Lancaster gazette. [volume] (Lancaster, Mass.) 1828-1830, 1830-01-05
POETRY.
FOR THE LANCASTER GAZETTE.
THE VALLEY OF THE NASHAWAY; OK
PAST AND PRESENT.

in Boston Magazine last summer
The grey light of the morn scarce breaks on the
cloud
Ere the tread of the warrior is echoing loud,
Ere the war-hoop rings out in the beautiful vale
And the spirit of wrath rises black on the gale
The yell of the savage arouses from sleep
The son Of the pilgrim, who wakes but to weep;
The scalping-knife glares in morn's earliest BEAM
And death flashes forth in its terrible CLEAN.
From their wigwams they rush near Wachusetts
brow,
On the clouds looking down, as they roll far below
Light bursts on their track as they mastering come,
And reveals thei dark FORMS mid the pilgrims home'
And their whoop shakes the bay, whose clustering
isles
Are radiant in natures most beautiful smiles;
They pour from the woods and exultmgly swell
The cataract-peal of the Sagamore's yell
Death shfieks on the blast in most hideous forms,
Like spirits of darkness, careering in storms:
No mercy is there, mid the arrow and flame,
Nocry of compassion the savage can tame;.
Wild cries rend the air, rising awfally loud
Like thunder's deep peal from the lightning-rent
cloud,
And flames wildly glare, like the hidden fires pent.
Which burst. when the roaring volcano is rent.
The sachem spreads far, in his deep, vengeful ire,
Red flames through the vale like banner of fire
Which rise on the air, and. high gIimmering, light
The hills rising up with their pure robe of white
Their quick, buried CLEANS shadow forth to the eye
The last deeds Of those who courageously die,
They are glaring away mid the wild-wolf scream,
And dissolving the ice over Nashaway's stream.
The destroyer rides there mid the pilgrims who
sleep,
His pinions unfurl'd, like death banners sweep,
Crimsoning with blood the cold wilderness's snow,
Death-shrieks echoes back, as the winter-winds
blow;
His thunders peal out through sweet Nashaway'
vale,
Till the old oaks quake, and their icefetters quail
Hark to the echo tits a death-rumpet's tone,
Sending fear through the vale, when its pealing is
gone.
The mother starts there with her heart-rending
grief,
And wakes at each stir Of the inanimate leaf
Lest springs red warrior to break on her rest,
And snatch her oyd babe from her nourshing breast
Lest his war-ery at morn shall pierce through the
air,
Or death rush unseen in the tomahawk's glare,
Lest her daughter son. breathing tremblingy near
Shall embrace her in vain, scarce knowing to fear.
She fears as she lists in the shivering blast,
And draws her breath longer for fear It's her last
Lest the cold bowling wind, rushing percingly by,
May bring the next moment summons to die;
Shedares not look up, lest glimmering light
May show that her husband is dead in her sight;
Her pulses throb quck-'tis the throb of her love,
She trusts for her dear ones in Heaven above.
See she starts in her sleep with visions of dread
But alas ere she wakes, the death-arrow is sped
There prone to the earth the fond mother lies,
Pouring out her warm blood as unfriended she dies
She wakes not to see, or with anguish to mourn
The lov'd of her heart, in captivity borne;
But no war-hoop of dread; no visioned alright
Can come to her ear, her affection to blight.
Not pilgrim is left in Nashaway's vale!
Der the ashes is heard the whip-poor-will's wall;
And the birds chant their dirge, where the wild
flower springs,
And wave Ger its desolate beauty their wings.
No longer is there the rude savages prowl,
And no sound in the vale save the wild WOLF growl
Around the burnt soil lie the cubs of the bear,
Where the God of the Pilgrim was worshipped in
prayer,
And no longer is heard the Indian bows twang,
Where savage yell rose and the war-hoop rang;
No longer the Ratchet is cleaning on high,
Mid ill-omened flames streaming up to the sky;
And NO longer is heard the war-dances tread,
From their bows no more are their death-arrows
sped,
And the last arrow sent from an Indians bow
Drank deep his own heart-bood by Nashaway's flow.
How changed now the scene no shrill waf.hoop
and cry
In Spring time are heard, as the breezes go by;
The mother starts not from her pillow at night,
Lest her husband aud babes should be snatched from
her sight,
No death-arrow where the Summer sky bushes,
10 stain with its red track where the bright stream
gushes;
The frait Of rich Autumn to its gold tint is turning,
Without fear Of its stores, mid winter-snows burn
ing.
Sweet peace is there now and the beautiful scene
With the hills and the vale is wildly green;
The Nashaway flows with its bright-turning wave,
Mid verdure that 3 fresh on the savage's grave;
And emerald hues, when the summer winds rest,
Seem dreaming, reflected SO clear on its breast.
The bones of the sachems are bieached on the hills
Asleap brightly there thepure mountain-rills.
Bee at midday the waves sparkle up to the sun;
How beautiful there, as they peacefully run,
The mlsts gather DER them in the moon beams light,
Showing islands and sea, mirage to the sight.
The farmer sits happy in his evening of rest,
Smiles on his wife, who in his smileing is blest.
Sweet home of their youth! over life's dreary sea-
Their first, dearest thought shall be given to thee.
Rare beauty's above in thy morn purpled sky!
and rainbow of peace is set out to the eye;
The God Of our Fathers hath smiled on the land,
linz. u n