The Truce Of Piscataqua

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, dwell     The weaving genii of the bell;     Tear from the wild Cocheco's track     The dams that hold its torrents back;     And let the loud-rejoicing fall     Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall;     And let the Indian's paddle play     On the unbridged Piscataqua!     Wide over hill and valley spread     Once more the forest, dusk and dread,     With here and there a clearing cut     From 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 bound     With bristling palisades around.     So, haply shall before thine eyes     The dusty veil of centuries rise,     The old, strange scenery overlay     The tamer pictures of to-day,     While, like the actors in a play,     Pass in their ancient guise along     The figures of my border song     What time beside Cocheco's flood     The white man and the red man stood,     With words of peace and brotherhood;     When passed the sacred calumet     From lip to lip with fire-draught wet,     And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's smoke     Through the gray beard of Waldron broke,     And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea     For mercy, struck the haughty key     Of 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 strands     Dropping from her careless hands,     Listening ever for the fleet     Patter of a dead child's feet!     "When the moon a year ago     Told the flowers the time to blow,     In that lonely wigwam smiled     Menewee, 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 light     With its blaze his steps aright.     "'All-uncalled, he dares not show     Empty hands to Manito     Better gifts he cannot bear     Than 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 ear     All that spirits bear can hear,     I, whose eyes are wide to see     All the things that are to be,     "Well I knew the dreadful signs     In 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-trees     Many a scalp the totem sees.     "Blood for blood! But evermore     Squando's heart is sad and sore;     And his poor squaw waits at home     For 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 free     Through the prophet-charmed sea,     Captive mother, wife, and child     Through 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 laid     On the little maiden's head,     Lightly from her forehead fair     Smoothing 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 be     In 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 child     Christian-born to heathens wild?     As God lives, from Satan's hand     I 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 maid     Owned 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 hung     On that neck so fair and young.     Silence-shod, as phantoms seem     In the marches of a dream,     Single-filed, the grim array     Through 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 day     Singing came a child from play,     Tossing from her loose-locked head     Gold in sunshine, brown in shade.     Pride was in the mother's look,     But her head she gravely shook,     And with lips that fondly smiled     Feigned 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 tree     Tried his best to mimic me.     "Where the hemlocks grew so dark     That 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 mild     As 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 see     What 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 woods     Called the birds, and winds, and floods.     Well, O painful minister!     Watch thy flock, but blame not her,     If her ear grew sharp to hear     All their voices whispering near.     Blame her not, as to her soul     All the desert's glamour stole,     That a tear for childhood's loss     Dropped upon the Indian's cross.     When, that night, the Book was read,     And she bowed her widowed head,     And a prayer for each loved name     Rose like incense from a flame,     With a hope the creeds forbid     In her pitying bosom hid,     To the listening ear of Heaven     Lo! the Indian's name was given