TECUMTHE. CANTO II.
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IN glittering
pomp, and golden car, Behold Autumna rides,— Her path, the trackway of the star,— Her mirror,—ocean’s tides;— She looks upon the vales below, |
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From azure skies which brightly
glow;— She smiles upon the teeming earth, As parent at her offspring’s birth;— Her bounteous lap it is that showers The ripen’d fruit from hanging bowers, |
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Her plenteous store, that from
her horn, Makes smiling harvests, gladden morn, When Industry, as orient wields Its flaming torch,—there treads the fields And dew-drops on the fragrant flower, |
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Impearl each leaf within the
bower;— And in this land,—where nature rude, In wood, and wave of solitude,— (Awaken’d only by the peal Of thunder, when the storms reveal |
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Their strength, or whirlwinds
clash their arms And rouse the forest tribe’s alarms;) Oh, even there,—’twas fair to see The glowing tints from hill and tree, In crimson streak, and orange sheen |
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Diversified with varied green, As Phœbus drawing near the west, Guided his coursers to their rest.— What, tho’ no spiral column crown’d, Rear’d its high fabric on the ground? |
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Nor gilded palaces vast towers, Gleam’d from their marble studded bowers? Nor all that Folly’s gaudy art, (Which throngs the city’s humming mart, Blazon’d in feign’d fantastic forms,) |
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There spread their frail and
faulty charms? There was the scene which nature’s hand, Delineates with her magic wand,— There was the cool breeze which the sky Wafts on, in whispering melody,— |
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There was the forest in its
pride, Boundless in space, and beautified,— The river in its mighty course, With cataract thundering, now its force And fury;—now the calmer stream, |
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Purpled by nature’s shadowy
beam;— The fragrant earth, and fresher air, Embalm’d with many a flowret fair,— Wild and luxuriant;—there the note From the wing’d warbler’s chirping throat, |
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Free as the zephyrs, as they
play From berried bush, to flowery spray;— And circling there, the azure sky Bright,—beautifully vast, on high, With cloud of golden, ermin’d hue, |
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To crown the splendour of the
view.
He sinks,—the monarch of the day, |
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To smile his warmest won
Farewell, O’er leafy bower and mossy dell.— He sinks,—soft twilight owns its reign, Whilst, following in his gorgeous train, Fair Hesperus,—in silvery car |
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Appears,—the lovely smiling
star, Won by his beauty, there to trace The last, lost splendours of his race.— But hark!—what loud notes scare the sweet Soft sighing zephyrs of their song, |
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That rouse the woodland’s
still retreat, And Echo’s wildest strains prolong? Behold, around the wood-built pile, The Indian tribe in order file, Announcing ceremonial rite, |
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With sacrifice of blood
to-night;— Theirs is no pompous pageantry, Of gold, and incense to the sky; No sacerdotal, costly shrine, But the untutor’d wild design |
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Of offering up their uncouth
sound,— To the great Manitou around. Behold their forms, on which the dye Of many a root and berry vies— To give to swarthy nudity, |
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A beauty in
their savage eyes;— And on the brow of some,—the plume Which none but chieftains must assume,— From the proud eagle’s pinion torn, As symbol of their prowess, worn;— |
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The polish’d stone, and
burnish’d shell, Sole ornaments of arts excel, In glittering rows their forms bedeck, To grace the ear, and arm and neck; The ashen bow, and quiver strung, |
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The tomahawk in girdle hung, Equip them, as they move along, To the wild numbers of their song.— I. Hark,—hark, |
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In the thundering roar of the
water-falls; |
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With its dismal
cries, And shrieks its note, to the slumbering air;— Hark,—hark, And the spirit mark, For it stalks with its wand, presiding there.— |
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II. Hark,—hark, |
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But we dare the
might of the rudest storm,— Our bows are strung, And our quivers hung,— And the edges are keen of the tomahawk,— Come,—come, |
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No fears benumb,— III. Hark,—hark,— |
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Mark,—mark, ’Tis his awful song, But our Chief is here, and his heart is strong; We fear no foe, With our birchen bow, |
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For the eagle’s plume guides the
arrow’s flight, |
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The sounds were hush’d, and Echo rung |
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Responsive to the notes they
sung, The Prophet with the charm he bore, Stepp’d forward as the song was o’er, And with a torch, one arm sustain’d, Now fir’d the pile,—whilst clamour strain’d |
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Its loudest accents, to express The dictates rude of joyfulness.— Thrice round the spot his way he took, With murmuring lip and meaning look, And rais’d his hands, with gestures stern, |
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As fiercely did the wood-pile
burn;— Then from his pouch some incense drew, Which to the flames he wildly threw,— Swift from ignition there upflew Ten thousand sparks of purple hue, |
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Which in the air resplendent
shone, As crystals glancing in the sun.— Again the uncouth sounds on high, Were sent reverberate to the sky: The Prophet started, and with sign, |
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Bade them to silence soon
incline, And waving thrice his wand—again Shower’d forth the incense—but in vain, For still a darker, deeper cast, Of flame, ascended, than the last.— |
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He paus’d awhile,—and cast
his eye Up to the starry moonlight sky, When swiftly sped, a meteor sent Illumining the firmament, Shot with the light’nings vivid glare, |
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And in the west extinguish’d
there.— In gloomier mood, he gaz’d around, When from the woods, a hollow sound Came on the night breeze,—such, as they, Conceiv’d,—foretold Death’s threatening prey;— |
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Amongst the circle there arose, A trembling fear of coming woes, Awaken’d by the start and thrill, Which in the Prophet boded ill, For seldom had their glances seen |
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A fear of danger in his mien;— Sly to perceive, and swift to turn His thoughts to what he might discern, Once more, he raised his voice in song, Which soon was chorus’d by the throng, |
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And in his gestures wild, essay’d To calm the fear each sign had swayed; But in his features were express’d, The labourings of an anxious breast, Which rose despite his deepest art, |
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To mark disquietude at heart.
Now rose the accents wild, once more, |
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And, as the shower of incense
sent, (Ignited by the element Which blaz’d in fiery fierceness there) Rose sparkling brightly thro’ the air, A clearer and more redden’d flame, |
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From the ordeal incense came;— A light across the Prophet’s glance, Relumining his countenance Now flash’d,—as when the passing storm, Hath waned, and sunshine bright and warm, |
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Darts all its fervor’d rays,
to chase The dewy tear from nature’s face,— "I knew it well,—’twas but to shew "That we should be prepar’d for woe, "See,—for still redder than of late, |
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"The flame betokens
livelier fate; "Come, brother, let a joyous cast, "Smile at the evil signs now past; "Awake the strain like that of yore, "Upon great Mississipi’s shore; |
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"When our brave tribe, the
sternest foes "That dwell where swift Ohio flows, "Dar’d the vile white-man’s murderous flash, "With tomahawk’s revengeful gash.— "What, shall the Shawanee repine |
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"When fate decrees its
fairest sign? "Lo, ’tis the Spirit which displays "Its will—then who shall murmurs raise."— "Hold, brother,"—stern Tecumthe spoke,— |
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"Can brave the tempest’s
rudest sway "Upon the angry battle-day,— "Our arms are strong, our arrows sure, "Our footsteps can fatigue endure;— "Our lips which oft have pass’d the day, |
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"In cravings stern from
hunger’s prey, "With nought but nature’s watery font, "To satisfy the palate’s want,— "These both in famine and in fight, "Defy the stranger’s sternest might;— |
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"And these, the Spirit
great, inspires, "Into the offspring of our sires.— "We want no succour but our strength, "No weapon, but our arrow’s length, "No incense, but our daring blood, |
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"No trackway, but the wood
or flood, "Our war-cry as it was of yore "Shall rouse the silence of the shore, "And start the wolf or slyer fox "Or vulture from its nestling rocks; |
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"And if a hand, or craven
heart "Should play the coward’s viler part, "No better fate,—(but still a worse "Shall be his crouching body’s curse) "Than, what the deadly foe shall feel |
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"Doom’d to the
life-transfixing steel."—
Scarce had these words Tecumthe spoken, |
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Swift as the lightning’s redd’ning
flash Follow’d by thunder’s echoing crash, Fiery as the war-horse bound At the loud trumpet’s rallying sound He seized his tomahawk and bow, |
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And darting wildly towards the
foe, Exclaim’d with stern, and hurried word, "I knew it,—’tis his acts have err’d," Pointing unto the Prophet,—"there "Hath Folly gull’d us in its snare;"— |
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Then bounding on, his war-whoop’s
yell Rang loudly thro’ the forest-dell, The quivering lip and quicker eye Denote his soul’s intensity; Whilst swiftly now—the ready tribe, |
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His valour’s energy imbibe, And with an eager fierceness rush With half drawn bow, by tree, and bush, To hurl the well-directed dart Against each foeman’s panting heart. 270 |
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Nor less determin’d to arouse |
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Upon the
boughs, which there surrounded, And to the contest boldly sprung As if it was the wolf that bounded From its dark den to seize its prey Impell’d by hunger’s maddening sway.— |
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Onward, the foe, with deadly
