University of Virginia Library

Now the wide wilderness was up in arms,
And the lone forests quak'd with strange alarms;
The war-whoop quav'ring loud, and shrill and drear,
Echo'd along the rivers far and near;
Each hostile tribe its former rage subdu'd,
Bury'd the mem'ry of each ancient feud,
And various passions in one hate combin'd,
Bent to one purpose every various mind.
The hairbrain'd Prophet, whose infuriate zeal
Boil'd o'er his heart, and made his reason reel;
Amid the painted ranks like maniac flew,
And kept alive the madness of the crew,
While the young Shawanoe, king of the wood,
And foremost of the warriors, panting stood,
Eager the bloody struggle to begin,
And take the chance, alike to lose or win.

One else was busy there—a renegade,
Who first his own, and then our land betray'd;
One of those wretches Europe sometimes throws
From her sick stomach, that with vice o'erflows,
To show corruption far beyond our reach,
Sublimer modes of villany to teach,
And prove, by demonstration strong and clear,
How much that lofty race excels us here,
By sending forth examples that proclaim
Her ranker turpitude, and deeper shame.

Exil'd for a long catalogue of crime,
He sought a home in this devoted clime,
Where sweet Philanthropy, as is the vogue,
Spreads her soft lap to catch each falling rogue,
And baby Sympathy is grown so nice,
It pampers Idleness and pities Vice,
Weeps o'er those cruel laws devis'd to save
The honest lab'rer from the prowling knave,
As if Society was fram'd alone
For kings and rogues, by turns to mount the throne,
And ride the world, while every honest fool,
Labours and starves, their victim or their tool,
Hither to this good land, this modern Rome,
Where Want and Exile find a lib'ral home,
The suffering Patriot, the recreant knave,
Pow'r's virtuous victim, and Corruption's slave,
All throng alike, and whereso'er they stray,
Meet friends, and welcome, on their weary way,
Hither he came—our Western air to taint,
And play the sinner in the garb of saint.
A banish'd Patriot—for that's the name
That cheats our sympathy and hides his shame—
A persecuted Exile, who but he!
A martyr at the shrine of Liberty,
He raised his voice in Freedom's sacred cause,
At hanging rail'd, and curs'd all tyrant laws,
Denounc'd the freeborn Will's most mild restraint,
And Treason's victim call'd a suffering saint,
Deeming that land by tyrant power enchain'd,
Where those stern despots, Law and Justice reign'd—
The people sanction'd laws, most mild behest,
And the wild impulse of a tyrant's breast,
Are but the same—if they should curb his will,
'Tis tyranny, and hard oppression still.
Cherish'd and pamper'd here, he might have grown
A fair exotic, we had call'd our own;
But where Corruption takes a thriving root,
The plant is soon detected by its fruit,
And kindness, like the genial warmth of Spring,
That gives the serpent venom to his sting,
The thorough villain wakes to bolder deeds,
And in his heart more lusty vipers breeds;
He needs no tempter to enforce his will,
Whose heart spontaneous, ever leans to ill.

One of our tyrant laws at length he broke,
And to escape its curs'd oppressive yoke,
Fled to a neighb'ring province, and became
An instrument of England's lasting shame.
Sent as a tool of mischief to the wild,
The Indian tribes to ruin he beguil'd,
Brib'd them to deeds, at which the heart recoils,
And drove them headlong into fatal broils,
With those whom self-defence forbids to show
That mercy which to Ignorance we owe.
As years revolv'd, the hard'ning wretch became
The Indians' curse, the whiteman's burning shame;
Half christian, and half savage, he combin'd
Their various vices in his various mind;
Learn'd all the horrors of the savage crew,
And taught them crimes which yet they never knew;
Corrupted, and corrupting, every day
Some remnant of his soul he threw away;
Cast, one by one the virtues of his race,
While not one savage virtue took its place;
Till all the vices of both natures join'd,
Grew in the monstrous medly of his mind.
One sole, and lonely virtue still he had,
That only made the villain doubly bad;
'Twas courage—not that virtue of the brave,
That lives on Fame, and conquers still to save;
But a blood-thirsty instinct, wild and rude,
That fear and clemency alike subdu'd,
And lull'd the only conscience villains have,
The fear of death—the reck'ning of the grave.
His music was the melody of moans,
The woman's shriekings, and the infant's groans;
The sight he lov'd was writhing agonies,
For other's tortures gave his bosom ease,
And each convulsive agonizing start,
Thrill'd with inhuman triumph through his heart.
He never turn'd upon his heel to save
Or mitigate the sufferings of the brave,
But with ingenious art, and fiend-like skill,
Devis'd new modes, a longer way to kill.

This bloody envoy with commission came
To add fresh fuel to the rising flame,
To proffer aid, with gifts the chiefs to gain,
Cheat with fair promises the simple train,
And lure them far away, to join once more,
Those who had oft betray'd their race before.
Now through the irksome forest's twilight gloom,
Where bees ne'er hum, or honey'd flowrets bloom,
By paths unmark'd by all but Indian eyes,
And nameless streams, in nameless lands that rise,
Whose banks ne'er echo'd to the fowler's gun,
Whose wave ne'er sparkled in the Summer sun,
Strait as an arrow, from their own sure bow,
Long countless miles our savage warriors go,
Nor ever miss the track that leads aright,
Be it or sunless day, or starless night.
With silent haste, and light elastic tread,
They wander'd like dumb shadows of the dead,
While the last warriors of the distant rear,
Guided by caution, or impell'd by fear,
Smooth the dry leaves, all vestige to efface
Of the light footsteps of that wily race.

So rov'd they, and so reach'd the kindred band,
That waited for them in the desert land;
And now—refreshing spectacle!—was seen,
Within the solitary woodland green,
By the keen eye of Heav'n that pierc'd the shade,
And mark'd the union by Ambition made—
A holy league—devised on modern plan,
Betwixt the Pagan, and the Christian man,
To bring the tomahawk and scalping knife,
In aid of mad Ambition's murd'rous strife,
Give a yet bloodier hue to War's dread face,
With one more blot old England's records grace,
And teach the Indian race, with pious care,
New modes of plunder—cruelties more rare.

Accursed union! cruel, bloody, base—
Shame of the Briton—blot on all our race!
Was it for England, of her glories proud,
To back her cause, with such a murd'rous crowd,
To fight—to run away—thus hand in hand,
With such a howling, scalping, tort'ring band?
Was this the way her piety to prove,
Her saint-like charity, and Christian love,
By sweet communion with a Pagan crew,
That ne'er one impulse of soft pity knew?
To bring the savage fiend, that never spares
The speechless innocent, nor snow-white hairs,
In bloody fellowship in wilds to live,
With those whose God commands them to forgive—
Was it for her—to sink her ancient fame
In such an ocean of eternal shame?

Think not, proud island—high as is thy lot,
These deeds of thine shall ever be forgot,
For howsoe'er thy records may deceive,
Here unborn millions shall the tale believe—
Long as the hours shall ply their ceaseless pace,
Thy sons shall hear their fathers' deep disgrace,
And blush, if blush they can, with burning shame,
At this deep blot that stains the Briton's name,
Within the doomsday-book of wrathful Time,
'Tis writ in blood, that in this lonely clime,
Deep in the gloomy forest's boundless shade,
For deeds that blink the blessed sunshine made,
Whence dying groans, unheard, unpity'd rise,
And scarce a rumour to old Europe flies,
Faith's mighty bulwark—battled side by side
With yelling fiends that law and Heav'n deride,
Saw them the captive with slow tortures kill,
And could have sav'd them, but had not the will.
O, England! thou a long arrear must pay,
When comes the bloody, bitter reck'ning day;
The hour may come—nay it will come in time,
When thou wilt pay for this detested crime;
Then in some desp'rate struggle man to man,
The wrathful mind these deeds of thine shall scan,
And with a noble thirst of vengeance fir'd,
By mem'ry of its country's wrongs inspir'd,
The victors noblest attribute will show,
And teach thee—how to spare a captive foe.

The maniac Prophet, whose infuriate hate,
Disdain'd the lagging steps of War to wait,
Set forth on lonely ramble to descry,
If yet, perchance, the adverse foe was nigh,
Or haply free from dreary War's alarm,
He staid at home, nor dream'd of coming harm.
Alone he hied him—for his gloomy soul,
Sicken'd at fellowship, and scorn'd control;
His humour was to roam, no one knew where,
Mutt'ring and murm'ring to the lonely air.
With cautious step, the wily Indian went
Like prowling thief on villanous intent,
Lay on his face, and listen'd to the breeze,
Whose whisper'd greetings woo'd the waving trees,
And if an acorn fell, he quail'd with fear,
For now the white-man's dangerous haunts were near.
Nearer, and nearer still the Prophet hied,
And now the curling smoke far off descry'd,
Above the woods in waving volumes rise,
Mingling its lighter tints with pale blue skies.
A little nearer, and the village spire,
Rose every moment higher yet and higher,
Until, at last, the peaceful hamlet scene,
Burst on his view, along the level green;
The Sun's last rays upon the spire top gleam'd,
The ev'ning purple on the still wave beam'd,
The lazy herds tinkled their evening bell,
The measur'd oar upon the river fell,
As swift the light canoe, from side to side,
Flitting like Indian barque was seen to glide,
The boatman ty'd his boat to root of tree,
And sung, or whistled there, right merrily—
And every sound upon the ear that broke,
The hour of rural relaxation spoke;
Nothing was seen, but comfort every where,
And nothing heard, that seem'd the voice of Care.

Back shrunk the madbrain'd wand'rer stung with spleen,
And sick'ning at this peaceful village scene;
It minded him of times he once had known,
Ere doom'd to wander through the earth alone,
For on this spot he once had reign'd a king,
O'er man and beast, and every living thing;
In this fair haunt, from boy to man he grew,
And tasted all the bliss the savage knew;
Here had he seen his people happy dwell,
Here had they fought, were conquer'd, and all fell.
A flood of tenderness rush'd on his mind,
And for one moment the poor wretch grew blind;
A thrill, for many, and many a year unknown,
Cut through his heart, though harden'd into stone,
A tear, the only one that e'er had stain'd
His manhood's cheek, unbrush'd away remain'd,
And, for one breath, his lone and wretched lot,
Was in the mem'ry of the past forgot.
But 'twas a moment only that engag'd
His tender thoughts—the next his bosom rag'd;
Indignantly he brush'd the tear away,
And as more hotly glows the Sun's bright ray,
When past the Summer shower that soon is o'er,
And leaves it brighter than it was before,
His swelling heart with keener vengeance burn'd,
And all his tenderness to fury turn'd.

“Aye—rest ye safe awhile”—he madly cried;
“Bask in the sunshine on my river's side,
“While the true lord of wave and wood and soil,
“Skulks from his home, and howls and starves the while.
“Sleep soundly yet, ye curs'd—devoted train,
“Ere long ye'll slumber ne'er to wake again,
“Or wake to hear the death-denouncing yell,
“Rouse for the last time, with its echoing swell,
“To see your dwellings wrapt in midnight flames,
“Hear helpless babes, and wives invoke your names,
“And call upon the Christian God in vain,
“To be their safeguard, yet, yet once again.
“How silent all around—how mild the eve!
“Farewell awhile—a little while I leave
“These gentle haunts, which when again I see,
“Wo to the white-man—he'll remember me!”

This said, he turn'd him to the glowing West,
Where day's last tints upon the light clouds rest,
And turning, saw an aged pilgrim stand,
Beneath an oak, with rustic staff in hand,
Who seem'd e'en like that day's departing sun,
As if his race on earth were almost run.
Sudden the murd'rous tomahawk he drew,
And wing'd by vengeance on his victim flew,
But as he look'd upon the old man's face,
There was a mild, and melancholy grace—
A fearless resignation so divine,
An eye that so forgivingly did shine,
As stopt awhile the Prophet's mad career,
And made him pause 'twixt reverence and fear.
He seem'd like patriarch of some distant age,
Return'd awhile to linger on this stage;
Bald was his brow—so very deadly fair,
As if no drop of blood now mantled there;
A few white hairs, like flaky snow unstain'd,
The reliques of a century remain'd,
And his calm eye, as in a mirror, shew'd
The mild reflection of a mind subdu'd;
No boiling passion foam'd, and eddied there,
Av'rice or gluttony, or selfish care,
But all was like the twilight's peaceful hue,
When gentle skies in silence shed their dew.

The Prophet gaz'd upon the bloodless sage,
And reverenc'd the divinity of age;
Were he an infant still his blood should flow,
For helpless babes to sturdy warriors grow;
But time can ne'er the old man's strength restore,
Or wake the sleeping vigour of fourscore.
“Old man!” he roughly cried, “what makes ye here,
“Dost not the wolf or bloody Indian fear,
“For bloody is the word the whites bestow,
“On those who fight, the only way they know?”

“I go,” replied the gracious aged man,
“To spend the remnant of my life's short span,
“In preaching truth to Nature's erring child,
“That roams in darkness through the desert wild,
“The Bible's holy eloquence to speak,
“And teach the red-man, our true God to seek.”

“Your God! the bitter mockery withhold—
“Your God! you have no other god than gold!
“For this,”—the maniac cried,—“for this alone,
“You bow before your Godhead's gilded throne;
“For this you murder, plunder, cheat, defame,
“With false aspersions blast your brother's name.
“Sell mothers, daughters, nay, your very wives,
“Barter religion, trade in human lives,
“Break Heaven's high mandates, spurn the law's control,
“And stake 'gainst money an immortal soul!
“Come not to our lone woods, old man, I say,
“But bear your crazy frame some other way,
“And ere for distant converts thus you roam,
“See if there's nothing left to do at home;
“There if thou wilt, thy nursery tales unfold,
“Till every soul fall down and worship gold—
“The Saviour of thy race died not for us,
“He died to be the Indian's lasting curse.”

“Mistaken man!”—the graybeard mildly cried;
“For thee, and us, alike the Saviour died!
“Look—the kind Christian whom thou would'st destroy,
“Shall lead thee to bright paths of peace and joy,
“The arts of life, and social comforts teach,
“And happiness beyond thy fancy's reach;
“Show thee to plough the yet uncultur'd field,
“And reap in peace whatever prize it yield,
“Make thy dark intellect with light to glow,
“And taste the sweets of knowing what we know,
“Give present comfort here, and future bliss
“In a far lovelier paradise than this,
“Make thee a man while living, and when dead
“An angel, in the realms where angels tread.”

“Accurs'd,” exclaim'd the maniac, “be thy care—
“I know what things your Christian Indians are!
“O! I have seen them naked and forlorn,
“Of every attribute of manhood shorn,
“Skulking from town to town, a worthless race,
“Earning the wages of their deep disgrace,
“Shooting for liquor with the self same bow,
“That laid the red-man of the forest low,
“And sunk beneath the lowest Christian knave,
“Take kicks and buffets from the white-man's slave;
“These are the product of your Christian love,
“Men while on earth, and angels when above!
“Now what are we, who in the woodlands reign,
“The lords of all the skulking forest train,
“Who through long trackless wilds pursue the deer,
“And live in dangers all the rolling year?
“Are we not men—who know no other trade,
“Than war and hunting, sports for warriors made;
“Who though nor guide nor compass point the way,
“Track beast or man, where'er they chance to stray,
“Ev'n though the white-man, with his purblind eyes,
“No vestige of a passing footstep spies?
“Who tell each hour of day or pitchy night,
“When sun and twinkling stars deny their light,
“Fight to the last, and when at length o'erthrown,
“Tortures endure, and die without a groan?
“Tell me, wise graybeard—those that do these things,
“Are they not men, and worthy to be kings?”

“True,” cried the old man, “ye are men, I know,
“Men that disgrace their Maker, here below;
“Whose gods are imps red hot from scorching Hell,
“Whose paradise, where store of beavers dwell;
“Whose mercy is the captive wretch to tear,
“Whose pride, the bloody dripping scalp to wear,
“To howl around where some poor victim lies,
“Shriv'ling in fires, and by slow inches dies.
“Alas! the ruthless thing that never spares,
“Is not a man, though manhood's form he wears,
“He does belie the mercy of sweet Heav'n,
“And damns himself, by prayers to be forgiv'n.”

“And dost thou prate of mercy! O, full well,
“Of Christian mercies can our Indians tell!
“You spar'd their lives, to drive them from their home,
“Like scouting beasts in distant wilds to roam;
“You did not kill them, like a generous foe,
“And end their sufferings with one manly blow;
“You spar'd them for long exile, and disgrace,
“Spar'd them to see the ruin of their race,
“Spar'd them for keener tortures, woes more dire
“Than scalping-knife, or slow consuming fire;
“We view such trifles with unflinching eye,
“'Tis nothing for a warrior thus to die;
“But I—old man, if thou hadst ten times died,
“Thou ne'er hadst known the suff'rings I abide,
“That shrivel this tough heart with woes so keen,
“They make me wish that I had never been.
“Look!—if the waning lamp of thine old eye
“Gives light enough far objects to descry—
“Look, what a peaceful scene, how mild, how fair,
“Bares its sweet bosom to the cooling air!
“Canst see the noiseless wave unruffled glide
“Round yonder isle that parts its gentle tide,
“Whose fringed shore reflected in the stream,
“Like shadowy land of souls, far off does seem?
“Dost see yon moon, like sky-hung Indian bow,
“Across the wave a line of radiance throw,
“That seems a silver bridge, perchance to guide
“The wand'ring soul across the rippling tide,
“To that fair isle, whose soften'd landscapes show
“So green and pleasant in the wave below?

“Think—hadst thou dwelt in such a smiling land,
“Cherish'd, and cherishing a brother band,
“Not one of whom from foe did ever flee,
“Not one of whom but would have died for thee—
“Think, hadst thou tasted all the pleasures here,
“That habit and long uses make so dear,
“All other modes of living but thine own,
“All other happiness to thee unknown,
“Still following up the paths thy fathers trod,
“Still worshipping thy fathers' ancient God—
“Think, had some roving band of red-men came,
“And wrapt thy dwellings in wide wasting flame,
“With bloody might cleft down thy helpless race
“And left thee without friend or biding place,
“Because thou didst not choose to roam the wild,
“And live the life so dear to Nature's child—
“Wouldst thou—aye, wouldst thou then his mercy praise,
“That he did lengthen out thy doleful days,
“And curse thee with a load of worthless life,
“Reft of thy old associates, babes, and wife,
“Loathing the present as a bitter curse,
“Fearing the future, that still threaten'd worse,
“Yet bearing still to live, in hopes one day,
“The bloody debt with interest to repay?
“Such was, such is, my lone and wretched lot—
“But what of that—in sooth, it matters not;
“I cannot write my wrongs, nor make appeal
“To those who watch o'er other people's weal,
“And if to Heav'n I raise the suppliant pray'r,
“And ask redress, I get no justice there,
“For as ye rule on earth, so in the skies
“Rules your great God, and all redress denies.

“See!” cried he, as the frenzy caught his brain—
“How their white bones lie bleaching on the plain!
“Their shadows haunt me wheresoe'er I stray,
“Their howling shades still cross my fearful way;
“I have no other kindred now but these,
“I hear no other music in the breeze;
“They call upon me in shrill dismal screams,
“They haunt my waking thoughts, my nightly dreams;
“Whene'er I stretch my hand, their cold, cold clasp,
“I feel like ice, within my shrinking grasp;
“With shades I dwell, they haunt me every where,
“And howl for vengeance in the midnight air.
“Buried within this gloomy vault alive,
“Vainly to quit its mildew'd walls I strive,
“Condemn'd with worms and mouldering bones to bide,
“And ghosts that chatter as before they died.
“Go—go in peace—ere yet thy limbs I tear,
“And cheat with half a meal, some half-starv'd bear!”

“I pity thee—Heaven knows I pity thee,
“And wish to Heav'n such things might never be.
“But learn of me, thou lone and wretched man,
“'Tis impious the ways of God to scan.
“For so it is, alas! or right or wrong,
“The weak are ever victims of the strong;
“In polish'd states, the master mind presides,
“In barb'rous nations force of arm still guides,
“Mind in the one, the stoutest nerves obey,
“Force in the other holds despotic sway.
“If thou wouldst let us, we would be thy friends,
“And for thy ancient wrongs make rich amends,
“From long-remember'd woes thy thoughts beguile,
“And teach this world to wear its sweetest smile,
“By pointing all thy hopes to yonder skies,
“Where the lost bliss of every mortal lies;
“There shall you find, if still ye seek aright,
“The baffling Bliss, and fugitive Delight,
“That stopt a moment with their laughing train,
“Then bade good-bye, and never call'd again.
“O! come with me! thou wild bewilder'd thing,
“Leave vengeance to yon sky-enthroned King,
“That better knows than you, to spare or strike,
“And punishes the wicked all alike;
“Here, if they 'scape, still, still they meet their doom,
“In fires that never quench, and ne'er consume;
“Forgiving, and forgiv'n, thy days shall glide
“Smoothly and brightly as yon sparkling tide;
“The white-man shall thy age's weakness bless,
“The red-men cherish, and their wrongs redress,
“Teach them to tread the only path that guides
“The steps of man where Truth and Justice bides,
“Give them rich lands, where they may dwell in peace,
“And every passing year their stores increase.”

“Fair promises! but canst thou wake the grave?
“They have no lives to bless, no souls to save.
“Hast thou forgot, or dost thou mean to jeer?
“I told thee that I had no kindred here;
“And, if I had, think'st thou I would forego
“The only hope that lights me here below,
“Sell my revenge, forget my murder'd tribe,
“And cheat my kinsmen for a worthless bribe?
“Thy memory is bad, thou dost forget
“I am a savage, not converted yet—
“'Tis for the white-man, who his Maker sold,
“To sell his brothers for accursed gold.
“Peace—peace, thou hoary tempter of fourscore—
“Begone!—and never seek these woodlands more;
“Away!”—he cried, with frenzy-lighten'd brow,
“Were I a Christian I would scalp thee now;
“Go home, and lye amid thy very pray'rs,
“And say the bloody Indian never spares.”

This said—he darted in the woods amain,
To seek his warriors of the wilds again.
The aged Pilgrim, sighing, turn'd away,
And marvell'd so that he forgot to pray,
That men were born with such a stubborn mind,
And hearts so hard, and eyes so wilful blind.