 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
LINES,
Written on hearing that Wm. R. Schenck, my companion for three or four months
in the prairie, had been wounded by the Comanches, and left alone to die.
The sun is waning from the sky,
The clouds are gathering round the moon,
Bank after bank, like mountains high,
And night is coming—ah! too soon.
Around me doth the prairie spread
Its limitless monotony,
And near me, in its sandy bed,
Runs rattling water, like the sea,
Salt, salt as tears of misery;
And now the keen and frosty dew
Begins to fall upon my head,
And pierces every fibre through—
By it my torturing wound with misery is fed.
And near me lies my noble horse:
I watched his last, convulsive breath,
And saw him stiffen to a corse—
And knew like his would be my death.
The cowards left me lying here
To die; and now three weary days,
I've watched the sun's light disappear;
Again I shall not see his rays—
On my dead heart they soon will blaze;
O God! it is a fearful thing,
To be alone in this wide plain,
To hear the raven's filthy wing,
And watch the quivering star of our existence wane.
The clouds are gathering round the moon,
Bank after bank, like mountains high,
And night is coming—ah! too soon.
Around me doth the prairie spread
Its limitless monotony,
And near me, in its sandy bed,
Runs rattling water, like the sea,
Salt, salt as tears of misery;
And now the keen and frosty dew
Begins to fall upon my head,
And pierces every fibre through—
By it my torturing wound with misery is fed.
And near me lies my noble horse:
I watched his last, convulsive breath,
And saw him stiffen to a corse—
And knew like his would be my death.
The cowards left me lying here
To die; and now three weary days,
I've watched the sun's light disappear;
Again I shall not see his rays—
On my dead heart they soon will blaze;
O God! it is a fearful thing,
To be alone in this wide plain,
To hear the raven's filthy wing,
And watch the quivering star of our existence wane.
133
Yes; I am left alone to die—
Alone! alone!—it is no dream;
At times I think it is—though nigh,
Already dimly sounds the stream;
And I must die—and wolves will gnaw
My corse, or ere the pulse be still,
Before my parting gasp I draw;
This doth my cup of torture fill—
This, this it is which sends a thrill
Of horror through my inmost brain,
And makes me die a thousand deaths.
I value not the passing pain,
But I would draw in peace, my last, my parting breath.
And here, while left, all, all alone
To die—(how strange that word will sound)—
O God! with many a torture-tone,
The fiends of memory come around.
They tell of one, untimely sent
Unto the dim and narrow grave,
By honor's laws—and friends down bent
With grief, that I, the reckless, gave;
And bending from each airy wave,
I see the shapes I loved and lost
Come round me with their deep, dim eyes,
Like drowning men to land uptost,
And here and there one mocks, and my vain rage defies.
O God! my children. Spare the thought!
Bid it depart from me, lest I
At last to madness should be wrought,
And cursing thee, insanely die.
Hush! for the pulse is getting slow,
And death, chill death is near at hand.
I turn me from the sunset glow,
And looking towards my native land
Where the dim clouds like giants stand,
I strain my eyes—if I perchance,
Might see beneath the still, cold moon,
Some shape of human kind advance,
To give a dying man the last, the dearest boon.
In vain!—in vain! No being comes—
And all is lone and desolate;
Deeper and darker swell the glooms,
And with them Death and eyeless Fate.
Now I am dying! Well I know
The pangs that gather round the heart;
The brow's weak throb has ceased to glow,
And life and I are near to part.
Alone! alone!—it is no dream;
At times I think it is—though nigh,
Already dimly sounds the stream;
And I must die—and wolves will gnaw
My corse, or ere the pulse be still,
Before my parting gasp I draw;
This doth my cup of torture fill—
This, this it is which sends a thrill
Of horror through my inmost brain,
And makes me die a thousand deaths.
I value not the passing pain,
But I would draw in peace, my last, my parting breath.
And here, while left, all, all alone
To die—(how strange that word will sound)—
O God! with many a torture-tone,
The fiends of memory come around.
They tell of one, untimely sent
Unto the dim and narrow grave,
By honor's laws—and friends down bent
With grief, that I, the reckless, gave;
And bending from each airy wave,
I see the shapes I loved and lost
Come round me with their deep, dim eyes,
Like drowning men to land uptost,
And here and there one mocks, and my vain rage defies.
O God! my children. Spare the thought!
Bid it depart from me, lest I
At last to madness should be wrought,
And cursing thee, insanely die.
Hush! for the pulse is getting slow,
And death, chill death is near at hand.
I turn me from the sunset glow,
And looking towards my native land
Where the dim clouds like giants stand,
I strain my eyes—if I perchance,
Might see beneath the still, cold moon,
Some shape of human kind advance,
To give a dying man the last, the dearest boon.
In vain!—in vain! No being comes—
And all is lone and desolate;
Deeper and darker swell the glooms,
And with them Death and eyeless Fate.
Now I am dying! Well I know
The pangs that gather round the heart;
The brow's weak throb has ceased to glow,
And life and I are near to part.
134
I would not ask the leech's art—
For death is not so terrible
As 't was. And now, no more I see;—
My tongue is faltering;—'t is well—
O God!—my soul!—'tis thine—take it to thee.
For death is not so terrible
As 't was. And now, no more I see;—
My tongue is faltering;—'t is well—
O God!—my soul!—'tis thine—take it to thee.
Ark. Territory, March 20, 1833.
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