John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)
AROUND Sebago’s lonely lake
There lingers not a breeze to break
The mirror which its waters make.
The solemn pines along its shore,
The firs which hang its gray rocks o’er,
Are painted on its glassy floor.
The sun looks o’er, with hazy eye,
The snowy mountain-tops which lie
Piled coldly up against the sky.
Dazzling and white! save where the bleak,
Wild winds have bared some splintering peak,
Or snow-slide left its dusky streak.
Yet green are Saco’s banks below,
And belts of spruce and cedar show,
Dark fringing round those cones of snow.
The earth hath felt the breath of spring,
Though yet on her deliverer’s wing
The lingering frosts of winter cling.
Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks,
And mildly from its sunny nooks
The blue eye of the violet looks.
And odors from the springing grass,
The sweet birch and the sassafras,
Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass.
Her tokens of renewing care
Hath Nature scattered everywhere,
In bud and flower, and warmer air.
But in their hour of bitterness,
What reck the broken Sokokis,
Beside their slaughtered chief, of this?
The turf’s red stain is yet undried,
Scarce have the death-shot echoes died
Along Sebago’s wooded side;
And silent now the hunters stand,
Grouped darkly, where a swell of land
Slopes upward from the lake’s white sand.
Fire and the axe have swept it bare,
Save one lone beech, unclosing there
Its light leaves in the vernal air.
With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute,
They break the damp turf at its foot,
And bare its coiled and twisted root.
They heave the stubborn trunk aside,
The firm roots from the earth divide,–
The rent beneath yawns dark and wide.
And there the fallen chief is laid,
In tasselled garb of skins arrayed,
And girded with his wampum-braid.
The silver cross he loved is pressed
Beneath the heavy arms, which rest
Upon his scarred and naked breast.
‘T is done: the roots are backward sent,
The beechen-tree stands up unbent,
The Indian’s fitting monument!
When of that sleeper’s broken race
Their green and pleasant dwelling-place,
Which knew them once, retains no trace;
Oh, long may sunset’s light be shed
As now upon that beech’s head,
A green memorial of the dead!
There shall his fitting requiem be,
In northern winds, that, cold and free,
Howl nightly in that funeral tree.
To their wild wail the waves which break
Forever round that lonely lake
A solemn undertone shall make!
And who shall deem the spot unblest,
Where Nature’s younger children rest,
Lulled on their sorrowing mother’s breast?
Deem ye that mother loveth less
These bronzed forms of the wilderness
She foldeth in her long caress?
As sweet o’er them her wild-flowers blow,
As if with fairer hair and brow
The blue-eyed Saxon slept below.
What though the places of their rest
No priestly knee hath ever pressed,–
No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed?
What though the bigot’s ban be there,
And thoughts of wailing and despair,
And cursing in the place of prayer!
Yet Heaven hath angels watching round
The Indian’s lowliest forest-mound,–
And they have made it holy ground.
There ceases man’s frail judgment; all
His powerless bolts of cursing fall
Unheeded on that grassy pall.
O peeled and hunted and reviled,
Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild!
Great Nature owns her simple child!
And Nature’s God, to whom alone
The secret of the heart is known,–
The hidden language traced thereon;
Who from its many cumberings
Of form and creed, and outward things,
To light the naked spirit brings;
Not with our partial eye shall scan,
Not with our pride and scorn shall ban,
The spirit of our brother man.
