NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK I. THE MERRIMAC II. THE BASHABA III. THE DAUGHTER IV. THE WEDDING V. THE NEW HOME VI. AT PENNACOOK VII. THE DEPARTURE VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugus, married adaughter of Passaconaway, the great Pennacook chieftain, in 1662. Thewedding took place at Pennacook (now Concord, N. H. ), and the ceremoniesclosed with a great feast. According to the usages of the chiefs, Passaconaway ordered a select number of his men to accompany thenewly-married couple to the dwelling of the husband, where in turn therewas another great feast. Some time after, the wife of Winnepurkitexpressing 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 shewished to return, her father sent a messenger to Saugus, informing herhusband, and asking him to come and take her away. He returned foranswer that he had escorted his wife to her father's house in a stylethat became a chief, and that now if she wished to return, her fathermust send her back, in the same way. This Passaconaway refused to do, and it is said that here terminated the connection of his daughter withthe 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 mountains'Piled 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. I. THE MERRIMAC. 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. II. THE BASHABA. 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! III. THE DAUGHTER. 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 [3] 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. 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-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, [4]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! V. THE NEW HOME. A wild and broken landscape, spiked with firs, Roughening the bleak horizon's northern edge;Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlockspursAnd sharp, gray splinters of the wind-sweptledgePierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose, Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down uponthe 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 dayGurgled 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 hillside oaks, No fishers kneeling on the ice below;Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view, Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyedWeetamoo. Her heart had found a home; and freshly allIts beautiful affections overgrewTheir rugged prop. As o'er some granite wallSoft vine-leaves open to the moistening dewAnd warm bright sun, the love of that young wifeFound on a hard cold breast the dew and warmthof life. The steep, bleak hills, the melancholy shore, The long, dead level of the marsh between, A coloring of unreal beauty woreThrough 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. No warmth of heart, no passionate burst of feeling, Repaid her welcoming smile and parting kiss, No fond and playful dalliance half concealing, Under the guise of mirth, its tenderness; But, in their stead, the warrior's settled pride, And vanity's pleased smile with homage satisfied. Enough for Weetamoo, that she aloneSat on his mat and slumbered at his side;That he whose fame to her young ear had flownNow looked upon her proudly as his bride;That he whose name the Mohawk trembling heardVouchsafed 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 disgraceOf love's fond weakness in the wise and brave, --The scandal and the shame which they incur, Who give to woman all which man requires of her. So passed the winter moons. The sun at lastBroke link by link the frost chain of the rills, And the warm breathings of the southwest passedOver the hoar rime of the Saugus hills;The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more, And the birch-tree's tremulous shade fell round theSachem'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 together, And a grave council in his wigwam met, Solemn and brief in words, considering whetherThe rigid rules of forest etiquettePermitted Weetamoo once more to lookUpon her father's face and green-bankedPennacook. With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water, The forest sages pondered, and at length, Concluded in a body to escort herUp to her father's home of pride and strength, Impressing thus on Pennacook a senseOf Winnepurkit's power and regal consequence. So through old woods which Aukeetamit's[5] hand, A soft and many-shaded greenness lent, Over high breezy hills, and meadow landYellow with flowers, the wild procession went, Till, rolling down its wooded banks between, A broad, clear, mountain stream, the Merrimacwas 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 trainOf painted Saugus braves, their Weetamoo again. VI. AT PENNACOOK. The hills are dearest which our childish feetHave climbed the earliest; and the streams most sweetAre ever those at which our young lips drank, Stooped to their waters o'er the grassy bank. Midst the cold dreary sea-watch, Home's hearth-lightShines round the helmsman plunging through the night;And still, with inward eye, the traveller seesIn close, dark, stranger streets his native trees. The home-sick dreamer's brow is nightly fannedBy breezes whispering of his native land, And on the stranger's dim and dying eyeThe soft, sweet pictures of his childhood lie. Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once moreA child upon her father's wigwam floor!Once more with her old fondness to beguileFrom his cold eye the strange light of a smile. The long, bright days of summer swiftly passed, The dry leaves whirled in autumn's rising blast, And evening cloud and whitening sunrise rimeTold of the coming of the winter-time. But vainly looked, the while, young Weetamoo, Down the dark river for her chief's canoe;No dusky messenger from Saugus broughtThe 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 doveMourns for the shelter of thy wings of love. " But the dark chief of Saugus turned asideIn the grim anger of hard-hearted pride;I bore her as became a chieftain's daughter, Up to her home beside the gliding water. If now no more a mat for her is foundOf 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 moreShall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor. "Go, let him seek some meaner squaw to spreadThe stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed;Son of a fish-hawk! let him dig his clamsFor some vile daughter of the Agawams, "Or coward Nipmucks! may his scalp dry blackIn Mohawk smoke, before I send her back. "He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave, While hoarse assent his listening council gave. Alas poor bride! can thy grim sire impartHis iron hardness to thy woman's heart?Or cold self-torturing pride like his atoneFor love denied and life's warm beauty flown? On Autumn's gray and mournful grave the snowHung its white wreaths; with stifled voice and lowThe river crept, by one vast bridge o'er-crossed, Built by the boar-locked artisan of Frost. And many a moon in beauty newly bornPierced the red sunset with her silver horn, Or, from the east, across her azure fieldRolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield. Yet Winnepurkit came not, --on the matOf the scorned wife her dusky rival sat;And he, the while, in Western woods afar, Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war. 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 fights, The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, Cold, crafty, proud of woman's weak distress, Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness? VII. THE DEPARTURE. The wild March rains had fallen fast and longThe snowy mountains of the North among, Making each vale a watercourse, each hillBright with the cascade of some new-made rill. Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, Heaved underneath by the swollen current's strain, The ice-bridge yielded, and the MerrimacBore the huge ruin crashing down its track. On that strong turbid water, a small boatGuided 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 meatOn the wet bank by Uncanoonuc's feet, Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream;Slept he, or waked he? was it truth or dream? The straining eye bent fearfully before, The small hand clenching on the useless oar, The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er the water--He knew them all--woe for the Sachem's daughter! Sick and aweary of her lonely life, Heedless of peril, the still faithful wifeHad left her mother's grave, her father's door, To seek the wigwam of her chief once more. Down the white rapids like a sear leaf whirled, On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled, Empty and broken, circled the canoeIn the vexed pool below--but where was Weetamoo. VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN. The Dark eye has left us, The Spring-bird has flown;On the pathway of spiritsShe wanders alone. The song of the wood-dove has died on our shoreMat wonck kunna-monee![6] We hear it no more! O dark water SpiritWe cast on thy waveThese furs which may neverHang over her grave;Bear down to the lost one the robes that she woreMat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more! Of the strange land she walks inNo 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-monee! We see her no more! The path she is treadingShall soon be our own;Each gliding in shadowUnseen and alone!In vain shall we call on the souls gone before:Mat wonck kunna-monee! They hear us no more! O mighty Sowanna![7]Thy gateways unfold, From thy wigwam of sunsetLift curtains of gold! Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'erMat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more! So sang the Children of the Leaves besideThe broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide;Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, On the high wind their voices rose 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 farewell song. 1844.