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 “Yet for her who waits at home,
For the dead who cannot come,
Let the little Gold-hair be
In the place of Menewee!
“Mishanock, my little star!
Come to Saco's pines afar;
Where the sad one waits at home,
Wequashim, my moonlight, come!”
‘What!’ quoth Waldron, “leave a child
Christian-born to heathens wild?
As God lives, from Satan's hand
I will pluck her as a brand!”
‘Hear me, white man!’ Squando cried;
“Let the little one decide.
Wequashim, my moonlight, say,
Wilt thou go with me, or stay?”
Slowly, sadly, half afraid,
Half regretfully, the maid
Owned the ties of blood and race,—
Turned from Squando's pleading face.
Not a word the Indian spoke,
But his wampum chain he broke,
And the beaded wonder hung
On that neck so fair and young.
Silence-shod, as phantoms seem
In the marches of a dream,
Single-filed, the grim array
Through the pine-trees wound away.
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