 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
260
BLACK-HAWK'S ADDRESS TO HIS WARRIORS.
Where forest-boughs a shelter made,
Gathered a warlike band,
The moonbeams played on the shining blade
Each carried in his hand.
Though moonbeams played on the shining blade,
No banner flapped its fold,
But the painted streak on each swarthy cheek
Was fearful to behold.
Gathered a warlike band,
The moonbeams played on the shining blade
Each carried in his hand.
Though moonbeams played on the shining blade,
No banner flapped its fold,
But the painted streak on each swarthy cheek
Was fearful to behold.
Their chieftain, mutely standing by,
Seemed born to be obeyed,
And his heart beat high, as his flashing eye
The wild, fierce band survey'd.
His heart beat high, fierce flashed his eye,
When thus he them addressed—
The deep tones stirr'd, as soon as heard,
Revenge in every breast.
Seemed born to be obeyed,
And his heart beat high, as his flashing eye
The wild, fierce band survey'd.
His heart beat high, fierce flashed his eye,
When thus he them addressed—
The deep tones stirr'd, as soon as heard,
Revenge in every breast.
“Our wildwood fathers, where are they—
Can echo answer make?
Like ocean's spray, they have passed away—
Awake, then, warriors, wake!
My sires, like spray, have passed away,
Their bones are tombless now;
Exposed are they to the light of day,
By the white man's plough.
Can echo answer make?
Like ocean's spray, they have passed away—
Awake, then, warriors, wake!
My sires, like spray, have passed away,
Their bones are tombless now;
Exposed are they to the light of day,
By the white man's plough.
“The whites our tribe a falsehood told,
Each belted warrior knows:
For we never sold, for paltry gold,
Earth where our dead repose;
For paltry gold, we have never sold
The loved land of our birth;
Our grain they waste, where the hut was placed
Remains the roofless hearth.
Each belted warrior knows:
For we never sold, for paltry gold,
Earth where our dead repose;
261
The loved land of our birth;
Our grain they waste, where the hut was placed
Remains the roofless hearth.
“Arm, warriors, for the fearful strife,
For hoarded vengeance due;
And let the knife, with the tide of life,
Be dyed of a crimson hue!
Unsheath the knife for deadly strife,
Unused and dull too long,
While round the post a gathering host
Keep time to our battle-song.
For hoarded vengeance due;
And let the knife, with the tide of life,
Be dyed of a crimson hue!
Unsheath the knife for deadly strife,
Unused and dull too long,
While round the post a gathering host
Keep time to our battle-song.
“Chiefs! we are summon'd to the fight
By voices from the dead:
When the fall of night shuts out the light,
They rise from their dreamless bed:
When the fall of night shut out the light,
I was afraid, appalled,
For spirits pass'd on the viewless blast,
And for vengeance call'd.
By voices from the dead:
When the fall of night shuts out the light,
They rise from their dreamless bed:
When the fall of night shut out the light,
I was afraid, appalled,
For spirits pass'd on the viewless blast,
And for vengeance call'd.
“With blazing homes the night illume,
Sweet is revenge, ye know;
And my sable plume will throw a gloom
Upon the boldest foe:
My raven plume will throw a gloom
When in the breeze it shakes,
And foes must die, while our battle-cry
The infant's slumber breaks.
Sweet is revenge, ye know;
And my sable plume will throw a gloom
Upon the boldest foe:
My raven plume will throw a gloom
When in the breeze it shakes,
And foes must die, while our battle-cry
The infant's slumber breaks.
“Our fathers trod the earth we tread,
Lords of these fertile plains—
No trace is seen that they have been,
But tombless, white remains.
List! for a spirit's voice I hear,
The dead upon us call,
To stain the knife, with the tide of life,
To conquer, or to fall.”
Lords of these fertile plains—
No trace is seen that they have been,
But tombless, white remains.
List! for a spirit's voice I hear,
262
To stain the knife, with the tide of life,
To conquer, or to fall.”
The chieftain spoke:—his tameless eye
Around with triumph gazed,
As the painted band, with axe in hand,
The yell of battle raised:
The painted band, with axe in hand,
Prepared for deadly strife,
And each warrior felt, in his beaded belt,
For his keen-edged knife.
Around with triumph gazed,
As the painted band, with axe in hand,
The yell of battle raised:
The painted band, with axe in hand,
Prepared for deadly strife,
And each warrior felt, in his beaded belt,
For his keen-edged knife.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |