 | THE BROKEN ARROW. The book of my lady |  |
THE BROKEN ARROW.
The execution of the brave but unfortunate, and perhaps
deluded, Indian chief, Mackintosh, by his infuriated
countrymen, is perhaps within the familiar recollection
of most readers. The term “Broken Arrow,” is here,
in their own figurative modes of expression, made to
apply to that warrior, from the fact, that a portion of
his adherents came from the section of country, principally
under his control, and which was generally known
by the name of the Broken Arrow country. Mackintosh
was the victim of a popular commotion. His influence
with the people was beyond comparison or rivalship,
and he presumed upon it to enter into a treaty
disposing of the lands of his nation without the concurrent
votes of his colleagues in power. A party of two
or three hundred, led by Menawé, Mad Wolf, and other
leading warriors, took the work of retribution summarily
into their hands. They sought him out at his own residence
in the neighbourhood of Coweta. The first intimation
which he had of their attack, was their summons
to surrender. Mackintosh was as fearless in battle as
he was politic in council, and scorning any idea of flight,
throwing on his hunting-shirt and weapons, he, at once,
though with a perfect knowledge of his danger, made his
appearance, and was about to address them. But his
enemies knew the danger of such a permission too well
and its effect upon the people—upon a people
of savages too, who are, more than any others, subject
to its influence—was, of course, matter of apprehension
and fear to the rival leaders, whose great object was his
destruction. Before he could utter a sentence, therefore,
he was shot through the head by Mad Wolf, a fierce
warrior of considerable talent, who had called Mackintosh
forth, and who, as he fired, told him to prepare to
die by the law he had himself made and himself violated.
The followers of Mackintosh, a considerable part
of the nation, compelled to emigrate after this event to
the west, are supposed to have joined in the dirge which
follows.
With a strange cry of sadness, and a song
Of sorrow mixt with triumph. There they come,
A thousand warriors of the uncultured wild,
Chiefs of the old domain—the solemn waste,
Deep woods and waters drear. They gather now,
To the performance of a solemn rite,
The parting from their homes—their fathers' homes,
The graves of the past ages. Yet, no tear,
Swells in that sad assemblage—sad, but stern—
'Twere vain and weak to mourn the destiny
That tears may not avail, nor plaints avert,
Nor moaning lighten. Yet a cause of wo,
Not deeper than their parting, yet most deep,
Rests in the midst before them. The brave chief,
The warrior, and the arrow of their tribe,
Swift, strong and terrible, to whom their hearts
Were given in homage, and whose eyes had been
Their guides and watchers, now, among them lies,
Cold and insensible. He will lead no more,
Their thoughts in council. He will be no more
The father he has been. Well may they wail,
For broken is the arrow from their bow,
The mighty overthrown, that still o'erthrew,
And had no fear of the struggle. All is o'er,
And the last song of burial they must yield,
The song of death and glory to the brave.
Ye warriors who gather, the brave to deplore,
And repine for the chief ye shall witness no more,
Let the hatchet of fight still unburied remain,
Whilst we joy in the glory of him that is slain.
Unbounded in soul, as unfearing in fight,
Yet mild as the dove when untempted to smite—
In battle the tiger, in peace the young fawn,
Whose footstep scarce brushes the dew from the lawn.
Stood he not in the thick of the battle's array,
When their warm blood like rain o'er the smoking grass lay,
And the Seminole chiefs from his tomahawk fled,
While the best of their warriors before him lay dead?
And long did their women in deep sorrow mourn,
Looking forth for the braves who could never return—
For their scalps the full swell of his legs had embraced,
And his women had woven their teeth round his waist.
But vain were his triumphs, since now we deplore—
Our sorrow begins, for his battles are o'er—
His last song was heard on the hills by the day,
But at midnight its echoes had faded away.
Far down in the valley when evening was still,
We heard the deep voice of the wolf on the hill—
“And hark!” said the Arrow, when starting to go,
“Is not that the screech of Menawé, my foe.
Whilst the red-god stands by and looks down with his light,
But in darkness, that emblems his bosom's own hue,
He sneaks to perform, what he trembles to do.”
The chief took his rifle, and whetted his knife,
And went down to see where the wolf was at strife:
There came up a clamour of death to the hill,
And the echoes return'd it, and then all was still.
And the chieftain lay dead in his gore, but his hand
Still clung to his knife, tho' it stuck in the sand—
They dared not approach him, even dead as he lay,
And they bore not the scalp from his forehead away.
Let us fling not aside, since the arrow is lost,
The bow which we kept at such perilous cost—
We can fit a new shaft to its string, when afar,
And go with the Sioux and Dog-skin to war.
Farther west—farther west! where the buffalo roves,
And the red-deer is found in the valley he loves—
Our hearts shall be glad in the hunt once again,
'Till the whiteman shall seek for the lands that remain.
Farther west—farther west! where the sun, as he dies,
Still leaves a deep lustre abroad in the skies—
Where the hunter may roam, and his woman may rove,
And the whiteman not blight, what he cannot improve.
One song, to the home that we leave, of regret—
'Tis the song of a sorrow, but no eye is wet—
One song for the hills and the valleys, and one
For the arrow now broken, the nation undone.
Farther west—farther west! it is meet that we fly,
Where the red-deer will bound at the glance of an eye:
Yet slowly the song of our parting be sung,
For the arrow is broken, the bow is unstrung.
| THE BROKEN ARROW. The book of my lady | |