MOGG MEGONE. Hark! is that the angry howl Of the wolf, the hills among? Or the hooting of the owl, On his leafy cradle swung? Quickly glancing, to and fro, Listening to each sound they go Round the columns of the pine, Indistinct, in shadow, seeming Like some old and pillared shrine; With the soft and white moonshine, Round the foliage-tracery shed Of each column's branching head, For its lamps of worship gleaming! And the sounds awakened there, In the pine-leaves fine and small, In the thunder, or the tone A cottage hidden in the wood, Red through its seams a light is glowing, On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude, A narrow lustre throwing. "Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands; "Hold, Ruth, 't is I, the Saga- Quick, at the summons, hasty hands And on the outlaw's daughter shine Tall and erect the maiden stands, Like some young priestess of the wood, And bearing still the wild and rude, The sum of Indian happiness! A wigwam, where the warm sunshine Looks in among the groves of pine, A stream, where, round thy light canoe, The trout and salmon dart in view, And the fair girl, before thee now, Spreading thy mat with hand of snow, Or plying, in the dews of morn, Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, Or offering up, at eve, to thee, Thy birchen dish of hominy! From the rude board of Bonython, Feeding, at times, the unequal fire With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree, Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls, And over its inmates three. From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone: "Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask? Will he make his mark, that it may be known, On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land, From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand?" The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes, As he rises, the white man's bidding to do: 5 "Wuttamuttata wise, For the water he drinks is strong and new, Mogg's heart is great! will he shut his hand, When his father asks for a little land?" — With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawn On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow, "Boon water, more John! boon water, Saga Wuttamuttata, -weekan! our hearts will grow ! He drinks yet deeper, he mutters low, He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, His head falls down on his naked breast, He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. "Humph- drunk as a beast!" - and Bonython's brow Is darker than ever with evil thought"The fool has signed his warrant; but how And when shall the deed be wrought? Speak, Ruth! why, what the devil is there, To fix thy gaze in that empty air?. Speak, Ruth! by my soul, if I thought that tear, Which shames thyself and our purpose here, Were shed for that cursed and palefaced dog, Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg, And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping, This this! - he dashes his hand to clasp His daughter's cold, damp hand in his. Ruth startles from her father's grasp, As if each nerve and muscle felt, Instinctively, the touch of guilt, Through all their subtle sympathies. He points her to the sleeping Mogg: "What shall be done with yonder dog? Scamman is dead, and revenge is thine, The deed is signed and the land is mine; And this drunken fool is of use no more, Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth, 'T were Christian mercy to finish him, Ruth, Now, while he lies like a beast on our floor, If not for thine, at least for his sake, He laughs at his jest. Hush- what is there? Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell Too much for her ear of that deed of hell. She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clenching the bearskin bed! What thoughts of horror and madness whirl Through the burning brain of that fallen girl! O, when the soul, once pure and high, The strength to dare, the nerve to meet Whatever threatens with defeat Its all-indomitable will ! – But lacks the mean of mind and heart, Though eager for the gains of crime, Oft, at his chosen place and time, MOGG MEGONE. The strength to bear his evil part; Ruth starts erect, with bloodshot eye, A lifted arm, a tremulous blade, Again and again - he sees it fall, 'Tis morning over Norridgewock, And, stretching out, on either hand, eye Its dark green burthen upward heaves The hemlock broods above its rill, Against the birch's graceful stem, Each colored like a topaz gem; And the tall maple wears with them The coronal, which autumn gives, The brief, bright sign of ruin near, The hectic of a dying year! 7 The hermit priest, who lingers now The wings which dipped, the stars which shone Within thy bosom, blue Garonne ! Sweet voices in the still air singing, — The chant of many a holy hymn, The solemn bell of vespers ringing, And hallowed torchlight falling dim On pictured saint and seraphim! For here beneath him lies unrolled, Bathed deep in morning's flood of gold, A vision gorgeous as the dream Of the beatified may seem, When, as his Church's legends say, Borne upward in ecstatic bliss, The rapt enthusiast soars away Far eastward o'er the lovely bay, Upon the yellow sands below; And shooting round the winding shores Of narrow capes, and isles which lie Slumbering to ocean's lullaby, With birchen boat and glancing oars, The red men to their fishing go; While from their planting ground is borne The treasure of the golden corn, By laughing girls, whose dark eyes glow Wild through the locks which o'er them flow. The wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done, Sits on her bear-skin in the sun, Watching the huskers, with a smile |