Nunketunk

   Uplift thy grey and jutting brow
      Untrembling to the thunder’s shock,
   Revolving ages cannot bow
      The pride of thy eternal rock;
In vain the howling storm shall beat 
And swell the waters at thy foot,—
The crested floods may dash awhile
In fury on thy giant pile,
Aud like a bannered army come
Down rushing from their northern home, 
Roll round thy base with foaming pride, 
And waste their thunders on thy side,—
But when the kindling sun shall burn.
And bid the boiling waves return,
Thy mural rocks shall stand sublime 
And mock the wasting tide of Time.

Unnumbered years have rolled along.
   And centuries o'er thy forehead swept, 
And crumbling crowns, and sceptres strong, 
   Trod down with empires, which have slept
Amid the wreck of ages, tell 
Where fast the hand of Rain fell;
Bur though thy splintering front hath borne
   The fiery arrows of the thunder, 
Still is thy bosom bared, to scorn 
   The bolt which cleaves the rocks in sunder.
By storms above unmoved, untorn
   By the strong earthquake rumbling under :
And then, dark Nunketunk, alone
Hast kept thine everlasting throne,—
Untrembling at the storm which checks
   In full career, the pride of man.—
The whirlwinds which have strown with wrecks
   Time's tireless tide, since earth began.

Before thee, in their chainless might,
   The waters through the verdant plain, 
   Roll downward to the rolling main ;
Rejoicing in the chastened light, 
As from its calm and silent noon 
Looks down the still and midnight moon, 
O'er the soft drifts of carling fog 
Upon the flashing QUINEBAUG.

O bright the sparkling wavelets gleam,
   And tremble in the passing breeze,
As if the spirits of the stream
   Had met the fairies of the leas, 
And half-suspended in the air 
They tripped their joyous measures there, 
And stirred the waters with the beat 
Of Beautiful and unseen feet;—
While far along, a wavy line 
Of silver-hued and pale moon-shine,—
As if for angel feet to pave 
The softly undulating wave,—
Is stretched away from side to side
Aslant, across the rolling tide.

When morning from his orient car
   Pours down his wealth of liquid gold,
Painting the dying mists that are
   Wreathed round thy brow in many a fold;
How like a hallowed altar then
   Thy tail majestic rock appears,
Upbudded in the pillar’d glen,
   Grey over with the moss of years,
As slowly, o'er thy wooded top 
The cloud of incense goeth up,—
Earth’s gratoful offering to the skies 
The morning's holy sacrifice.

Along thy brow, old Nunketunk,
   The forest-trees their watch have kept,—
Tall sentinels, who never shrunk
As wasting torrents rose and sunk,
   Till from their caves the whirlwinds leapt, 
   And all their glory over-swept;
And now, dark branch and mighty trunk,
Along thy front, start back as if 
They fled in terror from thy cliff;
And bristling o’er thy mural rocks
They seem some warring giant's locks.

Grey crag! what legend of the past 
   Canst thou unveil before me now, 
   Of ages, when along thy brow 
The wilderness its shadows cast, 
Silent and deep, and broad and vast, 
   And where, above thy front, I bow, 
   Strong oaks, with many a giant bough,
Stood battling with the eastern blast?

Hath not thy furrowed front one trace, —
The record of some olden race—
O'er whom the floods of Time have rolled, 
And swept them from their ancient hold?
Or of that dark and evil hour, 
When earth seemed given into the power 
   Of spirits foul from heaven, that fell;
And all our cliff-born echoes rang
To demon shout, and trumpet clang,
As from their midnight caverns sprang
   The cohorts of the nether Hell, —
While muttering fiends obsequious ran,
With witch's charm, and wizzard ban,
To vex the coward soul of man
   By many an evil spell?
Or if thy lines may not unfold 
The terrors of the days of old,—
The fearful deed, the mighty curse 
That valor trembles to rehearse,—
Then speak, and though thy voice should make 
The startled earth in terror quake, 
Tell of the race, whose sole command 
Stretched once o'er all this glorious land, 
When, from the rivers to the sea, 
The Red Man wandered, wild and free,—
Unchartered as the bounding deer
   Whose antlers cleave the air like light, 
Untrembling as thy rocks, which rear 
   Their foreheads to the thunder's might.

O that thine arches, which have rung
   Responsive to the Indian's yell, 
When war along his borders hung, 
Or the old captive warrior sung 
His own death song,—had but a tongue,
   The tale of centuries to tell,—
How then would every answering hill, 
   And every stream-encircled vale,
To all thy deep-toned utterance thrill—
And every human heart grow chill 
   With horror, at the startling tale!

Here rang the Red Man's wild war whoop, 
   And Ruin poured her dismal wail,
When darker than the clouds which stoop
Beneath their weight of garnered hail,
Above the over-shadowed vale, 
And fleeter than the strong-winged gale
   The forest Kings came down;
And bending brow, and flashing eye,
And red arms wildly tossed on high
And startling shriek and dismal cry;
Told where the storm of war, swept by 
   Along the shadows brown.

Thon shook the woods, which on thy brow 
Lull the soft breeze to slumber now, 
As through their leaves and down the dell, 
The shower of wdir-winged arrows fell; 
And hissing through the foliage, sunk
In gnarled branch and guarded trunk,
While fire leaped sparkling from thy rock
Before the falling tomahawk.

But haply thou, old Cliff, hast known 
A gentler scene, a milder tone;
When bent thy jutting front above 
The Indian warrior's dark-eyed love,
And scarce the echo in thy caves,
   Answered the plashing of the oar,
   As curving to the bending shore
   Round rock, and bank, and drifted log,
The light canoe flew o’er the waves,
   Along the dancing Quinebaug,
   Gaily to bear the Eagle lover
Unto his Fawn, who rested where
Thy giant crag upheld in air
   Its mighty shield above her.

Then the Great Spirit's eye alone
   Saw hand in hand, and side by side,
   The dark-browed Indian, and his bride, 
With his strong arm around her thrown, 
That arm which oft bore back the tide 
   Of battle from his well-loved land, 
When stern Invasion rose in pride 
   And Slaughter bared her red right hand;
And the Great Spirit only heard
   Their tones, so soft they started not 
   The small wren in his tiny grot,
As willing vow, and whispered word,
   Were breathed from lips that once had pealed
   The war cry o'er the purple field,
When, wild as sudden thunder, poured 
The death yell of the savage horde.

But they have gone, and thou hast kept
   No record of their varied story;
Away the traitor foe hath swept
   The last faint vestige of their glory.
O'er all the woods, a bitter wail 
Comes floating on the awakening gale;
And murmuring round thy rocky base, 
Seem mourning their departed race.

Alas old Nunketunk! no moro
   The Red Man's foot shall tread thy cliff,
While bound beside the river-shore, 
   Is seen his rocking skiff;—
No more thy arch shall bend above 
The warrior and his dark-eyed love, 
Or Indian girls, with midnight locks, 
Bound careless o'er thy high-hung rocks, 
Or underneath the boughs of green
   That curtain round thy temple hall.
Dark chiefs, before the Great Unseen, 
   In silent adoration fall;
For Christian hands, in robbery strong, 
By fraud, and violence, and wrong, 
Have made their little ones a prey,—
   Their old and grey-haired warriors slain, 
And swept their scattered tribes away,
   Like dust before the hurricane,
Burying with them, forever more,
Their priceless wealth of legend lore.

Farewell old Crag! there comes an hour 
   When thou shalt crumble even as they, 
Nor scorn again the storm-god's power,
   Whose lightnings round thy forehead play;
That hour when flames the rocks devour.
   And heaven and earth are rolled away.