All these the Sachem's home had known, 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 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 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 tread. Yet, when her name was heard no more, And small, light mocasin she wore, Their sunset dance and moon-lit play; No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes From one small root the sap which climbs 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 To meet him when his step was heard Small fingers stringing bead and shell With these the household-god had graced his wigwam well. Child of the forest! strong and free, Or struck the flying bird in air. 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 chiding frown, 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 artist-eye can trace In rock and tree and lake and hill Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway; To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay! It is enough for such to be Of common, natural things a part, *"The Indians," says Roger Williams, "have a god whom they call Wetuomanit, who presides over the household." To feel with bird and stream and tree In our cold homes of Art and Thought, Grieve like the stranger-tended child, Which seeks its mother's arms, and sees but feels them not. The garden rose may richly bloom The sweet-briar on the hill-side 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 Rose on the ground of her young dreams COOL and dark fell the Autumn night, But the Bashaba's wigwam glowed with light, And along the river great wood fires Flashing before on the sweeping flood. In the changeful wind, with shimmer and shade, Now high, now low, that fire-light played, On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, On gliding water and still canoes. The trapper, that night on Turee's brook For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo From the Crystal Hills to the far South East They came from Sunapee's shore of rock, From Ammonoosuck's mountain pass And the Keenomps of the hills which throw With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, Bird of the air and beast of the field, Steaks of the brown bear fat and large Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick And small wild hens in reed-snares caught Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog: * And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, The bridal feast of the Bashaba. And merrily when that feast was done Painted and plumed, with scalp locks flowing, The step was quicker, the song more shrill, Whenever within the circle drew The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo. The moons of forty winters had shed Had seamed his hard dark countenance. * There are rocks in the River at the Falls of Amoskeag, in the cavities of which, tradition says the Indians formerly stored and concealed their corn. |