 | The harp and plow |  |
174
THE BANKS OF MAUMEE.
I stood in a dream on the banks of Maumee;
'T was Autumn, and nature seemed wrapt in decay;
The wind moaning swept thro' the shivering tree,
The leaf from the bough drifted slowly away;
The gray-eagle screamed on the marge of the stream,
The solitudes answered the Bird of the Free;
All lonely and sad was the scene of my dream,
And mournful the hour on the banks of Maumee.
'T was Autumn, and nature seemed wrapt in decay;
The wind moaning swept thro' the shivering tree,
The leaf from the bough drifted slowly away;
The gray-eagle screamed on the marge of the stream,
The solitudes answered the Bird of the Free;
All lonely and sad was the scene of my dream,
And mournful the hour on the banks of Maumee.
A form passed before me—a vision of one
Who mourned for his nation, his country, and kin;
He walked on the shores, now deserted and lone,
Where the homes of his tribe, in their glory, had been;
And thought after thought o'er his sad spirit stole,
As wave follows wave o'er the turbulent sea;
And thus lamentation he breathed from his soul
O'er the ruins of home, on the banks of Maumee:—
Who mourned for his nation, his country, and kin;
He walked on the shores, now deserted and lone,
Where the homes of his tribe, in their glory, had been;
And thought after thought o'er his sad spirit stole,
As wave follows wave o'er the turbulent sea;
And thus lamentation he breathed from his soul
O'er the ruins of home, on the banks of Maumee:—
175
As the hunter at morn, in the snows of the wild,
Recalls to his mind the sweet visions of night
When sleep, softly falling, his sorrows beguiled,
And opened his eyes in the land of delight,—
So backward I muse on the dream of my youth;
Ye peace-giving hours! O, when did ye flee?
When the Christian neglected his pages of truth,
And the Great Spirit frowned on the banks of Maumee.
Recalls to his mind the sweet visions of night
When sleep, softly falling, his sorrows beguiled,
And opened his eyes in the land of delight,—
So backward I muse on the dream of my youth;
Ye peace-giving hours! O, when did ye flee?
When the Christian neglected his pages of truth,
And the Great Spirit frowned on the banks of Maumee.
Oppression has lifted his iron-like rod
And smitten my people again and again;
The whiteman has said there is justice with God,—
Will he hear the poor Indian before him complain?
Sees he not how his children are worn and oppres'd?
How driven in exile?—O! can he not see?
And I, in the garments of heaviness dress'd,
The last of my tribe on the banks of Maumee?
And smitten my people again and again;
The whiteman has said there is justice with God,—
Will he hear the poor Indian before him complain?
Sees he not how his children are worn and oppres'd?
How driven in exile?—O! can he not see?
And I, in the garments of heaviness dress'd,
The last of my tribe on the banks of Maumee?
Ye trees! on whose branches my cradle was hung,
Must I yield you a prey to the axe and the fire?
Ye shores! where the chant of the pow-wow was sung,
Have ye witnessed the light of the council expire?
Pale ghosts of my fathers, who battled of yore!
Is the Great Spirit just in the land where ye be?
While life lasts dejected I'll wander this shore,
And join you at last from the banks of Maumee.
Must I yield you a prey to the axe and the fire?
Ye shores! where the chant of the pow-wow was sung,
Have ye witnessed the light of the council expire?
Pale ghosts of my fathers, who battled of yore!
Is the Great Spirit just in the land where ye be?
While life lasts dejected I'll wander this shore,
And join you at last from the banks of Maumee.
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