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 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 AN AMERICAN POEM. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY GEO. W. HOLLEY, 
 
 NO. 8 A S T O R HOUSE, 
 BROADWAY. 
 
 18 37. 
 
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A MONTH OF FREEDOM 
 
 Once more I'm free. For many a weary month 
 I've borne a galley slave's degrading toil, 
 Without the rude companionship, the laugh 
 And song of brother slaves, which rob his fate 
 Of half its anguish ; and a hermit's gloom 
 Without the fond devotion, which by dreams 
 Of future bUss and glory can transform 
 E'en loneliness itself into a heaven. 
 
 Born with that thirst for fame which teaches us 
 
 To laugh at toil, woo danger as a bride, 
 
 And welcome death itself upon the paths 
 
 Of glory, and yet wedded to a lot 
 
 Whose loathsome toil can give no higher prize 
 
 Than mere existence, and unfits the mind 
 
 For aught beyond its sad ignoble strife. 
 
 Cursed with a taste for pleasure, which e'en from 
 
 This world's illusions could have framed itself 
 
4 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 A paradise, yet fettered to the dull 
 Routine of life which knows no change, and brings 
 No joy, save when the labours of the day 
 Are closed, to be once more alone, — to feel 
 Upon my feverish cheek the damp, chill air 
 Of night which sooths but to destroy, — to stand 
 Once more beneath the midnight vault of heaven, 
 And feel my spirit break at length the chains 
 Which bound it to the earth, and soar among 
 The bright mysterious worlds above, — not with 
 The equal flight of science, but the wild 
 And reckless joy with which a bird released 
 From thraldom, higher and still higher soars 
 Upon its aimless yet exulting course. 
 
 Oh, there are things harder to be endured 
 
 Than the stern tortures and the fearful gloom 
 
 With which the warrior bard of Greece has clothed 
 
 Thy fate, Prometheus ! Thou hadst achieved 
 
 Thine immortality. Thou hadst still warred 
 
 With deities alone, and knewest not 
 
 The base and sordid strife of human things, 
 
 In which the weary spirit loathes alike 
 
 The combat and the combatant. Thy chains 
 
 Were adamantine, and thy tortures such 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 As might appease the vengeance of a god ; 
 But yet, oh never, never didst thou know 
 The mental agony, the sickening heart 
 Of him who strives in vain to burst the bonds 
 Which bind him to obscurity, and feels 
 That restless energy of thought, which once 
 He hoped would raise him o'er th' unthinking crowd, 
 Now turned and preying on himself with more 
 Than vulture fierceness. But ^tis not to speak 
 Of things which have been, and should still be borne 
 In silence, that I'm weaving now this wild 
 Unpolished verse ; 'tis to express the joy, 
 Almost delirious joy, which an escape, 
 A brief escape from toil has brought me. Free ! 
 Free as the wind which wanders where it lists. 
 Free to roam o'er our wondrous land, and free 
 To woo the goddess Nature, and to snatch 
 The fresh and virgin charms which linger still 
 Around her here. Away then with the notes 
 Of woe ! My chains are broken, and I leave 
 My gloomy dungeon to dart onward in 
 The rapid car with speed that mocks the winds, 
 And see the frowning cliff and woody dell, 
 The laughing village and the fertile plain 
 Glide by alike the changes of a dream.—' 
 A2 
 
6 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 To Stem with motion scarce less swift 
 
 Some noble river's chafing stream, and watch 
 
 The varied forms of Nature's loveliness, 
 
 That overlook its mirrored brink. — To climb 
 
 To the lone mountahi-top, or float upon 
 
 The bosom of the crystal lake. — To stand 
 
 Before the rainbow of the cataract, 
 
 To watch its flashing waters, and to hear 
 
 Its ceaseless thunder. — To revel in all 
 
 The charms of Nature, and when sated with 
 
 Her lone companionship, to plunge again 
 
 Into the joyous throng of those who mix 
 
 Not in the sullen strife of interest, 
 
 But hurry onward in the laughing chase 
 
 Of pleasure. A few fleeting weeks, — 
 
 Alas ! how few ! — and yet the hasty gleams 
 
 Of pleasure which shine through the clouds of life 
 
 Are still as weeks to years. In my brief month 
 
 Of freedom let me gather all the joys 
 
 Which others scatter o'er the year ; and when 
 
 The draught is drain'd, sadly and silently 
 
 I'll to my weary dungeon turn again. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And this is Washington ! This the proud seat 
 
 Of empire for the nation of a day, 
 
 Whose giant childhood now is rivalling 
 
 The full-grown strength of other lands. It is 
 
 An infant city : with its wide-spread bounds 
 
 All sprinkled o'er with trees and villages, 
 
 'Tis a fit emblem of the infant realm 
 
 O'er which it reigns. To one whose soul is wont 
 
 To sicken in the crowded haunts of men, 
 
 This half-built city, — this wide field where still 
 
 Nature and art would seem to struggle both 
 
 For mastery, is fairer than the dense 
 
 And stifling wilderness of walls, from which 
 
 The works of man have quite supplanted those 
 
 Of his Creator ; as the artless grace 
 
 Which lingers still o'er childhood is more fair 
 
 Than manhood's sordid vice. And yet they say 
 
 The charms of youth which seem to linger here 
 
 Are but the harlot's hollow bloom, and vice 
 
 Reigns in its most mature and basest forms ; 
 
 And that corruption stalks abroad, nor wears 
 
 The mask which she had yet been wont to keep 
 
 In this our youthful land. Well ! be it so. 
 
 A least the soul sinks not in sadness here 
 
 Before the noisy crowd, nor does the eye 
 
8 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Wander in vain for some memorial 
 
 Of the fair country's beauty, nor in vain 
 
 Does the breast heave for the pure air of heaven. 
 
 And this majestic dazzling pile, where they 
 
 At once our servants and our rulers meet 
 
 In council, the elected sages sent 
 
 From all the mighty tribes whose banded strength 
 
 Now grasps the red man's fair inheritance. 
 
 Like the wide realm which hears from its proud halls 
 
 The voice of legislation, it has much 
 
 That pleases not the too fastidious eye, 
 
 And much to rouse the critic's cavillings ; 
 
 Yet noble as a whole, winning respect 
 
 And admiration e'en from those who roam. 
 
 Rather to search for petty faults, than feel 
 
 Beauties which only meet th' expanded view. 
 
 A wilderness of art ! But still to me 
 
 Its costly columns do not seem so grand 
 
 As the rough pillared trunks, through which the eye 
 
 Wanders in nature's haunts ; and the proud arch 
 
 Of these high ceilings is not half so fair 
 
 As nature's green and woodland canopy ; 
 
 And this eternal echo which still rings 
 
 Around like distant music, — it seems not 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 So sweet as the free vocal melody 
 
 Which wakes the echoes of the forest's depths. 
 
 And this wide hall, in which our motley throng 
 
 Of legislators use to hold their loud 
 
 Deliberations ; — where is wont to rise 
 
 The noise of echoing doors and tramping feet, 
 
 Joined with the sound of countless voices mixed 
 
 In argument, or tale, or jest, or laugh, — 
 
 All fitfully surmounted by the tones 
 
 Of some despairing orator, who seems 
 
 Alike Demosthenes when he harangued 
 
 The waves of ocean, speaking but to try 
 
 If he can raise his voice above the wild 
 
 Tumultuous din, rather than with the hope 
 
 Of being heard or heeded ; and e'en this 
 
 Perchance surmounted still by the strained voice 
 
 Of the exhausted master of debate. 
 
 Rising through the mad uproar, like the cry 
 
 Of the shrill sea-bird o'er the ocean storm. 
 
 And all as uselessly : here, where these sounds 
 
 Are wont to join in tumult, striving each 
 
 For mastery, and all confused, and mixed, 
 
 And multiplied again a hundred fold 
 
 By the unceasing echoes, — what a deep 
 
 e 
 
10 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And chilling silence reigns ! How my lone voice 
 
 Rings through the wide-extended vacancy ! 
 
 In my glad boyhood, when I thought this world 
 
 Was but the lists in which to wage the strife 
 
 Of glory, and that time, and health, and life 
 
 Itself were worthless save as coin to buy 
 
 Ambition's gewgaws, with what eagerness 
 
 I longed to mingle too in the fierce war 
 
 Of public life ! What high and daring hopes 
 
 I framed of filling some proud destiny 
 
 In the tremendous changes which await 
 
 America ! And this proud hall, — how oft 
 
 It mingled with those dreams ! How oft I seemed 
 
 To stand here, even here where now I stand ; 
 
 And, as it seemed, on every side was spread 
 
 A dazzling sea of faces ; and methought 
 
 That my own voice was ringing cheerily 
 
 Around me, and their eyes were kindling e'en 
 
 As mine were kindled, and the excitement which 
 
 Within me glowed was spreading rapidly 
 
 Its fire, over the lip and cheek and brow 
 
 Of each ; — and how my boyish bosom swelled 
 
 With the proud thought that I could rule them all ! 
 
 Could I have seen then, as I since have done, 
 
 This hall filled with the rulers among whom 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 11 
 
 My fancy placed me, — could I then have heard 
 
 The ceaseless din and tumult, which demand 
 
 A louder voice and firmer strength than oft 
 
 Will be the lot of one, between whose mind 
 
 And body there has been a life-time war, — 
 
 Could I have known that here the highest meed 
 
 Of praise is often won by brutal strength, 
 
 Th' assassin's eye and hand, and savage thirst 
 
 For human blood, — could I have witnessed then 
 
 The sands of dulness, and the rocks 
 
 Of party feeling, over which the waves 
 
 Of Henry's eloquence had rolled in vain, — 
 
 If the same fancy, which before me spread 
 
 The " summer sea of glory," had revealed 
 
 Its "depths and shoals," — it would perchance have 
 
 chilled 
 The stern devotion, which had made me swear 
 To offer up a youthful heart upon 
 Ambition's shrine, and sacrifice to her 
 My other loves, and all th' unthinking joys 
 Of boyhood : and it would perchance have soothed 
 The fierceness of that agony, with which 
 In after times I feh the withering hand 
 Of sickness slowly riveting the chains 
 That were to bind me to obscurity 
 
12 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Forever. Well have sages said that 'tis 
 A hand of mercy which has veiled from us 
 The future ; and the best of all it is 
 That clouds are thrown around thy lofty heights, 
 Ambition ! Who would dare the toilsome steep, 
 Could he but know the barren rocks which form 
 The summit 1 But I waste my golden hours 
 Among the works of men, when I should be 
 Alone with Nature. Forward ! forward ! Thanks 
 To bright Invention's magic power, which binds 
 Our chariot wheels with swifter wings than those 
 Of Irak's dove.^ — And if I cannot leave 
 The vulture thought, yet in the rapid chase 
 She cannot with her piercing talons rend 
 My quivering vitals, nor with so much calm 
 And deep intenseness drive her bloody beak, 
 As when, Prometheus-like, I'm bound in chains 
 To the lone rock of sad degrading toil. 
 
 The wide and gently-heaving Chesapeake, 
 Mother of Waters !^ Well that Indian name 
 Attests the wild and unschooled poesy, 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 18 
 
 Which Nature and her glorious works had breathed 
 Into the thoughtless savage — gaining nought 
 From learning's scroll and asking nought from fame. 
 Mother of Waters ! — Calmly spread at length, 
 With those huge rivers ranged along thy side, 
 Alike the out-stretched whelps of some wild beast, 
 All clinging to the parent teats. Yet they 
 Drain nought from thee, but ever pour their floods 
 Into thy bosom, making thee the pride 
 Of e'en our western waters. Times are changed 
 Since first that wild adventurer, ihe stern 
 And daring Smith, explored almost alone 
 This infant ocean. In his fragile bark 
 Breasting its storms, and by his skill alone 
 Evading yet their wrath, — piercing the haunts 
 Of forest kings, and braving their wild hordes 
 Of warriors, with that feeble crew inspired 
 By his own spirit, and led by the spell 
 Of higher thought and daring. Many years, 
 And yet few for the changes which they wrought, 
 Have passed since from these low and wooded shores 
 The startled Indians first beheld that strange 
 And lonely sail, slow rising o'er the waves 
 Like the first cloud which bodes the coming storm. 
 B 
 
14 A MONTH OF FREEDOM^ 
 
 There was a deep and all-absorbing love 
 
 Of liberty in that young Englishman ! 
 
