The Huron Chief

THE HURON CHIEF,

AND

OTHER POEMS.

ADAM KIDD.

Where are our Chiefs of old? Where our Heroes of mighty name?
The fields of their battles are silent—scarce their mossy tombs remain!

OSSIAN

MONTREAL:

PRINTED AT THE OFFICE OF THE HERALD AND NEW GAZETTE

1830.

TO

THOMAS MOORE,

THE MOST POPULAR, MOST POWERFUL, AND MOST PATRIOTIC

POET

OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY,

WHOSE MAGIC NUMBERS

HAVE VIBRATED TO THE HEARTS OF NATIONS,

THESE POEMS ARE DEDICATED,

BY HIS MOST ARDENT ADMIRER.

ADAM KIDD.

MONTREAL, January 25, 1830.

PREFACE.

At a time when Poetry has received the highest polish, from the master hands of a BYRON and a MOORE, it seems almost rashness in a youthful bard to attempt to cull, from the banks of Helicon, even one leaf of the immortal baccalia, to adorn his aspiring brow — while the consequences may prove as serious before the ordeal of Criticism as the efforts of Pliny, who perished in the fire of Vesuvius, while searching into the cause of the beauteous, but destructive element.

The little birch canoe, in which I have safely glided through the tranquil lakes of the Canadas, could not securely venture on the boiling surge, and foaming breakers, over which Childe Harold and Lalla Rookh triumphantly rode in their magnificent Gondolas.

It is not, however, my intention to trouble the readers of the “HURON CHIEF” with useless apologies for the defects that it may possess, knowing that a poem of such length can scarcely be free from errors; and, particularly, when written, without much opportunity for correction, on the inner rind of birch bark, during my travels through the immense forests of America, and under many difficulties and privations, arising from causes that I must, for the present, avoid mentioning. The innocent, and unassuming, friendly treatment that I experienced among the Indians, together with the melancholy recital of the deep wrongs which they received from those calling themselves “Christians,” induced me to undertake this dramatic poem.

From the days of the American Revolution until this very hour, the poor Indians have been so cruelly treated, and driven from their homes and hunting-grounds, by the boasted freemen of the United States, that the MOHICANS, the NARAGANSETTS, the DELAWARES, and others, once powerful Tribes, have now become totally extinct — while the remaining Nations are daily dwindling away, and in a few years hence will scarcely leave a memorial to perpetuate their names, as the once mighty rulers of the vast American regions. I am fully aware, that the “HURON CHIEF” will draw on me the censure of many — but this is no consideration, since I can fairly and honestly plead the correctness of my observations. Many of the Indian Tribes have emigrated into Canada — and are now prospering, and happily enjoying the manly protection of the British Government.

The miscellaneous poems, which follow the “HURON CHIEF,” with the exception of the one to Polyphemus, were written for amusement, during the leisure hours necessarily abstracted from a long round of professional studies, the benefits of which I have never yet reaped, owing to an accidental fall from the cloud-capped brows of a dangerous Mountain, over which I had heedlessly wandered, with all that open carelessness which is so peculiarly the characteristic of poetic feeling.

In the lines addressed to the Rev. Polyphemeus, perhaps I have been too severe, having written them at a moment when my every feeling was deeply touched by a sad and a serious disappointment. Let such be my apology!

The liberal and friendly encouragement with which my first attempt has been so highly favoured, and particularly in the Canadas — fifteen hundred copies being already called for — will induce me to follow up, in a more extensive volume, the Tales and Traditions of the Indians, which I have personally collected among them, together with local descriptions of the numerous cascades, stupendous cataracts, and majestic scenery of the country, which for beauty and grandeur remain unrivalled in the universe.

The poem of the HURON CHIEF has made such an impression on the Indian warriors to whom it has been communicated, that it will shortly be translated into their respective tongues, by SAWENNOWANE, and other Chiefs, equally celebrated and intelligent, who speak and write several languages.

The Huron Chief

On Huron’s banks, one summer-day, When all things bloomed with beauty gay, I wandered undisturbed and free, Nor heard a sound, save wood-doves cooing, Or birds that tapped the hollow tree,	5
Where owlets sat, their play-mates wooing, And harmony had filled the throng Of pleasure, as I moved along. ’Twas thus, in rapture, I was bound, Where ev’ry beauty smiled around,	10
That could delight the poet’s heart, To gaze on groves, or plants, or waters, Or even to the soul impart Such bliss — once felt by Eden’s daughters, When from their homes, in pleasure’s hour,	15
They strayed to cull each fragrant flow’r. Here every scene that struck the view, Seemed wrought in nature’s richest hue, As if to tell me, where I stood, No foot, before, had ever bended,	20
Save the great Spirit’s of the wood, When all the Nation’s Tribes * ascended, That hill of green — where oft at night, The Council-Fire displayed its light. And as I felt my soul give way,	25
In purest dreams of ecstacy, I wished that in this spot alone, With one kind heart to dwell forever, With one that I could call my own, Enjoying scenes of bliss together,	30
As onward here, from bower to grove, No tyrant hand to check our love. Here, when my heart had fancied all, And brought, as if by magic call, A splendid world of fairy bliss,	35
For me to make my happy dwelling, With all the charms that hallow this — I heard soft words of sorrow swelling, Like these — sent from a grove of pine, As from a minstrel-voice, divine.	40

Happy and blest were the days of my childhood, And smooth rolled the current of pleasure along, When first I delighted to stray through this wild wood, Breathing to echo each feeling in song. And oft when the fire-flies sported around me,	45
Shedding their clear rays like spirits of light, I felt as if witchery’s charms had bound me, In all the soft ties of the purest delight. The roe of the forest — nor beaver when playing, Through groves of green Sumach that bend o’er the steep,	50
Or through vales of luxuriance lightly straying, Or laying their sides in the clear liquid deep — Enjoy not such transport, or pleasure as fired me, When first the bright glance of MORANKA’S black eye, With love’s purest essence had deeply inspired me,	55
And drew all my thoughts from the Spirit on high. I loved with the fervour of Indian feeling — Was loved by the Chief — who as gently carest As the breath of the morn, o’er summer-buds stealing, Ere Sol drinks the dew-drop that hallows their breast.	60
Undisturbed as the wild deer that strays o’er the mountain, Or lily that sleeps in its calm liquid bed, In that arbour of green, by the gush of the fountain, Oft, oft has my Huron there pillowed his head. But the hand of the white man has brought desolation —*	65
Our wigwams are plundered, our homes are no more, — And MORANKA, the glory and pride of the Nation, Died bravely defending the Indian’s shore. His battle-axe hangs on that branch now before me — His spirit is with me wherever I go —	70
The broad plate that covered his breast is now o’er me, His arrows are shivered — but here lies the bow.

Thus from her wild, impressive song, I caught each note that flowed along, Till over-swayed with fond desire,	75
To steal one happy glance in quiet, I stepped behind a little pyre — Nor shall my heart here now deny it — I saw, I loved the lonely one, Because she loved her Hero gone!	80
There is a feeling still that flings, Its softness o’er the young heart-strings, And almost plays the lover’s part, When one like this, its pulse awaken, With all the thrillings of the heart,	85
In solitude — alone — forsaken, To hear — to see — and not be seen — The sorrows of an Indian Queen. Now, all around is hushed and still, Save the notes of Whip-poor-will —	90
And now deep in the tranquil lake, I see a sky of blue reflected — Without one curl its orb to shake, As if �olus had neglected, To rouse it into life again,	95
But left it bound in summer’s chain.
So calm, so still, no living thing, Was heard, but wild bees on the wing, Flitting around from leaf to flower, In all the luxury of roving,	100
Drinking up the honey-shower — Just like the tender youth when loving — Yet never satisfied to stay, With the rose, even one short day. Here, now I said, this silent hour,	105
Invites me to her lonely bower, I will advance — she cannot fear — And thus I reasoned, one short minute — My very look, must soon appear, And show her there’s no danger in it;	110
But ere the words had left my tongue, My feet by impulse moved along. And as I now had stepped unseen, Before the arbour of the Queen, Again I paused, and looked again,	115
As if to sue for invitation, But the load of sorrow’s chain, Still bound her in the same fixed station, Like a statue, formed of grief — She moumed — she wept her Huron Chief.	120
Then can it be that I should dare, Her pangs of sorrow here to share, Or even venture to obtrude, On pure affection’s burst of sadness, Poured forth in deepest solitude;	125
The act would be far more than madness — I will not — cannot now destroy, The bliss of tears — oft felt like joy. I now resolved my steps to take, Along the windings of the lake,	130
And glad to think I could evade The eyes, I long had wished to gaze on, When from a close, dark tangled shade, A hoary Chief, whom age delays on, Addressed me thus, in accents clear,	135
As if an angel whispered near.

Stranger! whither wouldst thou stray, I wish to guide thy wand’ring feet, This is not the white man’s way, Another path we soon shall meet.	140
I’m the Chieftain of this mountain — Times, and seasons,* found me here — My drink has been the crystal fountain — My food the wild moose or the deer. And though much sorrow I have found,	145
Since first the white man touched our shore — Nought here but miseries abound, And pleasures we can taste no more. But though I’ve shared the worst of ills, The Christian foe-man could devise —	150
Yet, on those wild, untravelled hills, Of him I’d make no sacrifice. My soul disdains a coward’s deed — My heart and hand shall freely give, Relief to all who stand in need,	155
While on Lake Huron’s banks I live.

Thus spoke the noble Indian Sage, As from a grove of infant pine, He stepped, in all the grace of age, And looked as if a saint divine.	160
His language o’er my feelings stole, Like notes of pleasure on the ear, Or joys flung o’er the drooping soul, When hope itself had ceased to cheer. I felt each throb of fear give way,	165
While tracing every line of grief, That on his withered visage lay, And thus addressed the aged Chief: Sire — I’m not the Indian’s foe — No hostile hand I bear to thee:	170
My bosom feels for others’ woe, And my affections run as free, As yon clear stream that winds along, The velvet borders of the wood, To mingle with the mighty throng,	175
Of waters in their destined flood. I am a stranger — here before My feet have never dared to tread, Nor touch the verdure of the shore, Where Huron laves his pebbled bed.	180
But now, since mutual converse brings, The heart’s best feelings purely out, And o’er the soul such candour flings, That we can neither fear nor doubt — Permit me here, to ask the name,	185
Of one who proves so much a friend — Unpurchased by the hope of fame, Or aught that could such worth extend. My name, replied the gentle sage, Is SKENANDOW — once known afar,	190
When first the white man felt the rage, Of Indians, in defensive war. But here, in converse, while we stood, Shaded from the sunny ray — A youth, emerging from the wood,	195
Thus sung his plaintive melody.

There is a grief, Beyond relief, Now pressing on my soul, With all the pain,	200
That can remain, In sorrow’s tainted bowl. And I must sup, The baneful cup — Misfortune stamps my lot —	205
Nor will bestow, On me below, One peaceful — little spot! There was a time, When joys sublime,	210
Beat proudly in my heart — And I could share, Such pleasures, rare, As love, and bliss, impart. But here I stray,	215
From day to day, And pass my hours alone — The maid, revered — To me endeared — Is dead! — forever gone!	220

Now, when the youth had ceased to sing, And echo brought the ling’nng tone, Upon the Zephyr’s mellowed wing, — “Is dead! — forever gone!” The aged Chief resumed again,	225
The freedom of his gentle speech, As slow we moved across the plain, That winds along the sloping beach. That youth, he said, whose plaintive song, Has just now melted on the ear,	230
As through the woods he strayed along — Nor thought that we were standing near — Is one of SIOUX’ noble race, Who well the battle-axe could wield — Nor would the Indian name disgrace,	235
When honour called him to the field. Pure, gen’rous love, his soul inspired, For TA-POO-KA,* of raven hair — He sought — he gained what he desired — And love the fondest joined the pair.	240
But Fate, that ever loves to throw An evil shade o’er joys like this, Was sure to bring a drop of woe, To mingle with their cup of bliss! And soon he found, that heart and hand,	245
He fancied his — and his forever — Were, by a father’s fixed command, Now destined from him here to sever! Yet, TA-POO-KA, full well he knew, Possessed a heart, too pure to dread,	250
That aught on earth could it subdue, Till death had wrapped it with the dead! But ere the coming of that time, Which mutual love had marked to be The witness of such joys sublime,	255
As crown the marriage jubilee — A father’s mandate had declared, That she must be another’s bride — The day was fixed — all things prepared, To adorn the wedding fireside.	260
And now the marriage feast was laid, Midst guests assembled from afar, Who, having to MANITTO* prayed, Salute the beauteous bridal-star. The eve was fine — no breath to shake	265
The verdant leaves that o’er them hung — And far across the glassy lake, The moon a path of light had flung — And all around, the twinkling glow Of fire-flies, that sported near,	270
Illum’d the scene, above, below, As if the evening’s joys to cheer. Eye beamed on eye, while every Chief, Midst laughing looks, soft pleasures trace — But in one heart there lay a grief,	275
Which soon must find a resting place. Yes — TA-POO-KA, the trembling bride, Felt pangs too sadly keen to last — Deep pangs, that with life’s flowing tide, Were to the inmost feeling cast.	280
She had resolved — the vow once made, And sanctioned by a stainless heart, Could never, never he betrayed, Till from her bosom life depart; — An aged Chief she could not wed,	285
And break the pledge already given — Ah no! she’d rather seek the dead, And risk the mercy sent by heaven. With thoughts like these upon her mind, She from her father’s cabin stole —	290
When festive pleasures, unconfined, Filled high with rapture every soul. And to a cliff, that far extends Its frowning horrors o’er the lake, Her trembling step she onward bends,	295
Nor seemed one minute’s pause to make. Then, from the gloomy brink above — Where nought a female foot could urge, Save the keen power of maddening love — She plunged within the foaming surge!	300
There, ever since, the spirit-bride, When night-shades round are closing dim, In her canoe, is seen to glide, Across the curling water’s brim.
———
The Huron paused — and I could trace	305
In every line that marked his face, Feelings he wished not to impart — Yet, now and then, saddest throbs would spring, From the pained recess of the heart, The herald of his deep sorrowing —	310
Like the tear that brings relief, The mute interpreter of grief. Long, long upon the holy man, My eyes with admiration ran, Till every feeling stronger grew,	315
That to his forest-home had bound me, And even at the moment drew, Such scenes of bliss enchanting round me, That Europe’s pomp I’d quick resign, To dwell within his groves of pine.	320
———

With such a man, poor GOLDSMITH might have stood, To see “the luxury of doing good” — And here, where nature’s child delights to stray, Might gladly pass the lengthen’d summer day, Where, undisturbed, the Indian finds repose,	325
Midst arbours scented by the blushing rose. Oh! what a spot, to make one minute’s pause, And feel the transport contemplation draws, While every prospect rising to the view, Half tells the joys our happier fathers knew,	330
Before the plans of art had come between, And made of beauty’s shades a barren scene. Oh, happy home! where nought but nature’s plan Is felt, and practised, by contented man; No shifting system here we ever trace,	335
But all things have their own, their proper place. No half-taught Noble, from the Charter-school, Whose wealth, and vanity, are sure to rule, Can here disturb that peace, that tranquil good, Which cheers the freeman of the bount’ous wood.	340
———

Here, from the silence sorrow brought, Deep wrapped in melancholy thought, Like the gloom of saddening pain — The Huron Chief, with deepest feeling, Thus touched the pliant chords again,	345
Of conversation — gently stealing O’er a heart, long unknown to ease — In words which much resemble these.
———
Friend — since we’ve past this summer day In mutual converse here alone,	350
Till now the sun’s last parting ray Is faintly o’er the waters thrown — I fondly ask, that you would share The Indian wigwam for the night — Nor think that danger lodges there,	355
Or aught that could the heart affright. Ah no! — the Huron has a soul Untainted by the coward’s deed — And bravery beyond control, When summoned forth in time of need.	360
Then come — we’ll now our path pursue By yon dark grove of lofty pine, Where oft the wild deer rambles through, Or loves in silence to recline. The moon now gleaming o’er the trees,	365
Will be the evening’s modest guide — And still the rustling of the leaves Will cheer us to the cabin side.
———
Such nobleness of word and thought, So highly every feeling wrought,	370
That here I could not once refuse,* The friendship of his invitation — Or even shyness seem to use, When thus, the hero of a nation, Had kindly asked that I might share	375
The bounties of his cabin, rare. Then, on our winding path we bend, Where elm, and oak, their shades extend — And all the beauties of the way, Like fairy visions placed around us,	380
Almost allured the heart to stay, Where nature’s lovely charms half bound us, In scented groves of sweet delight, Now hallowed by the moon’s pale light. Oh! here, I said, where heaven bestows,	385
On every plant and shrub that grows, The fragrance of a spicy clime — How blest to share the raptures in it, Until the fleeting glass of time Had number’d up life’s closing minute,	390
And I might tum, to take one view Of earth’s last joys — then breathe adieu! While thus my fancy loved to trace, The charms of this romantic place, A sudden light burst on the view,	395
The sweetest joys of home unfolding, As near, and nearer, still we drew, Heaven’s purest transports there beholding, Where all around the bright fire gay, The children of the forest play.	400
All, all the Huron Chief address, With smiles and words of tendemess, And in each heart there seem ’d to run, The generous glow of kindred feeling, Mingled with soft mirth and fun,	405
When thus, a melody came stealing, So soft, so sweet, so purely clear, An angel might have paused to hear.
———

Hail, hail to the Chieftain that stands now before us, The greatest, the bravest the Huron can boast —	410
Yet mild as the moon-beam now gently thrown o’er us, And pure as the spirits that brighten our coast. Our hearts beat with rapture, when here we behold him, And love’s fondest impulse tells how he’s caress’d, While the youths from our wigwams rush out to enfold him,	415
And clasp, with affection, the Chief to their breast. ’Tis SKENANDOW’s name we still love to awaken, And give to the light air that fans our wild groves, When by it each young leaf is tenderly shaken, As onward, through shades of green elm, it roves.	420
But now, round the fire that brilliantly sparkles, We’ll join the light dance with hearts happy and gay, Where the young eye of love still occasion’ly darkles, Beneath the long lashes that shadow its ray. Then here, in this bower kind heaven has granted,	425
Where rose-buds, and violets, perfume the blest night, And the Chief of the Hurons the Peace-tree has* planted, We’ll spend this sweet hour of happy delight.
———

