 | Songs of field and flood |  |
17
LINES
SUGGESTED ON COMING OUT OF MOUNT HOPE BAY.
Mount Hope! another name belongs to thee:Thou shouldst be called, methinks, Mount Memory.
For, sailing by, this Indian Summer day,
Where thou reclinest on thine own blue bay,
Before my eyes King Philip's famed retreat,
The crag-roof shelving o'er his royal seat,
And, crowning all, the canopy of blue,
Spanning the same wide-spread, enchanting view
Of shore and slope, that, winding far away,
Before the Sachem's eyes in beauty lay,—
Gazing upon thee thus with tranquil eye,
Calm hill! untouched, as years and change sweep by!
18
And pierce the dusky veil of long-gone time.
The white men's homes, still few and far between,
Melt in blue haze, and vanish from the scene.
Slow curls the wigwam-smoke above the trees,
And floats, a mimic cloud, upon the breeze.
How beautiful is all around,—how still!
Save when the echoes, slumbering on the hill,
Stir to the paddle's plash, where cuts the blue,
Pushing from shore, the red man's swift canoe,
Or start to hear the sudden shout and screech
Of red men's children playing on the beach,
Or fling back the light laugh of dusky girls
Laving in some green nook their jet-black curls,
Or multiply some friendly tribe's “What cheer?”
Or foeman's war-whoop frightful to the ear.
Fair Mount! how slight a change, and all again
The self-same aspect wears to-day as then,
When in these scenes, sole lord of hill and plain,
The son of Nature held his fair domain!
19
The light of this fair scene in other days;
The wigwam fire is out on shore and hill;
The council-talk—the whoop of war—are still.
The paddle's frequent plash is heard no more;
All now is hushed, save when the booming oar
Flings the bright spray, or sounds afar the scream
Of wheeling sea-gull or imprisoned steam.
Yet when, in such mild days as these, I stand,
And look far out o'er all the lovely land,
Through the soft haze, like Memory's veil, that lies,
By Autumn's sunlight flung on earth and skies,
Fair Indian maidens, gentle and serene,
Look forth with spirit-eyes upon the scene;
And from the far horizon of the West,
Where lie the sunny islands of the blest,
Hunter and fighter, sage and sachem, come
To look once more upon their earthly home.
The grave old men, the brave old warriors, stand,
In stately talk, apart, a deep-eyed band;
20
Low voices murmur music sweeter still.
[OMITTED]
But soft! the scene is fading from my view,
And with it fades my fancy's vision too.
In the dim distance, now, thy lovely slope,
Transfigured, seems a skyey land, Mount Hope!
Rudely disturbed, my short day-dream is o'er;
And the fair shapes I saw just now, once more
Have all withdrawn to upper air with thee,
To dwell for ever, Mount of Memory.
| Songs of field and flood | |