But had my plan of vengeance been matured,
The tribes of all the nations, joined in one,
Had swept the Yengees off, avenged my wrongs,
And freed my country. But it could not be,
They've turned all true hearts from me."

The sachem is a brave-he lieth not.
My father speaketh* not with many tongues.
There is the wigwam of old Annawan.
Is not the warrior true ?-and Tispaquin,
The sachem and the prophet?"

66

No, not all.

Ah, my child!

So many friends are changed to enemies,
I fear. Suspect the truest. Now they hunt
The denless panther through his native woods.
The Yengees!-ah, my love for them is hate!
And yet I would have been their faithful friend.
The poorest Pale-Face never turned away
From Metacomet's wigwam, needing aught
That could be found there. Where is his reward?
No hunting grounds are left-no wife-no son-
Nothing but one poor child, and this bare rock,
And yonder stagnant waters. Now, the last―
The Narragansett sachem."

"Doubt him not.

I hear the sound of stealing moccasin,
And yon tall figure on that sloping rock."
""Tis but the tree, my father, growing there-
A sapling maple, just beyond the birch."

"Ay, never mind. Nanuntenoo is false. What saith our messenger?

The sachem's hand

Hath promised on the paper to give up
Our brethren who have fled unto his fires.
This night they hold a council."

"Wrong him not.
That talk will prove the sachem is thy friend."
"Too oft has Metacomet been deceived
To trust a singing-bird. But lay thee down:
Thy heart, my daughter, is too young for doubt;
Thine eyes are heavy now. Lie down and rest.
He spread his mantle o'er her and sat down,
Where he might break the current of cold air,
Sheltering her with his bosom. "Rest thee, child.
When thou hast felt the iron, drunk the gall,
Like thy poor father, sleep will flee away,
And night will only be a colder, darker day."
She slept; and he watched o'er her till he grew
Calmer in thought and feeling. Midnight deep-
Deep as the slumbers of the weary--spread
Her downy pinions o'er the sleeping earth.
Ne'er shone a lovelier. Through the deep serene,
Like a fair empress, rode the full-orbed moon,

The clouds, her white-robed maidens, hovering near,

With all their twining arms caressing her,

Until their brows grew radiant with her smile;
And starry eyes came thrilling through the blue

Like guardian watchers of the slumberer.

The monarch gazed. A soul of tenderness
Seemed stooping to his bosom from on high.

Scarce conscious that he spoke, he murmured low:
"Thou lovely moon that smilest on me now,
And all ye stars that light the blue above,

Reck ye at all of human treachery,

* A figurative term, signifying to speak falsely.

Of guilt, of sorrow, or of breaking hearts?
Do sachems wander by your milky streams,
And make them salt with tears? In your light woods
Do they hunt kings like panthers? Doth the lip
Speak always like the soul, or will it lie?

Know ye of dreams which only come to mock?
Of hopes that madden ere they are dissolved,
And fled like evening shadows! Lovely stars!
Say, have ye ought like human misery
Within your far-off brightness? Can ye tell?
One after one shall generations pass,

Till ages yet undreamed of shall have gone;
But ye will shine as brightly beautiful

As now ye do; nor ever fade, nor change,

Though sachems turn to dust; thrones crumble down,
And rocks, and hills, and streams, shall pass away."
Scarce had he finished speaking, when a form
Glided along before him. Then he sprang,
Like a roused lion. "Wherefore art thou come ?
Is thy knife hungry? Doth thy hatchet thirst?
Here is a scalp that never knoweth rest,
And here is boiling blood. But, sachem, wait;
Stay till thy bones are knit, thy muscles strong.
Go; count the scalps that Metacomet's hand
Has gathered in the strife. They are of men.
The Wampanoag warreth not with boys.
Then go, and leave me to my wretchedness;
Go while thy false heart lives, Nanuntenoo."
Dark Metacomet stood with folded arms
A living statue. But the light of scorn
Passed quickly from his eye.
Nanuntenoo
Won homage even from that haughty chief;
For his fierce eye was kindled with a fire
That mocked the sachem's, and his curling lip

Gave scorn for scorn. Calmly the chieftain spoke;
Yet with a caustic irony that burned

Into the seared heart of the haughty king.

"Is Metacomet a woman that his ear
Will talk with singing-birds, till it forgets
The voice of true affection? Hath his eye
Looked on the night so long it cannot see
His brother holding out the calumet ?"

Sudden he paused; for Waumasu sprang up
Lightly from earth, and on her father's breast
She hung like one distracted. Can it be?
Is there another sachem so like him?

So brave, so generous, so bold, so true?
Is not that chief her own, and he Nanuntenoo?
Trembling, abashed, the youthful sachem stood,
Until he met her eyes; for she had turned,
More sensitive than ever, from his own.
They looked on Metacomet. Quick as thought
He read the silent question: "Go, my child,"
He said, and wiped away the starting tears.

A moment, and her filial love was strong-
She could not leave her fallen father. Then
The Indian girl was in her warrior's arms.

Proud Metacomet trembled; for a pang
Shot through his bosom, thus to see the last
Flee from his destiny to other arms;
But better feeling came, and then he spoke
A father's fervent blessing. Quickly turned
The trembling girl, instinctive, at his voice,
And on her outcast father's bosom wept.
She shook the flowing length of hair aside;
Her wet cheek rested on his corded brow:

"Dear father, shall I leave thee?" One soft hand
Entwined itself with his. The monarch turned

And gave that hand to young Nanuntenoo.
Rosy with love the nuptial morning woke;
And on Quinsniket's brow the youthful bride

Sat girdled by her maidens, all arrayed
In holiday attire to grace the scene.

Her father's friends, the true and mighty, came:
Old Tispaquin, the warror Annawan,
Towtoson, Magnus, and Queen Weetamoe,
With all their followers and bowmen strong.
Hyman ne'er saw a prouder temple reared,"
Than the old ages there had raised for him.
Pillar, and architrave, and fretted dome,
Stood forth in tree, and cliff, and beetling rock,
By nature shaped in loveliest, grandest forms.
The sky above, with its cerulean arch,
Made the majestic roof-its lamp, the sun-
And all the autumnal drapery of the wood,
Tinged by the frost-king with his richest dyes,
Tempered the sunbeams far more gorgeously,
Than the stained glass of Gothic palaces.
Far o'er the sloping hill-side, stretched away
A towering colonnade of ancient oaks;
And through the forest aisles a murmur came,
Mingling the chant of water, insect, bird,

And whisper of the present multitude,

Into one voice of tenderest harmony.

The light-winged southern breeze, mournfully sweet,

As if the memory of vanished hours

Were breathing in its spirit, softly came,

To kiss the bride's warm cheek, and part away
The glossy richness of her clustering hair.
Caressing all with such a gentle touch,
The stricken leaves that slowly fell to earth,
Came down as if unprompted.

A shout of many voices rent the air,

As Metacomet stood with each dark hand
Laid on the foreheads of the bending pair,
With his paternal blessing. "Listen, chief.
We give thee now the daughter of a king,
Sachem of many tribes, Nanuntenoo.
We love our daughter. She is all we have.
Then never wake her tears; but let her rest
On thy true bosom, as she hath on mine.
And if a thought of wrong should ever come,
Think of her outcast father, whose weak hand
Holdeth no vengeance, and be generous.
Daughter of many kings, remember her
Who was thy mother. Go-and be the same.

66

May he who walketh on the spreading winds,
The Spirit of our Fathers, whose great voice,

They heard when thunder spoke from cloud to cloud,
And woke the mighty Manit of the Storm,
Look on you always with a pleasant smile,

And never through the cloud-the storm-the dark

So may all spirits of the earth and air,

Of fire, and water, wind, and storm, and cloud,

See the Great Spirit's blessing on your way,
And fearing to do evil, be your friends."

Nanuntenoo responded:-" Father, hear;
And all ye followers of Metacom-

Chieftains of Narragansett-warriors, hear-
And thou, Great Spirit-all-pervading power,
Whose eye looks through our bosom, as the sun
Through the clear waters, hear the sachem's vow;
He takes the daughter of dark Metacom

To be his wife; and he will cherish her

Dearly as honor. Treasure up his words-
The Narragansett never told a lie."

"Never!" the shouting hosts sent back his words;

"The Narragansett never told a lie."

Then the young poet, star-eyed Megano,
Rose in the midst; and with a native grace
That lived in every motion, waved his hand,
Entreating silence; and the marriage song
Woke in harmonious numbers. Bird and bee,
And sighing winds, and murmuring waters, lent
Their voices to the rich monotony.

"A blessing, Narragansett, for the gentle Waumasu!
A blessing, Wampanoags, for the brave Nanuntenoo!
The sachem's lodge will brighten at the coming of the bride,
When she sitteth down beside him in the pleasant eventide.

"Bright is the eye of Waumasu as fairest morning star,
When o'er the eastern hill-tops it looketh from afar.
Her cheek is soft with blushes-her footstep light and free-
And her figure sways to motion, like the graceful willow tree.

"The Spirit of our Fathers shall look on them and smile,
When they sit within the cabin of the sachem's leafy isle;
The winds are rife with blessing-and the trees harmonious wave,

To consecrate the union of the gentle and the brave.

May their hunting-grounds stretch far away from Narragansett's shore, And the ringing of the white man's axe be silent evermore.

May their corn-fields teem with plenty-and their clustering children be The glory of their sachem race-the leaders of the free!

Joy to the Narragansett! and terror to his foe!

For the spirit of the mighty is in his bended bow;

The great pride of a kingly race is living in his eye;

And from its waking vengeance the boldest warriors fly.

"At the echo of his coming step the strongest hearts shall quail; And at his lifted tomahawk the bravest blood turn pale.

As a rock amid the ocean-storm in danger he will be,
To shield his fathers' country with the bosom of the free!

"The chain of peace shall brighten, and the belt be strong and true,
That binds great Metacomet to the young Nanuntenoo.
A blessing, Narragansetts, full as yonder swelling tide!
A blessing, Wampanoags, for the sachem and his bride!"

A thousand voices woke in deep response;
And when the echoes rang and died away
In the great distance, rose that wedded pair;
And sorrowing, in their joy, for Metacom,
They turned away to seek their distant home;
While the great sachem sought the embowering wood
To hide his bitterness, and nurse the germs
Of vengeance he had planted. So the chief,
Sachem of Narragansett, won his bride-
Daughter of kings, the queenly Waumasu.

Forth went the warriors-forth the royal train-
Five hundred strong men marched before the bride-
Five hundred strong men followed in the rear.
So went Nanuntenoo and Waumasu,
Through the green alleys of their forest path;
And as they passed along, fair images

Of love and beauty filled their conscious hearts
With tenderest emotions. Did not Nature wear
Her brightest robes to gladden their espousals?
Above, the glorious October sky,

In lucid azure, deepening far away,
Revealed the boundaries of purer worlds,
Opening serenely from the shadowy mist

That wreathed the distant hill-tops-the soft light
Glowing and spreading, as it were the woof
Whence angels weave their garments, or a veil
To shade the fulness of the Infinite,
Yet win the finite onward, upward still,
To penetrate-and reach-the Unrevealed.
The Oak, imperial monarch of the wood,
Flaunted his regal vesture, bright in hue
As texture of the deepest Tyrian dye.
The Maple, in his coat of many hues,
From fairest carmine to the softest gold
Of corn just ripening, on the hill-side waved,
Making the warm light warmer. Fir and Pine,
Hemlock and Cedar, with their varied green,
Relieved the eye, like foliage among flowers.
The graceful Birch, arrayed in deepest gold,
With gallant air, bent, whispering, to the streams
Or bowed to hail the Forest Majesty,
Like the gay courtier in a monarch's hall.
Mantled in orange, the proud Hickory stood;
And the low Sumach wore her crimson robe;
While every humble shrub and clustering vine,
Bent to the Frost-King's sceptre, to receive
Its autumn honors with no thankless heart.
How much of beauty and of majesty
Hath God permitted to be visible,
That so the soul of man may be refreshed
And strengthened in its deeper, purer life,
Until the effulgence of its perfect day-
The unveiled fulness of the Infinite-
Shall ope before it, with no shade between;
For this was beauty given us-not to please
And gratify the senses; but to speak,
In all its thousand voices, to the soul;
Winning by fine gradations, to the source
Of light, and love, and beauty-which is God.
The soft note of some solitary bird,

Or passing waters, warbling on their way,
Came so melodiously, they never woke
The attentive voice of Echo to reply;

While hovering insects murmured, lightly poised,
With listless wing expanding to the wind,

The gentle South, that breathes in autumn time,