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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
246
RED JACKET.
WRITTEN ON BEING PRESENTED BY A LADY WITH A WILD FLOWER THAT GREW ON HIS GRAVE NEAR BUFFALO.
Thanks to the genii of the flowers
Who planted on his humble tomb,
And nursed, with sun and pleasant showers,
This herb of faded bloom!
And, lady fair, my thanks to thee,
For bringing this frail gift to me.
Although it cannot match in dye
The velvet drapery of the rose,
Or the bright tulip-cup that glows
Like summer's evening sky:
Who planted on his humble tomb,
And nursed, with sun and pleasant showers,
This herb of faded bloom!
And, lady fair, my thanks to thee,
For bringing this frail gift to me.
Although it cannot match in dye
The velvet drapery of the rose,
Or the bright tulip-cup that glows
Like summer's evening sky:
It hath a power to wake the dead—
A spell is in its dying leaf
To summon from his funeral bed
The mighty forest-chief.
Realms that his fathers ruled of yore—
Earth that their children own no more,
His melancholy glance beholds;
And tearless though his falcon eye,
His bosom heaves with agony
Beneath its blanket-folds.
A spell is in its dying leaf
To summon from his funeral bed
The mighty forest-chief.
Realms that his fathers ruled of yore—
Earth that their children own no more,
His melancholy glance beholds;
And tearless though his falcon eye,
His bosom heaves with agony
Beneath its blanket-folds.
Within the council-lodge again
I hear his voice the silence breaking,
Soft as the music of the main,
When not a wind is waking;
With touching pathos in his tone
He mourns for days of glory flown,
When lay in shade both hill and glen,
Ere, panoplied and armed for slaughter,
The big canoes brought pale-browed men
Over the blue salt water;
When deer and buffalo in droves
Ranged through interminable groves,
And the Great Spirit on his race
Smiled ever with unclouded face.
Now, with a burning tale of wrong,
He wakes to rage the painted throng
And points to violated graves,
While eloquence dilates his form,
And his lip mutters like the storm
When winds unchain the waves;
An hundred scalping-knives are bare—
An hundred hatchets swung in air,
And while the forest Cicero
Lost power portrays and present shame,
Old age forgets his palsied frame,
And grasps again the bow.
I hear his voice the silence breaking,
Soft as the music of the main,
When not a wind is waking;
With touching pathos in his tone
He mourns for days of glory flown,
247
Ere, panoplied and armed for slaughter,
The big canoes brought pale-browed men
Over the blue salt water;
When deer and buffalo in droves
Ranged through interminable groves,
And the Great Spirit on his race
Smiled ever with unclouded face.
Now, with a burning tale of wrong,
He wakes to rage the painted throng
And points to violated graves,
While eloquence dilates his form,
And his lip mutters like the storm
When winds unchain the waves;
An hundred scalping-knives are bare—
An hundred hatchets swung in air,
And while the forest Cicero
Lost power portrays and present shame,
Old age forgets his palsied frame,
And grasps again the bow.
Thus, sweet, wild flower of faint perfume!
Thy magic can unlock the tomb,
And forth the gifted sagamore
Call from the shroud with vocal art
To sway the pulses of the heart,
And awe the soul once more;
For on his couch of lowly earth
Thy modest loveliness had birth,
And lightly shook thy blooming head,
When midnight summoned round the place
The kingly spectres of his race
To sorrow for the dead;
And sadly waved thy stem and leaf
When Erie tuned to strains of grief
The hollow voices of the surge,
And for that monarch of the shade,
By whom his shore is classic made,
Raised a low, mournful dirge.
Thy magic can unlock the tomb,
And forth the gifted sagamore
Call from the shroud with vocal art
To sway the pulses of the heart,
And awe the soul once more;
For on his couch of lowly earth
Thy modest loveliness had birth,
And lightly shook thy blooming head,
When midnight summoned round the place
The kingly spectres of his race
To sorrow for the dead;
And sadly waved thy stem and leaf
When Erie tuned to strains of grief
The hollow voices of the surge,
248
By whom his shore is classic made,
Raised a low, mournful dirge.
The pilgrim from Ausonian clime,
Rich in remains of olden time,
Brings marble relics o'er the deep—
Memorials of deathless mind,
Of hallowed ground where, grandly shrined,
Sage, bard, and warrior sleep;
And precious though such wrecks of yore,
I prize thy gift, sweet lady, more—
Plucked with a reverential hand;
For the old chief, above whose tomb
Its bud gave out a faint perfume,
Was son of my own forest-land,
And with bright records of her fame
Is linked, immortally, his name.
Rich in remains of olden time,
Brings marble relics o'er the deep—
Memorials of deathless mind,
Of hallowed ground where, grandly shrined,
Sage, bard, and warrior sleep;
And precious though such wrecks of yore,
I prize thy gift, sweet lady, more—
Plucked with a reverential hand;
For the old chief, above whose tomb
Its bud gave out a faint perfume,
Was son of my own forest-land,
And with bright records of her fame
Is linked, immortally, his name.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |