Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain, It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain! The children of the rich man have not their bread to win: They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; They walk among life’s pleasant ways, and never know a care. The children of the poor man—though they be young, each one, Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun, And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done. Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride,— The sunshine of the summer’s day, the flowers on the highway side, Or their own free companionship, on the heathy common wide. Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three; But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty:— It may not have one thing to love, how small soe’er it be. A thousand flocks were on the hills—a thousand flocks, and more,— Feeding in sunshine pleasantly,—they were the rich man’s store; There was the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage door; A little lamb that did lie down with the children ’neath the tree; That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled on their knee; That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family. But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed, The father laboured all day long, that his children might be fed; And, one by one, their household things, were sold to buy them bread. That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood, Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued; “What is the creature’s life to us?” said he, “’twill buy us food! “Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head Each does his small craft mournfully!—the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread!” It went—oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing! Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet so piteously;— “Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we? “Let’s take him to the broad, green hills,” in his impotent despair, Said one strong boy, “let’s take him off, the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there!” ’Twas vain!—they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast;—and o’er the common brown, And o’er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town. The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow!— Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain— It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain; It maketh even the little child, with heavy sighs complain!

They read of rapine, war, and woe, A party by an English fire,— Of Indian warfare in the wood, Of stern and ruthless ire. They read of torture worse than death— Of treachery dark—of natures base— Of women savage as the beast— Of the red Indian race. “Hold!” said the matron of the hearth, A woman beautiful in age; “And let me of the Indian speak; Close, close that faithless page! “My father was the youngest born In an old rural English hall; The youngest out of five stout sons, With patrimony small. “His boyhood was in greenwood spent; His youth was all a sylvan dream; He tracked the game upon the hills; He angled in the stream. “Quiet was he, and well content, With naught to fret, and none to chide; For all that his young heart desired The woods and streams supplied. “Small knowledge had a youth so trained, College or school ne’er knew his face; And yet as he grew up, he grew Superior to his race. “His brethren were of sordid sort, Men with coarse minds, and without range; He grew adventurous and bold, Inquisitive of change. “And, as he grew, he took to books, And read what’er the hall supplied; Histories of admirals, voyages old, And travels far and wide. “He read of settlers, who went forth To the far west, and pitched their tent Within the woods, and grew, ere long, To a great, prosperous settlement. “He read of the bold lives they led, Full of adventure, hardy, free; Of the wild creatures they pursued, Of game in every tree. “And how the Indians, quaintly gay, Came down in wampum-belt and feather, To welcome them with courteous grace; How they and the free forest race Hunted and dwelt together. “And how they and their chosen mates Led lives so sweet and primitive: Oh! in such land, with one dear heart, What joy it were to live! “So thought he, and such life it were As suited well his turn of mind; For what within his father’s house Was there to lure or bind? “Four needy brothers, coarse and dull; A patrimony, quite outspent; A mother, long since in her grave; A father, weak and indolent! “At twenty he had ta’en a mate, A creature gentle, kind, and fair; Poor, like himself, but well content The forest-life to share. “She left an old white-headed sire; A mother loving, thoughtful, good; She left a home of love, to live For him, within the wood. “And that old couple did provide, Out of their need, for many a want Else unforseen; their daughter’s dower In gifts of love, not scant. “His father with cold scorn received So dowered a daughter, without name; Nor could his purposed exile win Either assent or blame. “All was a chill of indifference; And from his father’s gate he went, As from a place where none for him Had kindred sentiment. “And in the westren world they dwelt; Life, like a joyous summer morn, Each hope fulfilled; and in the wild To them were children born. “All that his youth had dreamed he found In that life’s freshness; peril strange; Adventure; freedom; sylvan wealth; And ceaseless, blameless change. “And there he, and his heart’s true mate, Essay’d and found how sweet to live, ’Mid nature’s store, with health and love, That life so primitive! “But that sweet life came to an end.