Chapter VI (2)

“The next day Mary asked permission to go and carry food to the sick Indian; and, calling Hunter, she took the basket her mother gave her, and went to the woods. When she arrived at the rock she found that the sick man had risen and was seated on the top of the rock; and by his side an Indian woman, who was caressing him with much affection. Little Mary had come quite near before they saw her; for she stepped very lightly; but as soon as the old man did perceive her, he said in English, ‘Behold the Bird of Peace!’ As he spoke the woman looked earnestly at Mary for several minutes, and then she cried out, ‘My lily! my blossom! my babee!’ and, springing from the rock, she caught the child in her arms and almost suffocated her with tears and caresses.

“Little Mary alarmed and strangely agitated, whispered, ‘Let me go home to my mother—do let me go home!’

“‘Thy mother!’ repeated the woman, ‘thy own mother is gone across the wide waters, far to the rising sun—and thy father,’ she pointed up to heaven, ‘it is twice five summers since thy father went to the hunting grounds of the paleface—he died—he was murdered; and so was my own little blossom—my own babe!’ Her voice was choked—she could not speak any more—her eyes grew burning and wild—her features quivered, and she shook so fearfully that Mary was frightened, and tried to get from her arms.

“‘Namoina,’ said the old man, ‘the daughter of Anawon must not be a coward.’

“This appeal had the desired effect—she dashed the few burning tears from her eyelids, and bending a moment before her father, she rose up again with a calm brow, that told not of the struggle in her heart; and, taking Mary again in her arms, she kissed her, and said a great many tender and affectionate things to her.

“‘Shall I never see my mother?’ asked the child, mournfully; ‘has she forgotten me?’

“‘Forget thee, my flower! Does the mother ever forget the child that has fed from her bosom!’ Again she was terribly distressed. After a few minutes she held the child up toward heaven and said, ‘The Great Spirit of thy fathers keep thee—and bless thee!’ then setting her down again, she resumed her former seat on the rock and began picking up the pebbles around her and counting them; but no entreaty or endearment could draw a single word or look from her.

“Mary saw Anawon partake of some of the food she had brought him, and, leaving the remainder, she took her basket and returned home for the first time in her life really unhappy; and for the first time in her life she did not open her whole heart to her mother. Mrs. Gray, however, observed that her cheek was flushed, and thought she must have taken cold; and when it was about sunset she persuaded her to go to bed. Mary was glad to be where no one could notice or disturb her feelings; so, kissing her good mother, she went to her room, and knelt down by her little bed and said her evening prayers. Very soon she heard voices; and then she knew that her father and brother had come; and just as she was going to rise from her bed and dress, for the purpose of seeing them, she heard William say that they had got on the track of old Anawon,[8] and that he believed he was not far hence, probably out toward Seekonk; and that they had better take whatever nourishment could be had and be after him directly. Mrs. Gray said nothing of the wounded Indian in the woods; and when William said he must go in and give his sister one kiss, she said, ‘Do not go to-night, my son, for the child has a bad cold and I am really afraid she will take the fever; and if she knows you are come she will not sleep another wink to-night for joy.’

“At any other time, indeed, Mary would have been overjoyed to see them—but now she was thinking only of the poor Indian, and that he might be killed; and, in her distress, she could not help thinking that men were very cruel and very wicked to wish to murder each other. After bearing her anxiety of mind as long as she could, she resolved to go herself, if she could steal from the house unperceived, and warn the Indian of his danger.

“‘That was right!’ exclaimed both the boys at once.

“That was right!” echoed Ann.

“I wish I could have seen that girl!” said George Gray.

“I think we have some good girls among us,” said Henry Jackson, with a kind look at his cousin Ann.

“True,” said the grandmother, who noticed and applauded that look, “very true; though few persons may be so situated as to perform _brilliant_ actions, yet _all_ may have opportunity to do many _good_ ones. We cannot tell what _might be done_ by what _is done_; but we must believe that a truly generous and virtuous heart will act nobly in _all_ situations.

“But to return to Mary. She rose and dressed herself very quickly; and wrapping a little blanket about her, she fell on her knees a moment, and prayed God to keep her from all harm, and to forgive her for leaving the house without her parents’ knowledge; for Mary was a very obedient and faithful child; and this was the first time she had ever done any important thing without the consent and approbation of her parents. She opened a door which led from her little room into a narrow entry, and passed, without observation, into the open air. The moon was nearly at the full. Heavy and rich masses of clouds were continually floating over its surface, and, sometimes, almost obscuring its light; but then they would pass away, and the moon would shine out brighter than before; and the waters of the river flashed like diamonds; and all the leaves of the wilderness, as they waved in the stirring wind, shone as if they had been dipped in molten silver. Mary clapped her little hands and forgot to be afraid, for her spirit was worshipping that God who maketh night so very glorious.

“And now let me tell you, my children, a good child never need be afraid in the darkness more than in the open day; for, as the Scriptures say, ‘He knoweth all the lambs of his fold;’ and again, ‘A sparrow falleth not to the ground without his knowledge.’

