Part 4

There is a spell in woman’s eye When, injured Virtue’s cause defending, Her soul is roused to energy, Vigour with sweetness blending! Soft plumes that tremble in the air Have formed a breastplate strong to save, And woman’s heart will oft-times dare What might appal the brave! E’en the rude Indians feel the power Of courage equal to the hour, Catch virtues warm inspiring glow And more than mercy asked, bestow. Rise, Briton, rise, both safe and free, With life receive back liberty; Spring from the spot of sacrifice From which thou ne’er didst hope to rise; Or rather, once more prostrate fall To bless the God who saved from all!

Not long the dark-eyed maiden hears His grateful words of deep devotion, They part—to meet in future years Beyond the heaving ocean. “Go, stranger, to thy distant home,” Thus flowed her simple, wild farewell, “When thy pale tribes to greet thee come, Then of the Red man’s mercy tell! And when the round sun leaves the sky To light the Indian forests high, Say thou hast left a daughter there, And bid him here thy greetings bear! And oh! if e’er a Red man be Thy captive, then remember me; If weary-footed Indian pray For shelter, turn not thou away, But to my race a father be, As thou hast found a child in me!”

Sweet maid! she little dreamed how near The hour when she—a captive mourning— A Briton’s voice her grief would cheer, The White man’s debt returning; When Rolfe with tenderest care essayed The maiden’s flowing tears to dry, Until captivity he made More sweet than liberty! Amidst her grief, amidst her fear, Love’s melting tones first reached her ear, And oh! has life one dark distress That sweet voice cannot soothe or bless! It was as though the raging blast Had o’er some silent harp-strings past, And waked so soft, so wild a strain (As joy still owes its zest to pain), The spirit of the storm drew near, Closed his dark wings, and paused to hear!

And with Rolfe’s heart she learned to share His hopes, on heavenward pinion soaring, And with him knelt in humble prayer, The Christian’s God adoring. The sacred tie has made them one, That tie which death alone can part, Love’s circlet on her hand hath shone, Love’s torch within her heart; And she hath quitted that wild shore Her tearful eyes shall view no more, And, wafted by the western wind, Left all that once she loved behind. Honours in Albion’s isle attend The Indian bride, the captive’s friend; From royal lips[3] her praises sound, Her generous deed with fame is crowned. But precious to her soul, above All fame, her husband’s smile of love, Or Smith’s proud glance, when she would claim Once more a daughter’s cherished name.

But oh! how close the sacred ties That to our native country bind us, In foreign scenes the heart still sighs For dearer left behind us! She longed to see the waving woods, Her dark-haired sire, her Indian shore, Her spirit yearned to cross the floods And view her native soil once more. But ere the vessel left the strand, Sickness, with damp and heavy hand Stayed the fair wanderer, like a spell Unseen, but irresistible, For death in his pale bark had come To waft her to a brighter home. Brief was the passage, but how vast The space in those short seconds past! One moment Rolfe in wild distress Hung o’er her fading loveliness, Met her long dying gaze of love, Saw her pale lips in blessing move, The next—and her immortal soul Had crossed the floods, and reached the goal, And he was left to mourn its flight, Till death, that severed them, should reunite!

II. BLANCHE.

Life’s deep afflictions not alone demand Devout submission to th’ Almighty’s will, The flower nursed by dew, by breezes fanned, Yet may the slow-corroding canker kill, While all around it smiles, it fadeth still; Such is the thankless heart which—pleasure-cloyed— Turns from surrounding good to fancied ill, And forms within itself a cheerless void ’Mid blessings unacknowledged, pleasures unenjoyed.

Oh! deem ye not them sufferers alone Whom poverty consumes, or cares oppress, Who mourn o’er health departed, hopes o’erthrown, Or—severed from a parent’s fond caress— Find the world changed into a wilderness; As deep the desolation of a mind (With all to cheer it, and with all to bless) That, to its own self-fostered gloom resigned, Rejects the happiness God bade it seek and find.

My parents, faithful soldiers of the Cross, Had o’er successive offspring closed the tomb, And—ere my infant heart could know its loss— They too had sunk beneath the mortal doom,— My life, in sorrow passed, commenced in gloom. Yet friends were left; the patriarch of our line For my sake would a parent’s cares resume, And his mild consort, then in life’s decline, As she had watched my father’s youth would watch o’er mine.

With tenderness did they their charge fulfil, In the retirement of a peaceful spot; But ah! not theirs the strength to curb the will, To train Christ’s soldier for a trying lot. Offences gently chidden—and forgot, The wavering denial, weak delay, And threat—by punishment succeeded not, Marred in the morn the promise of the day, The Christian child’s first lesson should be to _obey_.

Cruel, misjudging tenderness! how soon The plant by weakness nursed bore fruit in woe! The branch which love with gentle hand might prune, Reserved to fall ’neath God’s chastising blow! Can they the toils of warfare undergo Whose childhood knows no wish ungratified? Oh! check the first advances of the foe, Stay at the source the quickly-swelling tide,— From reason’s dawn must thou for good or ill decide.

Time fleeted by,—I was a child no more, But with my growth, alas! the evil grew. I loved creation’s wonders to explore, But on the world within ne’er fixed my view. Eager the paths of science to pursue, By praise encouraged, and by pride impelled, The charmèd task each day would I renew, And, while my bosom with vainglory swelled, Measured myself by those I deemed that I excelled.

And was I happy? no, the unbridled mind May soar too freely through the fields of air, In its own liberty a bondage find; My spirits were not bound by earthly care, No loss had I to weep, no frowns to bear. My own enjoyment was my single aim, I sought it upon earth, nor found it there, Satiety and disappointment came,— “Oh, that I were a man to win the meed of fame!”

I longed for something lofty—undefined— A kindred soul to mingle with my own, A destiny more worthy of a mind Now amidst uncongenial spirits thrown. By friends surrounded—yet I stood alone: Self was the gilded idol I adored; Had I Christ’s strength and my own weakness known, Soon had that idol felt the gospel sword, Low levelled in the dust before my conquering Lord!

Yet was I ardent in religious cause, Impiety I scorned—denounced—despised; No warrior his holy weapon draws With zeal more fervent than I exercised When faithlessness in others I chastised; My spirit kindled at the martyr’s tale, There were my dreams of glory realized; Oh! where their faith prevailed would mine prevail, Could soul so ardent in the fiery trial fail?

I felt not then that in life’s loneliest way A glorious warfare may the Christian wage; Humbly to honour, meekly to obey, In charity’s mild duties to engage, And gently soothe the fretfulness of age,— Such is the sacred post to woman given; Home is her battle-field; the strife must rage Till sin and self are from their empire driven: Will not the victor rest with martyr-saints in heaven?

With weariness I viewed my rural life, Hid from a world in which I hoped to shine,— Better the press of care, the toil of strife, Than thus in an insipid calm to pine, Watching my aged guardian’s slow decline; Youth was, I deemed, the season for delight, E’en should its sorrows with its joys be mine, The deepest shadows mark the brightest light, Dim is the hour when both in one dull hue unite!

Sin may invite the soul; by discontent The wayward soul herself inviteth sin; I sought a trial—God the trial sent. One formed a colder heart than mine to win, Lighted the soul-consuming torch within: Montoro sought my hand, his lips revealed His love; I felt another life begin,— To fervent love must self his empire yield,— No, for that love itself was selfishness concealed!

What though Montoro’s highborn parents frowned Upon his union with a lowly maid; Though upon means already slender found, A second burden thus would now be laid,— Although with darkened sight, and strength decayed, My widowed grandsire claimed a daughter’s care,— What was it to a soul by passion swayed? His lonely dwelling now must strangers share, No daughter’s voice to raise the hymn, or join the prayer.

’Twas on a summer morn I left my home, Buoyant with hope and long-sought happiness, Yet did a feeling of misgiving come When, folded in the old man’s last caress, He in his trembling accents strove to bless The child who left him lonely, aged, and blind E’en then my bosom would the thought oppress, “Deserter from the post by God assigned, Wilt thou again on earth a love so faithful find?”

’Twas but a transitory thought; my soul Exulted in an earthly paradise; Impetuous hope had reached its wished-for goal, And I could bear to see the tear-drops rise Within those dear and venerable eyes, Could joyous from my childhood’s home depart; For him I loved too great no sacrifice, Care had no weight, and poverty no smart; He was the treasure of my soul, the idol of my heart!

Time roused me slowly from my golden dream, Love, born in smiles, survived to mourn in tears; Earth’s brightest blessings are not what they seem; Beneath the sober influence of years Fancy’s gay blossoms fade, and truth appears. When word or frown impatient care betrayed, My wounded soul could not disguise her fears That now my lord with colder feelings weighed And felt the sacrifice which blinded love had made.

And what I felt I spoke; my untamed soul The task of patient love had yet to learn, Each word, each look, each feeling to control, Harshness with meek submission to return, By charms more lasting, love more lasting earn, This to my spirit was a task unknown; My lip would quiver, and my cheek would burn, By glance reproachful and upbraiding tone I marred Montoro’s happiness—and crushed my own.

Hardships and cares, by eager love defied, Heavy upon my weary spirit pressed,— The struggle between poverty and pride,— Ill could my temper bear the bitter test, Exhausted hope could find no place of rest; I, for the love of one, had all resigned, And now my heart in bitterness confessed, Though faithful love might yet remain behind, It was no more the light of joy, the sunbeam of the mind.

Yet I content, nay, happy might have proved, Could I have meekly stooped the yoke to bear, Nor sought perfection in the man I loved; But I had hoped a heaven on earth to share,— Too ardent hope rebounds into despair. When pride or passion fix the nuptial chain, Time must the gilding from the fetters wear,— Love’s golden links alone unchanged remain, Hallowed by faith, to be renewed in Heaven again.

I now approach the crisis of my woes. One, known in early life, again I met;— With proud disdain I had regarded those Who—low by birth, by nature lower—yet Their upstart confidence in riches set; And could I calmly Agnes now behold Her brow encircled with a coronet, Endure her haughty smile, her greeting cold, Who owed her triumph solely to the power of gold?

I felt the press of poverty, and she Had only to desire—and to possess; Yet why should sight of her prosperity Add to my cup one drop of bitterness? Her luxuries made not my comforts less. I know it now, though my deluded heart Would then have scorned its weakness to confess; Envy had fixed within his venomed dart, And love had no sweet balm to heal the wounded part.

Hate’s ready weapon, ridicule, I sought, The lightest word may give the deepest wound,— Montoro’s sparkling wit the impulse caught, His jests, by malice circulated round, Too soon a fatal destination found. Words are but breath, but breath may kindle flame Destined to level cities with the ground! My God, from Thy dread wrath the judgment came, But oh! my guilt, my wretchedness were still the same!

A fatal sword hung o’er my head unknown, Yawned at my feet a precipice unseen! One morn Montoro had gone forth alone, Methought there was a sadness in his mien, And tender had his words at parting been; A long fond kiss upon our babe he prest, Still in her cradle slumbering serene; The tide of love gushed warmer in my breast, His glance recalled the hours when first that love was blest.

Thrice the accumulating mound of sand Marked in my glass the hours that passed away, I turned it listlessly with weary hand, And marvelled at Montoro’s long delay: Heavy with mist and rain advanced the day; My babe awoke and wept, her cry of fear I strove to soothe with melancholy lay, And bore her, sobbing, to the casement near, And bade her infant accents call her father dear.

Upon the dreary prospect forth I gazed; Poured from the lowering sky incessant rain, The trees their dark and dripping branches raised, Reflected dimly on the flooded plain, Trickled the raindrops down the misty pane; The wind in sudden gusts our dwelling shook, Then sank, in mournful murmurs to complain; With heavy heart the casement I forsook, While to my early home her flight sad memory took.