 Even from boyhood 'tvi^as his joy to roam 
 
 Through the wild forest, or in some lone glade 
 
 To spend whole days alone, training his frame 
 
 To feats of arms, or poring o'er the page 
 
 Of science. At an age, when other youths 
 
 Are seeking but to learn to wear with grace 
 
 The fetters of society, he left 
 
 His native land for foreign climes, and made 
 
 The ranks of war his home. In the fresh glow 
 
 Of manhood, when others yield to the thrall 
 
 Of pleasure, and upon themselves for life 
 
 Are riveting her weary fetters, he 
 
 Had wandered wild and wide o'er land and sea. 
 
 And made danger his comrade, and had looked 
 
 On death until its terrors all were gone. 
 
 And he could laugh full in the phantom's face. 
 
 He had pierced to the bounds of what was then 
 
 Th' enlightened world, and fought in Christian ranks 
 
 Against the heathens. He had raised himself 
 
 By skill and daring to a noble rank 
 
 In arms, and made him friends of princes. He 
 
 Had fought upon the listed field, before 
 
 The combined beauty and the chivalry 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 15 
 
 Of Christendom and Heathenesse, and won 
 
 A higher meed of praise than e'er success 
 
 Showered upon a warrior's name, unless 
 
 In legends of romance. He had been left 
 
 As dead upon a battle-field, and saved 
 
 To be a captive in the heathen land. 
 
 He had bound in the chains of love, the fair 
 
 And noble Eastern lady, who held him 
 
 In thraldom as a suitor's gift. Again 
 
 Fortune had sunk him to tlie lowest depths 
 
 Of bondage, chained and doomed to menial toil. 
 
 He had slain his oppressor, and escaped 
 
 Once more to Christian lands. Now wandering 
 
 Through lonely forests, and now revelling 
 
 With princes, he through Europe's realms had held 
 
 His way, to seek new dangers and new fields 
 
 Of glory in the wilds of Africa. 
 
 Having drained to the dregs each varied draught 
 
 Of danger and excitement, — having lived 
 
 In his brief youth far more of life than oft 
 
 Has been crowded into the longest age 
 
 Of other men, — back to his native land 
 
 He roamed once more. He came not as he went, 
 
 A friendless boy ; he came in the full flush 
 
16 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Of manly beauty, trumpeted by fame, 
 
 And armed with passports to the hearts of all. 
 
 The men panted to offer up their share 
 
 Of praise to one whose friendship had been prized 
 
 By Europe's noblest sons. The women all 
 
 Were dying to behold and love the man, 
 
 Whose wild adventures mocked the strangest tales 
 
 Of chivalry ; and who to beauty's power 
 
 Added a name whose glory Europe scarce 
 
 Could bound, and the still more romantic charm 
 
 Of those wild loves in the far heathen land. 
 
 The jealous portals of society 
 
 To him were opened wide. He roamed at will 
 
 Through its enchanted palaces, and 'twas 
 
 To find that they were but the haunts of fiends, 
 
 The demons of satiety and care. 
 
 For a brief space he bowed to fashion's thrall, 
 
 And 'twas to learn that even gilded chains 
 
 Are galling still. Free as the desert steed. 
 
 Or the wild sea-bird, he had roamed o'er land 
 
 And ocean. Could he bear the dull sad round 
 
 Of fashion's pleasures ? He had played the game, 
 
 The thrilling game of battle, where the stake 
 
 Was life, the prize was glory. Could he join 
 
 The petty strife and childish rivalry 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Of fashion's minions ? He had won the heart 
 
 Of that fair Eastern girl, who loved him for 
 
 Himself alone, and sought to give him wealth, 
 
 And rank, and liberty, and in return 
 
 Had asked no boon but love. And could he care 
 
 To win the heartless smile of the cold belle 
 
 Of polished life, who offers up her love 
 
 Upon ambition's shrine, and only seeks 
 
 To add another and a nobler slave 
 
 To her proud train of suitors ? From the smiles 
 
 Of rank and power, and the blandishments 
 
 Of beauty, he in sadness turned away, 
 
 And sought Virginia's dark and lonely woods. 
 
 'Tis true that there danger and death beset 
 
 His path. But what were these to one who left 
 
 Behind the anguish of satiety? 
 
 'Tis true that there hunger, and toil, and wounds, 
 
 And harsh captivity awaited him. 
 
 But what were these to one who had endured 
 
 The tortures of inaction ? What was it 
 
 To him, if in that desert colony 
 
 He must endure all that appalls the soul 
 
 And most exhausts the frame. of common men, 
 
 Crowned with the thanklessness of those for whom 
 B2 
 
 17 
 
18 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 He toiled and fought ? It gave him liberty, 
 
 And wild adventure, and the boundless range 
 
 O'er land and wave, the joy of hostile strife, 
 
 The thrill of danger quickly followed by the glow 
 
 Of proud reliance on the powers which ne'er 
 
 Had failed, the hand of comrades in the hour 
 
 Of peri], and their joyous jest and laugh 
 
 In times of safety. I can understand 
 
 Full well the restless spirit, which to him 
 
 Had made his snow-swept couch on the cold earth, 
 
 Softer than beds of down ; and the rough food 
 
 Won at long intervals and by the risk 
 
 Of life, far sweeter than the crowded board 
 
 Of luxury ; and the free voice of woods, 
 
 And wind, and waves, more welcome to his ear 
 
 Than aught of music in the haunts of men. 
 
 And I can feel the wild, wild joy, which e'en 
 
 Apart from thoughts of fame, thrilled through his veins 
 
 As he, the first of Europe's sons, in doubt 
 
 And danger held his chartless way across 
 
 This wide " ocean-like water :"^ now, 
 
 Cautiously stealing o'er its treacherous depths, 
 
 Watching each signal of the coming storm ; 
 
 Now clinging to the thickly wooded shore, 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 19 
 
 Guarding with watchful eye and arms prepared, 
 Against the ambush of the savage foe. 
 
 But times are changed, since that small bark alone 
 
 Specked this broad water. 'Tis the highway now 
 
 For the glad myriads of the growing realm, 
 
 Whose gasping infancy was saved so oft^ 
 
 By that adventurer. The swift steam arks, 
 
 Those moving hostelries, in luxury 
 
 And safety bear us o'er his lonely course. 
 
 Full oft from other points they cross our way, 
 
 Dashing through the vexed billows, sending o'er 
 
 The flood a broken strain of music, lost 
 
 Almost as soon as caught, and as they pass 
 
 Giving a hurried glimpse of happy crowds 
 
 Of faces for an instant seen, and then 
 
 For ever gone. Far and near is spread 
 
 The sail of commerce. Many a stately bark 
 
 Is gliding by, gently and gracefully 
 
 Rising and dipping o'er the summer waves. 
 
 On every side the sails of others swell 
 
 Before the breeze, more and more distant, till 
 
 They dwindle to faint specks, which the strained eye 
 
 Can scarcely catch on the horizon's verge. 
 
20 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The mild and softly flowing Delaware ! 
 
 Gliding along as if afraid to mar 
 
 The deep repose with which on every side 
 
 Beauty is sleeping on its tranquil banks. 
 
 They tell me that the weary denizens 
 
 Of wealth have built them here their bowers of ease ; 
 
 And well these fair creations of their hours 
 
 Of freedom show that deep and innate love 
 
 Of nature and of beauty, which had long 
 
 Been stifled in the city's slavery. 
 
 Through the imbowering foliage brightly gleam 
 
 The graceful villas with their fair white walls, 
 
 And pillared porticoes, and clustering flowers, 
 
 And verdant lawns gracefully sweeping down 
 
 To meet the river, edged with trees whose boughs 
 
 Low drooping kiss their image trembling in 
 
 The gentle wave below. In these fair scenes 
 
 Each sad remembrance, and each thought of gloom^ 
 
 And every dark foreboding leaves the soul, 
 
 And like the facile bosom of the stream, 
 
 It takes the hue and semblance of the calm 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And placid beauty which is spread around ; 
 
 And the vain fancy almost makes us deem 
 
 This gentle loveliness the harbinger 
 
 Of hope and joy. And such thou wast to us, 
 
 Beautiful river ! in the war between 
 
 The right of weakness and the strength of wrong, 
 
 Which ushered us in olden times among 
 
 The nations. When that small and patriot band 
 
 Had found their untrained valour powerless 
 
 Against oppression's mercenary ranks ; 
 
 When each successive battle had but .served, 
 
 To dye the bosom of their native land 
 
 With blood in vain, and cumber it anew 
 
 With her devoted sons ; and backward drove 
 
 A still more shattered remnant, flying still 
 
 O'ermatched and destitute, until at last 
 
 Their bloody foot-prints marked the frozen ground, 
 
 And cold and want struck deeper than their foes ; 
 
 When shrunk the timid from th' unequal strife, 
 
 And e'en the best and bravest whispering spoke 
 
 Of sad submission, and all seemed subdued, 
 
 And dark, and hopeless, save th' unyielding soul 
 
 Of Washington ; — 'twas first upon these banks 
 
 That the disastrous tide of battle turned. 
 
 21 
 
22 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 'Twas here that feeble, faint, exhuasted band, 
 
 Which scarce had seemed to have the power to drag 
 
 Its wounded length along its blood-stained course, 
 
 Rose as a fiery dragon on its foes, 
 
 And wrested twice from their astonished grasp 
 
 The prize of war, and sent them cowering back 
 
 To gain new strength to cope with their despised 
 
 And prostrate quarry. And in after times, 
 
 When that eventful strife was o'er, and he, 
 
 Whose valour had thus led his country's arms 
 
 To victory, now ruled in wisdom o'er 
 
 Her infant councils, — it was on these shores 
 
 That the fair bands of maids and matrons strewed 
 
 With flowers his way across the fields, o'er which 
 
 He had in times of doubt and peril led 
 
 Their husbands and their fathers ; and 'twas here 
 
 That they invoked those blessings on his head, 
 
 Which still are dearest from our native land, 
 
 And ever sweetest in the gentle voice 
 
 Of beauty. What emotions must that scene, 
 
 The smiles of that fair band, and the sad thoughts 
 
 Of other days have waked witliin a breast 
 
 Like his alive as well to every soft, 
 
 As every lofty feeling of the soul ! 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 23 
 
 The fame of that all-noble being seems 
 
 An ark too sacred to be rashly touched 
 
 By a weak hand like mine. Why speak of Mm 
 
 To those upon whose hearts his memory 
 
 Is stamped for ever, joined with every fond 
 
 And holy feeling, which is wont to rise 
 
 Within the human soul to that one word — 
 
 Our Father? Why essay to swell the praise 
 
 Of one, whose name alone still throws the awe 
 
 Of reverence upon the laughing face 
 
 Of childhood, and spreads o'er the cheek of youth 
 
 The shade of thought, or kindles there the glow 
 
 Of emulation, and calls to the eye 
 
 Of age the tear of fond devotion, drawn 
 
 From the shrunk fountains which have long been dry 
 
 To every other feeling ? Even now 
 
 The flood of deep emotion, which the thought 
 
 Of him has raised within my breast, — the crowd 
 
 Of feelings struggling each for utterance, 
 
 Seems to forbid that I should farther seek 
 
 To twine his name within my idle verse. 
 
 His tale is graven on a far more high 
 
 And lasting tablet than the lying page 
 
 Of poesy. And there it stands, a link 
 
 To bind us to the noble times of old ; 
 
24 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 A lesson to the sordid selfishness 
 
 Of modern days. In a polluted age, 
 
 He joined the patriot virtue of old Rome, 
 
 With Spartan modesty and courage, ruled 
 
 And tempered all, by the stern self-control 
 
 And wisdom of the sage of ancient Greece. 
 
 In a base, venal age, he staked his wealth, 
 
 And life, and fame upon a desperate cause ; 
 
 And when his daring and his skill alone 
 
 Had won for us the victory which few 
 
 Had hoped, he wrung no treasure from his faint 
 
 And feeble country ; and he turned away 
 
 From the bright meed of dazzling power, which 
 
 A grateful people, and an army bound 
 
 With ties of love, in rivalry had heaped 
 
 Upon him. The delusive meteor whims 
 
 Of fancy all were impotent with him. 
 
 Each faculty and power of his mind 
 
 Bowed in subjection to the sway of thought. 
 
 The childish vanity, — the thirst for praise. 
 
 Which have so often led the great to strive 
 
 Rather to dazzle than to serve mankind ; 
 
 To seek their favour for the present hour. 
 
 Before their lasting interest ; all these 
 
 Were powerless with him. Each hope, and wish, 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 25 
 
 And feeling of his soul was sternly ruled 
 By his pure love of country. On the rock 
 Of self-approval he had made his stand, 
 And there the storm of power might burst in vain, 
 And all in vain the gentle summer waves 
 Of public favour courted him to launch 
 Upon their treacherous depths. His country's good ! 
 His country's glory ! These were the sole rules 
 Of action which he knew. His only end 
 Was still to serve his country, e'en against 
 Her will, — e'en at the risk of forfeiting 
 For a brief time her love. And he chose well. 
 And even if, like other conquerors, 
 He too had toiled for selfish ends alone, 
 And laughed at patriotism as the lure of fools, 
 Still he had chosen wisely. In the race 
 Of fame, who wins as high a meed of praise 
 As his ? What despot's thraldom ever matched 
 The tyranny of love, with which he ruled 
 A land of willing freemen ? Who through life. 
 Or after death, has reached the boundless power. 
 With which his name now sways, and yet shall sway 
 To latest times the minds of men? The still 
 Unchanging watchword in the sacred cause 
 Of Liberty, — forbidden, hushed, and feared 
 C 
 
26 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 By tyrants, — loudest sounded still, where men 
 Are leagued to free and to exalt their kind. 
 
 Something of him their father we may trace 
 
 In those whose swift-extending numbers spread 
 
 Over the spacious realm, won by his arms 
 
 And founded by his wisdom. Calm, and full 
 
 Of thought. Patient of danger and of toil. 
 
 Stern in their morals, — rather cherishing 
 
 The homely household virtues, than the false, 
 
 The heartless graces of society. 
 
 Proud of their native land — thoughtful and cold 
 
 In all except their love of liberty. 
 
 Slow to aggression, — in resistance quick, 
 
 And calmly reckless of aught else, except 
 
 Submission's infamy. More used to yield 
 
 Obedience to the rule of judgment, than 
 
 The whim of fancy. Quick to feel the power 
 
 Of beauty, and yet rather seeking it 
 
 In fair reaUty, than in the wild 
 
 Chimeras of poetic fantasy. 
 
 What has their land to do with poesy ? 
 
 On every side its bright realities 
 
 Shame the creations of the bards 
 
 Of other climes. And what has it to do 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM- 
 
 With the illusive legends of romance 1 
 
 In its wide regions, which embrace each grade 
 
 Of men and things, from polished elegance 
 
 To savage wildness, may be met at will 
 
 Stranger adventures than were ever coined 
 
 By lying artist. In its sons is found 
 
 As much of high and daring chivalry, 
 
 And in its artless daughters more of grace 
 
 And beauty, than has ever decked the page 
 
 Of sickly fancy. In the aged realms, 
 
 Where time and custom have effaced the charms 
 
 Of Nature's workmanship, it may be well 
 
 That they should ask for beauty from the hand 
 
 Of fiction. What has she to do in lands 
 
 Where all still glows with the bright hues of youth t 
 
 But I have wandered far, beautiful stream ! 
 From thy fair banks. And who could tightly hold 
 The reins of reason o'er his vagrant thoughts. 
 In scenes like this which spreads around me now ; 
 Lazily floating in my rocking skiff 
 Between these twin and rival villages,'* 
 Whose glittering fairness rather serves to aid 
 Than mar the charms of Nature, like a gem 
 Upon the hand of beauty. W^hat a deep 
 
 27 
 
28 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And placid stillness reigns on every side ! 
 Plenty and beauty hand in hand now rule 
 These shores, once wasted by the steps of war^ 
 And commerce pours its treasures undisturbed 
 Through the fair stream from which in olden time 
 The hand of war had swept her peaceful sails. 
 The lounging sailor in that passing bark 
 Looks listlessly upon his drooping sail, 
 And little recks he of those times of strife 
 And danger, which e'en now were gliding o'er 
 My memory. That gently sloping bank ! 
 How like a picture in its glowing hues 
 And deep repose ! How sweetly shaded o'er 
 By those wide-spreading trees, save here and there 
 The scattered groups of sunshine which have found 
 A way through the dense foliage, and rest 
 Like sleeping flocks upon the velvet turf. 
 Brightly the surface of the river gleams, 
 Unruffled all, save where the sturgeon throws 
 His glittering length on high, an instant poised 
 In air, then plunging headlong down again 
 Into the splashing wave. The swift steam-ship 
 Now breaks the tranquil stillness of the scene, 
 Hurrying on in dazzling grace and pride. 
 Dashing the vexed water from its swift wheels» 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 29 
 
 Carelessly breasting current, wind, and tide, 
 
 The beautiful reality — the bright 
 
 Imbodied spirit of that spectre ship,^ 
 
 Which in our country's timid infancy 
 
 Haunted its lonely coasts. O'er its broad track 
 
 Of surging foam, lightly the dun smoke floats, 
 
 Marking its course alike through air and wave. 
 
 The billows parted from its rapid prow 
 
 Have reached our little skiff, which lightly bounds 
 
 Above them, and they onward roll against 
 
 The grassy shore, tossing their crests in air. 
 
 Along that western bank the steam-car holds 
 
 Its still more rapid and more wondrous course. 
 
 Swift winding on the length of its huge train, 
 
 Like some strange monster, — some dread behemoth, 
 
 Whose fearful strength and speed, the art of man 
 
 Has made obedient to his slightest touch, 
 
 As the trained courser to the silken rein. 
 
 On it has hurried in its rushing course, 
 
 Almost before the eye could grasp its form. 
 
 Now its reluctant roar dies on the ear 
 
 Like muttering thunder, and the light cloud left 
 
 By its fiery breath rests in mid air. 
 
 C2 
 
30 A. MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 " Once more upon the waters." Free once more 
 
 From the foul dens of human things. Once more 
 
 Abroad with Nature. How that mountain breeze 
 
 Freshens the fevered cheek, wasted and wan 
 
 From the foul atmosphere polluted with 
 
 The breath of thousands ! How the lulling voice . 
 
 Of the hoarse dashing waters sooths the ear 
 
 Jarred by the crowded city's brattling din ! 
 
 How the unnumbered smiles that dimpling play* 
 
 Over the water, and the varied charms 
 
 That grace its brink, — the thickly wooded bank, 
 
 The rare imbedded farm won here and there 
 
 From the wild woods by cultivation's hand, 
 
 The fair white villa cresting the dark cliff, 
 
 Those wondrous palisadoes rising there 
 
 In beautiful array, as if to mock 
 
 The proudest works of art, — oh ! how these cheer 
 
 The soul when sick with watching the dull stream 
 
 Of human things to mark in each, the still 
 
 Recurring shades of childish vanity, ^ 
 
 Or leering lust, or foul intemperance. 
 
 The princely Hudson ! winding on through scenes 
 
 Which now awe with the wild sublimity 
 
 Of nature, and now charm us by the soft 
 
 A.nd gentle graces they have won from art. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The noble Hudson ! chaining fast the eye 
 
 With beauty's spell, yet raising in the soul 
 
 Far sterner thoughts and deeper feelings by 
 
 Its proud memorials of other times. 
 
 Many a lofty mount is rising up 
 
 Before us, from whose top in days of old 
 
 The battlements of war frowned sternly down 
 
 Upon the placid river. Dark green woods 
 
 Now overshadow their once naked heights, 
 
 And scarce the eye can trace the mouldering walls 
 
 Of those old fortresses. Yet long their names 
 
 Shall live in history, and kindle still 
 
 The glow of filial love and gratitude 
 
 In those whose fathers once were battling there 
 
 For liberty. But not of war and blood 
 
 Alone does the fair stream speak to the soul. 
 
 Soft thoughts and gentler recollections now 
 
 Crowd on us. Many a name around us sounds 
 
 Which by the voice of genius has been made 
 
 Familiar to the ear ; and many a cliff 
 
 Is gliding by, upon v/hose brow the hand 
 
 Of genius hangs a garland far more bright 
 
 And lasting than the blood-stained laurel wreath 
 
 Of war ; and every village, bay, and vale 
 
 Is brightening up on niem'ry's page his fair 
 
32 A MONTH OF FREEDOM- 
 
 Creations. Irving ! Our own Irving 1 He, 
 
 Who sought to throw his gentle spirit o'er 
 
 The souls of kindred nations, and essayed 
 
 To quell each harsh and angry thought which sprang 
 
 From ancient strife and modern rivalry, 
 
 And strove to bind us to our mother land 
 
 Once more ; — not with subjection's galling chains, 
 
 But with the lightly worn and silken bonds 
 
 Of kind affection. Our own Irving ! He, 
 
 Who smooths each wrinkle from the face of care, 
 
 And drives away the scowl of hate, the sneer 
 
 Of scorn, and kindles on the lip the smile 
 
 Of sweet benevolence, and from its fount 
 
 Calls up the tear of virtue. He, who throws 
 
 Over the realms of thought, the purple light' 
 
 Of language soft and rich and beautiful, 
 
 As the all-glorious hues which autumn sheds 
 
 On his own land;— a poet in all else, 
 
 Save that he has not bound his free-born thoughts 
 
 In jingling fetters. Our second father ! 
 
 Who in the walks of taste and science won 
 
 To his loved native land a place as high, 
 
 As that which Washington in olden times 
 
 Achieved for us in the proud ranks of war. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 33 
 
 But now that gleaming monument, the stern 
 
 Gray walls of that old fortress, and the cliffs 
 
 Frowning beyond, tell that I've reached the point, 
 
 Where long, long years ago the flood threw off 
 
 The mountain's thraldom. Bright and glorious stream ! 
 
 Thou too hast burst thy bonds asunder ! Thou 
 
 Art flowing on in careless grandeur now 
 
 Growing in strength and dignity, alike 
 
 The land of which thou art the type and pride. 
 
 On the lone mountain top. Around me are 
 The mould'ring walls of the decaying fort. 
 And I have gazed on the o'erwhelming scenes 
 Of grandeur which are spread far, far beneath. 
 And I have turned away " dazzled and drunk 
 With beauty ;" and I've stood upon its choked 
 And moss-grown fountain's brink, and clamber'd down 
 To wander through its dark and dripping vaults. 
 
 In the old war for freedom, when the foe 
 
 Poured from the north their best and bravest bands, 
 
 Leagued with the faithless savage horde, and from 
 
34 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The south concurring ranks back, back, from cliff 
 
 To cliff along th' embattled Hudson drove 
 
 Our fathers, — here they made their latest stand. 
 
 Like eagles in their eyry, girt by rocks 
 
 O'er which the eye grows dim and the brain reels, 
 
 They hurled their fierce defiance on the foe 
 
 And dared his utmost vengeance. And at last, 
 
 When treason wound its foul and poisoned way 
 
 Within their nest, still undismayed they dashed 
 
 The serpent from their bosom, and fought on 
 
 Unconquered to the end. 'Tis a proud spot 
 
 To an American. He in whose soul 
 
 Lingers the love of his own native land, 
 
 Will feel it swell within his bosom here, 
 
 And scarce the pride of manhood keeps it down 
 
 Beneath the fountains of the eye. 'Tis proud 
 
 To stand upon the rock against whose base 
 
 Invasion's waves broke harmlessly. And if 
 
 They had prevailed, — if their united strength 
 
 Had risen high and rolled the flood of war 
 
 And carnage o'er these walls, — it would have been 
 
 A pleasant thing to die for freedom here. 
 
 But he, the traitor, — he, whose step where now 
 I stand has wound through the rough soldiery, 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 35 
 
 Each one of whom had asked no boon but death 
 
 For him, — he, whose proud voice has rung where all 
 
 Is now so silent, winning to its tones 
 
 The prompt obedience of a soldier's love, — 
 
 Oh ! could he barter this for gold ? Full oft 
 
 In other lands there have been traitors, who 
 
 Were galled by tyrants' chains, and sold their faith 
 
 For liberty. But he alone betrayed 
 
 The cause of freedom. He alone rushed back 
 
 To chains, and sold himself, and sought to sell 
 
 His native land to slavery. But why 
 
 Do I pollute with human infamy 
 
 The page, which should be sacred to the charms 
 
 Of nature ? History has placed her brand 
 
 Upon him, and to us his treachery 
 
 Was harmless. Would it had been so to those 
 
 Who sought to purchase it. That noble youth ! — 
 
 Ah ! would that on his head had not recoiled 
 
 The selfsame treason which he strove to wield 
 
 To our destruction. Would he had not died 
 
 A felon's death, while the true felon lived 
 
 To infamous old age. But he sleeps well 
 
 In his own native isle, and his brief life 
 
 Has won the tears of love, his country's praise, 
 
 A spotless name in history, and sad 
 
36 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And fond regrets e'en from his enemies. 
 
 Who would not choose a fate like this, though bought 
 
 By the fierce anguish of his dying pang, — 
 
 Who would not choose his death before a life 
 
 Of baffled treason, conscience-scourged, and galled 
 
 With curses e'en from those, who paid the price 
 
 Of his dear-bought and useless perfidy. 
 
 Here where the foot of foeman never trod, 
 
 And where the flag of freedom never sunk, — 
 
 Here the republic trains its youth to arms, 
 
 And all around us speaks of war. Full oft 
 
 The cannon's startling voice rolls through the hills 
 
 Its mimic thunder, and oft o'er the plain 
 
 Rings the shrill burst of martial music. Far 
 
 Below me now their tents like children's toys 
 
 Glitter upon the green, and they themselves 
 
 Dwindled to pigmies seem in sport to make 
 
 Their graceful evolutions. It was well 
 
 To place them here, — and well they prove themselves 
 
 Worthy a country's care, in the dark walks 
 
 Of art and science, in the dazzling, proud, 
 
 And beautiful array of war, and in 
 
 The soldier's frank and gentle courtesy. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 37 
 
 When Kosciusko, the enthusiast 
 Who worshipped at the shrine of Liberty, 
 Till she became an idol that absorbed 
 Each thought and feeling of his soul, — when he, 
 The star of chivalry, who in himself 
 United all the noble attributes 
 With which romance in fantasy invests 
 Her heroes, — when he lingered as a guest 
 Within the clime where he had fought to gain 
 That freedom, which in after times he strove 
 In vain to win for his devoted land, — 
 'Twas here he made his home. And beautiful 
 And bright as are the forms of loveliness, 
 With which Nature has decked this favoured spot. 
 Yet every mountain, rock, and shore, and wood. 
 Glows with new beauty in the poesy 
 Of his remembrance. For his soul was fraught 
 With poesy, but it was of the kind 
 Which speaks to Earth in deeds and not in words. 
 And mingles with mankind to lead them on 
 To happiness and glory, and seeks not 
 To dream in solitude, and conjure up 
 Ideal shapes of beauty, and to hold 
 With them ideal converse, eloquent 
 Perchance, yet adding little to the sum 
 D 
 
38 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Of human good. They cherish here with pride, 
 His sacred memory. On yonder point, 
 His monument, reared by the youthful band 
 Of soldier students, gleams in sunshine, pure 
 And bright as his own name in history. 
 They show his garden, too, which he was wont, 
 'Tis said, to cultivate with his own hands, 
 And in its shades to spend his hours of thought. 
 'Tis a wild spot upon the very face 
 Of a huge precipice, where a dark cliff 
 Receding leaves a little sheltered slope 
 Of verdant turf. The black rock rises high 
 Above you, naked, save where forest shrubs 
 And wild flowers grow along its clefts, nursed there 
 By waters dripping from its secret depths. 
 Upon the green a sparkling fountain throws 
 Its cooling waters in the summer air, 
 And showering back into a marble font 
 That bears his name, they trickle on to bound 
 With gentle murmur down the precipice 
 Which plunges headlong to the river's brink. 
 'Tis a sweet shaded place, fairer perchance 
 From contrast with the fearful scenes around. 
 Tis like his brief sojourn in quiet here 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 39 
 
 Contrasted with the strife and gloom, which marked 
 The other years of his eventful life. 
 
 But in the savage mountain scenes, through which 
 
 I wander now along the river's brink, 
 
 Is found full many a spot as fair 
 
 As that wild, holy garden ; and the hand 
 
 Of art in kindness leaves still undisturbed 
 
 Their forest graces, — or when it has dared 
 
 To pierce their sacred shades, it still has been 
 
 To heighten, not to mar their charms. 
 
 If the bright, fabled goddess Nature, whose 
 
 Ideal worship has so long inthralled 
 
 My soul, had aught of being or of life 
 
 Save in poetic fantasy, — if she 
 
 Were not a dream and an illusion like 
 
 Aught else that ever brought a joy to me, — - 
 
 'Tis here that I would fix her home. Here, where 
 
 The river, mountains, rocks, and woods, have come 
 
 To do her homage ; and around her throne 
 
 Beauty is gathered in its wildest forms. — 
 
 That stern old ruin crowning the steep hill 
 With its proud diadem ; those thrilling cliffs 
 Asunder rent and darkly lowering o'er 
 
40 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The noble river, which so gently sleeps 
 
 In its wild cradle like a fro ward child 
 
 Whom victory has lulled to rest ; the far, 
 
 Far landscape and the glittering village, through 
 
 That gloomy vista shining with their hues 
 
 As bright as ever painter's pencil made, 
 
 Or poet's fancy feigned ; that fair wide sweep 
 
 Of woodland hills and verdant fields, o'er which 
 
 The shadows of the summer clouds would seem 
 
 To be for ever coursing ; the white sail 
 
 On the bright waters ; the thick wooded slope 
 
 Frosted with chestnut flowers ; the wild walk 
 
 O'er-arched with forest trees, and winding on 
 
 Among wild flowers and dark moss-grown rocks ;- 
 
 The gushing murmur of the mountain brook, 
 
 Winding its dark course to the river's bed ; 
 
 The fearful precipice upon whose brink 
 
 We stand, and see far down beneath our feet 
 
 The tops of the tall trees which grow along 
 
 The base. — Above, beneath, around is spread 
 
 Beauty in every shape that wins the eye, 
 
 Or sooths the feelings, or exalts the soul. 
 
 At every hour, — in the bright morning, when 
 Light fleecy clouds along the mountain-tops 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 41 
 
 Are floating, and the sun new risen throws 
 
 On river, hills, and plain, the glowing hues 
 
 Of childhood ; or when evening spreads 
 
 Over the scene the gray and sober light 
 
 Of age ; or when night's darkness shrouds it with 
 
 The fearful gloom of death, and all is dim 
 
 And undefined except the lurid train 
 Of light which steamboat fires throw across 
 The trembling waters, or the startling flash 
 Of the sheet lightning, which an instant tips 
 The mountains with its dazzling light, and turns 
 The river's stream to liquid fire ; or when 
 Over the whole the moon has thrown her soft 
 Tremulous light, as bright, and beautiful, 
 And indistinct, as are our hopes beyond 
 The grave. — At every hour, on every side, 
 The still unwearied eye is met with new 
 And ever varied forms of loveliness. 
 
 Oh ! 1 have gazed upon these glowing scenes, 
 And trod these forest paths, and lingered still 
 In their wild lonely haunts, until almost 
 I've wished myself a woman or a child. 
 That I might weep away the pleasant weight 
 Of feelings that oppressed me. I have watched 
 D2 
 
42 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The swiftly gliding hours, and sadly felt 
 That I should tear myself away ; yet still 
 I linger here, as if bound by the chain 
 Which keeps the fettered lover at the feet 
 Of human beauty. My last hour has come, 
 And I must hasten on. But yet full oft 
 In future times, when toil, and care, and woe 
 Press heavily upon me, I will leave 
 My earthly frame to play my weary part 
 In the sad farce of life, and borne away 
 On fancy's wings I'll seek these shades again, 
 And drain another draught of beauty here. 
 And gather strength to struggle with my kind, 
 And win new life to bear unyielding still 
 The sickening tortures of humanity. 
 
 " Once more upon the waters." How the boat 
 
 Trembles through its huge bulk with the dread power 
 
 Of life within, alike the human frame 
 
 When shaken by the overexcited soul. 
 
 Swift dashing now through that wild mountain pass, — 
 
 And now the upraised eye recoils in awe 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 43 
 
 From the dread majesty of those dark cliffs, 
 And now it wanders through to rest at ease 
 Upon the soft and crowded foliage 
 Of the thick-wooded dells which calmly sleep 
 Between the rugged heights. Again ! — Again ! — 
 And now 'tis past. Yet still we turn to gaze 
 Through that dark portal on the lovely spot 
 Beyond, with somewhat of the fond regret. 
 With which our earliest parents turned to catch 
 A glimpse of Eden through its closing gates. 
 Fair scenes are still around me. But I've drunk 
 Too deeply there of beauty, — I have loved 
 The genius of those swift-receding shades 
 With far too pure a passion to be now 
 Inthralled by other and inferior charms. 
 
 Up the high Catskill mountains' toilsome steeps, 
 
 Wearily, slowly winding. Now along 
 
 The precipice's brink, sending the eye 
 
 Down the deep glen, striving in vain to pierce 
 
 The dense, dark foliage, and catch at least 
 
 A glimpse of white foam from the mountain stream 
 
44 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Which, brawling on far down below, sends up 
 Its cooling, freshening murmur to the ear. 
 Now passing on beneath the dark rocks piled 
 In beautiful confusion far above, 
 Half seen, half hid by clustering foliage. 
 Now gazing up in wonder at the fair 
 And glittering mountain castle reared on high, 
 Amid such wild and savage scenes, as if 
 The mountain spirits, and no human hand 
 Had placed it there. Up the steep ascent now 
 Toilfully straining, and above us wave 
 The starry chestnut flowers and the dark 
 And massive foliage of the hemlock. Now, 
 Pausing to gaze upon the mountain hut,^ 
 O'er whose unsightly ruins genius throws 
 The light of immortality. And now, 
 Watching the various mountain flowers that deck 
 Our way. — The fair and clustering laurel bloom, 
 The bright wild tulip like a crimson star 
 Among the deep green foliage, and the fern 
 Waving its graceful plumes o'er the dark rocks. 
 And striving now to catch another glimpse 
 Of those fair walls in vain, — till the wild scenes 
 Around us, and the dreamy influence 
 Of summer evening almost make us think 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 45 
 
 That they but mocked us, and have fled away 
 Alike the magic castle of Saint John.^ 
 
 On the high mountain top, far, far above 
 
 The world. A wild, wide, boiling sea of mist 
 
 Is spread around, the beautiful phantasm 
 
 Of the true ocean,'° which once swept above 
 
 These glowing lands. Its pale waves roll not now 
 
 With the free dash of life, but slowly rise 
 
 Like phantoms, and with ghostlike motion glide 
 
 Along, to dash all noiselessly against 
 
 The rock-bound shore. And yet 'tis like, so like 
 
 The wide deep sea, that fancy peoples it 
 
 With the strange monsters of the deep, and we 
 
 Can scarce believe that fellow-mortals there 
 
 Beneath the waves are toiling carelessly 
 
 In the dull work of life. Its spectral depths 
 
 Are opening now, and bright and verdant isles 
 
 Are shining through. Again the misty waves 
 
 Close over them, and all is ocean now. 
 
 Again bright fields and dark-green woods shine through 
 
 The rent veil, and its scattered folds are rolled 
 
46 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Into light fleecy clouds, which float along 
 Upon the summer wind. And now these melt 
 Before the glowing sun, and naught is left 
 But dazzling, beautiful reality. 
 
 The golden hue of harvest, — the dark woods, — 
 The bright green pasture lands, — Ihe rivulet 
 Alike a white thread thrown all carelessly 
 On the green velvet, — the low rustic roof, — 
 The distant village glittering with the sun, — 
 The river calmly lying there alike 
 A polish'd mirror, and the whiter sail 
 Gleaming on its bright waters, — those green isles 
 Like emeralds set in silver, — and the far, 
 Wide landscape spreading on beyond 
 In still extending beauty till the eye 
 Is pained, the soul dazzled — faint — bewildered. 
 
