 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
78
THE DEATH OF THE SAGAMORE.
A SCENE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
The servant of God is on his way
From Boston's beautiful shore;
His boat skims light o'er the silvery bay,
While the sleeping waters awake and play,
At the touch of the playful oar.
From Boston's beautiful shore;
His boat skims light o'er the silvery bay,
While the sleeping waters awake and play,
At the touch of the playful oar.
The purpose that fills his soul is great
As the soul of a man can know;
Vast as eternity, strong as the gate
The spirit must pass, to a changeless state,
And enter, to bliss or woe!
As the soul of a man can know;
Vast as eternity, strong as the gate
The spirit must pass, to a changeless state,
And enter, to bliss or woe!
His boat is fast; and over the sod
Of a neighboring wood he hies;
Through moor and thicket his path is trod,
As he hastens to speak of the living God
In the ear of a man, who dies!
Of a neighboring wood he hies;
Through moor and thicket his path is trod,
As he hastens to speak of the living God
In the ear of a man, who dies!
Where Rumney's
forest is high and dark,
The eagle lowers her wing
O'er him, who once had made her his mark,
For the Sagamore, in his hut of bark,
Is a perishing, powerless king.
The eagle lowers her wing
O'er him, who once had made her his mark,
For the Sagamore, in his hut of bark,
Is a perishing, powerless king.
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At the door of his wigwam hang the bow,
The antler, and beaver-skin;
While he, who bore them, is faint and low,
Where death has given the fatal blow,
And the monarch expires within.
The antler, and beaver-skin;
While he, who bore them, is faint and low,
Where death has given the fatal blow,
And the monarch expires within.
The eye that glanced, and the eagle fled
Away, through her fields of air;
The hand that drew, and the deer was dead;
The hunter's foot, and the chieftain's head,
And the conqueror's arm, are there!
Away, through her fields of air;
The hand that drew, and the deer was dead;
The hunter's foot, and the chieftain's head,
And the conqueror's arm, are there!
But each its powerful work has done;
Its triumph at length is past;
The final conflict is now begun,
And, weeping, the mother hangs over her son,
While the Sagamore breathes his last!
Its triumph at length is past;
The final conflict is now begun,
And, weeping, the mother hangs over her son,
While the Sagamore breathes his last!
The queen of the Massachusetts grieves,
That the life of her child must end!
And that is a noble breast that heaves,
While the mortal pang on the bed of leaves
Of the white man's Indian Friend!
That the life of her child must end!
And that is a noble breast that heaves,
While the mortal pang on the bed of leaves
Of the white man's Indian Friend!
The stately form, which is prostrate there,
On the feet that are cold as snow,
Has often sped in the midnight air
A word to the Christian's ear to bear,
Of the plot of his heathen foe!
On the feet that are cold as snow,
Has often sped in the midnight air
A word to the Christian's ear to bear,
Of the plot of his heathen foe!
80
And oft, when roaming the wild alone,
That generous heart would melt
At the touch of a ray of light that shone
From the white man's God, till before his throne
Almost has the Indian knelt.
That generous heart would melt
At the touch of a ray of light that shone
From the white man's God, till before his throne
Almost has the Indian knelt.
Yet the fatal fear, the fear of man,
That bringeth to man a snare,
Has braced his knee, as it just began
To bend; and the dread of a heathen clan
Has stifled a Christian prayer.
That bringeth to man a snare,
Has braced his knee, as it just began
To bend; and the dread of a heathen clan
Has stifled a Christian prayer.
But now, like a flood, to his trembling heart
Has the fear of a God rushed in;
And keener far than the icy dart,
That rends the flesh and spirit apart,
Is the thought of his heathen sin.
Has the fear of a God rushed in;
And keener far than the icy dart,
That rends the flesh and spirit apart,
Is the thought of his heathen sin.
To the lonely spot where the chief reclines,
While the herald of love draws nigh,
The Indian shrinks, as he marks the signs
Of a soul at peace, and the light that shines
Alone from a Christian's eye.
While the herald of love draws nigh,
The Indian shrinks, as he marks the signs
Of a soul at peace, and the light that shines
Alone from a Christian's eye.
“Alas!” he cries, in the strange, deep tone
Of one in the grasp of death,
“No God have I! I have lost my own!
I go to the presence of thine alone,
To scorch in his fiery breath!
Of one in the grasp of death,
“No God have I! I have lost my own!
I go to the presence of thine alone,
To scorch in his fiery breath!
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“The Spirit, who makes the skies so bright
With the prints of his shining feet,
Who rolls the waters, kindles the light,
Imprisons the winds, or gives them their flight—
I tremble his eye to meet!
With the prints of his shining feet,
Who rolls the waters, kindles the light,
Imprisons the winds, or gives them their flight—
I tremble his eye to meet!
“When, oh! if I openly had confessed,
And followed and loved him here,
I now might fly to his arms for rest,
As the weary bird to her downy nest,
When the evening shades draw near.
And followed and loved him here,
I now might fly to his arms for rest,
As the weary bird to her downy nest,
When the evening shades draw near.
“But grant me the one great boon I crave
In a great, and an awful hour!
When I shall have sunk in my forest grave,
O take my Boy to thy home, and save
That beautiful forest flower!
In a great, and an awful hour!
When I shall have sunk in my forest grave,
O take my Boy to thy home, and save
That beautiful forest flower!
“The God of thy people, the Holy One—
And the path that shall reach the skies—
Say! say that to these thou wilt lead my son,
That he may not second the race I 've run,
Nor die, as his father dies!”
And the path that shall reach the skies—
Say! say that to these thou wilt lead my son,
That he may not second the race I 've run,
Nor die, as his father dies!”
“As his father dies!” with the breath that bor
That sorrowful sound has fled
The soul of a king—for the strife is o'er
With spirit and flesh; and the Sagamore
Is numbered among the dead!
That sorrowful sound has fled
The soul of a king—for the strife is o'er
With spirit and flesh; and the Sagamore
Is numbered among the dead!
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But has he not, by his high bequest,
Like the penitent on the tree,
The Saviour of dying man confessed;
And found the promise to him addressed—
“To-day thou shalt be with me?”
Like the penitent on the tree,
The Saviour of dying man confessed;
And found the promise to him addressed—
“To-day thou shalt be with me?”
For the character and the death-scene of Wonohaquaham, better known as Sagamore John, son of the Squaw-Sachem; and for an account of the Rev. Mr. Wilson's visit to him, in his last moments, at his wigwam on the ground anciently called Winnisimit, and Rumney Marsh, but now divided between Chelsea and Saugus. See Thatcher's Indian Biography.
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |