Chapter VI (3)

“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.

Child of my heart! in sorrow’s hour,
When all the ills of life are nigh,
And suffering Nature has no power,
To stay the pang, to still the sigh;
When suns no longer deign to shine,
And friends who came in early years,
Desert the home and fly the shrine,
Whose only offering then, is tears:

Thou shalt be nigh, in weal and wo,
My love a balm shall ever be,
And thou shalt teach the heart to know,
Truth still abides with infancy
The crowd that flies the broken heart,
To thee shall no example prove;
And thou, when all the rest depart,
Shalt watch with hope, and bless with love.

MAY MORNING.

Thou art abroad betimes—the laughing wind
Ruffling thy tresses, and with ardent kiss
Heightening the rich carnation of thy cheek,
And thy lip’s roseate grain!
Away! away!
To the fresh meadows—there thy neck of snow,
And broad intelligent brow, with drops to lave
Of clearest May-dew—so no envious stain,
Freckle, nor sunburnt spot, shall mar the sheen
Of that pure skin, which, exquisitely white,
Glows with rich witness of the eloquent blood,
That courses, in its thousand channels warm,
Beneath the snowy surface.
Morn is up,
With all her matin worship—song of birds,
And breath of spangled flowers! Then tarry not
To cull the earliest benefits of May,
Before the sun with scorching touch profane
Have marred their virgin beauties. Life is brief—
Too brief to loiter in the chamber’s gloom,
When thou mayest greet the glorious morning’s pride
In the bright vale, or on the mountain’s side!

MY FIRST BORN.

THE HOUR OF HER BIRTH.

Was’t not a cry of pleasure
Burst from that shrouded room?
God bless thee, mother of my first,
Love’s pledge through joy and gloom;
Long hours we looked to measure
The rapture, now so free,
That, like some stream, the rocks have burst;
Restrained it cannot be.
I may not speak my pleasure,
The tears are in mine eye,
And, like one long awake to thirst,
I pant for liberty—
Freedom to see my treasure,
To hush its cries, and rest
My infant daughter, yet unnursed
Upon her father’s breast.

CONDY O’NEAL.

“Welcome to Wheatland!” cried I, one fine autumnal evening, seeing my old friend, Captain Evans, approaching my door. “You are a bad paymaster in the article of visits,” I continued, handing him an arm-chair. “Here have I been living fifteen years, visiting you half a dozen times a year, and receiving nothing but fruitless promises of a return for my civilities: but here you are at last, and right welcome to your ancient hall.”

“Aye, aye,” replied the Captain. “Every year, and every month, since leaving this, have I determined that you should have me for your guest; but, I know not how it happened, that each day seemed to bring forth a trouble, or an occupation, at least, sufficient for itself. But here I am at last; and, as Tom is at length out of the way, I mean to be at my ease here, and billet myself upon you for a month at the least.”

Captain Evans was a hardy old “revolutioner,” nearly seventy years of age, but hale and stout, and as active as most men of forty. The farm on which I resided had been the property of his father, and the Captain had passed the greater portion of his life upon it. Inheriting the farm upon the death of his father, the Captain continued to reside on it until the time of my purchasing it from him. His only daughter having been left a widow, with four sons, as yet young, he, at her request, sold the farm, and went to reside with her in another part of the country, devoting himself to the care of his grandchildren and the management of his daughter’s estate. Here I had frequently visited him, and received many an unfulfilled promise of a return in kind to my visits. He had at length taken the opportunity, when the youngest of his grandsons was sent to college, to pay me the long deferred visit.

On the morning following his arrival my guest was, according to his wont, astir very early, and before breakfast was announced we had rambled over the greater part of the farm; each well-remembered spot eliciting its anecdote from my communicative friend.

In the evening we again walked abroad; and, having followed the windings of the creek to its junction with the Schuylkill, we seated ourselves upon the mouldering trunk of a gigantic, fallen button-wood tree. The bank of the stream was here about twenty feet in height, and descended perpendicularly to the water, which was very deep. Toward the opposite side the water shoaled, and was bordered by a low, muddy shore.

“This,” said I, after a short pause in the conversation, “has been a magnificent tree.”

The Captain laughed, and said, rather suddenly, “Do you remember Condy O’Neal, a little Irishman, who formerly lived in this neighborhood?”

“I have but a faint recollection of the man; he has been dead many a year since.”

“This tree has recalled to my mind a droll adventure of Condy’s, in which the tree bore a part.

“Condy came into the county about the year 1770, and opened a school. He was a true son of Erin, fond of fun, the bottle, and the girls, and seemed to have been, by nature, designed for amusement. He was a short, fat, little mortal, with a bald patch on his carroty poll; his face was flat and nearly square, his mouth was large, and puckered with a smile of habitual drollery, and his little gray eyes twinkled like those of a cat. No one had ever seen Condy looking sad; and he never spoke but to excite a smile by his humor or his bulls. Withal he was by no means touchy, and could laugh very heartily at a joke even at his own expense. But it was among the girls that his powers were most fully displayed; no professor of blarney could outshine Condy in the art of flattery. When in the society of the fair, Condy’s eloquence was unbounded: the torrent of compliments, jokes, and blunders flowed with unpausing rapidity. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that he became a leading man in conversation, and that our country beau, one and all, felt themselves below par in his presence. Condy was not slow to remark this, and infinite was the pleasure he took in teasing them as often as opportunity offered. No sooner did he observe a beau looking particularly tender at one of the lasses, than Condy took upon himself to cut him out; and many an evening has he thus consumed in wronging a poor dog of a lover.

“The man whom Condy chiefly delighted to torment was a young farmer, named John Bingaman, a man of great stature and prodigious strength—the hero of all the broils and boxing-matches in the country. These boxing-matches are now out of fashion, but at the time of which I am speaking, they were very common; each county having one or more champions, who often tried their prowess against those of the neighboring counties. In these contests John had never yet found his match; and his temper had, in consequence, become so proud and overbearing, as to render him an object of dislike to all his acquaintance. John’s air of superiority was intolerable to Condy. He felt himself to be John’s superior in all but brute force; and was grieved to think that so thick-skulled a mortal should be at all noticed by the side of a man of mind like Condy O’Neal. On the other hand, John was equally chagrined by the deference paid to so diminutive a creature as Condy. He was perpetually galled by Condy’s remarks on the superiority of mind over muscle—of wit over strength. He felt that his former influence was sadly impaired; and how to re-establish it, was beyond his contrivance. To attempt to pick a quarrel with Condy and flog him, would, he was aware, be useless; for, in the first place, Condy was too well acquainted with his rival’s bodily powers to risk a battle; and, secondly, Condy’s superiority, resting in his wit, could not be beaten out of him by kicks and cuffs. John, therefore, concluded that it would be best to bear Condy’s presence with patience; certain that the roving disposition natural to school-masters must, ere long, remove the evil from his sight. In the mean time, however, he resolved to wreak his vengeance by playing all manner of boorish practical jokes upon Condy.

“One evening, late in autumn, Condy, John, and a number more, found themselves assembled at a husking frolic, where John, whose Dulcinea was of the party, exerted himself to the utmost to get the better of Condy; and, by dint of tripping up his heels and then burying him beneath a huge heap of corn-husks, or pushing him headlong over a row of lasses seated at their work, he contrived to keep the laughers on his own side. Condy bore all this with his characteristic good humor, until, the business of the evening having been nearly completed, and his scheme of vengeance matured, he suddenly assumed the air of a man whose patience is exhausted, and let fall a menace of revenge. Irritated by such a speech from a man like Condy, John roughly seized him by the shoulder, and demanded to know what he was threatening. ‘What I may never be able to undo,’ replied Condy, gravely. ‘And what may that be?’ asked John. ‘Why, Mister Bingaman, I could clap a horse’s head upon your shoulders, and that is more than I could take off again.’ John burst into an outrageous fit of laughter, and dared Condy to the trial. ‘No! no!’ said Condy, ‘I don’t want to do you an injury. I could easily put a horse’s head upon you, but if I should do so, there it must stick as long as you live: I could not take it off.’ ‘Try your best,’ again cried John; ‘I am not afraid of you.’ ‘Well, well,’ replied Condy, ‘as you doubt my ability, I’ll just do something for a small bit that shall harm no one, and convince you of the truth of what I said about the horse’s head. Now, John, strong as you are, I will undertake to make a cat pull you across that creek by a rope. Will you bet me a joe upon it?’ ‘Done,’ cried John; ‘post your joe.’ The money was regularly staked, when Condy, turning to the company, requested them to adjourn to the farm-house, where he would presently join them, in order to make some necessary preparations. Condy went to his school-room, which was not very far off, and in a few minutes returned, bearing a sheet of paper, a pencil, a pair of dividers, and a Gunter’s scale. Entering the house, he found the company very merry upon the occasion. At first, all was laughter and jesting at Condy’s expense; but he, nothing moved thereby, seated himself with the most imperturbable gravity by the side of a table; while John, with a grin of anticipated triumph on his visage, seated himself opposite and watched his motions. Condy pored intently upon his scale, then adjusted his dividers upon it, and proceeded to draw three concentric circles upon the paper. In the central circle he wrote JOHN BINGAMAN, and within the two outer he drew a number of strange figures of animals, birds, insects, etc. During this process, which was conducted with great solemnity and extreme slowness, John’s phiz gradually lost its comic expression, and assumed a dolorous cast. The whole company caught the infection of solemnity, and, to noise and merriment, there succeeded a silence so dead, that the sound of Condy’s pencil was distinctly audible as it slowly passed over the paper. Having now tickled his audience to the proper point, Condy arose, and, in a solemn tone, said, ‘John Bingaman!’ John rose from his seat with a visage rueful as his who drew King Priam’s curtains in the night, to tell him that his warlike son was dead. ‘John Bingaman!’ Condy repeated, ‘put your finger upon this magic circle and acknowledge it for your hand and seal.’ Spite of his natural intrepidity, John’s superstitious fears had completely overpowered him, and he stood gazing upon Condy, while his knees almost smote together with apprehension. ‘John Bingaman!’ again said Condy, ‘do you refuse to acknowledge this to be your hand and seal?’ John muttered something unintelligibly. ‘Well,’ said Condy, ‘then the bet is lost—the joe is mine.’ The idea of so easily parting with his joe, and the fear of the ridicule which began already to manifest itself in the titters of the company, recalled John from his stupor, and, hastily clapping his finger upon the fatal circle, he said, ‘This is my hand and seal, confound you!—now make what you please of it.’ ‘’Tis well!’ said Condy, with solemnity, folding his paper and gathering up his drawing instruments: ‘now I must ask the assistance of the company in this affair. The cat must be black, a female which has never had kittens, and must weigh two pounds exactly.’ He also informed them that the proposed feat could be performed only when both sun and moon were below the horizon.

“The company dispersed. John went away with a feeling of dread for which he could not account, and which, with his utmost exertions, he failed to dispel. Could Condy be serious? Could he really make so diminutive a creature perform what he had proposed? Yet there was nothing like jesting in Condy’s manner, and he was not the man to throw away a joe and at the same time risk a dozen kicks from John, besides incurring the ridicule of the whole vicinity. John shook his wise head again and again, but could not attain to any satisfactory conclusion. Condy sought his home in a very different mood. He laughed heartily as soon as he was in his own room: for now he had his mighty rival in his power, and could, without fail, expose him, a laughing-stock, to the whole county.

“As to the rest of the company, they viewed the matter in various lights. The more superstitious portion, awed by the solemnity of the pedagogue, looked upon him with mingled fear and admiration; while the less credulous part, most of them young, laughed, chatted, jested, and laid wagers upon the success of the plot. As more than a week must pass before the day fixed upon for the decision of the wager, there was full time for gossiping; and innumerable were the tales of witchcraft, ghosts, and horrors which that interval brought forth. Each veteran talker, male or female, had one or more marvellous tales wherewith to entertain the fireside assembly, and send the children to bed half terrified out of their reason.

“During this time Condy was more busy and more solemn than he had ever before been known to be. Every nook and corner was searched for the mystical cat, and as he paraded the streets in anxious quest, every one ran to his door to look at Condy, as if he had been some strange creature from lands unknown. At length the cat was found, but where he had procured her he would not tell. This led people to the very rational conclusion that she had been lent for the express purpose by the devil, or that she was one of the witches who, about that period, greatly infested the ‘east countrie.’

“On the appointed evening John and Condy, accompanied by about one hundred persons, repaired to the spot on which we are now sitting, where Condy had warned them all to remain: informing them that if any one crossed the creek he must do it at the risk of being torn to pieces by the devil. This tree at that time stood on the bank with one half of its naked roots projecting over the water—the earth having been washed away by the floods. Here John took his seat, his body reclining against the foot of the tree, his feet firmly planted against a root, and either hand grasping a root by his side. Condy tied the rope securely about John’s body, and then crossed the creek, carrying the other end of the rope to a spot a few yards from the water. You have planted a very pretty hedge garden near the water’s edge, but at the time of which I speak the shore was bare, and about ten yards from the water was a fence with a thick growth of alders and rank weeds. Condy, having fastened his cat to the rope, proceeded to describe a large circle round her, muttering incantations and contriving so to spin out the time as to leave as little light as possible on the transaction. The crowd upon the bank stood awestruck in silent expectation. John

‘With half shut eyes, pucker’d cheeks,
And teeth presented bare,’

sat grasping the roots on either side, a very picture of melancholy desperation. Condy, having prolonged his preparatory measures until it had become tolerably dark, notified John that he must look out, for he was now about to give the fatal pull. At this unwelcome intelligence John’s breath came thick and hard. Condy whipped his cat, and cried ‘_come!_’—the cat squalled, and John squeezed the roots with the gripe of a giant, but remained unmoved. Condy now addressed the stars and planets, calling several by name, whipped his cat, and again cried ‘_come!_’ and again John gave the roots a more than affectionate squeeze. Condy now talked Irish to his cat, whipped her, upbraided the stars with their neglect of him, and cried ‘_come!_’—still John maintained his position, while the cat seemed unable even to stretch the heavy rope to which she and John were attached. This farce of whipping and calling having been repeated for nearly a quarter of an hour, John began to suspect that Condy had brought him thither for the purpose of making a fool of him. Irritated by this idea, he incautiously arose from his recumbent posture, and with divers oaths and curses, demanded to know what Condy meant. Condy seeing John thus off his guard, plied his cat with Irish and hickory most energetically, and cried ‘_now come!_’ So said, so done: down went John into the creek. The crowd fled from the spot with a universal cry of horror. John, after having sunk for a moment in the deep water, reappeared on the surface—cut his way through the stream with the foaming rapidity of a steamboat—ploughed through the mud of the opposite shore, and brought up against the old worn fence with a shock that tumbled it in ruins to the earth. Condy hastily cut the rope, and lifting the heap of rails from his body, begged him, for God’s sake, to make the best of his way across the creek, ‘or the devil would tear him to pieces.’ John needed not much persuasion to induce him to this course, and he dashed through the water little less rapidly than when the cat helped him on. He afterward affirmed, with many an oath, that, turning his head during this passage, he saw a fiery-eyed, black monster, of the size of a bull, and bearing with him a strong odor of brimstone, leap from the bushes and pursue him to the middle of the stream.

“Thus ended the business of the night. John went home as if he had had a thousand devils at his heels. Condy marched deliberately to his lodging, exulting in the certainty of having forever humbled his mighty rival. How did his heart swell with the idea of having, little as he was, conquered the mightiest man in Chester County! ‘Now,’ said he to himself, ‘John is down, and so I will keep him; as often as he attempts to bully or look big, I have only to remind him of this night’s adventure and his crest will fall. Lord! what a time I shall have of it, and what a nourish I shall cut among the girls! Not a man of those boobies will dare to open his mouth where Condy O’Neal happens to be.’ Thus did Condy exult, little thinking of the fate which awaited him. He had no idea that, at this happy moment, his evil genius was filling the vials of his wrath in order to pour them on his devoted head.

“Condy slept soundly, and having risen, proceeded, at the usual hour, to his school-house, where he found all silent and lonely. There was no fire in the stove, nor was there a human being visible. What could it mean? Condy looked at his watch and then at the sun, but both affirmed that the hour was 9, A. M. Was this a holyday? No! Christmas does not come in November, and that is the nearest holyday. Condy mused as he prepared to kindle a fire, endeavoring to discover the probable reason of the desertion of his flock. His musings, however, were interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged matron, followed by her children and a dozen scholars besides, who began to gather up books, slates, etc., and to decamp without even the ceremony of good-by! Condy, not a little surprised, demanded the reason of this extempore proceeding. Madam replied, that neither she nor her neighbors could think of sending their children to a teacher who had dealings with the devil. This was too much for Condy’s gravity, and loud and long did he laugh as madam retreated from the room. After his fit of merriment had subsided, Condy sat down to consider what was best to be done. ‘To argue with these people would be useless, and to reveal the secret of the trick upon John, might be only to hand my bones over to the surgeon for repairs. Well, I suppose there are other places, besides this, where the children lack learning. So there is no use in grieving about the business; for if I were as sad as the bottom of a cherry-pie, I could not mend matters a whit! It is very provoking, though, to have to run off in the moment of signal victory. But I suppose I must say farewell to Chester County.’

“Condy collected what was due to him by his patrons, and went off to Bucks County, thence to Montgomery, and so forth, seeking a situation, but in vain, for the story of his necromantic exploit had preceded him with the most awful exaggerations. Still he kept up a good heart, but soon began to find that his pocket was growing alarmingly light, and that, unless something was done to restore its gravity, he must be famished. Upon arriving at this very natural conclusion, he faced about, resolved to go to Virginia, where, under a feigned name and at a sufficient distance from the theatre of his unlucky celebrity, he might ‘teach the young idea how to shoot’ in full security.

“His knapsack was already buckled on, his bill paid, his half gill disposed of, and his staff grasped in his dexter hand, when he was surprised by the apparition of one of his comrades from Chester, who shook him most cordially by the hand, laughed heartily, slapped his shoulder, and swore that he was the cleverest fellow in the world. ‘Come Condy,’ said he, ‘you must come with me to Chester. It is all out about the cat; and look here, my old boy!’ Saying this he unfolded a school-subscription paper, containing a most imposing array of signatures, the signers promising ‘severally to pay unto Condy O’Neal the sums unto their names annexed,’ etc., etc.

“I must now inform you how the matter of the cat had been managed. On the evening preceding that on which John followed the cat with so much rapidity and so little good will, Condy took Adam North and myself, whom he had let into the secret, to the shore yonder. We had with us a good rope, which we buried slightly in the mud; one end touching the spot where Condy was to make his circle, the other end being drawn through the fence and concealed amid the weeds and alders. A stout stick about two feet long, tied by the middle to this end of the rope, was to serve us as a handle. On the appointed evening, some time before sunset, North and I took our fishing-rods and wandered down the stream, pretending to be very busy fishing; and when evening approached, we laid our rods aside and crept into the midst of the bushes at the place where our rope lay, which we found as we had left it on the preceding evening. Our instructions were, to remain quietly at our post, having our hands upon the stick, until Condy should cry, ‘now come!’ when we were to run. We were mightily tickled, as you may suppose, with the idea of the ducking and fright we were about to give the big bully; but our pleasure was not a little damped by a most unexpected apparition. North had, on leaving home, tied up his dog, a huge black deerhound, for fear of his betraying us by his barking; but shortly after the people had begun to assemble on this bank, we saw the black rascal coming toward us with his nose to the ground. Our only resource, then, was, in making him lie down with us and keep quiet; but, to our utter dismay, when he came up to the place where we lay, we discovered that he had killed a skunk by the way. There was, however, no help for us; and we had to lie close, enduring the horrible stench for nearly half an hour. When we started up to run, the hound started with us; but hearing the mighty splash made by John in his voyage, and fancying, probably, that a deer had run into the creek, he wheeled about, gave tongue, and ran toward the water, where he arrived just in time to follow John into the stream. This occasioned John’s mistake about the monster and the smell of brimstone.

“The secret had been too good to be kept; and North, notwithstanding the danger to which he thereby subjected himself of a hearty thumping from John, told the whole matter (confidentially of course) to a few dozens of his intimate friends, and so the whole matter came to light. I must confess I was horribly afraid when I found it had got wind; but John never betrayed any ill feeling toward us. Upon Condy, however, he vowed vengeance most dire. On the matter becoming public, John was driven almost mad; for he was roasted without mercy wherever he went. Fancy also came to the aid of reality; and he imagined that there was an allusion to his defeat as often as cats, or ropes, or water, or Irish school-masters were mentioned. He even ran out of the church when the parson, one Sunday, read the story of the Egyptians in the Red Sea.

