'T was as the wizard rattlesnake, Whose evil glances lure to harmWhose cold and small and glittering eye, And brilliant coil, and changing dye, Fear, doubt, thought, life itself, erelong A poor vain shadow, cold and waste; In the warm present bliss alone Seemed I of actual life to taste. Fond longings dimly understood, The glow of passion's quickening blood, And cherished fantasies which press The young lip with a dream's caress, The heart's forecast and prophecy Took form and life before my eye, Seen in the glance which met my own, Heard in the soft and pleading tone, Felt in the arms around me cast, And warm heart-pulses beating fast. Ah! scarcely yet to God above With deeper trust, with stronger love Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent, Or dloistered nun at twilight bent, Than I, before a human shrine, As mortal and as frail as mine, With heart, and soul, and mind, and form, Knelt madly to a fellow-worm. "Full soon, upon that dream of sin, And tears that fell like fiery rain, A new and fiercer feeling swept All lingering tenderness away; "A youthful warrior of the wild, Through camp and town and wilder ness He tracked his victim; and, at last, Just when the tide of hate had passed, And milder thoughts came warm and fast, Exulting, at my feet he cast The bloody token of success. "O God! with what an awful power Its ghost-like memories! And then I felt alas! too lateThat underneath the mask of hate, That shame and guilt and wrong had thrown O'er feelings which they might not own, The heart's wild love had known no change: And still, that deep and hidden love, With its first fondness, wept above The victim of its own revenge! There lay the fearful scalp, and there The blood was on its pale brown hair! I thought not of the victim's scorn, I thought not of his baleful guile, My deadly wrong, my outcast name, The characters of sin and shame On heart and forehead drawn ; I only saw that victim's smile, The still, green places where we met, The moonlit branches, dewy wet; I only felt, I only heard The greeting and the parting word, – The smile, the embrace, -the tone, which made An Eden of the forest shade. "And oh, with what a loathing eye, With what a deadly hate, and deep, I saw that Indian murderer lie Before me, in his drunken sleep! MOGG MEGONE. What though for me the deed was done, And words of mine had sped him on ! Yet when he murmured, as he slept, The horrors of that deed of blood, The tide of utter madness swept O'er brain and bosom, like a flood. And, father, with this hand of mine - " "Ha! what didst thou?" the Jesuit cries, Shuddering, as smitten with sudden pain, And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes, With the other he makes the holy sign. "I smote him as I would a worm; With heart as steeled, with nerves as firm: He never woke again!" "Woman of sin and blood and shame, Speak, -I would know that victim's name." "Father," she gasped, "a chieftain, known As Saco's Sachem,-MOGG Megone!" Pale priest What proud and lofty dreams, What keen desires, what cherished schemes, What hopes, that time may not recall, Of conquest and unsparing strife, 15 Three backward steps the Jesuit takes, His long, thin frame as ague shakes; And loathing hate is in his eye, As from his lips these words of fear Fall hoarsely on the maiden's ear, "The soul that sinneth shall surely die !" She stands, as stands the stricken deer, Checked midway in the fearful chase, When bursts, upon his eye and ear, The gaunt, gray robber, baying near, Between him and his hiding-place; While still behind, with yell and blow, Sweeps, like a storm, the coming foe. "Save me, O holy man! - her cry Fills all the void, as if a tongue, Unseen, from rib and rafter hung, Thrilling with mortal agony; Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee, And her eye looks fearfully into his It were sin to breathe a prayer ; — Schemes which Heaven may never bless, Fears which darken to despair. Hoary priest! thy dream is done Of a hundred red tribes won To the pale of Holy Church; And the heretic o'erthrown, And his name no longer known, And thy weary brethren turning, Joyful from their years of mourning, Twixt the altar and the porch. Hark! what sudden sound is heard In the wood and in the sky, Shriller than the scream of bird, Than the trumpet's clang more high! Every wolf-cave of the hills, Forest arch and mountain gorge, Rock and dell, and river verge, — With an answering echo thrills. Well does the Jesuit know that cry, Which summons the Norridgewock to die, And tells that the foe of his flock is nigh. He listens, and hears the rangers come, With loud hurrah, and jar of drum, And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot), And the short, sharp sound of rifle shot, And taunt and menace, -answered well By the Indians' mocking cry and yell,The bark of dogs, the squaw's mad scream, When he paddles across the western MOGG MEGONE. Through the chapel's narrow doors, And through each window in the walls, Round the priest and warrior pours "So fare all eaters of the frog! Death to the Babylonish dog! Down with the beast of Rome!" With shouts like these, around the dead, Unconscious on his bloody bed, The rangers crowding come. Brave men! the dead priest cannot hear The unfeeling taunt,the brutaljeer;— Spurn for he sees ye not in wrath, The symbol of your Saviour's death; Tear from his death-grasp, in your And trample, as a thing accursed, Brutal alike in deed and word, With callous heart and hand of strife, How like a fiend may man be made, Plying the foul and monstrous trade Whose harvest field is human life, Whose sickle is the reeking sword! Quenching, with reckless hand in blood, Sparks kindled by the breath of God;" Urging the deathless soul, unshriven, Of open guilt or secret sin, Before the bar of that pure Heaven The holy only enter in! O, by the widow's sore distress, The orphan's wailing wretchedness, By Virtue struggling in the accursed Embraces of polluting Lust, By the fell discord of the Pit, And the pained souls that people it, And by the blessed peace which fills The Paradise of God forever, Resting on all its holy hills, And flowing with its crystal river, Let Christian hands no longer bear In triumph on his crimson car 17 The foul and idol god of war: No more the purple wreaths prepare To bind amid his snaky hair; Nor Christian bards his glories tell, Nor Christian tongues his praises swell. Through the gun smoke wreathing white, Glimpses on the soldiers' sight With its loose hair backward streaming, From the world of light and breath, Hurrying to its place again, Spectre-like it vanisheth! Wretched girl! one eye alone -- Doth thy Heavenly Father guard thee: He who spared the guilty Cain, Even when a brother's blood, Crying in the ear of God, Gave the earth its primal stain, He whose mercy ever liveth, Who repenting guilt forgiveth, And the broken heart receiveth, Wanderer of the wilderness, Haunted, guilty, crazed, and wild, He regardeth thy distress, And careth for his sinful child! 'Tis spring-time on the eastern hills ! Like torrents gush the summer rills; Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves The bladed grass revives and lives, In kindly shower and sunshine bud The blue eye of the violet looks; The southwest wind is warmly blowing, And odors from the springing grass, Are with it on its errands going. A band is marching through the wood And white and wrinkled brow, bespeak A few long locks of scattering snow In the harsh outlines of his face No signs of weary age are there. His step is firm, his eye is keen, No purpose now of strife and blood Within the earth the bones of those Who perished in that fearful day, When Norridgewock became the prey Of all unsparing foes. Sadly and still, dark thoughts between, Of coming vengeance mused Castine, Of the fallen chieftain Bomazeen, Who bade for him the Norridgewocks Dig up their buried tomahawks |