The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1839-08-03
P O E T R Y
From the U. S. Mag and Democratic Review.
PENTUCKET.
BY JOHN C. WHITTIER.

/. town, and during thirty years, endured all the
savage warfare. In the year 170S, a combined
,nch and Indians, under the command Of De CT
Hertel de Rouvile, the infamous and bloody S
erfeld, made an attack upon the village, whcl
10 contained only thirty dwelling -houses. Six
villagers were massacred, and "a still larger
de prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also f
ong them Hertel de Rouville. The minister
ce, Rev. B. Rolfe, was killed by ashot through
RI
How sweetly on the wood-girt town.,
The mellow light of SUNSET shone!
Each small, bright lake, whose waters still
Mirror the forest and the hill,
Reflected from its waveless breast
The beauty of a cloudless vest
Glorious as ifsglimpse were given
Within the western gates Of Heaven,
Left, by the spirit Of the air
OF sunsets holy hour ajar!
Beside the rivers tranquil food
The dark and'low-walled dwellings stood,
Where many roods of open land
Stretched up and down on either hand.
With corn-leaves waving freshly green
The thick and blackened stumps between;
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,
The wild, untravelled forest spread,
Back to those mountains, white and cold,
or which the Indian trapper told,
Upon, whose SUNNI: never yea
Was mortal foot in safety SET
Quiet and calm, without fear
OF danger dsrkly lurking near,
The weary laborer left his plough
The milkmaid carrolled by her COW
From cottage door and household hearth
Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth..
At length the murmur died away
And silence on that village lay
So slept Pompeii, tower and hail.
Ere the quick earthquake swallowed ALL
Undreaming of the fiery fate
Which made its DIV elings desolate!
Hours passed away. By moonlight. sped
The Merrimack along his bed.
Bathed in the palIid lustre, stood
Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,
Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,
As the hushed grouping of dream.
Yet on the still air cIept sound
No bark Of fox-no rabbits bound
No stir Of wings-nor waters flowing,
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.
W~o thot tho troad Of many foot,
Which downward from the hill side beat
What forms are those which darkly stood
Just on the margin of the wood
Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim
Or paling rude,- or leaAess limb a
No-through the trees fierce eye-balls glowed,
Dark human forms in moonshine showed,
Wild from their native wilderness,
With painted limbs and battle-dress!
A yell, the dead might wake to hear,
Swelled on the night air, far and clear
Then smote the Indi an tomahawk,
On crashing door and shattering lock-
Then rang the rife-sbot-and then
The shrill dcath-scream of stricken men;
Sunk the red axe in woman's brain,
And childhood's cry arose in vain.
Bursting through roof and window came,
Red, fast and fierce, the kindled fame,
And blended fire and moonlight glared
Over dead corse and weapons barred.
The morning sun looked brightly through
The river-willows, wet wild dew :
No sound of combat filed the air.
No shoutwas heard4-no gun-shot there.
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke
From smopldering ruins slowly broke,
And on the green sward, many stain,
And, here and there, the mangled slain
Told how that midnight bolt had Sped
Pentucket, on thy fatal head!
Even now, the villager can tell
Where Rolfe beside his hearth-stone fell,
Still show the door Of wasting oak,
Through which the fatal death-shot broke;
And point the curious stranger where
De Rouyille's corse lay grim and bare,--.
Whose hideous head, in death still feared
Bore not trace of hair or beard
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Beneath whose grass-grown surface lies
Each victim of that sacrifice!
----------------
From lions lIeral
MY uAtEy.
My country-'tis Ger thee,-
Dark land of slavery,
Der thee weep.