“The way was familiar to Mary, and soon she came to the rock where she had left Anawon. When her steps were heard, the old chief started to his feet and uttered a low cry, and, directly, several Indians stood by his side. Mary was not afraid, even then; for though the Indians were the enemies of her nation and her kindred, they were not her enemies—they were her friends: for there was hardly one among them who had not, at some time or other, felt the kindness of the sweet child. So she walked directly into the midst, fearless of the tomahawks that were lifted at her approach, and holding up her little hand to Anawon, said, in her low, sweet voice, ‘Father—fly—thy enemy is at hand!’

“The old Indian seemed, at first, almost choked with emotion; for he well knew that his enemies were the friends of Mary; and laying his hand on the child’s head as she bent before him, he only said, ‘The God of the white man and the Great Spirit of the Indian be with thee!’ and his followers, who, from the moment she was known, had fallen back from the centre of the rock, as they leaned upon their bows and looked upon the child, repeated, at once, a word in the Indian tongue, which was as much as to say, ‘Amen.’

“Then Anawon unbound a wampum bracelet from his arm, and giving it to Mary, said, ‘Daughter! in the hour of sorrow bring this to Anawon; and ask what thou wilt, and it shall not be denied thee!’

“Then Namoina (whom we will henceforth call Rachel) took the child in her arms and kissed her, and wrapped her little blanket about her; and Mary ran swiftly toward home. She reached her room in safety, and soon she fell asleep, for she was very tired. Soon after this Mrs. Gray came into the room, and saw that Mary was asleep, and that her pillow was wet with tears; she could not think what had caused them, for she had never known Mary to be very unhappy. Just at this moment William came in on tiptoe; and, as he bent down to kiss his sister’s cheek, he saw the bracelet, which had fallen to the floor, and examining it by the light of the moon, he thought he had seen it before; and taking it to his father, Mr. Gray said that he remembered it very well, for he had seen it on the arm of Anawon.

“‘I will wake Mary instantly,’ said William, ‘and perhaps she can tell us where he is; and we will have the cunning old savage before morning!’

“‘Thou art much too hasty,’ said Mr. Gray, laying a hand on his son’s arm; ‘this token was given to thy sister in peace and love. Thou knowest boy,’ he continued, with difficulty restraining his son, ‘thou knowest the child’s heart would be broken, if she were obliged, in any way, to be made an instrument of evil. Alas!’ he added, giving way to the natural tenderness of his heart, ‘alas! that we are compelled, by cruel necessity, to slay, ay, murder each other!’ and Simon Gray folded his dark, bony hands upon his breast and was silent.

“Observing the boy still unsatisfied, he said, ‘Go to thy rest, my son; the Lord in his own good time will do the work. At all events, if I can prevent it, blood shall never fall upon the head of Mary.’

“The next morning by dawn of day, father and son departed. Mary was not awake, for she had been so tired that she slept very soundly; and William was just allowed to kiss her cheek _very_ softly, and deposite by her side some little baskets of willow; and he then embraced his weeping mother and hastened to join his father, who already stood by the gate waiting for him.

“When Mary awoke, she was so much disappointed because they were gone, that she could hardly keep from crying; but she saw that her mother was striving to be cheerful, so she wiped the few tears that fell upon her cheek, and folding her arms round her neck, she whispered softly, ‘Let us pray to God, mother, and he will comfort us.’ And they both knelt down and prayed, and when they rose up they were quite calm; for God never withholds a blessing from those who seek in humility of soul, and never withdraws his countenance from those who trust in him. And now, my children, I beg you to remember, whatever may be your trials and distresses, always to put your trust in God, and nothing will have power to harm you; but do not think, my children, that you must wait till distresses _come_—seek the love of God in the day of joy—and in the hour of sorrow he will not be far off.

“But to return to my story. Two months had passed away and Mr. Gray and William had not returned, though Mrs. Gray had heard from them occasionally.

“It was a bright afternoon in September, and Mary had taken her knitting-work and was sitting beside her mother’s arm-chair at the door of their cottage; but she could not work, for her eyes were continually wandering off in the direction of the Seekonk road; and, at every waving of the trees, or the least unusual sound, she would start from her seat, and say, ‘They are coming!’ and then run to make some addition, or alteration, to the furniture of a small round table, white as snow which was spread with bowls and spoons, brown bread and baked apples, and a pan of new milk; and then, returning to the door, she would expect to find them near; but when she looked in every direction, she saw only the few quiet looking houses of the Plantation—the wide and almost unbroken forest, and the broad road before her—but no father or brother. She had repeated this act several times, and at each successive one she was more sure that they were coming; until, at last, the continued disappointment was more than she could bear; and, clinging round her mother’s neck, she burst into tears.

“Mr. Gray and William had sent word, by some men belonging to the town, that they should be at home the night before, and they had not come. Might not some terrible accident have happened?

“Mrs. Gray had been sitting silently, with her arms folded upon her breast, struggling within herself to bear the approaching trial as became a Christian; for she knew better than Mary did how full of disappointment life is, and she knew also that the times were peculiarly uncertain and hazardous. She had appeared calm, notwithstanding, for she did not wish to check the fond anticipations of Mary; but when she saw that even she could not hope any longer—when she felt the sweet child weeping upon her breast, for an instant her calmness forsook her, and she wept with Mary.

