 | Indian melodies |  |
13
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.
14
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?
15
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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