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Canto I.


“Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed,
The sultry hour of noon is near,
Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need,
Stay, then, and, taste its sweetness here.
The mountain path which thou hast sped
Is steep, and difficult to tread,
And many a farther step ’twill cost,
Ere thou wilt find another host;
But if thou scorn’st not humble fare,
Such as the pilgrim loves to share,
Not luxury’s enfeebling spoil,
But bread secured by patient toil
Then lend thine ear to my request,
And be the old man’s welcome guest.
Thou seest yon aged willow tree,
In all its summer pomp arrayed,
’Tis near, wend thither, then, with me,
My cot is built beneath its shade;
And from its roots clear waters burst
To cool thy lip, and quench thy thirst:
I love it, and if harm should, come
To it, I think that I should weep;
’Tis as a guardian of my home,
So faithfully it seems to keep
Its watch above the spot where I
Have lived so long, and mean to die.
Come, pardon me for prating thus,
But age, you know, is garrulous;
And in life’s dim decline, we hold
Thrice dear whate’er we loved of old,
The stream upon whose banks we played,
The forest through whose shades we strayed,
The spot to which from sober truth
We stole to dream the dreams of youth,
The single star of all Night’s zone,
Which we have chosen as our own,
Each has its haunting memory
Of things which never more may be.”


Thus spake an aged man to one
Who manhood’s race had just begun.
His form of manhood’s noblest length
Was strung with manhood’s stoutest strength,
And burned within his eagle eye
The blaze of tameless energy
Not tameless but untamed for life
Soon breaks the spirit with its strife
And they who in their souls have nursed
The brightest visions, are the first
To learn how Disappointment’s blight
Strips life of its illusive light;
How dreams the heart has dearest held
Are ever first to be dispelled;
How hope, and power, and love, and fame,
Are each an idly sounding name,
A phantom, a deceit, a wile,
That woos and dazzles to beguile.
But time had not yet tutored him,
The youth of hardy heart and limb,
Who quickly drew his courser’s bit;
For though too haughty to submit,
In strife for mastery with men,
Yet to a prayer, or a caress,
His soul became all gentleness,
An infant’s hand might lead him then:
So answered he, “In sooth the way
My steed and I have passed to-day,
Is of such weary, winding length,
As sorely to have tried our strength,
And I will bless the bread and salt
Of him who kindly bids me halt.”
Then springing lightly to the ground,
His girth and saddle he unbound,
And turning from the path aside,
The steed and guest, the host and guide,
Sought where the old man’s friendly door
Stood ever open to the poor:
The poor for seldom came the great,
Or rich, the apers of their state,
That simple, rude abode to see,
Or claim its hospitality.


From where the hermit’s cottage stood,
Beneath its huge old guardian tree,
The gazer’s wand’ring eye might see,
Where, in its maze of field and wood,
And stretching many a league away,
A broad and smiling valley lay:
Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair,
As if Death had not entered there;
As if its flowers, so bright of bloom,
Its birds, so gay of song and wing,
Would never lose their soft perfume,
Would never, never cease to sing.
Fat flocks were in its glens at rest,
Pure waters wandered o’er its breast,
The sky was clear, the winds were still,
Rich harvests grew on every hill,
The sun in mid-day glory smiled,
And nature slumbered as a child.


And now, their rustic banquet done,
And sheltered from the noontide sun
By the old willow’s pleasant shade,
The guest and host the scene surveyed;
Marked how the mountain’s mighty base
The valley’s course was seen to trace;
Marked how its graceful azure crest
Against the sky’s blue arch was pressed,
And how its long and rocky chain
Was parted suddenly in twain,
Where through a chasm, wide and deep,
Potomac’s rapid waters sweep,
While rocks that press the mountain’s brow,
Nod o’er his waves far, far below;(1)
Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze,
Threw back the sun’s meridian rays,
And, flashing as they rolled along,
Seemed all alive with light and song;
Marked how green bower and garden showed
Where rose the husbandman’s abode,
And how the village walls were seen
To glimmer with a silvery sheen,
Such as the Spaniard saw, of yore,
Hang over Tenuchtitlan’s walls,
When maddened with the lust of gore,
He came to desecrate her halls;
To fire her temples, towers, and thrones,
And turn her songs of peace to groans.
They gazed, till from the hermit’s eye
A tear stole slow and silently;
A tear, which Memory’s hand had taken
From a deep fountain long congealed;
A tear, which showed how strongly shaken
The heart must be, which thus revealed,
Through time’s dim shadows, gathering fast,
Its recollections of the past;
Then, as a sigh escaped his breast,
Thus spake the hermit to his guest.


