thrown,
His form protected by her own,
With him will she the worst await,
And save his life, or share his fate!
“Strike him!” she cries, “but ’neath the blow
His blood and mine shall mingled flow;
Strike him! but in the spirit-land
With him shall Pocahontas stand,
Nor live to say her tribe hath slain
The chief for whom she prayed in vain!”

There is a spell in woman’s eye
When, injured Virtue’s cause defending,
Her soul is roused to energy,
Vigour with sweetness blending!
Soft plumes that tremble in the air
Have formed a breastplate strong to save,
And woman’s heart will oft-times dare
What might appal the brave!
E’en the rude Indians feel the power
Of courage equal to the hour,
Catch virtues warm inspiring glow
And more than mercy asked, bestow.
Rise, Briton, rise, both safe and free,
With life receive back liberty;
Spring from the spot of sacrifice
From which thou ne’er didst hope to rise;
Or rather, once more prostrate fall
To bless the God who saved from all!

Not long the dark-eyed maiden hears
His grateful words of deep devotion,
They part—to meet in future years
Beyond the heaving ocean.
“Go, stranger, to thy distant home,”
Thus flowed her simple, wild farewell,
“When thy pale tribes to greet thee come,
Then of the Red man’s mercy tell!
And when the round sun leaves the sky
To light the Indian forests high,
Say thou hast left a daughter there,
And bid him here thy greetings bear!
And oh! if e’er a Red man be
Thy captive, then remember me;
If weary-footed Indian pray
For shelter, turn not thou away,
But to my race a father be,
As thou hast found a child in me!”

Sweet maid! she little dreamed how near
The hour when she—a captive mourning—
A Briton’s voice her grief would cheer,
The White man’s debt returning;
When Rolfe with tenderest care essayed
The maiden’s flowing tears to dry,
Until captivity he made
More sweet than liberty!
Amidst her grief, amidst her fear,
Love’s melting tones first reached her ear,
And oh! has life one dark distress
That sweet voice cannot soothe or bless!
It was as though the raging blast
Had o’er some silent harp-strings past,
And waked so soft, so wild a strain
(As joy still owes its zest to pain),
The spirit of the storm drew near,
Closed his dark wings, and paused to hear!

And with Rolfe’s heart she learned to share
His hopes, on heavenward pinion soaring,
And with him knelt in humble prayer,
The Christian’s God adoring.
The sacred tie has made them one,
That tie which death alone can part,
Love’s circlet on her hand hath shone,
Love’s torch within her heart;
And she hath quitted that wild shore
Her tearful eyes shall view no more,
And, wafted by the western wind,
Left all that once she loved behind.
Honours in Albion’s isle attend
The Indian bride, the captive’s friend;
From royal lips[3] her praises sound,
Her generous deed with fame is crowned.
But precious to her soul, above
All fame, her husband’s smile of love,
Or Smith’s proud glance, when she would claim
Once more a daughter’s cherished name.

But oh! how close the sacred ties
That to our native country bind us,
In foreign scenes the heart still sighs
For dearer left behind us!
She longed to see the waving woods,
Her dark-haired sire, her Indian shore,
Her spirit yearned to cross the floods
And view her native soil once more.
But ere the vessel left the strand,
Sickness, with damp and heavy hand
Stayed the fair wanderer, like a spell
Unseen, but irresistible,
For death in his pale bark had come
To waft her to a brighter home.
Brief was the passage, but how vast
The space in those short seconds past!
One moment Rolfe in wild distress
Hung o’er her fading loveliness,
Met her long dying gaze of love,
Saw her pale lips in blessing move,
The next—and her immortal soul
Had crossed the floods, and reached the goal,
And he was left to mourn its flight,
Till death, that severed them, should reunite!