 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
249
THE OLD INDIAN ORCHARD.
I wandered alone on the banks of the river,
And far to my right stretched the meadows away;
Happy birds were in tune, warbling thanks to the Giver
Of every good gift for the bounties of May.
An old Indian Orchard, unpruned and neglected,
Bright blossoms dropped round me in odorous showers;
It flourished before the first settler erected
His cabin of logs in the valley of flowers.
And far to my right stretched the meadows away;
Happy birds were in tune, warbling thanks to the Giver
Of every good gift for the bounties of May.
An old Indian Orchard, unpruned and neglected,
Bright blossoms dropped round me in odorous showers;
It flourished before the first settler erected
His cabin of logs in the valley of flowers.
Thick moss, pale adorner of ruin, was clinging
To trunks by the winds of a century bowed,
And tongues not of earth in the branches were singing
Of times ere one furrow by white-man was ploughed.
My limbs were aweary, for far had I rambled,
And rest on the turf of the meadow I found,
While near in the sunshine the gray squirrel gambolled,
And stole forth the fox from his den in the ground.
To trunks by the winds of a century bowed,
And tongues not of earth in the branches were singing
Of times ere one furrow by white-man was ploughed.
My limbs were aweary, for far had I rambled,
And rest on the turf of the meadow I found,
While near in the sunshine the gray squirrel gambolled,
And stole forth the fox from his den in the ground.
Composed by the murmur of waves gently flowing,
A slumber stole over me, haunted by dreams;
I thought that around me the forest was growing,
Its floor by the sunlight touched only in gleams;
With organ-like tones its dark canopy trembled,
While timing to low, mournful measures their tread,
The sachems of old in their war-dress assembled,
A shadowy throng from the land of the dead.
A slumber stole over me, haunted by dreams;
I thought that around me the forest was growing,
Its floor by the sunlight touched only in gleams;
With organ-like tones its dark canopy trembled,
While timing to low, mournful measures their tread,
The sachems of old in their war-dress assembled,
A shadowy throng from the land of the dead.
“How bitter,” they chanted, “our deep desolation!
The trails that we loved are erased by the plough!
How changed are the wide hunting-grounds of our nation,
The herds of the stranger range over them now!
Gone hence are the children to whom we transmitted
Traditions that match the gray mountains in age,
And by, like a vision of midnight, hath flitted
The glory of warrior, sachem and sage.
The trails that we loved are erased by the plough!
How changed are the wide hunting-grounds of our nation,
The herds of the stranger range over them now!
250
Traditions that match the gray mountains in age,
And by, like a vision of midnight, hath flitted
The glory of warrior, sachem and sage.
“We longed, in a land where the leaves never wither,
To visit our ancient and kingly domain,
And, sunset's red portal unfolding, came hither
To look on the scenes of our childhood again.
The river that freshens this valley hath shifted
Its channel, and rolls where it rolled not of yore,
And fallen are dark, solemn oaks that uplifted,
Like sentinels tall, their plumed tops on the shore.
To visit our ancient and kingly domain,
And, sunset's red portal unfolding, came hither
To look on the scenes of our childhood again.
The river that freshens this valley hath shifted
Its channel, and rolls where it rolled not of yore,
And fallen are dark, solemn oaks that uplifted,
Like sentinels tall, their plumed tops on the shore.
“Old burial-places, once sacred, are plundered,
And thickly with bones is the fallow-field strown;
The bond of confederate tribes has been sundered,
The long council-hall of the brave overthrown.
The Mohawk and Seneca bowmen no longer
Preserve at the door-posts unslumbering guard:
We fought, but the pale-browed invaders were stronger,
Our knife-blades too blunt, and their bosoms too hard.
And thickly with bones is the fallow-field strown;
The bond of confederate tribes has been sundered,
The long council-hall of the brave overthrown.
The Mohawk and Seneca bowmen no longer
Preserve at the door-posts unslumbering guard:
We fought, but the pale-browed invaders were stronger,
Our knife-blades too blunt, and their bosoms too hard.
“Alas! for the heart-broken remnant surviving!
The deeds of their fathers arouse them no more!
His team o'er their hearth-stones the farmer is driving,
Unroofed are their wigwams on Erie's green shore.
Not long round the graves of the dead will they ponder,
A cloud is above them they cannot dispel—
Lo! westward, far westward the homeless must wander,
And land-robbers laugh while they sob out farewell!”
The deeds of their fathers arouse them no more!
His team o'er their hearth-stones the farmer is driving,
Unroofed are their wigwams on Erie's green shore.
Not long round the graves of the dead will they ponder,
A cloud is above them they cannot dispel—
Lo! westward, far westward the homeless must wander,
And land-robbers laugh while they sob out farewell!”
I woke when their lay had the sagamores chanted,
And traced on my tablets each musical word;
Long after that vision my memory haunted;
Long after those wild wailing numbers I heard:
And oft, when the cares of existence oppress me,
To visit the old Indian Orchard I stroll;
The balm-breathing winds there more gently caress me,
With murmur more solemn the dark waters roll.
And traced on my tablets each musical word;
Long after that vision my memory haunted;
Long after those wild wailing numbers I heard:
And oft, when the cares of existence oppress me,
To visit the old Indian Orchard I stroll;
The balm-breathing winds there more gently caress me,
With murmur more solemn the dark waters roll.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |