CANTO VI.

THE RE-UNION.

[_Scene._ The Cave; Alhalla, Ethwald, Oscar, Mongazid, Ednee, Clewalla, De la Joie; with their separate retinues and attendants. Time, Evening.]

As spoke the chief of waning fate, And foeman’s ire, and spirit’s hate, And hurried on through martial feats, And routs, and battles, and defeats, No tremor weak, or muscle’s throe, Betoken’d mark of inward woe, Or, aught the scanning eye could see, That stoic warrior should not be.

But when he told of sacred seats, And winding shores, and still retreats, By trampling hoof, and rampart soil’d, And sepulchre of gifts despoil’d To light the torch, that spread amain One smoking ruin o’er the plain,— And that, though loved and cherish’d yet, The land his soul could ne’er forget, He sicken’d on that soil to be, When now no longer blest or free— An altered brow, a look of fire, Betray a burst of scorn and ire, And that high spirit, air, and gait, Which rises still above its fate, And though hem’d in by want or pain, Stoops not to parley or complain. And when he ceas’d—in conscious pride, He drew his ample robe aside, Revealing gorget, crest, and ring, Th’ insignia of an Indian King, And cowry shell, and wampum wreath, That ill-conceal’d the scars beneath, And all might know, and all might see, His double honors and degree. Then folding back, with lofty air, His wrapper-robe—erect and fair, With martial pomp, and thoughtful mood, In silent majesty he stood;— An object, more ennobled far, By high-born soul, and honored scar, Than all the baubles, gaud, and show, That mortal monarch can bestow.

While yet the chieftain’s accents rung Upon the mind, and chain’d each tongue, With looks that spoke some latent care, Though ill concealed by studied air, Advanced, with ever sober speed, That spare and silver’d Jossakeed,[7] Grave Mongazid, and in his hand He bore a pipe, and held a wand, And from his belt, securely drawn, Impends the furr’d Metá-wyaun— A sacred care—while eagle’s crest And amulet protect his breast From ill by unseen spirit sent, Or fiend’s transforming punishment; (Such as once fell, to his deep ken, When gods assumed the shapes of men,) And over all, the quiver light, And javelin-club, for mortal fight Contingent: Bold and free his tone, Bow or obeisance makes he none; But, pois’d erect as plummet’s line, Thus speaks of evil thought—design: The while on Oscar casts his eyes, Or Ethwald, bent in mute surprise.

[7] An Indian who invokes spirits, and professes to foretell events—a seer; a prophet.

MONGAZID.

Not far the golden orb of light Had sped, on his aerial flight, Nor gained he yet the central sky, Ere—bent on mystic rite and high— I sought a lone, embower’d place, And just within the wood’s embrace, But not excluding partial sight Of winding shore, and waters bright, There had I rais’d my humble stone Of sacrifice;—that duty done, Would have return’d, when object new, Half veiled in mist, arrests my view;— In human form it seem’d bedight, Of giant limb and giant might— Onward it came, along the strand, With thoughtful pace and outstretch’d hand, As if in act to speak, or press, But changing, still grew less and less, Till burst of sunbeam, quick and bright, Displayed a stature human quite, And as he came more near to me, Behold, a noble Hillabee! A youth of pensive mien, and tall, Whom in thy thoughts thou may’st recall.

He stopt;—and drawing from his breast A knife-sheath, oft its surface prest With fervent lip—and it seem’d fair, With inwrought quill, and stained hair— Then look’d he up to heaven, with eyes That sought the pity of the skies, And once again that pledge he prest, Then drew the blade—and in his breast Had plung’d it deep, but from my stand I sprang, and foil’d his lifted hand. Pale and aghast awhile he stood, Then flung that weapon in the flood, And, with embraces warm and rife, Thank’d and re-thank’d me for his life.

EDNEE.

Didst thou not ask, what fate severe Had driv’n the hapless wand’rer here? What cruel ills his life had prest, Or woes were rankling in his breast?

MONGAZID.

Speech had we some; but ever shy And cautious, seemed he, in reply: He spoke of wandering and of loss, In war and peace, by wile and cross; Of hopes still false, and objects e’er Upon the grasp, yet never near; With much of wild and frantic lore, That spoke a bosom pain’d and sore, But ever indistinct, and still He thank’d me for my friendly will.

EDNEE. [aside]

Strange! tale most strange! ah, could it be! But he is dead!—a Hillabee!

ALHALLA.

Saw’st thou no mark upon his breast, To note the chieftainship? or crest?

MONGAZID.

Mark saw I none, and ill could test What neither word nor sign exprest; More if ye would of purpose ask, Himself shall spare my tongue the task.

[_Enter an Indian, clad in the Southern costume._]

Ceas’d Azid’s voice; when there appears A form, in stature, looks, and years, Such as the fondest wish might trace When dreaming on the human race; Bold, tall, upright of frame and tone, The image of proud nature’s son; Thought mark’d his brow, and inward care Had flung o’er all a pensive air; The scars he bore, the eagle plume, Bespoke a warrior, not a groom Decked for the dance, with gay metasse,[8] And figured band, and bell of brass. A collar of the sacred shell He wore, that graced his figure well. Loose was his robe of banded blue, And ample fold, and gather true. Light was his tread, as zephyr’s sigh, And youth beam’d brightly from his eye. Cautious he passed the cavern bound, Then paus’d, and gazed intently round. It is Clewalla!—deftly o’er He sped, across that cavern floor, And at one rush, with joy confest, He clasps his Ednee to his breast.

[8] A leggin.

No word is said—the sudden gush Of feeling warm, and memory’s flush— Of cares, and doubts, and hopes, and pains, Th’ o’ermaster’d tongue awhile enchains, While heart to throbbing heart careers, And vents its joy, at first, in tears! And then with quick response is heard, Soft interchange of fitting word, And all the fervid greeting kind, That rivets constant mind to mind. Oh love, there is no word, no sign, No token half so sweet as thine, When sighing hours, when ling’ring years, When hopes deferred, when pallid fears, Are banish’d all, and, at a start, Kind heart is riveted to heart. Whether the face be white or red, Within a cot or palace bred, Beneath the line, or at the pole, An unwont rapture fires the soul. We cannot say that sigh or vow Were brought to mind, or uttered now; We cannot say, that months or years Were counted o’er amid their tears; But this we can, and this we know, That past and gone was every woe; That former crosses—former tears, Were cast behind, with other years, And every thought that could annoy Deep buried in the present joy.

And now had gratulation past, And warrior-lover broken fast, And dainty haunch, and wild-fruit shar’d, By Ednee’s gentle hand prepar’d, And all in high expectance wait The annals of his wayward fate.

CLEWALLA.

Little suits it tide or time I should here descant on crime, War or loss, mischance or boast, That befell on southern coast, Where, by cruel fate impelled, As a captive I was held. Little boots it, that I here Once again should drop the tear, Not by red man often shed, Save above the honored dead; Or, by sad recitals, throw O’er this scene a garb of woe. Let it, once for all, suffice, That my path was hemmed by vice, Power, misfortune, cross and ill, Such as stoutest bosoms kill; But I had a warrior’s heart, That not light with life could part.

Oft I fought with club and knife, Strewing death’s dark path with life, But not often felt the blight Fate prepared _that_ fearful night, When by river, rock, and dell, There Alhalla’s household fell: As I lifted high my brand, O’er the wide retreating strand, Hot the fight and loud the yell, This I only know, I fell: Consciousness, as with a thought, Left me, as the fight I fought, Sudden, as, if in a dream, What we do may only seem. When, from this unguarded stroke, First to life and sense I woke, Darkness spread around the plain, Shielding dying, dead, and slain; Slowly rising from my gore, Faint, I sought the river’s shore; Fatal act! to drink or die, Purchased by captivity. Yet my fate was not to fall By the broadsword or the ball; Taught by kindly hands to know War doth mingle balms with woe, And ’tis only on the field Saxon men will never yield. Soft they made my prison bed, Kindly nurtured, kindly fed, Till my wounds and fevered brain Health and soundness felt again.

Seasons now had passed their round When I sought my native ground; But I found no kindred tone, Fire had swept it, friends were gone; Men were ploughing, where, in cheer, Once I chased the noble deer; Piles of brick, and wood, and stone, Rose to heaven—the engine’s groan, The big wheel’s dash, the rattling train, Announced the white man’s iron reign.

