CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM Mr. and Mrs.Wm.-^ .E.Gurley 3 1924 022 226 801 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022226801 THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS JOHlir GEEEIJTLEAP WHITTIER. HOUSEHOLD EDITION. BOSTON: JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, Late Ticknok & Fields, and Fields, Osqood, & Co. 1876. ?5 Entered according to Act of Coi^ess, in the year 1872, BY JAMES E. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. NOTE BY THE AUTHOR TO THE EDITION OP 1857. In these volumes, for the first time, a complete collection of my poetical writings has been made. While it is satisfactory to know that these scat- tered children of my brain have found a home, I cannot but regret that I have been unable, by reason of illness, to give that attention to their revis- ion and arrangement, which respect for the opinions of others and my own afterthought and experience demand. That there are pieces in this collection which I would " willingly let die," I am free to confess. But it is now too late to disown them, and I must submit to the inevitable penalty of poetical as well as other sins. There are others, intimately connected with the author's life and times, which owe their tenacity of vitality to the circumstances under which they were writ- ten, and the events by which they were suggested. The long poem of Mogg Megone was in a great measure composed in early life ; and it is scarcely necessary to say that its subject is not such as the writer would have chosen at any subseq[uent period. J. G. W. AnESBuET, ISth 3d mo., 1857. PEOEM. I LOVE the old melodious lays ■Which softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser's golden days. Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase. Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. Yet, vainly in my quiet hours To breathe their marvellous notes I try ; I feel them, as the leaves and ilowers In silence feel the dewy showers, And drink with glad still lips the blessing of the sky. The rigor of a frozen clime, The harshness of an untaught ear. The jarring words of one whose rhyme Beat often Labor's hurried time. Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are her Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace. No rounded art the lack supplies ; Unskilled the subtle lines to trace. Or softer shades of Nature's face, I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. Nor mine the seer-like power to show The secrets of the heart and mind ; To drop the plummet-line below Our common world of joy and woe, A mnre intense despair or brighter hope to find. Yet here at least an earnest sense Of human right and weal is shown ; ~ A hate of tyranny intense, And hearty in its vehemence, As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. Freedom ! if to me belong Nor mighty Milton's gift divine. Nor Marvell's wit and gi'aceful song. Still with a love as deep and strong As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine I AuESBURT, 11th mo., 1847 CONTEl^TS. MOGff Meqonb. \ %^^ Parti 1 Partn 7 Partni 12 The Bridal or Pennacook. I ^ /~'" . . • 15 1. The Merrimack 18 n. TheBashaba 13 HI. The Daughter 20 IV. The Wedding 21 V. The New Home 22 Ti. At Pennacook 23 Tii' The Departure ^ via. Song of Indian Women 25 Leoendabt. ^ ?»M& The Merrimack 26 The Norsemen 27 Cassandra Southwick 28 Puneral Tree of the Sokokia 31 St. John . 32 Fentucket 34 The Familist^s Hymn 35 The Fountain 36 The Exiles 37 The New Wife and the Old 40 Voices op Freedom. | ^ ii"^"^ Toussaint L'Ouverture 41 The Slave-Ships 43 Stanzas. Our Countrymen in Chains . .45 The Yankee Girl . , 40 ToW. L. G 47 Song of the Free 47 The Hunters of Men - 48 Clerical Oppressors 49 The Christian Slave 50 Stanzas for the Times 51 Lines, written on reading the Message of Governor Ritner, of Pennsylvania, 1836 . . 52 The Pastoral Letter 53 Lines, written for the Meeting of the Autislavery Society, at Chatham Street Chapel, N.T.,1834 64 VI CONTENTS. Ijnes, written for the Celebration of tlie Third Anniversary of British Emancipation , 1837 65 Lines, written for the Anniversary of the First of August, at Hilton, 1846 ... 65 The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters sold into Southern Bondage . 56 The Moral Warfare 5T The World's Convention 67 New Hampshire • 59 The New Year : addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Freeman ... 60 Massachusetts to Virginia 62 Thellelic 64 The Branded Hand • . . . 65 Texas 66 To Faneuil Hall 67 To Massachusetts 67 The Pine-Tree 68 Lines,Buggestedbya Visit to the City ofWashington in thel2th month of 1845 . 68 Lines, from a Letter to a young Clerical Friend ' 70 Yorktown 70 Lines, written in the Book of a Friend 71 P^ean '» 73 To the Memory of Thomas Shipley 74 To a Southern Statesman , 74 Lines, on the Adoption of Pinckney's Kesolutions 75 The Curse of the Charter-Breakers 76 The Slaves of Martinique ^ . . . . 77 The Crisis > 79 UisoELumons. The Knight of St. John 81 The Holy Land 81 Palestine 82 Bzekiel 83 The Wife of Manoah to her Husband 85 The Cities of the Plain gg The Crucifixion 86 The Star of Bethlehem 87 Hymns 88 The Female Martyr 90 The Frost Spirit 91 The Vaudois Teacher 91 The Call of the Christian 92 My Soul and I 92 To a Friend, on her Keturn from Europe 95 iThe Angel of Patience 96 'FoUen . 96 To the Ueformers of England ... 97 The Quaker of the Olden Time 98 1 The Reformer 98 I The Prisoner for Debt 99 1 Lines, written on reading Pamphltte published by Clergymen against the Abolition of the Gallows ' 100 f The Human Sacrifice 102 r Itandolph of Roanoke 104 Democracy 105 To Ronge 106 Chalkley Hall 107 CONTENTS. vii ToJ. P. . . _. .108 The Cypress-Tree of CeyloD ' . 108 A Dream of Summer 109 To 109 I Leggett's Monument . . , ^ Ill Bongs OF Labor, Ain> OTHER PoEus. l^^S^O Dedication ..,.«. 112 The Ship-Buildera 112 The Shoemakers 113 The Droreis 114 The Fishermen 115 The Buskers US The Com Song 117 The liumhermen 118 Miscellaneous. The Angels of Buena Vista 119 Forgiveness 121 y^arclay of Ury 121 What the Voice said 122 To Delaware 123 Worship 123 The Demon of the Study 124 The Pumpkin 123 Extract from " A New England Legend " 127 Hampton Bea«h 127 Lines, written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright of New York .... 128 Lines, accompanying Manuscripts presented to a Friend 129 The Reward 130 Raphael 130 Lucy Hooper 131 Channing - 132 To the Memory of Charles B. Storrs 133 Lines on the Death of S. 0. Torrey 134 A Lament 135 Daniel Wheeler 136 Daniel NeaU 137 To my Friend on the Death of his Sister 138 Gone 139 The Lake-side 139 The Hill-top 140 On receiving an Eagle's Quill ftom Lake Superior 141 Memories , 141 The Legend of St. Mark 142 The Well of Loch Maree 143 To my Sister 144 Autumn Thoughts 144 Calef in Boston. — 1692 144 To Pius IX. . ' 145 Elliott 146 ■^chahod! 146 The Christian Tourists 147 The Men of Old 14g The Peace Convention at Brussels I49 Viii CONTENTS. The Wish of To-Bay 150 Our State 150 All 's weU - 151 Seed-Time and Harvest 151 To A. K. . • 151 The Chapel of the Hermtts, and other Poeus. \ ^5 ^ TheChapelof the Hermits 153 Miscellaneous. Questions of Life ..157 The Prisoners of Naples ■ 159 Moloch iu State Street 160 The Pea«e of Europe 1852 ' 161 Wordsworth ~. 162 To 162 In Peace 162 Benedicite 163 Pictures 163 Deme 164 Astrsea 165 Invocation ...^ 166 The Cross ,166 Eva 166 To Fredrika Bremer 167 April 167 Stanzas for the Times.— 1850 168 A Sabbath Scene 168 Kemembrance • 170 The Poor Voter on Election Day 170 Trust 170 Kathleen 171 rirst-day Thoughts 172 Kossuth 172 To my old Schoolmaster ....•••• 173 The Pahorama, and other Poems. \ -nj^*» The Panorama 175 Miscellaneous. Summer by the Lakeside 183 The Hermit of the Thebaid 185 V^urns 186 William Forster 18T Bantoul .188 The Dream of PioNono 189 Tauler .190 Lines 192 The Voice 192 The Hero 193 My Dream 195 The Barefoot Boy ... 195 Flowers in Winter 196 The Rendition 197 Lines ••>••■••■•• 198 CONTENTS. IX The Fruit-Gifl 198 A Memory .••••••■■• 199 ToC. S 199 The Kansas Emigrants 200 Song of SlaTCS in the Desert • 200 Unes 200 The New Exodus 201 TheHaschish 201 Ballads. Mary Garvin 202 (,«and Muller 204 The Ranger 20i! Later Poems. \ w5't"* I The hBst Walk in Autumn 208 The Mayflowers 211 Burial of Barbour 211 To Pennsylvania 212 The Pass of the Sierra 212 The Conquest of Finland 213 A Lay of Old Time 214 What of the Day? 214 The First Flowers 215 My Namesake •.. 215 Home Ballads. ^^vC The Witch's Daughter 218 The Garrison of Cape Anu 221 The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall 223 ^kipper Ireson's Ride 225 felling the Bees 226 The Sycamores 22T The Double- Headed Snake of Newbury 228 The Swan Song of Parson Avery ' 229 The Truce of Piscataqua 231 My Playmate 233 FoEUS and Ltrics. I The Shadow and the Light 234 TheGiftof Tritemins 235 The Eve of Election 236 The Over-Heart 237 In Remembrance of Joseph Sturge 238 Trinitas 239 The Old Burying-Ground 240 The Pipes at Luckuow ••... 241 My Psahn . . • 242 Le Maiais du Cygne ' 243 " The Rock " in El Ghor ... 244 On a Prayer-Book 244 To J. T. F. . . 245 ThePalm-Tree 246 Lines for the Burns Festival 247 The Red River Yoyageur 247 X CONTENTS. Eenoza Lake •*. 218 To G. B. C .248 The Sisters 249 Lines for an Agricultural Exhibition .•••..•.•■ 249 The Preacher » 249 The Quaker Alumni 254 Brown of Ossawatomie 268 rrom Perugia 258 Tor an Autumn Festiral ..•■• 260 In War Time. 1 ? {fy Thy Win be done 261 A Word for the Hour 261 " Ein feste Burg ist unser Gotfc " 2C2 To John C. Fremont 263 The Watchers 263 To Englishmen 264 Astrsea at the Capitol 265 The Battle Autumn of 1862 265 Mithridates at Chios 266" The Proclamation 266 Anniversary Poem 267 At Port Royal 268 Barbara Frietchie .. 269 Ballads. Cobbler Keezar's Vision 270 Amy Wentworth 273 The Countess 276 Occasional Poems. Naples.— 1860 277 The Summons 278 The Waiting 278 Mountain Pictures. I. Franconia from the Pemlgewasset 278 n. Monadnock flrom Wachuset 279 Our River • ' 280 , Andrew Rykman's Prayer 281 The Cry of a Lost Soul 283 Italy .283 The River Path ...... 284 A Memorial. M, A. C . • .284 Hymn sung at Chriatmaa by the Scholars of St. Helena's Island, S. C 285 SiNow-BouND . .X^t'oS, 286 The Tent on the Beach, and other Poems. \ 'tiff \ ' The Tent on the Beach 294 The Wreck of Rivermouth . 297 The Grave by the Lake 299 The Brother of Mercy 303 The Changeling . . . . ...... 304 The Maids of Attitash 305 Eallundborg Church 307 CONTENTS. ' XI The Dead Ship of Harpswell 809 The Palatine 310 Abraham Davenport « 312 National Lyrics. The Mantle of St. John De Matha 314 What the Birds Eaid 315 ^^JL&ua Deo I 316 The Peace Autumn 317 To the Thirty-Ninth Congress ; .... 317 Occasional Poehs. The Eternal Goodness 318 Our Master 319 TheVanishers 321 Revisited 821 The Common Question 322 Bryant on his Birthday 323 Hymn for the Opening of Thomas Starr King^s House of Worship, 1S64 . . . 323 Thomas Starr King 324 Among the Hills, and otiibh, Poems. \ -5 (yt> Prelude ^ 325 Among the Hills 327 SIlSCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Clear Vision 331 TheDoleof JarlThorkell 332 The Two Rabbis 333 The Meeting 334 The Answer 337 G. L. S 338 Freedom in Brazil 338 Divine Compassion 339 Lines on a Fly-Jjcaf 339 Hymn for the House of Worship at Georgetown 340 MIRL4.SI, AND OTHER FOEUS. To Frederick A. P. Barnard 341 Miriam 34I Miscellaneous Poems. Norembega , 347 Nauhaught, the Deacon • 348 c-- In School-Days 350 Garibaldi 350 After Election 351 My Triumph 351 The Hive at Gtettysburg 352 Howard at Atlanta 353 To Lydia Maria Child 353 The Prayer-Seeker , 354 Poems for Pitblic Occasions. A Spiritual Manifestation 355 "The Laurels" 35Q Hymn . 357 XU CONTENTS. Tax FEimsTLTAKU Pnssm, ms othxb Poems. Francis Baniel PastoiiuB •, •••., 858 Prelude 859 The PennsylTanla Pilglim ■•••••. 360 MiSCELLAHEOUS. The Pageant 869 The Singer 371 Chicago 8T2 Mj Birthday 372 The Brewing of Soma 873 A Woman 374 Disarmament 374 The Robin 376 The Sisters 875 Marguerite '-...■..•....... 376 King Yolmer and Elsie 877 The Three Bells 379 Notes 381 INUEX 393 MOGG MEGONE. 1835. [The SEory of Moaa Meqons has been considered by the author only ae a framawork for sketches of the Mceuery of Kew Elngland, and of its early inhabitants. In portraying the Indian character, he haf! followed, as closely as his story would admit, the rough but natural delineHtioifs of Church, Mayhew, CbarleTolx, and Roger Williams ; and in so doing he has necessarily discanied much of the romance which poets and novelists have thrown around the ill-fsited red man.] PART I. "Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the. spray of the cataract spar- kles on high, ijonely and sternly, save Mogg Me- gone ? 1 Close to the verge of the rock is he. While heneath him the Saco its work is doing, Harrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its path- way hewing ! Far down, through the mist of the fall- ing river. Which rises up like an incense ever, The splintered points of the crags are seen. With water howling and vexed hetween. While the scooping whirl of the pool he- neath Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth ! But Mogg Megone never tremhled yet Wherever his eye or his foot was set. He is watchful ; each form in the moon- light dim. Of rock or of tree, is seen of him : He listens ; each sound from afar is caught. The faintest shiver of leaf and limb : But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret, 1 Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, — ■ And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not. The moonlight, through the open hough Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked root Coils like a serpent at his foot. Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow. His head is hare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair, Reserved for him, whoe'er he be. More mighty than Megone in strife. When breast to breast and knee to knee. Above the fallen warrior's life Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping- knife. Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun. And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on : His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid, And magic words on its polished blade, — 'T was the gift of Cs^stine " to Mogg Me- gone, For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn : His gun was the gift of the Tariantine, And Modocawando's wives had strung The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine On the polished breach, and broad bright line. Of beaded wampum around it hung. MOGG MEGONE. What seeks Megone ? His foes are near, — Grey Jocelyn's ^ eye is never sleeping, And the garrison lights are burning clear, Where Phillips' * men their watch are keeping. Let him hie him away through the dank river fog, Never rustling the houghs nor dis- placing the rocks, For the eyes and the ears which are watching for Mogg Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox. He starts, — there 's a rustle among the leaves : Another, — the click of his gun is heard ! A footstep, — is it the step of Cleaves, With Indian blood on his English sword ? Steals Harmon ^ down from the sands of York, With hand of iron and foot of cork ? Has Scamman, versed in Indian wile. For vengeance left his vine-hung isle ?^ Hark ! at that whistle, soft and low. How lights the eye of Mogg Megone ! A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow, — " Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython ! " Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, And quick, keen glances to and fro. The hunted outlaw, Bonython ! ' A low, lean, swarthy man is he. With blanket-garb and buskined knee. And naught of English fashion on ; For he hates the race from whence he sprung. And he couches his words in the Indian " tongue. "Hush, — lot the Sachem's voice be weak ; The water-rat shall hear him speak, — The owl shall whoop in the white man's ear. That Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here 1 " He pauses, — dark, over cheek and brow, A flush, as of shame, is stealing now ; " Sachem ! " he says, " let me have the land, Which stretches away upon either hand. As far about as my feet can stray In the half of a gentle surnmei-'s day. From the leaping brook * to the Saco river, — And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me. Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and be The wife of Mogg Megone forever." There 's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, A moment's trace of powerful feeling. Of love or triumph, or both perchance, Over his proud, calm features steal- " The words of my father are very good ; He shall have the land, and water, and wood ; And he who harms the Sagamore John, Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone ; But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast. And the bird of the clearing shall sing iu my nest." "But, father!" — and the Indian'shand Falls gently on the white man's arm, And with a smUe as shrewdly bland As the deep voice is slow and calm, — " Where is my father's singing-bird, — The sunny eye, and sunset hair ? I know I have my father's word. And that his word is good and fair ; But will my father tell me where Megone shall go and look for his bride ? — For he sees her not by her father's side." The dark, stern eye of Bonython Flashes over the features of Mogg Me- gone, In one of those glances which search within ; But the stolid calm of the Indian alone Eemains where the trace of emotion has been. "Does the Sachem doubt? Let him go with me. And the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see." Cautious and slow, with pauses oft. And watchful eyes and wnispere soft. The twain are stealing through the wood, Leaving the downward-rushing flood. Whose deep and solemn roar behind Grows fainter on the evening wind. MOGa MEGONE. Hark ! — is that the angry howl Of the wolf, the hills among ? — Or the hooting of the owl, On his leafy cradle swung ? — Quickly glancing, to and fro, Listening to each sound they go Bound the columns of the pine. Indistinct, in shadow, seeming Like some old and pillared shrine ; With the soft and white moonshine, Kound the foliage-tracery shed Of each column's branching head. For its lamps of worship gleaming ! And the sounds awakenedT there, In the pine-leaves fine and small. Soft and sweetly musical, By the fingers of the air, For the anthem's dying fall Lingering round some temple's wall ! Niche and cornice round and round Wailing like the ghost of sound ! Is not Nature's worship thus. Ceaseless ever, going on ? Hath it not a voice for us In the thunder, or the tone Of the leaf-harp faint and small. Speaking to the unsealed ear Words of blended love and fear. Of the mighty Soul of all ? Naught had the twain of thoughts like these As they wound along through the crowded trees, Where never had rung the axeman's stroke On the gnarled trunk of the rough-barked oak ; — Climbing the dead tree's mossy log. Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine, Turning aside the wild grapevine, And lightly crossing the quaking bog Whose surface shakes at the leap of the frog, And out of whose pools the ghostly fog Creeps into the chill moonshine ! Yet, even that Indian's ear had heard The preaching of the Holy Word : Sanchekantacket's isle of sand Was once his father's hunting land. Where zealous Hiacoomes ^ stood, — The wild apostle of the wood. Shook from his soul the fear of harm. And trampled on the Powwaw's charm ; Until the wizard's curses hung Suspended on his palsying tongue. And the fierce warrior, grim and tall, Tremble^ before the forest Paul ! A cottage hidden in the wood, — Bed through its seams a light is glowing. On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude, A narrow lustre throwing. "Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands ; "Hold, Ruth, —'tis I, the Saga- more ! " Quick, at the summons, hasty hands Unclose the bolted door ; And on the outlaw's daughter shine The flashes of the kindled pine. Tall and erect the maiden stands, Like some young priestess of the wood. The freebam child of Solitude, And bearing still the wild and rude. Yet noble trace of Nature's hands. Her dark brown cheek has caught its stain More from the sunshine than the rain ; Yet, where her long fair hair is parting, A pure white brow into light is starting ; And, where the folds of her blanket sever, Are a neck and bosom as white as ever The foam- wreaths rise on the leaping river. But in the convulsive quiver and grip Of the muscles around her bloodless lip, There is something painful and sad to see ; And her eye has a glance more sternly wild Than even that of a forest child In its fearless and untamed freedom should be. Yet, seldom in hall or court are seen So queenly a form and so noble a mien. As freely and smiling she welcomes them there, — Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone : " Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare? And, Sachem, say, — does Scamman wear. In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own ? " Hurried and light is the maiden's tone ; But a fearful meaning lurks mthin Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone, — An awful meaning of guilt and sin ! — The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there > Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair ! With hand upraised, with quick-drawn breath. She meets that ghastly sign of death. MOGG MEGONE. In one long, glassy, spectral stare The enlarging eye is fastened there. As if that mesh of pale brown hair Had power to change at sight alone, Even as the fearful locks which wound Medusa's fatal forehead round, The gazer into stone. With such a look Herodias read The features of the bleeding head, So looked the mad Moor on his dead. Or the young Cenci as she stood, O'er-dabbled with a father's blood I Look ! — feeling melts that frozen glance. It moves that marble countenance, As if at once within her strove Pity with shame, and hate with love. The Past recalls its joy and pain, ' Old memories rise before her brain, — The lips which love's embraces met. The hand her tears of parting 'wet,- The voice whose pleading tones beguiled The pleased ear of the forest-child, — And tears she may no more repress Eeveal her lingering tenderness. 0, woman wronged can cherish hate More deep and dark than manhoodmay ; But when the mockery of Fate Hath left Revenge its chosen way. And the fell curse, which years have nursed, - Full on the spoiler's head hath burst, — ■When all her wrong, andshame, and pain; Bums fiercely on his heart and brain, — Still lingers something of the spell Which bound^her to the traitor's bosom, — Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell. Some flowers of old aflfection blossom. John Bonython's eyebrows together are drawn With a fierce expression of wrath and scorn, — He hoarsely whispers, " Euth, beware ! Is this the tim e to be playing the fool, — Crying over a paltry lock of hair. Like a love-sick girl at school ? — Curse on it ! — an Indian can see and hear ; Awayi — andprepare our evening cheer ! " How keenly the Indian is watching now Her tearful eye and her varjring brow, — With a serpent eye, which kindles and bums, Like a fiery star in the upper air : On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns : — " Has my old wMte father a scalp to spare ? For his young one loves the pale brown hair Of the scalp of an English dog far more Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor ; Go, — Mogg is wise ; he wiU keep his land, — And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand. Shall miss his scalp whereitgrew before.'' The moment's gust of grief is gone, — The lip is clenched, — the tears are still, — God pity thee, Euth Bonython ! With what a strength of will Are nature's feelings in thy breast. As with an iron hand, repressed ! And how, upon that nameless woe. Quick as the pulse can come and go. While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet The bosom heaves, — the eye is wet, — Has thy dark spirit power to stay The heart's wild current on its way ? And whence that baleful strength of guile. Which over that still working brow And tearful eye and cheek can throw The mockery of a smile ? Warned by herfather'sblackeningfrown. With one strong effort crushing down Grief, hate, remorse, she meets again The savage murderer's sullen gaze. And scarcely look or tone betrays How the heart strives beneath its chain. " Is the Sachem angry, — angry with Euth, Because she cries with an ache in her tooth, i» Which would make a. Sagamore jump and cry, And look about with a woman's eye ? No, — Euth wiH sit in the Sachem's door And braid the mats for his wigwam floor, And broil his fish and tender fawn. And weave his wampum, and grind his corn, — For she loves the brave and the wise, and none Are braver and wiserthanMogg Megone I" MOGG MEGONE. The Indian's brow is clear once more : ■Witli grave, calm face, and half-shut eye, He sits upon the wigwam floor. And watches Ruth go by, Intent upon her household care ; And ever and anon, the while, Or on the maiden, or her fare, Which smokes in grateful promise there, Bestows his quiet snule. Ah, Mogg Megone ! — what dreams aie thine, But those which love's own fancies dress, ■=— The sum of Indian happiness ! — A wigwam, where the wami sunshine Looks in among the groves of pine, — ' A stream, where, round thy light canoe. The trout and salmon dart in view. And the fair girl, before thee now, Spreading thy mat with hand of snow, Or plying, in the dews of morn, Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, Or offering up, at eve, to thee. Thy birchen dish of hominy ! From the rude board of Bonython, Venison and succotash have gone, — For long these dwellers of the wood Have felt the gnawing want of food. But untasted of Ruthis the frugal cheer, — With head averted, yet ready ear. She stands by the side of her austere sire. Feeding, at times, the unequal fire With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree. Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls, And over its inmates three. From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Me- gone : " Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask ? WiU he make his mark, that it may be known. On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land. From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand ? " The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes. As he rises, the white man's bidding to do : " Wuttamuttata — weekan ! ^ Mogg is wise, — For the water he drinks is strong and new, — Mogg's lieart is great ! — will he shut his hand. When his father asksfor alittle land?" — With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawn On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow, " Boon water, — boon water, — Saga- more John ! Wuttamuttata, — weekan ! our hearts will grow ! " He drinks yet deeper, — he mutters low, — He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, — His head falls down on his naked breast, — He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. " Humph — drunk as a beast ! " — and Bonython's brow Is darker thaneverwithevO thought — " The fool has signed his wanunt ; but how And when shall the deed be wrought ? Speak, Ruth ! why, what the devil is there, To fix thy gaze in that empty air ? — Speak, Ruth ! by my soul, if I thought that tear. Which shames thyself and our purpose here. Were shed for that cursed and pale- faced dog. Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg, And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping, — This — this ! " — he dashes his hand upon The rattling stock of his loaded gun, — "Should send thee with him to do thy weeping ! " " Father ! " — the eye of Bonython Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone. Hollow and deep, as it were spoken By the unmoving tongue of death, — Or from some statue's lips had broken, — • A sound without a breath ! " Father ! — my life I value less Than yonder fool his gaudy dress ; And how it ends it matters not. By heart-break or by rifle-shot ; MOGG MEGONE. But spare awhile the scoff and threat, — • Our business is not finished yet." " True, true, my girl, — I only meant To draw up again the bow unbent. Harm thee, my Ruth ! I only sought To frighten off thy gloomy thought ; Come, — let 's he friends ! " He seeks to clasp His daughter's cold, damp hand in his. Euth startles from her father's grasp, As if each nerve and muscle felt, Instinctively, the touch of guilt. Through all their subtle sympathies. He points her to the sleeping Mogg : " What shall be done with yonder dog ? Scamman isdead, and revenge is thine, — The deed is signed and the lan,d is mine ; And this drunken fool is of use no more, Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth, 'T were Christian mercy to finish him, Euth, Now, while he lies like a beast on our floor, — If not for thine, at least for his sake, Eather than let the poor dog awake To drain my flask, and claim as his bride Such a forest devil to run by his side, — Such a Wetuomanit ^^ as thou wouldst make ! " He laughs at his jest. Hush — what is there? — The sleeping Indian is striving to rise, "With his knife in his hand, and glar- ing eyes ! — " Wagh ! — Mogg will have the pale- face's hair, For his knife is sharp, and his fingers can help The hair to pull and the skin to peel, — Let him cry like a woman and twist like an eel, The gi-eat Captain Scamman must lose his scalp ! And Euth, when she sees it, shall dance with Mogg." His eyes are fixed, — but his lips draw in, — With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin, — Andhesinksagain, lilce a senseless log. Ruth does not speak, ■ — she does not stir ; But she gazes down on the murderer, Whose broken and dreamful .slumbers tell Too much for her ear of that deed of heU. She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clenching the bear- skin bed ! What thoughts of horror and madness whirl Through the burning brain of that fallen girl! John Bonython lifts his gun to his eye, Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, — But he drops it again. " Some one may be nigh. And I would not that even the wolves should hear. " He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, — Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt ; — Kneeling down on one knee, by the In- dian's side, From his throat he opens the blanket wide ; And twice or thrice he feebly essays A trembling hand with the knife to raise. "I cannot," — he mutters, — "did he not save My life from a cold and wintry grave. When the storm came down from Agioo- chook. And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook, — And I strove, in the drifts of the rush- ing snow, Till my knees grew weak and I could not go. And I felt the cold to my vitals creep. And my heart's blood stiffen, and pulses sleep ! I cannot strike him — Euth Bonython ! In the Devil's name, tell me — what's to be done ? " 0, when the soul, once pure and high, Is stricken down from Virtue's sky. As, with the downcast star of morn. Some gems of light are with it drawn, — And, through its night of darkness, play Some tokens of its primal day, — Some lofty feelings linger still, — The strength to dare, the nerve to meet Whatever threatens with defeat Its all-indomitable will ! — But lacks the mean of mind and heart, Though eager for the gains of crime. Oft, at his chosen place and time. MOGG MEGONE. The strength to bear his evil part ; And, shielded by his very Vice, Escapes from Crime by Cowardice. Euth starts erect, — with bloodshot eye. And lips drawn tight across hSr teeth, Showing their locked embrace beneath, In the red firelight : — " Mogg must die ! Give me the knife ! " — The outlaw turns, Shuddering in heartand limb, away, — But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns, Aiid he sees on the wall strange shad- ows play. A lifted arm, a tremulous blade. Are dimly pictured inlight and shade, Plimgingdownin the darkness. Hark, that cry Again — and again — he sees it fall, — That shadowy arm down the lighted wall ! He hears quick footsteps — a shape flits by — The door on its rusted hinges creaks : — " Euth — daughter Euth ! " the outlaw shrieks. But no sound comes back, — he is stand- ing alone By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone ! PAET II. 'T IS morning over Norridgewock,-^ — On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred At intervals by breeze and bird. And wearing all the hues which glow In heaven's own pure and perfect bow, That glorious picture of the air. Which summer's light-robed angel forms On the dark ground of fading storms. With pencil dipped in sunbeams there, — And, stretching out, on either hand. O'er all that wide and unshorn land. Till, weary of its gorgeousness. The aching and the dazzled eye Bests, gladdened, on the calm blue sky, — Slumbers the mighty wilderness ! The oak, upon the windy hill. Its dark green burthen upward heaves — The hemlock broods above its rUl, Its cone-like foliage darker still. Against the birch's graceful stem. And the rough walnut-bough receives The sun upon its crowded leaves. Each colored like a topaz gem ; And the tall maple wears with them The coronal, which autumn gives. The brief, bright sign of ruin near, The hectic of a dying year ! The hermit priest, who lingers now On the Bald Mountain's shrubless brow, The gray and thunder-smitten pile Which marks afar the Desert Isle,i* While gazing on the scene below. May Imlf forget the dreams of home, Thatnightlywithhisslumberscome, ^ The tranquil skies of sunny France, The peasant's harvest song and dance. The vines around the hillsides wreathing The soft airs midst their clusters breath- ing. The wings which dipped, the stars which shone Within thy bosom, blue Garonne ! And round the Abbey's shadowed wall. At morning spring and even-fall. Sweet voices in the still air singing, — The chant of many a holy hymn, — The solemn bell of vespei-s ringing, — And hallowed torchlight falling dim On pictured saint and seraphim ! For here beneath him lies unrolled. Bathed deep in morning's flood of gold, A vision gorgeous as the dream Of the beatified may seem, ; When, as his Church's legends say. Borne upward in ecstatic bliss. The rapt enthusiast soars away Unto a brighter world than this : A mortal's glimpse beyond the pale, — A moment's lifting of the veil ! Far eastward o'er the lovely bay, Penobscot's clustered wigwams lay ; And gently from that Indian town The verdant hillside slopes adown. To where the sparkling waters play Upon the yellow sands below ; And shootitig round the winding shores Of narrow capes, and isles which lie Slumbering to ocean's lullaby, — With birchen boat and glancing oars. The red men to their fishing go ; While from their plantingground is borne The treasure of the golden com. By laughing girls, "whose dark eyes glow Wild through the locks which o'er them flow. The wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done. Sits on herTaear-skin in the sun, Watching the buskers, with a smile 8 MOGMJ MEGONE. For each full ear which swells the pile ; And the old chief, who neTennore May bend the how or pull the oar, Smokes gravely in his wigwam door. Or slowly shapes, with axe of stone. The arrow-head from flint and bone. Beneath the westward turning eye A thousand wooded islands lie, — Gems of the waters ! — with each hue . Of brightness set in ocean's blue. Each bears aloft its tuft of trees Touched by the pencU of the frost. And, with the motion of each breeze, A moment seen, — a moment ^ost, — Changing and blent, confused and The brighter with the darker crossed. Their thousand tints of Jbeauty glow Down in the restless waves below, And tremble in the sunny skies. As if, from waving bough to bough, Flitted the birds of paradise. There sleep Placentia's group, — and there P&re Breteaux marks the hour of prayer ; And there, beneath the sea-worn cliff, On which the Father's hut is seen. The Indian stays his rocking skiff. And peers the hemlock-boughs be- tween. Half trembling, as h6 seeks to look TJpon the Jesuit's Cross and Book.