Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights A Gift of Love for the Beautiful |
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LAMORAH'S DEATH SONG FOR HIS SON. |
 | Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights |  |
LAMORAH'S DEATH SONG FOR HIS SON.
No, pale-face! thou shalt expect the tears
That the father sheds for his dying son!
But the spring dries up after many years—
And from these old eyes there shall fall not one!
I have heard thee say that my death was nigh!
That my tribe must fall! that my son shall die!
I can only say for my warrior-love,
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
That the father sheds for his dying son!
But the spring dries up after many years—
And from these old eyes there shall fall not one!
I have heard thee say that my death was nigh!
That my tribe must fall! that my son shall die!
I can only say for my warrior-love,
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
The few short years you may rob from me,
Will pass like the winds on the raging floods;
But the sudden fall of my son shall be
Like the mighty oak in the silent woods!
If the bitterest death that my life can give,
Be enough for his—let the young boy live!
If, by burning up, I can save my love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
Will pass like the winds on the raging floods;
But the sudden fall of my son shall be
Like the mighty oak in the silent woods!
If the bitterest death that my life can give,
Be enough for his—let the young boy live!
If, by burning up, I can save my love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
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I know not why that his early death
Should deter my tale—for the deed was done!
I was once along on this very path,
And perceived three babes in the woods alone!
I threw them up in the air for life,
And caught them all on my pointed knife—
The knife that now would avenge my love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
Should deter my tale—for the deed was done!
I was once along on this very path,
And perceived three babes in the woods alone!
I threw them up in the air for life,
And caught them all on my pointed knife—
The knife that now would avenge my love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
The turtle hies to his cedar-nest,
And the roebuck wanders from hill to hill;
And the eagle ascends to the sun to rest—
But the same deep pangs are my portion still;
For the valley-path where the infants smiled,
And the awful look of that dying child—
Are upon me still—on my warrior-love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
And the roebuck wanders from hill to hill;
And the eagle ascends to the sun to rest—
But the same deep pangs are my portion still;
For the valley-path where the infants smiled,
And the awful look of that dying child—
Are upon me still—on my warrior-love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
Oh! think not, man! that my heart is free
From the iron cares that corrode the breast;
I am fastened here, like an inland sea,
By the stagnant waves of my woes opprest!
I have not one hope that my tongue can tell!
I have only felt that my soul is—Hell!
I can only feel for my warrior-love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
From the iron cares that corrode the breast;
I am fastened here, like an inland sea,
By the stagnant waves of my woes opprest!
I have not one hope that my tongue can tell!
I have only felt that my soul is—Hell!
I can only feel for my warrior-love—
Oh! white-man! slay not my eagle-dove!
Cherokee Nation, March 10, 1831.
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