POEMS

Sad vale of death that moaneth dreary, As if weighed ’neath a burden of care, Even the sun shines cold, and his beams wax weary In thy vacant shadowless air; And the winds o’er the breast of thy lone lake sweeping, Bear echoes from the tomb, And thy desolate pines their death-watch keeping, Ever whisper this tale of gloom:

Long years ago, (so long that in telling, A weary tale ’twould make) An aged chief with his tribe was dwelling On the shore of this desolate lake. But life then bloomed here, and in beauty tender The wild-flowers lifted their eyes, Till it gleamed like a vale of magic splendor Just fallen from the sunset skies.

Here Wenonda dwelt in this vale of water, Till the Spirit-voice should call, And with him Alissa his dusky daughter— Loveliest of maidens all. And many a chieftain fain had woo’d her,— From distant lands they came— But in vain they sought, for none who viewed her The light of her smile could claim.

None, none—save a kinsman long since cherished, In life’s bright morning scene,— Now all but the memory had perished Of what they once had been. But Alissa oft in silence pondered O’er the voice that spoke her fate, And Oneydo where’er his footsteps wandered, Bore a heart half love—half hate.

For a Spirit-voice had come with its warning— With words that deeply warn,— “From the distant land of the rich-robed morning, From the clime where the sun is born, A chieftain shall come to this vale of water, In a chieftain’s state and pride, To woo Wenonda’s lovely daughter, And bear her away as his bride.”

Then sinking low, the voice grew dimmer That fell on Wenonda’s ear Till it blent with the breeze and the wan star’s shimmer When the midnight hour grew near. And the chieftain forgot that warning never, And the maid and the lover knew That all was o’er—yet in silence ever Each heart to the other beat true.

Thus many moons arose, and waning, Gave place to other moons, Till one night o’er the Lake a lone star reigning Swung low,—and then eftsoons Came again that Voice through the dim air falling— Well understood by one, And Wenonda went at its mystic calling To the land of the setting sun.

Now, the waiting long and the anguish ended, Came Oneydo o’er the tide, And ere two moon’s again ascended Claimed Alissa as his bride.— Then each day sped on, as an angel golden Had passed with beaming eyes, While yet in whose rich-dyed robes are holden The airs of paradise!

At length from the land of ocean currents, Where mists were born of old, From beyond the twin streams’[D] mighty torrents, Came a stranger chieftain bold. Of giant form, and with dark eye glancing, And visage grim and sere,— The somber plumes o’er his dun brow dancing, Dropped shadows boding fear.

To Oneydo he came as some dreaded token, For which naught can win surcease; Few deeds were done, few words were spoken,— They smoked the pipe of peace. But over that vale passed an unseen power Three times with the setting sun,— Then by that still lake at the midnight hour, A murderous deed was done.

Uprose the sun in heaven’s vault slowly— All hid in mist, full soon The stars shrank back, and, sweeping lowly, Low dipped the horned moon. But Alissa was gone—through the vale they sought her, And the stranger chief was gone;— False, false was the heart of Wenonda’s daughter— Both fled with the breaking dawn.

And the still, broad lake its secret keeping, Lay hushed and mute for aye; But in its depths in silence sleeping Oneydo lowly lay. None knew—but War’s dark tempests lowered, And broke with fiery mood,— When the moon her light o’er the dim vale showered Her beams were red as blood.

Long waged the war with frightful slaughter, Long and dismal was its reign, Till dyed with blood was the vale of water, And many a chief was slain. Still Hatred reigned—her fury never Abated till, came the day When Wenonda’s tribe had passed forever From the haunts of men away.

Now ages have passed, and the vale lies lonely— Nor sign of life is there, And the blasted pines are standing only In the cold and lifeless air. Yet oft when the midnight tempests lower A phantom cloud low swings, Then is heard o’er the Lake at that solemn hour The flap of invisible wings.

The deer to his night-bound haunts, unheeding, Should he pass by this desolate Lake, But quickens his pace, and faster speeding His phantom-flight doth take. And the wild geese southward or northward hying, If they pass o’er this vale in their flight, Turn their course, till higher and higher flying, They are lost to the searching sight.

Well the red man knows the dismal story— Knows where Oneydo lies; He hath seen his corse all pale and gory Looking helplessly up to the skies; And to burning rage forever fated, He is doomed to endless woe; For there must he lie till Vengeance is sated, Ere rest his spirit can know.

The Southern sun with his deep flood of light Was slowly sinking, and the moated tide Hung heavy o’er the dusky brow of night. Along the gilded west rose far and wide A range of hills; a vale on either side Where rich magnolias grew, stretched far adown; And in this hollow vale might be descried, Where long the rose and hyacinth hath blown, A modest cabin’s roof with woodbine overgrown.

Within this cabin, on a summer’s eve, Upon a couch a wounded soldier lay; Propped up beside a window to relieve His aching brow, he watched the dying day. Anon his eyes would follow far away The burnished dove disport on gilded wing, Then nearer the gay oriole swoop at play; And heard the while the merry mock-bird sing, Till Slumber o’er his brow her leaden chain would fling.

Then in fond dreams his Fancy oft would trace His Northern home beside the winding stream, A mother’s fervent kiss and long embrace, A sister’s streaming tears, or the mild beam Of fairer eyes, where love-lit thoughts would seem To melt in tears. Oh, pictured vision bright! Too soon to fade,—gone with the fleeting dream, Like shooting stars that fade away in night, And leave no trace behind to mark their sudden flight.

Oft would he start in wild delirium, And grasp with frenzied hand the fancied blade, As if he heard the regimental drum Sounding to arms; for dire Fever preyed Upon his young life’s blood, and oft betrayed That Death with dragon mouth stood yawning nigh, Eager to seize his prey, nor would be stayed By Art’s firm hand or Pity’s tear-dewed eye, From his dread course, fell Demon of eternity.

And as the fitful dream of parting life Thus came and went, there watched beside The dying soldier’s couch of pain and strife A gentle maid. In eager haste she tried, As oft would rise and ebb life’s surging tide, To check the pulse, to soothe the heart’s distress, To minister the potion that would hide Anguish and pain in deep forgetfulness;— Irene performed the while such task of tenderness.

Hers was an aspect singularly mild, With radiant brow deep-arched, obscurely clear, And dark affrayed eyes, half-meek, half-wild, That told the fount of pity welling near. Twice gazed you on that face ere ’twould appear That Time had all too early cast his pall O’er the bright blooms that Youth and Beauty wear; For mingled there hope, grief, doubt, fear, and all That turn the human heart to tenderness—or gall.

The day declined, night’s dusky mantle fell, And evening’s hush lay lightly o’er the vale; Still watched Irene like hermit in his cell. The bright moon rose, and twilight ’gan to fail As the soft beams fell gently o’er the dale; And still she watched with fixed, inquiring view Upon the soldier’s face upturned and pale,— Alike his name, his lot, his fate, none knew, Save by the badge he wore,—the Northern coat of blue.

Scarce yestermorn it was since he had come, Languid and faint from wounds and bitter woe, Unto the portals of that Southern home, Which, like the Southern heart, can ne’er forego The sight of wretchedness, even in a foe, A mortal foe, when hapless Pity calls The generous heart unconsciously to show The claims of mercy ere the mandate falls, Or soothe the shriveled heart that suffering woe enthralls.

Still watched Irene; the bright moon higher rose, And swung above the vale beneath a cloud. “How like the orb of hope that rising glows Fair, ’neath some sullen gloom that would enshroud All that is bright in life!” Thus, half aloud, The maiden spoke; then silence fell again, And the soft light gleamed o’er her head, as bowed She ’neath that aching, sinking sense of pain, When hope hath sunk from view, and life itself is vain.

Yet not for him unconscious slumbering there The maiden mourned; far, far her thoughts were sped With one who late had gone albeit to share A soldier’s lot, fame—or a grave instead; Perchance ’twere both, his fate was still unread. ’Tis thus suspense ill brooks the heart’s control: She turned unto the casement half in dread, As if her thoughts the night-winds could condole; Her smothered words bespeak the anguish of her soul.

“O thou pale moon, arrayed in sombre hues, Thou lookest o’er the earth in awe sublime, Like some sad, pitying spirit when it views The mortal clod that linked it once to time. Oh, tell me, for ’tis said that in thy clime Fate’s mystic scroll is seen for e’er unrolled, Tell me he lives. Ah, no!—I hear the chime That speaks the death-note of the brave and bold; Let fate take back her scroll, the tale must not be told.”

Time measures woe; her reign he oft makes brief, Oft lights the smile that decks the shining tear, When Hope would fling aside the web of grief, And over all would in full view appear. ’Twas thus Irene could dash aside all fear, Could see returning from the unequal strife Her best beloved, the beauteous South so dear To both triumphant still, and honors rife Bestrewn along the path to deck their future life.

Away delusive dream!—the soldier wakes, And round him casts a strange, bewildered eye, Pale o’er his couch the struggling moonlight breaks; Irene, half-startled, checks the smothering sigh, Looks strangely round, nor scarce can wonder why Slumber hath flown. Then turns she most in fright To where the scarce-seen lamp is smouldering by,— Flushed o’er the room a tide of yellow light, As fled the darkened shades back to the wings of night.

The soldier spoke, his accents feebly fell, Irene drew near to catch what he might say. “I have short time for what I fain would tell,” He thus began, “this tenement of clay Must soon dissolve—flit life and light away. It is a tale to fright thy timid ear, And yet a burden on my soul doth weigh, That will not let it part. Nay, do not fear; Though shadows cloud my mind, soon light will reappear.”

