And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye.- They left me there, to my despair, Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Relieved from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me-and there we lay, The dying on the dead!
I little deem'd another day
Would see my houseless, helpless head.
"And there from morn till twilight bound, I felt the heavy hours toil round, With just enough of life to see My last of suns go down on me, In hopeless certainty of mind, That makes us feel at length resign'd To that which our foreboding years Presents the worst and last of fears Inevitable-even a boon,
Nor more unkind for coming soon; Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare
That prudence might escape:
At times both wish'd for and implored, At times sought with self-pointed sword, Yet still a dark and hideous close To even intolerable woes,
And welcome in no shape.
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revell'd beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, or calmer, oft than he Whose heritage was misery:
For he who hath in turn run through
All that was beautiful and new,
Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future, (which is view'd Not quite as men are base or good, But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve:-
The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; To-morrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears,. Guerdon of many a painful hour; Tomorrow would have given him power To rule, to shine, to smite, to save- And must it dawn upon his grave?
"The sun was sinking-still I lay Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed,
I thought to mingle there our clay; And my dim eyes of death had need, No hope arose of being freed:
I cast my last looks up the sky,
And there between me and the sun
I saw the expecting raven fly,
Who scarce could wait till both should die, Ere his repast begun;
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, And each time nearer than before; I saw his wing through twilight flit, And once so near me he alit
I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; But the slight motion of my hand, And feeble scratching of the sand, The exerted throat's faint struggling noise Which scarcely could be called a voice, Together scared him off at length.- I know no more-my latest dream Is something of a lovely star Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, And went and came with wandering beam, And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense Sensation of recurring sense,
And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath,
A little thrill, a short suspense,
An icy sickness curdling o'er
My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brainA gasp, a throb, a start of pain,
A sigh, and nothing more.
"I woke-Where was I?-Do I see?
A human face look down on me? And doth a roof above me close? Do these limbs on a couch repose? Is this a chamber where I lie? And is it mortal yon bright eye, That watches me with gentle glance? I closed my own again once more, As doubtful that the former trance Could not as yet be o'er.
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, Sate watching by the cottage wall; The sparkle of her eye I caught, Even with my first return of thought, For ever and anon she threw
A prying, pitying glance on me With her black eyes so wild and free: I gazed, and gazed, until I knew No vision it could be,-
But that I lived, and was released From adding to the vulture's feast: And when the Cossack maid beheld My heavy eyes at length unsealed, She smiled-and I essay'd to speak, But fail'd-and she approach'd, and made With lip and finger signs that said,
I must not strive as yet to break The silence, till my strength should be Enough to leave my accents free; And then her hand on mine she laid, And smooth'd the pillow for my head, And stole along on tiptoe tread,
And gently oped the door, and spake In whispers-ne'er was voice so sweet! Even music follow'd her light feet;-
But those she call'd were not awake, And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, Another look on me she cast,
Another sign she made, to say, That I had nought to fear, that all Were near, at my command or call, And she would not delay
Her due return-while she was gone, Methought I felt too much alone.
• She came with mother and with sireWhat need of more?-I will not tire With long recital of the rest, Since I became the Cossack's guest; They found me senseless on the plainThey bore me to the nearest hutThey brought me into life againMe-one day o'er their realm to reign! Thus the vain fool who strove to glut His rage, refining on my pain,
Sent me forth to the wilderness, Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, To pass the desert to a throne,
What mortal his own doom may guess? Let none despond, let none despair!
To-morrow the Borysthenes
May see our coursers graze at case Upon his Turkish bank,-and never Had I such welcome for a river
As I shall yield when safely there. Comrades, good night!"-The Hetman threw His length beneath the oak-tree shade, With leafy couch already made,
A bed nor comfortless nor new,
To him, who took his rest whene'er The hour arrived, no matter where:
His eyes the hastening slumbers steep, And if ye marvel Charles forgot To thank his tale, he wondered not,- The king had been an hour asleep
CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES.
THE foundation of the following story will be found partly in the account of the mutiny of the Bounty in the South Seas, (in 1789,) and partly in "Mariner's account of the Tonga Islands."
