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DEATH OF KING PHILIP.
Of this formidable foe of the English, much may be said. Worthy of the proudest niche of remembrance; he continued his undeviating hatred to the whites, not from any wanton desire for rapacity and blood, but a prophetic knowledge of the ultimate ruin, through them of his race. Time has shewn. I have not adhered to history; yet the outline is drawn from Trumbull's puerile and quaint book on the Indian wars, which, however contains some interesting facts.
Of this formidable foe of the English, much may be said. Worthy of the proudest niche of remembrance; he continued his undeviating hatred to the whites, not from any wanton desire for rapacity and blood, but a prophetic knowledge of the ultimate ruin, through them of his race. Time has shewn. I have not adhered to history; yet the outline is drawn from Trumbull's puerile and quaint book on the Indian wars, which, however contains some interesting facts.
'Twas in a vision of the night,
The spirit of that eye
Which tracks the future in its flight,
And sees the past go by—
Came o'er my bosom—I beheld
The past, its mingled scenes unveil'd
In dark confusion fly.
The spirit of that eye
Which tracks the future in its flight,
And sees the past go by—
Came o'er my bosom—I beheld
The past, its mingled scenes unveil'd
In dark confusion fly.
It was a dreary scene, and dim
As with ten thousand lights,
Must be the anxious gaze of him
That sees these varied sights;
That come in wild and mingled crowd,
The high and humble, hase and proud,
That time unsparing blights.
As with ten thousand lights,
Must be the anxious gaze of him
That sees these varied sights;
That come in wild and mingled crowd,
The high and humble, hase and proud,
That time unsparing blights.
New scenes now flitted 'neath my gaze,
My native land I see,
As now the fitful gleam betrays
Its shadows distantly—
But who are these with swarthy brow
That look and gaze around them now
So wild and anxiously.
My native land I see,
As now the fitful gleam betrays
Its shadows distantly—
But who are these with swarthy brow
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So wild and anxiously.
And one is there with musing eye,
The chieftain—ye may scan,
Whose cheek is stain'd with purple die—
A proud and lonely man!
He sat upon the ruin'd stone
That mark'd an ancient warrior gone,
Ere yet his race began.
The chieftain—ye may scan,
Whose cheek is stain'd with purple die—
A proud and lonely man!
He sat upon the ruin'd stone
That mark'd an ancient warrior gone,
Ere yet his race began.
His Chieftains, are they all around—
The few—the brave are there,
More lofty in that narrow bound
Than any other sphere—
They sit upon the moss-grown rock,
Upon their lips, the curl of mock,
The sternness of despair.
The few—the brave are there,
More lofty in that narrow bound
Than any other sphere—
They sit upon the moss-grown rock,
Upon their lips, the curl of mock,
The sternness of despair.
A smile is stealing o'er his cheek,
But it has sadness too,
As 'midst that band he fain would seek
Some fellow warrior's view;
Yet sad, as turning from that gaze
His cheek no more the flush betrays
That it was wont to do!
But it has sadness too,
As 'midst that band he fain would seek
Some fellow warrior's view;
Yet sad, as turning from that gaze
His cheek no more the flush betrays
That it was wont to do!
He look'd upon the dashing wave,
And bade his warriors nigh:
I listen'd as the monarch gave
His signal battle cry,
Then laid him on the rocky height,
Whilst slumber stole upon his sight,
A nation watching by.
And bade his warriors nigh:
I listen'd as the monarch gave
His signal battle cry,
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Whilst slumber stole upon his sight,
A nation watching by.
[OMITTED]
Now o'er the mountain's rocky brow
Why leaps he in dismay?
He calls upon his fellows now—
“The war-cry and away!
The white-man, foe,” 'twas all he said,
And shook on high his battle blade,
And sought the coming fray.
Why leaps he in dismay?
He calls upon his fellows now—
“The war-cry and away!
The white-man, foe,” 'twas all he said,
And shook on high his battle blade,
And sought the coming fray.
But when around, beneath the sight
No foe-mens forms appear;
His warriors rising forth in might,
No coming foe-men hear—
“They come,” he cried; “ye may not see,
“But I have seen, and it will be—
“So perish they who fear!
No foe-mens forms appear;
His warriors rising forth in might,
No coming foe-men hear—
“They come,” he cried; “ye may not see,
“But I have seen, and it will be—
“So perish they who fear!
“Rock of my sires!” 'twas thus he spoke,
“This is my latest field,
“And on thy brow, the dart be broke,
“That ne'er was made to yield—
“Pursuing still, the foe-man's feet
“Shall with your dying monarch's meet,
“And he no spear shall wield.
“This is my latest field,
“And on thy brow, the dart be broke,
“That ne'er was made to yield—
“Pursuing still, the foe-man's feet
“Shall with your dying monarch's meet,
“And he no spear shall wield.
“Eagle, that seeks the highest course,
“And tracks the darkest sky;
“That never sought a lowlier force,
“Nor fear'd at last to die—
“I joy that time has hid his form,
“For now thou'lt perish in the storm,
“Thine own red-warriors nigh.”
“And tracks the darkest sky;
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“Nor fear'd at last to die—
“I joy that time has hid his form,
“For now thou'lt perish in the storm,
“Thine own red-warriors nigh.”
So spake the monarch, and his brow
Grew darker in its hue;
His eye assumed a vengeful glow,
As o'er his band it flew;
Then sung he in a manly strain
The deeds he'd done, and those again
His soul had sworn to do!
Grew darker in its hue;
His eye assumed a vengeful glow,
As o'er his band it flew;
Then sung he in a manly strain
The deeds he'd done, and those again
His soul had sworn to do!
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