In The House Of The Aylors

Where Summer crowns with orange blooms
The land of pines and cypress glooms;
We wander forth by field and lane,
In woody shades with plaintive strain.
Ye lonely bayous catch the sound!
Ye languid fen-brakes pass it round;
Ye pensive hills your silence break,
And let the mournful echo wake!
Of errant Pride’s chivalric deeds,
Of frowning Caste’s unholy creeds,
And their worse, sin-begotten heir,
Black Slavery, a lay I bring,
And of her painted crimes dare sing.

When Satan, hurled down from the skies,
O’er this terrene his fallen eyes
In search of ruin hotly cast,
Hell-bound, but harm-bent to the last;
Those shores of ours, where Mexic’s Sea
Holds watch with the Atlantic, he
Touched not in his tremendous flight;
For, stooping there, the sons of light
He spied encamped in battle form
Around a captive ocean storm,
From which his equinoctial bent,
Wheeled short, and further northward went.

Sweet land! conceived in chivalry,
Brought forth in wild adventure, reared
In conquest’s arm, to rivalry
And old ambitions long endeared!
The fairest of thy sister train
And fairer than thy mother Spain,
Thou art of all the world a lone,
Lone beauty of the fragrant zone.
Thy sisters in their lurid North
Surpass in wealth but not in worth;
More native grace hast thou than they,
Less wrathful winds and winters gray.
Thou hast no somber-low’ring skies,
In which the white-winged tempest flies;
Where shiv’ring woods aloud bewail,
All riven by the angry gale,
Their cheerless, torn, and chilly state,
Like empty beggars at your gate.
But such thy distant sisters know,
Within their wintry wastes of snow,
And hills as speechless as the tomb,
And sullen plains of voiceless gloom.
But girdled in thy summer zone,
As a maid who waits her lover,
Or to meet him walks alone
Under twilight’s dewy cover,
Thou dost come to meet each year,
Always smiling, never drear.
And can it be, that thou, this goodly land,
Could foster slavery with a jealous hand?
Yea, when less comely States had seen the stain,
Of crimson guilt upon their skirts too plain,
They shook the galling traffic from the clutch
Of commerce, and forbade her further such.
But thou, when banished Slavery left the North,
In wretchedness and shame, to wander forth,
A heartless strumpet, seeking e’en a shed;
Thou then did’st take her in and share thy bed!
And can’st thou wonder that thy hardened heart
Should make humanity’s shoulders smart,
When to errantic crime thou wast a bride,
When Pagan barbarism wedded Roman pride?

Of him whose valor first inspired onr strain,
A slave to Aylor bound we sing again.
The shady woodlands of his native West,
To him are not: in richer verdure drest,
A fairer aspect Florida presents,
But not more pleasure; that which most contents
A noble mind, the liberty to dare
And do, the man, he now no more can share.
To him what are luxurious verdure’s sweets,
And cypress shades, and orange-bloom’d retreats;
When for once dear delights his heart now hopeless beats?
Lo! where yon hedge-bound fields beyond the way,
Wave on the view exuberently gay,
Exulting in their flow’ry excellence,
And clasping in their green embrace, a dense
Deep grove of sturdy pines whose solemn shade,
Has o’er delicious seats a curtain made;
There stood the Aylor house, when in its prime,
A brave old structure of that princely time,
When rank and title held unquestioned sway,
And humble worth to fam’ly pride gave way.
How often have I, turning to its bowers,
In dreams sat down and wasted pleasant hours.
How often traced its various changing scenes
Of blossom’d fields, bright lanes, and rolling greens!
This goodly mansion hath an olden fame,
And memories that urn full many a name
In honors bright and not a few in shame.
Here hoary tenants, who in turn await
Their scanty pensions at a master’s gate;
These, and full many an ebon patriarch,
Of Afric’s humble tribe, who wear the mark
Of bondage, tell in tales of cabin lore,
Sad things that run the eye with pity o’er.
Thus of the Aylor line we are informed:
“When erst colonial patriotism stormed
New England’s early hights, and stretched the hand
Of burning eloquence o’er all the land;
And Puritanic piety, allured
By Siren Freedom to the wilds, endured
The long privations of the wilderness,
With all the unction of true holiness,
The Aylors mingled with the daring few,
Who in the tyrant’s face the blade of battle drew.

With vict’ry flushed on fortune’s swelling tide,
Young Aylor soon had won a lovely bride,
The fairest flower of New England’s pride.
Ere long, embarked in love’s light craft, they join
With oars of labor, and their hopes incline
To stem life’s tide; to fortune’s source explore,
And in the future near touch happiness’ shore.
Soft are the winds that swell their first short sail,
And mild their skies, ne’er angered by a gale.
Glad waves arise to kiss their peaceful keel,
And from their prow bright silv’ry ripples steal,
New ambient hills their ravished vision thread,
New argent fields and tinkling valleys spread;
Love lends new relish as new scenes invite;
Hope points to others not yet on their sight,
And gently heaves the deep beneath their dove-like flight.
To them the world is one ovation grand,
Where fortune show’rs bright favors from her hand,
And fancy beckons to a blissful land.
Florida the inviting aspect shows,
And here full soon the Aylor mansion rose.
There, husbandry soon stooped to till the soil,
And ripened plenty filled the lap of toil.
Bright Spring on Winter’s parting steps pursued,
With buds and flowers his ling’ring footprints strewed,
Her cornfields spread, and orchards in the dell,
And waited till the big rain’s benediction fell.

Full, blue-eyed Summer, stately coming on,
With shouting harvests stood the hills upon;
The breath of wasting juices did inhale,
With bloomy cotton whitened in the vale,
Spread out the ripened cane along the steep,
And waving rice fields in the swamp did reap.

Then Autumn came, with sickle keen in hand,
And yellow sheaves beneath her arm; to stand
And with her mellow voice to fill the land.
The waning fields sank on the saddened view,
And melancholy hills were robed in blue.
Brown Autumn came, and at her solemn close,
The swarthy hands of labor found repose.
Then sports set in, and harmless games began,
And through the livelong snowless winter ran.
What cares had slaves to mar their peace with dole,
And shut the light of mirth out from the soul,
When life-long labor made them richer none —
When nothing earned was theirs when work was done?
What reasons they to look back with remorse,
When careful conduct made their state the worse
Or better none? Their lives were not their own;
Hence past and future were to them unknown.
Hard labor’s respite came, and as it neared,
Their burdens lightened and their hearts were cheered.
Religion, work and pastime, all in turn,
They had; but art and science must not learn.
And yet, contentment these vast wants supplied,
And loaned the pleasures caste had them denied.
The mind that never grasped hypotheses,
Nor wandered in the maze of theories;
Nor toil’d thro’ demonstrations intricate,
Nor groaned beneath old histories’ vast weight,
Can best afford in other paths well known,
To seek for pleasures not so over grown
The last day’s labor was a day of feast,
And toil-earned freedom for both slave and beast.
The groaning barns were filled from floor to eaves,
And all the barnyard stacked around with sheaves.
Then, when the last full load of ripened corn
Was gathered in, the master took his horn,
And mounted high upon the rounded pile,
Rode homewards, sounding, followed by a file
Of empty wagons; while a lusty band
Of slaves came shouting on at either hand.
The shorn fields sank forsaken on their view,
And as they nearer to the barnyard drew,
Slave cabins emptied out a roaring crowd,
And gabbling hillsides answered them aloud.
Then shouts of triumph closed the boist’rous scene,
The master king, and mistress crowned a queen.
This edict then, thro’ all her milder reign
Of hut-bound realms, awoke a glad refrain
In servitude’s full heart: “Go waste the hours
As you may wish, good slaves; the time is yours
From now till blooming Spring shall come again,
And spread her painted sweets upon the plain.”

They then set in with ev’ry setting sun,
And danced till they were tired of the fun.
Loud rang the fiddle on three strings or four,
But louder rang their feet upon the floor.
The music, started once, as well might cease,
For joy kept up the dance with lively ease.
Now all hands joined, their circling knew no bound,
Save that they paused to catch the music’s sound;
And when caught, all hands joined around again,
They whirled away to overtake the strain.
Then, balanced all, they stood out pair and pair,
And trampled hugely down the flying air.
Thus on they strode till night’s last watch had flown,
Or they had broke the smiling fiddler down;
Who, sweating like a hunter in the chase,
Dragged his bandanna o’er a hopeless face;
Sore puzzled, grinned, and chided, out of breath,
“Ah! darkies, will you dance a man to death?”

Long ran their joyance thro’ the grateful years,
The slave as happy as his lord appears;
For then true guardian, the master deemed,
In all but rank his servants kindred seemed.
With him communing at the Paschal feast,
Where no distinctions met the humblest guest;
And with him at the nuptial altar kneeling,
His fervent prayer the holy union sealing;
He, round his dying couch, with sleepless care,
Life’s comforts brought, and knew no pains to spare;
Leaned tearful o’er him till his latest breath,
And closed his faithful eyes to sleep the rest of death.
But Avarice, whose reign is rife with woe,
To earthly bliss the deepest venom’d foe,
In this proud mansion found a lurking place,
At first discovered as a youthful grace,
At last unveiling all her frightful face.
The air grew tainted from her baleful lungs,
And Discord there unloosed her howling tongues.
There Anger’s raging thirst was slaked with blood
Drawn from the back of groaning Servitude.
From bad to worse the Aylor house went down;
In phrenzy’s bowl adversities they drown,
Thro’ halls of revel banished joys pursue,
Exhaust old pleasures, madly pine for new;
Chase wanton transports thro’ the mazy dance,
And seek their wasted fortunes at the hand of chance.
Then feuds and murder hurry to the scene,
And fam’ly pride’s dear bowers are there no longer green.
An orphan heir to violence and shame,
Now one lone Aylor, Mosher is his name,
Holds undisputed all his lawful claim.
The hand of love and beauty both he scorns,
With broken vows, his wanton rites adorns,
And in his mansion’s every nook and hall,
With open lewdness holds high carnival.

This brief narration, with its changes fraught,
Hath us once more to meet with Rodney brought.
The cabin dance, the banjo and the song,
Are courted yet by Afric’s humble throng.
They drown their sorrows in a sea of mirth,
And crush young griefs as soon as they find birth
Neath dance’s heel; and on the banjo string
A theme of hope, that forces woe to sing.
But one is there, to them a stranger born,
Whose manly brow the marks of thought adorn.
The low inventions of poor darkened mind,
Can never in the threads of nonsense bind
This mental Sampson; tho’ by Slav’ry shorn
Of rightful manhood, weakness he doth scorn.
The abject sons of Afric’s injured race,
With cabin sports assay to cheer his face,
But all in vain; their silly means repel,
Instead of please, the comrade they love well.
He’s with them, but not of them; for the light
Of freedom flashing on him once, his sight
Has trained beyond low Slav’ry’s bounds to ken
The hights, that he who treads will long to tread again.

All day he labors, speaking scarce a word;
All night lamenting in yon groves is heard.
His ear no more the torrent’s voice shall woo,
In deep shades musing long, or wand’ring thro’.
His winding horn no more shall urge the chase,
Where the proud Wabash doth his woods embrace!
No more the flying stag shall dash the spray,
And bend the hawthorn from his mountain way;
And in the blossom’d fields of yellow sedge,
In thickets brown, or in the briery hedge,
His wary spaniel shall no longer spring,
Nor whirring grouse, nor partridge swift to wing!
His fields are gone! Farewell, ye sports of yore!
Ye goodly seats on Mississippi’s shore!
And home is gone! All that makes labor sweet —
His hearth is darkened, where he once did meet
Bright chirping mirth around hoar comfort’s feet.
No loving eye shall on his threshold wait,
No little footfalls meet him in the gate!
No faithful yard dog to the fence shall come,
To leap, and wag, and tongue his welcome home!
Dear Western home, a tender, last farewell!!
No more shall Rodney in thy bowers dwell.
Lo, in the cane and cotton, far away,
He bends to toil thro’ all the sultry day!
Now on his life a weary journey takes
Thro’ regions where no day beam ever breaks.
“Oh, God!” he mourns along the pensive hills,
“The rayless gloom that now my bosom fills.
My life ends here! existence tho’, may creep
Some further on, but now ambitions sleep!”

Thus, all night once, alone he sighed,
In lanes and fields and forests wide,
And strolling on, was lost from view,
A deep dense pine shade wand’ring thro’.
There, where a bright stream leaping downward,
Moaned o’er falls and rambled onward,
Like a waywardness of childhood,
Or a wild dream; thro’ the wildwood,
And within a farthest recess
Of the forest’s leafy stillness,
Where the damp boughs stoop’d and listened,
And the waters flashed and glistened,
Formed a fountain clear, still, blue, deep,
In whose breast heaved Beauty asleep;
There, while morn was just awaking,
Slumbers from her eye-lids shaking,
And her mountain stillness breaking,
With her first sweet music making;
There, with eyes upon the ground bent,
Yet he onward mourning slow went.
All the waking woods were merry,
But his heavy heart was dreary.
So in deepening shades he wandered,
Where this wild strange stream meandered;
Knowing not, in his sad musing
Where he went, blindly not choosing
This or that path, as he went on
With his eyes the ground still bent on.
In his heavy soul he muttered —
These words pensively he uttered:
“Ah! bleak Norway’s churl may feel not
To complain against his cold lot,
When he never knew a better;
And the naked son of Afric,
Led about from youth to manhood,
In his desert haunt and wildwood;
By the bloody hand of Traffic,
May not groan to wear a fetter;
But to him whose soul doth cherish
Longings that can never perish,
Who his arms in fetters galling
Feels, while liberty is calling
To her citadel before him,
With her bright skies bending o’er him;
But to him, how hard the fate is!
Ah, to him how dark the state is!
Earth her every pleasure looses
To his eyes, and hope refuses
All attempts to mount on high,
To her dwelling in the sky.”
While thus he mourned in this sad plight,
Hard by his way, deep out of sight,
A sudden mighty stir he heard,
Of many a flapping bough and bird.
He upward glanced a hurried eye,
When thro’ the parting branches nigh,
Upon the brooklet’s other side,
A living beauty, lo he spied!
In native sweetness clothed, she stood
And all her fair proportions viewed
With fawn-like timidness. She deemed
Herself unseen, but watchful seemed.
Alone within her soft retreat,
The liquid mirror at her feet
Returned her beauty to her eyes,
Till, warmed with innocent surprise,
She stood admiring. Now her hand,
As graceful as a fairy’s wand,
She waved above the prattling stream;
Then gentle as a reaper’s dream,
She shook down raven locks of hair,
Upon the morning’s dew-sweet air.
In deeper shades she now withdrew,
But Rodney’s eyes as fast pursue.
There, half concealed, she looks more fair,
And seems abashed, at e’en the air,
That scarcely breathes upon her there.

A stolen glance at her fair parts,
Stripped Rodney’s bosom to the darts
That Cupid’s cunning strength let fly,
Till, wounded thro’ his dazzled eye,
He sighed for breath, his bosom held,
To hush its leapings as it swelled.
He shut his eyes to look no more,
But looked, worse wounded than before.
Then thought to turn and steal away,
And thought, and thought, but yet did stay.
Her beauty like a full round moon,
Uncovered in the branches, soon
Appeared as fair as e’er was seen
That lovely orb, green hills between.
Then, step by step on tip-toe poise
She stole, and ev’ry little noise
To her had eyes. Back she withdrew
Within the shade, and now in view
Again in all her beauty rose,
And full and clear stood list’ning, close
Upon the marge, where grasses sweet
And blushing flow’rets kissed her feet.
The wanton waves that played below,
With am’rous descant ceased their flow,
And with a strangely pensive speech,
The maid to tarry did beseech.
A moment gazing on the flood
With Eve-like innocence she stood,
And watched her perfect image there;
While lost within her flowing hair
Her small hand rambled. She had now
Plunged in the panting stream below;
Had not the sudden thickets stirred.
The breathless maiden, shrinking heard
Some farmer’s lad, on errand soon,
Towards her pipe his morning tune.
Quick as the lark, that, song-hushed darts,
When her still brush some footstep parts,
She, hasty dressed, deep out of sight
Within the thick boughs took her flight.
Rodney pursued, not knowing why,
Tho’ oft to turn back he would try.
A power in his feet that drew
Resistless as the wind that blew,
Kept him a going, fast or slow,
And where, or how, he did not know.
Glance after glance his dazzled view,
Worse dazzled as the maiden flew
Beyond him, and as on he bent,
He knew not what his bosom meant,
In drinking breath on breath so fast,
And being out of breath at last.
But now his secret pleasure turned;
Ah! in the distance he discerned
His master skipping onward too,
To keep the coy sight on his view.
Then, Rodney turned and stole away,
And toiling, mourned the live long day;
But Mosher Aylor, stern as fate,
Pursued, till thro’ the Brentfords’ gate
He saw the beauty pass from sight,
Like some sweet vision of the night.

Now Aylor passed a wretched day,
And night’s hours went their wingless way.
On all his house he closed his door,
And in a phrenzy paced the floor.
With hands behind him clasped, he stood,
Or leaning, sat, in sullen mood,
And sighed, and groaned, and raved with pain,
And rose and paced the floor again.
Till midnight’s silence reigned around,
His discontent had reached no bound;
From his vexed sea he saw no shore,
He never had thus felt before.
His wonted bowl, for him had lost
Its deep oblivion, and crost
By broken dreams, his fevered breast,
Refused the arms of balmy Rest.
In this sad plight, a hideous cheer
Before him stood! The haggard seer
Of Aylor’s shrine of wickedness,
Has heard the accents of distress,
That broke night’s stillness, and has come,
To move the trouble burdensome.
Now Aylor spoke, when him he saw,
On whom he long had looked with awe;
“Here Micah! Micah! Micah! here!
To my complaint, oh lend an ear.
This morning as I strolled the wood,
Deep thro’ yon cypress solitude;
Where shores of sweetest green ascend,
And thick boughs in the waters bend;
Fair as the light, I saw a maid
Unclothe her beauty in the shade.
I never felt a sting so bright;
I ne’er saw such an earthly s!ght.
Not radiant May with her perfumes,
And songs, and show’rs, and painted blooms,
And streams of crystal cheerfulness,
Could vie with her in loveliness.
But, like a bird of gorgeous hue,
She vanished on my starving view!”
“Aye,” cries the seer, “no doubt have I,
That the same bird which you saw fly,
Is the fair Creole visiting
At neighbor Brentford’s watering.
She is a slave, a waiting maid,
Brought down from New Orleans, ’tis said,”
“A slave! a waiting maid! a queen
Why don’t you say; for ne’er was seen
A fairer cheek of Saxon hue
Nor prouder eye of brilliant blue.
Phoo, pshaw! a slave! a waiting maid!
That light-beam sweet from Heaven strayed?”
Loud cries the Seer, “A slave I know!
And can be bought as I shall show.
Dispel the phantoms of thy brain,
And turn to thy right mind again;
You must be sick!” “No,” Aylor cries,
“I’m dead in love!” The seer replies,
Go pass in rest this far spent night,
And by the time young morn’s in sight,
I’ll bring the news to set thee right.”

Now, Aylor, half consoled, adjourned
His thoughts till morn, and then returned
With Micah, to the Brentford seat,
The owners of the maid to meet.

The room was darkened where they met,
And all was quiet, save the fret
Of restless boughs, and whisp’ring leaves,
That mingle o’er the ancient eaves.
Now Aylor speaks, “For gold! for gold!
Aye, you but say she will be sold,
And you shall have your price all told.”
Awed by the speaker’s fiery eye,
The strangers whisper this reply:
“If her we sell, of this beware
She must receive your special care,
Not as a slave of low degree,
But as a ward, descended free.
And this day’s doings, ever keep
From earth a secret hidden deep;
For should the news, by any means,
Escape your lips to New Orleans,
And reach our aged father’s ears,
‘Twill grieve away his few frail years.
Know this, he loves Leeona more
Than all his children ten times o’er.
His frailty has a passion grown,
And each day more his love has shown,
Till she has to us all become
The bane of pleasure, hope and home —
The idol of his feeble days,
The object ever of his praise.
Here to this wat’ring near your home,
He with reluctance let her come.
Now from her keep the fact concealed,
That she is sold: for if revealed,
She’ll pine away, and droop and die,
Or from your house attempt to fly.
By wary speech, the truth we’ll mask,
If our aged father ask;
“What hath befallen me? Where’s my dear?
Why hast thou left my Ona there?”
This said, they drew aside and spake,
Concerning what price they should take;
And when agreed, they answered bold:
“Two thousand dollars down in gold!”
And Aylor with triumphant eyes,
Threw them their gold, and seized his prize.