 How often have I wished that I could soar 
 Far, far above the earth, and poised alone 
 In mid-air, gaze upon its beauties spread 
 Beneath, softened by distance and relieved 
 From every harsh and jarring trait. My wish 
 Is granted now. But never in my dreams 
 Did fancy frame so fair a scene as this. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 47 
 
 Wearied with Nature. — Now to plunge once more 
 Into the joyous throng of fellow-men. 
 Thy crowded street, fair walls and porticoes. 
 And pretty grass-plots, Saratoga ! now 
 Are all before me. It is well to blend. 
 As they do here, the country's beauty with 
 The city's splendour. It is wisely done 
 To mingle nature's soft and swelling curves 
 With the straight formal lines of art. I like 
 To see these gardens, trees, and flowers. 'Tis 
 The homage nature wrests from art. I like 
 To see that others worship at my shrine. 
 But there's a flower like one that blooms upon 
 The Catskill mountains ; and it makes me sad 
 To see it here drooping and sofled with dust 
 From the bright chariot wheels of yonder cit, 
 Who looks as if he thought that his own face 
 Shone with his coach's splendour. And I like 
 This ever new and ever flowing stream 
 Of faces, each a study in itself. 
 See there the puny politician puflfed 
 With news which he has gathered from 
 
48 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The papers ; labouring with his burden like 
 
 The mountain in the fable, and with such 
 
 Tumultuous energy discharging it 
 
 On each unhappy listener. And here 
 
 The purse-proud city merchant, who has sold 
 
 His body, soul, and almost life itself 
 
 For gold, and seeks to purchase with it now 
 
 Refinement, and a character for taste 
 
 And science : but, alas ! his thoughts are still 
 
 Chained to his counter, and his talk still rings 
 
 Of dollars. There the lordly democrat, 
 
 Brimful of freedom and equality, 
 
 Yet scanning every stranger, and afraid 
 
 To offer him the common courtesies 
 
 Of life, before he learns his name and rank. — 
 
 To all who are above him cringing like 
 
 A European slave ; to all below 
 
 More haughty than a European lord. 
 
 And there the city fopling clothed in grace 
 
 As in a garment, — but I'll waste no verse 
 
 On him. — Oh ! he who has the power to read 
 
 The human soul beneath the flimsy veil 
 
 Which human craft throws o'er it, — he may drain 
 
 A sparkling draught of laughter here. But yet 
 
 Within its dregs the bitterness of scorn 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 49 
 
 Is lurking still. One hour here, and how 
 The chain is galling me ! — Heighho ! I wish 
 That I were in the woods again. In truth, 
 The others seem to wish so too. A cloud 
 Hangs on each brow, and I can mark in each 
 A quick, unquiet wandering of the eye. 
 Which shows a restless wish for something that 
 They have not. Can it be, that they, like me, 
 Are deep in love with Nature ? Can it be, 
 That they have left their hearts in her wild haunts, 
 And long to kneel before her shrine again? 
 Ah, no ! I see it now — hark to that harsh, 
 Loud-clanging bell ! It is the dinner-bell. 
 Now see the joy that flashes o'er each face 
 And sparkles from each eye. Alas ! alas ! 
 'Twas hunger, not the love of Nature which 
 Had thrown a cloud upon their brows. 'Tv/as meat 
 And drink that they were panting for, and not 
 The wild sweet eloquence of Nature. Well ! 
 They all are seated round the table now. 
 And they seem very happy in the din 
 Of rushing waiters, clanging knives and forks, 
 And clashing plates. But the poor music, how 
 It strives to raise itself above the harsh. 
 Discordant din, and seeks in vain to throw 
 E 
 
50 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The dignity of thought and feeling o'er 
 
 A base and earthly function. Ah ! I see 
 
 They have immortal souls, and there are thmgs 
 
 Which make them think, and times when they can feel 
 
 How lovingly they gloat upon each dish, 
 
 And with what thought and science they can tell, 
 
 How each should be devoured. And in all 
 
 This wild excitement, still how zealously, 
 
 Yet awkwardly they keep the stern command 
 
 Of British tourists, that the fork should be 
 
 A spoon. But the poor soul, how it must toil 
 
 To free itself from all this mass of food 
 
 With which they cumber its immortal powers. 
 
 Heighho ! I wish that I were in the woods 
 
 Again. Must I wait here until they end 
 
 This weary gorging, still beginning, still 
 
 Unceasing ? Well ! thank Heaven the dinner ends. 
 
 And now the man of fashion, emulous 
 
 Of glory, ranges round his dozen kinds 
 
 Of wine, looking with lofty, lordly scorn 
 
 Upon his humble neighbour, who gets drunk 
 
 With only half a dozen. And now those 
 
 Who wish to keep the little intellect 
 
 That eating leaves, are free to wander forth 
 
 Into the air again. I like this proud 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 51 
 
 And vine-wreathed portico. I like to see 
 
 The groups of children coursing through its length 
 
 With faces fresh as flowers, and graceful forms 
 
 Still undisfigured by the hand of art. 
 
 I like to hear the shrill and laughing burst 
 
 Of their sweet voices. 'Tis alike the sound 
 
 Of mountain waters, only not so soft. 
 
 But yet I do not like the solemn way 
 
 In which the grown-up children ride around 
 
 Their little painted hobby horses on 
 
 The little railroad circle. And within, 
 
 The " recreative garden" where they roll 
 
 The nine-pin balls, I do not like the pond 
 
 In which they keep tame fishes to be caught 
 
 By visiters at such a price per hour, 
 
 And then thrown back agam, when they have wrenched 
 
 The barbed hook from their bleeding jaws. Oh how 
 
 I wished that they were in the fishes' place, 
 
 And I myself a customer. But this 
 
 Is for the men. As for the fairer sex. — 
 
 But softly ! — softly ! — They, the morning stars 
 Of life ; they, whose bright smiles alone inspire 
 The soldier's daring, statesman's eloquence. 
 And poet's fancy, — and it may be, too. 
 
52 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 This careless rambling verse, which leads me now 
 
 Its wild-goose course, oh ! they must not be named 
 
 With aught approaching e'en to ribaldry. 
 
 And there are faces here, bright as e'er formed 
 
 The basis of a poet's dream, and ne'er 
 
 Did bard before the shrine of beauty bow. 
 
 With feelings deeper, holier than mine. 
 
 But yet if there be aught by which the stream 
 
 Of admiration is a moment soiled. 
 
 To name it were a brother's part, and with 
 
 A brother's gentleness it shall be done. 
 
 First, then, I wish that they would never lend 
 
 Their sanction to the foul intemperance 
 
 Of men by e'en a single glass of wine. 
 
 In woman's soul there is, or ought to be, 
 
 Something too pure to be polluted with 
 
 One smgle drop of alcohol. 'Tis true, 
 
 That it may aid the forced vivacity 
 
 Which is the fashion now. 'Tis true, that what 
 
 Is only affectation, may be changed 
 
 By wine to nature. Yet, much as I loathe 
 
 All affectation, it is better still 
 
 Than an approach by e'en a single step 
 
 To maudlin folly. And I wish that they 
 
 Would wear the fashion out, which grafts this forced 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 53 
 
 And foreign manner on their native grace. 
 
 'Tis so unsuited to their nature, which 
 
 Is gentle, grave, contemplative. Now look 
 
 At yonder lovely girl, before whom stands 
 
 That pretty piece of male conceit. Observe 
 
 Her flashing eyes, her eager bending form, 
 
 Her quickly waving hands, and her fair face 
 
 Distorted into archness. Would you know 
 
 What subject moves this graceful energy 
 
 Of gesture ? Do not ask. It is grimace 
 
 Which they are changing there, and not ideas. 
 
 As for the words, — why, they are things of course. 
 
 Yet this is not her nature. Ah ! they are 
 
 Too soft, too facile, and too diffident 
 
 Of their own charms. They are too apt to yield 
 
 To models far inferior to themselves. 
 
 Oh, would they but believe the word of one 
 
 Whose ruling passion ever was the love 
 
 Of beauty, and whose life has been its search, 
 
 Would they believe me when I say that grace 
 
 Lives but with Nature. If they would but leave 
 
 To voice the melody, to form the grace, 
 
 To features the expression Nature gave, 
 
 Oh ! then indeed they would be deities 
 
 Worthy the glorious land o'er which they reign. 
 E2 
 
54 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 But there is one face here, — I see it now, 
 
 From her large bright dark eye there flashes still 
 
 The pure sweet eloquence of woman's thought, 
 
 And over her smooth cheek are passing still 
 
 The ever changing, ever lovely hues 
 
 Of sensibility, and on her lip 
 
 Is still enthroned the soft and gentle smile 
 
 Of female tenderness. But she is now 
 
 Just bursting into womanhood ; and if 
 
 Her face should ever shine upon my way 
 
 Again, it will perhaps be tuined too 
 
 By some base foreign affectation. Now 
 
 See yonder belle. How gracefully, and yet 
 
 How artfully she keeps that crowd of beaux 
 
 Around her ; and with how much skill she plays 
 
 On all, the bright artillery of teeth 
 
 Like pearls, and coral lips, and sparkling eyes. 
 
 And glossy ringlets. Brilliant ! — beautiful ! 
 
 But ah ! that cold and selfish glance she casts 
 
 Around, to gather in and estimate 
 
 The full amount of admiration which 
 
 She has been levying. And see that flash 
 
 Of fierce disdain launched sidelong at the head 
 
 Of some fair rival. Curses ! curses on 
 
 The folly which has made me learn to read 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 55 
 
 The human face, until the slightest thoughts 
 
 Are clear to me, as if we had been made 
 
 As Momus wished. Alas ! I'm like the child 
 
 Who breaks the magic glass which used to lend 
 
 His little show-box all its glories. I 
 
 Can ne'er be fooled again. Yet they are fair, 
 
 How very, very fair. Look at them now, 
 
 As they are promenading through this fine 
 
 Old portico. Observe their glossy hair, 
 
 Their brilliant eyes, their smooth and glowing cheeks, 
 
 Their matchless forms. But — but — that foreign walk ! 
 
 There's something so much like a peacock's gait 
 
 In the odd, stately way in which they swing along, 
 
 Sweeping from side to side their curving trains. — 
 
 But this will never do. For I had sworn 
 
 That through one single month at least, the fiend 
 
 Of sarcasm should be still within me. I 
 
 Had sworn that for one month I'd find or feign 
 
 Things which should raise within me other thoughts 
 
 Than this cold blighting ridicule, which now 
 
 Has stamped its scowl upon my brow, its sneer 
 
 Upon my lip ; and has so nearly bound 
 
 In icy chains the once warm gushing fount 
 
 Of youthful feeling. I will keep my oath. 
 
56 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 But then I must not linger here. Lake George 
 
 Is wooing me to its sweet solitudes. 
 
 Farewell, the dreary joys and lonely crowds 
 
 Of Saratoga ! 'Tis in vain for me 
 
 To seek to mingle with my kind. My soul 
 
 Is like the mystic harp, which will not give 
 
 Its music forth to aught except the breath 
 
 Of heaven, and is jarred to discord by 
 
 The human hand. Then let me kneel once more 
 
 Repentant at the shrine of Nature. She 
 
 Intrudes not on the weariness which springs 
 
 From man's perversity, and from no fault 
 
 Of hers. With more than woman's gentleness 
 
 She waits until the cloud has passed, and then 
 
 With brighter smiles hastens to charm again. 
 
 Alone ! Alone !— Oh ! not a single sail 
 Ruffles the gentle, smooth, yet brilliant face 
 Of this pure water. Not a trace of man 
 Is on its lonely isles. Its wooded shores 
 Are still almost as wild as they were left 
 By the wild Indian. How I love to float 
 In the light rocking skiff, and gaze far down 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 57 
 
 Through the pure waters on the fairy realm 
 
 Which like another world is spread beneath. 
 
 'Tis beautiful to see its rock-laid floors 
 
 All checkered o'er with ever-waving veins 
 
 Of golden sunshine. It is beautiful 
 
 To see its glittering natives sporting there 
 
 Unconscious of the evil eye that rests 
 
 Upon them. It is beautiful to see 
 
 The cross-barred perch, and silvery speckled trout 
 
 Gracefully rising to the sportsman's bait. 
 
 'Tis beautiful to see them poised in doubt. 
 
 And best of all it is, to see them dash 
 
 From the barbed hook, unharmed away. Oh ! now 
 
 I do not wonder that the Indians held 
 
 The selfsame faith which throws its brilliant grace 
 
 Over the Greek and Roman poesy. 
 
 I do not wonder that they too believed 
 
 In countless gods who dwelt in rivers, lakes. 
 
 And mountains. I have gazed on the bright depths . 
 
 Beneath me, till I almost thought to see 
 
 Some river goddess swiftly flashing through 
 
 The crystal wave, with form of dazzling grace, 
 
 And golden hair, and laughing upturned face. 
 
 Too beautiful for human words. And I 
 
 Have shouted to the mountain spirits, till 
 
58 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Their deep and solemn answers threw a damp 
 Upon my soul, and almost made me rue 
 The boyish mood which led me to disturb 
 Their slumbers. The poor Indians ! — E'en 
 Their savage conquerors, they say, were struck 
 By the pure solemn spirit which is spread 
 Around this lonely lake. E'en they, though used 
 To yield obedience to their savage thirst 
 For gold and blood, and not the gentle sway 
 Of fancy, — ^^even they did clothe its shores 
 In superstition's solemn hues, and named 
 The waters sacred," and across the sea 
 Conveyed them, to be kept for pious rites. 
 If the white savage thus could own the power 
 Of these pure holy scenes, what must have been 
 Their influence upon the wild, untaught. 
 And fancy-governed Indians. With what fair 
 Yet awful deities, forgotten now, 
 They must have peopled these enchanted waves 
 And echoing shores. Of all their bleeding ties 
 Which we have torn apart, methinks the love 
 That bound them to this lake must still have been 
 The strongest. And in truth they tell me that 
 A few years since an Indian left his tribe,^^ 
 And came to dwell alone on yonder isle. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 59 
 
 Lonely and sad, he sought not with the whites 
 
 Aught of companionship, and asked no boon 
 
 Except to live in scenes endeared to him, 
 
 Perchance by some remembrance of his own, 
 
 Or by a parent's tale, or it might be 
 
 By some tradition of his tribe. His food, 
 
 After the simple custom of his race, 
 
 Was won from the pure waters of the lake, 
 
 Or its wild shores ; for there the deer and bear. 
 
 And e'en the panther lingers still, and still 
 
 The eagle soars around its rugged cliffs. 
 
 Alone he glided o'er the peopled wave. 
 
 Or trod alone the forest wild, — save when 
 
 Some savage friend from the far West had come, 
 
 Wearing his nation's garb, sullen and stern, 
 
 Watching the Whites with eyes that seemed to gleam 
 
 With the fierce fire of vengeance long delayed. 
 
 But in the breast of him who thus had made 
 
 His home among his people's foes, no thought 
 
 Like this appeared to linger. With the sad 
 
 And silent scorn, which speaks a soul subdued 
 
 Yet feeling still, he bore the taunts and jeers, 
 
 Which the cold, sneering white man ever heaps 
 
 Upon the lone and friendless. But still aught 
 
 Of kindness, e'en the slight friendly words 
 
60 A MONTH OF FREEDOM^ 
 
 Spoken perchance in whim and wantonness 
 By fashion's votaries, whom chance had led 
 To the lone Indian's hut,— oh ! even these 
 Waked the wild feeling of the savage soul. 
 And when those selfsame loiterers had sought 
 These shores in after years, they wondered oft 
 To find their names remembered, and themselves 
 Addressed in tones of gratitude by one 
 Whom they had long forgotten. Firm and deep 
 The love of nature must have taken root 
 In that lone savage, if he thus could leave 
 His nation, friends, and kindred, and endure 
 The white man's contumely, and the stings 
 Of poverty, within the lands which teem 
 With luxury and wealth, to all except 
 Their rightful lords, — strongly and closely must 
 Its ties have twined themselves around his heart, 
 If he could calmly bear all this, and find 
 His recompense in nature's face alone. 
 He is dead now. And naught is left to mar 
 The white man's pleasure in these graceful wilds, 
 By calling up the saddened memory 
 Of the much-injured race from whom they were 
 So foully torn. That wild and simple race ! 
 They seemed suited by nature to these scenes. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 61 
 
 The Indian bark and Indian warrior, 
 
 And his pure, gentle Indian^bride, the prize 
 
 Of glory won in battle or the chase, 
 
 Sharing her husband's labours and his sports 
 
 In the pure air of heaven, mingling with his 
 
 Her very life, in all the boundless love 
 
 Of woman's soul, when undefiled by art ; — 
 
 Methinks that Indian bark and Indian pair 
 
 Were better suited to these gentle wilds, 
 
 Than yonder passing l^pat and gaudy crew 
 
 Of fashion's loiterers, wounding the eye 
 
 With their odd, grotesque forms and glaring garb. 
 
 Jarring the ear with their shrill chattering 
 
 And harsh laughter, glad in their brief escape 
 
 From the close, stifling walls where white men make 
 
 Their crowded dwelling-place, and where each vice 
 
 Thrives in the foul congenial atmosphere, 
 
 And sickening virtue droops, and beauty fades. 
 
 Well, they have passed, and now I am once more 
 Alone with nature. How the placid sheet 
 Of water gleams beneath the glowing sun ! 
 Now the light breeze shivers its glassy face 
 In countless fragments all bright glittering, 
 As if the selfsame gems which deck its isles 
 F 
 
62 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Were scattered o'er its waves. And now the wind 
 
 Raises the mimic billows higher still, 
 
 Yet heaving all softly and gracefully, 
 
 As if they might be moved to sport, but ne'er 
 
 To wrath. But what is this that breasts the waves, 
 
 And seems to steer its course towards my skiff? 
 
 A wild wood squirrel ^^ voyaging alone 
 
 O'er the wide waters ! He has reached my oar 
 
 And clings upon its blade, and now he climbs, 
 
 All dripping to the boat. Poor little thing ! 
 
 You must be tired indeed to trust yourself 
 
 To human beings ; or in these lone shades 
 
 Perchance thou hast not yet been taught that foe 
 
 And stranger mean the same. And now he peers 
 
 Over the vessel's side, and seems to think. 
 
 Of launching on the weary wave again. 
 
 And now inquiringly he turns on me 
 
 His large dark eye. Safe ! safe ! my little friend. 
 
 It is not here that I could bring myself 
 
 To harm thee. Now he courses on along 
 
 The vessel's edge, and finds a sheltered place 
 
 Beneath the bench ; and there he panting sits, 
 
 Weary and worn, and looks as if he felt 
 
 The dignity of being rowed at ease. 
 
 Now we have neared the shore, and see ! upreared, 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 63 
 
 He's peering o'er the vessel's side again. 
 
 And now — splash ! he is gone ; with upraised head 
 
 And outstretched tail, right gallantly he stems 
 
 The surge. And now he gains the shore, and climbs 
 
 All dripping o'er the naked rocks, nor turns 
 
 To throw me e'en a single look of thanks. 
 
 Oh, in these wilds I am a boy again : 
 
 And pleasant tears are swelling in my eyes 
 
 I know not why, and I can laugh once more ; 
 
 Not the sad laugh of scorn, but the free burst 
 
 Of childhood's joy. How like a dream appears 
 
 The vice, the rage, the tumult, and the strife 
 
 Of the mad world which I have left behind. 
 
 And yet how often has the wrath of man 
 
 Pierced to these shades, and warred here, even here, 
 
 In scenes whose sweet and solemn eloquence 
 
 Might sooth to peace aught else but human rage. 
 
 How oft has human blood steeped these lone shores, 
 
 And even lent its foul, revolting tinge 
 
 To this pure wave ! Not in those border wars 
 
 Alone, whose robber carnage history 
 
 Records not, as too dark and foul for e'en 
 
 Her blood-stained page, but in the prouder strife 
 
 Which white men waged with white men o'er their prey* 
 
64 A MONTH OF FREEDOM^ 
 
 Enriching with iheir mingling gore the soil, 
 
 Which each essayed to wrest from its true lords* 
 
 How often have these mountains echoed back 
 
 The spirit-stirring shouts of struggling foes, 
 
 Or the heart-chilling shrieks of children, wives, 
 
 And warriors, slain in cold butchery, 
 
 When the fierce joy of mortal strife had passed, 
 
 And left the bitterness of sad despair. 
 
 And in those wars what deep revenge was wreaked 
 
 By the fierce savage on the race that first 
 
 Assailed his home. He should have waited while 
 
 The rival nations fought above the spoil. 
 
 Until, like Esop's beasts of prey, they sank 
 
 Exhausted, and he might have wrested then 
 
 His birthright from the feeble grasp of both. 
 
 But he was far too thoughtless and too quick 
 
 To feel the charms of vengeance. Still his blood 
 
 Mixed with the stream poured out by those, who fought 
 
 To win the right to drive him from his home. 
 
 While he was visiting in wrath his wrongs 
 
 Upon one race of white men, he knew not 
 
 That he was strengthening another tribe 
 
 As false and ruthless. And e'en if his wild 
 
 And rude sagacity had taught him this, 
 
 Still was the draught of vengeance far too deai 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 65 
 
 To be foregone. Like the crushed wasp, perchance 
 
 He found in driving home his dying sting 
 
 The only solace that was left him now, 
 
 For his destruction. But the storm of war 
 
 Long since has rolled away, and left behind 
 
 No trace except those aged fortresses, 
 
 Around whose mouldering walls the tourist pries 
 
 In search for rehcs. O'er the silent lake 
 
 Is spread tranquillity as deep and calm, 
 
 As when the simple savage held its shores 
 
 In peace and joy, and dreamed not that he had 
 
 In unknown lands, white brothers who would leave 
 
 Their homes, and over the Great Water come 
 
 To wrest away the fair inheritance 
 
 Their common father had bestowed on him. 
 
 Beauty and solitude ! Dearest to me 
 Of Nature's handmaids, and still worshipped most \ 
 How absolute they reign united here ! 
 When the vexed soul is lashed to rage, or stung 
 To torture in the strife of human things, 
 How sweet to linger here till joy succeeds 
 To pain, and placid calmness follows joy ! 
 That gentle calm which steeps the soul of him, 
 Who rests in Nature's arms ! Would it could be 
 F 2 
 
66 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Eternal ! With what gladness would I change 
 
 For its sweet peace, aught that the world can give 
 
 Of joy or glory ! But it will not stay. 
 
 Even when courted most, how soon it yields 
 
 To listlessness and dull satiety ! 
 
 And then there comes the restless thirst for change, 
 
 The feverish yearning for excitement's thrill, 
 
 And the impatient wish to find it e'en 
 
 In strife, rather than still to linger on 
 
 In sad inaction. Mark the waters now'* 
 
 Of this lone lake ! Although their peaceful way 
 
 Is over glittering sands, and pavements seamed 
 
 With golden sunshine, — though they roam at will 
 
 Around these verdant isles, or gently sleep 
 
 Cradled within these high and graceful shores, 
 
 Which shield them from the tempest's wrath, — yet see ! 
 
 When they at last escape from all this calm 
 
 And sheltered loveliness, see how they bound, 
 
 Dancing away in joy, reckless of aught 
 
 That may await them in the stormy world 
 
 Of waters, which they hasten on to join, 
 
 Happy, too happy, to have left behind 
 
 The sameness of these peaceful shades. And thus, 
 
 E'en thus it is with me ! I've lingered here 
 
 Till e'en these wilds have lost the power to charm, 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. i)T 
 
 And their deep quiet only serves to raise 
 
 Within my breast a fiercer restlessness. 
 
 I have exhausted every peaceful charm 
 
 Of Nature, — let me see her now in vi^rath. 
 
 My scut is cloyed with gentle loveliness, 
 
 And sick with placid beauty : — give me strife, — 
 
 Give me grandeur, — give me sublimity ! 
 
 Far down within the dark and rock-walled glen 
 Where roar the Trenton Falls. '^ How fearfully 
 That wild and turbid mountain stream winds through 
 Its rugged depths ! Now down the rocky pass 
 Raging in foam, or o'er the steep dark cliff 
 In thunder hurled ; then pausing at the base 
 An instant in the calm and silent mood 
 Which ever follows human rage ; and then 
 Sweeping along in sullen peaceful scorn, 
 Again to plunge, again to pause, again 
 To sweep away on its tumultuous course. 
 
 Oh there is beauty, wild, wild beauty here ! 
 See there the parted waters gently stream 
 In waving ringlets o'er the rock's dark brow. 
 
68 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Here the united flood hurls o'er the clifl^ 
 
 Its amber wave, again to rise in white 
 
 And wintry wreaths, — sending far through the air 
 
 Its gUttering spray, alike the drifted snow 
 
 Upon the winter's wind. And see ! beside 
 
 That raging flood, a parted rivulet 
 
 Gently and tremblingly is climbing down 
 
 The rugged face of the black rock, alike 
 
 A timid cowering wife hastening to join 
 
 And sooth the angry feelings of some fierce 
 
 And haughty lord. Beautiful ! Beautiful ! 
 
 But — but — curses upon that little mill 
 
 And grog-shop ! What ! could they not bear to be 
 
 Alone with nature for one single hour ? 
 
 Can we ne'er lay aside our earthly part, 
 
 But must its base and sordid wants still mix 
 
 With every thought and feeling of the soul 1 
 
 This cursed guide-book, too, which mingles still 
 
 Its proud bombastic burlesque with the deep 
 
 And simple eloquence of rocks and floods, 
 
 And almost forces me to break again 
 
 My oath of gravity. And yet — e'en yet, 
 
 'Tis beautiful. And sometimes, too, sublime— ^ 
 
 Ay, thrillingly sublime ; the more, perhaps. 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 69 
 
 From the dread thought that death is at our side, 
 Fastening on us his cold sepulchral gaze. 
 When clinging to the narrow ledge of rock, 
 Fancy can almost frame in the dark flood 
 His fleshless face, and hollow glaring eye, 
 And naked jaws distended with their wild 
 And ghastly grin. And those tremendous cliffs ! 
 How gloomily they rise above us now, 
 And darkly frown upon our path. And here 
 Each rock beneath our feet teems with remains, 
 Which bear the fancy back to times that have 
 No other earthly record. Ah ! but see 
 That busy, bustling man of science there. 
 With hammer, chisel, and gold spectacles. 
 He turns his back upon the living charms 
 Of nature, and alike the earth-worm strives 
 To mine his way into her mouldering corpse. 
 Thank Heaven ! I am no geologist. 
 Yet I love Nature still. Too well, indeed. 
 To take much pleasure in dissecting her. 
 
 Yes, there is beauty, much of beauty here, 
 And something too of grandeur. But who stops 
 To watch the torrent's rage, when near at hand 
 Foams the proud ocean cataract ? 
 
70 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Who heeds the torrent's roar, when on his ear 
 An ocean's thunder is about to burst ? 
 Then forward, forward still ! — Niagara ! 
 
 Over Ontario's broad and sea-like breast, 
 Swift hurrying onward to that mighty shrine^ 
 Single, unrivalled, in her proudest hours, 
 By Nature framed to stand alone on earth, 
 As worthy of her fair divinity. 
 How often have I longed to worship there ! 
 Amid the travellers' legends, how the name 
 Of that proud cataract has ever caught 
 My careless ear, even from infancy ! 
 How oft have I my fancy tasked to frame 
 Some image of its fearful loveliness ! 
 Whene'er with other and inferior charms 
 Nature around me threw her spells, how still 
 I sighed to see her there, — there, where alone 
 She wears her brightest robes of majesty ! 
 And that malign and gloomy influence, — 
 That evil genius which has ever marked 
 My hopes for disappointment, and through life 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 7i 
 
 ■3till from my lips has dashed the cup of joy, 
 
 She slumbers now. Beneath a sultry sky, 
 
 And through the hushed and passive air we hold 
 
 Our prosperous course ; and the broad waters all 
 
 Gently and slowly are heaving, alike 
 
 Some forest monster stretched asleep beneath 
 
 The burning sun. Soon shall we reach the point, 
 
 Where first the eye can catch the snow-white cloud, 
 
 Which canopies the mighty cataract 
 
 For ever, and soon on the ear shall burst 
 
 Its thunder. Forward ! forward ! — Ah ! but see 
 
 That sullen cloud which slowly rises now 
 
 Across our way, glooming alike the wall 
 
 Of fearful darkness, which in days of old 
 
 Barred Arasmanes from his Aden !'^ See ! 
 
 Higher and higher boil its sulphury wreaths 
 
 Of vapour," and the gathering masses now 
 
 On either hand sweep slowly on to join 
 
 Its strength, solemn, majestic, stern, alike 
 
 The mustering bands of earthly armaments. 
 
 Black, black the fearful gloom of all beneath, 
 
 Dark as the soul of Byron, — save when seamed 
 
 By the quick lightning's thrilling, dazzling streak, 
 
 Darting alike the pang of painful thought. 
 
 Which shoots so oft across the gloomy brow 
 
72 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Of genius. But above the blackness rests 
 A soft and glittering wreath of fleecy snow. 
 Which overhangs the sullen cloud beneath, 
 Like the feathery foam on an ocean wave, 
 Or white plumes floating o'er the dark array 
 Of mail-clad warriors. As yet it seems 
 As if all Nature watched in stillness, hushed 
 To silence by the selfsame awe, which chills 
 The human gazer : but the freshening breeze 
 Tells that the frightened air is flying now 
 Before the storm, and now the rising waves 
 Are flying too. Yet each wave seems to chase 
 The one before, and turning still to watch 
 The coming cloud, as if they fled in sport 
 As well as fear. O'er the broad waters now 
 The cloud has thrown its gloomy shade, and now 
 The rising wind is sweeping fiercely by. 
 And now the frightened waves, crested with foam, 
 Are rushing wildly on, and their light spray 
 Around me falls, mixed with the first broad drops 
 From the dark thunder-cloud. And one by one 
 The human beings, who had crowded here 
 To watch the coming storm, have shrunk away ; 
 And I am left alone, — alone with him, 
 Whose voice is on the waters, and who flies 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 73 
 
 Upon the pinions of the wind, and makes 
 The clouds his chariot. And thus, e'en thus, 
 It should be. 'Tis not now, that earthly things 
 Should wrest from me my thoughts, now when they 
 
 seek 
 To raise themselves on high, as if they felt 
 His very presence, whose pavilion is 
 Dark waters and thick clouds. What is this wild 
 Sublimity of feeling and of thought 
 Which thrills each nerve of my excited frame ? — 
 What is this high and daring recklessness, 
 Which makes my bosom proudly swell to front 
 The flashing lightning, and my spirit leap 
 With joy responsive to the thunder's note ? — 
 What is it but communion with the dread 
 And all-pervading soul, the mighty power 
 Which, though for ever present, now has bowed 
 The heavens, and above, beneath, around, 
 Speaks to each thrilled and overpowered sense, 
 In his eternal strength and majesty ? 
 
 In darker gloom, and fiercer wrath, and yet 
 In wilder beauty raves th' increasing storm. 
 Quicker and quicker the bright lightning gleams. 
 Louder and louder swells the angry roar 
 G 
 
74 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Of mingling winds and waters. Far above, 
 The rattling, crashing, echoing thunder rolls 
 Through the rent heavens like the master voice, 
 Which sways the elemental war below. 
 Higher and higher dash the surging waves. 
 Their beautiful array is broken now, 
 And tumbling, foaming, bursting, boiling on, 
 They rush against our trembling bark, which still, 
 Though wavering, onward holds its plunging course, 
 Still like the fabled storm-ship" dashing on, 
 Full against wind and wave. And now the clouds, 
 And winds, and floods close in their fiercest strife, 
 And now the tossing foam, and driving spray, 
 And dashing rain shroud from the sight all else, 
 Except the lightning's dazzling, blinding flash, 
 And drown in their wild uproar all of sound. 
 Save the loud thunder's still increasing voice. 
 
 Nature ! Adored Nature ! Long have I bowed 
 A soul-wrapped worshipper before the might 
 Of thy still new and varying loveliness ! , , 
 
 I have smiled with thee in thy joyous spring, 
 And with a lover's rapture watched thy charms 
 Ripening in summer's warm voluptuous glow, 
 And mused with thee in autumn's pensive gloom, 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 75 
 
 And mourned with thee in winter's loneliness. 
 
 I have adored thee in each peaceful mood, 
 
 For thou art fair in all. But in thy wrath, 
 
 How passing lovely ! How I envy now 
 
 That storm-bird of the sea,'^ which, midway perched 
 
 On some high cliff, in sadness droops when all 
 
 Is calm and tranquil, mournfully watching 
 
 The sullen dash of the sluggish billows, 
 
 Silent, and dark, and lonely as a bard, 
 
 When his brief hour of inspiration's past. 
 
 Yet when the signals of the coming storm, — 
 
 The lightning's flash and volleying thunder break 
 
 Its musings, then that tempest-loving bird, 
 
 Roused it may be by the same thrilling sense 
 
 Of joy which even now within me swells, 
 
 Launches itself upon the sweeping blast, 
 
 Cleaves in wild joy its way through the white peak 
 
 Of some foam-crested wave, or darts far down 
 
 Into the deep abyss of parted floods, 
 
 Again to rise, again to sweep away, 
 
 Riding upon the pinions of the wind, 
 
 And revelling through rack, and spray, and foam, 
 
 Proudly exulting in the buoyant strength, 
 
 Which braves in sport the tempest's wildest wrath. 
 
76 
 
 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The thunder-storm has passed. Far on towards 
 
 Its ocean home the dark cloud holds its course, 
 
 And through its bosom now less dazzling plays 
 
 The quivering lightning, and upon the ear 
 
 The muttering thunder's last faint echo dies. 
 
 O'er the wide deck again the varied groups 
 
 Of human faces spread in joy around, 
 
 And the affrighted winds are hushed to peace. 
 
 And the subsiding waves as softly heave 
 
 As the white bosom of yon blue-eyed girl, 
 
 O'er whose fair face there lingers still the light 
 
 Of that romance, which like a halo crowns 
 
 The hours of youth and beauty, — that sweet glow 
 
 Of mingled thought and feeling, beautiful 
 
 As the pure golden light, which spreads e'en now 
 
 Over the face of Nature. For the sun 
 
 Bursts through the scattered clouds, and gilds with joy 
 
 The smiling waves, and paints as if in sport 
 
 A mimic rainbow on each cloud of spray. 
 
 Dashed from the wheels of this our ocean car. 
 
 On ! on ! — Niagara ! Niagara ! 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 77 
 
 From many a wide-spread inland sea, 
 
 And swollen by many a lonely mountain stream, 
 
 The ocean flood of the wild forest comes. 
 
 Compressed, restrained, within those narrow walls 
 
 It bounds along, tossing in air its crests 
 
 Of billowy foam ; like some wild beast of prey, 
 
 Lashing himself to rage, throwing on high 
 
 His waving mane before the final plunge. 
 
 The wide land dazzling amphitheatre 
 Of falling waters ! There the ocean stream 
 Hurls down in thrilling grandeur its bright flood 
 Of living emerald ; brilliant, lovely, 
 In its pure sky-like hue, and flecked with bursts 
 Of snow-white foam, all gently gliding down, 
 Like fleecy clouds upon the summer heaven. 
 And here it spreads one broad and dazzling sheet 
 Of liquid alabaster. There again 
 It throws far down an endless shower of pearls 
 Bright glittering in the sun. Beauty ! wild, bright, 
 And glorious beauty ! Yet it brings no smile. 
 And gives no calm and placid joy. We gaze 
 With awe alone, deep, voiceless, breathless awe. 
 Its wide immensity ! Its thrilling depth ! 
 Its heavenly radiance ! Its eternal might ! 
 G 2 
 
78 A MONTH OF FREEDOMr 
 
 Oh, 'tis not earthly beauty ! See ! it woos 
 
 The rainbow down from its high place in heaven. 
 
