THE INDIAN'S REVENGE. But by my wrongs, and by my wrath, That fires yon Heaven with storms of death, Indian Song in "Gertrude of Wyoming." SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY. Scene-The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods-A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees-Herrmann, the Missionary, seated alone before the cabin-The hour is evening twilight. Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone swift canoe From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again In the deep bay of Cedars. Not a bark Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world, The mighty melancholy of the woods! The Desert's own great spirit, infinite! The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades Of what is solitude! In hours like this, There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths On the home-path;-while round his lowly porch, The clustered faces of his children shine To the clear harvest-moon. Be still, fond thoughts! By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God! Till all the hollow of these deep desires In this dread temple of the wilderness, Hark! a step, Gliding so serpent-like. He comes forward and meets an Indian warrior armed. Tower stately through the dusk; yet scarce mine eye Discerns thy face. Enonio. My father speaks my name. Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase returned? Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch, Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler prey Than elk or deer. The lone path free. Herrmann. The forest-way is long From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile Of these things further. I must begone. Herrmann (solemnly.) No, warrior, thou must stay! Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up Enonio (with sudden impetuosity.) How should I rest? And said-" Avenge me!"-In the clouds this morn, Herrmann. A better path, my son, My hand in peace can guide thee-ev'n the way Enonio. And so returned:-and where was he?-the earth Herrmann. But thou thy self since then Hast turned thee from the idols of thy tribe, And, like thy brother, bowed the suppliant knee To the one God. Enonio. Yes, I have learned to pray With my white father's words, yet all the more, Of the great forests, I have called aloud Herrmann. Oh! that human love Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice Unto the forest and the cataract, The angry colour to the clouds of morn, The shadow to the moonlight-Stay, my son! Thy brother is at peace.-Beside his couch, When of the murderer's poisoned shaft he died, I knelt and prayed; he named his Saviour's name, Meekly, beseechingly;-he spoke of thee In pity and in love. Enonio (hurriedly.) Did he not say My arrow should avenge him? Thy brother's friend?-Oh! trust me, not in joy Leave it with Him!-Yet make it not thy hope- Ere it can sleep again. Enonio. My father speaks I but speak Of change, for man too mighty. He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named In its last pangs, the spirit of those words Which from the Saviour's cross went up to Heaven: Where evil may not enter, He, I deem, Hath to his Master passed.-He waits thee there- His brother to the land of golden light, And ever-living fountains-couldst thou hear His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say, "My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful! That we may meet again." Enonio (hesitating.) Can I return Unto my tribe, and unavenged? To Him, To Him, return, from whom thine erring steps Be o'er them showered.-Aye, weep, thou Indian Chief! For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold Thy proud lips working-weep, relieve thy soul! Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour Of its great conflict. Enonio (giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) Father, take the bow, Keep the sharp arrows, till the hunters call Forth to the chase once more.-And let me dwell A little while, my Father! by thy side, That I may hear the blessed words again -Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills- Herrmann. Oh! welcome back, Friend, rescued one!-Yes, thou shalt be my guest, [They go into the cabin together Herrmann (lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies.) Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds Now look'st on us, thy children! make this hour Blessed for ever! May it see the birth Of thine own image in the unfathomed deep Of an immortal soul;-a thing to name With reverential thought, a solemn world! To Thee more precious than those thousand stars VOL. XXXV. NO. CCXX. 2 L EDMUND BURKE. PART IX. In our age of universal illumination, darkness is a past idea. Politics have lost their intricacy. Morals are as simple in theory as they are rigid in practice. Science sits in the corners of the streets, lecturing to naked philosophers; and Government throws off her robe of ceremony, and walks as naked as the philosophers themselves. Yet, too much light may be as overwhelming as too little, and it is possible that our sansculotte politicians may be as much bewildered in the excessive sunshine of the nineteenth century, as the most carefully costumed minister in the obscurity of the eighteenth. However, "Di meliora." It is not the part of wisdom to boast, or of reasoning to draw conclusions in scorn of facts. We have discovered, that our forefathers were totally ignorant of every sound principle of government at home, and policy abroad. Among our accessions of knowledge, we have ascertained, that in distrusting France, and allying themselves with Germany, they entirely miscalculated the nature of the national good and evil. And not to speak contemptuously of those whose blood flows in our veins, and who, by some means or other, certainly contrived to build up a very considerable empire, we admit that luck is an element of policy, that the blunderer may be as well off as the sage, and that there is a pity, or a protection, which, as the Turks say, especially saves the bones of children and idiots from being broken. Yet History, old almanack as it is in the new vocabulary, will make its impression upon the more refractory minds. Those whose alertness is not sufficient for the rapid movement of a moving time, the race of reason, must be content with such guides as they can find; and while the bolder energies and brighter spirits of the age of light sail loose on the wings of speculation, we must try to make our way by clinging to the skirts of experience as we can. History tells us that the only genuine peril of England has been from France. To all other aggressors she has opposed, and will oppose, an iron rampart of confidence and valour. The navy of Spain was dashed more against that rampart, than against the natural barriers of her soil. The pious gratitude of the country acknowledged the high interposition which sent the winds and billows to fight for the land of Religion; but it was the heroism of heart, which thought it "foul shame that Parma or Spain should invade the borders of her realms; and the heroism of hand, which would have seconded that magnanimous feeling with the last drop of the enemies' blood and its own, that awed the Spaniard for ever from the land." To all the other powers of Europe and the earth she is inaccessible. But France can subdue with her principles, before she strikes with her sword; her tactic is not in the field, but in the cottage, the manufactory, and the streets; her campaign is in the conspiracy; and the most fatal triumph of her eternal rivalry, is in the closest alliance with the spirit of her councils. Let us not be misunderstood, as desiring war with any nation, or as even repelling the intercourses of amity with France, while it is possible to be retained. Our alarm is generated only by the attempt at identity of purpose, by the adoption of her principles, by the separation of our policy from that of our old allies for the sake of combining more exclusively with France; our thinking the world well lost, and playing the part, to meet the fate of Anthony, for our glittering, voluptuous, protesting, profligate Cleopatra. France exhibits at this moment one feature which should warn us against all promises of her fidelity. She is without a religion. It is utterly impossible that without this great pledge of honour, justice, and peace, she can be faithful to a British alliance. The connexion may go on unbroken for a few years, but it is illicit; it wants the only sanction which can make it honest, prosperous, or firm. Even if no blight should |