The LASCAR, XIII–X

It was the church-bell’s merry peal; And now a pleasant house he view’d: And now his heart began to feel As though, it were not quite subdu’d! No lofty dome, shew’d loftier state, No pamper’d Porter watch’d the gate, No Mastiff, like a tyrant stood, Eager to scatter human blood; Yet the poor Indian wand’rer found, E’en where Religion smil’d around— That tears had little pow’r to speak When trembling, on a sable cheek!

With keen reproach, and menace rude, The LASCAR Boy away was sent; And now again he seem’d subdu’d, And his soul sicken’d, as he went. Now, on the river’s bank he stood; Now, drank the cool refreshing flood; Again his fainting heart beat high; Again he rais’d his languid eye; Then, from the upland’s sultry side, Look’d back, forgave the wretch, and sigh’d! While the proud PASTOR bent his way To preach of CHARITY—and PRAY!

The LASCAR Boy still journey’d on, For the hot Sun, HE well could bear, And now the burning hour was gone, And Evening came, with softer air! The breezes kiss’d his sable breast, While his scorch’d feet the cold dew prest; The waving flow’rs soft tears display’d, And songs of rapture fill’d the glade; The South-wind quiver’d, o’er the stream Reflecting back the rosy beam, While, as the purpling twilight clos’d, On a turf bed—the Boy repos’d!

And now, in fancy’s airy dream, The LASCAR Boy his Mother spied; And, from her breast, a crimson stream Slow trickled down her beating side: And now he heard her wild, complain, As loud she shriek’d—but shriek’d in vain! And now she sunk upon the ground, The red stream trickling from her wound, And near her feet a murd’rer stood, His glitt’ring poniard tipp’d with blood! And now, “farewell, my son!” she cried, Then clos’d her fainting eyes—and died!

The Indian Wand’rer, waking, gaz’d With grief, and pain, and horror wild; And tho’ his fev’rish brain was craz’d, He rais’d his eyes to Heav’n, and smil’d! And now the stars were twinkling clear, And the blind Bat was whirling near; And the lone Owlet shriek’d, while He Still sate beneath a shelt’ring tree; And now the fierce-ton’d midnight blast Across the wide heath, howling past, When a long cavalcade he spied By torch-light near the river’s side.

He rose, and hast’ning swiftly on, Call’d loudly to the Sumptuous train,— But soon the cavalcade was gone— And darkness wrapp’d the scene again. He follow’d still the distant sound; He saw the lightning flashing round; He heard the crashing thunder roar; He felt the whelming torrents pour; And, now beneath a shelt’ring wood He listen’d to the tumbling flood— And now, with falt’ring, feeble breath, The famish’d LASCAR, pray’d for Death.

And now the flood began to rise And foaming rush’d along the vale; The LASCAR watch’d, with stedfast eyes, The flash descending quick and pale; And now again the cavalcade Pass’d slowly near the upland glade;— But HE was dark, and dark the scene, The torches long extinct had been; He call’d, but, in the stormy hour, His feeble voice had lost its pow’r, ’Till, near a tree, beside the flood, A night-bewilder’d Trav’ller stood.

The LASCAR now with transport ran “Stop! stop!” he cried—with accents bold; The Trav’ller was a fearful man— And next his life he priz’d his gold!— He heard the wand’rer madly cry; He heard his footsteps following nigh; He nothing saw, while onward prest, Black as the sky, the Indian’s breast; ’Till his firm grasp he felt, while cold Down his pale cheek the big drop roll’d; Then, struggling to be free, he gave— A deep wound to the LASCAR Slave.

And now he groan’d, by pain opprest, And now crept onward, sad and slow: And while he held his bleeding breast, He feebly pour’d the plaint of woe! “What have I done?” the LASCAR cried— “That Heaven to me the pow’r denied “To touch the soul of man, and share “A brother’s love, a brother’s care; “Why is this dingy form decreed “To bear oppression’s scourge and bleed?— “Is there a GOD, in yon dark Heav’n, “And shall such monsters be forgiv’n?

“Here, in this smiling land we find “Neglect and mis’ry sting our race; “And still, whate’er the LASCAR’s mind, “The stamp of sorrow marks his face!” He ceas’d to speak; while from his side Fast roll’d life’s swiftly-ebbing tide, And now, though sick and faint was he, He slowly climb’d a tall Elm tree, To watch, if, near his lonely way, Some friendly Cottage lent a ray, A little ray of chearful light, To gild the LASCAR’s long, long night!

And now he hears a distant bell, His heart is almost rent with joy! And who, but such a wretch can tell, The transports of the Indian boy? And higher now he climbs the tree, And hopes some shelt’ring Cot to see; Again he listens, while the peal Seems up the woodland vale to steal; The twinkling stars begin to fade, And dawnlight purples o’er the glade— And while the sev’ring vapours flee, The LASCAR boy looks chearfully!

And now the Sun begins to rise Above the Eastern summit blue; And o’er the plain the day-breeze flies, And sweetly bloom the fields of dew! The wand’ring wretch was chill’d, for he Sate, shiv’ring in the tall Elm tree; And he was faint, and sick, and dry, And bloodshot was his fev’rish eye; And livid was his lip, while he Sate silent in the tall Elm tree— And parch’d his tongue; and quick his breath, And his dark cheek, was cold as Death!