Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

THE MOHEGAN CHURCH.

AMID those hills, with verdure spread, The red-brow'd hunter's arrow sped,— And o'er those waters, sheen and blue, He boldly launched his bark canoe, While through the forests glanc'd like light The flying wild deer's antler bright.— Ask ye for hamlet's peopled bound, With cone-roofed cabins circled round? For chieftain brave? for warrior proud, In nature's majesty unbowed? You've seen the fleeting shadow fly, The foam upon the billows die,— The floating vapour leave no trace,— Such was their path—that fated race.

Say ye, that kings, with lofty port, Here held their stern and simple court?— That here, with gestures rudely bold Stern orators the throng controll'd?— Methinks, even now, on tempest wings, The thunder of their war-shout rings,

Methinks again with reddening spireThe groves reflect their council fire.— No!—No!—in darkness rest the throng, Despair hath checked the tide of song,— Dust dimm'd their glory's ray. But can these staunch their bleeding wrong, Or quell remembrance fierce and strong? Recording angel, say!

I mark'd where once a fortress frown'd, High o'er the blood-cemented ground, And many a deed that savage tower Might tell, to chill the midnight hour;— But now, its ruins strangely bear Fruits, that the gentlest hand might share; For there, a hallowed dome* 1.1 imparts The lore of Heaven to listening hearts; And forms like those which lingering staid, Latest 'neath Calvary's awful shade, And earliest pierced the gathered gloom To watch a Saviour's lowly tomb, Such forms have soothed the Indian's ire, And bade for him, that dome aspire.

Now, where tradition, ghostly pale, With ancient horrors loads the vale, And shuddering weaves, in crimson loom Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom, There shall the Saviour's ritual rise, And peaceful hymns invoke the skies.— Crushed race!—so long condemned to moan, Scorned,—rifled,—spiritless, and lone, From pagan rites, from sorrow's maze, Turn to these temple-gates with praise: Yes, turn and bless the usurping band That rent away your fathers' land; Forgive the wrong—suppress the blame, And view with Faith's fraternal claim, Your God—your hope—your heaven the same.

Notes

• * 1.1

  On the ruins of a fort in the territory of the once powerful tribe of Mohegans, in the vicinity of Norwich, Connecticut, a small and neat church has been erected, and the services of a missionary engaged,—principally through the influence of the benevolence of females.