Indian Legends and Other Poems | Page 4

bell peals afar

Where the war-whoop once rung:
The council-fires burn
But in
thoughts of the Past,

And their ashes are strewn
To the merciless
blast.

"But though we have perished
As leaves when they fall,
Unhonored
with trophies,
Unmarked by a pall,
When our names have gone out

Like a flame on the wave,
The Pale race shall weep
'Neath the
curse of our brave.
"On, on, mighty Spirit!
Unchecked in thy way;
I smile on thine
anger,
And sport with thy spray;
The soul that has wrestled
With
Life's darkest form,
Shall baffle thy madness
And pass in the
storm."
MISCELLANEOUS.
THE PILGRIMS' FAST.
The historical incident related in this poem is recorded in Cheever's
"JOURNAL OF THE PILGRIMS."
'T was early morn, the low night-wind
Had fled the sun's fierce ray,

And sluggishly the 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