 | Indian melodies |  |
INDIAN LAMENTS.
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I.
GEEHALE:
AN INDIAN LAMENT.
The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore,
As sweetly and gaily as ever before,
For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie,
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly.
The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright,
And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light,
As it ever reflected, or ever express'd,
When my skies were the bluest—my dreams were the best.
The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night,
Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light,
And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track,
For they know that their mates are expecting them back.
Each bird and each beast, it is blest in degree,
All nature is cheerful—all happy but me.
As sweetly and gaily as ever before,
For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie,
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly.
The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright,
And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light,
As it ever reflected, or ever express'd,
When my skies were the bluest—my dreams were the best.
The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night,
Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light,
And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track,
For they know that their mates are expecting them back.
Each bird and each beast, it is blest in degree,
All nature is cheerful—all happy but me.
I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair,
I will paint me with black and will sever my hair:—
I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows,
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes:—
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed,
For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead;
But they died not by hunger, or ling'ring decay,
The steel of the white man hath swept them away.
I will paint me with black and will sever my hair:—
I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows,
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes:—
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed,
For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead;
But they died not by hunger, or ling'ring decay,
The steel of the white man hath swept them away.
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This snake skin, that once I so sacredly wore,
I will toss with disdain on the storm-beaten shore,
Its charms I no longer obey or invoke,
Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke.
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light,
I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night,
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves,
And will take a new manito—such as shall seem
To be kind and propitious in every dream.
Oh, then, I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes.
I shall wash from my face every peace-colour'd stain,
Red, red! shall alone on my visage remain.
I will dig up my hatchet and bend my oak bow,
By night and by day, I will follow the foe;
No lake shall repress me—no mountain oppose,
His blood can alone give my spirit repose.
I will toss with disdain on the storm-beaten shore,
Its charms I no longer obey or invoke,
Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke.
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light,
I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night,
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves,
And will take a new manito—such as shall seem
To be kind and propitious in every dream.
Oh, then, I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes.
I shall wash from my face every peace-colour'd stain,
Red, red! shall alone on my visage remain.
I will dig up my hatchet and bend my oak bow,
By night and by day, I will follow the foe;
No lake shall repress me—no mountain oppose,
His blood can alone give my spirit repose.
They came to my cabin when heaven was black,
I heard not their coming—I knew not their track,
But I saw by the light of their blazing fusees,
They were people engender'd beyond the big seas.
My wife and my children—oh spare me the tale,—
But who is there left, that is kin to Geehale?
I heard not their coming—I knew not their track,
But I saw by the light of their blazing fusees,
They were people engender'd beyond the big seas.
My wife and my children—oh spare me the tale,—
But who is there left, that is kin to Geehale?
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II.
ALGONAC:
ON HEARING THE REVEILLE AT THE POST OF ST. MARY'S.
From dreams short and broken, prophetic and high,
I wake in my cabin to ponder and sigh;
I think on the days when, transcendently blest,
My forefathers revelled the lords of the west;
And fired by ambition or valour severe,
They wing'd the dread arrow, or brandish'd the spear.
I think how their wisdom, their skill, and their might,
Prevail'd in the council, the chase, and the fight;
And I sigh to reflect, all deprest and o'ercast,
Those ages have vanished, those glories are past.
I wake in my cabin to ponder and sigh;
I think on the days when, transcendently blest,
My forefathers revelled the lords of the west;
And fired by ambition or valour severe,
They wing'd the dread arrow, or brandish'd the spear.
I think how their wisdom, their skill, and their might,
Prevail'd in the council, the chase, and the fight;
And I sigh to reflect, all deprest and o'ercast,
Those ages have vanished, those glories are past.
But hark! from yon battlements bristled with steel,
What sounds o'er these woodlands so heavily peal?
Now rolling, re-doubling, concussive and clear,
Now striking in sharp, thrilling notes on the ear;
'Tis the signal of day for the soldier: to him
There's a joy in the music no tears ever dim;
It speaks to his feelings, his habits, his pride,
More keenly than all human language beside.
But me—far, far diff'rent sensations oppress,
It strikes on my ear like the note of distress.
