 | THE LAST NORRIDGEWOCK. Legends of New-England |  |
THE LAST NORRIDGEWOCK.
The Norridgewocks—a bold and vigorous race of the New-England Red-men,
perished in their struggle with the English. Taconet, the last Sachem
fell in battle, soon after the death of Ralle, the French Jesuit, whose adventures
in the New World are full of romance. It is said that the last survivor
of the tribe was a female descendant of this Chief.
She stood beneath the shadow of an oak,
Grim with uncounted winters, and whose boughs
Had sheltered in their youth the giant forms
Of the great Chieftain's warriors. She was fair,
Even to a white man's vision—and she wore
A blended grace and dignity of mein
Which might befit the daughter of a King—
The queenliness of nature. She had all
The magic of proportion which might haunt
The dream of some rare painter, or steal in
Upon the musings of the statuary,
Like an unreal vision. She was dark,—
There was no play of crimson on her cheek,
Yet were her features beautiful. Her eye
Was clear and wild—and brilliant as a beam
Of the live sunshine; and her long, dark hair
Sway'd in rich masses to th' unquiet wind.
Grim with uncounted winters, and whose boughs
Had sheltered in their youth the giant forms
Of the great Chieftain's warriors. She was fair,
Even to a white man's vision—and she wore
A blended grace and dignity of mein
Which might befit the daughter of a King—
The queenliness of nature. She had all
The magic of proportion which might haunt
The dream of some rare painter, or steal in
Upon the musings of the statuary,
Like an unreal vision. She was dark,—
There was no play of crimson on her cheek,
Yet were her features beautiful. Her eye
Was clear and wild—and brilliant as a beam
Of the live sunshine; and her long, dark hair
Sway'd in rich masses to th' unquiet wind.
138
The West was glad with sunset.—Over all
The green hills and the wilderness there fell
A great and sudden glory. Half the sky
Was full of glorious tints, as if the home
And fountain of the rainbow were revealed;
And through its depth of beauty looked the star
Of the blest Evening, like an Angel's eye.
The Indian watched the sunset—and her eye
Glistened one moment—then a tear fell down—
For she was dreaming of her fallen race—
The mighty who had perished—for her creed
Had taught her that the spirits of the brave
And beautiful were gathered in the West—
The Red man's Paradise;—and then she sang
Faintly her song of sorrow, with a low
And half-hushed tone, as if she knew that those
Who listened were unearthly auditors,
And that the dead had bowed themselves to hear.
“The moons of Autumn wax and wane—the sound of swelling floods
Is borne upon the mournful wind; and broadly on the woods
The colours of the changing leaves—the fair, frail flowers of frost,
The green hills and the wilderness there fell
A great and sudden glory. Half the sky
Was full of glorious tints, as if the home
And fountain of the rainbow were revealed;
And through its depth of beauty looked the star
Of the blest Evening, like an Angel's eye.
The Indian watched the sunset—and her eye
Glistened one moment—then a tear fell down—
For she was dreaming of her fallen race—
The mighty who had perished—for her creed
Had taught her that the spirits of the brave
And beautiful were gathered in the West—
The Red man's Paradise;—and then she sang
Faintly her song of sorrow, with a low
And half-hushed tone, as if she knew that those
Who listened were unearthly auditors,
And that the dead had bowed themselves to hear.
“The moons of Autumn wax and wane—the sound of swelling floods
Is borne upon the mournful wind; and broadly on the woods
The colours of the changing leaves—the fair, frail flowers of frost,
139
Before the round and yellow sun most beautiful are
tossed.
The morning breaketh with a clear, bright pencilling of sky,
And blushes through its golden clouds, as the great Sun goes by;
And Evening lingers in the West—more beautiful than dreams
Which whisper of the Spirit-land, its wilderness and streams!
A little time—another moon—the forest will be sad—
The streams will mourn the pleasant light which made their journey glad;
The morn will faintly lighten up—the sunlight glisten cold,
And wane into the western sky without its Autumn gold.
And yet I weep not for the sign of desolation near—
The ruin of my hunter-race may only ask a tear,—
The wailing streams will laugh again—the naked trees put on
The beauty of their summer green beneath the summer sun—
The Autumn-cloud will yet again its crimson draperies fold—
The morning breaketh with a clear, bright pencilling of sky,
And blushes through its golden clouds, as the great Sun goes by;
And Evening lingers in the West—more beautiful than dreams
Which whisper of the Spirit-land, its wilderness and streams!
A little time—another moon—the forest will be sad—
The streams will mourn the pleasant light which made their journey glad;
The morn will faintly lighten up—the sunlight glisten cold,
And wane into the western sky without its Autumn gold.
And yet I weep not for the sign of desolation near—
The ruin of my hunter-race may only ask a tear,—
The wailing streams will laugh again—the naked trees put on
The beauty of their summer green beneath the summer sun—
The Autumn-cloud will yet again its crimson draperies fold—
140
The star of sunset smile again—a diamond set in
gold!
But never, for their forest-lake—or for their mountain-path,
The mighty of our race shall leave the hunting-ground of Death.
I know the tale my fathers told—the legend of their fame—
The glory of our spotless race before the pale ones came—
When, asking fellowship of none—by turns the foe of all—
The death-bolts of our vengeance fell, as Heaven's own lightnings fall;
When, at the call of Taconet, my warrior-sire of old,
The war-shout of a thousand men upon the midnight rolled;
And fearless and companionless our warriors strode alone,
And from the big lake to the sea the green earth was their own.
Where are they now? Around their changed and stranger-peopled home,
Full sadly o'er their thousand graves the flowers of Autumn bloom—
But never, for their forest-lake—or for their mountain-path,
The mighty of our race shall leave the hunting-ground of Death.
I know the tale my fathers told—the legend of their fame—
The glory of our spotless race before the pale ones came—
When, asking fellowship of none—by turns the foe of all—
The death-bolts of our vengeance fell, as Heaven's own lightnings fall;
When, at the call of Taconet, my warrior-sire of old,
The war-shout of a thousand men upon the midnight rolled;
And fearless and companionless our warriors strode alone,
And from the big lake to the sea the green earth was their own.
Where are they now? Around their changed and stranger-peopled home,
Full sadly o'er their thousand graves the flowers of Autumn bloom—
141
The bow of strength is buried with the calamut and
spear,
And the spent arrow slumbereth, forgetful of the deer!
The last canoe is rotting by the lake it glided o'er,
When dark-eyed maidens sweetly sang its welcome from the shore.
The foot-prints of the hunter-race from all the hills have gone—
Their offerings to the Spirit-land have left the altar-stone—
The ashes of the council-fire have no abiding token—
The song of war has died away—the Powwah's charm is broken—
The startling war-whoop cometh not upon the loud, clear air,—
The ancient woods are vanishing—the pale men gather there.
And who is left to mourn for this?—a solitary one,
Whose life is waning into death like yonder setting sun!—
A broken reed—a faded flower, that lingereth behind,
To mourn above its fallen race, and wrestle with the wind!
Lo—from the Spirit-land I hear the voices of the blest;
The holy faces of the loved are leaning from the West.
And the spent arrow slumbereth, forgetful of the deer!
The last canoe is rotting by the lake it glided o'er,
When dark-eyed maidens sweetly sang its welcome from the shore.
The foot-prints of the hunter-race from all the hills have gone—
Their offerings to the Spirit-land have left the altar-stone—
The ashes of the council-fire have no abiding token—
The song of war has died away—the Powwah's charm is broken—
The startling war-whoop cometh not upon the loud, clear air,—
The ancient woods are vanishing—the pale men gather there.
And who is left to mourn for this?—a solitary one,
Whose life is waning into death like yonder setting sun!—
A broken reed—a faded flower, that lingereth behind,
To mourn above its fallen race, and wrestle with the wind!
Lo—from the Spirit-land I hear the voices of the blest;
The holy faces of the loved are leaning from the West.
142
The mighty and the beautiful—the peerless ones of
old—
They call me to their pleasant sky and to their thrones of gold;—
Ere the spoilers' eye hath found me, when there are none to save—
Or the evil-hearted pale-face made the free of soul a slave—
Ere the step of air grow weary, or the sunny eye be dim.
The Father of my people is calling me to him.”
They call me to their pleasant sky and to their thrones of gold;—
Ere the spoilers' eye hath found me, when there are none to save—
Or the evil-hearted pale-face made the free of soul a slave—
Ere the step of air grow weary, or the sunny eye be dim.
The Father of my people is calling me to him.”
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| THE LAST NORRIDGEWOCK. Legends of New-England | |