Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/62

30  Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock spurs
 * And sharp, gray splinters of the wind-swept ledge

Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose, Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows.

And eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away,
 * Dull, dreary flats without a bush or tree,

O’er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day
 * Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea;

And faint with distance came the stifled roar, The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore.

No cheerful village with its mingling smokes,
 * No laugh of children wrestling in the snow,

No camp-fire blazing through the hillside oaks,
 * No fishers kneeling on the ice below;

Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view, Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed Weetamoo.

Her heart had found a home; and freshly all
 * Its beautiful affections overgrew

Their rugged prop. As o’er some granite wall
 * Soft vine-leaves open to the moistening dew

And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth of life.

The steep, bleak hills, the melancholy shore,
 * The long, dead level of the marsh between,

A coloring of unreal beauty wore
 * Through the soft golden mist of young love seen.

For o’er those hills and from that dreary plain, Nightly she welcomed home her hunter chief again.

No warmth of heart, no passionate burst of feeling
 * Repaid her welcoming smile and parting kiss,

No fond and playful dalliance half concealing,
 * Under the guise of mirth, its tenderness;

But, in their stead, the warrior’s settled pride, And vanity’s pleased smile with homage satisfied.

Enough for Weetamoo, that she alone
 * Sat on his mat and slumbered at his side;

That he whose fame to her young ear had flown
 * Now looked upon her proudly as his bride;

That he whose name the Mohawk trembling heard Vouchsafed to her at times a kindly look or word.

For she had learned the maxims of her race,
 * Which teach the woman to become a slave,

And feel herself the pardonless disgrace
 * Of love’s fond weakness in the wise and brave,—

The scandal and the shame which they incur, Who give to woman all which man requires of her.

So passed the winter moons. The sun at last
 * Broke link by link the frost chain of the rills,

And the warm breathings of the southwest passed
 * Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills;

The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more, And the birch-tree’s tremulous shade fell round the Sachem’s door.

Then from far Pennacook swift runners came,
 * With gift and greeting for the Saugus chief;

Beseeching him in the great Sachem’s name,
 * That, with the coming of the flower and leaf,