TECUMTHE. CANTO I.
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LAND
of the foaming cataract,— Whose Savage grandeur awes the soul, As downward, thro’ their wave-worn track Thy floods impetuously roll;— Land of the wild woods,—where we trace |
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Far as the
eye extends its power, One boundless barrenness of space, Since undefined creation’s hour, When a mysterious Godhead, first His glorious works of nature plann’d, |
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And light, and life, and
reason, burst Refulgent from his mighty hand.— Clime,—where the voice of Time,—no claim To deeds of glorious cause, can breathe Coeval, with the pompous name |
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Which Rome to
ages did bequeath;— Whose fields, unciviliz’d,—unknown, Were buried ’neath oblivion’s shroud, Until that Godhead from his throne, Outstretch’d his arm, and, (as the cloud |
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Before the wind dispers’d and
driven, Which leaves undimm’d, the arch of Heaven,) Thus, from thy face, benignly tore The veil of night from off thy shore, And to the zealous Christian, gave |
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Beyond the blue Atlantic’s
wave, Another land, to seek, and save!— Far in those wilds,—where Wabash pours |
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Now, darkly
lashing, swift and strong, O’er rocks, whose varied scenes, display’d The roaring rapid, or cascade, And the thick woods, threw shadowing down Upon the floods,—their hues of brown;— |
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For many a year, untam’d—unknown, The Shawanee, call’d this his own Unconquer’d land;—and rear’d to toil And war, to guard his native soil,— Train’d to the bow,—and skill’d in chase, |
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Not one, amongst each savage
race, Whose tribes were scatter’d o’er the land, Could vaunt of sons, in heart and hand, More daring or expert, to sway Their prowess over men, or prey.— |
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So journey’d Fate, for many a
year, And left him in his lone career, His heart was free, his wants were few, The twanging bow,—the light canoe, The wooden spear,—’twas all he knew, |
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Or all the aim of art could
see, In nature’s ingenuity. Adown the swifter rapid’s tide, ’Twas wonderful to see him glide, With the bold skill of one, who ne’er |
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Had felt the icy chill of fear, And rule the current with a hand, Whose slender paddle, seem’d the wand Of fairy powers,—to guide along To the wild numbers of his song. |
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Along the woods, with nimble
feet, Strong as the breeze,—tho’ not as fleet, O’er mossy trunk, and rocky way, Boldly he followed on his prey;— And even there,—’twas striking too, |
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To mark his arrow as it flew True to its aim;—the panting deer Escap’d him not in his career, The slower bear, and slyer fox, That oft the hunter’s labour mocks,— |
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The beaver, whose instinct
provides Its cell, wher’er the streamlet glides,— The fiercer buffalo, that roves Where verdure flowers in grassy groves,— These, and the more, by nature given, |
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(For where is space, where
shines not Heaven With the free bounty of its hand,) These made his daring heart expand In active toil,—so to supply The store, for man’s necessity. 80 |
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Year roll’d on year, (Time shadows all, |
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Ne’er had he seen the white
man’s face; If led to war,—he met his own Dark swarthy skin of dusky brown In naked manliness of form, And sternness as the gathering storm. |
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Unknown to Luxury’s disease, Which enervates man’s energies,— The ground his couch,—the birchen dome His canopy, and wood, his home, The sparkling spring, from nature burst |
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To coolness,—choicest to his
thirst,— The berry rich from plant or tree In gushing ripe luxuriancy,— The forest tribe, and finny race, The guerdon of his toil, and chase,— |
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Were banquets to his uncloy’d
taste More sweet than all the charms of waste;— He saw the sun in splendour roll And light its beacon to the pole, Beheld the moon in beauty shine, |
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And made them idols of his
shrine; By their strict course, he summ’d his days, How oft returning Summer’s rays Had visited his solitudes, And by the star-beam travers’d woods, |
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When no one beacon shone afar, Save some well known presiding star. And thus it past,—dun autumn’s sun |
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As twilight sank to soft
repose; Around their blaze,—the listeners drew,— For even there was converse too, The rude, bold licence of the tongue To gesture wild, and accents strung. |
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And who was he, who held each
mind To his recital, thus inclin’d? The Prophet;—he of all the rest Of deeper instinct’s powers possess’d; Skill’d in astrology’s pretence, |
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Which rules weak Fancy’s
wayward sense, Chain’d his wild brethren by the charms Of Superstition’s stern alarms, And incantation’s strange belief, To turn away, the frown of grief,— |
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And dive into the hidden
powers(1) Of Fate’s fast coming future hours. Around the fire,—the listeners stirr’d, |
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Of dismal sign, and deadly
fear, Of clouded sky, and vapoury moon, And night-blast, in whose moaning tune, Prophetic murmurs sigh’d a tale Of something, that would soon prevail.— |
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The dream was told,—when, lo,
a sound Of quick approach, made all around, Turn with the hurried looks of those Who fear the footsteps of false foes. Who comes?—a stern, athletic form |
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In grace tho’ rude—in
action warm;— At his advance, the throng withdraw With an habitual mark of awe, Whilst from the whispering lips of some, "Our CHIEF,—our chief,"—their murmurs hum. |
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The Prophet stood alone to
meet, A brother’s safe return, and greet With welcome sounds;—"The chase to-day "Hath surely led thee far astray, "Since day-light long hath ceas’d to burn, |
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"And anxious Hope, sought
thy return,— "Where is the prey?"—he look’d,—but, lo,— There hung alone, the spear and bow;— Whilst seriousness, within his air, His stern, and sorrow’d looks declare.— |
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’Twas silence long,—the
crowd’s surprise Exchang’d their fears, with staring eyes Of meaning mute;—whilst the chief stood In that same pensiveness of mood, And scann’d the Prophet with a gaze, |
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Which often more than word
conveys. Turning at length unto the west, With left arm folded to his breast, He raised, and pointed with the right To where day’s last expiring light |
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Had wan’d to sleep;—but
silent still,— What meant that import of his will? The sculptor, who, in marble vied To emulate the form, and face Of humankind, or deified |
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Symbol of majesty and grace, |
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Of dignity,)—the nobler art With which true Genius consecrates, The bright inventions of the heart, When it aspires and elevates The mind to the ennobled aim |
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Of the
competitors of Fame, Thus to embody form and face With all but life’s immortal grace. There, stood the savage of the woods, For even there, did Nature shower |
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In these, her wilder solitudes, Some traits of her diviner power, In giving man the instinct bright, Which prompts to Freedom’s glorious light; And to the intellectual ray, |
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A feeling
which throughout the whole, Made blood, and nerve, and reason play, To vivify th’ untutored soul! All eyes seem’d aw’d,—but most the gaze |
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Of all who stood in wrapt
amaze, To watch the feelings there combin’d:— "By the great spirit of the woods,"— At length, the Chieftain he address’d, "By stormy sky, and rising floods, |
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Which drive
the wild swan from her nest, "Yet doth the Eagle not appal, "Which soars as high, when thunders call, "To rouse the spirits of the air, "By howling blast, and meteor glare;— |
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"Speak—if to-day, such
lot were thine, "Of spirits’ call, or evil sign?" Tecumthe turn’d his dark jet eye, Upon his brother in reply, And said, "It is not grief nor fear, |
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"Can shake the heart’s
stern impulse here, "Nor spirit of the dismal swamp "Which leads astray by meteor-lamp, "To the morass or lonely glen, "Where hissing serpents have their den:— |
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"Brother,—the white man
comes in arms,— "See, where yon star shines in the west, "He comes from thence, to wake alarms "And chase us from our land of rest.— "Behold, the morning saw me rise, |
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"With
the great spirit of the day, "Which shone resplendent o’er the skies, "To tread the boundless forest’s way,— "When, lo, methought, I heard afar "A sound,—a distant sound, which broke |
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"More awful than the cry
of war, "Which Chippawayan tongue ere spoke,— "I follow’d on to that far side, "Where Wabash mingles its clear stream "With the great Mississippi’s tide,— |
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"And
still I heard at times, the scream "Or blast, which from the echoing horn, "O’er hill and lake is loudly borne.— "I saw their watch-fire’s wreathing smoke, "Curl up above the towering oak, |
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"Whose spreading branches
to the light, "Kept their pale white forms from my sight;— "And heard the sound, and saw the flash, "Which darts from forth the musket’s mouth "As when the thunder’s distant crash, |
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"Reverb’rates
from the sultry south;— "But by the spirit of our sires "Which burns in indignation’s fires, "As the strewn sear’d leaves on the ground "Scatter’d by winter’s blast around, |
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"Their scalps shall
bleach on every tree "Torn by our heart’s stern enmity "Ere vile oppression shall ordain, "Our bondage with the white man’s chain." Still, and sedate, the Prophet stood |
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Nor by surprise, nor fear
subdued In outward sign, of frown or start, Which speaks the bickerings of the heart. Wrapt in the wilful, wild design Of making all his tribe incline |
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(And even his brother’s
loftier soul,) To his persuasive art’s controul,— A thrill of fear, or word of ire Might turn their thoughts from his desire, Of awing their untutor’d sense |
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To own his mind’s
pre-eminence Gifted as craft’s beguiling scheme (By token, tempest, deed, or dream,) Dispos’d and tried, with treacherous bribe, To make him, mighty, ’midst that tribe. |
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"What fear we from the
strangers’ arm, "If the high spirits of the air, "Fly round us with a smile and charm, "To keep us from the deadman’s lair? "There is a spell within the cloud, |
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"Which speaks its will in
thunders loud;— "There is a beacon in the flash, "Which light’nings fire, when wild storms clash; "There is a voice within the blast, "When vapours dark are hurrying past; |
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"And in the meteor and the
star "A sign—to warn us from afar. "The white man seeks the forest prey, "And not to rouse us in his way, "To lay his scalp and entrail bare, |
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"As branches with the
winter air.— "Peace to your hearts,—to-morrow’s sun "Shall scarcely see its day-light done, "When we will offer sacrifice, "And call the spirits of the skies |
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"To speak by token and by
sign, "Which way their awful fates incline."— A shout from the surrounding crowd, |
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And thus in rous’d
convulsions broke, With coarsest gestures, loose and free, Made known in rude hilarity.— Tecumthe only, ’midst the crew, Look’d silence, in its sullen hue,— |
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Nor spoke, in turning to
depart, If joy or anger stirr’d his heart. The Prophet eyed the warrior’s face, And as he turn’d, there strove to trace, The acquiescence, which his pride, |
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To all his counsels had allied;— But the repugnance to enthrone One mind superior to our own, Link’d, even to the savage breast The fault, with which all are possess’d, |
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And makes vain man the
wayward-tied Offspring of folly and of pride. The moon has set behind the hill, |
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Of each wild form, betoken
rest;— But Nature, from her fiercest mood, Wooes silence,—sleep,—and solitude,— If storms arise, and loudly ring, Calmness soon comes with downy wing;— |
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The ruder elements alarms, Repose at length in Quiet’s charms; If tempests have arous’d their jar, And Boreas whirl’d his noisy car On winged wheels,—the fleet steeds tire, |
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And clamorous winds, and peals
expire; On the fair bosom of the skies, ’Midst sunshine’s glowing smiles, soon lies The cloud, in golden splendour drest Like Power, repos’d on Beauty’s breast;— |
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On the clear surface of the
tides, The sparkling wavelet gently glides, Dimpling, beneath the halcyon sky, Whilst soft winds sing its lullaby;— All nature gladdens,—glows at last |
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In calmer hours, from angers
past,— Until exhausted passions creep, Fainting and frail, subdued, to sleep. |
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END OF CANTO I. |