Ah! how can those sounds please my kindred or me,
That remind me my nation no longer is free?
My fancy reverts to the moments so bland,
When my own native music prevail'd in the land,
And my fathers danced blithe on the oak-cover'd hill,
Far, far from the white man and all his proud skill.
What sounds o'er these woodlands so heavily peal?
Now rolling, re-doubling, concussive and clear,
Now striking in sharp, thrilling notes on the ear;
'Tis the signal of day for the soldier: to him
There's a joy in the music no tears ever dim;
It speaks to his feelings, his habits, his pride,
More keenly than all human language beside.
But me—far, far diff'rent sensations oppress,
It strikes on my ear like the note of distress.
Ah! how can those sounds please my kindred or me,
That remind me my nation no longer is free?
My fancy reverts to the moments so bland,
When my own native music prevail'd in the land,
And my fathers danced blithe on the oak-cover'd hill,
Far, far from the white man and all his proud skill.
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Day breaks in the east, but its glimmer no more
Lights hope in our bosoms, or joy on our shore.
Ah! why should its beams more illumine the cot,
Where the war-song is mute, and the war-dance forgot;
Where the bow and the arrow, the spear and the mace,
Are no more crown'd with spoils of the war and the chace?
Ah! why should not heaven, kind heaven resume
Its primitive darkness and shroud me in gloom?
Oh! fly, ye bright streaks that bedapple the morn.
Nor shine on a mortal so sunk and forlorn.
The beauties of day I no longer can see,
Night—midnight alone, is congenial to me.
Lights hope in our bosoms, or joy on our shore.
Ah! why should its beams more illumine the cot,
Where the war-song is mute, and the war-dance forgot;
Where the bow and the arrow, the spear and the mace,
Are no more crown'd with spoils of the war and the chace?
Ah! why should not heaven, kind heaven resume
Its primitive darkness and shroud me in gloom?
Oh! fly, ye bright streaks that bedapple the morn.
Nor shine on a mortal so sunk and forlorn.
The beauties of day I no longer can see,
Night—midnight alone, is congenial to me.
Ye birds, cease your warblings, my heart cannot bear
The charms that once thrill'd it, when fortune was fair,
And rous'd to the battle, on call'd to the chace,
I rov'd unconfin'd through the regions of space;
Track'd the deer to his covert, the wolf to his den,
Or mix'd in the fight with the bravest of men.
Oh! teach me, ye wise men, who broadly survey
The causes that hasten my nation's decay;
Come teach me to smile on the beauties that lie
In the bright vernal landscape—the red evening sky.
While goaded by want—by misfortune opprest,
The scorpion, slavery, is gnawing my breast.
Wabishkizzi may smile—Wabishkizzi may say,
I will teach you to read ... I will teach you to pray.
But say, when our arts, manners, customs are lost,
What then shall we cherish ... what then shall we boast?
When the war-flag is struck, and the war-drum is still,
And the council-fire glimmers no more on the hill,
Can we feel any pride, but our forefathers' pride,
To live as they lived, and to die as they died?
The charms that once thrill'd it, when fortune was fair,
And rous'd to the battle, on call'd to the chace,
I rov'd unconfin'd through the regions of space;
Track'd the deer to his covert, the wolf to his den,
Or mix'd in the fight with the bravest of men.
Oh! teach me, ye wise men, who broadly survey
The causes that hasten my nation's decay;
Come teach me to smile on the beauties that lie
In the bright vernal landscape—the red evening sky.
While goaded by want—by misfortune opprest,
The scorpion, slavery, is gnawing my breast.
Wabishkizzi may smile—Wabishkizzi may say,
I will teach you to read ... I will teach you to pray.
But say, when our arts, manners, customs are lost,
What then shall we cherish ... what then shall we boast?
When the war-flag is struck, and the war-drum is still,
And the council-fire glimmers no more on the hill,
Can we feel any pride, but our forefathers' pride,
To live as they lived, and to die as they died?
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They tell me, that blessings for me are in store,
The sage's ... saint's ... poet's ... philosopher's lore;
The comforts that labour and science bestow,
The loom and the compass, the sickle and plough!
But, ah! can they tell me where joy can abide,
Without national customs, or national pride?
The sage's ... saint's ... poet's ... philosopher's lore;
The comforts that labour and science bestow,
The loom and the compass, the sickle and plough!
But, ah! can they tell me where joy can abide,
Without national customs, or national pride?
And here my grief presses ... these ramparts so high,
White, white as the summer-cloud floats in the sky,
These walls but remind me how cruelly cast
My own native woods are encompass'd at last.
In vain 'tis averr'd , with no hostile design,
That in guarding their country, they tranquilize mine—
That they feed and they clothe, as the bleak season shifts,
(What noble soul e'er wish'd to live upon gifts!)
But whenever I look on those cannon-pierc'd walls,
A fearful sensation my bosom appals!
Whenever I see, on these once happy grounds,
The sentinel pacing his limited rounds;
Or borne down the stream, with the evening's low hum,
I hear the loud notes of the deep rolling drum;
I start from my visions—I cannot but see,
My nation! my nation! no longer is free;
That all this long muster of cannon and steel.
Though prudence may sanction, deny, or conceal,
But gleams o'er the war-path that leads to the grave,
Their object to conquer, destroy, or enslave.
White, white as the summer-cloud floats in the sky,
These walls but remind me how cruelly cast
My own native woods are encompass'd at last.
In vain 'tis averr'd , with no hostile design,
That in guarding their country, they tranquilize mine—
That they feed and they clothe, as the bleak season shifts,
(What noble soul e'er wish'd to live upon gifts!)
But whenever I look on those cannon-pierc'd walls,
A fearful sensation my bosom appals!
Whenever I see, on these once happy grounds,
The sentinel pacing his limited rounds;
Or borne down the stream, with the evening's low hum,
I hear the loud notes of the deep rolling drum;
I start from my visions—I cannot but see,
My nation! my nation! no longer is free;
That all this long muster of cannon and steel.
Though prudence may sanction, deny, or conceal,
But gleams o'er the war-path that leads to the grave,
Their object to conquer, destroy, or enslave.
Thus, rous'd from his slumbers, proud Algonac sung,
A wild, native melody dwelt on his tongue;
Then he drew up his robe, and reclin'd on the plain,
He courted his dreams and his slumbers again.
A wild, native melody dwelt on his tongue;
Then he drew up his robe, and reclin'd on the plain,
He courted his dreams and his slumbers again.
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III.
THE INDIAN'S FAREWELL
TO THE OHIO VALLEY.
Adieu to the valley—adieu to the glen,
Where I rov'd in my youth with the bravest of men,
The stream and the forest, the path and the shore,
Where so oft I have stray'd, but shall wander no more.
Loved scenes of my childhood—loved haunts of my age,
Whose sweets could delight me, whose beauties assuage,
Ye fade in the distance—ye pass from my view,
As mournfully turning, I bid you adieu.
Where I rov'd in my youth with the bravest of men,
The stream and the forest, the path and the shore,
Where so oft I have stray'd, but shall wander no more.
Loved scenes of my childhood—loved haunts of my age,
Whose sweets could delight me, whose beauties assuage,
Ye fade in the distance—ye pass from my view,
As mournfully turning, I bid you adieu.
The leaves on your forests, so stately and tall,
Are turning their hues as they wither and fall;
And borne by the winds of the brisk autumn sky,
Sere, scattered, and dead o'er the valley they fly.
Like these are my people—like these they erst sprung
Green, vigorous, blooming, and healthy, and young.
But, ah! e'er their pride of maturity came,
By chill and bleak winter blasts spoil'd of their fame;
Cut down in their greenness, all wild as they rov'd,
Ere their minds were expanded, or manners improv'd
And now like the autumn-brown foliage dry,
Swept off from their native—their once happy sky.
Still press'd by a force, we may vainly deplore,
And ne'er, lovely vale, shall I visit you more.
Are turning their hues as they wither and fall;
And borne by the winds of the brisk autumn sky,
Sere, scattered, and dead o'er the valley they fly.
Like these are my people—like these they erst sprung
Green, vigorous, blooming, and healthy, and young.
But, ah! e'er their pride of maturity came,
By chill and bleak winter blasts spoil'd of their fame;
Cut down in their greenness, all wild as they rov'd,
Ere their minds were expanded, or manners improv'd
And now like the autumn-brown foliage dry,
Swept off from their native—their once happy sky.
