Part 8

“As she lifted her head at the sound of foot steps, the golden curls swept back from her face, and as she looked upon her father her eye filled with tears; and there was something in it that made the heart of Simon Gray tremble. Mary sprang to his arms and clinging round his neck, wept; for she thought it was almost wrong to seek another parent when she already had one who loved her so very tenderly. But at the sound of William’s footsteps on the stairs, she kissed her father, and, wiping away her tears, was all bloom and hope again; and William could not help pausing to look at her, ere he bounded to the saddle; and he thought she had never been so beautiful before. But Mary trembled so she could not spring up behind him as usual; her father was obliged to lift her; and when he felt how she trembled, he feared she was ill, and asked her to stay at home and not go to the meeting; but Mary assured him she was perfectly well; so the kind-hearted man could make no other objection, and they rode off.

“They arrived at the meeting-house before any others; and as the people began to gather to the house, Mary trembled so she could hardly keep her seat.

“One after another came in—one after another was examined; but poor Mary could not think any one of them was her mother. At last a lady came and sat nearly opposite Mary. The child’s heart bounded; she saw the same dark hair and eye—the same white brow—but, O! it had no scar!—and tears of disappointment filled her eyes. Another came; she was tall and graceful; she had dark hair and eyes, and a very fair brow. ‘That is the one! That is my mother!’ thought Mary, and she was just going to throw herself into her arms and call her mother, when the lady—who probably thought Mary very rude for staring at her so fixedly—turned quickly away with such an angry expression of countenance, that the child could hardly restrain her tears; and then the idea that the lady might be her mother, made her tremble. Others came, and were, in turn, examined; but not one of them could be compared with the picture she held in her hand—the description given by Namoina—or the image in the heart of Mary. The poor child was doomed to be disappointed; and she sat down, and leaned her head upon her hands, and thought she would never hope again.

“A low murmur, as of one in prayer, reached her ear. She lifted her eyes, almost unwillingly, and on the opposite side of the room, she saw a lady in deep mourning, kneeling before one of the rough benches, in prayer. The garb of outward grief was an unwonted sight there, and every eye was turned upon her. Yet there was a kindly expression in every face, for the people, although their own simple creed and rigid habits forbade the use of a peculiar garment as a sign of wo, could not help respecting the piety of the stranger. Mary’s heart beat wildly at the first glance, and she turned very pale, and then again her face was flushed with the fever of excited feelings. After kneeling a short time, the stranger slowly rose, and turned round upon the little assembly with a melancholy, listless air. As she did so her face turned full in Mary’s view; it was pale, and tender, and sorrowful. The child became, at once, convinced that her search was ended; in that one glance she had seen all; the tall and graceful form—the dark glossy hair—the fair, pale brow—the scar—the resemblance to the picture—all that she sought was there. She forgot every thing but that she had found her long-lost parent; she flew along the narrow aisle, and when she reached the lady just whispered, ‘Mother!’ and fell into her arms. The child had fainted.

“The strange lady seemed as much overcome as Mary. She held her closely embraced in her arms, and gazed eagerly upon her pallid features. It chanced at this moment that the miniature fell from Mary’s bosom, and the medal on which was engraved her name. The stranger looked upon them and uttered a faint scream; then she clasped the child close to her heart; and when Mary opened her blue eyes and smiled upon her, she cried out, ‘I know thee now, my daughter!—my own beloved daughter!’

“The whole congregation had gathered round with wondering looks and curious faces; and even the good minister himself, instead of going to his desk, mingled with the crowd, and seemed to enter into the spirit of the scene.

“There was one powerfully interested; William had followed Mary from her seat, wondering at her strange behavior; but from the moment when he saw that she had found her own mother, he stood with his arms folded upon his breast, the only silent one among the crowd.

“Simon Gray was immediately sent for, and it was established, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Mary had indeed found a mother, and Mrs. Wallace a long-lost daughter; and the minister offered up a solemn public thanksgiving to God for their re-union.”

The children thanked their grandmother for telling them such a very interesting story, and little Helen danced with joy, she was so glad that Mary had found her mother.

“I have one more wish to be gratified, grandmother,” said George Gray; “I should like to go to Quinsniket and see the place where Philip and his followers were sheltered, and where Namoina died.”

“Your wish shall be indulged, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Gray. “When the spring opens, I will take you all to pass a few weeks in the country, and we will go to Quinsniket. You will find many traces of the Indians still existing, in the names of different localities, and in the recollections of the ancient inhabitants. The field where they planted their corn, still called Indian oldfield, is to be seen a short distance from Quinsniket; and the rock itself, so intimately connected with the history of a fallen but once mighty race, still remains, as it were, a monument to designate their grave. The spot where poor Namoina was buried, is now within the limits of a little town. Her hut was afterward rebuilt by a few wandering remnants of her tribe, and some of the present inhabitants remember it. The hearth-stone is still to be seen; and over it waves a honey-locust tree, which a distinguished gentleman, since dead, planted to mark the spot where stood THE LAST WIGWAM.”

THE GENOESE EMIGRANT.

BY MISS E. M. ALLISON.

“It was the fatal pre-eminence of _Genoa_ to wind up the last act of Italy’s direful tragedy.”

LADY MORGAN.

The tremulous moon’s light silvery gleam, Plays over Genoa’s halls and bowers, Gilds with a bright translucid beam Her splendid domes and lofty towers. Sardinia’s banners waving high In pride of ancient rivalry, Tell to the world the wretched fate Of Genoa, and her fallen state; That she a proud republic host Once fair Italia’s pride and boast, Which stood a landmark by the sea To show the spot where all were free. By commerce rear’d, her sons a race Endow’d with wealth and martial grace, Oft Austria from her walls expell’d And long the daring French repell’d, Now to tyranny bow ‘Neath their deadliest foe; Yield their sceptre and land To a tyrant’s command, And though panting their dear cherish’d rights to regain, Unresistingly bend ’neath the yoke they disdain. Oh, Genoa, could none be found To deal thee such a deadly wound, To steal thy gem of brightest glow To deck a worthless despot’s brow, Supplant thy _cross_[15] and _golden crown_ That floated o’er thy ancient town; But those the generous arms embraced With hospitable welcome graced?

But whose is yon form on the lone beach side, Wrapt in his mantle that streams o’er the tide? Whose footsteps’ hurried sound, No measure seems to beat To aught that breathes around Pale midnight’s calm retreat. And see yon skiff on ocean wide, Its pendants on the light breeze streaming,

Dashing along the sparkling tide, A circle bright around it gleaming. Approaching gently to the shore Waits it to waft yon stranger o’er, To seek in some far distant clime A solitary home. Through foreign lands to roam And waste a joyless, sunless prime. A branch lopped from the native tree To wither where no eye may see And reck its fallen destiny. Genoa, to fly thy still-lov’d walls, That hold to him the spell-bound halls, Where dwelt his sires in days gone by The guardian friends of liberty; And where commingling now they lie Beneath thy soft cerulean sky. From every tie at once to sever, To fly from scenes by time endeared, Remembered joys to leave for ever That round his natal spot are twined. There bright ambition o’er him broke In strains of martial story, And first his ardent soul awoke From youth’s gay dreams to glory And bending from above ’Twas there immortal love, His golden sunbeams flung around him, And with his roseate fetters bound him; With yet one firmer look entwined To all, that must be now resigned.

The stranger watched a dark cloud hovering In the blue sky, And over Genoa’s walls it was lowering, Nor passed it by. And resting on the ether blue, It hid the pale moon from his view. He gazed—for deemed he in such skies So dense a vapor ne’er could rise, To sully the untainted light That hallows an Italian night.

His brow was motionless—and none could tell If sorrow there had been. And from his still-fixed eye no tear-drop fell To show of inward agony, Or aught that passed within His bosom’s sanctuary.

Once his eye glanced o’er the expanded sea, With such a look as mocks at misery; Who, as the poets tell, At midnight leaves her cell To sit the ocean rocks among, Re-echoing the owlets’ song. But soon again his glance is resting On those turrets lofty and gray Lit by a gleam of the moon’s ray. His sires might leave them to be breasting Their foreign foes, on earth or main; More glorious to return again: But he an alien from this shore, Must quit them to return no more. He could have fought for Genoa’s right, His soul blenched not in thickest fight— He could drench that arm deep in gore, But not quail ’neath a foeman’s power. He could have fought till latest gasp To free from an invader’s grasp His dear fraternity—his all— If but her cross were on that wall. That would have been a beacon light To light him on his foes in fight, Better than glare of torches bright. Shall he then own a tyrant’s chain? Let viler souls than his remain; But if he plough the watery wave Where shall he find a land of brave Hearts, bound to Liberty? No more; Such dreams are of an age that’s o’er; And men are wiser grown—and knaves, Choosing them quiet coward graves, Not glorious ones, upon the land Their fathers valor won and mann’d.

