In 1658 two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Smithwick of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of nearly all his property for having entertained Quakers at his house, were fined for non-attendance at church. They being unable to pay the fine, the General Court issued an order empowering "the Treasurer of the County to sell the said persons to any of the English nation of Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies.
To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing riseto-day,From the scoffer and the cruel He hath pluckedthe spoil away;Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithfulthree,And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His hand-maid free!Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prisonbars,Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the palegleam of stars;In the coldness and the darkness all through thelong night-time,My grated casement whitened with autumn's earlyrime.Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour creptby;Star after star looked palely in and sank adownthe sky;No sound amid night's stillness, save that whichseemed to beThe dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea;All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on themorrowThe ruler and the cruel priest would mock me inmy sorrow,Dragged to their place of market, and bargainedfor and sold,Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heiferfrom the fold!Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there, theshrinking and the shame;And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers tome came:"Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wickedmurmur said,"Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thymaiden bed?"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft andsweet,Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasantstreet?Where be the youths whose glances, the summerSabbath through,Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?
"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethinkthee with what mirthThy happy schoolmates gather around the warmbright hearth;How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheadswhite and fair,On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair."Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not forthee kind words are spoken,Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughingboys are broken;No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap arelaid,For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful huntersbraid."O weak, deluded maiden!—by crazy fanciesled,With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread;To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pureand sound,And mate with maniac women, loose-haired andsackcloth bound,—"Mad scoffers of the priesthood; who mock atthings divine,Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread andwine;Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from thepillory lame,Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying intheir shame."And what a fate awaits thee!—a sadly toilingslave,Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondageto the grave!Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopelessthrall,The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!"Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature'sfearsWrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailingtears,I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove insilent prayer,To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeedwert there!I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell,And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prisonshackles fell,Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel'srobe of white,And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight.Bless the Lord for all his mercies!—for the peaceand love I felt,Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spiritmelt;When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the languageof my heart,And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubtsdepart.Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshinefell,Flecked with the shade of bar and grate withinmy lonely cell;The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upwardfrom the streetCame careless laugh and idle word, and tread ofpassing feet.At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door wasopen cast,And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long streetI passed;I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but darednot see,How, from every door and window, the peoplegazed on me.And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned uponmy cheek,Swam earth and sky around me, my tremblinglimbs grew weak:"O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from hersoul cast outThe fear of man, which brings a snare, the weaknessand the doubt."Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud inmorning's breeze,And a low deep voice within me seemed whisperingwords like these:"Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heavena brazen wall,Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is overall."We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlitwaters brokeOn glaring reach of shining beach, and shinglywall of rock;The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clearlines on high,Tracing with rope and slender spar their networkon the sky.And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrappedand grave and cold,And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzedand old,And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk athand,Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of theland.And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's readyear,The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh andscoff and jeer;It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal ofsilence broke,As if through woman's weakness a warning spiritspoke.I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of themeek,Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler ofthe weak!Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,—go turnthe prison lockOf the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolfamid the flock!"Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with adeeper redO'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush ofanger spread;"Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest,"heed not her words so wild,Her Master speaks within her,—the Devil ownshis child!"But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, thewhile the sheriff readThat law the wicked rulers against the poor havemade,Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthoodbringNo bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering.Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning,said,—"Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take thisQuaker maid?In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia'sshore,You may hold her at a higher price than Indiangirl or Moor."Grim and silent stood the captains; and whenagain he cried,"Speak out, my worthy seamen!"—no voice, nosign replied;But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kindwords met my ear,—"God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girland dear!"A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pityingfriend was nigh,—I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in hiseye;And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, sokind to me,Growled back its stormy answer like the roaringof the sea,—"Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coinsof Spanish gold,From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage ofher hold,By the living God who made me!—I would soonerin your baySink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this childaway!""Well answered, worthy captain, shame on theircruel laws!"Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people'sjust applause."Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old,Shall we see the poor and righteous again forsilver sold?"I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn,Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hateand scorn;Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned insilence back,And sneering priest and baffled clerk rodemurmuring in his track.Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness ofsoul;Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, andcrushed his parchment roll."Good friends," he said, "since both have fled,the ruler and the priest,Judge ye, if from their further work I be not wellreleased."Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, sweptround the silent bay,As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade mego my way;For He who turns the courses of the streamlet ofthe glen,And the river of great waters, had turned thehearts of men.Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changedbeneath my eye,A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls ofthe sky,A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream andwoodland lay,And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters ofthe bay.Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him allpraises be,Who from the hands of evil men hath set his hand-maid free;All praise to Him before whose power the mightyare afraid,Who takes the crafty in the snare which for thepoor is laid!Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilightcalmUplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the gratefulpsalm;Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did thesaints of old,When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Petertold.And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mightymen of wrong,The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His handupon the strong.Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour!Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to ravenand devour!But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heartbe glad,And let the mourning ones again with robes ofpraise be clad.For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed thestormy wave,And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still tosave!1843.
