Georgianna Lovering or The Northwood Tragedy
Dark were the eyes of a beautiful maiden, Like music her voice, and her cheeks were in bloom; Her mind seemed to be with the purest thoughts laden; Her breath was as sweet as the rose's perfume; Her mother worked hard for her child's education, And bought for her many a well-written tome; Her father had died for the flag of his Nation; And she was the sunlight and comfort of home!
To know her her schoolmates would say was to love her! We're told that all mortals are certain to stray; If Georgie had stains they were hard to discover; Before her bright presence dull care flew away; The girl was so tender—so loving—so pleasant— She seem'd like some seraph that heaven had sent To brighten the home that had poverty present, Yet was rich in her smile of peace, love, and content!
She with her grandparents and mother resided; Two miles from the Centre of Northwood the cot; The villagers loved her and in her confided; And girls near her age her companionship sought; She was her mother's one, chief earthly treasure; Oft her sweet voice had the weeping one cheered; Sorrow itself seemed to turn unto pleasure, And grief unto gladness where Georgie appeared!
She had an uncle too deep steeped in error To learn in her presence the way to improve; His sinister look would fill children with terror; Few hearts could towards him affectionate move; He looked sanctimonious for certain occasions, And words big with honor came to him at ease, Yet he was her uncle, and she must have patience, And do all she could to relieve him and please.
True, his mean soul she was quick to discover, Yet knew not how fiendish her uncle could be, The angels of love seemed about her to hover; A word was unkind for no mortal had she; So when he told her he'd work on the morrow, And asked her if she'd to his bird-snares attend? “O, yes!” she replied, though she told him in sorrow, As if she was dreading some terrible end.
The next morn arrived, a bright day in October, § The maiden was up to look after the snares, And grandmother saw that young Georgie looked sober, As if she was weary of earth and its cares! “O, what is the matter my darling, this morning?” “What makes you look sad, when so often you're gay.” “Have you had a terrible dream or a warning?” “O, what has come over you,? pretty one say?”
“Granny, to uncle last night I was telling I'd go to the wild woods his bird snares to see, But somehow I dread to leave our homely dwelling, For horrible thoughts really linger with me; Oft to me did those old woods look delightful; I oft liked to go at the bird-snares to look; But now, despite sunshine, the forest looks frightful, And lately with joy I've no trip in it took!”
Old granny, no doubt, tho't the girl superstitious, And having no reason for trouble or fear, And Georgie gave her a sweet kiss and delicious, Then these were the words the old lady did hear, “I promised my uncle his snares I'd attend to; This morning I'll go and I'll look them all o'er, But when I've done that, O such work there's an end to, I'll go in the woods for my uncle no more!”
Maiden, the truth you have told, and truth only, To one whose heart to you does tenderly yearn, The woods you have tho't were both ugly and lonely, Are woods from which never in bloom you'll return, And granny that kiss that you have been receiving, Was the last one from Georgie you e'er could obtain, For many a heart shall soon for her be grieving,— Her fond mother's tears dew the cold earth like rain.
The uncle went not to his labor that morning! His thoughts are all evil, his ways all defiled, Religion,—truth,—honor—humanity scorning, He stands on the hill-top—he watches the child! He comes down the hill! in the forest does enter! The watcher knows not on what mission he's bound, But soon the news spreads from the cot to the Centre, How young Georgie Lovering can nowhere be found!
In the wild wood had her grandfather sought her, Though “Georgie” he called, he received no reply; The mother, too, searched for her beautiful daughter, Until she was ready with anguish to die; How wildly—how deeply her mother lamented, And said: “Tell me, Georgie, tell me where you roam!” No wonder the woman was almost demented, When she found the apron, and Pender the comb!
Yes, there was the comb, it had Georgie's hair in it, The sight seem'd to prove that her earth-life had fled; The searchers with horror did stand for a minute, And each of them feared Georgie Lovering was dead; Continue the search—get more men from the Centre— We must know her fate, and the end we must see. And farther and farther the forest we'll enter, No sleep will we crave, and unwearied we'll be.
Hundreds looked on when the Sun ceased its shining, And hundreds looked on when the Storm was severe, They worked for a mother bewailing, repining, While cursing the fiend that had reason to fear; While they, in the forest, the maiden were seeking, He looked full as meek as a parson from church, And of his innocence loudly was speaking, To persons were chosen to join not the search.
All day on Sunday, that good day and holy. The searching went on, and the people were wild; The wealthy and high with the poor and the lowly, United to hunt for the dear, darling child; The worship of God in the church was neglected! Nay, hearts that were warm, and feet weariless trod! Over rough paths for a mother dejected, Were working for love and were worshipping God!
All day on Sunday, that good day and holy. The searching went on, and the people were wild; The wealthy and high with the poor and the lowly, United to hunt for the dear, darling child; The worship of God in the church was neglected! Nay, hearts that were warm, and feet weariless trod! Over rough paths for a mother dejected, Were working for love and were worshipping God!
And when Sheriff Drew at last forced the confession From Evans, the uncle, a fiend among men, That he had done wrong, and great was his transgression, That search was abandoned; but not until then! Abandoned! but 'twas for the sake of another, To be in the night,—in the darkness intense; For one that would bring a dead child to its mother, But for a lost idol make small recompense.
And when Sheriff Drew at last forced the confession From Evans, the uncle, a fiend among men, That he had done wrong, and great was his transgression, That search was abandoned; but not until then! Abandoned! but 'twas for the sake of another, To be in the night,—in the darkness intense; For one that would bring a dead child to its mother, But for a lost idol make small recompense.
With lantern in hand, went the Sheriff with Evans; The wind in the forest did dismally moan; No bright moon or star could be seen in the heavens; Around all was darkness,—and darkness alone, Save the small light by the lantern was given; And on went the Sheriff, his eye on the wretch, Who, if caught by a crowd could no prayer-time be having; His form from the nearest stout tree-branch would stretch!
There the fiend stooped, ay, he almost was kneeling, He seraped away leaves, and “THERE WAS SOMETHING WHITE!” The Sheriff the form of the dead girl was feeling! Feeling it there on that terrible night! Feeling it there with her murderer near him, And standing as calm as a man at his gate, Feeling it there! Was he wild? was he dreaming? He thought even his was a terrible fate.
Tis not a dream— 'tis no minute to ponder; Seize on the fiend ere he thinks what he's at; On meditation now time you would squander, To-morrow you know will best answer for that! One look from the eyes of the Sheriff is given; But three words resound through the prisoner's ear, Then does he beg to no longer be living; The handcuffs are on, and he trembles with fear.
Assistance was near, for that had been provided; Men came to the spot just as quick as they could; The prisoner, surely, by that time decided That nothing about was foreboding him good; There lay the form of the girl he had strangled, And probably dragged to that horrible spot; There lay the body, all lifeless and mangled; Ah, never a tiger such bad work had wrought.
“LEAD!” said the Sheriff. “I Lead!” said the trembler; He led; for he knew not what else he could do, He'd been a deceiver—a murd'rer—dissembler— And somehow he was in the pow'r of Drew! He led to a swamp where the bog-holes look'd fearful! He left it,—returned,—reached a desolate spot Which even the sunshine could never make cheerful, And midnight upon it great loneliness wrought.