 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
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THE SEGAMORE'S LAMENT.
Where Yaloo Busha blends with wild Yazoo,
Mid the dark woods alone the Chieftain stood;
Fixed to the desert shore his barque canoe
Eddied along the melancholy flood;
In the dark light the troubled waters rose,
Like wrath and hatred o'er the Red Man's woes.
Mid the dark woods alone the Chieftain stood;
Fixed to the desert shore his barque canoe
Eddied along the melancholy flood;
In the dark light the troubled waters rose,
Like wrath and hatred o'er the Red Man's woes.
His quivering brow and livid lip and cheek,
And dark eye burning in his spirit's gloom,
Gave awful note of woes too deep to speak,
And wrongs, would wake the warrior in his tomb;
Shame, outrage, exile, madness and despair,
The worst of doom, and more than man can bear.
And dark eye burning in his spirit's gloom,
Gave awful note of woes too deep to speak,
And wrongs, would wake the warrior in his tomb;
Shame, outrage, exile, madness and despair,
The worst of doom, and more than man can bear.
Beside his fathers' sepulchres he stood,
Amid the ashes of their council-fires,
That now lay cold, quench'd by his brothers' blood—
And his proud Nation's honour'd battle-sires';
Oh! who may tell what awful thoughts had power
O'er that lone Chief at this o'erwhelming hour?
Amid the ashes of their council-fires,
That now lay cold, quench'd by his brothers' blood—
And his proud Nation's honour'd battle-sires';
Oh! who may tell what awful thoughts had power
O'er that lone Chief at this o'erwhelming hour?
The sun went down—the harvest moon rode high,
The ancient oaks creak'd in the hollow wind,
And dark clouds hurried o'er the lowering sky,
Like spectres o'er the lonely warrior's mind!
In fitful gleams burst forth the troubled light,
And voices mutter'd through the gathering night.
The ancient oaks creak'd in the hollow wind,
And dark clouds hurried o'er the lowering sky,
Like spectres o'er the lonely warrior's mind!
In fitful gleams burst forth the troubled light,
And voices mutter'd through the gathering night.
The rosignol rais'd high her plaintive songs—
The red-bird like a sunbeam by him flew—
How faint the notes amid his wailing wrongs!
How dim the colours to that gory dew!
The wild deer pass'd—the bounding buffaloe—
Where slept the Chiefs that drew the unerring bow?
The red-bird like a sunbeam by him flew—
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How dim the colours to that gory dew!
The wild deer pass'd—the bounding buffaloe—
Where slept the Chiefs that drew the unerring bow?
Dark as the forest's pathless maze their doom,
Their empire lost—their solemn glory dimm'd,
Their high-born virtues sepulchred in gloom;
Their native waters with their proud blood brimm'd!
Without a home—the monarchs of the wild!
Who erst around on subject nations smil'd.
Their empire lost—their solemn glory dimm'd,
Their high-born virtues sepulchred in gloom;
Their native waters with their proud blood brimm'd!
Without a home—the monarchs of the wild!
Who erst around on subject nations smil'd.
“The blue smoke curls not o'er the ancient woods,”
Thus spake the Chieftain in his wrath and pride;
“Eternal silence o'er the forest broods;
“No fleet canoe swells on the rushing tide;
“The infant's voice salutes no warrior's ear,
“The voice of war hath ceas'd—the voice of fear.
Thus spake the Chieftain in his wrath and pride;
“Eternal silence o'er the forest broods;
“No fleet canoe swells on the rushing tide;
“The infant's voice salutes no warrior's ear,
“The voice of war hath ceas'd—the voice of fear.
“The hatchet's buried—buried in the breast
“Of all who heard and trusted Christian love;
“Unstartled now, the cougar hath his rest,
“War's weapons sleep in yonder blacken'd grove!
“There stood the white man—there the Indian stood,
“And words of peace were sealed with red men's blood.
“Of all who heard and trusted Christian love;
“Unstartled now, the cougar hath his rest,
“War's weapons sleep in yonder blacken'd grove!
“There stood the white man—there the Indian stood,
“And words of peace were sealed with red men's blood.
“Lone desolation darkly smiles around
“Each spot once hallow'd by the young heart's bliss;
“The blacken'd glade returns a hollow sound,
“That echoed once with shouts of happiness;
“The wild alarm—the dying shriek hath pass'd—
“Love, hate, despair—in one consuming blast.
“Each spot once hallow'd by the young heart's bliss;
“The blacken'd glade returns a hollow sound,
“That echoed once with shouts of happiness;
“The wild alarm—the dying shriek hath pass'd—
“Love, hate, despair—in one consuming blast.
“Of all our empire 'neath the blue ey'd heaven,
“No spot is left to sepulchre our clay;
“No more amid the light of tender even,
“We commune with our fathers far away,
“Beyond the seas, where Areouski reigns,
“And thousand fawns glide o'er the blooming plains.