^ There, gloomily against the sky The Dark Isles rear their summits high ; And Desert Eoek, abrupt and bare, Lifts its gray turrets in the air, — Seen from afar, like some stronghold Built by the ocean kings of old ; And, faint as smoke-wreath white and thin. Swells in the north vast Eatahdin : And, wandering from its marshy feet. The broad Penobscot comes to meet And mingle with his own bright bay. Slow sweep his dark and gathering floods. Arched over by the ancient woods. Which Time, in those dim solitudes. Wielding the dull axe of Decay, Alone hath ever shorn away. Not thus, within the woods which hide The beauty of thy azure tide, And with their falling timbers block Thy broken currents, Kennebec ! Gazes the white man on the wreck Of the down-trodden N orridgewock, — In one lone village hemmed at length. In battle shorn of half their strength. Turned, like the panther in his lair. With his fast-flowing life-blood wet, For one last stmggle of despair. Wounded and faint, but tameless yet ! Unreaped, upon the planting lands, The scant, neglected harvest stands : No shout is there, — no dance, — no song : The aspect of the very child Scowls with a meaning sad and wild Of bitterness and wrong. The almost infant Norridgewock Essays to lift the tomahawk ; And plucks his father's knife away, To mimic, in his frightful play. The scalping of an English foe : Wreathes on his lip a horrid smile. Burns, like a snake's, his small eye, while Some bough or sapling meets his blow. The fisher, as he drops his line. Starts, when he sees the hazels quiver Along the margin of the river, Looks up and down the rippling tide. And grasps the firelock at his side. For Bomazeen ^^ from Taceonock Has sent his runners to Norridgewock, With tidings that Moulton and Harmon of York Far up the river have come : They have left their boats, — they have entered the wood. And filled the depths of the solitude With the sound of the ranger's drum. On the brow of a hill, which slopes to meet The flowing river, and bathe its feet, — The bare-washed rock, and the drooping grass, And the creeping vine, as the waters pass, — A rude and unshapely chapel stands. Built up in that wild by unskilled hands. Yet the traveller knows it a place of prayer. For the holy sign of the cross is there : And should he chance at that place to be, Of a Sabbath mom, or some hallowed day. When prayers are made and masses are said. Some for the living and some for the dead. Well might that traveller start to see The talldaik foi-ms, thattp-ketheir way From the birch canoe, on the river-shore, MOGG MEGONE. And the forest paths, to that chapel door ; And marvel to mark the naked knees And the dusky foreheads bending there, While, in coarse white vesture, over these In blessing or in prayer, Stretching abroad his thin pale hands, Likeashroudedghost, the Jesuitic stands. Two forms are now in that chapel dim, The Jesuit, silent and sad and pale. Anxiously heeding some fearful tale, "Which a stranger is telling him. That stranger's garb is soiled and torn, And wet with dew and loosely worn ; Her fair neglected hair falls down O'er cheeks with wind and sunshine brown ; Yet still, in that disordered face. The Jesuit's cautious eye can trace Those elements of former grace "Which, half effaced, seem scarcely less, Even now, than perfect loveliness. "With drooping head, and voice so low That scarce it meets the Jesuit's ears, — "Wliile through her clasped fingers flow. From the heart's fountain, hot and slow, Her penitential tears, — She tells the story of the woe And evil of her years. " father, bear with me ; my heart Is sick and death-like, and my brain Seems girdled with a fiery chain, "Whose scorching links will never part, And never cool again. Bear with me while I speak, — but turn Away that gentle eye, the while, — The iires of guilt more fiercely bum Beneath its holy smile ; For half I fancy I can see My mother's sainted look in thee. " My dear lost mother ! sad and pale, Mournfully sinking day by day, And with a hold on life as frail As frosted leaves, that, thin and gray. Hang feebly on their parent spray, And tremble in the gale ; Yet watching o'er ray childishness "With patient fondness, — not the less For all the agony which kept Her blue eye wakeful, while I slept ; And checking every tear and groan That haply might have waked my own, And bearing still, without offence, My idle words, and petulance ; I Reproving with a tear, — and, while The tooth of pain was keenly preying Upon her vei-y heart, repaying My brief repentance with a smile. "0, in her meek, forgiving eye There was a brightness not of mirth, A light whose clear intensity Was borrowed not of earth. Along her cheek a deepening red Told where the feverish hectic fed ; And yet, each fatal token gave To the mild beauty of her face A newer and a dearer grace, Unwaming of the grave. 'T was like the hue which Autumn gives To yonder changed and dying leaves. Breathed over by his frosty breath ; Scarce can the gazer feel that this Is but the spoiler's treacherous kiss. The mocking-smile of Death ! "Sweet were the tales she used to tell When summer's eve was dear to us. And, fading from the darkening dell. The glory of the sunset fell On wooded Agamenticus, — When, sitting by our cottage wall. The murmur of the Saco's fall. And the south^wind's expiring sighs. Came, softly blending, on my ear. With the low tones I loved to hear : Tales of the pure, — the good, — the wise, — • The holy men and maids of old. In the all-sacred pages told ; — Of Rachel, stooped at Haran's fount- ains. Amid her father's thirsty flock. Beautiful to her kinsman seeming As the bright angels of his dreaming, On Padan-aran's holy rock ; Of gentle Ruth, — and her who kept Her awful vigil on the mountains, By Israel's virgin daughters wept ; Of Miriam, with her maidens, singing The song for grateful Israel meet. While every crimson wave was bringing The spoils of Egypt at her feet ; Of her, — Samaria's humble daughter. Who paused to hear, beside her well. Lessons of love and truth, which fell Softly as Shiloh's flowing water ; And saw, beneath his pilgrim guise. The Promised One, so long foretold By holy seer and hard of old. Revealed before her wondering eyes 1 10 MOGG MEGOKE. " Slowly she fad^d. Day ty day Her step grew weaker in our hall, And fainter, at each even-fall. Her sad voice died away. Yet on her thin, pale lip, the while, Sat Resignation's holy smile : And even my father checked his tread. And hushed his voice, beside her bed : Beneath the calm and sad rebuke Of her meek eye's imploring look. The scowl of hate his brow forsook, And in his stem and gloomy eye, At times, a few unwonted tears Wet the dark lashes, which for years Hatred and pride had kept so dry. " Calm as a child to slumber soothed. As if an angel's hand had smoothed The still, white features into rest, Silent and cold, without a breath To stir the drapery on her breast. Pain, with its keen and poisoned fang, The hon-or of the mortal pang. The suffering look her brow had worn. The fear, the strife, the anguish gone, — She slept at last in death ! " 0, tell me, father, can the dead Walk on the earth, and look on us, And lay upon the living's head Their blessing or their curse ? For, 0, last night she stood by me, As I lay beneath the woodland tree ! " The Jesuit crosses himself in awe, — '' Jesu ! what was it my daughter saw ? " " Sim came to me last night. The dried leaves did not feel her tread ; She stood by me in the wan moonlight, In the white robes of the dead ! Pale, and very mournfully She bent her light foim over me. I heard no sound, I felt no breath Breathe o'er me from that face of death : Its blue eyes rested on my own, Eayless and cold as eyes of stone ; Yet, in their fixed, unchanging gaze, Something, which spoke of early days, — A sadness in their quiet glare. As if love's smile were frozen there, — Came o'er me with an icy thrill ; O God ! I feel its presence stUl i " The Jesuit makes the holy sign, — " JJow passed the vision, daughtermine ! " " All dimly in the wan moonshine, As a wreath of mist will twist and twine. And scatter, and melt into the light, — So scattering, — melting on my sight, The pale, cold vision passed ; But those sad eyes were fixed on mine Moui-nfuUy to the last." J' God help thee, daughter, tell me why That spirit passed before thine eye ! " " Father, I know not, save ifbe That deeds of mine have summoned her From the unbreathing sepulchre. To leave her last rebuke with me. Ah, woe for me ! my mother died Just at the moment when I stood Close on the verge of womanhood, A child in everything beside ; And when my wild heart needed most Her gentle counsels, they were lost. " My father lived a stoi-my life, Of frequent change and daily strife ; And — God forgive him ! — left his child To feel, like him, a freedom wild ; To love the red man's dwelling-place, The birch boat on his shaded floods. The wild excitement of the chase Sweeping the ancient woods. The camp-fire, blazing on the shore Of the still lakes, the clear stream where The idle fisher sets his wear. Or angles in the shade, far more Than that restraining awe I felt Beneath my gentle mother's care, When nightly at her knee I knelt, With childhood's simple prayer. " There came a change. The wild, glad mood Of unchecked freedom passed. Amid the ancient solitude Of unshorn glass and waving wood. And waters glancing bright and fast, A softened voice was in my ear, Sweet as those lulling sounds and fine The hunter lifts his head to hear, Now far and faint, now full and near — The mui-mur of the wind-swept pine. A manly form was ever nigh, A hold, free hunter, with an eye Whose dark, keen glance had power to wake Both fear and love, — to awe and charm ; 'T was as the wizard rattlesnake, Whose evil glances lure to harm — MOGG MEGONE. 11 Whose cold and small and glittering eye, And brilliant coil, and changing dye, Draw, step by step, the gazer near, "With drooping wing and cry of fear, Yet powerless all to tura away, A conscious, but a willing prey ! "Fear, doubt, thought, life itself, erelong Merged in one feeling deep and strong. Faded the world which I had known, A poor vain shadow, cold and waste ; In the warm present bliss alone Seemed I of actual life to taste. Fond longings dimly understood. The glow of passion's quickening blood. And cherished fantasies which press The young lip with a dream's caress, — The heart s forecast and prophecy Took form and life before my eye. Seen in the glance which met my own, Heard in the soft aud pleading tone, Felt in the arms around me oast. And warm heart-pulses beating fast. Ah ! scarcely yet to God above "With deeper trust, with stronger love, Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent, Or cloistered nun at twilight bent,' Than I, before a human shrine. As mortal- and as frail as mine, Withheart, andsoul, and mind, and form, Knelt madly to a fellow-worm. " Full soon, upon that dream of sin, An awful light came bursting in. The shrine was cold at which I knelt, The idol of that shrine was gone ; A humbled thing of shame and guilt. Outcast, and spurned and lone, Wrapt in the shadows of my crime. With withering heart aud burning brain. And tears that fell like fiery rain, I passed a fearful time. " There came a Tolce — it checked the tear — In heart and soulitwroughtachange; — My father's voice was in my ear ; It whispered of revenge ! A new and fiercer feeling swept All lingering tenderness away ; And tiger jiassions, which had slept In childhood's better day, Unknown, unfelt, arose at length In ^11 their own demoniac strength. "A youthful warrior of the wild. By words deceived, by smiles beguiled. Of crime the cheated instrument. Upon our fatal errands went. Through camp and town and wilderness He tracked his victim ; and, at last, Just when the tide of hate had passed, And milder thoughts came warm and fsist. Exulting, at my feet he cast The bloody token of success. " God ! with what an awful power I saw the buried past uprise, And gather, in a single hour. Its ghost-like memories ! And then I felt — alas ! too late — That underneath the mask of hate, That shame and guilt and wrong had thrown O'er feelings which they might not own, The heart's wild love had known no change ; And still that deep and hidden love. With its first fondness, wept above The victim of its own revenge ! There lay the fearful scalp, and there The blood was on its pale brown hair ! I thought not of the victim's scorn, I thought not of his baleful guile. My deadly wrong, my outcast name. The characters of sin and shame On heart and forehead drawn ; I only saw that victim's smile, — The stiU, green places where we met, — The moonlit branches, dewy wet ; I only felt, I only heard The greeting and the parting word, — The smile, — the embrace, — the tone, which made An Eden of the forest shade. " And oh, with what a loathing eye. With what a deadly hate, and deep, I saw that Indian murderer lie Before me, in his drunken sleep ! What though for me the deed was done. And words of mine had sped him on ! Yet when he murmured, as he slept, The horrors of that deed of blood. The tide of utter madness swept O'er brain and bosom, like a flood. And, father, with this hand of mine — " " Ha ! what didst thou ? " the Jesuit cries, Shuddering, as smitten with suddpn pain. And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes. 12 MOGG MEGONE. With the other he makes the holy sign. " — I smote him as I would a worm ; — "With heart as steeled, with nerves as firm : He never woke again ! " " Woman of sin and blood and shame, - 1 would know that victim's "Father," she gasped, "a chieftain, known As Saco's Sachem, — Mogg Megone ! " Pale priest ! What proud and lofty dreams. What keen desires, what cherished schemes^ What hopes, that time may not recall. Are darkened hy that chieftain's fall ! Was he not pledged, by cross and vow. To lift the hatchet of his sire. And, round his own, the Church's foe. To light the avenging fire ? Who now the Tarrantine shall wake. For thine and for the Church's sake ? Who summon to the scene Of conquest and unsparing strife. And vengeance dearer than his life. The fiery-souled Castine ? " Three backward steps the Jesuit takes, — His long, thin frame as ague shakes ; And loathing hate is in his eye. As from his lips these words of fear Fall hoarsely on the maiden's ear, — "The soul that sinneth shall surely die!" She stands, as stands the stricken deer. Checked midway in the fearful chase. When bursts, upon his eye and ear, The gaunt, gray robber, baying near. Between lam and his hiding-place ; While still behind, with yell and blow. Sweeps, like a storm, the coming foe. " Save me, holy man ! " — her cry Fills all the void, as if a tongue. Unseen, from rib and rafter hung. Thrilling with mortal agony ; Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee. And her eye looks fearfully, into his own ; — " Off, womaii of sin ! — nay, touch not me With those fingers of blood ; — be- gone I " With a gesture of horror, he spurns the form That writhes at his feet like a trodden Ever thus the spirit must, Guilty in the sight of Heaven, With a keener woe be riven. For its weak and sinful trust In the strength of human dust ; And its anguish thrill afresh, For each vain reliance given To the failing arm of flesh. PART III. Ah, weary Priest! — with pale hands pressed On thy throbbing brow of pain, BafSed in thy life-long quest. Overworn vrith toiling vain. How IE thy troubled musings fit The holy quiet of a breast With the Dove of Peace at rest. Sweetly brooding over it. Thoughts are thine which have no part With the meek and pure of heart. Undisturbed by outward things. Resting in the heavenly shade. By the overspreading wings Of the Blessed Spirit made. Thoughts of strife and hate and wrong Sweep thy heated brain along. Fading hopes for whose success It were sin to breathe a prayer ; — Schemes which Heaven may never bless, — Fears which darken to despair. Hoary priest ! thy dream is done Of a hundred red tribes won To the pale of Holy Church ; And the heretic o'erthrown. And his name no longer known. And thy wesiry brethren turning. Joyful from their years of mourning, 'Twixt the altar and the porch. Hark ! what sudden sound is heard In the wood and in the sky, Shriller than the scream of bird, — Than the trumpet's clang more high! Every wolf-cave of the hUls, — Forest arch and mountain goi^ge, Bock and dell, and river verge, — With an answering echo thrills. Well does the Jesuit know that cry. MOGG MEGONE. 13 "Which summons the NoniSgewock to die, And tells that the foe of his flock is nigh. He listens, and hears the rangers come, With loud hurrah, and jar of drum. And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot), And the short, sharp sound of rifle shot, And taunt and menace, — answered well By the Indians' mocking cry and yell, — • The bark of dogs, — the squaw's mad scream, — The dash of paddles along the stream, — The whistle of shot as it cuts the leaves Of the maples around the church's eaves, — And the gride of hatchets fiercely thrown. On wigwam-log and tree and stone. Black with the giime of paint and dust. Spotted and streaked with human gore, A grim and naked head is thrust "Within the chappl-door. ' ' Ha — Bomazeen ! — In God's name say, "What mean these sounds of bloody fray ?" Silent, the Indian points his hand To where across the echoing glen Sweep Harmon's dreaded ranger-band, And Moulton with his men. " Where are thy warriors, Bomazeen ? "Where are De Rouville ^* and Castine, And where the braves of Sawga's queen ? " " Let my father iind the winter snow Which the sun drank up long moons ago ! Under the falls of Tacconock, The wolves are eating the Norridgewock ; Castine with his wives lies closely hid Like a fox in the woods of Pemaquid ! On Sawga's banks the man of war Sits in his wigwam like a squaw, — Squando has fled, and Mogg Megone, Struck by the knife of Sagamore John, Lies stilf and stark and cold as a stone." Feaifully over the Jesuit's face. Of a thousand thoughts, trace after trace. Like swift cloud-shadows, each other chase. One instant, his fingers grasp his knife. For a last vain struggle for cherished life, — The next, he hurls the blade away. And kneels at his altar's foot to pray ; Over his heads his fingers stray. And he kisses the cross, and calls aloud On the Virgin and her Son ; For terrible thoughts his memory crowd Of evil seen and done, — Of scalps brought home by his savage flock From Casco and Sawga and Sagadahock In the Church's service won. No shrift the gloomy savage brooks, As scowling on the priest he looks ; "Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich wessa- seen ?'' Let my father look upon Bomazeen, — My father's heart is the heart of a squaw. But mine is so hard that it does not thaw ; Let my father ask his God to make A dance and a feast for a gi-eat saga- more, "When he paddles across the western lake, With his dogs and his squaws to the spirit's shore. "Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich wessa- seen ? Let my father die like Bomazeen ! " Through the chapel's naiTOw doors. And through each window in the walls, Round the priest and warrior pours The deadly shower of English balls. Low on his cross the Jesuit falls ; "While at his side the Nonidgewock, With failing breath, essays to mock And menace yet the hated foe, — Shakes his scalp-trophies to and fro Exultingly before their eyes, — Till, cleft and torn by shot and blow, - Defiant still, he dies. " So fare all eaters of the frog ! Death to the Babylonish dog ! Down with the beast of Rome ! " With shouts like these, around the dead. Unconscious on his bloody bed. The rangers crowding come. Brave men ! the dead priest cannot hear The unfeeling taunt; — thebrutal jeer ;— Spurn — for he sees ye not — in wrath. The symbol of your Saviour's death ; Tear fromhis death-grasp, in your zeal. And trample, as a thing accursed, The cross he cherished in the dust : The dead man cannot feel ! Brutal alike in deed and word, With callous heart and hand of strife^ How like a fiend may man be made. Plying the foul and monstrous trade Whose harvest-field is human life. Whose sickle is the reeking sword ! 14 MOGG MEGONE. Quenching, with reckless hand in Mood, Sparks kindled by the breath of God ; Urging the deathless soul, unshriven, Of open guilt or secret sin, Before the bar of that pure Heaven. The holy only enter in ! 0, by the widow's sore distress. The orphan's wailing wretchedness, By Virtue struggling in the accursed Embraces of polluting Lust, By the fell discord of the Pit, And the pained souls that people it, And by the blessed peace which iUls The Paradise of God forever, Besting on all its holy hills. And flowing with its crystal river, — Let Christian hands no longer bear In triumph on his crimson car The foul and idol god of war ; No more the purple wreaths prepare To bind amid his snaky hair ; Nor Christian bards his glories tell, Nor Christian tongues his praises swell. Through the gun-sm oke wreathing white. Glimpses on the soldiers' sight A thing of human shape I ween, For a moment only seen. With its loose hair backward streaming, And its eyeballs madly gleaming. Shrieking, like a soul in pain, From the world of light and breath. Hurrying to its place again. Spectre-like it vanisheth ] "Wretched girl ! one eye alone Notes the way which thou hast gone. , That great Eye, which slumbers never, "Watching o'er a lost world ever, Tracks thee over vale and mountain, By the gushing foi'est-fountain, _. Plucking from the vine its fruit, Searching for the ground-nut's root. Peering in the she- wolf s den. Wading through the marshy fen, Where the sluggish water-snake Basks beside the sunny brake, Coiling in his slimy bed. Smooth and cold against thy tread, — Purposeless, thy mazy way Threading through the lingering day. And at night securely sleeping Where the dogwood's dews are weeping ! Still, though earth and man discard thee. Doth thy Heavenly Father guard thee : He who spared the guilty Cain, Even when a brother's blood, Crying in the ear of God, Gave the earth its primal stain, — He whose mercy ever liveth, Who repenting guilt forgiveth, And the broken heart receiveth, — Wanderer of the wilderness. Haunted, guilty, crazed, and wild, He regardeth thy distress, And careth for his sinful child ! 'Tis springtime on the eastern hills ! Like torrents gush the summer rills ; Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves The bladed grass revives and lives. Pushes the mouldering Waste away. And glimpses to the April day. In kindly shower and sunshine bud The branches of the dull gray wood ; Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks The blue eye of the violet looks ; The southwest wind is warmly blowing And odors from the springing grass. The pine-tree and the sassafras. Are with it on its errands going. A band is marching through the wood Where rolls the Kennebec his flood, — The warriors of the wilderness. Painted, and in their battle dress ; And with them one whose bearded cheek. And white and wrinkled brow, bespeak A wanderer from the shores of France. A few long locks of scattering snow Beneath a battered morion flow. And from the rivets of the vest Which girds in steel his ample breast. The slanted sunbeams glance. In the harsh outlines of ms face Passion and sin have left their trace ; Yet, save worn brow and thin gray hair, No signs of weary age are there. His step is firm, his eye is keen. Nor years in broil and battle spent, Nor toil, nor wounds, nor pain have bent The lordly frame of old Castine. No purpose now of strife and blood Urges the hoary veteran on : The fire of conquest and the mood Of chivalry have gone. A mournful task is his, — to lay Within the earth the bones of those Who perished in that fearful day, When Norridgewock became the prey Of all unsparing foes. Sadly and still, dark thoughts between, THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 15 Of coming vengeance mused Castine, Of the fallen chieftain Bomazeen, Who bade for him the Nonidgewocka Dig up their buried tomahawks For firm defence or swift attack ; And him whose friendship formed the tie Which held the stern self -exile back From lapsing into savagery ; Whose garb and tone and kindly glance Recalled a younger, happier day, And prompted memory s fond essay. To bridge the mighty waste which lay Between his wild home and that gray, Tall chateau of his native France, Whose chapel bell, with far-heard din, Ushered his birth-hour gayly in, 4.nd counted with its solemn toll The masses for his father's soul. Hark ! from the foremost of the band Suddenly bursts the Indian yell ; For now on the very spot they stand Where the Norridgewocks fighting fell. ^0 wigwam smoke is curling there ; The' very earth is scorched and bare : And they pause and listen to catch a sound Of breathing life, — but there comes not one, Save the fox's bark and the rabbit's bound ; But here and there, on the blackened ground. White bones are glistening in the sun. And where the house of prayer arose, And the holy hymn, at daylight's close, And the aged priest stood up to bless The children of the wilderness, There is naught save ashes sodden and dank ; And the birchen boats of the Nor- ridgewock. Tethered to tree and stump and rock, Rotting along the river bank ! Blessed Mary ! who is she Leaning against that maple-tree ? The sun upon her face burns hot. But the fixed eyelid moveth not ; The squirrel's chirp is shrill and clear From the dry bough above her ear ; Dashing from rock and root its spray. Close at her feet the river rushes ; The blackbird's wing against her brushes, And sweetly through the hazel-bushes The robin's mellow music gushes ; — God save her ! will she sleep alway ? Castine hath bent him over the sleeper : "Wake, daughter,. — wake!"- — but she stirs no limb : The eye that looks on him is fixed and dim; And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper, Until the angel's oath Is said. And the fi nal blast of the trump goes forth To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth. Ruth Bonython is dead ! THE BEIDAL OF PENI^ACOOK.'" 1848. We had been wandering for many days Through, the rough northern country. We had seen The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud. Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake Of Winnepiseogee ; and had felt The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips Of the bright waters. We had checked •ur steeds, Silent with wonder, where the mountain wall Is piled to heaven ; and, through the narrow rift Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet Beats themad torrent with perpetual roar. Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind Comes burdened with the everlasting moan Of forests and of far-off waterfalls. 16 THE BEIDAL OF PENNACOOK. We had looked upward where the sum- mer sky, Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun, Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land Beyond the wall of mountains. "We had The high source of the Saco ; and be- wildered In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills, Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud. The horn of Fabyan sounding ; and atop Of old Agioochook had seen the mountains Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick As meadow mole-hills, — the far sea of Casco, A white gleam on the horizon of the east ; Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills ; MoosehiUock's mountain range, and Lifting his Titan forehead to the sun ! And we had rested underneath the oaks Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shaken By the perpetual beating of the falls Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had tracked The winding Pemigewasset, overhung By beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks, Or lazily gliding through its intervals, From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon Rising behind Umbagog's eastern pines, Like a great Indian camp-fire ; and its beams At midnight spanning with a bridge of silver The Merrimack by Uncanoonuo's falls. There were five souls of us whom trav- el's chance Had thrown together in these wild north hills : — A city lawyer, for a month escaping From his dull office, where the weary eye Saw only hot brick walls and close thronged streets, — Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see Life's sunniest side, and with a heart to take Its chances all as godsends ; and his brother. Pale from long pulpit studies, yet re- taining The warmth and freshness of a genial heart. Whose mirror of the beautiful and true. In Man and Natui'e, was as yet vn- dimmed By dust of theologic strife, or breath Of -sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore ; Like a clear crystal calm of water, taking The hue and image of o'erleaning flowers. Sweet human faces, white clouds of the noon, Slant starlight glimpses through the dewy leaves. And tenderest moonrise. 'T was, in truth, a study. To mark his spirit, alternating between A decent and professional gravity And an irreverent mirthfulness, which often Laughed in the face of his divinity, Plucked off' the sacred ephod, quite nn- shrined The oracle, and for the pattern priest Left us the man. A shrewd, sagacious merchant, To whom the soiled sheet found in Crawford's inn, Giving the latest news of city stocks And sales of cotton, had adeeper meaning Than the great presence of the awfiu mountains Glorified by the sunset ; — and his daughter A delicate flower on whom had blown too long Those evil winds, which, sweeping from the ice And winnowing the fogs of Labrador, Shed their cold blight round Massachu- setts Bay, With the same breath which stirs Spring's opening leaves And lifts her half-formed flower-bell on its stem. Poisoning our seaside atmosphere. It chanced That as we turned upon ourhomeward way, A drear northeastern storm came howl- ing up The valley of the Saco ; and that girl THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 17 Who had stood with us upon Mount Washington, Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirled In gusts around its sharp cold pinnacle. Who had joined our gay trout-fishing in the streams Which lave that giant's feet ; whose laugh was heard Like a bird's carol on the sunrise breeze Which swelled our sail amidst the lake's green Shrank from its harsh, chill breath, and ■visibly drooped Like a flower in the &ost. So, in that quiet inn Which looks from Conway on the moun- tains piled Heavily against the horizon of the north, Like summer thunder-clouds, we made our home ; And while the mist hung over dripping hills, And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all day long Beat their sad music upon roof and pane. We strove to cheer our gentle iavafid. The lawyer in the pauses of the storm Went angling down the Saco, and, re- turning, Eecounted his adventures and mishaps ; Gave us the history of his scaly clients. Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citations Of barbarous law Latin, passages From Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and fresh As the flower-skirted streams of Stafibrd- shire. Where, under aged trees, the southwest wind Of soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hair Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be told. Our youthful candidate forsook his ser- mons. His commentaries, articles and creeds, For the fair page of human loveliness, — The missal of young hearts, whose sa- cred text Is music, its illumining sweet smiles. He sang the songs she loved ; and in his low. Deep, earnest voice, recited many a page Of poetry, — the holiest, tenderest lines Of the sad bard of Olney, — the sweet Simple and beautiful as Truth and Na- ture, Of him whose whitened locks on Eydal Mount Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing From thegreen hills, immortal in his lays. And for myself, obedient to her wish, I searched our landlord's profi'ered li- brary, — A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures Of scaly iiends and angels not imlike them, — Watts' unmelodious psalms, — Astrol. Last home, a musty pue of almanacs. And an old chronicle of border wars And Indian history. And, as I read A story of the marriage of the Chief Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt In the old time upon the MeiTimack, Our fair one, in the playful exercise Of her prerogative, — the right divine Of youth and beauty, — bade us versify The legend, and with ready pencil sketched Its plan and outlines, laughingly as- signing To each his part, and barring our excuses With absolute will. So, like the cavaliers Whose voices still are heard in the Ro- mance Of silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banks Of Amo, with soft tales of love beguiling The ear of languid beaut}', plague-exiled From stately Florence, we rehearsed our rhymes To their fair auditor, and shared by turns Her kind approval and her playful cen- It may be that these fragments owe alone To the fair setting of their circum- stances, — The associations of time, scene, and audience, — Their place amid the pictures which fiUup The chambers of my memory. Yet I trust That some, who sigh, while wandering _ in thought. Pilgrims of Romance o'er theolden world. That our broad land, — our sea-like lakes and mountains Piled to the clouds, — our rivers over- hung 18 THE BEIDAL OF PENNACOOK. By forests whioh have known no other change For ages, than the hudding and the fall Of leaves, — our valleys lovelier than those Which the old poets sang of, — should but figure On the apocryphal chart of speculation As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges. Eights, and appurtenances, which make up A Yankee Paradise, — unsung, unknown, To beautiful tradition ; even their names. Whose melody yet lingers like the last Vibration of the red man's requiem. Exchanged for syllables significant Of ootton-miU and rail-car, will look kindly Upon this effort to call up the ghost Of our dim Past, and listen with pleased '' ear To the responses of the questioned Shade. I. THE MEREIMACK. O CHILD of that white-crested mountain whose springs Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings, Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shine. Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf pine. From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so lone, From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of stone, By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and free, Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to the sea ! No bridge arched thy waters save that where the trees Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in the breeze : No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores, The plunging of otters, the light dip of Green-tufted, oak-shaded, ■ by Amos- keag's fall Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall. Thy Nashua meadows lay green and un- shorn. And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled with corn. But thy Penuacook vaUey was fairer than these, Andgreener its grasses and tallerits trees. Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung, Or the mower Ms scythe in the meadows had swung. In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood The bark-buHded wigwams of Penuacook stood. There glided the corn-dance, the coun- cil-fire shone. And against the red war-post the hatchet was thrown. There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and the young To the pike and the white-perch their baited lines flung ; There the hoy shaped lus arrows, and there the shy maid Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum braid. O Stream of the Mountains ! if answer of thine Could rise from thy waters to question of mine, Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks a moan Of sorrow would swell for the days which have gone. Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel. The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of steel ; But that old voice of waters, of bird and of breeze. The dip of the wild-fowl, the rustling of trees ! II. THE BASHATiA.^'l Lift we the twilight curtains of the Past, And, turning from familiar sight and sound, Sadly and full of reverence let us cast A glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground. THK BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 19 Led ty the few pale lights which, glim mering round That dim, strange land of Eld, seem. dying fast ; And that which history gives not to the eye, The faded coloring of Time's tapestry. Let Fancy, with her dream-dipped brush, supply. Eoof of hark and walls of pine. Through whose chinks the sunheams shine, Tracing many a golden line On the ample floor within ; Where, upon that earth-floor stark. Lay the gaudy mats of bark, With the bear's hide, rough and dark, And the red-deer's skin. Window-tracery, small and slight. Woven of the willow white, Lent a dimly checkered light. And the night-stars glimmered down. Where the lodge-fire's heavy smoke, Slowly through an opening broke. In the low roof, ribbed with oak. Sheathed with hemlock brown. Gloomed behind the changeless shade, By the solemn pine-wood made ; Through the rugged palisade, In the open foreground planted. Glimpses came of rowers rowing, Stir of leaves and wild-flowers blow- ing, Steel-like gleams of water flowing. In the sunlight slanted. Here the mighty Bashaba Held his long-unquestioned sway, From the White Hills, far away. To the great sea's sounding shore ; Chief of chiefs, his regal word All the river Sachems heard. At his call the war-dance stirred, Or was still once more, s There his spoils of chase and war. Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw. Panther's skin and eagle's claw. Lay beside his axe and bow ; And, adown the roof-pole hung. Loosely on a snake-skin strung. In the smoke his scalp-locks swung Grimly to and fro. Nightly down the river going, Swifter was the hunter's rowing. When he saw that lodge-tire glowing O'er the waters still and red ; And the squaw's darkey e burned brighter, And she drew her blanket tighter. As, with quicker step and lighter, From that door she fled. For that chief had magic skill. And a Panisee's dark will, Over powers of good and ill. Powers which bless and powers which ban, — Wizard lord of Pennacook, Chiefs upon their war-path shook, When they met the steady look Of that wise dark man. Tales of him the gray squaw told, When the winter night-wind cold Pierced her blanket's thickest fold, And her fire burned low and small. Till the very child abed, Drew its bear-skin over head. Shrinking from the pale lights shed On the trembling wall. All the subtle spirits hiding Under earth or wave, abiding In the caverned rock, or riding Misty clouds or morning breeze ; Every dark intelligence. Secret soul, and influence Of all things which outward sense Feels, or hears, or sees, — These the wizard's skill confessed. At his bidding banned or blessed, Stormful woke or lulled to rest Wind and cloud, and fire and flood ; Burned for him the drifted snow, Bade through ice fresh lilies blow. And the leaves of summer grow Over winter's wood I Not untrue that tale of old ! Now, as then, the wise and bold All the powers of Nature hold Subject to their kingly will ; From the wondering crowds ashore. Treading life's wild waters o'er. As upon a marble floor, Moves the strong man still. Still, to such, life's elements With their sterner laws dispense. 20 THE BEIDAL OF PENNACOOK. And the chain of consequence Broken in their pathway lies ; Time and change their vassals making, Flowers from icy pillows waking, Tresses of the sunrise shaking Over midnight skies. Still, to earnest souls, the sun Bests on towered Gibeon, And the moon of Ajalon Lights the battle-grounds of life ; To his aid the strong reverses Hidden powers and giant forces. And the high stars, in their courses, Mingle in his strife ! III. THE DATTGHTEE. the The soot-black brows of men, yeU Ofwomenthrongingroundthebed, — Thetinklingcharmof ring and shell, — The Powah whispering o'er the dead ! — • All these the Sachem's home had known, When, on her journey long and wild To the dim World of Souls, alone, In her young beauty passed the mother of his child. Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwelling They laidner in the walnut shade. Where a green hillock gently swelling Her fitting mound of burial made. There trailed the vineinsummerhours, The tree-perched squirrel dropped his shell, — On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers, Woven with leaf and spray, the softened sunshine fell ! The Indian's heart is hard and cold, — It closes darkly o'er its care, AndformedinNature'sstemestmould, Is slow to feel, and strong to bear. The war-paint on the Sachem's face, Unwet with tears, shone fierce and red, And, still in battle or in chase, Dry leaf and snow-rime crisped beneath His foremost jtread. Yet when her name was heard no more. And when the robe her mother gave, And small, light moccasin she wore. Had slowly wasted on her grave. Unmarked of him the dark maids sped Their sunset dance and moonlit play; No other shared his lonely bed, No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. A lone, stem man. Yet, as sometimes The tempest-smitten tree receives From one small root the sap which climbs Its topmost spray and crowning leaves. So from his child the Sachem drew A life of Love and Hope, and felt His cold and rugged nature through The softness and the warmth of her young being melt. A laugh which in the woodland rang Bemocking April's gladdest bird, — A light and graceful form which sprang To meet him when his step was heard, — Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark. Small fingers stringing bead andshell Orweavingmatsofbright-huedbark, — With these the household-god^ had graced his wigwam well. Child of the forest ! — strong and free. Slight-robed, with loosely flowing hair. She swam the lake or climbed the tree, Or struck the flying bird in air. O'er the heaped drifts of winter's moon Her snow-shoes tracked the hunter's way;_ And dazzling in the summer noon The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of spray ! Unknown to her the rigid rule. The dull restraint, the chidingfrown. The weary torture of the school. The taming of wild nature down. Her only lore, the legends told Around the hunter's fire at night ; Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled. Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned in her sight. Unknown to her the subtle skill With which the aitist-eye can trace In rock and tree and lake and hiU The outlines of divinest grace j THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 21 Unlinown the fine soul's keen unrest, Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway ; Too closely on her mother's hreast To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay 1 It is enough for such to he Of common, natural things a part. To feel, with bird and stream and tree, The pulses of the same great heart ; But we, from Nature long exiled In our cold homes of Art and Thought, Grieve like the stranger-tended child, Which seeks its mother s arms, and sees hut feels them not. The garden rose may richly hloom In cultured soil and genial air To cloud the light of Fashion's room Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair. In lonelier grace, to sun and dew The sweetbrier on the hillside shows Its single leaf and fainter hue. Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose ! Thus o'er the heart of Weetamoo Their mingling shades of joy and ill The instincts of her nature threw, — The savage was a woman still. Midstoutlines dim of maiden schemes. Heart-colored prophecies of life, Boseonthegi'ound of heryoungdreams The light of a new home, — the lover and the wife. IV. THE WEDDING. Cool and dark fell the autumn night. But the Bashaba's wigwam glowed with light, For down from its roof by green withes hung Flaring and smoking the pine-knots swung. And along the river great wood-fires Shot into the night their long red spires, Showing behind the tall, dark wood, Flashing before on the sweeping flood. In the changeful wind, with shimmer and shade, Now high, now low, that firelight played. On tree-leaves wet with evening dews. On gUding water and still canoes. The trapper that night on Turee's brook, And the weary fisher on Contoocook, Saw over the marshes and through the pine, And down on the river the dance-lights shine. For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo The Bashaba's daughter Weetamoo, And laid at her father's feet that night His softest furs and wampum white. Fi'om the Crystal Hills to the far south- east The river Sagamores came to the feast ; And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shook. Sat down on the mats of Pennacook. They came from Sunapee's shore of rock. From the snowy sources of Snooganock, And from rough Coos whose thick wooda shake Their pine-cones in TJmbagog Lake. From Ammonoosuc's mountain pass, Wild a-s his home, came Chepewass ; And the Keenomps of the hills whici throw Their shade on the Smile of Manito. With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, Glowing with paint came old and young, Inwampum andfursandfeathers arrayed. To the dance and feast the Bashaba made. Bird of the air and beast of the field. All which the woods and waters yield. On dishes of birch and hemlock piled, Garnished and graced that banquet wild. Steaks of the brown bear fat and large From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge ; Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook, And salmon speared in the Contoocook ; Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick In the gi-avelly bed of the Ottemic ; Andsmallwild-hensin reed-snares caught From the banks of Sondagardee brought ; Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, Nats from the trees of the Black Hills shaken. 22 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. Cranberries pickfedin the Squamsoot bog, Andgrapesfrom the vines of Piscataquog : And, drawn from that great stone vase which, stands In the river scooped by a spiiit's hands, ^' Garnished with spoons of shell and hom, Stood the birchen dishes of smoking com. Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, All which the woods and the waters yield, Furnished in that olden day The bridal feast of the Bashaba. And merrily when that feast was done On the fire-lit green the dance begun, With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper hum Of old men beating the Indian drum. Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks flowing, And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing, Now in the light and now in the shade Around the fires the dancers played. The step was qui cker, the song more shrill, And thebeat of the small drumslouder still Wlienever within the circle drew The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo. The moons of forty winters had shed Their snow upon that chieftain's head, And toil and care, and battle's chance Had seamed his hard dark countenance. A fawn beside the bison grim, — Why turns the bride's fond eye on him, In whose cold look is naught beside The triumph of a sullen pride ? Ask why the graceful grape entwines The rough oak with her arm of vines ; And why the gray rock's rugged cheek The soft lips of the mosses seek : Why, with wise instinct, Nature seems To harmonize her wide extremes, Linking the stronger with the weak. The haughty with the soft and meek I V. THE NEW HOME. A WILD and broken landscape, spiked with firs, Roughening the bleak horizon's north- ern edge, Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock spurs And sharp, gray splinters of the wind- swept ledge Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose, Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows. And eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away, Dull, dreary flats without a bush or tree, O'er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea; And faint with distance came the stifled roar, The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore. No cheerful village with its mingling smokes. No laugh of children wrestling in the snow. No camp-fire blazing through the hill- side oaks, No fishers kneeling on the ice below ; Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view. Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed Weetamoo. Her heart had found a home ; and freshly all Its beautiful affections overgrew Their rugged prop. As o'er some gi-anite wall Soft vine-leaves open to the moisten- ing dew And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife Found on a hard cold breast the dew" and warmth of life. The steep bleak hiUs, the melancholy shore. The long dead level of the marsh be- tween, A coloring of unreal beauty wore Through the soft golden mist of young love seen. For o'er those hills and from that dreary plain. Nightly she welcomed home her hunter chief again. THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 23 No warmtli of heart, no passionate turst of feeling, Eepaid her welcoming smile and part- ing kiss, No fond and playful dalliance half con- cealing, Under the guise of mirth, its tender- ness ; But, in their stead, the warrior's settled ' pride. And vanity's pleased smile with homage satisfied. Enough for Weetamoo, that she alone Sat on his mat and slumhered at his side ; That he whose fame to her young ear had flown Now looked upon her proudly as his hride ; That he whose name the Mohawk trem- hling heard Vouchsafed to her at times a kindly look or word. For she had learned the maxims of her race. Which teach the woman to become a slave And feel herself the pardonless disgi-ace Of lore's fond weakness in the wise and brave, — The scandal and the shame which they incur. Who give to woman all which man re- quires of her. So passed the winter moons. The sun at last Broke link by liilk the frost chain of the rills. And the warm breathings of the south- west passed Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills, The gray and desolate marsh grew gi-een once more. And the birch-tree's tremulous shade fell round the Sachem's door. Then from far Pennacook swift runners came. With gift and greeting for the Saugus chief ; Beseeching him in the great Sachem's name, That, with the coming of the flower and leaf. The song of birds, the warm breeze and the rain. Young Weetamoo might greet her lonely sire again. And Winnepurkit called his chiefs to- gether. And a grave council in his wigwam met. Solemn and brief in words, considering whether The rigid rules of forest etiquette Permitted Weetamoo once more to look Upon her father's face and green-banked Pennacook. With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water. The forest sages pondered, and at length. Concluded in a body to escort her Up to her father's home of pride and strength, Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense Of Winnepurkit's power and regal con- sequence. So through old woods which Ankeeta- mit's ^* hand, A soft and many-shaded greenness lent. Over high breezy hills, and meadow land Yellow with flowers, the wild proces-' sion went, Till, rolling down its wooded banks be- tween, A broad, clear, mountain stream, the Merrimack was seen. The hunter leaning on his bow undrawn. The fisher lounging on the pebbled shores. Squaws in the clearing dropping the seed-corn, Young children peering through the wigwam doors. Saw with delight, surrounded by her train Ofpainted Saugus braves, theii" Weetamoo again. VI. AT PENNACOOK. The hills are dearest which our childish feet Have climbed the earliest ; and the streams most sweet 24 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. Are ever tliose at whicli our young lips drank, Stooped to their waters o'er the grassy baok : Midst the cold dreary sea-watoh, Home's hearth-light Shines round the helmsman plunging through the night ; And still, with inward eye, the traveller sees In close, dark, stranger streets his native trees. The home-sick dreamer's brow is nightly fanned By breezes whispering of his native land, And on the stranger's dim and dying eye The soft, sweet pictures of his child- hood lie. Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once more A child upon her father's wigwam floor ! Once more with her old fondness to be- guile From his cold eye the strange light of a smile. The long bright days of summer swiftly The dry leaves whirled in autumn's ris- ing blast. And evening cloud and whitening sun- rise rime Told of the coming of the winter-time. But vainly looked, the while, young ■Weetamoo, Down the dark river for her chief's canoe ; Nodusky messenger from Saugus brought The grateful tidings which the young wife sought. At length a runner from her father sent. To Winnepurkit's sea-cooled wigwam went : " Eagle of Saugus, — in the woods the dove Movirns for the shelter of thy wings of love." But the dark chief of Saugus turned aside In the grim anger of hard-hearted pride ; " I bore her as "became a chirftain's daughter. Dp to her home beside the gliding water. " If now no more a mat for her is found Of all which line her father's wigwam round, Let Pennacook call out his warrior train, And send her back with wampum gifts 'again." The baffled runner turned upon his track, Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. "Dog of the Marsh," cried Pennacook, "no more Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor. " Go, — let him seek some meanersquaw to spread The stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed : Son of a fish-hawk ! — let iSm dig his clams For some vile daughter of the Agawams, "Or coward Nipmucks ! — may his scalp dry black In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back." He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave, While hoarse assent his listening coun- cil gave. Alas poor bride ! — can thy grim sire impart His iron hardness to thy woman's heart ? Or cold self- torturing pride like his atone For love denied and life's warm beauty flown ? On Autumn's gray and mournful grave the snow Hung its white wreaths ; with stifled voice and low The-river crept, by one vast bridge o'er- crossed. Built by the hoar-locked artisan of Frost. And many a Moon in beauty newly bom Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn, Or, from the east, across her azure field EoUed the wide brightness of her full- orbed shield. Yet Winnepurkit came not, — on the mat Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat ; Andhe, the while, in Western woods afar, Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war. THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 25 Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief ! Waste not on him the sacredness of grief ; Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own, His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone. What heeds the warrior of a hundred The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, Cold, crafty, proud of woman's weak distress, Her home-bound grief and pining lone- liness ? VII. THE DEP411TU11E. The wild March rains had fallen fast and long The snowy mountainsof the North among. Making each vale a watercourse, — each hill Bright with the cascade of some new- made rUl. Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain. Heaved underneath by the swollen cur- rent's strain. The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merri- mack Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. On that strong turbid water, a small boat Guided by one weak hand was seen to float ; , Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore, Too early voyager with ~too frail an oar ! Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide. The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side, The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view. With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. The trapper, moistening his moose's meat On the wet bank by TJncanoonuc's feet. Saw the swift boat flash down the trou- bled stream — ■ Slept he, or waked he ? — was it truth Or dream I The straining eye bent fearfully before. The small hand clenching on the uselesa oar. The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er the water — He knew them all — woe for the Sachem's daughter I Sick and aweary of her lonely life. Heedless- of peril the still faithful wife Had left her mother's grave, her father's door, To seek the wigwam of her chief once Down the white rapids like a sear leaf whirled, On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled. Empty and broken, circled the canoe In the vexed pool below — but, where was Weetamoo ? Till. SONG OP INDIAN WOMEN. * The Dark eye has left us. The Spring-bird has flown ; On the pathway of spirits She wanders alone. The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore, — Mai wonck kunna-monee 1 ^ — We hear it no more ! dark water Spirit ! We cast on thy wave These furs which may never Hang over her grave ; Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore, ■ — Mat wonck kunna-rmmee / — We see her no more ! Of the strange land she walks in No Powah has told : It may burn with the sunshine. Or freeze with the cold. Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore. Mat wonck kunna-moTiee / — We see her no more ! ■ The path she is treading Shall soon be our own ; Each gliding in shadow Unseen and alone I — 26 LEGENDAET. In vain shall we call on the souls gone hefore, — Mai wcmck kunTia-monee I — They hear US no more ! O mighty Sowanna ! ^ Thy gateways unfold, From thy wigwam of sunset Lift curtains of gold ! Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er, — Mat wonck Icunna-momee 1 — We see her no more ! So sang the CJhildren of the Leaves heside The broad, darkriver'scoldlyilowingtide. Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, Onthehighwindtheirvoicesrose and fell. Nature's wild music, — sounds of wind- swept trees. The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong, — Mingled and murmured in that iaiewell song. LEGEE^DARY. 1846. THE MEEEIMACK. [" The Indians speaJt of a beautiful riTer, far