 | The Poems of John Rollin Ridge -- A reproduction of the 1868
publication plus fugitive poems and notes. |  |
2. FUGITIVE POEMS
TO A****
I would not give one smile of thine,
For all the names renowned in story--
I'd rather press thy lips to mine,
Than wear their richest wreath of glory!
For all the names renowned in story--
I'd rather press thy lips to mine,
Than wear their richest wreath of glory!
I would not take a monarch's crown
For thy sweet voice, like dews distilling--
I'd throw the cumbrous burden down,
To meet thy warm embraces thrilling!
For thy sweet voice, like dews distilling--
I'd throw the cumbrous burden down,
To meet thy warm embraces thrilling!
The golden sun, if I could coin--
The silver moon and stars--at pleasure,
My soul and heart with thine to join,
I'd spurn as trash that heap of treasure!
The silver moon and stars--at pleasure,
My soul and heart with thine to join,
I'd spurn as trash that heap of treasure!
For thee, alas! thy winning ways,
I'd rend the ties of friend or brother,
And give one half of all my days,
If thou would'st love me thro' the other.
I'd rend the ties of friend or brother,
And give one half of all my days,
If thou would'st love me thro' the other.
[FAR IN A LONELY WOOD]*
Far in a lonely wood I wandered once,
Where warbling birds of melancholy wing
And music sad rehearsed their melancholy songs.
All else was silent save the whispering leaves
Strewn by autumnal winds, or here and there
A stream which ever poured a mournful sound
Amid those solitudes so dim, where shadows
Vast and tall, eternal threw their flickering
Darkness. Retrospection sadly turned my mind
To scenes now painted on the map of Time
Long past. And as I wandered on, I mused
On greatness fall'n, beauteous things destroyed;
When suddenly my footstep paused before
A mound of moss-grown earth. I wondered,
For a while, what mortal here had found
A resting place? But soon I minded me,
That many years agone a noble race
Had roamed these forest-wilds among and made
These mountain fastnesses rebound to shouts
Of liberty untamed, and happiness
That knew no bounds. I recollected now,
That, save but a few, they all had fled,
And, fleeing, left some bones behind; the only
Mark that this fair land was once their heritage.
By Nature's gift to her untutored sons.
Then thought I, "This must be the grave of one
Who ranked among the warriors of the
Wilderness!--And when he saw his country
Doomed, his tribe o'erthrown, and his strong arm
Grown weak before his pale-faced foes; and when
He knew the hour was come, in which his soul
Must leave the form it once had moved to noble
Deeds, and travel to the hunting-grounds, where erst
His fathers went, he here had dug his grave,
And singing wild his death-song to the wind,
Sunk down and died!"
Sleep on, dark warrior.
Whoe'er thou art! My hand shall not disturb
The slightest stem that takes its nutriment
From thee. The white man's share may plough some other
Mounds where Red men sleep, round which no mourner
Stands in watch to guard the relics of a friend;
But no rude step, and no rude hand shall e'en
Despoil the beauty of this silent spot;
Or sacrilegiously disturb the rest
Of one lone Indian form. Sleep on!
The storms that howled around thy head long,
Long ago, and tutored thy stern heart
To agony, have ceased. A thousand cities
Stand, where once thy nation's wigwam stood,
And numerous palaces of giant strength
Are floating down the streams when long ago
Thy bark was gliding. All is changed.
Then sleep thou on! Perchance this peace, denied
In life, within the lonely grave is found.
Where warbling birds of melancholy wing
And music sad rehearsed their melancholy songs.
All else was silent save the whispering leaves
Strewn by autumnal winds, or here and there
A stream which ever poured a mournful sound
Amid those solitudes so dim, where shadows
Vast and tall, eternal threw their flickering
Darkness. Retrospection sadly turned my mind
To scenes now painted on the map of Time
Long past. And as I wandered on, I mused
On greatness fall'n, beauteous things destroyed;
When suddenly my footstep paused before
A mound of moss-grown earth. I wondered,
For a while, what mortal here had found
A resting place? But soon I minded me,
That many years agone a noble race
Had roamed these forest-wilds among and made
These mountain fastnesses rebound to shouts
Of liberty untamed, and happiness
That knew no bounds. I recollected now,
That, save but a few, they all had fled,
And, fleeing, left some bones behind; the only
Mark that this fair land was once their heritage.
By Nature's gift to her untutored sons.
Then thought I, "This must be the grave of one
Who ranked among the warriors of the
Wilderness!--And when he saw his country
Doomed, his tribe o'erthrown, and his strong arm
Grown weak before his pale-faced foes; and when
He knew the hour was come, in which his soul
Must leave the form it once had moved to noble
Deeds, and travel to the hunting-grounds, where erst
His fathers went, he here had dug his grave,
And singing wild his death-song to the wind,
Sunk down and died!"
Sleep on, dark warrior.
Whoe'er thou art! My hand shall not disturb
The slightest stem that takes its nutriment
From thee. The white man's share may plough some other
Mounds where Red men sleep, round which no mourner
Stands in watch to guard the relics of a friend;
But no rude step, and no rude hand shall e'en
Despoil the beauty of this silent spot;
Or sacrilegiously disturb the rest
Of one lone Indian form. Sleep on!
The storms that howled around thy head long,
Long ago, and tutored thy stern heart
To agony, have ceased. A thousand cities
Stand, where once thy nation's wigwam stood,
And numerous palaces of giant strength
Are floating down the streams when long ago
Thy bark was gliding. All is changed.
Then sleep thou on! Perchance this peace, denied
In life, within the lonely grave is found.
[[*This]
untitled poem was signed "Yellow Bird," and dated "Osage, July 18, 1847. It was reprinted in the Arkansas Gazette, July 20, 1941.]
THE STILL SMALL VOICE*
There is a voice more dear to me
Than man or woman's e'er could be--
A "still small voice" that cheers
The woes of these my darker years.
Than man or woman's e'er could be--
A "still small voice" that cheers
The woes of these my darker years.
I hear it in the busy crowd,
Distinct, amid confusion loud;
And in the solemn midnight still,
When mem'ries sad my bosom fill.
Distinct, amid confusion loud;
And in the solemn midnight still,
When mem'ries sad my bosom fill.
I hear it midst the social glee,
A voice unheard by all but me;
And when my sudden trance is seen,
They wondering ask, what can it mean?
A voice unheard by all but me;
And when my sudden trance is seen,
They wondering ask, what can it mean?
The tones of woman once could cheer,
While woman yet to me was dear,
And sweet were all the dreams of youth,
As aught can be that wanteth truth!
While woman yet to me was dear,
And sweet were all the dreams of youth,
As aught can be that wanteth truth!
How loved in early manhood's prime,
Ambition's clarion notes sublime!
How musical the tempest's roar,
"That lured to dash me on the shore!"
Ambition's clarion notes sublime!
How musical the tempest's roar,
"That lured to dash me on the shore!"
These tones, and more all beautiful,
That did my youthful spirit lull,
Or made my bosom Rapture's throne,
Have passed away, and left me lone.
That did my youthful spirit lull,
Or made my bosom Rapture's throne,
Have passed away, and left me lone.
And now that I can weep no more
The tears that gave relief of yore,
And now, that from my ruined heart
The forms that make me shudder, start;
The tears that gave relief of yore,
And now, that from my ruined heart
The forms that make me shudder, start;
I gaze above the world around,
And from the deeps of Heaven's profound,
A "still small voice" descends to me--
"Thou'rt sad, but I'll remember thee!"
And from the deeps of Heaven's profound,
A "still small voice" descends to me--
"Thou'rt sad, but I'll remember thee!"
As burns the life-light in me low,
And throws its ashes o'er my brow,
When all else flies, it speaks to me--
"Thou't doomed, but I'll remember thee!"
And throws its ashes o'er my brow,
When all else flies, it speaks to me--
"Thou't doomed, but I'll remember thee!"
Then let my brow grow sadder yet,
And mountain-high still rise regret;
Enough for me the voice that cheers
The woes of these my darker years.
And mountain-high still rise regret;
Enough for me the voice that cheers
The woes of these my darker years.
[[*This]
is a different poem than the one published in the 1868 edition. Signed "Yellow Bird," it was published in the Marysville (California) Herald on March 29, 1851.]
THE HUMBOLDT DESERT
Who journeys o'er the desert now,
Where sinks engulfed the Humboldt river,
Arrested in its sudden flow,
But pouring in that depth forever.
Where sinks engulfed the Humboldt river,
Arrested in its sudden flow,
But pouring in that depth forever.
As if the famished earth would drink
Adry the tributes of the mountains,
Yet wither on the water's brink,
And thirst for still unnumbered fountains.
Adry the tributes of the mountains,
Yet wither on the water's brink,
And thirst for still unnumbered fountains.
Who journeys o'er that desert now
Shall see strange sights, I ween, and ghastly;
For he shall trace awearied, slow,
Across this waste extended vastly,
Shall see strange sights, I ween, and ghastly;
For he shall trace awearied, slow,
Across this waste extended vastly,
The steps of pilgrims westward bound,
Bound westward to the Land Pacific,
Where hoped for rest and peace are found,
And plenty waves her wand prolific.
Bound westward to the Land Pacific,
Where hoped for rest and peace are found,
And plenty waves her wand prolific.
Along this parched and dreary track,
Nor leaf, nor blade, nor shrub appeareth;
The sky above doth moisture lack,
And brazen glare the vision seareth;
Nor leaf, nor blade, nor shrub appeareth;
The sky above doth moisture lack,
And brazen glare the vision seareth;
Nor shadow, save the traveler's own,
Doth bless with coolness seeming only,
And save his muffled step alone
Or desert-bird's wild shriek and lonely,
Doth bless with coolness seeming only,
And save his muffled step alone
Or desert-bird's wild shriek and lonely,
No sound is heard--a realm of blight,
Of weird-like silence and a brightness
That maketh but a gloom of light,
Where glimmer shapes of spectral whiteness!
Of weird-like silence and a brightness
That maketh but a gloom of light,
Where glimmer shapes of spectral whiteness!
They are the bones that bleaching lie
Where fell the wearied beast o'er-driven,
And upward cast his dying eye,
As if in dumb appeal to heaven.
Where fell the wearied beast o'er-driven,
And upward cast his dying eye,
As if in dumb appeal to heaven.
Far lengthening miles on miles they lie,
These sad memorials grim and hoary,
And every whitening heap we spy
Doth tell some way-worn pilgrim's story.
These sad memorials grim and hoary,
And every whitening heap we spy
Doth tell some way-worn pilgrim's story.
Hard by each skeleton there stand
The wheels it drew, or warped or shrunken,
And in the drifted, yielding sand
The yoke or rusted chain lies sunken.
The wheels it drew, or warped or shrunken,
And in the drifted, yielding sand
The yoke or rusted chain lies sunken.
Nor marvel we, if yonder peers,
From out some scooped-out grave and shallow,
A human head, which fleshless leers
With a look that doth the place unhallow.
From out some scooped-out grave and shallow,
A human head, which fleshless leers
With a look that doth the place unhallow.
Each annual pilgrimage hat strewn
These monuments unnamed, undated,
Till now were bone but piled on bone,
And heaped-up wrecks but congregated,
These monuments unnamed, undated,
Till now were bone but piled on bone,
And heaped-up wrecks but congregated,
A pyramid would rise as vast
As one of those old tombs Egyptian,
Which speak from distant ages past
With time-worn, mystic, strange inscription.
As one of those old tombs Egyptian,
Which speak from distant ages past
With time-worn, mystic, strange inscription.
But pass we these grim, mouldering things,
Decay shall claim as Time may order,
For, offspring of the mountain springs,
A river rims the desert border;
Decay shall claim as Time may order,
For, offspring of the mountain springs,
A river rims the desert border;
With margin green and beautiful,
And sparkling water silver-sounding,
And trees with zephyrs musical,
And answering birds with songs abounding,
And sparkling water silver-sounding,
And trees with zephyrs musical,
And answering birds with songs abounding,
And velvet flowers of thousand scents,
And clambering vines with blossoms crested;
Twas here the pilgrims pitched their tents,
And from their toilsome travel rested.
And clambering vines with blossoms crested;
Twas here the pilgrims pitched their tents,
And from their toilsome travel rested.
Oh sweet such rest to him who faints
Upon the journey long and weary!
And scenes like this the traveler paints,
While dying on the wayside weary.
Upon the journey long and weary!
And scenes like this the traveler paints,
While dying on the wayside weary.
Sad pilgrims o'er life's desert, we,
Our tedious journey onward ever;
But rest for us there yet shall be,
When camped upon the HEAVENLY RIVER.
Our tedious journey onward ever;
But rest for us there yet shall be,
When camped upon the HEAVENLY RIVER.
SONG-- SWEET INDIAN MAID
Oh come with me, sweet Indian maid,
My light canoe is by the shore--
We'll ride the river's tide, my love,
And thou shalt charm the dripping oar.
My light canoe is by the shore--
We'll ride the river's tide, my love,
And thou shalt charm the dripping oar.
Methinks thy hand could guide so well
The tiny vessel in its course;
The waves would smooth its crests to thee,
As I have done my spirit's force.
The tiny vessel in its course;
The waves would smooth its crests to thee,
As I have done my spirit's force.
How calmly will we glide, my love,
Thro' moonlight drifting on the deep,
Or, loving yet the safer shore,
Beneath the fringing willows creep!
Thro' moonlight drifting on the deep,
Or, loving yet the safer shore,
Beneath the fringing willows creep!
Again like some wild duck we'll skim,
And scarcely touch the water's face,
While silver gleams our way shall mark,
And circling lines of beauty trace.
And scarcely touch the water's face,
While silver gleams our way shall mark,
And circling lines of beauty trace.
And then the stars shall shine above
In harmony with those below,
And gazing up and looking down,
Give glance for glance, and glow for glow.
In harmony with those below,
And gazing up and looking down,
Give glance for glance, and glow for glow.
And all their light shall be our own,
Commingled with our souls, and sweet
As are those orbs of bliss shall be
Our hearts and lips that melting meet.
Commingled with our souls, and sweet
As are those orbs of bliss shall be
Our hearts and lips that melting meet.
At last we'll reach you silent isle,
So calm and green amidst the waves,--
So peaceful, too, it does not spurn
The friendly tide its shore that laves.
So calm and green amidst the waves,--
So peaceful, too, it does not spurn
The friendly tide its shore that laves.
We'll draw our vessel on the sand,
And seek the shadow of those trees,
Where all alone and undisturbed,
We'll talk and love as we may please.
And seek the shadow of those trees,
Where all alone and undisturbed,
We'll talk and love as we may please.
And then thy voice will be so soft
'T will match the whisper of the leaves,
And then thy breast shall yield its sigh
So like the wavelet as it heaves!
'T will match the whisper of the leaves,
And then thy breast shall yield its sigh
So like the wavelet as it heaves!
And oh! That eye so dark and free,
So like a spirit in itself!
And then that hand so sweetly small
It would not shame the loveliest elf!
So like a spirit in itself!
And then that hand so sweetly small
It would not shame the loveliest elf!
The world might perish all for me,
So that it left that little isle;
The human race might pass away,
If thou remainedst with thy smile.
So that it left that little isle;
The human race might pass away,
If thou remainedst with thy smile.
Then haste, mine own dear Indian maid,
My boat is waiting on its oar;
We'll float upon the tide, my love,
And gaily reach that islet's shore.
My boat is waiting on its oar;
We'll float upon the tide, my love,
And gaily reach that islet's shore.
| The Poems of John Rollin Ridge -- A reproduction of the 1868
publication plus fugitive poems and notes. | |