"Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands : "Hold, Ruth'tis I, the Sagamore !" Quick, at the summons, hasty hands Unclose the bolted door; And on the outlaw's daughter shine The flashes of the kindled pine. Tall and erect the maiden stands, Like some young priestess of the wood, The free born child of Solitude, And bearing still the wild and rude, Her dark brown cheek has caught its stain There is something painful and sad to see; In its fearless and untamed freedom should be. Yet, seldom in hall or court are seen So queenly a form and so noble a mien, As freely and smiling she welcomes them there! Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone: "Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare? And, Sachem, say does Scamman wear, But a fearful meaning lurks within Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone- The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there With hand upraised, with quick-drawn breath, Had power to change at sight alone, The gazer into stone. With such a look Herodias read Look! feeling melts that frozen glance, It moves that marble countenance, As if at once within her strove Pity with shame, and hate with love. Oh! woman wronged, can cherish hate But, when the mockery of Fate Hath left Revenge its chosen way, And the fell curse, which years have nursed, Which bound her to the traitor's bosom Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell, John Bonython's eye-brows together are drawn Is this the time to be playing the fool- Like a love-sick girl at school? Curse on it! an Indian can see and hear: Away - and prepare our evening cheer!" How keenly the Indian is watching now With a serpent eye, which kindles and burns, On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns:— The moment's gust of grief is gone The lip is clenched the tears are still With what a strength of will The bosom heaves the eye is wet Has thy dark spirit power to stay The heart's wild current on its way? And whence that baleful strength of guile, Which over that still working brow And tearful eye and cheek, can throw The mockery of a smile? Warned by her father's blackening frown, With one strong effort crushing down Grief, hate, remorse, she meets again * "Is the Sachem angry angry with Ruth, No Ruth will sit in the Sachem's door, And braid the mats for his wigwam floor, And weave his wampum, and grind his corn, The Indian's brow is clear once more: With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye, And watches Ruth go by, Intent upon her household care ; And ever and anon, the while, Or on the maiden, or her fare, Ah, Mogg Megone! what dreams are thine, But those which love's own fancies dress A wigwam, where the warm sunshine "The tooth-ache," says Roger Williams, in his observations upon the language and customs of the New England tribes, "is the only paine which will force their stoute hearts to cry." He afterwards remarks that even the Indian women never cry as he has heard "some of their men in this paine." Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, From the rude board of Bonython, She stands by the side of her austere sire, With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree, From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone: The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes, For the water he drinks is strong and new, On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow: "Boon water - boon water Sagamore John ! Wuttamuttata. weekan! our hearts will grow!" He drinks yet deeper he mutters low He reels on his bear-skin to and fro *Wuttamuttata, "Let us drink." Weekan, "It is sweet." Vide Roger Williams's Key to the Indian Language, "in that parte of America called New England." London, 1643, p. 35. |