Still press'd by a force, we may vainly deplore,
And ne'er, lovely vale, shall I visit you more.
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Ah! bitter 's the thought when I cast in review
The cot and the stream where my breath I first drew,
The bank where in childhood I sported and play'd,
The wide open lawn, and the nut-yielding shade,
The stream where I paddled my buoyant canoe,
And the wood where my dart on the panther I drew,
The wide grassy heath, where a hunter I stray'd,
And the cool gushing fountain o'erhung with a shade.
Scenes dear to my mem'ry, as dear to my taste,
That cling round my soul, like green spots on the waste.
The cot and the stream where my breath I first drew,
The bank where in childhood I sported and play'd,
The wide open lawn, and the nut-yielding shade,
The stream where I paddled my buoyant canoe,
And the wood where my dart on the panther I drew,
The wide grassy heath, where a hunter I stray'd,
And the cool gushing fountain o'erhung with a shade.
Scenes dear to my mem'ry, as dear to my taste,
That cling round my soul, like green spots on the waste.
And still when in fancy, I lingering trace,
The riper pursuits of my wayfaring race
What visions of glory burst in on my sight,
The war-path in all its proud blazonry bright.
I see in the dark wood, the battle-fire gleam,
I hear the proud warrior's soul-startling scream;
I see the axe lifted—I hear the drum beat,
And the loud-sounding tread of the war-stirring feet,
The rush and the volley—the crash and the cry,
And the trophy triumphantly borne through the sky:
Transported, I seem to take part in the strife,
And shout with young vigour, and strike with new life.
‘On—onward,’ I cry; ‘let no recreant here
‘Put hand to his quiver, or staff to his spear;
‘Shout, sons of Jeheela’—till rous'd to behold,
I drop in myself, chilly, feeble and old;
And bent o'er my staff with emotion deep felt,
Sigh over the valley where heroes once dwelt,
And slow up the long winding hill as I tread,
My thoughts still revert to my lov'd native shed;
Where though poor, I was happy, though ignorant, blest,
For my wants were supplied, and my heart was at rest,
Once more from this hill-top, sweet valley, adieu!
I had hopes ere this tempest so recklessly blew,
In thy deep, quiet alcoves, where fancy inspires,
To lay down my bones by the side of my sires.
But the cry of the stranger rings loud in the blast,
And all my domains are allotted and cast,
And linger, and falter, and struggle, and sigh,
The fiat hath issued—the Indian must die.
The riper pursuits of my wayfaring race
What visions of glory burst in on my sight,
The war-path in all its proud blazonry bright.
I see in the dark wood, the battle-fire gleam,
I hear the proud warrior's soul-startling scream;
I see the axe lifted—I hear the drum beat,
And the loud-sounding tread of the war-stirring feet,
The rush and the volley—the crash and the cry,
And the trophy triumphantly borne through the sky:
Transported, I seem to take part in the strife,
And shout with young vigour, and strike with new life.
‘On—onward,’ I cry; ‘let no recreant here
‘Put hand to his quiver, or staff to his spear;
‘Shout, sons of Jeheela’—till rous'd to behold,
I drop in myself, chilly, feeble and old;
And bent o'er my staff with emotion deep felt,
Sigh over the valley where heroes once dwelt,
And slow up the long winding hill as I tread,
My thoughts still revert to my lov'd native shed;
Where though poor, I was happy, though ignorant, blest,
For my wants were supplied, and my heart was at rest,
Once more from this hill-top, sweet valley, adieu!
I had hopes ere this tempest so recklessly blew,
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To lay down my bones by the side of my sires.
But the cry of the stranger rings loud in the blast,
And all my domains are allotted and cast,
And linger, and falter, and struggle, and sigh,
The fiat hath issued—the Indian must die.
A spirit of ocean, the Englishman came,
Borne along in his ships and elate with his fame;
But though white was his visage and costly his dress,
We perceiv'd on that visage the stain of distress.
All humble in manner, entreating and bland,
He sat himself down on our wood-cover'd land;
But ever increasing in numbers—at length,
Hath scal'd yon blue mountains in pride of his strength,
Whence spreading with power no force can withstand,
His children encompass the ends of the land.
