John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Narrative and Legendary PoemsThe Bridal of Pennacook
VI. At Pennacook
T
Have climbed the earliest; and the streams most sweet
Are ever those at which our young lips drank,
Stooped to their waters o’er the grassy bank.
Shines round the helmsman plunging through the night;
And still, with inward eye, the traveller sees
In close, dark, stranger streets his native trees.
By breezes whispering of his native land,
And on the stranger’s dim and dying eye
The soft, sweet pictures of his childhood lie.
A child upon her father’s wigwam floor!
Once more with her old fondness to beguile
From his cold eye the strange light of a smile.
The dry leaves whirled in autumn’s rising blast,
And evening cloud and whitening sunrise rime
Told of the coming of the winter-time.
Down the dark river for her chief’s canoe;
No dusky messenger from Saugus brought
The grateful tidings which the young wife sought.
To Winnepurkit’s sea-cooled wigwam went:
“Eagle of Saugus,—in the woods the dove
Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of love.”
In the grim anger of hard-hearted pride;
“I bore her as became a chieftain’s daughter,
Up to her home beside the gliding water.
Of all which line her father’s wigwam round,
Let Pennacook call out his warrior train,
And send her back with wampum gifts again.”
Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back.
“Dog of the Marsh,” cried Pennacook, “no more
Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor.
The stolen bear-skin of his beggar’s bed;
Son of a fish-hawk! let him dig his clams
For some vile daughter of the Agawams,
In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back.”
He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave,
While hoarse assent his listening council gave.
His iron hardness to thy woman’s heart?
Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone
For love denied and life’s warm beauty flown?
Hung its white wreaths; with stifled voice and low
The river crept, by one vast bridge o’er-crossed,
Built by the hoar-locked artisan of Frost.
Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn,
Or, from the east, across her azure field
Rolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield.
Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat;
And he, the while, in Western woods afar,
Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war.
Waste not on him the sacredness of grief;
Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own,
His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone.
The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights,
Cold, crafty, proud of woman’s weak distress,
Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness?