University of Virginia Library

Thus happily sojourn'd our rural band,
Calm in the bosom of their native land;
Content, yet looking onward still to more,
And adding every year to last year's store,
Some comfort, or some luxury yet behind,
Still gave an impulse to the active mind,
And kept its moving current bright and clear,
By soft vicissitudes of hope and fear.
The story of Ambition's wild career,
Like some far travell'd rumour met their ear,
And when a monarch fell, or kingdom rose,
In sooth, it troubled not their calm repose;
They seem'd beyond the reach of War's dread strife,
And half the ills that checker human life.

But Mis'ry is a sure and stanch bloodhound,
That tracks the pathless Earth till man be found;
The World seems blithe and blessed every where,
Till Man appears, and tempts the Devil there,
Then the gaunt pack of suffering, Sin and Shame,
Come yelping on to hunt their fav'rite game,
To lap the life-blood, banquet on our groans,
And break our hearts, or turn them into stones.
They should be made of flint to stand the shock,
Of woes that cluster, and of hopes that mock,
For Happiness is but the flash that wings
The tuneful ball, that murders while it sings;
We, like the miser, hoard our little store
Of worldly bliss, and toil to make it more,
View with delight the rich and sparkling prize,
And hug the casket where the jewel lies;
Sudden the plund'rer comes—and all is flown,
Save the dark hollow, where the ruby shone.

Far in a dismal glen whose deep recess,
The Sun's life-giving ray did never bless,
Beside a lone and melancholy stream,
That never sparkled in the spritely beam,
Sever'd from all his copper-colour'd race,
A moody Indian made his biding place;
Here mid green carpets of dew dripping moss,
And solemn pines, that lock'd their arms across
The foam-crown'd brook, and with their gloomy shade
An everlasting dusky twilight made,
With hurrying steps, like maniac oft he trod,
And curs'd the white-man, and the white-man's God.
Once the proud painted chief of warriors brave,
Whose bones now bleaching lay without a grave,
A thousand red-men own'd his savage sway,
And follow'd on where'er he led the way,
Rang'd the wide forest many a countless mile,
And hail'd him lord of cruelty and wile—
Now, like a girdled tree, unleaf'd he stood,
The only relick of a stately wood;
The last of all his race—he lived alone,
His name, his being, and his haunts unknown.

Amid a sunless vegetation here,
Fungus, and mildew'd rottenness so drear,
He nurs'd his spleen, and studied day and night
How he his nation's wrongs might best requite,
Tear every white-man's offspring limb from limb,
And do to them, as they had done to him;
For no deep casuist, alas! was he,
The justice of the white-man's claims to see,
Or comprehend, why the pale slave of toil,
Who turns to gold the fruits of every soil,
A better claim had to this smiling earth,
Than those who rang'd it from their nation's birth.
Oft would he roam the pathless woods by night,
When star and moon refus'd their cheering light,
Invoke the shadows of his fallen race,
That howl about the world from place to place,
Or call dark spirits from their dread repose,
To sooth his vengeance and strike down his foes,
And when the echoes answer'd loud and near,
Would fancy that they throng'd around him here.
The passions that in other breasts bear sway,
And lead the race of man a different way,
He never knew, or if he e'er had known,
Before one master feeling they had flown.
The love of woman, glory, or of gain,
Ne'er caus'd a pang, or sooth'd an hour of pain,
All were condens'd in one intense desire,
That scorch'd his brain and heart with quenchless fire;
His very life and being it had grown,
He liv'd, he breath'd, in that, and that alone.

Thus long time brooding o'er one bloody theme,
That fill'd his daily musings, and his dream,
His brain to moody madness was beguil'd,
And broke into a chaos dark and wild—
Forsaken haunts unknown to the clear Heav'n,
Caves in the dripping rocks by torrents riv'n,
At eve he sought, and with half-smother'd breath,
Woo'd fell Revenge, and hungry white-ribb'd Death.
“Hark!” would he mutter, “every thing is still,
“The screech-owl, wolf, and boding whip-poor-will!
“Now is your time—come forth I prithee now—
“Come my pale darlings, fan my burning brow.
“If in the air ye hover—blessed things!—
“Come like the raven with his coal-black wings;
“If in the worthless, man-encumber'd earth,
“Like forked adders, crawl ye hissing forth;
“Come with an apple in your coiling train,
“And blast these ague-cheeks yet once again;
“Or if beneath the Ocean's mad'ning foam,
“Ye find your dark and melancholy home,
“Rise, with its ugliest monsters in your train,
“And give me vengeance for my people slain;
“So shall the blue detested wave that bore,
“The book-learn'd fiend, the white-man to this shore,
“With tardy justice help me to repay,
“The wrongs that eat my very heart away.”

The howling storm that drives the happy home,
But tempted him a wider range to roam,
And when loud thunder rattled in his ear,
That was the music he best lov'd to hear;
If it were midnight, he would wander forth,
The loneliest thing that crawl'd this peopled earth,
And while the half-starv'd wolf and well-cloth'd bear,
Fled from the tempest to their secret lair,
'Twas his delight through tangled groves to stalk,
And mutter to himself unjointed talk,
Or climb some slippery cliff that tower'd on high,
To mouth the thunder rumbling in the sky,
Or at its very verge on tiptoe stand,
To catch the nimble lightning in his hand,
And as he grasp'd the unsubstantial air,
Would fancy that he held it quivering there,
Then with delirious laughter backward start,
And hurl it at the hated white-man's heart.

At last, the lone enthusiast believ'd,
He had commission from his God receiv'd,
The remnant of his fallen race to save,
And drive the white-man o'er the boundless wave;
Yet often the wild discord of his brain,
To better tune awhile would come again,
And then his pride, or policy forbade,
The secret of his mind should be betray'd;
So half impostor, half enthusiast grown,
Sometimes the dupe of others, then his own,
Cunning, and Frenzy, sep'rate or combin'd,
Sway'd the wild chaos of his wav'ring mind.

Urg'd by the fiend that tenanted his brain,
He sought the haunts of savage man again,
Proclaim'd his mission wheresoe'er he came,
And challeng'd holy Prophet's hallow'd name.
His restless, bloodshot eye—thick tangled hair,
Quick hurrying step, and wild unearthly air,
The eloquence which Frenzy oft inspires,
That moves to tears, or lights consuming fires
Gain'd proselytes where'er the maniac came,
And won their rev'rence, and a prophet's name;
All gaz'd with wonder at the wizard form,
That talk'd with spirits in the midnight storm.
Taunt not the Indian—ev'n the brightest mind,
By learning and philosophy refin'd,
Trembles and vibrates, like the aspin leaf,
'Twixt fiery zeal, and freezing unbelief;
As fears oppress, or Hope's bright beacon shines,
To one or other wayward it inclines,
Grovels at Superstition's altar dire,
And lights the heretic's consuming fire,
Or, as the ebbing fervour backward rolls,
Denies its god, and murders all men's souls,
Sometimes for Gospel, monkish cant receives,
And sometimes doubts, what Wisdom's self believes.

No marvel then, the Indian, who ne'er knew
Themes of philosophy, or false or true,
Whose mind was like the forest that he rov'd,
Dark, gloomy, rayless, rugged, unimprov'd,
With hatred of the white-man's race inspir'd,
Should yield his head, to what his heart desir'd.
Restless the prophet rov'd, as one whose mind,
No biding place on earth, was doom'd to find,
And wheresoe'er he went, his words of flame,
Rous'd them to rage, or blanch'd their cheeks with shame.
He told them, how in distant ages past,
The white-man on these shores his anchor cast,
Where countless tribes of red-men freely reign'd,
Not one of all whose myriads now remain'd.
In wonder first, and with soft pity then,
They gaz'd upon these strange, pale-visag'd men,
Stretch'd out the ever ready helping hand,
Hunted them game, and gave away their land,
With fond credulity their tales believ'd,
And all their wants, and all their fears reliev'd:
How in a little while th' ungrateful crew,
Their toils about the simple Indians threw,
Cheated them of their lands with fraud and lies,
False, fair deceitful words, and falser eyes,
Till in the end, they learn'd the wretched trade,
And their own brothers, like the whites betray'd,
Drank, cheated, swore to that which was not true,
And chang'd with every changing wind that blew,
Renounc'd their ancient gods throughout the land
For other creeds they could not understand,
And in the downhill path, at length, became
Worthy associates in the Christian name.

“Thus,” would he rave, “debas'd by Christian arts,
“Weaken'd their bodies, and corrupt their hearts,
“Tribe after tribe, soon found a timeless grave,
“Or liv'd to be the white-man's abject slave,
“Linger'd amid the scorn of every fool,
“And lick'd the dust, where they were born to rule;
“Or if they 'scap'd this most degen'rate fate,
“Join'd some more distant tribes, that soon or late,
“Fell like the rest, or driv'n from their home,
“Far from their fathers' graves were doom'd to roam,
“While the pale white-man, ever in their rear,
“With bloodstain'd steps, march'd on his curs'd career,
“Resolv'd, too sure, ere he his race had run,
“To chase them ev'n beyond the setting Sun.

“Now—now's the time that we must take our stand,
“Or skulk like foxes from our hunting land;
“The moment's come—for bloody Discord throws,
“Her flames on every side among our foes,
“For gold, or hate, or some of those curs'd rights,
“That cloke the wrongs we suffer from these whites,
“The spirits tell me they will try ere long
“Which has the right—that is, which is the strong;
“Awake, ye red-men! for the last, last time—
“Make one bold stand to save your native clime!
“Bury the calumet, deep, deep in earth,
“And swear by Vengeance ne'er to draw it forth,
“Till not a soul of that pale-visag'd race
“Within this land shall show his frosty face,
“Of snow or ice in some hard winter made,
“And blanch'd in one eternal midnight shade;
“Paint your red faces with a thousand stains,
“Till not a lineament of man remains;
“Look like the fiends, and be ye what you seem,
“Nor canting mercy for a virtue deem;
“Swear to revenge your wrongs—then deeply swear,
“Not one of all the white-man's race to spare,
“E'en though the wordless babe that knows no guile,
“Should look you in the face with that same smile,
“The hypocrite, his ruthless father, wore,
“When first he came to cheat in days of yore;
“These are young wolves, who when their teeth are grown,
“Will lap our blood, and gnaw us to the bone,
“Vainly we kill the root, if still the seed,
“Within the soil is left, more foes to breed.”

As fires new lighted in the dry rank grass,
From side to side like lazy lightnings pass,
So did his words inspire the list'ning train,
Rouse every heart, and light each kindling brain;
The Indian blood was up, and well-a-day!
Blood only can that boiling spirit lay.
But there was one who felt within his breast,
A keener thrill of vengeance than the rest;
A youth with all the gravity of age,
And all the cunning of a thoughtful sage,
One, who through distant tribes rude sway maintain'd,
And o'er their loves and fears despotic reign'd.
In peace no passion seem'd to warm his soul,
In war his passions rag'd without control;
Yet oft, when in calm indolence he'd seem,
'Twixt sleep and waking buried in some dream,
With vacant eye, and cold unconscious stare,
Unknowing what he thought, or how, or where,
His boiling brain was whirling all the while,
With desp'rate plans to ruin or beguile;
Schemes of deep mischief rankled in his mind,
And hate and policy were there combin'd
In one great plan to free his wand'ring race,
Or give them death, and rid them of disgrace;
Deep as old Ocean's caves, for ever dark,
Within his bosom lay one latent spark,
Till that was touch'd, he seem'd insensate clay,
When it was touch'd he burst like fiend away,
And scour'd the earth for victims to assuage
His fev'rish bosom's unrelenting rage.

That spark was waken'd in his bosom now,
And play'd in lightnings round his burning brow,
The prophet's words his soul with venom fill'd,
And his rous'd heart with keener vengeance thrill'd;
With joy he hail'd the maniac's mad career,
And half beguil'd by Hope, half chill'd with fear,
Sometimes believ'd the madman was inspir'd,
At others, fear'd some fiend his brain had fir'd;
Still, whether prophet, madman, knave or fool,
He was he thought a most convenient tool,
To work upon the dark benighted mind,
With rage half mad, and superstition blind,
And make it to his towering will submit,
By right divine, or Indian holy writ.
'Tis thus, if right we read historic page,
Through the long records of each cheating age,
We find, the art to govern mainly lies
In throwing dust in man's deluded eyes;
The less they see, the better rulers speed,
For babes, the docile blind may freely lead;
Not by superior wit the statesman rules,
So much as making all his fellows fools:
This our young Shawanoe gather'd from his sire,
And well he fann'd the newly lighted fire,
Pronounc'd the wandering maniac's mission true,
And hotter firebrands mid the circle threw,
Till ev'n the torpid heart of wint'ry age,
Burst its thick ice, and fir'd with headlong rage,
Forgot its tutelary genius, Fear,
And roll'd away in Folly's mad career.

Next morn betimes, ere yet the Sun's bright beam,
Gilded the woods, or play'd upon the stream,
Old men, young warriors, matrons, children came,
To call upon the Spirit's hallow'd name,
And ask an effort of his matchless might,
To aid them in one last decisive fight.
Mild was the mellow morning, not a breeze
Wak'd the deep slumbers of the lifeless trees,
Night's prowling train had silent sneak'd away,
And woodland birds not yet begun their lay;
The sky was one pale vault, without a star
Twinkling amid its azure fields afar,
Save the bright star of morn, that seem'd to stay
To bid good morrow to the god of day.
The wood was pil'd—the glorious Sun arose,
And each within the pyre his offering throws;
Something with which they most regret to part,
Some relic dearest to the giver's heart,
To show their pious reverence and love
To that Great Spirit thron'd in skies above.
The pile consum'd, a reverend gray-hair'd band
Advanc'd within the circle hand in hand,
And pour'd to Him a wild and simple pray'r,
Who by some name is worshipp'd every where.

“Great Spirit! master of the lives of all,
“Soul of the universe, on thee we call!
“O! thou who hold'st the reins of winds and storms,
“Master of visible and viewless forms,
“Of spirits roving in earth, air, and sea,
“Who do thy bidding wheresoe'er they be,
“Command the good around our paths to stray,
“And keep the evil from our steps away;
“Give to the young the spirits of the brave,
“Who sought for liberty and found a grave;
“Inspire the old with wisdom to disclose
“The means to rid us of these hated foes;
“Tell us in dreams, thou lone and lofty One,
“What we must do, or what must leave undone.

“Great Spirit! whom all Heav'n and Earth proclaim
“Lord of the universe, whate'er thy name;
“Who breath'st in every thing in earth or air,
“That's great and beautiful, and good and rare,
“Whose unprescrib'd divinity pervades
“The haunts of men, and gloomy trackless shades,
“Lives in all things we do, or feel, or see,
“Thou who art every thing, and all things thee—
“Great Spirit! hither turn thy list'ning ear!
“The stifled groans of anguish thou dost hear,
“Are from thy children, 'tis a nation calls,
“By thee it conquers, or by thee it falls.
“Who then shall light for thee the sacred flame,
“Or call upon thy cold unfeeling name?
“The Christian God were better far than thee,
“He makes his children triumph, while we flee;
“To him if conquer'd we our vows must pay,
“Forsake thine altars, and disclaim thy sway—
“Hear us, Great Spirit! whom we yet adore,
“Or save us now, or lose us evermore!”

A band of chafing warriors next there came,
Who danc'd around the low expiring flame,
With threat'ning gestures, death denouncing eyes,
Low mutter'd curses, and tremendous cries.
O! bloody were the deeds each warrior sung,
While charm'd Attention on his accents hung;
If in his vagrant life, he e'er had done
A deed that sweet Humanity would shun,
Scalp'd a young babe, or tortur'd a poor white,
With knives and fires, and shouted with delight,
To see the drops fast down his forehead roll,
And hear the groans that left his very soul,
The ruthless crime of Heav'n and man accurs'd,
Was now in song triumphantly rehears'd;
Mute admiration held the list'ning train,
Each long'd to act the bloody scene again,
And some poor trembling, half-starv'd captive wretch,
Upon the rack of lingering torture stretch,
From murder with ingenious art refrain,
And nurse his life to lengthen out his pain.
Thus through the livelong day they danc'd and sung,
And with their music distant woodlands rung,
The very wolves with this loud rant were scar'd,
Nor from their haunts that day to venture dar'd;
But when the Sun low waning tow'rd the West,
Proclaim'd the coming hour of balmy rest,
The weary, wild, tumultuous, madden'd throng,
Howl'd to their God, the warriors' hairbrain'd song.

“Take heart—he hears us in yon ruddy skies,
“And through the Sun looks with approving eyes!
“Behold, how bright his golden circle shines,
“The willing Spirit to our wish inclines!
“'Tis He that sends this fair and sprightly day.
“'Tis his sweet smiles that on the waters play;
“He makes the springs to rise, the rivers flow,
“The thunders rattle, and the whirlwinds blow,
“Wings forth the nimble lightning with his arm,
“Scourges the earth, or shelters it from harm—
“The high, the powerful, the unknown Great,
“Still hears our pray'rs, still watches o'er our fate;
“He loves our tribe, he sees, he feels our woes,
“And gives us vengeance, on our ruthless foes;
“Cheer up my brothers! we shall pay them yet,
“And in revenge, our wrongs and shames forget.
“But see! he leaves us—his bright warming Sun,
“Is gone away—'tis done, aye it is done—
“Freedom is ours, the Spirit tells us so,
“Wo to the white-man—to his children wo!