Madeline. A Legend Of The Mohawk.

Where the waters of the Mohawk     Through a quiet valley glide,     From the brown church to her dwelling     She that morning passed a bride.     In the mild light of October     Beautiful the forest stood,     As the temple on Mount Zion     When God filled its solitude.     Very quietly the red leaves,     On the languid zephyr's breath,     Fluttered to the mossy hillocks     Where their sisters slept in death:     And the white mist of the Autumn     Hung o'er mountain-top and dale,     Soft and filmy, as the foldings     Of the passing bridal veil.     From the field of Saratoga     At the last night's eventide,     Rode the groom, - a gallant soldier     Flushed with victory and pride,     Seeking, as a priceless guerdon     From the dark-eyed Madeline,     Leave to lead her to the altar     When the morrow's sun should shine.     All the children of the village,     Decked with garland's white and red,     All the young men and the maidens,     Had been forth to see her wed;     And the aged people, seated     In the doorways 'neath the vine,     Thought of their own youth and blessed her,     As she left the house divine.     Pale she was, but very lovely,     With a brow so calm and fair,     When she passed, the benediction     Seemed still falling on the air.     Strangers whispered they had never     Seen who could with her compare,     And the maidens looked with envy     On her wealth of raven hair.     In the glen beside the river     In the shadow of the wood,     With wide-open doors for welcome     Gamble-roofed the cottage stood;     Where the festal board was waiting,     For the bridal guests prepared,     Laden with a feast, the humblest     In the little village shared.     Every hour was winged with gladness     While the sun went down the west,     Till the chiming of the church-bell     Told to all the hour for rest:     Then the merry guests departed,     Some a camp's rude couch to bide,     Some to bright homes, - each invoking     Blessings on the gentle bride.     Tranquilly the morning sunbeam     Over field and hamlet stole,     Wove a glory round each red leaf,     Then effaced the Frost-king's scroll:     Eyes responded to its greeting     As a lake's still waters shine,     Young hearts bounded, - and a gay group     Sought the home of Madeline.     Bird-like voices 'neath the casement     Chanted in the hazy air,     A sweet orison for wakening, -     Half thanksgiving and half prayer.     But no white hand drew the curtain     From the vine-clad panes before,     No light form, with buoyant footstep,     Hastened to fling wide the door.     Moments numbered hours in passing     'Mid that silence, till a fear     Of some unseen ill crept slowly     Through the trembling minstrels near,     Then with many a dark foreboding,     They, the threshold hastened o'er,     Paused not where a stain of crimson     Curdled on the oaken floor;     But sought out the bridal chamber.     God in Heaven! could it be     Madeline who knelt before them     In that trance of agony?     Cold, inanimate beside her,     By the ruthless Cow-boys slain     In the night-time whilst defenceless,     He she loved so well was lain;     O'er her bridal dress were scattered,     Stains of fearful, fearful dye,     And the soul's light beamed no longer     From her tearless, vacant eye.     Round her slight form hung the tresses     Braided oft with pride and care,     Silvered by that night of madness     With its anguish and despair.     She lived on to see the roses     Of another summer wane,     But the light of reason never     Shone in her sweet eyes again.     Once where blue and sparkling waters     Through a quiet valley run,     Fertilizing field and garden,     Wandered I at set of sun;     Twilight as a silver shadow     O'er the softened landscape lay,     When amid a straggling village     Paused I in my rambling way.     Plain and brown the church before me     In the little graveyard stood,     And the laborer's axe resounded     Faintly, from the neighboring wood.     Through the low, half-open wicket     Deeply worn, a pathway led:     Silently I paced its windings     Till I stood among the dead.     Passing by the grave memorials     Of departed worth and fame,     Long I paused before a record     That no pomp of words could claim:     Simple was the slab and lowly,     Shaded by a fragrant vine,     And the single name recorded,     Plainly writ, was "Madeline."     But beneath it through the clusters     Of the jessamine I read,     "Spes," engraved in bolder letters, -     This was all the marble said.