As far about as my feet can stray
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 ine,

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."

"But, father!"- and the Indian's hand Falls gently on the white man's arm, And with a smile as shrewdly bland

As the deep voice is slow and calm,
"Where is my father's singing-bird,
The sunny eye, and sunset hair?
I know I have my father's word,

And that his word is good and fair; But will my father tell me where Megone shall go and look for his bride?

For he sees her not by her father's side."

In one long, glassy, spectral stare
The enlarging eye is fastened there,
As if that mesh of pale brown hair

Had power to change at sight alone, Even as the fearful locks which wound Medusa's fatal forehead round,

The gazer into stone.

With such a look Herodias read
The features of the bleeding head,
So looked the mad Moor on his dead,
Or the young Cenci as she stood,
O'er-dabbled with a father's blood!

Look!-feeling melts that frozen glance,
It moves that marble countenance,
As if at once within her strove
Pity with shame, and hate with love.
The Past recalls its joy and pain,
Old memories rise before her brain,
The lips which love's embraces met,
The hand her tears of parting wet,
The voice whose pleading tones beguiled
The pleased ear of the forest-child,
And tears she may no more repress
Reveal her lingering tenderness.

O, woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may;
But when the mockery of Fate

Hath left Revenge its chosen way, And the fell curse, which years have nursed,

Full on the spoiler's head hath burst, When all her wrong, and shame, and pain, Burns fiercely on his heart and brain, Still lingers something of the spell Which bound her to the traitor's bosom,

Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell,

Some flowers of old affection blossom.

John Bonython's eyebrows together are drawn

With a fierce expression of wrath and

scorn,

Like a fiery star in the upper air: On sire and daughter his fierce glance

turns:

"Has my old white father a scalp to

spare?

For his young one loves the pale brown hair

Of the scalp of an English dog far more Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor; Go, -Mogg is wise: he will keep his land,

And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand,

Shall miss his scalp where it grew before." The moment's gust of grief is gone,

The lip is clenched, - the tears are still,

God pity thee, Ruth Bonython !

With what a strength of will Are nature's feelings in thy breast, As with an iron hand, repressed! And how, upon that nameless woe, Quick as the pulse can come and go, While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet

The bosom heaves, the eye is wet,
Has thy dark spirit power to stay
The heart's wild current on its way?
And whence that baleful strength of

guile,

Which over that still working brow
And tearful eye and cheek can throw
The mockery of a smile?

Warned by her father's blackening frown,
With one strong effort crushing down
Grief, hate, remorse, she meets again

The savage murderer's sullen gaze, And scarcely look or tone betrays How the heart strives beneath its chain.

"Is the Sachem angry,

- angry with Ruth, Because she cries with an ache in her tooth, 10

Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry,

And look about with a woman's eye?
No, Ruth will sit in the Sachem's

Away,

- an Indian can see and

The Indian's brow is clear once more: With grave, calm face, and half-shut

eye,

He sits upon the wigwam floor,

And watches Ruth go by, Intent upon her household care; And ever and anon, the while, Or on the maiden, or her fare, Which smokes in grateful promise there, Bestows his quiet smile.

Ah, Mogg Megone! - what dreams are thine,

But those which love's own fancies dress,

The sum of Indian happiness! A wigwam, where the warm sunshine Looks in among the groves of pine, A stream, where, round thy light canoe, The trout and salmon dart in view, And the fair girl, before thee now, Spreading thy mat with hand of snow, Or plying, in the dews of morn, Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, Or offering up, at eve, to thee, Thy birchen dish of hominy!

From the rude board of Bonython,
Venison and succotash have gone,
For long these dwellers of the wood
Have felt the gnawing want of food.
Butuntasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer,-
With head averted, yet ready ear,
She stands by the side of her austere
sire,

Feeding, at times, the unequal fire
With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine
tree,

Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls,

And over its inmates three.

From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone:

"Will the Sachem hear what his father

shall ask?

Will he make his mark, that it may be known,

On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land,

From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand?"

The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes, As he rises, the white man's bidding to do:

"Wuttamuttata wise,

Wuttamuttata, -weekan! our hearts will grow !"

He drinks yet deeper, he mutters low,

He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, His head falls down on his naked breast,

He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest.

"Humph - drunk as a beast!"— and Bonython's brow

Is darker than ever with evil thought"The fool has signed his warrant; but how

And when shall the deed be wrought? Speak, Ruth! why, what the devil is there,

To fix thy gaze in that empty air? Speak, Ruth! by my soul, if I thought that tear,

Which shames thyself and our purpose here,

Were shed for that cursed and palefaced dog,

Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg,

And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping, This - this!

upon

- he dashes his hand

Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell Too much for her ear of that deed of hell. She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clenching the bearskin bed!

What thoughts of horror and madness whirl

Through the burning brain of that fallen girl!

John Bonython lifts his gun to his eye, Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, But he drops it again. "Some one may be nigh,

And I would not that even the wolves should hear."

He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt,

Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt; Kneeling down on one knee, by the Indian's side,

From his throat he opens the blanket wide;

And twice or thrice he feebly essays
A trembling hand with the knife to raise.

"I cannot," he mutters, -"did he not save

My life from a cold and wintry grave, When the storm came down from Agioochook,

And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook,

And I strove, in the drifts of the rushing snow,

Till my knees grew weak and I could not go,

And I felt the cold to my vitals creep, And my heart's blood stiffen, and pulses sleep!

I cannot strike him - Ruth Bonython! In the Devil's name, tell me - - what's to be done?"