The Fair Captive

The idle winds at dawn that strayed
Thro' wavy depths of joyous shade,
The early chirp of breeze-swung boughs,
The carol of the mountain brows,
The far off brawl of farms that broke
The drowsy silence of the morn,
And eager baying which awoke
Responsive to the flying horn,
In covert near, or echoing dell,
On Rodney's ear like omens fell;
For troubled Dearborn he had found
In need of all his garrison;
And now for Saville sadly bound
His pensive footsteps wander'd on.


Wild, strangely broken landscapes lay
Along his solitary way.
Soft gazing thro' the morning gray,
To right and left against the sky,
The border hills were stacked on high;
And as upon his eye they rose,
And shook their forests from repose,
Their brighter aspect on they drew,
A sober wear of filmy blue,
Like time's remotest visionary hue.


But Courage can no longer lie
With folded arms, when on his eye
There springs an opportunity.
Tho' beaten oft upon his walls,
And often tho' his banner falls,
Whene'er the day a breach supplies,
True Courage from defeat will rise,
And to renew the conflict flies.
Now in the lonely glen, or far
Amid the rocks whose shoulders bar
The toiling footsteps of young light,
Wild Rodney turns a nimbler flight.
No mountain stag, when clam'rous horns,
Him of the rousing danger warns,
Hath ever quicker brushed the dew,
Or fleeter leapt the deep shades thro',
Than Rodney fled with his sad tale
To 'larm the cotters in the vale.
His face with apprehension pale,
To many a woodman's open door,
The signal of disaster bore.


With gestures wild, to arms he called,
With words of war their hearts appalled,
And as the stout bands gathered;
He, warning others, flew ahead.
The settler on the doorsill rude
Of his poor forest-home, firm stood,
And as the news more wild would run,
He felt the triggers of his gun.
And glancing thro' the forests wide
To some near neighbor's 'gan to stride.
Thus Rodney from the forests drew
To meet the battle -- not a few.
And as the corn-fields raised a shout,
And hills and valleys emptied out,
Bold hearts, that would the rescue try,
The hurried glance of many an eye;
The ceaseless pacing to and fro
Of those who waited; and the slow
And guarded accent of each tongue
That marked the speakers, them among,
Disclosed how thick that Peril hung
Her storm-swelled billows in the sky,
And troubled Peace's canopy.


The vale fermenting, Rodney left,
As lion wild of young bereft;
And tho' the wasty forests wheeled
A speed that would have shamed the steeled
And wildest travel of the horse,
That snuffs up strength and leads the course.
By distant lodge and lone abode,
Where not a rudest fence, nor road,
A mark of civilization made
Within the vast primeval shade,
Untiring as the wind he strode.
Miles off a weary hill upon,
His early footsteps met the sun.
His eyes as earnest as the streaks
Of light that dashed along the peaks
In living crimson; far away
The nook sequestered did survey,
'Mid which his fated Saville lay.


A faint smoke rose, and slowly curled
In pensive wreaths against the sky,
And drifting farther off on high,
Like visions of the glory-world;
Hung sadly on the distant shore
Of indistinctness; then passed o'er,
Now dimly seen, now seen no more.
What apprehensions thrilled him now!
What dread conjectures clenched his brow
Had Saville just from calm repose
Awakened? Or had pluming foes
Her cheerful homes in ashes lain,
And heaped her sacred hearths with slain?
The dilatory smoke seem'd born
Of blazing plenty's stirring morn,
Or rolling from a famished fire,
That had in its devouring ire
Licked up all life that near it lay,
And turned to eat itself away.
Down from the hights his way along,
From rock to rock, till lost among
The lofty woods that bowed and sighed,
He turned with yet untiring stride;
And from the intervening vale,
Emerged and stood aghast and pale.