I sought thy cot—it was a plain Where reapers reapt the yellow grain; I sought the grove, whose solemn shade Our council fire so oft displayed: It was with angled piles beset, Dome, dwelling, garnished minaret, Or steeple called;—with pensive tread I wound me, where repose the dead, And long affection’s pious hand With evening fires illumed the land; It was a shorn and mangled glade, Where not a staddle cast a shade.

Still _thee_ I sought, the wide west round, But need I say, I never found, Or where thou hadst in solace flown, To what strange people, not thine own. At length I came where I could hear That thou wert living, but not near; But still so balked by wayward fate, My footsteps they were e’er too late; Last, chanced I, with a random aim, For still I heard thy father’s fame, Ethwald’s rapid bark to spy Bound to this magnific sky; Him I followed—but no wail, Word or gesture, told my tale, Trusting some kind chance would ope Fortune, which I scarce could hope; And so led, by heaven’s decree, Ventured in this sylvan sea. Ask me not of other woes, Why I chose not—why I chose? Why I did not—why I did? Time will tell what now is hid; For my joy that thus we meet, Changing bitter scenes to sweet, Is as flowing, fair, and free, As kind heaven could make it be.

ALHALLA.

Warrior, rest thee. Take the seat Due thy rank and presence meet, By ancient custom, right and power, Deemed sacred in the forest bower. It is our wont, that groom and bride, As heart in heart, so side by side Be-seat them: act and sight Thus simple, seals our forest rite. To-morrow, ere the dawning east The sun illumes, prepare the feast, Where joy and plenty shall preside, To crown the warrior and his bride.

MISCELLANIES.

Most of the ensuing pieces, having been written at an early period of life, and at widely distant geographical points, and many of them having been published in newspapers, magazines, or other forms, and not before reclaimed, it is conceived that there is a propriety in retaining the local dates.

PONTIAC’S APPEAL.

[After the taking of Quebec, in 1759, the North Western Indians adhered to their Gallic allies, and formed an extensive combination for retaking all the posts west of the Alleghanies. Pontiac was the leader and master-spirit of this confederacy, the seat of which was Detroit. In 1763 he besieged the garrison at that place, with a large confederated force of Indians, and defeated the besieged at the battle of Bloody Bridge, killing their commander. The next year Gen. Bradstreet advanced from Niagara to break up this confederacy, with an army of 3000 men. The appeal may be supposed to be uttered on this occasion.]

Now, the war-cloud gathers fast, See it rising on the blast— Soon our peace-fire shall be quench’d, Soon our blades in gore be drench’d. See the red-robed legions pour From Wyánock’s[9] gulfy shore, Threatening woe to me and mine, Means and power, name and line; None may ’scape whose souls are free, None—who doat on liberty, Who is true, or who is brave, Or who scorns to be a slave. Warriors, up, and hurl them back! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.

[9] The Algic name for Niagara.

Hang the peace-pipe on the wall, Rouse the nations, one and all, Bid them for the fight prepare, War—red, raging, ruthless war. Now begin the sacred dance, Raise the club, and shake the lance; Now prepare the bow and dart, ’Tis our fathers’ ancient art. Other weapons need we none, All by Indian arms be won; Let each heart be strong and bold, As our fathers were of old; Valiant they, in wood or storm, Panthers’ doublets kept them warm; Warriors, rise, and drive them back! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.

Take the wampum, warrior, fly— Say, a foreign foe is nigh; On he comes, with furious breath Speaking peace, but dealing death; Spreading o’er our native plains Forts and banners, fire and chains. Death comes marching in his train— Death with never-ending pain— Not the pain that warriors fear; Not the faggot, ball, or spear; Not fierce danger—that is sweet; Not the red pine’s burning heat; But the bane from which we shrink, Fiery, fell, destroying drink. New found art to feed the grave, And sink a freeman to a slave. Warriors, hear: if deep below, Where evil dwells, there be a woe More deadly, bitter, foul, and black, Than aught that haunts the Red Man’s track, It is to sit, and tamely see A dog glut up our liberty, Our life, our soil—each dear-loved place, And bind our hands with shackles base. Up—up, and arm for the attack! It is the voice of Pontiac.

