The legendary :: :: University of Virginia Library

[This is a very small hill, on the sea shore, in the town of Quincy.
It is shaped like an Indian arrow head, as its original name, Masentusett,
in their language indicates; Mas, meaning arrow head, and
entusett, hill. From this spot, Boston and its vicinity, from the Blue
Hills to the rocks of Nahant, rise upon the view like a panorama. It
was the abode of the principal Sachem when the English first arrived
here. He was a friendly old man, and sold them corn and
land. Soon after their arrival an epidemic appeared among the
Indians, and in a short time nothing was left of them but the few
remains that are still found of their simple implements of war and
agriculture, and the name of this hill, that was given, with a slight
alteration, to our state.]

Here, from this little hillock in days long since gone by,
Glanced over hill and valley the Sachem's eagle eye;
His were the pathless forests, and his the hills so blue,
And on the restless ocean glanced only his canoe.
Here stood the aged chieftain, rejoicing in his glory—
How deep the shade of sadness that rests upon his story!
For the white man came with power, and like brethren they met,
But the Indian fires went out, and the Indian sun has set.
And the chieftain has departed; gone is his hunting ground;
And the twanging of his bowstring is a forgotten sound.
Where dwelleth yesterday? and where is echo's cell?
Where has the rainbow vanished?—There does the Indian dwell.
But in the land of spirits the Indian has a place,
And there, 'midst saints and angels, he sees his Maker's face;

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There from all earthly passions his heart may be refined,
And the mists that once enshrouded be lifted from his mind.
And should his free born spirit descend again to earth,
And here, unseen, revisit the spot that gave him birth,
Would not his altered nature rejoice with rapture high,
At the changed and glorious prospect that now would meet his eye?
Where nodded pathless forests, there, now, are stately domes,
Where hungry wolves were prowling, are quiet, happy homes;
Where rose the savage war whoop is heard sweet village bells,
And many a gleaming spire, of faith in Jesus tells.
And he feels his soul is changed—'t is there a vision glows
Of more surpassing beauty than earthly scenes disclose;
For the heart that felt revenge with boundless love is filled,
And the tide of restless passion to a holy calm is stilled.
Here to my mental vision the Indian chief appears,
And all my eager questions fancy believes he hears.
Oh speak! thou unseen being, and the mighty secrets tell
Of the land of deathless glories, where the departed dwell.
I cannot dread a spirit—for I would gladly see
The veil uplifted round us, and know that such things be.
The things we see are fleeting, like summer flowers decay—
`The things unseen are real,' and do not pass away.
The friends we love so dearly smile on us and are gone,
And all is silent in their place, and we are left alone;
But the joy `that passeth show,' the love no arm can sever,
And all the treasures of their souls shall be with us forever!