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130

CANTO FOURTH.

As when long ling'ring on some lonely cliff
Of stormy Hebrid, or where rocky Hoy
Heaves with unbanner'd brow, a mighty mass
Like tow'ring pyramid, whose apex gleams
With magic lustre, like the ancient lance
Of some Norse chieftain, summoning the force
Of scatter'd Orcades; or from the crest
Of dread Ronaldi, which like eaglet proud
Soars o'er North-Maven, wreathing round his crest
Those dazzling sun-beams, which but faintly smile
On wintry Zetland, with abstracted gaze
Some anxious wand'rer eyes the tossing main
Lash'd by a recent tempest, and descries
The frequent-floating wreck, and swollen corse
Borne on the angry surge, till his sad heart
Shuddering within his tortur'd bosom loathes
The awful prospect, thus my spirit shrinks
From scenes of cruelty! Cold horror creeps
Over my sick'ning frame, and my dim eye

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Turns from the glare of carnage, turns from those
Who knew the law of mercy, yet effac'd
Its precepts with their swords. Once more it seeks
The outcast Indian, who hath never heard
His Saviour's will.
—It seeks, but he is gone!
Like the light vapour trembling o'er the lakes
He vanishes! No more his fishing line
Breaks the fair surface of thy chrystal breast,
Ontario! nor his rapid bark descends
The rolling Hudson. Silent is the shout
Of the glad hunter, in the forest shades
Of Susquehannah. What has crush'd the pride
Of great Potomac's chieftain? What has swept
The mighty Mohawk,

Ever since the settlement of this country by the Europeans, the Mohawks have been noted for their fierceness, and the terror they inspired among the surrounding tribes. Their original territory was in the vicinity of Hudson's river, though they have now removed to the countries under the British jurisdiction. At the period of Capt. Smith's history, which was published in London in 1627, they are mentioned as “a great nation, and very populous.” Gookin's “Historical Collections of the Indians of New-England,” bearing date in 1692, contains the following testimony to the warlike and imposing character of this tribe. “These Mohawks, or Maquas, are given to rapine and spoil, and hostility with the neighbouring Indians. In truth, they were, in time of war, so great a terror to our Indians, even though ours were far more in number than they, that the appearance of four or five Mohawks in the woods would frighten them from their habitations and corn-fields, and reduce many of them to get together into forts, by which means they were brought to straits and poverty. For they were driven from their planting-fields through fear, and from their fishing and hunting places; yea, they durst not go into the woods to seek roots and nuts to sustain life. To sum up all concerning them, you may see that they are a stout and cruel people, much addicted to bloodshed and barbarity; and very prone to vex and spoil the peaceable Indians.”

and fierce Delaware

“The Delawares, or Leni Lenape Indians,” says the Rev. Mr. Heckewelder, “according to the traditions handed down to them by their ancestors, resided many hundred years ago, in a very distant country, in the western part of the American continent. They afterwards emigrated, and settled on the four great rivers, Delaware, Hudson, Susquehannah, and Potomac, making the Delaware, to which they gave the name of Lenapewihittuck (the river or stream of the Lenape) the centre of their possessions. The word Hittuck, in the language of the Delawares, means a “rapid stream.” “Sipo, or Sepu, is their word for river.” The Delawares, who were formerly very fierce and powerful, have greatly decreased in numbers, but still retain their ancient courage, and are considered an intelligent and respectable tribe.


From their own realms? Why is thy boundless vale,
Shenandoah, tenantless? Thy silver wave,
Bold Rappahannock, why does it reflect
No more, those dark red features?
Hear ye not
A sighing spirit from that distant bourn
Whence there is no return, as if the winds
Moan'd deep and hollow thro' some broken arch
With mould'ring moss o'ergrown!—

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“Oh! ye who tread
O'er our forgotten ashes, who behold
Our sons renounce their birthright, and forsake
The shade of buried glory, ye have rest
Their ancient freedom, can ye lead their souls
To liberty and light? Their heritage
On earth ye cancel; oh! provide a home
In future worlds. Life's pilgrimage to them
Is darkness; will ye lend that lamp which gilds
The vale of death? To them, the hand of Time
Yields but the cup of sorrow; can ye guide
To a sure refuge on the hastening shores
Of dread Eternity?”
Behold the appeal
Already heeded! As the gleaming bow
Paints its soft emerald on the fading storm,
Presage of calmness, thus thro' dusky clouds
A heavenly radiance sheds its infant beams,
And the dark desert smiles. Thine eye beheld
Its dawn, meek Eliot!

This excellent man, who is usually styled the Apostle of the Indians, felt his benevolence excited by their wretchedness, at a time when they were generally considered objects of contempt and of degradation. He was the minister of Roxbury, in Massachusetts, and added, in the year 1646, to his parochial duties, the office of spiritual teacher of the natives. In this he persevered both with firmness and delight, notwithstanding the features of enthusiasm, which his design assumed to a generation, not familiar, like our own, with the energies of missionary exertion. “In this work,” says Gookin, a contemporary writer, “did this good man industriously travel for many years, without external encouragement from man, or the receiving of any salary or reward. The truth is, that Mr. Eliot engaged in this laborious work of preaching to the Indians, on a very pure and sincere account.” In answer to those who questioned him with expressions of surprize respecting his undertaking, he gives as reasons, his desire of making God known to those miserable heathen, his ardent affection for them and his wish to conform to the promise which New-England had made the king in return for her Charter, “to communicate the gospel to the natives, as one principal end of determining to plant in their country.” It is remarked by another historian, that after more intimate acquaintance with the original customs and traditions of the Indians, Eliot traced such frequent resemblances to the ancient Israelites, that he could not but indulge the supposition of their affinity, and he adds, “the fatigue of his labour went on the more cheerfully, or at least the more hopefully, because of such probabilities.”

with enraptur'd glance

Of gratitude intense, as mark'd the Seer
From Pisgah's hallow'd cliff, the glorious scene
Of Israel's heritage; tho' o'er his path
The sable wings of Death's dark angel wav'd

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In shadowy gloom. Like that blest prototype,
Thou too didst strive to rend the tyrant chain
Of heathen bondage, urge the chrystal stream
Forth from the flinty rock, to famish'd souls
Impart the bread of Heaven; and as he bade
The writhing victims of the scorpion gaze
On their mysterious healer, thou didst point
The eye of Satan's miserable prey
Up to the Crucified. Thou too didst give
The holy tables of th' eternal Law,
Not with the awe of Sinai's wrath announc'd,
Deep earthquakes, thund'ring voices, lightning's flame
Insufferable; but silver'd with the tinge
Of the mild gospel's brightness. From thy brow
Darted no beam unearthly, which the throng
Dar'd not approach, no mandate stern proclaim'd
“This do, or die:” but thy redeeming scroll
In gentler dispensation, meekly trac'd
With sacred pen, inspir'd the message kind,

Mather, in his Magnalia, affirms, that Eliot completed the whole translation of the Bible into the language of the Indians, entirely with one pen, which he consecrated to that holy office. After his acquisition of this language, which was attended with many difficulties, he composed a grammar of it, and translated such a number of treatises on Practical Piety, that a small library was soon formed for those who had never before seen their barbarous articulations arrested or arranged. Through his instrumentality some of the most promising native youths were educated at Cambridge, where they became regular graduates. For their assistance in their preparatory studies, he translated some scientific essays, and works explaining more abstruse points in Theology. But what he had most at heart was an entire Indian bible. The New Testament, which was printed in 1661, with a dedication to King Charles II, was the first edition of the Scriptures ever published in America. A Society for aiding in the propagation of the Gospel among our aborigines, was about this period incorporated in London, and some letters are preserved from the venerable Eliot, to the Hon. Robert Boyle, its Governor, who had furnished some assistance in the expense of publishing the Old Testament. In one of them the faithful and meek Apostle, thus expresses his gratitude and his christian perseverance. “Your charity hath greatly revived and refreshed us. The great work that I now travail about is the printing of the Old Testament, that they may have the whole Bible. They are importunately desirous of it. I desire to see it done before I die, and I am already so deep in years, that I cannot expect to live long. Besides, we have but one man, the Indian printer, who is able to compare the sheets, and correct the press, with understanding. As soon as I received the sum of near £ 40 for the bible work, I presently set it on foot, and am now in Leviticus. I have added some part of my salary, to keep up the work, and many more things I might mention, as reasons of my urgency in this matter.”


“My children, love each other.”
Not in vain,
Apostle of the Gentiles! was thy toil,
Nor on the light breath of the erring winds
Thy supplications lost. The deep-drawn sigh

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Of thy departing soul

The venerable Eliot attained a great age, and his exertions and example were to the last consistent with ardent piety, and disinterested benevolence. Like Polycarp, he might have said, “eighty and six years have I served my Lord Jesus Christ.” As his soul gently departed, his expiring lips uttered the request, “Lord! revive and prosper thy gospel among the Indians, and grant it to live when I am dead.” How would his pious spirit have rejoiced, could it have looked through the mists of time, and traced the accomplishment of this fervent desire. Much had been performed by him, for the spiritual instruction of the natives, the correction of their vices; the establishment of family-prayer, and the foundation of regular societies for religious worship. The first Church ever gathered among the wanderers of the forest, was at Natick, in 1651. Connected with this, was a humble attempt, at civil government; for they were permitted to hold jurisdiction over slight offences. Mr. Eliot assisted them in appointing rulers over hundreds, fifties and tens, according to the model in the 18th of Exodus, which he explained to his approving auditors. He gave them also the following form, which may be considered as the first imitation of the ancient Theocracy of Israel.

“We are the sons of Adam, and with our forefathers have a long time been lost in our sins. But now the mercy of God beginneth to find us out. Therefore, the grace of Christ helping us, we do give ourselves and our children unto God to be his people. He shall rule all our affairs. The Lord is our Judge, the Lord is our Lawgiver, the Lord is our King, he will save us. The wisdom which God hath taught us in his book shall guide us. Oh! Jehovah, teach us wisdom. Send thy spirit into our hearts. Take us to be thy people, and let us take thee to be our God.”

rose with its flight

To the approving Throne, that God would grant
Thy churches in the wilderness to live
When thou wert dead. Then other pious hearts
Pitied the outcasts; other guides appear'd
To lead the shepherdless. The Mayhews rose,

The name of Mayhew, is still embalmed with gratitude, by the remnant of aboriginal population on the island of Martha's Vineyard. The ministry of these benefactors of wretchedness commenced about the year 1648, in the person of the Rev. Thomas Mayhew, son to the governor of that island. Both father and son had acquired the language of the Indians, and upon the death of the latter in the ninth year of his missionary labours, the venerable parent assumed the falling mantle of the younger prophet, and until the advanced age of 93, continued his spiritual instructions, and benevolent deeds to a despised race. Such peculiar success attended their exertions, that 1500 natives were numbered as the fruits of their holy toil. Others of their descendants inherited the same disinterested and pious spirit, and condescended to seek in the wilderness those lost sheep who had never heard the call of the Shepherd, or the promise of a fold.


Clad in the armour of the Prince of Peace,
To cope with the proud spirit of the world,
Thron'd on high places. The poor Indians hail'd
Their holy footsteps, and the Island vine
Planted by them, in thick'ning clusters breath'd
Salvation's fragrance.
Dying Mitark

One of the chief Sachems, or princes of Martha's Vineyard, by the name of Mitark, who had embraced christianity, died in the beginning of the year 1683. The day before his decease, Mr. John Mayhew, who attended him, inquired concerning his hope, and the dying chief answered, “I have hope in God, that when my soul departeth out of this body, he will send his angels to conduct it to himself, and to dwell with Jesus Christ.” Then with great earnestness he exclaimed,—“Where that everlasting glory is! As for my reasons: I have had many wrongs of enemies, of whom I have sought no revenge, neither retained evil in thought, word, or deed. Therefore expect I the same from God. But I proceed no further, for He is merciful. It is now seven nights since I was taken sick, and not yet have I asked of God to live longer in this world. Here are some benefits to be enjoyed, also many troubles to be endured: yet with respect to the hope I have in God, am I willing to die. Here am I in pain, there I shall be freed from all pain, and enjoy the rest that never endeth.” Pointing to his three daughters, he said “and you my daughters, if you lose your father, mourn not for him. Rather mourn for yourselves, and for your sins. Mourn not for me, though you are unwilling to spare me, and I might be helpful to you by living longer in this world, yet to die, is far better for me.”—

Magnalia Christi Americani. Vol. ii.
blest

Their faithful ministry, when his spent breath
Welcom'd that messenger which bore his soul
Where Mercy, higher than the sinner's hope,
Prepares his mansion. Nor this Prince alone,
Bore witness to the ardour of their zeal;
Flocks sought their fold, and from the tempest's pow'r
And lion's wrath, found shelter. At their words,
Reasoning of righteousness, of temperance,
And judgment-doom, the fount of penitence
O'er rugged features pour'd a tearful tide

It has been urged among the objections against sending the gospel to our aborigines, that their prejudices and hardness of heart must interpose insuperable obstacles to its progress. Yet the penitence and humility with which they received the religious instructions of their earlier teachers were remarkable. It was observed of the venerable Eliot, that his heart was affected, “to see what floods of tears fell from the eyes of those degenerate savages, yea, from the worst of them all, at the first addresses which he made to them.” A contemporary divine, who had witnessed their mode of worship, states, “we saw and heard them perform their duties with such grave and sober countenances, such comely reverence in their gesture, and whole carriage, and with such plenty of tears trickling down the cheeks of many of them, as did argue that they felt the holy fear of God: and it much affected our hearts.”


New and profuse. Thus gush'd in later days,

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In rapid course, the heart's unwonted stream,
Washing white channels down the dusky cheeks
Of Cornwall's collier throng, when Whitfield's voice
With daring eloquence, first taught the soul
To startle at her danger. Thus they toil'd,
In happy unison. But from the Sire
The Son is sever'd. His majestic form
Veil'd in dim distance, drooping seems to pass
Neath the devouring wave.

The Rev. Thomas Mayhew, Jun. the first of that benevolent family who commenced preaching to the natives, undertook a voyage to England, in 1647, on business connected with his mission. But no intelligence of the vessel in which he embarked, was ever received. This affliction was deeply deplored by his family, by the church, and by the grateful Indians whose affections he had so strongly engaged, that for many years his name was seldom mentioned even by the younger and more thoughtless of them without tears. May we not apply to this excellent and lamented man, those beautiful lines in Milton's Lycidas?

“Thus sinks the day-star in the Ocean-bed!
But then anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the eastern sky.
Thus Lycidas sank low, but mounted high
Through the dear might of Him who walk'd the waves.”
With hoary locks

Swept by the winds, the lonely father roves,
Pale, in suspended Hope, while his fix'd eye
Questions th' unanswering surge. But faith uplifts
That eye, mild whisp'ring what sustain'd the heart
Of Nazianzen's sire, “Thy son hath gone,
To take possession of that fair estate
Which thou hast gain'd in Heaven.”
The natives wept
O'er their kind Prophets' graves; but the wild blast
Rent not their falling mantle. Others wrapt
Its silvery folds around them, and imbib'd
Its hidden spirit. Brainerd woke in youth,

The labours of this distinguished missionary to the aborigines of our country, the hardships, the self-devotion, the depths of humility, the high aspirations of piety, which his short period of twenty nine years comprised, are familiar to every mind versed in the history of man's benevolence to man. His creed was founded on what the venerable Dr. Milner styles “the primitive tastes of christianity, to believe, to suffer, and to love.” Among the trophies of his victory, by which having past the gates of death, he “yet speaketh,” may we not number the event, that from the perusal of his life, sprang that emulation which “baptized by prayer,” dictated the choice, and sublimated the career of Henry Martyn? The closing sentences of Sargent, his animated biographer, will express the merits of that distinguished man, whose memory is embalmed in the churches. “Martyn followed the steps of Zeigenbalg in the old world, and of Brainerd in the new; and while he walks with them in white, for he is worthy, he speaks, by his example, to us who are still in our warfare and pilgrimage on earth. For surely as long as England shall be celebrated for that pure and apostolical Church, of which he was so great an ornament; as long as India shall prize that which is more precious to her than all her gems and gold, the name of the subject of this memoir, as a translator of the Scriptures and of the Liturgy, will not wholly be forgotten: and while some shall delight to gaze upon the splendid sepulchre of Xavier, and others choose rather to ponder over the granite stone which covers all that is mortal of Swartz, there will not be wanting those who will think of the humble and unfrequented grave of Henry Martyn, and be led to imitate those works of mercy which have followed him into the world of light and love.”


To search for the neglected, and to lead
The wandering blind. His self-devoting zeal
Shrunk not at hardship, at the withering blast

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Of wan Disease, at Disappointment's frown,
Nor at those deeper sorrows which depress
The mourning soul, when thro' impervious gloom
She seeks that Everlasting Friend, who seems
To have forsaken her. Around his life
Strong bonds by friendship and by love were drawn,
But rising o'er those ties, the list'ning youth
Heard 'mid the silence of his midnight prayer
The angel's salutation, “Spirit, rise!
Pure Spirit; haste to us!” and who could blame
The mortal, if that seraph melody
Prevail'd?
Nor yet did early days confine
That generous ardour. Like the rushing wind
And tongue of flame, those high, mysterious gifts
Of Pentecost, it rested on a few,
And mark'd them from the world.
Heckewelder toil'd,
Girt with his Master's patience,

The work entitled “An account of the history, manners and customs of the Indian Nations, who once inhabited Pennsylvania, and the neighbouring states,” by the Rev. John Heckewelder of Bethlehem, sufficiently proves the compassionate interest which had prompted the exertions, and directed the pen of the Author. “In what I have written,” he affirms, “concerning the character, customs, manners and usages of this people, I cannot have been deceived, since it is the result of personal knowledge, what I have myself seen, heard, and witnessed while residing among and near them, for more than thirty years.” Of the Lenni Lenapi, or Delaware tribe, he has collected a great number of interesting facts. These were the natives who first received the European settlers upon the island of New York, welcoming their arrival with an alacrity and reverence, which the gift of prescience would have changed into aversion and terror. Mr. Heckewelder, after describing the extent of territory and degree of prosperity which they then enjoyed, says, “On a sudden they are checked in their career, by a phenomenon they had till then never beheld; immense canoes arriving at their shores, filled with people of a different colour, language, dress and manners, from themselves. In their astonishment they call out to one another, ‘Behold! the Gods are come to visit us!’ They at first considered these wonderful beings, as messengers of peace, sent from the abode of the Great Spirit, and therefore employed their time in preparing and making sacrifices to that Great Being, who had so highly honoured them. Lost in amazement, fond of the enjoyment of this novel spectacle, and anxious to know the result, they were unmindful of those matters which hitherto had taken up their minds, and formed the object of their pursuits; they thought of nothing else but the wonders which now struck their eyes, and were constantly employed in endeavouring to divine this great mystery. Such is the manner in which they relate that event: the strong impression of which is not yet obliterated from their minds.”

while slow years

Stamp'd changes on his brow. Kind Advocate
Of the despis'd Lenápe, thou didst dare
Like Howard, bold philanthropist, to “take
Misery's dimensions, and the guage of scorn,
Depression and contempt, to seek the cell

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Of the forsaken, and with pitying heart
Remember the forgotten.”
Mid the band
Who visited the desolate, and bore
Glad tidings to the lost, one Man of God
Journey'd at closing day. Deep shadows stretch'd
Their length'ning cones to veil his vent'rous path,
And in stern majesty, those stately oaks,
Whose interwoven branches sought the clouds,
Frown'd darker still. The silence of his path
Invited lonely musing, and the truths
Of his blest mission, passing o'er his heart,
Gave joy to solitude. But a rude sound
Disturb'd his meditations, as the gale
Of Summer's sudden wrath disperses wide
The flowers, whose petals tranquilly were clos'd
Around their dewy treasures. Wild it rush'd
From a high cliff, which like some ruin'd arch
Seem'd with its mould'ring pediment to threat
Th' unwary traveller.
From that steep which seem'd
No path for human foot, fierce, heavy steps
Came boldly down. The thicket foliage parts,
And thro' the sever'd curtain stalk'd a form

138

Of mighty size. Not with a prouder port
Rush'd red King Philip to the battle strife,
Hurling defiance. His distorted brow
Seem'd scath'd with lightning, tho' his temples bore
The frosts of Age. His giant arm he rear'd
In threat'ning gesture, while a hollow voice
Utter'd its thunders—
“Whither goest thou?
Son of the Ocean foam!”

“The Indians at first imagined that the white men originally sprang from the sea, and invaded their country, because they had none of their own. They sometimes called them in their songs, the “white foam of the Ocean,” and this name is still applied contemptuously by the aborigines of the North-West.”—

Prophet of Alleghany.

“I go, to speak
Salvation to thy race, and bear the word
That breathes good will and peace.” Indignant fire,
Flashing from the grim Chieftain's eye, announc'd
His kindled wrath—
“What peace thou bring'st I know!
Such as we found, when from thy serpent glance
We shrunk away, and all our countless tribes
Faded, like morning mist. Good-will thou bear'st?
We find it in the grave! It marshals there
Our murder'd warriors. There was once a time
Of happiness for Indians, ere thy race
Invaded their retreat. Freely they roam'd
Hunting the beaver, and the dun wild deer
In their own forests. Then thy fathers sprang

139

Forth from the slippery surge, and their pale brows
Smote us like pestilence. Infernal arms
They wielded, like the thunder-bolt surcharg'd
With fatal fires. In war, we were their prey,
As beasts for slaughter, and in peace their sport,
The victims of their poison. Mighty Chiefs
And fearless hunters, who like blasts had swept
The trembling mountains, dar'd th' unequal fight
And perish'd. Our degen'rate race became
Slaves to intemperance, hiding in disgrace
A wither'd name. Hence then, contagious man!
Leave us what still is ours! Leave us our gods,
Our savage virtues! Leave the blighted hopes
That cling around our hearts! Spare these rude plants,
Those only wrecks that have withstood the storm
Of your destructive friendship.”
In dark shades
Vanish'd the Chief majestic, with such speed
As whirlwinds trace the desert. Calmly past
The man of God, revolving with meek thought
His holy purpose, while a pray'r besought
Strength 'gainst the potent Spirit of the Air,
Who, like a Prince, doth rule the wayward sons
Of disobedience. As the Shepherd seeks

140

The lost and wandering sheep, this good man sought
The scatter'd Senecas; with tender zeal,
Or admonition blent with terror, strove
To rouse the stupid, to alarm the bold,
T' illume the ignorant. A little flock,
Drawn from the wilderness, his call obey'd,
Following his footsteps in the patient course
Of Christian duty. Forty moons had shed
A varying lustre o'er their shelter'd path,
From verdant pasture to translucent stream,
Where their souls found repose.
At length, a cloud
Involv'd their sanctu'ry; its simple court
Was desolate. None enter'd there with songs
Of sacred joy, no kneeling sufferer sigh'd
In penitence: but solitary sat
Their pensive Pastor, while the Sabbath call
No more was heeded. Now and then he mark'd
Some lonely wanderer, stealing near the spot
Which prayer had hallow'd, gazing as in grief,
Then gliding slow away. Thus the sad race
Of subjugated Judah, bent the glance
Of speechless, hopeless, agonizing woe,
On that beloved city, which their step

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Dar'd not approach.

“The remnant of the Jewish nation having again rebelled, Adrian completed the destruction of what Titus had left standing in ancient Jerusalem. On the ruins of the city of David, he erected another town, to which he gave the name of Ælia Capitolinus; he forbade the Jews to enter it upon pain of death, and caused the figure of a hog, in sculpture, to be placed upon the gate leading to Bethlehem. St. Gregory Nazianzen nevertheless relates, that the Jews were permitted to enter Ælia once a year to give vent to their sorrows; and St. Jerome adds that they were forced to purchase at an exorbitant price the right of shedding tears over the ashes of their country.”—

Chateaubriand's Travels, in Greece, Palestine, Egypt and Barbary.
The wond'ring Teacher sought

His erring charge, and with an anxious zeal
Painted the terrors of the day of God
To those who slight his mercy, who reject
The knowledge of salvation. Struck with awe
The recreants wept, but ling'ring doubt maintain'd
A darken'd influence.
—“Ah!” they cried, “fierce wrath
Burneth against us. Deeply have we wrong'd
Our Fathers' God. From those tremendous cliffs
Where Alleghany wounds the streaming cloud,
A Prophet hath he sent, denouncing woe
On us Apostates. Our sad chiefs have nam'd
A day of audience, when this fearful man
Bearing his message, shall denounce the ire
Of the great Spirit.” The meek Teacher paus'd,
Rememb'ring how the servants, one by one,
Forsook his Master and his Lord, who stood
Abandon'd and alone.
Then he replied
In that kind tone, with which griev'd Love reproves;—
“I to this audience go, if ye permit;
I, all deserted by my cherish'd flock
Will meet that Prophet, and declare the words

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Of the Chief Shepherd.” The appointed time
Arriv'd, when sceptic Fear no more might halt
Between the Christian's God, and that false name
Whom Pagans worship. Church, nor council-house
Might hold the multitude,

The assembly who were to hear this interesting question decided, met in a beautiful vale, about eight miles to the westward of the Seneca Lake, on the 12th of June 1802. The tribe of Senecas, or Senekas, originally belonged to that powerful confederation of Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, and Cayugas, which existed at the first arrival of the Europeans. They now inhabit the territory on the banks of the Gennesee river; and the eastern shores of Lake Erie: and among their peculiar customs which point to ancient Israel, is that of annually sacrificing a white dog, as if in rude imitation of the paschal lamb. The celebrated orator, Red Jacket, belongs to them; but his name in their language is far more appropriate than this vulgar appellation, being Tsckuycaathaw, or “the Man who keeps you awake.”

so vast a throng

Came flocking to behold th' important die
Cast, that involv'd their fate. Gay Summer's pride
Had rob'd an ample vale, whose circling bound
Was crown'd by hills. There graceful foliage droop'd,
And o'er its bosom wound a limpid stream,
Like sparkling, chrystal zone. Thither they went.
Beneath the shade of an embow'ring elm
Whose pendant branches met the silent tide,
The Chieftains rang'd. Deep thought was on their brow,
As those whose minds revolv'd a nation's fate.
The people gather'd near, with anxious looks
Regarding their wise men, while the mute gaze
Of agoniz'd suspense, seem'd to inquire
“Which was the God?” as wavering Pilate's lips
Demanded, “What is Truth?”
Lone in the midst
Of this wild circle, with unruffled brow
Sat the good Missionary. Age and Toil
Had set their signet on him. Travel and Care

143

Trac'd channels for the tear, and surrow'd deep
Those sunken temples, where a few white hairs
Spread their disrupted shield.
An hope sublime
Beam'd from his lifted eye, which seem'd in prayer
Fix'd and expectant, that the God of Truth
Would vindicate his servant. Silence reign'd
Breathless and long, save where the trembling boughs
Sigh'd to the south-wind, or the rippling tide
Half murmur'd. Suddenly a smother'd sound
Like deep Astonishment, or moaning Fear,
Broke from the multitude. Down the rough steep
Was seen descending a tremendous form
With frantic haste. His lifted hand he wav'd
Commanding silence, and the wailing ceas'd,
As if in Death. With countenance serene
The Missionary mark'd him, and beheld
In Alleghany's Seer, the same stern Chief
Who with mysterious step had cross'd his path
In Tuscarora's forests. The same skin
Of the wild panther from his shoulders hung
In careless drapery, quivered in his hand
The same keen tomahawk, from his red eye