“No spot is left to sepulchre our clay;
“No more amid the light of tender even,
“We commune with our fathers far away,
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“And thousand fawns glide o'er the blooming plains.
“The withering curse of utter want and wo
“And homeless banishment and wandering death
“For ever rest upon them! Look below,
“Thou King of Vengeance! with thy blasting breath,
“Strew their pale corses o'er the crimson sod,
“Where the false white man lied unto his God!
“And homeless banishment and wandering death
“For ever rest upon them! Look below,
“Thou King of Vengeance! with thy blasting breath,
“Strew their pale corses o'er the crimson sod,
“Where the false white man lied unto his God!
“Ye warrior-spirits, sleep in peace! the hour
“Already dawns when vengeance shall restore
“Meet guerdon for the waste of lawless power,
“And foemen gasp in anguish evermore.
“Chief of a glorious line, I may not weep,
“But tears of blood bewail your last, cold sleep.”
“Already dawns when vengeance shall restore
“Meet guerdon for the waste of lawless power,
“And foemen gasp in anguish evermore.
“Chief of a glorious line, I may not weep,
“But tears of blood bewail your last, cold sleep.”
He turn'd—despair hung on his mighty brow,
And desolation linger'd on his tread;
What awful wo was his—ah! none can know—
Alone, the monarch of the slaughter'd dead!
His bow unbended—and his empire gone—
The heaven his canopy—the grave his throne.
And desolation linger'd on his tread;
What awful wo was his—ah! none can know—
Alone, the monarch of the slaughter'd dead!
His bow unbended—and his empire gone—
The heaven his canopy—the grave his throne.
He turn'd and sought the shore of wild Yazoo,
And o'er the forest threw his eagle eye,
And groan'd in spirit. In his barque canoe,
He stood, and threw his last look o'er the sky
And moaning wild; then down the rushing flood,
Vanish'd forever from his native wood.
And o'er the forest threw his eagle eye,
And groan'd in spirit. In his barque canoe,
He stood, and threw his last look o'er the sky
And moaning wild; then down the rushing flood,
Vanish'd forever from his native wood.
And, as he hurried, mid the shuddering light,
Down the dark river, through the forest, rose
Ten thousand spectres, in their wizzard might,
And sung their deathsong o'er their baffled foes;
Then on the whirlwind's wings they hurried by,
And call'd their brother, from the viewless sky.
Down the dark river, through the forest, rose
Ten thousand spectres, in their wizzard might,
And sung their deathsong o'er their baffled foes;
Then on the whirlwind's wings they hurried by,
And call'd their brother, from the viewless sky.
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And never more was heard the warwhoop there—
The dance—the song—the feast of buffaloes;
The warriors perish'd in their proud despair—
Scath'd by the lightning of unending woes!
Dark fell the shadows of the silent wood—
And the earth shudder'd—stain'd with guiltless blood.
The dance—the song—the feast of buffaloes;
The warriors perish'd in their proud despair—
Scath'd by the lightning of unending woes!
Dark fell the shadows of the silent wood—
And the earth shudder'd—stain'd with guiltless blood.
How little know we what we are, and less
What our companions are! We toil and strive
To be the creatures nature cries aloud
We are not; and we rack our souls in days
Of sunny loveliness to find a cloud
Where moody sorrow may complain and sigh.
Oh! if the grief, that rends the silent heart
In twain, could write in pangs its harrowing tale,
'Twould shame the sadden'd minstrel's morbid strain,
And burn the heart that listened to its notes.
Such wo is mine, and mine will ever be
Till death, for I have proved the world, and find
Sickness and sorrow universal here.
The wave of Arethusa cannot heal
The soaring soul that laves in its bright stream,
Nor can Pierian waters cool the heart
That burns in feverish anguish. To invest
Our woes in fancy's rainbow robes, and clothe
Pangs with the spirit's sunlight, is to deck
A corse in diamonds, and to lay the dead
Upon a bier of gold—vain pageantry!
What our companions are! We toil and strive
To be the creatures nature cries aloud
We are not; and we rack our souls in days
Of sunny loveliness to find a cloud
Where moody sorrow may complain and sigh.
Oh! if the grief, that rends the silent heart
In twain, could write in pangs its harrowing tale,
'Twould shame the sadden'd minstrel's morbid strain,
And burn the heart that listened to its notes.
Such wo is mine, and mine will ever be
Till death, for I have proved the world, and find
Sickness and sorrow universal here.
The wave of Arethusa cannot heal
The soaring soul that laves in its bright stream,
Nor can Pierian waters cool the heart
That burns in feverish anguish. To invest
Our woes in fancy's rainbow robes, and clothe
Pangs with the spirit's sunlight, is to deck
A corse in diamonds, and to lay the dead
Upon a bier of gold—vain pageantry!
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |