Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/40

8

Lendeth to its bow; And the soft breeze from the west Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.

Far behind was Ocean striving With his chains of sand; Southward, sunny glimpses giving, ’Twixt the swells of land, Of its calm and silvery track, Rolled the tranquil Merrimac.

Over village, wood, and meadow Gazed that stranger man. Sadly, till the twilight shadow Over all things ran, Save where spire and westward pane Flashed the sunset back again.

Gazing thus upon the dwelling Of his warrior sires, Where no lingering trace was telling Of their wigwam fires, Who the gloomy thoughts might know Of that wandering child of woe?

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing, Hills that once had stood Down their sides the shadows throwing Of a mighty wood, Where the deer his covert kept, And the eagle’s pinion swept!

Where the birch canoe had glided Down the swift Powow, Dark and gloomy bridges strided Those clear waters now; And where once the beaver swam, Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.

For the wood-bird’s merry singing, And the hunter’s cheer, Iron clang and hammer’s ringing Smote upon his ear; And the thick and sullen smoke From the blackened forges broke.

Could it be his fathers ever Loved to linger here? These bare hills, this conquered river,— Could they hold them dear, With their native loveliness Tamed and tortured into this?

Sadly, as the shades of even Gathered o’er the hill, While the western half of heaven Blushed with sunset still, From the fountain’s mossy seat Turned the Indian’s weary feet.

Year on year hath flown forever, But he came no more To the hillside on the river Where he came before. But the villager can tell Of that strange man’s visit well.

And the merry children, laden With their fruits or flowers,— Roving boy and laughing maiden, In their school-day hours, Love the simple tale to tell Of the Indian and his well.

How sweetly on the wood-girt town The mellow light of sunset shone! Each small, bright lake, whose waters still Mirror the forest and the hill, Reflected from its waveless breast The beauty of a cloudless west, Glorious as if a glimpse were given Within the western gates of heaven, Left, by the spirit of the star Of sunset’s holy hour, ajar!

Beside the river’s tranquil flood The dark and low-walled dwellings stood, Where many a rood of open land Stretched up and down on either hand,