 There its soft, mellow teints are thrown athwart 
 
 The dazzling brilliancy of that proud wall 
 
 Of flashing waters. There again it bends 
 
 Gently and smilingly o'er the dread gulf, 
 
 Which boils and foams below. And now it clasps 
 
 In its embrace the whole bright scene at once, 
 
 As if it sought to claim as heaven's own, 
 
 What is too fair for earth. And that deep flood I 
 
 How gracefully it sweeps over the ledge, 
 
 In the proud consciousness of boundless power, 
 
 Gentle, majestic, alike omnipotence. 
 
 How calm and beautiful when unopposed. — 
 
 But at the base, where its dread strength is hurled 
 Far down in wrath upon conflicting floods, 
 How the earth shudders ! And the iron rocks, 
 How they too tremble ! And how the rent air 
 Is whirled abroad in storms, with driving spray, 
 Which soars away on high, to hide itself 
 Among the clouds ! That wild, tremendous roar I 
 What dreadful thoughts it raises of the fierce 
 Eternal strife which they are waging there, 
 Veiled as in mercy from the human eye 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 79 
 
 By that white shroud of spray, still upward thrown 
 In sulphury wreaths ! What fearful, thrilling shouts, 
 What wild unearthly cries the fancy frames 
 From that tumultuous, endless burst of sound ! 
 
 Oh God ! oh God !— The dread sublimity of hell, 
 Spread out beneath the dazzling hues of heaven ! 
 
 In vain — in vain ! Alas ! and what are words. 
 
 That they should fondly hope to picture forth, 
 
 What makes the eye recoil, the cheek to blanch, 
 
 And the pale lip to quiver with the force 
 
 Of undefined emotions ? Thy proud form, 
 
 Niagara ! which robes itself with light 
 
 As with a garment, — thy resplendent brow. 
 
 Crowned with the rainbow's halo, — thy dread strengtii. 
 
 Unwearied and unbounded, — thy free course. 
 
 Resistless and eternal, — thy loud voice, 
 
 Which ever shakes the heavens and the earth, — 
 
 Thy radiant beauty, and thy fearful wrath, — 
 
 Oh ! they are stamped for ever on my soul. 
 
 Thy memory is garnered in the hoard 
 
 Of sacred thoughts and feelings which are not 
 
 For man's companionship. When the sad toil 
 
 Of human life has girdled me around 
 
80 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 With grovelling thoughts, and base and loathsome things, 
 
 And sordid feelings, till my weary soul 
 
 Is sick for beauty, I will think of thee. 
 
 When the dark shapes of vice and woe, which crowd 
 
 The haunts of men, have almost made me doubt 
 
 The being of a God, I'll think of thee. 
 
 When 1 would seek to tear my soul away 
 
 From every chain which binds it to the earth, 
 
 And soar on high among the loftiest realms 
 
 Of thought and fantasy, I'll think of thee. 
 
 But never more will I with human words 
 
 Profane thy glorious immortality. 
 
 My pilgrimage is ended now. My brief 
 
 And swiftly passing Month of Freedom all 
 
 Is spent. Farewell the light and bounding course 
 
 Of the unfettered hours, and the wild joy 
 
 Of the free range o'er land and flood ! Farewell 
 
 The buoyant air of the high mountain-top, 
 
 And the wild majesty of its lone rocks 
 
 And woods ! Farewell the smiling, tranquil joy, 
 
 And sheltered beauty of the cultured vale ! 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 81 
 
 Farewell the graceful river's winding course, 
 
 Bordered with beauty, and the thrilling voice 
 
 Of the bright cataract, and the wide-spread 
 
 And heaving bosom of the gentle lake ! 
 
 Farewell the wide, wide ocean's fearful might, 
 
 Now in unfettered grace and boundless strength 
 
 Tossing its waves on high, now calmly spread 
 
 At rest, dimpled by billows coursing on 
 
 Like bright smiles passing o'er the sleeping face 
 
 Of beauty ! And dearest of all to me. 
 
 Farewell the deep lone forest where the hand 
 
 Of Art has swept no charm from the wild face 
 
 Of Nature ! — The tall trees rearing on high 
 
 Their parent stems, far, far above the dense 
 
 And pale green underwood, the graceful fern. 
 
 The sparse wild flowers, the prostrate mouldering 
 
 trunks. 
 The moss-grown rocks, and the reclining stems, 
 Uprooted by the war of elements, 
 And caught like falling warriors leaning on 
 Their comrades' arms, and the gigantic coils 
 Of the wild grape-vine twining round the whole, 
 And binding in its huge and snake-like folds 
 The living with the dead, — farewell ! farewell ! 
 
82 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 But thou, my little book, — thou who hast been 
 
 The partner of ray happy wanderings, 
 
 And with thy lone and sweet companionship 
 
 Hast cheered each vacant hour, and chased away 
 
 Each thought of gloom, thou shalt at least go forth 
 
 In freedom to the world from which I now 
 
 Must tear myself away. And thou shalt dare 
 
 The critic's lash, and the cold worldhng's sneer, 
 
 And the light jeers of fashion's thoughtless crowd, 
 
 Which ever worships where its leaders bid, 
 
 And ever throngs in mockery around 
 
 The strange and friendless. Yes, thou shalt depart 
 
 Unaided and alone to brave the world. 
 
 No friend shall usher thee in kindness through 
 
 Its portals, and no patron's name shall stamp 
 
 Thy page, to win for thee the ready smile 
 
 Of all his servile train of worshippers. 
 
 'Tis not for such as me that friendship spreads 
 
 Its mirage, and I am not of a race 
 
 Or nation to entreat the patronage 
 
 Of a created being. Thou shalt go 
 
 Alone — but, yet — my country ! 'tis to thee 
 
 That I devote it. Not with the cold smile 
 
 Which gilds the hate of what the world calls friends, 
 
 Not with the venal spirit, which was wont 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 83 
 
 In olden times to sway the intercourse 
 
 Of patrons and of bards, — but with a child's 
 
 Pure holy feeling, I would tender thee 
 
 This simple tribute from the hand of one 
 
 Among thine humblest sons : rude it may be, 
 
 And valueless save in the filial love. 
 
 Which prompts the offering. Would that its page 
 
 Were worthier of thine eye. Would that its wild. 
 
 And all unpolished numbers might express 
 
 The patriot love,_ which glows within my breast, 
 
 And which alone with the parental tie 
 
 Survives the wreck of childhood's boundless love. 
 
 And even forms a home and rallying point 
 
 For crushed and baffled feelings, driven back 
 
 From the vain search for other sympathies. 
 
 Then with the love that dies not, hail to thee, 
 
 My native land ! And if thy sturdy sons 
 
 Of commerce coldly look on one, who leaves 
 
 The beaten track of wealth to wander o'er 
 
 The wilds of fancy, I can well forgive 
 
 Their scorn, and own perchance their censure just ; 
 
 And I can find me other ties to bind 
 
 Me to thee. Still to me thy face of wild 
 
 And matchless beauty wears a mother's smile, 
 
 And still thy skies beam on me with the bright 
 
84 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Yet chastened lustre of a mother's eye, 
 And still the music of thy winds, and woods, 
 And floods wakes in my soul the secret founts 
 Of feeling, which arise not now to aught 
 Except the magic of a mother's voice. 
 My more than mother I — For the fleshly tie 
 Is clogged with fond regrets, and chilling fears, 
 And every glance of filial love brings home 
 Tidings of grief, and sickness, and decay, 
 Which overshade the soul with gloomy thoughts 
 Of death, and sad surviving loneliness. 
 But thou, my country ! not a shade of gloom. 
 No dark forebodings and no thoughts of woe 
 O'ercloud the joyous love, with which I gaze 
 Upon thy youthful strength and loveliness. 
 Thou shalt live on exulting in thy might. 
 Growing in majesty and beauty, long. 
 Long after life's brief warfare, — this wild strife 
 Between my earthly and unearthly part, — 
 Shall have consigned them both to rest alike 
 In dark oblivion. Oh ! it has been 
 My earliest dream of childhood, and the hope 
 A.nd all absorbing end of after years, 
 To link my name with thy proud destinies. 
 Yet if a blighted manhood mar the hopes 
 
A MONTH OF FREEDOM. ^5 
 
 Of my too sanguine youth, — if tis in vain 
 That I may seek to earn a lasting place 
 In thy remembrance, let me hope to win 
 At least one fond indulgent parent's glance, 
 One passuig smile, and I will ask no more. 
 
NOTES 
 
 Note 1.— Page 12. 
 
 Of Irak's dove. 
 
 The carrier pigeon is said to have been brought originally from 
 Bassorah, in Irak Arabi. 
 
 Note 2.— Page 12. 
 
 Mother of Waters. 
 
 The word Chesapeake is said to have signified, in the Pow- 
 hatan language, " Mother of Waters." 
 
 Note 3.— Page 18. 
 
 " Ocean-like water."" 
 
 See Smith's Hist, of Va. The voyage here alluded to was un- 
 dertaken by Capt. Smith, in 1608, for the purpose of exploring the 
 Chesapeake and its tributaries. It is, perhaps, one of the most 
 remarkable expeditions recorded in history, if we consider the im- 
 portance of its objects, and its complete success, in contrast with 
 the slender means with which it was performed. — See Bancroft's 
 Hist. U. S. ; Robertson's Hist. Amer. ; Marshall's Life of Wash- 
 ington, &c., &c. 
 
88 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 4.— Page 27. 
 Twin and rival villages. 
 Bristol and Burlington. 
 
 Note S.—Page 29. 
 For the Spectre Ship, alias the Storm Ship, alias the Flying 
 Dutchman, see Irving's Bracebridge Hall, and Moore's lines on 
 passing Dead-Man's Isle. 
 
 Note 6.— Page 30. 
 The unnumbered smiles that dimpling play — 
 Hovrtwv T£ Kvnaruv 
 avripiBfiov yt\a(T\ia. — uEsCHYL. 
 
 Allusions to this same image may be discovered in subsequent 
 passages. 
 
 Note 7.~Page 32. 
 
 The purple light 
 Of language. 
 
 Lumenque juventse 
 Purpureura afflarat — 
 
 VlRG. 
 
 Note 8.— Page 44. 
 The mountain hut. 
 Rip Van Winkle's hut. 
 
 Note 9.— Page 45. 
 Alike the magic castle of St. John, 
 See the Bridal of Triermain by Scott. 
 
NOTES. 89 
 
 Note 10.— Page 45. 
 
 The beautiful "phantasm, 
 Of the true ocean. 
 
 Remains of sea-shells are found imbedded in the rocks through- 
 out the Catskill Mountains. 
 
 Note 11.— Page 58. 
 
 And, named 
 
 The waters sacred. 
 
 The French are said to have carried the waters of Lake George 
 to France, to be used for baptism, and to have named it Lac du 
 SacremeJit, or something similar. 
 
 Note 12.— Page 58. 
 
 An Indian left his tribe. 
 
 I tell the simple story of this Indian exactly as it was told to me 
 by the boatmen upon the lake. There is no doubt of its truth, I 
 believe, whatever there may be with regard to its being worth 
 repeating. 
 
 Note 13.— Page 62. 
 
 A wild wood squirrel. 
 
 My adventure with the squirrel is one of frequent occurrence 
 upon Lake George. The brown squirrel, which is most common 
 here, is remarkable for the largeness and brilliancy of its eye. 
 
90 NOTES. 
 
 Note 14.— Page ()6. 
 Mark the xcafers now 
 Of this lone lake ! 
 
 The fall between Lake George and Lake Champlain is consid- 
 erable, and the rapids highly picturesque. 
 
 Note 15.— Page 67. 
 
 The Trenton Falls. 
 
 I am told that the appearance of the falls changes with the 
 
 state of the water. I did my best to describe them exactly as 
 
 they were when I saw them. If they should not remain so, it is 
 
 not my fault. 
 
 Note 16.— Page 71. 
 
 Barred Arasmanes from his Aden. 
 
 See the tale of Arasmanes, or the Seeker, by the author of 
 Pelham. 
 
 Note 17.— Page 74. 
 Still like the fabled storm-ship. 
 See note 5, page 88. 
 
 Note 18.— Page 75. 
 That storm-bird of the sea. 
 The stormy Peterel. 
 
 THE END.