« ForrigeFortsæt »
Whose melody yet lingers like the last
I. THE MERRIMACK.
Oui, child of that white-crested mountain whose
springs Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings, Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters
shine, Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the
dwarf pine. From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so
lone, From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of
stone, By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and
free, Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to
No bridge arched thy waters save that where the
trees Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in
the breeze: No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores, The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars. Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amoskeag's fall Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall, Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn, And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled with
But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these, And greener its
and taller its trees, Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung, Or the mower his scythe in the meadows had swung
In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood The bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook stood, There glided the corn-dance—the Council fire
shone, And against the red war-post the hatchet was
There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and
young To the pike and the white perch their baited lines There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum
Oh, Stream of the Mountains ! if answer of thine Could rise from thy waters to question of mine, Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks a
Of sorrow would swell for the days which have
Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel,
II. THE BASHABA.2
And turning from familiar sight and sound
A glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground,
Led by the few pale lights, which glimmering
Roof of bark and walls of pine,
On the ample floor within ;
And the red-deer's skin.
Window-tracery, small and slight,
And the night-stars glimmered down,
Sheathed with hemlock brown.
Gloomed behind the changeless shade,
In the open foreground planted,
In the sunlight slanted.
To the great sea's sounding shore;
All the river Sachems heard,
Or was still once more.
There his spoils of chase and war,
Lay besides his axe and bow;
Grimly to and fro.
O’er the waters still and red;
From that door she fled.
For that chief had magic skill,
Powers which bless and powers which bana
Of that wise dark man.
Tales of him the gray squaw told,
And the fire burned low and small,
On the trembling wall.
All the subtle spirits hiding
Misty clouds or morning breeze;
Feels, or hears or sees, -
Wind and cloud, and fire and flood;
Over winter's wood!
Not untrue that tale of old !
Subject to their kingly will;
Moves the strong man still.
Broken in their pathway lies;
Over midnight skies.
Still, to earnest souls, the sun