Brooding on blood—the holy Image stole!
And, as a maniac in his fellest hour
Lull'd by a look whose calmness is its power,
Backward the Indian quail'd—and dropp'd the blade!—
To see the foeman kneeling to the maid;
As with new awe and wilder, Arden cried,
"Out from the grave, O com'st thou, injured bride!"
Then with a bound he reach'd the Indian—
"Lo!
I tempt thy fury, and invite thy blow;
But, by man's rights o'er men—oh, speak! whose eyes
Ope, on life's brink, my youth's lost paradise?
The same—the same—(look, look!)—the same—lip, brow,
Form, aspect—all and each—fresh, fair as now,
Bloom'd my heart's bride!"—
Silent the Indian heard,
Nor seem'd to feel the grasp, nor heed the word!
As when some storm-beat argosy glides free
From its vain wrath—subsides a baffled sea—
His heaving breast calm'd back—the tempest fell,
And the smooth surface veil'd the inward hell.
Yet his eye, resting on the wondering maid,
Somewhat of woe, perchance remorse, betray'd,
And grew to doubtful trouble—as it saw
Her aspect brightening slowly from its awe,
Gazing on Arden till shone out commix'd,
Doubt, hope, and joy, in the sweet eyes thus fix'd;—
Till on her memory all the portrait smil'd,
And voice came forth, "O Father, bless thy child!"
As from the rock the bright wave leaps to day,
The mighty instinct forced its living way:
No need of further words;—all clear—all told;
A father's arms the happy child enfold:
Nature alone was audible!—and air
Stirr'd with the gush of tears, and gasps of murmur'd prayer!
Motionless stands the Indian; on his breast,
As one the death-shaft pierces, droops his crest;
His hands are clasp'd—one moment the sharp thrill
Shakes his strong limbs;—then all once more is still;
And form and aspect the firm calmness take
Which clothes his kindred savage at the stake.
So—as she turn'd her looks—the woe behind
That quiet mask, the girl's quick heart divined—
"Father!" she cried—"Not all, not all on me
Lavish thy blessings!—Him, who saved me, see!
Him who from want—from famine—from a doom,
Frowning with terrors darker than the tomb,
Preserved thy child!"
Before the Indian's feet }
She fell, and murmur'd—"Bliss is incomplete }
Unless thy heart can share—thy lips can greet!" }
Again the firm frame quiver'd;—roused again,
The bruisëd eagle struggled from the chain;
Till words found way, and with the effort grew
Man's crowning strength—Man's evil to subdue.
"Foeman—'tis past!—lo, in the strife between
Thy world and mine, the eternal victory seen!
Thou, with light arts, my realm hast overthrown,
And, see, revenge but threats to bless thine own!
My home is desolate—my hearth a grave—
The Heaven one hour that seem'd like justice gave,
The arm is raised, the sacrifice prepared—
The altar kindles, and the victim's—spared!
Free as before to smite and to destroy,
Thou com'st to slaughter to depart in joy!
"From the wayside yon drooping flower I bore;
Warm'd at my heart—its root grew to the core,
Dear as its kindred bloom seen through the bar
By some long-thrall'd, and loneliest prisoner—
Now comes the garden's Lord, transplants the flower,
And spoils the dungeon to enrich the bower?
"So be it, law—and the world's rights are thine
Lost the stern comfort, Nature's law and mine!
She calls thee 'Father,' and the long deferr'd,
Long-look'd for vengeance, withers at the word!
Take back thy child! Earth's gods to thee belong! }
To me the iron of the sense of wrong }
Heaven makes the heart which Earth oppresses—strong!" }
"Not so—not so we part! O husband!" cried The Girl's full soul—"Divorce not thus thy bride! Yes, Father, yes!—in woe thy Lucy won This generous heart; shall joy not leave us one?"
A moment Arden paused in mute surprise
(How charm'd that outcast Beauty's blinded eyes?)
Then, with the impulse of the human thought,
Prompt to atonement for the evil wrought,
"Hear her!" he said—"her words her father's heart
Echoes.—Not so—nor ever, may ye part!
Nobly, hast thou an elder right than mine
Won to this treasure;—still its care be thine;
Withhold thy pardon if thou wilt—but take
The holiest offering wrong to man can make!"
Slowly the Indian lifts his joyless head,
Pointing with slow hand to the present dead,
And from slow lips comes heavily the breath:
"Behold, between us evermore—is Death!"
"Maiden, recal my tale;—thou clasp'st the hand
Which shuts the Exile from the promised land;
Can the dead victim's brother, undefiled,
From him who slew the sister take the child!"
With that, he bent him o'er the shuddering maid,
On her fair looks a solemn hand he laid;
Lifted eyes, tearless still—but dark with all
The cloud, that not in such soft dews can fall: "If to the Dead an offering still must be, All vengeance calls for be fulfill'd in me! I make myself the victim!—Thou dread Power Guiding to guilt the slow chastising hour, Far from the injurer's hearth by her made pure, Let this lone roof thy thunder-stroke allure!—
"Go hence—(nay, near me not!) behold!—the kind
Oblivion closes round her darken'd mind;
If, when she wake, it be awhile for grief,
Soon dries the rain-drop on the April leaf!"
He said, and vanish'd,