Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

A deep, round basin in the thickest grove,
Its falling columns of the rock have made,
The trees a leafy roof have arch'd above,
Tinting the waters with their emerald shade.

There was the place of Mary's chief delight,
From off its misty brow, her chosen seat,
She'd watch the snowy foam and iris bright
Playing about the rocks beneath her feet.

But once, across the lawn smiling in green,
She hied her joyous to the wonted glen:
Alas! she loved too well that wild ravine !
For Mary ne'er was seen alive again.

They say, indeed, her spirit oft is seen,
Sitting in white upon a mossy stone,
And many a warning beck she gives, I ween,
To such as thither dare to stray alone.

Far down that glen her mangled form they found,
The leafy boughs a rustic bier supplied,

Thence to her home with mournful tread they wound,
While many a speechless maid shed tears beside.

The widow saw-then upward cast a look

Of deep, imploring, but submissive prayer, And then her wounded soul the earth forsook, 'Twas nought but clay they saw remaining there!

The widow and her child one coffin held,

In one kind grave their mutual dust reposed, One passing bell their last long journey knell'd, One solemn prayer the simple funeral closed.

Above their heads the villagers did place,

(Kind are their hearts, though humble is their lot,) One stone, carv'd with a rude design, to grace Their common grave, and consecrate the spot.

Thus ran its artless but expressive lay,

With no conceit or sounding rhyme defil'd,

And plainly cut upon a tablet grey,

"Here sleep in peace, the widow and her child."

HARRIET.

A SKETCH.

"I gae then my lass to win honor and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame;

I'll bring a heart to thee, with love running o'er,

And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more."-Burns.

ACROSS the eastern part of the state of Connecticut there runs a tract of land several miles in width, which, however unlovely it may appear to the husbandman, is not uninteresting to the traveler. He is presented with a succession of scenery, so rich in itself and so endlessly diversified, that his eye never tires with beholding. At one moment he is descending a steep declivity; at the next, winding along the base of a mountain. Here he threads his way through a deep and shady glen, and anon finds himself upon the summit of a commanding hill, where the eye sweeps with an unlimited range over the surrounding country. Here and there he crosses a little stream dashing along its stony path, fed at frequent intervals by rivulets from the neighboring hills. Its mountains and its valleys were once the loved places of resort for the Indian, and its gray precipices and noisy water-falls are still associated with the half forgotten legends of the past. At the time of the Revolution, this tract of country was but thinly inhabited. Here and there, in the more fertile portions of it, might be seen a little cluster of dwellings with a modest spire rising in their midst; but the greater part was in the same wild, uncultivated state, as when the red man left it. One of these little hamlets in the northern portion of this region, will more particularly engage our notice. It consisted of eight or ten cottages, neatly grouped together, situated in a pleasant and fertile valley. The view on every side was obstructed by high hills, except two narrow openings through which ran a small but rapid stream. In those days, when the avenues of communication were few and difficult, the stirring news of the city or the seaport town, circulated but sluggishly through the interior. An occasional traveler, or a wandering newspaper, were almost the only means of information. Society could here be contemplated in its most mild and peaceful aspect. The bustle and excitement of life, the struggle for wealth and power, were here almost entirely unknown. They could at times hear in the distance, "the stir of the great Babel;" but the noise only made them cling the closer to their own quiet homes and firesides. Their chief pleasure was found in that free and harmonious intercourse which ex

[blocks in formation]

isted among them,-bound together as they were, by the recollections of their common cause and common misfortunes. Such was the state of the inland society of New England at the commencement of the Revolution.

One morning in the spring of 1775, the little village mentioned above, was thrown into sudden consternation by the arrival of news from the north, that war had broken out between the American colonies, and Great Britain. In older countries, swarming with population, there are multitudes of men who are bound to society by a very loose and feeble tie, and who stand ready to engage in any enterprise which will break the monotony of their miserable existence. Standing armies always abound with men of this character; but among a people so peaceful and social, as were the inhabitants of New England at this period, the report of war spread a strange and indefinable terror. The tear fell from the mother's eye, as she attempted to tell the story to her neighbor; and the child looked on with quivering lip, conscious of some appalling danger, though ignorant of its true character. The agitation caused by this report had scarcely begun to abate when there came a loud call for aid,-a call which was promptly responded to, by a general gathering for war throughout all the colonies. Many a youth burning with patriotic fervor, threw aside all his early hopes, and launched at once upon this untried theatre of action.

In the little hamlet where lies the scene of our story, was a youth of twenty, the son of a respectable farmer. He was not only the comfort and stay of his parents, now rapidly advancing to old age, but was regarded as the chief pillar of the little community in which he dwelt. The name of Edward Thurston was endeared to all by those thousand simple acts of kindness, which his generous nature prompted him to perform. Though shut out from the great sources of information, he had yet learned enough of the policy of the mother land towards these infant colonies, to convince him of its gross injustice. No sooner then did he hear the call of his country, than his resolution was formed. He flew from village to village through the neighboring regions, animating the people, and gathering a little band of volunteers to march immediately to the north. The morning was fixed for their departure. Edward had requested his companions to meet at early dawn at his father's house, that the little band might set out together. In the midst of his weeping relatives and friends, he strove to banish apprehension, and appear cheerful and sanguine. But still the fact could not be concealed, that the expedition was fraught with danger. A few rustic men, without the implements of war, without military training, and without commanders, were to contend with the powerful and disciplined armies of Britain. Though all in the village were sad at the idea

of parting with a youth so fondly endeared to them, there was one whose feelings cannot easily be described. Harriet M. was the only daughter of a respected clergyman, who exercised the office of pastor over this and several of the adjoining hamlets. The early death of a kind and amiable mother, had thrown a slight shade of gloom over a countenance naturally sportive and animated. Seventeen summers had passed over her head, and the thoughtlessness and frivolity of the girl had given place to the dignity and deep feeling of the woman. Born in lowly circumstances and bred in retirement, she had learned none of the cant and hypocrisy of fashionable life. She loved because it was the dictate of nature, and Edward was the earliest and the only object of her affection. Accustomed to each other from childhood, their love was nothing but early friendship ripened to maturity. This was the first time that the quiet of their existence had been interrupted. The stream of life had been flowing on so gently and peacefully, that they were now but ill prepared to sail upon its troubled waters. They had enjoyed the sunshine and the calm of love; but its days of darkness and of trouble they had never experienced. On the night previous to the departure, Edward and Harriet conversed together at her father's house till a late hour. Spring had already begun to clothe the fields with freshness, and the air was balmy and sweet. The sky was clear, and the moon shone with a soft and mellow light. They sat in an open window which overlooked the stream as it wound along the valley, while beyond, in the distance, rose the dark and unfrequented hills. The scene was familiar to them; but they had never before realized half its beauties. Edward had always loved the quiet place of his nativity, but now that he was about to leave it and enter upon a life of danger and uncertainty, it seemed a little paradise, in whose bowers he would forever linger.

"I trust, my dear Harriet," said he, with as much cheerfulness as he could command, "I trust that the difficulties which now call me away, will soon be over, and our meeting will then be the happier for our separation.”

"But," replied she, "I fear that you endeavor to conceal from me the worst. Tell me frankly, do you expect soon to return?"

"I will not disguise the fact," said he, slowly, "that the expedition will be attended with danger. But Harriet, you could not love me were I to remain here inactive, and leave to my companions all the hazard and labor of the field. So soon as affairs will permit, I will return, if only to tarry for a night."

The argument was satisfactory to her, and she raised not a murmuring word. The hours of the evening wore away; but they "took no note of time." They told the incidents of the past, and endeavored to kindle each other's hopes for the future. At length Edward rose to depart. The moon was sinking in the

west, and the shade of the hills was stretching across the valley. Still he lingered, for it was hard to tear himself away, and not till the moon had fairly sunk below the horizon, did he again rouse himself for separation. He impressed a warm kiss upon her cheek, and hastily took his leave. He heard the sigh which she uttered as he turned from the door, and the tears stole from his eyes as he walked thoughtfully home. The morning dawn saw Edward and his companions preparing to take their departure. The honest villagers pressed around to bid them a cordial farewell, and bestow upon them some parting benedictions. As the sun arose they commenced their march, each man with his musket and knapsack, and soon were lost to view behind the hill. Such were the men and such their interests, who proved themselves able to break through and scatter the heavy ranks of British soldiery by mere physical energy. They fought not for conquest and power, but for "God and their native land."

Henceforth the life of Harriet was changed. Her thoughts and wishes had all been bounded by the hills which circled her own quiet dwelling place, and scarcely a day of her life had ever been clouded by anxiety. But now she passed her waking and her dreaming moments in agonizing suspense. We learn but half of the misery of war when we contemplate it alone in the encounter and ruin of armies. We need to go back into the farmhouse and the hamlet, to mark the trembling anxiety of the domestic circle for one of its absent members; to witness the almost insupportable anguish which follows the sudden announcement of the father's, the husband's, or the brother's death. The mind withdrawn from the scene of action, is here left to substitute fancy for reality. Every noise terrifies. The slumbers of the night are broken. A life like this is far more miserable than that of the soldier himself. At times he is called to endure the rigor of marches, nights of watching, and the danger and suffering of the field. But days and weeks may intervene when he is enjoying the ease and quiet of the camp, while his friends at home never cease their fears for his safety.

A traveler from the north soon brought the news that the little band in which Edward had marched, arrived safe at Boston. But the absence of all information respecting Edward himself, served rather to disturb than quiet the mind. Soon after the report of the battle of Bunker's Hill spread terror through all the colonies; each one stood in painful suspense, fearing that the next moment would bring the news of a friend, or relative, slain in that memorable conflict. Harriet consulted every source of information, examined over and over again the columns of each straggling newspaper, but she learned nothing whatever of Edward. Such was the state of things when the rumor was spread that the British had evacuated Boston, and that many of the volunteers who

« ForrigeFortsæt »