THE DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA.‘I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest—They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest.The hills are glad with living things—the valleys bright with corn,Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone.‘The earth is cold—the hills are lone—the pleasant places sad,And everything is desolate that once could make me glad.The white man’s corn is growing now upon our fathers’ graves—And Cowtantowit’s[13]children flee unto the western waves.‘’Tis time Namoina should go—she cannot longer stay—For as the rainbow from the cloud her tribe hath passed away;Her heart is throbbing at thy voice, O wait thee, Mohaton!She hears her father, too—the brave, the mighty Anawon;She hears her little baby’s voice, soft as the wind at even—And all her brethren beckon her unto the far-off heaven!‘Child of the Rising-sun![14]my Flower! Namoina cannot stay;For all the voices of her tribe are calling her away.But one tear falleth on her cheek—it is to leave thee nowWithin a world whose fearful blight may gather round thy brow—But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee;And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less brightWhen poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light!But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake,And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear!But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here!The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell—’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’
THE DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA.‘I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest—They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest.The hills are glad with living things—the valleys bright with corn,Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone.‘The earth is cold—the hills are lone—the pleasant places sad,And everything is desolate that once could make me glad.The white man’s corn is growing now upon our fathers’ graves—And Cowtantowit’s[13]children flee unto the western waves.‘’Tis time Namoina should go—she cannot longer stay—For as the rainbow from the cloud her tribe hath passed away;Her heart is throbbing at thy voice, O wait thee, Mohaton!She hears her father, too—the brave, the mighty Anawon;She hears her little baby’s voice, soft as the wind at even—And all her brethren beckon her unto the far-off heaven!‘Child of the Rising-sun![14]my Flower! Namoina cannot stay;For all the voices of her tribe are calling her away.But one tear falleth on her cheek—it is to leave thee nowWithin a world whose fearful blight may gather round thy brow—But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee;And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less brightWhen poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light!But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake,And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear!But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here!The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell—’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’
THE DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA.
THE DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA.
‘I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest—They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest.The hills are glad with living things—the valleys bright with corn,Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone.
‘I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest—
They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest.
The hills are glad with living things—the valleys bright with corn,
Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone.
‘The earth is cold—the hills are lone—the pleasant places sad,And everything is desolate that once could make me glad.The white man’s corn is growing now upon our fathers’ graves—And Cowtantowit’s[13]children flee unto the western waves.
‘The earth is cold—the hills are lone—the pleasant places sad,
And everything is desolate that once could make me glad.
The white man’s corn is growing now upon our fathers’ graves—
And Cowtantowit’s[13]children flee unto the western waves.
‘’Tis time Namoina should go—she cannot longer stay—For as the rainbow from the cloud her tribe hath passed away;Her heart is throbbing at thy voice, O wait thee, Mohaton!She hears her father, too—the brave, the mighty Anawon;She hears her little baby’s voice, soft as the wind at even—And all her brethren beckon her unto the far-off heaven!
‘’Tis time Namoina should go—she cannot longer stay—
For as the rainbow from the cloud her tribe hath passed away;
Her heart is throbbing at thy voice, O wait thee, Mohaton!
She hears her father, too—the brave, the mighty Anawon;
She hears her little baby’s voice, soft as the wind at even—
And all her brethren beckon her unto the far-off heaven!
‘Child of the Rising-sun![14]my Flower! Namoina cannot stay;For all the voices of her tribe are calling her away.But one tear falleth on her cheek—it is to leave thee nowWithin a world whose fearful blight may gather round thy brow—But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee;And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.
‘Child of the Rising-sun![14]my Flower! Namoina cannot stay;
For all the voices of her tribe are calling her away.
But one tear falleth on her cheek—it is to leave thee now
Within a world whose fearful blight may gather round thy brow—
But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee;
And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.
‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less brightWhen poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light!But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake,And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!
‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less bright
When poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light!
But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake,
And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!
‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear!But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here!The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell—’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’
‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear!
But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here!
The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell—
’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’
“Her voice died away gently, till only a low murmur was audible. The setting sun flashed a moment over her features, and as it faded away, they turned to a livid hue. She looked earnestly at Mary, as if she would speak; her lips quivered in the attempt just once; her head sank upon her bosom; and when Mary threw her arms about her, she knew, by the chill, that poor Namoina was dead.
“The child sat down again at Namoina’s feet and hid her face in her lap, and sobbed and wept passionately. And there she sat till it was almost dark; and there her friends, who, alarmed at her absence, went in search of her, found her.
“They removed the body to the house, and Mary watched by it through the night; and the next day poor Namoina was decently buried.Her funeral was respectably attended, and Mary mourned for her.
“But the child was now awakened to new hopes; she could think of nothing but her mother. She was longing to see her, and yet she was almost afraid; for she had loved her adopted mother so dearly she thought she could not, perhaps, like her own mother as well; and the thought was distressing to her. But, between the different agitations of hope and fear, the two days that remained between the burial of her Indian friend and the Sabbath, seemed to her the longest days she had ever known. She had begged her father’s permission for William to take her to Seekonk on the next Sabbath, and he had willingly granted her request; but she said nothing of her hopes to her father or brother, from a delicate regard for their feelings, because, at the best, she knew it would distress them. They and the dear departed one who had nursed and loved her from infancy, had been so long all-in-all to her, that her heart was reluctant, even in secrecy, to cherish a hope independent of them. Then poor Mary was perplexed by a thousand fears; she thought that it might rain—or that her mother might be sick—or that there might be some misunderstanding—orthat, perhaps, the whole was but a raving fancy of Namoina—or if the whole was true, (and this Mary firmly believed when she looked in love upon the sweet features that never left her bosom, but to be kissed and wept upon,) a thousand unthought of difficulties might occur. In short, her fears, and doubts, and anxieties, were innumerable. She could neither take food or rest, nor attend steadily to her daily occupations; and she kept by herself as much as possible, and spent most of her time in prayer.
“At last the Sabbath came. It was a beautiful October morning. The sun went up gloriously and melted away the bright frost from the foliage; and the forest—you have seen our woods in the autumn, children, and you know how beautiful they are when the frost has turned the leaves.”
“Yes,” said Ann, “and do you remember the lines upon ‘Autumn,’ you gave me the other day, where the sweet poet we love so dearly, compares our autumn foliage to ‘a flood of molten rainbows?’ A beautiful thought—is it not, grandmother?”
“True, my child,” said Mrs. Gray, turning an affectionate glance to the bright eyes that were lifted up; “but your brother and cousins, I see,are more interested about the fate of Mary, than the beauties of autumn.
“I said it was a lovely morning, and Mary would have thought so too at any other time; for not even you, my dear Ann, have more poetry in your heart, than Mary Wallace had. Her taste was not cultivated, it is true; but the God of nature had dealt bountifully by her. She never looked on the beauties of creation without beholding the Creator; and this spirit is one of the highest and richest sources of poetry.
“But, as I said, or was going to say, her mind this morning was full of other thoughts; and she could hardly have told even what season of the year it was, though she loved the autumn dearly, and its beauties were never before unmarked.
“She counted the toys Namoina had given her over and over again, that she might be sure they were all there; and then she put them into a little bag with a medal she had worn in infancy; and before William had begun to dress, or the horse was brought to the door, she was quite ready and waiting for him in the passage. She thought William had never been so long in dressing before; and she kept calling to him, and hurrying him. Her father, wondering at her unusualimpatience, stepped into the passage with a thought to chide her; but she stood there—such a beautiful, bright creature, that he could not; and he paused and looked upon her in silence. The excitement of her hopes had risen from her heart to her face; the maple leaf was not richer than the bloom upon her cheek, or the sunlight brighter than the flashing of her eye. A short green mantle hung from her shoulders, and her light, straw grassy bonnet could not hide the luxury of her brown hair.
“As she lifted her head at the sound of foot steps, the golden curls swept back from her face, and as she looked upon her father her eye filled with tears; and there was something in it that made the heart of Simon Gray tremble. Mary sprang to his arms and clinging round his neck, wept; for she thought it was almost wrong to seek another parent when she already had one who loved her so very tenderly. But at the sound of William’s footsteps on the stairs, she kissed her father, and, wiping away her tears, was all bloom and hope again; and William could not help pausing to look at her, ere he bounded to the saddle; and he thought she had never been so beautiful before. But Mary trembled so shecould not spring up behind him as usual; her father was obliged to lift her; and when he felt how she trembled, he feared she was ill, and asked her to stay at home and not go to the meeting; but Mary assured him she was perfectly well; so the kind-hearted man could make no other objection, and they rode off.