“Thou seest how fair a scene is here;
It seems as if ’twere planned above,
And fashioned from some happier sphere,
To be the home of peace and love.
Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell
In meek contentment’s calm repose,
Will turn an Eden to a hell,
And triumph in his brother’s woes!
And passion’s lewd and lawless host,
Delight to rave and revel most
Where generous Nature stamps and strews
Her fairest forms, and brightest hues:
And Discord here has lit her brand,
And Hatred nursed her savage brood,
And stern Revenge, with crimson hand,
Has written his foul deeds in blood.
But those who loved and suffered then,
Have given place to other men:
Of all who live, to me alone
The story, of their fate is known;
Give heed, and I will tell it thee,
Tho’ mournful must the story be.


I mind as if ’twere yesterday,
The hour when first I stood beside
The margin of yon rushing tide,
And watched its wild waves in their play;
These locks that now are thin and gray,
Then clustered thick and dark as thine,
And few had strength of arm like mine.
Thou seest how many a furrow now
Time’s hand hath ploughed athwart my brow:
Well, then it was without a line;
And I had other treasures too,
Of which ’tis useless now to vaunt;
Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true;
A heart, that danger could not daunt;
A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred;
And hope that had not been deferred.
I cannot count how many years
Have since gone by, but toil and tears,
And the lone heart’s deep agony,
I feel have sadly altered me;
Yet mourn I not the change, for those
I loved or scorned, my friends or foes,
Have fallen and faded, one by one,
As time’s swift current hurried by,
Till I, of all my kith alone,
Am left to wait, and wish to die.


How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears,
And names his work immortal; years
Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride,
Stern Desolation’s brood abide;
The owl within his bower sits,
The lone bat through his chamber flits;
Where bounded by the buoyant throng,
With measured step, and choral song,
The wily serpent winds along;
While the Destroyer stalketh by,
And smiles, as if in mockery.
How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves
His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves,
(Methinks his fittest crown would be
A chaplet from the cypress tree;)
With hope his breast is swelling high,
And brightly beams his laughing eye;
But soon his hopes are mixed with fears,
And soon his smiles are quenched in tears:
Then Disappointment’s blighting breath
Breathes o’er him, and he droops to death;
While the Destroyer glideth by,
And smiles, as if in mockery.
How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins
The eager youth to her embrace;
With tameless ardour he begins,
And follows up the bootless race;
Ah! bootless for, as on he hies,
With equal speed the phantom flies,
Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone,
He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown;
While the Destroyer passeth by,
And smiles, as if in mockery.
Gaze, stranger, on the scene below;
’Tis scarce a century ago,
Since here abode another race,
The men of tomahawk and bow,
The savage sons of war and chase;
Yet where, ah! where, abide they now?
Go search, and see if thou canst find,
One trace which they have left behind,
A single mound, or mossy grave,
That holds the ashes of the brave;
A single lettered stone to say
That they have lived, and passed away.
Men soon will cease to name their name,
Oblivion soon will quench their fame,
And the wild story of their fate,
Will yet be subject of debate,
’Twixt antiquarians sage and able,
Who doubt if it be truth or fable.


I said I minded well the time,
When first beside yon stream I stood;
Then one interminable wood,
In its unbounded breadth sublime,
And in its loneliness profound,
Spread like a leafy sea around.
To one of foreign land and birth,
Nursed ’mid the loveliest scenes of earth,
But now from home and friends exiled,
Such wilderness were doubly wild;
I thought it so, and scarce could I
My tears repress, when standing by
The river’s brink, I thought of mine
Own native stream, the glorious Rhine!
For, near to it, with loving eye,
My mother watched my infancy;
Along its banks my childhood strayed,
With its strong waves my boyhood played.
And I could see, in memory, still
My father’s cottage on the hill,
With green vines trailing round and o’er
Wall, roof and casement, porch and door:
Yet soon I learned yon stream to bless,
And love the wooded wilderness.
I could not then have told thee how
The change came o’er my heart, but now
I know full well the charm that wrought,
Into my soul, the spell of thought
Of tender, pensive thought, which made
Me love the forest’s deepest shade,
And listen, with delighted ear,
To the low voice of waters near,
As gliding, gushing, gurgling by,
They utter their sweet minstrelsy.
I scarce need give that charm a name;
Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,
Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul,
That has not bowed to its control?


