The washing-pools and shallows rang
With shout of lads at play;
At corn-hoeing the women sang;
The warriors were away.
The splashed white pebbles on the beach,
The idling paddles, gleamed;
Before the lodge doors, spare of speech,
The old men basked and dreamed.
And when the windless noon grew hot,
And the white sun beat like steel,
In shade about the shimmering pot
They gathered to their meal.
Then from the hills, on flying feet,
A desperate runner came,
With cry that smote the peaceful street,
And slew the peace with shame.
‘Trapped in the night, and snared in sleep,
Our warriors wake no more!
Up from Wahloos the Mohawks creep—
Their feet are at the door!’
The grey old sachems rose and mocked
The ruin that drew near;
And down the beach the children flocked,
And women wild with fear.
Launched were the red canoes; when, lo!
Beside them Gluskâp stood,
Appearing with his giant bow
From out his mystic wood.
With quiet voice he called them back,
And comforted their fears;
He swore the lodges should not lack,
He dried the children’s tears;
Till sorrowing mothers almost deemed
The desperate runner lied,
And the tired children slept, and dreamed
Their fathers had not died.
That night behind the mystic wood
The Mohawk warriors crept;
A spell went through the solitude
And stilled them, and they slept.