 | Songs of the sea, with other poems |  |
86
THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE.
A sunny slope upon a mountain's side:
Green woods and yellow fields of waving corn
Look down upon the Indians' birchen tents.
The young men of the tribe are at their sports:
Who is the fleetest hunter of them all?
Whose arrow floats the surest to the mark?
Who is in council wise, in battle brave?
'Tis the youthful Etlah;—
On his breast is hung
Many a shining trophy,
Which proclaims his worth.
Green woods and yellow fields of waving corn
Look down upon the Indians' birchen tents.
The young men of the tribe are at their sports:
Who is the fleetest hunter of them all?
Whose arrow floats the surest to the mark?
Who is in council wise, in battle brave?
'Tis the youthful Etlah;—
On his breast is hung
Many a shining trophy,
Which proclaims his worth.
Years fled. The white men burst upon that vale,
And the fair hamlet was a desolation.
The warriors of the tribe are met in council:
Whose kindling eye the indignant tear-drop fills?
Whose matchless tones of eloquent appeal
With one vibration shake a thousand hearts,
And wake a thousand echoes to his cry?
'Tis the chieftain Etlah's;—
He is clad for fight,
And his cry is “Vengeance!”
As he lifts his spear.
And the fair hamlet was a desolation.
The warriors of the tribe are met in council:
Whose kindling eye the indignant tear-drop fills?
87
With one vibration shake a thousand hearts,
And wake a thousand echoes to his cry?
'Tis the chieftain Etlah's;—
He is clad for fight,
And his cry is “Vengeance!”
As he lifts his spear.
The battle-field, the clangor, and the smoke;
The white man's trumpet, and the Indian's yell;
The flying steed, his fetlocks clogged with gore,
The trampled rider and the dying foe!
Whose rallying shout is loudest 'mid the fray?
In whose right hand has Havoc placed the axe?
Who, meteor-like, streams through the ranks in blood?
'Tis the avenging Etlah;—
Though his little band
Fall in heaps around him,
Yet he does not quail.
The white man's trumpet, and the Indian's yell;
The flying steed, his fetlocks clogged with gore,
The trampled rider and the dying foe!
Whose rallying shout is loudest 'mid the fray?
In whose right hand has Havoc placed the axe?
Who, meteor-like, streams through the ranks in blood?
'Tis the avenging Etlah;—
Though his little band
Fall in heaps around him,
Yet he does not quail.
Night ends the combat. On the trodden grass,
Wet more with slaughter than the dews of heaven,
The unconscious stars, serenely bright, look down.
Beside a rushing stream, some dusky forms
Lie couched in slumber; but one stands apart,
Leans on his rifle and surveys the field:
What lonely watcher thus surveys the field?
'Tis the intrepid Etlah,
Calm in his despair;
Lo! his best and bravest
Lifeless strow the plain!
Wet more with slaughter than the dews of heaven,
88
Beside a rushing stream, some dusky forms
Lie couched in slumber; but one stands apart,
Leans on his rifle and surveys the field:
What lonely watcher thus surveys the field?
'Tis the intrepid Etlah,
Calm in his despair;
Lo! his best and bravest
Lifeless strow the plain!
Under a tree scathed by the lightning's bolt,
Meet emblem of his fate, a warrior kneels;—
For him, no living heart beats tenderly;
Friend, kinsman, brother, sister, mother, wife—
All are no more!—his heart is desolate;
And for the shadowy hunting-grounds he sighs,
And prays to the Great Spirit for release:
'Tis the aged Etlah,
Last of all his tribe;—
Who remains to cheer him?
Who remains to mourn?
Meet emblem of his fate, a warrior kneels;—
For him, no living heart beats tenderly;
Friend, kinsman, brother, sister, mother, wife—
All are no more!—his heart is desolate;
And for the shadowy hunting-grounds he sighs,
And prays to the Great Spirit for release:
'Tis the aged Etlah,
Last of all his tribe;—
Who remains to cheer him?
Who remains to mourn?
| Songs of the sea, with other poems | |