 | Indian melodies |  |
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IV.
THE WARRIOR'S SOLILOQUY:
ON THE PROPOSITION TO REMOVE THE INDIANS WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI.
The storm that is rising my fathers foretold:
I see the clouds driving, dark, dreary, and cold;
I see the red flash, and I hear the deep roar,
That warns the lone Indian his reign is no more.
No more in wood, council, or fight shall he spring,
A warrior, a hunter, a chief, or a king;
But, driv'n by the tempest, leave nothing behind
But a spirit of freedom no senates could bind.
I cast my eyes east, and I cast my eyes west,
But in vain—I must go from the land I love best,
Like a bark on the brink, or a boat on the shore,
Turn'd adrift to the winds without paddle or oar;
Fate sits on the billows and beckons me there,
And I go with regret, for I go in despair.
I see the clouds driving, dark, dreary, and cold;
I see the red flash, and I hear the deep roar,
That warns the lone Indian his reign is no more.
No more in wood, council, or fight shall he spring,
A warrior, a hunter, a chief, or a king;
But, driv'n by the tempest, leave nothing behind
But a spirit of freedom no senates could bind.
I cast my eyes east, and I cast my eyes west,
But in vain—I must go from the land I love best,
Like a bark on the brink, or a boat on the shore,
Turn'd adrift to the winds without paddle or oar;
Fate sits on the billows and beckons me there,
And I go with regret, for I go in despair.
Our fathers thought little of houses and land,
With weariness laboured by oxen or hand;
And still, as the sounds of the woodman drew nigh,
To deeper recesses prepared them to fly,
Leaving sweet sunny valleys, and mountain brooks clear,
In far western woods to go hunting the deer;
And little bethinking the value of soil,
Whether sixpence an acre, or sixpence a mile.
But still the cry followed, and still we pursued—
From valley to valley, from woodland to wood,
Till many a weary domain we had cross'd—
Our leaders, our country, our heritance lost!
With weariness laboured by oxen or hand;
And still, as the sounds of the woodman drew nigh,
To deeper recesses prepared them to fly,
Leaving sweet sunny valleys, and mountain brooks clear,
In far western woods to go hunting the deer;
And little bethinking the value of soil,
Whether sixpence an acre, or sixpence a mile.
But still the cry followed, and still we pursued—
From valley to valley, from woodland to wood,
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Our leaders, our country, our heritance lost!
All wild as we wandered, and far as we rov'd,
There were, who the forester ardently lov'd.
The teacher came to us—the teacher was poor;
He sat himself down by our rude cabin door.
He spoke so serenely of mercy and love,
And the glories that wait the blest spirit above;
So sweetly to heaven he pointed the way,
We forgot how to fight as we learned how to pray.
We lean'd on our war staffs, and let the deer run,
While heark'ning to words thus sublimely begun.
But the foe came upon us with faggot and shot,
And swept in one ruin, wife, children and cot.
Again to the bow and the arrow we flew,
Though war-path, or war-song, we scarcely more knew.
All vain was the effort—foes compass'd our kind,
The panther before, and the horseman behind.
There were, who the forester ardently lov'd.
The teacher came to us—the teacher was poor;
He sat himself down by our rude cabin door.
He spoke so serenely of mercy and love,
And the glories that wait the blest spirit above;
So sweetly to heaven he pointed the way,
We forgot how to fight as we learned how to pray.
We lean'd on our war staffs, and let the deer run,
While heark'ning to words thus sublimely begun.
But the foe came upon us with faggot and shot,
And swept in one ruin, wife, children and cot.
Again to the bow and the arrow we flew,
Though war-path, or war-song, we scarcely more knew.
All vain was the effort—foes compass'd our kind,
The panther before, and the horseman behind.
And now that our tribes have been borne in their flight,
Far, far from their lov'd native regions of light,
Till their tents have encroach'd on the very confines
Where the sun's setting ray most effulgently shines;
And almost, as we sit in reflection severe,
The sounds of the vasty west ocean we hear—
What voice is it utters! what sound's understood,
From the halls of the wise, and the land of the good?
'Tis a voice that proclaims, in loud accents of woe,
Across yon proud hill-tops—‘Go, way-farer, go!’
Far, far from their lov'd native regions of light,
Till their tents have encroach'd on the very confines
Where the sun's setting ray most effulgently shines;
And almost, as we sit in reflection severe,
The sounds of the vasty west ocean we hear—
What voice is it utters! what sound's understood,
From the halls of the wise, and the land of the good?
'Tis a voice that proclaims, in loud accents of woe,
Across yon proud hill-tops—‘Go, way-farer, go!’
Alone in my cottage, with head low reclin'd,
And robe drawn around me, I think on my kind;
On all they have witness'd, on all they have borne,
In corn-cover'd valley, or forest forlorn,
I think on the present I think on the past,
And oft on the future my vision I cast.
Sad, sad is the prospect, and faint is the ray
That hope sheds abroad to direct us the way.
While Memory, wreathing a garland of woe,
Points backward with eyes that incessantly flow.
Ah me! when I look on the wearisome road
We thoughtlessly entered, and painfully trod,
Where we battled or hunted with terror and groans,
The path is marked out by our forefather's bones.
And when I look forward beyond the big stream,
Where bleak barrens rustle, and war-axes gleam,
I see the dark cloud that hangs threatening there,
Surcharged with vexation, war, want, and despair.
And robe drawn around me, I think on my kind;
On all they have witness'd, on all they have borne,
In corn-cover'd valley, or forest forlorn,
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And oft on the future my vision I cast.
Sad, sad is the prospect, and faint is the ray
That hope sheds abroad to direct us the way.
While Memory, wreathing a garland of woe,
Points backward with eyes that incessantly flow.
Ah me! when I look on the wearisome road
We thoughtlessly entered, and painfully trod,
Where we battled or hunted with terror and groans,
The path is marked out by our forefather's bones.
And when I look forward beyond the big stream,
Where bleak barrens rustle, and war-axes gleam,
I see the dark cloud that hangs threatening there,
Surcharged with vexation, war, want, and despair.
But 'tis done! On these fields we no longer can stay;
What the war-gun hath left us the plough sweeps away.
The Spirit of Hunters with bitterness mourns;
No light for her children propitiously burns;
The plain that entices her far in the west
Is hemm'd round with foes, and in terror possest.
We go to those plains, where a few fleeting years
Shall close a long race of vexation and tears;
And all we shall leave to denote that we e'er
Trod war-dance or war-path, hurl'd hatchet or spear,
Will be shown in a hillock—perhaps a few stones,
The track of our footsteps, our name, and our bones;
Whence the trav'ler may go, and exclaim in his pride,
They liv'd and they wandered, they wander'd and died!
What the war-gun hath left us the plough sweeps away.
The Spirit of Hunters with bitterness mourns;
No light for her children propitiously burns;
The plain that entices her far in the west
Is hemm'd round with foes, and in terror possest.
We go to those plains, where a few fleeting years
Shall close a long race of vexation and tears;
And all we shall leave to denote that we e'er
Trod war-dance or war-path, hurl'd hatchet or spear,
Will be shown in a hillock—perhaps a few stones,
The track of our footsteps, our name, and our bones;
Whence the trav'ler may go, and exclaim in his pride,
They liv'd and they wandered, they wander'd and died!
But though they were hapless, our fathers were brave,
And scorn'd e'en the earth that was trod by a slave,
Resolved to be free, and content with the fare,
That freedom supplied without labour or care,
All wealth they despised, and held war as the breath
That made their lives sweet, and that solac'd their death.
And scorn'd e'en the earth that was trod by a slave,
Resolved to be free, and content with the fare,
That freedom supplied without labour or care,
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That made their lives sweet, and that solac'd their death.
Thus I and my kindred, though bidden to go,
No sigh, no remonstrance, no tremor shall show.
We blanch not at danger, we shrink not at pain;
Too poor to entreat, and too proud to complain,
Like men we have breasted the storms and the sky,
And still, we, like men, shall live freely, or die.
No sigh, no remonstrance, no tremor shall show.
We blanch not at danger, we shrink not at pain;
Too poor to entreat, and too proud to complain,
Like men we have breasted the storms and the sky,
And still, we, like men, shall live freely, or die.
20th October, 1828.
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