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Les diagrammes suivants iilustrent ia mithode. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 "tJTSi c ' «• ^i&7"^>^j '4 p]K])l$ "^tmtt^ V.' r I ]V GEOI The MAPLE LEAVES : BY GEORGE WASHINGTON JOHNSON. The Emblem of Upper Canada f is the Maple Leaf, •-»■• -*- Maple Leaves 1 Canadian Maple Leaves From a tree that bloometh in my heart I gathered them. When the lone wind grieves Among the purple-dyed and golden leaves Of Autumn, I did pluck a part. And some I gathered in the Summer-time — Of lusty growth— when fairand bright they grew. Some tender ones, when hope was in its prime I gathered. Autumn, Summer, Spring-time Maple Leaves I 1 gathered them for you I i^i*i PUBLISnED BY THE AUTHOK. 1864. 69705 J rBieiilu'^ntJiinK To Loyal Hkauis of Canada, arc tliCi*o, The luimble oflorts of my untried pon Dedicated. Not with hopes to please, And purchase favor, for full well I know Tiiut pi)li8h, wit and beauty, grace and ease, Thoy lack in. Often lifeless, tame and slow, Where fire and passion should have been ; but then Tliey're all my store ; the debt is large I owe— This is my first instalment, Countrymeii. Ever yours in loyalty and true friendshi]), GEOllGE \VAS!riN(rrOX JOHNgON. Which all expect, and no one ever reads I Go forth ! My children, first-born of my brain And pen. Rough and unpolished sons! go, try The world, so wide, so dark and lone. I fain Would warn you, where the shoals and quicksands lie, For some of you may fall, and faint, and die — Yea ! all may perish — none of you may gain A welcc^ le, for I cannot give you gold Or silver passports, but like one of old I give my blessing : May your friends though few , And humble, e'er be loyal, honest, true ! Exult, cold Critic! In thy mad delight Draw forth, and whet thy long and ujnrd'rous knife. And clutch, and slay my children in my sight. Waylay them. With thy dark, drawn dagger, rife And reeking in thy slaughtered victims' life. Butcher them, and fling them in thy spite Dead at ray feet, then laugh in fiendish glee. • But hark ! Beware ! for if they die, to thee ,. I'll lay their murder. Let them flourish then, Blood-thirsty tyrant, Butcher of the pen. BixBRooK, Feb., 1864. MAPLE LEAVES. TO MY COVNTRYMEN, I ask it not in charity — not I. I ask your cheerful patronage, my friends, Because I am your countryman. And why Sliould you buy books a foreign writer sends. And cherish not by liberal support Canadian Literature ? Then ye who love our homo — our Canada, And hope to see a literature her own, And love to help those, be they who they may, "Who try to help themselves, if I have shown A wish to rise and an ability. However small, help me. But if my thoughts are stale and lean, unfed With genius, do not buy my book, but think Of me, as one whose hopes of fame are fled, Who lacking wealth, made not a name, did sink, Content to be forgotten by the world. If not remembered by his Countrymen, ZAND OF THE MAl^LE ZEAF. I Land of the brave! Land of the Maple Leaf! Land of the loyal! Land of heroes chief! Fair art thou. Land, where mighty rivers run, Brightest and best of all beneath the sun. Proud is the path thy people's feet have trod, Bright is thy sky and green thy daisied sod. Though other lands boast milder skies than min«y They cannot boast more loyal sons than thine. i I 1 j AVhat, tliou'^'li from every Imid boiicatli the sun? Our caus»> is coininoii, now — our country one, Though Kiif^lish, Scotch, or Irish, Swede, or I'ole, Canadian is the name we ^ive the wh(tU>, Save tho.se — 1 bhish to own that surh there lie — Who urge tliy union with thy enemy; These I call traitors, and sludl call them so, Until a fitter mime is coined below. Then Hail! all Hail! my own Canadian home, Fair and forever mav thv beauties bloom, Thy meadows bright, thy lakes unting(!d with gore, And as thy air is free, free evermore. If "Tories" rule, and they be true to thkk, I'll cry "Amkn!" and call it destiny. If " Grits" bear sway, and they to lh*'e be true, I'll cry "Amkn!" and bow submissive, too. But, if a traitor seize tlie helm of state, Whate'er his name or station — Death's his fate, For here my heart is pledged, my life, my band, In thy defence, my own, my Xativk Land. This is my platform, be it weak or strong, Not "Tory" — "Grit" — but Country, right or whono! A friend to those who to thee friendship shovv, To foreign loe, and traitor, deadly foe. What hopes of fame may be in store for me, Without reserve, I dedicate to thee. If after conflict, I shall laurels wear, With thee, my Country, I will gladly share , But, if I fall, the only boon I crave, Is, as thy friends are buried, make my grave, And if I prove a traitor, make my bed Beneath a cross-road, that my tomb-stone, read By foes, and strangers, tell them passing by Beneath this stone a traitor's ashes He. GRANTLY G li AN VILLE ; <}v,--Tiiv ITmj of Ihv Mo t)ilnhi. DUAMA'PIS rKUSON'.K. [Grantlv OiiANviM.E.— Son of Don Granville, kiiliippcd l»y Vinin, known as Kdwjirdo, (lisgiiiscd m IJard L('s«i»«Hin. lEnwAKDo,— Gruntly Grnnville. ILkssklux.— A Uurd, Grantly GrHiivillc. IVioLA.— A Gipsy Maid, niairii'd by Don llt-rnardo, divorced ntid known us the Hag of the Mountain, dismiiscd as IJjipi'llo. IHao of thk MotriSTAiN, — Viola. ILij'I'kllo.— Viola. IDon Alvardo.— Foster Father ot'Kudolpho. IliUDOU'no.— Son of liornardo and Viola, adoi)tc n I I ! 10 JA^^TLE LEJ1VE8. Within whose slimy walla the prisoner waits Till friendly Death opens his prison gates, The den of thieves — the robbers' rendezvous, la laid the plot, we'll represent to you. PROLOGUE. Time changes everything beneath the sun, Hearts, hopes and passions ; soon their race is run, But, if by chance there be a passion found That changeth not, as years are rolling round, It is revenge — these'scenes will show in part How deep 'tis planted in the human heart ; How vice at times soars up to meet the skies, And honest virtue, lone, neglected lies, Until at last a change comes o'er the tide, And virtue soars o'er everything beside. The past, the future graveyard of today. Though bearing changes on its wings away, Forgets not wrongs— the retribution comes Aad blasts the heart that blighted other homes. So here Bernardo sufiFers from the pride, That drove the wedded Gipsy from his side. Rudolpbo falls ; in prison draws his breath ; Dies by his hand, an ignominious death. Granvillo too, for wrongs and hoarding gold Is robbed of heirs. Viola's heart grows cold. Estelle and Grantly smile above their pain. And prove a virtuous lifers a life of gain. Time— Su Via. (SI il Ber.—T I Vio.^ I Ber.—R I Vio.—'T I Ber.—O A T J L I B ■T Vio.— Itl I JBer A Vio. — N JAJl^LE LEfiVES. n ACT I. SCENE I.-The Mmintain. Time— Sunrise. Viola witli wild flowers in her hair, gathering acorns in her apron. SONG,— Air, " Within a Mile of Edinboro':' Vio. (Sings )— I'm a merry mountain maid, As the air, I am free, And my heart ia as light as the dawn. My home is fair, That I've fitted up with care. And they say it is lone when I'm gone. As tl\e lark that sings at day, I'm as merry, blithe and gay. The birds that sing, would miss my song — Ono! I will not roam, I'm happy, happy, happy, happy, In my mountain home, (Enter Don. Bernardo ) Ber. — Thou'rt fair, sweet maid. Vio. — My lover tells me so. Ber. — He tells thee true — stay, sweet one, do not go. Vio. — 'Tis time. Ber. — Thy name, dear maid ? I Vio. — Too long I've been — Viola, daughter of the Gipsey Queen. *| Ber. — 0, would our Spanish maids had eyes like thine, And hearts as pure. I would that thou wert mine. Thy cheeks are soft as velvet; and thy lips, Like opening rose-buds, whence the brown bee sips His daily nectar — may I not, dear maid, ! Thus taste their sweetness? Vio. — I am afraid It might be wrong. Ber Not wrong to love. Thou'rt shy As any deer ; and dear thou art — but why — Vio. — Nay ! I must go. ■ I j -, Hi 12 JAJKPLE LEJIV: -O. Ber. — Yet but one niomont stay, Then if thou wilt, I'll l/iJ thee liaste away. I've seen the Spanish Donnas in their piido, Their elegance, and beauty; at thy side They'd be a hoideu, I have seen their eyes, Flash bright with love and passion. I would prize One smile of thine, for me alone, as worth Their love thrice told and all the wealth of earth. I've heard their songs, with music mingled, sweet, I've heard the trippings of their little feet, Which I've forgotten, but 'till life shall fade, I'll not forget thy song, my pretty maid. Wilt thou be mine, my precious one, my pride? Say wilt thou be, my darling one, my bride? I'll pet thee, dearest, and each day with care Thy maids in silks shall dress thee, and thy hair I'll twine with pearls, and love thee ; when thou'rt sad I'll kiss away thy tears, and make thee glad. (She weeps.) Why dost thou weep ? my dear one— may I know ? Vio — I cannot bear thy words ; yet love tliem so. I'm but a Gipsey maid, thou'rt rich and great ; My home's the mountain, thine a hall of state. Go, let me die amid my native shade, ^^ Thou'lt soon forget the lonely gipsey maid, Thou'rt high above me, as the sun is, high As Him, I'll worship thee. Go, let me die, As I have lived, unknown — Farewell! I go. Ber. — Nay! precious bird, thou canst not leave me so. Thou wilt not take my love, then grant mo this, From thy dear lips a single farewell kiss. That I may have to think of, when away, And cherish ; darling, tell me that I may ; JA:ft:TLE LE^fiVEB. 13 I'll prize it more than dinionds from the mine. Vio. — I'll prize it too; thou may 'st— the kiss is thine. (Kiss.) Ber, — 0, dear one, loved one, sweet one, be my own ; I cannot leave thee, here to die alone. (Sings.) I will take thee and lar; The fowler's lime will clog thy careless feet. And nameless sorrows clog#thy spirit sweet. For once, like thee, I carrolled to the morn, The freest maiden, ever mountain-born. But, Oh the change — my mother could not know In me, Viola of one year ago. I H« Bi Tl W Til M\ Fo M i Tim K— Eve; I ning in 5 a bow t ■'I :^ Gran. Ho f Th Fv An A Th Bu Th An E'r Oh Wi Let If No In JAJITLE LEj^VES. 15 I f?o, but where— my heart is turned to stone; Ilcncerorth I'll wantler oil this earth alone. (Bell tolls.) But hark! on high, yon creaking iron tongue, The sun is up, to sleeping ears has rung. Wild, hoarse, discordant, as you madly toll. There's wilder music raging in my soul. My heart is dead — Farewell sweet babe, I had For thee a hope, but now, Fm mad! Fni mad! ACT I. SCENE III.— The Monntnlii. Time— Evening of the same day as last scene. Thunder and light- ning in the distance. Enter Giantiy Granville in childhood with a bow and a quiver. Gran. Ho! father, ho! the damps of eve arc chill, The wild winds blow, the night grows darker .still. Fve thought all day upon my hunter's fame And father's praise, when I .should bring my game, A mountain goat, or hare, and proudly throw Them at his feet — the firstlings of my bow. But, as to mountain goats, they're fewer now Than once they were, some twenty years ago. And hares are swift, and hurried from my view, E're from the quiver, I ray arrow drew. (Thunder.) Oh! what is that, but fear I cannot know With this my quiver — this my noble bow ; Let cowards tremble, and their fears discuss, If 1 should meet a bear, Fd serve him thus: (Attempts to shoot; string breaks.) Now were my father here, he'd lecture so — In seeking too much power, you broke your bow, !b * 1 'M ;\ :■':*■ i I 16 JAfi'VLE LEJIVE8. Then let the lessons thus you gain, be prized, For hopes o'erstraincd are seldom realized. (Thunder, lightning and rain.) Ho ! father, ho ! the gloom surrounds your child. The night grows dark, the mountain's cold and wild! I ve lost my way, and spoiled my bow beside. (A noise.) Ah ! here's a game I hunted not — I'll hide. (Enter Viola. Grantly hides. Eain ceases.) Why cease? ye rains, and why, ye woods, to roar? Howl on, ye winds, we've often met before, And rise, thou tempest, in mad fury play, I'll wed the storm ; I was divorced to-day. Yet louder, madder, wilder, deeper wail. And hurl this mountain to yon sleeping vale, Then in thy direst freaks, worst furies see. If thou canst mark one sign of fear in me. They call me mad — ha! ha! and well they may, But there will come a iark, avenging day. When youths shall weep, because their chains are cold And maidens die, ere half their woes are told, And men grow gray, ere half their years have fled, Because their sons are numbered with the dead. Granvillo thinks to live a life of ease ; I'll rouse his grief, as ye have roused the seas, I'll mix his cup, as ye have mixed the storm, I'll dim his eye, and bend his haughty form. He said 'twas he, who urged Bernardo's eye To frown on me, and turn me out to die. And when I begged a crust, he laughed, so fine, And bade me go and seek it with the swine. I begged, again, some rest, a little food. But he refused, because I'd Gipsy blood ; ^1 i Hj ri Oran. A^ M Fto.— Ye Ai Ai Ai T Tl Tl F( Oran. I'r Fto.— Ai a" Tl ai Jdj^TLE I,EJIVEB. 17 Refused me shelter in his home of state, I'll teach him how a Gipsy Queen can hate. He'd let me know, that, in his regal eyes, 'Twas wrong to shield a bunch of gipsy lies ; Then loosed his cursed blood-hounds from the leash To taste my blood, and tear my tender flesh — Ay ! from my wounds, ye drops of sorrow start. For each shall wring a thousand from his heart. Gran.{ande) These words are strange about my father's blood, would that I were safe beyond this wood. Vio. — What's that ? Methought I marked a startled tone, Borne on the winds above the forest's moan ; Its breath was hot, it brings me something good. Granvillo's son's belated in this wood. Ha ! Ha ! I've caught the eaglet from its nest, I'll clip its wings, and rear it at this breast. Oran, Away ! she-wolf, I do not want your kiss ; My bow is spoiled, or I'd not suffer this. Vio. — Ye Gods ! How he doth ape his father's pitch ! As poor men ape the fjishions of the rich ; As striplings, scarcely from the leading string. Are men — Ay ! more by their own reckoning. Thy bow is broken ? Ay ! and so I'll part The strings, that cluster round thy father's heart. The string is sundered ? Ay ! and thus shall he, Forever, wander separate from thee. Gran. say no more ! I would no longer roam ; I'm lost ! I'm lost ! wont you take me home ? Vio. — Ay ! that 1 will ; thy home shall henceforth be Among these mountains, as their air is, free. Thou'lt sleep at night in caves, with terrors rife ; I'll teach thee how to live a Gipsy's life. And how to curse thy father, too, I'll teach ; Revenge so soon is placed within my reach. '. ! I !b 1 1 :■ ! ■i.i'i /|!'!' I, I eM ;t 18 JdJlTLE LFr^VES. Ye Gods ! I thank you for this welcome hnste ; Revenge is sweet, and 't shall be mine to taste. To think upon it rouses — warms my blood To twice the heat of youth — 'twill do me good. I'velost some blood. See here, these jleeding wound.s Were freshly opened by thy father's hounds. I'll be revenged — nay ! nay ! thou need'st not start ; I'll make them deeper in thy father's heart. Sly heart Avas young, once, and as free us thine ; My heart is dead, and his I'll make like mine. 'Twas he, who urged Bernardo to forget The vows he made me — I will match him yet. Thou art too young to understand, my boy, How I will change to bitterness, his joy; How to his grave, I'll send his tottering h'gs, And mix a cup — he'll drink it to the dregs ; But thou wilt learn, ay ! soon enough to know 1'heir fearful meaning, feel their freight of woe. Gran. I want not freedom, if you call this free ; My father never said such words to me. Via. — Remove these useless robes, they '11 ill become The monntain cave, I'll make thy future home. (She removes hia outside dross and cap, lays them on the ground and lets her own wounds bleed ou them; breaks his buw aud scatters his arrows.) % ! Hi: If thou shalt dare to wander to the plain, Or ever speak thy father's name again, These hands shall from thy tender bosom tear, Thy quivering heart, and hang it in the air. That mountain vampyres — hungry bats may test, How sweet a heart is from a Granville's breast. Forget thy name, thy very self forget. And learn that I'm thy mother since we met ; JdJlQPLB LEJIVE'^'L 19 Nor would I have another son than thou — Thy name's Edwardo, Gipsy Edward, now. Gran, And must my face grow old, and withered, too, My eyes grow wild; and will I look like you? Vio. — Thy heart shall change, while yet thy life is young ; Thy face grow old, before my song is sung. (While she sings, she washes hi» face and hands with a mixture, causing him to look yellow.) SONG. The tears of the strangled babe at 'leath. The carrion-buzzard's poison breutli, - The venomdew, the night shade steeps From the cell, where tho slimy lizzard sleeps, Will work the spell I ween. Beware the berries that lead astray The famished in the enchanted way ; Beware the sea-mews' rocky bed, The chill of death, and the viper's head, And the Hag of tho Mountain Range. (Exeunt.) INTERLUDE. Enter Time.— An old man, bald, except a forelock ; a scythe in one hand and an hour glass in the other ; standing on a wheel of twelve spokes, representing the twelve months. Time. — When the stars of morning shouted, And the spirit of their Maker Moved upon the mighty waters, When the waters were divided, Ere the torch of day was lighted, Then my wheel began its rolling. When the trumpet of the angel, Standing on the land and water - At whose note the earth and heavens, As a scroll shall roll together, r^\ i\^l 'H 1 1 'i ix., .1 '!r 20 JAJIPI^E LBJlVEa. t'llili I As a vision-fabric vanish- Shall proclaim my being ended, To the valley of Gehenna I shall be consigned forever. Grain by grain these sands have fallen, Till they nearly all are wasted. In my life, forever changing, I have watched some strange mutationa, Saw the things of earth and heaven Gather in the ark together; Heard the "babble" made at Babel, Whose mysterious confusions Were the germs of many nations ; Saw the host of haughty Pharaoh Sink like lead beneath the waters ; Saw the shower of fire and brimstone Swallow up the ancient cities. Now the home of finny monsters 'Neath the sluggish Dead Sea waters. Only once my course I halted. When I paused to watch a battle. Heard the bard whose potent music Overthrew a mighty city. Since my age may claim forbearance. Grant my first and last petition, And imagine while youVe listened. That my twelve-spoked wheel has meted Twenty years by twenty turnings ; That the scene when next presented Shall be twenty years the older. (Exit) Enter Viol A smal Hag. He I'll Fo As Th( Bci lui Iw Spin ( . Go I'd Hag. Th€ Wh Or The Is] Id Spin. Foi I'd My Ths Hag. Th( For To Frc Of Ha: JAJ1:PLE LEjftVEQ. 21 ACT II. SCENE I.-A Cave in the Mountain. '-i Time.— Sunsi t; twenty years after Inst scene. Kilter Yiola— Old and withered, known as the Hag of the Mountain. A small fire in the centre, and a pot over it. JIag. He's not returned — 'tis well. My plans are right; I'll leave this life, this mountain cave to-night. For twenty years mankind have come to me, As if my eyes could see their destiny; They call me Hag ; my heart is hard I know, Bernardo and my wrongs have made it so. I used to weep when thinking of the past ; I weep no more, revenge is mine at last. (Stirs the contents of the pot. Enter Spinola.) Spin. Good morrow, mother, grant to lend thine aid ; I'd leave the mountain, ere the daylight fade. Hag. Then leave it now, white-livered son of hell. What would you pilfer that you ask my cell ? Or would'st thou learn who thy god-parents are — The Gods of Thieves. Thy ruling, guiding star Is Mercury. Away ! What would you have ? I do not harbor robbers in this cave. I Spin. Four years ago, my father disappeared, I'd know the worst, the worst I long have feared ; My nerves are strong, ay! blunted to that state, That fears not fiends. I'd know my father's fate. Hag Then cross my hand, and bow the knee. For potent is the silver key To ope the gates of Destiny. From the clammy prison walls Of a castle, hear he calls, Haste, the hiding curtain falls. ;«'■ !^ •'i ' M ' i •| i! -'i '\a iili 22 JJJIPLE LFJIVEB. Sidn. All ! tliou lio lives, but in ii prison air III? ilniws his breath. It'll iiic, tell mo where. IIy)/», Tlmiikf*! llianks! ^ood iiiotlior, for tliy filomlly aUl; And if thou hast not with my ft'clin;;^ played, Thou slialt not be f()r<:ofltMi ; liut the tnavu Shall have thy withered Itody from this cave; If thou ha>4t dared with husks to feed and lure— I'ronietheus' pains thrice-told thou shidt endure. Thy cursed careass, mangled hy thy fall, Hurled hence by me, the early rooks shall call To feast upon. Thy heart, cris[)-burnt, I'll sell To thoso who wish to bind a fiendish spell Or bli;i;ht with evil eye. And more besido I'll do in venj^eanco, if thy lips luive lied. I threaten, not, without the power to will, [Exit.] II:i(j. Forgotten? never, while this mountain range Is as it is — with it alone Til change. Thinks he my life has passed with purpose none, Than this to tell him, Avhere his father's gone. A deeper purpose lias employed my thought, A dreadful vengeance was the purpose sought. But why should I breathe vengeance? Ah! too well I know the reason. Once I used to dwell In yonder mansion at Bernardo's side ; Ah ! I was happy then, Bernardo's bride. He loved me, then, until Granvillo came — Ah ! yes, 'tis wrongs have made me what I am. The seed is sown, the plant has grown in gloom. ] must away and watch my vengeance bloom. (Exit ling. Enter raulolplio.) \RHd. This used to be her cave; she's gone. What! ho! There's no one here ; then I may also go, (Enter Ilag in male attire as Lippello.) \Lip. I'm but an honest peasant, gone astray. H ft ' m; ' 4 % I I'iii If! it ii:;' ' 24 JdJlVLB LE_^VES. Wilt thou direct rac in the proper way To find Alvardo Mansion? AW. Yes! I go That way, I am his son — the way I'll show. Lip. Art thou Rudolpho? It is he I seek. Rud. What is thy business ? Lip. Of small moment. Hnd. Speak. Lip, 'Tis but to gain employment. Eud, It is thine — Thy name? Lip. Lippello. Hud. And Rudolpho, mine. (Exeunt.) ACT II. SCENE II.—T1ie Mountain. Tims.— Immediately after last scene Enter Edwardo with a guitar, singing. SONG. Edw. sings. Oh my heart is sad in my mountain home, While the birds are blithe and gay, And the winds sing sweet, as they onward roam, But my heart is^sad to-day. (Stops suddenly at the very place whence he was taken twenty years before.) What scene 13 this? — or am I in a dream? I've seen this place before. It seems a gleam Of light, now all is dark. May it not be. The soul in dreams, from flesh-restraints made free. Re-visits sacred haunts, and wanders o'er Sweat scenes, unknown, unvisited before ? JAJl^LB LEj^VES. 25 It may be thus that I before was here, And yet 'tis strange — the trees and rocks appear Fixed in my mind, as stars are in the sky. And ever and anon, I know not why, A voice of sorrow, like of leaves, appears To sound a solemn requiem in my ears — As if a requiem over loves untold. And then the past is, as a scroll, unrolled. And I've a faint and dim remembrance, mild, Of pleasant words, when I was but a child. Oh, why am I a gipsy ! but my hands Are free from guilt, as any in the lauds. Oh, that mine eyes might gaze beyond the wall That hems me in, yet shuts me out from all. 'Tia madness thus to wish — I'll wish no more; Life's path, though dark, is not all clouded o'er ; Beat heart, no more, in such despondent mood, Thou'st never beat a drop of traitor's blood. ySinga.) Oh my heart is sad in my mountain home. While the birds are blithe and gay, And the winds sing sweet, as they onward roam, But my heart is sad to-day. But I'll laugh at care, for my life is true. And my lot though low is my own ; And my heart will beat true, though my friends be few. Yet, 'tis hard to live alone. [Enter Estelle, gathering wild flowers.] Hdvo. (aside.) She's fair — Ay I she's a flower from the vale. {aloud.) My pretty maid, these mountain flowers are pale By thy sweet face. Nay, don't be angry, now; I'm all alone— my heart is sad. I vow I meant no ill. Then I forgive — no more— Thou'rt Gipsy Edward— we have met before. 1 :i''^ l\ ' n 'n li tii|l-;l Mi' !i M!i !,ni \\i\ lilill^il M I Hi;.' i ; I JEdw. Thou gav'st me gold for singing at thy door. I'll come to sing no more. JSst. Pray, tell me why. JEJdw. I do not like thy friend, Rudolpho's eye. [Enter EudolpUo unpcrceived, in the rear, having a drawn dag- ger, and starts up during this part of the scone at various times as if unable to control his hate] B»t. He's not my friend, he is my foe instead; I hate the very ground his feet may tread. Now, wilt thou come and sing ? £Idw. Till life shall end, If thou'lt allow me but to be thy friend. I'll live to guard ; or die, thee to defend. The wind that blows too rough or chill on thee I will consider as my enemy. And he who dares to harm thy sacred head, Shall die. Thou'lt not forget the words I've said. Bst. I'll not forget, but I will think it long Till thou shalt come again and sing thy song. £!dw. My life is brighter now — wilt thou not tell Thy name, sweet maid ? Fst. Yes Edward ; 'tis Estelle. JSdw, Thou 'It be my star to guide me as I run ; Now, sweet Estelle, may I not choose thee, one ? Yon fairest star of mild and gentle light. Brightest of all that gem the vault of night. Shall be thy own. And while, he wills, whose crown It decks, I'll live to guard thee as my own. And wilt thou come again two nights to come, And meet me here upon my mountain home? I want thee here to cheer my lonely mind. And talk with me, for no one else is kind. Bud. (aside.) I'll also come. I^st Edwardo, come again ; Rud. {step Ye An So I'll Th( Un Lip. (asid Gn Rvd. Wl Ye Or Lip. {fall Rud. Th Th He He Fo Sle Wl aJ JAfi(PLE LEjiVES. 27 Hdw. I'll meet thee here. Now I must seek the plain. Good bye ! Edwardo. (Kiss.) Darling, pet, Estelle, We'll meet two evenings hence. Farewell. (Exeunt.) )3e crown Rud. {stepping forward.) Farewell! Ye gods ! yon brightest star is thine, he cried ; And even dared to kiss my future bride. So you will meet again to-morrow night? I'll meet here too? and, as the mildews blight The flowers, I'll blight the flowers of hope that bloom Untimely in thy breast. (Enter Lijpello.) Lip. {aside.) Sealed is thy doom. Granvillo, hark ! my vengeance worketh well. Rud. Why art thou here ! who bid thee here, Lippelle ? Ye gods I must I be followed thus ? away ! Or thv vile blood shall stain the rock. Lip. {falling on knees.) Stay ! stay ! Rud. Thy place is not to follow me. Learn, too. That when I'm angry, keep thyself from view. (Exit Lippello.) He does not like mine eye, ha ! ha ! how sane ! He'll know me better ere we part again ; For three will part, and two no more to meet. Sleep well, Edwardo, may thy dreams be sweet ; When next you sleep, 'twill be a dreamless one. And none shall wake thee from thy chamber lone. Exit.) ■I ;'■■ ■I'i . I- . i 7 ' VI 1 '\¥ ,1 1 f /I ., I!' i' ''!i':!'i' iii- ii; 28 Jd:fiTLE LEJiVES. ACT, II. SCENE III.-Bernardo Castle, Ber. Rud. HsU Time.— Night of the day of last scene. (Enter Bernardo, Estelle and Eudolpho.) Rud. Bernardo, come, I'm tired of children's play ; Shall fair Estelle be mine ? say yea or nay. She is my only child ; her hand and heart Have gone together, and shall never part. Thou'lt have a gipsy son. Am I not right ? Didst thou not meet him on the mount to-night? What's that to thee? I did, and learned to know He is as noble as thou'rt false and low. Rudi A gipsy son, Bernardo — didst thou hear? J5«r, TLe wound is tender, touch it not so near. Away! Estelle. (Exit Estelle. Enter servant.) Serv. A stranger at the door Demands admittance. Ber. Bid him ask no more, Serv. He will not be denied; I tried him so. Rvd. Then loose the hounds on him. Serv. I did, but lo! The hounds drew back in fear. [Enter Lippello, unperceived.] Ber. Then bid him come» ' For if he wishes, vaults can make him room. [Ghost of Delano rises.] Serv. And there he stands, but who he ia, and how He came — Qhost. Vaults cannot hold Delano now. }aji:ple lf^^ves. 29 Rud. Delano! Yes! 'tis he. Ohost. It is. Ber. Away ! I did not slay thee — 'twas Rudolpho's hand, That locked thee in the vault. Jjip. (aside.) This flame I fanned. Ghost, I've come again to try thee in the fight. Ber. Away! away! AW. I do not fear thy might ; Come, draw thy blade. Ghost. I'm ready, come^ fear not, I would embrace thee. Lip. (aside.) I must leave this spot. To see them tremble — 'tis delicious food To feed my vengeance on — 'twill do me good. [Exit Lippello. Ghost approaches.] Bud, Back! or my sword shall find thy heart. Ghost. Poor fool, Who fears thy sword ? [The Ghost approaches— Eudolpho's sword passes through it like a shadow— Ghost embraces Eudolpho.] Biid. Let go thy hold. Ohost. I'll cool Thy blood, and at thy side I'll walk by day. To other eyes unseen. Bud. Away! away! Thy breath is hot, and smells of sulphur flame. Ghost. I go, but thou shalt not forget my name. By day, by night, in sleep, in dreams, I chase Thy footsteps, till we shall again embrace. [Ghost vanishes ] Ber. God ! what tortures shall I suffer yet ? Would that my heart Viola could forget. M 'i^ 'A '• i 1 1 1 ! '' 1 i i 30 •■ii i I hi ill: h ' III::. J!:; ill: JAfi^LB LEjiVES. Bud, What ! tender-hearted still ? Then I must go And seek a heart, that will not tremble so. [Exeunt.] ACT III. SCENE I.— Castle of Bernardo, Withmit. Time— Immediately after last scene. [Enter Edwardo with guitar, singing.] SONG. Edw. \_8ings] Awake ! lady wake ! from thy slumberings sweet, The moon is gone away, And drive with'thine eyes the gloom from my skies. And change my darkness to day. Thy cares leave behind, for the whispering wind "Will waft us over the lake; \ Not the twi-light gray, or the dashing spray Will tell what path we take. [Estelle throws open the window and gazes out.] Then smile once more, as you smiled of yore In the twi-light long ago, When we wandered free over sunny lea, Where gentle waters flow. Those hours now seem, like a pleasant dream, Or a song of the olden time; They seem to bear me away from care To some far oflf brighter clime. \ [Estelle throws a kiss.] Then come with me aco^y • .e sea, We'll find a home of joy, And moons as mild, as those that smiled When I was but a boy. There sweet will fly the moments by, And thou Shalt never know A single grief, a single sigh. But what the zephyrs blow. Est. Edwardo, fly ! Ewd. Est. Ewd. W Est. (Exit E Ber. Eg Est. Ber. Di( Eit. Pel 'T\ Ber. Be Th TlME- -Nex Edw. Th( I'll Rvd. {risi Edw. Bud. So Sh( Edw. Wl Bud. 'Tv He JAJITLE LEJIVES. 31 Ewd. So soon ! Est. Edwardo, fly! Ewd. "We meet to-morrow night; good bye ! Est. Good bye ! (Exit Edwardo. Estelle closes the window. Enter Bernardo, looking up.) Ber. Estelle! Estelle! (She openi the window.) r Est. What is it, father, dear? Ber. Did I not hear some person singing here? Est. Perhaps you did, 'twas sweet, I heard it too ; 'Twas like a dream, dear father, was it you ? Ber. Beware, Estelle! It was a gipsy's song; They wrought my ruin, they will work thee wrong. [Exeunt.] ACT III, SCENB II.—TJie 3Imintain. Time— Next day after last scene — sunset. Eudolpho in female attire, sitting on a rock. Enter Edwardo. Edw. The day has been so long — why weeping now? I'll dry thy tears! Ritd. {rising.) Thou wilt? ha! ha! Edw. 'Tisthou! Bud. So you have come to meet Estelle — indeed ! She told me of it, bade me come instead. Edw. What? Liar, fiend, 'tis false. Bud, Expend thy scorn, 'Twill please Estelle, she'll laugh when I return. Here, take this gold, 'twill bear thee far from Spain, 1 •^ ■ 1 1 " !'. . 1 ■ rff i ! . i I'll 32 yiJl^LE LF_^VES. '! IP^Mi And never tread this mountain-ledge again, Nor with thy shadow blight the flowers that bloom Upon this mountain, or this is thy doom. (Drawing a pistol.) Edw. You say she's false ; foul fiend of hell, you lie ! (Leaps on him.) JRud. Ye gods! struck by a gipsy! Hell-hound, die. [Shoots him and throws him into a crevice in a rock.] Smile on, ye fiends. He's dead. I'll equal you ; Were all the gipsies one, I'd slay him too. Estelle will come to meet Edwardo soon. (Exit Eudolpho. Enter Estelle.) He said he'd meet me at the rising moon. Edwardo! come! (Enter Endolpho.) I come, yes, dear Estelle. I called thee not. I know it, fair one, well. I come with news. Thy dear Edwardo's gone, I gave him gold, I met him on the lawn. Now fair Estelle, thou'lt be my bride, I know, I have been true, and ever shall be so, JEst. Rudolpho, never ! While I've life and breath I'll hate thy visage, even worse than death. Jiud. Then I will change, and thou'lt hereafter see Me, as I am, and heaven pity thee. (Blows a whistle. Enter Lippello.) Thou know'st the cell within the castle old I showed thee, bear her there. I'll give thee gold. And there, Estelle, thou'lt stay. Ay ! end thy life, Unless thou wilt consent to be my wife. (Exeunt.) Mt. JRud. Est, Hud. JdJl^LB LEAVES. 33 ACT III, SCENE III.—Alvardo Mtmalon. Time.— Immediately after last scene. Enter Rudolpho. liud. 'Tis time Lippello had returned. What ! ho ! Hag. (Enter Ilag ot the Mountain.) Why art thou here ? I called Lipello. I kuow. If thou would'st hear me, listen while I tell, And interrupt me not. I am Lippelle. Thou'st heard, I doubt not of Bernardo's bride, The gipsy maid, Viola, whom his pride Urged by Granvillo did divorce — 'twas I. I went to beg a crust — our fate debars Us from the world — his blood-hounds made these scars. In passing o'er you gloomy mountain-wild, I found his Grantly, reared him as my child. They called him Edwardo, — revenge came slow ; I kired to you, that I might watch it grow, I've carried off Estelle, as thou didst say, But now I go — my home is far away. (Exit) Eud, She's gone! she's gone! it was GranviUo's son I slew ! But what care I for what is done. Away ! sad thoughts, and I will also go, And tell Bernardo, what he ought to know. (Exit.) .' I' t 34 JAJKPLE LEJlVEa. Il ACT IV. SCENE I.—Granvillo ManaUm. I 1; I; ■ I ! it I III I 1 H Time.— Immediately after last scene. GranyiUo is countinf( his money. Gran. 'Tis twenty years since little Grantly died ; His clothes were found upon tie mountain side. (Enter Spinola, unperselv^sd.) Were he but here to heir my wealth and name, I would not care to die. (Weeps.) Hag {coming in.) For shame ! for shame ! Thou weep? ha! aa! Hike to see men weep Like sniffling school-boys. So, thy grief is deep ? Dost thou remember me, Granvillo ? Am I changed? So has my heart, since last we met, estranged. 'Twas you who loosed the blood-hounds on my track That made these scars. IVe come to pay thee back. I am Viola, and I found thy child, And reared him up among those mountains wild. Oran. My wounds are deep ! Hag. I'll open them again; Thy son is dead, and by Rudolpho slain. Who triumphs now ? ha ! ha ! but I must go — Bernardo next must drink the cup of woe. (Exit Hag.) Spin, (aside) I'll follow, too, and hear Bernardo's crimes, (Exit.) Hag. W W Ber. Mj Hag. Hag. My Yo la Bei So He Il< Th Th Lo Ic De Ru Spin. {asi Hag. Do Ber. JAJl^LE LE:fiVE8. 35 ACT IV. SCENE II.— Bernardo Castle, Time.— Immediately after last scene. (Bernardo alone, weeping for the disappearance of Estelle. Enter Hag or the Mountain.) Hag. What ! weeping too ? I thought thy heart was hard. What is't, Bernardo, has thy pleasure marred ? Ber. My daughter's gone. Hag. Where is thy son? Ber, What son? Hag. My son — thy son — Viola's son — the one You swore to love and cherish. Bernardo, I am Viola, and he Rudolpho. Bernardo, didst thou think that life, to thee So sweet, should have no charms to him and me ? He is thy son — at Don Alvardo's gate I left him — vengeance, surely comes, though late. Thy son, Rudolpho, carried off Estelle, Thy daughter, and he'll wed her. Wolf of hell! What sayest thou ? Ber, (Enter Spinola, unperceived.) Hag. You broke this heart of mine Long years ago ; I've come to sunder thine. I do not fear thy vaults, e'en though in one Delano died, locked in it by thy son, Rudolpho. Spin, {aside) Now, I know enough. I'll go. Hag. Dost thou remember yet thine oath ? Ber. I do. (Exit.) .t-u 4 .1 id % ■ ?' t I » \hL i I.I;: '" :ir': £er. You broke it. Ay I Granvillo urged mo to. Thou wilt forgive me, Viola, my wife; The wrongs I did thee maddened all my life. Hag, I will forgive, Bernardo, for thy word Is all the kindness I have ever heard. Make bare thy bosom, and the same will I, "We've lived apart, together let us die. Here take this dagger, let it find thy heart, Then give it me, we never more will part. (He Btaba himself aad passes the dagger to her and she does the same. ) Make wide thine arms, Bernardo, for thy bride. (They embrace and die. Enter Kadolpho,) Too late ! too late I Such is the end of pride. Sut I must think about the fair Estelle, And find a guard to keep her in her cell. (Enter Lessellin, a bard.) I came to sing, but these forbid my song. I'll show thee where to sing ; pray come along. 'Tis but to sing to cheer a lonely maid Within a cage. I'll go — thou art obeyed. (Exeunt.) Vio. Mud. Lea. Hvd. Lea, ACT IV. SCENE III.— A cell in an old Castle. Time.— Immediately after last scene. (Estelle kneeling, with her hands chained to the floor. Enter - Eudolpho and Lessellin.) Bud, See, sweet Estelle. I've brought thee one to sing Sweet songs of love to thee, and I will bring Thee any thing. i M Est. I And ril m Rnd Thou «1 9 Est. If thou 1 1 Return i ■ Rud. Grant ir 9 (He stoops to kis 1 E>^L Buck! vi 1 And die, I liud. Thou'lt s ■ Est, 9 Lets. I'll tune 1 Oil, my he H The bin B And the v ■ But my H But I'll In H And my fl And my h ■ Yet 'tis 1 ^^^' Where d 1 JjesH. MesU It was a 1 Wlcs. Oh dear I Look up, JAjl'^LlL LFrftVEQ. «7 Est, Thoii brlnp; ino lihnrty, And I'll forfjot the insults on'oied nio. Rud. Tliou shivlt be IVoc, when thou wilt ho my hrulo. Kst, If thou retain one spark of human pride, Return me to my home. I hate thee still. Rud. Grant mo one kiss, and I will j^rant thy will. (He stoops to kiss, and LosHollin draws a pistol, but on Kudolpho's turning nbout, hides it.) Eat. Back! vlllian, dear as freedom is, I'll pino And die, ere thus I'll make it mine. Rud. Thou'lt sing another strain. (Exit.) EiU ^^ot till I die. Leu. I'll tunc my harp and sing thee one, shall I? SONG. Oh, my heart is sad. In my mountain liomo The birds are blithe and gay, And the winds sing sweet as they onward roam, But my heart is sad to-day. But I'll laugh at care, for my life is triio. And my lot though low is my own. And my heart beats true, though my friends be few, Yet 'tis hard to live alone. Ed. Where did you learn that song ? LesH. Why would you know ? Est. It was a loved one sang it, long ago. Les. Oh dear one, loved one, I am happy now — Look up, Estelle I Est. (Throws off his disguise.) Edwardo, is it thou ? ('i Qy embrace.) ' ,V i i i n .1 ■i ■ ft { I I i I I !: !! Il'.l 'I m 38 Jvlj^'^PLE LEJirE8. ACT IV. SCENE IV.— Another cell in the same Castle. Time. — Immediately after last scene. A dozen bandits sitting around tables containing cards and wine. Id Ban. Comrades, farewell ! I aay, comrades, farewell ! I've seen this life enough — nay hear me tell. We're branded villains by the law, and here Must hide for years, for if we should appear, We're hunted down with hounds, like wolves, while he Who brought us here, Rudolpho, wanders free. Who'll leave this life with me ? All I will! 1st Ban. Be still ! (Enter Eudolpho with a revolver.) Rud. Let him prepare to die, who says I will. Come, mates, what folly's this ? If you must go, Let's pledge in wine a toast before you do. Fill high your cups, and let your love be seen. (They fill.) To fair Estelle^ of Beauty's daughters, Queen. (They drink.) ^ Well done, my mates ; another pledge drink we, And he who covets death may traitor be. Fill high your goblets with the ruby wine, And, with a will, drink to this pledge of mine. (They fill.) We swear to guard our leader and our hand. (They set down the wine untasted.) What ! traitors ! this to me ? * (Enter Officers) 1 JdJl'^PLE LEj^VE8. 1 Of Rudolpho, stand, Castle, 1 Deliver up your arms. 1 Riid. Back ! every one. g around 1 Let only bim who dares to die come on. Come, comrades. irell ! 1 (Exeunt Banditti.) Gone ! traitors ! cowards ! fools ! 39 (Officers bind him.) Exult, proud fiends ! Ay ! he may laugli who rules ; 'Twill be my turn to laugh, and yours to weep, When I am free. I will a reckoning keep. (Exeimt.) ACT IV. SCENE V.—A Scaffold. Time— Next day. Executioners and block. Enter Officers, Spin- ola, Alvardo, and Kudolpho bound. Off. Another opportunity is given. Wilt thou confess, and save a lie to heaven? (Enter Lessellin.) Less. Hold! hold! there's one that's just been found in time, Can prove Rudolpho guiltless of this crime, I Rvd. Lessellin, noble friend ! (Lessellin throws off his disguise and appears as Edwardo.) OGod! 'tis he I murdered, come with fiends to torment me. Shade of Edwardo, hark ! I hate thee still, If thou'dst a thousand lives, and I my will, I'd take them all. 1 V hi, '■ ^r;^ I t' i-Hi V| ill 40 Jdfi-I'LE LE_^VE8. m ti ill £^dw. I'm not a ghost you view, But Grantly Granville, whom you thought you slew. You threw me in a crevice in a rock, I soon awoke, and found 'twas but a shock Had stunned me ; then, with my harp as bard, I hired to you my own Estelle to guard. I give thee free, for all thy wicked art, (Enter Estelle.) I've gained my name, and I have won her heart. Spin. I have a small account, I will prepare. 