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Cold, crafty, proud, of woman's weak distress,
Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness?


The wild March rains had* fallen fast and long
The snowy mountains of the North among,
Making each vale a water-course — each hill
Bright 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 Merrimack
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 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 — wo for the Sachem's daughter!

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 more.

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?


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
Mat wonck fcunna-monee !* — we hear it no more!

Oh, 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-monee ! — 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-monee I — We see her no more!

The path she is treading

Shall soon be our own;
Each gliding in shadow
Unseen and alone ! —
In vain shall we call on the souls gone before —
Mat wonck kunna-monee ! — They hear us no more!

Oh mighty So wanna ! t
Thy gateways unfold,
From thy wigwam of sunset
Lift curtains of gold!
Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er —
Mat wonck kunna-monee I — We see her no more!

♦ "Mat wonck kunna-monee." We shall see thee or her no more.— Vide Roger Y/illiams's "Key to the Indian Language."

t" The Great South West God." — See Roger William's "Olaervations," &c.

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside
The 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.

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