— As falls the golden-eared corn Before the sickle, earthly bliss In human hearts is shorn. “Sickness—bereavement—widowhood— Oh, these three awful words embrace A weight of mortal woe that fell Upon our sylvan dwelling place! “It matters not to tell of pangs, Of the heart broken, the bereft; I will pass over death and tears, I will pass on to other years, When only two were left! “I and a sister; long had passed The anguish of that time, and we Were living in a home of love, Though in a stranger’s family. “Still in the wilderness we dwelt, And were grown up towards womanhood; When our sweet life of peace was stirred By tales of civil feud. “By rumors of approaching war, Of battle done, of armed bands; Of horrid deeds of blood and fire, Achieved by Indian hands. “We heard it first with disbelief: And long time after, when had spread Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt All unassailed by dread. “For they with whom our lot was cast, Were people of that Christian creed Who will not fight, but trust in God For help in time of need. “The forest round was like a camp, And men were armed day and night; And every morning brought fresh news To heighten their affright. “Through the green forest rose the smoke Of places burn’d the night before; And from their victims, the red scalp The excited Indian tore. “This was around us, yet we dwelt In peace upon the forest bound; Without defence, without annoy, The Indian camp’d all round. “The door was never barr’d by night, The door was never closed by day; And there the Indians came and went, As they had done alway. “For ‘these of Onas are the sons,’ Said they, ‘the upright peaceful men!’ Nor was harm done to those who held The faith of William Penn. “But I this while thought less of peace, Than of the camp and battle stir; For I had given my young heart’s love Unto a British officer. “Near us, within the forest-fort, He lay, the leader of a band Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep The Indian from the land— “The native Indian from his woods— I deem’d it cowardly and base; And, with a righteous zeal I pled For the free forest-race. “But he, to whom I pled, preferr’d Sweet pleading of another sort; And we met ever ’neath the wood Outside the forest-fort. “The Indian passed us in the wood, Or glared upon us from the brake; But he, disguised, with me was safe, For Father Onas’ sake. “At length the crisis of the war Approach’d, and he, my soul’s beloved, With his hot band, impatient grown, Yet further west removed. “There he was taken by the foe, Ambush’d like tigers ’mid the trees: You know what death severe and dread The Indian to his foe decrees “A death of torture and of fire— Protracted death; I knew too well, Outraged and anger’d, as of late Had been the Indian spirit, fell Would be their vengeance, and, to him, Their hate implacable. “When first to me his fate was told, I stood amazed, confounded, dumb; Then wildly wept and wrung my hands, By anguish overcome. “‘Wait, wait!’ the peaceful people said; ‘Be still and wait, the Lord is good!’ But when they bade me trust and wait, I went forth in my anguish great, To hide me in the wood. “I had no fear; the Indian race To me were as my early kin: And then the thought came to my brain, To go forth, and from death and pain, My best beloved to win. “With me my fair, young sister went, Long journeying on through wood and swamp: Three long days’ travel, ere we came To the great Indian camp. “We saw the Indians as we went, Hid ’mong the grass with tiger ken; But we were safe, they would not harm The daughters of the peaceful men. “In thickets of the woods at length We came to a savannah green; And there, beneath the open day, The Indian camp was seen. “I turned me from that scene of war, And from the solemn council-talk, Where stood the warriors, stern, and cold, War-crested, and with bearing bold, Listening unto a sachem old, Who held aloft a tomahawk. “I knew they were athirst for blood; That they had pity none to spare;— Besides, bound to a tree, I saw An English captive there. “I saw his war plume, soil’d and torn; I knew that he was doom’d to die; Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood; The ground was crimson’d with his blood; Yet stood he as a soldier should— Erect, with calm, determined eye. “I would not he should see me then,— The sight his courage had betray’d; Therefore unseen we stepp’d aside, Into the forest-glade. “An Indian woman there was set, We knew her, and to her were known; The wife of a great chief was she, Deck’d in her Indian bravery; Yet there she sat alone. “‘Woman,’ I said, the silence breaking, ‘Thou know’st us—know’st that we belong To peaceful people, who have ne’er Done to thy nation wrong. ‘Thou know’st that ye have dwelt with us, As friend upon the hearth of friend;— When have ye ask’d and been denied, That this good faith should end?’ “The Indian did not raise her head, As she replied in accents low, ‘Why come ye hither unto me, When I am sitting in my woe?’ “‘Woman,’ I said, ‘I ask for life— For life, which in your hands doth lie; Go bid thy tribe release the bands Of him now doomed to die! “‘Go, Indian woman, and do this, For thou art mighty with thy race!’ The Indian made me no reply, But looked into my face. “‘Mighty! said’st thou?’ at length she spoke, ‘Mighty!—to one no longer wife! The hatchet and the tomahawk Lie by me on the forest-walk; The great chief in my hut lies low, The ruthless pale-face struck the blow— And yet thou com’st to me for life!’ “‘By that chief’s memory,’ I cried, ‘Whom ne’er the peaceful men gainsaid; To whom the peaceful men were dear; Rise, though thou stricken be, and aid! “‘Crave not REVENGE,’ and with my words My tears flow’d fast, though hers were dry; ‘But look upon this pictured face, And say if such a one shall die!’ “Long looked she on the pictured face, Which from my neck I took and gave; Long looked she ere a word was spoke, And then she slowly silence broke, ‘The hatchet is not buried yet; The tomahawk with blood is wet; And the great chief is in his grave! “‘Yet for the father Onas’ sake— For their sakes who no blood have shed, We will not by his sons be blamed For taking life which they have claimed;— The red man can avenge his dead!’ “So saying, with her broken heart— She went forth to the council-stone; And when the captive was brought out, ’Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout, She stepp’d into the fierce array, As the bereaved Indian may, And claim’d the victim for her own. “He was restored. What need of more To tell the joy that thence ensued! But sickness followed long and sore, And he for a twelvemonth or more, With our good, peaceful friends abode. “But we, two plighted hearts, were wed; A merry marriage ye may wis;— And guess ye me a happy life— In England here, an honoured wife,— Sweet friends, ye have not guess’d amiss! “But never more let it be said, The red man is of nature base; Nor let the crimes that have been taught, Be by the crafty teachers brought As blame against the Indian race!”