“Where is the happiness I thought to find When forth I went, a young rejoicing bride? Springs grief from earthly trials, or a mind For ever restless and dissatisfied? Montoro’s love outweighed the world beside,— Is it his wife’s misfortune or her sin That petty cares so oft our hearts divide? Oh, that another era might begin, And life’s storms but enhance the holy peace within!

“My childhood’s friend I in his age forsook,— The old man sleeps beneath the grassy sod! To frown of care is changed the joyous look With which Montoro once life’s garden trod; God gave me life,—I have not lived to God! My threefold duties I neglected see,— Great God! suspend awhile thy chastening rod! Oh, come, my husband, life henceforth shall be Devoted unto piety and thee!”

He came—but oh! _how_ did Montoro come? Why did I live to look on his return? Bleeding and pale they bore him to his home. Life glimmered faintly,—I had yet to learn The hopeless grief that must for ever burn Within the widow’s desolated breast: Enough—mine eyes have seen Montoro’s urn; One tie is left—one treasure still possest,— The shadow of despair is cast on all the rest!

There is no wretchedness where sin is not,— Religion may relieve the darkest woes, All—save remorse—be softened or forgot— But where can she—the guilty—find repose, Whose anguish from her own transgression flows? _My_ pride—_my_ envy bade Montoro die, His life embittered, stained with blood its close! Aye, weep ye who _can_ weep—but I—but I My heart weeps tears of blood, and yet mine eyes are dry!

III. PRIDE.

Proud—and of what! poor vain and helpless worm Crawling in weakness through thy life’s brief term, Yet filled with thoughts presumptuous, bold, and high, As though thy grovelling soul could scan the sky, As though thy wisdom, which can not foreshow What _one_ day brings of coming weal or woe, Could pierce the depths of far futurity, And all the wingèd shafts of fate defy!

Art proud of riches? of the glittering dust Each day _may_ rob thee of, and one day _must_, When mines of wealth will purchase no delay, When dust to dust must turn, and clay to clay, And nought remain to thee of all possest, Save one dark cell in earth’s unconscious breast! Or proud of power? on this little ball Some petty tract may thee its master call, Some fellow-mortals, bending lowly down, Bask in thy smile, or tremble at thy frown; Great in the world’s eyes, in thine own how great, How swells thy breast with conscious pride elate!

And art thou great? lift up—lift up thine eyes, Survey the heavens, gaze into the skies,— View the fair worlds that glitter o’er thy head, Orb above orb in bright succession spread, Beyond the reach of sight, the power of thought,— Then turn thy gaze to earth, and thou art—_nought_; The globe itself a speck—an atom thou! Oh, child of dust, shall pride exalt thee now? In one thing only thou mayst glory still, And let exulting joy thy bosom fill,— Glory in this—and what is all beside,— That for this worm—this atom—Christ hath died!

Does conscious genius fire thy haughty mind, Genius, that raises man above his kind, The lofty soul that soars on wing of fire, While crowds at distance marvel and admire? Oh! while the charmed world pays her homage just, Remember _every talent is a trust_, A treasure God doth to thy care confide, A cause for gratitude, but none for pride. If thou that precious talent misapply, To spread the flood of infidelity, To strew with flowers the paths which sinners tread, To hide one treacherous snare by Satan spread,— How blest, how great, compared to thee, the man Whose life obscurely ends as it began, To whose meek soul no knowledge ere was given Save that—of all most high—that lifts the soul to Heaven. For, as the sun’s pure radiance, streaming bright, Transcends the glow-worm’s dim and fading light, The wisdom to that man vouchsafed from high Excells the earth-born fires that flash—and die!

Oh! where shall pride securely harbour then, Where urge his claims to rule the minds of men? Blest Eden knew him not,—where all was fair, Where all was faultless,—pride abode not there. The glorious angels are above his sway, Their bliss to minister—to serve—obey; We—only we—poor children of a day, Tread haughtily the ground for our sakes curst, And wear with pride the chains our Surety burst!

