Source: "A COLLECTION OF AMERICAN EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS WITH OCCASIONAL NOTES."
By REV. TIMOTHY ALDEN, A.M., Honorary Member of the Massachusetts and of
the New York Historical Societies, Member of the American Antiquarian
Society, etc. Pentade I. Vol. I.

Transcribed by Janice Farnsworth

p.60 OLDTOWN.

Orono, the venerable chief of the Penobscot tribe, departed this life on the 5 of February, 1801 at the age of 113 years. He was greatly endeared to his tribe, and spent his life in cultivating the principles of peace. During the Revolutionary war, he formed a treaty with our government which he faithfully kept, while some of the more southern tribes became a scourge to our frontier settlements.

According to tradition, the island in Penobscot River, called Oldtown, has been the favourite residence of the aborigines, for more than ten thousand moons. The present inhabitants are Roman catholics, who have a decent chapel and bell, and are diligently instructed by a missionary. The following anecdote occurs, as given to the author of this work by the late Rev. Daniel Little, of Kennebunk. Mr. Little was sent on a mission, many years since, into the Penobscot country, where he became acquainted with Orono. On a certain time, in a pleasant, familiar manner, he asked Orono in what language he prayed. Orono made no reply, but assumed a great aspect. Mr. Little repeated his question; but Onono, without uttering a single word, looked still more grave. After a little interval, Mr. Little, clapping Orono on his shoulder, said, "Come, Orono, come, tell me in what language you say your prayers - Indian, French or Latin? He knew the French to be well understood by the tribe, from their intercourse with the Canadians.

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Orono, with a solemnity of countenance, which delighted Mr. Little, lifted up his hands and his eyes towards heaven, and said, "No matter, Great Spirit know all language."

Orono was unquestionably of white origin. It is conjectured that he was a native of York, in the District of Maine, that his family name was Donnel, that in 1692, when that place was, in a great measure, destroyed by the savage enemy, he was carried into captivity, and that his relatives, who escaped with their lives, not knowing what became of him, supposed him to have been killed.

The following lines, occasioned by his death, are attributed to Martin Kinsley, Esq., and were published in the Piscat. Evan. Mag. Vol. I.

Ah brother Sanop, What bad news you speak!
Why steals the tear down thy sombre cheek?
Why heaves thy breast with such tremendous sighs,
And why depair dart horror from from thy eyes?
Has the Great Spirit, from the world above,
Called home your chief, the object of your love?
Ah! yes; too well I know his spirit's fled,
Too well I know your Orono is dead.
Each warrior sanop now unbends his bow,
While grief and sorrow brood upon his brow.
Each manly youth reclines his head and cries,
In Orono, our friend and chieftain dies.
Each young papoose to sympathy is bred,
And shrieking, whoops, your Orono is dead.
Each sombre face in pallid hue appears,

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And each his grief in death-like silence bears.
The great Penobscot rolls his current on
And silently bemoans his oldest son.
A century past, the object of his care,
He fed and clothed him with his fish and fur;
But now, alas! he views his shores in vain,
To find another Orono in man.
For whiter Indians, to our shame we see,
Are not so virtuous nor humane as he.
Disdaining all the savage modes of life,
The tomahawk, and bloody scalping knife,
He sought to civilize his tawny race,
'Till death, great Nimrod of the human race,
Hit on his track and gave this hunter chase.
His belt and wampum now aside are flung,
His pipe extinguished, and his bow unstrung.
When countless moons their destined rounds shall
cease,
He'll spend an endless calumet of peace.
Epitaph.
Safe lodged within his blanket here below,
Lie the last relicks of old Orono.
Worn down with toil and care, he in a trice
Exchanged his wigwam for a paradise.