THE morning watch was come; the vessel lay Her course, and gently made her liquid way; The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow In furrows form'd by that majestic plough; The waters with their world were all before- Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, Dividing darkness from the dawning main; The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, Swam high, as eager of the coming ray; The stars from broader beams began to creep, And lift their shining eyelids from the deep;
The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white, And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight; The purpling ocean owns the coming sun, But ere he break-a deed is to be done.
The gallant chief within his cabin slept, Secure in those by whom the watch was kept: His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er;
His name was added to the glorious roll Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, And why should not his slumber be secure? Alas! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet; Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, Where summer years and summer women smile; Men without country, who, too long estranged, Had found no native home, or found it changed, And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave- The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd; The wood without a path out where they will'd
The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd Her horn; the equal land without a lord; The wish-which ages have not yet subdued In man-to have no master save his mood: The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, The glowing sun and produce all its gold; The freedom which can call each grot a home; The general garden, where all steps may roam, Where Nature owns a nation as her child, Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild;
Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know; Their unexploring navy, the canoe;
Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase; Their strangest sight, an European face:- Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd To see again; a sight they dearly earn'd. Awake, bold Bligh! the foe is at the gate, Awake! awake!-Alas! it is too late! Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast; The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest; Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand; That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath Its desperate escape from duty's path, Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice: For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, Unless he drain the wine of passion-rage.
And now the self-elected chief finds time To stun the first sensation of his crime, And raise it in his followers-"Ho! the bowl; Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. "Brandy for heroes!" Burke could once exclaim- No doubt a liquid path to epic fame;
And such the new-born heroes found it here, And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer "6 'Huzza for Otaheite! was the cry, How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny. The gentle island, and the genial soil, The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, The courteous manners but from nature caught, The wealth unhoarded and the love unbought; Could these have charms for rudest seaboys, driven Before the mast by every wind of heaven? And now, even now prepared with other's woes To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose? Alas! such is our nature! all but aim At the same end by pathways not the same, Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay Than aught we know beyond our little day. Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din Whatever creed he taught or land he trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
The launch is crowded with the faithful few Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew: But some remain'd reluctant on the deck Of that proud vessel-now a moral wreck- And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes: While others scoff'd his augur'd miseries, Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail And the slight bark so laden and so frail. The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, The seaborn sailor of his shell canoe, The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea,
In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath; They come not; they are few, and, over-awed, Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud, In vain thou dost demand the cause: a curse Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid, The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast In hands as steeled to do the deadly rest. Thou darest them to the worst, exclaiming-Seems far less fragile, and, alas! more free.
"Hoist out the boat!" was now the leader's cry; A seaman, less obdurate than his mates,
And who dare answer "No!" to Mutiny,
In the first dawning of the drunken hour, The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power?
The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, With its slight plank between thee and thy fate; Her only cargo such a scant supply
As promises the death their hands deny ; And just enough of water and of bread To keep, some days, the dying from the dead: Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and twine, But treasures all to hermits of the brine, Were added after, to the earnest prayer Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air; And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole- The feeling compass-Navigation's soul.
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates; Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, And told, in signs, repentant sympathy; Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, Exclaim'd, "Depart at once! delay is death!" Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all: In that last moment could a word recall Remorse for the black deed as yet half done. And what he hid from many show'd to one:
When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where Was now his grateful sense of former care? Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, "'Tis that! 'tis that! I am in hell! in hell!" No more he said; but urging to the bark His chief, commits him to his fragile ark, These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell.
The arctic sun rose broad above the wave; The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave; As on the Eolian harp, his fitful wings Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : That boat and ship shall never meet again! But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, Their constant peril and their scant relief; Their days of danger, and their nights of pain; Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain; The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son Known to his mother in the skeleton; The ills that lessen'd still their little store, And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more; The varying frowns and favors of the deep, That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along The tide that yields reluctant to the strong; The incessant fever of that arid thirst Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst Above their naked bones, and feels delight In the cold drenching of the stormy night, And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings A drop to moisten life's all gasping springs; The savage foe escaped, to seek again More hospitable shelter from the main; The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last, To tell as true a tale of dangers past, As ever the dark annals of the deep Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep.
