 | METACOM OF MONTAUP. The book of my lady |  |
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METACOM OF MONTAUP.
Metacom of Montaup, or Philip of Mount Hope, is
associated in New England history with no small portion
of the trials and terrors to which the early colonists
in that region were subject. He had the cunning,
and we may add, the capacity of the Greek. He was
a skilful politician, a bold, adroit leader, and a fearless
man; and battled for his country with all the tenacity
of one conscious of his rights, and resolute to maintain
them. His memory has not always been spoken of
with justice; and though ruthlessly savage and deeply
treacherous, he does not seem, in a fair estimate of history,
to have been more so than his Christian invaders.
His life is one of high interest, and full of striking adventure.
His own personal escapes from his pursuers
are wonderfully numerous—and, whether we regard
him at the head of a powerful nation, ruling all around
him, or, alone and desolate, deserted by his friends,
and hunted through wild and morass by his enemy, he
is still the dauntless, the proud man who must have
won the admiration, as he certainly did the hatred, of
those who pursued him to the death. He was a true
lover of his country, and never sued for peace from
those who were destroying it. On this subject, such
was his spirit, that he killed upon the spot, and with
his own hand, one of his followers who ventured to propose
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man should perish, but he certainly must command the
sympathies of all those who admire valour and perseverance,
employed so unhesitatingly, in the cause of
one's country. “It is matter of melancholy interest,”
says Mr. Thatcher, in his clever work on Indian Biography,
“to know, that the sachem, wretched and
hopeless as he had become in his last days, was still surrounded
by a band of his faithful and affectionate followers.
At the very moment of his fatal surprise by
the English, he is said to have been telling them his
gloomy dreams, and advising them to desert him, and
provide for their own safety.” This last incident furnishes
a chief feature of the poem which follows.
'Twas in a vision of the night—
The spirit of that eye,
Which tracks the present in its flight,
And sees the future nigh,
Came o'er my own, and I beheld
The past with all its scenes of eld,
In vague confusion fly.
It was a dreary waste, and dim,
As, with ten thousand lights,
Must be the anxious gaze of him
That sees these varied sights—
That come in wild and wayward crowd,
The high, the humble, base and proud,
The all, each season blights.
Warriors of other times, and woods,
Where foaming waters play—
Wilds, where the hungry tiger broods,
Expectant, for his prey—
The spirit of that eye,
Which tracks the present in its flight,
And sees the future nigh,
Came o'er my own, and I beheld
The past with all its scenes of eld,
In vague confusion fly.
It was a dreary waste, and dim,
As, with ten thousand lights,
Must be the anxious gaze of him
That sees these varied sights—
That come in wild and wayward crowd,
The high, the humble, base and proud,
The all, each season blights.
Warriors of other times, and woods,
Where foaming waters play—
Wilds, where the hungry tiger broods,
Expectant, for his prey—
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All changing, in that fitful dream,
To each far land and dark extreme,—
And all before me lay.
And in the crowd beneath my gaze
My native land I see,
As now and then, some gleam betrays,
The shadows distantly—
But what are these with swarthy brow,
And scowling eye, that round them now,
Look wild and anxiously?
And one is there with musing eye,
The chieftain ye may sean—
Whose cheek is stained with purple dye,
A proud and lonely man!
He stood above the ruin'd stone,
That mark'd an ancient warrior gone,
Ere yet his line began.
His chieftains—are they all around?—
The few, the brave are there—
More lofty in that narrow bound,
More fearless from despair.
They gather round the sterile rock,
All ready for the coming shock,
None touched with coward fear.
A smile is on the monarch's cheek,
But there is sadness too,
As midst that band his eye would seek,
The lost among the few.
Ah! fallen upon the evil days,
His favourite meets no more his gaze:—
He turns him from the view.
He look'd upon the dashing wave,
And bade his warriors nigh;—
To each far land and dark extreme,—
And all before me lay.
And in the crowd beneath my gaze
My native land I see,
As now and then, some gleam betrays,
The shadows distantly—
But what are these with swarthy brow,
And scowling eye, that round them now,
Look wild and anxiously?
And one is there with musing eye,
The chieftain ye may sean—
Whose cheek is stained with purple dye,
A proud and lonely man!
He stood above the ruin'd stone,
That mark'd an ancient warrior gone,
Ere yet his line began.
His chieftains—are they all around?—
The few, the brave are there—
More lofty in that narrow bound,
More fearless from despair.
They gather round the sterile rock,
All ready for the coming shock,
None touched with coward fear.