Lo! all his hopes had crumbled to the dust;
Saville had fallen in the direful fight;
And from devouring Ruin's fire-jaws thrust
Her poor remains, disgorged by sickened night
In morning's lap, yet steamed an ember-smould'ring sight.
Coal heaps where homes once stood, and bodies charred,
Of innocence and beauty in the heaps;
Scalped heads from love's keen knowledge even barred,
By savage battle's hands; and little steeps,
Where wound the village paths to field or wood,
Made red and slippery with kindred blood,
Were sights that filled the hero's saddened eyes;
The tributes gathered by hostilities.
Ah! how destruction's devastating hand
There fell upon delights! How his eyes scanned
With gorgon glee, the ghastly path he made
Thro' Peace's bow'rs within the western shade!
And like a jackal at the lion's side,
There Folly laughed to see her fallen pride.
Lo! now the Champion bends his daring brow,
And thro' the ruins plods pond'ringly slow;
A sob suppresses, sighing, "Me! ah, me!
O, Dora! fairest Dora! where is she?"
A low'ring cloud encamps around his soul,
And sorrow's big rain down his troubled cheek doth roll.


A tiny heel-print leaving, lo! he spies,
In which there here and there a torn spray lies;
A flash of joy light'nings in his eyes.
The way it moves, with breathing hushed he views,
And eager as a rolling flood, pursues.
Thro' dense shades leaning, now he threads along,
He gains commanding hills, high woods among.
With fearless steps, divides the lowly vale,
And like a mountain hart, the rocks beyond doth scale.


Of how he sped for eager miles away;
How strange scenes filled the melancholy day,
Of how the rustle of some waste-fed herd,
How plantive woods that piped and chirped and stirred;
Or how the distant cat'ract's pensive moan
Alarmed or moved him, cannot here be shown;
But on in wild pursuit he ponders still,
And stands at sundown, on an oak-brow'd hill,
When solemn night comes on with noiseless tread,
And o'er the landscape doth her rayless mantle spread.


Not many paces had the night come on
Blund'ring with sable steps, when still, upon
A log sat Rodney in despondent mood;
When, lo! a light approached him in the wood.
"What!" arising, cries he, in an undertone,
"Is this which haunts me in these wilds alone?'
And quick aside he noiselessly steals,
To where a denser shade his halt conceals;
When two old women of the skulky bands,
Mope by with pots of water in their hands.
Torches they bear, upon their way to shine,
In oil steeped, and riven from the pine.
He marks their movements with an eager eye,
Their way pursues, and waits discovery.
So when some mastiff thro' the sleeping folds,
A stranger passing, loiteringly, beholds,
He waiting lies, or follows crouching low,
The errand of the visitor to know;
When, if in thieving he his hands invest,
A roaring chastisement will him arrest.


Now where beyond the vale a cliff ascends,
Around whose base an unknown river bends,
A smoking camp the peering watcher spies,
And warlike satisfaction lights his eyes.
Beneath the stooping boughs he can behold
The busy squaws swarm'd round by warriors bold.
Then in the rocks, a score of yards away,
He like a crouching lion eyes his prey.
"Oh, Heav'n!" he gasps, and turns his painful eyes
From where in hideous hands his Dora lies,
To raving lusts a fair and tender prize.
Fair as a moon that o'er the night's face steals,
And gaping rocks and grizly wastes reveals,
The sweet and patient face of Dora shone
Upon these scourges of the wilds unknown.
The rabble now in high confusion runs,
Their knives the warriors grapple, now their guns.
Claim the fair triumph ere the game decides,
While shouting might the opposing voice derides.
Soon other methods they to conquest choose,
This one or that the tiny captive woos
With wild expressions of languishing love,
Like demons longing for the light above.
With heated eyes they stare into her face,
Drag her soft bosom in a rough embrace;
Their beads display, their painted head-gear show;
Like satyrs gibber, and like monsters blow.
Sweet as the vespers of some plaintive stream,
Or as the sounds in a mid-summer's dream,
Dora lisps something, with her fair hands clasped,
When, "Ah, my God, she prays!" wild Rodney gasped.
The camp-fires glare upon her lifted hands,
And on her wrists disclose the bloody bands.
When, in the night, the hero thrusts his form,
Fierce as the lightning-arm that strikes the storm.
A stalwart warrior hands the pleading maid,
And drags her roughly thro' the darkling shade,
While to her tender remonstrance replies
A monster's scowl, and laughter mocks her cries.
The fiery watcher scans the dark field o'er,
And finds a smooth way straight his feet before.
Now all his strength he in his poised arm flings,
The impatient moment checks its onward wings;
Till like an eagle dropping from the skies,
Right on the howling band the swift avenger flies.


A flash of steely lightning from his hand,
Strikes down the groaning leader of the band;
Divides his startled comrades, and again
Descending, leaves poor Dora's captor slain.
Her, seizing then within a strong embrace,
Out in the dark he wheels his flying face;
His victims leaves to struggle with surprise,
And like a phantom thro' the forest flies.
She, brave as steel, against his bosom lies;
Gasps, "Rodney, is it you, or but a dream!
Oh, have you come! Oh, are things what they seem?"
He speaks not, but, with stalwart tenderness
Her swelling bosom firm on his doth press.
Leaps like a stag that flees the coming hound,
And like a whirlwind rustles o'er the ground.
Her locks swim in dishevelled wildness o'er
His shoulders, streaming to his waist or more;
While on and on, strong as a rolling flood,
His sweeping footsteps part the silent wood.
Now low beneath the list'ning boughs he leant,
Now thro' the tow'ring upland swifter bent,
And on a hill, where in her gentler sway,
The open sky lent vision one dim ray,
He pausing stood, to cast a look around,
And catch, if possible, some warning sound.
But all was still; the wide world was asleep,
Save that a waking night-wind there did creep.
Then Dora, like a heroine fair and true,
Cried, "Rodney! Rodney! Ah, I know 'tis you."
"Yes, Dora," lisps the Champion, and applies
His bloody knife to loose her painful ties;
When, like a bird that mounts on airy wing,
To dash into the light of joyous spring,
She rose, she fluttered to his strong embrace,
With streams of joy pouring down her upturned face.
Heaven might envy such a scene as this,
Since angels ken no more of perfect bliss
Than, when disaster and a direful day
Conspire to lead a fair young life away
In captive chains, to red-eyed lusts a prey,
Is felt by him whose fearless hand rescues,
Tho' howling danger on his devious path pursues.


Miles further on the twain in converse stand,
Where depth on depth of rayless wastes expand;
Together lean, and on their lone way peer,
Listen, to catch night's voices, but hear
Their hearts leap only, and the footfalls weird,
That round the anxious lonely heart are always beating heard.
From gaping wounds much Rodney's strength has flown;
Against a tree he sets his rifle down,
Submits to Nature's soft compelling sway,
And there concludes to bide returning day.
His blanket winds his manly form around,
And spreads his weary length along the ground.
"Here, Dora," then he speaks, "rest on my arm,
My life shall stretch between you and all harm;
Your frail and much worn strength some rest must have,
Or you'll escape the foe to find a grave."


No word speaks Dora, but her timid eyes
Survey the spot where her defender lies;
Then as a lamb when prowling wolves appear,
The horned defender of the folds will near,
She 'proaches Rodney; stands in trustful mood
And looks around her in the dismal wood.
Reluctant now, and innocently shy,
She kneels upon her turfy couch close by,
Her hands extend, so delicately white,
In earnest prayer unto the God of Night,
In grace Divine upon her to descend,
And o'er her guardian to in gentle mercy bend.
Then in his bosom nestles with deep sighs
That bring great drops of sadness to his eyes.
"Oh sleep, descend, and seal thy lovely sight!"
Said Rodney in his heart; "no harm this night
Can thee befall. And when the op'ning day
Shall spread her gentler guidance on our way,
My life shall guard the way before thy feet;
Tho' dangers thronging thick, await us there to meet."