Liberty scorns with those to dwell Who love her name but passing well— Who hang it a boast on the lip for ever, A lip-drop warming the soul, oh! never— But ’mongst those, where her deep-cherished name Burns in a bright and hallowed flame, Who breathe it but forth in devotional sigh— Who know but to _love her, and have her, or die_! And now her pure white flag unfurled Is waving o’er a western world. And to that new-found world across the waves, In yon proud ship the gathering storm that braves, His onward course is steered. Yes! to that shore Beyond the Atlantic’s wide resounding roar His countryman[16] first traversed, and a name Carved on the ’scutcheon of immortal fame. What would he more? Let others reap the gain That springs from genius’s creative brain— ’Tis ever so:—while grief and toil must win The portals that to glory’s shrine let in. But there are toils that win no high renown; Griefs that the loftiest spirit can bow down: And such were his, who, standing by that prow, Felt the worst ills that fate on man can throw; But felt them as a man, resolved to bear, And snatch a brand to show what yet he dare If Heaven permit; if not, to seek a tomb, Columbia, in thy forest’s thickest gloom, Where none can brand him with his fathers’ fame, And say he ill deserves their glorious name. Ah! thought most true which all of grief contains, And owning most the spirit most disdains.

’Tis night—and musing on the deep he stands, The abstracted emigrant from other lands. His form majestic bending o’er the tide, Marks he impatiently how slow they glide O’er the unfathomed depth that lies below; Or doth but watch the sparkles as they glow Among the envious billows’ angry play, That foam and toss on high the beauteous ray: Not that the glories of the sea or sky Absorb the thoughts that in his bosom lie, Panting to burst from their sepulchral home In all the ghastliness of livid gloom. Why is his head uncovered to the air? As if the keenest wind came hotly there. Aye, even with the elemental wrath, His troubled spirit a communion hath. Then stalk before his view in mournful maze, Unburied phantoms of departed days; With withered hopes around them wildly flung, Like flowers to which no breath of odor clung; Nor hue of brightness—such as o’er the dead The gifts of fond affection vainly shed Become, ere the same morn that saw them bloom, hath fled.

So on him comes the memory of the past, In floating shadows thickly seen and fast, Their spectral forms in grim array Press on him as in battle-fray. And he resists them not with hostile force, As he would once turn back the assailants’ course In the hot tide of war—but vainly throws A weak retaliation on those foes Who urge a contest with the soul—and there Strike their keen shafts envenomed by despair. Now in a milder mood his light guitar Swells o’er the crested billows dashing far. Sweet is the voice of music and of song— But sweetest when it floats the ocean waves along

SONG.

“My loved guitar, send forth thy deepest gush Of mournful melody, in one farewell, Where all regretful tenderness may rush, And leave the spirit halcyon in its cell. Halls of my sires, that I no more shall view, Land of my home—a long—a last adieu!

“’Tis well! Better the eagle should go forth Than have his eyrie for a prison tower. There on the mountains of the stormy north More glad to soar, than in bright sunny bower With chain of silken fetters idly bound, Compell’d to wheel in measured circles round.

“My lov’d guitar, not this thy touching force Of soul-like cadence, that was wont to bring The crystal tear-drops from the heart’s deep source Of her, to whom it was my joy to sing; While o’er her brow the light of love would break, Beauteous as morning’s first encrimsoned streak!

Clari!—but I must let that name no more Sweep o’er these strings.—Maiden more fair Than any minstrel’s love in days of yore! And dearer, too!—but I must strive to tear That name from out my heart; where it so long Hath dwelt like odor, or the breath of song.

“Yet still one long—one passionate adieu As ’twere my soul sigh’d forth, to thee I send. Oh that it humbly at thy feet could sue For one last thought, that thou wouldst deign to bend On the lone exile from his land, and thee, Who ne’er may claim thee now—his bride to be.

“And thou! my native land—a last farewell! Farewell the grandeur of thy marble halls! Farewell the hope again with thee to dwell! Farewell the ambitious beat to glory’s calls! All! all adieu! My native land, no more These exiled feet shall press thy much lov’d shore!”

SONNET.

ON A SLEEPING INFANT.

Sleep’s dewy veil hath sealed thy curtained eyes, And lapped thine earliest cares in peaceful rest, Fair babe; yet soon all radiant shalt thou rise, Smiling new rapture to thy mother’s breast. Oh may no darker clouds obscure the skies Of thy bright promise—mayest thou never know The cold world, stripped from its deceitful guise Of hollow seeming and love’s empty show; Nor learn, with heart convulsed and passion-tost, That parents may forget, and friends grow chill, That health—home—fortune—country may be lost— That mortal idols are but mortal still; But slumber thus when earth’s last woes are o’er, Thus wake to light and life for evermore.

