"'Menewee, poor Menewee, Walks a path he cannot see Let the white man's wigwam light With its blaze his steps aright. "'All-uncalled, he dares not show Empty hands to Manito Better gifts he cannot bear Than the scalps his slayers wear.' "All the while the totem sang, Lightning blazed and thunder rang; And a black cloud, reaching high, Pulled the white moon from the sky. "I, the medicine-man, whose ear All that spirits bear can hear,-- I, whose eyes are wide to see All the things that are to be,-- "Well I knew the dreadful signs In the whispers of the pines, In the river roaring loud, In the mutter of the cloud. "At the breaking of the day, From the grave I passed away; Flowers bloomed round me, birds sang glad, But my heart was hot and mad. "There is rust on Squando's knife, From the warm, red springs of life; On the funeral hemlock-trees Many a scalp the totem sees. "Blood for blood! But evermore Squando's heart is sad and sore; And his poor squaw waits at home For the feet that never come! "Waldron of Cocheco, hear! Squando speaks, who laughs at fear; Take the captives he has ta'en; Let the land have peace again!" As the words died on his tongue, Wide apart his warriors swung; Parted, at the sign he gave, Right and left, like Egypt's wave. And, like Israel passing free Through the prophet-charmed sea, Captive mother, wife, and child Through the dusky terror filed. One alone, a little maid, Middleway her steps delayed, Glancing, with quick, troubled sight, Round about from red to white. Then his hand the Indian laid On the little maiden's head, Lightly from her forehead fair Smoothing back her yellow hair. "Gift or favor ask I none; What I have is all my own Never yet the birds have sung, Squando hath a beggar's tongue.' "Yet for her who waits at home, For the dead who cannot come, Let the little Gold-hair be In the place of Menewee! "Mishanock, my little star! Come to Saco's pines afar; Where the sad one waits at home, Wequashim, my moonlight, come!" "What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a child Christian-born to heathens wild? As God lives, from Satan's hand I will pluck her as a brand!" "Hear me, white man!" Squando cried; "Let the little one decide. Wequashim, my moonlight, say, Wilt thou go with me, or stay?" Slowly, sadly, half afraid, Half regretfully, the maid Owned the ties of blood and race,-- Turned from Squando's pleading face. Not a word the Indian spoke, But his wampum chain he broke, And the beaded wonder hung On that neck so fair and young. Silence-shod, as phantoms seem In the marches of a dream, Single-filed, the grim array Through the pine-trees wound away. Doubting, trembling, sore amazed, Through her tears the young child gazed. "God preserve her!" Waldron said; "Satan hath bewitched the maid!" Years went and came. At close of day Singing came a child from play, Tossing from her loose-locked head Gold in sunshine, brown in shade.