 | Abaddon, the spirit of destruction ; and other poems |  |
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THE DISINTERRED MASTODON.
“Made desperate by too quick a sense
Of constant infelicity; cut off
From peace like exiles on some barren rock,
Their life's sad prison, with no more of ease
Than sentinels between two armies set.”—
Anon.
Of constant infelicity; cut off
From peace like exiles on some barren rock,
Their life's sad prison, with no more of ease
Than sentinels between two armies set.”—
Anon.
Thy name is princely. Though no poet's magic
Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme,
Unless he had a genius for the tragic,
And introduced it in a pantomime.
Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme,
Unless he had a genius for the tragic,
And introduced it in a pantomime.
Yet it is music in the language spoken
Of thine own land; and on her herald-roll,
As nobly fought for, and as proud a token
As Cœur de Lion's of a warrior's soul.—
Halleck.
Of thine own land; and on her herald-roll,
As nobly fought for, and as proud a token
As Cœur de Lion's of a warrior's soul.—
Dark mouldered relique of an elder time!
Wreck of some fierce convulsion, all untold!
Revealing voice of glory and of crime—
Of plenty's golden years—of garments rolled
In blood of bondage to which madness sold
The trusters of the traitors! from the ground
Thou risest, giant of the days of old!
Scattering thy pale dust on the earth around,
Of buried monarchies to tell without a sound.
Wreck of some fierce convulsion, all untold!
Revealing voice of glory and of crime—
Of plenty's golden years—of garments rolled
In blood of bondage to which madness sold
The trusters of the traitors! from the ground
Thou risest, giant of the days of old!
Scattering thy pale dust on the earth around,
Of buried monarchies to tell without a sound.
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The deep wild forest, where the wailing wind
Moans its lone dirge o'er doomed and banished kings,
Where gushed the fearless heart and soared the mind
Of angel nature on its glorious wings;
The prairie's vast green solitude—the springs,
That from hill fountains sung through glimmering wood,
Echoing the music of imaginings:
O'er these thou oft hadst trod ere guilt and blood
Rained dæmon curses on the holy solitude.
Moans its lone dirge o'er doomed and banished kings,
Where gushed the fearless heart and soared the mind
Of angel nature on its glorious wings;
The prairie's vast green solitude—the springs,
That from hill fountains sung through glimmering wood,
Echoing the music of imaginings:
O'er these thou oft hadst trod ere guilt and blood
Rained dæmon curses on the holy solitude.
Ohio's marge—Wisconsin's mountain land
Were prophets of thy footsteps, and thy tread,
Like the far tempest's sigh, came o'er that band
Of dauntless warriors, on whose crested head
Rested the Atlas empire. O ye dead!
Your godlike energies would once outdare
The bison and the mammoth; never fled
The unsuccoured red man from most hopeless lair,
Nor shrunk your hero chiefs from last and worst despair.
Were prophets of thy footsteps, and thy tread,
Like the far tempest's sigh, came o'er that band
Of dauntless warriors, on whose crested head
Rested the Atlas empire. O ye dead!
Your godlike energies would once outdare
The bison and the mammoth; never fled
The unsuccoured red man from most hopeless lair,
Nor shrunk your hero chiefs from last and worst despair.
The spirit of a day that knew not fear
Was on them ere the subtle fiend of gain
Baffled and blasted all they hoarded dear,
And left them not till poverty and pain,
Abasement and disease, with all their train,
Bowed the proud monarchs to the earth in shame.
Then fell the sun they ne'er will see again,
Then darkness brooded o'er their ancient fame,
And doubt and dust and death effaced each trophied name.
Was on them ere the subtle fiend of gain
Baffled and blasted all they hoarded dear,
And left them not till poverty and pain,
Abasement and disease, with all their train,
Bowed the proud monarchs to the earth in shame.
Then fell the sun they ne'er will see again,
Then darkness brooded o'er their ancient fame,
And doubt and dust and death effaced each trophied name.
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From Katahelin to the Chippewan,
From fair Mohegan to the Oregon,
Thrilled the bright spirit of immortal man—
Earth gloried in the Nation's humblest son!
But time and truth and all the vision 's gone—
The Ozark mountains o'er the wreck of crime,
The living sepulchre of ruin moan,
Yet their bold spirits, in their woe sublime,
Like dying volcans, glare o'er the dark sea of time.
From fair Mohegan to the Oregon,
Thrilled the bright spirit of immortal man—
Earth gloried in the Nation's humblest son!
But time and truth and all the vision 's gone—
The Ozark mountains o'er the wreck of crime,
The living sepulchre of ruin moan,
Yet their bold spirits, in their woe sublime,
Like dying volcans, glare o'er the dark sea of time.
From Damariscotta the strong Norridgewock
Went forth and dared Pejypscot's boiling flood,
The winter night, the storm, the beetling rock,
The wily foeman ambushed in the wood;
The Narragansett, in his simple mood,
Nourished the child that sacked his secret hold,
And drank Miantonimoh's guiltless blood:
And Metacom, the hero, sage and bold,
Battled for crown and life until his heart was cold.
Went forth and dared Pejypscot's boiling flood,
The winter night, the storm, the beetling rock,
The wily foeman ambushed in the wood;
The Narragansett, in his simple mood,
Nourished the child that sacked his secret hold,
And drank Miantonimoh's guiltless blood:
And Metacom, the hero, sage and bold,
Battled for crown and life until his heart was cold.
And this is all your chronicle—huge bones
Mouldering beneath the woods of ages—ye!
Round whose green, living, and all-worshipped thrones
Hurried a thousand tribes—dark destiny!
Couldst thou not spare the good, the just, the free?
The priests of nature and the kings of joy?
And must these bones be offered up to thee,
Moloch of gain! why quake not earth and sky
When the Last Chief is shown—a beggar's mockery!
Mouldering beneath the woods of ages—ye!
Round whose green, living, and all-worshipped thrones
Hurried a thousand tribes—dark destiny!
Couldst thou not spare the good, the just, the free?
The priests of nature and the kings of joy?
And must these bones be offered up to thee,
Moloch of gain! why quake not earth and sky
When the Last Chief is shown—a beggar's mockery!
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In vain, devoted people of the leaves!
Your Lalage called on Ishtohoolo's name—
The iron heart that crushes, never grieves
O'er its black orgies, and earth-seeking shame
Visits no spirit whose assassin fame
Is hell's own lucre. The reward will come.
The retribution of the gory game,
And Logan yet shall utter Cresap's doom,
And glutted havoc turn the mad destruction home.
Your Lalage called on Ishtohoolo's name—
The iron heart that crushes, never grieves
O'er its black orgies, and earth-seeking shame
Visits no spirit whose assassin fame
Is hell's own lucre. The reward will come.
The retribution of the gory game,
And Logan yet shall utter Cresap's doom,
And glutted havoc turn the mad destruction home.
Hopeless remorse and helpless agony
Shall gnash and rend the slayers, for your doom
Invokes meet vengeance from the eternal sky,
The bolt that hurtles through the quivering gloom.
Then tremble thou, hoar tyrant! in thy home
Of parricidal power! a nation's curse
Shall crown Tecumseh's and the years to come
Shall load thy deathbed and unhonoured hearse
With anguish, shame, despair, till none could wish thee worse.
Shall gnash and rend the slayers, for your doom
Invokes meet vengeance from the eternal sky,
The bolt that hurtles through the quivering gloom.
Then tremble thou, hoar tyrant! in thy home
Of parricidal power! a nation's curse
Shall crown Tecumseh's and the years to come
Shall load thy deathbed and unhonoured hearse
With anguish, shame, despair, till none could wish thee worse.
Gone from your beautiful and glorious clime,
Trampled and spurned and crushed by foes in power,
Drenched and devoured, without a single crime,
By the fiend's fire, that tempts ye in the hour
Of outcast bondage, with your dreadful dower
Blending the ruin of woe's gift—to feel—
Ye yet may tell your tyrants in their bower,
That, where your slaughtered fathers wont to kneel,
Your blood will sow the soil with curses on their weal.
Trampled and spurned and crushed by foes in power,
Drenched and devoured, without a single crime,
By the fiend's fire, that tempts ye in the hour
Of outcast bondage, with your dreadful dower
Blending the ruin of woe's gift—to feel—
Ye yet may tell your tyrants in their bower,
That, where your slaughtered fathers wont to kneel,
Your blood will sow the soil with curses on their weal.
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