 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
253
GRAVE OF THE SACHEM.
On yonder hill, on yonder hill
The Red Chief long ago was laid;
Those hoary oaks, remaining still,
Their boughs above the sleeper braid.
Although no marble rears its head,
Erected by some filial hand,
Like mourners, round his narrow bed
The giants of the forest stand.
The Red Chief long ago was laid;
Those hoary oaks, remaining still,
Their boughs above the sleeper braid.
Although no marble rears its head,
Erected by some filial hand,
Like mourners, round his narrow bed
The giants of the forest stand.
When May gives softness to the sky,
And gently waves her locks of gold,
The shadows of the thicket lie
Upon the dark, entombing mould.
When greenest are the twinkling leaves
Anear his silent couch of rest,
The Ji-a-yaik is heard, and weaves
Of velvet moss her little nest.
And gently waves her locks of gold,
The shadows of the thicket lie
Upon the dark, entombing mould.
When greenest are the twinkling leaves
Anear his silent couch of rest,
The Ji-a-yaik is heard, and weaves
Of velvet moss her little nest.
The oak and maple on his grave
Rich palls of gold and crimson cast,
When solemnly their branches wave,
And tremble in the autumn blast.
When frozen is each crystal spring,
And nature wears a brow of gloom,
The pinions of the tempest fling
Pale snow-wreaths on his lonely tomb.
Rich palls of gold and crimson cast,
When solemnly their branches wave,
And tremble in the autumn blast.
When frozen is each crystal spring,
And nature wears a brow of gloom,
The pinions of the tempest fling
Pale snow-wreaths on his lonely tomb.
Ah! where the trophy of the chase,
And hut of bark are lying low,
Rank thistles nod in breezy grace,
And weeds of desolation grow.
The Panther of his Tribe again
Will never aim the feathered shaft,
Nor, in the forest conflict, stain
His knife in slaughter to the haft.
And hut of bark are lying low,
Rank thistles nod in breezy grace,
And weeds of desolation grow.
254
Will never aim the feathered shaft,
Nor, in the forest conflict, stain
His knife in slaughter to the haft.
In summer, when the world is still,
And twilight clouds are growing dim,
The Gwa-go-ne on yonder hill
Chants oftentimes a fitful hymn;
The nimble chaser of the deer
Lies, darkly blended with the dust;
Beneath the shaded turf his spear,
And dreaded hatchet idly rust.
And twilight clouds are growing dim,
The Gwa-go-ne on yonder hill
Chants oftentimes a fitful hymn;
The nimble chaser of the deer
Lies, darkly blended with the dust;
Beneath the shaded turf his spear,
And dreaded hatchet idly rust.
He sleeps alone!—the light canoe
Is rotting by the weedy shore,
And Indian girls with blossoms strew
The damp, sepulchral clod no more.
Ere long the Bard will seek in vain
Yon mound beneath those mossy trees;
The share of some unthinking swain
Will give its secrets to the breeze.
Is rotting by the weedy shore,
And Indian girls with blossoms strew
The damp, sepulchral clod no more.
Ere long the Bard will seek in vain
Yon mound beneath those mossy trees;
The share of some unthinking swain
Will give its secrets to the breeze.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |