Colonial Horrors

by Graeme Davis

  Ere long than these soft fingers will?

  A lovely palm!—how delicate

  Its veined and wandering lines are drawn!

  Yet each are prophets of thy fate—

  Ha—this is sure a fearful one!

  That sudden cross—that blank beneath—

  What may these evil signs betoken?

  Passion and sorrow, fear and death—

  A human spirit crushed and broken!

  Oh, thine hath been a pleasant dream.

  But darker shall its waking seem!”

  Something between a sigh and groan

  Burst from the list’ner’s panting heart

  How was her cherished secret known

  To that dark woman’s art?

  She strove to smile—and one might mark

  A sudden dimple trembling, where

  A moment after cold despair

  Rested beneath her tresses dark,

  As if the hue of death were there.

  A human smile!—how beautiful

  Sometimes its blissful presence seems,

  Sweet as the gentle airs which lull

  To sleep the holy flowers of Gul

  Which blossoms in the Persian’s dreams

  A lovely light whene’er it beams

  On beauty’s brow—on beauty’s eye

  And not one token lingers nigh

  On lip, or eye, or cheek unbidden

  To tell of anguish vainly hidden!

  But oh there is a smile which steals

  Sometimes upon the brow of care

  And like the North’s cold light reveals

  But gathering darkness there.

  You’ve seen the lightning flash at night

  Play briefly o’er its cloudy pile—

  The moonshine trembling on the height

  Where winter glistens cold and white,

  And like that flash, and like that light,

  Is sorrow’s vain and heartless smile.

  Like a cold hand upon her heart

  The dark words of the sorceress lay,

  Something to scare her spirit’s rest

  Forevermore away.

  Each word had seemed so strangely true,

  Calling her inmost thoughts in view.

  And pointing to the form which came

  Before her in her dreary sleep,

  Whose answered love—whose very name,

  Though naught of breathing life was near,

  She scarce had given the winds to keep,

  Or murmured in a sister’s ear.

  Her secret love!—oh, she had kept

  Its fire within her heart unseen,

  And tears, in silent musing wept,

  Its sacrifice had been.

  In public gaze—in loneliness—

  In fashion’s gay and wild excess—

  In every change of scene or lot

  Its cherished name was uttered not.

  For early had she learned to keep

  Her gift of love enshrined and deep—

  Pure as the vestal’s altar-stone

  Known and familiar but to one—

  A harp whose chords might only move

  In answer to its idol love,

  Like Memnon’s music heard alone

  When sunlight on its statue shone!

  Like the mimosa shrinking from

  The blight of some familiar finger—

  Like flowers which but in secret bloom,

  Where age the sheltering shadows linger.

  And which, beneath the hot noon ray

  Would fold their leaves and fade away—

  The flowers of Love, in secret cherished,

  In loneliness and silence nourished,

  Shrink backward from the searching eye,

  Until the stem whereon they flourished,

  Their shrine, the human heart, has perished,

  Although themselves may never die.

  Of woe—of deep and nameless grief.

  That wild and evil hag had spoken—

  Of agony which mocks relief—

  Of human spirits broken.

  And in her mutterings vague and dim

  How strangely had she pictured HIM!

  The dark eye and the darker hair—

  The manly form and features fair—

  A weeping girl—a wild dark sea—

  A storm—a wreck—and “WHERE IS HE?”

  Ay, where WAS he!—long months before,

  His boat was rocking on the shore

  His ship was tossing in the bay:

  And she was folded to his heart—

  Her fair cheek on her lover’s lay.

  While Love forgot the veil of art;

  And softly blushed through falling tears,

  The natural glow of virgin shame,

  That feelings held apart for years,

  And cherished hopes she scarce might name

  To her own pillow’s loneliness,

  Had burned upon her answering kiss.

  And thrilled upon her lip of flame!

  And she had found herself alone,

  Beneath the twilight cold and gray.

  When heavily pealed the signal gun

  And the proud vessel swept away—

  Watching her lover’s broad sail fade,

  Like a white wing in upper air.

  And leaving neither track nor shade

  On the blue waste of waters there!

  Smile not that on the maiden’s heart.

  The sybil’s dark and cunning art

  Had power to picture future ill,

  And tinge the present darker still.

  Life’s sunniest hours are not without

  The shadow of some lingering doubt—

  Amidst its brightest joys will steal

  Spectres of evil yet to feel;

  Its warmest love is blent with fears,

  Its confidence—a trembling one—

  Its smile—the harbinger of tears—

  Its hope—the change of April’s sun

  A weary lot,—in mercy given,

  To fit the chastened soul for Heaven,

  Prompting with change and weariness,

  Its yearning for that better sky,

  Which, as the shadows close on this,

  Grows brighter to the longing eye.

  PART II

  Nahant, thy beach is beautiful!—

  A dim line through the tossing waves,

  Along whose verge the spectre gull

  Her thin and snowy plumage laves—

  What time the Summer’s greenness lingers

  Within thy sunned and sheltered nooks,

  And the green vine with twining fingers

  Creeps up and down thy hanging rocks!

  Around—the blue and level main—

  Above—a sunshine rich, as fell,

  Bright’ning of old, with golden rain,

  The isle Apollo loved so well!—

  And far off, dim and beautiful

  The snow-white sail and graceful hull,

  Slow, dipping to the billow’s swell.

  Bright spot!—the Isles of Greece may share

  A flowery earth—a gentle air;

  The orange-bough may blossom well

  In warm Bermuda’s sunniest dell;—

  But fairer shores and brighter waters,

  Gazed on by purer, lovelier daughters,

  Beneath the light of kindlier skies,

  The wanderer to the farthest bound

  Of peopled Earth hath never found

  Than thine—New England’s Paradise!

  Land of the forest and the rock—

  Of dark blue lake, and mighty river—

  Of mountains reared aloft to mock

  The storm’s career—the lightning’s shock—

  My own, green land, forever!

  Land of the beautiful and brave—

  The freeman’s home—the martyr’s grave—

  The nursery of giant men,

  Whose
deeds have linked with every glen,

  And every hill and every stream,

  The romance of some warrior-dream!

  Oh—never may a son of thine,

  Where’er his wandering steps incline,

  Forget the sky which bent above

  His childhood like a dream of love—

  The stream beneath the green hill flowing—

  The broad-armed trees above it growing—

  The clear breeze through the foliage blowing

  Or, hear unmoved, the taunt of scorn

  Breathed o’er the brave New-England born;—

  Or mark the stranger’s Jaguar hand

  Disturb the ashes of thy dead—

  The buried glory of a land

  Whose soil with noble blood is red,

  And sanctified in every part,

  Nor feel resentment, like a brand,

  Unsheathing from his fiery heart!

  Oh—greener hills may catch the sun

  Beneath the glorious heaven of France;

  And streams, rejoicing as they run

  Like life beneath the day-beam’s glance,

  May wander where the orange-bough

  With golden fruit is bending low;—

  And there may bend a brighter sky

  O’er green and classic Italy—

  And pillared fane and ancient grave

  Bear record of another time,

  And over shaft and architrave

  The green luxuriant ivy climb;—

  And far towards the rising sun

  The palm may shake its leaves on high,

  Where flowers are opening, one by one,

  Like stars upon the twilight sky,

  And breezes soft as sighs of love

  Above the broad banana stray.

  And through the Brahmin’s sacred grove

  A thousand bright-hued pinions play!

  Yet, unto thee, New-England, still

  Thy wondering sons shall stretch their arms,

  And thy rude chart of rock and hill

  Seem dearer than the land of palms!

  Thy massy oak and mountain pine

  More welcome than the banyan’s shade,

  And every free, blue stream of thine

  Seem richer than the golden bed

  Of Oriental waves, which glow

  And sparkle with the wealth below!

  A frail, fair form is stealing out

  Upon the long and sandy bar,

  With wild glance, wandering all about

  Uncertain and irregular.

  The sea-gull screams aloud above her—

  The thin waves circle at her feet,

  Beyond, the white and timid plover

  Is stooping its embrace to meet.

  What doth she there?—her head is bare—

  And backward streams her wild, dark hair;

  Damp with the moist sea-atmosphere

  It shades a neck as white and clear,

  As pearls which shed their pure, pale glow,

  Where in their crimson beauty sleep

  The coral blossoms of the deep

  A thousand fathoms down below.

  Beautiful one!—her cheek is pale,

  Even as the foam the wave hath lent

  To rocks whereon its wrath is spent,

  Like that which lingers on the rein

  Which some fierce steed hath spurned in vain;

  And ever and anon a wail

  Soft as some grieving spectre’s moan.

  Plaintively low—a dreamer’s tone.

  Blends faintly with the rising gale.

  She stands upon a rock that lifts

  Its bleak brow to the chilling waters—

  The thin gray mist above it drifts,

  And dim within its fold, she seems

  Like something of our early dreams—

  A messenger from Ocean’s daughters!

  Her thin hand pointing to the sea

  As eager—as imploringly—

  As if across that blue expanse,

  Her eye had caught some answering glance

  And sadly now she turns aside,

  With slow and weary step returning

  Drooping her head as if to hide

  The tearful traces of her mourning.

  The morn will find her there again

  —GOD’S PITY ON THE STRICKEN BRAIN!—

  It is a fearful thing to turn

  The heart’s warm current icy chill

  To bid the brain with madness burn,

  And freeze the torpid bosom still,

  Fearful to cloud the spiritual light

  Which shines upon our mortal night—

  To jar apart those chords of mind

  Which God’s mysterious hand hath twined

  And for the music once their own

  Call out a harsh and maniac tone.

  We talk of death—we shudder o’er

  The cold, pale form—the rayless eye,

  As if that fearful change were more,

  Than the mind’s hour of liberty—

  The opening of its prison-door.

  Yet look upon the maniac’s form

  Whence reason’s holy light hath fled;

  Where being lingers wild and warm,

  Even when its very soul is dead.

  Look on the snaky eye of madness—

  And hear that laugh—but not of gladness—

  That shriek at midnight, shrilly blending

  With the dull clanking of the chain—

  And pluck away those fingers rending

  From the hot cheek its bursting vein!—

  Alas—the quiet sepulchre

  Than such a state were welcomer.

  Yet hers is not that fiercer mood—

  Gentle and lovely even in madness,

  She only asks for solitude

  To nurse her most unearthly sadness.

  Oh! it is painful to behold

  Her pale face on her hand reclining,

  Or buried in her ’kerchief’s fold,

  With hot tears through her fingers shining.

  And then to mark her ’wildered start,

  Her quick glance in the vacant air,

  Her thin hand pressing on her heart,

  As if a sudden pang were there:

  And then to list her murmured words

  Sad as a mate-forsaken bird’s,

  Telling a wild and moving tale

  Of wrecked ships driving in the gale—

  Of voices shrieking in the blast—

  Of wreathing arms on spar and mast—

  Of one dark eye above the billow

  Up glancing to the storm-fire’s gleam;—

  And that long sleep which hath no dream—

  With ocean’s weedy rock its pillow,

  Down where the sea-plant’s green arms cover

  The cold, unwaking sleeper over.

  She seeks the spot where she has strayed

  Upon HIS arm in fondness leaning—

  When by the trembling light which played,

  Amidst the leafy summer shade,

  The kindling eye of either lover

  In silent fondness told each rover,

  The hidden heart’s unwhispered meaning.

  Beneath the old, familiar oak,

  A carpet of the living green

  Is round her; and from out a rock

  Like that which felt the Prophet’s stroke

  Its mossed and yawning clefts between,

  PART III

  A tall ship tossing in the bay!—

  How glorious the stranger seems—

  With tapering masts and streamers gay,

  Rejoicing in the glad sunbeams!

  Beautiful voyager!—she has been,

  Unshrinking upon God’s high sea—

  Bearing right onward bravely when

  The storm-wind followed free!

  There’s one upon her seamy deck,

  With keen eye fastened on the shore,

  A
s if some faithful loved one’s beck

  Were welcoming once more

  From toil and fear to love and her

  The worn and weary mariner.

  Oh! he hath been a wanderer

  Beneath Magellan’s moveless cloud,

  And where in murmurs hoarse and loud

  The Demon of the Cape was heard;

  And where the tropic sunset came

  O’er the rich bowers of Indostan,

  And many a strange and brilliant bird

  Shone brighter in the western flame:

  And through the bending jungle ran

  The boa for his nightly food,

  The tiger slumbering in the wood.

  He sought for gold—for yellow gold—

  His dreams were full of wealth untold;

  Of stately barks that hailed to him;

  Of gorgeous halls and grottos dim,

  Of streams rejoicing in the shade,

  By bower and trelliced arbor made,

  Of smiling servants gathered near

  In grateful love, but not in fear;

  And more than these—his own loved one—

  With her white brow and soft dark eyes,

  Fair as the new-born flower, whereon

  Never hath looked the noon-day sun,

  The Houri of his Paradise!

  Yet his was not a sordid heart.

  He did not love the merchant’s mart,

  His finer soul revolted when

  He mingled thus with selfish men—

  Yet long and wearily he bore

  The burthen of incessant care,

  Unfriended, on a stranger shore,

  While Hope still hovered dimly o’er

  One object which he valued more

  Than all the wealth he gathered there;

  The loved one in his native land,

  More dear than gems of Sarmacand.

  Welcome as the voice of kindness,

  To him, who in some dungeon dim

  Moves slow with pain his fettered limb,

  Or light to those who sit in blindness,

  Is home’s green shore to him.

  He stands upon his native earth—

  Voices of greeting and of mirth

  Are round him,—but his anxious eye

  Turns from the throng impatiently—

  One hurried word—one clasp of hand

  And he has bounded from the strand!

  On, swiftly on—even now he sees

  Her white-walled dwelling through the trees!

  Quick, from behind a leafy screen—

  The gateway wreathed in creeping green,

  With wild flowers twined in every curl—

  And flashing from her brilliant eye

  The wildness of insanity.

  Darted the maniac girl.

  “MY OWN ADELA! ”—At his tone

  She started—and as memory went

  Back to the joys her youth had known,

  Over each vacant lineament,

  One gleam of banished reason shone!

  Briefly it shone—a smile as chill