 | Erato, number I |  |
I.
Far, where the Indian, in primeval pride,
Plies the light pirogue on the shadowed tide;
And turns with reverence to the setting sun,
Where lies his fancied home when life is done,
While glowing thoughts in quick succession rise,
And hope elates his heart, and fires his eyes;
Where still he hunts, as in the olden times,
Ere with his own were blent the white-man's crimes:
Where rolls Missouri's dark and turbid wave,
Warring against the shores it should but lave,
Like the vile wretch who, with insidious art,
Inserts a poison whence he draws a dart,—
And the calm Spirit River glides along,
And darkly winds the wild Mi-a-wa-kong,—
Feeding, with tribute from the Laky Woods,
The Reservoir of oceans, as of floods:
Where the vast prairie, circling, bounds the view,
Its light green melting in the sky's dark blue;
Isles of deep verdure sleeping on its breast,
Like the brown shadows of the clouds at rest:
Where the deep silence that forever reigns,
By thundering hoofs, of herds that sweep the plains,
Alone is broken—or the lightning stroke
That rives the giant ash, and hoary oak:
There dwelt a tribe, that had not witnessed then
The guile and infamy of christian men;
And, fair I-o-way, on thy wood-lined shore,
Spread the rude village of their Sagamore.
Plies the light pirogue on the shadowed tide;
And turns with reverence to the setting sun,
Where lies his fancied home when life is done,
While glowing thoughts in quick succession rise,
And hope elates his heart, and fires his eyes;
Where still he hunts, as in the olden times,
Ere with his own were blent the white-man's crimes:
Where rolls Missouri's dark and turbid wave,
Warring against the shores it should but lave,
6
Inserts a poison whence he draws a dart,—
And the calm Spirit River glides along,
And darkly winds the wild Mi-a-wa-kong,—
Feeding, with tribute from the Laky Woods,
The Reservoir of oceans, as of floods:
This epithet I believe to be strictly applicable to the Mississippi. It is really astonishing, the amount of water which that noble river bears along, and discharges into the Gulf. At its source, as has been recently ascertained, it is an outlet for the superabundant waters of some of the northwestern lakes. It receives, before its junction with the Missouri, something like a hundred streams, some of them no inconsiderable rivers themselves. The country drained by the Missouri is very extensive; and the quantities of water which the Mississippi receives by that river alone, must be immense. The first stream of magnitude which empties into it after the Missouri, is the Ohio, which is formed by the union of two streams of respectable size, and runs a course of ten hundred miles, receiving in its way the waters of western Pennsylvania and Virginia,—those of Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana, and of lake Erie by the Portsmouth canal. After the Ohio, a number of streams, some of which are boatable for hundreds of miles, empty into the Mississippi.—The most distressing floods on the upper waters, seldom effect a rise in that river. Even the devastating freshet of 1832, which inundated so much of the country bordering on the Alleghany, Monongahela, and Ohio rivers, did not swell the Mississippi in the least at Neworleans.
Where the vast prairie, circling, bounds the view,
Its light green melting in the sky's dark blue;
Isles of deep verdure sleeping on its breast,
Like the brown shadows of the clouds at rest:
Where the deep silence that forever reigns,
By thundering hoofs, of herds that sweep the plains,
Alone is broken—or the lightning stroke
That rives the giant ash, and hoary oak:
There dwelt a tribe, that had not witnessed then
The guile and infamy of christian men;
And, fair I-o-way, on thy wood-lined shore,
Spread the rude village of their Sagamore.
They were a tribe whose fame spread far and wide—
Fleet in the chase—and well in battle tried.
Fear of their might kept hostile tribes afar,
And years had passed since they were led to war.
Their chieftain was a man of noble mind—
Though oft in battle proved, to peace inclined;
And he rejoiced, that low in earth were laid
The rusting tomahawk and scalping-blade.
Fleet in the chase—and well in battle tried.
Fear of their might kept hostile tribes afar,
And years had passed since they were led to war.
Their chieftain was a man of noble mind—
Though oft in battle proved, to peace inclined;
And he rejoiced, that low in earth were laid
The rusting tomahawk and scalping-blade.
There came, one evening, to his wigwam door,
A weary wanderer from a distant shore.
The thin, white locks, that on his temples lay,
Were moistened with the toil of the long day.
He had before been in the lonely wild,
And spoke their language—and the chieftain smiled.
This spot recalled one evening to his mind,
When storm and death careered upon the wind:
A party of explorers paused, and pass'd
In such a place, a night they feared their last;
But He, whose breath the storm is, stretched his arm
Above them, that they might not come to harm:
And, ere they on the morn their way pursued,
The voice of prayer rose in the solitude.
“How,” he exclaimed, “these eyes would joy to see
The Cross we fixed against a sheltering tree!
Though years have blanched my hair, and dim'd my eyes,
Methinks I could the place soon recognize.”
His eager eyes glanced round, and round again—
“Ay—and this must be it! The stream—yon plain,
Which ends not till begins the azure main!
It is!—look! look! the storm-worn Cross is there!
The tree—But oh! alas! how changed! how bare!
Leafless—and almost branchless!—sadly marr'd
Thy beauty—and thy giant trunk, how scarr'd!
Alike our fates, thou well-remembered tree!
Time hath dealt hard with both—but worst with thee.
My leaves are seared and yellow—thine have fled!
My form is bowed and tottering—thine is dead!
But the same breath of winter's wind, may lave
Thy sapless branches, and my new-raised grave.”
A weary wanderer from a distant shore.
The thin, white locks, that on his temples lay,
Were moistened with the toil of the long day.
He had before been in the lonely wild,
And spoke their language—and the chieftain smiled.
This spot recalled one evening to his mind,
When storm and death careered upon the wind:
A party of explorers paused, and pass'd
In such a place, a night they feared their last;
But He, whose breath the storm is, stretched his arm
Above them, that they might not come to harm:
And, ere they on the morn their way pursued,
The voice of prayer rose in the solitude.
“How,” he exclaimed, “these eyes would joy to see
The Cross we fixed against a sheltering tree!
Though years have blanched my hair, and dim'd my eyes,
Methinks I could the place soon recognize.”
His eager eyes glanced round, and round again—
“Ay—and this must be it! The stream—yon plain,
Which ends not till begins the azure main!
7
The tree—But oh! alas! how changed! how bare!
Leafless—and almost branchless!—sadly marr'd
Thy beauty—and thy giant trunk, how scarr'd!
Alike our fates, thou well-remembered tree!
Time hath dealt hard with both—but worst with thee.
My leaves are seared and yellow—thine have fled!
My form is bowed and tottering—thine is dead!
But the same breath of winter's wind, may lave
Thy sapless branches, and my new-raised grave.”
He stood a moment, lost in far-off years;
Another—and his eyes were filled with tears.
Then, though swart visages were gathering round,
He knelt, before that Cross, upon the ground.
The circle narrowed fast—and some began
To scowl, and murmur at the aged man.
But the tall Sagamore reached forth his hand,
And spoke a welcome to the Indian's land.
The stranger blessed him—blessed them all—and rose—
Partook their homely meal—and sought repose.
Another—and his eyes were filled with tears.
Then, though swart visages were gathering round,
He knelt, before that Cross, upon the ground.
The circle narrowed fast—and some began
To scowl, and murmur at the aged man.
But the tall Sagamore reached forth his hand,
And spoke a welcome to the Indian's land.
The stranger blessed him—blessed them all—and rose—
Partook their homely meal—and sought repose.
The morrow found him much refreshed. But when
He looked upon the wild and swarthy men
That lay around, half-naked, on the slope,
Despair by turns his bosom filled, and hope.
Then humbly knelt he on the dewy sod,
Protection asking of the christian's God;
And calmly rose, peace in his aged eye,
Assured his orison was heard on high.
Around him close the' uprisen warriors throng—
Some mutter harshly—others chant their song.
But soon the noble Sagamore appears,
Straight as the palm-tree, hoary though with years.
The circling warriors, as he comes, divide,
And, as he enters, close from either side:
Such honor to his years and rank was due,
And such his warriors never failed to shew.
He stood, and glanced his eagle-eye around,
And silence followed, instant and profound.
Then swelled his voice upon the ambient air,
And rose his dark arm, to the shoulder bare.
With natural eloquence, he warmly plead
That injury might not reach the stranger's head;
Then kindly took the old man's hand, and smiled,
And called him “Brother!”—Every look was mild.
Next spread the circle on the trampled ground—
Then passed the calumet of peace around.
He looked upon the wild and swarthy men
That lay around, half-naked, on the slope,
Despair by turns his bosom filled, and hope.
Then humbly knelt he on the dewy sod,
Protection asking of the christian's God;
And calmly rose, peace in his aged eye,
Assured his orison was heard on high.
Around him close the' uprisen warriors throng—
Some mutter harshly—others chant their song.
But soon the noble Sagamore appears,
Straight as the palm-tree, hoary though with years.
The circling warriors, as he comes, divide,
And, as he enters, close from either side:
Such honor to his years and rank was due,
And such his warriors never failed to shew.
He stood, and glanced his eagle-eye around,
And silence followed, instant and profound.
Then swelled his voice upon the ambient air,
And rose his dark arm, to the shoulder bare.
With natural eloquence, he warmly plead
That injury might not reach the stranger's head;
Then kindly took the old man's hand, and smiled,
And called him “Brother!”—Every look was mild.
Next spread the circle on the trampled ground—
Then passed the calumet of peace around.
8
A member of their tribe he soon became,
And they endowed him with a loftier name:
“Mu-sha-we-ta-ka”—prophet—priest—or sage—
In reverence to his time-blanched head, and age;
And for that “he had come,” he sadly said,
“A-weary of the world, to lay his head
In these still shades, their ancient graves among;
Far from the land where he had suffered wrong—
Much wrong.”—And for the raiment, room and food,
He asked, he thought he could return them good;
For he had knowledge of their after life,
When wrong should be unknown, and stilled all worldly strife.
And they endowed him with a loftier name:
“Mu-sha-we-ta-ka”—prophet—priest—or sage—
In reverence to his time-blanched head, and age;
And for that “he had come,” he sadly said,
“A-weary of the world, to lay his head
In these still shades, their ancient graves among;
Far from the land where he had suffered wrong—
Much wrong.”—And for the raiment, room and food,
He asked, he thought he could return them good;
For he had knowledge of their after life,
When wrong should be unknown, and stilled all worldly strife.
One day he learned that a few miles away,
A wretched hermit-hunter suffering lay:
Upon a dark stream's solitary shore
His dwelling rose—an aged sycamore—
Whose argent boughs, that through the darkness loom,
Serve but, by contrast, to increase the gloom.
Three annual rounds had made the constant sun,
Since first they found him, with his dog and gun.
So sudden was their meeting, that they threw
Their hatchets, and gave forth the scalp-halloo.
Undaunted in their midst did he appear—
Made no resistance, but he showed no fear.
And when, with arrows fixed, they closer prest,
Shrank not, but looked above, and bared his breast.
Then at his angry dog a club was flung—
Between the weapon and the dog he sprung.
“Hugh!—Good!” A breast so brave they could not wound,
And cast their weapons, bloodless, to the ground:
Then, with slow step, and far-extended hand,
Approached the leader of the hunting band;
And led him forward, till in turn each brave
Pressed heartily his hand, and welcome gave.
They took him to their village; but when day
Was fading, he retraced his lonely way;
And though they offered then, and oft again,
To make him of their tribe, it was in vain.
They could not tell what cause had brought him here,
Nor what detained him thus, from year to year.
It seemed some guilt upon his spirit bore;
But all they knew,—and they could learn no more,—
Was, that he stood in this wide world alone,
Without or home or kindred of his own.
There had he lived, his dog his only care,
Who shared his hunter-toil—partook his hunter-fare.
For his eye had now caught the aged man's—
And he shrieked, “Not yet! Not yet!”
A wretched hermit-hunter suffering lay:
Upon a dark stream's solitary shore
His dwelling rose—an aged sycamore—
Whose argent boughs, that through the darkness loom,
Serve but, by contrast, to increase the gloom.
Three annual rounds had made the constant sun,
Since first they found him, with his dog and gun.
So sudden was their meeting, that they threw
Their hatchets, and gave forth the scalp-halloo.
Undaunted in their midst did he appear—
Made no resistance, but he showed no fear.
And when, with arrows fixed, they closer prest,
Shrank not, but looked above, and bared his breast.
Then at his angry dog a club was flung—
Between the weapon and the dog he sprung.
“Hugh!—Good!” A breast so brave they could not wound,
And cast their weapons, bloodless, to the ground:
Then, with slow step, and far-extended hand,
Approached the leader of the hunting band;
And led him forward, till in turn each brave
Pressed heartily his hand, and welcome gave.
They took him to their village; but when day
Was fading, he retraced his lonely way;
And though they offered then, and oft again,
To make him of their tribe, it was in vain.
They could not tell what cause had brought him here,
Nor what detained him thus, from year to year.
It seemed some guilt upon his spirit bore;
But all they knew,—and they could learn no more,—
Was, that he stood in this wide world alone,
Without or home or kindred of his own.
There had he lived, his dog his only care,
Who shared his hunter-toil—partook his hunter-fare.
10
And he shrieked, “Not yet! Not yet!”
He drew in his breath, and shrank away—
And his cowardly limbs did quake;
For, half-crazed, he thought that the Evil One
Had come to tell him his days were done;
And he felt that he could not make
His peace with his much offended God:
And, fearing the stroke of the righteous rod,
In agony of soul
He fell over—and on his musty leaves
Moaning he lay, and attempting to pray:
And then a look he stole
At the solemn old man, and again began
To beckon him away.
And his cowardly limbs did quake;
For, half-crazed, he thought that the Evil One
Had come to tell him his days were done;
And he felt that he could not make
His peace with his much offended God:
And, fearing the stroke of the righteous rod,
In agony of soul
He fell over—and on his musty leaves
Moaning he lay, and attempting to pray:
And then a look he stole
At the solemn old man, and again began
To beckon him away.
The holy man approached him then—
But as he drew more near
The guilty wretch shrieked wildly out,
And swooned away, with fear.
But as he drew more near
The guilty wretch shrieked wildly out,
And swooned away, with fear.
They bore him to the village then,
And bathed his haggard brow;
And soon he oped his restless eyes—
But he was calmer now.
The reverend stranger spoke to him,
And kindly on his brow
Laid his cool hand—then touched his wrist—
His pulse was weak and slow.
He kindly spoke to him, and hoped
Him better, that he'd slept:
“Oh, man of God!” the wretch exclaim'd,
And gazed at him, and wept.
But few and slow are the tears that flow
From the scorching desert of guilt below!
“Such sleep as I have slept!”
And bathed his haggard brow;
And soon he oped his restless eyes—
But he was calmer now.
The reverend stranger spoke to him,
And kindly on his brow
Laid his cool hand—then touched his wrist—
His pulse was weak and slow.
He kindly spoke to him, and hoped
Him better, that he'd slept:
“Oh, man of God!” the wretch exclaim'd,
And gazed at him, and wept.
But few and slow are the tears that flow
From the scorching desert of guilt below!
“Such sleep as I have slept!”
The priest-like father told him then,
How he his hut had sought,
And found him miserably sick,
And hither him had brought.
The sick man thanked him fervently—
“Pray for me, holy one;
I cannot raise my voice in praise
Though setting is life's sun.
I cannot raise my voice in praise—
An outcast I from Heaven;
How he his hut had sought,
And found him miserably sick,
And hither him had brought.
The sick man thanked him fervently—
“Pray for me, holy one;
I cannot raise my voice in praise
Though setting is life's sun.
I cannot raise my voice in praise—
An outcast I from Heaven;
9
Their story filled the old man's breast with grief;
He soon departed to afford relief,
And willing with him went the generous chief.
Oh, in what plight the wretched man they found—
Raving delirious on the cold, damp ground!
He soon departed to afford relief,
And willing with him went the generous chief.
Oh, in what plight the wretched man they found—
Raving delirious on the cold, damp ground!
| Erato, number I | |