'Twas thou deprived me of a father's care ; 'Tis gipsy blood that through my pulses fly. Eud. Alvardo, father, contradict this lie. Alv. His words are true, I found thee at my door Some twenty years ago. Riid. Then all is o'er. I hate you all. You've beaten me at last. I'll trust the future. God forgive the past ! I take a fearful leap. Farewell ! we part. (Draws a secreted dagger.) Behold a squandered life, a broken heart ! (Strikes the dagger to his heart.) The Em). JdJll'UE LEJIVEB. 41 tup: COUNT'S BEIDE. -♦-♦-^ DRAMA.TIS PERSONS. Carle Caktkr.— A Gambler. Count M. Euouakd D»:lany. — Carle Carter disguised. Harry Dartwelle. — In love with Lillian. Gipsy Queen. — Harry Dartwelle disguised. Bklmont Fleetwood.— Imprisoned in the hauntC'l cave by Carlo Carter. Lillian Fleetwood.— Daughter of Belmont. Oscar Fleetwoop — ^on of Belmont. Justin Flketwood.— Brother of Belmont. Grace Fleetwood. — Daughter of Justin. Maro Dallyn — Friend to Harry, in love with Giacc. Mysterious Stranger.— Harry Dartwelle disguised. I'rikst, Host, Guests and Attendants. PROLOGUE. These scenes, presented in dramatic form, Are meant to show life's sunshine and its storm; To show how vice may for a time arise On airy wing and mount the upper skies; To show though justice for a time dehiy, It sleepeth not, but will a vengeance pay; To show how virtue brightens under woes, And lastly grandly triumphs o'er its foes To show such virtue liveth in our day The plot is laid in Hamilton, in Canada. illl ' k vl I I 'Ml '4 il ''■I'r ■', ' III ill :i! ' II 42 JAJl-i'LE LEJIVEI SCENE I.— A GamhUny Saloon. Time.— Midnight. Fierce-loolting men sitting around tables cov- ered with money, cards, knives, bottles and revolvers. lat Gam. Come, landlord, come, fill up the sparkling bowl. We'll drink to Care, old wrinkle-making soul. (Cries of waiter, landlord, brandy, »fec.) Come, comrades, come; a health, but drink it light. For we've a pullet yet to pluck to-night. 2c? Gam. Ah ! how is that ? lit Gam. I'll tell you, mates — a toast — Carle told me all about it yesterday. You knovr the youth that often comes with Carle — He's twenty-one to-day, and heirs the wealth His father left ; at least, his half of it, For there's a sister has the other half, Zd Gam. Who is his father, pray ? \&t Gam. Ah? yes! the man, Supposed to have been drowned in the lake. ^th Gam.. What ! Belmont Fleetwood ? Xst Gam. Ay ! His precious son. You know old Belmont Fleetwood disappeared Four years ago, and left behind great wealth. His brother, Justin Fleetwood, took the heirs To rear them up, till they should heir the wealth ; To-day, the eldest, Oscar's twenty-one. Four years ago Carle was unfortunate. And fell into old Belmont Fleetwood's hands, Who beat him with a cudgel nigh to death, And would have sent him to his long account. Had I not heard his cries, and come with help. Carle swore a dreadful vengeance ; and, at times, I half suspect he dug old Fleetwood's grave. i , 'Twas Carle who taught the youth the love of play ; A part of his dark, undefined revenge. To-night he means to bring him here again Elated with his newly gotten gold; Just newly fledged ; first, .ve must let him soar, Then pluck his pinions, pick his very bones. (Enter Carle Carter and Oscar Fleetwood.) Carle, Ah ! jolly mates, fill up and drink a toast To Oscar Fleetwood, heir of Belmont Hall. O&car {drunk.) T ink hearty, lads ; her 3, landlord, bring us wine, We'll drink {gives money) to brighter, happier future days. See here, my lads, {shews money) I'm twenty-one to-day ; And while they celebrate this happy day At Fleetwood Hall, we'll celebrate it here. Come, Carle, bring on the pictures — cards, I m .1, Which father used to call the devil's books. I had a father once, whose heart would bleed To see me in such company as this. {Aside.) (All rush to play with Oscar.) Carle, Back, comrades, back — my bird — my chance to pluck. (They play. Oscar wins.) Oscar. Ha ! Carle, my shiners. I play well to-night. Here, even up. I play a thousand pounds. (They play. Oscar loses. ) What ! lost ? my birthday gift ? Carle. 'Twas just by chance ; Let's play again. Oscar. Ay ! yes ! 'twas just by chance. Iff! I :illi 4 -'^ 'lilll 44 JAfiVLy. LEJIVES. Drink, lads, you know I'm twonty-one to-day. ril stake my share of all my father's wealth. (They play. Oscar loses.) My God, I've lost ! Cnrle (rising.) Mates, you may have him now. Oscar. Nay ! do not rise. Mate, loan a thousand pounds ; I'll pay thee when I win it back from Carle. 1st Gam. We never borrow, and we never lend. 2d Gam. You'd better go and join the festival. Sd Gam. Away ! they'll miss thee from the banquet-hall. Oscar. Come, Carle, pray lend me half the gold you won To win my wealth again. Carle. I never lend. Oscar. You never lend? I'm lost, a beggar now. Where shall I turn ? I cannot meet my friends, My sister's eye — my brain — I'm going mad! I used to pray, but have forgotten how. Carle (aside.) Old Belmont Fleetwood, have I kept my oatlr? How are thy chains to-night ? I've plucked thy son. I'll wed thy daughter, too, and heir thy wealth. Oscar. 'Tis thou. Carle Carter, fiend in human shape. Hast thrust me in this dungeon of despair. You lured me to this devil's den of vice ; You taught my lips, once innocent and pure, To taste the damning, withering broth of hell ; You brought me here upon my birth-day-night, And when you've won my all, refuse to lend A single pound to win my fortune back. (Draws a dagger.) Carle Carter, you shall answer for the woes You've heaped upon my head. Carle, (drawing a pistol) Back 1 foolish youth. Thou speak'st truth, I grant ; but list awhile, I met thy father ouce to whom some years V\ Oscar Al Tl Carle. I'v Tc (Exeunt Har. Wl Lill, Al] Har. Oh Lill. Wl Har. 'Ti. I'll im Har. IMl. Har. Lill. I've owed a debt. I come to-ni^ht to pay. Oscar Ah ! now I see. I beg thy pardon, Carlo, Thou mean'st to pay my father's due to nic. Carle. I've paid the debt. I swore to Behnont once To hunt his chikh'eu to the gates of hell. (Oscar springs at Carle, who shoots hitn.) I could'nt help it, mates. Retreat ! retreat ! (Exeunt all but Oscar, who is dead. Enter Lillian and Harry.) Har. When did you miss him, Lillian, from the hall ? Lill, An hour since. He surely is'nt here Oh Heaven ! what dreadful sight do I behold? What, Harry? what ? Speak ! tell me what you see. 'Tis nought, my child, my Lillian, hurry home; I'll follow soon. Oh God ! my brother's dead. My Oscar, speak ! Do you not know me ? Speak ! Speak to thy Lillian — to thy sister pet. He's dead, Harry, my darling brotlier's dead. (Faints.) This is Carle Carter's work. If it be right For man to talk of vengeance, nerve my arm, Thou God of justice, that a ten-fold weight Of dark, dire, dreadful vengeance may be paid. And if, in thy inscrutable designs, Thou ever choosest man to work thy will, To mete out justice, let me be the one To show to him, who never mercy showed, How bitter 'tis to ask and be denied. (Ke-enter Carle.) Carle. Ha ! ha ! that's spoken like a priest, but hark ! Beware, the day you cross Carle Carter's path. (Exit.) Har. 'ti- \\ .l^ll ^ :l 1 40 JAfiPLE LE/IVES. liar. Wake, Lillian, wake ! (BI0W8 a wliistlc. Enter four men.; We'll bear these bodies hence; I, this one to her uncle's, Fleetwood Hall; You, that one to the dead-house bear away. (Exeunt all. Enter Carle Carter disguised as a French Count ) Carle. They're gone; then I must go; but stop, here's wine. A toast to him, who was Carle Carter once, But now is Count M. Edouard DeLauy. (Exit.) SCENE Il.—incetwood Manor. Time.— Midnight. Guests, music and dancing. Justin Fleetivood. Fair ladies — noble gentlemen, I'm old. And would not join your baud, and spoil your mirth. But just to ask a riddle if you please. You're quick at guessing — youths and maidens are — What animal is that, guess if you can, That goes on four feet in the early morn, On two at noon, and goes on three at night? Guests, We give it up at once. Justin. Why, 'tis a man. When I was young, and in my mother's arms, In life's bright morn, I crept on hands and feet. But when I came to life's meridian. Like you I walked, as proud, erect, and free. But now I'm old ; the sun of life descends, My knees are feeble and I use a cane. ( Enter waiter with a card.) il Justin . w 1 In H Th ■ j\l ■ Th H Count H Justin. Tl jM Grace . Il H Justin .Tl H Count H Justin .T 1 Bi I Oi I Nc I He ■ N( I Hi 1 So 1 Count. H Justin, A ■ Cowit. 1 W H Justin. T H Count. A ■ Justin A B I 1 F( H ens are— A ciii'd! a count! iniloLMl, (Jo, bid him in — l>ut sto[), ril go and welconio him mysolf. Exit. \d Guest, {picking up the card.) A foreign count I see, ah! here he comes. (Ro-enter Jusiin and Count.) Justin. With pleasure, guests, I add anotlior friend In Count M. Edouard De Lany's name. These are invited guests to celebrate M^' nephew Oscar's twenty-first birth-day. This is my daughter, Grace. Count. Ah ! she's well named. Justin. These are my niece and nephew — where are they ? Grace. I marked them gone an hour or more ago. Justin. They're precious friends, Sir Count. Count. And orphans, too? Justin. Their father disappeared some years ngo; But, whether murdered at the dead of night, Or carried to some distant land, or drowned, None know, or knowing none have ever told. He was a man of wealth, in Hamilton No fairer mansion is, than Belmont Hall, His residence, — Oh ! by the way, I brought Some baubles, when I came from France. Count, Indeed ? Justin. Ah, yes; 'twas from your native city, too Count. then you were in Paris ? May I ask What hotel did you favor while you tarried? Judin. The Bellevue Gardens. Did you know mine host ? Count. Ay ! knew him well. What baubles did you bring? Justin A jeweled watch of rarest workmanship, I brought for Oscar, for a birth-day gift; For Lillian I a diamond ueck-lace brought. I ( N \. . 'I \n 4 48 JAJITLB LEJIVES. Here waiter, bring that casket from my room. (Exit waiter. Noiso witliout.) Ifi^ GucU. What uoiso is that? Id Guest. I tliought I heard a scream. '■iid Guest. I'm sure I heard a cry for help. A Voice (without.) Help! help 1 Jusiin. What can it mean? (Exount all but tlie Count.) Count. I know its meaning well; Their eyes, though sharp, can't penetrate this guise. There's only one I fear — away ! weak heart. I'll soon he rid of him — we'll see whose hate Will work the soimost, Harry, mine or thine. While they're away to learn this noise's cause, I'll form my plans, and con them o'er again; I'll hurry hence — secure the casket, then Contrive to have the crime attributed To Harry Dartwelle ; then, with honied words. I'll woo, and win fair Lillian to myself. (Exit Count. Enter ITarry and Justin.) Justin. cruel fate, perverse, had I but died. Had he but lived, 'twere well ; but now, alas ! I cannot bear to think on life or death. (Enter Count.) Count (aside.) I've got it, gods! See how its diairrnds shine, (Holds up the necklace.) As brightly as my star of hope doth shine. Justin. This way, Sir Count, and hear our tale of woe. The youth, for whom the fe&tival was made. Is dead. Count (pointing to Harry.) Is this not he ? JAJITLE LEJlVEki. 49 Justin. Ife's not my son, Though he has boon my son in all but name. He's not my nephew. Harry. But I was his friend. I know his murderer, Sir Count. Count. Indeed ! Where shall wo find the fiend? (Draws his sword.) Harry. I cannot tell; he may have flown ere this; But I performed to heaven a solemn vow, My friend, thoupjh dead, should not go unavenged. Count. That's spoken, as the king said once to me; "By heaven! My friend" — he always called me so — "I hope to live, 'till England feels my hate." Give me your hand — what is the murderer's name? Harry. Carle Carter. Count. Lot us search the city o'er, And drag the villain forth. Here is my hand ; With you, I vow to seek him day and night. Stay ! tell me of the fashion of his form, His face, companions, place of rendezvous. Harry. His form is comely, but his face, though fair, Has something strange and devilish in its look. His eye is sharp and piercing, like a hawk's, Or soft and gentle as a wooing dove's. Or as a serpent fascinates a bird His gentle eye still lures his victim on — His victim won, his eye grows fiery red, And gloats, as demons o'er a fallen soul. His rendezvous, companions, chord with him ; He plays the leading part, they fill the choir. Justin. Ah ! Count, my Oscar was a noble youth- God speed you in your search. 6 I '- "■I i f 60 JdJl'PLE LF.JIVE&. Harry. Wl.ero shall wo moot? C'own/. To-monow niorn'mg, here. (Exeunt Hurry and Justin.) ^ I'm safe, I'm safe, ni meet Carlo Carter ere the niorniiig come. You'll meet him, too, Sir Harry, and these thefts, (Holding up tlio watch and necklace,) When found on you, will work my object well. I should feel proud of my description, too, I go to find Carle Carter. (Exit.) SCENE III.— Fleetwood Manor. Time— Day' 'vcak. Enter Harry— same apartment as before. Harry. I've searched the city through, each den of vice, Without success. The Count has not returned. I'm weary. Oh, so weary ! let me sleep. (Sleeps. Enter Count.) Count. My plans are rip'ning; soon I'll reap the fruit. What have we here — a man asleep — Ye gods ! 'Tis Harry Dartwelle, too. My time has come. (Draws his sword.) But, no! I've got a better vengeance here. (Takes the watch and neck-lace and slips them into Harry's bosom ) Sleep on, Harry, may thy dreams be sweet! ' Thy next night's sleep will taste of dungeon air. JAJi:PLE LEJIVE. a 51 You frtilfifl to find Civrlo Oiirtor wlien iiwiiko; lie watches) o'er thy sleep as would a friend. (Kxlt Count. Kntor Justin.) Ju!>tin. liut one returned! the Comit is .'^earehing still. Oh what a noble, generous soul ho is! Wake, Harry, wake. Harry, [awakening) I've had a frightful dream; 1 dreiuned Carle Carter came and snatched my heart, And burned it in a crucible. (Enter Count.) Cou7it. What news? Did'st find the demon of our common search? Harry, I found him not. Count. I sought the city o'er For such a being as your words described ; And found, as I supposed, our foe at last. H3 fled for life, and I with death pursued; I ovciLook him at a chapel door. And found ho was a priest, so I returned. Justin. 'Tis kind in yon, dear Count, to lose your rest. To serve a friend ; but get you into bed, And snatch some sleep before the sun be up. (Enter servant.) Serv. My master, when I went last night to bring The casket, as you bade me, from your room, I found the casket broken, and the watch And neck-lace gone. This dagger, stained with blood, Was lying near the window on the floor, Harry, (aside) My dagger ! Serv. So, I called the watch this morn. (Enter police.) Police. Let see the dagger, that you told mo of. '■'.>» i. 52 }Afi':9LB LFJIVES. \ f ?i !i i Hi: ■ II j 1 r^' i .■ , il. Harry, (aside) Undone, though innocent; {alovd) the dag- ger's mine, But how it came thus spotted o'er with blood I cannot guess. Count. Can it be possible, An angel face can hide a demon's heart ? Harry. I'm not a murderer, friends, why draw you back? Oh God ! this is too hard for me to bear. (In drawing his handkerchief, the neck-lace falls from his bosom. Justin suatches it up.) Justin. The necklace — demon — where did thou get this? Harry. I cannot tell. Fol. That means you won't. Count. The watch Is doubtless in his bosom, too — pray search. Harry. Stand back, my friend, I'm neither fiend or thief. I have it not— I'll search myself myself. (Finds it.) Here is the watch, but he, who placed it here, Is guilty — 'twas not I. Count. They'll all speak so. Pol. I'm loath to act, but duty must be done. (Handcuffs him.) Harry. Here are my hands, as innocent as thine. (Exeunt all but the Count.) Count. So much for hate ; and now away to love. 'Tis fortunate the court is sitting still. An hour hence and Harry will be doomed. And I be free — Ah ! here comes one from court. (Enter a Clerk ) A moment friend — pray, can you tell the fate Of him just taken for the last night's crime? yiJlCpLE LE^VEB .Q' 53 Clerk, Imprisonment for life with kindi id souls In Kingston's home of penitence for thieves. He goes immediately ; I saw him sail. (Exit.) CounfTis even better than my highest hopes. sweet is vengeance to a soul like mine! I've blighted Belmont Fleetwood's cherished hopes, 1 slew his son, to prison sent his friend. (Mutterine; thunder in the distance.) A storm is brewing — tis the very thing — The Haunted Cave will be more gloomy now ; I'll hasten there before the storm be up, And feed his soul his daily dish of grief. (Thunder.) A little spice to please his morning taste ! , (Thunder nearer.) The storm approaches ; I must also haste. i |;,!is; ^ SCENE ir.—TIie Haunted Cave. Time.— An hour later than Scene 3d. A dark cave. In the back part, with long matted hair and unshorn beard, lies the half- naked Belmont Fleetwood with a chain around his waist, fast- ened to the bide of the wall. Tei rifle thunder and lightning. Bel. {rising.) For four long years I've wasted in this cave, Nor have I seen a human face but his. That demon, who confined and brings me food. This is my freedom's bounds. (Looks at the length ot hia chains.) J. 'X li' Oh, why do men Not sometimes seek this cave? I've often screamed For help, perhaps my screams have been my foe, I used to hear, when I was but a boy This cave was haunted, but I never dreamed That I would be the haunting spirit, then. I sometimes have companions in my gloom, A bat, or lonely owl, awaiting night; But fauns and satyrs never visit me. Nor in my dungeon mingle in a dance. (Thunder.) There is a storm without — God save the poor, And shield the sailors on the sea to-night! To-night, I said — it may be night or day, I cannot tell, I've kept no count of time. But years; and these were years of night to me. Four times the leaves of Autumn, withered, sere. And like my heart the winds have wafted here. And thus, while time has meted but four years. My heart has measured four, a thousand fold. (Enter Count, bearing a torch.) Count. A fearful storm without, a storm within. Bel. Whatever thou mayest be, if flesh and bood With heart of man ; nay ! even less than that, With demon's heart, remove me from this hell I am not mad, but have been kept for spite A captive in this cave. Thine is the first. Besides my keeper's face, I've seen for years. My soul is bitter with the grief I've known, My cup is full, I've drunk its dregs. Count, {removing his disguise,) Ha! ha I Thy cup is drained? I'll fill it up again; And this is how you tell your visitors M/ITLE LBJIVE8. 55 About your keeper's sins. {whip» him.) Here's cheer my man, Come let me see you sniffle lilie a child. Do you remember, when you beat me thus Because I came to take a little gold? Bel. Carle Carter, list; I'll beg to even thee ; Release me, and what wealth remains is yours, I'll never breathe thy name to mortal ears ; I want to see if yet my children live. Count. Your wealth is mine, without prevent or let ; Your son is dead, I slew him with this hand; Your daughter's mine, she'll be my bride to-night. I am not Carle ; I'm Count De Lany now, That's what they call me up at Fleetwood Hall. Bel. 0, sir, have pity, sir, release me, pray, That I may gaze once more upon my boy; Count. Thou, Belmont Fleetwood, never shalt be free; 'Twould spoil the plans I've laid for future bliss. Bel. Thou blood-stained monster, I shall yet be free, And all the pains, that demons can invent Will be as play to what thou shalt endure. Count. So, so ! the worm can threaten; and if I Were in a mood for mirth, I'd hear thy rage, And have it for my pastime every day. Bel. Away ! I'd rather be alone. Cou7d. I go, And, when I come again, I'll be thy son. (Exit.) Bel. God save my children from this monster's arms I i ■ .1 -|) t' i ■A ■' .1 h 1 t ! •■ h ■ f -\ ■ s! i' f . ^ ■^ fi f 1 %■ '■ r-. ' Wi SCENE r.-Moetu'ood Manor. Time.— 10 o'clock at night. Lillian's parlor. Enter Count. Count. So far my plans have prospered ; not a straw Has lain 'twixt me and happiness ; and now The brightest diamond of my crown I'll set. I sometimes feel a little sad I own; But, then I think of Ahab, David, Cain, Who sought their pleasure e'en with others' death. (Enter Lillian.) I've just returned from an unfruitful search; I sought to slay thy brother's murderer. Thy uncle, too, has told me all the tale; Thy fiither's death, if he be dead, and all — Here lady Lillian is my sympathy. Lill. 0, Sir, you're kind, you're very kind in truth — My brother's gone; what will become of me ? Count. I'll be thy brother, Lillian, and let him Who covets death be ought but friend to thee. Could I but hope in time to dry thy tears. To have the love thy brother used to claim, This were the happiest day I ever knew . Thy brother's words, when in his kindest mood, Would not be kinder than my words to thee; My arm shall be thy shield from harm by day. And, woe to him ! who seeks thy hurt by night. (During the above speech the mysterious stranger enters unpcr- cieved, drops a letter, and disappears.) Lill. You're kind, dear Count, and all the love I have Besides my uncle's share I give to thee. (A voice hoarse, and discordant, sings under the window. The Count trembles with fear. ill JAfiTLE LEJIVEB. hi SONG. Beware the whirling, mountain winds ; Beware tlie frenzied zany; Beware the sea, when snn sets red ; Beware Count M. Le Lany. Beware the broth tliat witches stir ; Beware the vulture's pinion ; But more than all, bewaro the Count; Beware the devil's minion. Beware the spell the serpent binds About the bird enchanted ; Beware what Count De Lany says, The plans his thoughts have planted. Beware the viper s deadly sting, The storms of bleak November; Beware the liar's honied words : Your unknown friend remember. Count. Fair Lillian, this is some vile plan hatched up In the sick brain of some, who know my love, And wish to injure me in Lillian's eyes. I never saw your lovely face before, And cannot tell what draws me unto thee. I know not if 'tis love, or sympathy, But I do know you're dear as life to me ; And if you'll give to me the power, the right, To seek your father, if he be alive, And to avenge your brother being dead, Those lips shall never breathe a sigh for me. Those eyes shall never weep on my account. I'll weep with you, when sad; and laugh, when gay; But, if you bid me, go! I'll say, farewell! And never persecute you with my love. LiU. Stay! stay ! dear Count, I do not bid you go. If you will swear my father shall be found ; My brothers death avenged, Til give the right. Gount Bless thee sweet Lillian, since thou dos't consent. lY ^t II' 4 58 JAJiTLE LFJIVEB •C '1! The right I iisk is. bo my bride to-night. Lill. I cannot be to-uight ; my brother's grave Was newly made scarce seven liours ago. Count. You cannot give him life. Consent, sweet one, And, when the old cathedral's iron tongue [Enter unperceived the mysterious stranger.] Rings out eleven, haste and be my bride. M, Stran. {aside) I'll haste there too, and be your wedding guest. (Exit.) Count. Wilt thou consent? my pet, just say — Lill. I will. Count. Farewell, sweet one, untill the bell shall ring; I'll have all ready; prythee don't forget. (Exit Count.) Lill. I'll not forget. cruel, cruel fate! To wed a stranger thus nnloved, aione; But then he swore to know my father's fjite, 'Twas this, not love, that made me say I will. (A voice without, singing sweetly.) SONG. Come away to my lay iPor the night-star is up, And the moon's on the bay: f My boat rideth free, And the night-bird's song With my dripping oar Shall sound a cliime. As we glide along. Come away ! come away ! My boat's on the shore, My hope-star is up, And the moon's on the bay- Dearest and brightest one. Come away ! come away ! (Softly) Come away ! come away I JAfiTLE I^FJlVEn. TjO SCENE VI.— The CathvilvnU TiMK — Eleveu o'clock at 'it. A bell tolls. A i'l-n ), stands be* hind the altar, and Lillmn, nrrayod as a bride, stands in front of it. Pried. 'Q'x\\g\\iQV, thy hour is come; thy bridegroom not. Ah ! yea, he comes in haste. (The Mysterious Stranger enters hurriedly and takes his place be- side the bride. Lillian does not raise her eyes.) M. Strait. Haste, holy fjithcr ! Friest. LilUan, you take this man to be your own Through evil and through good report, the same To love and cherish, honor and obey ? Lill. I do. Priest. You take her for your wedded wife, To love, protect, and cherish her through life ? ^f. Stran. I do. Priest, Then I pronounce — (Enter Count in great haste. Lillian faints. The Mysterious Stranger catches her and exeunt.] Count. What does tliis mean? Priest. I cannot guess, Sir Count. I thought 'twas you; The bell had ceased to toll, you came too late — What was the cause of that? Count, I'd cause enough. While I was hieing hither through the park, My arms were seized behind, my mouth was stopped; Then, w^ith a cord he bound me to a tree — For 'twas the one you just saAV disappear. What shall I do ? Good father, can't thy words Revoke the bonds? Priest. They're registered in heaven, And all the power that men or states possess, I * I' Ijli ill! ;ij'i 60 J/l^^^'LE LEJ1VE8. Cannot auunl a marriage vow, once made. You've lost your bride ; your bride has found a groom. Had she been good, she Avere too good for you, If ill, perhaps you're better as you are. Go home, my son, and this experience sip: There's many a slip between the cup and lip. SCENE riL.-meetwood Manor. Time. — Midnight. Lillian's parlor. Enter Mysterious Stranger bearing the still inanimate form of Lillian. M, Siran. Rest there, my Lillian, pet, my darling bride ; But wear thou this (Places a bracelet on her arm.) In mem'ry of to-night, My fair, my loved, my beautiful, my bride. From what a doom I've snatched thee, darling one ! How pale and death-like are thy features ; yet. If there be in my kiss enough of life To wake thee — wake ! (Kisses her, she wakes, but not till he is out of sight.) Am I awake ? O, what a troubled dream ! I dreamed I waited for the Count to come, And breathed my vows to one I never saw. But what is this ? It was not all a dream. How came this bracelet here ? I cannot guess. Stop, let me see, what words are graven on't : To her I love who almost was my bride. 0, I remember now, 'twas not a dream — A voice, deep-toned, beside me said, I do. And, when the priest said, / pronounce, the Count Came in — I fainted, fell, and don't remember more. Lill. Jlj^TLE LEj^VES. 61 Oh, what a host of incidents are pressed Within the limits of a single day ! God of orphans, guide my feet aright ! SCENE VIII.— Fleetwood Parh. Time.— Ten o'clock next night. Enter Count and Grace Fleetwood. Coumi. Yon silent moon, now shining on your home, Will shine to-night upon my native France. This is a lovely scene, a lovely home, But were you ever in another land. And did you ever see those grand old domes, Those mountain-peaks of everlasting snow, And mighty wonders other lands possess ? Grace, This is my own, my native land, Sir Count, These are our domes, and these cur mountain-peaks. I h»ve them well, because my own; and yet I'd dearly love to visit other lands. There lies old Lake Ontario — 'tis our sea — And yonder stand our forests — Nature's parks, And yet I'd love to see an ocean-storm. 'Tis true the waves dash high upon the shore, When storms blow up. Count. Though nothing like the sea; But still methinks your storms must be severe. Two days ago a ship rode out, you know, To bear the thief and murderer away. Grace. I can't believe him guilty of the crime. Count. The judges thought him so. Let's say no more. He was thy cousin, Grace, he was my friend, I'll never know so true a one again. * (Weeps.) ;:i 1 i '1 ■ 1 \ ■i I 02 JdjtPLE LFJiVEIS. 1$ And ho is doiid, the ship tlicy say was lost. 'Twas but an hour I saw him, but my heart Was ih'awii towards him by an unseen tie; He seemed so pure, and iiinocont. You know The day ho sailM, a dreadful storm came up, The ship was wrecked and all on board were lost. Grace. Does Lillian know tiiis? (Euter Marc Dnllyn unpercclved.) Count. No ! she knows it not. I came to ask of thee thy friendly aid To como with me and break the news to her. Grace. I go. (Exeunt Grace and Coimt.) Maro. Can I believe my eyes — 'tis true — But why should I have aught against the Count? Could she not see it ? I could see it smile — A sort of demon lurking in his eyes. But, rest ray heart, perhaps 'twas jealousy, That sickly fancy of a lover's brain, That, like dclir'mm t-emens^ paints mad forms Upon the very face of tiiose we love — But no ! my heart is free from jealousy. I'll watch him well. But hark ! they come again. (Retires behind a tree. Enter Count and Grace.) Count. How pale she is, and mourns her brother so ; Alone 1 so sad, Grace, were it not for you, I'd fall in love with her; within a week We'd wod ; and, then away to sunny France — But here's thy door. Forget rae not, sweet maid, I'll join you soon. (Exit Grace.) Now, by yon silver moon I She'll he my bride, since Lillian cannot be. But, who can this mysterious bride-groom be ?— JdJ^TLE LEAVES, 68 He'll be the object of my voiif^eiince next. The knotted cord that stranglers use, my sword, The poison needle, pistol, are his foes. By all the fiends in hell ! Carlo Carter thus Was never thwarted in his plans before ; Nor shall be now. (Pulls off his disguise and a dagger falls with it to the ground.) Ila! ha! how well 'twas done? Count M De Lany ! (Laughs.) Marc, (aside) Oh ! burst not, my heart ! What do I see ? ]\Iy friend is saved — joy ! Cade. I'll go and torment IJelmont Fleetwood, now. (Marc rushes out, secures the disguise and the dagger.) Marc. Carle Carter, hound of hell, dare not to move ! Count. Ha ! ha ! Poor foolish youth, we've met before — Hear me repeat thy words, dare not to move, (Drawing a revolver.) Or this same hand, that's taken life before, Will scruple not to rid the earth of thee. Return that guise and dagger. (Fires over hira.) In my hand I've seven more such arguments as that ; And, on a word, the first shall reach thy heart. (Marc returns them and Carle puts them on, blows a whistle, enter two persons, masked.) Bind him, and bear him to the Haunted Cave, And stop his mouth ; he talks too much. Ah ! Marc, Speech is a glorious gift, when rightly used, It had been better had you used yours less ; I'll take good care that you shall not rehearse To other ears than bats, save mine and thine. :L,! 1l ' I .', I •I w^ 111! |i • ''\W 64 JdJlPLE LEJVES. Away with him ! tlic Haunted Cave is safe, For none will ever dare to sock him tliero. (Kxeunt masks with Marc.) Another fool must tempt Inn certain fntc. Ye gods ! some minds can't let tlio present bo, But seek to try the future ere It come. But Marc is safe ; for none shall know his doom. (Exit Count, Enter Mysterious Stranger.) M. Stran. None ever dare to seek the cave ? Sir Count, I'll go to-night, and thwart your hellish schemes. I've seen the cave ; 'twas when I was a boy — I've heard what nurses tell to fright their wards, That screams are heard within its recesses. I'll solve the problem ere the morning wake. SCENE IX.— The Haunted Cave, Time.— Half an hoar after the last scene. Belmont Fleetwood in the back part, (Chained as before, and Marc chained in a sim- ilar way at the side of the cave. Marc. Alone in darkness in this dismal cave, To rot, perhaps, without a burial — Though he may chain my frame, my mind is free. Bel. Nor can he chain thy soul, for God is here ; Four weary years He's kept me company. Marc. What tones are these ? so hollow, strange, yet true. I cannot see thee, for the gloom is thick. Who art thou, if thou art ? or am I mad, And have the native terrors of the place Combined to mock me? Let me have thy hand. Bel. Mine eves are more accustomed to the gloom — Here is my hand, mate of my living tomb. Marc. I feel it ; chill and clammy, like the stone— Coiuo anil roloiisc mo. JJcl, All ! like tlico, I'm bound. Mnro, What is thy name, it' thou haddt mortal biith? Jicl, Bohnont Fleetwood. Marc. What ! wluit ? I'm surely mad. £el. Nay, nay, 'tworo well if thou wort mad, my boy — What is thy name ? Marc. Marc Dallyn. Gracious God ! How shall I tell him how his children faro ? Bel. My children'-' yes, oh! speak to me of them. O, tell me, toll me, do my cliildren live ? Marc, They live; bat only one on earth; thy son, Three days ago, was murdered by the fienf"' Who brought me here. Bel. Carle Carter ? So ho said. But I did think, with all his demon rage, He could not kill my gentle, darling boy. I hoped to see him, but I now would die — But no ! I had a daughter once — dost know ^ Of her? Marc. She lives. Bel. She Avas my darling child. I'd live to save her from this "- in tor's rage. (Enter Mysterious Stranger with r. torch, wearing a dark cloak and masked.) M.Slran. I've seen no goblins yet — this cave is deep; I surely must be ueavly at its end. What forms are these ? I only sought for one. (Puts down his torch.) Marc. Release us, M.Stran. Ay! that's Marc. Bel. {(aside) " I've heard that voice. I used to hear it many years ago ; He was my Oscar's playmate, but he's dead. 'J! n It! M. Siran. I heard that fiend deuounce you; you are free [Releases him.] On one condition: — both must be concealed, Until to-morrow night, and then we'll meet At the cathedral at a wedding there. Hare. But who art thou? M. Stran. {umnmk'mg) Behold me, Harry Dartwelle. Marc. Oh, Harry, is this you? — perhaps thy ghost; I've heard of such things walking in this cave. They said thy sliip was wrecked, and all were drowned. M. Stran. I'm flesh and blood. The ship was wrecked, the beam To which my hands were bound brought me to shore. But who is this companion of your gloom ? Bel. Oh, Harry Dartwelle ; once my truest friend. M. Stran. 'lis Belmont Fleetwood. (Eeleases him.) Bel. Ay ! it used to be. My son is dead. M. Slran. I'll be a son to thee, Bel. Thou shalt. They killed my other son. And yet, May God forgive, though I cannot forget. SCEIfU X,—Flerttvood Manor. Time— Ten o'clock next night. Enter Juatin, Grace Lillian and the Count, Grace. Be seated friends, {knocking) but hark ! what sounds are those? I'll go, and bring thee word. Count, (Exit.) What bracelet's that? Lill. I canuot show't, I got it in a dream. (Grace re-enters.) Grace. A gpsy-quceu's -without — I bade licr in. We'll have our fortunes read. (Enter Gipsy Queen.) Good mother, tell If there be any in this company Whose fortunes are of consequence, so groat As that the fates should make them known to you. Gip. Count M. De Lany's fortune and thine own — Thine be as bright as is thy own sweet face; His be as dark as is his own black heart. Count M. De Lany, let me see thy hand. Count, {aside) 'Tis best to humor her. Gip. What spots are these, That look like stains of blood? Count. There are no spots. Gip. You cannot wash them out. And what are these? I see a necklace made of hemp for thee, Coujit. Away old bunch of lies ; we've heard enough. Gip. Enough for now; I'll not forget the rest. I go — Beware ! (Exeunt, Gipsy Qaeen, Lillian and Justin.) Count. Do you believe these lies ? Grace. Ah! no, they'll tell you anything for gold. Count. That's spoken, like my angel, as you are ; My guardian angel, in an hour my bride — Do not forget ; the bell begins to toll. (Exit.) Grace. So, I'm to wed a Count — what happiness To know before another sun .shall rise His hellish schemes will meet a just reward! (Exit Grace. Enter Gipsy Queen, tlirowing off tier disguise, appears as the Mysterious Stranger.] ■ V; ■ 1 1 .•i ; 1 ■ i 1 ' lii I'.r' II ill! 68 JAJI^LE LEAVES. M. Stran. What ! not enough of matrimony yet ? She'll be your bride at Heven ? I'll be there. I wed your other bride, Sir Count — poor fool, I'll see you're wed this time.The bell doth toll. SCENE XI.—TIie Cathedral. Bell tolls. Time.— Half an hour after last seene. Marc Dallyn disguised as Priest, standing behind the altar. The Count, and Harry Dart- welle disguised as Grace, are in front. 3farc. Woman, you take this man to be your own ? Harry, I do. Marc, You take this woman for your wedded wife, To love and cherish as you would your life ? Count. I do. Marc Then I pronounce you — Carle, the murderer! (Throwing off his disguise.) These hands you bound ; and all is known. Count, {throwing of Ms disguise,) I am Carle Carter, but all is not known. I've lived for vengeance, and I've had my will. Four years has Bolmont languished in a cave, There he may die. 'Twas I Avho killed his son. I made you feel my power and my hate. 'Twas I who placed that necklace and that watch In Dartwelle's bosom ; and he, too, is dead. Har. He lives. (Throwing ofif his disguise.) I wed your former bride, and thus I've wed yourself. I'll end your fortune, now. Beginning where the gipsy ended hers : The earlg ravens of the morn shall feast I Upon thy carcass from thy gihhtt-hier. (Enter Grace aud Lillian.) Grace. Dear Marc. Lill. Dear Harry. Har. Lillian, my bride, I could forget, if Oscar had not died. Lill, He liveth, Harry, safe from earthly fear, (Enter Belmont Fleetwood.) Cark All ! all is lost ! (Dropping his head) LilL {running to Eel.) 0, fiither dear! Bel. God bless you, children. Heaven send thee {to Carle) aid. (Placing his arm around Harry and Lillian and holding the other to shield them from Carle.) And thus may vice and virtue be repaid. Tableau i: •f I i 10 JAJ1':PLE LILJIVES. COLUMBIAD. I* AKGUMENT. Columbus applies to Isabella of Castile for ships to search for a western passage to the Indies. Isabella sells her jewels to supply him with money.-— Columbus is about to set sail from Palos, a port in Spain, Ferdinando and his confessor, Abba da Rabida, come down to secretly watch the parting between Columbus and Isabella. The Abba stirs up the jealousy of Ferdinando, and finally proposes that if they fail to pursuade Columbus not to attempt the discovery, the Abba shall secrete himself in the vessel, and in the character of a ghost, so work upon the fears of the seamen, as to cause them to mutiny and return to Spain. After the return of the fleet, he urges that Ferdinando can secretly send out a fleet, and thus secure all the wealth and honor of the expedition. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Ferdinando.— King of Arragon. Abba da Rabida.— His Confessor. Isabella.— Queen of Castile. Columbus. — A Genoese Navigator. Seamen, Sentinels, Trumpeters and Attendants. ■iH JdJi:PLE LEJiVES. 71 SCHyJ^ I.-^On hoard the Sfiucta Maria at Palos. Time.— Day-break. Flourish of triimprts witliin. ando, and Abba da Kabida. Eater Fcrdin- Ferd. The morning breeze blows o'er the western main, As if to woo that madman to his doom. It grieves the tender texture of our love, That Isabella, with a woman'is quiz, Must list and list'ning sanction Avith her smile — A smile, that woman's sword of double edge. This way to slay a heart with hopeless love. That way, with burning, blighting, with'ring scorn — Ay! more, to rouse our jealousy. The jewels thai our royal hand bestowed Are prostituted to a dreamer's myth, A scheme I cannot hinder or approve. Speak, good Rabida, as thou hast our love. Rab. Great king of Spain, and monarch of the wave. Be pleased to listen, then condemn or praise A plan my subtle fancies have matured, Whereby Columbus shall be sure to fall. Who seeks dishonor to thy majesty. Thou know'st the queen will come to bid him speed An hour hence, before the rising sun, Then thou shalt see how tenderly they part — Let's hide us here, and III a plan unfold To fill thy ships with gems and Indian gold. Ferd. Breath balm, Rabida, for our morning mind Is ruffled, and as a tempest-troubled sea. What is thy plan ? if happy even now It is adopted by our royal vow. Rab, When first Columbus sought the court of Spain, V i-vj«; \ ■\m .(< ^ ■!■.; i i 72 JAJiTLE LEJIVES. Thy powers to judge were younger then than now. He took an apple on a spindle, thus, And twirling, turned it, saying, "So, the earth From morn to morn, from sun to sun, revolves, From year to yeai\ from age to age, the same, In four and twenty turnings of the glass Metes out the day, and part for sleep and dreams. By eastern seas thy seamen seek the East, By western seas I'd seek Golconda's shore.'' So spake Columbus, and my tingling ears Said to my soul, Rahida, Where's thy fame ? For lo ! this plan I'd cherished from my youth, But lacking wealth, I hid it in my heart. My noble king, I know theory's true. And now, if this Columbus doth depart. To him the praise and honor will be given, Your name will vanish from historic page To old Oblivion's gelid gulf of gloom, Where must go without some valiant act To paint them on the burning scroll of fame. ^^ Then let us urge the Queen most vehement; And urge Columbus with pretended love. If thus we fail, them seem to acquiesce, "While I steal hence and hide me in the ship, Until at sea a week or two has passed, Then in the character of friendly ghost Of old -^neas, Virgil's wanderer, To him, who walks as sentinel at night, I'll tell such dreadful tales of demon-spells. Laid round the minds of those who dare those shores. I'll stir that fear that lurks in human breasts, That hidden, universal dread of death — I'll stir the seamen up to mutiny. And bind their fears together, as a cord J' iJKPLB LEJIVI icy k:. Of scorpions' stings, and whip them back to Spain. When they arrive, can we not secretly Fit out a fleet to secic that wealthy shore ? And then all fame and honor will be thine ; For none need know the fleet has not for years Been cruising o'er the undiscovered sra — This is, king, the plan I offer thee. Ferd. 