We leave them to their fate, but not unknown Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own: Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, And injured navies urge their broken laws. Pursue we on his track the mutineer, Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. Wide o'er the wave-away! away! away! Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay; Once more the happy shores without a law Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw; Nature, and Nature's goddess-woman-woos To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse; Where all partake the earth without dispute, And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit:*
Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, But left her vices also to their heirs. Away with this! behold them as they were, Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. "Huzza! for Otaheite!" was the cry, As stately swept the gallant vessel by. The breeze springs up; the lately flapping sail Extends its arch before the growing gale; In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease, Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam; But those she wafted still look back to home- These spurn their country with their rebel bark, And fly her as the raven fled the ark; And yet they seek to nestle with the dove, And tame their fiery spirits down to love.
How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,* When summer's sun went down the coral bay! Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, And hear the warbling birds! the damsels said: The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo; We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head And we will sit in twilight's face, and see The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, The lofty accents of whose sighing bough Shall sadly please us as we lean below; Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. How beautiful are these! how happy they, Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon.
Yes-from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers, Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, Anoint our bodies with the fragant oil, And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. But lo! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, The sound of mats are heard along our track; Anon the torchlight dance shall fiing its sheen In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green; And we too will be there; we too recall The memory bright with many a festival, Erc Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes
Where none contest the fields, the woods, the For the first time were wafted in canoes.
The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, Inhabits or inhabited the shore,
Till Europe taught them better than before;
Alas! for them the flower of mankind bleeds; Alas! for them our fields are rank with weeds:
• The first three sections are taken from an actual song of the Tango Islanders, of which a prose translation is given in "Mariners Account of the Tougo Islands." Toobonai is not however one of them; but was one of
• The now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant which Captain Bligh's those where Christian and the mutineers took refuge. I have altered and
added, but have retained as much as possible of the original.
Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown,
Of wandering with the moon and love alone. But be it so:-they taught us how to wield The club and rain our arrows o'er the field: Now let them reap the harvest of their art! But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. Strike up the dance! the cava bowl fill high! Drain every drop!-to-morrow we may die. In summer garments be our limbs array'd; Around our waists the tappa's white display'd; Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's, And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings; So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below.
But now the dance is o'er-yet stay awhile; Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile. To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, But to-night-to-night is for the heart. Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo! How lovely are your forms! how every sense Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep!- We too will see Licoo; but-oh! my heart!- What do I say?-to-morrow we depart !
Thus rose a song-the harmony of times Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. True, they had vices-such are nature's growth- But only the barbarian's-we have both: The sordor of civilization, mix'd
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd. Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign, The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain? Who such would see may from his lattice view The Old World more degraded than the New, Now new no more, save where Columbia rears Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave, Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave.
Such was this ditty of tradition's days, Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine; Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, But yields young history all to harmony; A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear: Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme For sage's labors or the student's dream; Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil,-
The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil.
Exist: and what can our accomplish'd art Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart?
And sweetly now those untaught melodies Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, The sweet siesta of a summer day, The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, And the first breath began to stir the palm, The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave All gently to refresh the thirsty caye, Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy, Who taught her passion's desolating joy, Too powerful over every heart, but most O'er those who know not how it may be lost; O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, With such devotion to their ecstacy, That life knows no such rapture as to die: And die they do; for earthly life has nought Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thought, And all our dreams of better life above But close in one eternal gush of love.
There sat the gentle savage of the wild, In growth a woman, though in years a child, As childhood dates within our colder clime, Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime; The infant of an infant world, as pure From nature-lovely, warm, and premature; Dusky like night, but night with all her stars; Or cavern sparkling with its native spars; With eyes that were a language and a spell, A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, With all her loves around her on the deep, Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep; Yet full of life-for through her tropic cheek The blush would make its way, and all but speak; The sun-born blood suffused her neck and threw O'er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue, Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. Such was this daughter of the southern seas, Herself a billow in her energies, To bear the bark of others' happiness, Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less: Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew No joy like what it gave; her hopes ne'er drew Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose Sad proof reduces all things from their hues: She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, Or what she knew was soon-too soon-forgot: Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the hill,
Restore their surface, in itself so still, Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave, Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, And crush the living waters to a mass, The amphibious desert of the dank morass!
Such was this rude rhyme-rhyme is of the rude-And must their fate be hers? The eternal change
But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, Who came and cor.quer'd; such, wherever rise Lands where no fes destroy or civilize,
But grasps humanity with quicker range; And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all.
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