"Forget poor little Hope, John Bonyton, or only remember that her life was one long, long thought of thee."
She started--gave one wild look of love and grief at the Sagamore--and then darted down the bank, marking her path with streams of blood, and disappeared under the falls. The aim of the savage had done its work.
"Ascáshe is revenged, John Bonyton," cried a loud voice--and a dozen arrows stopped it in its utterance. Fierce was the pursuit, and desperate the flight of the few surviving foes. The "Sagamore of Saco" never rested day nor night till he and his followers had cut off the last vestige of the Terrantines, and avenged the blood of the unhappy maiden. Then for years did he linger about the falls in the vain hope of seeing once more her wild spectral beauty--but she appeared no more in the flesh; though to this, men not romantic nor visionary declare they have seen a figure, slight and beautiful, clad in robe of skin, with moccasoned feet, and long, white hair, nearly reaching to the ground, hovering sorrowfully around the falls; and this strange figure they believe to be the wraith of the lost Bridget Vines.
'T was a green towering hill-top: on its sides June showered her red delicious strawberries, Spotting the mounds, and in the hollows spread Her pink brier roses, and gold johnswort stars. The top was scattered, here and there, with pines, Making soft music in the summer wind, And painting underneath each other's boughs Spaces of auburn from their withered fringe. Below, a scene of rural loveliness Was pictured, vivid with its varied hues; The yellow of the wheat--the fallow's black-- The buckwheat's foam-like whiteness, and the green Of pasture-field and meadow, whilst amidst Wound a slim, snake-like streamlet. Here I oft Have come in summer days, and with the shade Cast by one hollowed pine upon my brow, Have couched upon the grass, and let my eye Roam o'er the landscape, from the green hill's foot To where the hazy distance wrapped the scene. Beneath this pine a long and narrow mound Heaves up its grassy shape; the silver tufts Of the wild clover richly spangle it, And breathe such fragrance that each passing wind Is turned into an odor. Underneath A Mohawk Sachem sleeps, whose form had borne A century's burthen. Oft have I the tale Heard from a pioneer, who, with a band Of comrades, broke into the unshorn wilds That shadowed then this region, and awoke The echoes with their axes. By the stream They found this Indian Sachem in a hut Of bark and boughs. One of the pioneers Had lived a captive 'mid the Iroquois. And knew their language, and he told the chief How they had come to mow the woods away, And change the forest earth to meadows green, And the tall trees to dwellings. Rearing up His aged form, the Sachem proud replied, That he had seen a hundred winters pass Over this spot; that here his tribe had died, Parents and children, braves, old men and all, Until he stood a withered tree amidst His prostrate kind; that he had hoped he ne'er Would see the race, whose skin was like the flower Of the spring dogwood, blasting his old sight; And that beholding them amidst his haunts, He called on Hah-wen-ne-yo to bear off His spirit to the happy hunting-grounds. Shrouding his face within his deer-skin robe, And chanting the low death-song of his tribe, He then with trembling footsteps left the hut And sought the hill-top; here he sat him down With his back placed within this hollowed tree, And fixing his dull eye upon the scene Of woods below him, rocked with guttural chant The livelong day, whilst plyed the pioneers Their axes round him. Sunset came, and still There rocked his form. The twilight glimmered gray, Then kindled to the moon, and still he rocked; Till stretched the pioneers upon the earth Their wearied limbs for sleep. One, wakeful, left His plump moss couch, and strolling near the tree Saw in the pomp of moonlight that old form Still rocking, and, with deep awe at his heart, Hastened to join his comrades. Morn awoke, And the first light discovered to their eyes That weird shape rocking still. The pioneers, With kindly hands, took food and at his side Placed it, and tried to rouse him, but in vain. He fixed his eye still dully down the hill, And when they took their hands from off his frame It still renewed its rocking. Morning went, And noon and sunset. Often had they glanced From their hard toil as passed the hours away Upon that rocking form, and wondered much; And when the sunset vanished they approached Their kindness to renew; but suddenly, As came they near, they saw the rocking cease, And the head drop upon his naked breast. Close came they, and the shorn head lifting up, In the glazed eye and fallen jaw beheld Death's awful presence.