“They arrived at the meeting-house before any others; and as the people began to gather to the house, Mary trembled so she could hardly keep her seat.
“One after another came in—one after another was examined; but poor Mary could not think any one of them was her mother. At last a lady came and sat nearly opposite Mary. The child’s heart bounded; she saw the same dark hair and eye—the same white brow—but, O! it had no scar!—and tears of disappointment filled her eyes. Another came; she was tall and graceful; she had dark hair and eyes, and a very fair brow. ‘That is the one! That is my mother!’ thought Mary, and she was just going to throw herself into her arms and call her mother, when the lady—who probably thought Mary very rude for staring at her so fixedly—turned quickly away with such an angry expression of countenance, thatthe child could hardly restrain her tears; and then the idea that the lady might be her mother, made her tremble. Others came, and were, in turn, examined; but not one of them could be compared with the picture she held in her hand—the description given by Namoina—or the image in the heart of Mary. The poor child was doomed to be disappointed; and she sat down, and leaned her head upon her hands, and thought she would never hope again.
“A low murmur, as of one in prayer, reached her ear. She lifted her eyes, almost unwillingly, and on the opposite side of the room, she saw a lady in deep mourning, kneeling before one of the rough benches, in prayer. The garb of outward grief was an unwonted sight there, and every eye was turned upon her. Yet there was a kindly expression in every face, for the people, although their own simple creed and rigid habits forbade the use of a peculiar garment as a sign of wo, could not help respecting the piety of the stranger. Mary’s heart beat wildly at the first glance, and she turned very pale, and then again her face was flushed with the fever of excited feelings. After kneeling a short time, the stranger slowly rose, and turned round upon the little assembly with amelancholy, listless air. As she did so her face turned full in Mary’s view; it was pale, and tender, and sorrowful. The child became, at once, convinced that her search was ended; in that one glance she had seen all; the tall and graceful form—the dark glossy hair—the fair, pale brow—the scar—the resemblance to the picture—all that she sought was there. She forgot every thing but that she had found her long-lost parent; she flew along the narrow aisle, and when she reached the lady just whispered, ‘Mother!’ and fell into her arms. The child had fainted.
“The strange lady seemed as much overcome as Mary. She held her closely embraced in her arms, and gazed eagerly upon her pallid features. It chanced at this moment that the miniature fell from Mary’s bosom, and the medal on which was engraved her name. The stranger looked upon them and uttered a faint scream; then she clasped the child close to her heart; and when Mary opened her blue eyes and smiled upon her, she cried out, ‘I know thee now, my daughter!—my own beloved daughter!’
“The whole congregation had gathered round with wondering looks and curious faces; and even the good minister himself, instead of goingto his desk, mingled with the crowd, and seemed to enter into the spirit of the scene.
“There was one powerfully interested; William had followed Mary from her seat, wondering at her strange behavior; but from the moment when he saw that she had found her own mother, he stood with his arms folded upon his breast, the only silent one among the crowd.
“Simon Gray was immediately sent for, and it was established, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Mary had indeed found a mother, and Mrs. Wallace a long-lost daughter; and the minister offered up a solemn public thanksgiving to God for their re-union.”
The children thanked their grandmother for telling them such a very interesting story, and little Helen danced with joy, she was so glad that Mary had found her mother.
“I have one more wish to be gratified, grandmother,” said George Gray; “I should like to go to Quinsniket and see the place where Philip and his followers were sheltered, and where Namoina died.”
“Your wish shall be indulged, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Gray. “When the spring opens, I will take you all to pass a few weeks in the country,and we will go to Quinsniket. You will find many traces of the Indians still existing, in the names of different localities, and in the recollections of the ancient inhabitants. The field where they planted their corn, still called Indian oldfield, is to be seen a short distance from Quinsniket; and the rock itself, so intimately connected with the history of a fallen but once mighty race, still remains, as it were, a monument to designate their grave. The spot where poor Namoina was buried, is now within the limits of a little town. Her hut was afterward rebuilt by a few wandering remnants of her tribe, and some of the present inhabitants remember it. The hearth-stone is still to be seen; and over it waves a honey-locust tree, which a distinguished gentleman, since dead, planted to mark the spot where stoodTHE LAST WIGWAM.”