Huguenot Fort

I stood upon a breezy height, and markedThe rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scytheWith a forgiving fragrance, even in deathBlessing its enemies; and broad-armed treesFruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streamsThat cheered their sedgy banks.But at my feetWere vestiges, that turned the thoughts awayFrom all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stonesThat formed their fortress, who in earlier daysSought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,And from the madness of a tyrant king,Were strewed around.Methinks, yon wreck stands forthIn ragged strength once more, and firmly guardsFrom the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flushOf purple vintage, found but welcome cold

From thee, my native land! the wintry moanOf wind-swept forests, and the appalling frownOf icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them freeTo strike the sweet harp of the secret soul,And this was all their wealth. For this they blestThy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roofAt morn and night, or with the murmuring swellOf stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.

Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embraceYon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with themDidst brave the ocean surge.Say, drank thy germThe dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiledAn infant fibre, mid the fruitful mouldOf smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrinkFrom the fierce footsteps of a warlike train,Brother with brother fighting unto death,At fair Rochelle?Hast thou no tale for me?

Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale,With whispered words.There was a gentle form,A fair young creature, who at twilight hourOft brought me water, and would kindly raiseMy drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft,As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh

Was tremulous with love. For she had leftOne in her own fair land, with whom her heartFrom childhood had been twined.Oft by her side,What time the youngling moon went up the sky,Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower;He strove to win her to the faith he held,Speaking of heresy with flashing eye,Yet with such blandishment of tenderness,As more than argument dissolveth doubtWith a young pupil, in the school of love.Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloomOf persecution's cloud, and soon its stormBurst on the Huguenots.Their churches fell,Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack;And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat,In frowning espionage, troubling the sleepOf infant innocence.Stern war burst forth,And civil conflict on the soil of FranceWrought fearful things.The peasant's blood was ploughedIn, with the wheat he planted, while from cliffsThat overhung the sea, from caves and densThe hunted worshippers were madly driven,Out 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain,The anthem on their tongues.The coast was thronged

With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid,Leading her little sister, in the stepsOf their afflicted parents, hasting leftThe meal uneaten, and the table spreadIn their sweet cottage, to return no more,The lover held her to his heart, and prayedThat from her erring people she would turnTo the true fold of Christ, for so he deemedThat ancient Church, for which his breast was cladIn soldier's panoply.But she, with tearsLike Niobe, a never-ceasing flood,Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep.And so, as years sped on, with patient browShe bare the burdens of the wilderness,His image, and an everlasting prayerWithin her soul.And when she sank away,As fades the lily when its day is done,There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glanceOf earnest supplication, that the heartsSevered so long, might join, where bigot zealShould find no place.She hath a quiet bedBeneath yon turf, and an unwritten nameOn earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.

Vine of Roussillon! tell me other talesOf that high-hearted race, who for the sake

Of conscience, made those western wilds their home?How to their door the prowling savage stole,Staining their hearth-stone with the blood of babes,And as the Arab strikes his fragile tentMaking the desert lonely, how they leftTheir infant Zion with a mournful heartTo seek a safer home?Fain would I sitBeside this ruined fort and muse of them,Mingling their features with my humble verse,Whom many of the noblest of our landClaim as their honored sires.On all who bearTheir name, or lineage, may their mantle rest,That firmness for the truth, that calm contentWith simple pleasures, that unswerving trustIn toil, adversity and death, which castSuch healthful leaven mid the elementsThat peopled this New World.