And this for Weetamoe, Pocassett's queen.
Let the white sachem listen; it will tell
A tale of treachery, and wrong, and blood.
This is for Magnus. It will speak of war.
While Mexham, Potok, Pomham, Quinnapin,
Their challenge send in these. The serpent skin
Now bindeth them-as we are bound in one;
And it too hath a message. Let the foot
That treads on Sesek* tremble and beware;
For when he shakes his rattles death is nigh."
With hesitating voice dark Waban spoke:
"Hear, brother. Sorrow cometh o'er my hopes,
Like mildew o'er the tender blades of corn.
Brother, my love is strong. My heart-throbs live
With hope to see the brightening chain of peace-
To see my brethren-Indian and white-
United, free, and happy. Brother, hear
The words of love-the voice of happiness.
Restore the Indians. Mend the chain of peace.
O, listen, brother. Let the calumet,

With its soft, soothing perfume, cheer thy soul—
The Yengee hath a spring of happiness

Thy heart hath never tasted. Come, and drink
Of the pure waters from the fount of life."
A burst of indignation was suppressed
By the young sachem's rising. 'It is vain.

Nanuntenoo is not so very poor

That he must sell his brethren, bartering thus,
The spirit's truth-the self-approving thought-
Which only makes the man; for wanting these,
The very crawling snake that stings his heel
Is better than the sachem. Brother, hear.
Nanuntenoo is not a child, to give

His freedom for an apple or a toy,

To feed on milk, and walk in leading-strings

The Narragansett sachem is a man

And while he lives, to guard the rights of man
Shall be his favorite and peculiar work.

Their paper, and their ink, are all a lie.

I yield no Wampanoag till I die.

Yieldt Metacomet's Indians! Never-no.
I'd sooner be a slave, and serve my deadliest foe!"
Thus closed the council-when Nanuntenoo
Turned to dark Waban with majestic air,
Saying "Thy brethren have no cause of fear.
Come to our lodge; we will escort you there,
To taste our bounty. Tell the Yengee then,
How we treat enemies-and let him learn
The hospitable treatment due to friends.
Come, ancient mother, cousin Watamoe-
Good Father Williams, on the sachem's mat
Are food, and rest, and welcome. Lead we on."

As they passed forth, the maddening war-cry rang;
And the fierce notes the screeching echoes caught-
Repeated, and prolonged. They died away;
The council flames expired-and all was still.
Then holy midnight dropped her shadowy folds,
Soft and mysterious, o'er the haunted scene.

A step disturbs the silence. Wherefore now
Wanders the youthful sachem, thus alone,
At this all-slumbering hour? His haughty eye
Grew softer as it met the rising moon;
And the fierce scorn hath melted from his lip,
As woman's breath were on it. Hath the chief,
Within that savage bosom, nursed a heart

To dream of love beneath a moon-lit sky?

*The rattlesnake was a kind of subordinate deity, or an embodiment of their evil spirit, Cherran, among most of the American tribes. The Narragansetts called his name Sesek.

"Deliver the Indians of Philip!" said the haughty sachem at one time. "Never! Not a Wampanoag

will I ever give up! No; not the paring of a Wampanoag's nail."-THATCHER.

Can ne* whose daring deeds, and mighty arm,
And wisdom in the council, won a throne-
Leading free men, whose passions were as fierce
As panther rage, in undisputed bonds,
As mothers lead young children, wear a breast,
With gentleness upspringing 'mid its depths
Of wild ferocity and savage pride,

As limpid waters from the rock-bound spring?
Whence came the lovely tress of raven hair
That birchen bark envelope now reveals?
Why doth he tremble thus? Do sachems know

The magic of such treasures? Can they love?
What gem is shining on the glossy jet?

Ah, the rough granite of his rugged soul
Has warmed, and melted into holy tears-

Not born in weakness-but of feelings wrought
With too intensive strength for utterance,

And yet too pleasant to be all repressed.
Love conquereth the conqueror, and he

Who scorneth chains, will bow, to love's sweet slavery.
He drew his flowing mantle closer round
The bosom where his simple gift was hid;
Then springing from the cliff, his light canoe
Swayed to the gentle guidance of Nanuntenoo.

CANTO III.

Quinsniket rears her granite walls on high,
To mock the power of striding centuries.
Twined with the history of Metacom,

That name shall be remembered through all time.
True greatness, living once, shall never die-

Though wrapped in darkness deep as tenfold night—
Truth will disperse the shadows, and reveal
The immortal essence not to be entombed.
Glory must live for ever. Quench a star,
And blot it from its shining place on high-
But never hope to blur the eternal light
Which glory kindleth in the soul of man.
So shall the name of Metacomet live ;
For justice now compels the tardy truth;
And we,
the children of his enemies,
Must own the royal sachem was a man-
Generous to friend-magnanimous to foe-

And while his wrongs must claim a burning tear,

We'll weave them, with his deeds, in mournful song,
And twine his story with our own young fame.

A pile of ancient rocks embosomed deep

In dark morass, afforded shelter meet
For the poor royal outcast, when he fled,
Unconquered, though despairing, from his foes.
He blessed the spot that hid his aching head,
As, with a stone for pillow, he lay down,
And called its name Quinsniket-giving thus
That simple name eternal memory.

The rock, projecting far beyond its base,
Made ample shelter for the outcast king;
And there he sat upon his couch of leaves,

With eye bentt on the wigwams, where, in sleep,

His weary followers forgot their wrongs.

But sleep, nor rest, could Metacomet find;
For his fierce soul was wrought to agony,
By every form of torture man can feel.

*The line of ascent to the office of sachem was not strictly hereditary; though it appears that the lineal heir had the first right of competition-to secure by his own personal merits, his superior wisdom and courage, the honors and titles of his fathers. When the heir was found inferior to another, his claims were set aside, as happened in the case of Miantonomo, who was chosen the successor of Canonicus, although the latter had sons. This fact in the habits of the Indians accounts for the great superiority of their leaders. + From the south-western base of Quinsniket spread a circular swamp, covering some two or three acres; and around this were encamped the sachem's followers. The swamp has since been flowed, and is now & pond.

Storm-lifted billows toss the proudest ship;
And haughtiest soul must sway to the darkest tide,
When storms are mighty on the sea of life.
Hunger was gnawing him with serpent-fangs;
And fierce revenge was coiled within his soul,
For ever stinging, like a scorpion, there.
He breathed no word of sorrow or reproach;
But in the depths of his great bitterness

He locked his struggling passions. Never more
His ashen lips might wear a happy smile,
Or his poor, broken spirit gleam of joy-
Unless, in dire collision with the foe,

It struck the spark of vengeance. Never more
His outcast head be sheltered by a home,
Or rest on pillow save the battle-axe.

Leaving his couch, he crept upon the height
Where the soft moonbeams poured their silvery light;
And in his shadow followed a light form,
Lovely as Iris, daughter of the storm.

He clasped the sweet intruder to his heart;
Then, turning from her, nursed his woes apart.
Who may imagine the fierce griefs that stung
That fallen king to frenzy? Who may know
The bitterness-the gangrene--that consumed
A heart for ever dying-never dead?

Each tie was severed. Every hope was wrecked-
And yet his proud, indomitable soul,

Deeds which appalled the mightiest, achieved.
But, did I say that every hope was wrecked?
One gentle girl, the dark-eyed, queenly one,
Whose soft caressing hand is on his brow,
Is left of all his treasures-one pure ray,
Quick from the living fount of filial love,

Yet shines through mist and darkness. But she speaks!
Her accents, like Towattin's, rich and bland,

Breathe sweet as cherub music on his ear.

"Here is some nokehick,* father! Take it, do!
And I will spread the mat for thee to rest!"
"Food! food!" he laughed insanely. "Who may dare
Bring meat to wounded panther? Who may dare
Approach fierce Sesek when his spirit burns?"