ball, Which to the Indian’s untaught ear Hissing its murderous moaning call— Awoke some sudden thrill of fear:— Onward her sons, COLUMBIA sent |
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To drive the
savage from his lair,— Where he had lived in calm content,— The wild, yet unmolesting there; In ambush had the foeman laid Until the night’s returning shade |
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Insur’d his footsteps the
success Of wary-dealing watchfulness; And whilst the ritual sacrifice (Which lur’d the Shawanee’s surprise By their false Prophet there maintain’d,) |
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To its delusive follies chain’d, Stole thus unseen on their retreat With silent lip, and cautious feet To wait the moment dire to dart Destruction on each slumbering heart, |
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Beguil’d by Fancy’s wayward
power To hazard an unguarded hour. Now, whilst surrounding Slaughter plann’d Its murderous aim with busy hand Urg’d by the enmity of death |
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Exhaling round its vampire
breath, Amidst the fury which beset Each battling host, the brothers met;— Sternness was in Tecumthe’s eye Who haughtily had pass’d him by, |
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Nor would have deign’d to
accent word, Deeming it was the Prophet err’d, And had beguil’d them by his vow To all the ills which threaten’d now. The Prophet paus’d, and strove to trace |
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Forgiveness in his brother’s
face, Who hurried on to where a close Of combat, bore their thickening foes; Wild with the thought of maddening pain At that reproof of stern disdain, |
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He flew, and
at Tecumthe’s feet, Knelt there with an imploring strain, One smile of kindness to entreat, ’Twas all he ask’d, or might again! Tecumthe darted down a glance |
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Upon the Prophet’s
countenance, But in his savage breast and mood, The kindness sprung from kindred blood Soften’d his heart, and all the ire Kindled by Anger’s fiercest fire, |
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Relaps’d in Nature’s fond
reprieve Of tender feelings,—"I forgive;— "Behold the foe, it boots not now "To waste our time with idle vow,— "Go, brother,—energy requires, |
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"The spirit born of
valiant sires, "And all our deeds to-day shall tell "Each heart’s intent,—on, on,—farewell." Amidst the carnage of the fight, "Revenge" upon their appetite |
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The brothers rush’d, with all
the force Which Hatred gives to Valour’s course, The Prophet’s arm, with fury bent To be the keener instrument Of driving back the threatening foe |
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Or falling by some fated blow.— The war-whoop echoed to the blast As wildly now, he darted past, And leading on a desperate few Like to the tyger, bounding flew;— |
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Scarce had he reach’d the
formest man Who led the foe’s contending van, And with his tomahawk impell’d— That form’s resisting fury quell’d, When swift, a shot,—the stern reward |
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Of battle,—on the damp green
sward Laid his head low,—yet still as brave (Tho’ vainly struggling o’er his grave) His brand he flourish’d thro’ the air, With life’s last spirit lingering there,— |
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And nature’s tide, tho’
ebbing fast,— Shouted for vengeance to the last. Destructive War!—ah what avails |
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Make it more murder than fair
strife;— The dauntless Lion,—still must yield When hosts encounter on the field His stubborn courage,—tho’ his fall May the most daring breast appal;— |
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Vain, was the energy which nerv’d Tecumthe’s soul,—that never swerv’d From the stern trial, which surrounded And Slaughter’s very look astounded;— Behold the remnant of his band, |
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Who had escap’d its murderous
hand, Around their Chieftain clos’d,—to learn What were his mandates,—faint, or stern? But, wherefore ask?—with deadlier danger From the successes of the stranger, |
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Tecumthe’s spirit, rose alike Sworn to revenge,—but never strike.— From tree to tree,—from bush to bush, O’erpowering numbers,—(as the rush Of the rude torrent, swift, and strong,) |
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Before their fury swept along The few, who yet of all remain’d— And some resistance still maintain’d,— Tho’ such as doth a struggling form Against the fury of the storm, |
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Toss’d by the boiling,
boisterous waves, On some wild shore, where Ocean raves. Nor did his valour’s sternest deed, |
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Which must embitter life’s
estate.— Alas, too oft the bravest heart Must bear the victim’s sorrow’d part, To drag the chain, or feel the goad Beneath affliction’s heavy load;— |
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From that wild land, his sire’s
retreat, Where oft with boyhood’s nimble feet From rise of sun, to Hesper-star, His youthful toils had follow’d far The eager chase,—now forc’d to quit, |
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Which rather tamely than
submit, His spirit chose,—Tecumthe’s heart Determin’d, sadly,—to depart; And leave the green, embowering wood The favourite haunt of former days;— |
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His native streams and mightier
flood, Where WABASH, its broad tide displays,— And to the monarch of the sky A mirror holds,—where every dye May in reflection’s softest grace |
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Their own inspiring beauties,
trace.
Oh, nature! thou hast yet to shew, |
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Say,—in the grandeur so
sublime Which Science, with each sifting art, Searches the laws of Fate and Time To guide the head, or mend the heart: That, the Philosophy we find |
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In the stern
lessons of each sage, (Which o’er the warm, aspiring mind, For loftiest views, its thoughts engage,) Shall it assert,—that knowledge, hath Redeem’d the human breast from woes, |
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And turn’d its steps from
tracks of wrath To that,—whereon true virtue glows? Shall it assert,—that man inspir’d To nobler actions, from the lore With which his intellect is fir’d, |
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Hath rear’d
contentment on each shore, And with the pow’rful aid of art Stamp’d purer Justice on the heart? Made the true laws of reason roll Magnanimous throughout the soul? |
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Turn’d Envy’s breath, and
Pride’s disdain, And vile Hypocrisy’s loose train Of loathsome feelings from the breast On which, Integrity may rest, And by the force of learning’s aid |
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From vice to virtue, brightly
sway’d? Made war abase its Titan front, And mercy heal the wounds of want? And bidding man be just,—acclaim Honour and Justice to his fame? |
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Or mark the savage of the wild,— |
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Desires of an unbridled mood, In all that nature can expand,— Drawn by necessity’s demand:— Who knows no law,—but the stern might Which POWER controuls to sanction right, |
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And from the blood’s warm
impulse led By which each appetite is fed,— His wants (altho’ so few)—supplies;— Or darts his animosities With all the vengeance, which the burst |
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Of passion prompts, to anger’s
thirst;— Say,—from which far extreme of Fate, In all,—with which art doth abound, Or ignorance’s ruder state, The purest gem of virtue’s found? |
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Man reads the book of Time,—his
soul Enraptur’d by the dream of power, Or Pride, or folly,—spurns controul, But seeks the brightly tempting dower, And with his young heart free from stain |
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Or the foul
trammels of a crime, Adventures first upon the main Untainted by Pollution’s slime: But failing in the power to gain By means, which Honour first had plann’d, |
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Passion,—with all its venom’d
train Now heats his heart, and helps his hand, Till sooner than forego the prize Tho’ Heav’n be the too awful price, He ceases then from being wise, |
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And launches
headlong into vice, And all the wisdom which was bought To make him wondrous, ’mongst mankind, Ends in perverting heart and thought, And stamps him, with rebellious mind. |
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But in the Indian’s untam’d
breast Nature doth all;—though ’ere so rude The sense or feeling there possess’d To cause his joy, or curb his mood,— Still, ’tis the instinct which directs, |
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And if some
nobler purport soars, He studies not the vain effects With which the sceptic’s heart explores,— Freedom is his, and stern disdain, In the resentment of an ill, |
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And courage to defend, or kill, And fortitude to suffer pain, And art enough thro’ foresight’s skill, So to divert or ’scape the snare Which foes have laid to gull him there; |
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Nor yet deny, in nature’s
train Of ruder virtues, the display Of hospitality’s domain Which to the wanderer on his way His leafy habitation grants |
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With all the warmth, which ’ere
the hand Of fair civilization plann’d, To ease some fellow-being’s wants:— These all are his, yet these alone, Awaken’d there by instinct’s tone;— |
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Let sophistry then raise its
voice And deem from which, imperfect choice, Its arts can cull the fairest seed To which stern reason can aver The fairest meed of praise decreed,— |
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Nor let
opinion then demur At having once its judgment past, To find itself misled at last;— Heaven acts for wisest ends alone,— And all men know,—"that nothing’s known." |
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