 | THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. Legends of New-England |  |
THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
[The Indians supposed the White Mountains to be the residence of certain
powerful Spirits, and consequently never ventured to ascend them. This
curious tradition is preserved in Josselyn's Rareties of New-England. The
following is supposed to be the address of an Indian of the present day to
the mountain which his fathers reverenced.]
Grey searcher of the upper air!
There's sunshine on thy ancient walls—
A crown upon thy forehead bare—
A flashing on thy water-falls!—
A rainbow glory in the cloud,
Upon thine awful summit bowed,
Dim relic of the recent storm!—
And music, from the leafy shroud
Which wraps in green thy giant form,
Mellowed and softened from above,
Steals down upon the listening ear,
Sweet as the maiden's dream of love,
With soft tones melting on her ear.
The time has been, grey mountain, when
Thy shadows veiled the red-man's home;
And over crag and serpent-den,
And wild gorge, where the steps of men
There's sunshine on thy ancient walls—
A crown upon thy forehead bare—
A flashing on thy water-falls!—
A rainbow glory in the cloud,
Upon thine awful summit bowed,
Dim relic of the recent storm!—
And music, from the leafy shroud
Which wraps in green thy giant form,
Mellowed and softened from above,
Steals down upon the listening ear,
Sweet as the maiden's dream of love,
With soft tones melting on her ear.
The time has been, grey mountain, when
Thy shadows veiled the red-man's home;
And over crag and serpent-den,
And wild gorge, where the steps of men
113
In chase or battle might not come,
The mountain-eagle bore on high
The emblem of the free of soul;
And midway in the fearful sky
Sent back the Indian's battle-cry,
Or answered to the thunder's roll.
The wigwam fires have all burned out—
The moccasin hath left no track—
Nor wolf nor wild-deer roam about
The Saco or the Merrimack;
And thou that liftest up on high
Thine awful barriers to the sky,
Art not the haunted mount of old,
When on each crag of blasted stone
Some mountain-spirit found a throne,
And shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold—
And answered to the Thunderer's cry
When rolled the car of tempest by;
And jutting rock and riven branch
Went down before the avalanche.
The Father of our people then,
Upon thine awful summit trod,
And the red dwellers of the glen
Bowed down before the Indian's God.
The mountain-eagle bore on high
The emblem of the free of soul;
And midway in the fearful sky
Sent back the Indian's battle-cry,
Or answered to the thunder's roll.
The wigwam fires have all burned out—
The moccasin hath left no track—
Nor wolf nor wild-deer roam about
The Saco or the Merrimack;
And thou that liftest up on high
Thine awful barriers to the sky,
Art not the haunted mount of old,
When on each crag of blasted stone
Some mountain-spirit found a throne,
And shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold—
And answered to the Thunderer's cry
When rolled the car of tempest by;
And jutting rock and riven branch
Went down before the avalanche.
The Father of our people then,
Upon thine awful summit trod,
And the red dwellers of the glen
Bowed down before the Indian's God.
114
There, when His shadow veiled the sky,
The Thunderer's voice was long and loud,
And the red flashes of His eye
Were pictured on the o'erhanging cloud
That Spirit moveth there no more—
The dwellers of the hills have gone—
The sacred groves are trampled o'er,
And foot-prints mar the altar-stone.
The white man climbs thy tallest rock,
And hangs him from the mossy steep,
Where, trembling to the cloud-fire's shock,
Thy ancient prison-walls unlock,
And captive waters leap to light,
And dancing down from height to height,
Pass onward to the far-off deep.
Oh sacred to the Indian seer,
Grey altar of the days of old!
Still are thy rugged features dear,
As when unto my infant ear
The legends of the past were told.
Tales of the downward sweeping flood,
When bowed like reeds thy ancient wood,—
Of armed hand and spectral form,
Of giants in their misty shroud,
The Thunderer's voice was long and loud,
And the red flashes of His eye
Were pictured on the o'erhanging cloud
That Spirit moveth there no more—
The dwellers of the hills have gone—
The sacred groves are trampled o'er,
And foot-prints mar the altar-stone.
The white man climbs thy tallest rock,
And hangs him from the mossy steep,
Where, trembling to the cloud-fire's shock,
Thy ancient prison-walls unlock,
And captive waters leap to light,
And dancing down from height to height,
Pass onward to the far-off deep.
Oh sacred to the Indian seer,
Grey altar of the days of old!
Still are thy rugged features dear,
As when unto my infant ear
The legends of the past were told.
Tales of the downward sweeping flood,
When bowed like reeds thy ancient wood,—
Of armed hand and spectral form,
Of giants in their misty shroud,
115
And voices calling long and loud,
In the drear pauses of the storm!
Farewell!—The red man's face is turned
Towards another hunting ground;
For where the council-fire has burned,
And o'er the sleeping warrior's mound
Another fire is kindled now—
Its light is on the white man's brow!
The hunter-race have passed away—
Ay, vanished like the morning mist,
Or dew-drops by the sunshine kissed,—
And wherefore should the red man stay?
In the drear pauses of the storm!
Farewell!—The red man's face is turned
Towards another hunting ground;
For where the council-fire has burned,
And o'er the sleeping warrior's mound
Another fire is kindled now—
Its light is on the white man's brow!
The hunter-race have passed away—
Ay, vanished like the morning mist,
Or dew-drops by the sunshine kissed,—
And wherefore should the red man stay?
| THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. Legends of New-England | |