| INTRODUCTION I strike the lyre with trembling hand,
As stranger in my native land,
For strangers must peruse the page,
Or friends at least of later age
Than those, who whilome ranged with me
O’er fertile mead, or barren lea, —
What time we hied with joy from school
To dare the depth of whirling pool,
Or chase with bright and eager eye,
The bird, the bee, the butterfly; —
Than those, who, were they by my side,
Would e’en assist the muse untried
And cheer me on the steep ascent,
Where I on purpose boldly bent,
Would fain pursue my devious way,
And gain the summit if I may. —
Companions of the Morning-tide
Of Life, who wander’d far and wide —
O’er ocean’s bosom, mountain’s crest,
Do you in life’s meridian rest,
As when within your native bowers,
Which innocence had strew’d with flowers:
Or shelter’d from the scorching beam
By friendly tree near “trouting” stream!
Say, have you gained enchanted ground!
Oh! if such rest on earth be found,
For pilgrims of our ripen’d years,
Reveal the place, to your compeers; —
Compeers we still must be in time,
For years keep pace in every clime,
And one will gladly join you there, —
For all seems sadly alter’d here.
CANTO I.
The moon with less than crescent
bright,
Fail’d to eclipse the pale star-light;
The desert was serene and still,
Save sound, perchance, from rippling rill, —
Or when some zephyr might recall
A strain from distant waterfall;
Bearing, as on a spirit’s wing,
Music of Nature’s offering: —
When lo! forth issuing from the shade
Of forest deep, an Indian maid,
Who, shrinking back, a moment stood
Appall’d by treeless solitude;
Then gaz’d around with anxious eye
That plain, bound Eastward by the sky,
And on the West by gloomy fir,
Far tow’ring pine, and juniper;
The North by distant mountain blue,
Whilst swamp and lake met Southern view: —
The scrutiny at length complete,
And deer-skin tighten’d to her feet,
She shaking back her flowing hair,
Bounds swiftly forth like frighten’d deer;
Oh! that the power I could command,
Which poets sway in favor’d land,—
Or that my trembling hand at will,
Could once assume the painter’s skill,
Then in her native garb array’d
Should stand confess’d the Indian maid.
In stature o’er the standard height,
Slender, but not extremely slight;
Graceful, without a bend, her air,
And dark to blackness eyes and hair:
No cov’ring on her head she wore,
But that which Nature gave, — she bore
In such profusion, ’twould impede
A movement less than roebuck’s speed.
Spencer of down from wild bird’s nest,
Her bosom’s fullness straight compress’d,
Whilst fur, alternate dark and light,
Press’d all beside to instep slight.
And who was she, or what, the maid,
In forest cov’ring thus array’d; —
And why all lonely wander there,
With watchful eye and anxious air!
SOLOA was the maiden’s name;
Her sire, an Indian known to fame:
Of thousands who once wander’d free,
O’er land or lake remain but three; —
Brave NORAC and one warrior more,
To guard his daughter, and adore;
Adore in vain; ah! hapless lot,
Tho’ much with him, she lov’d him not.
And why thus callous? Can the hour
Of danger cancel passion’s power,
Or changeful lot make us forget,
In what we were, what we are yet?
Ah, no, not such is Nature’s child;
Whether in desert country wild,
Or ’mid the city’s ceaseless hum,
That passion reigns o’er all as one. —
She lov’d another far away,
Whom she had met in early day:
’Tho slight the chance that she again
Should meet him, other love was vain. —
It chanc’d upon an autumn day,
She left her home the game to slay;
A huntress without guard or guide,
With bow and arrows by her side;
And taking too much western range,
Was ta’en and bound by Indians strange
From Canada, who sometimes came,
For valued fur, to take the game;
Nor game alone, but often life
Of Natives, in unequal strike;
Not that the latter were less brave
To face the foe, or friend to save,
But nurs’d in mountain solitude,
They ne’er possess’d the deadly tube
With which the foe, all pitiless
And powerful, would still distress;
Which seem’d by potent charm to slay,
Whilst feeble arrow fell midway.
With wand’ring band who thus would roam,
Soloa — captured far from home, —
Was forc’d to sojourn for a space,
Whilst they pursued the vig’rous chase.
A bower apart afforded there,
By one the youngest hunter’s prayer,
Whose stripling form too slight was deem’d,
For dang’rous hunt and so esteem’d
Was doom’d, ah, heavy doom for youth,
To guard around Soloa’s booth.
Night came and hunters far away; —
Save him who thus was task’d to stay.
And sleeps the captive? can she sleep,
With none but foe, her watch to keep?
She can, — for she had caught his eye,
Ere night-bird sang its lullaby: —
When first upon Soloa’s view,
Appear’d an eye of orient blue,
And nought but love-beams floating there
She knew there was no cause for fear!
That night, when all was hush’d and still,
And slumber work’d its fitful will,
She heard a voice as in a dream: —
‘Maiden I am not what I seem!’
Upstarting from her rushy bed,
‘Who art thou stranger,’ then she said,
—
‘And why thus enter to dispel
A dream of home I love so well?’
‘My mother was an Indian maid, 1
With home like thine in forest shade;
A father’s form I never knew —
They say he was a warrior true,
Who came from distant land to bring
Bribes to the Chiefs to serve a King.
He lov’d, or, said he lov’d: what then!
Ah! what are woman’s wiles to men!
Unmov’d can they hear flattery’s strain,—
Or when did warrior sue in vain?
That maiden left her all for him;
For to her wild imagining, —
The sun-ting’d ocean — rainbow — sky, —
Pales when compar’d to warrior high!
Bright and ecstatic was her dream,
Trifling to him as light moon-beam;
Nearly as brief, for three weeks flown
My mother was again alone:
Ah, what avails it now to tell,
Of whirling brain and bosom’s swell, —
The days, the nights, of agony,
Years not from mental suff’ring free?
’Tis past! She lives! and I am here
Her heart’s sole treasure; Indian fair,
In wish’d-for time I hope again
To clasp her! have I spoken in vain?’
‘Not so,’ Soloa soft replied —
‘Your mother — as in maiden pride,
Or worse than widow’d wretchedness —
Will ever on my mem’ry press.
But what have I to do with thee,
And why reveal thy mystery?
Since to your tribe I now belong,
You would not do the captive wrong!’
‘Perish the thought!’ the youth exclaimed, —
‘Your confidence I sought and gain’d,
My only wish to bear you free, —
This night you must depend on me.’
Quickly he loos’d the deer-skin thong,
By which her feet were bound too long;
And swiftly, as on wings of fear,
O’er vale and mountain flew the pair.
Across their way full oft would spring
The startled fawn, or bird take wing,
And almost brush each bounding breast,
Whilst onward as for life they press’d.
Morn dawn’d, as by an inland sea,
Or boundless lake, if such there be,
They sat them down to take their rest,
’Till coming light illum’d its breast;
Then by some branches well conceal’d
The maid a birchen bark reveal’d,
Which lightly launch’d upon the wave,
was swift impell’d by paddle stave.
‘Now speak again, Oh! gentle youth,
For yours is like the voice of truth!’
But stopping short, Soloa said:
‘How thoughtless was the Indian maid, —
Ah, me! I’ve done you grievous wrong,
And we have tarried much too long,
For should you without me return,
Will not your rangers’ anger burn?
Evil for good I would not give,
I will return, then die or live.’
‘Grieve you for that?’ the youth replied,
‘Thus free to share what ills betide
My breach of trust; then take relief,
My mother’s sire is our tribe’s chief;
’Tho’ old, yet potent is his arm,
They durst not do his grandson harm.’
Reliev’d, Soloa smil’d with joy,
And fain would clasp the blooming boy;
But something in her breast forbade,
And check’d the effort passion made; —
Then dash’d the light boat on again,
But safely far from woody main,
Which lately had Soloa press’d,
More free than now, yet not so bless’d!
Now swiftly passing down the lake,
The maiden points with glance elate, —
‘See you yon highland far away,
But half reveal’d by hazy ray?
The hundred islands all are there,2
With channels dang’rous, dark and drear,
Yet safe to those who know them well;
They wind by many fruitful dell,
And fish and fowl all tamely play,
In safe, secluded, glassy, bay:
That place one day must be our home,
Then should you ever higher roam,
And wish to see the Indian maid,
Be signal on that shore display’d.
It shall be so,’ the youth replied;
‘If thou wilt be the wand’rer’s bride;
—
When manhood nerves my willing arm,
To keep thee safe from every harm, —
If weary of sequester’d life,
I long to enter into strife,
Which christian hands will ever blend
With human lot, — then more than friend —
I’ll bear thee far from these wild scenes,
To where my mother of me dreams,
And hers shall be your welcome home;
Then wilt thou thither with me roam?’
‘I know not now, I must not say
I will, yet scarcely can say — nay; —
But if thy thoughts with mine agree,
Thou wilt one day return and see.’
SONG
The stag is bounding thro’
the brake,
The hare is on the spring;
The loom is gliding o’er the lake, —
The plover on the wing:
The mountain top again displays
Its shadow on the plain;
But merry mates of early days,
We ne’er behold again! They tell me that the morning ray
Is fairer than the noon;
The blossom of the early day,
Much sweeter than the bloom: —
For once I own the sages right, —
My morning spent with thee;
But when the sun has gained his height —
Where, Stranger, wilt thou be? |
’Tis past,
the boat is on the shore,
The huntress gain’d her home once more,
Nor need the bard to parents tell,
The stranger there was welcom’d well;
And watch’d by Norac on his way
For leagues, until the close of day.
CANTO II.
Now came the season when the bear
And wolf pursued the flying deer;
The fox waylaid, with cunning deep,
The hare or marten on the steep;
Th’ amphibious otter, beaver mild,
With instinct so like reason’s child,
Safe from the foe, of such devoid,
By man alone could be destroy’d; —
Then Norac and Bravora, bent
On lengthy journey, hunting went,
And left, without a guard, at home,
The mother and the daughter lone—
Nor yet all lonely, for a boy,
Some three years’ old, gave household joy;
Cheering by prattle all his own,
In soft melliffluous Indian tone.
But, ah! it chanc’d on luckless day,
That mother did with darling stray,
To cheer her with his notes of joy,
And banish memory’s dark alloy:
By times he bounded gently on —
By times he rested on the thong,
Which round her breast and shoulders hung,
And cradl’d oft her darling son;
E’en so it was when on her view,
Appear’d of Christian hunters two;
One levell’d the unsparing gun,3
Aim’d at the mother—slew the son.
There was no cry, there was no moan,
If so she heard not, but when home
Was gain’d, and band which form’d his bed
Unlac’d, she found the child was dead!
All silent then and motionless,
Stunn’d by the weight of her distress,
That day — that night — in anguish spent,
Where every shade of woe was blent:
The dreaded foe so near her door,
Her husband far on dreary moor,
Six children, one by one, had died,
A daughter only by her side,
All friendless — none to shieled her now —
What could that mother do but bow
Her head, and lie her down to die?
But did she? Mark her kindling eye,
And hear her purpose low express’d; —
‘Soloa! I can take no rest,
Until a Christian child I gain,
In place of one by Christian slain.’
‘Forbear, my mother; oh! forbear!
What would you with the stranger here?
How little may the mother know
Of him, the wretch who struck the blow;
And how could you to other give
Such torture as is yours — and live?
‘I know it, but feel rage to-day,
Which nothing but revenge can stay;
No more, — I am resolved to go —
Nought less can soothe thy mother’s
woe.’—
Days pass’d away, and not a sound
From her, who oft made woods resound
With song of love in peaceful age,
With scream of wrath when war would rage!
At length, with feeble step and moan,
She did return, and not alone:
Into Soloa’s arms she toss’d
A boy, the age of him she lost;
Then shrieking, cried, in accents wild,
‘Soloa! bring me my own child!
Hark! heard you not your brother call?
Yes, — there he is, — and brothers all
—
All seem to beckon me away.
Soloa — I am going — stay —
Say to your father —’
All is o’er —
Sombrina sighs, and speaks no more!
DIRGE.
My Mother! she has found a rest,
Beyond the hunter’s aim;—
The babe which nestled on her breast,
May slumber there again.
My Father! he is far away,
And never may return;
What can the Indian maid to-day,
But for the absent mourn!
My Brothers! they are lowly laid
Where oft I love to stray;
Their bodies—in the fir-tree shade,—
Their spirits—far away!
The Fawn, forsaken,—now
alone,
May woo the hunter’s dart;
For the stricken Deer has gain’d her home—
With the arrow in her heart!
The simple, nor less
plaintive, strain
Is over, and the maid again
Appears to think of earthly
thing,
Forgot in rayless suffering:
Recall’d from her excitement wild,
By voice of long-unheeded child,
And gazing fondly on the boy,
A flashing thought gives transient joy;
‘Thou shalt return, thou lov’d and lost,
To those on earth who love thee most,
For none can fill the void beside;
So mother found when brother died.
I’ll bear thee to the shelter’d cave,
There safe—if secrecy can save—
We’ll rest until our guardians come,
Who shall restore thee, gentle one!’
By children’s side in fir-tree shade,
Sombrina now is lowly laid,
All signs of living there effaced,
Soloa to her back has laced
The child, and, with one silent wave
Of hand to Spirit, seeks the cave.
Few miles from thence a channel torn
By earthquake, or by water worn,
Stretch’d on for many miles to sea,
With torrent roaring wild and free:
The banks with fern and brushwood crown’d
The sides compos’d of broken ground,
Except that sometimes would appear
The rock so rude, or cavern drear;—
’Twas Indians’ wont by night to glide
Across the plain to channel’s side,
The priz’d cosmetic to obtain,
The breast, the hands, the face to stain;
And many a fair and dimpled cheek,
Was spoil’d by that fantastic freak;
Thus fair by Nature, red by will,4
They were misnam’d, and would be still.
And now, upon an evening mild,
Soloa wanders with the child,
But rests in woody verge till day,
Departing, makes more safe her way.
Soon as the friendly night had flung
Its mantle o’er the lonely one,
She hied with joy to cavern drear,
And smil’d to think the child was there.
And weary days now pass away,
Norac—Bravora—still they stay—
Whilst oft as safe proceeds the maid,
Unto the gloomy fir-tree shade;
Returning late from lov’d one’s sleeping,
Where she her vigils had been keeping,
Across the trackless plain she hied,
Her errand Mercy—Love her guide—
Soloa gained the secret cave,
And found the child she wish’d to save,
Too young for thought, too pure for care,
All safe and softly sleeping there;
Soon by its side she gently press’d
The rushy couch, and sank to rest;
As morning dawn’d a sound was heard,
Like note of some peculiar bird;
A chirrup follow’d, quick and clear,—
Soloa knew a friend was near;
Then swiftly did the maiden glide,
From cavern’d way to river’s side,
And leaning ’gainst a shelving plane,
Awaited the repeating strain;
It came at length, the maid replied,
And blest Bravora’s by her side.
‘My father! Is he on his way,
Or has aught happen’d, speak, I pray!’
‘Not so, but safe, and bade me bear
The tidings, and protect you here;
Whilst he removes, to secret place,
The produce of our three weeks’ chase.
Returning late, I found your home
Raz’d to the ground, and tenants gone,
I need not ask, I know full well,
What it would pain you much to tell,—
That home was found by Christian men,
And desolation follow’d then.’
‘Even so, and worse,’—the maiden said,—
‘For Mother—Brother—all are dead!
Alas! that I should have to tell,
Of evil deed, or luckless spell.
But thus it was: one morn from home,
My mother with the child did roam,
Was met by hunters on the wild,
Who aim’d at her, and kill’d the child;
She quickly turn’d towards the glen,
Where was the home of cruel men;
Watching her time, she saw with joy,5
By cottage door, an infant boy,
The age of her lamented one,
And quickly o’er her shoulder flung
The frighten’d child, and bore him home,
To fill the place of darling gone;
But vain the course she would pursue,—
The stolen child was not the true!
Not him she bore thro’ winter’s cold,
And summer’s heat, till three years old’
The last,—child of her old age!—
Ah! what could then her grief assuage?—
Her other sons had perish’d well,—
To save a father’s life they fell,
And she was comforted—but when
The last, most lov’d, was taken,—then—
Then—reason reel’d, whilst eye grew bright,
Her heart was broken — there was night.
And now that dangers dire surround,
And mother recks not of the sound,
Why should the infant stranger share
The Indian’s danger and despair?
Oh! bear him hence, — Oh, take him home,
Then unencumber’d may we roam.’
Bravora paus’d awhile, and then,
With watchful glance from rock to glen: —
‘What! would you send me now away —
And hunters reeking for a prey?
Your father absent, mother gone, —
I cannot leave you, bounding fawn!
Beside, I mind me, time is come,
When silent courtship must be done;
For it is full nine moons ago
Since first I own’d a lover’s woe;
You promis’d then — within that time,
If your boy came not — to be mine.’
‘Oh! would you your affection prove,
Then speak not to me now of love!
Ah me! my first and only choice,
No more may hear Soloa’s voice,
And were he by, you still would share
All that one loving heart could spare;
But think, Bravora; deep the woe
Of women’s hearts, when first they know
The raging force of passion vain,—
Time they require to soothe the brain!’
She rose and beckon’d with her hand
That he should leave her, a command
Bravora never yet withstood,
And so withdrew in sullen mood.
CANTO III.
Now Westerly the sun
descends,
And to the sky new glory lends,
As lofty spirits, ere their fall,
Bestow on those they love their all.
A flow’ry bank, which, in the sheen
Of sunset, look’d like fairy scene,
Extended from o’erhanging ledge
Of rocky cliff, to river’s edge:
Soloa and Bravora there
Reclin’d at ease, apart, but near,
At ease? ah, no! Soloa’s breast,
By ever varying passion press’d,
Heav’d with remembrance of the past,
Too wildly dear, and sweet to last!
Her absent lover now would fill
Each thought, and powerless leave her will;
Anon—the Christian child would bear,
Of conflict dire, its dreadful share,—
Bravora: ’tho’ she lov’d him not,
Had shar’d with her each changing lot,
To which the wand’ring Indian yields
A willing suffrance, tho’ he FEELS!
And he had done so much for those
She lov’d, since ruthless war arose,
That much was due from her full heart,
Where gratitude still held its part;
But all in vain, the recreant breast
Would still rebel; — the life-blood,
press’d
By ancient cruelty away,
Gave not the doom’d more agony: —
Bravora watch’d her changing eye,
And heard with pain each rending sigh,
And felt, as lovers feel, the cause
Was govern’d by capricious laws; —
Then was his turn to feel the woe,
Which unrequited love can know;
And all unquench’d, his Indian blood
O’erwhelm’d his reason like a flood.
Sudden from grassy couch he sprang,
The chasm with his wild whoop rang;
Twice was the bow brought to his eye,
The arrow drawn, but not let fly;
As oft it harmless fell to ground,
When gaze was met by gaze profound, —
Never before had human form
Compress’d so much of passion’s storm;
—
Never before had maiden’s eye,
Glanc’d lightning half so wild and high!
She stood as willing victim there,
Ready the direst deed to dare
From his rash hand, knowing full well,
O’er savage minds the passions’ spell;
And more than even this, she knew,
If she his madness would subdue,
It must not be by start or scream,
Uplifted hand or moving scene;
For had she deign’d, by voice or look,
To sue for pity there, or shook
A single fibre in the blast,
That voice, that look, had been her last.
A moment, and a sound is heard —
Is it the warbling of a bird,
Or sound of an Æolian lyre,
Which soothes unseen the Indian’s ire?
Ah, no! it is Soloa’s song;
Commencing low, and waxing strong:
Of early time the melting strain,
When childhood held its dreamy reign, —
Of later days, when war began
To rage on the unpractic’d man;
Of Christian breaking Indian law,
Of wrongs receiv’d from Carawa: 
Anon; the strain is chang’d, and high
Thro’ cavern’d cliffs the wild sounds
fly,
Portraying in all glowing song
How ruthless strife was borne along —
How bravely fought her native tribe,
When strangers press’d on either side,
—
Far from the West the Carawa,
Who knew, save might, no human law —
And from the East a Christian band,
Who wielded the death-dealing brand,
How — when the battle ’gainst him turn’d,
Brave Norac every offer spurn’d
Of treach’rous peace, nor would receive
The life an enemy might give;
But bade the remnant still fight on,
With death-dirge for their battle song;
And his brave sons selecting out,
‘Who nobly compass’d him about,’
Sought post of danger, deed of dread,
And cheer’d them till the last was dead;
Then fell thrice wounded where he lay,
The last save one who fought that day,
Who bore him living from the plain,
Ah, who? — She sighed, Bravora’s name! —
How sweet the sound
of woman’s voice,
In silent grove or lonely bower;
When o’er her young heart’s early choice,
She wakes or soothes deep passion’s power:
Or when the shades of night surround,
Of wedded love the happy home,
The ear yields to the soothing sound,
The heart to rapture all its own!
But never had the
potent power
Of song exceeded hers, whose hour,
Seem’d but the last when she began, —
Long ere she ended chain’d the man!
Bravora stood entranc’d awhile,
Look’d up — was greeted with a smile,
—
And such a smile as only those
Bestow, who feel for others’ woes.
Enough, — ’tis past, and moving o’er
To where he had reclin’d before,
He beckon’d her to place above,
And thus began his lay of love: —
Maid of the dark expressive eye,
Whose gazes by degrees instilling
Love’s poison, wound more hopelessly
Than glances more intensely thrilling; —
To thee, as to cloud-touching pine,
Bravora kneels, and will be kneeling;
Till that too placid brow of thine
Betrays some ray of softer feeling!
REPLY.
Soloa — loving not —
can feel
Sympathy for a lover’s sadness;
Like twilight o’er her senses steal,
And chase from thence her spirit’s
gladness.
BRAVORA.
In vain thy callous heart bestows
Such thought on one thus wildly beating;
Compassion cannot yield repose,
Nor sympathy such sorrow sweeten!
SOLOA.
Ah! no; when once our bosoms warm,
And love on its own shrine is burning;
Nothing beneath the sky can charm,
But ardent love for love returning!
Bravora — with such thoughts as these,
What can I say your woe to lighten?
Be still thy gentle task to please,
And friendship into love may brighten!
The strain was sweet, and from the
heart,
Yet mingled still some shade of art, —
Fearful to bid him hope no more,
The maiden deign’d for once to pour
That balsam o’er his fever’d brain,
Her ripe design the best to gain;
And when she had succeeded well,
In breaking the love-potent spell,
Thus spoke the maid, who wish’d to sway: —
‘Tho’ for myself I could not pray,
Yet for another I can waive
All pride, when I would wish to save; —
See — where yon group of alders grow,
The nearest to the water’s flow;
Well; — just above them, and behind,
Securely shelter’d from the wind,
A cave has long to me been known,
And oft in danger prov’d a home:
Now is another tenant there, —
I tremble, but it is not fear;
Bravora — do not look so wild —
Alas! ’tis but the Christian child!
And you must bear him whence he came,
Return, and we will talk again!’
The Indian, slowly rising, stood
With down-cast eye, in musing mood. —
‘Is there much danger, then?’ she ask’d,
‘I would not have you hardly task’d.
Are Christian hunters in your way,
Or Carawas about the bay? —
Can wolves be num’rous on the shore? —
I never knew you fear before!’
‘It is not such,’ the Indian said,
‘I fear nor wolves — nor
hunter’s lead,
But should I reach the distant bower,
The Christian’s home — Oh! then would
lower
The greatest danger, — safe the child,
They may take life of Indian wild.’
Soloa paus’d in anxious thought,
On mercy thus with danger fraught,
Then said: — ‘May you not safely bear
The child his home and kindred near,
And leave him where he may be found
By mother dear, on native ground?
Ah me! that child! I cannot rest,
Till slumbers it on mother’s breast!
Oh! bear him hence, unharm’d and free —
Return, — and I will rest with thee!’
‘It shall be done,’ Bravora said —
‘Tho’ Indian slumber with the dead.
But other things my thoughts distress,
For many dangers soon must press
Your father and yourself around, —
This cannot long be secret ground,
And who will watch thy safety o’er,
When poor Bravora is no more?
Sad then must be thy destiny!
Not of myself I think, but thee.’
‘Oh! think not of me, now,’ she cried,
‘But that I soon may be thy bride;
And we will wander far from view,
‘Where none can reach, in mountain
blue!’ —
‘Enough! I go, — but leave the child, —
To take him thro’ the forest wild
Were nothing, but to brave the foe,
With such encumbrance, courts the blow!
But I will reach the distant bay,
And guide a party on the way,
And glad them with the infant boy,
The father’s hope, the mother’s joy.
When Indian speaks the deed’s begun, —
And long before the rising sun,
Bravora brushed the morning dew,
Mercy and love alone in view,
CANTO IV.
The day once more is
on the wane,
Bravora gazes on the plain;
And far beyond, from mountain’s crest,
Perceives the boundless ocean’s breast;
And resting there an hour alone,
The scene, the season, all his own —
Thinks o’er the past with anguish deep,
And for the first time fain would weep:
Just such an hour have thousands past,
Whose days have dwindled to the last,
They could not know, nor car’d to tell,
If known, what caus’d the bosom’s
swell; —
It was the scene, it was the hour,
To yield to mem’ry’s,
fancy’s, power;
And musing upon by-gone days,
The phantoms of the past to raise, —
To hear, ‘or dream you hear,’ around,
From fairy plot, or haunted ground,
A lullaby of childhood’s time
Or plaintive strain of youthful prime.
Descending now the mountain’s side,
And fast approaching ocean’s tide,
Bravora swiftly onward press’d,
Reliev’d by action more than rest.
He gains at length the home, he thought,
The same from whence the child was
brought,
With Indian freedom opes the door,
Reveals, by signs, that distant moor
Conceal’d the child they long had wept,
And he would shew them where it slept;
Alas! for him, those men had bound
Themselves by oath, wherever found,
An Indian red, beneath the sky,
That one ‘or more, if there,’ should
die. —
DEATH SONG.
The
spirit of life’s early morn,
Now heralds forth the coming night;
In misty shroud my father’s form
Descends — as in his hour of might —
The foeman to defy!
He breathes upon my burning brow,
I hear his war-cry even now,
To teach me how to die:
For the departed best can tell
The anguish of life’s last farewell!
Oh! were it but on
battle plain,
Where warrior true may strike a blow;
And, ere he perish’d, bravely gain
One trophy from the dastard foe; —
Then freely would he yield
The life that had been his full long;
But not for him the battle song,
The glory of the field:
Unknown, unhonor’d, he must die;
By Christians slain, with cowards lie.
But let me, ere my
final fall,
On early scene a moment dwell,
The dim and distant past recall,
When thou, my father, fought and fell;
All lonely did’st thou go,6
A fierce marauding band to brave,
Thy captive wife to shield or save,
From slavery and woe, —
With battle blade and bow in band,
And harmless branch alone in hand.
Emblem of peace,
display’d in vain,
And scoffd at in an evil hour;
For foemen press’d the icy plain,
Who yielded not to pity’s power,
Tho’ thou did’st reason mild;
And plead with pathos wild and high,
That they would let the father die,
And mother join her child, —
The treach’rous answer, thou did’st feel —
Not hear — the base assassin’s steel!
Yes! there, upon
that frozen lake,
The sanguinary contest dire,
Was witness’d by the wife, whose fate
Depended on one hero’s fire, —
Nor seem’d the struggle vain;
Ere rais’d on high thy battle brand,
The foemen fell beneath thy hand,
And strew’d the gelid plain, —
Until they sped the fatal ball,
Heroic chief thou didst not fall!
And thine, since
then, yon misty form,
Which fading on the captive’s view,
Now mingles with the rushing storm,
And beckons that he may pursue,
And with thy spirit dwell;
Even so, — the murd’rers wait around, —
The wolf’s, the raven’s cries resound;
The life and love, farewell!
Now let your direst vengeance flow;
Christians, I’m ready, — strike the blow |
Bravora
ceas’d, — he died, and they 7
Destroy’d their infant’s chance that day.
Oh! if I knew where sleeps that brave
And faithful Indian, o’er his grave
A stone of adamant should tell
To latest ages how he fell;
“That from deep forest, dang’rous wild,
“Or from an unknown early grave,
“Indian would save a Christian child,
“And Christians slew who wish’d to save!”
Soloa passes weary days,
And wonders why so long delays
The fated messenger, who bore
Tidings of mercy to sea shore.
Oft to the child the maid would speak, —
What keeps Bravora, what can keep
That faithful being thus away, —
Have wolves or hunters made him prey?
Ah me! I would not be his bride,
Perhaps for me, for you, he died. —
Thus mourn’d th’imprison’d maid in vain,
For hunters, now about the plain,
Prevented her from seeking still
A sight of him from distant hill,
Where it had been her wont to stray,
With hope of meeting on his way.
Ah! were it not for helpless child,
Soon would she hasten from the wild,
And seek her father, with him fly
To save, or with Bravora die.
But when a week and more had pass’d,
She knew her lover sigh’d his last.
Her father now — her last sad thought —
Risk as she might — must still be sought.
Strong reason was there, she should brave
Surrounding dangers, for the cave,
No longer safe, when heard resound,8
With voice of man, the howl of hound;
Nor longer can her thoughts be bent
On aught save self and innocent: —
Again she hears, with shudd’ring start,
No sound of wolves but blood-hounds bark,
And knew full well that all was o’er,
That they would course to cavern door, —
That reckless hunters would be there, —
And death must follow, or despair!
She listen’d breathlessly, the sound
Had passed away to distant ground, —
Now, Now, or never, and again
The child is laced, and o’er the plain
She flies more swiftly than before, —
As danger presses more and more,
She gains the forest, bounding through,
Her home is seen and lost to view;
Home of the dead, her home no more,
She hies towards the wave-wash’d shore,
Where last she left her frail canoe,
But will she gain it? Hark, Halloo!
The bay of hounds, the dreadful cry
Of hunters, — fly, Soloa, fly!
Oh! welcome sight, — the lake’s in view,
She nears it fast, but there are two
Staunch blood-hounds now, almost within
The last terrific fatal spring; —
Soloa! leave the child, and fly!
She pauses; if the men were nigh
It may be done, but hounds, — forbear; —
The child to atoms they would tear!
She pants, she fails, and feels the breath
Of blood-hound coursing to the death,
When sudden wakes the war-whoop strain.
Her father bounds across the plain;
With arrow fitted to the bow,
The foremost blood-hound is laid low;
Another from the same source flies,
Low as the first the second lies;
She stops, he beckons to fly on,
A moment more and he is gone,
Oh! had he really known how few
He had to fight for, the canoe
Might have receiv’d and borne him o’er
The lake to safely distant shore.
It was not so, all was not known
To him who nobly fought for home.
For home, and wife, and child, he thought —
For all he loved, for all he sought;
And bravely did he win his way
To where his wife and children lay,
And saw, with frantic whoop and bound,
The wig-wam raz’d, and broken ground,
The graves of those he hoped to meet, —
Even from their graves he must retreat.
Soloa launch’d her light canoe,
And paddles off with child, to view
The closing scene, or wait for him
Who pass’d away with tiger spring, —
She heard his war-cry, far above
The shouts of those with whom he strove,
And now he breaks thro’ tangled brake,
And rushes on towards the lake; —
Save him, Soloa! ah! they fire,
And wound him, — he will not expire.
Again that gun, — he staggers, falls,
But never once for mercy calls.
With Indian heart, and Indian eye,
Soloa sees her father die,
And feels that there are none to mourn,
Tho’ she should never more return.
Slowly she paddles the canoe,
Toward the island known to few,
Whilst ever and anon the strain
Of dirge, or death-song, gains the main.
She nears the channel, dark profound, —
Is eddied by a whirlpool round,
Then swiftly darts the passage thro’,9
Passing for aye from mortal view! |