[THE story of MOGG MEGONE has been considered by the author only as a framework for sketches of the scenery of New England, and of its early inhabitants. In portraying the Indian character, he has followed, as closely as his story would admit, the rough but natural delineations of Church, Mayhew, Charlevoix, and Roger Williams; and in so doing he has necessarily discarded much of the romance which poets and novelists have thrown around the ill-fated red man? 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, Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone?1 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 splintered points of the crags are Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not. The moonlight, through the open bough Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked root Coils like a serpent at his foot, Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow. His head is bare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair, Reserved for him, whoe'er he be, More mighty than Megone in strife, When, breast to breast and knee to knee, Above the fallen warrior's life Gleams, quick and keen, the scalpingknife. |