Beneath an awning's silken shade, Where the light breeze its music made, With woven fringe and silken cord, Sat the young bride with her brave lord.

Her hand in his was ling'ring still, And every throb of his full heart Met her young pulses with a thrill, And sent the blood up with a start, To that round cheek but late so pale And blanched beneath the bridal veil.

A tear still trembled in her eye, Like dews that in the violet lie; But breaking through its lovely sheen, The brightness of her soul was seen, Like light within the amethyst, Which told how truly she was blest; Though as she met his ardent gaze, Like the veined petal of a flower Her eyelids drooped, as from the blaze Of some loved, high, but dreaded power.

As bound by some subduing spell, In beauty at his side she bowed.

The bridal robe around her fell, Like fragments of a summer cloud; The loosened veil had backward swept, And deeply in her glossy hair, Like light, the orange blossoms slept, As if they sought new beauty there; And pearls lay softly on her neck, Like hailstones melting over snow, Save when the blood, that dyed her cheek.

Diffused abroad its rosy glow, And playing on her bosom-swell, With every heart-pulse rose or fell.

Up went the sun; his burning rays Broke o'er the stream like sparkling fire, Till the broad Ganges seemed a-blaze, With gorgeous light, save where the spire Of some lone slender minaret, Threw its clear shadow on the stream, Or grove-like banian firmly set, Broke with its boughs the fiery gleam; Or where a white paG.o.da shone Like snow-drift through the shadowy trees; Or ancient mosque stood out alone, Where the wild creeper sought the breeze; Or where some dark and gloomy rock Shot o'er the deep its ragged cliffs, Inhabited by many a flock Of vultures, and its yawning rifts Alive with lizards, glowing, bright, As if a prism's changing light Within the gloomy depths were flung, Where like rich jewels newly strung, The sleeping serpent stretched its length, And nursed its venom into strength.

Where the broad stream in shadow lay, The bridal barque kept on her way, While every breeze that swept them o'er, Brought loads of incense from the sh.o.r.e; Where each luxuriant jungle lay A wilderness of tangled flowers, And budding vines in wanton play Fell from the trees in leafy showers, Flinging their graceful garlands o'er The rippling stream and reedy sh.o.r.e; The lily bared its snowy breast, Swayed its full anthers like a crest, And softly from its pearly swell, A shower of golden powder fell Among the humbler flowers that lay And blushed their fragrant lives away; There oleanders lightly wreathed Their blossoms in a coronal, And the rich baubool softly breathed A perfume from its golden bell; There flower and shrub and spicy tree Seemed struggling for sweet mastery; And many a bird with gorgeous plume, Fluttered along the flowery gloom, Or on the spicy branches lay, Uttering a sleepy roundelay; While insects rushing out like gems, Or showery sparks at random flung, Through ripening fruit and slender stems There to the breathing blossoms clung, Studded the glowing boughs and threw O'er the broad bank a brilliant hue.

On--on they went; a fanning breeze Came sighing through the balmy trees, And undulating o'er the stream Rose tiny wavelets, like the gleam Of molten gold, and crested all With a bright trembling coronal, Like that which Brahmins in their dream Lavish upon the sacred stream.

Then all grew still. The sultry air Lay stagnant in the jungles there-- The sun poured down his fervent heat; The river lay a burnished sheet; The floweret closed its withered bell; From the parched leaf the insect fell; The panting birds all tuneless clung To the still boughs, where late they sung; The dying blossoms felt the calm, And the still air was thick with balm.

All things grew faint in that hot noon, As Nature's self lay in a swoon.

And she, that gentle, loving fair, How brooks her form the sultry air?

Most patiently--but see her now!

What fear convulses her pale brow?

And why that half-averted eye, Watching his look so anxiously?

The scarlet burning in his cheek-- Those lips all parched and motionless?

Oh! do they fell disease bespeak?

Or only simple weariness?

One look! the dreadful certainty Wrings from her heart a stifled cry; And now half phrensied with despair, She rends the blossoms from her hair, And leaping to the vessel's side She drenched them in the sluggish tide; Then to the cushions where he lay, Senseless and fevered with disease, Panting his very life away, She rushed, and sinking to her knees, Raised softly up his throbbing head, And pillowed it upon her breast-- Then on his burning forehead laid The dripping flowers, and wildly pressed Her pallid mouth upon his brow, And drew him closer to her heart, As if she thought each trembling throe Could unto his, new life impart.

Wildly to his she laid her cheek, And backward threw her loosened hair, That not a glossy curl might break From off his face the sluggish air.

The noon swept by, and there was she Counting his pulses as they rose, Striving with broken melody To hush him to a short repose, Bathing his brow and twining still Her fingers in his burning hand, Her heart's blood stopping with a chill Whene'er he could not understand, Nor answer to her gentle clasp; But dashed that little hand away, Or crushed it with delirious grasp, Entreating tenderly her stay.

