Читать книгу Poems - S. C. Mercer - Страница 6

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[We rode for hours, the day following, in the track of the fire which had swept the vast prairies as far as the eye could reach with utter desolation, finding on several occasions the charred remains of animals which had perished in the flames, and in one instance those of an unfortunate hunter and his horse.—Brissot’s Western Travels, Vol. II.]

One autumn eve, when clouds unfurled

Swept down the west in bannered splendor,

And dying sunset bathed the world

In dolphin rainbows, mild and tender,

As if the sun in heaven afar

Lingered to greet the Evening Star,

Mingling his glance of clearer light

With the first radiance of the night,

And in the twilight, tarrying late,

Unwilling passed the western gate;

A hunter, wearied with the chase,

With his spent steed was slowly turning

Unto his far-off resting place,

Where his lone campfire light was burning—

For many a mile his steed had gone

O’er the wide prairie since the dawn.

The choice bits from the saddle hung,

The deer’s fat haunch, the buffalo’s tongue,

A simple but a sweet repast

To cheer his long and painful fast.

Slow paced the strong but weary steed

Of spacious chest and lightning speed,

A coal black of the Norman breed

Who ne’er had failed in time of need;

A creature full of strength and grace,

The noblest of his noble race

In toil, in battle, or the chase,

To hunt the bear on mountain side,

To chase the deer o’er prairie wide,

Or dash upon the ambuscade

Of wily Indian foe arrayed,

Or plunge through winter’s deepest snow,

Or breast the torrent’s swiftest flow.

BIRTHPLACE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS Fairview, Christian County, Kentucky

To huntsman who has borne the toil,

Welcome the rest, and sweet the spoil;

So mused McGregor in his mind,

Leading his steed, when far behind,

Upon his startled ears there came

A rushing sound of distant flame—

A long, hoarse murmuring, sullen sound,

As when an earthquake shakes the ground.

Or the volcano’s voice of wrath

Warns all to leave the lava’s path.

A moment scarce he turned his head,

Too well he knew that sound of dread,

A moment—and McGregor saw

A sight to chill his soul with awe;

Behind him, hastening onward came

A long, red serpent line of flame,

Which, hissing, shot its tongues of light

Upward into the gathering night,

While midway ’twixt the earth and sky

Like a death-angel hovering by,

The smoke pall rolled in volumes dread,

The awful banner of the dead.

Quickly the burden was untied—

“Now, Saladin!” the huntsman cried,

“Now, Saladin, my gallant steed,

Attest thyself of noble breed,

For never yet thy matchless speed

Has served us in so sore a need,

And never in the fiercest chase

Hast thou e’er made so dread a race

As this wild fight for life or death

From yon fire-demon’s scorching breath.”

With nostrils spread and pointed ear,

And eye of fierceness, not of fear,

A moment brief, Saladin halted,

While to his seat his rider vaulted,

A moment snuffed the hot flame’s breath,

The stifling atmosphere of death;

A moment shook his streaming mane,

Then sped like lightning o’er the plain—

Fly! Not for one brief moment stay—

Fly, for thy life—away, away!

Stretch every muscle—sinew—fly!

To pause one moment is to die!

Weary and worn and spent with pain,

The struggling steed bounds o’er the plain

Each iron sinew vainly straining;

The fire upon his path is gaining;

The mad flame brighter and brighter glows,

The fatal circle smaller grows,

And hotter, fiercer, wilder, higher,

Leap the red demons of the fire.

The wild-eyed herd of buffaloes came

Impetuous plunging through the flame;

The antelopes in terror flying,

On fleetest limbs in vain relying;

The grouse fly round on whirring wings,

Then blindly seek their funeral fires;

The rattlesnake in anguish springs,

Pierced with its own fang—writhes—expires.

Long howls the wolf in dismal yell,

Such as might shake the caves of hell,

And many a wild, despairing cry

Of brutes in mortal agony

Falls thickly on McGregor’s ear,

In wailings ominous and drear.

’Tis on him—now at last,

Encircled by the fiery blast,

McGregor stands

With folded hands,

Firm as a martyr when he braves

The rack, the faggot, or the waves.

Exhausted, panting, foaming, gasping,

As though an iron band were clasping

His laboring chest, Saladin sank

With quivering side and streaming flank,

While his pale rider rent the air

With one sad groan of deep despair.

Red rose the fire-cave’s crackling arch,

Red rose the lurid walls around him,

The hungry flames his pulses parch,

And like a boa’s coils have bound him.

The buffalo

In dying throe,

With furious hoof the hunter paws;

The wolf with howl

And shriek and growl

In his red life’s blood bathes his jaws,

And rends his limbs apart,

And the expiring panther gnaws

His palpitating heart,

As if the long revenge they cherish

Were eased if their old foe might perish.

By the red moon’s ghostly light,

Struggling through the murky vail,

Dripping and dank with tears of night,

And chill mist casting shadows pale,

A voice of sorrow seems to wail,

A fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone,

Thrilling the pained air with its moan,

As if some Ariel unsleeping,

A death watch in the sky was keeping,

His harp of tears in pity sweeping:

“Rest, huntsman! from thy final chase,

Rest, Saladin! from thy last, long race,

Horseman and horse they both have gone;

Dying with all their armor on,

And slumbering in their last repose

Together, circled by their foes.”