The feast was ended: bird and beast were slain
(Three thousand, so the ancient annals say);
The dance was danced; and every rite performed;
And gathered round the summit of the mouth
The stately, silent sachems stood intent
On Aspenquid. He over all was tall
And straight as ash, though ripe with ninety years.
He rose majestic on the sovereign top
Of his own land, and in that solemn hour
He seemed to tower above has wonted height
As towers in midmost air te stricken bird.
His locks were thin, but raven black and long;
Nor yet, his eyes had lost their splendid dark,
But glowed deep set beneath a low, broad brow.
Unpinched by age, his face was firm, and bronzed
Like leaves that hang all winter on the oak.

"Warriors and braves, come nearer to your!
My eyes, that once could brook the midday sun,
And see the eagle ere myself was seen,
Are dimmed with age; and but a pace beyond
A misty light seems settled over all.
Come nearer, braves, that I may feast my eyes
On your young limbs, what myself once was!

My race decays, and I have lived too long;
My limbs with ninety weary winter's strife
Are spent; my fathers call me unto them.
I go to comfort their impatient shades,
And respite find for all my own mischance.
And here once more on Agamenticus,
My old ancestral powow's sacred seat,
That saw the waters burn and trees to dance,
And winter's withered leaves grow green again,
And in dead serpent's skin the living coil,
While they themselves would change themselves to flame;
And where not less did I myself did I conjure
The mighty magic of my fathers' rites
Against my foe, -- yet all without effect;
The spirits also flee where white men come.
I turn to join my kindred sagamores,
And fly before the doom I could not change.

Light not the fires of vengeance in your hearts,
For sure the flame will turn against yourselves.
And you will perish utterly from earth.
Nor yet submit too meekly, but maintain
The valorous name once ours in happy days.
Be prudent, wise and always slow to strike.
Fall back; seek other shores and hunting grounds, --
I cannot bear you perish utterly!
Though, looking through the melancholy years,
I see the end, but turn my face away,
So heavy are my eyes with unshed tears;
And yours too I would turn, warriors and braves!
And mind not my prophetic vision much, --
Th' unhappy gift of him who lives too long;
But mind the counsel many years have taught,
The last I give: remember it, and live!"

Source: Samuel Adams Drake, A Book of New England Legends and Folklore, Boston, 1884. Illustration of prehistoric platform pipe by William Fowler courtesy of the Massachusetts Archeological Society, Inc. John Albee from his history of New Caslte, 1884.