MADELINE.

A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.^[3]

———

BY MRS. MARY O. HORSFORD.

———

Where the waters of the Mohawk

Through a quiet valley glide,

From the brown church to her dwelling

She that morning passed a bride;

In the mild light of October

Beautiful the forest stood,

As 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 garlands white and red,

All the young men and the maidens

Had been up 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,

Gambrel-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,

Whilst 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,

And 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 through the fragrant air

A sweet orison for wakening—

Half thanksgiving and half prayer.

But no white hand raised the curtain

From the vine-clad panes before;

No light form with buoyant footstep

Hastened to fling wide the door.

All was silent in the dwelling—

All so silent a chill fear

Of some unseen ill crept slowly

Through the gay group waiting near.

Moments seemed as hours in passing,

Till the mild-eyed man drew nigh,

Who had blessed the blushing orphan

Ere the yester sun was high.

He, with glance of dark foreboding,

Passed the threshold of the door;

Paused not where a crimson torrent

Curdled on the oaken floor:

But sought out the bridal-chamber—

God in Heaven! could it be

Madeline who knelt before him

In that trance of agony?

Cold, inanimate beside her,

By the ruthless Cow-boys slain

In the night-time whilst defenseless,

He—the brave—she loved was lain.

O’er her snowy dress were scattered

Stains of deep and fearful dye,

And the soul’s glance 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 verdant forest run,

And the green boughs kiss the current,

Wandered I at set of sun.

Twilight, as a silver shadow,

O’er the softened landscape lay,

When amid a rambling village

Paused I in my wandering way:

Plain and gray the church before me

In the quiet grave-yard stood,

And the woodman’s axe resounded

Faintly from the neighboring wood.

Through the low, half-open wicket,

Slightly 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 jessamine,

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.