Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/126

. THE OUTCAST . BY GEORGE W. BURCH.

It was a dark night in the dreary month of November —the season when summer, with all its vernal richness, has but lately disappeared-when nature puts off the green attire which clothes each tree with waving foliage, and every field with verdure clad was blooming soft and fresh, imparting to the soul its own still smiling joyousness- when the breath of Heaven travels onward, like the bee, and gathers sweets from every flower, wafting to the sense its grateful odors, mild, salubrious and free. But now, how changed ! The face of nature late so smiling, has turned to deepest gloom ; the chill wind sweeps along in fitful gusts, and sighs its mournful notes through every bough where late the merry rustle of each leaf was music to the ear.

The tall trees yield obedient to the blast, and bow their stately heads in solemn grandeur, as the rude tempestuous gale drives on its ceaseless course, and makes each bough to groan and writhe as though in very agony beneath its sway ; the dry leaves by force impelled, in myriads scour the plain, then suddenly whirling upward into air, are scattered over the face of the earth. Dark clouds that veil the heavens in their misty vapor, in quick succession course each other beneath the sky , obscuring every star and shutting out the moon's soft light, whose dim pale face, just visible between each gloomy mass, at intervals darts forth a solitary ray with just enough of light to show the rugged scene below -whose wild and cheerless aspect meets the view, awakening that chill sense of wintry desolation that strikes the heart with misery indefinable. Ah ! well for those whose lucky stars have blest them with a home- a refuge from the chilling blast, whose moaning, melancholy voice proclaims, in whispers loud, the misery without, and hark ! the pattering raindrops, driven by the rude winds down the quivering casements, trickle fast, while every gust with mighty rushing sound, whirls past and shakes the fabric to its base. Now, there was one who, lone, sad, and slow, went her weary way along the barren moor, an outcast. A ruthless sire had driven her forth to seek another home, and she, poor helpless one, without a roof to shelter that sweet babe who nestles to her breast, unconscious of its mother's woes. She turned her looks to Heaven ; there all was dark ; and when she prayed, the rough winds choked her voice ; but still her heart was there, and she | implored some timely succor for the little one whose sobs

broke forth as every chilling blast defied the mother's fond protection. " Ah !" she cried ; " my father, was it well to thrust me forth, at this dark hour, with the poor babe who never harmed thee ; 't was cruel-yes ;" and she wept as though her heart would break.

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Awhile she lingered, not knowing where to turn her steps, ' till at last she saw, far in the distance, a faint light that glimmered like a star, and pointed out some habitation ; this she followed with trembling steps, and eagerly strained her eyes amid the gloom to catch from whence it came ; this cheered her heart, and she travelled on toward the spot with newly-awakened hopes. Now the winds abated, and soon the clouds poured the rain in torrents forth, and, like a deluge came the mountain stream, foaming, and swelling as it rolled its downward course from rock to rock-uprooting trees whose branches swept by the hill, went crashing on, and with the waters bounding over each craggy point, descended to the vale. Here all was dark ; but soon the hollow rush of waves, as the river burst its banks, struck on the wanderer's ear. She turned, and as the moon shot forth one solitary ray, espied with horror-stricken gaze, the shining waters bearing on her steps with rapid haste. She clasped her babe with strong convulsive eagerness, and flew, for fear impelled her course, as on her footsteps now the quiet encroaching torrent gained ; yet on she went, and still the tide pursued ; she paused for lack of breath, then on again ; fear lent her wings, until at last her waning strength could bear no more ; she sank, still with her babe, that now had stilled its cries, and on its mother's beating heart reposed unconscious of its coming doom. "Ah, mercy !" so she cried, " to perish thus ; my babe, thou ' lt share thy helpless mother's fate ; sleep on- there -yes, soon to sleep in death. Thy father, too- O, could he see us now ; but I forgive him—yes, may God forgive him too." There was a pause-the interval of a moment -then a rushing sound of many waters, and the mother and her infant, swept by the boiling surge, were hurrying on to dark eternity. I could not tell all the agony she felt-all the silent anguish of despair-the throbbing of the heart-the grasping at every straw or slender twig that floated by the fleeting breath that choked each cry, which rose each moment to her lips, stifled by the wind that made the swollen waters foam and writhe like the waves of a dark tempestuous sea. The owlet from its eyrie driven, screamed and flapped its wings amid the scene of desolation ; earth and heaven, all alike seemed veiled in gloom unfathomable, save now and then one long and lingering flash would penetrate the darkness, for a moment lighting up the dismal horrors of the night, and making all its terrors visible. Not far from where the torrent whirled its rapid flight in headlong fury on, over many a rock whose craggy summit rose above the wave, there stood a cot, whose inmates, sheltered from the raging elements that warred above, were seated in a nook, while on the cheerful hearth a goodly fire blazed, and threw around its welcome light on every face, whose smiling looks pro-