Narrative and Legendary Poems, Complete






NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON.

     NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old
     Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape
     Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds
     And the relentless smiting of the waves,
     Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream
     Of a good angel dropping in his hand
     A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God.

     He rose and went forth with the early day
     Far inland, where the voices of the waves
     Mellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves,
     As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods,
     He searched his traps. Therein nor beast nor bird
     He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools
     The otter plashed, and underneath the pines
     The partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went back
     To the sick wife and little child at home,
     What marvel that the poor man felt his faith
     Too weak to bear its burden,—like a rope
     That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above
     The hand that grasps it. "Even now, O Lord!
     Send me," he prayed, "the angel of my dream!
     Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait."

     Even as he spake he heard at his bare feet
     A low, metallic clink, and, looking down,
     He saw a dainty purse with disks of gold
     Crowding its silken net. Awhile he held
     The treasure up before his eyes, alone
     With his great need, feeling the wondrous coins
     Slide through his eager fingers, one by one.
     So then the dream was true. The angel brought
     One broad piece only; should he take all these?
     Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods?
     The loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely miss
     This dropped crumb from a table always full.
     Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cry
     Of a starved child; the sick face of his wife
     Tempted him. Heart and flesh in fierce revolt
     Urged the wild license of his savage youth
     Against his later scruples. Bitter toil,
     Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pitiless eyes
     To watch his halting,—had he lost for these
     The freedom of the woods;—the hunting-grounds
     Of happy spirits for a walled-in heaven
     Of everlasting psalms? One healed the sick
     Very far off thousands of moons ago
     Had he not prayed him night and day to come
     And cure his bed-bound wife? Was there a hell?
     Were all his fathers' people writhing there—
     Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive—
     Forever, dying never? If he kept
     This gold, so needed, would the dreadful God
     Torment him like a Mohawk's captive stuck
     With slow-consuming splinters? Would the saints
     And the white angels dance and laugh to see him
     Burn like a pitch-pine torch? His Christian garb
     Seemed falling from him; with the fear and shame
     Of Adam naked at the cool of day,
     He gazed around. A black snake lay in coil
     On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eye
     Watched from a dead bough. All his Indian lore
     Of evil blending with a convert's faith
     In the supernal terrors of the Book,
     He saw the Tempter in the coiling snake
     And ominous, black-winged bird; and all the while
     The low rebuking of the distant waves
     Stole in upon him like the voice of God
     Among the trees of Eden. Girding up
     His soul's loins with a resolute hand, he thrust
     The base thought from him: "Nauhaught, be a man
     Starve, if need be; but, while you live, look out
     From honest eyes on all men, unashamed.
     God help me! I am deacon of the church,
     A baptized, praying Indian! Should I do
     This secret meanness, even the barken knots
     Of the old trees would turn to eyes to see it,
     The birds would tell of it, and all the leaves
     Whisper above me: 'Nauhaught is a thief!'
     The sun would know it, and the stars that hide
     Behind his light would watch me, and at night
     Follow me with their sharp, accusing eyes.
     Yea, thou, God, seest me!" Then Nauhaught drew
     Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus
     The pain of hunger, and walked bravely back
     To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea;
     And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked
     "Who hath lost aught to-day?"
     "I," said a voice;
     "Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse,
     My daughter's handiwork." He looked, and to
     One stood before him in a coat of frieze,
     And the glazed hat of a seafaring man,
     Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings.
     Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's hand
     The silken web, and turned to go his way.
     But the man said: "A tithe at least is yours;
     Take it in God's name as an honest man."
     And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed
     Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's name
     I take it, with a poor man's thanks," he said.
     So down the street that, like a river of sand,
     Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea,
     He sought his home singing and praising God;
     And when his neighbors in their careless way
     Spoke of the owner of the silken purse—
     A Wellfleet skipper, known in every port
     That the Cape opens in its sandy wall—
     He answered, with a wise smile, to himself
     "I saw the angel where they see a man."
     1870.

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