CHOCORUA. 1 He stood alone. The Pestilence had swept In fearful might across the land, and Death Had laid the bravest of his warriors low. The fertile vales, through which the Saco rolls Were now the resting-place of half his tribe. Unto the earth in awful majesty. -Not one of all his kindred lived. Not one, Whose blood drew animation from the fount Whence sprang his own, remained. With him expir'd The line. His soul grew dark: His spirit sank Shrank from him as he pass'd, or smil'd in scorn. Upon our souls! It may be borne, but O! It is not-is not Life! * Weary and sad, For unsuccessfully the live-long day Had he pursued the chase, his eagle eye The white man dwelt within it, yet he turn'd Scorn'd, hated and derided by the young He told his wants. With that sweet sympathy, And ere he left that humble cot, to trace Again his forest paths, he swore an oath Of firm, eternal friendship to the whites. Time fled apace, and pale Consumption mark'd Day after day the aged Indian watch'd, With anxious gaze beside her couch; and brought From field and mountain plants medicinal, Which he had learned in youth, to soothe her pangs, To mitigate her anguish, and restore New energy to her exhausted frame. But vain was all his kindness! vain his skill! She died! and, sick of grief, Chocorua Beheld her form placed in the icy tomb; Then fled to his deep forests. But as oft As Autumn look'd upon the verdant fields, And, with a magic frown, chang'd their fresh hues To yellowness, a hoary man was seen Weeping above her grave. At length dread war, With all its horrors, burst upon his tribe. Their wigwams blaz'd, their blood in rivers pour'd; And every gale, which swept their woody hills, Was laden with wild yells and dying groans. Chocorua slept idle in his hut. His bow and quiver hung upon the wall: He stood alone-ay-all alone! The tide Of war had buried in its crimson flood Of the proud red man in thy sleepless depths! Thou, too, famed Hope! upon whose brow the glow Of parting sun-light rests, with mellow beam, As loth to leave thee, oh, how chang'd art thou! The sky still bends above thee, beautiful As ever, and the waters play around Thy shadowy base with undimm'd joyousness; But where is he, 3 whose name is link'd with thine? He of the deep, the firm, the noble soul, Whose glory halloweth thy very sod! His sons-blush, children! blush, for the vile deed |