'Tis shrewdly thought, and marvelously wise. And hath full favor in our royal eyes. Here comes the queen ; let warm your greeting be, That she suspect us not of treachery. (Flourish of trumpets. Enter Isabella and attendants.) God save thee, gracious queen ! Rab. God bless thee, queen. Isa. Ay! God be with us all, fair gentlemen. Ferd. Amen. We hope thy health is sweet, our queen. ' We hoped to see Columbus here this morn. And gather wisdom, sitting at his feet. A paragon of excellence he is. Or must be, since, with magic spell, his arts Have carried cnptive our once loving queen. Jm. 0, talk not so Ferd. Most wise and potent queen. Thy royal mind and royal will make known, That we, admiring, may allegiance swear. Great Isabella, tell how Ferdinand Should rule his mighty realm of Arragon, That joy may sit in every palace hall. And smile in every hamlet-cottage door, And traitors tremble when my name is heard ; For surely, thou such wisdom can'st impart, Who knowest more than all the kings of earth. For thou didst deem his idle tale a truth, Yet knewest not Columbus was in France, i f i. M I 74 JAJl^LB LEJIVE8. Genoa, Portugal, and Britain, too. Without success, before be sought thy court. For old Genoa knew his mania long, And Portugal is skilled upon the seas, And knows the madness of such silly schemes. Britain ia staid and fond of facts and proofs, She wavers not with every wind that blows, Gets not enthusiastic o'er a fly, Nor grows despondent, though the heavens frown. But weighs each word and deed and recompense — When weighed, decides, and when decided, acts. Great Britain saw the folly of his thought ; And France is not ambitious on the sea. But thou, with wisdom more than all possess, Hast found, at least, pretendest to have found A meaning to his senseless theories ; Hast sold the jewels of my bridal gifts, The outward symbol of my inward love, To buy these vessels for this ranting stranger. Isa. My lord and master, husband, Ferdinand, I stand rebuked, but not convinced of wrong. Thou know'st Golconda's wealth is not a myth ; Thou knowest India's groves are spice and myrrh ; And these Columbus guarantees to bring By sailing outward towards the setting sun, Across the western, undiscovered sea. Why should it seem a thing incredible, A mind, superior to the common herd, Should rise to bless the nations with a thought ? Let's rather pray that Heaven may condescend To bring his voyage to a prosperous end. Ferd. Yet, p'rythee, is thy royal mind prepared To hear the jeerings and the ribald jest ? To hear thy kingdom coupled with a fool? Come, good Rabida, use thy eloquence, Persuade her with thy weightiest arguments, Ere we become a jest and hiughing-stock. Rab. I pray thee, Isabella, gracious queen. Let not thy choler kindle while I speak. With cares of government thy life has passed — With mo 'tis different. I've set my heart To study out mysterious, hidden things. To know the courses of the moving stars ; To watch the changes of the virgin moon ; To know the tides, compute the flight of time. And mete the bound'ry of the mighty sea. There is a land beyond the setting sun, But 'tis a land of terror, grief, and woe, A land where fiends and furies work their spell, The den of devils, and the mouth of hell, The lightnings' home, the thunders' gloomy cave. Sometimes I ve heard, when standing on the shore, And winds blew in across the western wave, A wail, as demons make, when hell-tide ebbs, And leaves them lying on the burning beach. ha. Columbus trembles not at idle tales. That superstition tells, and children fear. Rab. Thou know'st that when we cross to Afric's shore, The sky behind us sinks into the sea ; And thus, when he aAvay to westward sails His three years voyage (for so long 'twill take,) The ship will have to rise in its return, Which cannot be accomplished by a ship. Or it may be, as I have sometimes thought, The sea to westward has no earthly shore. But reaches the eternal shores, and laps In silent wavelets on eternity. And some contend, beyond a certain point The ship is hurried to that mystic realm, Without the power to slacken, or return. I I m m ..i';! 76 JAm'LE LEJIVEB. And well thou know'st how many ships have passed Boyond that bourne, and never have returned, Therefore, I pray thee, lend him noL thy hand To purchase death in that enchanted land. ha. I gave my promise, and the ships are his; I gave hini treasures, and I ne'er retract; I gave him seamen, and he has them yet, But I will ai]d my voice to thine once more, And pray him, weigh the consequences well, If thou, when he remaineth firm and true, Wilt say with me, God speed thee all aright, Wilt grant with me what he demands his gain, A tenth of all the gold he bringeth Spain, Together with this title to his sons : — Grand viceroy of the seas forever mo'c. And king of all the realms he may explore. Ferd. Agreed, since I can gain no better stand. Here comes Columbus with his hair-brained band, Thou entertain him and let us retire ; A half an hour hence we'll join thee here. (Ferdinando and tho Abba retire a short distance and conceal theni' selves to watch the parting ot tlio Qneen and Columbus. Enter Columbus and seamen.) CoL The sun just rises from the Middle Sea, To-night he'll bathe him in the western main — We go to view the lauds he smiles upon, And gather riches in that golden realm. Where rivers roll o'er diamond, onyx sands, And fairest flowers sparkle in the sun; Where trees of greenest verdure bloom for aye. And birds of gentlest beak sing in the groves:, Where fountains spring, whose magic powers bring, Once tasted, bloom of everduring youth. If any now repent him of his vow, JAJITLB LEJiVES. 11 He's free to go to grovel yet in Spuin. For mo, I go to seek the hidden shore Beyond the cave, wlicre night; by night, the sun SJJuts up his brightness from a sleeping world. Who wish to wander with all fortunes one, Commend your souls to Him who rules the sea. For Arragon three cheers {chccrt)^ for Castile three. (Cliecr ) h(L Thanks, noble gentlemen- Co/. Heaven bless thee, Queen. (Kisses lier hand twice.) Rab. {to Ferd) Didst mark the greeting ? Fcrd. Col. 'Twas affectionate. If harm beful us, that we ne'er return, I pray thee see our children do not want — We go, farewell! (Isabella weeps.) Uab. {to Fcrd) Dost mark those farewell tears y (Ke-enter Kabida and Fcrdinando.) Col. Ah ! who are these ? Would'st join our fortune, too ? Isa. It is the kiug. Col. lieaven bless thee, Ferdinand. Ferd No! not to join your fortunes are we here, But to beseech you with our royal prayer Consider once again the consequence. Col. The consequence ? I've thought of it by day And dreamed of it by night. Fcrd. Ah ! yes, and dreamed ! But will thou on a dream seek certain death? Thou'dst better find an object for thy breath. Cvl. Thou know'st for years my hopes were flattered thus By kings r,nd princes who forgot their word; 4 i ' »o.' Nu 1 PwO Hi i 1 II >! Ml 78 JAJi'^L'E LEjlVEi^. Therefore, 1 pray thee, bid us heaven's speed. Thy bless'iDg Queen, and Abba, too, we need. Ferd. Then take our blessing, if our counsel not. God bless and save thee from the undefined. Viceroy Columbus, now, forever more, And king {crovina him) of all the realms thoa mayst explore. ' ha. And shield thee from the dangers of the day, And save thee from the terrors of the night. Rah, Fain, fain, my son, would I have bidden stay, But since thou goest, God speed thee on thy way. (Baises his hands.) JSenediciio Dei PatriB, Dei Filii, et Dei Sancti Spiriti, tecum Nuncque, semper manet. Amen. (Exeunt Ferdinand, Rabida, Isabella and train.) Col. The breeze is fair — to posts, my boys ! Seamen. Ay 1 ay ! (Be-euter Abba in the rear, dressed in a white gown. Secretes himself in theehip.) Col. A cheer for those we leave upon the land, (Cheers.) A song for those who roam upon the sea. (A bell toils. They sing, and the song gently dies out in Ibe distance.) '"-'" ' SONG. • " ' ■ uilW.— Sing, boys, sing, the ship rides ready, Blow, winds, blow, the sails stand steady — Over the waves we go, Gently blow, winds, blow. (Exeunt.) SCEXJi! II.— On hoard the Snuctn Martn, 800 leagupti to wi'Nt of Spain, Time— Midnight. Enter two sentinuln, walking to and Pro upon tlio deck, Ut Sen. He's gone, he's gone ! just there ho stood and cried, Reiurnl return to Spain, thy native land! 2(/(S'tfn. Just there he stood hist night at tiio same hour; It was my watch, a rustling noise I iieard, Mine eyes will ne'er forgot the sight I saw ; His hair was white, and long, and thin ; his eyes Shone like a tiger's eyes, when seen at night ; His garments long, were whiter than the snow ; And though he opened not his mouth, a voice, Hoarse as the raven's curdling croak, cried out, Return ! return to Spain, thy native land! la< >Sicn. Away ! away ! go quietly away And bring the seamen here, that we may tell What fearful things are nightly seen and beard. (Exit 2d Sentinel. Enter Eabida as tlie ghost of ^neas.) Rah. I'm old iEneas, Virgil's wanderer, And come to warn you, tempt the gods no more. Return 1 return to Spain, thy native land ! (Vanishes. lie-enter Sentinel and Seamen.) Ut Sen. Gently, my friends, Columbus dreameth still With glass in hand and quadrant at his side ; A little noise may wake him from his sleep, Therefore, I pray you, gently, comrade, tell What they themselves have seen day after day. Then I will tell what we have seen to-night. M Sen. Ye know 'tis nearly eight and twenty days •' ip ill 'i • III! liiSii m :^^- S Since last our eyes beheld our native land ; And never, in our niem'ries, has a cruise Been prosperous in a broken-ruddered ship. Ye can remember that our rudder broke The day that Spain went down astern the ship? And well ye know the Avinds have filled the sails, And still blow on to wnft us to the west ? JS'ow when we turn to seek our native shore, The winds will blow us whither we would not. Iftt Seaman. I know it well, and while to-night I slept, An angel came, and stood beside my bed, And cried return! return! All. To us the san»e. 1st Seaman. I woke, and found me in a fever glow, And strange wild noises tingled in my ears. I slept again ; again the angel came, And cried, return to Spain, they native laud — Why tempt thy fate ? Arise, arise, return. Then I arose, and found me all a-chill, And drops of fear stood o'er my frame as sweat. }st Sent. Thou knowest, too, when those strange forms were found, AVhose hair hung loose and dark upon the wave, "Whose skins were red, and shone like burnished brass, Columbus laughed, when we did quake with fear, And bade us add to ship another sail To urge us swifter to that cursed laud. And I suspect, from what I've seen and heard, He's in a league with devils. 2d Seaman. Fo think I, And have thought since the day we found those canes That followed with the ship the live-long day ; For I declare I saw them in the morn And picked them up beside the ship at night. JdJlTLE LEJiVES. 81 Columbus smiled, while Ave did think them seut To warn us not to tempt the mystic shore. 1«/ Sen. I would, my comrades, that the worst were toM. To-night, while walking in my watch, I saw A spirit standing there with flaming eyes, And told me dreadful things: it cried, aloud, Return ! return to Spain, thy native land ! Columbus seeks thy harm. Which brought to njind What I did hear Columbus intimate The day those flocks of strange, mysterious birds Did hover round our ship at break of day, With wings like bats, but twice the size of man. And then, with dreadful screechings, sought the west. When you wept, beat your breast with very fear, He turned to me, and, winking slyly, said, Poor ignorant dolts, they'' II see still stramjer ihlnfjs. That was the day the compass, that we brought, That always pointed north, refused to work. And when you swore to cast him in the sea, Constrained by fear, he gave his word in pledge, If three days pass without success, to turn ; He said to me as at the prow he stood, Still peering o'er the ocean to the west, Ere three days pas^ their soids luill bring rue gain, 'Twas then 1 saw he meant to sell our souls To grizzly devils in that dark abode. Wherefore I pray you, doth it not become Our sleepy souls to waken from this dream ? Shall wc to-night bo free V All. Ay ! ay ! we shall. \%tSen. Then all away ; Til seem to still be true. While ye concert the plan? ye we would pursue. Away! away! Columbus comes ! away! (Exuent seamen. Enter Columbus.) ::(« l». I# \ i lils P!i!»:fe'!ji 82 JAJi:PLE LE_^VE3. Col, The line, updrawn an hour since, showed soil ; We near the coast, and ere the sun arise, Golconda's shore will be before our prow. Ho! watch, at mast-head, keep thine eye abreast — What signs ? Watch. The night is dark. l»t Sen. One day is gone, And yet the promised land is not in view. I overheard to-night a murmuring Among the seamen ; still they speak of home. Lo! here they come, they rise in mutiny — Back to your wards! Columbus does not call. Id Seaman, 'Tis true, Columbus calls not, still we come. Though not to ask, but to demand our right ; Return with us, or we'll return with thee. Col, Listen, companions, surely you forget Your promise, made scarce thirty hours ago; The gold, the fame, the honor, too, in store, If we but reach Golconda's Avealthy shore. Watch, at the mast, what signs? Watelu I see a light; It burns upon a shore, and other lights shine free, As village windows gleam, when far at sea. Seaman' Return ! return ! it is the hell-bound shore. Col. Waiich, at the mast, what signs ? (Daybreaks) Watch. I see a land Of verdant, gentle hills, and woody vales, And shining river,?, running to the main. Col, Look, yonder comrades, India's scented groves. , (Enter two seamen dragging in Kabida.) lit Seaman. This spirit stirred us up to mutiny; We found him, yonder, hidden in the hold. Col I If they, who minister, shall traitors turn, May God have pity on this treacherous world ! Those are the hands that blessed our cruise in.Spain. We'll offer no indignities to him — But thou, Rabida, for thy fiilsehoods told, Shalt die, and be forgotten by the world. May God forgive thee of thy treachery — Grey hairs with crimes are shameful things to see. '■^ 1 i '4,V ^ :.| :ii '■ ■■11 lili 1 HI iii| i« ! i 1^ ■ 1 ll ^ THE MAYFLOWER AND THE SLAVE SHIP. OppoHng Elements in the Great American Tempest, A. J). 1862-3—4. Pbize Pobm at Fort Edward Institute, N. Y., Nov. 80th, 1862. Argument I.— The departure of the Mayflower from England. Argument IL — The anthem of the pilgrims is borne back to llie shore. Argument III. — The landing of the pilgrims. Argument IV. — The departure of the slave ship from Africa. Argument V.— The wail of the slaves borne back to the shore. Argument VI —The slaves land and the storm breweth. Presi- dent Lin'coln ia the musician, who plays upon the national harp. Argument VII.— The war comes and the tempest breaketh. Eebellion assumes a visible shape, and with hi.s imps, his fiends and his furies, fights in connection with the traitors. AKGUMKNr VIII. — A prophetic view of the future. Jdj^TLE LEj&VES. 85 From an island in the ocean, • From a land of wealth and power, Where the smiling sunshine lingered, And the little rippling river j Murmured music to the willows ; From a land of lordly palace, And dilapidated arches, 1 Famed in Anglo-Saxon story, Old and overgrown with ivy, . Where the goblins hold their sessions ; ; \ ::Sii From a bold and rocky margin, Where the waves forever lashing, Foam and dash in wild confusion ; When the summer was declining, And the sun had wandered southward, In the hazy Indian Summer, From the cottage of the fisher, - From the hovel of the tenant. Came a band of weary pilgrims, Hunted, scorned for their religion. Mournful came the strange procession, Not a single word was uttered. Side by side, black stol'd, black hooded, In a little fishing vessel, They were borne across the waters. Borne across the restless ocean. As the sun, that sinks in brightness Down behind the western waters. Casts long, ling'ring looks behind him, So they ast their tearful glances ^ - ^ On the homes they left forever. Darkness fell upon the waters. And the night upon the ocean — ii ii! God was pilot in the darkness. Wild the waves among the caverns By the tempest lashed to fury, Joining with the sub-bass thunder, Swelled the chorus loud and louder, Sang a dcleful, dismal requiem O'er the buried 'neath the ocean : " Sleep! ye lone sleepers in caves darkly hidden, Nought shall disturb yon, while time onward rolls, Rest I till, ' Arise, by the trump ye are biilden— Peace to your ashes ! and peace to your souls I" II. Morning broke upon the waters, On the vessel, with its white sails, Resting on the ocean's bosom. Out upon the dreamy waters, Drowsy with their morning slumbers, Swelled the anthem of the pilgrims, Wafted by the early zephyrs To the island of the ocean ; Wafted to the silent fisher As he stood beside the waters; Swelling like the melting music Of the conch, forever singing To the sea its mellow moaning ; Faintly falling as the tolling Of the bell that tolls at sunset. Thus their hymn was wafted backward In the early morning twilight, In the stillness of the morning ; And the fishers listened, wondered, Whence arose the mystic music. There were none to solve the mystery; So they told it to their children JAJiCPLE LEJ1VE8. 87 In a strange and wild tradition, That when once the sea was troubled, And all night was lashed to fury, In the dim and misty twilight Music floated o'er the waters. Some declared 'twas mermaids' voices ; Others that the angels sang it : " Gloria Deo ! To Deuin laudamus ! Optime pater, N< 8, fill exclamu» ! Spirite Suncte, Te. no3 adoramus ! " III. On a cold and barren region, Where the snow was piled and drifted, And the winter winds were blowing ; Where the stealthy savage wandered In and out the darksome forest ; Where the balsam and the fir-tree Shone like spectres in the twilight; Where the hungry wolf and panther Prowled among the lonely mountains ; Where the ocean-spray was frozen ; There the sun forgot his splendor, Cast his cold and distant glances O'or a band of Pilgrim-exiles. Blow, ye winds in your mighty madness ! Dush, ye waves of the chaiuless sea ! Laugh, ye sprites of the storm in gladness ! Laugh, in your fiendish glee ! But never again on thy shores will land A cargo of worth as the pilgrim band. ! »iV t "li !" H i '■ ' 1 i 1 1 i ' ^ 1- ( 88 Jd^^^PLE LEJIVE8. IV. From a land across the ocean, Where the lion and the tiger Prowled among the tangled jmigles; Where the scorching rays are falling O'er a waste and barren desert ; Where the ground is parched and arid, And the man of dusky features Knows the sources of the Niger ; At the mystic hour of midnight, From her moorings in the river, Rode a vessel dim and dismal, Freighted down with human beings. Huddled in a heap together. Out upon the ocean rode it Many miles before the morning. I ZS'" r. Oh, how many hearts were aching ! Oh, what fearful hearts were quaking! Oh, what sickened hearts were breaking ! Day-light drew the the midnight curtains, And a voice of weeping, wailing. Broke upon the startled morning. Swift-winged dragons of the midnight, Trooping home at early daylight, Flapped their wings and fled affrighted. And the sighing, weeping, wailing. Borne upon the air was wafted To the Bushboy by the river ; And the Bushman to his grand-sons Used to tell a frightful story Of the waitings from the Tartarus, The be heard beside the waters Jd:^(pLB LEJIVES. 89 Id the stillness of the morDing. But an ear attuned to justice, Might have heard those wails, proclaiming, " The Bword of the smUer Will leave thee, No! never; The wand of the blf'^hter Will plague thee, forever ; With fever and wasting, Earth's ndocs, and breath, And poisonous vapors, Will seek thy death." rx. And they landed, where the pilgrims Landed in the dreary winter. Passed the seasons wing'd with fleetness. And the land became a garden. And the people were a nation, Or a Harp with thirlyfuur strings, But the Northern sliings were highest. Sweetest, best, most cultivated, And their tones were gold and silver, But the bass were coarser metal. Came there then a mew musician, Scarcely had he played upon it, When the discord gathered louder. And the strings of coarser texture. Suddenly were snapped asunder, And the Harp, that charmed the nations With its grand, harmonious music, Fell upon the earth and perished, With this sad refrain upon it : " The sighs aDd tears of the weeper My fearful doom have sealed ; The hand of Death, the reaper, Shall reap the battle-field." It iiil Hi FJr. Saw ye not that cloud approaching, Ever growing thicker, darker, Coming from the swamps and marshes, Fron. liie poison fens and marshes Of secession and rebellion. Quivering spectres hot from Hades, Quivering, grinning in the twilight, Swarming millions in the darkness, Glaring with their fiery eyeballs. Swarmed upon each flowing river, Perched upon each dome and steeple, While a form, more grim and ghastly With the name of fell rebellion. Stalking over land and water — Ever near him, round him, o'er him, Hovered clamorous flocks of Harpies, Known as human speculators — Gathered nearly half the people With his imps, and fiends, and furies, Drew them up in form of battle, Fought against the right and loyal. ' Oh, the howlings, groanings, yellings, Stopped the life-blood in its current ! While the tiends and ghouls and hybrids, Rushing from the pit of darkness, Fought beside the godless traitors. Then the air grew thicker, denser, With the wailings of the dying, Till the stars drew back affrighted, And the cloud still thicker, darker, Gradually began to lower, Falling like the dews of of heaven, Falling on the dead an'1 dying, JAJI:PLE LEjiVES. 91 As if fain to hide tho liorrors From the oyea of weeping angola, Weeping o'er degenerate manhood. Then a voice from out the darkness, Louder tlian the wail and fury : "Tho bones of tho traitor s 'eai h on the mountain, The vulture and raven fl plain, Tlie blood of the traitor sli . fountain, The captive And froodom, ihe captor be slain.'* riTi. From the long and gloomy midnight. That had settled on the nation, Daylight had at last awakened. And the blessed sun, ascending, Cast his sunshine o'er the mountain, Over all the pleasant valley. Cattle grazed upon the hill-side, Valleys overflowed with plenty. 'Twas the morning of the Sabbath ; While the village bells were chiming, Thus my inmost soul responded : "The land of the pilgrims shall flourish lorevor. Queen of the West, and pride of the sea ; While leaves clothe the forest, or foam's on the river, Viva L'Amskioa, Land of the Fkeb I" ..n 1 ^ ''^. ^ ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 |^|Z8 |2.5 no "^" ■■! =: >^ IM 12.2 1.1 11.25 - in ™ II U 1 ,6 VI <^ /. >' Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STRIET WiBSTER.N.Y. MSSO (7I6)S72-4S03 'k/^ y^ p INDIAN LEGENDS OF MANITOULIN. m II ' h Abgumknt I.— Why I sing the songs of Canada, and love the old songs better than the now. Argument II.— Manitoulin is an island in Lake Huron, held sacred by the Indians. Manitou (the Great Spirit) had placed on the island a sacred white deer, which the people were to protect, and in return, the Great Spirit gave them perpetual summer, and lowered the sky so the hand might almosi touch it to show his near- nei5s to them. - . Argument III.— An enemy (Coro Noraj came by night to Mani- toulin and killed the sacred deer, and was then, as his punishment, led by the Singing Sands into a desert, where he perished. The big-sea-water (Lake Huron), feeling the insult offered to Manitou, iasbed the shore in fury, and the lightnings played in the darkness. Then Manitou spoke in the thunder to the people, telling them tb.at henceforth tliey should have cold and snow, thorns and thistle, disease and death, and the beasts of the forest should fear them ; but at the same time, he told them that, in order that their children might remember how happy their fathers once had been, he would givo at the close of each summer the same (Indian Summer) mild suns that used to smile upon them. And when the Indian Summer came, they should bring their fairest maidens, and the fairest of all (as being the purest offering they could make) should be placed in a white canoe, nut upon the waters, and left to the direction and care of the Great Spirit Argument IV.— Oranta's daughter, gentle Lena, is chosen. Oranta, standing by the shore watching for her return, dies of grief; and Canadansis wanders over the world singing the Song or CoMO Canadansis. QLIN. )ve the old uron, held placed on to protect, mmer, and >w his near- t to Mani- unishment, id. offered to |ayed lu the Blling them ind thistle, them ; but |ir children been, he Summer) jring their Bat offering [t upon the ]rlt psen. rn, dies of le Soko or JdJi:pLE LEj^VES. 93 MAXITOVLIX, Tell me not of newest fashions, Newest songs, and books, and stories, Newest theories in science, Newest gems of thought, embodied, Sparkling words of wit and wisdom. That have scarcely cooled since utttered. Let me hide from prying vision In some old, neglected garret, Filled with ancient books and stories. Filled with manuscripts, whose writers Long have passed and been forgotten. Let me hear in fairy fables. How were conquered mighty giants. That I still may lore to' hear them. Give me back the days of childhood. Or at least the spell that bound me In its many, magic mazes, Bind again, for life is childhood. We are children growing older. Let me hear the tales, and stories, Ballads, songs, and wild traditions. And Canadian, Indian legends. That are woven with our history. Let me catch the inspiration Of their songs of war and wooing, Hear the history of a people, "Whose remembrances have vanished. As the snow-drift from the mountain, As the ice-bands from the river, As the stars of early morning Vanish in the light or heaven. Let me hear how bold they battled, How they hunted in the forest, ■II I. '' 04 JAJKPLB LEjfl^VES. When they did as nature taught them* CarelesR as of snule, of censure. Deem it not an idle fancy, Let it not appear a puzzle, That the song, that first I sing you, la about my native country. Gather shells beside the ocean, Listen to the tales they tell you; In their mimic ocean voices, They will sing the sea forever. Gather reeds and river-rushes; When the gentle winds are blowing, They will pipe you river-music. Gather laurel from the mountain, Fir and balsam from the forest ; When without the tempest howleth. Listen to their mimic voices. While they sing a mimic tempest. If you cannot bribe the rushes. Cannot bribe the shells of ocean, Bribe the laurel of the mountain, Bribe the flowers of the meadow, Fir and balsam o ' orest, Neither can you b.. . . - the spirit To forget its 'and and nation, To forget the haunts of childhood ; In the spirit's penetralia, Where the tones of childhood linger. There are chambers, there are echoes, That will ring them out forever. Should you ask me where I heard it, Heard this little simple story. Heard this song of Canandasis, I would answer, I would tell you, That I heard it by the river. yAJl^PLE LFjiVES. 95 III the forest, on the mountain, Heard it, when the night-winds waken. Heard it in the ocean's murmur, Heard it by the big-sea-water. Heard it at the hour of even, At the solemn, silent midnight. Heard it from a thousand voices In the thunders of Niagara. Should you ask me, where it happened, This would be my only answer, "At the home of Canadansis." Should you ask me, how it happened, I would answer, " read his story." Sonff of Conio Canadansis, Lights of many suns and summers On the wings of time have faded Since the hunter of the mountain. And the hunter of the valley. Lived in peace and feared no evil , When the beaver and the otter Built their homes beside the river, Lived and played amoD.<^ the waters ; When the deer in herds around is, White gazelles, that left the mountains, Chose our children for their playmates ; When the year was always summer, And the chilly winds of winter Had not yet been breathed upon us, And the fuU-orb'd moon, ascending Ere the light of day had faded, Joined the twilight on so closely That the eye could scarce discover When the Day gave up his scepter ■'^'^ if Vic m, • ' ►! fe..'-1 wv » i i 06 J4J1(PLB LEJIVEB. To the God of Sleep and Darkness, , To the bat and solemn owlet. And the gentle zephyrs, blowing O'er the mighty big sea-water, Wafted songs of silver sweetness, Wafted tones and spirit voices From the land no mortal knoweth. And the sky was hanging downward, That the hand might almost touch it. On the sacred Manitoulin, Island in the big sea-water, Manitou, the mighty spirit, Placed a white deer, sacra cerva, erva, white as foam of ocean, W hen the tempest winds are raging. Years rolled on, and still it lingered, Gamboled in its home of flowers. Cora J^ora from the south-laud, From a nation that we bated, Came by night to Manitoulin, Island in the big-sea-water, Killed the white deer, sacra cerva, Then departed for the mountains. All at once the big-sea-water Boiled and foamed and dashed its furj. Manitou Great Spirit heard it. Came across the big-sea-water, Came and set the sky on fire With the winged, forked lightnings. Then the night grew dark and dismal, And a voice from out the darkness Spake as loud as loudest thunder, When it roars among the mountains : "Wicked people, I have kept you " Many thousand years in pleasure ; JAJITLE LFJIVE8. 97 "All I asked that you would rcndor " Was, that white deer, sacra cerva, *' Should be free to roam the meadows, "And should dwell among the flowers ; "But my wishes were not heedel. , " Therefore I will smile no longer, "I will frown, and clouds shall gather ** Over all the face of nature, "And the balmy winds of summer " Shall be changed to dreary winter " — For till then the win Js of winter Had not blown on Manitoulin — "That your children may remember, "That their fathers once were happy, "That the land was once a garden, "As it might have bloomed forever, " When the summer is declining, " Mellow light shall come at even ; "I will give you Indian Summer, "Such as used to smile upon you. " When the Indian Summer cometh, " Pleasant scented myrrh and cedar " From the forest and the mountain " Ye shall gather, burn before me, "Ye shall bring your fairest maidens, "And the fairest of the number "Ye shall place upon the water, "Place upon the big-sea- water, ^ " In a white canoe shall place her ; " I will guide it, I will take her " To the land of happy spirits, "To the blooming fields Elysian." Then the mighty big-sea-water Ceased to roll and stilled its thunder, ■ 1, Ill 1 ^■ 'i^' 1 1 . ■ i 'I Hi \ ''W i , ! M III lii- m 1 3 08 JAJITLE LEJ1VE8. And the day began to brighten, But, alas ! the winds of winter Gold and cruelly were blowing, And the sky had risen higher, And the deer, luid birds, and beaver, Sought the forests when they saw. Manitou had made them fear us, And he planted thorns and thistles, Planted gourds and bitter apples, Poison melons by the river, Sent the hungry wolf and panther, Sent disease and death among us. GoRO Nora, hated stranger, That had killed the sacred white deer, Sought the mountain and the wild-wood, Hungered, thirsted in the forest. Wandered up and down the forest Many miles from Manitoulin, For the sound of rushing waters — Welcome sound to thirsty traveler- Lured him far and called him farther. Till at length an open desert Spread itself away before him. Spread itself behind, beside him. Far he wandered, weak and weary, In a land by goblins haunted, in a desert land enchanted, Oyer rocks, and reeds, and rushes. Tangled thorns and brier-bushes. Not a single breeze a-blowing. Not a single blossom growing, Not a single river flowing. But a noon*tide heat a-^ lowing From a sun in anger shicing. JA_fi(JPLB LEJIVEB. 09 Burns into tbe brain a fever, Burns into the veins a madness. All tbc ground is parebed and arid, And tbe thirsty one is cheated By the bound of many waters, For this desert land, enchanted, By tbe singing sands is haunted, And tbe singing sands can mimic Anything the heart desires. If you're fanrshing for water, They will sing it; if you follow, Straightway they will sing of waters In a different direction. If the noon-tide beat oppress you, And you fain would feel the breezes Sweetly fan your fevered temples, Quick as thought you hear a murmur As of gentle zephyrs blowing ; Follow thither, and it changes — 'Tis tbe singing^^sands that mock you ■ With their tones of empty meaning. Do you hunger, berry-bushes, Covered thick with luscious berries, At tbe way-side seem to flourish ; If you turn aside to pluck them. They will vanish as a shadow. Or appear a little onward ; Follow thither, they retire — 'Tis the singing sands that mock you. Thus tbe hunger-famished pilgrim, Never guessing of deception. Follows tbe enchanted berries, Till the gloom of night suiTounds him. Grasping after golden apples, That are very fair to look at. :'i'l. Pill I' '' \\\ iJiJ' 111! !■ t mm III '^ But wheu taken in the fingers ' Vanish into smoke and ashes. Thus the hated Cono Nora Wandered up and down the desert, ^ arked and bruised in bidden pit-falls, Till at last bis strength forsook him, And his spirit too forsook him; But the Singing Sands were present, Lured his spirit to the regions Of perpetual gloom and sorrow. On the mighty big-sea-water, On the Manitoulin island, Lived Oranta, mighty hunter. Laughed and never thought of sorrow. Everybody loved his daughter. Daughter of the great Oranta, Lena, fairer than the flowers That she used to train in summer. Great Oranta danced the war-dance, Made a feast to all his people ; 'Twas time of Lena's birth-day. I had seen the gentle Lena, Saw her at her father's wig-wam. Where I won the heart of Lena, And Oranta smiled upon us, For he knew we loved each other. Day by day wo roamed the meadows, Told our plans of future fortune, Told our love nor blushed to tell it. Oh ! how sad the summer ended. For my darling one was chosen As the fairest of the maidens. All our hearts were full of sorrow, But the white canoe was painted. And our Lena placed within it, And our last farewells were spoken- Oh, the anguish of that parting ! Out upon the big sea-water Rode the white canoe and maiden ; Not a paddle moved about it, Scarcely did it kiss the waters, To the right hand never turned it, To the left hand never turned it, But it swiftly hurried outward. To the sunny southland rode it. Till away upon the waters, As a speck upon the ocean, In the mighty distance seemed it, Manitou was watching for it ; Every eye that gazed upon it, Turned away to dry its weeping. Then Oranta's eye grew heavy. And he led no more the battle, But he stood beside the waters, Gazed away across the waters, As if looking in a vision, Watching for our angel Lena. Ere the Indian Summer faded. Great Oranta had departed To the land of happy spirits. Many days and nights I waited. Many weary years I waited, But the white canoe and maiden Came no more to bless my vision. Never came across the waters. Back across the big-sea-water From the land where spirits linger. To the sacred Manitoulin, ils 4 1 1 V ■ I: ■:i . '^ 1^: > 102 JA^TLE LEJIVEB, To the heart of GunadanHis. # » » ♦ «• » You have heard it, you have read it, Read this strange and wild tradition ; Judge it at your heart's dictation, Not with cold and cruel censure. As my father used to tell it, Aa his father's father told it, I have told of Manitoulin, Told this ancient Indian legend. Told of CoMo Oanadamsis. SHADOWS ON THE WALI.. AiQTTMBNT I.— WhoD the light of a mnglc lantern Is turned upon a picture, the reflection Is thrown upon the wall ; so, when the light of memory Is thrown upon the events or years gone by, the reflec- tion is cast upon the heart with all the vividness of yesterday. AaauMENT II. — The operations of nature are represented as muslo of a more exalted kind; the winds, seas, thunder, etc., forming a choir of which God is the tuner and leader War, bloodshed, and the sound of battle, are represented as the offspring of demons. Abovmbmt III. — Various pictures painted on the spirit-walls by the pencil of the mind, closing with an Incident of the war of 1812. In the spirit^s penetralia, Where the tones of memory linger, There are chambers, there are echoes, That are ringing out forever Voices from the spirit-chambers. When the day is dark and dismal, And the rain, in petty anger. Dashes up against the window, Playing melancholy music, All alone I sit and listen To the tales that mem'ry telleth, To the happy tones of childhood, And the pleasures they recorded. Watch the pictures that are painted rtir ^: I « 1 '"If m '*: llf 104 JdJl^PLE LEjiV8. Ou the canvass of the mem'ry, In the chambers of the spirit. There are pictured scenes of sadness, That I fain would have forgotten ; Tliere are visions, too, of brightness, And I half forget my sorrow Chasing after phantom pleasures. All alone to-night I'm sitting, Watching shadows that are passing To and fro upon the canvass In my spirit's penetralia. 0, the music of the snow-storm In the cold and dreary winter, , When the snow is piled and drifted Up against the lonely hovel. In the arches of the palace, And upon the lonely mountain. Where the tempest winds are rushing, Where the avalanche is crushing Rocks and trees and all before it. 0, the singing, sighing whispers, And the melancholy music Of the gently waving pine-trees ; And the soft, subduing, moaning Murmurs of the wakened night-winds, Sighing round the eaves and angles Of an old, decaying mansion — Mournful as the lapping wavelets' Hollow, muffled tones of sadness On the shores of Old Averni. 0, the whistling and the shrieking, Like ten thousand demon discords, J^Jl'FLE LEjiVES. 105 Tuning their discordant voices For a concert or rehearsal, And the cracking and the crealving Of the old and sturdy forest, When assailed by storm and tempests 0, the rushing and the brushing, And the clashing and the crashing Of the mighty wild tornado, As it roars upon the mountain ; Rushing like a frightened river In its furious, mad confusion ; Then its calming, sinking, dying, Like the wakened notes ^olian. That reverberate in snatches To the fingers of the zephyrs, With a dashing and a flashing, And a soothing stillness passeth To the mounful echoes* dwelling In the caverns of the mountain. 0, the fury of the whirlwind, And the howling of the Storm-God, And the roaring of the forest. Like the distant rolling ocean When its waves are fury-driven. Oh, the rising and the felling, And the roaring and the swelling, And the rumbling and the grumbling Of the distant coming thunder, When the cattle on the mountains Leave the hills and seek the valleys, And the sea-gull and the osprey Fly about with glee and clamor O'er the roaring, snoring, pouring, ■1 [ 'i Lashing, clashing, splashing, dashing Ocean -waves among the breakers — Breaking, foaming, swelling, telling. On the wild and rocky margin, Where they foam and dash forever In the free and chainlesa ocean. This is MUSIC, not confusion ; This is Nature's sotig and choir ^ Whose great tuner and great leader Is the mighty King of Natuue. 0, the music of a desert, Where the hollow winds are blowing O'er the burning sandy desert. O'er the waste and barren desert. Where the bleaching bones of thousands Heaped upon the sands are lying, Where the fearful simoon met them — Quickly rising in the distance. Swifter than the wings of morning. When they chase the midnight darkness. Came the samiel, charged with odors. Poisoned from the swamps of Egypt, Sounding loud discordant music, Tones that thrill, but not with rapture ; Sadder than the leaden echo ; Hoarser than the fabled raven's Welcome to the weary pilgrim At the gloomy gates Inferui ; Sounding fable demon-music, Whose innumerable horrors Curdled human blood to hear it. 0, the music of the battle, The excitement and confusion. And the champing of the bridles Of the wild and eager horses, Eager, wild to join the battle. And the rushing of the chariots. And the twanging of the trumpets, And the booming of the cannon With its pealing, pealing, pealing, While the life-blood slowly ebbeth, And the life-pulse ceaseth beating. ! the horrors of a battle. In the howling, fury, wailing Of the conquering, wounded, dying. And the cursings, groanings, pleadings To the pale and ghastly rider. Onward rolls the surge infuriate, Onward rolls the tide of battle, Like the flames among the branches, Like ten thousand furious demons Desperate with their lost condition, Join with mad unwonted courage In the carnage and the slaughter. ! the horrors after battle. On the bloody field of battle. When the fiery struggle's over. Struggles for the right and loyal. Where a brother's blood is flowing. By a brother's hand is flowing ; When the sun goes down in mourning, And the wailing of the dying Calls the vulture, wolf, and raven. Yellow-footed bird, and buzzard. Where the murdered banquet's freshest. None to press the burning temple. r .1 Wr 11 !• '^ T ■ V rl m m 108 JIJITLE LEJIVFB. And the lust farewell, unanswered, Dies away upon the night-winds. * * * •* , ! what bitter tears are flowing For a father, son, or brother! Through the mist the sunlight peereth O'er their pale and ghastly features. Lying on the field of battle. Still the little river ripples Through the vale and round the mountain — Is it wine the gods are mixing, Minghng with the flowing water? Look ye on it! drink ye of it! Wherefore hath it grown so sluggish? Wherefore doth the grey-wolf lap it? Ask the thirsty fiend of battle, Ask the battle ercely raging Up among the mountain ledges. One day more has gone to heaven, Gone to render up its record. And the silent moon ascending O'er the vale so late a garden. Saw the change a day had meted, Drew a cloudy veil to hide it. Come with me among the victims — • See that lantern dimly burning. Carried by a mourning comrade, Looking o'er the ghastly bodies For the playmate of his childhood, Lo ! he finds him, wounded, dying ; Hear the parting admonition ; " Tell my schoolmates, when you greet them, " That I never more shall meet them, "Point them back to wlicn w« pumU'rod " Over Greek and Koinaii glory. *How our hearts grew warm witliin us, "As we read the glowing story! '•Tell them fame is but a shadow, " Earthly glories, empty bubbles, "That will perish in the grasping. "Tell my father, when you greet him, "That I died to save my country. "Tell my mother, God is wisest, "And the gentle winds of Autumn " Gather only leaflets useless. "How I loved her winning teachings! *' How I kept her blessed counsel ! "How I thought upon her weeping! " Tell her not to mourn or worry, "For her son was true and loyal, •• And he died to save his country. *' There's the heart of yet another, " Where I would not be forgotten. "You will know her by her kindness, " By the sweetness of her temper, " By the ring upon her finger. ♦' Tell her that I'd fain have lingered " With her here a little longer, *' But I've only gone before her "To our island-home, Avillion, " O'er the swelling tide of Jordan, " Where I hope with joy to greet her, "When the day of Hfe is ended. " Give me now your hand, my comrade, •'For the river groweth deeper, " And the waves are rising round me"— But the hand was chill and icv. 10 -I :.h'i I'iiiil i i i For the spirit had departed, And from eyes unused to weeping, Fell the bitter tears ujiheeded. Thus tlie soldier of the legion Died upon the field of Blenheim. Have you lost a friend among them ? Go, ye idle, curs'd complainers, Who complain at home of trouble, Think upon the soldier's sorrow, Wounded, bleeding for his country, Dying of a burning fever, Lying on a bed of rushes, Begging for a drink of water. Cast a thought, and kindly pity Weary, weak, and wakeful pickets,. As they tread their rounds in silence. Guarding you from foul oppression. Keeping you a home of pleasure, If thy coward heart will let thee, Then refuse him aid and shelter. So the pictures have departed, Vanished from my spirit-canvass As my hopes of life are fleeing, As my life it.self is fleeing. As a dream-companion passeth, As the painted rainbow fadeth, So, the mem'ries hurry backward To my spirit's penetralia. J/ifzTLE LEjiVES. Ill THE SCAIILET KNIGHT. A Scarlet Knight with a queer ibreiijn name On the skirts of a wood to a sea-casile came. P'uU two hundred fathoms, high over the flood, On a wild, rocky margin the old castlo stood. At the foot of the crags white sea-eagles fed, White waves tossed their amies to the clifl' overhead. And sea-birds built nests, and carried food To nourish their screaming, half-famishing brood. The lord of the castle was gouty and grey, Yet warmly entreated the stranger to stay A month and a day, and join in the mirth And festival song, round the old castle hearth. For the lady, his dauglUer, ll.o fair IiiaCold, Was then to be bride to a P.avon bold. And the lady smiled sweetly, as softly ^he spake, "Sir Knight, prythce, tarry for mi/ (father's) sake." For the knight knelt so fondly to kiss her fair hand, She thought there wore none more bold in the land. He saw the dark forest and fast closing day, So without much entreating consented to stay. Said the knight to himself, as he lay in his bed, Dreams, dreamed in a castle, come true it is said." «( 'ill ) <'l ::i :|; iJili t', '• I I * 1'" :ll m I ' ¥ '']' ij. t-nri 112 JAj^^LE L:T;^Vm:B. " I'll dream that a bfiron is drowned in the deep, If my waking hopes color the dreams of my sleep." Sleep stole o'er his eyes, and there came up a flight Of bright, happy dreams from the caves of the night. He dreamed that he roamed with an angel, unseen. Through a sunnier clime o'er an island • tccn. The zephyrs that blew were hot nor cold, And the form at his side was luafold. He awoke from liis sleep, but 'twas all in vain That he tried in dream it each night again. These golden-huod hours, too bright to delay, Took the wings of their love and hastened away. They roamed through the gardens and down to the shore. At the foot of the cliff, where the white breakers roar. He gathered bright shells, where the sea-sm-ges beat, And laid them dow-n at her fairy feet. With the gems he had gathered 'neath sunnier skies, And diamonds that sparkled as bright as her eyes. He told her of sieges in countries afar, Of hair-breadth escapes from robbers and war. He sung her of knights, and warriors bold. She wept, while she listened — sweet Fnafold. Thus fondly he lingered, and lengthened his stay. Till the time had sped onward, a month a day. The ivy was green on the old oaken walls. The mistle-toe hung in the old castle halls. The baron had come — he was ugly and old — ^^ To claim, as his bride, the fair Inafold. He frowned on the knight, for he saw that the eye Of his lady grew bright, when the stranger was by. JAyl'^LE LI'rflVES. 113 And bis hand grasped the broadsword, that hung at his side, If the Scarlet Knight smiled on tlie lair future bride. Then the brow of the kniglit grew darker than jet, And he hied to tlie rock, where they often had mot, And vowed a great vow on the sword at his side, That the baron should die ere ho claimed her his bride. He sat on the cliff, and watched the throe Of the sea, a thousand feet below. For the sun was descending, as red as blood, And boiling and seething the frightened flood. The night grew more dismal and fiercer the storm ; There came to the cliff a close-muffled form. "Who goes?" cried the knight; there came no reply. But the thunders that leaped from the folds of the sky. The figure came on, and the knight drew his blade — 'Twas the form of the baron that stalked in the shade. "Tm baron of Wittol and Warbec, he cried, "And barren of wit too," the red knight replied. " Sir Knight," said the baron, " when midnight shall come, I'll wed the fair lady in von castle home." "I've sacks of bright metal, uncounted, mttold, I'll give thee it all — my silver and gold " "And houses, and lands, and forests of Feme, To leave the old castle and never return." " With thy gold," cried the knight, *' buy a ;!.ass for thy rest." And the sword of the knight pierced the baron's breast. ■hi ii£ t !',*■ ■ i M" i P .3 m mSt And shriek — for instead of the baron old, A lightning flash showed, it was Inafold. lie tenderly lifted her slender form. And sheltered her head from the rushing storm. * " It was only to test your love," sIjo said ; She closed her eyes, and the lady was dead. lie kissed her pale lips, and called her his own, But her lips were as cold as the mountain stone. Then snatching her wildly up to his breast, One long, last kiss to her lips he pressed, And leaped with her thus to the tide below, Where the white waves dash, when the tempests blow. Vainly they sought for them, night and day The Scarlet Knight and the lady gay. Vainly the lord of the castle old "Wept for hia daughter, Inafold. Vainly they sought over hill and dale For the Scarlet Knight and his coat of mail. Vainly the baron his sorrows told, ^[ourned for his bride, and counted his gold. The castle was left, deserted and lone, Half-covered with ivy that grew from the stone. The faims sought it out, as a place to play, And the bats, as a hiding-place by day. The baron and lord sought every shore, Imploring each country their lost to reston». And the children would laugh, as two grey-haired men. Enquired if ever that way had been, ed men, JAJl'PLB LEJIVE^>. 115 irinc'c' tliey could roinonibor ; or Imd tlioy been told, An angel had boon Uhto, uaniod InafoM. The biiroa and lord have found them graves, Where the niennaids dwell in the old sea-eaves. When the Storm-King has harnifssed the winds to his car, And rides o'er the ocean and land al'ur, Through the halls of the castle the wild winds prance, The owlets hoot and the satyrs dance, And the knight is seen with his angel bride To leap from the cliff to the boiling tide, And bearlier away o'er the waters wide To a !;onie, where the spirits of men reside. Where the air is balm, neither hot nor cold, Dwells the Scarlet Knight with nis Inafold. 0A\^ct5'^0 r 116 JAJksi'LB LEJ1VEk% DEATH'S KEUNION. 'J " And whtiu the inoua waM up, two furniH were roiiii(i, cluHped us in u last embrace; they ^vore from opposite hUIos of tlic uriuy, uiid were brothers." Ten tliousand men rcclinin^^ Beside a grassy rill; Ten tliousand men advanoinj^ Behind a hiding liill ; Ten thousand soUliers resting Without a fear of foe ; Ten thousand soldiers marching With footsteps firm and slow ; Ten thousand Southern traitors Draw up in battle form ; Ten thousand Northern freemen Rush like the driv n storm. Among the Northern legion Their youthful captain moved, Proud in his noble bearing, By all the legion loved. He gazed upon his comrades. Who shared his friendship warm ; And there was death-like silence, As tells the threatened storm. J4/1-PLF. I,F^^Vim. U7 •IjiHpt'il as iriny, niul *' Brave wurriors." Hiid the loader — His voice was Hrni and bold — "Ten thoufeiand Southern traitors *• Are in yon strengthened hold. •• To. day our country's honor *' Must bo maintained or fall ; To-day she calls for champions — Who'll answer to her call ? And by that Hiig above us, And God, whom we adore, Will swear their country's honor Shall call in vain no more ? To-day is placed before yo»i An uuforgotten name, A life, or death of glory. Or life, or death of shame. •« »• It t< tt II II II •I *' They're traitors to their country, '* And seek with impious hands *' To rend our nation's banner, •' And wave o'er loyal lands •' That bastard rag^ secession " Has placed upon those mounds. »• Who'll bring it ns a trophy *' Shall have a thousand pounds." Up rose ten thousand voices, •' Ellsworth ! Revenge !" they cry ; " We'll conquer with our leader, *' Or with our leader die!" •# * The field was filled with dying, And Death was gorged with slain. For kindred blood was mingling Upon that bloody plain. '..' H i 118 * . ii ' JIJIPLE LinjlVEB. Firm moved the young commiinJer Amid the cannon's roar, Firm as the rocks, unshaken, Upon the surf-beat shore. When cheering on his comrades. He rushed from place to place, lie met the Southern leader In conflict, face to face. They gazed upon each other. As tigers on their prey — Oh, Heaven forget the horrors Of that eventful day ! Their swords were clashed together ; The very air stood still ; They fought like maddened furies, Each with an equal skill. Each had the same fair forehead, And form, and mild blue eye ; Each seemed each other's mirror. And both too brave to die. 'I'heir blades were laced together -, With thrice their wonted heart, Until the southern leader Fell at the northron's feet. The smitten soldier, dying, Breathed but his mother's name ; The victor wildly started — His mother's was the same, Filerio, his brother. Had wandered long before, A wayward child, a stranger, Upon the southern shore. They gazed upon each other. Their look was long and deep ; i^^i Jvljl-TLE LEJIVES. Ud And hot tears chased each other From eyes unused to weep. Each saw a mother's features, Each knew each other's face, And speechless pressed each other In a fond and long embrace. The battle closed around them, And many braves were slain, The maw of death was glutted. And night besieged the plain. Oh ! when will heaven-born freedom The boon of peace restore? And when will nations practice The art:^ of war no more? How lor.pj, Lord of Sabbaoth Shall h'l'-born dews distill, And w.ii provoke a brother A broth'u-'s blood to spill? The moon looked down in sadness. Where raged the thickest fight. And oe'r the ghastly corpses, Cast a pale and sickly light. This way ! Thou war fomenter ! And gaze upon the dead, And see the crimes that heaven Will visit on thy head — Two forms were bound together, Two swords were interlaced, Two hearts in life, divided ; Two forms in death, embraced. H: $ {| M i m , i "SffH! ,;J» III: 120 JAJiFLE LFJIVES. THE LOST IVIUDE. He was of fair lavor, and gentle ffien. An hml loved in childhood, ho went to the shore and watched. But jnst as the ship cttme in sight, a storm came up, the ship waw driven on the roclts and all on hoard perished. As the storm raged, still he watch<;d; and, when the morning was come, his lifeless form was foiihd at the mouth of a cave, half covered by the waves and the sand. "When a storm comes o'er the sea, a lone spirit comes to the shore and, peering away into the darkness, exclaims, " Woe to the ships— the ships of the sea ! "— (??rf Sea-Legend Dowu to the beach caiue a stranf^or at even, A fair-favored youtli with goldon-hued hair, That fell iu smooth ringlets, and to him was given A brow, fair as woman's wlion woman's is fair ; Watch-worn and weary ; the sea-breezes blowing, Played 'round his temples with fever-heat glowing. Sang of the land where the cypress is growing, Banca, his own native land of the sea. " Pause," said the youth," " ye lone, wild, wing'd winds, flying Winds from the far-ofl' and thought-haunted shore, Winds from the land where my fathers are lying. Land save in dreams I shall visit no mon*. Whom did ye meet in the myrrh-seented bower? V Where in my childhood 1 spent tlie sweet hours — »l»ip WHS aoro, " Winds, did ye kiss a dear muulen at even ? Bright as the lily and sweet as the rose, Coral-red lips, her eyes limned by heaven, And bosom more fair, more pure than yon snows, That loom up to heaven a mountain oblation." So spake the youth in his fond admiration, And the swift winds answered back his oration, Sang to the golden sands' dance with the sea : • ' " When we had strayed through the banyan bowers; When we had played with the leaves of the trees; When we had kissed up tlie dew from the flowers ; When we had lapped up the mists of the seas ; Onward we came this message to bring you, Over the ocean this sweet song to sing you, In a wmg'd ship we xcuftcd Mimngyu The maiden, this morning, just out on the sea^ Long gazed the youth, o'er the wide ocean peering, Love in his look and hope in his eye, Fearing to fear, when a vessel came steering. Out where the waves lap tiie shores of the sky. Wildly he watched, his eye fiercely flashing. For the winds gathered tiic ocean waves lashing, And the white breakers went foaming and dashing, Rousing the slumbering sprites of the sea. Darkness came up from the caves of the ocean, Waves flapped the cliff as night-birds the air; Out on the wet rocks, for evening devotion, Mermaids crept, weeping and combing their hair. Still brewed the tempest the Storm-King was framing, Still peered the youth in the darkness, exclaiming, jhaminsr. jewel ruby Ship of the lonely isles of the sea. U 1^4 I I 11 ; P* i: T " Tell me, ye winds, by the tempest fiend driven, What have ye done with the ship of the holme ? Tell me, Charybdis-breakers, rock-riven, Whose are the bodies yc champ in the gloom ? Back to your caves, ye wild ghouls of the ocean! Cease, ye rough billows, your billowy motion! Pour! thou god Neptune, some sleep-soothing potion Into the maw of thy gulf-gaping sea." So said the youth, but the angry waves, tossing Ten times more terribly, beat on the shore, And the dark storm-fiend hurled lightnings, fork'd, crossing, Laughed o'er his sport and the thunder's deep roar : " Out in the gloom, while the sea-gulls were crying O'er a lone wreck, while life-hopes were dying, And white breakers, stalking like thin ghosts, were hieing Around me, the Storm-King, the King of the Sea." " Gnomes! how I laughed, though hearts were fear-quaking, And masts snapped like reeds in the chill autumn breath ; Gnomes ! what sad tears, while young hearts went breaking Down to that desolate wave-dell of death. Last on the deck fair Miningyu stood, weeping, While the wild waves round the vessel were heaping ; Down in a bower of fair coral she's sleeping — I sang her a lullaby under the sea." Sea-eagles screamed ; but the youth staid, still standing, Watched for the ship from the mouth of a cave ; While the thin ghosts and storm-ghouls, disbanding, Rode to their home on the crest of a wave. Night passed away, and the morning star shining, Cast h'9 pale beam o'er a cold corpse reclining, And the sad waves had, the sand undermining, Half covered Menelle in his grave by the sea. Vi Ai Re P€ ion , crossing, oar: g •e hieing Sea." r-quakiiig, 1 breath ; breaking ►ing; anding, » ing, )t MM-LE LEJiVE8. 123 When the winds blow, and the sun sets in sadness ; When the waves rise and the white breakers roar ; When the Eumenides laugh in their madness, Comes a lone spirit and stands on the shore. And, while the heavens with lightnings are flaming, Raiseth his arms, of the ocean complaining, Peereth away in the darkness, exclaiming, "Woe to the ships — the ships of the sea!" i 1 a 124 Jd:^~:PLE LEJ1VEI3. .',' I i, Iff u DEAD SEA APPLES. Where repose the ancient cities, Sin-cursed Sodom and Gomorrah; W here the sluggish Dead Sea waters Mock the lips of thirsty pilgrims ; Where the wild cucumber groweth, And the poison gourds and melons Mock the hungry pilgrim's palate, Grow the famous Dead Sea apples. Shining sweetly in the sunlight, There are hanging Dead Sea apples, That are very fair to look at, But, when taken in the fingers, Melt away to smoke and ashes. Have you ever seen these apples? Have you tasted, to your sorrow, Disappointment and deception ? Have you hoarded gold and silver ? When thy life is slowly ebbing, Hug thy money-bags, miser, Th(\^ will prove thy Sodom Apples. When thy weary nights are ended, Poet of the gloomy spirit; When thy visions have departed, Poet of the soaring pinion. Grasp the bubbles — as they vanish They will prove thtj Sodom Apples. He who lives for earthly glory, Be it wealth, or fame, or power, Will discover, when he tasteth, Nothing more than smoke and ashes. O'er Arabia's sandy desert, Many weary leagues I traveled, With a silent son of Ishmael As my traveling companion. At the foot of rocky mountains, Running southward from Ararat, Where the ark of Noah rested, To the land of dates and olives. Where the little town of Sana Overlooks Arabia Felix, We had halted till the morrow. Long before the rest were moving, I arose upon the morrow, And the nearest peak ascended — 'Twas as if I were transported To the blooming fields Elysian, For the scene was, past description. Beautiful, sublime, enchanting. Presently the sun ascended, Like a conqueror rejoicing In his philanthropic mission Of enlightening creation. Out before me spread the valley Of Arabia the happy. Here and there were camels grazing, Vine-clad hills, and groves and spices, Birds of Paradise were flying In the sunlight far beneath me, Fain would I have staid forever I I I. ■ H i 'yg, >,' i 126 }Afi(PLE LEJiVE8. u P In that soul-enraptured vision. But the sun was now arisen, So I turned to hurry downward. I was standing on a platform, Standing o'er a frightful abyss ; At one side an urn was standing, Half filled up with mould and ashes. Wondering much what brought it hither, I examined it more closely, When to make my wonder greater, I discovered graven on it. This Arabic rude inscription : "TADMOOR'S ASHES. eOOD FRIENP, FOB ALLAH'8 BAKE ! STOP, AND 8I0H OVBB TUB ASHES OF ONE, WHOSE HAND HAS PLUCKED, AND WHOSE SOUL HAS TASTED THE APPLES OP SODOM." Scarcely had I read it over, When I saw an aged pilgrim. Leaning on a staff approaching. Thrice he gazed into the abyss. Thrice he gazed upon the ashes, Then, without a word or murmur. Turned to go .away in silence ; But I placed myself before him, And repeated the inscription: "good friend, FOB ALLAH^S BAKE ! STOP, AND TELL ME TKB HI8T0BY OF ONE, WHOSE HAND HAS PLUCKED, AND WHOSR SOUL HAS TASTED THE APPLES OF SODOM." Then his eyes, like coals of fire. Seemed to burn their very sockets. And his long, thin hair went floating. White as snow, when freshly driven, On the breezes of the morning. And the voice was like the whistle JAJICPLE LF,:ft.VES. 127 Of the winds among the nishos, As he told the Tale of Hassan: " Hassan loved the gentle Uassic, " Hassie loved the noble Hassan. '• Tadmoor sought the love of Hiijsie " But she had no love for Tadmoor, •' Tadmoor swore a dreadful vengeance. " When the night was dark a.nd stormy, " As a traveler was passing, '• He was murdered, and his mantle " Laid beside the door of Hassan. " In the morn the chiefs assembled ; " Noble Hassan was beheaded. " It was Tadmoor slew the stranger. " Then the evil Tadmoor hurried " To a witch who dealt with spirits, " Bought a spell of magic power, *' Came and spoke of love to Hassie. '• Then a hundred youths and maidens " Were invited to the marriage. " 'Twas within an hour of marriage ; " Tadmoor with a dozen comrades, *' Hassie with a dozen maidens, " Climbed upon yon peak beyond us, « " There to view the moon arising. " All at once the bride was missing ; " From yon peak they saw her, standing " O'er this fearful abyss leaning, " At her side an angel talking — " 'Twas the soul of murdered Hassan. " Then he told her of a country, " Where no sorrow ever cometh, " That 'twas Tadmoor had betrayed him ; *' Then his spirit, like a whisper, ii 128 JdJi'JPLE LE^^VES. " Vanished, and the gentle llassie, " Crying *to thy artns, O Hassan,' " Leaped into the fearful abyss. " 'Lcvcn maids that came with Hassie, " And the youths that came with Tadmoor, •• Hurried back to tell the story. " Tadmoor wandered o'er the mountain. " Till his hair grew white with sorrow, »♦ And his nails like claws of eagles : '< Then the demons of the mountain •' Scourged him with a whip of vipers, " Till his wailings, wild and woeful, '' Rang among the mountain echoes. " And the people, when t'j^y heard it, " Thought it was the wail of davils, " And they learned to shun the mountain. " Tadmoor, driven by the demons, " Leaped adown the fatal abyss. " When the mountain-bats had feasted. *' Picked his bones, and ate his vitals, ** Demons gathered up his carcass, " Burned it, gathered up his ashes, " Placed them in that urn to whiten, *• Then the soul of evil Tadmoor " Was decreed to come each morning, " Three times peer into the abyss, " Three times look upon the ashes. " Till a mortal should enquire " What you asked, and I have answered. " This, O mortal, is the history " Of the one, whose soul has tasted " Sodom Apples — I am Tadmoor." Then I turned to see the ashes, But the urn had vanished with them, _Mjiapz>E LEfiVF.a. 120 Aud the spirit, tou, hnd vanished. Ah I turned to leave the rnouutain, As I turned to peek the valley, I was sore perplexed and troubled For my mind could not discover Whether I had seen a spirit, Or the Genii of the mountain Had presented nie a vision. But I drew this lesson from it : That a life of honest purpose — Though our deeds be not historic, Aud our names be never mentioned Farther than our family circle— Is a worthier employment Than pursuing Sodom Applks. \:\ \' i1 I I •MiM 130 ■^: JAJl'PLE LEJIVE, B. A SlIOBT STORY. -•-♦> 1*ABT I. They met at a party ; He simpered, she sighed, He talked pretty nothings, She nothings replied. He met her at concerts, Balls, operas, plays, He sent her love-billets In charming boquets. She never did work — Good breeding forbids. He go to a work-shop? What! soil his white kidsV He drove a fast team, Had plenty o2 gold, But, where did he get it ? None questioned, or told. He called on the lady. And said they must part, He found she was getting Too dear to his heart. Said, he know it was raadnefis To hope in the end She'd ever consent to be More than a friend. She straight fell to weeping, His eyes, too, grew dim; She told him her bosom Beat only for him. At last 'twas agreed, He should go and demand From the wealthy old banker llorfortHiie and hand. PART II. O, why is it fathers Such tyrants will prove, And always obstruct The sweet current of love ? The banker stormed fiercely, Raged, scolded, and swore, And ended by ordering The suitor out door. But lovers will meet, As lovers know best But the hows and the wherea Are never confessed. They me"^ and agreed 'Twere better to fly To a run-away marriage, Than single to die. I #' 1^ f I: 132 JAfi'PLE LE:fl:VE8. They parted well pleased With other and self — She searching for happiness. He seeking for pelf. She said to herself, '• If I win but his praise, *' I'll willingly drudge '' All the rest of my days." He turned to his home, And soothingly said, " The banker '11 relent " When he finds we arc wed." O foolish delusion ! Love, madness, combined ! No wonder the ancients Represented him blind ! l*AItT III. They entered a carriage, And drove to the " Crest," Where a comrade offici- Ated as priest. The banker disowned her, Her husband seemed true. They took a grand lodging Some number in Rue She found that a lover Though tame as a post, May make for a husband A demon almost. J^j^(PLE LE4VES. 133 For scarce had a month Passed over her head, Ere kisses were changed To curses instead. • She hurried away To her room from his curse ; He went to the play- To replenish his purse. PABT ir. But debts must be paid — He lost at the play, , And the landlord closed up Their mansion next day. Thus friendless, and houseless, He told her quite calm, The marriage between them Was only a sham. Advised her to go. And beg at the door, She left with him, scarcely A twelve-mouth before. She urged him for mercy; He answered her, nay; She swooned on the street, And he hurried away. • She died iu a garret, Neglected, and lone, In sight of the mansion, That once was her own. His after fate, His crimes, and his woe, I never knew, Or desired to know. ' li '21 i i THE EXILE OE TASMANIA. His blood coursed through his veins like raolten fire, His eyes like diamonds in their native caves Flashed forth the pride a tyrant's blood-stained hands With all their power and chains can never quell. His home had been among the hills of Spain, Where Uke the eagles, he loved freedom, too. And when he saw his people were oppressed, Their native genius cramped, and half extinct. He taught them songs that spoke in freedom's praise ; Accused of which he stood before the king. " Thou hast heard the accusation ; Trust no more to silent tongue — Hast thou tampered with the nation ? Hast thou sung the patriot-song?" So, the king in anger questioned In his bold and haughty pride ; Thus the captive proudly answered, la his innocence replied : " If 'tis crime to sing of freedom, Wrong to sing our nation's right, Then indeed I'm deeply guilty, For I've done so day and night." "If 'tis wrong to hate a tyrant Over body, spirt, soul, If 'tis wrong to love the valleys, Where the gentle rivers roll ; " " If 'tis wrong to love the mountains, And the freedom of the hills, If 'tis wrong to love the meadows, And the little rippling rills ; " *' Though I learned it from the eagle In its free and lofty light, Learned it from the mountain breezes, Learned it from the morning light ;" " If 'tis wrong to love and follow What the tongues of Nature chime, If 'tis wrong to dream of freedom, I am guilty of a crime." Then the king began the sentence : " Thou shall go beyond the main ; He shall have three hundred reals For thy head, if found in Spain ; " To the lonely isle of Tasmau In a ship rode out again, One, whose only crime was loving Freedom and his native Spain. * # * * * Many weary years had vanished, And upon the Tasme n isle Came a stranger, with an organ Of the ancient Spanish stylo. Very old and feeble was ho, And his garments thin and poor. Thus for many years he wandered, Begged his bread from door to door. 'Twas a tune of mournful music , From the organ borne along. I' l' (i i li t ■1 _ I- ill ''1 1 f. f : . \ " ;.■ 1 13d jM:^-^PLB LEJIVES. But its words had lofty spirit— 'Twas the Spanish patriot-song. Still he played from morn till even In the corner of a street ; Still the passers paused to listen To its music sad and sweet. "Weak and wandering, bent, and aged, Came a stranger by the way, Heard the organ-grinder singing, Heard the Spanish organ play. 'Twas the noble Spanish exile, Who was sent across the main, For the dreadful crime of loving Freedom and his native Spain. Long they gazed upon each other, For their tongues refused to speak, And they clasped each other, weeping, Kissed each other's withered cheek. Ye who call it weak and foolish For a man to shed a tear, Turn away your cynic sneering — These are brothers Avaeping here. Learn, that songs of youth and country Have a magic, moving spell, That the weary wanderer feeleth, But the lips can never tell. THE SEASONS. si'iiiya. Came the Spring, And the rUig Of the waters, as they fell In the dell. Made nmsic, like a bell On the air, Joined the pleasant little song Of the merry spring birds, And the ripple of the rill From the hill, Where the early flowers burst, Soonest bloom, Where the berries ripen first On a south-sloping hill — 'Twas a merry spring morn, Fair as born, For everything was gay On that lovely morn of May. Came a child, Fair and mild As the waters, that fell In the dell ; 1. I II: '!i; :'i- Is: h Like the music of a bell On the air ** Rose his song, As he mocked the merry birds, And the ripple of the rill From the hill ; Plucked the flowers as they burst From the gloom, Where the berries ripen first On a south-slopiug hill — 'Twas a merry, happy child, And he smiled With joy and beauty rife On that earlv morn of life. SUMMElt. Summer came With a flame Of heat from the sun, And fields of waving grain Were ripened on the plain, And the air Sang as sweet As the music of the feet Of the fairies in a dance, And the birds sang their song In a little mossy dell. Where the shining waters fell. Youth came For a name ; And his hopes of fame were fair As the fields of yellow grain ; And in numbers Flowed as sweet, JdJi(PLE LF.fiVE8. 139 As the music of the feet Of the fairies in a dance, His song with the birds In a little mossy dell, Where the shining waters fell — 'Twas a youth of pleasing mien, As time hath ever seen. AUTUMN. Autumn smiled Calm and mild ; And the sheaves of yellow grain From the plain Were gathered in the garner, And the leaves of the trees Were scattered on the breezx' Of the w^ood, As it wandered to and fro on its way, As it sang a song of life and decay. Manhood came With a name ; ^ ^■', Like the sheaves of yellow grain ^ From the plain Where his laurels gathered in ; As the leaves of the trees Were scattered by the breeze, So his friends Had wandered to and fro, or had gono To that land where he, too, must follow soon. ,WINTElt. Winter rolled In its cold.; m ^m IrPiJ' !■■ ■! jiif"" li f I!' I ri- ,' ~ llr : i The snow swept the hedge ; Through the arch of the bridge, O'er the mead, Blew the chilly, chilling snows ; It froze the life of the little running stream, And the year was at a close. Age came, Weak and lame ; ' As the winds swept the hedge, So the hoar-frosts of age Clothed his head With the grave-yard bloom ; It froze up the blood in the old man's heart, And it covered up his tomb. ^5(o „. \ yijar^E LEjiVEB. 141 A MIDNIGHT TERRIBLE TRAGEDY. I spout a week among those mountains ouce, And nought can ever force me there again. 'Twas August ; and the flaming god of day Burnt like a ball of fire from his throne. Two beings came for lodgings for a week, And much I marvelled, that, on such a day Of fervent heat, such coldness could exist 'Twixt mortals, as appeared to be 'twixt them. He was of fine proportions, and with hair That shamed the dusky raven of his plume ; A manly growth of dark, luxuriant beard Was on his chin, and fringed his upper lip. She was of fairer favor, and her hair. Like gold, hung ringleted about her neck ; Though, scarce two hours before, they had been wed, There seemed a sadness in her mild, blue eye. I knew not then, nor did I ever know What powers combined to draw me unto them. The night came on ; I could not rest, but turned From side to side in fretful agony; Or if the god of sleep did deign to stoop. And touch mine eye-lids with his poppy wand. Such frightful dreams came, that with frantic fear I'd leap from bed, and wake, then sleep again. - Ml ;>li rl , ^ 'iiii ■:it 1 ■lii- ■ If ■'' • 1, ■ 1 ' '!f I III ii And she, of wbom I spake, would seem to call Most piteously for help. And thus it was, Unable to compose myself to sleep, And wondering, why my mind should be distressed About a stranger, I arose, and sought The spirit of the cooling evening breeze. I walked about among the garden paths. When presently, it could not be by chance, I cast mine eyes upon an upper room, Wherein the strangers slept, scarce knowing why. A single tallow candle, half consumed, Burnt in its socket with a fitful glare. The bride arose enshrouded like a ghost In long, loose robes that swept upon the floor. At first, I thought upon the tales I'd heard Of persons walking in their sleep at night, But, when she softly crept, threw back the sash, I stood like one entranced with deadly fright. And fear stood out in drops upon my face. Ever and anon, her eyes turned to his couch As if to satisfy herself he slept. She stood beside his bed, and kissed his bro\v, And murmured words I could not understand ; I tried to speak — my lips refused to move. She stood a moment on the window sill, Looked on the night, then on the sleeper's face, Then raised her snowy arms above her head, And leaped beside her husband into bed. I'M W. WINE OF CYPRUS. 11 I wist not, I guess not, I never could tell, What^held me, what bound me in magical spell, It might^be a vision, it might be a dream, It might have bcou Lethe, or some other stream ; I knew not, I know not, I never could tell, What held me, what bound me in magical spell. I stood by a river of pleasantest flow Of ripples, and wavelets, that sing fts they go ; I plucked from the flowers, that grew at its side. Sweet leaflets, and scattered them over the tide; As onward they floated and left me alone, I murmured, *' So perished the hopes I have known." The spirit of musings came over me ; I passed to a happy revery. I lifted mine eyes to the river again. The river had stretched to a mighty plain ; A nymph came up from the river's bed ; A garland of flowers was on her head, Her hand bore an ink-horn, a pen, a scroll, And shining names were on the roll, I looked in vain to see my name, Then wept, for I knew the nymph was Fame. Her face was comely, her smile was sweet, 'iiiill Unconsciously I sank ut her feet, Dut, lifting nic up and smiling "g'^in, Siio pointed away to tlio distant plain. I saw a standard on high unfold A banner, a crown, a cup of gold ; The banner displayed *' Truth alonk achikvks," The crown was made of laurel leaves, And the nymph said the goblet was filled with wino, Parer, and sweeter than flows from the vine, Its flavor enchanting ; from tasting it flows The pleasures that only a poet knows. The plain was covered with rocks and stone, Unpolished, and rough, like thoughts half-grown. And she bade me out of the stones build up A tower, and take, and quaff of the cup. The nymph had departed, I hurried away, And gathered up stones for many a day. And built me a tower, gained me a stand, Quaffed from the goblet with trembling hand, But, lo ! as soon as I had drained the cup, A mystic fountain filled it up. My soul thrilled through wilh a happy pain, I siezed the goblet, and drank again, Then I reached my hand to take the crown, But the structure I'd built came tumbling down, I fell to the earth — I awoke with the fright. My taper flickered with feeble light. And I sighed, as I turned to my toil again, And the thoughts ran down from brain to pen, Ijut my soul was glad for the tasted wine. Though my brow no laurel shall ever entwine, I will sip the wine, and love my lot, For the joys are mine, though the crown is not. JAJiVLB LI'1JIVE&. 145 T DREAMED LAST NIGHT. I dreamed last night Of my mountain homo, Where the loved ones meet at the even-tide, 'Neath the linden trees, Where we used to roam. In my home that stands on the mountain-sido. I'll come again. When the war is o'er, And the battle's past, at the even-tide We'll sing the songs. That V " sang of yore. In my home far away on the mountain-side. I dreamed last night Of the words you said, And the plans we formed at the even-tide. When we roamed side by side In the dear days, dead, ' In my home that stands on the mountain-side. We will meet again, When the war is past, And the battle's o'er, at the ovcn*tidc, On the brooklet's brink, Where we parted last. In my home far away on the mountain-side. I dreamed last night Of the tears we shed. ml 13 i^iii r :' -^ 11 ■• [i If .8 f l' m 146 Mj^:PLE LE:^VE8. And the kiss you gave at the even-tide. When we parted last, Neath the stars o'er head, And the trees round my home on the mountain-side. When the war is done, And the battle's past. My spirit will come at the even-tide. And hover o'er, Where the loved ones rest, In my home far away on the mountain-side. For I dreamed last night Of the closing scene. And the day grew dark; it was even-tide, And the light shone bright On the other shore, Where the angels dwell by the river side. When life is past, And the battle's o'er, We'll meet again at glory- tide. In a brighter home On a fairer shore, * Than the home that stands on the mountain-side. mntain-side. M^:PLE LEjiVFS, 147 SALUTATOEY ; For a ScJwol Examination, Dear friends, we meet you here to-day once more, As we have often met you here before ; Our star still shines with undiminished ray, And still illumes our omvard^ upward way ; We thank you thus for coming at our call, And bid you welcome to our humble hall. The spring-time came, and birds of sweetest song, Sang in the groves and all the bowers among, Then summer came, bedecked with flowers fair, That shed their sweetness on the scented air ; Then autumn followed, crowned with fruits of gold. Now winter's with us with his fiost and cold. Thus day by day through all the weary year, Through heat and cold have we assembled here ; And thus each day, through trouble and vexation. We've met and studied for examination — We hope to prove before we part again. The weary year has not been spent in vain. in !:.;il ill ' V:\^ ip 148 "V i 'll iiipi '■In iil . ( JA^TLB LFJIVEB. VALEDICTORY ; I'm' a School Exatnlnation, It is almost set of sun, The examination's done, The day is growing darker, For the sun is getting low, And the people want to go To their home. . Ere you go, go, go To the quiet of your home. While you stay, stay, stay, Believe me while I say, We are glad you chose to come This examination day. The classes all are through, I have come to say adieu, Till we meet you here again. When the summer shall have come, And the winter with its gloom Shall have flown ; When the snow upon the hills Shall have swelled the rippling rills,- And the daisies by the river Shall have grown ; And birds of gentle beak To the groves and meadows speak Of the gladness they have known — If your spirits then be gay As the birds that join your lay, Then your hearts shall feel the pleasure, Shall feel the grateful feelings That now our bosoms swell, That our lips refuse to utter, And our lives alone can tell, How we prize the favors granted, Which we never can repay. The interest manifested This examination day. Should we not hereafter meet. Till our fleet, shining feet Thread the bright, eternal shore, When our spirits, glad to roam To a fairer, better home, Shall have flown ; On that awful judgment day, Greit examination day. May you pass examination, And God the welcome say, " Well done, faithful servants, Ye shall reign with me for aye." ir 1... Jl ill' i-i i 1 llli ! ! ■ ■ i 160 JA_^(PLE LEJiYE8. THE GRAVE OF JANE M'CREA. During the war of 1777, Miss Jane M'Crea was engaged to be married to a young British officer. The old house in which she lived is still standing ; now, in ihe heart of the town of Fort Edward; then, in the woo^n at a short distance from the fort. The lover, fearing she might full into the hands of unfriendly sav- ages, sent a p 1)-^ Pi; Pi! I;! II; w 168 JdJl