Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/64

32  The baffled runner turned upon his track, Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. “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’er-crossed, 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?

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 Merrimac 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 he? 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 water— He 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,