But hark!--from wood and rock flung back, What sound comes up the Merrimac?
What sea-worn barks are those which throw The light spray from each rushing prow?
Have they not in the North Sea's blast Bowed to the waves the straining mast?
Their frozen sails the low, pale sun Of Thule's night has shone upon; Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep Round icy drift, and headland steep.
Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters Have watched them fading o'er the waters, Lessening through driving mist and spray, Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!
Onward they glide,--and now I view Their iron-armed and stalwart crew; Joy glistens in each wild blue eye, Turned to green earth and summer sky.
Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide; Bared to the sun and soft warm air, Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair.
I see the gleam of axe and spear, The sound of smitten shields I hear, Keeping a harsh and fitting time To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme; Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung, His gray and naked isles among; Or muttered low at midnight hour Round Odin's mossy stone of power.
The wolf beneath the Arctic moon Has answered to that startling rune; The Gael has heard its stormy swell, The light Frank knows its summons well; Iona's sable-stoled Culdee Has heard it sounding o'er the sea, And swept, with hoary beard and hair, His altar's foot in trembling prayer.
'T is past,--the 'wildering vision dies In darkness on my dreaming eyes The forest vanishes in air, Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare; I hear the common tread of men, And hum of work-day life again;
The mystic relic seems alone A broken mass of common stone; And if it be the chiselled limb Of Berserker or idol grim, A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, The stormy Viking's god of War, Or Praga of the Runic lay, Or love-awakening Siona, I know not,--for no graven line, Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, Is left me here, by which to trace Its name, or origin, or place.
Yet, for this vision of the Past, This glance upon its darkness cast, My spirit bows in gratitude Before the Giver of all good, Who fashioned so the human mind, That, from the waste of Time behind, A simple stone, or mound of earth, Can summon the departed forth; Quicken the Past to life again, The Present lose in what hath been, And in their primal freshness show The buried forms of long ago.
As if a portion of that Thought By which the Eternal will is wrought, Whose impulse fills anew with breath The frozen solitude of Death, To mortal mind were sometimes lent, To mortal musings sometimes sent, To whisper-even when it seems But Memory's fantasy of dreams-- Through the mind's waste of woe and sin, Of an immortal origin!
1841.
FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS.
Polan, chief of the Sokokis Indians of the country between Agamenticus and Casco Bay, was killed at Windham on Sebago Lake in the spring of 1756. After the whites had retired, the surviving Indians "swayed" or bent down a young tree until its roots were upturned, placed the body of their chief beneath it, then released the tree, which, in springing back to its old position, covered the grave. The Sokokis were early converts to the Catholic faith. Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removed to the French settlements on the St. Francois.
AROUND Sebago's lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make.
The solemn pines along its shore, The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, Are painted on its glassy floor.
The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, The snowy mountain-tops which lie Piled coldly up against the sky.
Dazzling and white! save where the bleak, Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, Or snow-slide left its dusky streak.
Yet green are Saco's banks below, And belts of spruce and cedar show, Dark fringing round those cones of snow.
The earth hath felt the breath of spring, Though yet on her deliverer's wing The lingering frosts of winter cling.
Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, And mildly from its sunny nooks The blue eye of the violet looks.
And odors from the springing grass, The sweet birch and the sassafras, Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass.
Her tokens of renewing care Hath Nature scattered everywhere, In bud and flower, and warmer air.
But in their hour of bitterness, What reek the broken Sokokis, Beside their slaughtered chief, of this?
The turf's red stain is yet undried, Scarce have the death-shot echoes died Along Sebago's wooded side;
And silent now the hunters stand, Grouped darkly, where a swell of land Slopes upward from the lake's white sand.
Fire and the axe have swept it bare, Save one lone beech, unclosing there Its light leaves in the vernal air.
With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, They break the damp turf at its foot, And bare its coiled and twisted root.
They heave the stubborn trunk aside, The firm roots from the earth divide,-- The rent beneath yawns dark and wide.
And there the fallen chief is laid, In tasselled garb of skins arrayed, And girded with his wampum-braid.
The silver cross he loved is pressed Beneath the heavy arms, which rest Upon his scarred and naked breast.
'T is done: the roots are backward sent, The beechen-tree stands up unbent, The Indian's fitting monument!
When of that sleeper's broken race Their green and pleasant dwelling-place, Which knew them once, retains no trace;
Oh, long may sunset's light be shed As now upon that beech's head, A green memorial of the dead!
There shall his fitting requiem be, In northern winds, that, cold and free, Howl nightly in that funeral tree.
To their wild wail the waves which break Forever round that lonely lake A solemn undertone shall make!
And who shall deem the spot unblest, Where Nature's younger children rest, Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast?
Deem ye that mother loveth less These bronzed forms of the wilderness She foldeth in her long caress?
As sweet o'er them her wild-flowers blow, As if with fairer hair and brow The blue-eyed Saxon slept below.
What though the places of their rest No priestly knee hath ever pressed,-- No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed?
What though the bigot's ban be there, And thoughts of wailing and despair, And cursing in the place of prayer.
Yet Heaven hath angels watching round The Indian's lowliest forest-mound,-- And they have made it holy ground.
There ceases man's frail judgment; all His powerless bolts of cursing fall Unheeded on that grassy pall.
O peeled and hunted and reviled, Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild!
Great Nature owns her simple child!
And Nature's God, to whom alone The secret of the heart is known,-- The hidden language traced thereon;
Who from its many cumberings Of form and creed, and outward things, To light the naked spirit brings;
Not with our partial eye shall scan, Not with our pride and scorn shall ban, The spirit of our brother man!
1841.
ST. JOHN.
The fierce rivalry between Charles de La Tour, a Protestant, and D'Aulnay Charnasy, a Catholic, for the possession of Acadia, forms one of the most romantic passages in the history of the New World. La Tour received aid in several instances from the Puritan colony of Massachusetts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining arms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle was attacked by D'Aulnay, and successfully defended by its high-spirited mistress. A second attack however followed in the fourth month, 1647, when D'Aulnay was successful, and the garrison was put to the sword.