Witch of the Westcot.

CANTO I.
____

Yet, ever and anon, I ween,
Unblest my orisons have been.

    Beloved idol—yet I come,
(Ah! why should Albyn’s harp be dumb?)
I come to glean, in vesper hours,

Amongst thy long neglected flow’rs;
Who knows but still, where bards have been,
Some slips, unculled, are waving green?
Who knows, but ev’n in frozen vales,
Some leaves, unwither’d, brave the gales;

And tho’ but one—O! let it be
Glen-malcom’s flower,* supplied from thee.
Tho’ counted small beside the boughs
That rustle round more classic brows,
Still friendship, love, and even fame,

On such a symbol holds a claim,
And prodigal enough for joy
And jewels, for a truant boy. [Page 2]

    Leila, attend me thro’ the maze,
Where poets court the voice of praise;

And, should I bow at such a shrine,
Come the response from lips like thine.

    Where Neptune rolls his briny store
Along Chebucto’s eastern shore,
Upon the beach, where mortal eye

Might scarce a dwelling place espy,
Between Fort Clarence and Green Bay,
A lady lived in former day;
A little clump of stunted trees
Her cottage sheltered from the breeze;

A garden plot of herbs and flow’rs
Claim’d all her care in summer hours.
Day after day, her frugal board,
With mussels from the beach was stored;
Tho’ now, perchance, for such a scene

The longing eye might look in vain;
Hope blessed her home, and sweet content
Her leisure at this lodging spent. [Page 3]

    To human view she lived alone—
Child or domestic she had none;

Companion, male nor female, there
E’er came to own or court her care.
The curious eye that vigils kept,
Could mark no inmate hers except
(Blest heirs of woman’s special grace,)

The harmless vegetable race.

    Around her form the graces flung
Their gifts divine, while she was young,
And tho’ rude time had reft away
The bloom of youth’s imperious day,

Some features still were faintly traced,
That ev’n old age had not effaced,
And eyes, where grief and beauty met,
Seem’d like twin pearls in rubies set.

    Time flitted by, and years begun

Unnoted, as years oft have done; [Page 4]
Stern winter first his exit made,
Next spring her passing tribute paid;
Then summer came, and autumn, too—
But, wonderful! still nothing new!

(Whatever was, or might have been,)
At this lone hermitage was seen.
’Twas marvellous! ’twas very strange!
She lived so long, and still no change,
Till when or how did she come there

Was ev’ry idle gossip’s care.

    “What is her name?” surmise began,
And rumour with the tidings ran;
“What is her name?” enquired report,
And whispered it again for sport;

From whispers next suspicion claim’d
To have the mystery new framed;
Still paraphrased at ev’ry change,
It grew a legend, wild and strange;
Enough—albeit a little frail,

To form a Novascotian tale. [Page 5]

    Curse on that heart—whatever claim
It holds upon that niche of fame,
(Nor less, nor lighter, fall the shower
On strangers to that awful power,)

Would wantonly presume to wound
One breast where innocence is found;
Or, with polluted lips, destroy
The hallowed haunts of human joy.

    Nor has that partisan of power,

(“Shorn of her beams” in evil hour,)
The Muse, the Muse, alas!  been less
A foe to female happiness;
And tho’ verse has in elder time
Been made the vehicle of crime,

Still it is hers in peace and strife
To trace the labrynths of life—
To mark the footsteps vice has trode,
And bar the gates to her abode;
And still by charter hold prepared,

For suffering virtue watch and ward. [Page 6]

    O, Leila!  ask me not for why
Yon maiden’s bosom heaves a sigh,
Or wherefore on her youthful brow
Hangs such deep melancholy now;

Ask not for what her mother wears
A countenance, bedew’d with tears—
A countenance, the time has been,
Where never ought, save joy, was seen;
Or whence the blush of crimson dye,

That palsy’s Victor’s cloudless eye?
Ah!  deem not love creates the storm,
That leaves such wreck on Laura’s form.
Suspicion and her demon twin,
Surmise, have lit the flame within.

Start not—nor bid me further tell
What wizard framed the wierd-like spell.
But oft in vain a lover’s arm
Has been exorcist o’er such charm.
There, too, the fount whose fatal springs

A mother’s heart with sorrow wrings; [Page 7]
But sword nor tear will aught avail
The victim, whereby hangs a tale.

    Ideas, however vague or vain,
Usurp the vacuum of the brain;

These to conjecture yield their place,
And thoughts next occupy the space—
The space, by words in turn, is claim’d,
And thus a tale at once is fram’d.
Tales are not all exactly true,

But that is nothing, if they’re new.

    Surmise began—“Why, it is said,
She is an old forsaken maid;”
But made no question there would be
Some clue yet to the mystery.

    Rumour declared, that she was sorry,
Yet could not misbelieve the story;
But own’d that something in the matter
Was of a most peculiar nature; [Page 8]
For it was common, once before,

She was a worthless paramour;
That, by some wicked trick or other,
Had made herself a childless mother,
And finish’d with a hellish leer,
That told of more than met the ear.

The legend in her little tour,
Ere Hitchcoke’s holm she could get cross’d,
The whole original was lost.

    The beldame stood to recollect
The thing again, without effect;

Thrice swept away the cloud that sought
To stay the current of her thought, [Page 9]
And rifled every latent cell,
Where mem’ry  keeps her chronicle;
From fancy conjured many a shade,

That levity and slander made;¹
And images conjectured—still
Each talisman was naught, until
Amidst her reverie, a sleigh,
In bearskins prodigally gay

That dash’d along the rough domain,
Her wilder’d thoughts recall’d again.

    A hag, in this unpinion’d ear,
Old as herself, and uglier far,
Welcomed her, with a pressing treat,

To occupy the vacant seat,
And as report is—aye, in haste,
The chance was readily embraced.

    Those proud, outlandish beings, men,
Meet where they will, or how, or when, [Page 10]

Use every art, approved by reason,
To parry off abrupt collision.
Laconic prologues, never rare,
Are exercised with equal care,
Till “fine day this,” or  rather cold,”

Their oratorian pow’rs unfold.

    Not such are women, lovely creatures,
Who better understand these matters;
For when affairs before them come,
Not Heav’n itself would hold them dumb;

Nor do they, like ungallant man,
Harangue their audience, one by one;
Together all (no tongue is spared)
Begin, prepared or unprepared;
Nor are ideas, or even thought,

To such discussions ever brought.
Though all auxiliars are allowed
Amongst a female multitude.
There eyes are pow’rful rhetoricians,
And hands of seconding petitions; [Page 11]

A well carved lip ’twixt sneer and smile,
Forms elocution’s grandest style.
Ev’n nods are pregnant with the essence
Men would spin out in long digressions;
Whilst votes are telegraph’d in laughter,

And then the point’s consider’d after.

    Now, if this portrait be correct,
(Errors we poets, aye, except,)
Why, gentle reader, could you blame
Report to tell her neighbour dame

Old lucky scandal, what affair
Had been committed to her care?
What way that gipsy mother Scott,
Alias the Witch of the Westcot,
Had been a Keep-miss, in her day,

To some vile lecher, far away;
And, having murder’d all her brats,
Escaped the hangman’s coarse cravats;
Has down the Passage made her home,
Where neither law nor justice come; [Page 12]

Whilst it is known that, ever since,
She holds some league with hell’s high prince.

    One stormy day in winter last,
As Parson Hope was coming past
The old Duenna’s domicile,

He sought for shelter there, until
The tempest spirits might compose
The maniacs that torment the snows;
And found her ladyship as trim
As we might be, expecting him.

This makes it plain, the worthless quean
The parson’s visit had foreseen.
Indeed, his whole account is such,
That she must be an arrant witch.

    A large, well cushion’d elbow-chair

For him stood ready near the fire;
And, purring on the parlour matt,
Black, large and sleek, grimalkin sat. [Page 13]
A Brussels carpet—splendid grate,
Some costly furniture and plate,

A golden-clasped book was seen
Upon a table, cased in green;
Near it a silver Baby stood—
No doubt some image of her brood;
Against the wall a picture hung,

Of madam’s self, when she was young;
And each could show some special claim,
Of strong affinity to flame,

    Nor were refreshments wanting there;
More than he deemed his host might spare,

But then she urged with such a grace,
As left excuse no vacant place,
And so polite that ev’n her guest,
If he were willing could attest,
That more design than accident

With such mysterious things are blent;
Though aught was hidden, that might tell
Her compact with the king of hell. [Page 14]

    Now it’s supposed she cast some spell
O’er Doctor Hope, for he can’t tell

Exactly what he saw and heard;
Not that his Rev’rence could be fear’d
Of such a hypocrite as her—
For he’s a great philosopher.
Still evidence is not awanting,

That he has shar’d in her enchanting;
For, ever since (his friends have said)
Some change is on the Rector made;
And it’s for certain in the town,
The curate twice has heard him own

That mother Scott has taught him more
Of gospel truth and bible lore,
Than e’er he learn’d from the divines,
That make Diana’s silver shrines.

    Now, really, cousin, don’t you see

The whole concern, as well as me?
Cut off from every thing that binds
In unison congenial minds; [Page 15]
In fashion’s rites, (where nature flings
No light on arbitrary things,)

Who would instruct the wither’d drone
Except the Devil? surely none.
And if her Celtic eyes can glance
Thro’ time’s dim vistas all at once,
And better understand the scope

Of scripture faith, than Parson Hope—
No doubt, whoever knows so much,
Must be—yes, and she is a witch.

    Here, as the two old vampire wretches²
The life stream swallowed, like horse-leeches,

Whose quenchless thirst is never o’er,
Tug till they burst, and gasp for more;
Insatiate still—a maiden fair,
To vice unknown, forgot by care,
Miss Ellen Grhame—in her third teen,

From Creighton-creek, came up unseen,
And heard Report pronouncing witch
So loud, her ears began to itch; [Page 16]
For young and old, else idol free,
Still worship curiosity—

And seeing both the beldames kind,
Took passage on the sleigh behind,
Nor moved one foot till every word
Most greedily she had devour’d.

    Tho’ Ellen Grhame, of care was lack,

Love to hear heart had found a track;
And tho’ it nestled in her breast,
Still she was bashful to such guest.
She knew not Love is like the oak,
That grows amidst the tempest shock—

A seed, a plant, a sapling slim,
Of feeble root and feebler limb,
Ere giant bough and kingly form
Exult above the wrathful storm;
And tho’ there be no earthly eye

To mark that thing of treachery,
Still there is many talisman
To note its least and largest span. [Page 17]

Nor had she fail’d on him to smile,
At Canseau Cape and Breton Isle;
Nor could the Micmacs shrift the wrath
He roll’d like thunder thro’ their path,
Ere Britain’s olive branches spread

Where Gaul’s proud lily pale leaves shed.

And Ellen’s heart o’er ocean’s brim,
In pilgrim guise had follow’d him;
But not as such it wandered back—
Like Noah’s Dove, it found no track,
And sought again the ark with grief,

That love could find no olive leaf.

And Ellen’s name an echo seem’d
Of something that in youth he dream’d.
Even if some half neglected scene
Upon his mem’ry flash’d again,
’Twould plunge in dull oblivion’s tide,

To ’scape the vulture eye of pride.

Albeit a vagrant thought might stray
Sometimes to regions far away;
’Twas but a flash of feeble flame
That from the dying embers came,
Until she learned that second sight

Was second still to witches’ might.

Some wild ideas, of doubtful trace,
Within her bosom sought a place;
In thought by day, in dreams by night,
That oft to Westcot took their flight,
From thoughts and dreams arose desire,

Hence curiosity caught fire;
And heart and soul, and mind and strength,
Auxiliars joined the league at length,
Whilst reason, judgement, sense, arose
In vain such rebel to oppose.

To reason—(whence exotics spring
In them) they, still ascending, cling
Like ivy planted near a tower—
By that it climbs and gathers power.
And tho’ sometimes the drooping head

Hangs as it would no further spread,
Still as a vampire, round that pile
’Tis grasping surer hold the while;
Nor is it stay’d still shades of green
Are on the highest turret seen.

Whilst holy incense from her eyes
Blent with that morning’s sacrifice.

The auspices of witchery;
A mountain goat, of spotless white, [Page 22]
Sprang from the coppice on her sight,
And deftly sporting thro’ the wood,
Came where the musing maiden stood,

Gazing, as if inquiring why,
Or what she tarried there to spy,
Then butting twice against the tree,
Abridged her pensive reverie.

Stol’n homeward thro’ the busky dell,
And felt her heart more freely beat,
Lest found alone in such retreat;
Stretching her hands to shed the limbs
Where linnets sat and sang their hymns,

When “Heav’n protect you, angel dear,”
Fell, like an earthquake, on her ear.

And frail the garden plot patrol’d, [Page 23]
Whilst the same voice, as if inhumed,
In plaintive tone again resumed—
“What is your errand, child; come near,
“And tell me, for I ill can hear;

“Time was, when I was young like you—
“That time, ah! me, was long ago;
“But aged and feeble as I seem,
“Of life’s gay morning oft I dream;
“Youth, still, thro’ dim forgotten years,

As “Ma’am, I came to see the witch.” [Page 24]

    “The witch, eh! dear; what witch, my child,”
Dame Scott repeated o’er and smil’d;
“A witch, eh—what has frightened ye?
“Or is’t the goat you’re come to see?

“Come hither, Grace—come hither, Grace,
“And let the maiden see your face”

    Conflicting passions in her breast,
That ’rose, each to o’erwhelm the rest,
Kept Ellen mute, but unsubdued,

Fear there obstructing fortitude.
Pride war with prudence too declared,
And hope ’gainst disappointment pair’d;
E’en modesty, weak, timid thing,
With pertness held some skirmishing.

Yet, in the midst of mortal strife,
When ev’ry feeling fought for life,
No parley sounded in the field,
But each flung down her shatter’d shield,
And, sick of such hostile melee

Succumb’d to curiosity. [Page 25]

And such high converse with her held,
As doubt and danger both dispell’d;
Nor fail’d one item to repeat
Of Miss Report’s base tete-a-tete,
With Madame Scandal in the sleigh,

As she had heard in former day;
Adding that she had come unknown,
In hopes to have her fortune shown;
But having little coin to bring
More than an eagle’s golden wing,

“Yet here’s a clasp (she said) of gold,
“And brooch to match, of equal mould.
“Upon it, zoned around with jet,
“My mother’s miniature is set.
“Besides this needle necklace, wove

“With locks of one I wish to love.
“These ear-rings, too, unique withal—
“The pendant diamonds rich but small— [Page 26]
“I thought to keep them hid at home,
“Till Eustace Wynne from Europe come;

“But deeming you would know before
“Where I conceal’d my private store,
“I think it’s better—what think you
“To give the whole of them just now;
“And, if the treasure is too small,

“La!  what shall I do after all;
“But say, tho’ is there not as much
“As make a trial, Mrs. Witch.”

    Nor had Miss Ellen then forborn,
Had not astonishment and scorn

On ev’ry feature of Dame Scott
In hieroglyphic lines been wrote.
No earthly thing her guest had been,
Save hope (not Parson Hope I mean);
For time unknown, when she was young,

Her name employ’d no idle tongue,
“But, ah! ” she said, “ how hard, when age
“Like hers, should nought but death engage! [Page 27]
“To be the mark where malice threw
“The rancour that around her grew.”

Then wiped the tears that erst abode
In cisterns grief now overflow’d,
But thence had stol’n, and ling’ring staid
Among the furrows time had made.

    Like April flow’r, of snowy hume,

Bending beneath the morning dew,
Miss Ellen stood and bowed her head,
Lest she might have some error made;
But when the voice of sadness ceased,
Her confidence again increased;

And thus resumed—“Dear ma’am I pray,
“Do not distress yourself today,
“For if your witchcrafts are not home,
“Tomorrow eve again I’ll come;
“As for the trinkets I have brought,

“My last new year’s forget-me-not;
“Although their value is not much,
“Still its no trifle to a witch. [Page 28]

    “O child! O child you little know
“How hearts like mine can feel for you;

“But it is well since nought on earth
“Can lend to me one mark of mirth,
“That you sweet innocent should be
“A stranger to my misery.
“But come fair bud of promise, come,

“I have some oracles tho’ dumb;
“Yet they can teach in truth sublime,
“A maiden’s fate in future time;
“To me they oft repeat a sign
“That leaves no mystery in mine;

“Hard is my fate, nor soon forgot
“The mem’ry of my pilgrim lot;
“From hope and home an exile driven,
“My life a miracle of Heav’n;
“But only known to Heav’n yet why

“Deferr’d the exile’s hour to die.”

    And then as night the morning leads
O’er rural vales and flow’ry meads, [Page 29]
With lagging step she slowly bro’t
The maiden thro’ the garden plot;

And from a monthly rose that grew
Beneath a shade on sliplet drew,
“Take this,” she said, “and plant it where
“There is some shelter from the air;
“Your chamber window seems to me

“The spot elect where it should be,
“There you can see—and mark them well,
“What tokens it to thee may tell;
“And whilst it grows ’twixt morn and night,
“This little Book must bless your sight;

“Tis my request—and tho’ ’tis small,
“One day’s neglect might ruin all.”
Then deeply sighing, fondly prest
A lovely volume to her breast,
That faintly show’d it fitly graced,

With gold leaf tendrils o’er it traced,
Which folding up, with fare-thee-well,
Bestowed it on the blushing belle. [Page 30]

    “Now you may go, my flow’r again,
“Till new year’s eve—but fail not then.

“This brooch, that claims a costly hue,
“Already made a gift to you;
“But ne’er has felt your bosom burn
“I hold—the pledge of your return;
“No other token mine beside—

“So these may still with you abide.
“My witcheries ask no reward—
“To me such labour is not hard.
“Yet, tho’ my calls have no extremes,
“Your presence only this redeems.

“No duplicates are mine to give,
“But love can long in mem’ry live;
“So when the fleet revolving year
“Is summon’d to another sphere,
“Remember then, and not before,

“Seek this lone dwelling on the shore.”

    The Lady said, and when she stopt,
Ellen an awkward courtesy dropt, [Page 31]
And left the garden like a lamb
In summer sporting near its dam;

Thro’ bush and brake a path she sought,
And at her heels the snow-white goat;
Ah! never yet was erring child
By earth, and hell, and sin beguiled—
Thro’ times probationary race,

More fervently pursued by grace.

    When the dun top of Clarence tow’r,
(Grim guardian of the Eastern shore;)
Above the forest beetling high,
Imposing stood before her eye;

She stay’d her steps awhile, and took
A waste envelope from the book;
It was a bible—neatly bound,
The text with margin studded round,
And “ELEN GRAHAME from EUPHEN SCOTT,”

In faded letters on it wrote.

    “She is a witch then after all,”
Said Elen as she let it fall; [Page 32]
“She is a witch, I marvel’d why
“She gazed on me so eagerly;

“And now she never ask’d my name,
“But ah! she knew it—Elen Grhame;
“O! Heaven protect me—yes, her spell
“Is on me cast, I feel it well;
“Aye, and I see the piercing look

“She gave me when I got the Book;
“But ’tis the Bible, and I’ve read
“Its author is the promised seed;
“Itself the everlasting seal,
“That every power to HIM must kneel;

“If so, what might of earth or hell,
“Could from the scriptures frame a spell,
“It cannot be” she said, and then
Stoop’d down to lift it up again.

    The goat behind now made a push,

And pitch’d her headlong in a bush,
Then started back, as if to see
The frightened maiden’s furze melee. [Page 33]
Escape was twice essayed in vain,
Grace once victorious charged again;

Whilst Elen lay, the minion stood
Still as a corpse wrapt in a shroud,
But when she moved a limb to rise,
It was a signal for surprise;
She tried to scare the vagrant—no,

Then soothed, but that was useless too;
All arts were vain—but had she known
That it was bred in Lawrence Town—
No mattee—as she cast her eye
Around on ocean, earth, and sky,

The earth was blank—the ocean blue,
The sky was beautiful to view—
But help or hope she gathered none,
From all the far surrounding zone,
Then grasp’d her Bible and call’d “Grace,”

When it stood bleating in her face.

    As light’ning flits athwart the sky,
When long loud thunder peals are nigh—
So fleet the minion sped away,
O’er rugged cliffs and granite grey;
Nor field, nor fence delay her flight,

’Till from a thicket, dark as night,
With one wild heart appalling bleat,
The fugitive found a retreat.

“Still if she is, or both should be
“Leagued with infernal majesty,
“This book is mine until the rose
“Has faded—La! indeed she knows,
“She made me promise, and I did,

“Here’s where the mystery is hid;[Page 35]
“Most certainly is very odd,
“Promise to read the word of GOD,
“And her a witch—but there’s the rose,
“Aye, that’s where the enchantment grows;

“I see it now, at least I’ll see
“How bane and antidote agree.”

With hopes she felt but fear’d to speak. [Page 36]

CANTO  II.
____

    ACADIA’S fields and forests dun
Were freckled with the ev’ning sun;
The wind was hush’d—and Bedford-bay
Like one broad sheet of silver lay—
The captives in the prison yard¹

No longer in their pastimes shared,
When Elen Grhame, in altered mood,
Within her mother’s dwelling stood,
And to her chamber nigh the goal,
In secrecy and silence stole;

Nor idly loitered there alone,
As oft ere now she might have done,
’Till on the emigrated rose,
She saw the shades of twilight close. [Page 37]

    Days pass’d away—and days begun,

Still fleeting onward one by one;
And aye she watch’d with vigils true
How bud and leaf and blossom grew,
And read her bible oft and well,
Lest there might be some secret spell,

And sometimes thought she really knew
Herself a little diff’rent too.

    Her mother, like a dove bereaved,
Had long in latent sorrow grieved;
Days saw her toiling in the creek,

By night tears bath’d her fading cheek,
But few could tell and fewer cared
What dispensation she had shared;
Yet anxious thought and wounded pride,
In her religion could not hide;

Some blight was ever in her soul
That could not, would not be made whole,
One season pass’d, another came,
Her broken spirit still the same— [Page 38]
Ev’n hope, tho’ heaven’s ambassador,

Such wither’d heart could not restore.

    Midst passions thus perplexed and marr’d
The fretted feelings had grown hard;
Hence Elen, tho’ an only child,
Was almost from her love exiled,

Still she could note that something strange
On her had wrought a striking change;
But what the reason was, or when
Lay far beyond her fondest ken.

    “What can it be? it is not pride,

“I’ve often felt its fluent tide;
“And like yon fowl that floats along,
“Laugh’d at its current wild and strong;
“’Till in the stormy surge that came,
“The stormy surge of death and flame,

“Cast here on poverty’s rough shore,
“Where earth cannot the wreck restore. [Page 39]

    “It is not pride as mine has been,
“Life’s charms her eyes have never seen;
“The plants of pleasure yield no fruit

“In fields that fail to give them root;
“Those prizes fashion’s peers peruse,
“She knows not now—nor ever knew.
“Can happiness her breast confine,
“When she was nursed in grief at mine;

“Nor wealth, nor power, nor pomp, nor fame,
“Are equal guests for Elen Grahame.”

    “Can it be love? O! it can not,
“Though childish follies are forgot;
“Yet if love will not shrift one tone,

“That female hearts have ever known;
“It may be so—she is still young,
“But, ah! how soon to me it clung!
“Aye—mine has been as luckless flow’rs,
“That bloom in April’s earliest show’rs,

“And scarce have bloom’d till they are nipt.”
The mother said, and sadly wept. [Page 40]

    When Ellen Grhame was but a child,
She was a little romp, and wild;
With idle boys, that staid from school,

Her time was spent at top and bowl;
With martial spirit ply’d an oar,
Or scull’d a flat along the shore.
Mill-cove, and sandy-beach were made
Her daily, hourly, promenade;

And every holm and haunt she knew,
Where robin built, or berry grew.

    At ev’n, amongst the captive tars,
She mingled in their mimic wars;
There learn’d how fields were lost and won,

And how to spunge or spike a gun;
How siege and sally should be plann’d—
With eager eye she often scann’d
How ships were into action brought,
And how the helm upon them wrought;

Or signal from a chalk design,
What way to board, or break the line; [Page 41]
And many a long spun yarn could tell,
How sailors fought and sailors fell,

    Time on the horologe of man

Had measured but a meagre span,
Since, with her dog and carabine,
The forest shared in her routine;
Nor was it sport she sought—for death
Left few to flutter in her path.

Such once the blossom of the creek,
Now mild as innocence—and meek
As the soft breeze that spreads to view
The infant buds of violets blue;
And gentle as the dew of night

Upon them glistening bland and bright
And love blest spirit might not lie
Long idle in her seraph eye.

    The stamina of human minds
Like human nature, often finds [Page 42]

Some varied change of thought—abrupt
Or dilatory, interrupt
With revolutionary strife,
The use and wont of common life;
And seeks in the sympathetic tone,

To mould both systems into one;
The cause imposing or obscure
Effects unveils—chaste or impure;
Hence, through the maze, we still can trace
How comes the village to disgrace.

Hence riches, near a rapid tide,
Are wreck’d among the shoals of pride.
Hence the Historian learns to gauge
The corps dramatique of an age.
Hence genius oftentimes has been

Like literary comets seen;
Hence moral ill and moral good,²
Have by some standard measure stood,
And hence it was that Elen Grhame
A solitary thing became. [Page 43]      

’Twas Christmas day at Maynard hill—
A day that lives in mem’ry still;
(No Highland haridan was then
The governante of Malcom-glen;)
An angel spirit mild and meek

To there oft passing Creighton-creek—
Saw Elen once—and thought her face
The index of some hidden grace,
And having summon’d from the town
Some loved companions of her own,

(Erst youthful playmates at the school)
To make a visit there in yule,
Sent her respects to Widow Grhame—
Sweet as a seraphs self might frame;
Accompanied with a request,

That Eleanor might be their guest.

    With equal gratitude and fear
The message met Miss Elen’s ear—
Tho’ she was not as she had been,
Still she was female—and I ween [Page 44]

Her thoughts and recollections too,
As such, would vibrate to and fro;
Embodied as they rose by chance,
In requisition all at once;
And right or wrong—what e’er is last,

Like Aaron’s rod devours the rest.

    First she resolved to stay at home
To guard the rose, and read the tome;
Then suddenly changed her design,
Merely—because the day was fine;

But action could not supersede
Ideas of such ephem’ral breed;
Ere thoughts again in thoughts were lost,
All in one chaos vaguely toss’d.

    At once the woman and the child

Were both in Elen reconciled;
And as her form appeared to view,
Her mind was in accordance true; [Page 45]
First reason, superstition graced—
Religion next the pair embraced;

Then the enthusiast’s motley pall,
Like some dark cloud eclipsed them all;
Half credulous, almost believes
Whatever legend fiction weaves;
Half sceptic too, and will forsooth

Dispute against establish’d truth;
If such the creed that women claim,
How orthodox was Elen Grhame?

    Be this the reason, yes or no—
She finally resolved to go,

And having placed the rose plant where
’Twas safe and sheltered from the air;
Nine blossoms of unequal size,
Still muffled up from vulgar eyes;
Auspicious (as the legend goes)

Hung pendant from the burden’d boughs;
And one, that all the glories gave,
Enjoyment e’er from hope might crave; [Page 46]
High on the top apart from all,
Waved o’er them like a coronal.

    So much the spell her counter charm
She deem’d would guard itself from harm;
But fearing lest her mother’s eye
The sacred treasure might espy;
She laid it where her pillow lay,

And turning twice, went thrice away.

    Ah! who can tell how fleetly flies
The joyous hours were pleasures rise―
Pleasures where innocence and youth
Are girdled in the zone of truth;

Where friendship links the social bands,
And virtue most the heart commands;
Where care and sorrow, far apart,
Have ceased to bruise the bleeding heart;
Where hope sits idly by awhile [Page 47]

’Till happiness exhausts her smile;
When jealousy has quench’d her wrath
That scath’d the victims in her path;
Where sweet content and fair delight,
With love and beauty share the night;

Illusions blest with fancies high,
Ah! who can tell how fleet ye fly.

    If still there be that yet can tell,
Those hours they must remember well;
Nor count it strange, they swiftly came,

But swifter fled from Elen Grhame;
’Till the full moon, broad, large and grand,
At midnight rose on Lawrence-land;
’Midst golden stars, that gleaming high,
Illumed the deep cerulean sky ;

Whilst night—cold hoar December night,
Crisping and chill and shining bright,
Tranquil as death—as heav’n serene,
Lay couch’d in such a lovely scene. [Page 48]

    When dawning day began to break

On the brown grateings of the creek;
O! what must her amaze have been,
To see the rose-plant shrunk and sheen;
And melancholy as a tower
That sinks beneath time’s sov’reign power;

That coronal was like a flow’r
Of marble nicely chissel’d o’er;
Beneath it, lifeless, bud and leaf,
As petrified with sudden grief,
Hung shrouded in a robe of rime,

Relucent—beautiful, sublime;
So might they prove, in luckless hour,
Some strong enchanter’s mighty power;
Whilst all above and all beneath
Seem’d as a cemetry of death.

    “She is a witch, and knew it all,
“She knew what would the rose befall;
“How it would blossom—aye and blow,
“And how it would be frozen so; [Page 49]
“But yesterday—ah! hapless thing,

“I left the fair and flourishing;
“Now vain the vigils I have kept,”
Said Elen, as she oe’r it wept.

    “She is no witch—the plant’s decline
“Is not her blame, the fault is mine;

“I left it” she resumed “to die”
And dashed the dew drop from her eye;
“I left it—I was not to leave,
“She gave the charge, ’till new year’s ever;
“One day’s neglect might ruin all

“She told me,—still the earliest call
“Was quite enough—yet why lament,
“For tokens still are with it blent.

    “I see it now—I see it well,
“The book she gave me breaks the spell;

“Without it there perchance had been
“Some mystery else to me unseen;
“Ah! faded rose, is Elen too
“To live and bloom and die like you; [Page 50]
“Cut down at morn—alas! how frail,

“How sudden finishes the tale;
“Such is the cheerless voice of time,
“The prophets vision, more sublime,³
“Looks to an everlasting home,
“Beyond the mansions of the tomb.”

    She sought the bible here it lay,
Hid in her couch since yesterday;
And op’ning it she scarce knew why,
The superscription caught her eye,
And she stood musing there awhile,

Her eye a tear, her lip a smile;
And said “ A lady tho’ she be,
“Still something here is dark to me.
“She kept the brooch, and it alone,
“That pledge my presence must atone;

“She gave the slip—and gave the book,
“A gift that equal’d what she took;
“But one request she crav’d beside,
“So small it could not be denied; [Page 51]
“This much I know—but her command

“Is what I cannot understand;
“On new-year’s eve, and not before,
“Seek this lone dwelling on the shore,
“And save the book—why it would seem
“More like the semblance of a dream,

“Or faintest shade in heaven’s bright bow,
“If it were not before me now;
“With “Elen Grhame” and  “Euphen Scott”
“Upon it elegantly wrote.”

    Perchance she would have wander’d on

With her soliloquy unknown,
In fancy’s boundless lab’rinth lost,
(One arm beneath the bosom cross’d,
The other braced her cheek and knee;)
Had not her mother came to see

If she were well—or what might keep
Her in the morn so long asleep.

    She found her up, but still undrest,
Her face a troubled mind confest; [Page 52]
And tho’ her own hard lot, ere now

Had, like an overbended bow,
The fine elastic feelings marr’d,
That war with grief—or should have warr’d;
Still when she saw her life’s last hope
Such bitter draught of sorrow sup,

Her heart was melted, and her eye
Grew dim with kindred misery.

    “Child of my love” she said “dear child”
“Pledge of my joy, ere ruin wild
“Came like the lightning that has broke

“With dreadful crashing, shatt’ring shock,
“On some tall pine that once has stood
“The glory of Acadia’s wood;
“ Such is my fate—and such is thine,
“A branch sprung from that blasted pine,

“What canker else on thee has been,
“To blight the infant honours green;
“Some mildew here must shelter find,
“That leaves such wreck as this behind; [Page 53]
“But hide it not, why should there be

“One secret sorrow hid from me?
“A mother’s care—a mother’s love
“Can many fancied ills remove.”

    “Mother I ween you reason well,
“But did you e’er one secret tell?

“One, only one I sought to know,
“And that one still remains with you;
“Who is my father? does he live,
“Or is he dead? why should it grieve
“You more to tell than me to hear,

“Deny me not now mother dear,”
Said Elen, and was mute to list,
Whatever might her ear arrest.

    “’Tho’ this has yet been kept from thee,
“Daughter it shall no longer be;

“On new year’s eve I thought to tell
“You all! but now may be as well; [Page 54]
The mother said, and smooth’d her gown,
As on the sofa she sat down;
But why so much of New Year’s ever,

Was more than Elen could conceive.

THE MOTHER’S NARRATIVE.

    My Father was a Major Scott,
A braver Briton never fought;
The Highland-watch he often led
To victory and death’s cold bed,

Ere I was born—but then his corps
Was placed upon Acadia’s shore;
His country seat (I mind it still)
Was up the Basin, near Sackville; ⁴
’Tho not one vestige now is seen

Where that delightful spot has been;
Nor is it meet I should forget
My dear, my angel mother yet;
Their family erewhile was nine,
Four brothers once I counted mine;

Four sisters too, my mother’s pride
Like roses clustered side by side. [Page 55]

    Days, months, and years then rapidly
As dreams forgotten flitted by,
’Till one delightful summer day,

The last—the loveliest in May,
A special order came express,
At twilight, to attend the mess;
And ere the coming morning dawn’d
Battles and victories were plann’d,

Whilst death, alas! the victor still,
Was never dreaded at Sackville.

    I cried to see my parents part,
That hour still hangs around my heart;
What anguish was, I little deem’d,

Tho’ terrible to me it seem’d;
When the big drops of burning brine
Rolled down my father’s cheeks on mine,
And when my mother in despair
Wrung her pale hands and tore her hair;

But since that hour I know it well,
And felt it strong and terrible. [Page 56]

    Those days of bliss—and that of pain
Are past, and never came again
Tho’ kindred pangs were sev’nfold, still

Repeated o’er at Mount Sackville,
Ere autumn flung her vesture on
The sylvan braids of Bedford zone,
And when stern winter’s with’ring shroud
Was wrapt around the green Sherwood,

The work of death had long been done
And fate her fatal triumphs won;
Whilst I was left as some lone flower
That springs beside a ruined tow’r,
Neglected in the distant wild,

A widow’d mother’s only child.

    Ah! little boots it I should know
Repeat our varied ills to you;
It is enough that I should tell
My name at last became a spell

Among the Beaux—at promenade. [Page 57]
And ball my beauty havoc made,
Where rivals might the palm divide
I figured oft in fearful pride,
’Till on my eighteenth natal day

I bow’d to love’s imperious sway;
Gave up my conquests, and became
The lady of Lieutenant Grhame.

    Biencourt Isle⁵—Biencourt Isle,
Long may delight upon thee smile;

Blest spot of earth, to lisp thy name
Is pleasure still to Elen Grhame.
Whilst tomahawk and scalping knife
Were mingling in Acadian strife;
And requiems finish’d bridal lays

In Nova-Scotia’s infant days;
Whilst savage whoop, and fiendlike yell
Re-echoed from the proud Moschelle;⁶
Peace—happiness, and hope were mine,
Blest isle, upon these banks of thine. [Page 58]

    One little year it was our lot
To live in this enchanting spot;
But when the spring in fairy sheen
On Miaux⁷ spread her mantle green,
The village of Rosette⁸ became

The station of Lieutenant Grhame,
And tho’ it seem’d a place where strife
Might not intrude on rural life,
It was our fate—(my mother still
Our constant guest is good or ill)

To share of scenes in this retreat
My tongue yet faulters to repeat.

    Three days pass’d not since we had made
Our home within the palisade,
Till Grhame was ordered with a guard

Of twenty file to be prepared
And, ere the morning, march within
The close defiles of Lovett-lin,
And there await the Major’s corps
From Fort Marie⁹ despatch’d before; [Page 59]

Nor make their movement known until
They posted picquets on Round Hill.¹⁰

    When they paraded on that height
Amid the stillness of the night,
My heart was full—mine eyes were dim,

Yet well I mark’d their gallant trim;
But Elen it were vain for me
To image up such scenes to thee;
Nor had your mother, ev’n for you,
From memory recall’d them now,

If Major Scott and Arthur Grhame
Had never fought on fields of fame,
But from that dark destracting hour
I never saw your father more.

    I went not to my chamber then,

Nor sought to sleep that night again,
But in the balcony abode,
And counted every step they trode, [Page 60]
But ere their farthest faintest tramp
Had ceased beyond the Banlieue swamp,¹¹

I mark’d a groupe of Indians come
As soft as shadows, and as dumb,
But swifter, passing one by one
Between me and the horizon;
And climbing o’er the palisade,

Begin to form on the parade.

    I scarce had time to dream of harm
Until the sentry gave alarm;
And suddenly the work of death
I saw with horror underneath;

How long they fought I cannot tell,
My soul soon fainted and I fell,
And when I woke, as if by chance,
From that o’erwhelming deathlike trance;
Rosette was swallowed up in flame,

A village lost except the name.

    I thought to fly, and measured back
My steps to seek your father’s track; [Page 61]
But when I had almost gone past
The Fort—an Indian held me fast

Gazed in my face with piercing glance
And bid me instantly advance,
Then caught my hand and dragged along,
Nor could I stop, for he was strong;
I scream’d for help—that too was vain,

And I kept trotting on again;
We had no path, but yet the flame
Illuminated all where’er we came,
We heard the shrieks of death afar
Commingled with the shouts of war;

Whilst all around some lurking horde
The fearful whoop again restored;
But ere we gain’d the mountain brow,
Still crusted with some cakes of snow;
My wearied limbs beneath me fail’d,

And all my heart within me quail’d;
Then I began to weep and cry,
And wished and pray’d that I might die.[Page 62]

*               *               *                *               *

    The Indian drew his scalping knife,
Still reeking from the recent strife;

And brandishing it round my head
With frantic gesture, fiercely said
That if I choose to go with him,
Mine eye should have no cause to dim,
My home his wigwam¹²—and if not,

That he would scalp me on the spot.

    How sweet is life when death is nigh,
There’s none can tell that does not try;
I thought of Grhame—I thought of you
’Tho yet unborn—my mother too;

And fondly hoped such prayer from me
Would not be heard for sake of thee;
Then sought to make escape—but vain,
And followed my dark guide again.

The sun shone beautifully bright; [Page 63]
And I look’d back towards Rosette,
But nought save smoke my vision met;
And as our route oft thickets cross’d,
That soon was far behind us lost.

    We travelled till the April sun
Had more than half his circuit run;
O’er woody waste and deep morass,
O’er tangled brakes, and spots of grass;
The growling bear and fearful bird,

From lair and nest we rudely stirred,
But not one word Wit-che-ka-teak **
The Indian would—nor I durst speak,

    When sober ev’ning sagely drew
Her veil and hid the day from view,

He halted near a giant tree
And spread his blanket down to me,
Then said our toil was almost o’er,
And I might rest for half an hour, [Page 64]
Nor might such summons brook delay,

I felt so willing to obey;
Nor staid he by wit idle gaze,
But went away and brought some maize;
It was barb’rous mess to eat,
Tho’ hunger made it very sweet;

A calabash of Brandy next
With water from Rosignol¹³ mix’d;
(Rosignol once the Micmac’s pride)
A beverage to me supplied;
Tho’ taste with nature stiffly match’d

The simple lunch was soon dispatch’d;
And “march” with pow’r at morn addrest
Came now like friendship’s kind request;
Nor where its echoes all forgot
When we had left the feasting spot,

And brief the space we wander’d o’er
To gain the infant ocean’s shore.

    Beneath a bank of spreading pines,
Whose umbrage o’er the lake reclines, [Page 65]
And shelter from the winds afford,

A fleet of birch canoes were moor’d;
The first was ours, and in it spread
Broad leaves and branches for my bed,
Each signal readily obey’d,
It was not long ere I was laid,

And as the blanket on me fell
I heard one long loud dreadful yell;
“Now sleep secure till night is o’er”
He said, and push’d off from the shore.

    Away, away, amidst the dark,

Like light’ning flew the fragile bark;
And tho’ my heart was sad and sore,
Sleep soon my eyelids cover’d o’er;
How far our voyage, or what befell
It matters not, I cannot tell;

But when I woke at break of day
Against an Indian camp we lay,
And I was sick—a dreadful pain
Shot thro’ my fever’d burning brain; [Page 66]
I rose and twice essay’d to stand,

But rolled down headlong on the sand;
Not farther aught my mem’ry bears
For three annihilated years,
But this I knew, on that dim morn,
My daughter Elen Grhame was born.

    How that strange space of time was spent
Has not been with my mem’ry blent;
Tho’ sometimes yet to me it seems
Like night’s long wild distracting dreams;
But it was summer, and a Squaw

Was the first living thing I saw;
My head was shorn, and meadow rue
(That round the camp luxuriant grew,)
With savin leaves and balsam knead
In vast profusion o’er it spread;

I look’d around, and scream’d aloud
To see me in such solitude;
But all were mute—Wit-che-ka-teak
Alone said that I must not speak [Page 67]
’Till ev’ning, else their toil was vain,

And I would be deranged again;
And I was quiet ’till the veil
Of twilight mantled Marlaquille;¹⁴
But when I saw the wigwam groupe,
Papooses, mimicking the whoop

Of war—and squaws begin the dance
O God! it wean’d me from the trance.

    Wit-che-ka-teak, when I was well,
Soon told me all that he could tell;
But when I ask’d of Arthur Grhame,

He shook his head to hear the name,
And mutter’d o’er the fatal scene
That in the bloody creek had been;¹⁵
Then turning on me, knit his brow,
And added “you had perish’d too,

“But when I hunted in the snow,
“Once, many many moons ago;
“I chased one moose—I chased him long,
“But he was like the torrent strong, [Page 68]
“I had no bow—and this large knife

“Blood stains it still since Rosette strife,
“To me was useless in such toil,
“Where I could not the victim foil,
“But when I gain’d the mountain knee
“Your pale faced husband came to me,

“With paascowee‡ of double death;
“Run, Indian, run, dont give him breath,
“He said, and put it in my hand,
“Nor might Wit-che-ka-teek there stand;
“No—I kept on, and shouted back,

“That he might follow in the track;
“And ere the moose gain’d Lequille wood
“I quench’d my thirst in his heart’s blood.

    “When I returned at close of day
“The pale faced man had gone away,

“And there his paascowee is still,
“The manitou¹⁶ of Marlaquille; [Page 69]
 “But it shall go and hunt him moose,
“When you go hence with your papoose.”
I sat amidst the savage horde,

And heard and swallowed ev’ry word;
But when the chieftain made a stop
At “your papoose” I started up,
And scream’d again like maniac wild,
“My child! O heavens! where is my child.”

    Elen, your Mother’s tale I see
Is harsh and wearisome to thee;
Whatever else shall soon be told
Frail memory may yet unfold.

    Amidst conflicting feelings, sear’d

And painful, Elen first I heard
You call me Mother, and I felt
My heart with love and sorrow melt,
But when I saw you near me cow’r,
With grease and ochre cover’d o’er, [Page 70]

My soul fled from itself with shame,
As water perishes in flame;
And it was lost—nor aught was left
To me, of happiness bereft;
My mother and my husband gone,

All earthly things but thee alone.

    Yet I abode in Marlaquille
Among the Wuspem tribe,¹⁷ until
The village chiefs in council met,
To smoke the pipe with pale Rosette,

And soothe the spirits of the slain
That fell on that terrific scene.

    Next morning, when Aurora shed
The curtains that enclosed her bed,
Our fleet canoe had broke the skim

Of Rosignol’s cerulean brim;
As dark Wit-che-ka-teak with pride
The paddle on its bosom plied; [Page 71]
My mem’ry yet holds uneffaced
That striking hour so deeply traced;

I see him now as if still by,
The lion limb—the eagle eye;
I see the foam we fiercely cleft,
And boiling waves behind us left;
I hear the troubled waters hiss

And spurn the paddle’s brutal kiss;
I see it shrink as we come on,
And tremble after we are gone;
I see the distant forest rise
Like tempest clouds along the skies

And tho’ we sped with vengeful speed
I thought our passage slow indeed.

    The lake was silver’d with the sun
Before the farther beach we won;
Yet ere we left the creek behind,

On maize again we briefly dined,
And when we gain’d our former track
He mounted you upon his back; [Page 72]
Whilst desert dun, and valley drear,
We meted o’er in mute career;

’Till on the southern mountain top
The Micmac made a sudden stop,
And from his blanket took the gun;
“Take that “he said” my labour’s done,
“To that blue vale that bends below,

“The forest children may not go,
“And these shall be for your Untoose,‡‡
“Till Unkitch† learns to hunt himmoose;”
Whilst five fox skins, of sable hue,
He took and bound with thongs on you.

    “Now pale Rosette” he said to me,
“There is your home before your knee;
“The pale faced children are not there,
“Nor is their camp a thing of care;
“But go, Wit-che-ka-teak more kind,

“Perhaps in wigwam you may find, [Page 73]
 “Beside the great death spirit’s hill,
“Than you have found in Marlaquille.

    I heard him talk, and held the gun
Until I deem’d that he was done;

Then begged him hard to take it home,
But he stood like a pillar, dumb;
Nor heard me speak nor seem’d to hear,
Until he mark’d the mantling tear,
Imploring, dim your dove like eye

That stood upon him steadfastly,
And heard you lisping “paascowee,”
And clasp your arms around his knee;
“Wit-che-ka-teak” he said with pride,
“Has not your last request denied;

“Wit-che-ka-teak your labour’s done,”
Then in his blanket hid the gun;
And turning, left us on the height,
With nought save sorrow in our sight.

    Down to the vale my fretted feet

A pathway thro’ the brushwood beat; [Page 74]
But not one trace was left behind
Of former day, that I could find,
Save the stockade with grass o’ergrown,
All else to me was quite unknown;

Or some chance flow’r ’midst weeds was seen
Where garden plots had erewhile been.

    Along the river—bowr’d in wood,
A little hamlet near us stood;
None else was nigh—I deem’d that fame

Might there have told of Arthur Grhame;
But when the cottagers had seen
Us clad, as Indians oft have been,
They fear’d the forest children so,
That none would list my tale of woe.

Tho’ day’s last hour ere now was done,
Down the broad stream we wander’d on,
Till Fort Marie broke in our view,
Embow’rd in woods—and waters blue
Hush’d into silence, calm and still,

No thing of earth to call our own,
Friendless—forgotten and unknown.

    Elen my heart begins to fail,
I may not more pursue such tale;
I may not tell how long we sought

Lieutenant Grhame and Lady Scott;
What mountains rude—what lakes serene,
Our searching eyes have often seen;
What pathless wastes, from shore to shore,
Our pilgrim feet have wander’d o’er,

Our fears by night, our toils by day,
Ere hope for ever died away;
’Till in this lone and weary shade
Our wand’ring steps at last are stay’d;
Where Elen Scott—ah! faithless fame,

Is now forgot in Widow Grhame.
                End of the Mother’s Story. [Page 76]

“O would to Heav’n this book could tell
“My father’s fate to me as well,
“As it has now your mother’s told;”
Then from beneath her apron fold
The bible brought with maiden glee,

Continuing “did you ever see
“That volume, Mother—mark it well,
“For mysteries within it dwell;

    “That book is mine,” her mother said,
“That book is mine” and shook her head;

“That book is mine, I know it well;
“That book my maiden fare-thee-well;
“Yes it is mine, on New year’s eve,
“The gift of love my mother gave,
“That New year’s eve that I became

“The lady of Lieutenant Grhame. [Page 77]
“That book is worth a globe of gold,
“O Elen! haste to me unfold,
“From whence it came or why its here,
“Make haste and tell me Elen dear.”

    “It came from heaven, not long ago,
“To teach us things we do not know,”
Said Elen smiling, and reveal’d
What secrets she had kept conceal’d,
And as her tale came to the close,

Whilst pointing to the frozen rose,
Sprang from the couch whereon she lay
And kiss’d her mother’s tears away;
Then added in a playful tone
Wit-che-ka-teak thy labour’s done;

I see the Witch of the Westcot,
Is my grandmother, Lady Scott. [Page 78]

    O’er fields of frost and fire, sublime,
Again the unpinioned ear of time
Has left along the mundane sphere
The tints that tell another year
Is wending onward rapidly,

To mingle in Eternity.

    ’Tis New year’s eve—the ling’ring day
From Creighton creek has pass’d away;
The muffled dull December sun
Came slowly up the horizon;

A thick unconquerable cloud
Shared with him in his empire proud; [Page 79]           
Could it but dim a rival’s sphere,
It vainly might essay to peer;
So critics rise on dusty wing,

To shade the zone where poets sing,
And what they want in common sense,
Is oft supplied by impudence.

    ’Tis New year’s eve in Creighton hall,
The social guests are gathered all;

Not one is lack, that blank should be
In such a scene of harmony,
Save Elen Grhame—and there was none
Could tell them where she might have gone.

    At dawn, before the sun arose,

She left her couch without repose,
Albeit she had never slept,
Yet visions o’er her fancy swept,
Visions of joy and pure delight,
Mingled with terror and affright; [Page 80]

Half slumbering, and half awake,
She felt her heart begin to quake,
As forms in fearful agony
Stood forth—or vanish’d from her eye;
Whilst round her, ever and anon,

Hope, like a soften’d sunbeam shone;
And Love amidst the flick’ring light,
In lesser circles wheel’d her flight;
And many a strange and shapeless thing,
Stayed by her idly loitering.

    When she came there—or why she did,
In memory was darkly hid;
But ev’ry spot and scene around,
Seem’d Westcot and its wither’d ground.
And all the while Dame Scott stood by,

Presiding o’er the phantasy.
“She is a witch—she is a witch,
“I cannot help but doubt her much.
“I’ve slumber’d oft, but as I live,
“None but a witch like dreams could give. [Page 81]

“It was no dream—I did not sleep,
“It was enchantment dark and deep;
“It is a spell, I feel it still,
“Come thro’ my heart with madd’ning thrill.
“I fear to go—I dare not stay,

“For something urges me away.
“Some thing that gathers round this eve,
“Now makes me glad—now makes me grieve.
“O! Heaven! in mercy guide me still,
“And guard me from the paths of ill.”

    Such were the words of Elen Grhame,
As from her chamber door she came,
With ling’ring step, and turning o’er
The Bible and the blighted flow’r:
No change on either could be seen,

More than what had or might have been.
It mattered not—she looked on,
As both to her had been unknown;
And tho’ she could not fear the book,
Her faith in that had found no crook; [Page 82]

Yet she was sceptic of the rose,
It had not faded—but seem’d froze.
It wither’d not, the leaves were green
And beautiful as they had been;
Nor blighted more than one of them,

The blossoms hung around the stem,
As touch’d by some enchanter’s wand,
It lay like crystal in her hand.
Bewitch’d or frozen, who could tell
Almighty power from magic spell.

    ’Tis New-Year’s eve, in Quakertown,††
Curmudgeon care is left alone;
And social glee, and jocund mirth,
Are gather’d round the hamlet hearth.
Old Vulcan, smutty, lank and lame,

Weary of thunder-bolt and flame,
Disputes precedence with the Squire,
And takes his station near the fire;
His lanthorn nose, and rusty lips,
Sapless and spare as Boston chips [Page 83]

To cinders fry’d—with quenchless thirst;
In raw Jamaica plunges first,
As if, when tea is called in haste,
Pure water on the range is placed,
And tortured with the living coal,

So down his throat the spirits roll;
Hissing on ’sparks’ in gallons drench’d,
For ever quenching still unquench’d;
The smother’d fire again returns,
A flame unkindled, yet that burns.

    Beside his crippled godship—squat
Crispin, the king of coblers, sat;
His full-moon face, and dimpled chin,
Grac’d with an everlasting grin.

    Crispin with understanding trash,

His customers supplied for—cash.
But furnish’d Vulcan once or twice
Gratis, with medical advice; [Page 84]
Beside, he could with flippance quote
Some legal sentences by rote;

But, deeming that it might degrade
Profession, faculty, and trade,
If he should prostitute his pow’rs
And talents, in convivial hours,
In case his consequence should fall,

He held himself apart from all,
Except the Squire—who with a nod
Acknowledged some excessive broad
And classic grins—(if not sublime)
Kept for some special thing or time.

    Behind him, like a finger post
Set where highways on wilds are cross’d,
With time and storms a little wreck’d,
Hiram, the village architect,
Stood on a bench to make a speech.

Hiram suck’d brandy, as a leech
Sucks blood—and never gets enough
Until it’s drunk and tumbles off. [Page 85]

    Though he was no great rhetorician,
Yet being village politician,

And in a proper speaking trim,
He spread his arms as if to swim,
And launch’d more deep in state affairs,
Than Parson Hope could do in prayers.
Albeit he could spin a text,

Till half the villagers were vex’d.

    The foreign items were dispatch’d,
What pow’rs to Britain were attach’d,
And what hostile—how France and Spain
Would figure in the next campaign;

How siege and slaughter would devour,
And serf some belligerant pow’r.
Whilst, like a distant cataract,
That o’er a cliff has found a tract,
He finish’d off a round tirade,

Respecting our Colonial Trade;
And had commenc’d a long oration
Concerning some strange proclamation, [Page 86]
Just publish’d from the English mail,
Dated, he said, from Teviotdale;

A noble, gentle, gen’ral man,
Or something of a Highland clan;
He could not recollect his name,
However, that was all the same,
For he could tell what he had heard,

The man had offer’d a reward
To find a wife that had been lost
Away about the western coast;
But, resting there to wet his lip
In Vulcan’s tumbler—Album Snip

Came waddling forward like a goose,
And show’d his contour in the house.