Oh! what a beauteous, charming scene, On that pure, downy, tufted green,	430
To see the children of the grove, With hearts that felt no touch but pleasure, Thus linked in social, tender love, Where flowing joys seemed without measure, Beneath a verdant maple shade,	435
Which Nature’s God alone had made. And never did the orb of night, Fling forth her modest beams of light, On such a prospect of sweet bliss, As laughing here she might discover,	440
In one short hour, so dear as this — Much like the time some youthful lover Steals out to meet his wished-for bride, Close by some shady garden side. E’en here Ulysses might have strayed,	445
When first he wooed his mountain-maid, And half his native home forgot, Seduced by love’s enchanting power — To fancy this delightful spot, As charming as Calypso’s bower,	450
Where two kind hearts might rapture share, As happy as an Eden pair. And I would tell the polished man, Brought up in Europe’s fashioned plan, That never could his formal art,	455
Or all that school-taught lore has given, Such graceful happiness impart, As cheers the Indian’s forest heaven — Who gives, or asks, with greatest ease, Whate’er his heart or soul can please.	460
The Huron Chief now gently takes The Horn, which thrilling rapture wakes, And gives the signal for the dance — When youth, with youth, feeling joy’s excess, Moves in some eye’s bewitching glance,	465
With all the sweet charms of playfullness, Light as the musk-roe, when it treads Upon the violet-sprinkled beds. Here, as I gazed upon the throng, And caught each mingling breath of song,	470
My heart almost began to feel A glow — like love’s too sure emotion — Directly to its center steal, And wake a thrill of soft devotion — Yet, who will blame me when I tell,	475
I loved KEMANA over well! Nor could I view such eyes of jet, And easily their power forget — Such power, as into sweetest love, Can warm the heart’s intensest feeling,	480
While breathings, soft as from a dove, Come o’er the ear enraptured stealing, Giving life its happiest tone, While worshipping her eyes alone.* Now, on this velvet-cushioned spot,	485
Where all my woes seem quite forgot — And God has given an ample share — With KEMANA I’d dwell forever, Nor backward tum one thought of care, Till death itself the tie should sever —	490
The tie that bound me to this bower, Where life has passed its happiest hour. Oh! never since my boy-hood’s days, When o’er SLIEVEGALLIN’s mantled braes, Ere thought, or reason, took command,	495
I strayed with heart as light as feather, Or raised my rude, unguarded hand, To slay the bee lodged in the heather — Have joys so stainless touched my heart, As those which now their bliss impart.	500
Yet, be our transports e ’er so sweet, Another hour we’re apt to meet, Which disapproves the one gone by, And stands the Sage to show its errors — Thus man moves on through destiny,	505
With wiser acts — all free from terrors — Till every moment of the past, Seems fool, or madman, to the last. For me, I hate all whining cant, And, doubly so, the Churchman’s rant,	510
If even sent from sides of iron, By hill, by dale, by grot, or fountain, Against the great, immortal BYRON! In all the poising of a M*TN, Who nothing loves, but what’s his own,	515
Or some thing else that wears a gown. But I have wandered here too far — Yet, who the Muse’s flight can mar, Or even stop her in her way? When once her wing is full extended,	520
No human art her power can stay, Till she her destined course has ended, Then lights again, all fair and mild, MNEMOSYNE’s* enchanting child. From this last theme I find relief,	525
To turn and view the Huron Chief, Where, like some noble lord of man, In all the dignity of feeling, He stands, surrounded by his clan; In every look and act revealing,	530
The fondness of parental care, Which all around him freely share. Here now the fire’s flaming light, Seemed mingling with the stars of night, Till every leaf, and plant, and flower,	535
In burnished beauty smiled around us, Illumining the happy bower, Where love enchanting fondly bound us, Midst a glow of heavenly bliss, Which few on earth have shared, like this.	540
Oh! what a circle now appears, Where smiling joy each moment cheers, Giving to love so sweet a tone, As makes the heart forget its sorrows, To gaze on jetty eyes alone,	545
With every thrill that pleasure borrows, From looks that wear so chaste a hue, When half the soul seems shining through. And how the mind delights to trace The beauties of a lovely face,*	550
Where only nature’s hand had wrought, The softest charms — by art unaided — And into pure perfection brought Each tint — which glossy locks had shaded, On a brow of pleasing dye,	555
As smiled beneath a sunny sky. Yes — on KEMANA I could gaze, And ever love to sing her praise, Till life’s warm stream should cease to flow, Or my loved harp’s last chord be broken,	560
And ruin o’er its frame should throw The shade, which brings a silent token, That harp, and bard, and all had fled, To moulder with the lonely dead. Thus, thus my fancy led me o’er	565
New joys, unfelt — unseen before — Till every bliss that seemed unfurled, Proclaimed the Indian’s richest treasure — Pure emblems of another world — And I had paused, to hear with pleasure,	570
The Huron Chief thus speak again, In friendship’s softest, kindest strain.
———
There is to me a transport given, While here I view my children all, Beneath a starry sprinkled heaven,	575
Enjoying pleasure’s festival. And still I hope my days shall run, Thus marked with friendship’s softest hue, Until my life’s last setting sun Shall throw its parting beams on you.	580
And when beside yon cedar grove, I’m left in silence calm to sleep, The Indian there at times may rove, Or make a pause, perchance to weep. Yes — he may weep, and backward throw	585
One thought upon this brilliant night; And breathe the name of SKENANDOW — Who loved the Huron with delight. Now, as the oak upon the hill, Whose aged branches feel decay,	590
The steams of life begin to chill, And all my vigour wastes away. The season’s gone, when I could trace The foot-steps of the bounding roe, Till, in the long directed chase,	595
I raised the never-erring bow; — But my worn heart no more can bear The toils that once were rendered sweet; Ah no! — Time’s hand lies heavy there, And ruin seems almost complete.	600
Oft, in my boy-hood’s cheerful hour, Through these green woods I’ve loved to stray, And chase the bee from leaf to flower, Or with the little Chipmunk* play. Yes — I have felt my days glide by,	605
Without one touch of earthly care, To damp the glow of ecstasy, Which youthful hearts alone can share. But all such joys have passed away, Just like soft music’s thrilling tone,	610
When every look, and heart, was gay, And soul, with soul, seemed linked in one. Yet, with this remnant* of my tribe, My life shall gladly meet its close — And on that spot — which I prescribe —	615
There let my sorrows find repose!
———
Thus spoke the very aged Sire, To all assembled round the fire — Which threw its flame across the heaven, In all the brilliancy of beauty,	620
Like a burnished cloud at even, Illumining man’s path to duty, When he hears upon the air, The vesper-bell invite to prayer. Oh! what a hallowed, charming hour,	625
In nature’s sweet, romantic bower, To see the Indian lift his eyes, With purest feelings of devotion, To his own unclouded skies, Until the heart’s deep felt emotion,	630
From his lips, in strains of love, Is to the Spirit sent above. And I have thought this spot to be A type of that pure sanctu’ry, Where, first repenting, man had trod,	635
When by some holy angel guided, To talk in prayer alone with God — And, having in his love confided, Felt the balm of sweet relief, When rescued from his load of grief.	640
It was a pure, a holy sight, In the lone silence of the night, To see devotion’s fervent soul,* By Nature’s God alone directed, Beyond the pressure of control,	645
Pursue a path not once neglected, To a sunny sphere of bliss, Possessing joys unknown in this. Here, as I pictured every good, That seemed to cheer the bount’ous wood,	650
The happy Tribe retired to rest, On cedar boughs, and skins of beaver, Soft as the down that clothes the breast Of infant swan, or snow-bird ever — And thus, my life’s first happy day,	655
’Midst scenes the purest, moved away.
———
Soon as the morning’s cheerful light Had thrown aside the veil of night — And having breathed my parting prayer, To Chief — to youth — and all around me —	660
But most to one that lingered there — To one, that by love’s magic bound me — Along the Lake’s smooth, shelving side, I wandered with my chosen guide. And as I marked each brilliant scene	665
That bloomed in summer’s youthful green, ALKWANWAUGH gently told the tale Of days, that live but in tradition — And all the joys that cheered the vale, Where dwells the remnant of the Nation —	670
That remnant loving still to trace The glories of the Huron race, From ATSISTARI,* known afar, By all his noble deeds of war — He well recounted every name	675
On mem’ry’s page — stamped in succession, Bright as the beams of lasting fame — Nor seemed to make one short digression — Through every scene of varied strife, Until this very date of life.	680
From Tribe to Tribe — from Chief to Chief — In all the pride of manly grief, His soul of feeling led him on, To tell the Indian’s wrongs and sorrows — But most of LOGAN, lately gone —	685
With throbs as deep as sadness borrows, When first the sympathising heart Its burst of anguish would impart. And never has attention hung, Upon the accents of a tongue,	690
With truer, fonder, purer zeal, Than when I heard the Mingo’s story, Which ALKWANWAUGH loved to reveal — Recorder of the Hero’s glory — In words, as perfect as before,	695
Like these, addressed to Lord Dunmore.
———
Let any white man now declare, Whom fate impelled to wander here, If LOGAN e’er refused to share His cabin and its humble cheer.	700
Or when the chilling blasts of wind, And hunger forcibly assailed, His wearied heart — did he not find That LOGAN’s care o’er all prevailed? And when destructive war’s fell rage —	705
In many battles, lost and gained, Regardless still of youth or age, Its bloody conflict still maintained. Such was the love I bore the whites, I stood the advocate of peace,	710
And yielded more than half my rights, While striving others to release: Till every Indian, as he pass’d, His home and country to defend, On me his eyes indignant cast —	715
Said, “LOGAN is the white man’s friend!” But still, regardless of the blame My Country’s heroes threw on me, I ever hoped to check the flame, And with my counsels set them free.	720
But Perfidy, that foulest stain — Which to the whites its gifts impart — * For every good inflicted pain, And roused the fury of my heart. Then, then, the battle-axe I drew,	725
And with an arm long skilled in war, On Kanhaway’s proud banks I slew, Each white that sought its force to mar. And still, my wives and children all, Whose murdered bodies clothe the ground,	730
To me for vengeance loudly call, Nor can I look in silence round; — For now, beneath yon glowing sun, There neither lives, nor breathes, one creature — Where e’en one drop of blood can run,	735
To stamp the last — the Mingo’s* feature! But, since my vengeance is complete, And I’ve appeased the mighty dead — I stand life’s darkest ills to meet, Nor any power does LOGAN dread.	740
Yet, for the happy beams of peace, And for my country’s good alone, I now rejoice at this release From evils — though untimely gone. But do not harbour one foul thought,	745
That mine can be the ‘JOY OF FEAR’— Ah, no — this heart was never brought To yield to mortal, sword, or spear. Nor would I, in the field of strife, One second on my heel there turn,	750
If certain then to save my life — Where none for LOGAN stops to mourn!
———
Such was the tale — and such the man, Designed to show that noble plan, Which Nature formed for one and all,	755
When Freedom — first her gifts bestowing — Had summoned at her magic call Proud hearts, with noble ardour glowing, To worship at her holy shrine, And share the cup of bliss divine.	760
When thus imagination strays To gather joy from other days, The real sorrows of our own Seem mantled with some bright illusion, Until the spell aside is thrown,	765
And we can view the dark confusion Of gloomy images, that pass Before life’s party coloured glass. Still, if one pleasure earth bestows, To make the heart forget its woes,	770
And steal it from itself away — This lovely wood must be the dwelling, Of all that pleasure can pourtray, Where beauty — beauty seems excelling, In summer’s sweet enchanting smile,	775
Around the spirit-guarded Isle.* Here, while the captive eye surveyed The mingled grandeur, far displayed On every side — like Eastern bowers, Where some young Hinda oft reposes —	780
Or strays alone, in sunny hours, ’Mong arbours blushing with sweet roses — A hunter, in his birch canoe, Sailed o’er the dimpling wave of blue. And, as a swallow cleaves the air,	785
His bark ran swiffly through Saint Clair, Nor seemed to feel the current’s force, In which the pliant paddle bended, But onward kept its steady course, To where the Lake’s wide wave extended —	790
Yet, now so tranquilly at rest, Life’s bark might slumber on its breast. All looked so like the scenes and groves, Through which the dreaming spirit roves, That my wrecked heart forgot the pain	795
A Mountain Demon flung before it — While thus, the hunter’s mellowed strain, With soft’ning influence came o’er it, Like breathings of some magic song, As slow he steered his boat along.	800
SONG.
Far o’er the lake’s extended brim, I see the light that guides me home — And now my bark doth lightly skim The waters, onward to my dome. And oh! ’tis sweet at day’s decline,	805
When wearied with the lengthened chase, To see yon distant lights now shine, And guide me to that favourite place — Where COOSEA, mild as the dove, Oft cheered my heart at close of day,	810
And sung unmeasured strains of love — Such strains as stole my heart away. Bright as our Council-fire there gleamed, Diffusing joy through shades of night, Her sparkling eyes with lustre beamed,	815
And cheered the heart with soft delight. For COOSEA, had charms alone, That could subdue the warrior Chief, And with each sweet, untutored tone, Bring to the wearied heart relief.	820
Yes, lovely as ALKWANWAUGH’s bride* — More soft than down of infant beaver — Thy touch could raise a thrilling tide, Of love, the purest — sweetest ever. The swan that skims our native lakes,	825
Is not so graceful in its air — The bird* that haunts our silent brakes, Is not so jetty as that hair. That hair which falls in artless grace, Concealing half those smiles of thine,	830
In which each wond’ring youth may trace, A soul that purely is divine. Oh, COOSEA! I hail the shore, And shady bank, where oft I’ve stood, My love-song in thine ear to pour,	835
Thou sweetest daughter of the wood. Thanks to the Indian’s God who brings KEKAPOO to his home again, Where undisturbed he freely sings, With COOSEA to join the strain.	840
Then, Spirit of the great and free, Protect us from the white man’s laws — We only bow, and bend to thee, Of Good, the Author and the Cause.
———
Day after day with rapture flew,	845
Unfolding ever something new — Where’er we looked — where’er we strayed — By rugged cliffs — by groves, or waters — Such varied grandeur seemed displayed As Nature with profusion scatters —	850
And every tint, and every dye, Smiled ’neath a lovely, glowing sky. When we had viewed the winding Lake, To Erie* then our course we take, Well fitted with a birch canoe,	855
So neat, so light, you’d scarce discover The motion, as it onward flew, The shooting rapids swiftly over — While the trees, on either shore, The other way seemed hurried more.	860
Now, o’er a clear — a placid stream — Half burnished by the sun’s last beam, Which through the lofty pines was thrown — Our little bark went proudly gliding, As mistress of the wave alone,	865
Where we in safety now were riding, ’Midst scenes majestic, and as grand As e ’er were shaped by Nature’s hand. We next approached a lovely bay, Which in the woods half folded lay,	870
Without one motion on its breast — And seemed most cheerfully inviting, As if to lull our bark to rest, And make each prospect more delighting — While on its brim we cast an eye,	875
To trace each figure of the sky.* Here, as we gained the velvet shore, Where scene on scene attracted more, A voice as soft — divinely sweet* As summer winds o’er rose-buds playing,	880
With potent magic seemed to meet The list’ning ear — and onward straying, Note by note — you’d think when nigher, Some fairy hand had touched the lyre. In such a place — in such an hour —	885
It looked as if enchanting power, With Syren spells to lure away The heart to some unthought of danger, And make but an ignoble prey Of one, to evils not a stranger —	890
Of one, who seldom tasted bliss — Then, if deceit — none sweet as this! But soon we found the pleasing tone Was breathed by one that sat alone, Upon a little hillock’s side,	895
With cedar branches spreading o’er her, As if her slender form to hide, Where shrubs and flowers bloomed before her — Forming a most delightful spot, For one, whom all but one forgot.	900
So lightly did our birch canoe* Steal o’er the bay of liquid blue, That easily was heard the song, That touched the very soul of feeling, As on the breeze it sighed along,
And softly to the heart appealing, In words I never can forget, So sweet, their tones seem breathing yet.
SONG.
Here now, beneath this lonely shade, Far, far from home, I sit reposing,	910
And listen to the wild cascade, While evening’s curtain round is closing, And every bird, with spirit gay, Sings, sweetly sings its vesper lay. Yet, oh! how happy here to dwell,	915
With my young Chief — my Indian lover — And all this bosom’s feeling tell, Of sorrows past, and dangers over, Until the heart again would feel New dreams of rapture o’er it steal.	920
While now the sporting fire-flies play, Where from yon rock the streamlet gushes, Or frolic o’er the azure bay, Or pause among the bending rushes — To me their joys awake again	925
