The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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THE SACHEM'S CHANT. |
 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
230
THE SACHEM'S CHANT.
The Mohican-hittuck
rolls grandly by,
Mid the bloom of the earth and the beam of the sky,
And its waters are blue and bright and blest
As the realms of the Red Man's god of rest,
And the gentle music, they leave along,
Is an echoed strain of the spirit's song.
Mid the bloom of the earth and the beam of the sky,
And its waters are blue and bright and blest
As the realms of the Red Man's god of rest,
And the gentle music, they leave along,
Is an echoed strain of the spirit's song.
The Mohican-hittuck glides softly on,
Like holy thoughts o'er the glorious gone,
And the sign of the stream through forests dim
Blends with the winds in their twilight hymn;
While the shadows are folding round rock and height,
And the dead are abroad on the wings of night.
Like holy thoughts o'er the glorious gone,
And the sign of the stream through forests dim
Blends with the winds in their twilight hymn;
While the shadows are folding round rock and height,
And the dead are abroad on the wings of night.
The Mohican-hittuck sweeps darkly past,
Like the storm of death o'er the Red Man cast;
And the gathering tempest o'er earth and sky
Reveals our doom to the prophet's eye—
The exile's lot—the slave's despair—
The darkened sunbeam and poisoned air!
Like the storm of death o'er the Red Man cast;
And the gathering tempest o'er earth and sky
Reveals our doom to the prophet's eye—
The exile's lot—the slave's despair—
The darkened sunbeam and poisoned air!
The Mohican-hittuck's shore replied,
When its sons roamed free in their warrior pride,
To the harvest song, to the seedtime mirth,
And the bridal bliss on the blooming earth;
We breathe not a beam of sun or star,
For dark is the brow of Yohewah!
When its sons roamed free in their warrior pride,
To the harvest song, to the seedtime mirth,
And the bridal bliss on the blooming earth;
We breathe not a beam of sun or star,
For dark is the brow of Yohewah!
Where Mohican-hittuck mid isles careers,
And meets with a smile the Salt Lake's tears,
The White Man's barque, like a wind-god hung,
And the powwahs to welcome it danced and sung;—
For the lands we gave to the stranger we reapt
Plague, poison and madness—and warriors wept!
And meets with a smile the Salt Lake's tears,
The White Man's barque, like a wind-god hung,
And the powwahs to welcome it danced and sung;—
For the lands we gave to the stranger we reapt
Plague, poison and madness—and warriors wept!
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The Mohican-hittuck—our own proud river—
The glorious gift of the Spirit Giver,
Bears on its bosom the booty won
From the slaughtered chieftain's banished son,
And the paleface Sage, ere he meets his God,
Would mark with our blood the path he trod.
The glorious gift of the Spirit Giver,
Bears on its bosom the booty won
From the slaughtered chieftain's banished son,
And the paleface Sage, ere he meets his God,
Would mark with our blood the path he trod.
The Mohican-hittuck's hills have heard
The Indian's thoughts as his spirit stirred,
And, even now, thy waves grow dim,
River! as awful memories swim,
Like the Wielder's bolts on an autumn even,
O'er the billowy clouds of a hurtling heaven.
The Indian's thoughts as his spirit stirred,
And, even now, thy waves grow dim,
River! as awful memories swim,
Like the Wielder's bolts on an autumn even,
O'er the billowy clouds of a hurtling heaven.
The Mohican-hittuck's secret dells
Feel the Indian's breath as it pants and swells,
And every wood on its banks returns
The shriek of the heart as it slowly burns!
The ghosts of my fathers like giants appear,
And the shades of the weak ones in sorrow and fear.
Feel the Indian's breath as it pants and swells,
And every wood on its banks returns
The shriek of the heart as it slowly burns!
The ghosts of my fathers like giants appear,
And the shades of the weak ones in sorrow and fear.
Oh, Mohican-hittuck—the wave of my birth!
The loveliest stream that laves the green earth!
Eloha calls me and Rowah replies!
I leave thee, blue stream! for the wild mountain skies.
Yet fast as thy waves to the ocean advance,
Will thy bloom and thy gleam o'er my lone spirit glance.
The loveliest stream that laves the green earth!
Eloha calls me and Rowah replies!
I leave thee, blue stream! for the wild mountain skies.
Yet fast as thy waves to the ocean advance,
Will thy bloom and thy gleam o'er my lone spirit glance.
Oh, Mohican-hittuck! no more by thy stream
Shall the forms of the slain like icy lights gleam;
No longer the voice from the bosom of glory
Gather grandeur and wisdom to learn their proud story.
Twice vanish the Nations from realms of the west,
But Vengeance shall start from our last home of rest!
Shall the forms of the slain like icy lights gleam;
No longer the voice from the bosom of glory
Gather grandeur and wisdom to learn their proud story.
Twice vanish the Nations from realms of the west,
But Vengeance shall start from our last home of rest!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |