 | Indian melodies |  |
16
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.
17
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,
18
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.
19
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.
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