Pentucket

How sweetly on the wood-girt town     The mellow light of sunset shone!     Each small, bright lake, whose waters still     Mirror the forest and the hill,     Reflected from its waveless breast     The beauty of a cloudless west,     Glorious as if a glimpse were given     Within the western gates of heaven,     Left, by the spirit of the star     Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!     Beside the river's tranquil flood     The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,     Where many a rood of open land     Stretched up and down on either hand,     With corn-leaves waving freshly green     The thick and blackened stumps between.     Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,     The wild, untravelled forest spread,     Back to those mountains, white and cold,     Of which the Indian trapper told,     Upon whose summits never yet     Was mortal foot in safety set.     Quiet and calm without a fear,     Of danger darkly lurking near,     The weary laborer left his plough,     The milkmaid carolled by her cow;     From cottage door and household hearth     Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.     At length the murmur died away,     And silence on that village lay.     So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,     Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,     Undreaming of the fiery fate     Which made its dwellings desolate.     Hours passed away. By moonlight sped     The Merrimac along his bed.     Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood     Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,     Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,     As the hushed grouping of a dream.     Yet on the still air crept a sound,     No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,     Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing,     Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.     Was that the tread of many feet,     Which downward from the hillside beat?     What forms were those which darkly stood     Just on the margin of the wood?     Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,     Or paling rude, or leafless limb?     No, through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed,     Dark human forms in moonshine showed,     Wild from their native wilderness,     With painted limbs and battle-dress.     A yell the dead might wake to hear     Swelled on the night air, far and clear;     Then smote the Indian tomahawk     On crashing door and shattering lock;     Then rang the rifle-shot, and then     The shrill death-scream of stricken men,     Sank the red axe in woman's brain,     And childhood's cry arose in vain.     Bursting through roof and window came,     Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame,     And blended fire and moonlight glared     On still dead men and scalp-knives bared.     The morning sun looked brightly through     The river willows, wet with dew.     No sound of combat filled the air,     No shout was heard, nor gunshot there;     Yet still the thick and sullen smoke     From smouldering ruins slowly broke;     And on the greensward many a stain,     And, here and there, the mangled slain,     Told how that midnight bolt had sped     Pentucket, on thy fated head.     Even now the villager can tell     Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,     Still show the door of wasting oak,     Through which the fatal death-shot broke,     And point the curious stranger where     De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;     Whose hideous head, in death still feared,     Bore not a trace of hair or beard;     And still, within the churchyard ground,     Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,     Whose grass-grown surface overlies     The victims of that sacrifice