With tembling hands they count their gains,
In haste divide with heartfelt pains;
For well they know a sister’s tears,
And sweat, and blood, their purses fill.
Ah! well they know a sister’s years,
Must now float onward at the will
Of him, who with a shamless cheek,
To buy the hand of love would seek.
The offspring of a father’s crimes,
The bitter fruit of broken vows,
The charming bloom of hapless climes,
The growth of unprotected boughs;
Within the grasp of blighting lust,
A lovely ruin now is thrust.
What tho’ a father’s heart shall break,
In spite of race Caste, taught to ache,
And yearn thro’ age’s kinder years,
For those to whom Nature endears;
What tho’ he wakes with deepest groans,
What tho’ his sleep with anguish moans?
When his first sorrow’s bitter blast,
By soothing words is guided past,
His law-owned brood, will run at last
Their race in peace; tho’ doomed by spite,
A sister thro’ the stormy night
Of bondage mourn, a sad, sad sight.
What tho’ his grief shall bow his head,
And while from view all pleasures sink;
He of a Quadroon’s injured bed,
In age’s twilight stand to think,
And often weep beside her grave?
Society will whisper “Slave!”

His love was wayward, and his wing,
Waved wand’ringly in life’s warm Spring.
He saw the Quadroon, and they loved —
He and Leeona’s mother, moved
Liked sounds of some wild instrument
Touched by the wind, and sweetly blent
Their lives in lasting pleasurement.
But Dame Caste turned her iron face,
And coldly frowned upon their course;
And drove sad love from faith’s embrace,
With all the heartlessness of force.

‘Twas thus by social interest’s sullen voice,
Another’s hands was made to be his choice.
And thus it is that many a love has grown,
Where even Christians dare make it known.
Where Hymen oft in gorgeous aspect shows,
From true love blossoms not a single rose;
While out in fenceless wastes of Nature spring,
Discovered only in wild wandering,
The purest blooms of love, whose fragrant breath,
Live thro’ all life and linger after death.

A sister’s life is signed away,
Her brethren can no longer stay
To see her drink the bitter cup,
Which they with sorrows have filled up.
Leeona kisses them good-bye,
Regards them with a tearful eye,
And long entreats them to make known,
Why she must there be left alone.
And then sweet as the fair-eyed dawn,
When her light steps first brush the lawn,
She meekly looked in Aylor’s face;
And artless as a timid fawn,
With all of innocence’s grace,
She reached a trustful hand in his,
A hand as pure as lilly is,
And gently followed, till from view
Within the Aylor seat they slow withdrew.

Now twilight waned and evening still,
Darkened the vales, while from each hill
Around came soft and lulling sounds.
From just beyond the vision’s bounds,
One voice was heard sweetest of all,
And pensive as a late rain’s fall
Through Autumn leaves when sad and lone
The fading forests make their moan.
This was Leeona’s, poor girl, torn
Away from childhood’s hopes to mourn.
Aylor, meanwhile in sullen mood,
On his piazza list’ning, stood
Roving thro’ mental solitude.
Full well he knew what Ona meant,
By her sad walks, and loud lament,
For he had caused it all.
His overtures of stark deceit,
She’d spurned and fled to this retreat,
To whisper in her Father’s ear,
Complaints He ever stoops to hear.
So Aylor in Remorse’s thrall,
Walked sullen thro’ his ghostly hall,
Within a nook of vine shades went,
And o’er his thoughts in silence bent.
In Ona’s heart though sad, there burned
A hatred deep, for all his aims;
And his entreaties, he discerned,
Were wind, and fanned the angry flames.
To her what were the Brazil’s spicy breath,
Or India’s sweet pride,
If life were fettered with a ghastly death,
That pained but never died?

