Lyrical and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I lay on the breast of the mountain,
The raven was flapping his wing,
And like the warm gush of a fountain
Drew the blood from my hearts deepest spring.
The winds thro' the forest were sighing,
O'er the grave of my father they came—
I saw the old warrior, around him were lying
The symbols of fight, for the many were dying
'Midst havoc, confusion and flame.

He stood and his hatchet was shiver'd,
The spear had been left in his breast;
And the lip of the warrior quiver'd,
As he look'd on the deep purple west;
But it was not fear that depress'd him,

In the fond dream of rapture he fell,
And the lip of the prophet had bless'd him,
Ere he bade his own forest farewell.

Overaw'd by his presence—I dared not
Look up at the form of my sire—
I trembled, altho' my soul fear'd not
The glance of his dark rolling ire.
No! the Eagle that's soaring unbounded,
Except by his own native pride—
Not the Viper Mohegan's

Branches of the great Narragansett stock, who fearful of the aggregated power of the properly-named, “Great Philip,” sided with him in his numerous wars, and shared in his extermination.

dark glance has confounded,
And the Nipnet

Branches of the great Narragansett stock, who fearful of the aggregated power of the properly-named, “Great Philip,” sided with him in his numerous wars, and shared in his extermination.

has dared not attack tho' surrounded,
The Tiger that prowl'd by his side!

“And where is thy bow and thy quiver?”
At length the dark crocodile spoke;
“Thy hearts blood shall crimson yon river
“And thy people shall bend to the yoke:
“Already thy foe is advancing,
“Awake from thy slumbers and see
“Their blades thro' the forest leaves glancing,
“Their lances all buried in thee!”

He turn'd as he spoke—I beheld him
Look dark on the shades of the west;
The spirit now seemingly swell'd him
As I watch'd the deep throes of his breast!
A light from his dark eye was beaming,

I followed his gaze in its flight,
And saw thro' the woods faintly gleaming,
A warrior blade, and the long plume streaming
Beneath the pale moon's misty light!

“Now the foe-man is on thee, go slumber,
“'Till thou wakest behind the dark hills;
“Whilst thy blood shall his faulchion encumber
“'Tis disgraced by the heart which it fills.
“Arise from thy sleep and awaken
“The hope that once gilded thy band,
“If thou diest, be thy land not forsaken,
“Tho' thou diest defending that land!”

He vanish'd—I rose—a cold tremor
Relax'd every nerve of my frame:
I hear him—“Thou womanish dreamer,
Remember thy nation and name!”
Thro' the mists of the valley appearing
In the dream of this moment they shone,
I have drawn the bright sword in my daring,
I have waken'd the bosom unfearing,
Let them come, and I care not how soon.

The Eagle has never yet cower'd,
And the Mohegan's arrow ne'er flew
To the rock where his mighty wing tower'd,
'Midst the freshness of heaven's own dew!
He has glow'd 'neath the sun's earliest splendor
It inspired with vigor his frame;

Can the bright wing that soars so, e'er bend, or
Be dimn'd with the dark cloud of shame?

I shrunk not, tho' worn and surrounded,
My hatchet was madden'd with blood!
I fled not, tho' trampled and wounded,
But drank of the dark streaming flood!
And who in the battle's confusion
Ere saw me withdraw from the fight?
The Mohegan whose blood is pollution
And the Nipnet dark slave of delusion,
Lives not that dare say it to night.

Let them come then—the freedom our fathers
Once gave us, if lost it must be,
I care not how soon death's arm gathers
The leaves of our fast falling tree—
But 'twere shame to the shades of the glorious,
Who have gone to the valley of maids,
That their children should come not victorious
Or follow'd by enemy's shades.

Then draw ye each bow and prepare now
To battle the foes of your land—
Let one bosom but tremble, or fear now
And he dies by his own monarch's hand!
The shades of our fathers attend us,
Ye victims of battle draw nigh,
Let Manitto scorn or befriend us,
Be it ours to conquer or die!”

He paused—his warriors gather'd round,
Nor sought they vain reply;
True valour never yet has found
It difficult to die!
And in their monarch's song, they knew
Each lot was cast, and they who flew—
Again would never fly!

There is a smile upon his brow,
As o'er the distant bills
The sun with streaks of early glow,
The dark horizon fills—
That sun shall rise no more to him,
Nor shall he live to see it dim,
Beneath the western rills!

But tho' he'll live no more to see
Its red light streak the verge
Of that wild land, which once was free,
As oceans proudest surge—
Yet will he not the chain behold,
That dares his native land enfold,
Nor hear her glory's dirge.

And now his band is compass'd round—
Prophetic was that dream—
And death on easy terms is found,
Before the mornings gleam;
And ere the day had fully broke
Night's slumbers—fate had cast its yoke
O'er Philip's latest beam.

I saw the monarch wave his axe,
I heard his war-whoop cry
From men that never turn'd their backs,
And battled but to die;
I saw him combat hand to hand
With one, whose blood is on the sand—
Another came, like cataracts
They rush together to the strand—
His hand is on the Indian's throat,
Whose lips begin to quiver—
Those are the monarch's plumes that float,
His best blood's on the river!
Yet once again his war-whoop rose
Upon the wind—and all is still!
There's blood upon the stream that flows,
And red hues tinge the hill—
Their monarch bade them never yield,
And not an Indian left the field!