Within their quiet, cool retreat,
When noon was at its height.
No heart that was at ease, I ween,
Could gaze on that surrounding scene
Without a calm delight.
Behold upon the quay a press
Of business and of idleness,
Where these new-comers land.
Kinsfolk with anxious questions meet;
And friends and light acquaintance greet
With jocund shake of hand:
The idlers ask the crew of what
Upon their way befell;
And all, and more than all they know,
The wondering sailors tell.
From tongue to tongue the tidings ran;
The lady’s death, — the strange young man;
His moody ways, his gift of prayer,
The maid committed to his care,
His destined bride they nothing doubting deem’d;
And how, by sudden fit of pity moved,
From slavery he redeem’d
The children and the wife of Kawnacom,
(An act that all admired, but none approved,)
And to their savage tribe, they fear’d,
Reckless of counscl, would conduct them home.
All marvell’d at the tale; the many jeer’d:
“Mad as the Quakers!” some exclaim’d; and some
Pray’d that his rash and unenlighten’d will
Might cause no after-troubles in a state
Pester’d with errors and new fancies still.
Some shook their heads; the more compassionate
Observed, that where so kind a heart was found,
Pity it was the wits should not be sound.
“It is a madness which the world will cure,”
Leverett, the Governor, said, “too soon, be sure.”
Randolph had risen to leave him, when the youth
Enter’d the Governor’s door. “Come, let me play,”
Quoth he, “the usher!” in his wonted way,
Mingling with sportive speech sarcastic truth.
“Your Excellency here beholds the Man!
The Quaker-Church of England-Puritan,
Knight-errant, preacher, and we know not what,
So many things he is, and he is not;
A hero, certes, if he would but fight;
A Solomon, if his notions were but right.
Should he into a lion’s den be thrown,
Look at those arms and eyes, and you might swear
That he would act the London ‘Prentice there;
But trusting to the mind, forsooth, alone
He’d take the cubs, like lambkins, to his breast,
And, Daniel-like, by faith subdue the rest.
Then for the harder task of savage-quelling
He hath a talent which exceeds all telling.
Two full-bred devilings he has taught to greet him,
And kiss as lovingly as they would eat him;
And he hath bought their mother squaw, to teach
That pleasant lingo the six-nation speech;
“Words, which would choke a Dutchman or a Jew,
Dumbfound old Nick, and which from me or you
Could not be forced by ipecacuanha,
Drop from his oratoric lips like manna.
So fine withal his temper proves, that it
Hath borne unhurt the file of my rough wit;
This to his honour I am bound to tell;
“Would that he took true counsel half as well!
And now, sir, as your favour may befriend him,
To that in right good earnest I commend him!”
“A man of caustic speech!” the Governor said,
Following him with his eye, as forth he went:
“Yet hath this humour no unkind intent;
His commendation, sir, shall have its weight,
The rest we take as it is meant.”
The youth
To that urbane accoil, with grateful eye,
And gentle motion of the bending head,
Return’d a mute reply.
There was a troubled meaning in his look,
And o’er his brow an ashy paleness spread,
As forth he took —
A little casket, and, with trembling hand
Presenting it to Leverett, said:
“Thus I discharge my mother’s last command;
On her death-bed she told me I should need.
No other friend with you in my behalf to plead.”
The Governor’s countenance changed, as he received
That message from the dead;
And when he open’d and contemplated
The sad bequest,
Tears fill’d his eyes, which could not be represt.
It was a woman’s picture, in her youth
And bloom portray’d, by Cooper’s perfect skill.
The eyes, which death had quench’d,
Kept there their life and living lustre still;
The auburn locks, which sorrow’s withering hand,
Forestalling time, had changed to early grey,
Disparting from the ivory forehead, fell
In ringlets which might tempt the breath of May;
The lips, now cold as clay,
Seem’d to breathe warmth and vernal fragrance there;
The cheeks were in their maiden freshness fair.
Thus had the limner’s art divine preserved
A beauty which from earth had pass’d away;
And it had caught the mind which gave that face
Its surest charm, its own peculiar grace.
A modest mien,
A meek, submissive gentleness serene,
A heart on duty stay’d,
Simple, sincere, affectionate, sedate,
Were in that virgin countenance portray’d:
She was an angel now; and yet,.
More beautiful than this fair counterfeit,
Even in heaven, her spirit scarce could be,
Nor seem from stain of ill, and evil thoughts, more free.
Time was, when Leverett had worn
That picture like a relic in his breast;
And duly, morn and night,
“With Love’s idolatry
Fix’d on its beauties his adorning sight,
And to his lips the precious crystal prest.
Time was, when, in the visions of his rest,
That image of delight
Came with sweet smiles, and musical voice, to bless
His sleep, and all his dreams were happiness.
And still, though course of time, and fatal force
Of circumstance, grave thoughts, and worldly cares
(Ah! how unlike the blissful hopes of youth,
From which it had been worse than death to part!)
Had fortified as well as heal’d his heart,
That vision, in her beauty and her truth,
Sometimes would visit him; and he,
With a confused but conscious faculty,
Knowing full well
That this, which seem’d, too surely could not be,
Struggled against the spell.
Unchanged and unimpair’d by thirty years,
Her image came, but only to distress
The heart she wont to bless,
Till from the painful unreality He woke, disturb’d in spirit, and in tears.
But he was master of his waking soul,
And could control
All unbecoming passion, and all feeling
That needs repressing or concealing.
Howbeit he sought not to restrain
His deep emotion now, nor turn’d aside
His natural tears to hide, which freely fell;
But wiping them away a moment, eyed
Oliver’s pale countenance and anxious brow,
Perusing there his mother’s lineaments:
Then took his hand, and said, “Thou need’st not tell
Thy hapless name and perilous secret now,
I know them but too well.”
VI. FUTURE PROSPECTS.
LEVERETT.
WHY hast thou ventured hither? “With what hope
Or end hath natural piety betray’d thee
To this forlorn attempt? If to escape
Had offer’d chance enough to tempt despair,
The desperate effort had ere this been tried.
Besure, it hath been meditated oft,
And bravely; and, had life been all the stake,
Life had been cheaply set upon the die,
To lose it being gain.
OLIVER.
They must forego,
The dear desire of e’er revisiting
Their native land, — and in my mother’s grave
That hope, I ween, will now be laid at rest:
Nor could they safely seek a resting-place
In Europe, even if we reach’d a ship,
And left these shores behind us. Oft and well
Have I perpended this, devising ways
For flight, and schemes of plausible disguise,
Such thoughts in disappointment ending alway;
Till having offer’d up in fervent faith
A disciplined and humbled heart to Heaven,
A better hope arose. The wilderness
Is open to us! Thither will we go,
Far in the wilds, where foot of Englishman
Hath never trod. The equal elements
Will not deny our portion: Mother Earth
In unappropriated freedom, there
Holds forth her liberal lap; her springs, her fruits,
Her creatures of the land and air and stream,
To her free children freely offering.
Hid from the world, a double duty there
May I perform, to God and man discharged,
Serving my human and my Heavenly Sire;
There, treading in your saintly Eliot’s path,
Guide the poor Indian in the way to Heaven!
And, in the foretaste of its joys assured,
Receive mine own exceeding great reward.
LEVERETT.
Oh pitiable lot
Of poor humanity,
When virtue thus can wrong the heroic heart,
And blind the noble intellect! Thou dreamest
Of peopling some Arcadian solitude
With human angels, — ignorant, alas!
Of time, place, circumstance, and men, and things,
The Indians, and thy father, and thyself!
OLIVER.
Myself at least I know, prepared to act
Or suffer, with a soul for all events
Resign’d.
LEVERETT.
To suffer, rightly thou may’st say;
Easily we screw our courage to that point,
The issue being remote, and hope and chance
Between us and the event.
But how prepared to act? Ere thou couldst hold
With these Red tribes the commonest discourse
Of needful things and every-day concerns,
Years of laborious pupilage must pass,
Unless the cloven flame upon thy head
Should light, and loose thy speech by miracle.
But wherefore with the show of difficulties
Should I dissuade thee from an enterprise
Impossible to attempt?
OLIVER.
A Poet, sir,
In whose dark sayings deeper wisdom lies
Than ancient oracles enounced, or statesmen
Appear to reach in these ignoble times,
Hath taught me to believe, “impossible
Is but the faith of fear.”
LEVERETT.
Are poets, then,
Thy teachers? O, young man, their flattering lore
But ill prepares the spirit for the uses
Of ordinary life!
OLIVER.
They best prepare it,
Who warn the heart against its own illusions;
And, strengthening it with patient hope and faith,
Arm it against all issues. To such teachers
My inexperienced youth by Providence
“Was mercifully led. Penn hath allow’d me
To call him friend, in no sectarian use
Of words; and I have sate at Milton’s feet
A reverential listener.
LEVERETT.
Milton’s friendship
Will neither hurt nor help thee in a land,
Where they, who stiffliest hold his errors, lift not
Their thoughts above the earth to follow him,
When his strong spirit mounts upon the wing,
Beyond their grovelling vision. But well is it
Thou hast not from Penn’s dangerous fellowship
Learnt his sectarian speech, and other follies
Wherewith that formal informality
Provokes the law. New England writes her statutes
In blood against the Quakers. Thou hast ‘scaped
Their clownish and uncivil usages;
But if there be an inner taint, take heed
To keep it hidden: openly I must not
Allow the violation of our laws.
OLIVER.
Oh we have trespass’d largely on your goodness;
Generous beyond example, as thou art,
Too largely have we tax’d it; and the cause,
The dreadful cause alone, can palliate
Conduct like ours towards thee. Not for worlds
Would I do aught that might displeasure thee,
Best earthly friend! whom my dear mother never
Named without tears, and holiest gratitude,
Such as will surely bring upon thy head
The blessing that it pray’d for. I come here,
Not wilfully and madly to provoke
Intolerant laws, nor farther to presume
Upon thy noble nature; but to thank thee,
In her dear name, for all Which thou hast done;
To tell thee, as she charged me, that in death
She bless’d thee for thy goodness; and, performing
Her latest wish and will, to take the burthen
Of our unhappy fortunes on myself.
LEVERETT.
Her latest wish and will!
OLIVER.
It was a thought
Which added to her griefs, that you should stand
In jeopardy for us; howbeit, she said,
She hoped and felt and trusted that you knew
Her inmost mind, and Heaven would recompense
A true affection, too severely tried.
LEVERETT.
Thus it was ever with her gentle heart,
By some strange fortune fated still to prove
That in her strength alone the root
Of her sole weakness lay.
Poor heart! a victim always at the call
Of fancied duty; only then unjust,
Only then obstinate, when offering up
Itself a bleeding sacrifice! I know,
And understand, in what devoted mood
Her acquiescence to thy dreams was given
Such as aspiring saints desire, and martyrs
Reach in their triumph, when they clasp the stake.
OLIVER.
’Twas in no height of feverish exaltation,
In no delusion of the heated mind,
That her consent was given: but mutually
Our hearts received, as I believe, from Heaven
The impulse. By the test of prayer we tried,
And in the balance of the sanctuary
Weighed it; and having taken our resolve,
Partook that inward peace, wherewith the Spirit
Doth set the seal to its authentic acts.
Shake not thy head thus mournfully, nor thus
In disapproval knit the incredulous brow!
The purpose, which at first was entertain’d
With doubtfulness and fear, increased in strength,
While long infirmity and wasting pain
Consumed her mortal mould; and at that hour,
When it is no illusion to believe
That the departing soul hath sight of heaven
Opening before its happy flight, and feels
The expansion of diviner faculties —
Than this gross earth unfolds, her looks and tokens
Confirm’d the injunction of her latest voice,
And bless’d, and for obedience strengthen’d me,
Betide what may.
LEVERETT.
For me, then, it remains
Only to show what obstacles impede
The perilous course from which I must not farther
Essay to turn thee. Thou, who art not less
In mind than lineaments thy mother’s image,
Judge for thyself if they be superable.
Thy grandsire lives, indeed, — if it be life,
When the poor flesh, surviving, doth entomb
The reasonable soul defunct. Below
The reach of grief and danger he hath sunk.
The tale of his dear daughter’s death to him
Will be like baptism to a chrysome babe,
Something that means he knows and recks not what.
Safely in court might he hold up the hand,
Now trembling and unconscious, which subscribed
The fatal warrant: even the sword of law
Would, in his pitiable estate, acknowledge
The visitation of a higher Power,
And turn away its edge. But as thou canst not,
Encumber’d with a twichild man, pursue
Thy purpose, it must of necessity
Be laid aside, at least till death remove
The impediment, not else removeable.
OLIVER.
So be it. We must patiently await
The hour of his release. With time and death
Sure reckoning may be made.
LEVERETT.
That hour in truth
Cannot be long delay’d. But what shall make
Thy father to thy dreams defer his own?
If in his corporal uses man becomes
The slave of habit, stronger are the chains
In which the mind is bound, a willing thrall.
OLIVER.
I understand you not!
LEVERETT.
You do not know
Your father.
OLIVER.
Only by report, alas!
As England in his years of fortune knew him;
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 194