MOGG MEGONE. 1835. [The story of MOGG MEGONE has been considered by the author only as a framework for sketches of the scenery of New England, and of its early inhabitants. In portraying the Indian character, he has followed, as closely as his story would admit, the rough but natural delineations of Church, Mayhew, Charlevoix, and Roger Williams; and in so doing he has necessarily discarded much of the romance which poets and novelists have thrown around the ill-fated red man.] PART I. WHO stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone ?1 Close to the verge of the rock is he, While beneath him the Saco its work is doing, Hurrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its pathway hewing! Far down, through the mist of the falling river, Which rises up like an incense ever, seen, With water howling and vexed between, While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth! But Mogg Megone never trembled yet Of rock or of tree, is seen of him : For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn: His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine, And Modocawando's wives had strung He listens; each sound from afar is The brass and the beads, which tinkle What seeks Megone? His foes are [ As far about as my feet can stray He starts, there's a rustle among the leaves : Another, the click of his gun is heard! A footstep, is it the step of Cleaves, With Indian blood on his English sword? Steals Harmon 5 down from the sands of York, With hand of iron and foot of cork? Has Scamman, versed in Indian wile, For vengeance left his vine-hung isle ?6 Hark! at that whistle, soft and low, How lights the eye of Mogg Megone! A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow, "Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython !" Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, And quick, keen glances to and fro, The hunted outlaw, Bonython ! 7 A low, lean, swarthy man is he, With blanket-garb and buskined knee, And naught of English fashion on; For he hates the race from whence he sprung, And he couches his words in the Indian tongue. In the half of a gentle summer's day, From the leaping brook to the Saco river, And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me, Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and be The wife of Mogg Megone forever." There's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, A moment's trace of powerful feeling, Of love or triumph, or both perchance, Over his proud, calm features stealing. "The words of my father are very good ; He shall have the land, and water, and wood; And he who harms the Sagamore John, Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone; But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast, And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest.' |