 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE PAWNEE BRAVE
[_]
(A young chief of the Pawnee Indians obtained the title of Brave, from the circumstances related in the following lines.)
Grimly toward the clouded skies,
Gleamed the fire of sacrifice,
On the mist-encumbered air,
Widely flashed the baleful glare;
Swiftly down its rugged bed,
Rolled the torrent darkly red;
River course and forest way,
Traced in that unhallowed ray—
Clothed in its unearthly hue,
Dimly opened on the view.
Gleamed the fire of sacrifice,
On the mist-encumbered air,
Widely flashed the baleful glare;
Swiftly down its rugged bed,
Rolled the torrent darkly red;
River course and forest way,
Traced in that unhallowed ray—
Clothed in its unearthly hue,
Dimly opened on the view.
Hemmed within the blazing wood,
She—the helpless victim stood—
She—the loveliest of her race,
Doomed that funeral pile to grace.
Where was then her father's arm,
Lifted but for mortal harm?
Where his voice to summon then,
Crowded ranks of dusky men?
They were far—and hope had fled,
And her thoughts were with the dead—
Vain to look for mercy's eye,
In the dark forms hurrying by—
They have heard their leader's breath,
Chant the stirring hymn of death—
They have wept above the slain,
On the reeking battle plain,
O'er each dark and silent brow
They have poured the vengeful vow;
Will they from their purpose stay?
Will the dance of death delay?
Sooner from its destined bourne,
Shall the mountain torrent turn;
Sooner shall the whirlwind's wrath,
Pause in desolation's track—
Sooner from its darkened path,
Roll its stormy chariot back.
She—the helpless victim stood—
She—the loveliest of her race,
Doomed that funeral pile to grace.
Where was then her father's arm,
Lifted but for mortal harm?
Where his voice to summon then,
Crowded ranks of dusky men?
They were far—and hope had fled,
And her thoughts were with the dead—
Vain to look for mercy's eye,
In the dark forms hurrying by—
157
Chant the stirring hymn of death—
They have wept above the slain,
On the reeking battle plain,
O'er each dark and silent brow
They have poured the vengeful vow;
Will they from their purpose stay?
Will the dance of death delay?
Sooner from its destined bourne,
Shall the mountain torrent turn;
Sooner shall the whirlwind's wrath,
Pause in desolation's track—
Sooner from its darkened path,
Roll its stormy chariot back.
See! the flames around her close,
Smaller now the circle grows,
Horrid laugh, and fiendish yell,
Louder on the night air swell.
Victim! thy last hour is come,
Bow thee to thy certain doom;
Be thy father's spirit near,
Let it chase thy rising fear—
Let it triumph over pain,
And thou shalt not fall in vain,
If in such an hour and place,
Thou canst teach the hated ones,
That the daughter of thy race,
Well may shame their proudest sons.
Smaller now the circle grows,
Horrid laugh, and fiendish yell,
Louder on the night air swell.
Victim! thy last hour is come,
Bow thee to thy certain doom;
Be thy father's spirit near,
Let it chase thy rising fear—
Let it triumph over pain,
And thou shalt not fall in vain,
If in such an hour and place,
Thou canst teach the hated ones,
That the daughter of thy race,
Well may shame their proudest sons.
Hark! a sound is on the breeze,
Borne among the giant trees—
Not the bittern's sullen boom,
Heard amid the forest's gloom,
But the tramping of a steed,
Reeking with his fiery speed!
Fast he bears his rider on—
Who is he—that daring one?
Wrath is on his youthful brow,
Flashes wild his dark eye now—
Warriors linked in gloomy dance,
Shrunk beneath his scorching glance,
High and shrill his war-note rung,
Towards the blazing pile he sprung—
Fast and fearlessly he broke,
Thro' the mingled flame and smoke;
Giant strength his arm possessed,
Sundered fell the victim's chain—
Thro' the fiery ring he pressed,
With his rescued charge again.
Borne among the giant trees—
Not the bittern's sullen boom,
Heard amid the forest's gloom,
But the tramping of a steed,
Reeking with his fiery speed!
Fast he bears his rider on—
Who is he—that daring one?
Wrath is on his youthful brow,
Flashes wild his dark eye now—
Warriors linked in gloomy dance,
Shrunk beneath his scorching glance,
158
Towards the blazing pile he sprung—
Fast and fearlessly he broke,
Thro' the mingled flame and smoke;
Giant strength his arm possessed,
Sundered fell the victim's chain—
Thro' the fiery ring he pressed,
With his rescued charge again.
In the might, a righteous cause,
Round its bold asserter draws,
Mid the dwellers of the wood,
Proud and unconcerned he stood;
She, whom he had snatched from harm,
Leaning on his powerful arm,
Not a hand was raised to deal
On the twain the stroke of death,
Not a warrior plucked his steel
From its darkly crimsoned sheath;
But the brows that would defy,
Smoothed before his fearless eye.
Vengeance and its dark array
Passed like morning's cloud away;
Nobler feelings mingled then
In the breasts of those dark men;
Round the youthful chief they came,
Hailed him as a son of fame;
Bade him as a friend depart
Warrior of the fearless heart!
And the twain have gone their way,
But the maid he dared to save
From that unforgotten day,
Still hath blest the Pawnee Brave.
Round its bold asserter draws,
Mid the dwellers of the wood,
Proud and unconcerned he stood;
She, whom he had snatched from harm,
Leaning on his powerful arm,
Not a hand was raised to deal
On the twain the stroke of death,
Not a warrior plucked his steel
From its darkly crimsoned sheath;
But the brows that would defy,
Smoothed before his fearless eye.
Vengeance and its dark array
Passed like morning's cloud away;
Nobler feelings mingled then
In the breasts of those dark men;
Round the youthful chief they came,
Hailed him as a son of fame;
Bade him as a friend depart
Warrior of the fearless heart!
And the twain have gone their way,
But the maid he dared to save
From that unforgotten day,
Still hath blest the Pawnee Brave.
Haverhill Gazette, September 29, 1827
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