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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Appendix (search)
oung one loves the pale brown hair Of the scalp of an English dog far more Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor; Go,—Mogg is wise: he will keep his land,— And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand, Shall miss his scalp where it grew before.” The moment's gust of grief is gone,— The lip is clenched,—the tears are still,— Godd, When his father asks for a little land?— With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawn On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow, “Boon water,—boon water,—Sagamore John! Wuttamuttata,—weekan! our hearts will grow!” He drinks yet deeper,—he mutters low,— He reels on his bear-skin to and fro,— His head falls down on his naked bLike a fox in the woods of Pemaquid! On Sawga's banks the man of war Sits in his wigwam like a squaw; Squando has fled, and Mogg Megone, Struck by the knife of Sagamore John, Lies stiff and stark and cold as a stone.” Fearfully over the Jesuit's face, Of a thousand thoughts, trace after trace, Like swift