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47

THE SPECTRE SEER; OR THE WARRIOR'S DREAM.

The prophet rose at dead of night,
All on the burial hill,
And “up! my brethren, rise!” he cried,
In accent deep and shrill.
He shook his wand and magic bones,
He beat his dancing drum,
And “ho! my brethren, rise!” he cried,
“The hour we hoped has come.
“Ho! warriors up, and seize your arms,
“For they were laid with ye,
“And let us to the war again,
“And battle to be free.
“Ho! chieftains, lift your idle spears,
“And stand before your bands;
“'Tis yours once more, by lake and shore,
“To rise and take your lands.
“Up, up, and arm, the hour is come,
“Up, warriors, one and all;
“We'll sweep away the pale-faced race,
“Or give them thrall for thrall.
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“They tread upon our father's bones,
“And mix in ditch and wall,
“The dust of warriors once renown'd,
“And chiefs the pride of all.
“Repose no more, for vengeance calls,
“Fame, duty, honour, love:
“Whate'er can fire the soul below,
“Or bless in heaven above.”
And from their graves the dreamless dead,
Arose upon the strand;
Each with war-signal on his head,
And weapon in his hand.
Like gathering clouds the warriors stood,
A hundred thousand men;
A horrid front to look upon,
For blood was in no vein.
But banners waved, and lances shook,
And frontlets seam'd with red;
And giant chiefs moved to and fro,
An army of the dead.
And ever and anon was heard,
The drum and rattle strong;
And then arose with hollow sound,
The fearful battle song.
And slowly now began to move,
The rattling foot and lance,
Till all that ghastly multitude
United in the dance.
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And “ho! my friends,” the prophet cried,
“Now let us onward go;
“With shout and song—I give the cry,
“I lead you to the foe!”
And at that word, a hollow yell,
Broke out from every band;
That peal'd across the distant vale
And shook the solid land.
A moment more, and not one soul
Of all that fearful throng,
Was seen beneath the moon's pale beam,
Where late they rais'd the song.
Each to his own lone sepulchre,
Slid back with viewless trace;
And nought but rustling leaf disturb'd
The silence of the place.
But when the hour of twelve came round,
At midnight damp and chill;
That seer arose, and all his bands
Stood on the burial hill.
Old Metacom forsook his rest,
And reverend Skenandoah;
And Sassacus and Tamenund,
And Myontonimoh.
And Pontiac the brave was there,
And dread Kway Sind the strong,
And Logan famed for eloquence,
And Wahb Ojeeg for song.
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And grim Tecumtha—he was there,
Who fought with erring frown;
To build one race of white men up,
And pull another down.
And from the south Capolicon
Came flying fast in hate,
And Gautimozin—he stood there,
In all his former state.
But ever, at the prophet's cry,
As that dread shout they gave,
Each sunk away invisible,
Within his narrow grave.
And thus for six lone nights I saw
That ghastly wild array;
And still at midnight's solemn hour
They fled in shouts away.
But on the seventh night, the sound
That o'er my senses broke,
Pealed out so long ... so deep ... so loud,
That from my trance I woke.
I lay beneath my humble shed,
My wife and children round;
The wind moaned loudly through the trees,
And thunders shook the ground.
And still within my ears there rang
The sound of shout and drum,
And those shrill words the prophet spoke,
“Awake, the hour is come!”
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And I arose—I could not sleep,
For thoughts perplex'd my soul,
And sought the village priest's abode
My vision to unroll.
“My son,” he said, “thy dream to read,
“I've sought the Spirit's view;
“Who ne'er doth err by word or sign,
“To those who seek him true.
“And much it grieves my aged heart,
“To open now to thee,
“The painful scroll of Indian fate
“And miseries yet to be.
“Thy dream is power ... that Indian power
“Which once our sons possest,
“O'er all the hills and lakes and streams
“That spot the gilded west.
“That power, not Metacom could save,
“Not Pontiac restore;
“But year by year, grew less and less,
“Instead of more and more.
“And now 'tis nearly gone, but still
“One woe is left behind;
“To sweep from every eastern hill
“The erring Indian kind.
“They go beyond the endless stream,
“That, sprung from northern skies,
“Spreads out its mighty arms supreme,
“Where stormy Mexic lies.
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“They go beyond that barrier proud,
“To enter life anew;
“But if in pride or woe, their end
“My ken is not to view.
“Hope well—for hope is still a friend,
“As dear to our poor kind,
As those who claim superior wealth,
“And nobleness of mind.
“But if there is, in race refin'd,
“The nobleness they claim,
“They will respect our free-born kind,
“And keep our valiant name.
“'Tis fame our sages ever sought,
“Amid life-thorns and flowers;
“And though dominion flies our grasp,
“Still glory shall be ours.
“The Indian name—the Indian name,
“The Indian name shall live,
“And they who prest us sorest, still.
“Our warmest plaudit give.
“Return, my son! thy wife—thy child,
“Thy own dear native sod,
“Still love:—exert thy earnest force,
“And leave the rest to God.”
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