“‘Do _you_ believe, mother, they will not come?’ sobbed the child; ‘do _you_ believe they will not come to-night?’ And shaking away the curls from her face, and a flood of tears with them, she looked upon her mother as if she would read her thoughts before she spoke.

“‘They will come, my child,’ said Mrs. Gray, speaking with much difficulty; ‘they will come when it is God’s pleasure;’ and putting the child from her arms, she went to her room and shut herself in, for her distress was so great that she could not bear to have Mary see it.

“The child, being left to herself, wept without restraint; but still she did not actually believe that her father and brother would not come very soon, and she dried her tears and thought she would run out a little way on the Seekonk road, and perhaps she might meet them. When she had got a little way from the house she saw a person approaching, and she hastened along, hoping to hear something of her father and brother; and when she got near she saw it was Rachel. Mary was very glad, for she had not seen Rachel for a long time, and she knew the Indian woman was a good friend to her, so she ran toward her and put her little arms around her; but her heart was so full she could not speak. Rachel did not know her at first; but when she saw that it was Mary, she held her in her arms, repeating, all the while, some words in the Indian tongue, which Mary knew were a kind of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit.

“‘Child, I was seeking thee!’ she said, at last, in imperfect English; ‘I have bad news—thy brother is fallen among his enemies!’

“‘Will not my brother come home?’ said the child, bursting into tears; ‘will he never come home? Is he dead?’

“‘He is yet alive,’ replied Rachel, ‘but his hours are counted. This night he is to die!’’

“‘Where is he? Let me go to him!’ said the child.

“‘It was for that very purpose I came to thee. For thy sake he may yet live—he is in the hands of Anawon.’

“‘O, let us go this instant! Let us run! Let us fly!’ said Mary, seizing the hand of Rachel; and she ran forward a few steps—then, stopping short, she said, ‘I must run back and tell mother; I cannot go without telling her!’

“‘Thou must not go back,’ said Rachel; ‘let her not know his danger till it is over—if thy brother lives, we will return with the earliest light; if he dies, it will be soon enough to break her heart—as mine is broken,’ she added, beating her breast, while her eyes shone like fire.

“‘I cannot go,’ sobbed Mary, ‘I cannot go without telling mother.’

“‘Then thy brother will die!’ said Rachel; ‘then he will die—they are singing the death-song! The fire is kindling now!’

“‘O let us go then!’ said the child, with a piercing cry, ‘let us hurry! let us go!’

“‘The pledge of Anawon, is it about thee, child?’ asked Rachel; and Mary drew from her pocket the bracelet of the chief; and they went on.

“Their way lay directly through the woods. Mary’s poor, little, bare feet, were dreadfully scratched with the briers; and she was so tired with running, and hurrying, and crying, that sometimes Rachel was obliged to take her up and carry her. At length it grew very dark; and, at first, Mary could hardly tell where to step; but when she got used to it she did not mind it at all—for she was not thinking of herself, but of her father, and mother, and brother.

“After they had gone several miles they saw a light at a great distance: and, when they came near, they saw it was a large fire—and when they got still nearer, they saw a great many Indians, with painted faces and tomahawks in their hands, dancing about it, singing, and shouting, and uttering terrible cries.

“One of the Indians, who was stationed to keep watch, saw little Mary and her guide; and as soon as he knew Rachel he shouted ‘Namoina!’ And all immediately rested their tomahawks on the ground, and, ceasing to sing and dance, they awaited her approach with all the respect due to the daughter of so mighty a chief as Anawon.

“Mary Wallace saw but one thing. As the ring opened she beheld her brother standing in the midst, beside a large pile of light fuel, which was all ready to be kindled; his hands were bound behind him and his head was bent down. Mary gave one spring, and, fearing not the terrible looking men around her, she bounded to the side of William; and clinging round his neck, she sobbed as if her little heart was breaking. William was pale as death when he saw Mary. A few hot tears fell on his cheek; but he spoke not; he bowed his head upon her neck awhile—and then his heart was melted—and he sobbed aloud. This relieved him, and he whispered, ‘Sister, wipe my tears away and leave me—thou must not see me die.’

‘Thou wilt not die! Thou shalt not!’ said Mary, wringing her hands; and, losing all fear, but that of her brother’s death, she ran wildly from one to another crying out, ‘Will my brother die? must William die?’

“Anawon, who sat apart on a rock higher than those around, saw and heard the tumult; but he knew not its cause; and, in a deep and somewhat angry tone of voice, he gave orders for the noise to be hushed, and the awful ceremonies of death to be resumed. In an instant the place was still—and then a low murmur ran among the crowd, ‘The Child of Sunrise!’—‘The Bird of Peace!’—‘The Red Man’s Friend!’ and such was the strong love Mary had excited among the Indians, that, for a moment, not a hand was lifted, even at the command of their chief—then slowly they prepared to obey.

“As Mary’s almost distracted features were turned to the glaring light of the death-fire, Anawon saw her; and the long, deep, agonizing groan he did not try to suppress, told that she was recognized. The next moment she was at his feet. The bracelet was clasped about his arm. ‘Father, will he die!’ was all that she could speak; and poor little Mary fainted away.

