WHERE yet, no stone marks where the warrior fell,
   Nor marble-storied column graven there,(2)
What far remembrance bids the footstep dwell
   And pause, to muse upon the green sward’s lair?
   Ask not, oh, stranger!—Does the site not bear
   Thy memory brightly on?—’Tis Queenstown rock!
   Behold the spot, where victory would not spare
   Her hero’s blood, amidst the battle-shock,
   Which pierc’d no nobler breast than thine, brave, gallant B
   Wrapt in the shroud with which Time shadows all,
   Save when fair memory draws the veil aside,
   And mourns an honour’d fate,—a hero’s fall,—
   Who tower’d triumphant once, on life’s stern tide,
   And marks with smiles of praise, and glowing pride
   Each passing tribute to the valiant deed;—
   How few, to whom this glorious lot’s allied,—
   Yet hath, Fame’s clarion, this, to thee decreed,
Who flew at Honour’s call, to its immortal meed.

   It glows triumphant, tho’ no trophied pile
   Or sculptur’d column yet adorns the spot,—

   The genius of the place, still guards, the while,
   Its hallow’d earth, and Fame, encircled lot,—
   And all around, hill, valley, bower, and grot,
   In the warm fancy of the traveller’s gaze,
   Become, the mighty monument,—of what
   Can never die, whilst memory’s glittering rays,
Shine on that valiant deed of Heroism’s days.

   It glows triumphant;—Fancy’s brilliant glass
   Brings all the gorgeous, dread array to sight,
   When led by thee,—the stern embattled mass

   Of valour, rush’d, undaunted to the fight,
   And vain Columbia,—saw the power alight
   To pluck the plumage from her outstretch’d wing,
   Whilst the dread cataract’s thunder-echoing flight,
   Drown’d in the roar of arms,—did vainly ring
Its Titan-breathing sounds,—so loudly did war sing

   Its requiem o’er them,—as its victims fell;
   Lo, all its traces now, have pass’d away,
   But like Time’s voice with still unceasing knell,
   Echoing the angry tumults of that day

   Niagara, with its elemental sway
   Seems, to Eternity to bear the sound
   As if Fame’s charms had wooed it to convey
   The mighty peal to ages,—and astound
Like to war’s blast, which roused its thunder-shock around.

Again,—again, had Fate decreed,—
The cry, to strife’s infuriate deed;—
Again had Power’s ordeal broke
Its bond,—and slaughter’s aid bespoke;
From A
LBION’S shore, the shout arose


Which deem’d, Columbia’s sons,—her foes;
The blue Atlantic saw its tide
With streaks of blood, already dyed,—
And Pride,—whose cause hath ever led
To populate the grave with dead,


Beheld the hosts of either land
With daring heart, and furious hand,
Upholding with contending might
By wrongful acts,—the claim of "right."
Vain hope,—to think that justice can


Reform the restless aim of man,—
Time, with its circling glass hath run
And seen its cause, a moment won,—
Fame, with its laurel’d wreath, hath crown’d
The brow,—ennobled at its sound,


The Warrior’s arm,—the Patriot’s fire,
The Sage’s lore, and Minstrel’s lyre,
All have upborne, and proudly told
Of justice won, by action bold;
No clime, but can some claim advance


To win a smile from Honour’s glance;—
But wherefore?—Time, hath prov’d it vain,—
Earth must as sure, relapse again
In terror’s and contention’s reign,
And hear fierce Discord raise its cry,


And Vengeance frown with blood-shot eye,
And Rapine make its stern demand,
And Slaughter stalk with murderous hand,
Till Faith and Justice soon forgot,
Leave strife, the tyrant of the spot.



Such was the doom—which now beheld
War, with its demon-cry unquell’d
Around those shores, where deep and wide
NTARIO, spreads its glassy tide,
And that fam’d cataract’s mighty flood,


Awakes the woodland’s solitude.—
Hark, to the thunder from afar,
   Lo, the air trembles with the sound,
As if the elements at war
   Echo’d their peal of wrath around,—


’Tis where NIAGARA’S foaming fall
   Its vast and volum’d torrent pours
Sublimely grand, as to appal
   The eye, that from its lonely shores
Gazes with wonder to behold


Such awful works of nature’s mould.—
See! where it comes in giant roar,
As with its waters sweeping o’er
Yon summit, with delirious bound
It rushes, scattering widely round


The snow-white torrent’s ceaseless spray,
Which in the sunshine’s glittering ray
Dazzles, as diamond-drops display’d
Were shower’d around the huge cascade;—
And beautiful as Hope,—above,


In hues reflecting joy and love,
The Iris, o’er the fleecy wave
Winds, as a garland o’er a grave,
Whilst mingled grandeur, awe, and gloom,
The feelings, at the sight, assume,—


Making the whole scene seem to be,
A symbol of Eternity.

Above yon summits,—Victory’s price
Had snatch’d the dearest sacrifice,
When for the guerdon there endued,


That triumph cost a hero’s blood,—
To shrine her fame-recording doom,
On gallant B
ROCK’S immortal tomb.
’Twas the first blow which battle cast,
But energy, surviv’d the blast,—


And tho’ it mourn’d a warrior’s fate
Rose up with valour still elate,—
To check the foe, (Columbia sway’d
To empire,—) sent there to invade.
To Britain’s cause,—by act and bribe,


   From hostile feelings overwon,—
Full many a daring savage tribe
   Have made that warring feud, their own;—
From west,—and north,—the multitude,
   Wild from that boundless spreading space,


Have sprung,—as wolves at scent of blood
   To run war’s loose, unbridled race;—
Where H
URON’S waters brightly gleam,
And M
ISSISSIPPI pours its stream,
And further still, where scarce the eye


Of stranger, e’er hath travers’d by,—
From forests—where the hissing snake
Envenom’d crawls amidst the brake,
And deadly ivy, o’er the ground
Entwines its poison’d leaves around,


Behold, the Indian’s dusky form
Comes forth, with passion rude, and warm,
To echo, war’s reverberate knell,
With war-whoop,—and still wilder yell.

And, who amidst that multitude


   Of nature’s stern untutor’d kind,
Has shewn an intellect endued
   With more than common powers of mind?
Driven from the shore, which was his home
   Where Rapine with voracious hand


Had darted down, and made him roam
   Far from his own, his native strand:—
ECUMTHE, with that daring force
   Of energy, (which had it been
Enrich’d from learning’s genial source


   To soar in emulation keen,
Would brilliantly have shone among
The noblest of the aspiring throng,
Who, in the avenues to Fame,
Seek the bright record of a name:)


TECUMTHE, foremost ’midst the brave
Who scorn the hand which would enslave,
Mark’d from the herd of weaker minds
Who stoop, to any chain which binds,—
Unlike to such,—with eager soul,


Sought keen renown at Valour’s goal;
And emulation, which, when nurs’d,
May turn to proud Ambition’s thirst,
Rous’d the stern spirit in his frame
To live at least, for freedom’s fame;—


He was untutor’d nature’s child,
   Free as the eagle on the blast,
Which soars around on pinions wild,
   Unconscious where its fate is cast:
And fram’d in man’s impetuous will


   To make a due return for all,
True to its end,—or good, or ill,
   His heart (as he receiv’d,)—let fall;—
So true it is, that in the force
   Of passion’s powers from love or hate,


The soul, thus guided in its course
   By feelings, which in all create
Desires, to aid, or to avenge
   Some deed awarded to the breast,
Rarely allows Fate to estrange


   The resolution there impress’d;—
Nature does most, and vainly may
   Reason, upon the learn’d, impart
One fainter throb of purer sway
   To guide the purports of the heart;—


Nor let one keener word condemn
   The breast, where nature prompts alone
The dictates, which on instinct’s stem,
   Produce the seed, its hand hath sown.

But, hark,—red battle stamps its foot,—


   The streams are stain’d, with gory hue,—
The welkin, is no longer mute,
   Nor skies, unclouded to the view,
A sulphury smoke is on the gale
And in its sound, a funeral wail;


There has been strife, and many a soul
   Disastrous tidings soon must hear,—
The lightnings gleam,—the thunders roll,—
   The war-whoop vibrates on the ear,—
In vain may summer roses twine


   Their beauteous leaves to deck the fair,
In vain may valour at that shrine,
   Put on its captivating air;
There shall be deeds, for cypress wreath
   Alone to braid the maiden’s hair,—


When Joy shall change its perfum’d breath,
   For the low murmurs of despair;
The sun may rise empurpling round
   Its brilliant canopy of light,
A golden ray may deck the ground,


   And nature’s incense all be bright;
But can it light the mourner’s eye,
   Distended on some kindred’s bier,
Or chase the cheek of woman dry,
   Where trickles many a falling tear!


Oh, these are feelings which alone
   Can fly earth’s most remote domain,
When nature, dead to pity’s tone,
   Shall thrill not at affection’s strain!

Winter hath fled,—and with its train


Of sweets,—fair Spring revives again,
The hoary wizard in her robe,
Encircling round the western globe,
With icy breath and snowy wand,
Chilling the verdure of the land,—


(Expell’d by Sol’s more ardent power)
No longer drives her frozen shower
O’er the green mantle of the earth
Awaken’d now to livelier mirth;—
The flowers are forth,—the birds are wild,


   And nature glows with soft delight;—
’Tis man alone who hath not smil’d,
   For strife hath pall’d his appetite
For the pure feast, which reason’s dower
Expands, for joyance every hour;


And hath not Fate enough to grieve
Which the vast loom of Time must weave,
And uninvited, holds its course
From an Omniscient mighty source,
But that, weak man must strive his most,


To have his few endearments cross’d,
By the rude hand of fellow-kind,
Whose laws, too rarely, ever bind
His feelings to the purer goal,
Where Faith and justice sway the soul?—


In vain, in vain,—War frowns on high,
And Slaughter lifts its vulture-eye,—
And gain,—not glory, is the cry;—
Gaunt Passion prowls along the plain,
And blood, the green-sward, yet shall stain,


   Before he seeks to his lair again!

Fiery and fierce, the red sun sank,
As if its beams of blood had drank,
Yes, of the tide, which on that shore
Had dyed each forest-path with gore,


Where now War utter’d forth its cry,
And wav’d its blood-red banner high,
And the wild savage rais’d his yell,
   A shout, so awful, deep, and drear,
That mercy ever sigh’d "farewell,"


   When with prophetic throbs of fear,
It heard the war-whoop on the wind,
   Whilst it embodied to the mind
Unearthly forms, who seemed to stalk
There, brandishing the tomahawk.—


On many a field of blood and strife,
   Each vengeful foe had tried their skill,
With hissing ball or scalping knife,
   To work the worst of slaughter’s will;
For with his restless vampire wing,


   Lo,—Death had hover’d o’er the soil,
Regardless where he fix’d his sting,
   Or whom his fury might despoil.—
The gale, o’er E
RIE’S lake had borne
Upon its current, many a morn;


With loud NIAGARA’S roaring flood,
Keen strife had joined its cries of blood;—
And broad O
NTARIO’S glittering tide,
With many a red stain had been dyed,
Since Fate, its summons first ordain’d,


And saw the arm of Pride o’erstrain’d,
To make weak man the tool of power,
And cloud the sunshine of his hour.

A year had wan’d,—and in its flight,
Wafted the tale of many a fight,


Where fickle fortune, with her wand,
Had rais’d the hopes of either band,
Now hovering ’midst the battling storm,
O’er A
LBION’S lion-hearted form,
And then displaying to the light,


COLUMBIA’S eagle-crested might,
Ting’d with a ray of triumph’s sun,
From some contended struggle won.
Behold, the present moment teems,
With awful hopes from Slaughter’s schemes;—


Upon broad ERIE’S ruffled tide,
The bulwark’d armaments now ride
Majestic, o’er this inland sea,
Contesting, glory’s rivalry.—
’Tis doom’d:—upon the evening gale


The sulphury clouds of battle sail,—
The morning’s hope,—the noon-day’s fight
Are silenc’d, ’neath the pall of night;—
But what, bright streamers in the rays
Of setting sun, return’d their blaze?


Triumph hath smil’d, but on what head
Has victory its laurels spread?—
Vain, were the import, now to tell,
Of all who fought,—and all who fell,—
Suffice, that war, upon that day,


Gave tribute to Columbia’s sway,
And saw her proud flotilla ride
With triumph, upon Erie’s tide.

But on the near surrounding shore,
Valour grew sterner than before,—


And danger, which had shewn its form
Upon the rising of the storm,
Urged on the warrior to withstand,
With daring heart,—ambition’s hand.
Assembled are the thin-grown ranks


Of Albion’s force,—on Erie’s banks,
Where,—join’d in war’s most desperate feud,
The Indian warrior-multitude,
Led by Tecumthe’s lofty soul,
Are marshall’d ’neath that chief’s controul.


’Tis courage only can impart
Success to war’s destroying art,—
It leads the van,—whilst Fraud, and Force
Are its stern helpmates of resource;—
In vain may skill plan war’s deceit,


If faintly doth the heart’s blood beat,
And vainer still, is valour’s hope,
If talent cannot aid to cope.
Stern Fate upon its frowning brow,
Foreboded something awful now,


And Albion, with her numbers few,
Might vainly hazard to subdue
The threatening power the foe had brought,
If stern assistance was not sought.
By Britain’s chief conven’d—now sate


The martial council in debate,
And courted with that deference,
Wherein true judgment shews its sense,
(When some commanding talent there
Makes Reason own it, worth our care,)


Tecumthe, in the assembled hall
Was look’d on, foremost amidst all.

With mark’d solicitude of word,
Lo, Britain’s chief, his suit preferr’d,
And strove, upon Tecumthe’s mind,


To have his purport so defin’d,
That, ’midst the tribes, no thought should lurk
To make them deem it Treason’s work,
When he propos’d, (for safety plann’d,)
They should forsake their native strand.



’Twas said, and every warrior’s eye
Look’d on Tecumthe for reply,
Who as his wampum belt he took,
Recalling past events from look,
When, on each bead by art arrang’d


Memory reviv’d, the thought estrang’d,
With wildest gesture, and the bold (3)
Accent of truth, his purport told:—
"Twelve moons have roll’d their changeful round,
   "Since first awakened to your call,


"Our tribes confronted every sound,
   "Which War’s loud notes of Death let fall,—
"True to the enterprize we swore,
"Our blood hath moisten’d round the shore,
"And scarce a sun hath lower’d its crest


"Behind the forest hills to rest,
"But it hath glitter’d on the grave
"Of some who fought, your cause to save.
"Round Erie hath each arm’d canoe
"Brought many a warlike willing crew,


"Whose valour, like Niagara’s flood,
"Hath swept as wild, o’er fields of blood,
"Until the white-man’s murderous shot,
"Hath laid them low in every spot.—
"For many a day hath Famine’s lean


"Distorted face, our comrade been,
"When dire necessity hath made
"Our footsteps prove their sternest aid,
"To charge or counteract the foe,
"Who laid in ambush for a blow,—


"And gave our succour to defend
"The cause,—of whom?—a foe,—or friend?—

"The white-man in his hour of need,
"Calls on our aid of valorous deed,—
"Yet, whilst his tongue demands the same,


"Looks down upon the tawny frame,
"With which the spirit on each face,
"Hath stain’d the features of our race;—
"But tho’ divided by a mark
   "Which makes the outward semblance known,


"Shall he denote our heart more dark,
   "And skill’d in treachery than his own?—
"Remember warriors round,—not more
   "Than twenty summers’ suns have roll’d
"Their sultry march,—when first our shore


   "Was doom’d, the stranger to behold;—
"’Twas then with smiles upon his cheek,
   "He came a friendly tale to bear,
"And Atabasca’s aid to seek,
   "And spoke in word and gesture fair;


"And with the offering in his hand,
   "Which Peace betokens as its sign,
"Was welcom’d to our native strand
   "By all your sires, as well as mine;—
"Suspicion bred no thought of guile,—


"We listen’d and return’d his smile,
"Which falsehood’s pre-concerted arts,
"By promise, practis’d on our hearts,
"We join’d his numbers in the fight,
"To check a foe’s ambitious might;—


"How well we fought,—the bloody stain
"Of slaughter show’d upon the plain;
"And with what triumph of success
"Each scalp records it in our dress;—
"But soon a murmur strange arose,


"Of conference betwixt the foes,—
"And the wild war-whoop rais’d of late,
"Was silenc’d into cool debate;—
"Whilst all the blood, and all the toil,
"Both spilt and suffer’d for our soil,


"The famine felt, and danger shar’d,
"Fatigue endur’d, and action dar’d,
"Contemn’d by Treachery’s foul hand
"Which rais’d its death-blow o’er our land,
"Was doom’d to feel its galling blast,


"As the reward of sufferings past,—
"Sold by oppression to appease
"As rank, and restless a disease.—
"And shall the heartless White-man then,
"Betray us to the foe again?


"And from our native shores beguile
"Our footsteps with his cunning smile?—
"No;—whilst a drop of freedom’s blood
   "Lingers within Tecumthe’s breast,
"His native land of wood, and flood,


   "Shall be devotedly possess’d;—
"’Twas the great Spirit who bequeath’d
   "These shores unto our valiant sires;
"And whilst the gasp of life is breath’d,—
   "And Nature’s faintest spark inspires,


"Our arrows shall maintain the soil
"From Treason’s cheat, or Rapine’s spoil,
"Till, ’midst the dank wild grass, our own
"Worn limbs, shall whiten bone, by bone."—
’Twas hush’d, and from th’ assembled throng


   Follow’d by every warrior there,
Tecumthe turn’d his steps along,
   With freedom’s spirit in his air,
And that defiance which controuls,
The awaken’d awe of startled souls.—


But words must strive, and promise cope
’Ere fortune bids farewell to Hope;—
For danger shews its palid form,
And clouds are prophecying storm,—
And keen persuasion, if it fail,


Must bear a bitter-burthen’d tale.—

Now, by entreaty still renew’d,
To lull suspicion’s angry mood,
And calm within each forest child
His temper, as the torrent wild,


Lo, Interest steps with soothing strain,
To bring him to convene again;—
The chart is spread,—and words essay
To clear the intellectual ray,
When to the Indian’s untaught soul,


   (Where nature’s magnet play’d alone,
To guide his thoughts to reason’s pole,)
   The track,—the stream, and forest’s shewn.—
With all the force of learning’s aim,
   More than close study oft extends,


Throughout civilization’s frame,
   Each plan, Tecumthe comprehends;—
And by a promise,—or a bribe
   Sooth’d to compliance,—his desire
Soon prompts in every savage tribe,


   To do whate’er he may require;
For lavish of whatever dower
   Nature hath shower’d upon his path,
Whether to prove his fiery power
   Of temper, in a deed of wrath,


Or to extend his means, in what
Was giv’n, to sustenance his lot,
The Indian knows no purer art,
   Than that which passion’s will can draw,
From the recesses of his heart,


   To prove the force of nature’s law.

Thy banks, Oh Thames! are wild and rude (4)
In this, thy parent solitude,
Where scarce a dwelling to the eye,
Relieves the lone monotony


Of forests, on thy winding strand,—
Altho’ disposed by nature’s hand.
Not here in lofty pomp array’d,
   As on those shores alike in name,
Where Albion’s palaces display’d,


   Their art’s magnificence proclaim:—
No pageant here, in golden light,
   Save the fair monarch of the skies,
Invites the all-astounded sight,
   To gaze with wonderment’s surprise;—


Yet here, at least, hath nature spread
The wild flower’s rich luxuriant bed,
And in thy clear and flowing stream,
Reflected many a beauteous beam;—
Within each shady copse, the deer


   Is seen to rest his nimble feet,
And cool him in the waters clear,
   Or browse within thy green retreat,
   Shelter’d from noontide’s sultry heat;—
The squirrel on each beachen tree,


Revels in rich luxuriancy,—
The songster as it tunes its lay,
   Carols forth gladness in the sound,
Whilst stretch’d beneath, in some bright ray
Which thro’ the foliage, on the ground


Gives all its warmth,—the yellow snake
   Lies basking in the sunny brake;
Yet, even in this solitude
   Of all, but nature’s ruder kind,
Hath man, his savage will pursued,


   With wanton vengeance in his mind,
Thro’ tangled dell, and roaring flood,
To hunt some fellow-being’s blood:
Where Echo soon will loudly ring,
   To every mournful, murderous cry,


Which war e’er rais’d on gory wing,
   To mock and maim mortality.

’Tis eve,—around thy banks, Oh Thames;—
   The vast blue firmament on high,—
Shines beautifully bright with gems


   Bespangled in infinity;—
And on the forest’s sombre brown,
The moon-beams cast their splendour down,
And o’er thy waters, as they flow,
Reflect the undiminish’d glow


Of rays,—all chasten’d on the tide
As the soft blushes of a bride.
Yet not alone on nature’s dower,
   Of forest tree and flowery bank,
Does Cynthia cast her mellow’d power;—


   For hark, the steady martial clank
Of the tir’d centinel,—and mark
   His arms now glittering in its ray,
As from beneath the shadows dark
   Of yon tall oak, he plods his way.


Amidst the forest’s sylvan scene,
The watch-fires sparkle on the green,
And shouts of mirth re-echo far,
   Tho’ Death is hovering o’er the spot,
To pour the vial’s wrath of war,


   O’er many a fated being’s lot.
But let the sportive mortal’s jest,
   Yield all the careless joy it can,
To foil reflection from his breast,
   And be the wily friend of man:


Oh, let him sip the little ease,
   Which Hope’s soft balsam can impart,
To lull care’s restless rank disease,
   And warm enthusiasm in his heart;—
Smile when he may,—to-morrow’s light,


   Must bring to some the bitter woe,
Which chills the reason’s appetite,
   And makes the sad salt tear-drop flow.

Night wanes, and lo, the morrow’s come,
Awoke to war’s tumultuous hum,


With trumpet note, and rolling drum,—
And the loud shouts of savage glee,
In vengeful wild expectancy,
Ring on each side th’ alarum knell,
O’er rapid flood, and forest dell.—


Dispos’d as war’s most skilful art
To foil the foe, can well impart;
Around Moravia’s skirted lawn, (5)
The band of Albion’s sons are drawn,
Whilst far extended, left and right, 


In the loose marshalsye of fight,
The sun-burnt warriors of the land,
Beneath Tecumthe’s stern command,
By bush, and tree, and tufted mound,
Make each spot rife with numbers round.



As the first flash from orient skies,
   When morning darts its rising beams;—
As gem-drops glitter’d to the eyes,
   From whence the dazzling lustre streams,
Or, as the sparkling foam of wave,


   When freshening breezes wildly tune,
And the enchanted tides now lave,
   And rise, submissive to the moon,
Upon Tecumthe’s face, there play’d
   The feelings of a thrill that rose,


(By ardent animation sway’d)
   Of energy, to meet his foes;—
Equipp’d as were his sires of yore,
   When war’s yell summon’d to the fight,
’Ere the false White-man trod his shore,


   He stands, undaunted, to the sight;—
With eagle plume around his brow,
   And dress, where every colour vies
To make it rich;—with twanging bow,
   From which the faultless arrow flies,


And deadly tomahawk, in belt,
Made of the ornamented felt,
Which in the chase, his toils provide,
From beaver’s or from otter’s hide:—
With leggin, braided to the knee,


   Above which frowns his dusky skin;
Leaving rude nature’s action free;—
   And feet bedeck’d with mocassin:—
Along the far extended band,
He hastes with musquet arm’d in hand;


And to the Briton, who had sway’d
   His heart to combat for their cause,
One moment there his steps delay’d,
   And looking volumes in that pause,
But said in Valour’s lofty term,


   (Addressing Albion’s chieftain,)—"Tell
"Your young men,—Father,—to be firm,"—
   And adding,—"all will then be well."—

The cry is up,—no dalliance more,
’Tis War’s dread thunder wakes the shore,—


And time must fill another page,
With Slaughter’s unrelenting rage;—
Away with tears,—weak child of woe,
’Tis man who makes but man his foe;—
Shall nature smile? ’tis Glory’s game;—


Or nature weep?—’tis but the same
Rehearsal to procure his fame,
And write in blood, a conqueror’s name:—
Power, Pride, Ambition,—Glory, Gain,—
All,—all the magnet’s ore contain,—


And he is but oppression’s dupe,
Who lets his faultering feelings droop,
And will forego to seize the brand,
And wield around a daring hand,
To dignify his name, and save


His memory from Oblivion’s grave.

Death rings a wild alarum far,
To the reverberate yells of war,—
As thro’ the crackling forest’s path,
The hissing ball proclaims its wrath,


Where, like the lion for its prey,
Tecumthe mingles in the fray,
Follow’d by that wild multitude,
Who raise their maniac cry for blood.—
Not less a hero, than the plume


Of valour boasts, for Greece or Rome,
He looks, "the spirit of the storm,"
With his stern energetic form
As when the darkly driven cloud,
Flies onwards to the whirlwind loud,


And issues Terror from its shroud.—
Defiance sits upon his face,
In all the manliness of grace;
With Valour’s stern commanding air,
And Vengeance partly blended there.—


Around the murderous vollies fly,—
Around the shouts of onset vie,—
The shock,—the shriek,—the struggling cry
Of death in all the pangs of pain
As Battle scours along the plain.—


Foremost of all, amidst the strife,
He combats,—disregarding life,—
Urging the tribes, with all the force,
Which Valour drains from Nature’s source;
And when success had nearly crown’d


His efforts, with a victor’s sound,—
Death hurl’d its messenger of woe
And laid his daring spirit low!
Struck by an envious ball,—whose aim
Pierc’d thro’ his heart’s electric frame—


Lifeless he dropp’d,—and as he fell,
Hope shriek’d aloud a wild Farewell;—
It seem’d as if some mighty hand,
Had suddenly upon the land
Stretch’d a dark melancholy pall,


In this undaunted warrior’s fall.—
Within each savage bosom,—flight
Soon clos’d the efforts of the fight,
When left, without that spirit’s spell
   Which thus exhilaration gave,


Fate, with a wildly, awful knell
   Shriek’d o’er Tecumthe’s bloody grave.

For thee,—Oh, Fame, the warrior’s breath,
Offers its sacrifice in Death;—
And o’er the reliq’d page of Time,


Where ages give a glow sublime
To the devoted fate,—which shed
A lustre round the hero’s head,
Whether amidst the records bright,
Which usher Grecian deeds to light,


Or memorize in lofty song,
Names which to Roman worth belong,
Tho’ splendid be the rays they cast,
O’er the far triumphs of the past,
Eclipsing all that Time can bring


Upon its swiftly soaring wing,
To offer unto memory’s hand,
Deeds to engrave with Glory’s wand:
May not thy genius, History, twine
One laurel more at valour’s shrine,


And tho’ around the ruder head,
   Of nature’s stern untutor’d child,
The chaplet of thy praise be spread,
   ’Midst cataract’s roar, and forest wild:
Still,—let thy generous voice proclaim,


   One tribute of undying sound
To grace the fallen warrior’s name,
   And kindle memory o’er the mound,
Where, ’midst the brave, Tecumthe lies,
   Who wanted but the polish’d mind


Civilization’s wand supplies,
   To make him mighty midst mankind,
When Learning by its magic power,
   Like the bright sun-beam of the sky,
With genial influence, every hour


   Brings nature to maturity;
This, was the only art requir’d
In him, whose spirit, here expir’d,
To leave, more brilliantly enshrin’d
The actions of a lofty mind,


And hand another being’s name
To grace the immortal page of Fame.