Indian Legends and Other Poems | Page 9

the temple on Mount Zion
When God filled its solitude.
Very quietly the red leaves,
On the languid zephyr's breath,


Fluttered to the mossy hillocks
Where their sisters slept in death:

And the white mist of the Autumn
Hung o'er mountain-top and dale,

Soft and filmy, as the foldings
Of the passing bridal veil.
From the field of Saratoga
At the last night's eventide,
Rode the
groom,--a gallant soldier
Flushed with victory and pride,
Seeking,
as a priceless guerdon
From the dark-eyed Madeline,
Leave to lead
her to the altar
When the morrow's sun should shine.
All the children of the village,
Decked with garland's white and red,

All the young men and the maidens,
Had been forth to see her wed;

And the aged people, seated
In the doorways 'neath the vine,

Thought of their own youth and blessed her,
As she left the house
divine.
Pale she was, but very lovely,
With a brow so calm and fair,
When
she passed, the benediction
Seemed still falling on the air.
Strangers
whispered they had never
Seen who could with her compare,
And
the maidens looked with envy
On her wealth of raven hair.
In the glen beside the river
In the shadow of the wood,
With
wide-open doors for welcome
Gamble-roofed the cottage stood;

Where the festal board was waiting,
For the bridal guests prepared,

Laden with a feast, the humblest
In the little village shared.
Every hour was winged with gladness
While the sun went down the
west,
Till the chiming of the church-bell
Told to all the hour for rest:

Then the merry guests departed,
Some a camp's rude couch to bide,

Some to bright homes,--each invoking
Blessings on the gentle
bride.
Tranquilly the morning sunbeam
Over field and hamlet stole,
Wove
a glory round each red leaf,
Then effaced the Frost-king's scroll:

Eyes responded to its greeting
As a lake's still waters shine,
Young

hearts bounded,--and a gay group
Sought the home of Madeline.
Bird-like voices 'neath the casement
Chanted in the hazy air,
A
sweet orison for wakening,--
Half thanksgiving and half prayer.
But
no white hand drew the curtain
From the vine-clad panes before,

No light form, with buoyant footstep,
Hastened to fling wide the
door.
Moments numbered hours in passing
'Mid that silence, till a fear
Of
some unseen ill crept slowly
Through the trembling minstrels near,

Then with many a dark foreboding,
They, the threshold hastened o'er,

Paused not where a stain of crimson
Curdled on the oaken floor;
But sought out the bridal chamber.
God in Heaven! could it be

Madeline who knelt before them
In that trance of agony?
Cold,
inanimate beside her,
By the ruthless Cow-boys slain
In the
night-time whilst defenceless,
He she loved so well was lain;
O'er her bridal dress were scattered,
Stains of fearful, fearful dye,

And the soul's light beamed no longer
From her tearless, vacant eye.

Round her slight form hung the tresses
Braided oft with pride and
care,
Silvered by that night of madness
With its anguish and
despair.
She lived on to see the roses
Of another summer wane,
But the light
of reason never
Shone in her sweet eyes again.
Once where blue
and sparkling waters
Through a quiet valley run,
Fertilizing field
and garden,
Wandered I at set of sun;
Twilight as a silver shadow
O'er the softened landscape lay,
When
amid a straggling village
Paused I in my rambling way.
Plain and
brown the church before me

In the little graveyard stood,
And the
laborer's axe resounded
Faintly, from the neighboring wood.
Through the low, half-open wicket
Deeply worn, a pathway led:


Silently I paced its windings
Till I stood among the dead.
Passing
by the grave memorials
Of departed worth and fame,
Long I paused
before a record
That no pomp of words could claim:
Simple was the slab and lowly,
Shaded by a fragrant vine,
And the
single name recorded,
Plainly writ, was "Madeline."
But beneath it
through the clusters
Of the jessamine I read,
"_Spes_," engraved in
bolder letters,--
This was all the marble said.
THE DEFORMED ARTIST.
The twilight o'er Italia's sky
Had spread a shadowy veil,
And one
by one the solemn stars
Looked forth, serene and pale;
As quietly
the waning light
Through a high casement stole,
And fell on one
with silver hair,
Who shrived a passing soul.
No costly pomp or luxury
Relieved that chamber's gloom,
But
glowing forms, by limner's art
Created, thronged the room:
And as
the low winds carried far
The chime for evening prayer,
The dying
painter's earnest tones
Fell on the languid air.
"The spectral form of Death is nigh,
The thread of life is spun:
Ave
Maria! I have looked
Upon my latest sun.
And yet 't is not with pale
disease
This frame is worn away;
Nor yet--nor yet with length of
years;--
A child but yesterday,"
"I found within my father's hall
No fervent love to claim,
The curse
that marked me at my birth
Devoted me to shame.
I saw that on my
brother's brow
Angelic beauty lay;

The mirror gave me back a form

That thrilled me with dismay."
"And soon I learned to shrink from all,
The lowly and the high;
To
see but scorn on every lip,
Contempt in every eye.
And for a time
e'en Nature's smile
A bitter mockery wore,
For beauty stamped

each living thing
The wide creation o'er,"
"And I alone was cursed and loathed:
'T was in a garden bower
I
mused one eve, and scalding tears
Fell fast on many a flower;
And
when I rose, I marked, with awe
And agonizing grief,
A frail
mimosa at my feet
Fold close each