A smile is on the monarch's cheek,
But there is sadness too,
As midst that band his eye would seek,
The lost among the few.
Ah! fallen upon the evil days,
His favourite meets no more his gaze:—
He turns him from the view.
He look'd upon the dashing wave,
And bade his warriors nigh;—
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In a stern voice the monarch gave
His latest battle cry—
Then laid him on the rocky height,
Whilst slumber came to sense and sight—
A nation watching by.
He starts, and o'er the mountain's brow
He leaps in wild dismay—
He calls upon his warriors now—
The war-cry and away.
“The whiteman—foe!”—'t was all he said,
And shook his weapon o'er his head,
And gather'd to the fray.
They start—the gallant few in might,
But not a foe is there—
They bend the sense, they stretch the sight—
No foeman see or hear.
“They come,” he cried, “and still I see,
They 've track'd the panther to his tree,
The lion to his lair.
“Rock of my sires!”—'t was thus he spoke,—
“This is my latest field,
Upon thy brow the spear is broke,
The forest king must yield—
Yield!—never! let the foeman's feet
Still with mine own for combat meet,
And I no weapon wield:
“Even then, my soul shall joy to trace
The features of the foe—
And grappling in the death embrace,
My arms shall lay him low:—
'T were sweet, though losing all, to tear
The reeking scalp, the dripping hair,
And drink his life-blood's flow.
His latest battle cry—
Then laid him on the rocky height,
Whilst slumber came to sense and sight—
A nation watching by.
He starts, and o'er the mountain's brow
He leaps in wild dismay—
He calls upon his warriors now—
The war-cry and away.
“The whiteman—foe!”—'t was all he said,
And shook his weapon o'er his head,
And gather'd to the fray.
They start—the gallant few in might,
But not a foe is there—
They bend the sense, they stretch the sight—
No foeman see or hear.
“They come,” he cried, “and still I see,
They 've track'd the panther to his tree,
The lion to his lair.
“Rock of my sires!”—'t was thus he spoke,—
“This is my latest field,
Upon thy brow the spear is broke,
The forest king must yield—
Yield!—never! let the foeman's feet
Still with mine own for combat meet,
And I no weapon wield:
“Even then, my soul shall joy to trace
The features of the foe—
And grappling in the death embrace,
My arms shall lay him low:—
'T were sweet, though losing all, to tear
The reeking scalp, the dripping hair,
And drink his life-blood's flow.
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“Eagle that seeks the highest course,
And dares the darkest sky,
That scream'd in joy when winds were hoarse,
And lightnings flaming nigh—
They may not tame thy wing, and mine
Has been as soaring high as thine—
I shall not fear to die.”
So spake the monarch—and his brow
Grew darker in its hue—
His eye assumed the vengeful glow,
And look'd the eagle's too—
Then sung he, in a solemn strain,
The deeds he 'd done, and those again,
His soul had sworn to do!
“I lay on the breast of the mountain,
Where the raven was flapping his wing,
Whilst he drew from my heart, like a fountain,
Its warmest, its ruddiest spring.
The winds through the forest were sighing,
From the grave of my father they came—
I saw the old warrior—around him were lying
The symbols of fight, for the many were dying,
'Midst havoc, confusion, and flame.
“He stood, but his hatchet was shivered,
The arrowhead stuck in his breast,
And the lips of the warrior quivered,
As his eye upward looked to the west—
But no fear on his spirit depress'd him,
In the moment of glory he fell—
And the prayer of the prophet had bless'd him,
Ere he bade his own forest farewell.
“O'eraw'd by his presence, I dared not
Look up at the form of my sire,—
And dares the darkest sky,
That scream'd in joy when winds were hoarse,
And lightnings flaming nigh—
They may not tame thy wing, and mine
Has been as soaring high as thine—
I shall not fear to die.”
So spake the monarch—and his brow
Grew darker in its hue—
His eye assumed the vengeful glow,
And look'd the eagle's too—
Then sung he, in a solemn strain,
The deeds he 'd done, and those again,
His soul had sworn to do!
“I lay on the breast of the mountain,
Where the raven was flapping his wing,
Whilst he drew from my heart, like a fountain,
Its warmest, its ruddiest spring.
The winds through the forest were sighing,
From the grave of my father they came—
I saw the old warrior—around him were lying
The symbols of fight, for the many were dying,
'Midst havoc, confusion, and flame.
“He stood, but his hatchet was shivered,
The arrowhead stuck in his breast,
And the lips of the warrior quivered,
As his eye upward looked to the west—
But no fear on his spirit depress'd him,
In the moment of glory he fell—
And the prayer of the prophet had bless'd him,
Ere he bade his own forest farewell.
“O'eraw'd by his presence, I dared not
Look up at the form of my sire,—
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I trembled, although my son fear'd not,
The glance of his dark rolling ire.
No! the eagle that soars unsurrounded,
Unless by his own native pride—
Has felt not the Nipnet whose arrow has wounded,
And free as the flood from the foeman has bounded,
When the Mohegan stood at his side.
“`And where is thy bow and thy quiver?'
At length the old crocodile spoke—
`Thy heart's blood shall crimson yon river,
And thy people shall bend to the yoke.
Already thy foe is advancing,
Look up from thy slumbers, and see,
Their blades thro' the forest leaves glancing,
Their lances all buried in thee.'
“He turn'd as he spoke.—I beheld him,
Look dark on the shades of the west,
And a new life now strongly impelled him,
Having speech in each throe of his breast.
A light from his dark eye was beaming,
I follow'd his gaze in its flight—
And saw through the woods faintly gleaming
The blade of the foe, and his long plume streaming,
Beneath the pale moon's misty light.
“`Now the foeman is on thee—go slumber
'Till thou wakest behind the dark hills,—
Thy blood shall his falchion encumber—
No longer thy bosom it fills.
Then arise from thy sleep and awaken
The last parting hope of thy band—
By them thou wert never forsaken,
Then strike for them now and thy land!'
The glance of his dark rolling ire.
No! the eagle that soars unsurrounded,
Unless by his own native pride—
Has felt not the Nipnet whose arrow has wounded,
And free as the flood from the foeman has bounded,
When the Mohegan stood at his side.
“`And where is thy bow and thy quiver?'
At length the old crocodile spoke—
`Thy heart's blood shall crimson yon river,
And thy people shall bend to the yoke.
Already thy foe is advancing,
Look up from thy slumbers, and see,
Their blades thro' the forest leaves glancing,
Their lances all buried in thee.'
“He turn'd as he spoke.—I beheld him,
Look dark on the shades of the west,
And a new life now strongly impelled him,
Having speech in each throe of his breast.
A light from his dark eye was beaming,
I follow'd his gaze in its flight—
And saw through the woods faintly gleaming
The blade of the foe, and his long plume streaming,
Beneath the pale moon's misty light.
“`Now the foeman is on thee—go slumber
'Till thou wakest behind the dark hills,—
Thy blood shall his falchion encumber—
No longer thy bosom it fills.
Then arise from thy sleep and awaken
The last parting hope of thy band—
By them thou wert never forsaken,
Then strike for them now and thy land!'
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“He vanished—I rose—a cold tremor
Relax'd every nerve of my frame.
I hear him once more—`Thou fond dreamer,
Remember thy nation and name!'
Be at peace, thou old bird, in thy tree,—
Enough, that I stand by the side
Of the last of the brave, who are free,
And will die as their fathers have died.
“I have call'd up the right arm of power,
I have call'd up the lessons of old—
And no breast in the perilous hour,
That thinks on the past, will be cold.
Through the mists of the valley appearing,
The foeman's bright weapons have shone—
I meet them with bosom unfearing,
I meet them with soul full of daring,
Let them come, though I meet them alone.
“The eagle has never yet cower'd,
The Mohegan's arrow ne'er flew
To the rock, where his mighty wing tower'd
'Midst the freshness of heaven's own dew.
He has glow'd in the sun's brightest splendour,
New vigour it gave to his frame—
To me, in my youth, did they render,
His mood, and his might, and his name!
“I shrunk not, though worn and surrounded—
My tomahawk madden'd with blood.
I clung to the foe I had wounded,
And lapped, from his breast, the red flood.
And who, in the battle's commotion,
E'er saw me withdraw from the fight—
I stood, when it boiled like the ocean,
And swam in its streams with delight.
Relax'd every nerve of my frame.
I hear him once more—`Thou fond dreamer,
Remember thy nation and name!'
Be at peace, thou old bird, in thy tree,—
Enough, that I stand by the side
Of the last of the brave, who are free,
And will die as their fathers have died.
“I have call'd up the right arm of power,
I have call'd up the lessons of old—
And no breast in the perilous hour,
That thinks on the past, will be cold.
Through the mists of the valley appearing,
The foeman's bright weapons have shone—
I meet them with bosom unfearing,
I meet them with soul full of daring,
Let them come, though I meet them alone.
“The eagle has never yet cower'd,
The Mohegan's arrow ne'er flew
To the rock, where his mighty wing tower'd
'Midst the freshness of heaven's own dew.
He has glow'd in the sun's brightest splendour,
New vigour it gave to his frame—
To me, in my youth, did they render,
His mood, and his might, and his name!
“I shrunk not, though worn and surrounded—
My tomahawk madden'd with blood.
I clung to the foe I had wounded,
And lapped, from his breast, the red flood.
And who, in the battle's commotion,
E'er saw me withdraw from the fight—
I stood, when it boiled like the ocean,
And swam in its streams with delight.
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“Let them come then—the freedom our fathers,
Once gave us, if lost it must be,
I care not how soon death's hand gathers,
The fast falling leaves of our tree!
But 'twere shame to the souls of the glorious,
Who have gone to the valley of maids,
That their children should come not victorious,
And followed by enemy's shades.
“Then draw ye each bow and prepare now,
To battle the foes of your land;
Let one warrior but tremble with fear now,
And he dies by his own monarch's hand.
The shades of old warriors surround us,
Ye victims of battle draw nigh,
Let Manitto bless or confound us,
Be it ours to conquer or die!”
He paused—his warriors gathered round,
Nor made they vain reply,
True valour never yet has found
It difficult to die.
And in the monarch's song they knew,
The fate was fixed, and he who flew,
Again would never fly.
A smile is gathering on his brow,
As o'er the distant hills,
The dawn with streaks of dusky glow
The dim horizon fills—
The sun will rise no more to him,
Nor will he live to find it dim,
Behind the western hills.
But though surviving not to see,
Its red light streak the verge
Once gave us, if lost it must be,
I care not how soon death's hand gathers,
The fast falling leaves of our tree!
But 'twere shame to the souls of the glorious,
Who have gone to the valley of maids,
That their children should come not victorious,
And followed by enemy's shades.
“Then draw ye each bow and prepare now,
To battle the foes of your land;
Let one warrior but tremble with fear now,
And he dies by his own monarch's hand.
The shades of old warriors surround us,
Ye victims of battle draw nigh,
Let Manitto bless or confound us,
Be it ours to conquer or die!”
He paused—his warriors gathered round,
Nor made they vain reply,
True valour never yet has found
It difficult to die.
And in the monarch's song they knew,
The fate was fixed, and he who flew,
Again would never fly.
A smile is gathering on his brow,
As o'er the distant hills,
The dawn with streaks of dusky glow
The dim horizon fills—
The sun will rise no more to him,
Nor will he live to find it dim,
Behind the western hills.
But though surviving not to see,
Its red light streak the verge
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Of that wild land, which once was free,
As ocean's leaping surge—
Will he not, too, escape the chain,
His people's moan, the gloomy strain,
His country's doom and dirge!
And now his band is compass'd round,
Prophetic was his dream,
And death, on easy terms, is found,
Before the sun's full gleam—
Ere yet the day had fully broke,
Fate o'er the chief had cast her yoke,
And borne him down her stream.
The monarch waved his battle axe,
And rose the war-whoop's cry
From men that never turned their backs,
And battled but to die.
And now he combats hand to hand,
With one—whose blood is on the sand.
Another came—like cataracts,
Headlong they dash upon the strand.
His gripe is on the Indian's throat,
Whose eye-balls roll and quiver:—
Those are the monarch's plumes that float,
All bloody down the river;
Yet once again his war-cry rose
Upon the wind—and all is still:
There 's blood upon the stream that flows,
And blood upon the hill—
Their monarch bade them never yield—
And not an Indian left the field.
As ocean's leaping surge—
Will he not, too, escape the chain,
His people's moan, the gloomy strain,
His country's doom and dirge!
And now his band is compass'd round,
Prophetic was his dream,
And death, on easy terms, is found,
Before the sun's full gleam—
Ere yet the day had fully broke,
Fate o'er the chief had cast her yoke,
And borne him down her stream.
The monarch waved his battle axe,
And rose the war-whoop's cry
From men that never turned their backs,
And battled but to die.
And now he combats hand to hand,
With one—whose blood is on the sand.
Another came—like cataracts,
Headlong they dash upon the strand.
His gripe is on the Indian's throat,
Whose eye-balls roll and quiver:—
Those are the monarch's plumes that float,
All bloody down the river;
Yet once again his war-cry rose
Upon the wind—and all is still:
There 's blood upon the stream that flows,
And blood upon the hill—
Their monarch bade them never yield—
And not an Indian left the field.
| METACOM OF MONTAUP. The book of my lady | |