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Which smokes in grateful promise there,
Bestows his quiet smile.
Ah, Mogg Megone!—what dreams are thine,
But those which love's own fancies dress,—
The sum of Indian happiness!—
A wigwam, where the warm sunshine
Looks in among the groves of pine,—
A stream, where, round thy light canoe,
The trout and salmon dart in view,
And the fair girl, before thee now,
Spreading thy mat with hand of snow,
Or plying, in the dews of morn,
Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn,
Or offering up, at eve, to thee,
Thy birchen dish of hominy!
From the rude board of Boniton,
Venison and succotash have gone,—
For long these dwellers of the wood
Have felt the gnawing want of food.
But untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer,—
With head averted, yet ready ear,
She stands by the side of her austere sire,
Feeding, at times, the unequal fire
With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree,
Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls
On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls,
And over its inmates three.
From Sagamore Boniton's hunting flask
The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone:
“Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask?
Will he make his mark, that it may be known,
On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land,
From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand?”
The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes,
As he rises, the white man's bidding to do:
“Wuttamuttata—weekan!1Mogg is wise,— For the water he drinks is strong and new,—
Mogg's heart is great!—will he shut his hand,
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 breast,—
He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest.
‘Humph—drunk as a beast!’ —and Boniton's brow
Is darker than ever with evil thought—
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