THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA.

RAZE these long blocks of brick and stone,

These huge mill-monsters overgrown;

Blot out the humbler piles as well,

Where, moved like living shuttles, dwell

The weaving genii of the bell;

Tear from the wild Cocheco's track

The dams that hold its torrents back;

And let the loud-rejoicing fall

Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall;

And let the Indian's paddle play

On the unbridged Piscataqua!

Wide over hill and valley spread

Once more the forest, dusk and dread,

With here and there a clearing cut

From the walled shadows round it shut;

Each with its farm-house builded rude,

By English yeoman squared and hewed,

And the grim, flankered block-house bound

With bristling palisades around.

So, haply shall before thine eyes

The dusty veil of centuries rise,

The old, strange scenery overlay

The tamer pictures of to-day,

While, like the actors in a play,

Pass in their ancient guise along

The figures of my border song

What time beside Cocheco's flood

The white man and the red man stood,

With words of peace and brotherhood;

When passed the sacred calumet

From lip to lip with fire-draught wet,

And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's smoke

Through the gray beard of Waldron broke,

And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea

For mercy, struck the haughty key

Of one who held, in any fate,

His native pride inviolate!

“Let your ears be opened wide!

He who speaks has never lied.

Waldron of Piscataqua,

Hear what Squando has to say!

“Squando shuts his eyes and sees,

Far off, Saco's hemlock-trees.

In his wigwam, still as stone,

Sits a woman all alone,

“Wampum beads and birchen strands

Dropping from her careless hands,

Listening ever for the fleet

Patter of a dead child's feet!

“When the moon a year ago

Told the flowers the time to blow,

In that lonely wigwam smiled

Menewee, our little child.

“Ere that moon grew thin and old,

He was lying still and cold;

Sent before us, weak and small,

When the Master did not call!

“On his little grave I lay;

Three times went and came the day,

Thrice above me blazed the noon,

Thrice upon me wept the moon.

“In the third night-watch I heard,

Far and low, a spirit-bird;

Very mournful, very wild,

Sang the totem of my child.

“‘ Menewee, poor Menewee,

Walks a path he cannot see

Let the white man's wigwam light

With its blaze his steps aright.

“‘ All-uncalled, he dares not show

Empty hands to Manito

Better gifts he cannot bear

Than the scalps his slayers wear.’

“All the while the totem sang,

Lightning blazed and thunder rang;

And a black cloud, reaching high,

Pulled the white moon from the sky.

“I, the medicine-man, whose ear

All that spirits bear can hear,—

I, whose eyes are wide to see

All the things that are to be,—

“Well I knew the dreadful signs

In the whispers of the pines,

In the river roaring loud,

In the mutter of the cloud.

“At the breaking of the day,

From the grave I passed away;

Flowers bloomed round me, birds sang glad,

But my heart was hot and mad.

“There is rust on Squando's knife,

From the warm, red springs of life;

On the funeral hemlock-trees

Many a scalp the totem sees.

“Blood for blood! But evermore

Squando's heart is sad and sore;

And his poor squaw waits at home

For the feet that never come!

“Waldron of Cocheco, hear!

Squando speaks, who laughs at fear;

Take the captives he has ta'en;

Let the land have peace again!”

As the words died on his tongue,

Wide apart his warriors swung;

Parted, at the sign he gave,

Right and left, like Egypt's wave.

And, like Israel passing free

Through the prophet-charmed sea,

Captive mother, wife, and child

Through the dusky terror filed.

One alone, a little maid,

Middleway her steps delayed,

Glancing, with quick, troubled sight,

Round about from red to white.

Then his hand the Indian laid

On the little maiden's head,

Lightly from her forehead fair

Smoothing back her yellow hair.

“Gift or favor ask I none;

What I have is all my own

Never yet the birds have sung,

Squando hath a beggar's tongue.’

“Yet for her who waits at home,

For the dead who cannot come,

Let the little Gold-hair be

In the place of Menewee!

“Mishanock, my little star!

Come to Saco's pines afar;

Where the sad one waits at home,

Wequashim, my moonlight, come!”

“What!” quoth Waldron, “leave a child

Christian-born to heathens wild?

As God lives, from Satan's hand

I will pluck her as a brand!”

“Hear me, white man!” Squando cried;

“Let the little one decide.

Wequashim, my moonlight, say,

Wilt thou go with me, or stay?”

Slowly, sadly, half afraid,

Half regretfully, the maid

Owned the ties of blood and race,—

Turned from Squando's pleading face.

Not a word the Indian spoke,

But his wampum chain he broke,

And the beaded wonder hung

On that neck so fair and young.

Silence-shod, as phantoms seem

In the marches of a dream,

Single-filed, the grim array

Through the pine-trees wound away.

Doubting, trembling, sore amazed,

Through her tears the young child gazed.

“God preserve her!” Waldron said;

“Satan hath bewitched the maid!”

Years went and came. At close of day

Singing came a child from play,

Tossing from her loose-locked head

Gold in sunshine, brown in shade.

Pride was in the mother's look,

But her head she gravely shook,

And with lips that fondly smiled

Feigned to chide her truant child.

Unabashed, the maid began

“Up and down the brook I ran,

Where, beneath the bank so steep,

Lie the spotted trout asleep.

“‘ Chip!’ went squirrel on the wall,

After me I heard him call,

And the cat-bird on the tree

Tried his best to mimic me.

“Where the hemlocks grew so dark

That I stopped to look and hark,

On a log, with feather-hat,

By the path, an Indian sat.

“Then I cried, and ran away;

But he called, and bade me stay;

And his voice was good and mild

As my mother's to her child.

“And he took my wampum chain,

Looked and looked it o'er again;

Gave me berries, and, beside,

On my neck a plaything tied.”

Straight the mother stooped to see

What the Indian's gift might be.

On the braid of wampum hung,

Lo! a cross of silver swung.

Well she knew its graven sign,

Squando's bird and totem pine;

And, a mirage of the brain,

Flowed her childhood back again.

Flashed the roof the sunshine through,

Into space the walls outgrew;

On the Indian's wigwam-mat,

Blossom-crowned, again she sat.

Cool she felt the west-wind blow,

In her ear the pines sang low,

And, like links from out a chain,

Dropped the years of care and pain.

From the outward toil and din,

From the griefs that gnaw within,

To the freedom of the woods

Called the birds, and winds, and floods.

Well, O painful minister!

Watch thy flock, but blame not her,

If her ear grew sharp to hear

All their voices whispering near.

Blame her not, as to her soul

All the desert's glamour stole,

That a tear for childhood's loss

Dropped upon the Indian's cross.

When, that night, the Book was read,

And she bowed her widowed head,

And a prayer for each loved name

Rose like incense from a flame,

With a hope the creeds forbid

In her pitying bosom hid,

To the listening ear of Heaven

Lo! the Indian's name was given.