"The words I speak are no complaint And if I breathe out my despair, It is not that my heart grows faint, Or shrinks from what 'tis doomed to bear. Though every sorrow which may shake Or rend man's heart, should pierce my own, Their strength united, should not make My lip breathe one complaining tone. If I must suffer, it shall be With a firm heart, a soul elate, A wordless scorn, which silently Shall mock the stern decrees of fate. The weak might bend, the timid shrink, Until misfortune's storm blew by, But I, a chieftain's son, should drink Its proffered cup without a sigh. And it will scarcely, to my lip, Seem harsher than yon fountain's flow, For I have held companionship With Misery, from my youth till now-- Have felt, by turns, each pang, each care, Her hapless sons are doomed, to bear;-- I caught my mother's parting breath, When passed she to the spirit land; And from the fatal field of death, Where, leading on his fearless band, With fiery and resistless might, He fell, though victor in the fight, Pierced by the arrow of some foe, I saw my father's spirit go. And I have seen his warrior men, From mountain, valley, hill, and glen, Departing one by one, since then, As from the dry and withered spray, The wilted leaves are blown away, Upon some windy autumn day: I, only I, am left to be The last leaf of the blighted tree, Which the first wind that through the sky Goes carelessly careering by, Will, in its wild, unheeded mirth, Rend from its hold, and dash to earth: Thus, here alone have I remained, An outcast, where I should havereigned.
VI.
"How shall I to myself alone, The weakness of my bosom own? Why, mindful of my fame and pride, When my brave brethren had died; Why, with my friendly, ready knife, Drew I not forth my useless life? Was it a coward fear of death, That bade me treasure up my breath? Or had life yet some genial ray, That wooed me in its warmth to stay? Had earth yet one whose smile could stir, My spirit with deep love for her? Yes, though within me hope was dead, And wild Ambition's dreams were fled; Though o'er my blighted heart, Despair Desponded, love still nestled there; Love! how the pale-faced scorner's lip Would sneer, to hear me name that name; Yet was it deep within my soul A secret but consuming flame; Whose overruling mastership, Defied slow Reason's dull control! And felt for one of that vile race, To whom my tribe had given place; Was nursed in silence and in shame! Shame, for the weakness of a heart, Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow, Which could bestow its better part Upon the offspring of a foe! They, the mean delvers of the soil, The wielders of the felling axe,-- Because we will not stoop to toil, Nor to its burdens bond our backs; Because we scorn Seduction's wiles, Her lying words and forged smiles, They, the foul slaves of lust and gold, Say that our blood and hearts are cold.(3) But ere the morrow's dawning light Has climbed yon eastern craggy height, One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow, Are lit with pride and pleasure now, Shall learn, at point of my true steel, How much the Red man's heart may feel,-- How fearlessly he strikes the foe, When love and vengeance prompt the blow! Though scorned by him, I know an art Could stop the beatings of his heart, Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still!' A single arrow from my bow, Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4) Would in an instant lay him low; So deadly is the icy chill, With which the life-blood it congeals, The wounded warrior scarcely feels Its fatal touch ere he expire: But, when Revenge would glut his ire, He stops not with immediate death The current of hisvictim's breath; With gasp, and intervening pause, The lifeblood from its source he draws, Marks, in the crimson stream that flows, How near life verges to its close,-- And its last soul-exhaling groan, To him is music's sweetest tone! And he, whose fate it is to die, Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky, The eye shall see, the arm shall know, That guides and deals th' avenging blow; And ere his spirit goes to rest, Right well his scornful heart shall learn, How fiercely, in a savage breast, The flames of love and hate may burn." He spake, and down the mountain's side, With quick, impatient step, he hied, Threading the forest's lonely gloom, A ruthless minister of doom.
VII.
'Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth, And the mysterious eyes above, Gazed down with chastened looks of love, Not, as when first they hymned her birth, With ardent songs of holy mirth, But mournfully serene and clear;-- As on some erring one we gaze, Whose feet have strayed from wisdom's ways, But who, in error, still is dear. Far o'er yon swiftly flowing stream Fair fell the young moon's silver beam, And gazing on its restless sheen, Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien, Bespoke him of a foreign land, One born to win, and hold command; The master mind, the leading one, Where deeds of manly might were done. Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came O'er lip and cheek, o'er eye and brow, He who beheld, might guess that now His thoughts were not of wealth and fame: Whence could that veiling radiance shine, Save from Affection's holy shrine? And this was he, who from afar, Had come to bear away his bride; And love had been the guiding star, That lit him o'er the trackless tide; "To-morrow, on its sunny wing, My bridal hour soon shall bring; And those bright orbs which o'er me shed Such gentle radiance from on high, Shall shine upon my nuptial bed, When next they walk along the sky. 0! what are all the pomps of earth, Of honour, glory, greatness, worth, Beside the bliss which Love confers Upon his humblest followers!" He said, and from the river turned;-- An eye, that with fiercehatred burned, Met his, and this reply was made: "Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade Ere dawns the coming morrow's sun." Then, ere the point he could evade, He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast, While he, who the foul deed had done Stood calmly by, and saw him sink In death, beside the water's brink, Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood Pour out, and mingle with the flood;Then drew his dagger from its rest, And gazing on its fearful hue, Said, "Thou hast yet one task to do. He who, death- wounded, welters there, Came hither, o'er the deep to bear Far off from her paternal nest, The white dove I have watched so long. The falcon's wing was bold and strong, Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight; Strike one more blow, and thou to-night May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare, And buried deep the dagger there, And by his victim's lifeless trunk, Without a sigh or groan he sunk.