All that of pleasure can remain. The little frog* perched on the tree, As if to tell of pleasant weather, Sings its wild song in ecstacy, Till, meeting in concert together,	930
The bull-toad, from the swamp remote, Sends forth a louder — harsher note. But here upon the evening air — The verdure of the forest shaking — I’ll breathe affection’s fervent prayer,	935
The soul’s best sympathies awaking, With hopes that my young hero Chief May never feel the pain of grief.
———
Soon as we heard the closing sound, And gently gained the rising ground,	940
We slow advanced, to steal a view Of one, whose voice had rapture in it, And then, the waving branches through, We cast a look each anxious minute — And oh! what joy does heaven confer —	945
’Twas TA-POO-KA — the loved — sat there! And he — the brave, the Chieftain guide, Who stood confounded by my side — Was that young Sioux who had strayed On Huron’s banks, his love-dirge singing,	950
When SKENANDOW and I delayed, To hear him from his bosom bringing A mingled tide of woe and song, Unheeding as he moved along. A look — a pause — and then a start,	955
Quick as the impulse of the heart, With all the frenzy of surprise, In her fond arms soon found him folded, While from their dark, their flowing eyes, Their mutual tears in one seemed moulded,	960
And heaving throbs responsive move, In all the luxury of love. When joy’s first burst was partly o’er, And former fears could spring no more, Then, to a path — not distant far —	965
Lapped round a lovely mountain’s border, O’er which the beauteous evening star, As if by heaven’s special order, Had just now thrown its modest ray, To light our onward, shady way.	970
At length, we reached her cabin-home, Close by a little river’s foam, Whose banks were covered, here and there, With many wigwams, neatly lighted, And every flame now flung in air,	975
From blazing pine-knots, all delighted — While fishing* torches distant gleam, And move like meteors o’er the stream. In every look, there seemed to be The winning smile of pleasantry,	980
Until they heard the saddened tale, Which TA-POO-KA, with tears, related There to the matron of the vale, And all who with her round were seated, On skins of softest down, that grows,	985
Where some young seraph might repose. Five summer suns had passed away, Since that, almost destructive, day, When, rather than the youth forsake, To whom her every feeling bound her,	990
She plunged in Huron’s swelling lake — Where three kind Chippawas first found her, Whom chance alone had brought to save, And snatch her from a liquid grave. The story of her grief was such,	995
As ever must the heart-strings touch, While sympathy can linger there — Or man can claim a noble feeling, To dignify his soul, and share The woes which others seem revealing —	1000
Such woes, as wrecked a heart as fine As on the western sun could shine. Like some lone flower upon a rock, Which lately felt the light’ning’s shock, And faintly lifts its head unseen,	1005
Or on the blast its leaves now throwing, Conveyed where happier mates, in green, Are all in richest beauty glowing — Her faded form so blighted seemed, Where eyes of loveliest girls* beamed.	1010
In this neat cabin of the Chief, Whose wife and daughters gave relief, She quietly remained till now — Nor seldom ever further taking Her footsteps, than that mountain’s brow,	1015
Her evening visits lonely making, Because it looked so like the same, On Huron’s banks from whence she came. Each circumstance — of time and place — For one short month we loved to trace,	1020
And from the SACHEMS* gather all Their deeds of war, and feats of glory, Till we had heard their rise and fall — Which must unfold a saddened story, To a wiser — happier age —	1025
Traced on some future poet’s page. Thus were we pleasingly detained, While beauteous TA-POO-KA regained Her wonted charms, till day, by day, She seemed a more engaging creature,	1030
And one, that well might lure away The feeling heart — while every feature, Tinged with a soft, a brownish hue, The spirit pure shone lovely through. The sculptor’s polished chisel yet	1035
A finer model never set — Nor has the connoisseur surveyed Correcter lines, on eastern beauties, Than, unadorned, are here displayed, In all the light of native duties —	1040
Where eyes beam forth — like evening’s star — Than night’s dark essence darker far. The scene — the place — the happy hour— Reminded much of MILTON’s bower: Where first the parent of mankind	1045
Conducted Eve — with beauty blushing, And feelings pure, and unconfined, As yon pellucid stream, now gushing From the lovely arbour’s side, Clear as was then Euphrates’ tide.	1050
And here is seen the caraboo, The elk, and wild deer, roving through The silent forest’s deep’ning shade — Nor distant is the swan — renewing Pride, which for herself was made —	1055
Now, in the liquid mirror viewing A graceful form — much whiter still Than snow flakes on the Alpine hill. While others feel the magic hand Of love, their every thought command —	1060
My ’raptured soul delights to trace, The charms which beauty round discloses, Throughout this sweet, romantic place, To where the lily calm reposes, Now on its half reclining stem,	1065
Supporting Nature’s purest gem. And how the eye delights to see, The humming-bird,* from tree to tree, So nimbly flit, till it can find Some blushing rose, with nectar in it,	1070
Where, on a wing more fleet than wind, It banquets for a little minute, Then quickly off it darting goes, To seek elsewhere another rose. And oh! how charming is the bliss —	1075
So seldom felt — so pure as this, Where in the forest’s bosom far, From Europe’s crimes, and Europe’s errors, Beneath the glowing western star, The Indian dwells secure from terrors — *	1080
And by his streams, or by his lakes, His path of independence takes. Such were the joys here now displayed, Where’er I turned, where’er I strayed, Until imagination took	1085
A full repast — and backward turning To TA-POO-KA, one cheering look, Where two dark eyes, in beauty burning, Reminded — in my airy flight — I’d been a stranger to their light.	1090
To OU-KA-KEE, the good, the kind — A noble Chief of noble mind — ALKWANWAUGH now his story told, And of his bride, long since intended — And how five seasons past had rolled,	1095
Since she that frowning cliff ascended, At whose dark base she sought a grave, Deep in the bosom of the wave. Keen sorrow touched the brave man’s heart, To hear ALKWANWAUGH thus impart	1100
The tale of woe — which raises still, In manly hearts a fount of feeling, And, like some pure — some holy thrill, Comes o’er the soul, divinely stealing, Until the very joy of grief,	1105
Brings forth its own — its sweet relief. ALKWANWAUGH was a Sioux famed — In many battles honours claimed — And closely by his mother’s side, To ATSISTARI was related —	1110
That hero, long the hero’s pride, Than whom was never yet created, A nobler Chieftain for the field — A lion heart, unknown to yield. When OU-KA-KEE — who shared this place,	1115
And all the richness of the chase, With TA-POO-KA — the well-beloved — And ever valued as his daughter — Had heard the tale — and deeply moved — For to this spot himself had brought her —	1120
He said, such hearts deserved his care, And should his home and cabin share. From hut to hut the tidings flew — The marriage of the happy two — The wished-for day — the very hour	1125
By every tongue was soon repeated — And e ’en the lovely maple bower, Close by the hill — where last defeated, The white man breathed his life away — Would be the spot of pleasure gay.	1130
From woods — from streams, they gathered all The dainties for the festival, Till gifts on gifts, brought from the chase, Had fully stored the Chieftain’s dwelling — And in each look you well might trace	1135
The tide of joy, so gayly swelling, Where every youth had longed to see Of spousal love the jubilee. The day arrived — midst scenes as sweet As e’er the heart or eye could meet —	1140
And every rose that purely threw Its richest fragrance on the morning, There bore a lovelier — brighter hue, Where violets seemed no less adorning The blushing beauty of the grove,	1145
Now made the peaceful home of love. Such soft attraction seemed to run In every blossom — where the sun Had mildly thrown his gentle beam — We to the mountain’s summit wandered,	1150
Close by a little dimpling stream, That slowly to the vale meandered, Where we a distant view might take Of Erie’s wide, extended lake. Then down the sloping brow we strayed,	1155
To where the bay close by displayed A gentle rippling on its breast, And seemed to yield a double pleasure, To that, which on our hearts was pressed, When we had heard, in fairy measure,	1160
The sweetest tones, like magic glide, From her, the loved — the chosen bride. While winding round the silent shore, To that lone spot, where once before We fondly went, to catch one view	1165
Of her, who, then unknown, was singing, And with her incantation drew The pliant heart — and nearer bringing — We saw, far o’er the water’s brim, Another bark, as lightly skim.	1170
It being now almost the hour, When we must to the wedding bower Direct our steps — where sure to meet Great Chieftains, who had been invited, With lovely girls — so lovely, sweet —	1175
As showed each heart was well delighted — That longer here we could not stay — But enter on our homeward way. Yet, still we paused — to watch the sail, So steady in the gentle gale,	1180
Pursue its path, along the line, That seemed the sky and water bounding, Then near, and nearer still incline, Where other prospects were surrounding — And we could take a clearer view	1185
Of those who steered the swift canoe. A minute — and one minute more, It touched the margin of the shore, Close by the spot where we remained, So fondly on its movements gazing —	1190
And when the beach three heroes gained, We heard them all its beauties praising, Till, in an open space below, We saw the noble SKENANDOW! So unexpected was the sight,	1195
Our bosoms filling with delight, We hurried to the happy green, And, with the heart’s most fervent feeling, Repeated joys, now felt* — now seen — Until a tear came gently stealing,	1200
From TA-POO-KA’s dark, flowing eye, Precursor of a broken sigh. It was the tear of pleasing grief, That flowed to bring the heart relief — And like the dewy mist that plays —	1205
As if a liquid mantle throwing — Before the sun’s sweet cheering rays Yet leaves the beam more lovely glowing — So, when the darkling tear was o’er, Her beauty shone redoubled more.	1210
Of all the charms that pleasure throws One moment o’er the gloom of woes, There never yet came one so sweet As that which now appears so splendid, And brings the heart again to meet	1215
What heaven alone for man intended, Unfolding, in one day like this, A happy age of purest bliss. The worthy Chiefs, with noble pride, Conducted by the lovely bride,	1220
Now onward take their forest way, To join the cheerful wedding party, Where smiling Indian girls play, And echo tells the laugh as hearty — As if to please the happy throng,	1225
Where merry pleasure sports along. When SKENANDOW, and OU-KA-KEE, Had joined in conversation free — For they to each were proudly known, Long having stood in war together —	1230
And having many whites o’erthrown, By lakes, by woods — no matter whether — Around the noble warriors two, Each youthful heart attentive drew.* Though I have witnessed fancied joys,	1235
And etiquette, which pleasure cloys — Before this real blissful hour, None ever had such transport in it As that which sanctifies this bower, Where I can see, in one short minute,	1240
A world of peace — a world of love — A type of all that dwells above. The wedding over — and unseen The holy rites* — and all between — Because inferior is the name —	1245
And I believe a just recorder — Of Christian — honoured by his fame! Who first for peace brought foul disorder, And in Religion’s pathway threw Sectarian seeds, which rankly grew.	1250
Ye jarring Creeds-men, why thus strive To keep the impious flame alive — That flame which discontent has brought, And even now its crusade making, In crimes like those yourselves have taught —	1255
The social tie of friendship breaking —* Because to you, you think is given A nigher way to march to heaven!* But here, what joyous rapture seems In every eye that brightly beams,	1260
Where melody as freely strays From youthfiul tongues,* now breathing pleasure, As from the scarlet-bird, that plays From branch to branch — while music’s treasure, Comes, like the fabled harp, that sings	1265
To every breeze that sweeps its strings. Now, on a fallen trunk of pine One peaceful moment to recline, And view such joys — beyond control— Wakes in the heart some sweet emotion,	1270
Like that which cheers the Persian’s soul, In tranquil hours of pure devotion — Who only asks to love and see, The image of his Deity. The dance* — the laugh — the pleasing flush	1275
Of joy, which through their bosoms rush, Proclaim the bliss of one and all — Nor ever yet was seen so splendid, Nor such a wedding festival — Nor joys, with joys so purely blended—	1280
As crowns the lovely — loving pair, With all the soul could wish or share. But, hush! — that watch-dog seems to say Some stranger comes, unknown, this way — Yes — yes — I see — I plainly hear	1285
Each oar now in the current plying — And there, five other boats appear, With men, to gain the shore fast trying — It is an enemy! — to arms — The war-whoop, at one breath, alarms.	1290
Now, Chiefs and heroes firmly stand, Prepared to meet the first command, And teach the Christian soon to know The danger of his foul intrusion — Till, from the tomahawk, one blow	1295
Shall pay him for the dire confusion He to the Indian oft has given, And all to claim the love of heaven! Man stands ’gainst man, in dreadful strife, Till ebbs the flowing tide of life —	1300
And long, and doubtful seemed the day, On either side so well contended — Nor gained, nor gave an inch away, Till dead, and dying, lay extended, In mangled ruin on the shore,	1305
With human blood empurpled o’er! Close by the border of the stream I see a battle-axe quick gleam, And throw its flashes o’er the wave — ’Tis SKENANDOW’s — its death-blows giving—	1310
And he who meets it, meets his grave, Nor longer shall disturb the living — It is the light’ning of his course — No human arm can stop its force. Thus, while the contest is maintained,	1315
By neither won, by neither gained — The great TECUMSEH* hurries o’er, Just in the fury of the action — Directly from the other shore, With heroes roused to keen distraction —	1320
Whose vengeance, bursting on each white, Decide the horrors of the fight. And now, the crackling flames are seen, In columns, rolling far between The pond’rous branches of the pine,	1325
Till onward through the forest rushing, Where beasts no longer can recline — And heaven’s distant arch seems blushing, As if illum’d by Etna’s flame, Far o’er the crater whence it came.	1330
While here the foaming torrent roars, And dashes round the rugged shores, The timid deer starts from his lair, And o’er the mountain’s summit bounding, Avoids the rage of horror there,	1335
And scenes now dismally surrounding That spot, where he so late could roam, And find a peaceful forest home. The sullen murmur of the breeze, That eddies through the falling trees,	1340
Comes like the pensive dirge of woe, Or death-notes deepest anguish waking, When doomed the soul’s last struggling throe To hear, or see from nature breaking, Leaving a gloomy wreck behind,	1345
No more to pain or earth confined. And now, the dying white man’s groan, Unpitied, and unwept — alone — Breaks on the ear — and now his prayer To heaven he seems for mercy raising,	1350
With lips that scarcely breathe the air, And eyes but faintly upwards gazing, Till the unerring* feathered dart Drains the last life-drop from the heart. Before the sable skirt of night	1355
Had closed upon the dismal sight — Of all the Christian foe-men, three Alone remain to weep their errors,* And ruin’s dark reality, Which stalked with unexampled terrors,	1360
While in each look of deadly hate, They read their own impending fate. It is a foul — unholy crime, Stamped on the open page of time — To plunder Nature’s humble child	1365
Of all the gifts for him intended, And scattered through his forest wild, Till Christian charity extended Her bounteous hand, and made him know, For bliss exchanged — a real woe!*	1370
The Missionary evils brought,* By those who first Religion taught — Forgive the phrase — had more of hell — And all the crimes with it connected — Than ever yet were known to dwell	1375
With those oft called the lost — neglected — The barb’rous Indian — Savage race — The outcasts of the human race! Yet, while the independent soul Can fairly here survey the whole,	1380
And take a broad — but candid view, Of times gone by — and darkest sorrows, Which now the Indian’s days pursue, The very pain that sadness borrows, Awakes a feeling deadlier far,	1385
Than ever roused the breast of war. Now in the twilight’s thick’ning gloom, Three whites remain to know their doom, While by the fragments of the dead, Each hero Chieftain sadly pauses,	1390
Or with a slow and solemn tread, Surveys the evils, and their causes, Until the throb, and bursting swell, The heart’s dark ruin here can tell. What! — do I see a female there,	1395
Amid the horror of despair? — ’Tis faithful TA-POO-KA, alone, Now seeking her SIOUX lover — And ah! I hear his dying moan, And see her bending sadly over	1400
The noble youth — till, clasped in death, She joins with his, her parting breath! Oh! hapless pair! — dark fate has cast The death-shade o’er your brows at last — And all the throbbings of the heart,	1405
Are hushed in gloomy peace forever — No more with rapture’s thrill to start — Ah no! — life’s spark again shall never Awake, ’mong clouds so foul as those, Which on this day’s sad ruins close.	1410
How dismally among the leaves, Is heard the murmuring breath* of night, Like the last sigh the bosom heaves, Caught by some angel in its flight, Who, leaving its own happy sphere,	1415
In pity to man’s great distress, Comes on a holy mission here, To those who sleep in wretchedness. The moon is up, and through the clouds Collected round her paley form,	1420
Like mist which some dark fiend enshrouds, Before the bursting of the storm — Now takes her dull and cheerless rout, Along the gloomy arch of heaven, Where not a single star looks out,	1425
To cheer the dismal frowns of even. And from the cloud-capped mountain high, Where now the fearless eagle sleeps, The stream sends forth a broken sigh, While tumbling down the rugged steeps —	1430
And from the hollow, blasted pine, Where heaven’s light’ning played along, And wild grapes close their tendrels twine, Comes forth the screech-owl’s boding song. There’s scarce a sound, or motion here,	1435
But wandering breezes now and then, That slowly steal upon the ear, In broken murmurs from the glen — The Lake enjoys a dreamy rest, And all upon its waters — save	1440
The pelican’s soft bosom, pressed By gentle throbbings of the wave. Yet, ah! how changed the sunny hour, When TA-POO-KA, the trembling bride, Stood by the Water-God’s deep bower,*	1445
With her young SIOUX at her side — Where, dancing onward as it goes, They viewed the liquid Curtain’s* foam, Just where the tinted rainbow throws An archway o’er his fairy home.	1450
But, sleep! — no war-whoop e’er shall break The silence of this last repose, Nor cause that noble heart to wake, Which fell the victim of its foes! Ah, no! — then let ALKWANWAUGH’s shade,	1455
And TAPOO-KA’s undying name, Still have such tributes to them paid As souls, like theirs, unsullied claim.
———
Now let the Christian white men, three, Fast pinioned to that bas-wood tree,	1460
To wait the tomahawk’s aimed blow, For crimes that should not be forgiven — Declare, ere forced to undergo The mandate of avenging heaven, If now, they do not deeply feel	1465
Their conscience-horrors o’er them steal. A ghastly gloom encircles all Who sleep beneath night’s dark’ning pall Their last, long sleep — and not a sound Disturbs this tranquil hour of sorrow,	1470
Save the cascade’s echoing round The hollow cliffs — as if to borrow, From the bleak caverns as they go, Responses for their dirge of woe. But now, close by that maple grove,	1475
I see a flame ascend above The wide spread branches — and the light Gleam on warriors round it standing — ’Tis the great Council-fire of night, And, by its signal, now commanding	1480
All the brave Chieftains quickly there, To tell the whites their doom, and where. Among the youthful heroes all, It was agreed the whites should fall, And that the tomahawk alone,	1485
Directed by a hand unerring, Should make them for their wrongs atone — Deep wrongs, which now demand repairing — And that ALKWANWAUGH’s noble shade, Must have the offering to it paid.	1490
The foul invaders of our rights — These cold — unfeeling — Christian whites — Who seek the Indian to destroy, And blot away his name and nation — Shall never more our peace annoy,	1495
Which long has been their occupation —* No — no — each now must lose his head, T’appease our brother heroes dead. Our hunting grounds — our streams — our lakes, The white usurper freely takes,	1500
And all the Indian’s God* has given — Nor does he, in his rapid plunder, Think of our wives, and children, driven Far, far from home — and torn asunder,* Or seeking food we cannot give,	1505
To bid their little spirits live. The captives now, with downcast eyes, As reading their own obsequies, Look downward still — while by the flame, Whose glaring light sometimes fell o’er them,	1510
Was seen the heavy brow of shame, Once never raised — and, just before them, War’s last deciding Council stood, Embosomed in the darkling wood. Come, said a youth, of noble look,	1515
As he his sheaf of arrows shook, Come, give the word — this pointed dart, Sent from my bow-string,* faithful ever, Shall quickly reach the foe-man’s heart, And all life’s chords unerring sever—	1520
My country’s wrongs I must redress, Nor longer feel her wretchedness. Fierce were the burning words that came, Like lava floods of living flame, From feeling’s strong, but injured fount,	1525
When thus, each youth’s keen eloquence, His Nation’s evils would recount — Whose soul would be her bold defence, Or, perish in that Nation’s fall, When ruin had encircled all.	1530
The rage that fired each youthful breast Subsided to a partial rest, As now the aged SACHEMS rise, In manly pride, to speak their feeling, And, to the Spirits of their skies,	1535
In most affecting words, appealing, Said — Hurons, spare!* give, give consent — Pardon these whites — they may repent. ________ “they may repent,” Was soon by listening echoes sent	1540
Around LA CLOCHE* — from flood to flood, O’er winding hills — to that great mountain, Where long the Indian’s God hath stood, To list the murmurings of the fountain, While gushing forth beneath his feet,	1545
In haste some kindred stream to meet. TECUMSEH spoke the words of peace With full persuasion,* to release The captive foe. — He would not shed A tyrant’s blood, when conquered — standing	1550
In chains, like those who bend the head In sadness here — with grief commanding The finer feelings of the heart, To let them now unhurt depart. He paused — then cast his eyes of jet	1555
On SKENANDOW — who quickly met, With mutual glance, their magic power — And on TECUMSEH’s right hand turning, Now in this last — this tragic hour, Close by the flame’s extensive burning,	1560
To take a view of friends and foes, And thus, his heart’s pure thoughts disclose. White men! — here, oftentimes have we Exchanged the WAMPUM* — set the tree — The tree of peace — and tied the chain*	1565
Of friendship, which yourselves have broken Disgracefully — still to remain — And the hatchet* — the purest token Of Indian faith — by us long buried — You’ve foully raised, and to war carried.	1570
Through this long hair of raven dye* The winds oft wandered — and the sigh Of grief has echoed far and near, Long since the Christian came, deceiving With kind words* — and many a tear	1575
Our children wept, for thus believing His artful smiles — nor dreamed that he Would be our cause of misery. But we forgive. — You may return — * Perhaps your wives and children mourn,	1580
Like the poor squaw — when struck in death The hunter of the deer is lying — Or doomed to catch his parting breath While on the field of battle dying — Who, till his spirit mounts above,	1585
Still casts on her his looks of love! Go — go — myself shall now unbind The Wattap, which has here confined Your blood-stained hands* — nor ever more Return, to bring the Huron sorrow,	1590
Or scatter round his woody shore The anguish of some future morrow — This, this we ask — nor further roam, To rob the Indian of his home.*
———
Thus far the Chief. — And from the tree —	1595
Once more set to their liberty — The whites retire — with steps as slow As steals the guilty heart from danger — And through the woods in silence go, Midst swamps and gloom — or like some ranger,	1600
When destined on his midnight prey, Too impious for the blaze of day. The clouds retiring seek the west, Like giant spirits to their rest — And now, the pale moon’s* trembling beam,	1605
From out the walking elements, Comes faintly shining o’er the stream,* On whose smooth verge some soul repents, And with each tear that sadly falls, The errors of this life recalls.	1610
TECUMSEH and his heroes, brave, Now enter on the pulseless wave, And in their barks that lightly press The bosom of the tranquil waters — Much like some sea-god’s soft caress,	1615
When round him pleasing smiles he scatters — Are, in one moment’s airy flight, Beyond the distant reach of sight. And now,the remnant seek their home, Close by the cascade’s noisy foam —	1620
Where, in some welcomed, calm repose, The wearied heart might cease its mourning, And half forget its latest woes,* Midst peaceful joys, in dreams returning, Until it felt that soothing bliss,	1625
Which makes life’s days all happiness. But, as they took their onward way, A direful band that darkly lay In silent ambush, rushed upon The scattered Chiefs — nor ever making	1630
One minute’s pause, till life was gone, But o’er the dead and dying breaking, Till SKENANDOW’s brave arm had stayed The fury of the white man’s blade. Alone the noble Huron stands,	1635
Amidst the crash of warring hands That round him throng — and e’en the three, The captive three, of Christian feeling! So lately rescued from the tree, Surround the Chief — their death-blows dealing —	1640
But ere his life’s blood they could shed, Two fell among the mangled dead. Some now behind, and some before, Around the warrior hero pour, Like demons of the raging storm —	1645
Yet, still majestic midst the foe, Was seen his bold, his manly form, There dealing death in every blow, Till — from the man he saved — a dart Had pierced the recess of his heart!	1650
SKENANDOW fell! — and calmly sleeps By ERIE’s darkling groves of pine, Where gently now the wild grape creeps, As if to guard the holy shrine — Nor shall his name be e’er forgot —	1655
But future bards, in songs of grief, Will sadly tell of that lone spot, Where rests the noble HURON CHIEF!