“Anawon took the child in his own arms, and administered something which revived her; and when he saw her beautiful blue eyes again, he wiped the heavy drops of sweat from his brow, and gave orders for the release of the prisoner. Mary was then almost wild with joy—and she laughed and wept—and sang and danced—and ran from one to another—and they feared she would go into fits; but in a few minutes she was completely exhausted; and Rachel took her in her arms and held her.

“William wanted to go home immediately, because he knew his parents would be very much distressed about their children. One of the Indians said he would carry little Mary in his arms, and, accompanied by Rachel, they set out.

“It was about sunrise when they came in sight of Providence; and just then they met Simon Gray, at the head of a small band of men, going out in pursuit of his children. He was very much overcome at meeting them so unexpectedly; and he forgot not to fall on his knees and bless God for their restoration. Then he embraced them affectionately, and learned the particulars of their escape.

“During this time the men ran on before to the settlement and told the news; and as they entered the town the people came running out of their houses, all uttering expressions of joy, and blessing God for their happy deliverance. But the mother’s heart was most severely tried. She had given them up, and had become almost calm; but when the news of their safe return reached her, her agitation was so great that she fell into fits; and from their effect she never recovered. She lingered, however, in a weak state nearly a year; and then she took an epidemic fever and died; and Mary Wallace was once more—an orphan!

“During this time the poor Indians were mostly subdued. King Philip was killed; Anawon was taken by Captain Church, and, during the absence of that good man, was shamefully put to death. Mary was much distressed, and refused to be comforted, when she heard of the cruel death of her good old friend, (though William often told her that the white people never could be safe while he lived,) and when she was alone she would weep at thinking of it.

“One day, a short time after her mother’s death, she went to visit a friend about five or six miles from the Plantation; and in the afternoon she walked out alone, thinking she would go and see the rock where Philip and his men had once concealed themselves. She soon found the place; for the main rock, which the Indians called Quinsniket, or Rock-house, was larger than, and different from, all others around. This rock projects over to the southwest, and under that side of it the Indians had found a home. Mary went there and examined the place, and she found a great many arrow-spikes made of flint, and some pieces of wampum; and the ashes of their fires were still visible. She then climbed to the top of the rock, and sat down under the shade of a tall sugar-maple; and there she could not help thinking how cruel it was for the poor Indians to be killed or driven from their lands, and their houses, and their fathers’ graves.

“As she was returning, a little way from Quinsniket, she saw a woman sitting on a flat stone, in the midst of a square where the earth seemed to have been blackened with fire, and where the grass had never since grown. When Mary came nearer, she saw that it was Rachel. Overjoyed, she was just going to spring to her arms, for she had not seen her friend since the morning of her brother’s release, when she saw the poor creature was weeping. As soon as Rachel saw Mary, she hid her head in her blanket. The child looked at her a moment sorrowfully, then springing to her lap she folded her little arms round her neck, and putting her soft cheek close to hers, wept with her. This act of tenderness softened Rachel; and wiping away her own tears with a corner of her blanket, she held up the child and gazed mournfully upon her face; then she said, ‘Weep on, my daughter! weep on!—for thy tears are cool and pleasant; but mine—O! they are drops of fire!’ Then she spoke of her father’s death and the downfall of her race, till her voice was choked—and she wept like a heart-broken child. Again she was silent, and began to pluck the blades of grass and weave them into basket-work, keeping her face all the while turned from Mary.

“Suddenly she looked upon the child, and exclaimed, with much energy, ‘Here—here! on this very spot ’twas done!’

“‘What, mother? what was done’? asked Mary, with a trembling voice.

“‘My babe—my babe!’ Rachel could say no more for an instant; and then she added, ‘I will tell thee: Namoina was the daughter of a mighty chief; many chiefs sought her in marriage—but she said, “No!” for her heart beat quick only at the step of Mohaton the brave. Anawon, the great chief, said, “Go!” and Namoina took the hand of Mohaton, and went from her father. We had one babe—it was beautiful and dear—and it went as quick from my arms as the blossom from the corn-leaf. The white man came—Mohaton fell by our own door! and my babe—they trod upon it! It saw me—it tried to lift its little arms—it tried to open its little eyes—it could not. I took it in my arms—it was cold—still—dead. I saw not that all my brethren had gone—I saw not that I was alone. I held my little one till night came and made everything as dark and cold as my own bosom, and then I laid it in the ground—here!’ As she spoke she stretched out her hand, and rested it an instant on a little mound beside her; then she stretched out her arms and fell upon it, and wept and groaned fearfully.

“After a short time she arose, and dashing the tears away from her cheek, she became terribly calm, and continued: [9]‘At last the hope of vengeance possessed me. I rose from this grave and vowed to kill the first white child I could find. I found thee, my child—I brought thee here—to the very spot where my own darling bled; but thy smile was so sweet—thy voice was so soft and pitiful—thy little arms clung around my neck so tenderly, I could not kill thee; and the spirit of my little one whispered to me constantly, “Let Mary lie in thy bosom and warm it again!” So I kept thee, and when three moons[10] were gone, it was cold, and thy little limbs trembled, and thy cheek was blue. I saw that the child of the Pale-face should not dwell in the wilderness. I gave thee meal and corn; but the food of the red babe was not for thee. I was afraid that thou too wouldst die. I sought thy mother to give thee up. She had gone, with her broken heart, over the great waters.[11] Namoina knew how to pity her. Thy father was slain in battle. She was a motherless widow. On my way back Simon Gray found me; and when I saw thee among thy own people, I could not take thee away. Thy smile was as the sunlight to me—thou wert the only thing that made life pleasant, and yet I left thee.’ She paused, and Mary hid her face in the faithful creature’s bosom and wept without restraint.