CHILD OF MY HEART.

Child of my heart! in sorrow’s hour, When all the ills of life are nigh, And suffering Nature has no power, To stay the pang, to still the sigh; When suns no longer deign to shine, And friends who came in early years, Desert the home and fly the shrine, Whose only offering then, is tears:

Thou shalt be nigh, in weal and wo, My love a balm shall ever be, And thou shalt teach the heart to know, Truth still abides with infancy The crowd that flies the broken heart, To thee shall no example prove; And thou, when all the rest depart, Shalt watch with hope, and bless with love.

MAY MORNING.

Thou art abroad betimes—the laughing wind Ruffling thy tresses, and with ardent kiss Heightening the rich carnation of thy cheek, And thy lip’s roseate grain! Away! away! To the fresh meadows—there thy neck of snow, And broad intelligent brow, with drops to lave Of clearest May-dew—so no envious stain, Freckle, nor sunburnt spot, shall mar the sheen Of that pure skin, which, exquisitely white, Glows with rich witness of the eloquent blood, That courses, in its thousand channels warm, Beneath the snowy surface. Morn is up, With all her matin worship—song of birds, And breath of spangled flowers! Then tarry not To cull the earliest benefits of May, Before the sun with scorching touch profane Have marred their virgin beauties. Life is brief— Too brief to loiter in the chamber’s gloom, When thou mayest greet the glorious morning’s pride In the bright vale, or on the mountain’s side!

MY FIRST BORN.

THE HOUR OF HER BIRTH.

Was’t not a cry of pleasure Burst from that shrouded room? God bless thee, mother of my first, Love’s pledge through joy and gloom; Long hours we looked to measure The rapture, now so free, That, like some stream, the rocks have burst; Restrained it cannot be. I may not speak my pleasure, The tears are in mine eye, And, like one long awake to thirst, I pant for liberty— Freedom to see my treasure, To hush its cries, and rest My infant daughter, yet unnursed Upon her father’s breast.

CONDY O’NEAL.

“Welcome to Wheatland!” cried I, one fine autumnal evening, seeing my old friend, Captain Evans, approaching my door. “You are a bad paymaster in the article of visits,” I continued, handing him an arm-chair. “Here have I been living fifteen years, visiting you half a dozen times a year, and receiving nothing but fruitless promises of a return for my civilities: but here you are at last, and right welcome to your ancient hall.”

“Aye, aye,” replied the Captain. “Every year, and every month, since leaving this, have I determined that you should have me for your guest; but, I know not how it happened, that each day seemed to bring forth a trouble, or an occupation, at least, sufficient for itself. But here I am at last; and, as Tom is at length out of the way, I mean to be at my ease here, and billet myself upon you for a month at the least.”

Captain Evans was a hardy old “revolutioner,” nearly seventy years of age, but hale and stout, and as active as most men of forty. The farm on which I resided had been the property of his father, and the Captain had passed the greater portion of his life upon it. Inheriting the farm upon the death of his father, the Captain continued to reside on it until the time of my purchasing it from him. His only daughter having been left a widow, with four sons, as yet young, he, at her request, sold the farm, and went to reside with her in another part of the country, devoting himself to the care of his grandchildren and the management of his daughter’s estate. Here I had frequently visited him, and received many an unfulfilled promise of a return in kind to my visits. He had at length taken the opportunity, when the youngest of his grandsons was sent to college, to pay me the long deferred visit.

On the morning following his arrival my guest was, according to his wont, astir very early, and before breakfast was announced we had rambled over the greater part of the farm; each well-remembered spot eliciting its anecdote from my communicative friend.

In the evening we again walked abroad; and, having followed the windings of the creek to its junction with the Schuylkill, we seated ourselves upon the mouldering trunk of a gigantic, fallen button-wood tree. The bank of the stream was here about twenty feet in height, and descended perpendicularly to the water, which was very deep. Toward the opposite side the water shoaled, and was bordered by a low, muddy shore.

“This,” said I, after a short pause in the conversation, “has been a magnificent tree.”

The Captain laughed, and said, rather suddenly, “Do you remember Condy O’Neal, a little Irishman, who formerly lived in this neighborhood?”

“I have but a faint recollection of the man; he has been dead many a year since.”

“This tree has recalled to my mind a droll adventure of Condy’s, in which the tree bore a part.