IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1*5 us IIIM illM IIIIM i^ m 112.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 1 ( = ^ 6" ► ^■^ <^ 0% /}. "-^ ^M c?^ ^. Photographic Sciences Corporation £: 4 <> ^9) V ^> . ''. ^> 6^ >^% ■%' il ST, ASPENQUID. .♦♦-• 'A HE Indian hero, sorcerer and saint, Known in the land as Passaconoway, And after called the good Saint Aspenquid, Returning, travel worn and spent with age From vain attempt to reconcile his race With ours, sent messengers throughout the East To summon all the blood-bound tribes to him ; For that upon the ancient meeting-place, The sacred mountain Agamenticus, When next the moon should show a new bent bow. He there would celebrate his funeral feast With sacrifices due and farewell talk. The dusky people heard and they obeyed ; For known was Aspenquid in all the camps ; Known was his name where unknown was his face : His conjuries, his valor and his wit The trackless forests traversed many a year, And made his name a word of omen there. Then gathered they from all the hither land Of wide St. Lawrence and the northern lakes. The warriors of the great Algonkin race : lO [^ fi Whose friendship French and English wrangled for : Whose souis the Jesuit and Puritan Disputed long what pinfold heaven should keep : For whom the pious Rale laid down his life ; For whom the Bible turned in Indlanese Its ancient threat or new beatitude : Turned by Apostle Elliot's patient hand In words six-finger'd, unarticulate. Together strung like l^eads upon a string. And every page a picture, not a script. And now the moon began to show her light A (quarter up the amber, western sky, Close companied by one small star that shone Like point of diamond-headed arrow, drawn Between the corners of her silver bow. The mountain Agamenticus loomed on The twilight heavens in silent majesty, A natural throne and sepulchre for him Who ruled a natural sovereign there. No arts of man it showed, no monuments Nor fane, nor the long roll of famous deeds. But all was rude magnificence and strength ! Far to the North the ancient forests stretched. Whose thick-set tops the winds might blow upon But could not shake their immemorial roots. Eastward the ocean washed the mountain's feet. And like the land, as vet a virgin waste. ir d fhi- : It beat against the white embattl'd cHlVs, Or swept a plumed wave across the sands, Unsailed for traffick and untouched by thought. So fresh was nature then ; for the wild tribes, Though dwelling here beyond the date of time, Let undisturbed the elements they found Crossed and recrossed the land and left no mark. But void as is the sky when stars have passed. So empty was this world of man's bright course. Of nature's self they were too near a part To think how they could warp her to their best : And kindly she supplied their simple wants Ungraced by arts perplexing, manifold. That make us dead to what we touch or see So many steps they are from their first form, So dwarfed is man by his own handiwork. Not so the Indian's life ; meagre it was, Unlit by customs of the citied world ; Ruled by unwritten laws, though fixed and kept. But he himself was more than all, and free From malady for things beyond his reach. vSo the tall warriors looked ; round their camp fires Sitting or standing, now in light or shade. As with the night winds rose or sank the flames. And all about the mountain's woody slopes A veil of moonlit, opal mist crept up, Festooned across the pine tree pinnacles, And islanding the band above the earth. J ill 4 11 With only iiijrht and stars for wit!iesses. They spoke but little, hut the silence spoke ; Men of few words and every word a thinvv. n Seals up the past and stays the onward path. To this our old ancestral council seat, The mountain Agamenticus, renowned Of old for feasts, for truce or onset sharp, I call \'ou once a«jain to hear my words. You know how well and oft in former days, My ready deeds outdid reluctant speech ; But now an old man leans against the stati' Whicli once he bravely brandished on his foe, And lets his tongue outrun his shrunken arm. • Yet I so near the end of all my years See lights which my too active life obscured. With eye intent upon the ground, I kept The trail through forests deep, by day, by night, For vears. one narrow line and one alone. But, lo ! I near its end, and see beyond, A wider world and things not so distinct. Though worth you turn your eyes with me that way And would that I could tell you all the past. Of all that happened in your fathers' days. Not yours, that so you might be wise and great Without the cost of being first unwise. But never man could take his fathers' store Of wisdom, building higher for the gift. He digs his field anew and plants and reaps The selfsame harvest which it ever bore. Much T could tell, the path that I have come, All I have seen that vou have only heard : i6 ■| ilt All that 1 fear for vou who follow on. Or hope for who shall fill some future age. Whatever makes me wise 1 would impart And leave, a legacy to all my race. Howbeit men, grown old and seeming sage, Must tell their tale and mingle words of ware. To ease their hearts, and to live o'er again The days when action left no room for words. So I will tell you of my former life. Wherein, if wise, you read my last advice. And do not mourn because it is the last. And being last must show some sign of grief. The heart must then its deeper wounds unbare When sets the sun that brought its hopes and fears And in the twilight of the soul it seems i'o see a phantom image of itself, And speaks as to a long departed friend. But were he here, that ancient, happy chief. Whose counsel all his children held the best. Obeyed, whatever private mind they kept. Then silent reverence would fill my soul. O what am 1 that 1 shoidd speak to you ! I, who being next of kin., nearest heard That voice, and never learned to hear my own. And had no need to learn. But he is gone Whose tongue was fiery now as noontide suns. Or soft as moonlight on the waveless sea. It threw its warmth and lisfht o'er vou and all : 17 But me, who needed most, the most of all, As light shows lightest on the darkest place. Alas ! you cannot hear his voice in me ; I hear it only when my own is still. Something I speak for your behoof and guide. Something for my own self; to ease my life. And to lay oif its pains before I go. Much rather would I die in some fierce tight, And join, without a thought or grief, mine own. Than to wear out the years with wasting pulse. Ebbing away so slowly drop by drop, I know not whether I l:)e dead or live. And I have lived too long for my best weal ; For more and more the white men crowd the land : And though I battled them with all my braves, And stirred my neighbor sachems t(< the war, And fought them step by step, in hopes to stay Their coming, or if not, to die in light. Before they gained these streams and well stocked woods, And I should hang my head in vanquished shame — In vain ! 't was all in vain ! the shame has come And life has been too long for my best weal. And though, when my rude craft of tomahawk And scalp, long bow and flinty arrow head. All wiles that fox and hawk had taught to me. Availed me not, and more and more the land Was filled with these pale children of the sun, While woods grew thin along the river banks, i8 While deer and caribou still backward skulked — Wbv read we not. alas! our fate in theirs? — And all the chrystal streams were fouled and shrunk. Or trained to put their shoulder to a wheel. Hoardings our sweet waters into stag-nant pools. And mills and hip^h-peaked ships plae^ued all their course. Fri