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Whittier, John Greenleaf, 1807-1892 [1831], Legends of New England (Hanmer and Phelps, Hartford) [word count] [eaf412]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
The Norridgewocks—a bold and vigorous race of the New-England Redmen, She stood beneath the shadow of an oak, Grim with uncounted winters, and whose boughs Had sheltered in their youth the giant forms Of the great Chieftain's warriors. She was fair, Even to a white man's vision—and she wore A blended grace and dignity of mein Which might befit the daughter of a King— The queenliness of nature. She had all The magic of proportion which might haunt The dream of some rare painter, or steal in Upon the musings of the statuary, Like an unreal vision. She was dark,— There was no play of crimson on her cheek, Yet were her features beautiful. Her eye Was clear and wild—and brilliant as a beam Of the live sunshine; and her long, dark hair Sway'd in rich masses to th' unquiet wind.
The West was glad with sunset.—Over all The green hills and the wilderness there fell A great and sudden glory. Half the sky Was full of glorious tints, as if the home And fountain of the rainbow were revealed; And through its depth of beauty looked the star Of the blest Evening, like an Angel's eye. The Indian watched the sunset—and her eye Glistened one moment—then a tear fell down— For she was dreaming of her fallen race— The mighty who had perished—for her creed Had taught her that the spirits of the brave And beautiful were gathered in the West— The Red man's Paradise;—and then she sang Faintly her song of sorrow, with a low And half-hushed tone, as if she knew that those Who listened were unearthly auditors, And that the dead had bowed themselves to hear. “The moons of Autumn wax and wane—the sound of swelling floods Is borne upon the mournful wind; and broadly on the woods The colours of the changing leaves—the fair, frail flowers of frost,
Before the round and yellow sun most beautiful are tossed. The morning breaketh with a clear, bright pencilling of sky, And blushes through its golden clouds, as the great Sun goes by; And Evening lingers in the West—more beautiful than dreams Which whisper of the Spirit-land, its wilderness and streams! A little time—another moon—the forest will be sad— The streams will mourn the pleasant light which made their journey glad; The morn will faintly lighten up—the sunlight glisten cold, And wane into the western sky without its Autumn gold. And yet I weep not for the sign of desolation near— The ruin of my hunter-race may only ask a tear,— The wailing streams will laugh again—the naked trees put on The beauty of their summer green beneath the summer sun— The Autumn-cloud will yet again its crimson draperies fold—
The star of sunset smile again—a diamond set in gold! But never, for their forest-lake—or for their mountainpath, The mighty of our race shall leave the hunting-ground of Death. I know the tale my fathers told—the legend of their fame— The glory of our spotless race before the pale ones came— When, asking fellowship of none—by turns the foe of all— The death-bolts of our vengeance fell, as Heaven's own lightnings fall; When, at the call of Taconet, my warrior-sire of old, The war-shout of a thousand men upon the midnight rolled; And fearless and companionless our warriors strode alone, And from the big lake to the sea the green earth was their own. Where are they now? Around their changed and stranger-peopled home, Full sadly o'er their thousand graves the flowers of Autumn bloom—
The bow of strength is buried with the calamut and spear, And the spent arrow slumbereth, forgetful of the deer! The last canoe is rotting by the lake it glided o'er, When dark-eyed maidens sweetly sang its welcome from the shore. The foot-prints of the hunter-race from all the hills have gone— Their offerings to the Spirit-land have left the altar-stone— The ashes of the council-fire have no abiding token— The song of war has died away—the Powwah's charm is broken— The startling war-whoop cometh not upon the loud, clear air,— The ancient woods are vanishing—the pale men gather there. And who is left to mourn for this?—a solitary one, Whose life is waning into death like yonder setting sun!— A broken reed—a faded flower, that lingereth behind, To mourn above its fallen race, and wrestle with the wind! Lo—from the Spirit-land I hear the voices of the blest; The holy faces of the loved are leaning from the West.
The mighty and the beautiful—the peerless ones of old— They call me to their pleasant sky and to their thrones of gold;— Ere the spoilers' eye hath found me, when there are none to save— Or the evil-hearted pale-face made the free of soul a slave— Ere the step of air grow weary, or the sunny eye be dim. The Father of my people is calling me to him.” | |||
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