See, where yon towering, rocky ledge,
Hangs jutting o’er the river’s edge,
There channelled dark, and dull, and deep,
The lazy, lagging waters sleep;
Thence follow, with thine eagle sight,
A double stone’s cast to the right,
Mark where a white-walled cottage stands,
Devised and reared by cunning hands,
A stately pile, and fair to see!
The chisel’s touch, and pencil’s trace,
Have blent for it a goodly grace;
And yet, it much less pleaseth me,
Than did the simple rustic cot,
Which occupied of yore that spot.
For, ’neath its humble shelter, grew
The fairest flower that e’er drank dew;
A lone exotic of the wood,
The fairy of the solitude,
Who dwelt amid its loneliness
To brighten, beautify, and bless.
The summer sky’s serenest blue,
Would best portray her eye’s soft hue;
From her white brow were backward rolled
Long curls of mingled light and gold;
The flush upon her cheek of snow,
Had shamed the rose’s harsher glow;
And haughty love had, haughtier grown,
To own her breast his fairest throne.
The eye that once behold her, ne’er
Could lose her image; firm and bright,
All-beautiful, and pure, and clear,
‘Twas stamped upon th’ enamoured sight;
Unchangeable, for ever fair,
Above decay, it lingered there!
As it has lingered on mine own,
These many years, till it has grown,
In its mysterious strength, to be
A portion of my soul and me.


Not in the peopled solitude
Of cities, does true love belong;
For it is of A thoughtful mood,
And thought abides not with the throng.
Nor is it won by glittering wealth,
By cunning, nor device of art,
Unheralded, by silent stealth,
It wins its way into the heart.
And once the soul has known its dream,
Thenceforth its empire is supreme,
For heart, and brain, and soul, and will,
Are bowed by its subduing thrill.
My love, alas! not born to bless,
Had birth in nature’s loneliness;
And held, at first, as a sweet spell,
It grew in strength, till it became
A spirit, which I could not quell,
A quenchless a volcanic flame,
Which, without pause, or time of rest,
Must burn for ever in my breast.
Yet how ecstatically sweet,
Was its first soft tumultuous beat!
I little thought that beat could be
The harbinger of misery;
And daily, when the morning beam
Dawned earliest on wood and stream,
When, from each brake and bush were heard,
The hum of bee, and chirp of bird,
From these, earth’s matin songs, my ear
Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear
A voice, whose tones the very air
Seemed trembling with delight to bear;
From leafy wood, and misty stream,
From bush, and brake, and morning beam,
Would turn away my wandering eye,
A dearer object to descry,
Till voice so sweet, and form so bright,
Grew part of hearing and of sight.


Yet my fond love I never told,
But kept it, as the miser keeps,
In his rude hut, his hoarded heaps
Of gleaming gems, and glittering gold:
Gloating in secret o’er the prize,
He fears to show to other eyes;
And so passed many months away,
Till once I heard a comrade say:
“To-morrow brings her bridal day;
Mazelli leaves the greenwood bower,
Where she has grown its fairest flower,
To bless, with her bright, sunny smile,
A stranger from a distant isle,
Whom love has lured across the sea,
O’er hill and glen, through wood and wild,
Far from his lordly home, to be
Lord of the forest’s fairest child.”
It was as when a thunder peal
Bursts, crashing from a cloudless sky,
It caused my brain and heart to reel
And throb, with speechless agony:
Yet, when wild Passion’s trance was o’er,
And Thought resumed her sway once more,
I breathed a prayer that she might be
Saved from the pangs that tortured me;
That her young heart might never prove
The sting of unrequited love.
My task I then again began,
But ah! how much an altered man,
A single hour, a few hot tears,
Had done the wasting work of years.


Nor was it I alone, to whom
Those words had been as words of doom,
By some malicious fiend rehearsed:
Another one was standing by,
With princely port, and piercing eye,
Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume;
I thought his heaving heart would burst,
His labouring bosom’s heave and swell,
So strongly, quickly, rose and fell!
A long, bright blade hung at his side,
Its keen and glittering edge he tried;
He bore a bow, and this he drew,
To see if still its spring were true;
But other sign could none be caught,
Of what he suffered, felt, or thought.
And then with firm and haughty stride,
He turned away, and left my side;
I watched him, as with rapid tread,
Along the river’s marge he sped,
Till the still twilight’s gathering gloom
Hid haughty form, and waving plume.

Canto II.


He stood where the mountain moss outspread
Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot;
The chestnut boughs above his head,
Hung motionless and mute.
There came not a voice from the wooded hill,
Nor a sound from the shadowy glen,
Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will,(2)
And the waterfall’s dash, and now and then,
The night-bird’s mournful cry.
Deep silence hung round him; the misty light
Of the young moon silvered the brow of Night,
Whose quiet spirit had flung her spell
O’er the valley’s depth, and the mountain’s height,
And breathed on the air, till its gentle swell
Arose on the ear like some loved one’s call;
And the wide blue sky spread over all
Its starry canopy.
And he seemed as the spirit of some chief,
Whose grave could not give him rest;
So deep was the settled hue of grief,
On his manly front impressed:
Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain,
And his port was erect and high,
Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain,
As the port of a hero who scorns to fly,
When his men have failed in fight;
Who rather a thousand deaths would die,
Than his fame should suffer blight.


And who by kith, and who by name,
Is he, that lone, yet haughty one?
By his high brow, and eye of flame,
I guess him old Ottalli’s son.
Ottalli! whose proud name was here
In other times, a sound of fear!
The fleet of foot, and strong of hand,
Chief of his tribe, lord of the land,
The forest child, of mind and soul
Too wild and free to brook control!
In chase was none so swift as he,
In battle none so brave and strong;
To friends, all love and constancy,
But we to those who wrought him wrong!
His arm would wage avenging strife,
With bow, and spear, and bloody knife,
Till he had taught his foes to feel,
How true his aim, how keen his steel.
Now others hold the sway he held,
His day and power have passed away;
His goodly forests all are felled,
And songs of mirth rise, clear and gay,
Chaunted by youthful voices, where
His battle-hymn once filled the air
Where blazed the lurid council fire,
The village church erects its spire;
And where the mystic war-dance rang,
With its confused, discordant clang,
While stern, fierce lips, with many a cry
For blood and vengeance, filled the sky,
Mild Mercy, gentle as the dove,
Proclaims her rule of peace and love.
And of his true and faithful clan,
Of child and matron, maid and man,
Of all he loved, survives but one
His earliest, and his only son!
That son’s sole heritage his fame,
His strength, his likeness, and his name.


And thus from varying year to year,
The youthful chief has lingered here;
Chief! why is he so nobly named?
How many warriors at his call,
By Arcouski’s breath inflamed,
Would with him fight, and for him fall?
Of all his father’s warrior throng,
Remains not one whose lip could now
Rehearse with him the battle song,
Whose hand could bend the hostile bow.
And yet, no weak, complaining word,
From his stern lip is ever heard;
And his bright eye, so black and clear,
Is never moistened by a tear;
Of quiet mien, and mournful mood,
He lives, a stoic of the wood;
Gliding about from place to place,
With noiseless step, and steady pace,
Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot,
Like the lone Genius of the spot.


And this was he who, standing there,
Seemed as an image of Despair,
Which agony’s convulsive strife,
Had quickened into breathing life.
The writhing lip, the brow all wet
With Pain’s cold, clammy, deathlike sweat;
The hand, that with unconscious clasp,
Strained his keen dagger in its grasp;
The eye, that lightened with the blaze
Of frenzied Passion’s maniac gaze;
The nervous, shuddering thrill, which came
At intervals along his frame;
The tremulously heaving breast,
These signs the inward storm confessed:
Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke
Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke
A soul within, whose haughty will
Would wrestle with immortal ill,
And only quit the strife, when fate
Its being should annihilate.
Silent he stood, until the breeze
Bore from his lips some words like these.


“The words I speak are no complaint
And if I breathe out my despair,
It is not that my heart grows faint,
Or shrinks from what ’tis doomed to bear.
Though every sorrow which may shake
Or rend man’s heart, should pierce my own,
Their strength united, should not make
My lip breathe one complaining tone.
If I must suffer, it shall be
With a firm heart, a soul elate,
A wordless scorn, which silently
Shall mock the stern decrees of fate.
The weak might bend, the timid shrink,
Until misfortune’s storm blew by,
But I, a chieftain’s son, should drink
Its proffered cup without a sigh.
And it will scarcely, to my lip,
Seem harsher than yon fountain’s flow,
For I have held companionship
With Misery, from my youth till now
Have felt, by turns, each pang, each care,
Her hapless sons are doomed, to bear;
I caught my mother’s parting breath,
When passed she to the spirit land;
And from the fatal field of death,
Where, leading on his fearless band,
With fiery and resistless might,
He fell, though victor in the fight,
Pierced by the arrow of some foe,
I saw my father’s spirit go.
And I have seen his warrior men,
From mountain, valley, hill, and glen,
Departing one by one, since then,
As from the dry and withered spray,
The wilted leaves are blown away,
Upon some windy autumn day:
I, only I, am left to be
The last leaf of the blighted tree,
Which the first wind that through the sky
Goes carelessly careering by,
Will, in its wild, unheeded mirth,
Rend from its hold, and dash to earth:
Thus, here alone have I remained,
An outcast, where I should have reigned.


