THE ancestors of WHITTIER settled at an early period in the town of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. They were Quakers, and some of them suffered from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independents enacted against these "devil-driven heretics," as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of COTTON MATHER. The poet was born in the year 1808, on the spot inhabited by his family for four or five generations; and until he was eighteen years of age, his time was principally passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father on the farm. His nineteenth year was spent at a Latin school, and in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct "The American Manufacturer," a gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town, and in Newburyport, and the ability with which he managed the "Manufacturer," now made his name familiar throughout the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the "New England Weekly Review." He remained here about two years, during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the National Republican school, and devoted but little attention to literature. He published, however, in this period his "Legends of New England," a collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend BRAINARD, prefixed to the collection of his writings printed in 1830; and several poems which appeared in the "" Weekly Review."

In 1831, WHITTIER returned to Haverhill, where he was for five or six years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the legislature in the sessions of 1835 and 1836, and declined a reelection in 1837. "Mogg Megone," his longest poem, was first published in 1836. He regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was practicable the rough but natural delineations of CHURCH, MAYHEW, CHARLEVOIX, and ROGER WILLIAMS, and therefore discarded much of the romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man's life. In this, as well as in some of his minor poems, and in the "Legends of New England," he has depicted with honesty the intolerant spirit and the superstitions of the early colonists. That he would willingly do injustice to their memories, none who know him or his works will be easily persuaded. He is himself a son of New England, and in the following lines, from "Moll Pitcher,"

has well expressed his feelings toward her and her founders:

"Land of the forest and the rock

Of dark-blue lake and mighty river-
Of mountains rear'd aloft to mock
The storm's career, the lightning's shock-
My own green land forever!
Land of the beautiful and brave-
The freeman's home-the martyr's grave-
The nursery of giant men,

Whose deeds have link'd with every glen,
And every hill, and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
O! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love,
The stream beneath the green hill flowing,
The broad-arm'd trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead,
The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,-

Nor feel resentment, like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
O! greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy-
And pillar'd fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave

The green, luxuriant ivy climb;
And far toward the rising sun

The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky;
And breezes soft as sighs of love

Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill

Seem dearer than the land of palms;
Thy massy oak and mountain-pine

More welcome than the banyan's shade;
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow

And sparkle with the wealth below!"

In 1836 WHITTIER was elected one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and much of his time since then has been passed in its service. Many of his best poems relate to slavery. His productions are all distinguished for manly vigour of thought and language, and they breathe the true spirit of liberty.

MOGG MEGONE. 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, All lonely and sternly, save MoGG MEGONE?* How 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 splinter'd points of the crags are seen,
With the water howling and vex'd between,
While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath
Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth!
But MOGG MEGONE never trembled yet,
Wherever his eye or his foot was set.

He is watchful: each form, in the moonlight dim,
Of rock and tree, is seen of him:

He listens; each sound from afar is caught,
The faintest shiver of leaf and limb;

But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret,
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 gray beech, whose naked root
Coils like a serpent at his foot,
Falls, checker'd, 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 scalping-knife.
MEGONE hath his knife, and hatchet, and gun,
And his gaudy and tassell'd blanket on:
His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,
And magic words on its polish'd blade—
"I was the gift of CASTINET to MOGG MEGONE,
For a scalp or twain from the Yengeese torn:
His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine,

And MonocAWANDO's wives had strung
The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine
On the polish'd breech, and broad, bright line
Of beaded wampum around it hung.

* MOGG MEGONE, or HEGONE, was a leader among the Saco Indians, in the bloody war of 1677. He attacked and captured the garrison at Black Point, October 12th of that year, and cut off, at the same time, a party of Englishmen near Saco river. From a deed signed by this Indian in 1664, and from other circumstances, it seems that, previous to the war, he had mingled much with the colonists. On this account, he was probably selected by the principal sachems as their agent, in the treaty signed in 1676. † Baron de ST. CASTINE came to Canada in 1644. Leav ing his civilized companions, he plunged into the great wilderness, and settled among the Penobscot Indians, near the mouth of their noble river. He here took for his wives the daughters of the great MODOCAWANDO-the most powerful sachem of the east. His castle was plundered by Governor ANDROS, during his reckless administration; and the enraged baron is supposed to have excited the Indians into open hostility to the English.

What seeks MEGONE? His foes are near-
Gray JOCELYN's eye is never sleeping,
And the garrison-lights are burning clear,
Where PHILLIP's men their watch are keeping.
Let him hie away through the dank river-fog,

Neverrustlingthe boughs nordisplacing the rocks, For the eyes and the cars which are watching for MOGG

Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox.
He starts-there's a rustle among the leaves:
Another-the click of his gun is heard!-
A footstep-is it the step of CLEAVES,

With Indian blood on his English sword?
Steals HARMON down from the sands of York,
With hand of iron and foot of cork?
Has SCAMMAN, versed in Indian wile,
For vengeance left his vine-hung isle?†
Hark! at that whistle, soft and low,

How lights the eye of MoGG MEGONE.
A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow-

"Boon welcome, JOHNNY BONYTHON!" Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, And quick, keen glances to and fro,

The hunted outlaw, BoNYTHON !
A low, lean, swarthy man is he,
With blanket-garb and buskin❜d knee,
And naught of English fashion on;

For he hates the race from whence he sprung,

And he couches his words in the Indian tongue.

"Hush-let the sachem's voice be weak,

The water-rat shall hear him speak-
The owl shall whoop in the white man's ear
That MOGG MEGONE, with his scalps, is here!"
He pauses-dark, o'er cheek and brow,
A flush, as of shame, is stealing now:
"Sachem!" he says, "let me have the land
Which stretches away upon either hand,
As far about as my feet can stray
In the half of a gentle summer's day,

From the leaping brook to the Saco river-
And the fair-hair'd girl thou has sought of me
Shall sit in the sachem's wigwam, and be

The wife of MOGG MEGONE forever." There's a sudden light in the Indian's glance,

*The owner and commander of the garrison at Black Point, which MoGG attacked and plundered. He was an old man at the period to which the tale relates.

+ Wood Island, near the mouth of the Saco. It was visited by the Sieur DE MONTS and DE CHAMPLAIN, in 1603.

JOHN BONYTHON, Son of RICHARD BONYTHON, Gent., one of the most efficient and able magistrates of the colony. JOHN proved to be a "degenerate plant." In 1635, we find, by the Court Records, that for some offence he was fined 40s. In 1640, he was fined for abuse toward R. GIBSON, the minister, and MARY, his wife. Soon after he was fined for disorderly conduct in the house of his father. In 1645, the "Great and General Court" adjudged "JOHN BONYTHON Outlawed, and incapable of any of his majesty's laws, and proclaimed him a rebel.” [Court Records of the Province, 1645.] In 1651, he bid defiance to the laws of Massachusetts, and was again outlawed. He acted independently of all law and authority; and hence, doubtless, his burlesque title of "The Sagamore of Saco," which has come down to the present generation in the following epitaph:

"Here lies Bonython, the Sagamore of Sam;

He lived a rogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomako."

A moment's trace of powerful feelingOf love, or triumph, or both, perchance,

Over his proud, calm features stealing. "The words of my father are very good; He shall have the land, and water, and wood; And he who harms the Sagamore JOHN Shall feel the knife of MoGG MEGONE; But the fawn of the Yengeese shall sleep on my And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest." "But, father!"-and the Indian's hand

Falls gently on the white man's arm,
And, with a smile as shrewdly bland

As the deep voice is slow and calm—
"Where is my father's singing-bird-
The sunny eye, and sunset hair?
I know I have my father's word,

[breast,

And that his word is good and fair:
But, will my father tell me where
MEGONE shall go and look for his bride?-
For he sees her not by her father's side."
The dark, stern eye of BоNYTHON
Flashes over the features of MOGG MEGONE,

In one of those glances which search within; But the stolid calm of the Indian alone

Remains where the trace of emotion has been.
"Does the sachem doubt? Let him go with me,
And the eyes of the sachem his bride shall see.”
Cautious and slow, with pauses oft,
And watchful eyes, and whispers soft,
The twain are stealing through the wood,
Leaving the downward-rushing flood,
Whose deep and solemn roar, behind,
Grows fainter on the evening wind.
Hark! is that the angry howl
Of the wolf, the hills among?-
Or the hooting of the owl,

On his leafy cradle swung?-
Quickly glancing, to and fro,
Listening to each sound they go:
Round the columns of the pine,

Indistinct, in shadow, seeming
Like some old and pillar'd shrine,
With the soft and white moonshine
Round the foliage-tracery shed
Of each column's branching head,
For its lamps of worship gleaming!
And the sounds awaken'd there,
In the pine-leaves, fine and small,
Soft and sweetly musical,
By the fingers of the air,

For the anthem's dying fall
Lingering round some temple's wall!
Is not Nature's worship thus
Ceaseless ever, going on?
Hath it not a voice for us

In the thunder, or the tone
Of the leaf-harp faint and small,
Speaking to the unseal'd ear
Words of blended love and fear,

Of the mighty soul of all?

Naught had the twain of thoughts like these,
As they wound along through the crowded trees,
Where never had rung the axeman's stroke
On the gnarl'd trunk of the rough-bark'd oak;

Climbing the dead tree's mossy log,

Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine,
Turning aside the wild grape-vine,
And lightly crossing the quaking bog,
Whose surface shakes at the leap of the frog,
And out of whose pools the ghostly fog
Creeps into the chill moonshine!

Yet, even that Indian's ear had heard
The preaching of the Holy Word:
Sanchekantacket's isle of sand
Was once his father's hunting-land,
Where zealous HIACOOMES* stood―
The wild apostle of the wood,
Shook from his soul the fear of harm,
And trampled on the Pawwaw's charm;
Until the wizard's curses hung
Suspended on his palsying tongue,
And the fierce warrior, grim and tall,
Trembled before the forest PAUL!

A cottage, hidden in the wood,

Red through its seams a light is glowing, On rock, and bough, and tree-trunk rude, A narrow lustre throwing.

"Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands: "Hold, RUTH-'tis I, the sagamore!" Quick, at the summons, hasty hands

Unclose the bolted door;

And on the outlaw's daughter shine
The flashes of the kindled pine.

Tall and erect the maiden stands,

Like some young priestess of the wood, Some creature born of Solitude,

And bearing still the wild and rude, Yet noble trace of Nature's hands. Her dark-brown cheek has caught its stain More from the sunshine than the rain; Yet, where her long, fair hair is parting, A pure, white brow into light is starting, And, where the folds of her mantle sever, Are a neck and bosom as white as ever The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river. But, in the convulsive quiver and grip Of the muscles around her bloodless lip

There is something painful and sad to see; And her eye has a glance more sternly wild Than even that of a forest-child

In its fearless and untamed freedom should be.

O, seldom, in hall or court, are seen
So queenly a form and so noble a mien,

As freely and smiling she welcomes them there, Her outlaw'd sire and MOGG MEGONE:

"Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare? And, Sachem, say-does SCAMMAN wear, In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own?" Careless and light is the maiden's tone,

But a fearful meaning lurks within
Her glance, as it questions the eye of MEGONE,—
An awful meaning of guilt and sin!-

The Indian hath open'd his blanket, and there
Hangs a human scalp by its long, damp hair!

*HIACOOMES, the first Christian preacher on Martha's Vineyard.

Now, Gon have mercy!-that maiden's fingers
Are touching the scalp where the blood still lingers,
Turning up to the light its soft, brown hair!
What an evil triumph her eye reveals!
What a baleful smile on her pale face steals!
Is the soul of a fiend in a form so fair?
Nay-traces of feeling are visible now,
In that quivering lip and that writhing brow!
But who shall measure the thoughts within,
Of hatred and love, of passion and sin?
Does not the eye of her mind glance back
On the gloom and guilt of her stormy track?-
The traitor's lip by her kisses met-

The traitor's hand by her fond tears wet-
The trustless hopes on his promise built—
The gust of passion-the hell of guilt!—
The warm embrace, when her tresses fair
Mingled themselves with that scalp's brown hair,
And idly and fondly her small hand play'd,
In dalliance sweet, with its light and shade!
And what are those tears which her wild eyes dim,
But tears of sorrow and love for him?-
For him, who drugg'd her cup with shame-
With a curse for her heart, and a blight for her name?
For him, whom her vengeance hath track'd so long,
Feeding its torch with the thought of wrong!
O! woman wrong'd can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may;
But, when the mockery of Fate

Hath left Revenge its chosen way,
And the fell curse, which years have nursed,
Full on the spoiler's head hath burst-
When all her wrong, and shame, and pain,
Burns fiercely on his heart and brain-
Still lingers something of the spell

Which bound her to the traitor's bosom,-
Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell,

Some flowers of old affection blossom;
And, while her hand is nerved to strike,
She weeps above her victim, like
The Roman, when his dagger gave
His CESAR to a bloody grave!

JOHN BONYTHON's eyebrows together are drawn
With a fierce expression of wrath and scorn-
He hoarsely whispers, "Ruth, beware!

Is this the time to be playing the fool-
Crying over a paltry lock of hair,

Like a love-sick girl at school?-
Curse on it!-an Indian can see and hear:
Away, and prepare our evening cheer!"
How keenly the Indian is watching now
Her tearful eye and her varying brow-
With a serpent-eye, which kindles and burns
Like a fiery star in the upper air:

On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns:-
"Has my old white father a scalp to spare?
For his young one loves the pale brown hair
Of the scalp of a Yengeese dog, far more
Than MoGG MEGONE, or his wigwam floor:-

Go-MOGG is wise; he will keep his land-
And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand,
Shall miss his scalp where it grew before."
The moment's gust of grief is gone,

The lip is clench'd, the tears are still.

GoD pity thee, RUTH BONYTHON!

With what a strength of will
Are nature's feelings in thy breast,
As with an iron hand, repress'd!
And how, upon that nameless wo,
Quick as the pulse can come and go,
While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet
The bosom heaves, the eye is wet;
Has thy dark spirit power to stay
The heart's own current on its way?

And whence that baleful strength of guile,
Which, over that still working brow
And tearful eye and cheek, can throw

The ghastly mockery of a smile?"

"Is the sachem angry--angry with RUTH
Because she cries with an ache in her tooth,
Which would make a sagamore jump and ery,
And look about with a woman's eye?
NO-RUTH will sit in the sachem's door,
And braid the mats for his wigwam floor,
And broil his fish and tender fawn,
And weave his wampum, and grind his corn,-
For she loves the brave and the wise, and none
Are braver and wiser than MOGG MEGONE!"
The Indian's brow is clear once more:

With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye,
He sits upon the wigwam floor,

And watches RUTH go by,
Intent upon her household care;

And, ever and anon, the while,
Or on the maiden, or her fare,
Which smokes in grateful promise there,
Bestows his quiet smile.

Ah, MOGG MEGONE! what dreams are thine,
But those which love's own fancies dress,
The sum of Indian happiness!—
A wigwam, where the warm sunshine
Looks in among the groves of pine:
A stream, where, round thy light canoe,
The trout and salmon dart in view:
And the fair girl, before thee now,
Spreading thy mat with hand of snow,
Or plying, in the dews of morn,
Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn,
Or offering up, at eve, to thee
Thy birchen dish of hominy!
From the rude board of BONYTHON
Venison and suckatash have gone:
For long these dwellers of the wood
Have felt the gnawing want of food.
But untasted of RUTH is the frugal cheer,
With head averted, yet ready ear,
She stands by the side of her austere sire,
Feeding, at times, the unequal fire

With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree,
Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls
On the cottage-roof and its black log-walls,
And over its inmates three.

From Sagamore BONYTHON's hunting-flask

The fire-water burns at the lip of MEGONE: "Will the sachem hear what his father shall ask?

Will he make his mark, that it may be known, On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land From the sachem's own to his father's hand?"

The fire-water shines in the Indian's

eyes,
As he rises the white man's bidding to do:
"Wuttamuttata-weekan!* MOGG is wise,

For the water he drinks is strong and new:
MOGG's heart is great! will he shut his hand,
When his father asks for a little land?"
With unsteady fingers the Indian has drawn

On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow: "Boon water, boon water, Sagamore JoHN!

Wuttaruttata--weekan! our hearts will grow!" He drinks yet deeper, he mutters low, He reels on his bearskin to and fro,

His head falls down on his naked breast,

He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest.

[brow

Is darker than ever with evil thought: "The fool has sign'd his warrant; but how And when shall the deed be wrought? Speak, RUTH! why, what the devil is there, To fix thy gaze in that empty air? Speak, RUTH! by my soul, if I thought that tear, Which shames thyself and our purpose here, Were shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog, Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of MOGG, And whose beastly soul is in SATAN'S keeping, This--this!" he dashes his hand upon

The rattling stock of his loaded gun,

"Should send thee with him to do thy weeping!" "Father!" the eye of BONYTHON Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone, Hollow and deep, as it were spoken

By the unmoving tongue of death,
Or from some statue's lips had broken,
A sound without a breath!
"Father! my life I value less
Than yonder fool his gaudy dress;
And how it ends it matters not,
By heart-break or by rifle-shot:

But spare a while the scoff and threat,
Our business is not finish'd yet."
"True, true, my girl; I only meant
To draw up again the bow unbent.
Harm thee, my RUTH! I only sought
To frighten off thy gloomy thought;
Come, let's be friends." He seeks to clasp

His daughter's cold, damp hand in his.
RUTH startles from her father's grasp
As if each nerve and muscle felt,
Instinctively, the touch of guilt,

Through all their hidden sympathies.

He points her to the sleeping MoGG:
"What shall be done with yonder dog?
SCAMMAN is dead, and revenge is thine,
The deed is sign'd, and the land is mine;
And this drunken fool is of use no more,
Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth,
'T were Christian mercy to finish him, RUTH,
Now, while he lies, like a beast, on our floor,
If not for thine, at least for his sake,
Rather than let the poor dog awake,

*Wattamuttata, "Let us drink." Weekan, "it is sweet." Vide ROGER WILLIAMS's Key to the Indian Language "in that parte of America called New England." London, 1643, p. 35.

To drain my flask, and claim as his bride
Such a forest devil to run by his side--
Such a Wetuomanit as thou wouldst make!"
He laughs at his jest. Hush, what is there!
The sleeping Indian is striving to rise,
With his knife in his hand, and glaring eyes!
"Wagh! MooG will have the pale-face's hair!

For his knife is sharp, and his fingers can help The hair to pull, and the skin to peel-

Let him cry like a woman, and twist like an eel,

The great Captain SCAMMAN must lose his scalp! And RUTH, when she sees it, shall dance with His eyes are fix'd, but his lips draw in, [MoGG!" With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin,

And he sinks again, like a senseless log. RUTH does not speak, she does not stir, But she gazes down on the murderer, Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell Too much for her ear, of that deed of hell. She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clutching the bear-skin bed! What thoughts of horror and madness whirl Through the burning brain of that fallen girl! JOHN BONYTHON lifts his gun to his eye,

Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, But he drops it again: "Some one may be nigh,

And I would not that even the wolves should
He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, [hear."
Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt:-
Kneeling down on one knee by the Indian's side,
From his throat he opens the blanket wide,
And twice or thrice he feebly essays

A trembling hand with the knife to raise.
"I cannot," he mutters: "did he not save
My life from a cold and wintry grave,
When the storm came down from Agioochook,
And the north-wind howl'd, and the tree-tops shook,
And I strove, in the drifts of the rushing snow,'
Till my knees grew weak, and I could not go,
And I felt the cold to my vitals creep,
And my heart's-blood stiffen, and pulses sleep!
I cannot strike him, RUTH BONYTHON!
In the devil's name, tell me, what's to be done?"
O! when the soul, once pure and high,
Is stricken down from virtue's sky,
As, with the downcast star of morn,
Some gems of light are with it drawn,
And, through its night of darkness, play
Some tokens of its primal day:
Some lofty feelings linger still,

The strength to dare, the nerve to meet
Whatever threatens with defeat
Its all-indomitable will!
But lack the meaner mind and heart,
Though eager for the gains of crime,
Oft, at their chosen place and time,
The strength to bear their evil part;
And, shielded by their very vice,
Escape from crime by cowardice.
RUTH starts erect, with bloodshot eye,

And lips drawn tight across her teeth,
Showing their lock'd embrace beneath,
In the red fire-light: "MoGG must die!
*Wetuomanit-a house-god or demon.