John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Narrative and Legendary PoemsFuneral Tree of the Sokokis
A
There lingers not a breeze to break
The mirror which its waters make.
The firs which hang its gray rocks o’er,
Are painted on its glassy floor.
The snowy mountain-tops which lie
Piled coldly up against the sky.
Wild winds have bared some splintering peak,
Or snow-slide left its dusky streak.
And belts of spruce and cedar show,
Dark fringing round those cones of snow.
Though yet on her deliverer’s wing
The lingering frosts of winter cling.
And mildly from its sunny nooks
The blue eye of the violet looks.
The sweet birch and the sassafras,
Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass.
Hath Nature scattered everywhere,
In bud and flower, and warmer air.
What reck the broken Sokokis,
Beside their slaughtered chief, of this?
Scarce have the death-shot echoes died
Along Sebago’s wooded side;
Grouped darkly, where a swell of land
Slopes upward from the lake’s white sand.
Save one lone beech, unclosing there
Its light leaves in the vernal air.
They break the damp turf at its foot,
And bare its coiled and twisted root.
The firm roots from the earth divide,—
The rent beneath yawns dark and wide.
In tasselled garb of skins arrayed,
And girded with his wampum-braid.
Beneath the heavy arms, which rest
Upon his scarred and naked breast.
The beechen-tree stands up unbent,
The Indian’s fitting monument!
Their green and pleasant dwelling-place,
Which knew them once, retains no trace;
As now upon that beech’s head,
A green memorial of the dead!
In northern winds, that, cold and free,
Howl nightly in that funeral tree.
Forever round that lonely lake
A solemn undertone shall make!
Where Nature’s younger children rest,
Lulled on their sorrowing mother’s breast?
These bronzed forms of the wilderness
She foldeth in her long caress?
As if with fairer hair and brow
The blue-eyed Saxon slept below.
No priestly knee hath ever pressed,—
No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed?
And thoughts of wailing and despair,
And cursing in the place of prayer!
The Indian’s lowliest forest-mound,—
And they have made it holy ground.
His powerless bolts of cursing fall
Unheeded on that grassy pall.
Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild!
Great Nature owns her simple child!
The secret of the heart is known,—
The hidden language traced thereon;
Of form and creed, and outward things,
To light the naked spirit brings;
Not with our pride and scorn shall ban,
The spirit of our brother man!