Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/106

74   As if to scatter the bolts of God With the points of Calvin’s thunder-rod,— Still, as the gem of its civic crown, Precious beyond the world’s renown, His memory hallows the ancient town!

Let your ears be opened wide! He who speaks has never lied. Waldron of Piscataqua, Hear what Squando has to say!

Squando shuts his eyes and sees, Far off, Saco’s hemlock-trees. In his wigwam, still as stone, Sits a woman all alone,

Wampum beads and birchen strands Dropping from her careless hands, Listening ever for the fleet Patter of a dead child’s feet!

When the moon a year ago Told the flowers the time to blow, In that lonely wigwam smiled Menewee, our little child.

Ere that moon grew thin and old, He was lying still and cold; Sent before us, weak and small, When the Master did not call!

On his little grave I lay; Three times went and came the day, Thrice above me blazed the noon, Thrice upon me wept the moon.

In the third night-watch I heard, Far and low, a spirit-bird; Very mournful, very wild, Sang the totem of my child.

‘Menewee, poor Menewee, Walks a path he cannot see: Let the white man’s wigwam light With its blaze his steps aright.

‘All-uncalled, he dares not show Empty hands to Manito: Better gifts he cannot bear Than the scalps his slayers wear.’