Chapter 1

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INDIAN LEGENDS

AND

OTHER POEMS.

INDIAN LEGENDS

AND

Other Poems.

BY

MARY GARDINER HORSFORD.

NEW YORK: J. C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET.

BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO. CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY.

1855.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by MARY GARDINER HORSFORD, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

HOLMAN & GRAY, Printers and Stereotypers.

TO MY FATHER,

SAMUEL S. GARDINER, ESQ.,

This Volume is Inscribed,

AS A

SLIGHT TESTIMONIAL OF A DAUGHTER'S GRATITUDE

AND AFFECTION.

CONTENTS.

INDIAN LEGENDS.

PAGE THE THUNDERBOLT 11

THE PHANTOM BRIDE 16

THE LAUGHING WATER 23

THE LAST OF THE RED MEN 27

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE PILGRIM'S FAST 36

PLEURS 40

THE LEGEND OF THE IRON CROSS 46

MY NATIVE ISLE 53

THE LOST PLEIAD 57

THE VESPER CHIME 60

THE MANIAC 68

THE VOICE OF THE DEAD 72

"A DREAM THAT WAS NOT ALL A DREAM" 75

THE JUDGMENT OF THE DEAD 78

THE HIGHLAND GIRL'S LAMENT 82

TO MY SISTER ON HER BIRTHDAY 89

THE POET'S LESSON 92

MADELINE.--A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK 95

THE DEFORMED ARTIST 104

THE CHILD'S APPEAL 110

THE DYING YEAR 115

SONG OF THE NEW YEAR 119

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY 123

THE FALL OF JERUSALEM 126

THE FIRST LOOK 132

THE DAUGHTER OF JEPHTHAH AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 135

MONA LISA 141

SPRING LILIES 145

LINES TO D. G. T., OF SHERWOOD 149

LITTLE KATE 152

A THOUGHT OF THE STARS 155

A MOTHER'S PRAYER 160

NOTES 165

INDIAN LEGENDS.

THE THUNDERBOLT.

There is an artless tradition among the Indians, related by Irving, of a warrior who saw the thunderbolt lying upon the ground, with a beautifully wrought moccasin on each side of it. Thinking he had found a prize, he put on the moccasins, but they bore him away to the land of spirits, whence he never returned.

Loud pealed the thunder From arsenal high, Bright flashed the lightning Athwart the broad sky; Fast o'er the prairie, Through torrent and shade, Sought the red hunter His hut in the glade.

Deep roared the cannon Whose forge is the sun, And red was the chain The thunderbolt spun; O'er the thick wild wood There quivered a line, Low 'mid the green leaves Lay hunter and pine.

Clear was the sunshine, The hurricane past, And fair flowers smiled in The path of the blast; While in the forest Lay rent the huge tree, Up rose the red man, All unharmed and free.

Bright glittered each leaf With sunlight and spray, And close at his feet The thunder-bolt lay, And moccasins, wrought With the beads that shine, Where the rainbow hangeth A wampum divine.

Wondered the hunter What spirit was there, Then donned the strange gift With shout and with prayer; But the stout forest That echoed the strain, Heard never the voice of That red man again.

Up o'er the mountain, As torrents roll down, Marched he o'er dark oak And pine's soaring crown; Far in the bright west The sunset grew clear, Crimson and golden The hunting-grounds near:

Light trod the chieftain The tapestried plain, There stood his good horse He'd left with the slain; Gone were the sandals, And broken the spell; A drop of clear dew From either foot fell.

Long the dark maiden Sought, tearful and wide; Never the red man Came back for his bride; With the forked lightning Now hunts he the deer, Where the Great Spirit Smiles ever and near.

THE PHANTOM BRIDE.

During the Revolutionary war, a young American lady was murdered, while dressed in her bridal robe, by a party of Indians, sent by her betrothed to conduct her to the village where he was encamped. After the deed was done, they carried her long hair to her lover, who, urged by a frantic despair, hurried to the spot to assure himself of the truth of the tale, and shortly after threw himself, in battle, on the swords of his countrymen. After this event, the Indians were never successful in their warfare, the spectre of their victim presenting itself continually between them and the enemy.

The worn bird of Freedom had furled o'er our land The shattered wings, pierced by the despot's rude hand, And stout hearts were vowing, 'mid havoc and strife, To Liberty, fortune, fame, honor, and life.

The red light of Morning had scarcely betrayed The sweet summer blossoms that slept in the glade, When a horseman rode forth from his camp in the wood, And paused where a cottage in loneliness stood. The ruthless marauder preceded him there, For the green vines were torn from the trellis-work fair, The flowers in the garden all hoof-trodden lay, And the rafters were black with the smoke of the fray: But the desolate building he heeded not long, Was it echo, the wind, or the notes of a song? One moment for doubt, and he stood by the side Of the dark-eyed young maiden, his long-promised bride. Few and short were their words, for the camp of the foe Was but severed from them, by a stream's narrow flow, And her fair cheek grew pale at the forest bird's start, But he said, as he mounted his steed to depart, "Nay, fear not, but trust to the chief for thy guide, And the light of the morrow shall see thee my bride." Why faltered the words ere the sentence was o'er? Why trembled each heart like the surf on the shore? In a marvellous legend of old it is said, That the cross where the Holy One suffered and bled Was built of the aspen, whose pale silver leaf, Has ever more quivered with horror and grief; And e'er since the hour, when thy pinion of light Was sullied in Eden, and doomed, through a night Of Sin and of Sorrow, to struggle above, Hast thou been a trembler, O beautiful Love!

'T was the deep hush of midnight; the stars from the sky Looked down with the glance of a seraph's bright eye, When it cleaveth in vision from Deity's shrine Through infinite space and creation divine, As the maiden came forth for her bridal arrayed, And was led by the red men through forest and shade, Till they paused where a fountain gushed clear in its play, And the tall pines rose dark and sublime o'er their way. Alas for the visions that, joyous and pure, Wove a vista of light through the Future's obscure! Contention waxed fierce 'neath the evergreen boughs, And the braves of the chieftain were false to his vows; In vain knelt the Pale-Face to merciless wrath, The tomahawk gleamed on her desolate path, One prayer for her lover, one look towards the sky, And the dark hand of Death closed the love-speaking eye.

They covered with dry leaves the cold corpse and fair, And bore the long tresses of soft, golden hair, In silence and fear, through the dense forest wide, To the home that the lover had made for his bride. He knew by their waving those tresses of gold, Now damp with the life-blood that darkened each fold, And, mounting his steed, pausing never for breath Sought the spot where the huge trees stood sentries of Death; Tore wildly the leaves from the loved form away, And kissed the pale lips of inanimate clay.

But hark! through the green wood what sounded afar, 'T was the trumpet's loud peal--the alarum of war! Again on his charger, through forest, o'er plain, The soldier rode swift to his ranks 'mid the slain: They faltered, they wavered, half turning to fly As their leader dashed frantic and fearlessly by, The damp turf grew crimson wherever he trod, Where his sword was uplifted a soul went to God. But that brave arm alone might not conquer in strife, The madness of grief was conflicting with Life; His steed fell beneath him, the death-shot whizzed by, And he rushed on the swords of the victors to die.

'Neath the murmuring pine trees they laid side by side, The gallant young soldier, the fair, murdered bride: And never again from that traitorous night, The red man dared stand in the battle's fierce storm, For ever before him a phantom of light, Rose up in the white maiden's beautiful form; And when he would rush on the foe from his lair, Those locks of pale gold floated past on the air.

THE LAUGHING WATER.

The Indian name for the Falls of St. Anthony signifies "Laughing Water," and here tradition says that a young woman of the Dahcotah tribe, the father of her children having taken another wife, unmoored her canoe above the fall, and placing herself and children in it, sang her death-song as she went over the foaming declivity.

The sun went down the west As a warrior to his grave, And touched with crimson hue The "Laughing Water's" wave; And where the current swept A quick, convulsive flood, Serene upon the brink An Indian mother stood.

With calm and serious gaze She watched the torrent blue And then with skilful hand Unmoored the birch canoe, Seized the light oar, and placed Her infants by her side, And steered the fragile bark On through the rushing tide.

Then fitfully and wild In thrilling notes of woe Swept down the rapid stream The death-song sad and low; And gathered on the marge, From many a forest glen, With frantic gestures rude, The red Dahcotah men. But onward sped the bark Until it reached the height, Where mounts the angry spray And raves the water's might And whirling eddies swept Into the gulf below The smiles of infancy And youth's maturer glow; The priestess of the rock And white-robed surges bore The wronged and broken heart To the far off Spirit Shore.

And often when the night Has drawn her shadowy veil, And solemn stars look forth Serenely pure and pale, A spectre bark and form May still be seen to glide, In wondrous silence down The Laughing Water's tide. And mingling with the breath Of low winds sweeping free, The night-bird's fitful plaint, And moaning forest tree, Amid the lulling chime Of waters falling there, The death-song floats again Upon the laden air.

THE LAST OF THE RED MEN.

Travellers in Mexico have found the form of a serpent invariably pictured over the doorways of the Indian Temples, and on the interior walls, the impression of a red hand.