    Snip was a daily magazine,
In the birth, death, and marriage line,
And own’d a vastly fertile genius

In other matters miscellaneous;
A cabinet, as if by chance,
Had gather’d on his countenance; [Page 87]
Around the regions of his nose
Carbuncles gracefully arose;

And moles, like jaspers, rough and dun,
Had on his cheeks their growth begun;
Some shades of Ethiopian dye
Lay deeply clouded near his eye;
Whilst various gems, beneath the skin,

Had found a lodging on his chin.

    Album had brains where impudence
Had met and mix’d with common sense;
His news no prefacing might want,
Tho’ they were neither brief nor scant.

Vulcan might drink, until his eyes
Were like a pair of fire-flies,
That thro’ the air, on burning wing,
Alternate lights and shadows fling;
And tho’ sometimes the architect

Speeches like may-poles would erect;
It was not oft such things behov’d,
Save only when the spirit moved. [Page 88]
But Snip, the happiest soul on earth,
Figured at home upon the hearth;

And had the Levee all engrossed,
Ere Hiram telegraph’d his toast;
“’Tis a strange business this indeed,”
Said Album, as he shook his head;
“The gather’d groupe stood in amaze,

“And eyed the knight with dreadful gaze;
“Such things before I never knew—
“Tho’ I have heard the like—that’s true,
“And I have even read of some,
“But never one so near at home”

Continued Snip, whilst every breath
Was hush’d, and all was still as death.
“What things? what things?” the squire begun,
“What’s happen’d? any thing been done?
“Robb’ry—or murder—or—proceed,

“We do not understand your head.”

    As when some sportsman that has beat
A cover where woodcocks retreat, [Page 89]
And seen the game before his eye,
Rise in alarm and flutter by,

Before a trigger could be drawn,
So Album stood and thus began:

    “This afternoon, as Farmer Ray
“Came up the Passage from Green Bay,
“He saw a figure long and gaunt,

“Advancing to the Witch’s haunt;
“And, deeming it was Lucifer,
“Arranging some intrigue with her,
“He couch’d amongst a hemlock clump,
“And hid himself behind a stump;

“Nor waited long before the crone”
“Met with him in the porch alone,
“Though they were distant, he could mark
“They held a council deep and dark;
“And each alternately would hold

“What might be deem’d a piece of gold,
“Or shone as such around the rim,
“Though what it was, unknown to him. [Page 90]

    “Whilst twilight gather’d on the hill,
“Within his lair he tarried still;

“And as the ev’ning shadows lay
“Along the margin of the bay,
“He felt his heart with horror move,
“To see in that sequester’d grove
“The “budding beauty” of the creek,

“Such hellish habitation seek.

    “He call’d the maiden, tho’ he deem’d
“There might be witchcraft, for she seem’d
“Just like a bird some snake would charm,
“That hops around in dire alarm,

“Keeps fluttering forward, till too late,
“Then rushes on to certain fate;
“So Elen seem’d, in sore dismay,
“Would oft her ling’ring footsteps stay;
“And many a varied longitude

“Her tract betrayed among the wood;
“As anxious to escape Westcot,
“Yet wending nearer to the spot, [Page 91]
“Until it stood before her eye,
“And then she rush’d on rapidly.

    “Ray call’d aloud to heav’n and ran
“To wrest her from the Haridan;
“But saw the fearful form advance,
“And gaze into her countenance;
“Then, in fantastic figure, placed

“His fiendlike arms around her waist;
“And fondly twice embrace her cheek,
“And twice exclaimed Wit-che-ka-teak;
“Untoose, the pale Rosette’s Untoose,
“Before he let the maiden loose.

    “Nor moved she then to gain the cot,
“But seem’d entranced upon the spot;
“Whilst the old Witch her arms anew
“Like wither’d branches round her threw,
“And held her fast, and wept so loud,

“Ray heard them sobbing where he stood; [Page 92]
“But fearing much their mystic rite
“Should unawares on him alight;
“He turn’d away, and sought a path
“Exorcised from their vengeful wrath.”

    Album would still have hurried on,
His tale was far from being done;
Had not an owl that moment whoo’d
Portenteously among the wood;
A deathlike silence reign’d, and then

It echoed fearfully again;
Nor had it died upon the ear,
That hearken’d deeper still to hear,
When the fierce Micmac’s whoop and yell,
Like thunder on the village fell.

    What bard, unblest with martial verse,
In song can savage wars rehearse;
Bold were his heart would dare essay
To weave their labours with his lay; [Page 93]
Not side by side and hand in hand

They marched to wield the battle brand;
But one by one they court the strife
With tomahawk and scalping knife;
In forest dark by day conceal’d,
They seek not fame or serried field,

’Till midnight lend her sable shades,
To hide their horrid camisades.

    On Blockhouse hill the whoop begun,
And through the woods it wildly run;
The lake above, the stream below,

Returned the telegraph of woe;
Along the beach the echoes came,
And mingled with the flick’ring flame,
Whilst shrieks of terror and despair
In fearful cadence fill’d the air.

    Around that scene of festive mirth,
Where, waiting for the young year’s birth,
The wassail group their orgies held,
The whoop was long and loudly yell’d; [Page 94]
Without, the brandish’d weapon gleam’d,

Within the females wildly scream’d;
Not so the squire, his little band
Beside him rally’d hand to hand;
And tho’ alas! in kindling fire,
Already smoked their fun’ral pyre;

Still native Nova-Scotian pride
The lack of battle brand supplied;
There courage roused by danger rose
And dared barbarian rage oppose;
Nor shunn’d they death, to shelter life,

But mingled in the mortal strife;
The whoop without—the shout within,
Peal’d with a daring desperate din,
Whilst missiles hissing through the flame,
In show’rs amongst the assailants came,

And javelins without that whirl’d
In air at the assail’d were hurled;
Nor were they always hurled in vain,
For Crispin in the fray was slain; [Page 95]
And Hiram—as he sought to shade

The squire, was cleft athwart the head,
And reeling with the mortal wound,
Stretch’d Album headlong on the ground;
Nor died they unrevenged that died,
Tho’ fate and vict’ry were allied;

For seven tall Micmacs bow’d their pride,
And lay amidst the purple tide;
As many a bottle, richly stored,
Broke on the fierce barbarian horde.

    But then, alas! the flames prevail’d,

And every thing to fight with fail’d;
Defenceless, still amidst the fire,
They gather’d round the gallant squire;
Nor mercy from the savage sued,
But nobly perish’d unsubdued;

Nor shrunk to die amidst the flame,
That future bards might lisp their fame.

    Infuriate, since the fight began,
The Micmacs thro the village ran; [Page 96]
But it was not for feast of blood,

They pour’d in torrents from the wood;
Although revenge is half their faith,
Yet they were sick of wanton death;
Left by the Gaul to fate or fame,
For captives, more than scalps they came;

As lawful sov’reigns of the soil,
Where kings claim tribute, they sought spoil;
Hence, every rich and living thing
They seiz’d, that might a ransom bring;
And held, fee simple as their own,

What e’er they found in Quakertown.

    In ev’ry pass—in every way,
Their lurking files in ambush lay
Around the village—and the shore
With savages was covered o’er,

Whilst fire in various quarters spread,
To lend them light and scatter dread;
And, as the song of death begun,
That told of vengeful vict’ry won, [Page 97]
The naked tenants left their home,

Like corpses summoned from the tomb;
Nor age—nor sex, precedence share,
All caught as birds in evil snare.

    Away, away, the motley groupe,
Move forward to the frequent whoop;

O’er tangled holm, o’er braided hill,
O’er bubbling brook and lakelet still,
O’er cove, and creek, as they pass’d on,
The light from far around them shone;
And ne’er before, in glen or vale,

Has New year’s eve heard such a wail;
And never with such shout and din
Was New year’s morning welcomed in;
Whilst bank and beach repeated o’er
The wake that peal’d upon the shore;

And fowls and cattle chorus made,
Meet for such serflike serenade.

    Behind them now, upon the strand,
Came piles of plunder from the land; [Page 98]
Roll’d down the banks to wharves below,

Or haul’d as sleds along the snow;
Large bales of England’s choicest ware
Anon are proudly marshall’d there;
And pipes—and casks of ev’ry size,
Come thund’ring down in threat’ning guise;

Whilst, oftentimes, the frail canoe
Shares in the conquest where they go.

    Such scenes might cease a little space,
When herds affrighted claim the chace;
Still, it was sad at noon of night,

To see Chebucto gleam so bright;
And hark the howls of dogs that fled,
Come like a requiem o’er the dead;
Whilst cackling geese and bleating sheep,
The wake in dismal cadence keep.

    Away—away, the Illenoo
Their course along the bay pursue;
Nor might the ruthless sept forget
To rifle cot and castellet. [Page 99]
From Creighton Hall the guests are gone,

The prison-creek¹⁸ is left with none;
The captives and their keepers too
Are fellow-peers to Cusawoe;
The bars that else had hope control’d,
Could not from fortune long withhold;

(Fortune that often jilts the muse,
Now miserly and now profuse);
Nor could the Nurse be lonely left,
Lest fate should still be lack of weft;
The web her daughters had to weave

Was warped in their loom that eve;
But counting length or breadth were vain,
Until the shuttle stay’d again.

    When morning dawn’d (the New year’s morn)
On Clarence tow’r and Greenfield bourn;

In various groupes the savage clan,
Had camped near the barbacan;
Beyond the raging ocean’s reach
A fire was blazing on the beach; [Page 100]
And circled on the frozen ground,

Were prisoners and pillage found;
Whilst, like a rampart round them thrown,
The victors formed the farthest zone;
Tho’ farther still a cloud of mist
Hung o’er Chebucto’s heaving breast;

And hid the isles that lay between
Her arms—or on her bosom lean.

    Beside a bush—almost alone,
’Two female figures lay—and one,
With open volume in her hand,

Stood by them weeping on the strand;
Be these Miss Elen—Lady Scott,
And Widow Grhame—but ask me not
What has escaped the muses care,
To tell how heaven has brought them there.

    The Wuspem chief of Marlaquille,
Wit-che-ka-teak, when night was still,
Left Westcot as the years had met
With tidings to the pale Rosette; [Page 101]
Nor ever dream’d that in his way

The Waghon tribe in ambush lay;
Until he heard the din of war,
And saw the flame that gleam’d afar;
Then turn’d, as sympathy and fame,
Besieged him with an equal claim.

And now like some commanding tow’r—
Thine Clarence, on the eastern shore
Immoveable—but still prepared,
Chebucto’s cloistered banks to guard,
That friendly chief within the wood,

Watch o’er the female triad stood;
Hence, wheat on earth is accident,
Heavn’s fix’d decrees oft represent.

    Ah! who can tell what feelings there,
What love—what gladness—what despair,

Commingled in those hearts, that grief
Had girdled like a gather’d sheaf;
The Lady said—“I’ll die in peace,
“Already does my sorrow cease; [Page 102]
“My sorrows—long enough they’ve been,

“But Elen lives—and I have seen
“All, all I sought—nor only you,
“Instead of one, Heav’n sent me two;
“Two? Yes, and double more we know,
“Heav’n were as willing to bestow.”

    “Ah! mother, is it kind of Heav’n,”
The daughter said, “that we are driv’n
“Here—is it only this you crave,
“To meet together at the grave;
“Or worse where death in hurtling hives,

“Thrice terrible around us lives;
“And yawns, and whets his sting, and gapes
“In nameless forms and dismal shapes?
“O ’tis not kind, I rather deem,
“Such blessings cruelty’s extreme;

“Yet I live heav’n, and oft have felt
“This heart of mine in pleasure melt;
“Ev’n in my hapless widowhood,
“O’er gifts divine when they were good; [Page 103]
“And should we scape this fearful scene,

“I might feel happiness again;
“Or taste her cup, else why prepare
“Such bev’rage, if we may not share
“The draught—Hope, is an evergreen,
“And chance already ours has been;

“But wherefore hope, if death is nigh,
“Hope needs not live, where life must die.”

    Unmoved and mute—still Elen stood;
Beside them in a pensive mood;
Her heart was big, and soar’d to heav’n,

But not before despair had striv’n;
And left some relics still behind,
Tho’ yet unbanish’d from her mind,
Kept loit’ring round her languid eye,
And tinged it with a fearful dye;

Nor was she faithless, yet, but ONE
That erst had saved the patriarch’s son,
On the lone mountain’s distant height,
Could still make bare an arm of might; [Page 104]
And in Acadia’s farther wild,

Yet spare a widow’s only child.

    Nor could the Waghon tribe have been
Long idle, in such a busy scene;
Their dance had finish’d to the sun,
And that of death had now begun;

Their bloody banqueting was plann’d,
And stakes already stay’d in the sand;
Whilst seven creek captives they ordain,
A sacrifice to soothe the slain,
Or hunt their game—or lend them aid,

In some elysian camisade,
Midst hideous whoop and christian wail,
Are passing thro’ their ordeal;
And looking, ah! how they look round
For help, that cannot there be found.

    The mist is scatter’d far away,
That erewhile settled on the bay; [Page 105]
And doubling round the devil’s isle,¹⁹
A ship veers to the east defile;
Whilst land-ward booming, from her came

Loud thunder, issuing thro’ flame;
Nor ceased the peal—nor ceased the smoke,
That proudly o’er her bulwarks broke,
Ere, fast beneath her pennon slung,
The Micmac’s sacred symbol hung;

A bow unbent—a pointless dart,
And broken tomahawk—apart
From three long arrows, smoothly bound
With skins of speckled snakes around;
And round a scalping knife, half sheath’d,

Were belts of Wampum richly wreath’d;
Whilst o’er the argent ensign set,
Conspicuous shone the calumet;
And Cusawoe from these could tell
What olive branches image well.²⁰

    Soon as the barge is overboard,
A noble freight is in it stored; [Page 106]         
And lightly scuds along the wave,
Midst gallant cheers that greet the brave;
Nor scarcely creaks beneath the oar,

Ere it is moor’d along the shore.

    The first that leapt upon the land,
And with him carried high command,
Is Eustace Wynne—a gen’rous tar,
Prepared alike for peace and war;

One hand with trinkets amply stored,
And one is resting on his sword;
But tell it not to Elen Grhame,
’Twould burn her maiden cheek with shame.

    And who the next that treads along,

And seeks a passage thro’ the throng;
Such martial air but ill supplies
The incog claim’d in his disguise;
With Wampum belt and pipe of peace,
He courts the sacrifice to cease; [Page 107]

But whilst his speech to Casawoe,
Is sometimes vague, and often slow;
His eye on Elen Grhame is fixed,
An eye of love and sorrow mix’d;
And turning on Fitz Eustace, said,

Will you enquire of yonder maid
Whence she may be and what her name,
And—blush not Wynne—nor Arthur blame,
Love has been mine—nor time can blanch
What many waters will not quench;

I’ve sought for death in fields of war,
And travelled years in climes afar;
I’ve flung earth’s useless toys aside,
And snapp’d the lavish shoots from pride;
Ev’n friendship spurn’d, and laugh’d at fame,

But love unquench’d still burns the same;
And still my heart is unconsum’d,
For Elen Scott is there inhumed;
But ah! how much that fair one seems
Like her, yet blessing Arthur’s dreams. [Page 108]

    Love, friendship, valour, all at once,
Rush’d to the Sailor’s countenance;
The rising blush, the smile supprest,
And daring eye them all confest.
And more than all—for jealousy

Above them held a colour high;
But he was motionless the while,
Lest passion there might speech beguile;
And look’d around with steadfast eye,
Yet ventured not to make reply.

    As still in deep suspense they stood,
Wit-che-ka-teak sprung from the wood;
And rushing rudely o’er the strand,
He snatch’d the book from Elen’s hand;
And open’d to the stranger’s eye

A page of Bible mystery.

    What tokens that blank leaf might tell
The stranger could unriddle well; [Page 109]
Yet would enquire from whence they came,
And who, or where was Elen Grhame;
Or Euphen Scott—but there was none

Could answer where the Chief was gone;
And looking round on either side,
Stood mute again, but could not hide
A tear, that hasten’d to embalm
And eye that else was keen and calm;

Yet well might love such homage claim
From martyr like Sir Arthur Grhame.

    Ere Wynne could ask, or Arthur tell
The tale of type and miracle,
The Wuspem chief before them brought

The treasure Grhame so long had sought;
The pale Rosette, no longer pale,
(A crimson blush her beauties veil)
Lost in the transit brief and bright,
Stood like a statue of delight;

Amaz’d and overwhelm’d in bliss,
And joy and love and happiness. [Page 110]

    And Elen, as a lovely flow’r
Made lovelier in the summer show’r,
Came bending, beautiful and fair,

To seek a Father’s blessing there;
And seem’d to double all her charms,
When folded in her father’s arms.

    Nor was the good old Lady Scott
In such a gladsome hour forgot;

No pleasures else, than these now given
On earth, she sought to share from Heav’n;
The lost and loved already there,
Oft burdened, but now blest her prayer.

    But who can conjure up a scene,

When friends, long parted, meet again;
What muse the boundless vision bind,
Where verse might never limit find;
Genius of song it is not mine,
To make these happy moments thine;

It is not mine to hold the true
And living images in view; [Page 111]
Yet fancy there can spread her wing,
And some faint semblance from it bring.

    Leila! ’tis meet my tale should close,

Nor ask if these were fancied woes;
The captives from the village brought
Sir Arthur ransom’d on the spot;
And buried in the Westcot wood
A hatchet deeply dyed in blood;

Whilst chief with chief together met,
To smoke the peaceful calumet.
The pale Rosette is known to fame,
In distant climes as Lady Grhame;
Lady of Beaumot bank and moor,

Of Linton holm and Clifton-tow’r,
That rise along the links of Kale,
And Grange in “pleasant Teviotdale;
Whilst Elen’s name, and Arthur’s line,
Have both been blent with Eustace Wynne,

And the old Witch that heir’d Westcot,
Has long been lost in Lady Scott. [Page 112]
When the Chief of Wuspem hid his face
To the wilderness with grief went Grace;
And the pale man’s paascowee is still

The manitou of Marlaquille. [Page 113]

* The snow-drop [back]

** Brother. [back]

‡ Gun. [back]

‡‡ Daughter. [back]    

† Mother. [back]

†† Dartmouth. [back]