They will vanish like a vapor from
the face of the earth; their very history will be lost in
forgetfulness; and "the places that now know them will know them
no more forever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them
should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to
people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and
satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he venture
upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness, should he
tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven from
their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, hunted
like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down with violence and
butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn with horror and
incredulity from the tale or blush with indignation at the
inhumanity of their forefathers. "We are driven back," said an
old warrior, "until we can retreat no farther--our hatchets are
broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extinguished;
a little longer and the white man will cease to persecute us, for
we shall cease to exist!"
PHILIP OF POKANOKET.
AN INDIAN MEMOIR.
As monumental bronze unchanged his look:
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook;
Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier,
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook
Impassive--fearing but the shame of fear-
stoic of the woods--a man without a tear.
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