The bending heavens drop a tear and sigh,
Old forest sent'nels spread their shelter nigh,
And night winds burthened with their heavy dews,
Strip off their chillness, and their soft sounds use,
While in deep musings sits the pensive hour
And fills composure's urn in slumber's quiet bower.
Robing the hills in light and beauty, now
A late moon hangs upon yon mountain's brow,
Looks stilly on the world's round sleeping face,
Then veiled in silver clouds withdraws with queenly grace.
Now Dora wakes from strange and fitful dreams,
The brightest rival of the bright moon's beams.
Soft light between the parting branches steals,
And Rodney's stern, still, manly brow reveals.
In him who slumbers, one can better read
The master passions and the thoughts which lead;
For, then the face, obedient to no call
Of shrewd deceit, shows nothing false at all;
But on the features silent truth doth write
Her plainest letters, in their plainest light.
Thus, sighing, looked the fair young frontier maid
Into the sleeper's open face, and said:
"What deep marks there hath hardship's plow-share laid?
Reserve how manly there! What self-control!
What resolution! Ah a man of soul!"
Then, as some bird that hails the bloom-crowned spring,
O'er sunny meadows spreads her wayward wing,
And joyous flits where all the woodlands sing;
Dora, as wayward, lifts her lovely mouth,
Sweet as the dewy blossoms of the South;
On Rodney's forehead parts the tangled hair,
And gently leaves affection's impress there.
He wakes; and straightway Dora whispers: "Look
How yonder moon lights up this lonely nook
With silver glory! Could I but forget
Dear Saville, and the scenes that haunt me yet,
Rapt fancy here would build a wild retreat,
And gladly linger in her forest seat."
Then Rodney, rising: "Day is almost here,
For now the Seven Stars do disappear;
So, think not, Dora, o'er the past to brood,
For loneliness abhors a theme of blood;
The day may o'er your sorrows brightness fling;
The saddest Winter hath a joyous Spring.
Hope on, for this sweet dream I had to-night:
I stood high on a farm-surrounded hight,
Where fruitful hills rose round the even view,
Not indistinct, but robed in charming blue.
There, sober herds in peaceful order strayed,
And tinkling folds enliven'd the evening shade.
Love's pensive reed wound the fair vales along,
Or sauntered leisurely his flocks among.
Now I reclining on my elbow leant,
To sweet winds list'ning as they came and went,
And tuned their many stringed pleasurement;
When, o'er me bending, ere I saw from where,
An angel stood in golden waves of hair
Half drowned. Regarding me with care, she drew
Nearer, kissed my forehead, and upward flew."


Then spake the angel of the hero's dream:
"Surely some happy token that doth seem,
And, could we but unveil the mystery,
And now discover the vast yet to be,
Some future bliss we both in it might see."
And with evasive sweetness now she turns
To where the mournful waste, her Saville's ashes urns.


Much she relates, and Rodney sorrowing hears,
Sometimes with groans responsive, sometimes tears.
The waiting town in deep suspense she shows,
While brake and fen are howling with her foes.
With heavy countenance and long drawn sighs,
Danger asserts her reign in valor's eyes;
The women weep, and pray, and tear their hair,
And raise a storm of turbulent despair.
Children and women now are barred in doors,
Without, the heavy footed tumult roars,
And loud is heard the bloody-handed fray.
The townsmen struggle, but are swept away.
Out in the storm the screaming children fly,
And frantic mothers follow where they fly,
But this on Rodney's soul doth saddest stay:
Dora is dragged a captive in the wilds away.


Fair Dora ended here, and Rodney rose,
Walked from the boughs that did their rest enclose,
And said: "Let's journey, yonder comes the morn;
See! how the mountains laugh the vanquished night to scorn!
And hand in hand they meet the bright-eyed day,
As on to Dearborn Rodney leads his lovely prize away.