“Southward we turned.” He paused; then soon began, “But three days since, albeit it may be more, By chance we faced the foe, I slew a man;— Oh, start not, gentle maid,—’twill soon be o’er. He stood a sentry at the post which bore His trust. We took the army by surprise; ’Twas night, and few there were; perchance three-score Prisoners were made. Nay, hide not thus thine eyes; Remorse can rend a heart that Pity would despise.

“The skirmish o’er, by chance I found my way To where the sentry fell, thinking ’twere best If yet he lived. I had not meant to slay— He turned on me—my sword pierced through his breast. Oh! even at times a soldier’s heart’s oppressed With pity, too. I saw him writhing still In agony. The gaping wound undressed Was pouring out his life. My heart grows chill Even yet; O God! I thought how slight a thing can kill.

“I stooped beside and strove to staunch the wound. ‘ ’Tis vain,’ he said, ‘a trust I’ll give to thee.’ He bade me loose a packet which was bound Beneath his cloak. ‘I charge thee take,’ said he, ‘This token to the one who gave it me; Her picture it contains. Tell her I died While at the post of duty. Thou mayest see Her name within.’ He turned upon his side, And slowly ebbed away life’s dim-receding tide.

“I sought a furlough then, but ere ’twas given Occasion thrust a battle in my way. We fought, I know not how, but far were driven; I, wounded, fell; then fled from me the ray That reason beams. I knew no more till day Dawned on me here; and now I hear the calling Of voices strange; and moans, death-dying, lay Their weight upon my soul, as deeply palling The tired senses, come clogged shadows thickly falling.

“Still let me cling to life; though hope be fled, That mission I would fill for him whose hand Gave me the charge; but even that hope is dead, And from the glass of time the sliding sand Is almost run. Oh, thou mayest understand And yet fulfil my unavailing vow. While yet I breathe on life’s uncertain strand, To thee I give the sacred trust. Even now Death’s touch is at my heart, his chill is on my brow.”

The faltering voice Irene no longer heard. She saw the picture she had given to him Her heart most yearned to reach. Then all appeared Dark and confused; the while her senses swim, The light burns blue, and waning visions dim Flit o’er her mind; and voices distant seem Like troubled waters moaning, phantoms grim, Shades horrible; then reason’s flickering beam Lit up—all, all as ’twere a wild, distempered dream.

Oh! there are moments of our life a part, When the soul’s passion is too vast, too deep For Sorrow’s shafts to pierce the quivering heart; Feeling is numbed in a half-conscious sleep, In aching weariness the senses steep, And a cold chill like death-breath freezes o’er The fount of tears, and will not let one weep. Then pent within the spirit’s inmost core The fire burns but consumes not, burning evermore.

Reason returns again, but ever gone Are hope and happiness,—withered the bloom, The last flower plucked, but still the stalk lives on, A living death; the lone sepulchral tomb Less hopeless is.—Thus fell the blasting doom Upon Irene. Rayless the gathering night Which settled o’er her soul engulfed in gloom: She turned away like one whose vacant sight All things can dimly see, yet naught can see aright.

Full well she knew the hand that dealt her doom Lay there outstretched in pleading helplessness; Should she withhold the potion, death would come Outreaching time, dark thoughts; but who could guess If e’er they broke upon her soul’s distress? The night was long, but longer still even then The night that wrapped her life. Deep shades depress Her very thoughts in sighs. Nor tongue, nor pen, Alas! hath Grief to tell that tale of woe again.

Long, long the night; its hours crept slowly by, Each burdened by the weary weight of years;— The soldier slept, but o’er the closing eye Of mortal life fell that deep gloom which wears The mask of death in Life’s dim vale of tears: He slept; but ere the Dawn in mantle gray, Who in the east her purple dome uprears Each morn, had brought to man another day, Cold in the embrace of death the soldier slept for aye.

All through the long, long night Irene alone Her vigil kept, and oft she strove in vain, Ere the slow-ebbing tide of life had gone, With gentle touch to chase away dull Pain Which o’er the soldier’s brow his heavy chain Had thrown. But, oh! it seemed as though The weight of three-score years of Sorrow’s reign Had fallen upon her life;—that night of woe, Had turned her raven hair white as the wintry snow!

LIFE is a riddle, deep, majestic, grand, For all to solve, but few to understand; ’Tis a strange world, some say with stoic bliss, And straightway vow this globe hath gone amiss; While some presume and some soliloquise, “There’s less in wisdom than in seeming wise;” “Silence is golden,” spake of old the sage, The rule holds good in our distempered age; Then silence keep and learn from meaner things, From which full many a goodly lesson springs. Grasp not the shadow that first meets your eyes, For somewhere near the substance always lies; A simple story serves to tell the fate Of many a brain-dashed, vaunting shallow pate.