144

Darted the same malignant glance, inflam'd
With rage like frenzy. Chill'd to icy awe
The natives listen'd, while the valley rang
With his hoarse voice, “Men of the Forest! Hear!
Thus saith the Mighty Spirit. Ye were mine,
But have forsaken me. Once o'er this land
Your fathers reign'd, lords of the treasur'd deep,
And of the peopled forest. To their sons
They left the inheritance. But I behold
Steps of Usurpers desolate those paths,
And hear your hunting-fields resound the stroke
Of their destructive axe! Why have ye fled
From the delights of the luxuriant shore
To swamps and barren hills? crouching to hold
Ev'n this polluted pittance, at the will
Of the vile white Man! To my ears no more
Rises the shout of war from Hudson's banks,
Or revelry from Mohawk's silver tide.
There, where your Fathers, free as the wild winds,
That rock'd their mountains, dwelt, the Christian slave
Drives his deep surrow, whistling as he turns
Forth from the trembling, violated grave,
Their sacred relics. Have ye never heard

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At closing day, or in the solemn watch
Of midnight, a melodious, plaintive strain
Stealing from lonely vale, or hillock side,
Like Echo's cadence? 'Twas the wailing tone
Of your departed fathers; they whose bones
These merciless invaders leave to bleach
By tempest and by blast. It calls their sons
By deeds of righteous vengeance to restore
The wand'ring spirit to its bow'rs of bliss:
For there it may not rest, if aught disturb
The mouldering body's sleep, or violate
Its sepulchre. This voice invokes the brave,
The mighty, the invincible, in vain;
For none are left. Behold! what glorious gifts
Ye owe to white men. What good-will and peace
They shed upon you! Exile and the sword!
Poisons and rifled sepulchres! and see!
They fain would fill the measure of their guilt
With the dark cheat of that accursed faith
Whose precepts justify their nameless crimes,
Your countless woes. Hearken, deluded race!
Hearken, for the last time! If ye persist
Thus to desert my altars, thus to choose
With mad credulity th' oppressor's God,

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And follow Him, my wrath shall follow you.
My forked lightnings 'mid your blazing towns
Fiercely shall dart, and Winter's warring blast
Devour the fugitives. Intemperance
Shall bloat your frames, gaunt Famine thin your ranks,
Till the surviving wretches, plunging deep
And deeper in the wild, submit to hold
Communion with the dastard beasts that fled
Their fathers' arrows. From the blissful isle
In that pure lake, where happy spirits hold
Eternal pastime, thro' unfading fields
Hunting the gaily-branched deer, with dogs
Swifter than light, from thence the blasting curse
Shall fall on you. Ah! fear ye not the eye
Of your great ancestors—that with'ring glance
Which drinks the spirit up? By lightning's flame,
By thunder's voice, by tempest's wrath, I swear,
That in the space of sixty hasting moons,
Not one of all the Senecas, not one
Of you who hear me, one of these your babes,
Nor kindred, shall be found upon the face
Of the wide earth.”
He ceas'd, and mingled sounds
Like the hoarse rush of waters and of winds,

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Rose from the multitude. Distorting Fear
Dealt her deep ague; clamorous Ignorance
Moan'd in convulsions; Superstition glar'd
As if the death-groans of the threaten'd tribe
Already bursting on her wounded ear
Transfix'd her soul with agony; while Rage,
Kindled with breath of fiery Eloquence,
Made rashness mad. Headlong the boldest rush'd
From the torn circle, to demand the blood
Of the good Missionary. Calm he met
Their fatal purpose, nor essay'd to shun
Their iron grasp—
“Father! if thus thy voice
Call'st thy weak servant from his weary toil,
Thy will be done! Thy hand will gird his heart
To meet its martyrdom.”
Perchance the light
Which round his temples play'd, was that which beam'd
On holy Stephen's brow, when he beheld
Entranc'd, the op'ning heavens, and Jesus Christ
Sitting at God's right hand. But the grave Chiefs
Forbade th' unrighteous deed, and with a word
Rescued the victim. Forth the Man of God
Came, as in act to speak. His sacred form

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Bent for a moment in Devotion's warmth
Of gratitude to Heaven, his clasping hands
Prest on his bosom, while his mien exprest
That perfect peace, which the world's smile gives not,
Nor can her frown destroy. Near him in wrath
Stood Alleghany's prophet. It might seem
Almost, as if in solemn contrast rose,
Ebal, the mount of cursing, tow'ring dark
O'er the appall'd assembly, while the breast
Of fruitful Gerizim thro' waving shades
Sigh'd blessings on th' obedient.
That faint smile
Divinely casting intellectual light
O'er the pale features of the Man of God,
Blent with his eye's unearthly glance, convey'd
Tranquil monition that he soon should bid
Farewell to ills of Time. Then ere he spake,
Upon his foes a deep regard he cast
Of mild forgiveness; as our Saviour turn'd
And look'd on Peter. Unresisted chains
Of silence bound the circle, while a voice
Of sweetest modulation, sonorous,
Tender or plaintive, as the varying theme
Requir'd, broke forth—

