 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
TO A WINTER FLOWER,
Written in the Creek Nation.
When winter comes with icy mien,
To silver o'er this brook,
Thy form in loneliness is seen,
By all forsook.
To silver o'er this brook,
Thy form in loneliness is seen,
By all forsook.
No shrub upon the fields remains,
To feed the watchful gaze,
Nor blade of grass the earth retains,
Nor sprig of maize.
To feed the watchful gaze,
Nor blade of grass the earth retains,
Nor sprig of maize.
The Indian here shall rest his eye,
And meditate alone,
That thou, when all his race shall die,
Will still be known.
And meditate alone,
That thou, when all his race shall die,
Will still be known.
Pensive in anxious, thoughtful mood,
His rifle at his side,
He'll wonder how alone thou'st stood,
When all have died.
His rifle at his side,
He'll wonder how alone thou'st stood,
When all have died.
What secret spring of life is thine,
Or, what art thou, to gain,
Such partial favor, as to shine,
Last of thy train?
Or, what art thou, to gain,
98
Last of thy train?
Methinks such lot can ne'er be blest,
To feel ourselves alone,
On earth the latest, only guest,
When all are gone.
To feel ourselves alone,
On earth the latest, only guest,
When all are gone.
Then looking up from thee to him,
That made thy outcast leaf,
Shall wonder that his soul is dim,
And being brief.
That made thy outcast leaf,
Shall wonder that his soul is dim,
And being brief.
That cannot with the sedgy grass,
That skirts yon streamlet's blue,
Compare the Indian warrior's trace,
When life was new.
That skirts yon streamlet's blue,
Compare the Indian warrior's trace,
When life was new.
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