The following ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends connected with the famous General ——, of Hampton, New Hampshire, who was regarded by his neighbors as a Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when a child, from a venerable family visitant.
DARK the halls, and cold the feast,Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest.All is over, all is done,Twain of yesterday are one!Blooming girl and manhood gray,Autumn in the arms of May!Hushed within and hushed without,Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout;Dies the bonfire on the hill;All is dark and all is still,Save the starlight, save the breezeMoaning through the graveyard trees,And the great sea-waves below,Pulse of the midnight beating slow.From the brief dream of a brideShe hath wakened, at his side.With half-uttered shriek and start,—Feels she not his beating heart?And the pressure of his arm,And his breathing near and warm?Lightly from the bridal bedSprings that fair dishevelled head,And a feeling, new, intense,Half of shame, half innocence,Maiden fear and wonder speaksThrough her lips and changing cheeks.From the oaken mantel glowing,Faintest light the lamp is throwingOn the mirror's antique mould,High-backed chair, and wainscot old,And, through faded curtains stealing,His dark sleeping face revealing.Listless lies the strong man there,Silver-streaked his careless hair;Lips of love have left no traceOn that hard and haughty face;And that forehead's knitted thoughtLove's soft hand hath not unwrought."Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well,More than these calm lips will tell.Stooping to my lowly state,He hath made me rich and great,And I bless him, though he beHard and stern to all save me!"While she speaketh, falls the lightO'er her fingers small and white;Gold and gem, and costly ringBack the timid lustre fling,—Love's selectest gifts, and rare,His proud hand had fastened there.Gratefully she marks the glowFrom those tapering lines of snow;Fondly o'er the sleeper bendingHis black hair with golden blending,In her soft and light caress,Cheek and lip together press.Ha!—that start of horror! whyThat wild stare and wilder cry,Full of terror, full of pain?Is there madness in her brain?Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,"Spare me,—spare me,—let me go!"God have mercy!—icy coldSpectral hands her own enfold,Drawing silently from themLove's fair gifts of gold and gem."Waken! save me!" still as deathAt her side he slumbereth.Ring and bracelet all are gone,And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;But she hears a murmur low,Full of sweetness, full of woe,Half a sigh and half a moan"Fear not! give the dead her own!"Ah!—the dead wife's voice she knows!That cold hand whose pressure froze,Once in warmest life had borneGem and band her own hath worn."Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyesOpen with a dull surprise.In his arms the strong man folds her,Closer to his breast he holds her;Trembling limbs his own are meeting,And he feels her heart's quick beating"Nay, my dearest, why this fear?""Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!""Nay, a dream,—an idle dream."But before the lamp's pale gleamTremblingly her hand she raises.There no more the diamond blazes,Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,—"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"Broken words of cheer he saith,But his dark lip quivereth,And as o'er the past he thinketh,From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;Can those soft arms round him lie,Underneath his dead wife's eye?She her fair young head can restSoothed and childlike on his breast,And in trustful innocenceDraw new strength and courage thence;He, the proud man, feels withinBut the cowardice of sin!She can murmur in her thoughtSimple prayers her mother taught,And His blessed angels call,Whose great love is over all;He, alone, in prayerless pride,Meets the dark Past at her side!One, who living shrank with dreadFrom his look, or word, or tread,Unto whom her early graveWas as freedom to the slave,Moves him at this midnight hour,With the dead's unconscious power!Ah, the dead, the unforgot!From their solemn homes of thought,Where the cypress shadows blendDarkly over foe and friend,Or in love or sad rebuke,Back upon the living look.And the tenderest ones and weakest,Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,Lifting from those dark, still places,Sweet and sad-remembered faces,O'er the guilty hearts behindAn unwitting triumph find.1843
Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugus, married a daughter of Passaconaway, the great Pennacook chieftain, in 1662. The wedding took place at Pennacook (now Concord, N. H.), and the ceremonies closed with a great feast. According to the usages of the chiefs, Passaconaway ordered a select number of his men to accompany the newly-married couple to the dwelling of the husband, where in turn there was another great feast. Some time after, the wife of Winnepurkit expressing a desire to visit her father's house was permitted to go, accompanied by a brave escort of her husband's chief men. But when she wished to return, her father sent a messenger to Saugus, informing her husband, and asking him to come and take her away. He returned for answer that he had escorted his wife to her father's house in a style that became a chief, and that now if she wished to return, her father must send her back, in the same way. This Passaconaway refused to do, and it is said that here terminated the connection of his daughter with the Saugus chief.—Vide MORTON'S New Canaan.
WE had been wandering for many daysThrough the rough northern country. We had seenThe sunset, with its bars of purple cloud,Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lakeOf Winnepiseogee; and had feltThe sunrise breezes, midst the leafy islesWhich stoop their summer beauty to the lipsOf the bright waters. We had checked our steeds,Silent with wonder, where the mountain wallIs piled to heaven; and, through the narrow riftOf the vast rocks, against whose rugged feetBeats the mad torrent with perpetual roar,Where noonday is as twilight, and the windComes burdened with the everlasting moanOf forests and of far-off waterfalls,We had looked upward where the summer sky,Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun,Sprung its blue arch above the abutting cragsO'er-roofing the vast portal of the landBeyond the wall of mountains. We had passedThe high source of the Saco; and bewilderedIn the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills,Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud,The horn of Fabyan sounding; and atopOf old Agioochook had seen the mountainsPiled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thickAs 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;Moosehillock's mountain range, and KearsargeLifting his granite forehead to the sun!And we had rested underneath the oaksShadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shakenBy the perpetual beating of the fallsOf the wild Ammonoosuc. We had trackedThe winding Pemigewasset, overhungBy beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks,Or lazily gliding through its intervals,From waving rye-fields sending up the gleamOf sunlit waters. We had seen the moonRising behind Umbagog's eastern pines,Like a great Indian camp-fire; and its beamsAt midnight spanning with a bridge of silverThe Merrimac by Uncanoonuc's falls.There were five souls of us whom travel's chanceHad thrown together in these wild north hillsA city lawyer, for a month escapingFrom his dull office, where the weary eyeSaw only hot brick walls and close thronged streets;Briefless as yet, but with an eye to seeLife's sunniest side, and with a heart to takeIts chances all as godsends; and his brother,Pale from long pulpit studies, yet retainingThe warmth and freshness of a genial heart,Whose mirror of the beautiful and true,In Man and Nature, was as yet undimmedBy dust of theologic strife, or breathOf sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore;Like a clear crystal calm of water, takingThe 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 betweenA decent and professional gravityAnd an irreverent mirthfulness, which oftenLaughed in the face of his divinity,Plucked off the sacred ephod, quite unshrinedThe oracle, and for the pattern priestLeft us the man. A shrewd, sagacious merchant,To whom the soiled sheet found in Crawford's inn,Giving the latest news of city stocksAnd sales of cotton, had a deeper meaningThan the great presence of the awful mountainsGlorified by the sunset; and his daughter,A delicate flower on whom had blown too longThose evil winds, which, sweeping from the iceAnd winnowing the fogs of Labrador,Shed their cold blight round Massachusetts Bay,With the same breath which stirs Spring's opening leavesAnd lifts her half-formed flower-bell on its stem,Poisoning our seaside atmosphere.It chanced that as we turned upon our homeward way,A drear northeastern storm came howling upThe valley of the Saco; and that girlWho had stood with us upon Mount Washington,Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirledIn gusts around its sharp, cold pinnacle,Who had joined our gay trout-fishing in the streamsWhich lave that giant's feet; whose laugh was heardLike a bird's carol on the sunrise breezeWhich swelled our sail amidst the lake's green islands,Shrank from its harsh, chill breath, and visibly droopedLike a flower in the frost. So, in that quiet innWhich looks from Conway on the mountains piledHeavily against the horizon of the north,Like summer thunder-clouds, we made our homeAnd while the mist hung over dripping hills,And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all day longBeat their sad music upon roof and pane,We strove to cheer our gentle invalid.The lawyer in the pauses of the stormWent angling down the Saco, and, returning,Recounted his adventures and mishaps;Gave us the history of his scaly clients,Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citationsOf barbarous law Latin, passagesFrom Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and freshAs the flower-skirted streams of Staffordshire,Where, under aged trees, the southwest windOf soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hairOf the sage fisher. And, if truth be told,Our youthful candidate forsook his sermons,His commentaries, articles and creeds,For the fair page of human loveliness,The missal of young hearts, whose sacred textIs music, its illumining, sweet smiles.He sang the songs she loved; and in his low,Deep, earnest voice, recited many a pageOf poetry, the holiest, tenderest linesOf the sad bard of Olney, the sweet songs,Simple and beautiful as Truth and Nature,Of him whose whitened locks on Rydal MountAre lifted yet by morning breezes blowingFrom the green hills, immortal in his lays.And for myself, obedient to her wish,I searched our landlord's proffered library,—A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood picturesOf scaly fiends and angels not unlike them;Watts' unmelodious psalms; Astrology'sLast home, a musty pile of almanacs,And an old chronicle of border warsAnd Indian history. And, as I readA story of the marriage of the ChiefOf Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo,Daughter of Passaconaway, who dweltIn the old time upon the Merrimac,Our fair one, in the playful exerciseOf her prerogative,—the right divineOf youth and beauty,—bade us versifyThe legend, and with ready pencil sketchedIts plan and outlines, laughingly assigningTo each his part, and barring our excusesWith absolute will. So, like the cavaliersWhose voices still are heard in the RomanceOf silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banksOf Arno, with soft tales of love beguilingThe ear of languid beauty, plague-exiledFrom stately Florence, we rehearsed our rhymesTo their fair auditor, and shared by turnsHer kind approval and her playful censure.It may be that these fragments owe aloneTo the fair setting of their circumstances,—The associations of time, scene, and audience,—Their place amid the pictures which fill upThe chambers of my memory. Yet I trustThat some, who sigh, while wandering in thought,Pilgrims of Romance o'er the olden world,That our broad land,—our sea-like lakes and mountainsPiled to the clouds, our rivers overhungBy forests which have known no other changeFor ages than the budding and the fallOf leaves, our valleys lovelier than thoseWhich the old poets sang of,—should but figureOn the apocryphal chart of speculationAs pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges,Rights, and appurtenances, which make upA Yankee Paradise, unsung, unknown,To beautiful tradition; even their names,Whose melody yet lingers like the lastVibration of the red man's requiem,Exchanged for syllables significant,Of cotton-mill and rail-car, will look kindlyUpon this effort to call up the ghostOf our dim Past, and listen with pleased earTo the responses of the questioned Shade.
O child of that white-crested mountain whosespringsGush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle'swings,Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild watersshine,Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through thedwarf pine;From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and solone,From the arms of that wintry-locked mother ofstone,By hills hung with forests, through vales wide andfree,Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to thesea.No bridge arched thy waters save that where thetreesStretched their long arms above thee and kissed inthe breeze:No sound save the lapse of the waves on thyshores,The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars.Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amoskeag's fallThy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall,Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn,And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled withcorn.But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these,And greener its grasses and taller its trees,Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung,Or the mower his scythe in the meadows hadswung.In their sheltered repose looking out from thewoodThe bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook stood;There glided the corn-dance, the council-fire shone,And against the red war-post the hatchet wasthrown.There the old smoked in silence their pipes, andthe youngTo the pike and the white-perch their baited linesflung;There the boy shaped his arrows, and there theshy maidWove her many-hued baskets and bright wampumbraid.O Stream of the Mountains! if answer of thineCould rise from thy waters to question of mine,Methinks through the din of thy thronged banksa moanOf sorrow would swell for the days which havegone.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.
Lift we the twilight curtains of the Past,And, turning from familiar sight and sound,Sadly and full of reverence let us castA glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground,Led by the few pale lights which, glimmering roundThat 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.Roof of bark and walls of pine,Through whose chinks the sunbeams shine,Tracing many a golden lineOn 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 shadeBy 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 blowing,Steel-like gleams of water flowing,In the sunlight slanted.Here the mighty BashabaHeld his long-unquestioned sway,From the White Hills, far away,To the great sea's sounding shore;Chief of chiefs, his regal wordAll the river Sachems heard,At his call the war-dance stirred,Or was still once more.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 swungGrimly to and fro.Nightly down the river going,Swifter was the hunter's rowing,When he saw that lodge-fire, glowingO'er the waters still and red;And the squaw's dark eye 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 lookOf that wise dark man.Tales of him the gray squaw told,When the winter night-wind coldPierced her blanket's thickest fold,And her fire burned low and small,Till the very child abed,Drew its bear-skin over bead,Shrinking from the pale lights shedOn the trembling wall.All the subtle spirits hidingUnder earth or wave, abidingIn the caverned rock, or ridingMisty clouds or morning breeze;Every dark intelligence,Secret soul, and influenceOf all things which outward senseFeels, or bears, or sees,—These the wizard's skill confessed,At his bidding banned or blessed,Stormful woke or lulled to restWind and cloud, and fire and flood;Burned for him the drifted snow,Bade through ice fresh lilies blow,And the leaves of summer growOver winter's wood!Not untrue that tale of old!Now, as then, the wise and boldAll the powers of Nature holdSubject 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 elementsWith their sterner laws dispense,And the chain of consequenceBroken in their pathway lies;Time and change their vassals making,Flowers from icy pillows waking,Tresses of the sunrise shakingOver midnight skies.Still, to th' earnest soul, the sunRests on towered Gibeon,And the moon of AjalonLights the battle-grounds of life;To his aid the strong reversesHidden powers and giant forces,And the high stars, in their courses,Mingle in his strife!
The soot-black brows of men, the yellOf women thronging round the bed,The tinkling charm of ring and shell,The Powah whispering o'er the dead!All these the Sachem's home had known,When, on her journey long and wildTo the dim World of Souls, alone,In her young beauty passed the mother of his child.Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwellingThey laid her in the walnut shade,Where a green hillock gently swellingHer fitting mound of burial made.There trailed the vine in summer hours,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,And formed in Nature's sternest mould,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 hisforemost tread.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 spedTheir sunset dance and moonlit play;No other shared his lonely bed,No other fair young head upon his bosom lay.A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimesThe tempest-smitten tree receivesFrom one small root the sap which climbsIts topmost spray and crowning leaves,So from his child the Sachem drewA life of Love and Hope, and feltHis cold and rugged nature throughThe softness and the warmth of her youngbeing melt.A laugh which in the woodland rangBemocking April's gladdest bird,—A light and graceful form which sprangTo meet him when his step was heard,—Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark,Small fingers stringing bead and shellOr weaving mats of bright-hued bark,—With these the household-god had gracedhis 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 moonHer snow-shoes tracked the hunter's way;And dazzling in the summer noonThe blade of her light oar threw off its showerof spray!Unknown to her the rigid rule,The dull restraint, the chiding frown,The weary torture of the school,The taming of wild nature down.Her only lore, the legends toldAround the hunter's fire at night;Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled,Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestionedin her sight.Unknown to her the subtle skillWith which the artist-eye can traceIn rock and tree and lake and hillThe outlines of divinest grace;Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest,Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway;Too closely on her mother's breastTo note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay!It is enough for such to beOf 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 ThoughtGrieve like the stranger-tended child,Which seeks its mother's arms, and sees but feelsthem not.The garden rose may richly bloomIn cultured soil and genial air,To cloud the light of Fashion's roomOr droop in Beauty's midnight hair;In lonelier grace, to sun and dewThe sweetbrier on the hillside showsIts single leaf and fainter hue,Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose!Thus o'er the heart of WeetamooTheir mingling shades of joy and illThe instincts of her nature threw;The savage was a woman still.Midst outlines dim of maiden schemes,Heart-colored prophecies of life,Rose on the ground of her young dreamsThe light of a new home, the lover and the wife.
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-firesShot 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 gliding 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 wooThe Bashaba's daughter Weetamoo,And laid at her father's feet that nightHis softest furs and wampum white.From the Crystal Hills to the far southeastThe river Sagamores came to the feast;And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shookSat 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 woods shakeTheir pine-cones in Umbagog Lake.From Ammonoosuc's mountain pass,Wild as his home, came Chepewass;And the Keenomps of the bills which throwTheir shade on the Smile of Manito.With pipes of peace and bows unstrung,Glowing with paint came old and young,In wampum and furs and feathers arrayed,To the dance and feast the Bashaba made.Bird of the air and beast of the field,All which the woods and the waters yield,On dishes of birch and hemlock piled,Garnished and graced that banquet wild.Steaks of the brown bear fat and largeFrom the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge;Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook,And salmon speared in the Contoocook;Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thickin the gravelly bed of the Otternic;And small wild-hens in reed-snares caughtfrom the banks of Sondagardee brought;Pike and perch from the Suncook taken,Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills shaken,Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog,And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog:And, drawn from that great stone vase which standsIn the river scooped by a spirit's hands,Garnished with spoons of shell and horn,Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn.Thus bird of the air and beast of the field,All which the woods and the waters yield,Furnished in that olden dayThe bridal feast of the Bashaba.And merrily when that feast was doneOn the fire-lit green the dance begun,With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper humOf 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 shadeAround the fires the dancers played.The step was quicker, the song more shrill,And the beat of the small drums louder stillWhenever within the circle drewThe Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo.The moons of forty winters had shedTheir snow upon that chieftain's head,And toil and care and battle's chanceHad 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 besideThe triumph of a sullen pride?Ask why the graceful grape entwinesThe rough oak with her arm of vines;And why the gray rock's rugged cheekThe soft lips of the mosses seek.Why, with wise instinct, Nature seemsTo harmonize her wide extremes,Linking the stronger with the weak,The haughty with the soft and meek!