“If poor John was now down, Condy was in proportion elated. His school nourished to the utmost extent of his wishes; his finances were, of course, considerably increased; his popularity, with both male and female, was unbounded; and his vanity and good humor were augmented tenfold. The grin was never absent from his mouth, and he laughed and chuckled over his cat exploit as if he had conquered a kingdom. John studiously avoided him; and whenever accident brought them into each other’s company, Condy swelled and looked as big as if he could have eaten him up at a single sitting.”

ON THE HUDSON.

BY ELIZABETH MARY ALLISON.

River that rollest thy bright course along
In virgin beauty, yet unwooed by song,
Unknown to glory; save to that which springs
Like to a blushing maiden, from the fame
Of her own loveliness. Shall thy name
Be fraught with bright romance, like that which flings
Enchantment o’er the Rhine, whose feudal towers
Look down disdainful on the winged hours?

The legionary forces of old Time,
Battling with man e’en from his youthful prime,
And the sublimest efforts of his hand,
Shall genius give thee immortality?
Her radiance flung o’er earth and sky,
By magic touch of her unearthly wand;
Far richer crowning of thy sunny tide,
Than palaces of wealth, of power or pride.

Flow on, then, bright and beauteous river, flow
Yet smile beneath the summer sunset’s glow,
Or autumn’s mellow lustre, shed o’er all
The sombre grandeur of the foliage dense:
Or solitary tree that doth dispense
O’er thee its willowy gracefulness of fall,
While now thy highlands nearing the blue sky,
Emblazoned with its orient tracery.

Flow on—flow on in loveliness like this!
Soft as the image of Arcadian bliss,
When earth itself was young as thou art now,
Ere in the east was mosque or high serai,
But all was wild-wood, where the deer might stray,
Or the gazelle bound from the mountain’s brow,
Unharmed by man, who led his flocks along,
Joying in freedom, and the free bird’s song.

Nymph of thy source, and bearer of the urn
From which these crystal waters winding turn
Into their varying track of loveliness—
Presiding spirit of the sparkling flood,
Of heavenly aspect and serenest mood,
Come at my bidding, with each shining tress
Wet with the spray of the full rushing stream
Thou lov’st to pour beneath the moonlit beam

Come at my bidding, oh immortal maid!
Come from thy grotto, ’neath the wavelets made
Far, far below, wrought of the treasures there,
Mocking the eagerness of mortal eye
As much as the far glories of the sky.
Deign thee, oh nymph!—oh deign thee to draw near—
The poet bending, thus invokes thee now
With pure libations to thy virgin brow.

She rose, the genius of the unsung stream,
She rose in beauty like a flashing gleam
Of sudden sunlight, o’er her glassy tide;
Fair as the four young nymphs that, hand in hand,
Gave their elastic footsteps to the sand,
From Tagus’ golden depths,[17] so did she glide
To earth—so wring the moisture from her hair,
Which so o’ershadowed her white bosom bare.

The spot on which her pearly sandals stay’d,
Was that green islet, that might well be made
Shrine for her footsteps: but I may not tell
Of half the loveliness that lent its aid
To that enchanting wilderness of shade,
Of parted rock o’erhanging a sweet dell:
Meet home for elfin sprites that nightly sing,
And woo the stars to their enchanted ring.

Swift to this place, the margin’s pride she passed,
O’er it a look of joyousness she cast.
Sunlight and song were floating on the air.
The hamadryads’ mirth, with warblings blent
Of joyous birds, and fainter thrill yet sent
By myriad tribes of insects whirling there
In the fantastic and unending round,
The bees’ glad hum and crickets’ shriller sound.

The river wantoned o’er the pebbles white,
And seemed to linger with a fond delight
By this loved scene, the fairest e’en of all
That decked its banks—and hailed the jocund flow
Of its mellifluous waters, as they go
Meandering in their course. But hark! There fall
Sounds of enchanting music on the breeze.
A spirit’s voice is quivering through the trees.

“Minstrel of a far glorious clime,” it said,
“What hath thy wandering footstep hither led,
To string the lyre these silent haunts among,
Waking the elfin sprites that here reside,
And calling on the genius of the tide
To hearken to the floatings of thy song,
Borne to our crystal palace, whence we come
Only when daylight ceases, and the hum

“Of earthliness is still’d for many an hour.
When dews descend to steep the purple flower,
And the more purple arch of heaven is hung
With clustering stars, the coronal of night:
Then, then we come to joy in that pure light,
To lave the moonbeams o’er the waters flung,
Dear to the spirits of the flood and fell,
Dear to the genii of the woodland dell.

“But thou hast dared to call me to the day,
To list the warblings of thine earthly lay,
Presumptuous bard; or is it to demand
Some favor from us, which thou fear’st to speak,
And only o’er thy harp-chords dar’st to break,
The vain request that trembles on thy hand,
In strains that by the aid of echo go,
From rocks above to coral caves below?

“But know, vain bard, the longings of thy breast,
Stand to our immortality confessed.
Thou sigh’st to know too much for one of earth:
But as the music on the zephyrs flung,
As the full cadence on thy lips that hung,
Dies in the self-same span that saw its birth.
As thy high hopes have ended in despair,
Be too thy rashness tossed to empty air.

“We pardon thee, for the aerial train,
Have ever lov’d the poet’s thrilling strain;
Whether it swells the breezes from afar,
Whether ’tis blended with the moon-tide bright,
In full accord of harmony and light,
Or sighed to Hesperus the vesper star:
Whether ’tis given to rock, or vale, or shore,
Or sweetly vibrates our glad waters o’er.

“But see the mountains, diademed with rays
Of the departing sun’s transcendant blaze,
Through all the west diffused. One halo there
Of orient lustre shrines his farewell beams,
And o’er the pensive earth reflected gleams.
Image of love that fain would linger where
His presence has been owned with warm delight,
And forcefully withdraws his parting sight,

“And all himself transfuses in that look
As bright as gentle. Mortal eye may brook
The radiance that before it could not scan.
There too pale Dian timidly draws nigh,
Lost in the richer glory of the sky.
Hail thee, fair crescent, hail! No evil ban
From wicked fiend, or sprite, can mar the glow,
That soon thy beauty all around shall throw.

“Hail thee, fair orb! all hail! advance to lend
Thy more ethereal light. All spirits bend
In holiest worship to thee. Forth from glen
And the sequestered wood, from cave and bower,
Impatiently they wait the genial hour
Of thy mild sovereignty. Advance thee then!
Speed, speed the hours till midnight is begun,
And till each star its central course has run.

“Poet, we bear thee with us till the time,
Spirits can know without the aid of chime
From village church, or proud cathedral spire:
Such as in thy land equal Babel’s dome,
In vain design to reach the Almighty’s home,
Where mortals with religion may aspire,
And godliness to go.” She ceas’d and gave
The signal, that was heard below the wave.

And now a chariot stood upon the edge
Of the bright river’s willow fringed sedge.
’Twas formed of pearl and opal, whose clear dyes
Are brilliant as the rainbow’s. Sapphire too
And silver lent their aid. Shells of each hue
Were curiously inlaid, and met the eyes
As things unearthly there. Such was that car
That shot its rich effulgency afar.

’Twas lined with down, soft as the swan’s white breast,
And far more glorious tinted than the crest
Of any bird that skims the earth or main.
Once a white plant that ’neath the waters grew,
Which the young nymphs that dwelt there, gathering knew
To weave into their vestments, and to stain
With tints pellucid, which they snatch from air
Or from the tide, when sunbeams wanton there.

Four flying dolphins to the car were reined,
Whose eagerness could scarcely be restrained,
So much they longed again to cleave the flood,
And lave their golden scales, if but in spray
Made by the chariot o’er the moonlit way.
They wait the spirit’s entrance, as they would
With that aerial burden lighter go.
Spurning the azure depths that lie below.

