 | Yamoyden, a tale of the wars of King Philip : in six cantos |  |
CANTO SIXTH.
Even in the darkest hour of earthly ill,
Untarnished yet, thy fond affection glows,
Throbs with each pulse, and beats with every thrill!
Bright o'er the wasted scene, thou hoverest still,
Angel of comfort to the failing soul;
Undaunted by the tempest, wild and chill,
That pours its restless and disastrous roll,
O'er all that blooms below, with sad and hollow howl!
Wrings the hot drops of anguish from the brow,
To sooth the soul, to cool the burning brain,
O, who so welcome and so prompt as thou!
The battle's hurried scene and angry glow,—
The death-encircled pillow of distress,—
The lonely moments of secluded wo,—
Alike thy care and constancy confess,
Alike thy pitying hand, and fearless friendship bless!
Thence first invoked the sacred sisters were;
The form that holds the enthusiast's heart in thrall,
He, mid his bright creation, paints most fair;—
True,—in this earthly wilderness of care,—
As hunter's path the wilds and forests through;
And firm,—all fragile as thou art,—to bear
Life's dangerous billows,—as the light canoe,
That shoots, with all its freight, the impetuous rapid's flow.
Clomb long the vaulted heaven's unmeasured height:
The Iroquois do not go back to the earth, for the creation of man. Six men first appear in their mythology; one of whom ascended to heaven to seek a woman, named Atahansic. He found her; and when she was detected in having received his visit, she was precipitated from the upper regions. She alighted on the back of a Tortoise, where she was delivered of twins, one of whom killed the other, &c.—
Charlevoix, p. 344.And well their uncouth fable speaks therein
The worth even savage souls can never slight.
Tired with the chase, the hunter greets at night
Thy welcome smile, the balm of every wo;
Thy patient toil makes all his labours light;
And from his grave when friends and kindred go,
Thou weeping comest, the sweet sagamité to strow!
I.
Left to the troublous thoughts that roseTo bar her wearied frame's repose,
Sad Nora, in her guardians' care,
Had past, in penitence and prayer,
And forests, shores and waters blended,
In her pale, misty light:
The tenants of the wigwam slept,
And silently their prisoner crept
Forth in the doubtful night;
She gazed, with moist and wistful eye,
As now the moon, through clouds on high,
Climbed near her central height;
The wind, careering o'er the sky,
Scattered the rack confusedly;
One moment all was bright,
The next with shadows overspread;
And dark the forests waved their head;
And dark each scene that lay beneath
The inconstant heaven's uncertain wreath,
Arose upon her sight.
II.
And now the hour was near, she knew,When, to his love and promise true,
To seek his desolated cot;
It was in vain she mused, and sought
The morning's dark events to read,
That tore her thence away
From all she loved, in danger's hour,
And to the gloomy ruffians' power
Consigned her child a prey.
She only saw her husband, reft
Of all that fate unkind had left,
Roam through the forest, lost and wild,
Calling on Nora and her child;—
And then she thought upon the brave,
Doomed with him to a common grave,
Whom yet her warning voice might save.
III.
Unconscious where her footsteps strayed,She roved through many a darksome glade,
Till, far from the forsaken glen,
She knew her morning's road agen.
Raised by the traveller's pious hand,
That told, in its deserted ground,
Slept the dead heroes of the land;
Dead, ere upon the verdant strand
The invader's hostile feet were found;
Now sleeping, nameless and alone,
Beneath that heap of rugged stone.
Onward through thick embowering wood,
Her lonely journey sped;
Deep was the tangled solitude
That round the wanderer spread.
Onward she went, till wild and rude,
The tempest burst, in wrathful mood,
Careering o'er her head.
Withdrawn was now the silver ray;
The lightning's momentary play
A ruddier splendour shed;
Then midnight blackness round was cast;
Nor longer could the path be traced,
And roving wild she fled.
IV.
Yamoyden rushed in that same hourForth from his desolated bower.
Alas! that hearts thus close allied
Should struggle with the severing tide,
So near, yet so remote!
Like sailors of some perished bark,
Struggling mid billows vexed and dark;
While howls so loud the storm's career,
Each others' screams they cannot hear,
Nor catch one dying note;
While but a single wave disparts
Those gallant, lost and faithful hearts!
V.
Soon reason left her mind again;There seemed a gulf of thoughts and pain
Roaring around her harassed brain,
Where nought distinct arose;
She knew not why she wandered there,
Nor heard the sound that rent the air,
Nor felt the tempest's throes.
Throbbed on her ear some melody,
She once had loved and sung;
And well-known voices whispered near,
Even to her darkling memory dear;
And then a moment thundered by
The elemental revelry,
And deafening round her rung.
But when to consciousness once more
She waked, she marked the billows' roar,
With troubled hue and sullen dash,
Oft lit by the retiring flash.
The storm had ceased its maddening rage,
And on her clouded pilgrimage
The moon was slowly riding;
High, mid the fringings of the storm,
She showed, half hid, her lucid form,
The scene of tumult chiding.
VI.
New terror blanched her pallid brow,When o'er her path a stranger crost,
As one in moody musings lost.
It was a red man she espied,
And, on her nearer view,
Her kind deliverer and her guide
The trembling lady knew.
The bold Mohegan shrunk to see
So wan, so fair a form as she;
In white was robed her slender frame,
And needs, he thought, a spirit came;
A spirit more beautiful than e'er
Had visited this gloomy sphere.
Her tremulous voice dissolved his spell;
“Mysterious friend!” she cried, “O tell,
Since life thou gavest me, where are those,
My husband and my infant, where,—
Without whom life is hard to bear,
A prison house of many woes!
Why was I torn from home away?
At whose command,—and wherefore,—say.”
“Such oft thy question,” said the chief,
“Amid the darkness of thy grief.
For it was closed; and I could hear
Thy converse with the spirits near.
Christian, than this I know no more,—
'Twas Metacom's command that bore
Thy child to Pawkanawkut's shore.
And thou with him had'st gone; but I
Sought from his feeble cause to fly,
And thought that through thyself, for me,
Peace with thy brethren there might be:
Nor other aim had then, to save
Thy form from bondage or the grave.
Of Uncas' race am I, who ne'er
Aught heeded woman's idle tear.
But when thou didst, in thy despair,
Hang on me like a wild flower fair,
To the bleak cliffs of Haup that clings,—
When thou wast borne beneath my wings,
So lovely, helpless, wo-begone,—
Amid our ruthless band alone,—
A new-born gush of mercy stole,
Like a fresh dew, upon my soul:
That melting pity lingers yet.
Beautiful Christian! I would die,
To spare thine heart one heavy sigh!
But this is idle; wouldest thou seek
News of Yamoyden?” “Speak! O speak!”
“I saw him, as his swift canoe,
Hours since, toward the mountain flew.
I marked him, through the mists and gloom;
I knew him by his eagle plume,
And by his woven mantle red;”
“And thou wilt serve me,—thou hast said?
O then conduct me there!
And I will call on heaven to shed
Its choicest blessings o'er thy head,
Even with my dying prayer.”
“Fair Christian! to the mountain side,
Gladly thy footsteps I will guide;
But where thy husband lies below,
With Metacom, I cannot go.
Sad scenes will meet thine eyes,”—“No more!
Kind chieftain, bear me to the shore!”
VII.
His boat was nigh; its fragile sideBoldly the venturous wanderer tried;
Along they shot o'er the murmuring bay,
As they bore for the adverse bank away.
I guess it was a full strange sight,
To see in the track of the ghostly light,
The swarthy chief and the lady bright,
O'er the heaving waves borne on;
While her white wan cheek and robe of white
The pale ray played upon;
And above his dusky plumage shook;
Backward was flung his feathery cloak,
As his brawny arms were stretched to ply
The oars that made their shallop fly:—
I ween that he who had seen them ride,
As they rose in turn o'er the bellying tide,
Had deemed it a vision of olden time,
Of Afric wizard in faëry clime;
In durance dread, by sorceries dark,
Who wafted a lady in magic bark.
Where the quivering beam was on the wave,
Was dubious light, and shifting shade,
By clouds and mists and waters made:
The snowy foam on the billow lay,
Then sunk in the black abyss away;
The rack went scudding before the blast,
And its gloom o'er the bay came swift and past;
Flittingly gleamed the silvery streak,
On the waving hills and mountain peak;
But the star of love looked out in the west,
As if that lone lady's path she blest.
VIII.
Swift, where the midway current swept,His pirogue's course Ahauton kept;
And soon, upon the opposing shore,
They saw their skiff securely moor;
And Nora knelt upon the sand,
And blest her God's directing hand;
Then on their course they bent;
Frowned o'er the bank sublimely wild;
Where fancy's eye, at dusky hour,
Might image citadel and tower.