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“Ah! would that I could speak
So that ye would believe, of the true God,
Whose eye is ever on us, and whose ear
Heareth our secret thoughts. His hand ye trace
In mercy on the beauteous earth; his pow'r
Ye cannot comprehend, for He alone
Is infinite. Would that my feeble mind
Could paint his Heav'n, so that ye all might seek
That blest abode, where dwell the pure in heart;
For there dire Winter comes not, sultry heat,
Nor withering famine, pain, nor parting tear,
Sickness, nor ghastly death. There the free soul
Shall drink of boundless, everlasting bliss
When yonder sun must fall, and this fair sky
Parch like a shrivell'd scroll. Ye too have heard
Of that dire place which Justice hath prepar'd
For vile, rebellious spirits. There are tears,
Wailings, unceasing groans, and tortures dire,
And troubled tossings like th' unresting sea,
While the far echoes of the songs of Heaven
Steal o'er the gulf impassable, and wake
Hopeless remorse. Think, O my brethren, think!
Of Him who freely gave his life, that Man
Might scape this sorrow, and obtain that bliss.

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Remember ye his lot of homeless woe?
His uncomplaining, unreviling life?
The thorns that pierc'd him, the deep-wounding spear?
For ye have heard his sufferings, and have wept
In better days, that He for you should bleed.
Yes! ye have knelt to thank and bless that God
Who so had lov'd the world, that he should give
His only Son to save it. Ye have said
That the wild savage roaming on in blood,
Blindness, and vengeful passions, till dark life
Sunk in a darker grave, bereft of hope,
Was far less happy than the humble saint
Bowing in patience to the bond which curbs
His sinful spirit, and with active hand
Pouring out Love on Hatred, till it melt,
And be no more remember'd. Ye have joy'd
To hear, that he might lead his little ones
Through light and knowledge to eternal rest.
Have ye not seen him grateful for this life,
Yet undismay'd at death? His spirit lov'd
The blest assurance that its short eclipse
Should fleet before the resurrection morn;
Therefore he slept in hope. Ye soon must yield
Your bodies to the worm: Oh! then believe

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What ye have once believ'd, for that was truth.
Behold, as the frail Day-beam hastes to lay
Its fainting head on Twilight's dusky lap,
So fades our life. Return, ye wand'ring flock!
That He, who is so plenteous to forgive,
May turn to you. And now, Eternal Judge!
What wait I for? Look thou upon my heart,
And see if love for those whom thou hast made,
Led me from sweet delights of home, to bear
Here in my age, when Nature seeks repose,
Journeyings and watchings in the wilderness,
Perils and dangers. Thou alone canst read
The Missionary's motive, which the world
Oft misinterprets. Lord, into thy hand
Commend I thine own cause.”
Bowing he ceas'd,
But Silence listen'd: fond Expectancy
Still linger'd mute, so soothing fell the balm
On harrow'd bosoms. Thus the genial show'r
And holy dew, refresh the sterile earth
Parch'd by long drought, or by tornado stript
Of her young verdure. O'er rough features mark'd
By recent passions, stole the contrite tear,
Strange, yet unheeded. Long the Chieftains held

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Their solemn conclave, ere the question high
Might be decided. 'Mid that awful pause,
Fears, apprehensions, terrors, anxious hopes,
Convuls'd the throng. The second hour had drawn
Its tardy length, when from the council came
Its hoariest Chieftain. On his head he bore
The crown of Age, and leaning on his staff
Utter'd the words of wisdom—
“That great God,
Whom Christians call Jehovah, is more just,
Mighty, beneficent, worthy of praise,
Than him your Fathers worshipp'd. So receive
The Christian's God: and in his servant view
Your guide to Heaven.”
Then, the adoring tribe,
As a thick forest to some mighty wind
Pays universal rev'rence, bow'd the head
And worshipp'd God. Thus witness'd Carmel's mount
Such solemn homage, when in ancient time
Backsliding Israel saw the priests of Baal
Humbled, and awful fires confirm the claim
Of the majestic Prophet: He who stood
Lonely and fearless, to confront the wrath
Of impious Jezebel's demoniac throng,

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He, who on car of flame, like glowing star
High o'er the empyrean rising, mark'd
A glorious path, shunning the gloomy gates
Of Death's dark confine.
When that hoary Chief
Had utter'd the decree, who may describe
What fierce demoniac rage possest the Seer
Of Alleghany? His red eye-ball roll'd
As if in torment, while thro' gnashing teeth
He strove with madd'ning impotence to force
The curse unutterable, and bounding high
With brandish'd Tomahawk, as if he scorn'd
The soil of such apostates, disappear'd
Mid the deep forest shadows.