Would that the world could know and truly prize That which is great in the Creator’s eyes! The poor man, bending o’er his scanty store, Who, with God’s presence blest, desires no more; Who feels his sins, his weakness, though his ways Be just and pure beyond all _human_ praise; Whose humble thoughts well with his prayer accord, “Have mercy upon me, a sinner, Lord!” Who, heir of an eternal, heavenly throne, Rests all his hopes on Christ, and Christ _alone_! Wisest of men—for he alone is wise; Richest of men—secure his treasure lies; Greatest of men—his mansion is on high; His Father—God; his portion—immortality!

IV. A DREAM OF THE SECOND ADVENT.

I dreamed that in the stilly hush of night— Deep midnight—I was startled from my sleep By a clear sound as of a trumpet! Loud It swelled, and louder, thrilling every nerve, Making the heart beat wildly, strangely, till All other senses seemed in hearing lost. Up from my couch I sprang in trembling haste, Cast on my garments, wondering to behold Through half-closed shutters sudden radiance gleam, More clear, more vivid than the glare of day! What marvel, then, that with a breathless hope That gave me wings, forth from my home I rushed, Though heaved the earth as if instinct with life, Its very dust awakening! Can it be— Is this the call, “Behold the Bridegroom comes!” Comes He, the long-expected—long-desired? Crowds thronged the street, with every face upturned, Gazing into the sky—the flaming sky— Where every cloud was like a throne of light. None could look back, not even to behold If those beloved were nigh; one thrilling thought Rapt all the multitude—“Can He be near!”

Then cries of terror rose—I scarcely heard; And buildings shook, and rocked, and crashing fell— I scarcely marked their fall; the trembling ground Rose like the billowy sea—I scarcely felt The motion, such intensity of hope— Joy—expectation—flooded all my soul, A tide of living light, o’erwhelming all The hopes and fears, the cares and woes of earth! Could any doubt remain? Lo! from afar A sound of “Hallelujah!” ne’er before Had mortal ear drunk in such heavenly strain, Save when on Bethlehem’s plain the shepherds heard The music of the skies! Behold! behold! Like white-winged angels rise the radiant throng That from yon cemetery’s gloomy verge Have burst, immortal—glorious—undefiled! Bright as the sun their crowns celestial shine, Yet I behold them with undazzled eye! Oh! that yon glittering canopy of light Would burst asunder, that I might behold Him whom so long, not seeing, I have loved! It parted—lo! it opened—as I stood With clasped hands stretched towards heav’n, my eager gaze Fixed on the widening glory! Suddenly, As if the burden of the flesh no more Could fetter down the aspiring soul to earth, As if the fleshly nature were consumed— Lost in the glowing ecstasy of love— I soared aloft, I mounted through the air Free as a spirit, rose to meet my Lord With such a cry of rapture—that I woke!

Oh! misery, to wake in darkness, wake From vision of unutterable joy, Instead of trumpet-sound and song of heaven, To hear the dull clock measuring out time, When I had seemed to touch eternity! In the first pang of disappointed hope, I wept that I could wake from such a dream. Until Faith gently whispered, “Wherefore weep To lose the faint dim shadow of a joy Of which the substance shall one day be thine? Live in the hope,—that hope shall brighten life And sanctify it to its highest end.”

Fast roll the chariot wheels of time. He comes! The Spirit and the Bride expectant wait,— Even so come, Lord Jesus! Saviour—come!

Footnotes

[1]The expression used by one who now rests in Christ.

[2]Captain Smith, the captive here mentioned, twice diverted the Indians from their murderous intentions, by drawing their attention to the marvels of the needle.

[3]Pocahontas was presented to James I.

Index to First Lines.

HYMNS. A Page After labour sweet is rest 34 A helpless sinner in Thy sight 39 A holy warfare, Lord, is mine 79 An angel of comfort from heaven sped 18 At the foot of the Cross where my Saviour is bleeding 102

B Before the morning’s toil begin 49

D Day after day my weary task I ply 51 Death is not dreadful, no! 106

E Earth’s bright hopes must fade 31 Ere our first parents fell, the ground 67