Every scene of our triumph, our joy and our woe,
They have marr'd with the mattock, or turn'd with the plough.
The groves they have fell'd, and the valleys embraced,
Nor e'en left my children the wide heathy waste.
Where deer once stood drinking, or buffalo low'd,
We are tax'd for way tribute by river or road,
And strange sounding echoes the wide valley fill,
The forge and the spindle, the hammer and mill.
Borne along in his ships and elate with his fame;
But though white was his visage and costly his dress,
We perceiv'd on that visage the stain of distress.
All humble in manner, entreating and bland,
He sat himself down on our wood-cover'd land;
But ever increasing in numbers—at length,
Hath scal'd yon blue mountains in pride of his strength,
Whence spreading with power no force can withstand,
His children encompass the ends of the land.
Every scene of our triumph, our joy and our woe,
They have marr'd with the mattock, or turn'd with the plough.
The groves they have fell'd, and the valleys embraced,
Nor e'en left my children the wide heathy waste.
Where deer once stood drinking, or buffalo low'd,
We are tax'd for way tribute by river or road,
And strange sounding echoes the wide valley fill,
The forge and the spindle, the hammer and mill.
Oh! vale of my fathers, and thou, noble stream!
No more on your banks shall the war-leader dream;
Or the hunter reclin'd in his cottage or grove,
Taste the sweets of repose, or the pleasures of love.
Our strength hath departed—our chieftains are gone,
They sleep in their barrows, or hillocks of stone;
E'en the graves we so cherish'd, no longer are ours,
Death's, death's chilly tempest high over us low'rs.
No more on your banks shall the war-leader dream;
Or the hunter reclin'd in his cottage or grove,
Taste the sweets of repose, or the pleasures of love.
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They sleep in their barrows, or hillocks of stone;
E'en the graves we so cherish'd, no longer are ours,
Death's, death's chilly tempest high over us low'rs.
I go where no white man shall chase me away,
No avarice covet, no falsehood betray;
Where man is no longer a lord or a slave,
For I go, sweet reflection! I go to my grave.
All lone is the precinct, and shelter'd the spot,
Where yet a few years, I shall spread my frail cot,
Then lay me down lone in that far western clod,
And return to my fathers, my home, and my God.
No avarice covet, no falsehood betray;
Where man is no longer a lord or a slave,
For I go, sweet reflection! I go to my grave.
All lone is the precinct, and shelter'd the spot,
Where yet a few years, I shall spread my frail cot,
Then lay me down lone in that far western clod,
And return to my fathers, my home, and my God.
The United States government pays a toll for every Indian who crosses the bridges of River aux Ecorces and River Rouge, in Michigan.
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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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V.
WYANOC:
ON VIEWING THE FALLS OF ST. MARY.
St. Mary's falls run swift and strong, and ever as on they go,
The waves from shore to shore prolong, a hollow sound of woe,
That sound upon mine ear doth write, the note of my tribe's decay,
That, like a running stream by night, is rapidly passing away.
The waves from shore to shore prolong, a hollow sound of woe,
That sound upon mine ear doth write, the note of my tribe's decay,
That, like a running stream by night, is rapidly passing away.
The storm that o'er it hangs is black, and gathering still apace,
And in its cold, unpitying track, shall sweep away my race.
They sink ... they pass ... they fly ... they go, like a vapour at morning dawn,
Or a flash of light, whose sudden glow, is seen ... admir'd ... and gone!
But who their martial dirge shall sing, or wake the funeral song,
Or dancing round the burning ring, each choral shout prolong?
And in its cold, unpitying track, shall sweep away my race.
They sink ... they pass ... they fly ... they go, like a vapour at morning dawn,
Or a flash of light, whose sudden glow, is seen ... admir'd ... and gone!
But who their martial dirge shall sing, or wake the funeral song,
Or dancing round the burning ring, each choral shout prolong?
There were ... there were! but they lie low, and never more shall spring,
To wield the lance, or bend the bow ... to revel, fight, or sing!
They died ... but if a red man bleeds, or fills the dreamless grave,
Shall none repeat his name ... his deeds, or tell that he was brave?
