Indian Legends and Other Poems | Page 4

leaden waves?Rolled over Plymouth Bay.
No mist was on the mountain-top,?No dew-drop in the vale;?The thirsting Summer flowers had died?Ere chilled by Autumn's wail.
The giant woods with yellow leaves?The blighted turf had paved,?And o'er the brown and arid fields?No golden harvest waved;
But calm and blue the cloudless sky?Arched over earth and sea,?As in their humble house of prayer,?The Pilgrims bowed the knee.
There gray-haired ministers of God?In supplication bent,?And artless words from childhood's lips?Sought the Omnipotent.
There woman's lip and cheek grew pale?As on the broad day stole;?And manhood's polished brow was damp?With fervency of soul.
The sultry noon-tide came and went?With steady, fervid glare;?"O God, our God, be merciful!"?Was still the Pilgrims' prayer.
They prayed as erst Elijah prayed?Before the sons of Baal,?When on the waiting sacrifice?He called the fiery hail:
They prayed as once the prophet prayed?On Carmel's summit high,?When the little cloud rose from the sea?And blackened all the sky.
And when around that spireless church?The shades of evening fell,?The customary song went up?With clear and rapturous swell:
And while each heart was thrilling with?The chant of Faith sublime,?The rude, brown rafters of the roof?Rang with a joyous chime.
The rain! the rain! the blessed rain!?It watered field and height,?And filled the fevered atmosphere,?With vapor soft and white.
Oh! when that Pilgrim band came forth?And pressed the humid sod,?Shone not each face as Moses' shone?When "face to face" with God?
PLEURS.
The town of Pleurs, situated among the Alps and containing about two thousand five hundred inhabitants, was overwhelmed in 1618 by the falling of Mount Conto. The avalanche occurred in the night, and no trace of the village or any of its inhabitants could ever after be discovered.
'T was eve; and Mount Conto?Reflected in night?The sunbeams that fled?With the monarch of light;?As great souls and noble?Reflect evermore?The sunshine that gleams?From Eternity's shore.
A slight crimson veil?Robed the snow-wreath on high,?The shadow an angel?In passing threw by;?And city and valley,?In mantle of gray,?Seemed bowed like a mourner?In silence to pray.
And the sweet vesper bell,?With a clear, measured chime,?Like the falling of minutes?In the hour-glass of Time,?From mountain to mountain?Was echoed afar,?Till it died in the distance?As light in a star.
The young peasant mother?Had cradled to rest?The infant that carolled?In peace on her breast;?The laborer, ere seeking?His couch of repose,?Told his beads in the shade of?A fortress of snows.
Up the cloudless serene?Moved the silver-sphered Night;?The reveller's palace?Was flooded with light;?And the cadence of music,?The dancer's gay song,?In harmony wondrous,?Went up, 'mid the throng.
The criminal counted,?With visage of woe,?The chiming of hours?That were left him below;?And the watcher so pale,?In the chamber of Death,?Bent over the dying?With quick, stifled breath.
The watchman the midnight?Had told with shrill cry,?When through the deep silence?What sounded on high,?With a terrible roar,?Like the thunders sublime,?Whose voices shall herald?The passing of Time?
On came the destroyer;--?One crash and one thrill--?Each pulse in that city?For ever stood still.?The blue arch with glory?Was mantled by day,?When the traveller passed?On his perilous way;--
Lake, valley, and forest?In sunshine were clear,?But when of that village,?In wonder and fear,?He questioned the landscape?With terror-struck eye,?The mountains in majesty?Pointed on high!
The strong arm of Love?Struggled down through the mould;?The miner dug deep?For the jewels and gold;?And workmen delved ages?That sepulchre o'er,?But found of the city?A trace never more.
And now, on the height?Of that fathomless tomb,?The fair Alpine flowers?In loveliness bloom;?And the water-falls chant,?Through their minster of snow,?A mass for the spirits?That slumber below.
THE LEGEND OF THE IRON CROSS.
"There dwelt a nun in Dryburgh bower
Who ne'er beheld the day."
Twilight o'er the East is stealing,?And the sun is in the vale:?'T is a fitting moment, stranger,?To relate a wondrous tale.
'Neath this moss-grown rock and hoary?We will pause awhile to rest;?See, the drowsy surf no longer?Beats against its aged breast.
Years ago, traditions tell us,?When rebellion stirred the land,?And the fiery cross was carried?O'er the hills from band to band,--
And the yeoman at its summons?Left his yet unfurrowed field,?And the leader from his fortress?Sallied forth with sword and shield,--
Where the iron cross is standing?On yon rude and crumbling wall,?Dwelt a chieftain's orphan daughter,?In her broad ancestral hall.
And her faith to one was plighted,?Lord of fief and domain wide,?Who, ere he went forth undaunted?War's disastrous strife to bide,
'Mid his armed and mounted vassals?Paused before her castle gate,?While she waved a last adieu?From the battlements in state.
But when nodding plume and banner?Faded from her straining sight,?And the mists from o'er the mountains?Crept like phantoms with the night,--
Low before the sacred altar?At the crucifix she bowed,?And, with fervent supplication?To the Holy Mother, vowed
That, till he returned from battle,?Scotland's hills and passes o'er,?Saved by her divine protection,?She would see the sun no more!
In a low and vaulted chapel,?Where no sunbeam entrance found,?Many a day was passed in penance,?Kneeling on the cold, damp ground.
Autumn blanched the flowers of Summer,?And the forest robes grew sere;?Still in darkness knelt the maiden,?Pleading, "Mary! Mother! hear!"
Cold blasts through the valleys