The superstitions attached to the phenomena of the thunderstorm and Aurora Borealis, alluded to in the poem, are well authenticated.

I saw him in vision,--the last of that race Who were destined to vanish before the Pale-face, As the dews of the evening from mountain and dale, When the thirsty young Morning withdraws her dark veil; Alone with the Past and the Future's chill breath, Like a soul that has entered the valley of Death.

He stood where of old from the Fane of the Sun, While cycles unnumbered their centuries run, Never quenched, never fading, and mocking at Time, Blazed the fire sacerdotal far o'er the fair clime; Where the temples o'ershadowed the Mexican plain, And the hosts of the Aztec were conquered and slain; Where the Red Hand still glows on pilaster and wall, And the serpent keeps watch o'er the desolate hall.

He stood as an oak, on the bleak mountainside, The lightning hath withered and scorched in its pride Most stately in death, and refusing to bend To the blast that ere long must its dry branches rend; With coldness and courage confronting Life's care, But the coldness, the courage, that's born of despair.

I marked him where, winding through harvest-crowned plain, The "Father of Waters" sweeps on to the main, Where the dark mounds in silence and loneliness stand, And the wrecks of the Red-man are strewn o'er the land: The forests were levelled that once were his home, O'er the fields of his sires glittered steeple and dome; The chieftain no longer in greenwood and glade With trophies of fame wooed the dusky-haired maid, And the voice of the hunter had died on the air With the victor's defiance and captive's low prayer; But the winds and the waves and the firmament's scroll, With Divinity still were instinct to his soul; At midnight the war-horse still cleaved the blue sky, As it bore the departed to mansions on high; Still dwelt in the rock and the shell and the tide A tutelar angel, invisible guide; Still heard he the tread of the Deity nigh, When the lightning's wild pinion gleamed bright on the eye, And saw in the Northern-lights, flashing and red, The shades of his fathers, the dance of the dead. And scorning the works and abode of his foe, The pilgrim raised far from that valley of woe His dark, eagle gaze, to the sun-gilded west, Where the fair "Land of Shadows" lay viewless and blest.

Again I beheld him where swift on its way Leaped the cataract, foaming, with thunder and spray, To the whirlpool below from the dark ledge on high, While the mist from its waters commixed with the sky. The dense earth thrilled deep to the voice of its roar, And the "Thunder of Waters" shook forest and shore, As he steered his frail bark to the horrible verge, And, chanting his death-song, went down with the surge.

"On, on, mighty Spirit! I welcome thy spray As the prairie-bound hunter The dawning of day; No shackles have bound thee, No tyrant imprest The mark of the Pale face On torrent and crest.

"His banners are waving O'er hill-top and plain, The stripes of oppression Blood-red with our slain; The stars of his glory And greatness and fame, The signs of our weakness, The signs of our shame.

"The hatchet is broken, The bow is unstrung; The bell peals afar Where the war-whoop once rung: The council-fires burn But in thoughts of the Past, And their ashes are strewn To the merciless blast.

"But though we have perished As leaves when they fall, Unhonored with trophies, Unmarked by a pall, When our names have gone out Like a flame on the wave, The Pale race shall weep 'Neath the curse of our brave.

"On, on, mighty Spirit! Unchecked in thy way; I smile on thine anger, And sport with thy spray; The soul that has wrestled With Life's darkest form, Shall baffle thy madness And pass in the storm."

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE PILGRIMS' FAST.

The historical incident related in this poem is recorded in Cheever's "JOURNAL OF THE PILGRIMS."

'T was early morn, the low night-wind Had fled the sun's fierce ray, And sluggishly the leaden waves Rolled over Plymouth Bay.

No mist was on the mountain-top, No dew-drop in the vale; The thirsting Summer flowers had died Ere chilled by Autumn's wail.

The giant woods with yellow leaves The blighted turf had paved, And o'er the brown and arid fields No golden harvest waved;

But calm and blue the cloudless sky Arched over earth and sea, As in their humble house of prayer, The Pilgrims bowed the knee.

There gray-haired ministers of God In supplication bent, And artless words from childhood's lips Sought the Omnipotent.

There woman's lip and cheek grew pale As on the broad day stole; And manhood's polished brow was damp With fervency of soul.

The sultry noon-tide came and went With steady, fervid glare; "O God, our God, be merciful!" Was still the Pilgrims' prayer.

They prayed as erst Elijah prayed Before the sons of Baal, When on the waiting sacrifice He called the fiery hail:

They prayed as once the prophet prayed On Carmel's summit high, When the little cloud rose from the sea And blackened all the sky.

And when around that spireless church The shades of evening fell, The customary song went up With clear and rapturous swell:

And while each heart was thrilling with The chant of Faith sublime, The rude, brown rafters of the roof Rang with a joyous chime.

The rain! the rain! the blessed rain! It watered field and height, And filled the fevered atmosphere, With vapor soft and white.

Oh! when that Pilgrim band came forth And pressed the humid sod, Shone not each face as Moses' shone When "face to face" with God?

PLEURS.

The town of Pleurs, situated among the Alps and containing about two thousand five hundred inhabitants, was overwhelmed in 1618 by the falling of Mount Conto. The avalanche occurred in the night, and no trace of the village or any of its inhabitants could ever after be discovered.

'T was eve; and Mount Conto Reflected in night The sunbeams that fled With the monarch of light; As great souls and noble Reflect evermore The sunshine that gleams From Eternity's shore.

A slight crimson veil Robed the snow-wreath on high, The shadow an angel In passing threw by; And city and valley, In mantle of gray, Seemed bowed like a mourner In silence to pray.

And the sweet vesper bell, With a clear, measured chime, Like the falling of minutes In the hour-glass of Time, From mountain to mountain Was echoed afar, Till it died in the distance As light in a star.

The young peasant mother Had cradled to rest The infant that carolled In peace on her breast; The laborer, ere seeking His couch of repose, Told his beads in the shade of A fortress of snows.

Up the cloudless serene Moved the silver-sphered Night; The reveller's palace Was flooded with light; And the cadence of music, The dancer's gay song, In harmony wondrous, Went up, 'mid the throng.

The criminal counted, With visage of woe, The chiming of hours That were left him below; And the watcher so pale, In the chamber of Death, Bent over the dying With quick, stifled breath.

The watchman the midnight Had told with shrill cry, When through the deep silence What sounded on high, With a terrible roar, Like the thunders sublime, Whose voices shall herald The passing of Time?

On came the destroyer;-- One crash and one thrill-- Each pulse in that city For ever stood still. The blue arch with glory Was mantled by day, When the traveller passed On his perilous way;--

Lake, valley, and forest In sunshine were clear, But when of that village, In wonder and fear, He questioned the landscape With terror-struck eye, The mountains in majesty Pointed on high!

The strong arm of Love Struggled down through the mould; The miner dug deep For the jewels and gold; And workmen delved ages That sepulchre o'er, But found of the city A trace never more.

And now, on the height Of that fathomless tomb, The fair Alpine flowers In loveliness bloom; And the water-falls chant, Through their minster of snow, A mass for the spirits That slumber below.

THE LEGEND OF THE IRON CROSS.

"There dwelt a nun in Dryburgh bower Who ne'er beheld the day."

Twilight o'er the East is stealing, And the sun is in the vale: 'T is a fitting moment, stranger, To relate a wondrous tale.

'Neath this moss-grown rock and hoary We will pause awhile to rest; See, the drowsy surf no longer Beats against its aged breast.

Years ago, traditions tell us, When rebellion stirred the land, And the fiery cross was carried O'er the hills from band to band,--

And the yeoman at its summons Left his yet unfurrowed field, And the leader from his fortress Sallied forth with sword and shield,--

Where the iron cross is standing On yon rude and crumbling wall, Dwelt a chieftain's orphan daughter, In her broad ancestral hall.

And her faith to one was plighted, Lord of fief and domain wide, Who, ere he went forth undaunted War's disastrous strife to bide,

'Mid his armed and mounted vassals Paused before her castle gate, While she waved a last adieu From the battlements in state.

But when nodding plume and banner Faded from her straining sight, And the mists from o'er the mountains Crept like phantoms with the night,--

Low before the sacred altar At the crucifix she bowed, And, with fervent supplication To the Holy Mother, vowed

That, till he returned from battle, Scotland's hills and passes o'er, Saved by her divine protection, She would see the sun no more!

In a low and vaulted chapel, Where no sunbeam entrance found, Many a day was passed in penance, Kneeling on the cold, damp ground.

Autumn blanched the flowers of Summer, And the forest robes grew sere; Still in darkness knelt the maiden, Pleading, "Mary! Mother! hear!"

Cold blasts through the valleys hurried, Dry leaves fluttered on the gale; But of him, the loved and absent, Leaf and tempest told no tale.

Still and pale, a dreamless slumber Slept he on the battle-plain,-- Steed beneath and vassal o'er him,-- Lost amid the hosts of slain.

Spring, with tranquil breath and fragrant, Called the primrose from its grave, Woke the low peal of the harebell, Bade the purple heather wave;--

Lilies to the warm light opened, Surges, sparkling, kissed the shore; But the chieftain's orphan daughter Saw the sunbeam--never more!