Let Pennacook call out his warrior train
And send her back with wampum gifts again.”

The baffled runner turned upon his track,

Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back,

་་

66

Dog of the Marsh,” cried Pennacook, no more Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor.

"Go-let him seek some meaner squaw to spread
The stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed:
Son of a fish-hawk !—let him dig his clams
For some vile daughter of the Agawams,

"Or coward Nipmucks!—may his scalp dry black In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back." He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave,

While hoarse assent his listening council gave.

Alas poor bride!—can thy grim sire impart
His iron hardness to thy woman's heart?
Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone
For love denied and life's warm beauty flown?

On Autumn's gray and mournful grave the snow Hung its white wreaths; with stifled voice and low

The river crept, by one vast bridge o'ercrossed,
Built by the hoar-locked artisan of Frost.

And many a Moon in beauty newly born
Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn,
Or, from the east across her azure field
Rolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield.

Yet Winnepurkit came not-on the mat
Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat,

And he, the while, in Western woods afar-
Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war.

Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief!
Waste not on him the sacredness of grief;
Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own,
His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone.

What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights,
The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights
Cold, crafty, proud of woman's weak distress,
Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness?

VII. THE DEPARTURE.

The wild March rains had fallen fast and long
The snowy mountains of the North among,
Making each vale a watercourse--each hill
Bright with the cascade of some new made rill.

Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain,
Heaved underneath by the swollen current's strain,
The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merrimack
Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track.

On that strong turbid water, a small boat
Guided by one weak hand was seen to float,
Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore,
Too early voyager with too frail an oar !

Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide,
The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side,
The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view,
With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe.

The trapper moistening his moose's meat
On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc's feet,

Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream-
Slept he, or waked be?-was it truth or dream?

The straining eye bent fearfully before,
The small hand clenching on the useless oar,

The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er the waterHe knew them all-woe for the Sachem's daughter

Sick and aweary of her lonely life,
Heedless of peril the still faithful wife
Had left her mother's grave, her father's door,
To seek the wigwam of her chief once more.

Down the white rapids like a sear leaf whirled,
On the sharp rocks and piled up ices hurled,
Empty and broken, circled the canoe

In the vexed pool below-but, where was Weetamoo?

The

song

VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN.

The Dark eye has left us,

The Spring-bird has flown;

On the pathway of spirits

She wanders alone.

of the wood-dove has died on our shore Mat wonck kunna-monee! 6-We hear it no more!

Oh, dark water Spirit!

We cast on thy wave

These furs which may never

Hang over her grave;

Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore Mat wonck kunna-monee !-We see her no more!

Of the strange land she walks in

No Powah has told :

It may burn with the sunshine,

Or freeze with the cold.

Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore, Mat wonck kunna-monee !-We see her no more!

The path she is treading
Shall soon be our own;

Each gliding in shadow

Unseen and alone!

In vain shall we call on the souls gone before-
Mat wonck kunna-monee !-They hear us no more!

Oh mighty Sowanna ! 7
Thy gateways unfold,

From thy wigwam of sunset
Lift curtains of gold!

Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er-
Mat wonck kunna-monée !-We see her no more!

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside
The broad, dark river's coldly-flowing tide,
Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell
On the high wind their voices rose and fell.
Nature's wild music-sounds of wind-swept trees,
The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze,
The roar of waters, steady, deep and strong,
Mingled and murmured in that farewell song.