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King Philip
“Upon the next day, Church, discovering an Indian seated on a fallen tree, made to answer the purpose of a bridge over the river, raised his musket and deliberately aimed at him. “It is one of our own party,” whispered a savage, who crept behind him. Church lowered his gun, and the stranger turned his head. It was Philip himself, musing, perhaps, upon the fate that awaited him.”—
Thatcher's Lives of the Indians
Philip, has the white man's charm
Chilled with fear thy kingly breast?
Has his spell unnerved thy arm,
Made thee woman like the rest?
Chilled with fear thy kingly breast?
Has his spell unnerved thy arm,
Made thee woman like the rest?
34
Say, is this the arm, whose shock,
Straight as blazing bolt from heaven,
Sent thy flashing tomahawk,—
And the white man's skull was riven?
Straight as blazing bolt from heaven,
Sent thy flashing tomahawk,—
And the white man's skull was riven?
Is this the hand, whence arrow flew
Winged with eagle's lightning speed?
Did this urge thy light canoe,
Quivering like yon wind-struck reed?
Winged with eagle's lightning speed?
Did this urge thy light canoe,
Quivering like yon wind-struck reed?
Yes—this is still the arm, the hand,—
And there my father's dwelling place;
But like thee, lonely Hope, I stand
Alone amid a stranger race!
And there my father's dwelling place;
But like thee, lonely Hope, I stand
Alone amid a stranger race!
My warriors brave, that gathered round
Thy council fires, thou mountain fair!
I hear their distant voices sound,
They call me from the cloudy air.
Thy council fires, thou mountain fair!
I hear their distant voices sound,
They call me from the cloudy air.
My wife, my son,—your voices rise
In murmurs soft as summer's stream;
And on my darkened soul those eyes,
Like stars above, in beauty gleam.
In murmurs soft as summer's stream;
And on my darkened soul those eyes,
Like stars above, in beauty gleam.
But where art thou, my tender wife?
'Tis but your image mocks me now.
Oh! could I snatch thee back to life,
And feel thy lips upon my brow;
'Tis but your image mocks me now.
Oh! could I snatch thee back to life,
And feel thy lips upon my brow;
That touch would thrill this wasted frame
With all my youth's forgotten fire;
And kindle up to burning flame
The hopes I saw with thee expire.
With all my youth's forgotten fire;
And kindle up to burning flame
The hopes I saw with thee expire.
This is your charm, ye hated race!
No other will my spirit own;
Ye urge me still in deadly chase,
Betrayed, abandoned, and alone.
No other will my spirit own;
Ye urge me still in deadly chase,
Betrayed, abandoned, and alone.
I scorn your power—could arm avail
To drive you from my native soil;
I should not feel my spirit fail,
This arm would still be nerved for toil.
To drive you from my native soil;
I should not feel my spirit fail,
This arm would still be nerved for toil.
35
I bow not: though I feel your might,—
Though round my head your thunders ring,
And round my heart has gathered night,
Yet know that Philip still is king.
Though round my head your thunders ring,
And round my heart has gathered night,
Yet know that Philip still is king.
Still will I guard thee, mountain shrine,
That looks upon my father's grave;
And thou shalt sadly smile on mine,
And bless the arm that could not save.
That looks upon my father's grave;
And thou shalt sadly smile on mine,
And bless the arm that could not save.
And while strange children gather round
Thy base, my father's ancient seat!
And thou shalt hear strange voices sound,
And on thee press the stranger's feet;
Thy base, my father's ancient seat!
And thou shalt hear strange voices sound,
And on thee press the stranger's feet;
Thy pine-clad summits still shall wave,
And send their mournful music sweet;—
Above my own, my father's grave,
'Twill rising swell our shades to greet.
And send their mournful music sweet;—
Above my own, my father's grave,
'Twill rising swell our shades to greet.
Poem No. 396; c. late 1835–early 1836
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