Is there sachem who is wise? Him, his country bids arise. Is there warrior who is brave? Let him rise, his land to save. Trust not time shall come again E’er to break the iron chain. Or if now ye waive the blow, Once again to strike the foe; Fate forbids it—_now_—’tis _now_! Honor calls to seal the vow. Let the legions clothed with red, Howl their pathway to the dead, Sink, or perish in the sea, But never trample on the free. Tribe that lags or lingers now Breaks the spirit-witnessed vow; Nor shall ever rise again, Lord or master of the plain. Thus, in types of cloud and breeze, Mighty Manito decrees. I have seen his shining throne; I have heard him—I alone. List—the paths of truth I track; ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.

Ye who skim the big lake floods, Ye who roam the western woods, Tribes and kindreds, large and small, Hear the mandatory call; All who feel with high control Throbbings of the Indian’s soul, Come, to save a threatened land From the rampart and the brand; From the arts and from the crimes Bred in transatlantic climes; From the thirst of pinching gains, That foredooms our sunny plains, And the cold unpitying rush, Name and rule that aims to crush, Till blow on blow, and stroke on stroke Bind on the hateful Saxon yoke. Firmness now is all that saves; To submit is to be slaves. Better die as warriors bold, Than be hunted, tracked and sold; Living days in misery rife, For the coward’s bounty—life! Warriors, rally to the field; Teach the lordly foe to yield; Spurn his counsels—spurn his laws; Strike alone for freedom’s cause; Let confusion cross his track; ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.

Let your sufferings—let your wrongs Swell your rising battle songs; Strike your drums a noble peal, Boding deeds of strife and steel. Let your piercing battle yells Shake the wildest woodland dells, Reaching nations far and nigh, While our scouts prolong the cry, Till it reaches every ear Who the Indian’s wrongs can hear; Gathering force as on it sweeps Over mountains, lakes and steeps; Louder—louder every hour, Till it wakes our utmost power, Rousing all our warlike bands, Waking all our pillaged lands; Till one deep, appalling cry, } Rings throughout the western sky, } Echoing _vengeance_—_liberty_! } Back! thou bold invader, back! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.

Former woes provoke your ire, _Think_, but hate; and _feel_, but fire; Every peaceful hue be fled; Every hue but warlike red. Strangers occupy our soil; Sons of dull mechanic toil; They pollute our ancient seats, Altars, groves and fond retreats. Ever claiming deeper grants, _Nothing_ can allay their wants, Or evade their arts or will; But they drive, and drive us still; Pouring onward, as they go, Livid streams of liquid woe, That subdues the soul when quaffed— Bitter—bitter—bitter draught; Of all ills the last and worst, Spirit-brewed, and spirit-cursed. Fear not horseman’s heavy knife; We can give them life for life, Blow for blow, and dart for dart— Arrows are the woodman’s art; Sharp and true, as bow to string, Let your arrows swiftly sing. Warriors, on to the attack! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.

Now, my fav’ring dreams portend Their ill-gotten power shall end. Now the goal is reached and won; Fate decrees—_it must be done_! Crush the serpent, ere his length Tell superior skill or strength. Strike the panther, ere he springs, And the mortal fang he flings. Take the monster grizzle-bear, Young and feeble, in his lair. Mar his talons—blear his sight, Ere he waxes strong in might; Else the day shall hasten by, Else we quickly droop and die; Or shall linger on our lands, Frail, dependent, feeble bands; Weak in numbers, low in fame; Sad, impov’rished, sunk and tame, Asking alms from door to door, Where our chieftains _ruled_ before, While the stranger lords it high ’Neath our once joy-kindled sky; And his children, as they turn From the furrow, blade or urn, Axe or pestle, pipe or bone, Once our fathers’ or our own, Shall with pride indignant spurn, Name and nation, bone and urn, And exclaim—_contemptuous grave!_ Indian dog, or Indian slave.

Heavens! and can ye live and burn, And not on th’ insulter turn? Have ye hearts, and have ye ears, And not shake your vengeful spears? Are ye men by God’s decrees, And can suffer taunts like these? Rend, oh rend the big blue sky, With your thrilling battle cry: _Vengeance—Valor—Liberty!_ On, bold hearts, to the attack! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.

SAULT STE. MARIE, November 7th, 1825.

GEEHALE.

AN INDIAN LAMENT.