She lay down in her poverty, Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow Fell trembling from her tongue. There were palace-houses round her; And pomp and pride swept by The walls of that poor chamber, Where she lay down to die. Two were abiding with her, The lowly of the earth,— Her feeble, weeping sister, And she who gave her birth. She lay down in her poverty, Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow Fell from her trembling tongue. “Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness About my soul are spread, And the waters of affliction Have gathered o’er my head! “Yet what is life? A desert, Whose cheering springs are dry, A weary, barren wilderness!— Still it is hard to die! “For love, the clinging, deathless, Is with my life entwined; And the yearning spirit doth rebel To leave the weak behind! “Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs Of human woe and pain, In this, the fiercest trial-hour, My doubting soul sustain! “I sink, I sink! support me; Deep waters round me roll! I fear! I faint! O Saviour, Sustain my sinking soul!”

“Oh spirit, freed from bondage, Rejoice, thy work is done! The weary world is ’neath thy feet, Thou brighter than the sun! “Arise, put on the garments Which the redeemed wore! Now sorrow hath no part in thee, Thou sanctified from sin! “Awake and breathe the living air Of our celestial clime! Awake to love which knows no change, Thou, who hast done with time! “Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes, See, all heaven’s host appears; And be thou glad exceedingly, Thou, who hast done with tears! “Awake! ascend! Thou art not now With those of mortal birth,— The living God hath touch’d thy lips, Thou who hast done with earth!”

“Tell me about my son, dear friend, for I can bear to know, Now that my heart is stayed by prayer, that history of woe! But whence was it, of seven sons, all men of strength and pride, This only one—the gentlest one—forsook his mother’s side! “That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired word, The poet’s heart, all tenderness, even from his boyhood stirred; Who was my dearest counsellor, in his dead father’s place; Who was a daughter unto me, who ne’er did one embrace. “How was it that he only left his home, his native land, He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my band? That he whom I had looked to close mine eyes—to lay me low, Died first, and far away! Oh God, thy counsels who shall know! “But murmuring thus, I sin! Dear friend, forgive a mother’s grief, And tell me of my son; thy words will bring assured relief: Tell me of each minutest look—even of his sufferings tell, My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst love him well!” “I loved him well, oh, passing well! all he had been to thee— Friend, counsellor, the spirit’s life—so had he been to me! Yet murmur not, thou broken heart, our vision fails to show The scope of that mysterious good whose base is human woe! “Thy best-beloved murmured not, his faith was never dim, And that strong love which was his life, sprang everywhere for him, We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to love beguiled, Watched him, as tender parents watch a favourite drooping child. “For the hot plains where he had lain, by cureless wounds oppressed, We bore him to the northern hills, to a sweet land of rest. Oh, what a joy it was to him to feel the cool winds blow, To see the golden morning light array the peaks of snow! “What joy to see familiar things where’er his footsteps trod; The oak-tree in the mountain-cleft; the daisy on the sod; The primrose and the violet; the green moss of the rill; The crimson wild-briar rose, and the strawberry of the hill! “How often these sweet living flowers were bathed in blissful tears, For then his loving spirit drank the joy of bygone years; And sitting ’mong those giant hills, his boyhood round him lay— That sunny time of careless peace, so long since past away. “He told me of his English home; I knew it well before: Mine eyes had seen its trees, or ere my shadow crossed the door; The very sun-dial on the green, I knew its face again; And the small summer parlour with its jasmine-wreathed pane. “And thou! all thou hadst been to him, he told me; bade me seek Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of comfort speak: Oh, mother of the blessed dead, weep not; sweet thoughts of thee, Like ministering angels at the last, the joyous soul set free! “Oh, mother of the dead, weep not as if that far-off grave Possessed thy spirit’s best beloved—‘thy beautiful, thy brave;’ The gifted, living soul lies not beneath that Eastern sod, All thou hast cherished liveth still, and calleth thee to God!”