This night too, Rodney wand’red forth to stroll,
And to the list’ning groves impart his soul.
The vision bright, that charmed his wayward dream,
Within this wood, beside the peaceful stream;
Returned when here he lingered. Now her home
To make at Aylor’s she a slave had come,
And Rodney knew it not; for by caste barred,
He could not pass where wrong was standing guard.
But love hath ways that are past finding out,
And secret triumphs, that how brought about,
No one can tell. Love hath an open eye,
And watches little signs that others would pass by.

“I saw her here,” thought Rodney to himself,
“‘Twas here she flitted by coy as an elf,
And in yon boughs her disappearance made,
When wanton sounds disturbed the morning shade.
Could I but tell her. Ah! but fate forbids!
Poor Hope can’t open there her dazzled lids.
Yet I did see her, oh, I saw her here!
And in my dreams she still doth bright appear.
Thank Heav’n there’s none too crushed by wrong to see,
And beauty’s the beholder’s property.”
But now his hope thro’ darker clouds declines,
And thus within the sounding shade he pines:
“No more to me ere life’s short race be run,
Shall e’er arise another happy sun.
How shall I break the vision that me wounds,
And drive it from my recollection’s bounds!
A poor seafarer, and his star gone down,
From tempest-arms while clouds of heaven are thrown,
And wave-tossed danger wails to seize his bark;
Am I, now drifting thro’ a wreck strewn dark.
Oh, why kind Heaven, plant within my breast,
A blooming sorrow — love begot unrest?
Content to bear tho’ let me journey on,
Light yet may break life’s dismal waste upon!
Now in the cypress gloom, he hushed his strain,
And homeward turned his mournful face again.

Eavesdropper winds, on errands from the South,
In sandals tripping, and with dewy mouth,
To Rodney turned, and whispered in his ear,
The broken murmurs of a sweet voice near.
A maiden sat within the fragrant shade,
And to the night this lamentation made:
“This life is all unreal as a dream,
Here woes chase woes, like waves upon a stream.
Back yonder, just within the past I see
A bow’ry home, where hands do becon me,
To join the buoyant hearts of childhood’s train,
And tread the blossom’d paths of hope again.
But here I am, away from home and friends,
While o’er my head a cliff of sorrow bends,
Strange bodings haunt my pillow in the night,
And day uncovers terror to my sight.
But, whom I saw last eve within this shade,
Methought had by this time another advent made.
A strong companion of a troubled heart,
He seemed; oh, that to him I could impart
My woes; oh, that I could but see him once!” — here
She raised her eyes, and lo! the man was near.
Away she started at a frightened pace,
With red abashment kindling in her face.
Oh, was it real, could all this be true?
Was that the nymph, O what must Rodney do?
“Stay, maid!” he cries, “my wounded soul implores,
Stay, fair one, stay! until my tongue explores
The hidden longings of a leaping heart;
Hear what a wounded spirit would impart.”
Beyond the fence, and near the spring lawn gate,
Leeona paused, the speaker’s steps to wait.
With timid mein, and from the other side,
Now Rodney leans, where blossomed vines divide,
And gathers words with anxious haste to tell,
The blushing beauty that he loves her well.
She answers with a sigh, and turns away,
And with her straggling locks begins to play,
Looks up again to speak, and only sighs,
But dazzles wite the language of her eyes.
Then Rodney sighs, and leans, her hand to reach
And press, that he may aid his falt’ring speech.
Her fingers touch him with a conquering thrill,
Her eyes could wound, her timid touch can kill.
He murmured something, what, no mortal knew,
And pressed the gate ajar, and stumbled thro’;
And as Leeona sauntered slow away,
He whispered, but unheard, “Oh! angel, stay!”
“Oh, moon, speed on thy coming,” then he said,
As blushing light beheld the tall slow maid,
Walk from the boughs, towards the mansion rise,
And flash around her over-pow’ring eyes.

Now Rodney’s sou