“How shall I to myself alone,
The weakness of my bosom own?
Why, mindful of my fame and pride,
When my brave brethren had died;
Why, with my friendly, ready knife,
Drew I not forth my useless life?
Was it a coward fear of death,
That bade me treasure up my breath?
Or had life yet some genial ray,
That wooed me in its warmth to stay?
Had earth yet one whose smile could stir,
My spirit with deep love for her?
Yes, though within me hope was dead,
And wild Ambition’s dreams were fled;
Though o’er my blighted heart, Despair
Desponded, love still nestled there;
Love! how the pale-faced scorner’s lip
Would sneer, to hear me name that name;
Yet was it deep within my soul
A secret but consuming flame;
Whose overruling mastership,
Defied slow Reason’s dull control!
And felt for one of that vile race,
To whom my tribe had given place;
Was nursed in silence and in shame!
Shame, for the weakness of a heart,
Yet bleeding from th’ oppressor’s blow,
Which could bestow its better part
Upon the offspring of a foe!
They, the mean delvers of the soil,
The wielders of the felling axe,
Because we will not stoop to toil,
Nor to its burdens bond our backs;
Because we scorn Seduction’s wiles,
Her lying words and forged smiles,
They, the foul slaves of lust and gold,
Say that our blood and hearts are cold.(3)
But ere the morrow’s dawning light
Has climbed yon eastern craggy height,
One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow,
Are lit with pride and pleasure now,
Shall learn, at point of my true steel,
How much the Red man’s heart may feel,
How fearlessly he strikes the foe,
When love and vengeance prompt the blow!
Though scorned by him, I know an art
Could stop the beatings of his heart,
Ere his own lips could say, ‘Be still!’
A single arrow from my bow,
Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4)
Would in an instant lay him low;
So deadly is the icy chill,
With which the life-blood it congeals,
The wounded warrior scarcely feels
Its fatal touch ere he expire:
But, when Revenge would glut his ire,
He stops not with immediate death
The current of his victim’s breath;
With gasp, and intervening pause,
The lifeblood from its source he draws,
Marks, in the crimson stream that flows,
How near life verges to its close,
And its last soul-exhaling groan,
To him is music’s sweetest tone!
And he, whose fate it is to die,
Ere Morning’s banner flouts the sky,
The eye shall see, the arm shall know,
That guides and deals th’ avenging blow;
And ere his spirit goes to rest,
Right well his scornful heart shall learn,
How fiercely, in a savage breast,
The flames of love and hate may burn.”
He spake, and down the mountain’s side,
With quick, impatient step, he hied,
Threading the forest’s lonely gloom,
A ruthless minister of doom.


’Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth,
And the mysterious eyes above,
Gazed down with chastened looks of love,
Not, as when first they hymned her birth,
With ardent songs of holy mirth,
But mournfully serene and clear;
As on some erring one we gaze,
Whose feet have strayed from wisdom’s ways,
But who, in error, still is dear.
Far o’er yon swiftly flowing stream
Fair fell the young moon’s silver beam,
And gazing on its restless sheen,
Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien,
Bespoke him of a foreign land,
One born to win, and hold command;
The master mind, the leading one,
Where deeds of manly might were done.
Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came
O’er lip and cheek, o’er eye and brow,
He who beheld, might guess that now
His thoughts were not of wealth and fame:
Whence could that veiling radiance shine,
Save from Affection’s holy shrine?
And this was he, who from afar,
Had come to bear away his bride;
And love had been the guiding star,
That lit him o’er the trackless tide;
“To-morrow, on its sunny wing,
My bridal hour soon shall bring;
And those bright orbs which o’er me shed
Such gentle radiance from on high,
Shall shine upon my nuptial bed,
When next they walk along the sky.
O! what are all the pomps of earth,
Of honour, glory, greatness, worth,
Beside the bliss which Love confers
Upon his humblest followers!”
He said, and from the river turned;
An eye, that with fierce hatred burned,
Met his, and this reply was made:
“Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade
Ere dawns the coming morrow’s sun.”
Then, ere the point he could evade,
He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast,
While he, who the foul deed had done
Stood calmly by, and saw him sink
In death, beside the water’s brink,
Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood
Pour out, and mingle with the flood;
Then drew his dagger from its rest,
And gazing on its fearful hue,
Said, “Thou hast yet one task to do.
He who, death-wounded, welters there,
Came hither, o’er the deep to bear
Far off from her paternal nest,
The white dove I have watched so long.
The falcon’s wing was bold and strong,
Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight;
Strike one more blow, and thou to-night
May’st rest;” then laid his bosom bare,
And buried deep the dagger there,
And by his victim’s lifeless trunk,
Without a sigh or groan he sunk.

Canto III.


With plumes to which the dewdrops cling,
Wide waves the morn her golden wing;
With countless variegated beams
The empurpled orient glows and gleams;
A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds
The mountain’s soaring summit shrouds;
Along the wave the blue mist creeps,
The towering forest trees are stirred
By the low wind that o’er them sweeps,
And with the matin song of bird,
The hum of early bee is heard,
Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn,
The coming of the bright-eyed morn;
And, with the day-beam’s earliest dawn,
Her couch the fair Mazelli quits,
And gaily, fleetly as a fawn,
Along the wildwood paths she flits,
Hieing from leafy bower to bower,
Culling from each its bud and flower,
Of brightest hue and sweetest breath,
To weave them in her bridal wreath.
Now, pausing in her way, to hear
The lay of some wild warbler near,
Repaying him, in mocking tone,
With music sweeter than his own;
Now, o’er some crystal stream low bending,
Her image in its waves to see,
With its sweet, gurgled music blending,
A song of tenfold melody;
Now, chasing the gay butterfly,
That o’er her pathway passed her by,
With grace as careless, glee as wild,
As though she were some thoughtless child;
Now, seated on some wayside stone,
With time’s green, messy veil o’ergrown,
In silent thoughtfulness, she seems
To hold communion with her heart,
Beguiling fancy with the dreams
That from its Pure recesses start.


There is a silent power, that o’er
Our bosoms wields a wizard might,
Restoring bygone years to light,
With the same vivid glow they wore,
Ere time had o’er their features cast
The shadowy shroud that veils the past:
To those who walk in wisdom’s way,
’Tis welcome as an angel’s smile;
But those who from her counsels stray,
Whose hearts are full of craft and guile,
To them ’tis as a constant goad
A weight that doubles Sorrow’s load,
A silent searcher of the breast,
Which will not let the guilty rest.
In childhood’s pleasant-season born,
It haunts us in all after time;
From youth’s serene and sunny morn
To manhood’s stern meridian prime.
From manhood, till the weight of years,
And life’s dull constant toil, and tears,
And passion’s ever raging storm,
Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form.
True, youth, of hope and love possessed,
By friends youth has no foes caressed,
Finds in the present happy boy!
Enough of gaiety and joy;
And man, whose visionary brain
Begets that idle phantom train
Of shadows Power, Wealth, and Fame,
A scourge a bubble and a name
So often and so vainly sought
Has little time for peaceful thought;
And so they turn not back to gaze,
Where faithful memory displays
Her record of departed days;
But oh! how loves the eye of age,
To move along its pictured page,
To scan and number, o’er and o’er,
The joys that may return no more;
The hopes that, blighted in their bloom,
By disappointment’s chilly gloom,
Were given sadly to the tomb;
The loves so wildly once enjoyed,
By time’s unsparing hand destroyed;
The bright imaginative dreams,
Portrayed by restless fancy’s beams,
By restless fancy’s beams portrayed,
Alas! but to delude and fade!
To count these o’er and o’er again
Is age’s sole resort from pain.
Then, stranger, marvel not that I
Have claimed so long thy listening ear;
I could not pass in silence by
Themes to my memory so dear,
As those which make my story’s close
Mazelli’s love, Mazelli’s woes.


Ascending from the golden east,
The sun had gained his zenith height,
The guests were gathered to the feast,
Prepared to grace the marriage rite;
The youthful and the old were there,
The rustic swain and bashful fair;
The aged, reverend and gray,
Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay,
Each told, to while the time away,
Some tale of his own wedding day;
The youthful, timorous and shy,
Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye,
That, in its stolen glances, sends
The language Love best, comprehends.
The noontide hour goes by, and yet
The bridegroom tarries why? and where?
Sure he could not his vows forget,
When she who loves him is so fair!
And then his honour, faith, and pride,
Had bound him to a meaner bride,
If once his promise had been given;
But she, so pure, so far above
The common forms of earthly mould,
So like the incarnate shapes of love,
Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven,
His love for her could ne’er grow cold!
And yet he comes not. Half way now,
From where, at his meridian height,
He pours his fullest, warmest light,
To where, at eve, in his decline,
The day-god sinks into the brine,
When his diurnal task is done,
Descends his ever burning throne,
And still the bridegroom is not, there
Say, why yet tarries he, and where?


Within an arbour, rudely reared,
But to the maiden’s heart endeared
By every tie that binds the heart,
By hope’s, and love’s, and memory’s art,
For it was here he first poured out
In words, the love she could not doubt,
Mazelli silent sits apart.
Did ever dreaming devotee,
Whose restless fancy, fond and warm,
Shapes out the bright ideal form
To which he meekly bends the knee,
Conceive of aught so fair as she?
The holiest seraph of the sphere
Most holy, if by chance led here,
Might drink such light from those soft eyes,
That he would hold them far more dear
Than all the treasures of the skies.
Yet o’er her bright and beauteous brow
Shade after shade is passing now,
Like clouds across the pale moon glancing,
As thought on rapid thought advancing,
Thrills through the maiden’s trembling breast,
Not doubting, and yet not at rest.
Not doubting! Man may turn away
And scoff at shrines, where yesterday
He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray,
And wealth may lose its charm for him,
And fame’s alluring star grow dim,
Devotion, avarice, glory, all
The pageantries of earth may pall;
But love is of a higher birth
Than these, the earth-born things of earth,
A spark from the eternal flame,
Like it, eternally the same,
It is not subject to the breath
Of chance or change, of life or death.
And so doubt has no power to blight
Its bloom, or quench its deathless light,
A deathless light, a peerless bloom,
That beams and glows beyond the tomb!
Go tell the trusting devotee,
His worship is idolatry;
Say to the searcher after gold,
The prize he seeks is dull and cold;
Assure the toiler after fame,
That, won, ’tis but a worthless name,
A mocking shade, a phantasy,
And they, perchance, may list to thee;
But say not to the trusting maid,
Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed,
As soon thy words may lull the gale,
As gain her credence to the tale!
And still the bridegroom is not there
Oh! why yet tarries he, and where?


It was the holy vesper hour,
The time for rest, and peace, and prayer,
When falls the dew, and folds the flower
Its petals, delicate and fair,
Against the chilly evening air;
And yet the bridegroom was not there.
The guests, who lingered through the day,
Had glided, one by one, away,
And then, with pale and pensive ray,
The moon began to climb the sky,
As from the forest, dim and green,
A small and silent band was seen
Emerging slow and solemnly;
With cautious step, and measured tread,
They moved as those who bear the dead;
And by no lip a word was spoke,
Nor other sound the silence broke,
Save when, low, musical, and clear,
The voice of waters passing near,
Was softly wafted to the ear,
And the cool, fanning twilight breeze,
That lightly shook the forest trees,
And crept from leaf to trembling leaf,
Sighed, like to one oppressed with grief.
Why move they with such cautious care?
What precious burden do they bear?
Hush, questioner! the dead are there;
The victim of revenge and hate,
Of fierce Ottali’s fiery pride,
With that stern minister of fate,
As cold and lifeless by his side.


Still onward, solemnly and slow,
And speaking not a word, they go,
Till pausing in their way before
Mazelli’s quiet cottage door,
They gently lay their burden down.
Whence comes that shriek of wild despair
That rises wildly on the air?
Whose is the arm so fondly thrown
Around the cold, unconscious clay,
That cannot its caress repay?
Such wordless wo was in that cry,
Such pain, such hopeless agony,
No soul, excluded from the sky,
Whom unrelenting justice hath
Condemned to bear the second death,
E’er breathed upon the troubled gale
A wilder or a sadder wail;
It rose, all other sounds above,
The dirge of peace, and hope, and love!


And day on weary day went by,
And like the drooping autumn leaf,
She faded slow and silently,
In her deep, uncomplaining grief;
For, sick of life’s vacuity,
She neither sought nor wished relief.
And daily from her cheek, the glow
Departed, and her virgin brow
Was curtained with a mournful gloom,
A shade prophetic, of the tomb;
And her clear eyes, so blue and bright,
Shot forth a keen, unearthly light,
As if the soul that in them lay,
Were weary of its garb of clay,
And prayed to pass from earth away;
Nor was that prayer vain, for ere
The frozen monarch of the year,
Had blighted, with his icy breath,
A single bud in summer’s wreath,
They shrouded her, and made her grave,
And laid her down at Lodolph’s side;
And by the wide Potomac’s wave,
Repose the bridegroom and the bride.

’Tis said, that, oft at summer midnight, there,
When all is hushed and voiceless, and the air,
Sweet, soothing minstrel of the viewless hand,
Swells rippling through the aged trees, that stand
With their broad boughs above the wave depending,
With the low gurgle of the waters blending
The rustle of their foliage, a light boat,
Bearing two shadowy forms, is seen to float
Adown the stream, without or oar or sail,
To break the wave, or catch the driving gale;
Smoothly and steadily its course is steered,
Until the shadow of yon cliff is neared,
And then, as if some barrier, hid below
The river’s breast, had caught its gliding prow,
Awhile, uncertain, o’er its watery bed,
It hangs, then vanishes, and in its stead,
A wan, pale light burns dimly o’er the wave
That rolls and ripples by Mazelli’s grave.

Notes To Mazelli

Note 1.

“And how its long and rocky chain
Was parted suddenly in twain,
Where through a chasm, wide and deep,
Potomac’s rapid waters sweep,
While rocks that press the mountain’s brow
Nod O’er his waves far, far below.”

“The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a vent also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea.

“The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge Mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base.

“The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finishing which nature has given to this picture, is of a very different character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as Placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous.

“For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm below.” Jefferson’s Notes on Virginia.

Note 2.

“Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will.”

That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry, the names they have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will) sufficiently evidence. Some call it the “Muckawis,” others the “Wish-ton-wish,” signifying “the voice of a sigh,” and “the plaint for the lost.” Those, who in its native glens at twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy song, will know how beautifully appropriate these names are.

Note 3.

“They, the foul slaves’ of lust and gold,
Say that our blood and hearts are cold.”

It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous fortitude often displayed by Indians, under the most intense suffering, is to be accounted for by their insensibility to pain, resulting, they allege, from a defective nervous organization. From the absence of a display of gallantry and tenderness between the sexes, they argue also, in them, the nonexistence of love, and its kindred passions. This we think unjust, as it robs them of the honours of a system of education, which is life-long, and whose sole object is to attain the mastery of all feeling, physical or mental. The view taken of this subject by Robertson, in his History of America, to us, seems most accordant with truth. He says: “The amazing steadiness with which the Americans endure the most exquisite torments, has induced some authors to suppose that, from the peculiar feebleness of their frame, their sensibility is not so acute as that of other people; as women, and persons of a relaxed habit, are observed to be robust men, whose nerves are more firmly braced. But the constitution of the Americans is not so different in its texture, from that of the rest of the human species, as to account for this diversity in their behaviour. It flows from a principle of honour, instilled early and cultivated with such care, as to inspire him in his rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which philosophy hath endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved and polished. This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider as the chief distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of a warrior. The ideas which influence his conduct, and the passions which take possession of his heart, are few. They operate of course with more decisive effect, than when the mind is crowded with a multiplicity of objects, or distracted by the variety of its pursuits; and when every motive that acts with any force in forming the sentiments of a savage, prompts him to suffer with dignity, he will bear what might seem impossible for human patience to sustain. But whenever the fortitude of the Americans is not roused to exertion by their ideas of honour, their feelings of pain are the same with those of the rest of mankind.”

Note 4.

“Bathed in the poisonous manchenille.”

The slightest wound from an arrow dipped in the juice of the Manchenille, causes certain and speedy death. “If they only pierce the skin, the blood fixes and congeals in a moment, and the strongest animal falls motionless to the ground.” Robertson’s America.

S. L. Sawtelle.

Dear Sir:

To you, who have given me friendship in adversity, counsel in perplexity, and hope in despondency, permit me, as an expression of my deep and lasting gratitude, to inscribe the “Misanthrope.”

With sentiments of the highest respect,

Your obt. servt.,

George W. Sands.

Frederick City, September 1849.

Dramatis Personae.

Werner Misanthrope.
Manuel a cottager.
Albert his son.
Rebecca wife to Manuel.
Rose his daughter.
An aerial chorus.