Thy daughter dareth-child of Metacom,
Who from her tree-rocked cradle, never learned'
Of her proud father what it is to fear.
The sachem's daughter dareth. For her sire,
This foot would trample Sesek."

66 Come to me.

Come close to me, my child. Look steadily.
Thy father has no friend. Not one-not one.
The world is hollow. Every heart is false;
And underneath the treacherous smile is hid
A sheath of poisoned arrows, kept to pierce
The heart of brother-and the heart of friend.
Go. Cling to shadows. Tempt the brittle ice,
Where the warm sunbeam lingers. Chain the snow
Upon the grass of spring-time. Ask the rain
To stay and fertilize the barren sands.
Go;-twine thine arms about the panther's neck.
Take Sesek in thy bosom. Call him friend;
But never hope to find a friend in man!
Turn to the moonlight. Let me see thy face.
I cannot trust even thee. Deceiver, go.
Be quick! thou hast a sachem to betray!"
His voice was terrible; and from his eyes
Anger shot forth in streams of liquid fire.
He held her with a grasp that stayed the blood,
Gazing upon her, as if he would scorch

The clinging tendrils of the last fond heart

Parched corn pounded in their mortars, was a favorite food among the Indians. They called it Nokehick.

Did honor to her lineage. With an eye
Flashing as darkly, keenly, as his own,
She looked upon her father. "Can it be ?-
Has falsehood stained the cheek of Waumasu?
And did she get a hollow heart from thee?
Thy daughter trembles; but her only fear
Is for her father's honor. She will shut
Her eyes upon the light-and never see
The Wampanoag strike his only child."
But wounded feeling, and soft nature, broke
Upon her queenly spirit. Then a flood

Of passionate tears relieved her. "Am I false ?-
What, I, my father, thy own Waumasu!

When hath her moccasin e'er turned from thee?
The sachem's evil spirit speaketh now!"

"Come to my arms, my daughter. Come to me!
I'll wipe thy tears away. Ah! such was she!—
When first I took her to my youthful arms!
Thou art so like her. Look not so again!
I'm sick. I'm dizzy. Fire is in my brain.
Thy mother, child-the Wampanoag queen*
Is now a slave. That never-dying thought
Stings me to madness with its deathless fire.
Thy brother, too-my own proud sachem boy-
The Wampanoag's pride, and growing strength-
The son I hoped to see a mighty rock.
Upon our nation's bulwarks firmly fixed,
In whose great shadow thousands of free men
Might gather to the council. Where is he?-
Beyond the rising sun he toileth now-

No more a sachem's hope, a monarch's pride;
But a poor, wretched, miserable slave!

I see him in my visions, with dim eyes,

And haggard cheek, all pale and wet with tears-
Away, away, alone, beyond the seas.
His little hands, indented with the chain,
Struggle for liberty, yet strive in vain!
He saddens-sickens-weakens-He will die!
Gone-gone for ever! Oh! my boy! my boy!"

His bosom heaved not. Not a muscle stirred.
For one dire instant every nerve was still.
"Father! dear father!"-Then the purple veins
Swelled nigh to bursting 'neath her clinging arms;
And the broad chest expanded with a groan
That rent its way, like earthquake struggling up
From the deep bosom of the stricken earth.
That murmuring voice his headlong passions woke,
As twilight breath on Alpine height will stir
The poising avalanche. If rending rocks
Had feeling in them-quick and quiv'ring nerves-
They might portray his pangs. A conscious soul
Dashed in the depths of Etna, could it speak
To mortal ear, might tell his agony.

Young Waumasu hung trembling on his breast,
As leaf upon the billow. Yet she clung,
As the last foliage to the stricken oak,
Quiv'ring upon the tempest-so she clung.
She breathed no word of comfort-murmur'd not;
But wept with the proud weeper: till at last
The violence of his passions soften'd down
To tears like summer rain. Benignant tears,
That heal the wounded heart like medicine!

66

'Here, sit thee down, and listen to me, child! My wrongs will not be silent. They must speak.

"Captain Church, as soon as possible, got over the river, and went in quest of Philip and his company but the enemy scattered, and fled every way. He picked up a considerable number of their women and children, among whom was Philip's wife, and his son, about nine years old."-CHURCH.

These illustrious captives were sold into slavery; and the son was carried to the West Indies, where he probably soon ended his miserable life.

Thy sires and mine were sachems. On the height
Of strong Montaup they sat and swayed the free,
From the big waters to the far blue hills.
Good Massasoit*-unto thee, my child,
With reverence I speak the holy name-
From the first hour when at Nummastaquitt
He met the Pale-Face-was his steady friend.
He thought him honest-knew that he was poor;
And from his own abundance nurtured him.
The stranger was a serpent. His fair hand
The cunning paper brought, which took away
Our hunting-grounds-our homes-our liberty.
Even when a boy, my youthful spirit warred
Against the doating of my aged sire;
Yet still the fawning stranger cried for land-
The sachem's hand was open, and he gave.
But when the chief sat down to his long rest,+
With earth's cold mantle folded on his breast,
The serpent he had nursed arose, to sting
The sachem's children. Should an Indian act
As falsely-basely- -as the proudest man
The Yengees have called good-this tomahawk
Should find a passage to his hollow heart,
Were he my brother: yea, the very last
Who knew that Metacomet was a king.

"On proud Wamsatta first their fury fell.
Stretched on his couch, a stricken invalid,
The sachem slept; while Yengee messengers
Begirt him in his utter helplessness.

The clashing steel awoke him. When he saw
The very men his father's corn had fed,
Gath'ring around him, with their naked swords,
And dark malignant eyes of enemies,
The living fire leap'd upwards to his brain;
And madness seized him; yet no pity came
To all their stony hearts, and cold blue eyes,
Gleaming like fallen fragments of the sky,
Turned into petrifactions. Even then,
Insensible to honor or to shame,

They tore the sachem from his burning couch,
Bearing him off-nor suffer'd him to rest,
Until their generous benefactor fell

From his pale servants' shoulders-cold and dead.
"I bore this all.-I only wanted peace.

They robbed, insulted, mock'd, and cheated me,
Till I could bear no longer. Then I dug
The buried hatchet from its hiding-place,

And broke the lying chain and calumet.

The trusted Sassamon, who wrote my thoughts

And read my secret will-they drew away,

Buying my secrets of the treacherous knave

For strings of wampum. Thus my schemes have failed.

It is a point of etiquette among the Indians, never to speak the name of a deceased person; and no higher insult than this can be offered to the friends of the departed; but as it was only etiquette, it may be presumed that it was set aside in the confidence of family intercourse.

Dermer says: "On arriving at the native place of Squanto, I found all dead; but traveling along a day's journey to Nummastaquit, where, finding inhabitants, I despatched a messenger a day's journey farther west, to Packonicket, which bordered on the sea, whence came to see me two kings." One of these "kings" must have been Massasoit-the other was probably his brother.

It will be remembered that the Indians bury all their dead in a sitting posture.

"This John Sassamon was the son of Christian Indians; who, apostatizing from the profession of Christianity, lived among the heathen in quality of secretary to King Philip; for he could write, though his master could not so much as read. But after this the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ recovered him from his apostacie."-MATHER'S MAGNOLIA.

Disregarding the testimony of the ancient divine, how far the spirit of Christ could lead to the basest of treachery, could unfold the most malignant of traitors, we moderns are better prepared to judge. "Hubbard states expressly that Sassamon was importunately urged to forsake him, (Metacomo;) and it appears from other sources, that there had previously existed such entire confidence between the two that the secretary was entrusted with all the secrets of his master. The provocation went still farther. Sassamon, either having, or pretending to have, occasion to go among the Pokanokets, frequently availed bimself of this opportunity to scrutinize all their movements, and report them, as he thought proper, to the English. Sassamon is distinguished in history as having been the immediate occasion of the first open hostilities."-THATCHER.