[Poems by Gallagher in] The Hesperian Tree An Annual of the Ohio Valley - 1900 |
 | THREE POSTHUMOUS PIECES |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
 | [Poems by Gallagher in] The Hesperian Tree |  |
193
THREE POSTHUMOUS PIECES
I
TECUMSEH'S LEAGUE
O hearken not the white men's word—
'T is formed but to betray!
They come with fire, they come with sword,
To wrest our lands away.
But spread ye like the prairie-fire,
And bear the war-talk round!
Who loiters, my indignant ire
Shall strike him to the ground!
Away! away!
Away! away!
They may hunt us forever,
Through forest—by river—
But we'll yield to them never!
'T is formed but to betray!
They come with fire, they come with sword,
To wrest our lands away.
But spread ye like the prairie-fire,
And bear the war-talk round!
Who loiters, my indignant ire
Shall strike him to the ground!
Away! away!
Away! away!
They may hunt us forever,
Through forest—by river—
But we'll yield to them never!
These are our own broad hunting-grounds:
Our fathers' bones lie here.
Manetto's threatened vengeance sounds
E'en now within my ear.
Come, Children of the Red-man's God!
Come from the darkling shade,
From sunny plain and rolling flood,
And tangled everglade!
Unite! unite!
Unite! unite!
Though they hunt us forever,
Through forest—by river—
They shall conquer us never!
Our fathers' bones lie here.
Manetto's threatened vengeance sounds
E'en now within my ear.
Come, Children of the Red-man's God!
Come from the darkling shade,
From sunny plain and rolling flood,
And tangled everglade!
Unite! unite!
Unite! unite!
Though they hunt us forever,
Through forest—by river—
They shall conquer us never!
What though our wigwams smoking lie
Where pass their leaden showers—
We still are sheltered by yon sky,
These forests still are ours!
Then hearken not their peaceful talk—
It bodes but deadlier strife;
Bear well in hand the tomahawk,
Make sharp the scalping-knife!
Yah-loo! yah-loo!
Yah-loo! yah-loo!
And we'll yield to them never—
But in forest, and by river,
Will defy them forever!
Where pass their leaden showers—
We still are sheltered by yon sky,
These forests still are ours!
Then hearken not their peaceful talk—
It bodes but deadlier strife;
Bear well in hand the tomahawk,
Make sharp the scalping-knife!
194
Yah-loo! yah-loo!
And we'll yield to them never—
But in forest, and by river,
Will defy them forever!
II
THE BROWN THRUSH
Brown-mantled bird that in the dim, old forest,
Which stands far-spreading in my own loved West,
At dewy eve and purple morn outpourest
The sweet, wild melodies that thrill thy breast,—
How like to thine were my young heart's libations,
Poured daily to the Giver of all good!
How like our lone and simple ministrations
At God's green altars in the deep and hallowed wood!
Which stands far-spreading in my own loved West,
At dewy eve and purple morn outpourest
The sweet, wild melodies that thrill thy breast,—
How like to thine were my young heart's libations,
Poured daily to the Giver of all good!
How like our lone and simple ministrations
At God's green altars in the deep and hallowed wood!
We trilled our morn and evening songs together,
And twittered 'neath green leaves at sultry noon;
We kept like silence in ungenial weather,
And never knew blue skies come back too soon.
We sang not for the world; we sang not even
For those we loved; we could not help but sing—
There was such beauty in the earth and heaven,
Such music in our hearts, such joy in everything!
And twittered 'neath green leaves at sultry noon;
We kept like silence in ungenial weather,
And never knew blue skies come back too soon.
We sang not for the world; we sang not even
For those we loved; we could not help but sing—
There was such beauty in the earth and heaven,
Such music in our hearts, such joy in everything!
Wild warbler of the woods! I hear thee only
At intervals of weary seasons now;
Yet while through dusty streets I hasten, lonely
And sad at heart, with cares upon my brow,
There comes from the green aisles of the old forest
A gushing melody of the old days;
And I again am with thee, where thou pourest
In gladness unto God the measure of thy praise.
At intervals of weary seasons now;
Yet while through dusty streets I hasten, lonely
And sad at heart, with cares upon my brow,
There comes from the green aisles of the old forest
A gushing melody of the old days;
And I again am with thee, where thou pourest
In gladness unto God the measure of thy praise.
[III. Kiss each soft mouth, and]
Kiss each soft mouth, andEach eye as it closes;
And pray for the rosebuds
That soon shall be roses!
William D. Gallagher.
| [Poems by Gallagher in] The Hesperian Tree | |