The Translation of Passaconaway

By Earl Newton THE SIXTH OF A SERIES OF LEGENDS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE

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Long had lived the mighty chieftain/Genius in the ways of battle, Prophet in the ways of peace, Seer of the great religion, Patriarch of many nations.

Joining to combat the Mohawk, Joining, too, in peaceful pursuits,

Till the tribes of all the valley in their councils turned to northward,

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Nashuas and the Pawtuckets, Namoskeags and the Wamesits

And the kindred tribes to southward,  To the wigwam of the Sachem

Of the mighty Passaconaway, Of the Penacooks the Chieftain,

Of the tribes the great advisor. Convert of the patient preacher,

Of holy, humble Elliott. At the meetings of the nations.

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At the powpows in the Autumn, many times he bade them farewell;

Farewell to his faithful warriors, defenders of ancestral wigwams —

Warning that their days were numbered; That the pale-face soon would conquer, Killing all with thundering weapons.  Who would fight with bow and arrow. Many years the ponderous GoodBook,  Made for him and his brave tribesmen by that pious pale-face preacher,

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Strengthened faith in the Great Spirit,  Faith with might to move a mountain.

Till by faith the aged Sachem Made green leaves to 'grow in Winter;

Healed the sick by spoken word; Now at last with six-score winters.

Turning each his locks still whiter. Sat for days within his wigwam.

Scarcely giving sign or token That his spirit had not fled.

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So, the redskins sent the message,  Full of sad and mournful portend,

To the braves throughout the valley That the silent, aged Sachem

Ne'er would see another Springtime. When the northwind was most bitter,

When the snows were piled the deepest, When the sun was gone far southward,

Sat the tribe in solemn circle in the chieftain's royal wigwam,

On the east bank of the river. Sat through silent hours of midnight.

Silent but the roar of northwind and the crackling of the pine-boughs, As the moon stood in high heaven.

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At the hour of ghostly midnight, Came a strange sound from the valley.

Though still feeble in the distance, every warrior sought his weapon

as the sound drew nearer, nearer. Then they knew the evil portend

was a mighty pack of grey wolves. Bearing down upon the village.

But the chieftain raised his right hand, Standing up in kingly splendor.

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As he walked with steady footstep to the flapping wigwam door. "Lay aside your feeble weapons, A hundred wolves are now arriving Yelping barking, yapping, snapping, but the Spirit has placed fetters Just as death has lost its terror.

So, the wolves shall haul my death sledge to my final resting place."

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Slowly, but erect in posture. Moved the chieftain to the death sledge,

Mounted the high throne of white fur, Seated as in royal splendor.

Raised a finger pointing northward. Pointing to the realms of darkness,

But the Spirit-land of light. At the signal moved the wolf pack.

Become silent and submissive.  Sped on faster and yet faster. As they heard the driver's death-song,

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Echo over hill and river. Heard him sing in voice yet louder:

"O! Grave where is thy victory and O! Death where is thy sting?"

Heeding not the howling northwind, Heeding not the glistening landscape.

But the old chief sang the louder as he crossed the lake and rivers,"

Ever faster to the White hills, till he reached the tallest mountain.

Swiftly up its slope, they hauled him. To the bald and barren summit.'

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In a flash of flame celestial, Passaconaway rose in glory

To the kingdom of hereafter, To the Spirit Land of Heaven.

In the darkness dashed the grey wolves to the deep ravine of horror.

The never-ending night of Death.

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                 Passaconaway lived to be nearly 125