Poems Sigourney 1834/The Mohegan Church
THE MOHEGAN CHURCH.
A remnant of the once-powerful tribe of Mohegan Indians, have their residence in the vicinity of the city of Norwich, Conn., and on the ruins of an ancient fort in their territory, a small church has been erected,— principally through the influence of the benevolence of females.
Amid those hills, with verdure spread,
The red-browed hunter's arrow sped,
And on those waters, sheen and blue,
He freely launch'd his light canoe,
While through the forests glanced like light
The flying wild-deer's antler bright.
—Ask ye for hamlet's people bound,
With cone-roofed cabins circled round?
For chieftain grave,—for warrior proud,
In nature's majesty unbowed?
You've seen the fleeting shadow fly,
The foam upon the billows die,
The floating vapour leave no trace,
Such was their path—that fated race.
Say ye that kings, with lofty port,
Here held their stern and simple court?
That here, with gestures rudely bold,
Stern orators the throng controlled?
—Methinks, even now, on tempest wings,
The thunder of their war-shout rings,
Methinks springs up, with dazzling spire,
The redness of their council fire.
No!—no!—in darkness rest the throng,
Despair hath checked the tide of song,
Dust dimmed their glory's ray,
But can these staunch their bleeding wrong?
Or quell remembrance, fierce and strong?
Recording angel,—say!
I marked where once a fortress frowned,
High o'er the blood-cemented ground,
And many a deed that savage tower
Might tell to chill the midnight hour.
But now, its ruins strongly bear
Fruits that the gentlest hand might share;
For there a hallowed dome imparts
The lore of Heaven to listening hearts,
And forms, like those which lingering staid,
Latest 'neath Calvary's awful shade,
And earliest pierced the gathered gloom
To watch a Saviour's lowly tomb,
Such forms have soothed the Indian's ire,
And bade for him that dome aspire.
Now, where tradition, ghostly pale,
With ancient horrors loads the vale,
And shuddering weaves in crimson loom
Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom,
There shall the peaceful prayer arise,
And tuneful hymns invoke the skies.
—Crush'd race!—so long condemned to moan,
Scorn'd—rifled—spiritless—and lone,
From pagan rites, from sorrow's maze,
Turn to these temple-gates with praise;
Yes, turn and bless the usurping band
That rent away your fathers' land;
Forgive the wrong—suppress the blame,
And view with Faith's fraternal claim,
Your God—your hope—your heaven the same.