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1708
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 | 5 |
| 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! | 10 |
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| 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 | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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,— | 25 |
| 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,— | 30 |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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? | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| 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,— | 60 |
| 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 | 65 |
| On still dead men and weapons 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: | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, | |
| Whose grass-grown surface overlies | |
| The victims of that sacrifice. | |
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