Poems by George Pope Morris Part 56

WEDGEWOOD.

If it is convenient.

FINALE.

Our hearts are bounding with delight!

'Tis Freedom's jubilee!

For right has triumphed over might-- The bond again are free!

Hurrah!--hurrah!

Let the welkin ring To Justice and Liberty Paeans we sing!

(Tableau--Curtain falls.)

End of the Maid of Saxony.

Notes.

The Deserted Bride (page 51.)

This poem was written after seeing Miss f.a.n.n.y Kemble, for the first time, in one scene of "The Hunchback."

The Croton Ode (page 57.)

Written at the request of the Corporation of the city of New York, and sung near the Park Fountain by the members of the New York Sacred Music Society, on the completion of the Croton Aqueduct, October, 14, 1842.

Woodman, Spare That Tree! (page 64.)

Riding out of town a few days since, in company with a friend, who was once the expectant heir of the largest estate in America, but over whose worldly prospects a blight has recently come, he invited me to turn down a little romantic woodland pa.s.s not far from Bloomingdale. "Your object?" inquired I. "Merely to look once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather, near a cottage that was once my father's."--"The place is yours, then?" said I. "No, my poor mother sold it;" and I observed a slight quiver of the lip, at the recollection of that circ.u.mstance.

"Dear mother!" resumed my companion, "we pa.s.sed many happy, HAPPY days, in that old cottage; but it is nothing to me now--father, mother, sisters, cottage--all are gone!"--and a paleness over-spread his fine countenance, and a moisture came to his eyes, as he spoke. After a moment's pause, he added: "Don't think me foolish. I don't know how it is, I never ride out but I turn down this lane to look at that old tree. I have a thousand recollections about it, and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered friend. In the by-gone summer-time it was a friend indeed.

Under its branches I often listened to the good counsel of my parents, and had SUCH gambols with my sisters! Its leaves are all off now, so you won't see it to advantage, for it is a glorious old fellow in summer; but I like it full as well in winter-time." These words were scarcely uttered, when my companion cried out, "There it is?" Near the tree stood an old man, with his coat off, sharpening an ax. He was the occupant of the cottage. "What do you intend doing?" asked my friend with great anxiety. "What is that to you?" was the blunt reply. "You are not going to cut that tree down, surely?"--"Yes, but I am though," said the woodman. "What for?"

inquired my companion, almost choked with emotion. "What for? Why, because I think proper to do so. What for? I like that! Well, I'll tell you what for. This tree makes my dwelling unhealthy; it stands too near the house: prevents the moisture from exhaling, and renders us liable to fever-and-ague."--"Who told you that?"--"Dr.

S---."--"Have you any other reason for wis.h.i.+ng to cut it down?"--"Yes, I am getting old; the woods are a great way off, and this tree is of some value to me to burn."

He was soon convinced, however, that the story about the fever-and-ague was a mere fiction, for there never had been a case of that disease in the neighborhood; and then was asked what the tree was worth for firewood. "Why, when it is down, about ten dollars." "Suppose I make you a present of that amount, will you let it stand?"--"Yes."--"You are sure of that?"--"Positive."--"Then give me a bond to that effect." I drew it up; it was witnessed by his daughter; the money was paid, and we left the place with an a.s.surance from the young girl, who looked as smiling and beautiful as Hebe, that the tree should stand as long as she lived. We returned to the road, and pursued our ride. These circ.u.mstances made a strong impression upon my mind, and furnished me with materials for the song I herewith send you.--Extract from a Letter to Henry Russell, the Vocalist, dated New York, February 1, 1837.

The Chieftain's Daughter (page 78.)

"Every part of the brief but glorious life of Pocahontas is calculated to produce a thrill of admiration, and to reflect the highest honor on her name. The most memorable event of her life is this recorded: After a long consultation among the Indians, the fate of Captain Smith, who was the leader of the first colony in Virginia, was decided. The conclave resumed their silent gravity. Two huge stones were placed near the water's edge; Smith was lashed to them, and his head was laid down, as a preparation for beating out his brains with war-clubs. Powhattan raised the fatal instrument, and the savage mult.i.tude with their blood-stained weapons stood near their king, silently waiting the prisoner's last moment. But Smith was not destined to thus perish. Pocahontas, the beloved daughter of the king, rushed forward, fell upon her knees, and, with tears and entreaties, prayed that the victim might be spared.

The royal savage rejected her suit, and commanded her to leave Smith to his fate.

Grown frantic at the failure of her supplications, Pocahontas threw her arms about Smith, and laid her head on his, her raven hair falling around his neck and shoulders, declaring she would perish with or save him. The Indians gasped for breath, fearing that Powhatan would slay his child for taking such a deep interest in the fate of one he considered his deadliest foe. But human nature is the same everywhere; the war-club dropped from the monarch's hand--his brow relaxed--his heart softened; and, as he raised his brave daughter to his bosom, and kissed her forehead, he reversed his decree, and directed Smith to be set at liberty! Whether the regard of this glorious girl for Smith ever reached the feeling of love, is not known. No favor was ever expected in return. 'I ask nothing of Captain Smith,' said she, in an interview she afterward had with him in England, 'in recompense for what I have done, but the boon of living in his memory.' John Randolph was a lineal descendant of this n.o.ble woman, and was wont to pride himself upon the honor of his descent. Pocahontas died in the twenty-second year of her age."--sketches of Virginia.

Song of Marion's Men (page 82.)

"Sallie St. Clair was a beautiful, dark-eyed Creole girl. The whole treasury of her love was lavished upon Sergeant Jasper, who, on one occasion, had the good fortune to save her life. The prospect of their separation almost maddened her. To sever her long, jetty ringlets from her exquisite head--to dress in male attire--to enroll herself in the corps to which he belonged, and follow his fortunes in the wars, unknown to him--was a resolution no sooner conceived than taken. In the camp she attracted no particular attention, except on the night before battle, when she was noticed bending over his couch, like a good and gentle spirit, as if listening to his dreams. The camp was surprised, and a fierce conflict ensued. The lovers were side by side in the thickest of the fight; but, endeavoring to turn away a lance aimed at the heart of Jasper, the poor girl received it in her own, and fell bleeding at his feet. After the victory, her name and s.e.x were discovered, and there was not a dry eye in the corps when Sallie St. Clair was laid in her grave, near the river Santee, in a green, shady nook, that looked as if it had been stolen out of Paradise."--Tales of Marion's Men.

Janet McRea (page 83.)

"We seated ourselves in the shade of a large pine-tree, and drank of a spring that gurgled beneath it. The Indians gave a groan, and turned their faces from the water.

They would not drink of the spring, nor eat in the shade of the tree; but retired to a ledge of rocks at no great distance. I ventured to approach them and inquire the cause of their strange conduct. One of the Indians said, in a deep and solemn tone: 'That place is bad for the red-man; the blood of an innocent woman, not of our enemies, rests upon that spot!--She was there murdered. The red-man's word had been pledged for her safety; but the evil spirit made him forget it. She lies buried there. No one avenged her murder, and the Great Spirit was angry. That water will make us more thirsty, and that shade will scorch us. The stain of blood is on our hands, and we know not how to wipe it out. It still rests upon us, do what we will.'

I could get no more from them; they were silent, even for Indians. It was the death of Miss McRea they alluded to. She was betrothed to a young American by the name of Jones, who had taken sides with the British, and become a captain of their service.

The lovers, however, had managed to keep up a correspondence; and he was informed, after a battle in which he distinguished himself for his bravery, that his inamorata was concealed in a house a few miles from Sandy-Hill. As it was dangerous for him to take his horse to her residence and bring her to his tent in safety. He urged her, in his letter, not to hesitate a moment in putting herself under their protection; and the voice of a lover is law to a confiding woman. They proceeded on their journey, and stopped to rest under a large pine-tree near a spring--the one at which we drank.

Here they were met by another party of Indians, also sent by the impatient lover, when a quarrel arouse about her which terminated in her a.s.sa.s.sination. One of the Indians pulled the poor girl from her horse; and another struck his tomahawk in her forehead, tore off her scalp, and gashed her breast! They then covered her body with leaves, and left her under the huge pine-tree. One of the Indians made her lover acquainted with the facts, and another brought him her scalp. He knew the long brown tresses of Miss McRea, and, in defiance of all danger, flew to the spot to realize the horrid scene. He tore away the thinly-spread leaves--clasped the still-bleeding body in his arms, and, wrapping it in his cloak, was about bearing it away, when he was prevented by his superior officers, who ordered the poor girl to be buried on the spot where she had been immolated. After this event a curse seemed to rest upon the red-man. In every battle their forces were sadly cut up--the Americans attacking them most furiously whenever they could get an opportunity. The prophets of the Indians had strange auguries; they saw constantly in the clouds the form of the murdered white woman, invoking the blasts to overwhelm them, and direction all the power and fury of the Americans to exterminate every red-man of the forest who had committed the hateful deed of breaking his faith and staining the tomahawk with the blood of a woman, whose spirit still called for revenge. It was agreed among the Indians in a body to move silently away; and by morning's light not a red-man was to be found near the British troops. Captain Jones, too, was no more. In the battle he led on his men with that fearlessness and fury that distressed minds often do; but his men grew tired of following him in such perilous attacks, and began to fly. As he returned to rally them he received a ball in the back. Burning with shame, love, and frenzy, he tuned and threw himself on the bayonets of the enemy, and at once closed his agonies and expiated his political offence. He was laid by the side of her he had so ardently loved and deeply lamented."--Events of the Revolution.

The Dog Star Rages.

They're gone with my last s.h.i.+lling. (Page 88.) "This is a fact, and no poetic fable."--Byron

Florence's Saloon. (Page 88.) A much-frequented restaurant in Broadway.

Sunny-Side. (Page 88.) The country residence of Was.h.i.+ngton Irving.

The luxury of we. (Page 89.) W-H-O-A!

A wheel rigged for a tiller. (Page 90.) A peculiarity of Commodore Christopher B. Miller's yacht, "The Ultra."

Long live the valiant Mayor. (Page 91.) "If you want me," said His Honor, at the Astor-Place riots, on the evening of the 10th of May, 1849, "you will FIND ME--AT THE NEW-YORK HOTEL!"

The Prairie on Fire (page 131.)

This ballad is founded, in part, upon a thrilling story of the West, related by Mr. Cooper, the novelist.

The Sweep's Carol (page 146.)

Written to be sung in character, for the purpose of introducing the wild, peculiar, and well-known cry or carol of the sweeps of New York.

The Fallen Brave of Mexico (page 166.)