And, o'er the margin where they hung,
The fir from frequent fissure sprung;
Here, bending as it strove to lave
Its branches in the passing wave;
There, perched on high, with solemn cone,
It stood, in gloomy pride, alone.
IX.
She marked them not; nor, farther still,Succeeding to that broken hill,
Where wide the landscape lay;
Nor paused they where an ancient wood,
In dark repose, and silent, stood;
Beyond its awful solitude,
The twain pursued their way.
Now, by the margin of the cove,
In rugged, winding path they rove.
Mount Haup arose in majesty;
Lifting, through forests brown, its head,
Where the gray cliffs their rampart spread;
Their moss-clad brows the chroniclers
Of time, for many a thousand years,
That here, unstoried, came and went;
Aloft they stood, like battlement
Of Spirit's castle; as if there,
The wandering hosts of upper air,
In fleecy vapour oft revealed,
Nightly their spectral wassail held.
X.
And now, through wet and tangled ground.Their pathway to the mountain wound.
The moon's last rays were trembling o'er
The hill, the bay, and adverse shore.
A moment, faintly bright, they rest
Upon the summit's naked breast;
Chequer the thickets on its side,
Shed filmy lines along the tide;
Gleam with their melancholy smile;
They tip the farthest hills that bound
The fading landscape glimmering round;
Fringe the deep clouds with parting light,
Then fail, and all is lost in night.
XI.
In darkness and in doubt, they triedThe rising mountain's rugged side;
Rude and uneasy its ascent,
To one with toil and grief o'erspent.
She heard the startled fox's cry,
Pass with its sudden wailing nigh;
The wolf's sad howl came frequent by;
But human voice was heard not there;
'Twas lone and mournful as despair;—
No watchfire shot its gleams afar,
Nor woke the red man's song of war;—
If warriors in these shades reposed,
All was in utter silence closed.
XII.
Past is the long and rocky slope;She stands upon the mountain top;
And cool is now the breeze that flings
O'er the bleak height its humid wings,
Freshening across the eastern bay,
The signal of approaching day.
And faintly, in the distant sky,
A gray beam stole on Nora's eye;
Dimly morn's struggling herald kist
The foldings of the billowy mist,
And fell upon the waves below,
With soft and melancholy glow.
XIII.
Here the Mohegan paused; he bentNorthward, awhile, his gaze intent;
As if he marked, mid glooms below,
The haunts where lay ensnared his foe.
Troubled he seemed, as one who doth
A task, to which his will is loath,
As with resistless whirl, the soul,
“Christian,” he cried, “I leave thee here,
Where danger's course thou need'st not fear.
He, who my brother slew, lies there!
And it were shame beyond repair,
If any but my father's son,
The murderer's scalp in battle won!
I would the tempest, o'er him spread,
Might burst but on the guilty head;
But the red bolt, once launched, must fall
In wrath and ruin upon all.
I go; but when the strife is past,
And the proud king lies cold at last,
When the foul birds shall downward sweep,
And forth the wolves on carnage peep,
Then may'st thou hence descend, to save
With thy sweet prayers the captive brave;
Bid the stained hand of slaughter stay
The axe impending o'er its prey;
Perchance Yamoyden rescue,—nay!
Now, vain thy farther journeying were.
But when my destined work is done,
His life shall be my dearest care.”
XIV.
Silent and swift the chief departed;Dark o'er the bosom of the hill,
Along the rocks she marked him steal,
Then in the thicket's depths he darted;
And she was left, alone to feel
The sad impatience that would see
The measure of its misery;
That hath, in man, nor hope nor friend,
Nor knows what time its wo shall end.
Then fervently the lone one prayed,
In this her trying hour, for aid.
XV.
Sad rose the morning; not in bloomAwakening radiant from the gloom;
All nature gladdening as it spread,
And light and life, and glory shed;
That floats o'er stream and dewy vale;
Not bursting mid the kindling heaven,
Its hues in gold and purple given;—
For now, in dreary twilight lay
The scene beneath its mantle gray;
Mute was the melody of morn,
And hushed was nature's harp forlorn.
Alone, above the vaporous clouds,
That hung, with mournful hue, like shrouds,
O'er every distant peak,
Rose a faint line, as morning here
Thro' the dark hosts her flag would rear,
The coming day to speak.
Purple it seemed, yet lost and blending,
With the dull hues around ascending;
And a soft roseate tint was seen,
At intervals, the shades between;
As changeful, as unfixed it spread,
As the last bloom, ere life has fled.
But as the light of day uprose,
Those transient tints of beauty close;
Descend the wreathing mists again;
Pocasset's long and verdant coast
In that unwelcome veil was lost,
With sweep of hills and forests wide,
And sparkling waves between that glide;
Where, glancing o'er the sunny isles,
That stud the water's dimpling smiles,
The eye might ocean's breast explore,
Or scan the western streams that pour
Their tides on Narraganset's shore;
Or upward, to Patuxet's side,
Extend the tribute of their pride.
But now the scene had narrow bound,
And scarce the mountain's base beyond,
Was aught distinctly seen:
Strange were the shapes that seemed to rise
Imperfectly upon the eyes;
And wildered fancy here might form
The awful Spirit of the storm,
In all his terrors drest;
And throned where footsteps never trod;
Or high in gloomy car upborne,
Rushing to combat with the morn,
Upon the tempest's breast.
XVI.
The account of the ambushment and death of Philip, is taken
from Captain Church.
“By that time they were got over the ferry, and came near the
ground, half the night was spent. The Captain commands a halt,
and bringing the company together, he asked Major Sandford's
and Captain Golding's advice, what method was best to take in
making the onset, but they declined giving him any advice, telling
him, That his great experience and success forbid their taking upon
them to give advice. Then Captain Church offered Captain Golding
that he should have the honour (if he would please to accept of
it) to beat up Philip's head quarters. He accepted the offer, and
had his allotted number drawn out to him, and the pilot. Captain
Church's instructions to him were to be very careful in his approach
to the enemy, and be sure not to shew himself until by day light
they might see and discern their own men from the enemy; told
him also, that his custom in the like cases was, to creep, with his
company, on their bellies, until they came as near as they could;
and that as soon as the enemy discovered them they would cry
out; and that was the word for his men to fire and fall on. Directed
him, when the enemy should start, and take into the
swamp, they should pursue with speed, every man shouting and
making what noise they could; for he would give orders to his
ambuscade to fire on any that should come silently.
“Captain Church knowing that it was Philip's custom to be foremost
in the flight, went down to the swamp, and gave Capt. Williams
of Scituate the command of the right wing of the ambush,
and placed an Englishman and an Indian together behind such
shelters of trees, &c. that he could find, and took care to place
them at such distance that none might pass undiscovered between
them; charged them to be careful of themselves, and of hurting
their friends, and to fire at any that should come silently thro' the
swamp; but being somewhat further thro' the swamp than he was
aware of, he wanted men to make up his ambuscade. Having
placed what men he had, he took Major Sandford by the hand,
said Sir, I have so placed them that it is scarce possible Philip should
escape them. The same moment a shot whistled over their heads,
and then the noise of a gun towards Philip's camp. Captain
Church thought at first it might be some gun fired by accident;
but before he could speak, a whole volley followed, which was
earlier than he expected. One of Philip's gang going forth, looked
round him, and Captain Golding tho't the Indian looked right
at him, (though probably it was but his conceit) so fired at him,
and upon his firing, the whole company that were with him fired
upon the enemies' shelter, before the Indians had time to rise from
their sleep, and so overshot them. But their shelter was open on
that side next the swamp, built so on purpose for the convenience
of flight on occasion. They were soon in the swamp, and Philip
the foremost, who starting at the first gun, threw his petunk and
powder-horn over his head, catch'd up his gun, and ran as fast
as he could scamper, without any more clothes than his small
breeches and stockings, and ran directly on two of Capt. Church's
ambush; they let him come fair within shot, and the Englishman's
gun missing fire, he bid the Indian fire away, and he did so to purpose,
sent one musket bullet through his heart, and another not
above two inches from it; he fell upon his face in the mud and
water, with his gun under him. By this time the enemy perceived
they were waylaid on the east side of the swamp, tack'd about
short. One of the enemy, who seemed to be a great surly old fellow,
halloo'd with a loud voice, and often called out, Iootash, Iootash.
Captain Church called to his Indian Peter, and asked him,
who that was that call'd so? He answered, It was old Annawon,
Philip's great Captain, calling on his soldiers to stand to it, and
fight stoutly. Now the enemy finding that place of the swamp
which was not ambush'd, many of them made their escape in the
English tracks. The man that had shot down Philip, ran with all
speed to Capt. Church, and inform'd him of his exploit, who commanded
him to be silent about it, and let no man more know it, until
they had drove the swamp clean; but when they had drove the
swamp thro', and found the enemy had escaped, or at least the
most of them, and the sun now up, and so the dew gone, that they
could not easily track them, the whole company met together at
the place where the enemies' night shelter was; and then Captain
Church gave them the news of Philip's death; upon which the
whole army gave three loud huzzas. Captain Church ordered his
body to be pulled out of the mire on to the upland, so some of
Captain Church's Indians took hold of him by his stockings, and
some by his small breeches, (being otherwise naked) and drew
him thro' the mud to the upland, and a doleful, great, naked, dirty
beast he looked like. Captain Church then said, That forasmuch as
he had caused many an Englishman's body to be unburied, and to
rot above ground, that not one of his bones should be buried. And
calling his old Indian executioner, bid him behead and quarter him;
accordingly he came with his hatchet and stood over him, but before
he struck he made a small speech, directing it to Philip; and then
went to work, and did as he was ordered. Philip having one
very remarkable hand, being much scarred, occasioned by the
splitting of a pistol in it formerly; Captain Church gave the head
and that hand to Alderman, the Indian who shot him, to shew such
Gentlemen as would bestow gratuities upon him; and accordingly he
got many a penny by it. This was in the latter end of August,
1676.”—
Church's History, pp. 70, 71, 72, 73.
The death of Philip draws from Captain Church no other comment,
than that his company got but four shillings and six pence a
piece for their trouble. They shot but few Indians, and Philip's
head went with the rest, at thirty shillings each.
There is a comical history, of the Discovery of America, and
the Wars with the Indians, written by one H. Trumbull, which
seems to have gone through several editions. He states that Philip
was lying in a swamp, near Mount Hope, with ninety Seaconet Indians,
and was shot, by a Mohegan, on the twenty-seventh of October,
1679. Also, that Oneco, son of Uncas, broiled and ate a pound
of Philip's flesh. Now the Seaconets were with Captain Church;
Philip was shot by a Pocasset Indian; and that event took place on
the twelfth of August, 1676. All the authorities agree in this point;
and the story of Oneco and the pound of flesh, is an embellishment
drawn entirely from the sanguinary imagination of this blundering
chronicler. The rest of his history, at least as far as I am acquainted
with the facts it professes to record, is equally, and as surprisingly,
inaccurate.
Still as she gazed with anxious eye,The account of the ambushment and death of Philip, is taken from Captain Church.
“By that time they were got over the ferry, and came near the ground, half the night was spent. The Captain commands a halt, and bringing the company together, he asked Major Sandford's and Captain Golding's advice, what method was best to take in making the onset, but they declined giving him any advice, telling him, That his great experience and success forbid their taking upon them to give advice. Then Captain Church offered Captain Golding that he should have the honour (if he would please to accept of it) to beat up Philip's head quarters. He accepted the offer, and had his allotted number drawn out to him, and the pilot. Captain Church's instructions to him were to be very careful in his approach to the enemy, and be sure not to shew himself until by day light they might see and discern their own men from the enemy; told him also, that his custom in the like cases was, to creep, with his company, on their bellies, until they came as near as they could; and that as soon as the enemy discovered them they would cry out; and that was the word for his men to fire and fall on. Directed him, when the enemy should start, and take into the swamp, they should pursue with speed, every man shouting and making what noise they could; for he would give orders to his ambuscade to fire on any that should come silently.
“Captain Church knowing that it was Philip's custom to be foremost in the flight, went down to the swamp, and gave Capt. Williams of Scituate the command of the right wing of the ambush, and placed an Englishman and an Indian together behind such shelters of trees, &c. that he could find, and took care to place them at such distance that none might pass undiscovered between them; charged them to be careful of themselves, and of hurting their friends, and to fire at any that should come silently thro' the swamp; but being somewhat further thro' the swamp than he was aware of, he wanted men to make up his ambuscade. Having placed what men he had, he took Major Sandford by the hand, said Sir, I have so placed them that it is scarce possible Philip should escape them. The same moment a shot whistled over their heads, and then the noise of a gun towards Philip's camp. Captain Church thought at first it might be some gun fired by accident; but before he could speak, a whole volley followed, which was earlier than he expected. One of Philip's gang going forth, looked round him, and Captain Golding tho't the Indian looked right at him, (though probably it was but his conceit) so fired at him, and upon his firing, the whole company that were with him fired upon the enemies' shelter, before the Indians had time to rise from their sleep, and so overshot them. But their shelter was open on that side next the swamp, built so on purpose for the convenience of flight on occasion. They were soon in the swamp, and Philip the foremost, who starting at the first gun, threw his petunk and powder-horn over his head, catch'd up his gun, and ran as fast as he could scamper, without any more clothes than his small breeches and stockings, and ran directly on two of Capt. Church's ambush; they let him come fair within shot, and the Englishman's gun missing fire, he bid the Indian fire away, and he did so to purpose, sent one musket bullet through his heart, and another not above two inches from it; he fell upon his face in the mud and water, with his gun under him. By this time the enemy perceived they were waylaid on the east side of the swamp, tack'd about short. One of the enemy, who seemed to be a great surly old fellow, halloo'd with a loud voice, and often called out, Iootash, Iootash. Captain Church called to his Indian Peter, and asked him, who that was that call'd so? He answered, It was old Annawon, Philip's great Captain, calling on his soldiers to stand to it, and fight stoutly. Now the enemy finding that place of the swamp which was not ambush'd, many of them made their escape in the English tracks. The man that had shot down Philip, ran with all speed to Capt. Church, and inform'd him of his exploit, who commanded him to be silent about it, and let no man more know it, until they had drove the swamp clean; but when they had drove the swamp thro', and found the enemy had escaped, or at least the most of them, and the sun now up, and so the dew gone, that they could not easily track them, the whole company met together at the place where the enemies' night shelter was; and then Captain Church gave them the news of Philip's death; upon which the whole army gave three loud huzzas. Captain Church ordered his body to be pulled out of the mire on to the upland, so some of Captain Church's Indians took hold of him by his stockings, and some by his small breeches, (being otherwise naked) and drew him thro' the mud to the upland, and a doleful, great, naked, dirty beast he looked like. Captain Church then said, That forasmuch as he had caused many an Englishman's body to be unburied, and to rot above ground, that not one of his bones should be buried. And calling his old Indian executioner, bid him behead and quarter him; accordingly he came with his hatchet and stood over him, but before he struck he made a small speech, directing it to Philip; and then went to work, and did as he was ordered. Philip having one very remarkable hand, being much scarred, occasioned by the splitting of a pistol in it formerly; Captain Church gave the head and that hand to Alderman, the Indian who shot him, to shew such Gentlemen as would bestow gratuities upon him; and accordingly he got many a penny by it. This was in the latter end of August, 1676.”—
Church's History, pp. 70, 71, 72, 73.The death of Philip draws from Captain Church no other comment, than that his company got but four shillings and six pence a piece for their trouble. They shot but few Indians, and Philip's head went with the rest, at thirty shillings each.
There is a comical history, of the Discovery of America, and the Wars with the Indians, written by one H. Trumbull, which seems to have gone through several editions. He states that Philip was lying in a swamp, near Mount Hope, with ninety Seaconet Indians, and was shot, by a Mohegan, on the twenty-seventh of October, 1679. Also, that Oneco, son of Uncas, broiled and ate a pound of Philip's flesh. Now the Seaconets were with Captain Church; Philip was shot by a Pocasset Indian; and that event took place on the twelfth of August, 1676. All the authorities agree in this point; and the story of Oneco and the pound of flesh, is an embellishment drawn entirely from the sanguinary imagination of this blundering chronicler. The rest of his history, at least as far as I am acquainted with the facts it professes to record, is equally, and as surprisingly, inaccurate.
The expected battle to descry,
The breeze with murmurs low that sighed,
Came freshening from the eastern tide,
And swept the brooding mists away,
That o'er the northern prospect lay.
Rocks, woods and swamps arose to view,
Though yet o'erhung with vapoury hue;
And eastward, dimly mid the trees,
The English form and arms she sees;
Low couched beneath the forest shade
Round lay their silent ambuscade.
Prostrate the moveless band she spied;
An Indian by a whiteman's side,
Skirting the borders of the fen.
XVII.
Intently as she gazed, agen,Elsewhere, she marked where armëd men
Westward were hid, in ambush close,
From where a swelling upland rose.
That knoll a practised eye alone
The haunt of savages had known;
For the rude sconce, around it reared,
Like thicket's tangled growth appeared.
And there the remnant of that race,
So long devoted to the chase,
Lay hid; thus hemmed, all unaware
What morning greetings foes prepare;—
But, as the elks in northern wood,
Girt by the hunter's circle fly,
And headlong plunging in the flood
New dangers meet, and with their blood
Staining the guarded waters, die;
Rush from their leaguered palisade,
The swamp's recesses dark to try,—
There, too, relentless foemen lie.
XVIII.
As Nora marked them, from the knoll,With wary steps an Indian stole;
And seemed it, that the thicket's screen
Kept from his glance the foe unseen.
For forth he gazed; and though in sad
And dusky livery morn was clad,
Nature's free kingdom seemed to yield
A transport through his heart that thrilled.
He leapt for joyance; when a flame
Bright from the ambushed thicket came;
The death-ball whizzed, with angry knell,
And from the rampart wild he fell.
XIX.
Then, as that signal's echoes rung,Far flashed the fire, the woods among.
Innocuous o'er the foe it went.
But the dun smoke that upward flew,
The fortress veiled from Nora's view,
Till, as the breezes slowly bear
Its volumes through the drizzly air,
She marked the assaulted Indians glide
Forth from their bulwark's eastward side,—
Unclosed, that timely they might gain
The marsh;—disordered ran the train;
The dark morass they hurried through,
Ever low-bending, as they flew,
Where sinking soil, and bush and tree,
Might best their screen and shelter be.
And issuing from the forest's verge,
Swift on their track the foemen urge;
As beagles to the death-scent true,
They rushed, and as remorseless too;—
The English, for their brethren's blood,—
Mohegans, for their ancient feud,—
Seaconets, too, by treachery base,
Who hoped to win the conqueror's grace;—
When ruin followed if it throve!
XX.
Then rose from that wild swamp the shoutThat followed on the Indians' rout;
And their mad yell of fear and wrath,
As the shot whistled o'er their path;
And flame and smoke, far scattering, met
The lady's glance, who lingered yet
Above;—but then a film came o'er
Her sight, and she beheld no more.
A husband's death-cry in her ear
Came sadly, wildly ringing near;
And from the mountain steep she sped,
Unknowing where her pathway led.
XXI.
With that abrupt and steep descent,Her senses reeled, her breath was spent;
But she was borne, in her giddy way,
To where the eastern ambush lay.
Fixed was their gaze, intent their aim,
Where, lost in their uncertain dread,
A band confused of Indians fled,
Toward the forest bound;
Quick paused they in their progress rash,
The thicket kindled with the flash,
And rung the musket sound.
Staggered, dismayed, the wildered band;
Some idly drew, with trembling hand,
Their moose-strings wet; the forest through
The arrowy shower in mockery flew;
A few their deadlier arms employ,
But now as powerless to destroy;
Then scattering, as the allied force
Uprose and urged upon their course,
Swift o'er the fen they fly;
Yet Nora heard, above the rout,
The volleying shot and scream and shout,
Old Annawan's war-cry.
He strove, with cheer, reproach and threat,
His naked band to rally yet,
But vain, stout heart! thy gallant rage,
That well, on this sad field, became
The trophies of thine ancient fame!
XXII.
Thus from the covert where she stood,Vanished the motley multitude;
One only here erect remained,
And moveless; one alone disdained
To gnaw the toils his hunters spread,
But reared at bay his monarch head.
A white man and an Indian near,
Fronted and staid his bold career;
And scarce their muskets' length apart,
Stood, levelling at the warrior's heart.
Thus stopt he, barred in his advance;
Firm on the twain he fixed his eye,
Fierce as the pouncing falcon's glance;
His battle-axe he brandished high;
Else all unarmed. An instant there
Paused in their purposed work the pair;
And terrible, he seemed to wait,
Himself to death to dedicate!
Trembling, the white man first gave fire,
But saw in faithless flash expire
The engine's fatal store;
“Thine is the chance the prize to gain,”—
He said, but spoke no more,
Ere, hurled with dexterous hand amain,
Sunk the fell tomahawk in his brain,
And down, a ghastly corse, he fell!
Then strait a loud and joyous yell
His Indian comrade gave:
“A ghost had been incensed,” he cried,
“If thou by other arm had'st died!
This, from his gory grave,
Sends Agamoun!” he said, and true,
On their swift wings, the death balls flew.
A moment yet the Sachem stood,
His right hand planted on his breast,
Where inward gushed the vital blood
And his attempted words supprest.
Speaking its stern and sad rebuke;
Then in the moor's dank, miry bed,
Deep fell the indignant chieftain, dead!
XXIII.
This in a moment's space was past;But as around the wanderer cast
Her gaze, a vision came,
That drew, despite of toil and fear,
Even to the verge of battle near
Her now exhausted frame.
Amid a roving band, alone,
Her father in the fen was thrown,
Now feeble waxed with age and toil;
And scarce upon the slippery soil
He kept his footing; while he held,
With strength surpassing that of eld,
The ruffian host at bay;
A well-known voice salutes her ear,
Even in that hurried scene most dear;
That haggard, fierce and desperate throng,
Round, howling for their prey;
And, o'er her father's white hairs swung,
As high a murderous axe was hung,
She saw Yamoyden stay
The lifted arm; alas! too late
To break the blow, impelled by fate!
Averted from the old man's head,
On his own faithful breast it fell!
A rescue comes,—the Indians fled,—
Far off the sounds of conflict swell;—
But never more, on battle field,
That valiant arm shall weapon wield;
Nor, mid the combat's voices blending,
His cheering cry be heard ascending!
XXIV.
Dying he lay; and o'er him bentFitzgerald, now with kind intent.
As ebbed the living current fleet,
He whispered soothing comfort sweet,
Such chrism to the departing soul,
As amber gum to feverish vein;
The balm of the Sweet Gum Tree, or Liquid Amber, is reckoned by the Indians to be an excellent febrifuge.—
Carver, 335.It will be seen from the extract from Church, in what respect we have deviated from history. It is unnecessary to add any thing more to these notes; except that Philip's quarters were hung up, “and his head (in the words of Mather) carried in Triumph to Plymouth, where it arrived on the very day that the Church there was keeping a solemn Thanksgiving to God. God sent 'em in the Head of a Leviathan for a Thanksgiving Feast.
ουτως πας απολοιτο, οτις τοιαυταγε ρεξοι.Sic pereat quisquis captàrit talia posthac!”
Deep in the mental wound it stole,
Forgotten then his mortal pain.
What form comes floating on his glance,
Brightest in that celestial trance?
“Fair image of my blessëd wife!
Comest thou too, from the load of life
To loose the spirit's struggling wing,
And bid it upward, upward spring?
Wilt thou not join me in that clime,
On whose far shore the waves of time
Fall with faint murmur as they flow?—
Our child—farewell!”—“Yamoyden, no!
Alone thy spirit will not go.
We have not loved as those that woo,
Amid the spring-tide's laughing flowers,
And in green summer only true,
Part ere dark winter's chilling hours.
Hearts, long in grief and danger tried,
Relenting death will ne'er divide!”
XXV.
Thus faintly murmuring, by his sideExhausted sunk his faithful bride.
She strove, with her long locks unbound,
To stanch the grim and ghastly wound;
Her husband's arms, with dying grasp,
Her lovely, wasted form enclasp;
Her constant bosom to his breast
Closer and closer still he prest;
Her gaze met his, where every ray
Of earthly passion past away;
The glance of love, that conquers time,
Was blent with confidence sublime;
As if on their departing view,
With heaven, that love was opening too!
Fitzgerald, bending o'er them, brushed
Aside the tears that freely gushed.
“Farewell, misguided one!” he said,—
“Dim light along thy path was shed;
There may be mercy, even for thee!
Thy child is safe; may heaven to me
Be kind as I to him shall be!
Thy wounded conscience healed;
With unction of the Paraclete,
Thy soul's salvation sealed;
And may thy parted spirit meet
Thy Saviour's form revealed.
XXVI.
The old man's glance was heavenward cast,As breathed that wish, the best, the last,
And strong and fervent was his prayer,
Communing with his Father there.
He viewed them as they lay reclined,
Their lips conjoint, their forms entwined.
They moved not, heaved not, breathed not, yet
It seemed the lovers' glances met.
He knelt, he strove his child to raise,
But vain the task the sire essays;
He felt no struggle; caught no sound;
But to each other they were bound,
So close, that vain were all endeavour,
With aught that sacred clasp to sever,
The father gazed in anguish wild,—
He prest the bosom of his child,—
There beat no pulse of life!
| Yamoyden, a tale of the wars of King Philip : in six cantos | |