In bloom gemm'd depths, where Sylvan branches meet
Above dim paths, that thread a still retreat;
Where light on tip-toe shy, steals o'er your path,
Like some chaste maid unrobing at the bath;
There where old warrior pines on high doth tower,
In fashion quaint is built the Aylor bower.
Here 'Ona now a noon excursion made,
And wandered peaceful thro' the silent shade.
There, as she went, and could not turn nor stay,
But ling'ringly pursued her lonely way,
And gazed into the song-stirred woods beyond,
She stooped to raise a wayside flow'r with fond
And gentle touch, and with a sweet look try
To coax the timid azure from its eye.
And now she turns upon a mossy seat,
Where sings a fern-bound stream beneath her feet,
And breathes the orange on the swooning air;
Where in her queenly pride the rose blooms fair,
And sweet geranium waves her scented hair;
There, gazing in the bright face of the stream;
Her thoughts swim onward in a gentle dream.
Now, restless Aylor parts this dense retreat,
And 'Ona finds reclining, fast asleep;
While, save that one lone bird doth chirping peep,
There's not a sound to raise its little feet
Within the stooping boughs - the very air
Seems half afraid to breathe upon her there!
And water lilies, prattling in the stream,
With speech subdued, enchanted list'ners seem.
Leeona's long locks round her slim waist meet,
The bright waves leap and sigh to kiss her feet,
While her reluctant breasts to view disclose
The lovely hues of life's serenest rose;
And timid rising, like twin moons do seem,
Just o'er the woody marge of some still stream.
Low Aylor peers the arching boughs beneath,
Lust heaves his bosom and compels his breath,
While thus he ponders, on his raving breast,
His hand in trembling indecision prest:
'I'll nearer steal, but then she might awake!
Oh, in these boughs I'll stand, till mine eyes take
Their feast of gaze! Ah! what a beauty she!
My soul is drowning in a boundless sea
Of what I can't express! And she is mine!
My own slave! No, Leeona, no, I'm thine!
I'll be thy slave, and thou my wife - my - no!
There's negro in her veins! 'Twould never do!
What Saxon hand a negro wench would woo,
And let disgrace frown on him? But she's fair!
Her cheeks, how radiant: ah! what eyes - what hair!
Thou angel slave! and mine! I'll nearer steal,
And make her while these boughs shall us conceal.
I'll proffer her a master's secret love,
Protection, freedom or her heart I'll move
To confidence and yielding secrecy,
By signs of stooped superiority.'
Then, as some rough-armed hurricane that finds
The hiding places of the little winds,
Where insect horns their day long music keep,
And starts zephyrus in her noontide sleep;
So, filled with blasty lusts, now Aylor goes,
Till on the sleeper fair his footsteps close.
And as the fingers of a dream have caught
The waving pinions of her free young thought,
She hears his steps, sleep blends them with her dream,
Till touch'd, she wakes and bounds up with a scream.
Her master's low entreaties make her worse,
She screams for aid, till screaming makes her hoarse.
He grows more furious as she him defies;
The helpless lamb to flee the lion tries,
But fear o'ertakes her strength, and daunts her soul,
Her senses reel, and reason yields control
To blank unconsciousness, and what ensues,
Refrain to ask, Oh! man, withhold my muse!
The bower's deepest bosom saddened seemed,
As innocence's big libations streamed
Fast down Leeona's pity-suing cheeks,
And her poor breaking heart gave vent to shrieks;
And up to sympathizing Heaven she turned
Her tear-dimmed eyes, that with entreaty burned.
Oh, loveliness thou radiant visaged sprite,
Thou lute-voiced warbler wooing to delight!
By prince alike, and homely swain adored,
By every gentleness of soul implored!
When unprotected, howe'er cherished much,
To thee how blighting is the lewd hand's touch,
E'en as the woodside flow'ret plucked away -
Torn from the bosom of enliv'ning May -
Dost droop within the rough grasp of the swain,
Thou witherest to ne'er revive again!
And Slavery, thou worst of all the host
Of human ills, I loathe, and like thee most!
Thy name I spurn, thy grov'ling aims I hate,
And all thy bitter creeds abominate;
But like thee for the daughters thou hast borne,
The jewels that doth thy vile neck adorn,
The tender out-growth of unholy deeds,
The rich-hued blossoms of offensive weeds.
Here, reader, lies a lab'rynth on our way,
Thro' which perchance 'twould weary you to stray;
Or yet perhaps with some unwonted sight,
Or sound, mar all thy bosom's visions bright.
Our steps, therefore, around it now proceed,
Where to remoter realms our lovers lead.
But as we pass, there lingers on the ear,
A strong man's mournings for his lover dear.
For Rodney hears that his fair 'Ona's dead,
And sleepless anguish bows his manly head,
The nightly forests hear his wand'ring cries,
And with her stony speech his cave replies.
'Twas eve in Florida serene and bright,
And gently sighed the wind as sighs a maid
When watching in an early moon's round light,
Her lover's footsteps in the trysting shade.
The woods breathed softly, and their even breath
Was sweet with blossoms of the neighb'ring heath.
And, save the lonely note of nightingale,
The churlish out-bursts of the farm boy's vale,
The horn owl's shout, and swamp bird's lone reply,
No evening sound disturbed the sleepy sky.
Now near a dark and solemn wood,
Close by the Aylor house I stood.
The evening star, without a peer,
Was sinking in his mild career,
As sinks the warrior on his shield,
When vict'ry holds a silent field,
And no alarum breaks his rest,
To build her watch fires in his breast.
Soon, as a maid will half conceal
To show her beauty, then with sighs,
Languishing looks, and yielding eyes,
Will arm her sex with that appeal,
Which conquers him who dares to feel;
So, bursting from the wood's embrace,
A moon in soft clouds dipped her face,
Ascended then her peaceful throne
Of green hills, and supremely shone.
I heard a wail of woman's woe;
Now loud it bursted, and now low,
Suppressed, as if in sudden flow,
A hand had checked its bitter gush;
Then followed an expressive hush,
When, in the mansion's silent hall
I saw a female proud and tall,
Half covered in the myrtle's shade,
Thro' which the moonlight faintly strayed.
Her long hair stream'd below her waist
In wild waves; and her bosom chaste
Arose in pensive sweetness, bare,
Beneath a face that pale with care,
Some monster trouble seemed to dare.
Her eyes with sullen lustre blazed,
As up in Heav'n's still face she gazed,
And clasped an infant to her breast,
To gently hush its sweet unrest.
I nearer to the woman stole,
And lo! she was the fair Creole!
For unobserved, I reached the hall,
And leaned against the shadowed wall,
Just as the moon was fairly seen,
Breaking white banks of clouds from 'tween.
I heard the Creole's softest sighs,
And saw her flash her restless eyes
Upon her rear; I now did know
There was concealed some dreadful foe.
I looked upon her lovely form,
And felt my hurried blood run warm.
Ah! she was beautiful, tho' not
So fair as lovesick rhymers plot,
Or whining prose mongers array,
Along the novel's little way,
Through which good sense doth never pass,
But where the intellectual ass
Delights to roam, or fast or slow,
To see the strange white lilies grow,
Or hear a big black giant blow!
Ah! not so fair, but a rich rose,
And brilliant as the stream that flows
From Summer hills, with meadows sweet,
And dewy corn-fields at their feet;
While bleating pastures peaceful lie,
Beneath an azure canopy.
But hovered o'er by raven-winged fears,
Assailing wrongs had dried her tears
In their bright home; tho', as the rill,
When Winter from his cheerless hill,
Freezes the surface with his breath,
But cannot stop the flow beneath;
So her proud look of beauty showed
That sorrow's stream beneath it flowed.
Oh! how I wished I knew wherefore
Her wrongs, and her distresses sore!
How then I could have met her foe,
And brought her weal, or shared her woe!
I raised my hands, I strove to speak,
But long suspense had made me weak;
I could but lisp a single word,
And that too faintly to be heard.
Then, ere I caught my reeling sense,
I would have sprung to her defense,
But horror froze my sluggish blood,
And I aghast in silence stood.
A whisper low breathed thro' the hall,
And then there came a quick footfall.
Leeona flashed a hurried eye,
And 'Oh, my Rodney!' then did cry,
And to his brave arms weeping fly.
A moment clasped in love they stood;
Then he looked round in sullen mood,
As calm as night, but stern as death,
Resentment warming every breath,
And 'fly, Leeona!' quickly gasped,
And to his lips her small hand clasp'd.
'They're on us now, and soon we'll be
Beyond the reach of Liberty.'
'Hush! there they come! can't you hear
Their angry footsteps hurrying near?
Wait not a moment to be gone,
By Heaven aided fly alone!
I'll meet, and hold them here at bay,
Or stain with blood their fiendish way.'
I strove now but could not withdraw,
Nor look, nor shut my eyes for awe.
A hurried sigh, a sob suppressed,
Escaped Leeona's noble breast.
All earth to her was in her arms,
And she could tread on Scorpion harms,
While this firm purpose swelled her heart -
To live not from her babe apart.
Now wild as the wild cat'ract moans,
Thro' deep shades and replying stones,
The murmur from her bosom rose:
'God save my Etta from her foes!'
Then on her shoulder swinging straight,
The thoughtless infant's little weight,
Forth from the mansion's hall she stole,
Like hope's last vision from the soul.
Her lips were clenched, her dark eyes staid,
Her brow was knit and arched with shade,
To Heaven's arms she looked for help,
And fearless as the lion's whelp,
Was winding thro' the silent grove,
With no cheer but the moon above.
Now fast and faster onward flew,
Till indistinct upon the view,
She seemed a shadow, then was seen
No more the darkling trees between.
Now in the dismal mansion roared
A storm of heavy steps that poured
From aisle to aisle, and hall to hall,
As if loud tongues in every wall
Were loosed upon the night to call.
The current foamed towards the door,
From which had fled the Creole poor,
And o'er the voices of the crowd
One great grum throat was heard aloud,
Like a crack'd trumpet madly blown,
Or like a fierce boar's sally groan.
'Let loose the hounds upon her track,
Go, villians! Speed and bring her back!
Or leave her torn upon your way,
And on her flesh let vultures prey!'
Now Aylor ceased, and his dread form,
Peerless in terror, issued forth,
As wrathful as the dark browed storm
That shuts the doorway of the North,
And drapes the eagle's palace bright,
In curtains of the misty night.
Then grum as some old Indian king,
He strode among the gaping throng
Till like a Champion of the ring
Of loud Olympus, stern and strong,
Of matchless port, and manner proud,
He rose above the gaping crowd
Of men and dogs, and shook his hair.
Dread silence seized the trembling air,
Dumb terror made his minions quake,
Their knees to smite, their fingers shake,
And dogs beneath his nod and scowl,
Began to gnaw their chains and howl.
The chains are loosed, and at a smack,
Away fierce yelping fly the pack.
Their deep, loud throats in full chase break,
The darkling woods responsive speak,
And far off hills from slumbers wake.
The very night shades seem to fly,
And dance and flutter on the eye;
For dreadful sight is it to see,
A woman from swift bloodhounds flee.
Then like some lion, when loud dogs invade,
That flies ferocious from his roaring shade,
His bristling kindred scatters from his path,
And shakes the forests in his lordly wrath;
So now brave Rodney from his cover springs,
And right and left her loud pursuers flings.
These at him stare with trembling fears opprest,
He plucks a dagger from his heaving breast,
Displays the ghastly warning to their eyes,
And in pursuit of hounds and Creole flies.
Ah! ye whose eyes with pity doth run o'er,
When mournful tales come from a heathen shore,
Of babes by mothers thrown to crocodile;
The scaly terror of the languid Nile;
Of Brahma's car and Islam's wanton rites,
And bloody raids on Zion's sacred hights!
Ye who hear these and pray for God to come,
Behold yon mother fleeing from her home!
A master's child upon her frantic breast,
And by a master's savage bloodhounds prest;
And this, too, where in every steepled town,
The crucifix on human wrong looks down!
Think then no more of heathen lands to rave,
While in America there breathes a slave!
Rodney pursues, and where the sickened moon
Looks thro' the woods, comes on the Creole soon.
The angry hounds have overta'en their prey,
And round Leeona, madly mingling, bay.
Deep thro' the wastes their fiendish voices ring,
Fierce with their tongues, wood, plain and hillock sing;
And now they close upon her, thick around;
Ah! God, they seize and drag her to the ground!
Lo! Rodney nears, he hears his 'Ona's cries,
Right on the hounds with flashing steel he flies;
They on him furious turn, with eyes that glare
Like furies' fell, jaws gaping, and teeth bare;
This one and that he seizes as they lunge
Upon him, and their dread fangs in him plunge.
Deep thro' their reeking sides his blade he drives,
They reel away and empty out their lives;
Till with their warm blood dropping from his hands,
He master of the situation stands!
Ah! ye whose hearts with swifter currents beat,
When fabled gods in equal combat meet,
Shout loud the challenge, swing their shields immense,
While armies hang around in dread suspense,
Lift their vast lances, like the lightnings driven,
Jar all the plain and shake the vault of heaven;
Behold this hero of the real fight,
This man who dares the wiles of swampy night;
Whose fearless bosom, lit with valor's fire,
Withstands the monster bloodhound in his ire;
Whose faithful heart to love's first impulse true
Will dare to suffer and is brave to do.
Now Rodney listens, his surrounding views,
And thro' the pines his dismal way pursues.
Leeona follows on his journey dark,
Where night-owls laugh and wary foxes bark;
Till thro' the branches op'ning day's in sight,
With rosy smiles and locks of streaming light.
We wander now in grasses long and damp,
O'er oozy mosses of a dismal swamp,
Thro' languid brakes, and under monster trees,
Thro' whose vine loaded boughs noon never sees.
Here nature sleeps her long, long torpid nap
In silence, on the Tropic's tangled lap;
Here yellow streams with lazy murmurs creep
On slowly, talking in their sluggish sleep;
Here hideous reptiles in their slimy reign
Crawl aimless ever, and an apish train
Of forest hoodlums day long orgies hold;
And birds, although their plumage gleam with gold,
And divers colors, sing not; in this wood,
This habitation of dark solitude,
Our lovers, for their lives escaping, fly
Into the arms of dismal safety.
The scaly venom of the pathless brakes
About them here a sure protection makes,
For who will dare the danger of the bogs?
And here is crocodile a match for dogs.
Here hope our lovers found,
And love about them wound
Her silver cords the tighter;
As fears vanish'd away,
And they from day to day
Felt life's burdens grow lighter.
Ona saw Rodney's manhood, he
Her fortitude and constancy;
Thus, each could in the other see
Enough to keep the loving eye
With pleasures running over.
As Eve and Adam, innocent
Wtihin the charms of Eden went,
And nothing of the wide world knew,
Save what lay just betwixt the two;
So wandered these, the wild shade thro',
Lover absorbed in lover.
Far from their home within the wood,
Once Rodney went to search for food,
And ready make, for he next day
Must toward the North Star take his way.
Leeona biding, sandals knit
Of fibres from the cypress split,
A basket rude of willows wove,
And gathered fruits within the grove.
Thus wand'ring round, she missed her track,
And lost, could not her way find back.
At last despairing, sad she stood,
Then on her devious way pursued,
The sun upon his western way,
Had nearly reached the verge of day,
Baptizing in his orange sheen
The lofty groves of cypress green;
When in the swamp grass, long and dank,
Leeona reached some bayou's bank.
Lo! all around was strange and lone,
And silence on her dismal throne
Held her dark sway in every nook;
Save that one swamp bird yonder, shook
A mournful noise from his throat,
That sounded something like a note;
And that one tiny wren did say
Some feeble things anear her way,
Scarce able when it flew to shake a spray.
Leeona turned to scan the wood,
When lo! beyond her scarce a rood,
A horrid human form she viewed!
A tall old man in skins half guized,
Half savage and half civilized,
With a great cudgel in his hand,
Towards her gazing still did stand.
About his waist a leathern thong
Bound his long locks, they were so long.
Uncombed and matted close they lay,
And age's touch had made them gray.
His gaunt arms were of monstrous length,
The ghastly signs of wasted strength.
'Ah!' Ona sighed, 'what shall I do?'
And, as she thought, unseen, withdrew;
But slow the ghostly hermit stalked
Around her hiding-place, then walked
Straight in the bush to where she lay
Breathless, stood squarely in the way,
Swung his great cudgel round and round,
Chattered and gnashed, and stamped the ground,
Rolled his wild eyes, growled like a bear,
And thrust his fingers in his hair.
A true heroine of the cypress gloom,
Now there to lie, the Creole saw her doom -
A reckless madman had her in his hand -
She sprang up, and did at his elbow stand,
And cried out, 'Look sir, see my pretty child!'
At this, the raving specter grimly smiled,
Let fall his cudgel, muttered some strange speech,
And for the babe his dreadful claws did reach.
'Have you seen Nanawauea?' then he cried,
'She died long time ago, and then I died;
Who wrongs the red man, wrongs the race of man;
You hurt my wigwam now, sir, if you can!'
Leeona answered, pointing him away,
For no auspicious moment long will stay:
'Your Nanawawa lives in yonder glen,
Make haste and find her - come and tell me then.'
Now both hands in his hair the madman threw,
Dashed off and laughed, and gibbered as he flew.
'Dark mystery,' Leeona leaving, said,
'Hath in that human waste her mansion made!
Ah! now within his once love-lighted breast,
The owly phantom builds her broody nest.
And that high seat where wisdom once did dwell,
Is now inhabited by visions fell,
And recollections harrassing, among
Which, a dreadful secret holds her tongue!
And 'Nanawawa;' love-balmed name survives -
Above that heap of mental ruins lies!
Poor wretch, unconscious of existence save
With the loved dead, thinks he's beyond the grave!
'Who wrongs the red man.' Why he speaks of wrongs,
To that the secret of his words belongs;
Wrong! wrong! Yea wrong! We all that monster know,
The blight and bane of earth, and source of woe!
Now Rodney's voice and heavy footsteps broke
Upon the Creole's ear, as thus he spoke:
'Leeona, here am I! What were those sounds?
And what went by me with such dreadful bounds?'
Leeona told him; list'ning still he stood,
Then talking low they slowly left the wood,
Began their steps toward a Northern clime,
And looked on Florida for their last time.