The poet and the spirit press’d the car,
Which soon the sportive dolphins whirl’d afar;
Those dolphins bred in the Ionian sea,
And thence were sent an offering to the maid,
Who the bright current of the Hudson sway’d.
The silvery rein obeying, on they flee—
They track the beauteous river’s winding course,
That not an eddy stirr’d, e’en from its source.

Still as a sheet of azure sheen it lay,
Reflecting but the moon’s translucent ray
That broke through amber clouds, that veil’d her brow,
Or only sought to veil, since brighter shone
Her presence canopied as by a throne:
While the resplendent orbs prepare to throw
Their planetary lustre on the view,
Bursting interminable ether through.

Rapidly on the gleaming chariot went,
A flash of inessential splendor sent
Athwart the tide, and blended with the light
The kindling stars flung forth, and yellow moon
What to a poet could be such a boon,
As thus to ride the waters as a sprite;
With such a sky above and earth below,
Thus o’er the glittering waters, thus to go?

To see the beauty of that starry eve,
To list the melody the spirits weave
At that still hour: to watch the varying scene;
Here towering rock frowning in grand array,
Whence springs the eagle forth to welcome day;
There valleys slanting to the margin green,
With vistas form’d by the cleft rock’s tall peaks,
Through which a flood of moonlight splendor breaks.

Now the thick forests touch’d with autumn hues,
And the wild flowers trembling with diamond dews,
On the fair islets, which their car went by
In magic speed, along the tide that delv’d
Between its lofty banks, that then were shelv’d
To admit of all the glory of the sky;
The distant mountains rearing their proud brows
O’er all the view, that tremulously glows.

Glows in the silvery light, that not alone
On the wide ripples of the river shone,
But on morass, and wood, and valley lay.
Oh on the poet’s heart a rapture broke,
That every inmost slumbering chord awoke.
It seem’d as though his soul imbibed a ray
Of that ethereal light, that all around
The gentle earth, with shining cycles bound.

Or did the aerial spirit by his side,
That gave him thus immortally to glide
Over her moist dominions, on him pour
More than the spell unearthly things to view,
But the glad gush of spiritual feelings too;
For then the poet deem’d that one such hour
Of brief enchanted happiness, were worth
A thousand years of feelings but of earth.

The spirit now lent him her aid to see
Things that, to us, must lie in mystery;
Visions unborn of time, which future years
Shall make reality, and men shall know
Stripp’d of the strangeness, that events will throw
Into accordance. What, shall blood and tears
Deface these smiling sites; or shall men learn
The beacon-torch of virtue to discern?

But that alone to guide them o’er the steep
And shelving rocks, hid by the ocean deep
Of life; away—the theme we may not tell.
Suffice it that the poet’s heart was glad,
And could it be, if what he heard were sad?
And now they touch’d the land, and reach’d a dell—
A wild, enchanted spot, where fairies stood,
Watching their coming from the illumin’d flood.

The sprites and fays their sportive glee began;
From heart to heart the genial transport ran,
Unmix’d with fear, or pain, or doubt, or dread
That mar our earthly revelry. The song
From fairy harps floated the air along,
And on the breezes melting music shed;
While odors that no censers seem’d to hold,
A stream of luscious fragrance upward roll’d.

And dance went round, a graceful flying maze
From tiny feet, that changing glancing rays
Gave out around; for o’er their persons shone
A light, that from the kindling stars is caught,
When with their lustre most the skies is fraught,
But all their brightest wassailage—oh, none
That ever has beheld it, may reveal;
Or gone for ever is his earthly weal,

Waking the fairies’ ire. “Hark! hark, away!
Each to his mission—now no longer stay.
Go cleave the air, or skim the liquid main,
Where its proud billows dash with frantic roar,
Or break in idle bubbles on the shore,
Go do your errands on. Then here again
To taste the luscious feast, and sip the bowl,
And stay the winged moments ere they roll.”

So spake the fairy queen, and stretched her wand
The magic sceptre sparkling in her hand.
They wait no new command to disappear.
And where that elfin band so lately stood,
Falls but the shadow of the distant wood.
No sound but of the river murmurs near,
Where late ethereal melody was heard,
And every leaf unearthly chorus stirred.

CHARADES.

I.

My first slew Pharaoh and his host,—
My next has many a fortune lost,—
My whole—more fatal still than either—
It smashed Napoleon altogether!