To wield the lance, or bend the bow ... to revel, fight, or sing!
They died ... but if a red man bleeds, or fills the dreamless grave,
Shall none repeat his name ... his deeds, or tell that he was brave?
Though polish'd not, my falling line, in quiet temperance grew,
And glory, pity, love divine, and many a virtue knew;
And they were free, and they were bold and they had hearts could feel,
And laugh'd at hunger, pain and cold, nor fear'd the foeman's steel.
And glory, pity, love divine, and many a virtue knew;
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And laugh'd at hunger, pain and cold, nor fear'd the foeman's steel.
But farewell all! my native woods, repeat this simple verse,
Waft far the strain, ye ample floods ... ye woody shores, rehearse.
Dear native groves and hills and streams!—my father's land and mine,
Though sunk our sun, there still are gleams, that on my bosom shine.
Cold as ye are, with boreal chills, where plenty never smiles,
More sweet to me thy fir-clad hills, than India's sunny isles.
'Tis peace that gives a nation rest ... 'tis virtue keeps it free,
These still were ours, had heaven blest, or Colon sunk at sea.
Oh, I could tell, but 'tis in vain ... and weep, but there's a vow
My tribe scorn'd ever to complain, and I disdain it now.
Waft far the strain, ye ample floods ... ye woody shores, rehearse.
Dear native groves and hills and streams!—my father's land and mine,
Though sunk our sun, there still are gleams, that on my bosom shine.
Cold as ye are, with boreal chills, where plenty never smiles,
More sweet to me thy fir-clad hills, than India's sunny isles.
'Tis peace that gives a nation rest ... 'tis virtue keeps it free,
These still were ours, had heaven blest, or Colon sunk at sea.
Oh, I could tell, but 'tis in vain ... and weep, but there's a vow
My tribe scorn'd ever to complain, and I disdain it now.
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VI.
AN INDIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT
FOR HER CHILD.
My son! my son! forever loved and lost,
Why hast thou left me on this dreary coast?
Oh, ever loved! say whither hast thou flown?
To what strange land, and people not thine own?
Ah, wretched child! so quickly torn away,
So young, so sweet, so innocently gay!
Ah, come thou loved one! come to me again,
Suppress these tears, and ease this burning pain.
Why hast thou left me on this dreary coast?
Oh, ever loved! say whither hast thou flown?
To what strange land, and people not thine own?
Ah, wretched child! so quickly torn away,
So young, so sweet, so innocently gay!
Ah, come thou loved one! come to me again,
Suppress these tears, and ease this burning pain.
Who now shall hold thy weak and tender head,
Who bring thee water? who prepare thee bread?
Who, when on high careers the icy storm,
Spread out thy mossy bed and keep thee warm?
Oh, ever loved! that I could more embrace
Thy well known form and see thee face to face,
That I could press thee to this breaking heart,
Fond, lost delight! and never—never part.
Who bring thee water? who prepare thee bread?
Who, when on high careers the icy storm,
Spread out thy mossy bed and keep thee warm?
Oh, ever loved! that I could more embrace
Thy well known form and see thee face to face,
That I could press thee to this breaking heart,
Fond, lost delight! and never—never part.
Of what avail was all my tender care,
The midnight watching and the secret prayer?
Of what avail was all my boasted powers,
My herbs narcotic and my balmy flowers?
Worse—worse than nought, since they were nought to save,
And keep thee longer from the dreary grave.
Yet why arraign my spirit? why repine?
Soon shall this earth-bound shadow follow thine,
And we together, those bright fields explore,
Where want nor pain shall vex the body more;
The troubled soul be crown'd with joy and peace,
And taste enjoyments that shall never cease.
The midnight watching and the secret prayer?
Of what avail was all my boasted powers,
My herbs narcotic and my balmy flowers?
Worse—worse than nought, since they were nought to save,
And keep thee longer from the dreary grave.
Yet why arraign my spirit? why repine?
Soon shall this earth-bound shadow follow thine,
And we together, those bright fields explore,
Where want nor pain shall vex the body more;
The troubled soul be crown'd with joy and peace,
And taste enjoyments that shall never cease.
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