“Again she resumed—‘The mother I found thee is gone, and now I will give thee back the other—thy own!’

“‘Where? where?’ asked Mary, lifting her hands quickly. ‘Where is my mother?’

“‘Be patient, and I will tell thee. Go to Seekonk on the next day thy people meet to worship the Great Spirit—I have promised to send thee—she will be there; a tall woman, and slender and graceful as a reed upon the hill-side. Her brow is fair as the coming of light, fair as thy own, my child: and her dark hair falleth over it as the shadows of evening upon snow. There she is,’ continued Rachel, taking a small miniature from her own neck, and giving it to Mary, ‘some some cunning[12] man of thy people hath put her face here; but not all. The kind look, and the tears, and the sorrow are not here!’

“Mary took the picture and looked upon it, and kissed it, and thanked God that again she was not an orphan—that again she was to find a mother.

“‘Go,’ continued Rachel, ‘remember all I have told thee; observe the scar over her left eye. She will know thee by thy little playthings—by thy sweet voice, and by thy father’s soft blue eye.’ As she spoke she gave some little toys to Mary, and then, motioning her away, she added, in a thick and tremulous voice, ‘now go, and let Namoina—die!’

“‘Die!’ repeated Mary, ‘Die! what can my mother mean?’

“‘Come hither, child, at the rising of the sun, and thou wilt know what I mean. Thrice hath the sun risen and set since food hath passed the lips of Namoina; and when she eateth again, it will be among her fathers in the hunting-grounds afar off.’

“‘I will bring thee food and drink; I will go now,’ said Mary, bursting into tears.

“‘Go, but come not again! go, and return not! Namoina will find it hard to die while the eye of her nursling is upon her.’

“Mary sprang back again to the side of Rachel. ‘O, my mother!’ she said, ‘thy hands are cold, and thy brow—what shall I do for thee? What shall I do?’

“‘If thou wilt not go, sit down at my feet and listen to my death-song; but touch me not—speak not, or the soul of Namoina will be a coward and refuse to die.’

“Mary fell, rather than sat, down at the poor creature’s feet, and listened to her with a bursting heart. I will repeat the song to you, not exactly as it was chanted by Namoina, but as it has since been put into verse. It still, however, retains its original spirit and meaning.

THE DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA.

‘I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest—
They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest.
The hills are glad with living things—the valleys bright with corn,
Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone.

‘The earth is cold—the hills are lone—the pleasant places sad,
And everything is desolate that once could make me glad.
The white man’s corn is growing now upon our fathers’ graves—
And Cowtantowit’s[13] children flee unto the western waves.

‘’Tis time Namoina should go—she cannot longer stay—
For as the rainbow from the cloud her tribe hath passed away;
Her heart is throbbing at thy voice, O wait thee, Mohaton!
She hears her father, too—the brave, the mighty Anawon;
She hears her little baby’s voice, soft as the wind at even—
And all her brethren beckon her unto the far-off heaven!

‘Child of the Rising-sun![14] my Flower! Namoina cannot stay;
For all the voices of her tribe are calling her away.
But one tear falleth on her cheek—it is to leave thee now
Within a world whose fearful blight may gather round thy brow—
But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee;
And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.

‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less bright
When poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light!
But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake,
And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!

‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear!
But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here!
The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell—
’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’

“Her voice died away gently, till only a low murmur was audible. The setting sun flashed a moment over her features, and as it faded away, they turned to a livid hue. She looked earnestly at Mary, as if she would speak; her lips quivered in the attempt just once; her head sank upon her bosom; and when Mary threw her arms about her, she knew, by the chill, that poor Namoina was dead.

“The child sat down again at Namoina’s feet and hid her face in her lap, and sobbed and wept passionately. And there she sat till it was almost dark; and there her friends, who, alarmed at her absence, went in search of her, found her.

“They removed the body to the house, and Mary watched by it through the night; and the next day poor Namoina was decently buried. Her funeral was respectably attended, and Mary mourned for her.

“But the child was now awakened to new hopes; she could think of nothing but her mother. She was longing to see her, and yet she was almost afraid; for she had loved her adopted mother so dearly she thought she could not, perhaps, like her own mother as well; and the thought was distressing to her. But, between the different agitations of hope and fear, the two days that remained between the burial of her Indian friend and the Sabbath, seemed to her the longest days she had ever known. She had begged her father’s permission for William to take her to Seekonk on the next Sabbath, and he had willingly granted her request; but she said nothing of her hopes to her father or brother, from a delicate regard for their feelings, because, at the best, she knew it would distress them. They and the dear departed one who had nursed and loved her from infancy, had been so long all-in-all to her, that her heart was reluctant, even in secrecy, to cherish a hope independent of them. Then poor Mary was perplexed by a thousand fears; she thought that it might rain—or that her mother might be sick—or that there might be some misunderstanding—or that, perhaps, the whole was but a raving fancy of Namoina—or if the whole was true, (and this Mary firmly believed when she looked in love upon the sweet features that never left her bosom, but to be kissed and wept upon,) a thousand unthought of difficulties might occur. In short, her fears, and doubts, and anxieties, were innumerable. She could neither take food or rest, nor attend steadily to her daily occupations; and she kept by herself as much as possible, and spent most of her time in prayer.

“At last the Sabbath came. It was a beautiful October morning. The sun went up gloriously and melted away the bright frost from the foliage; and the forest—you have seen our woods in the autumn, children, and you know how beautiful they are when the frost has turned the leaves.”

“Yes,” said Ann, “and do you remember the lines upon ‘Autumn,’ you gave me the other day, where the sweet poet we love so dearly, compares our autumn foliage to ‘a flood of molten rainbows?’ A beautiful thought—is it not, grandmother?”

“True, my child,” said Mrs. Gray, turning an affectionate glance to the bright eyes that were lifted up; “but your brother and cousins, I see, are more interested about the fate of Mary, than the beauties of autumn.

“I said it was a lovely morning, and Mary would have thought so too at any other time; for not even you, my dear Ann, have more poetry in your heart, than Mary Wallace had. Her taste was not cultivated, it is true; but the God of nature had dealt bountifully by her. She never looked on the beauties of creation without beholding the Creator; and this spirit is one of the highest and richest sources of poetry.

“But, as I said, or was going to say, her mind this morning was full of other thoughts; and she could hardly have told even what season of the year it was, though she loved the autumn dearly, and its beauties were never before unmarked.

“She counted the toys Namoina had given her over and over again, that she might be sure they were all there; and then she put them into a little bag with a medal she had worn in infancy; and before William had begun to dress, or the horse was brought to the door, she was quite ready and waiting for him in the passage. She thought William had never been so long in dressing before; and she kept calling to him, and hurrying him. Her father, wondering at her unusual impatience, stepped into the passage with a thought to chide her; but she stood there—such a beautiful, bright creature, that he could not; and he paused and looked upon her in silence. The excitement of her hopes had risen from her heart to her face; the maple leaf was not richer than the bloom upon her cheek, or the sunlight brighter than the flashing of her eye. A short green mantle hung from her shoulders, and her light, straw grassy bonnet could not hide the luxury of her brown hair.

“As she lifted her head at the sound of foot steps, the golden curls swept back from her face, and as she looked upon her father her eye filled with tears; and there was something in it that made the heart of Simon Gray tremble. Mary sprang to his arms and clinging round his neck, wept; for she thought it was almost wrong to seek another parent when she already had one who loved her so very tenderly. But at the sound of William’s footsteps on the stairs, she kissed her father, and, wiping away her tears, was all bloom and hope again; and William could not help pausing to look at her, ere he bounded to the saddle; and he thought she had never been so beautiful before. But Mary trembled so she could not spring up behind him as usual; her father was obliged to lift her; and when he felt how she trembled, he feared she was ill, and asked her to stay at home and not go to the meeting; but Mary assured him she was perfectly well; so the kind-hearted man could make no other objection, and they rode off.

“They arrived at the meeting-house before any others; and as the people began to gather to the house, Mary trembled so she could hardly keep her seat.

“One after another came in—one after another was examined; but poor Mary could not think any one of them was her mother. At last a lady came and sat nearly opposite Mary. The child’s heart bounded; she saw the same dark hair and eye—the same white brow—but, O! it had no scar!—and tears of disappointment filled her eyes. Another came; she was tall and graceful; she had dark hair and eyes, and a very fair brow. ‘That is the one! That is my mother!’ thought Mary, and she was just going to throw herself into her arms and call her mother, when the lady—who probably thought Mary very rude for staring at her so fixedly—turned quickly away with such an angry expression of countenance, that the child could hardly restrain her tears; and then the idea that the lady might be her mother, made her tremble. Others came, and were, in turn, examined; but not one of them could be compared with the picture she held in her hand—the description given by Namoina—or the image in the heart of Mary. The poor child was doomed to be disappointed; and she sat down, and leaned her head upon her hands, and thought she would never hope again.

“A low murmur, as of one in prayer, reached her ear. She lifted her eyes, almost unwillingly, and on the opposite side of the room, she saw a lady in deep mourning, kneeling before one of the rough benches, in prayer. The garb of outward grief was an unwonted sight there, and every eye was turned upon her. Yet there was a kindly expression in every face, for the people, although their own simple creed and rigid habits forbade the use of a peculiar garment as a sign of wo, could not help respecting the piety of the stranger. Mary’s heart beat wildly at the first glance, and she turned very pale, and then again her face was flushed with the fever of excited feelings. After kneeling a short time, the stranger slowly rose, and turned round upon the little assembly with a melancholy, listless air. As she did so her face turned full in Mary’s view; it was pale, and tender, and sorrowful. The child became, at once, convinced that her search was ended; in that one glance she had seen all; the tall and graceful form—the dark glossy hair—the fair, pale brow—the scar—the resemblance to the picture—all that she sought was there. She forgot every thing but that she had found her long-lost parent; she flew along the narrow aisle, and when she reached the lady just whispered, ‘Mother!’ and fell into her arms. The child had fainted.

“The strange lady seemed as much overcome as Mary. She held her closely embraced in her arms, and gazed eagerly upon her pallid features. It chanced at this moment that the miniature fell from Mary’s bosom, and the medal on which was engraved her name. The stranger looked upon them and uttered a faint scream; then she clasped the child close to her heart; and when Mary opened her blue eyes and smiled upon her, she cried out, ‘I know thee now, my daughter!—my own beloved daughter!’

“The whole congregation had gathered round with wondering looks and curious faces; and even the good minister himself, instead of going to his desk, mingled with the crowd, and seemed to enter into the spirit of the scene.

“There was one powerfully interested; William had followed Mary from her seat, wondering at her strange behavior; but from the moment when he saw that she had found her own mother, he stood with his arms folded upon his breast, the only silent one among the crowd.

“Simon Gray was immediately sent for, and it was established, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Mary had indeed found a mother, and Mrs. Wallace a long-lost daughter; and the minister offered up a solemn public thanksgiving to God for their re-union.”

The children thanked their grandmother for telling them such a very interesting story, and little Helen danced with joy, she was so glad that Mary had found her mother.

“I have one more wish to be gratified, grandmother,” said George Gray; “I should like to go to Quinsniket and see the place where Philip and his followers were sheltered, and where Namoina died.”

“Your wish shall be indulged, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Gray. “When the spring opens, I will take you all to pass a few weeks in the country, and we will go to Quinsniket. You will find many traces of the Indians still existing, in the names of different localities, and in the recollections of the ancient inhabitants. The field where they planted their corn, still called Indian oldfield, is to be seen a short distance from Quinsniket; and the rock itself, so intimately connected with the history of a fallen but once mighty race, still remains, as it were, a monument to designate their grave. The spot where poor Namoina was buried, is now within the limits of a little town. Her hut was afterward rebuilt by a few wandering remnants of her tribe, and some of the present inhabitants remember it. The hearth-stone is still to be seen; and over it waves a honey-locust tree, which a distinguished gentleman, since dead, planted to mark the spot where stood THE LAST WIGWAM.”

THE GENOESE EMIGRANT.

BY MISS E. M. ALLISON.

“It was the fatal pre-eminence of _Genoa_ to wind up the last act of
Italy’s direful tragedy.”

LADY MORGAN.

The tremulous moon’s light silvery gleam,
Plays over Genoa’s halls and bowers,
Gilds with a bright translucid beam
Her splendid domes and lofty towers.
Sardinia’s banners waving high
In pride of ancient rivalry,
Tell to the world the wretched fate
Of Genoa, and her fallen state;
That she a proud republic host
Once fair Italia’s pride and boast,
Which stood a landmark by the sea
To show the spot where all were free.
By commerce rear’d, her sons a race
Endow’d with wealth and martial grace,
Oft Austria from her walls expell’d
And long the daring French repell’d,
Now to tyranny bow
‘Neath their deadliest foe;
Yield their sceptre and land
To a tyrant’s command,
And though panting their dear cherish’d rights to regain,
Unresistingly bend ’neath the yoke they disdain.
Oh, Genoa, could none be found
To deal thee such a deadly wound,
To steal thy gem of brightest glow
To deck a worthless despot’s brow,
Supplant thy _cross_[15] and _golden crown_
That floated o’er thy ancient town;
But those the generous arms embraced
With hospitable welcome graced?

But whose is yon form on the lone beach side,
Wrapt in his mantle that streams o’er the tide?
Whose footsteps’ hurried sound,
No measure seems to beat
To aught that breathes around
Pale midnight’s calm retreat.
And see yon skiff on ocean wide,
Its pendants on the light breeze streaming,

Dashing along the sparkling tide,
A circle bright around it gleaming.
Approaching gently to the shore
Waits it to waft yon stranger o’er,
To seek in some far distant clime
A solitary home.
Through foreign lands to roam
And waste a joyless, sunless prime.
A branch lopped from the native tree
To wither where no eye may see
And reck its fallen destiny.
Genoa, to fly thy still-lov’d walls,
That hold to him the spell-bound halls,
Where dwelt his sires in days gone by
The guardian friends of liberty;
And where commingling now they lie
Beneath thy soft cerulean sky.
From every tie at once to sever,
To fly from scenes by time endeared,
Remembered joys to leave for ever
That round his natal spot are twined.
There bright ambition o’er him broke
In strains of martial story,
And first his ardent soul awoke
From youth’s gay dreams to glory
And bending from above
’Twas there immortal love,
His golden sunbeams flung around him,
And with his roseate fetters bound him;
With yet one firmer look entwined
To all, that must be now resigned.

The stranger watched a dark cloud hovering
In the blue sky,
And over Genoa’s walls it was lowering,
Nor passed it by.
And resting on the ether blue,
It hid the pale moon from his view.
He gazed—for deemed he in such skies
So dense a vapor ne’er could rise,
To sully the untainted light
That hallows an Italian night.

His brow was motionless—and none could tell
If sorrow there had been.
And from his still-fixed eye no tear-drop fell
To show of inward agony,
Or aught that passed within
His bosom’s sanctuary.

