Downing legends : stories in rhyme / J. W. DeForest [electronic text]

THE LAST OF THE WAMPANOAGS

II

THE LAST OF THE WAMPANOAGS

I

It was a time of bloody strife Between the Baldybird and Lion, And woful plagues were sorely rife In every nook of Freedom's Zion: A plague of Britishers and Hessians, A plague of tarred and feathered traitors, Of powwow dances, witch possessions And Mingos fierce as alligators.

It was the nation-building time That freed Americans of fetters, And garred them grace in prose or rhyme To say they never met their betters; When, startling Shiloh's single street, Appeared a pale and eager rider, His courser reeling through the heat, His raiment dusty as a spider Who halted near a visage fair That blushed behind a window lattice, And faltered, "Lady, tell me where Abides New England's Cincinnatus."

II

She pointed out a modest cot, Bedight with shingled porch and gable, And, close behind, a garden lot,

And roomy barn and airy stable. A well and woodpile graced a yard Where hum of beehives, honey-laden, And bustling whirs of spinning jarred Through drowsy hymns of a rosy maiden.

Beyond declined a dimpled run Of ploughing land and wood and meadow, Where gladsome corn revered the sun And thankful kine reposed in shadow: A Shiloh farm of knobs and wales Without a lonely level acre, But choicely rimmed with chestnut rails And kept as clean as any Quaker.

There dwelt our solar prototype When duty did not send him shining To give the Lion's tail a gripe And set the Unicorn a-whining. Beside his grindstone Downing stood, In shirtsleeves moiling, as he wonted, To keen anew his sabre's mood, But lately sorely gapped and blunted In slicing various Tory knaves Who came by night to burn and pillage, And drive our fathers off for slaves, And make an end of Shiloh village.

III

The rider halted, hat in hand. "My name," he said, "is Captain Speeder, And I arrive with haught command

From Putnam, our illustrious leader. He bade me find you, bade me say That things are faring worse than sadly With those who hold the righteous way, While Satan's kingdom prospers madly.

"Briton nor Hessian hurts us now, Nor lurking brave, nor sneaking Tory; For we can front them brow to brow And hurl aback their fiercest foray. It is a girl, a buxom jade, An Indian witch, a powwow's daughter, Who makes Columbia's soul afraid And lures her mighty ones to slaughter. She glides about our camp by night, Adroit in magic, strong in beauty, And slays the sentinel outright, Or wiles him from the beat of duty. Yea, none resist her cunning lure; The veteran renowned in battle, The officer we counted sure, All follow her like silly cattle; And those who perish not reveal Our plans to whatsoever human; In sort that Freedom seems to reel Before the malice of a woman.

"You know of Ethan Allen; know His faithfulness beyond suspicion; And know how many a stalwart foe His arm has pitched to hot perdition. He too is gone; he went at dawn With many oaths to slay the maiden;

And that is all we know; he's gone, Though scarcely gone, we think to Eden."

IV

So far the captain spake. But here The hero thundered forth his sorrow.

"Go tell the ginral, never fear; I'll follow Ethan's trail to-morrow. What! Allen gone, the peartest soul That bore aloft our Yankee banners! How oft I've heerd his curses roll In battle's front, like glad hosanners! How often laughed to see him roar An' caper 'round a giant Briton, Then smite him hip an' thigh before I guessed the side he meanter hit on! I'll follow him, and save him, too. If he abides in airthly regions; If not, I'll make it awful blue In hell for Satan's murky legions.

"But first I ought to find the maid Who keeps our Baldybird in trouble. An' let her know that Gideon's blade Can mow Apollyon's crap to stubble. I've often heerd of her afore, Unless my memory's in error; Her granther was a sagamore, King Metacom, New England's terror. I think (if she is young an' fair) That Downing wouldn't like to hurt her,

But ruther feel disposed to spare, An' do, his peartest to convert her. At all events, I'll scurry west At once, to bag her, or to try it. But now dismount an' take a rest, An' try a Yankee farmer's diet."

The captain bowed. "I may not stay; My duty is to bear your message." He bowed again, and rode away, As swift as prairie horse-expressage.

V

"Then Downing" (here we quote his book) "Sot down an' made a hearty dinner; For Esther was a faithful cook, An' had her mother's cunning in her. Besides, I allays find that I Can fight my best on stacks of rations; An' that's the strategy whereby The British lick their neighbor nations. Besides, I crammed my havresack With pork an' beans an' codfish salted, In order that I mightn't lack A Yankee supper when I halted.

"Of course I wore my uniform, With eppylets an' hat an' feather, Because the cloth is extry warm An' proof agin the wettest weather. My trooper pistils, one inch bore, Hefty enough to knock down cattle, An' sabre, three foot long or more,

Made out my armyment for battle. So fixed, upon my mare I got, An' flung a good-bye kiss to Esther; She prayed a leetle on the spot, An' I, though not religious, blest her.

VI

"Then off I started, sou-by-west, Through swarmin' borough, town an' village; For old Connecticut is blest With livelier craps than those of tillage. An' everywhere I went or come The people gathered by the thousen; I tell ye they were nowise dumb When Downing cantered past their housen. In ginral, though, I'm pleased to say, The grown-up men were off to slarter An' those who whooped me on my way Were wife an' granny, lad an' darter.

"A week I traveled, all afire; Then duly halted over Sunday, Attended meetin', sung in choir, An' started out refreshed o' Monday, At last I sighted, on a hill, The Yankee banners all a-quiver; An' found a sentry, squattin' still An' watchin' 'crost a shady river, I sent him with the mare to camp, An' took his beat, an' done his duty;

For day was puttin' out his lamp, An' soon I might expect the beauty."

VII

No zephyr stirred the mellow calm, No footfall strolled amid the night; The air was drenched with humid balm Of forest blooms; a droning flight Of insects fretted on the ear, As though the ancient Baal of gnats And flies were holding revel near.

Aloft, a fitful rush of bats Careered on lean and sticky wings, While fireflies hasted through the grass Like travelers lost and mad with fear. The air was full of songs and stings And rustlings; serpents seemed to pass From tuft to tuft of underwood: One might believe the wizard brood Had taken shapes of beastly things And swarmed to meet in hellish mass.

Below, the river ran like ink, A stagnant, silent, stygian stream, Funereal-palled from brink to brink By giant trees. A single gleam Of spectral moonlight wandered through, And showed against the oozy brae A silver-gleaming birch canoe, A boat for scouts to cross the wave And gather food, or seek affray With Tory thief or Mingo brave.

VIII

Our hero, careful lest a ball Might find him from the other shore, Descended creeping, reached the yawl And laid his length upon its floor. Recumbent there, with visage darkened, His heavy pistols cocked for strife, His breath suppressed, he slyly harkened And peeped for signs of hostile life.

Betimes a drowsy drone he heard Of plunging waters, far below; Or was it but a thrumming bird In dozing terror? Who can know? For hours he listened thus; and then Perhaps he slept; he never told. There come awearied moments when The sentry nods, though good as gold.

At last he roused himself — perchance From revery — perchance from dream; He raised his head and threw a glance About him; then across the stream. Diana, hunting high in night, Sent arrows through the forest ranks That feathered half the flood with light And filigreed the curving banks; And there, amid the elfin sheen, He spied an Indian maiden kneel,* 1.1 Who plied a paddle, dimly seen,

And urged along a spectral keel. He rubbed his eyes and looked again; He thought to see her fade away; But soon a glorious argent vein Of moonlight showed her clear as day.

IX

Then Downing knew that death was near; He knew the witch, her errand knew; Yet quickly made his shallop veer To meet her wizard-built canoe.

Ah! perilous she was to greet As ocean maid, or forest fay, Or lorelei singing deadly-sweet, Or Circe smiling sense away. Her cheek was brown, but fervid bloom Of roses flushed its dimpled grace; Her hair was black as raven's plume, And veiled with magic half her face. Her form was slender, round and tall, And shapely were the arms that twined From side to side, and drove her yawl To meet the foeman of her kind.

She smiled upon him. Oh, that smile! What viper hath such deadly guile! It seemed the joyous friendliness Of childhood, innocent of ill; It had a lovelorn tenderness, And yet its longing was to kill.

X

They met and passed; in vain he sought To clutch her while she skimmed anear; She whirled her paddle quick as thought, And sent her feathery pinnace clear, Then turned the prow adown the flow And paddled gently, flinging back Such smiles as love alone should throw, To lure him down her fatal track.

He followed where her witchery led, He went like one with frenzied head, He seemed a man as good as dead: His only longing was to seize, To clutch and carry her away, No matter where, no matter why; And so he bent him on his knees, And made his paddle madly play, And flew like one who longs to die.

Now came a throbbing, reeling strife For mastery in speed; the blades Incessant leaped to swifter life; And through the river's lights and shades, Forever quickening, hissed the skiffs. The rippling pools and bays retired; —The lofty landmarks — hills and cliffs; And still the panting rowers fired Their madding hearts to fiercer race; While aye the maiden backward cast The elfin glamor of her face, And seemed to beckon, "Follow fast!"

XI

For miles the nimble paddles flew, Implacable and strong and true As eagle wings athwart the blue; For miles they traversed gloom and sheen With scarce a fathom-length between The Yankee chief and forest-queen.

Yet aye a distant, surly drone, (The growl of some torrential leap Adown a cyclopean steep) Approached and rolled in grimmer tone. At last it poured a lion roar; It seemed to clamor, "Turn or die!" But still the maiden plied her oar, And still the chaser followed nigh. He felt the current's quick'ning swirl, He knew how near he was to drown; But yet he hoped to clutch the girl Before destruction sucked him down.

Eftsoon he spied, not far away Beneath the gleam of Ashtaroth, A lofty, glorious ghost of spray, Spanning the river's tossing froth; And underneath its mighty plumes — Distinct against the further glooms — A burnished edge of fleeting steel, The cataract's awful downward wheel.

XII

He paused a breath. The lorelei flung A gesture back. Again he wrought, And tow'rd the watery Eblis sprung Without another doubting thought. Then came the rush. He glanced before. The maiden stood with folded arms, Upright amid the seethe and roar, And turned upon him all her charms. Her eyes like costly jewels shone, And dazed his vision even then; Her face was Circe's very own, A face to dazzle dying men. But weirdly was it changed in style; It looked the visage of a Fate. She smiled, but now it was a smile Of cruel triumph, burning hate.

He saw her thus, but all too late, For then he saw her swiftly sink, And he alone was on the brink. He followed down the mad descent With but a single hasty prayer —A gasp for mercy; down he went A hundred feet through mist and air; And downward still; the boiling billow Received him, clutched him, hurled him swift Along the rapid's bubbly drift, As helpless as a wisp of willow.

XIII

He drove, he never knew how long, The sport of water-sprites and gholes. Gay bells he heard, delicious song, And tinkling zithers all aquiver, The sounds that ravish drowning souls, The lorelei strains of Charon's river.

He thought of death and hell and heaven; Betimes he thought his soul had crossed The bounds of death to float unshriven, Unseen of God, forgotten, lost; And then he hurtled, fiercely driven Through sundered whirlpools, surges riven, Aloft to gladsome regions where Careered the breeze and beamed the moon. He swam by instinct, scarce aware That he was living yet; but soon The life returned to brain and breath; He longed to live; he flouted death.

He saw himself anear the shore, Though down the river still he flew; His fingers gripped a broken oar, And near him tossed a wrecked canoe. The speeding flood was white and rude With frothy whirl and bubbly curl; The flood was all a solitude, And vanished was the wizard girl.

XIV

So ended Downing's first endeavor To catch the Wampanoag maid; He fared as mortals fare forever In chasing lorelei, nymph and naiad; He found the business wondrous dripping, And much in need of first-rate shipping.

But even while he splashed for shore He heard the clarion call of duty; He raised his dexter fist and swore To still pursue the heathen beauty; Pursue and find her, though she stole For hiding-place to stygian regions; Convert her yet and save her soul From Pandemonium's cunning legions. So ever west, with patient labor, His pistols slung about his waist, And dragging twenty pounds of sabre, Through boundless leafy lands he paced; Because he thought an Indian maiden And specially an eldritch thing, Would fly to countries forest-laden Where solitude as yet was king.

At last he reached a lordly current, The Genesee of modern day, Which flung a swift and massive torrent Adown a ravine veiled in spray. He halted there for food and slumber, A mile or more above the roar, And made a fragile float of lumber,

And fitted it with mast and oar; Because, he judged, the wizard lady, Would hope to ambuscade him there, And come when all was still and shady To spread a net and find a snare.

XV

He watched; she came; he saw her glimmer Athwart the mellow dusk of night. He saw her birchen paddle shimmer, And dash the foam to left and right. Through veiling leaves he knew the splendor That brimmed her eyes and flushed her face, The rounded figure, tall and slender, The sway and gest of savage grace.

He launched his float; he never waited To let her pass and choose her way; He felt that every breath was fated, And he must leap to win his prey. He gained the middle stream before her, And paused above the waterfall; Then drew his pistol, aimed it o'er her, And bade her halt or meet his ball. And yet he purposed nothing evil, His heart was kinder than his guise; He only meant to cheat the devil, He only meant to civilize.

XVI

The maiden stopped and gazed about her, As undecided how to act.

How could she give her foe to slaughter Unless she reached the cataract? But soon a guileful thought befriended — A shift of Indian stratagem; Her ready paddle she extended, And up the river turned her stem. No doubt she hoped to see him wrestle In vain against the torrent's sweep, And founder like an iron pestle, Or take alone the awful leap. Away she flitted up the crystal Descent of ripples, glinting by; In vain our hero leveled pistol And sent a warning bullet nigh. He saw her 'scape; in vain he followed, Or strove to follow, where she hied; His clumsy float of timbers wallowed And slowly slipped adown the tide. Afar he saw the witch skedaddle Through shade and moonlight intertwined, And cursed the deftness of her paddle, And cursed the cunning of her kind. All night he fought with demon billows, And only when the morn arose, He reached a verdant bank of willows, And dumbly dropped, and found repose. An hour he slumbered; so he reckoned; And then, ashamed of sluggard rest, Arose to speed where duty beckoned Athwart the everlasting West.

XVII

Ere many days he heard a roar As though an angel stood before, An angel of the judgment-day, Who made his awful trumpet bray, Commanding time to be no more.

It was Niagara, the strong, The indescribable, the grand, Fulfilling all surrounding land With its amazing thunder-song, And lifting such a lofty pyre Of mists as though the seraph hosts And multitude of sainted ghosts Had truly gathered there in choir; While over all — above the flow Of emerald oceans leaping swift — Above the spectral folds and drift — Abode the sevenfold-tinted bow.

No marvel he whose wond'ring eyes Beheld this otherworldly scene, Discovered nothing there terrene, But solely thought of Paradise, Of seraphim with blinding wings, Of pearly gates and precious stones Too bright for earthly diadem; Yea, thought of all immortal things That dazzle souls of pardoned ones In God's supreme Jerusalem.

XVIII

And, gazing thus, the fancy came That here, where God appeared to sit, And earth resounded to His name, No evil sprite would dare to flit; And one might find a shady knoll Of rest for travel-wearied soul, And there, recumbent, watch the leap Of waters down the giant steep; Or slumber tranquilly as man Reposed when Tellus first began, Ere Satan crossed the slough of Chaos And brought his grisly son to slay us.

But this was error; had he dozed, His haught career had doubtless closed; For while he sought a sightly mound, His hunter ear discerned a sound Far different from plunging water — A clamor eloquent of slaughter. He heard a noise of singing men, And peering down a sunny glen. Enclosed by rustling curves of thicket, He spied a score of painted braves, A bloody gang of Mingo knaves, Jigging as hard as they could kick it.

XIX

Our hero needed but a glance To recognize the scalping dance, For right amid the stamping throng

Of savage revelers, there hung A dozen scalps of Saxon hair Bestained with deadly clots of red, And one with tresses flaxen-fair, A trophy torn from woman's head.

The sight was pitiful; he thought Of happy hamlets whelmed in flame, Of gladsome hearts to anguish brought, Of cord and torture, death and shame; Yea, thought of all the griefs and ghosts That filled those yelping mouths with boasts. One thought of sorrow; then another Of wrath; he swore to stop the breath Of every red-skin man and brother Who vaunted forth that song of death.

But he was one, and they were twenty; How could he strive at even betting? His pistol-balls were far from plenty, His sabre dull with rust of wetting. He saw that only Yankee cunning Could beat the herd of Bashan cattle, And strategy must set them running Before he ventured closer battle. So, while the mighty river thundered, And bragging Mingos yelled like lawyers, Our hero called to mind a hundred Bushfighting tricks of Indian warriors.

XX

"At last" (thus read his Commentaries) "I, Downing, rose upon my trotters,

An' shoved aside the leaves an' berries, An' hollered louder than the waters. They kinder harked, an' stopt their dancin,' An' sorter made a start to foller; But while they puzzled I was prancin' To git another hole to holler. I found it, an' agin I hooted, This time, I reckon, rather louder; Then squatted clost an' softly scooted Along the brushwood quicker'n powder. An' so from pint to pint I bellered Enough to shake Apollyon's courage, An' every time I done it, mellered Their sposhy hearts to softer porridge. I watched 'em, saw they wasn't steady, But flocked in shaky squads together, An' jedged that they were gittin' ready To sport the whitest kind of feather.

"At last I showed my regimentals: You oughter seen the creeturs travel! They s'posed a thousen continentals Had come to lay 'em under gravel. Away they scooted, all a-straddle To git aboard their flimsy birches, An', launchin' spry, begun to paddle Acrost the rapids frothy curchies. They scuffled smart, but man's resistance Was naught amidst the river's revels; I heern their deathsong in the distance, An' seen 'em die like Mingo devils. Then, bein' hungry as a sharky,

I made a dinner off their vittle, And also grabbed a birchen barky The coots had finished off to whittle."

XXI

If one should reach the gate of glory, And see beside it falchions bare And corpses lying pale and gory, No doubt he would be all a-stare.

No doubt his joyous heart would sadden, And he would look around him well For earthly arms wherewith to madden Against assailants fresh from Hell.

XXII

So wondering Downing changed in mood Beside Niagara's heavenly doors, — His battle ended with the brood Of Mingos hot from guiles and gores. If fiendish men defiled such place With vaunting over fiendish sin, He might expect the lorelei's face And all the peril hid therein. And so, when moonlit evening came, He stretched himself beside the brink Of waves bedight with argent flame, And watched without a nod or wink.

XXIII

She came; athwart the trembling shade That fringed a thicket-mantled isle, He saw a boat; he saw the maid Advance resplendent, sweet with guile. He loitered not, he launched his bark And drove it o'er the eddying mere, Although he held belief that stark And bony Death would seize him here. But here he faltered not to die, If only she might die with him; And how could even lorelei fly Destruction near that awful brim?

At first she paddled nigh to shore, But quickly changed to reckless flight, For Downing deftly used his oar And toiled with super-human might. Erelong, far out upon the flow Of ebon waves and snowy froth, They tossed and fluttered to and fro — A moth beside another moth. And then the condor-current caught And mastered them in demon claws; And all was over — every thought Of winning life, or even pause.

XXIV

No chance for human strength or skill! The river wrought its single will; It hurtled them as Winter flings

A leaf upon cyclonic wings; Each second drove them swifter on, And showed them death more nearly won; Until, anon, they saw or guessed The cataract's gleaming, hasting crest.

The hunter cast a glance before, And calmly dropped his useless oar. He gripped the thwarts and forward leaned With settled brow and glances keened; Nor did he gaze adown the surge, But on the forest demiurge; For much he feared lest even here Some wizard chance might waft her clear; And he was resolute as death To clutch her, though with drowning breath.

But, fixedly as he might glare, The maiden answered back his stare As fixedly, and all the while Allured him with a syren smile, As though she keenly longed to win His soul to deadly realms of sin. And thus, without a pause or let, With eyes upon each other set, Amid the rapid's foam and hiss, They sought the cataract's abyss.

XXV

As roars of lions welcomed those Who died in coliseums old; As earthquakes shout above the woes

They crush within their fiery hold; So thundered forth that rushing deep To those who shared its awful leap.

A fierce, incessant, deafening roll, Unmatched solemnity of sound, It shook the air, the solid ground, It stunned the senses, numbed the soul. It charmed in slaying, like the cry Of ambushed tigers charming one Who spies the monsters creeping nigh And hears them snarl, yet cannot run. Meanwhile the giant slayer had No hate nor triumph in its tone; No purpose, whether fierce or glad, But mastered them as things unknown. It saw them not, it felt them not; They were as creatures unbegot. They were a little froth — no more; A breath amid that rush and roar. They passed: no human word can tell How suddenly they came and went: One moment speeding tow'rd the hell Of surges: then afar, or spent.

They flitted like a random thought; Like ghosts they vanisht into naught; For, long before they reached the base Of that descending ocean, they Were folded white from foot to face In vasty winding-sheets of spray. Yea, there the hunter lost his prey, And drove alone, unknowing where,

Through fearful caves of maddened waves That whirled and hurtled even there, Like tigers struggling into graves And battling over corpses bare.

XXVI

The man who wanders far with death And peers within the ghostly gate Hath many wondrous facts to state If ever God restores his breath; And who can marvel that the wight Who plunged beneath Niagara's glooms, Believed his spirit winged its flight Afar within the realm of tombs?

Like favored souls of Grecian days When Gods delivered pythian lays, While yet the spirit-world was near, And man was there and then was here, Our hero passed the Stygian bounds And saw the Happy Hunting Grounds; Yea, many a famed and queenly squaw, And many a valiant sachem, saw Who drew the shaft against the ball In vain, but fell as freemen fall.

There, crowned with plumes of eagle-wing, Supreme amidst a glorious ring Of braves, appeared the dreadful chief Who bowed New England's head in grief, And whirled her villages in flame, And wrote in blood King Philip's name;

Unfading wrote it on the roll Of those heroic sons of dole Who strike for hearth and native land With heavy heart but heavier hand, And perish striking, yet live on As though they fell at Marathon.

The sachem cast an angry stare Upon the stranger's pallid face, As all amazed that even there Should come a man of English race; Then sternly bent his mighty bow And drew an arrow to the head So swiftly that the shaft was red Before the victim guessed the blow. The paleface felt a madding pain; He raised a feeble arm to strive; He hoped he might be still alive, Yet knew the weapon in his brain; And then he felt his body hurled By hands of superhuman might Through surging atmospheres of night Beyond the red-man's spirit-world.

No marvel Downing wrote with pen In later days, that underneath Niagara's tremendous seethe, Endures the heaven of Indian men; And there the awful sagamore Awaits in arms a promised day When he may hasten forth to slay, And win his forest realm once more.

XXVII

He rose to life through raging seas; He saw the sky, he caught the breeze; He found himself without a wound, Though gasping near to being drowned. He headed tow'rd the southern coast, And swam as never swam a ghost. In vain the rapids barred and banned; He tore his foaming way to land. A minute's panting rest, and then He stared about the rocky glen, And down the river's bubbly glare For her whose witchcraft brought him there.

Anon he saw her, living still And far beyond his power to kill. From dizzy cliffs above his head She leaned to spy if he were dead, And when he sought to win her shelf She fled as flies a frighted elf. He clutched for pistols all in vain; The torrent bore them tow'rd the main. Then, climbing swift, he won the dell Where lately rang the Mingo yell, And searched the thickets far and near For tomahawk, or bow, or spear.

Some angel helped; he quickly found A walnut bow of many a pound, And twenty arrows pictured o'er With quaint device of powwow lore; And, being skilled in Indian charms

He knew that these were fated arms Assured to slay each savage thing, However swift of foot or wing; Yea, also weird enough to smite Whatever wizard haunts the night.

Thus armed, he shouted, "Shoulder hoo!" And hasted westward, full of glee, To strive with beast and bugaboo And salvage grim and desert dree; Yet never backward turn his shoe, Nor ever fail in heart or knee; But tramp Columbia through and through From sunrise unto sunset sea; And do the deeds of derring-do That he could do, and only he.

XXVIII

The man who madly loves a maid, And prays, "O sweet! become my bride!" But finds his loving ill repaid, And sees his worship flung aside; Who learns that she will lure him on Through sorrow, peril, loss and strife Till hope is dead and life is done, Nor ever yet become his wife; How bitterly be yields to fate! How vengefully he turns to hate!

XXIX

So changed desire our errant knight Who lately strove with fervid might To find the beauteous child of wrath And shoo her out of Satan's path, Yet gathered naught for all his pains But travel-stains and weary reins 'Mid fastings, vigils, marches, squalls And summersets down waterfalls; In short, who lavished love and faith To save a savage (or a wraith), Yet saw his kindness paid with evil Enough to tire the very devil.

His fervor cooled; he loathed the thought Of meeting yet again her face; He marveled how he ever sought To do her any deed of grace. The memory of her jeweled glance No longer set his heart astir; It seemed as though the sight of her Would make him curse and turn askance. He even loathed the mighty West, And loathed the very setting sun, But might not leave his task undone Without a smirch upon his crest. No marvel Downing changed in mind, For far ahead the maiden flew, And when he saw her face anew The continent was half behind.

XXX

Yea, many setting suns he kenned, And not a few of waning moons, Primeval shades withouten end, Or rivers, marshes, lakes, lagoons, Before he spied that lass agen Whose guileful beauty murdered men. Yet oft beneath the pearl of dawn, And oft in sunset's glowing rim, (Distinct, although so far withdrawn) He saw her gracious figure swim, As valiant natures always spy Their prey ahead, if not anigh.

Thus brightly dazzled on, he spanned The Mississippi's turbid throng Of waves to wastes of flowery land; Nor halted yet, but fared along To where the tides of buffalo Hid earth beneath their ebb and flow. The panther scented at his track, And cantered off in stealthy flight; The prairie-wolves' lugubrious pack Beset his lonely bed till light; A drove of horses stared aloof And pranced anear on stormy hoof.

XXXI

He made a noose; he climbed a tree And waited for a chance to cast; Anon he softly laughed to see

The desert coursers grazing past; The lariat fell with easy slide, And Downing had a horse to ride. He mounted while the savage rose, And flew as though on eagle's wing. No need of chirruping or blows; No need of aught but strength to cling. If ever wight rode madder course, 'Twas fated knight on demon horse.

In after years our hero wrote (And printed, too, in text and note) That this extremely welcome steed Was not a jade of earthly breed, But sent from Paradise or Hell To work him either weal or wail, Though which no theologue could tell, Nor chief of Harvard or of Yale. But this, perforce, we now believe: No common charger might achieve That arrowy rush, without a rest, Across the broad, primeval West; And certainly the headlong beast Was frightfully bewitched, at least.

XXXII

On Downing went; the desert flung Its doors agape to let him in; And curious desert creatures hung Upon his track with various din. Grey wolves pursued him, lolling fire

And dropping foam of fierce desire For hours and hours along his trail; But found their iron muscles fail And ceased to howl each other on, And vanished rearward one by one.

Simooms of horses rushed to meet His coming, joined him, kept beside With straining neck and glinting feet And fiery eyes and foamy hide; And so would run the livelong day, Till, wearied by his courser's stride, They fell behind with wistful neigh And stared afar to see him ride.

Uncounted bison thronged his flight And westward flowed like tiding night. They darkened leagues of treeless land, And billowed close on either hand With lurching hump and drooping head And frothing mouth and glances red; Yet sought no more to fight than flee, And only surged beside his knee, A dumb, uncouth, unreasoning throng Which knew not why it toiled along. For hours he drove through plunging ranks Whose foam besprent his stallion's flanks; For hours he scarcely saw the ground, So thickly was he compassed round; For dusty miles on dusty miles He rode from jostling files to files; Yet surely won his way before, And found himself alone once more.

XXXIII

Grim horsemen, mounted like to him On sinewy coursers wild as deer, Arrived from desert edges dim, With bow and quiver, shield and spear, Their deerskins tossing on the air, Their eyes aflame through ebon hair. But when they spied the paleface nigh, They whirled away with fearful cry And rode athwart the rimless plain, Low-bowed above the streaming mane, As rideth one who flies a sprite, Or fiend, or other parlous sight.

Again, for days he saw no face. The land was manless where he came, As though he drove the human race Before him like a prairie flame. The only man alive he seemed, The last upon a sentenced earth; For him alone the sunrise beamed, For him the rainbow had its birth. Yet, whether palled in solitude,. Or compassed round by salvage brood, He rode with eager heart and gay, Because afar he saw his prey And closed upon her day by day.

XXXIV

The witches float on airy pinions From setting sun to morning glow, And find delight in weird dominions Where saintly maid may never go.

For them the rugged way is level, For them the darkling hour is bright; They soar from revel on to revel, From waltz to song the livelong night.

I trow the angels and the pardoned Are often envious in their gaze. Because they see the spirits hardened Float smiling down forbidden ways.

Ah, few divine the dreary labor, The keen regret, the grim despair, Of those who dance to pipe and tabor With splendid princes of the air.

They only know their matchless sadness, Their blighted hopes, their wasted years; They know they are not sprites of gladness, But prisoners of fears and tears.

XXXV

And such was she, the witch who hurried Our knight across the desert plain; Her cheek was wan, her glance a-worried, Her body faint, her soul in pain. She fled on drooping plumes of sorrow,

On wings of fright she journeyed west, And often prayed to see no morrow, If death might bring her any rest.To God — the god of chiefs and sages — The Mighty Soul of painted braves — Who ruled our land in olden ages, Before the paleface crossed the waves — To him, the Sire of Earth and Water, The Sagamore of Winds and Skies, She pleaded, "Father, help thy daughter! Thy weary daughter, ere she dies!"

But gods of faint and fading races Are gods deposed, and gods no more. No more they throne in lofty places, No longer wield the bolts of yore. No more they levin through the mountain, No longer storm along the deep; Their light has died on brook and fountain, Their oracles have sunk to sleep. They are but fiends and spirits fallen, But brownies, loreleis, elves and fays; They cannot help the souls who call on Their names, or help in feeble ways.

So chanced it now with her who needed Such aid as nothing might withstand; The deity to whom she pleaded Had lost the thunder from his hand. The Master of the Indian Aidenn, Bereft of half his ancient might, Could do no more to save his maiden Than send a beast to shield her flight.

XXXVI

At last our rider reached the border Of stony steeps that fenced the plains, And plunged amid a grim disorder Of arid gorges delved by rains; When suddenly he spied before him A living hill of shaggy hair, Equipped with mighty tusks to gore him And trunk to fling him into air.

This was the pest of early races, The Giant Bull of Indian creed, The mastodon of college cases, The finis of his precious breed. No words can tell how vast a creature He was in height and length and girth, How terrible in mien and feature, And how his trampling shook the earth. His orbits, broad as coffee-saucers, Shot flames from under grisly locks; His codex, thick as frigate-hawsers, Uprooted oaks and splintered rocks.

No doubt the boundless brute had frighted Most heroes into fits of fear; And Downing's self was scarce delighted To see a mastodon so near. In haste he waved his hat and helloed To make the monster clear the path; The monster stood his ground, and bellowed As loud as Etna in its wrath. The courser disappeared in terror

So quick and slick that Downing thought That he perchance had been in error In holding that a horse he brought. But there was little time for wonder Because his pony flew — or ran; The mammoth roared again like thunder, And charged as only mammoths can.

XXXVII

"The monster give me lots of trouble," Says Downing in his pictured page; "He allays charged upon the double, In spite of his unusyal age. I had to skip like forty crickets To dodge his vicious pokes an' hits; For, as to skulkin' 'mongst the thickets, He'd ripped a wilderness to bits.

"He charged an' charged an' kep' a-chargin', As full of friskiness as spunk, An' onst there warn't a finger's margin Betwixt my bacon an' his trunk.

'"I used the powwow's bow an' arrer, Bewitched to kill at every lick; An' every time he passed, I'd harrer His highness with a whizzin' stick. But, all the same, the pesky creetur Would face about an' buck agin, Nor didn't show in limb or feetur The slightest sign of givin' in. I had an awful lengthy battle

Afore I fetched a drop of blood, An' want no more to do with cattle Who orter drowned in Noah's flood.

"At last I sorter recollected, While restin' on my twentieth pull, How finely mammoths are purtected By that tremenjous clip of wool. So when the obstinate old bison Discharged another cannon-roar, I sent a yard of powwow-pizen Full-chisel down his yawnin' bore. The venom took like scarlet fever; He stopped his rush an' stood aghast, An' presently begun to weever An' tremble like a fallin' mast. His awful sasser-eyes were glassy, His tongue was furred, his trotters sagged; Then down he slammed! good lordamassy! The biggest game I ever bagged!"

XXXVIII

Yes, there he lay, defunct and gory, A mastodon, an adult male; And whoso doubts the wonder-story May see the skeleton at Yale. Right welcome was the brawny sinner To Downing, hungrier than a stork; He sliced a tenderloin for dinner, And used his sword for knife and fork: The only knight of all the ages

Since Eros sang to fife and tabor, Or Clio told of Ares' rages, Who carved a mammoth with his sabre.

His hunger gone, he dozed a bit, And then resumed his westward track, Regretting much his wizard hack, Although the brute was hard to sit; For still, through morning's veil of grey, Or sunset's glowing fleece of red, He often saw the Indian fay Flit weary on, not far ahead, And, had his steed not taken leave, He might have bagged her any eve.

XXXIX

At last he reached an elfin land, A land where magic reigned supreme, Fulfilled with shapes on every hand More nondescript than shapes of dream; For here (as Downing often told) Titanic powwows, famed of old Before Manitto lost his throne, Had wrought their sorceries in stone.

Aloft, around, enchantments frowned, Tall obelisk, colossal mound, Rotunda, facade, temple-wall, Keep, citadel, palatial hall, Or endless burghs of spire and dome, All sentinelled with imp and gnome, Who scowled in flinty wrath or woe

To see the paleface tramp below.

Again, the desert glittered bright With many colors, mingled stains, Red, orange, purple, green and white, Blue, sable, lilac, longdrawn veins, That painted countless winding fells, And beetling cliffs and herbless plains, Or filled with witchcraft shadowy dells; While here and there a magic wood Of fallen stony trunks bestrewed The vales with crimson jasper stems, Or agate fit for diadems, Or opal-tinted chalcedon: The wizard-wolds of ages gone, The wreck of primal hill and dale, Swept down the wonder-stream of time From hoary days of Saturn's prime When monsters tracked the tender shale And dragons soared above the slime.

XL

It seemed a mirage built of air, Or boreal tints, or bubbles, wrought To glow a moment false and fair, Then vanish sparkling into naught. It seemed no mortal land; it glared Too prodigal in hue for earth; It seemed a land that fiends had dared To make in malice or in mirth; A land of goblin shapes and tints,

Devised by seraphim perverse, Full many wicked ages since, To mock the Maker's universe.

Perchance the maiden hoped that here, Where magic made its dwelling-place, Her tracking foe might tread in fear, Relax his pace, forsake his chase; Or quit the cumbered way and roam, Forever circling, till he died, Like one who seeks without a guide To thread a Roman catacomb.

But on he tramped with fearless stride From elfin tower to demon hall, Along the base of wizard wall, Through Stygian forest stricken prone, Through pandemoniums of stone, Forever forward, ever west; A dogging phantom, scorning rest, Who never lost his quarry's track, Nor left a footprint pointing back; A cruel spectre fell as hate, Preluding vast pursuing broods, The first of deadly multitudes, Precursor, herald, omen, fate!

XLI

So faring on from sight to sight, He stumbled soon on ventures new, Which none would dare receive for true, Except that Downing's self did write

The prodigies with trusty pen, And tell them oft to thankful men.

The Painted Land was lately past, And Downing strode a windy flat Of gravel, when he heard a pat Of footfalls coming like a blast; And, glaring back, he saw a herd Of pigmy steeds pursuing fast With steaming mouth and flying mane, Although no human rider spurred, Nor had they ever known the rein. They skirred like cats; they skimmed the ground; And none was taller than a hound. They sped like wind; they overran And circled round that lonely man, Menacing, scarce a rod aloof, The weirdest nags since Noah's flood; For every one had cloven hoof, The signature of fiendish blood.

No man divineth whence they came: Perhaps from Eblis-caves of flame: Perhaps from wildernesses known To imps and sorcerers alone; But certainly they thronged to aid The hunted Wampanoag maid.

XLII

Our hero had a lovely fight, The strangest known to mortal wight, A scrap with ponies devil-born,

Who threshed him like a sheaf of corn. The air was full of talon-feet, All banging Downing's sacred meat. In vain he charged the elfin foes; His valor won but harder blows. In vain he sabred, vainly shot; The ponies paid him hot-and-hot. His carcass bore the dints and nicks Of something like two hundred kicks. No other champion known to fame Such drumming ever got, or shame, As Downing in his famous row With palfreys footed like a cow.

At last, when battle seemed in vain, And Paradise too near and plain, A dusty whirlwind brought him aid, As Cyprian Venus, robed in shade, Through Ilian sunlight flew to save Her Phrygian prince from Grecian glaive. Our Yankee spake no parting word, But darted panting through the herd, And, scuttling fifty yards unseen, Attained a river's huge ravine, Where, scrambling o'er the rocky edge, He perched upon a dizzy ledge.

A moment's peace, a moment's breath, And then, with piercing, cattish neigh, Those quadrupeds of Satan tore To seek their prey and catch their death; For, plunging o'er the rocky brae, And tumbling half a mile or more,

They perished all that very day,As scholars know who thither go To find their skeletons below.

XLIII

Full little recked our errant knight What coursers these might be, or when They bursted out of primal night To batter paleolithic men; For, staring down with gladsome soul, To watch the cursed pigmies roll, He saw a spectacle that reft His mind from everything beside; He saw a mighty river stride In frenzy through a mountain cleft, — A river that fulfilled his gaze With something wilder than amaze.

A thousand yards below the eye It foamed, between titanic walls So dizzy high they seemed anigh, Though far apart for trumpet-calls. And both the lofty ramparts frowned In shapes like masonries of man: Swart fortresses a league around, Dike, castle, turret, barbican, Or altars, temples, pagods vast, Where stony demons scowled aghast; Yea, everywhere the fiends had built Some lair of cruelty and guilt As huge and grim and horrible As are the palaces of Hell.

Below, — far down, — alone, — in gloom, — The haunting Jinn of a giant tomb — A river hurled its glittering spume, — A prisoned sprite that sought to flee — A captive mad to reach the sea And perish there, but perish free.

XLIV

In any world of sin or bliss No other river is like this, So horrible, so stern, so sad, So dungeoned close, so raving mad. It seems an angel fallen, curst, Forever ruined, knowing the worst, Abhorred, pursued and scourged for crime, Yet ever fierce, superb, sublime, And grandly suffering alone, Like Satan on his burning throne.

And he who gazed upon it then Believed he gazed on demon tide, Right perilous to lives of men, And perilous to souls beside; Yet faltered not to follow it, For, far along the awful moat, He saw the wizard maiden sit A billow-tost and fleeting boat.

He knew his prey; he left the brow; He won the base, no matter how; Such heroes win whatever aim, Though death confront and Eblis flame. The strand attained, he bounded swift

O'er frothing rift and bowlder drift Until he found a frowsy kraal, Half burrowed 'neath the mountain wall, Whose naked folk had fled before That avalanche of eldritch steeds, But left upon their darkling shore A skiff that suited Downing's needs. He launched in waves of speeding snow, He made the lumpish paddle quiver, And flew as though Apollo's bow Had sent him whizzing down the river.

XLV

I trow that every stream enchanted Is passing glorious to behold; I trow its magic banks are haunted By goblin lords of mighty mould.

I trow those demons live in pleasure, Begirt with tower and castle wall, And often tread the festive measure, And banquet oft in princely hall.

And whoso reaches those dominions, They look adown and beck him in Because they long for earthly minions To serve for them at feasts of sin.

Ah, bitter woe to dazzled mortals Who enter where the fiends ordain! For none who pass those iron portals Shall issue forth or smile again.

Yea, also woe to spirits daring Who shake the head and hasten by! For griefs will follow their wayfaring Until they envy those who die.

No, neither just nor evil liver May wholly 'scape from hazards fell, Who ventures down enchanted river And dares the seraphim of Hell.

XLVI

However fair to fiendish sprites That magic valley may have been, It gloomed to Downing's troubled een The horriblest of earthly sights. On every side the horizon Was half a league above his head; The welkin was an azure thread 'Twixt dizzy walls of jagged stone. He saw no blooming, verdant thing, Nor any beast, nor any bird; That woful torrent never heard The heavenly sound of song or wing.

The lanskip seemed a part of Hell, Except that smoke and flame had failed; You marveled why no demon sailed With shrieks along the fearful dell. It had a countenance like sin, It had a countenance like death; The gazer almost lost his breath To think that he was caged therein.

It bosomed many monstrous seats Of ruin, marvelous in form; And every one upheld a swarm Of stony goblins and afreets.

Yea, every cyclopean hold, Keep, turret, castle, knightly pile, Pagoda, temple, altar, aisle, Was browed with devils manifold. From every face and front and height The surly horrors glared adown, Some forward leaned with spiteful frown, Some starting back in hideous fright. On every flinty lip a curse Of ghoulish hate was petrified, As though malignantly they died, Impenitent, for aye perverse. Words cannot tell how fierce they were, Nor how their horror filled the place; It seemed that never hope of grace Might visit him who wandered there.

XLVII

Beneath these altitudes of woe The cursed river, far below, Fled arrow-like with endless moan Along a groove of solid stone; Now speeding sheets of lucent glass Adown a straight and roomy pass; Now tossing crests of angry foam By thwarting pinnacle and dome;

Now charging over waterfalls With glinting hoofs and trumpet-calls; Forever mad to reach the main, To 'scape its dungeon, break its chain.

The jinns of that infernal land Pursued our knight with heavy hand, And vexed him sore for venturing in Their realm of punishment and sin. A dozen cataracts a day He ran in hissing foam and spray; A dozen times he lost his boat, Rejoiced if he himself could float; A dozen times, if not a score, He swam to gather bark and oar; And recommenced with constant soul His venture down the stream of dole.

A month he chased the flying maid, And then another, undismayed By coiling eddy, leaping wave, By deserts lonesome as the grave, By goblin palace, wizard lair, By impish scowl or ghoulish glare. But eftersoon (while flitting swift Along a shadowy mountain rift, A dizzy mile from brow to base, Where never midday showed its face) He met a host of savage foes And half rejoiced to feel their blows, So dreary was his soul, so fain To greet some living wight again.

XLVIII

No doubt the centuries of old, Ere Adam walked in Paradise, Had beasts of various monstrous mould Whose forms would thunderstrike our eyes. But none of those abnormal shapes Would fright us nearer unto death Than certain birds, as big as apes, Whose yardlong bills were fringed with teeth. Such nondescripts, the very last Of their primeval, devilish breed, Now hasted swift as mountain blast To serve the Wampanoag's need.

In all the years that Downing fought He waged no madder, wilder strife; And more than once he grimly thought Those snapping fowl would end his life. They wheeled above with deafening shriek, They banged with pinion, tore with beak, And fetched the gore in many a streak. In vain he hurtled blow on blow; His sabre merely gashed the air. In vain he drew his wizard bow; The creatures dodged, with room to spare. At last, despairing how to win The puzzling fight by martial might, The fancy came that he might grin The feathered pests to death, or flight.

Like Crockett he could grin the bark Off gnarled and knotty oaken trees

And leave the awestruck wood as stark And glossy as a Holland cheese. But how should merely human jaws Excel in grinning goblin things Who had as many teeth as saws, And bills outmeasuring their wings? They formed a circle round the chief And grinned as only they knew how; They smirked him nearly blind and deaf, They smiled him raw from chin to brow. They grinned his epaulets to dust, The lace and buttons from his suit; They grinned his scabbard clean of rust, They nearly grinned him to a brute. The hero's strategy was lost On hostiles built for dental fame; And so, in anguish terror-tost, He sabred on till evening came.

XLIX

Till evening came he sabred on, And then the victory was won; For Beelzebub had made his fowls With other views of life than owls. They dropped asleep at sunset hour Precisely like a closing flower, Nor ever knew what happened next; For Downing, panting forth a text Of jubilee, put sword in sheath, And sawed their heads off with their teeth.

Again victorious in fight, He dallied not till morning light, But dared the murky stream and flew To prodigies and perils new. Another day, aye many more He quivered swiftly down the roar And spume of that enchanted tide, With goblin sights on every side, So nondescript in shape and size, So madly marvelous in dies, So otherworldly and unsightly, That he alone can paint them rightly.

L

"I'll do my very best endeavor," He writes in tones of modest doubt, "To give a notion of the river An' countries piled up roundabout. The banks got loftier an' steeper A mile or two from top to base; While, underneath, the trough got deeper, The current speedier in pace.

"I spanked along through signs an' wonders Tremenjous big, but all in ruins, Which seemed to me like Satan's blunders, Instead of Heavenly Wisdom's doins. I saw pagodas, domes, pavilions Consid'able like works of Hindoos, With spires an' pinnacles by millions, An' hoss-shoe doors an' p'inted windows;

No eend of battlements an' ditches, Redoubts an' bastions, gates an' towers, As though the fallen spooks an' witches Expected siege by angel powers; And, now an' then, a mile-long frigate Aground upon a mile-high crag, With goblins bustlin' round to rig it, Or histin' up old Nipton's flag; Besides the most enormous picturs! A mile of paint at every whack! Red, yaller, purple, speckled mixturs, Or grizzled, foxy, green an' black.

"In idol-fixins there were Dagons An' Baals an' Molochs by the hunderd, An' many other gods of pagans, The biggest part all cracked an' sundered. No eend of shapes from morn to sundown Of every size an' every kind; Three hundred miles my barky run down Afore I left the town behind. An' nawthin' right, or straight, or solid From north to south; it seemed a pity Hard-workin' imps should be so stolid, An' only build a ruined city.

LI

"In short, the place was awful leaky, An' skussly fit to shelter codgers; But, shaky though it was an' leaky, It had a swarmin' swath of lodgers.

On every side were tribes an' nations Of spooks an' fiends as black as jet, Who sot outside their habitations, As though the rooms were overhet. At first I felt a leetle skeery To see 'em standin' round so large; But purty soon I got more cheery An' quite disposed to make a charge; Because I presently diskivered, By dint of boldly pokin' round, The struttin' fiends were chicken-livered An' not the chaps to hold their ground. I couldn't make 'em face a scrimmage, For when they spied old Downing come, They had a way of changin' image To make believe they wer'n't to hum. They looked Apollyons, fierce an' furious Enough to make apostles run; But when you mounted 'em 'twas curious How suddintly they'd turn to stun.

"To wit, I cruised around a castle Ten times as big as Bunker Hill, Where devils challenged me to wrastle On every stoop an' winder-sill. But when I landed clost below it, With hopes to capture what was in it, The foxy creeturs seemed to know it, An' changed to granite in a minute. 'Twas jest the same in forty places: I'd see the longtailed imps in flocks, A-bendin' down their hornèd faces;

An' then I'd reach a pile of rocks. I couldn't find a hoof or feather, Nor catch a whiff of brimstun smell; But all the same, I'd bet a wether I traveled through a part of hell."

LII

So sturdy Downing wandered down The wizard canon of the West, And only saw a Stygian town Where some would spy the mansions blest, Or pillared jinn, or chained afreet, Or hear the loreleis chanting sweet.

Its solemn gulfs and awful steeps, Its crests and pinnacles sublime, Its giant cities, hurled in heaps, Its wondrous mimicry and mime Of every mighty work that man Has builded since the world began, Its glories all, were naught to him But lairs of fiendish seraphim. A solid knight of common sense, A puritan of faith intense, He knew Apollyon's sooty face Behind the veil of fay or grace; He saw his gloomy wings o'erspread Sublime abyss or mountain head, And felt his deadly malice quiver In every fair enchanted river.

But like the most of humankind,

He found the things he looked to find; He found the demons and their power From early dawn to sunset hour; He felt their poisoned talons rive Wherever he might drive or strive; And here especially he knew The crowming rage of Satan's crew, The utmost malice Hell could brew. Full oft its spunkies overset His skiff and left him dripping wet; Or dragged him like a helpless girl For hours around an eddy's whirl; Or slung him like a javelin Adown a cataract's foaming din. From morn to night they plagued his path; For many a day he felt their wrath.

LIII

At last he 'scaped that realm accurst; Athwart its southern gate he burst. He saw the demon ramparts rise Behind, against the northern skies. The river dimpled smooth and clear Through forests gay with flowery dies, And songs of birds rejoiced his ear. The world was still alive, he knew, And knew it with a glad surprise, And almost wept to find it true, Such thankful heartbeats reached his eyes.

He glanced ahead; he spied his prey, And cheerly hasted on his way, Like one who sees a prize anear, A glorious guerdon long since due, The wage of many a toilsome year, A trophy sought since life was new. He felt athirst; he dipped his hand, And found the savor of the sea; The continent was past, and he Had entered into sunset-land. That hour the Wampanoag lost Her witchcraft, — lost her strength to fly; He saw her useless paddle crossed, Her visage drooped as though to die. He reached and clutched her nerveless arm; He dragged her in his own canoe; Then sate and gazed, nor offered harm, For sudden pity smote him through.

LIV

She veiled her head to welcome death; She uttered not a pleading breath.

He seemed to have before his face The very last of a fallen race, The last of many a tribe and clan, The final soul of red-skinned man. He could not even wish to slay A thing so pitiful and meek. Instead, he raised his hand to stay A tear from sliding down his cheek.

He felt like one who journeys slow In some funereal train of woe, And cannot find a bitter word, Although the corpse to be interred Was once his hated, harmful foe.

Awhile they floated down the tide, And still the maiden never sighed, Nor uttered any speech of wail, Although perhaps her spirit cried To gods who helped her sires prevail, Or bravely bear the mortal blow, In forest battles long ago. At last there came a gentle shiver, And calmly lifting up her veil, She showed a visage wan and pale, But full of witchery as ever. One glance aloft, to morning's glow, That seemed to say, "Manitto, hail!" Then softly rocking to and fro, She poured her deathsong o'er the river.

LV

I am of Wampanoag race; I come of many sagamores. My fathers saw the white man's face. And gave it welcome to their shores. They welcomed it, and where are they? Who was it trampled them to clay?

I bear the blood of Metacom,* 1.2 The chief of Wampanoag chiefs. He struck to save his forest home, He struck at insolence and griefs. Aye, who forgot his father's name, And broke his brother's heart with shame?

He filled New England earth with graves; He filled New England air with fire; He slew a thousand paleface braves; Slew child and mother with the sire; He paid the blood-debt every whit, And I am glad to think of it.

Where are the warriors of my clan? They sleep as sleep the valiant dead. There was no Wampanoag man But fell with hatchet dripping red. Your longknives heard their dying groans; Your ploughshares grate among their bones.

They left to me what freemen could Who perished for their homes in vain; They left a heritage of blood, Of vengeance crazing heart and brain; A mission to avenge their fate, A deathless heritage of hate.

But now my lifelong task is done, For I have reached the further West, The ocean of the setting sun, Where all our homeless tribes will rest, Will halt beside the pathless deep And sing their funeral songs, and sleep.

Thank Heaven! the paleface cannot save! He cannot put aside my hour. I would not live to be a slave, Nor even honored in his power. I come, O Metacom, to thee, As fits a Wampanoag, free!

____

She ended here her funeral chant, And while her captor harkened still, She rose and threw herself aslant So quick he could not check her will — So quick he hardly drew a breath Before she passed the gate of death.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The birch-bark canoe is paddled kneeling.
• * 1.2

  The Indian name of King Philip. His elder brother, imprisoned in profound peace by the settlers, died of humiliation. His wife and son were sold into slavery in the West Indies.