Father of heaven! and must he die?

She breathed in her heart's agony, As up with every painful breath, Came to his lips the foam of death, And o'er his swollen forehead played, Like serpents by the sun betrayed, The corded veins whose purple swell, With his hot pulses rose and fell.

Those drops upon his temple there, The rolling eye, the gloomy hair, The livid lip, the drooping chin, And the death-rattle deep within, That speechless one, so late thy pride-- There lies thy answer, widowed bride!

Half conscious of her misery, Like something chiselled o'er a grave, She placed her small hand anxiously Upon the lifeless heart, and gave One cry--but one--of such despair, The jackall startled from his lair, And answered back that fearful knell, With a long, sharp and hungry yell.

A slow and solemn hour swept by, And there, all still and motionless, With rigid limb and stony eye, The widow knelt in her distress.

With pitying looks the swarthy crew Around the tearless mourner drew, And trembling strove to force away From her chill arms the senseless clay.

Slowly she raised her awful head; A slight convulsion stirr'd her face; Close to her heart she s.n.a.t.c.hed the dead, And held him in a strong embrace; Then drawing o'er his brow her veil, She turned her face as strangely wild, As if a fiend had mocked her wail, Parted her marble lips and smiled.

Twice she essayed to speak, and then Her face drooped o'er the corpse again, While forth from the disshevelled hair A husky whisper stirred the air.

'Nay, bury him not here,' it said, 'I would have prayers above my dead;'

Then, one by one, the timid crew, From the infected barge withdrew: Helmsmen and servants, all were gone; The wife was with her dead alone.

With no propelling arm to guide, The barque turned slowly with the tide, And on the heavy current swept Its slow, funereal pathway back, Where the expiring sunbeams slept, Like gold along its morning track.

The day threw out its dying gleam, Imbuing with its tints the stream, As if the mighty river rolled O'er beds of ruby--sands of gold.

As if some seraph just had hung In the blue west his coronet, The timid moon came out and flung Her pearly smiles about--then set, As if she feared the stars would dim The silvery brightness of her rim; Then in the blue and deepening skies The stars sprang out, like glowing eyes, And on the stream reflected lay, Like ingots down the watery way; And softly streamed the starry light Down to the wet and gloomy trees, Where fiery flies were flashing bright, Afloat upon the evening breeze, Or like some fairy, tiny lamp, Glow'd out among the stirring leaves, And down among the rushes damp, Where Pestilence her vapor weaves, Till shrub and reed, and slender stems, Seemed drooping with a shower of gems.

The Widow raised her head once more, Turned her still look upon the sky, The lighted stream and broken sh.o.r.e; Oh, G.o.d! it was a mockery, --The bridegroom--Death--upon her breast For aye possessing and possessed!

With the deep calmness of despair, The mourner raised his marble head, And on the silken cushions there, With icy hands, composed the dead; Then tore her veil off for a shroud, And in her voiceless mourning bowed.

That holy sorrow might have awed The very wind--but mockingly It flung his matted hair abroad, As trifling with her agony, And with a low and moaning wail Bore on its wings the bridal veil; Then came a cold and starry ray, And on his marble forehead lay.

Father of heaven! she could not brook That floating hair, that rigid look.

With one quick gasp she forward sprung, And to the helm in frenzy clung, Until the barque shot on its way Where a dense shadow darkest lay; And there, as shrouded with a pall, The barge swept to the very sh.o.r.e; The fell hyena's fiendish call Rang wildly to her ear once more, And from the deep dark solitude She saw the hungry jackall creep, And whimper for his nightly food, Where many a monster lay asleep Just in the margin of the flood, As resting from a feast of blood.

Around the corpse the widow flung Her snowy arms, and madly clung To that cold bosom, whence a chill Shot through her heart, and frantic still Her eyes in horror turned to seek That prowling beast, whose hungry jaws Worked fiercely and began to reek With eager foam, as with his paws He tore the turf impatiently, And howling snuffed the pa.s.sing clay.

It was not that she feared to die; In the deep stillness of her heart, Her spirit prayed most fervently There with the dead to hold its part.

The only boon she cared to crave, Was for them both a christian grave; But oh! the agonizing thought!

That in her madness she had brought That loved and lost one, for a feast, To vulture and to prowling beast, Where all things fierce and wild had come To howl a horrid requiem.

But soon a stronger current bore The freight of death from off the sh.o.r.e; Again the trembling starlight broke Above the still and changing clay, And with its pearly kisses woke The widow from her trance, who lay Convulsed and shivering with dread, Her white arms clinging to the dead; For yet the stilly night wind bore The wild beasts' disappointed roar.

Within the far o'erhanging wood, A bulbul listening to her heart, Poured forth upon the air a flood Of gushing love;--with lips apart The widow clasped her trembling hands, And bent her ear to catch the strain, As if a seraph's low commands Were breathed into her soul;--again, That heavenly sound came gushing out, Like waters in their leaping shout; Over her heart's deep frozen spring The gentle strain went lingering, And touched each icy tear that slept With sudden life, until she wept.

Again the lovely morn awoke Upon that temple still and lone; Its rosy bloom in gladness broke, And to the holy altar-stone Came down subduedly and dim, Through painted gla.s.s, o'er sculptured limb: Outstretched within that gorgeous gloom, Shaded by pall and sable plume, As chisseled from the very stone, The Bridegroom lay. A broken moan Rose up from where the Widow bowed, Her forehead buried in the pall, Her fingers grasping still the shroud, And every limb betraying all The agony that wrung her heart.

It was a sad and fearful sight, That lifted head, those lips apart, When through the dim and purplish light Those who obeyed the bridal call Now gathered for the funeral; A soft and solemn strain awoke The silence of that lofty dome, And through the fretted arches broke The music surging to its home; Then with a firm and heavy tread The bearers slowly raised the dead; She followed close, her trembling hand Still clenched upon the gloomy pall, In snowy robes and pearly band, As at her wedding festival; And in her bright disshevelled hair A broken orange-blossom lay, Withered and all entangled there; Fit relic of her bridal day; Thus onward to the tomb she pa.s.sed, Her white robe swaying to the blast, And mingling at each stirring breath There with the drapery of death.

JACK DOWNING'S VISIT TO PORTLAND.

By Seba Smith.

In the fall of the year 1829 I took it into my head I'd go to Portland.

I had heard a good deal about Portland, what a fine place it was, and how the folks got rich there proper fast; and that fall there was a couple of new papers come up to Downingville from there, called the Portland Courier and Family Reader; and they told a good many queer kind of things about Portland and one thing another; and all at once it popped into my head, and I up and told father, and says I, I'm going to Portland whether or no; and I'll see what this world is made of yet.

Father stared a little at first, and said he was afraid I should get lost; but when he see I was bent upon it, he give it up; and he stepped to his chist and opened the till, and took out a dollar and gave to me, and says he, Jack, this is all I can do for you; but go, and lead an honest life, and I believe I shall hear good of you yet. He turned and walked across the room, but I could see the tears start into his eyes, and mother sot down and had a hearty crying spell. This made me feel rather bad for a minute or two, and I almost had a mind to give it up; and then again father's dream came into my mind, and I mustered up courage, and declared I'd go. So I tackled up the old horse and packed in a load of ax handles and a few notions, and mother fried me some dough-nuts and put 'em into a box along with some cheese and sa.s.sages, and ropped me up another shirt, for I told her I did n't know how long I should be gone; and after I got all rigged out, I went round and bid all the neighbors good bye, and jumped in and drove off for Portland.

Ant Sally had been married two or three years before and moved to Portland, and I inquired round till I found out where she lived, and went there and put the old horse up and eat some supper and went to bed.

And the next morning I got up and straightened right off to see the Editor of the Portland Courier, for I knew by what I had seen in his paper that he was just the man to tell me which way to steer. And when I come to see him I knew I was right; for soon as I told him my name and what I wanted, he took me by the hand as kind as if he had been a brother; and says he, Mr. Downing, I'll do any thing I can to a.s.sist you. You have come to a good town; Portland is a healthy thriving place, and any man with a proper degree of enterprise may do well here. But says he, Mr. Downing, and he looked mighty kind of knowing, says he, if you want to make out to your mind, you must do as the steamboats do.

Well, says I, how do they do? for I did n't know what a steam boat was, any more than the man in the moon. Why, says he, they _go ahead_. And you must drive about among the folks here jest as though you were at home on the farm among the cattle. Dont be afraid of any of 'em, but figure away, and I dare say you will get into good business in a very little while. But, says he, there's one thing you must be careful of, and that is not to get into the hands of them are folks that trades up round Huckler's Row: for there's some sharpers up there, if they get hold of you, would twist your eye teeth out in five minutes. Well after he had gin me all the good advice he could I went back to Ant Sally's again and got some breakfast, and then I walked all over the town to see what chance I could find to sell my ax handles and things, and to get into business.

After I had walked about three or four hours I come along towards the upper end of the town where I found there were stores and shops of all sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I, what place is this? Why this says he, is Huckler's Row. What, says I, are these the stores where the traders in Huckler's Row keep? And says he, yes. Well then, thinks I to myself, I have a pesky good mind to go in and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do what there aint a man in Downingville can do, and I should jest like to know what sort of stuff these ere Portland chaps are made of. So in I goes into the best looking store among 'em. And I see some biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I, Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them are biscuit? A cent apiece, says he. Well, says I, I shant give you that, but if you 've a mind to, I'll give you two cents for three of 'em, for I begin to feel a little as though I should like to take a bite. Well, says he, I would n't sell 'em to any body else so, but seeing it 's you I dont care if you take 'em. I knew he lied, for he never see me before in his life. Well he handed down the biscuits and I took 'em, and walked round the store awhile to see what else he had to sell. At last, says I, Mister, have you got any good new cider? Says he, yes, as good as ever you see. Well, says I, what do you ax a gla.s.s for it? Two cents, says he. Well, says I, seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Aint you a mind to take these ere biscuit again and give me a gla.s.s of cider? And says he, I dont care if I do; so he took and laid 'em on the shelf again, and poured out a gla.s.s of cider. I took the cider and drinkt it down, and to tell the truth it was capital good cider. Then, says I, I guess it 's time for me to be a going, and I stept along towards the door. But, says he, stop Mister. I believe you have 'nt paid me for the cider. Not paid you for the cider, says I, what do you mean by that? Did n't the biscuit that I give you jest come to the cider? Oh, ah, right, says he. So I started to go again; and says he, but stop, Mister, you did n't pay me for the biscuit. What, says I, do you mean to impose upon me? do you think I am going to pay you for the biscuit and let you keep 'em tu?

Aint they there now on your shelf, what more do you want? I guess sir, you dont whittle me in that way. So I turned about and marched off, and left the feller staring and thinking and scratching his head, as though he was struck with a dunderment. Howsomever, I did n't want to cheat him, only jest to show 'em it want so easy a matter to pull my eye teeth out, so I called in next day and paid him his two cents. Well I staid at Ant Sally's a week or two, and I went about town every day to see what chance I could find to trade off my ax handles, or hire out, or find some way or other to begin to seek my fortune.

And I must confess the editor of the Courier was about right in calling Portland a pretty good thriving sort of a place; every body seemed to be as busy as so many bees; and the masts of the vessels stuck up round the wharves as thick as pine trees in uncle Joshua's pasture; and the stores and the shops were so thick, it seemed as if there was no end to 'em.

In short, although I have been round the world considerable, from that time to this, all the way from Madawaska to Washington, I 've never seen any place yet that I think has any business to grin at Portland.

PORTLAND AS IT WAS.

By William Willis.

The advantages which in early days our new country held out for employment, encouraged immigration, and the population was almost wholly made up by accessions from the more thickly peopled parts of Ma.s.sachusetts. To the county of Ess.e.x particularly, in the early as well as more recent period of our history, the town is indebted for large portions of its population. Middles.e.x, Suffolk and the Old Colony, were not without their contributions. But the people did not come from such widely different sources as to produce any difficulty of amalgamation, or any striking diversity of manners. They formed one people and brought with them the steady habits and good principles of those from whom they had separated. There were some accessions before the revolution made to our population from the other side of the Atlantic; the emigrants readily incorporated themselves with our people and form a substantial part of the population. Within twenty years, the numbers by immigration have increased more rapidly, especially from Ireland, but not sufficiently to destroy the uniformity which characterises our population, nor to disturb the harmony of our community.

It cannot have escaped observation that one of the princ.i.p.al sources of our wealth has been the lumber trade. We have seen on the revival of the town in the early part of the last century, how intimately the progress of the town was connected with operations in timber. Before the revolution our commerce was sustained almost wholly by the large ships from England which loaded here with masts, spars, and boards for the mother country, and by ship building. The West India business was then comparatively small, employing but few vessels of inferior size. After the revolution our trade had to form new channels, and the employment of our own navigation was to give new activity to all the springs of industry and wealth. We find therefore that the enterprise of the people arose to the emergency, and in a few years our ships were floating on every ocean, becoming the carriers of southern as well as northern produce, and bringing back the money and commodities of other countries.

The trade to the West Indies, supported by our lumber, increased vastly, and direct voyages were made in larger vessels than had before been employed, which received in exchange for the growth of our forests and our seas, sugar, mola.s.ses and rum, the triple products of the cane. This trade has contributed mainly to the advancement and prosperity of the town, has nourished a hardy race of seamen, and formed a people among the most active and enterprising of any in the United States.

The great changes which have taken place in the customs and manners of society since the revolution, must deeply impress the mind of a reflecting observer. These have extended not only to the outward forms of things, but to the habits of thought and to the very principles of character. The moral revolution has been as signal and striking as the political one; it upturned the old land marks of antiquated and hereditary customs and the obedience to mere authority, and established in their stead a more simple and just rule of action; it set up reason and common sense, and a true equality in the place of a fact.i.tious and conventional state of society which unrelentingly required a submission to its stern dictates; which made an unnatural distinction in moral power, and elevated the rich knave or fool to the station that humble and despised merit would have better graced.