John Greenleaf Whittier's "Pentucket"
PENTUCKET.
The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac,
called by the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventeen
years a
frontier town, and during thirty
years endured all the horrors of
savage warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French
and Indians,
under the command of De Chaillons,
and Hertel de Rouville, the famous
and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the
village,
which at that time contained
only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers
were massacred, and a still larger number made prisoners.
About thirty of
the enemy also fell, among them Hertel
de Rouville. The minister of the
place, Benjamin Rolfe, was
killed by a shot through his own door. In a
paper entitled The Border War of
1708, published in my collection of
Recreations and Miscellanies, I have given a prose narrative
of the
surprise of Haverhill.
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 west,
Glorious as if a glimpse were given
Within the western gates of heaven,
Left, by the spirit of the star
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!
Beside the river's
tranquil flood
The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,
Where many a rood 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,
Of which the Indian trapper told,
Upon whose summits never yet
Was mortal foot in safety set.
Quiet and calm
without a fear,
Of danger darkly lurking near,
The weary laborer left his plough,
The milkmaid carolled 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 hall,
Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,
Undreaming of the fiery fate
Which made its dwellings desolate.
Hours passed away. By
moonlight sped
The Merrimac along his bed.
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood
Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,
Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,
As the hushed grouping of a dream.
Yet on the still air crept a sound,
No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,
Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing,
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.
Was that the tread of
many feet,
Which downward from the hillside beat?
What forms were those which darkly stood
Just on the margin of the wood?--
Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,
Or paling rude, or leafless limb?
No,--through the trees fierce eyeballs
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 Indian tomahawk
On crashing door and shattering lock;
Then rang the rifle-shot, and then
The shrill death-scream of stricken men,--
Sank 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 flame,
And blended fire and moonlight glared
On still dead men and scalp-knives bared.
The morning sun
looked brightly through
The river willows, wet with dew.
No sound of combat filled the air,
No shout was heard, nor gunshot there;
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke
From smouldering ruins slowly broke;
And on the greensward many a stain,
And, here and there, the mangled slain,
Told how that midnight bolt had sped
Pentucket, on thy fated head.
Even now the villager
can tell
Where Rolfe
beside his hearthstone fell,
Still show the door of wasting oak,
Through which the fatal death-shot broke,
And point the curious stranger where
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;
Whose hideous head, in death still feared,
Bore not a trace of hair or beard;
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Whose grass-grown surface overlies
The victims of that sacrifice.
1838.