Contents
-BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Narrative and Legendary Poems
The Truce of Piscataqua
In the winter of 1675–76, the Eastern Indians, who had been making war upon the New Hampshire settlements, were so reduced in numbers by fighting and famine that they agreed to a peace with Major Waldron at Dover, but the peace was broken in the fall of 1676. The famous chief, Squando, was the principal negotiator on the part of the savages. He had taken up the hatchet to revenge the brutal treatment of his child by drunken white sailors, which caused its death.It not unfrequently happened during the Border wars that young white children were adopted by their Indian captors, and so kindly treated that they were unwilling to leave the free, wild life of the woods; and in some instances they utterly refused to go back with their parents to their old homes and civilization.
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, dwellThe weaving genii of the bell;Tear from the wild Cocheco’s trackThe dams that hold its torrents back;And let the loud-rejoicing fallPlunge, roaring, down its rocky wall;And let the Indian’s paddle playOn the unbridged Piscataqua!Wide over hill and valley spreadOnce more the forest, dusk and dread,With here and there a clearing cutFrom 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 boundWith bristling palisades around.So, haply shall before thine eyesThe dusty veil of centuries rise,The old, strange scenery overlayThe tamer pictures of to-day,While, like the actors in a play,Pass in their ancient guise alongThe figures of my border song:What time beside Cocheco’s floodThe white man and the red man stood,With words of peace and brotherhood;When passed the sacred calumetFrom lip to lip with fire-draught wet,And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe’s smokeThrough the gray beard of Waldron broke,And Squando’s voice, in suppliant pleaFor mercy, struck the haughty keyOf 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 strandsDropping from her careless hands,Listening ever for the fleetPatter of a dead child’s feet!“When the moon a year agoTold the flowers the time to blow,In that lonely wigwam smiledMenewee, 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 lightWith its blaze his steps aright.“‘All-uncalled, he dares not showEmpty hands to Manito:Better gifts he cannot bearThan 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 earAll that spirits hear can hear,—I, whose eyes are wide to seeAll the things that are to be,—“Well I knew the dreadful signsIn 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-treesMany a scalp the totem sees.“Blood for blood! But evermoreSquando’s heart is sad and sore;And his poor squaw waits at homeFor 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 freeThrough the prophet-charmëd sea,Captive mother, wife, and childThrough 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 laidOn the little maiden’s head,Lightly from her forehead fairSmoothing 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 beIn 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 childChristian-born to heathens wild?As God lives, from Satan’s handI 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 maidOwned 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 hungOn that neck so fair and young.Silence-shod, as phantoms seemIn the marches of a dream,Single-filed, the grim arrayThrough 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 daySinging came a child from play,Tossing from her loose-locked headGold in sunshine, brown in shade.Pride was in the mother’s look,But her head she gravely shook,And with lips that fondly smiledFeigned 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 treeTried his best to mimic me.“Where the hemlocks grew so darkThat 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 mildAs 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 seeWhat 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 woodsCalled the birds, and winds, and floods.Well, O painful minister!Watch thy flock, but blame not her,If her ear grew sharp to hearAll their voices whispering near.