Once his eye glanced o’er the expanded sea,
With such a look as mocks at misery;
Who, as the poets tell,
At midnight leaves her cell
To sit the ocean rocks among,
Re-echoing the owlets’ song.
But soon again his glance is resting
On those turrets lofty and gray
Lit by a gleam of the moon’s ray.
His sires might leave them to be breasting
Their foreign foes, on earth or main;
More glorious to return again:
But he an alien from this shore,
Must quit them to return no more.
He could have fought for Genoa’s right,
His soul blenched not in thickest fight—
He could drench that arm deep in gore,
But not quail ’neath a foeman’s power.
He could have fought till latest gasp
To free from an invader’s grasp
His dear fraternity—his all—
If but her cross were on that wall.
That would have been a beacon light
To light him on his foes in fight,
Better than glare of torches bright.
Shall he then own a tyrant’s chain?
Let viler souls than his remain;
But if he plough the watery wave
Where shall he find a land of brave
Hearts, bound to Liberty? No more;
Such dreams are of an age that’s o’er;
And men are wiser grown—and knaves,
Choosing them quiet coward graves,
Not glorious ones, upon the land
Their fathers valor won and mann’d.

Liberty scorns with those to dwell
Who love her name but passing well—
Who hang it a boast on the lip for ever,
A lip-drop warming the soul, oh! never—
But ’mongst those, where her deep-cherished name
Burns in a bright and hallowed flame,
Who breathe it but forth in devotional sigh—
Who know but to _love her, and have her, or die_!
And now her pure white flag unfurled
Is waving o’er a western world.
And to that new-found world across the waves,
In yon proud ship the gathering storm that braves,
His onward course is steered. Yes! to that shore
Beyond the Atlantic’s wide resounding roar
His countryman[16] first traversed, and a name
Carved on the ’scutcheon of immortal fame.
What would he more? Let others reap the gain
That springs from genius’s creative brain—
’Tis ever so:—while grief and toil must win
The portals that to glory’s shrine let in.
But there are toils that win no high renown;
Griefs that the loftiest spirit can bow down:
And such were his, who, standing by that prow,
Felt the worst ills that fate on man can throw;
But felt them as a man, resolved to bear,
And snatch a brand to show what yet he dare
If Heaven permit; if not, to seek a tomb,
Columbia, in thy forest’s thickest gloom,
Where none can brand him with his fathers’ fame,
And say he ill deserves their glorious name.
Ah! thought most true which all of grief contains,
And owning most the spirit most disdains.

’Tis night—and musing on the deep he stands,
The abstracted emigrant from other lands.
His form majestic bending o’er the tide,
Marks he impatiently how slow they glide
O’er the unfathomed depth that lies below;
Or doth but watch the sparkles as they glow
Among the envious billows’ angry play,
That foam and toss on high the beauteous ray:
Not that the glories of the sea or sky
Absorb the thoughts that in his bosom lie,
Panting to burst from their sepulchral home
In all the ghastliness of livid gloom.
Why is his head uncovered to the air?
As if the keenest wind came hotly there.
Aye, even with the elemental wrath,
His troubled spirit a communion hath.
Then stalk before his view in mournful maze,
Unburied phantoms of departed days;
With withered hopes around them wildly flung,
Like flowers to which no breath of odor clung;
Nor hue of brightness—such as o’er the dead
The gifts of fond affection vainly shed
Become, ere the same morn that saw them bloom, hath fled.

So on him comes the memory of the past,
In floating shadows thickly seen and fast,
Their spectral forms in grim array
Press on him as in battle-fray.
And he resists them not with hostile force,
As he would once turn back the assailants’ course
In the hot tide of war—but vainly throws
A weak retaliation on those foes
Who urge a contest with the soul—and there
Strike their keen shafts envenomed by despair.
Now in a milder mood his light guitar
Swells o’er the crested billows dashing far.
Sweet is the voice of music and of song—
But sweetest when it floats the ocean waves along

SONG.

“My loved guitar, send forth thy deepest gush
Of mournful melody, in one farewell,
Where all regretful tenderness may rush,
And leave the spirit halcyon in its cell.
Halls of my sires, that I no more shall view,
Land of my home—a long—a last adieu!

“’Tis well! Better the eagle should go forth
Than have his eyrie for a prison tower.
There on the mountains of the stormy north
More glad to soar, than in bright sunny bower
With chain of silken fetters idly bound,
Compell’d to wheel in measured circles round.

“My lov’d guitar, not this thy touching force
Of soul-like cadence, that was wont to bring
The crystal tear-drops from the heart’s deep source
Of her, to whom it was my joy to sing;
While o’er her brow the light of love would break,
Beauteous as morning’s first encrimsoned streak!

Clari!—but I must let that name no more
Sweep o’er these strings.—Maiden more fair
Than any minstrel’s love in days of yore!
And dearer, too!—but I must strive to tear
That name from out my heart; where it so long
Hath dwelt like odor, or the breath of song.

“Yet still one long—one passionate adieu
As ’twere my soul sigh’d forth, to thee I send.
Oh that it humbly at thy feet could sue
For one last thought, that thou wouldst deign to bend
On the lone exile from his land, and thee,
Who ne’er may claim thee now—his bride to be.