With many a tear and half-moaned prayer, With apple-blossoms among his hair, They buried the child of their fondest love; And the man went back to the treadmill life With a kindlier thought for his stricken wife. Ah, well, there’s a reckoning day above! Sarah K. Bolton.
METAMORA TO THE COUNCIL.
You sent for me, and I’ve come: if you have nothing to say, I go back again. How is it, brothers? The doubt seems on all your faces, and your young warriors grasp their fire-weapons, as if they waited the onset of the foe. You were like a small thing upon the great waters; you had no earth to rest upon; you left the smoke of your father’s wig-wam far in the distance, when the lord of the soil took you as little children to his home; our hearths were warm, and the Indian was the white man’s friend. Your great Book tells you to give good gifts. The Indian needs no book: the Great Spirit has written with his finger on his heart. Wisconego here? let me see his eye! Art thou not he whom I snatched from the war-club of the Mohegan, when the lips of the foe thirsted for thy blood, and their warriors had sung thy death-song? Say unto these people that they have bought thy tongue, and that thy coward heart has uttered a lie. Slave of the whites, go! (stabs him) follow Sassawan! White man, beware! the wrath of the wronged Indian shall fall on you like a mighty cataract that dashes the uprooted oak down its mighty chasm; the dread war-cry shall start you from dreams at night, and the red hatchet gleam in the blaze of your burning dwellings. Tremble, from the east to the west, from the north to the south, till the lands you have stolen groan beneath your feet! (Throws hatchet on stage.) Thus do I smite your nation, and defy your power!
HOW THE RANSOM WAS PAID.
1598.
On the helpless Flemish village Cruel Alva swooped and fell; And the peace of trade and tillage Turned to martial clank and yell. In the town-house, tall and handsome, Stood the great duke looking down On the burghers proffering ransom For the safety of the town.
O’er his brow gray locks were twining, For his casque was laid aside, And his good sword carved and shining From the sword-belt was untied. Prince he seemed of born commanders; Pride and power each gesture told; As he cried, “Ye men of Flanders, Bring me twenty casks of gold!”