University of Virginia Library

Long ere our fathers found a resting-place
Beyond the far Atlantic wave, or ere
The adventurous mariner had left the shores
Of Spain, on his world-seeking voyage; here,
Beneath the sheltering arms of these old trees,
In some sequester'd nook where northern blasts
Had spent their force, the red man's wigwam stood,
A level space in front; the winter's sun
Shone cheerfully upon the withered grass,
His childhood's playground. Light his toil;
The woods, the shore, and the surrounding sea
Supplied his food. His savage nature slept;
The breath of Spring that fanned no hostile cheek
Softening his heart with the sweet song of birds.
And ever, as his bark canoe was out
Upon the summer sea, and ocean smoothed
Its foaming crest,—there, lightly poised upon
The mirror'd blue of the o'erarching sky,
Alone with Nature, all unconsciously
Her quiet teaching sank into his soul.
But now a change was near, a fearful change!
At morning's early dawn their wondering eyes
Beheld, slow rising from the ocean's rim,
A speck scarce larger than the sea-gull's wing.
Nearer it came before the steady gale,
In form dilating like some thunder-cloud
Driven by the storm.
Was this a Sagamore,
From Ketan's pleasant hunting-grounds,
To call his children to the spirit land?
A messenger sent from that happy home
Beyond the rising sun, where tranquil seas
And cloudless summer skies forever reign?
Happy were such her mission! Better far
If swift-winged pestilence had dogged her wake
Than such an after-tale of misery.
On, on she came, fraught with the Indian's fate,
The first dark cloud, that, travelling westward still,
Spreads o'er the red man's path its blighting shade.—
Painful it were to tell, how step by step
They sunk, debased, degraded, scarce a trace
Of their once manly, noble nature left.
A few short years of miserable life
And the last Wampanoag was gathered to his fathers.

Their broad and rich inheritance is ours,
Ours to enjoy, with all its wealth of beauty.
The same wide ocean sparkles in the sun;
The same blue heavens are bending over us.
These ancient trees, the silent registers
Of fleeting years, might they but speak, could tell
Of simple sports and feats of manly strength;
Of grave debate in council, or the strife
To win some smiling beauty's maiden heart.

What their more recent notes of woodland sports,
Of moonlight walks, or whispered tale of love,
Belongs to later times and other lays.

Here as we sit beneath the deepening shade
And muse upon the Indian's hapless fate,
While twilight spreads o'er all her dusky veil,
The memories that linger round these scenes
Are of the sacred, precious things of earth,
And lift our hearts in gratitude to Him,
Alike the Indian's and the white man's God.