Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 35, Pages 504-507
THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.
But by my wrongs, and by my wrath,
To-morrow Oroonoko's breath
That fires yon Heaven with storms of death,
Shall guide me to the foe!
Indian Song in "Gertrude of Wyoming."
SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.*[1]
Scene—The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods—A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees—Herrmann, the Missionary, seated alone before the cabin—The hour is evening twilight.
Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone swift canoe
Shooting across the waters?–No, a flash
From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of Cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The Desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own father-land,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know
Of what is solitude! In hours like this,
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home-path;—while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The clustered faces of his children shine
To the clear harvest-moon. Be still, fond thoughts
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto Thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be filled!—Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!
Hark! a step,
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound—
'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.
He comes forward and meets an Indian warrior armed.
Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form
Tower stately through the dusk; yet scarce mine eye
Discerns thy face.
Enonio. My father speaks my name.
Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase returned?
The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?
- ↑
* Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.
