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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420609" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pentucket</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">How sweetly on the wood-girt town<br>The mellow light of sunset shone!<br>Each small, bright lake, whose waters still<br>Mirror the forest and the hill,<br>Reflected from its waveless breast<br>The beauty of a cloudless west,<br>Glorious as if a glimpse were given<br>Within the western gates of heaven,<br>Left, by the spirit of the star<br>Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beside the river's tranquil flood<br>The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,<br>Where many a rood of open land<br>Stretched up and down on either hand,<br>With corn-leaves waving freshly green<br>The thick and blackened stumps between.<br>Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,<br>The wild, untravelled forest spread,<br>Back to those mountains, white and cold,<br>Of which the Indian trapper told,<br>Upon whose summits never yet<br>Was mortal foot in safety set.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quiet and calm without a fear,<br>Of danger darkly lurking near,<br>The weary laborer left his plough,<br>The milkmaid carolled by her cow;<br>From cottage door and household hearth<br>Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At length the murmur died away,<br>And silence on that village lay.<br>-So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,<br>Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,<br>Undreaming of the fiery fate<br>Which made its dwellings desolate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hours passed away. By moonlight sped<br>The Merrimac along his bed.<br>Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood<br>Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,<br>Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,<br>As the hushed grouping of a dream.<br>Yet on the still air crept a sound,<br>No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,<br>Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing,<br>Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Was that the tread of many feet,<br>Which downward from the hillside beat?<br>What forms were those which darkly stood<br>Just on the margin of the wood?-<br>Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,<br>Or paling rude, or leafless limb?<br>No,-through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed,<br>Dark human forms in moonshine showed,<br>Wild from their native wilderness,<br>With painted limbs and battle-dress.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A yell the dead might wake to hear<br>Swelled on the night air, far and clear;<br>Then smote the Indian tomahawk<br>On crashing door and shattering lock;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then rang the rifle-shot, and then<br>The shrill death-scream of stricken men,-<br>Sank the red axe in woman's brain,<br>And childhood's cry arose in vain.<br>Bursting through roof and window came,<br>Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame,<br>And blended fire and moonlight glared<br>On still dead men and scalp-knives bared.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The morning sun looked brightly through<br>The river willows, wet with dew.<br>No sound of combat filled the air,<br>No shout was heard, nor gunshot there;<br>Yet still the thick and sullen smoke<br>From smouldering ruins slowly broke;<br>And on the greensward many a stain,<br>And, here and there, the mangled slain,<br>Told how that midnight bolt had sped<br>Pentucket, on thy fated head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even now the villager can tell<br>Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,<br>Still show the door of wasting oak,<br>Through which the fatal death-shot broke,<br>And point the curious stranger where<br>De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;<br>Whose hideous head, in death still feared,<br>Bore not a trace of hair or beard;<br>And still, within the churchyard ground,<br>Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,<br>Whose grass-grown surface overlies<br>The victims of that sacrifice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420609" data-title="Pentucket de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="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
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