 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
315
THE DEAD HUNTER.
Here, here at last I've found thee
Torn by the beast of prey—
The dim old forest round thee,
Thy couch the dark wet clay.
From lip and cheek have faded
For aye the tints of life;—
Soiled is the belt I braided
With the red rain of strife.
I told thee yestermorning
That foes lay ambushed near,
For borne was note of warning
Unto my dreaming ear
From the far Spirit Land.
Torn by the beast of prey—
The dim old forest round thee,
Thy couch the dark wet clay.
From lip and cheek have faded
For aye the tints of life;—
Soiled is the belt I braided
With the red rain of strife.
I told thee yestermorning
That foes lay ambushed near,
For borne was note of warning
Unto my dreaming ear
From the far Spirit Land.
No more thine arms will rattle
Light bracelets in the dance—
Thine eye no more in battle
Flash forth indignant glance.
My voice that once could cheer thee
Thrills not that bosom now;
Thy bow lies broken near thee,
And blood-stained is thy brow:
With pace the moose outspeeding
To hunt the antlered herd,
Thou wentest forth unheeding
The sadly-whispered word
Of the far Spirit Land.
Light bracelets in the dance—
Thine eye no more in battle
Flash forth indignant glance.
My voice that once could cheer thee
Thrills not that bosom now;
Thy bow lies broken near thee,
And blood-stained is thy brow:
With pace the moose outspeeding
To hunt the antlered herd,
Thou wentest forth unheeding
The sadly-whispered word
Of the far Spirit Land.
Oh, bitterly my nation
Will mourn thy timeless fall,
For who can fill thy station
Within the council-hall?
My cone-like lodge is lonely—
The fount of joy is dry,
For life was pleasant only
When thou, dead chief, wert nigh!
My tree of hope is blighted,
Its trunk is in the dust;
But we will be united
Ere many moons, I trust,
In the far Spirit Land.
Will mourn thy timeless fall,
For who can fill thy station
Within the council-hall?
My cone-like lodge is lonely—
The fount of joy is dry,
316
When thou, dead chief, wert nigh!
My tree of hope is blighted,
Its trunk is in the dust;
But we will be united
Ere many moons, I trust,
In the far Spirit Land.
A dwelling, cold and narrow,
Must now the strong arm hide
That best could wing the arrow,
Or the light paddle guide;
The muttering storm is hiding
With veil of gloomy dye
The day-god lately riding
With lustrous pomp on high;
But while the cloud is shedding
Cold rain-drops on thy breast,
Thy warlike ghost is treading
The chase-grounds of the blest
In the far Spirit Land.
Must now the strong arm hide
That best could wing the arrow,
Or the light paddle guide;
The muttering storm is hiding
With veil of gloomy dye
The day-god lately riding
With lustrous pomp on high;
But while the cloud is shedding
Cold rain-drops on thy breast,
Thy warlike ghost is treading
The chase-grounds of the blest
In the far Spirit Land.
The wolf stalks by thee heeding
Thy fatal aim no more—
The doe and fawn are feeding
Near thy lone couch of gore.
The quivered band will never
Thy war-shout hear again;
The hand is stilled for ever
That once piled high the slain;
But, thick as bees that cluster
In hollows of the wood,
Thy clan for combat muster,
While a wild cry for blood
Thrills through the Spirit Land.
Thy fatal aim no more—
The doe and fawn are feeding
Near thy lone couch of gore.
The quivered band will never
Thy war-shout hear again;
The hand is stilled for ever
That once piled high the slain;
But, thick as bees that cluster
In hollows of the wood,
Thy clan for combat muster,
While a wild cry for blood
Thrills through the Spirit Land.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |