Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog, | Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog: And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands In the river scooped by a spirit's hands,23 Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn. hemlock spurs And sharp, gray splinters of the windswept ledge Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose, Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows. Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, And The bridal feast of the Bashaba. And merrily when that feast was done On the fire-lit green the dance begun, With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper hum Of old inen beating the Indian drum. 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, Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks The melancholy lapse of waves on that flowing, And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing, 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. THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 23 No warmth of heart, no passionate burst | The song of birds, the warm breeze and of feeling, Repaid her welcoming smile and part-Young Weetamoo might greet her lonely ing kiss, the rain, sire again. dove Or, from the east, across her azure field Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of Rolled the wide brightness of her full In vain shall we call on the souls gone | So sang the Children of the Leaves beside The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide, Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, On the high wind their voices rose and fell. Nature's wild music, - sounds of windswept trees, The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong, Mingled and murmured in that farewell song. ["The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimack." SIEUR DE MONTS: 1604.] STREAM of my fathers! sweetly still I see the winding Powow fold Saw the adventurer's tiny sail, Flit, stooping from the eastern gale; 27 The frozen fountains of the rock, "" 28 Tributes from vale and mountain-side, With ocean's dark, eternal tide! |