Olive Leaves Part 21

The Indian monarch, bending on him a piercing glance, said, "Knowest thou me? Look in my eyes! Look! Answer me! Are they those of a stranger?" The Hugenot replied that he had no recollection of having ever before seen his countenance.

"Thus it is with the white man. He is dim-eyed. He looketh on the garments, more than on the soul. Where your ploughs wound the earth, oft have I stood, watching your toil. There was no coronet on my brow. But I was a king. And you knew it not.

"I looked upon your people. I saw neither pride nor violence. I went an enemy, but returned a friend. I said to my warriors, do these men no harm. They do not hate Indians. Then our white-haired Prophet of the Great Spirit rebuked me. He bade me make no league with the pale faces, lest angry words should be spoken of me among the shades of our buried kings.

"Yet again I went where thy brethren have reared their dwellings. Yes, I entered thy house. _And thou knowest not this brow!_ I could tell thine at midnight, if but a single star trembled through the clouds. My ear would know thy voice, though the storm were abroad with all its thunders.

"I have said that I was a king. Yet I came to thee an hungered. And thou gavest me bread. My head was wet with the tempest. Thou badest me to lie down on thy hearth, and thy son for whom thou mournest, covered me.

"I was sad in spirit. And thy little daughter whom thou seekest with tears, sat on my knee. She smiled when I told her how the beaver buildeth his house in the forest. My heart was comforted, for I saw that she did not hate Indians.

"Turn not on me such a terrible eye. I am no stealer of babes. I have reproved the people who took the children. I have sheltered them for thee. Not a hair of their heads is hurt. Thinkest thou that the red man can forget kindness? They are sleeping in my tent. Had I but a single blanket, it should have been their bed. Take them, and return unto thy people."

He waved his hand to an attendant, and in a moment the two children were in the arms of their father. The white men were hospitably sheltered for that night, and the twilight of the next day, bore upward from the rejoicing colony, a prayer for the heathen of the forest, and that pure praise which mingles with the music around the throne.

The Doves.

A Sea-king on the Danish sh.o.r.e, When the old time went by, Launch'd his rude ship for reckless deeds, Beneath a foreign sky.

And oft on Albion's richer coast, Where Saxon Harold reign'd, With a fierce foe's marauding hate, Wild warfare he maintained.

From hamlet-nook, and humble vale, Their wealth he reft away, And shamed not with his blood-red steel, To wake the deadly fray.

But once within an islet's bay, While summer-twilight spread A curtain o'er the glorious sun, Who sank to ocean's bed,

He paus'd amid his savage trade, And gaz'd on earth and sea, While o'er his head a nest of doves, Hung in a linden tree.

They coo'd and murmur'd o'er their young, A loving, mournful strain.

And still the chirping brood essay'd, The same soft tones again.

The sea-king on the rocky beach; Bow'd down his head to hear, Yet started on his iron brow, To feel a trickling tear.

He mus'd upon his lonely home, Beyond the foaming main; For nature kindled in his breast, At that fond dovelet's strain.

He listen'd till the lay declin'd, As slumber o'er them stole: "_Home, home, sweet home!_" methought they sang; It enter'd to his soul.

He linger'd till the moon came forth, With radiance pure and pale, And then his hardy crew he rous'd, "Up! up! and spread the sail."

"Now, whither goest thou, master bold?"

No word the sea-king spake, But at the helm all night he stood, Till ruddy morn did break.

"See, captain, yon unguarded isle!

Those cattle are our prey;"

Dark grew their brows, and fierce their speech: No word he deign'd to say.

Right onward, o'er the swelling wave, With steady prow he bore, Nor stay'd until he anchor'd fast, By Denmark's wave-wash'd sh.o.r.e.

"Farewell, farewell, brave men and true, Well have you serv'd my need; Divide the spoils as best ye may, Rich boon for daring deed."

He shook them by the harden'd hand, And on his journey sped, Nor linger'd till through shades he saw, His long-forsaken shed.

Forth came the babe, that when he left, Lay on its mother's knee; She rais'd a stranger's wondering cry: A fair-hair'd girl was she!

His far-off voice that mother knew, And shriek'd in speechless joy, While, proudly, toward his arms she drew His bashful, stripling boy.

They bade the fire of pine burn bright, The simple board they spread; And bless'd and welcom'd him, as one Returning from the dead.

He cleans'd him of the pirate's sin, He donn'd the peasant's stole, And nightly from his labours came, With music in his soul.

"Father! what mean those words you speak Oft in your broken sleep?

_The doves! the doves!_ you murmuring cry, And then in dreams you weep:

"Father, you've told us many a tale, Of storm, and battle wild; Tell us the story of the doves,"

The peasant-father smil'd:

"Go, daughter, lure a dove to build Her nest in yonder tree, And thou shalt hear the tender tone, That lured me back to thee."

The War-Spirit.

War-spirit! War-spirit! how gorgeous thy path Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath, The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne, To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on, With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpets' wild cry, While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.

Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er, Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore, Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime, The arch of the hero doth grapple with time; The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine, And history her annal emblazons with thine.

War-spirit! War-spirit! thy secrets are known; I have look'd on the field when the battle was done, The mangled and slain in their misery lay, And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey, And the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore, In those homes that the lov'd ones revisit no more.

I have trac'd out thy march, by its features of pain, While famine and pestilence stalk'd in thy train, And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell, And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of h.e.l.l; Death laudeth thy deeds, and in letters of flame, The realm of perdition engraveth thy name.

War-spirit! War-spirit! go down to thy place, With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race; Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride, Bid the rivers of blood thou hast open'd be dried, Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease, And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.

Early Recollections.

The years of my childhood pa.s.sed away in contentment and peace. My lot was in humble and simple industry; yet my heart was full of gladness, though I scarcely knew why. I loved to sit under the shadow of the rugged rocks, and to hear the murmured song of the falling brook.

I made to myself a companionship among the things of nature, and was happy all the day. But when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down pensively; for I was alone, and had neither brother nor sister.

I was ever wishing for a brother who should be older than myself, into whose hand I might put my own, and say, "Lead me forth to look at the solemn stars, and tell me of their names." Sometimes, too, I wept in my bed, because there was no sister to lay her head upon the same pillow.