 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
THE HAUNTED ROCK.
I am indebted to George Hosmer, Esq., one of the pioneers of Western New York, for the following statement:
“In the early settlement of the Genesee country, I remember to have seen a round rock standing near the Indian trail leading from Canawaugus to Geneseo, in what is now the town of Avon. It was about forty feet in circumference—the earth, where it lay imbedded, was hard and gravelly; there was a narrow path around it one foot in width, and it was beaten and worn by passing feet to the depth of four or five inches. Tradition informs us that a chief of distinction had been buried under that rock, and that his memory was honored by his tribesmen, when hunting or on war expeditions, by religiously running, with breath suspended, round his rude tomb.”
This rock was in the form of a large boulder, and the like of it has never been found in this region. In after years it was removed by ruthless hands, blasted, and manufactured into mill-stones.
More fell than anguish, hunger or the sea!
Look on the tragic loading of this bed:
This is thy work: the object poisons sight;
Let it be hid.”—
Shakespeare.
Deep in the forest, green and old,
And oaken giants interlace
Their boughs above the fruitful mould.
Since rose wild yell, and cry of fear—
Its bower the roving Indian shuns
When belted for the chase of deer.
And lightly near the partridge treads,
While, breathing fragrance on the air,
Frail wood-plants lift their nodding heads.
Sad legend of the past he knows,
And with a deeply-troubled mien
Wild, watchful look around he throws;
Wind, sun and shower had failed to dim,
And the pale phantoms of the slain,
Through leaves, were looking forth on him.
Dark deed of evil can impart—
An awe that stills the lip of mirth,
And sends a coldness to the heart.
And sweetest flower of womanhood
That ever grew, untaught and wild,
Within the green, o'erarching wood.
Had seen, till night's chill gloom was gone,
And morning tipped the hills with fire,
Love's torch in her bark lodge burn on.
In conducting a courtship, the Seneca lover visits the wigwam of the maiden after she has retired to rest, and places a burning torch of bark, previously prepared, on the hearth-stone. If she rises, and extinguishes it, the offer of marriage is rejected; but if it is allowed to burn on, he returns home an accepted suitor.
The daring Tuscarora laid,
Regardless of parental ban,
To bear away his dark-eyed maid.
To her he loved, in whisper low—
“When dew is on the thirsty flower
I will be near with steed and bow.
Is girt by greener woods than these;
There hath the moon a softer ray,
And clearer notes have bird and breeze.”
When gone was sunlight's parting smile,
But little thought an evil eye
On him kept earnest watch the while.
While dim with shade the landscape grew,
Wa-noo-sa, with a fluttering heart,
Counted the moments as they flew.
The listener heard at last, and found
For vigil sad a rich reward
In that long-wished for, welcome sound.
Then paused a horseman in his race:—
The maid behind him lightly sprung,
And on he rode at fearful pace.
In vain will scour the wood and dell
When comes the morrow!”—not a word
In answer from that horseman fell.
Up stony hill, through coppice toiled;
Nor flagged his wiry limbs in speed
When swampy loam each fetlock soiled.
A glimmering light on wave and wold
When reached a thicket, lone and dread,
Deep in the forest green and old.
And pointing to the forest-floor
On which a fallen warrior lay,
“Dismount!”—exclaimed—“your ride is o'er!”
Then fell as if by arrow shot—
One instant her stern father gazed,
And galloped wildly from the spot.
The sad moon of the falling leaf
A hunter, on the track for game,
Found, and his heart was touched with grief.
And earth above them gently piled,
Then, for the beautiful and brave,
Sang a low dirge, with gesture wild.
Rolled a huge rock the mound above
To mark where slept, in other years,
The victims of unhappy love.
And deeply worn that rock around,
By children of the hunter race
In passing, was the solid ground:—
Heard spirit voices on the breeze,
While shadows from the realm of death
Glided among the whispering trees.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |