JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. [Born, 1808.] THE ancestors of WHITTIER settled at an early period in the town of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. They were Quakers, and some of them suffered from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independents enacted against these "devil-driven heretics," as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of COTTON MATHER. The poet was born in the year 1808, on the spot inhabited by his family for four or five generations; and until he was eighteen years of age, his time was principally passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father on the farm. His nineteenth year was spent at a Latin school, and in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct "The American Manufacturer," a gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town, and in Newburyport, and the ability with which he managed the "Manufacturer," now made his name familiar throughout the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the "New England Weekly Review." He remained here about two years, during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the National Republican school, and devoted but little attention to literature. He published, however, in this period his "Legends of New England," a collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend BRAINARD, prefixed to the collection of his writings printed in 1830; and several poems which appeared in the "" Weekly Review." In 1831, WHITTIER returned to Haverhill, where he was for five or six years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the legislature in the sessions of 1835 and 1836, and declined a reelection in 1837. "Mogg Megone," his longest poem, was first published in 1836. He regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was practicable the rough but natural delineations of CHURCH, MAYHEW, CHARLEVOIX, and ROGER WILLIAMS, and therefore discarded much of the romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man's life. In this, as well as in some of his minor poems, and in the "Legends of New England," he has depicted with honesty the intolerant spirit and the superstitions of the early colonists. That he would willingly do injustice to their memories, none who know him or his works will be easily persuaded. He is himself a son of New England, and in the following lines, from "Moll Pitcher," has well expressed his feelings toward her and her founders: "Land of the forest and the rock Of dark-blue lake and mighty river- Whose deeds have link'd with every glen, Whose soil with noble blood is red, Nor feel resentment, like a brand, Like life beneath the day-beam's glance, The green, luxuriant ivy climb; The palm may shake its leaves on high, Above the broad banana stray, Seem dearer than the land of palms; More welcome than the banyan's shade; And sparkle with the wealth below!" In 1836 WHITTIER was elected one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and much of his time since then has been passed in its service. Many of his best poems relate to slavery. His productions are all distinguished for manly vigour of thought and language, and they breathe the true spirit of liberty. MOGG MEGONE. PART I. WHO stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall, in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, All lonely and sternly, save MoGG MEGONE?* How close to the verge of the rock is he, While beneath him the Saco its work is doing, Hurrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its pathway hewing. Far down, through the mist of the falling river, Which rises up like an incense ever, The splinter'd points of the crags are seen, He is watchful: each form, in the moonlight dim, He listens; each sound from afar is caught, But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret, Of the gray beech, whose naked root When, breast to breast, and knee to knee, Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife. And MonocAWANDO's wives had strung * MOGG MEGONE, or HEGONE, was a leader among the Saco Indians, in the bloody war of 1677. He attacked and captured the garrison at Black Point, October 12th of that year, and cut off, at the same time, a party of Englishmen near Saco river. From a deed signed by this Indian in 1664, and from other circumstances, it seems that, previous to the war, he had mingled much with the colonists. On this account, he was probably selected by the principal sachems as their agent, in the treaty signed in 1676. † Baron de ST. CASTINE came to Canada in 1644. Leav ing his civilized companions, he plunged into the great wilderness, and settled among the Penobscot Indians, near the mouth of their noble river. He here took for his wives the daughters of the great MODOCAWANDO-the most powerful sachem of the east. His castle was plundered by Governor ANDROS, during his reckless administration; and the enraged baron is supposed to have excited the Indians into open hostility to the English. What seeks MEGONE? His foes are near- Neverrustlingthe boughs nordisplacing the rocks, For the eyes and the cars which are watching for MOGG Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox. With Indian blood on his English sword? How lights the eye of MoGG MEGONE. "Boon welcome, JOHNNY BONYTHON!" Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, And quick, keen glances to and fro, The hunted outlaw, BoNYTHON ! For he hates the race from whence he sprung, And he couches his words in the Indian tongue. "Hush-let the sachem's voice be weak, The water-rat shall hear him speak- From the leaping brook to the Saco river- The wife of MOGG MEGONE forever." There's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, *The owner and commander of the garrison at Black Point, which MoGG attacked and plundered. He was an old man at the period to which the tale relates. + Wood Island, near the mouth of the Saco. It was visited by the Sieur DE MONTS and DE CHAMPLAIN, in 1603. JOHN BONYTHON, Son of RICHARD BONYTHON, Gent., one of the most efficient and able magistrates of the colony. JOHN proved to be a "degenerate plant." In 1635, we find, by the Court Records, that for some offence he was fined 40s. In 1640, he was fined for abuse toward R. GIBSON, the minister, and MARY, his wife. Soon after he was fined for disorderly conduct in the house of his father. In 1645, the "Great and General Court" adjudged "JOHN BONYTHON Outlawed, and incapable of any of his majesty's laws, and proclaimed him a rebel.” [Court Records of the Province, 1645.] In 1651, he bid defiance to the laws of Massachusetts, and was again outlawed. He acted independently of all law and authority; and hence, doubtless, his burlesque title of "The Sagamore of Saco," which has come down to the present generation in the following epitaph: "Here lies Bonython, the Sagamore of Sam; He lived a rogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomako." A moment's trace of powerful feelingOf love, or triumph, or both, perchance, Over his proud, calm features stealing. "The words of my father are very good; He shall have the land, and water, and wood; And he who harms the Sagamore JOHN Shall feel the knife of MoGG MEGONE; But the fawn of the Yengeese shall sleep on my And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest." "But, father!"-and the Indian's hand Falls gently on the white man's arm, As the deep voice is slow and calm— [breast, And that his word is good and fair: In one of those glances which search within; But the stolid calm of the Indian alone Remains where the trace of emotion has been. On his leafy cradle swung?- Indistinct, in shadow, seeming For the anthem's dying fall In the thunder, or the tone Of the mighty soul of all? Naught had the twain of thoughts like these, Climbing the dead tree's mossy log, Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine, Yet, even that Indian's ear had heard A cottage, hidden in the wood, Red through its seams a light is glowing, On rock, and bough, and tree-trunk rude, A narrow lustre throwing. "Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands: "Hold, RUTH-'tis I, the sagamore!" Quick, at the summons, hasty hands Unclose the bolted door; And on the outlaw's daughter shine Tall and erect the maiden stands, Like some young priestess of the wood, Some creature born of Solitude, And bearing still the wild and rude, Yet noble trace of Nature's hands. Her dark-brown cheek has caught its stain More from the sunshine than the rain; Yet, where her long, fair hair is parting, A pure, white brow into light is starting, And, where the folds of her mantle sever, Are a neck and bosom as white as ever The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river. But, in the convulsive quiver and grip Of the muscles around her bloodless lip There is something painful and sad to see; And her eye has a glance more sternly wild Than even that of a forest-child In its fearless and untamed freedom should be. O, seldom, in hall or court, are seen As freely and smiling she welcomes them there, Her outlaw'd sire and MOGG MEGONE: "Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare? And, Sachem, say-does SCAMMAN wear, In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own?" Careless and light is the maiden's tone, But a fearful meaning lurks within The Indian hath open'd his blanket, and there *HIACOOMES, the first Christian preacher on Martha's Vineyard. Now, Gon have mercy!-that maiden's fingers The traitor's hand by her fond tears wet- Hath left Revenge its chosen way, Which bound her to the traitor's bosom,- Some flowers of old affection blossom; JOHN BONYTHON's eyebrows together are drawn Is this the time to be playing the fool- Like a love-sick girl at school?- On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns:- Go-MOGG is wise; he will keep his land- The lip is clench'd, the tears are still. GoD pity thee, RUTH BONYTHON! With what a strength of will And whence that baleful strength of guile, The ghastly mockery of a smile?" "Is the sachem angry--angry with RUTH With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye, And watches RUTH go by, And, ever and anon, the while, Ah, MOGG MEGONE! what dreams are thine, With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree, From Sagamore BONYTHON'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, For the water he drinks is strong and new: On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow: "Boon water, boon water, Sagamore JoHN! Wuttaruttata--weekan! our hearts will grow!" He drinks yet deeper, he mutters low, He reels on his bearskin to and fro, His head falls down on his naked breast, He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. [brow Is darker than ever with evil thought: "The fool has sign'd his warrant; but how And when shall the deed be wrought? Speak, RUTH! why, what the devil is there, To fix thy gaze in that empty air? Speak, RUTH! by my soul, if I thought that tear, Which shames thyself and our purpose here, Were shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog, Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of MOGG, And whose beastly soul is in SATAN'S keeping, This--this!" he dashes his hand upon The rattling stock of his loaded gun, "Should send thee with him to do thy weeping!" "Father!" the eye of BONYTHON Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone, Hollow and deep, as it were spoken By the unmoving tongue of death, But spare a while the scoff and threat, His daughter's cold, damp hand in his. Through all their hidden sympathies. He points her to the sleeping MoGG: *Wattamuttata, "Let us drink." Weekan, "it is sweet." Vide ROGER WILLIAMS's Key to the Indian Language "in that parte of America called New England." London, 1643, p. 35. To drain my flask, and claim as his bride For his knife is sharp, and his fingers can help The hair to pull, and the skin to peel- Let him cry like a woman, and twist like an eel, The great Captain SCAMMAN must lose his scalp! And RUTH, when she sees it, shall dance with His eyes are fix'd, but his lips draw in, [MoGG!" With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin, And he sinks again, like a senseless log. RUTH does not speak, she does not stir, But she gazes down on the murderer, Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell Too much for her ear, of that deed of hell. She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clutching the bear-skin bed! What thoughts of horror and madness whirl Through the burning brain of that fallen girl! JOHN BONYTHON lifts his gun to his eye, Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, But he drops it again: "Some one may be nigh, And I would not that even the wolves should A trembling hand with the knife to raise. The strength to dare, the nerve to meet And lips drawn tight across her teeth, |