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Empty and broken, circled the canoe

In the vexed pool below

but, where was Weetamoo?

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The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore

Mat wonck kunna-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 ! We see her no more!

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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 Sowanna! †

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 ! — We see her no more!

*"Mat wonck kunna-monec." We shall see thee or her no more.- Vide Roger Williams's "Key to the Indian Language."

"The Great South West God."-See Roger Williams's "Observations," &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.

+MOGG MEGONE.

PART I.

[THE story of MOGG MEGONE has been considered by the author only as a frame-work for sketches of the scenery of New England, and of its early inhabitants. In portraying the Indian character, he has followed, as closely as his story would admit, the rough but natural delineations of Church, Mayhew, Charlevoix, and Roger Williams; and in so doing he has necessarily discarded much of the romance which poets and novelists have thrown around the ill-fated red man.]-ED.

WHO stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone,
Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky,
Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high,
Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone? *
Close to the verge of the rock is he,

While beneath him the Saco its work is doing,
Hurrying down to its grave, the sea,

And slow through the rock its pathway hewing!
Far down, through the mist of the falling river,
Which rises up like an incense ever,
The splintered points of the crags are seen,
With water howling and vexed between,
While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath
Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth!

*MOGG MEGONE, or Hegone, was a leader among the Saco Indians, in the bloody war of 1677. He attacked and captured the garrison at Black Point, October 12th of that year; and cut off, at the same time, a party of Englishmen near Saco river. From a deed signed by this Indian in 1664, and from other circumstances, it seems that, previous to the war, he had mingled much with the colonists. On this account, he was probably selected by the principai sachems as their agent, in the treaty signed in November, 1676.

But Mogg Megone never trembled yet
Wherever his eye or his foot was set.

He is watchful: each form, in the moonlight dim,
Of rock or of tree, is seen of him :

He listens; each sound from afar is caught,

The faintest shiver of leaf and limb:

But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret,
Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet-
And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not.

The moonlight, through the open bough

Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked root
Coils like a serpent at his foot,
Falls, chequered, on the Indian's brow.
His head is bare, save only where
Waves in the wind one lock of hair,
Reserved for him, whoe'er he be,
More mighty than Megone in strife,

When breast to breast and knee to knee,
Above the fallen warrior's life

Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife.

Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun,
And his gaudy and tasseled blanket on:
His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,
And magic words on its polished blade-
'Twas the gift of Castine to Mogg Megone,
For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn :
His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine,

And Modocawando's wives had strung

The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine
On the polished breech, and broad bright line
Of beaded wampum around it hung.

*Baron de St. Castine came to Canada in 1644. Leaving his civilized companions, he plunged into the great wilderness, and settled among the Penobscot Indians, near the mouth of their noble river. He here took for his wives the daughters of the great Modocawando-the most powerful sachem of the His castle was plundered by Governor Andros, during his reckless administration; and the enraged Baron is supposed to have excited the Indians into open hostility to the English.

east.

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