The blackbird is singing on Michigan’s shore, As sweetly and gaily as ever before, For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o’er our mountains as beamy a light, As it ever reflected, or ever express’d, When my skies were the bluest—my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back, Each bird and each beast, it is blest in degree, All nature is cheerful—all happy but me.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair, I will paint me with black and will sever my hair:— I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes:— I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or ling’ring decay, The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss with disdain on the storm-beaten shore; Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. I will raise up my voice to the source of the light, I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night, I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves, And will take a new manito—such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream. Oh, then, I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes. I shall wash from my face every peace-color’d stain, Red, red! shall alone on my visage remain. I will dig up my hatchet and bend my oak bow, By night and by day, I will follow the foe; No lake shall repress me—no mountain oppose, His blood can alone give my spirit repose.

They came to my cabin when heaven was black, I heard not their coming—I knew not their track, But I saw by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engender’d beyond the big seas. My wife and my children—oh spare me the tale,— But who is there left, that is kin to Geehale?

ALBANY, 1820.

THE CHOICE.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

A sweet, retiring, simple, modest mien, Not shunning, and not seeking to be seen; A taste in dress and each domestic care, Neat but not gaudy, pleasing without glare; Such have I often wished “heaven’s last best gift” should be, Such have I oft, with joy, remarked in thee.

An even temper, mild, endearing, kind, A sound, discreet, and regulated mind, Improved by reading, by reflection formed, By reason guided, by religion warmed. This have I often prayed “heaven’s last best gift” to be, This have I oft, with joy, remarked in thee.

Benevolent to all, to soothe or cure, But a firm friend to all the neighb’ring poor; The poor in worldly goods, or _bon ton_ merit, The sunk in sickness, and the bow’d in spirit. This have I often hoped “heaven’s last best gift” to be, This have I oft, with joy, remarked in thee.

Possessing spirit, yet a gentle creature, Lover of quiet and the charms of nature, With no vain rage to simper, glare or roam, Pleased if abroad, but mostly pleased at home. This have I fondly hoped “heaven’s last best gift” to be, This have I oft admired, sweet maid, in thee.

In person comely, rather than renowned, In books conversant, rather than profound, With too much sense to slight domestic duty, Or sigh to shine a wit, or flaunt a beauty. This have I fondly wished “heaven’s last best gift” to be, Such have I seen thee oft, and often hope to see.

In virtue principled, in love sincere, In manners guarded, in expression clear, Kind to all others in a just decree, But fixed, devoted, loving only me. This have I ever hoped “heaven’s last best gift” would be, This have I sought, and heaven-blest, found in thee.

Thee, in whose gentle manners, polished mind, Grace, sweetness, taste, benevolence are joined, Sense to engage, a _naivete_ to admire, Candor to please, and love itself to fire. Thee have I fondly hoped “heaven’s last best gift” to me, And all my hopes of bliss are hopes of thee.

[1823.]

THE BIRCHEN CANOE.

In the region of lakes, where the blue waters sleep, My beautiful fabric was built; Light cedars supported its weight on the deep, And its sides with the sunbeams were gilt.

The bright leafy bark of the betula[10] tree A flexible sheathing provides; And the fir’s thready roots drew the parts to agree, And bound down its high swelling sides.

No compass or gavel was used on the bark, No art but the simplest degree; But the structure was finished, and trim to remark, And as light as a sylph’s could be.

Its rim was with tender young roots woven round, Like a pattern of wicker-work rare; And it prest on the waves with as lightsome a bound As a basket suspended in air.

The builder knew well, in his wild merry mood, A smile from his sweet-love to win, And he sung as he sewed the green bark to the wood, Keen ata nee saugein.[11]

The heavens in their brightness and glory below, Were reflected quite plain to the view, And it moved like a swan—with as graceful a show, My beautiful birchen canoe.

The trees on the shore, as I glided along, Seemed rushing a contrary way; And my voyagers lightened their toil with a song, That caused every heart to be gay.

And still as I floated by rock and by shell, My bark raised a murmur aloud, And it danced on the waves as they rose and they fell, Like a fay on a bright summer cloud.

I thought as I passed o’er the liquid expanse, With the landscape in smiling array; How blest I should be, if my life should advance, Thus tranquil and sweetly away.

The skies were serene, not a cloud was in sight, Not an angry surge beat on the shore, And I gazed on the waters, and then on the light, Till my vision could bear it no more.

Oh! long shall I think of those silver-bright lakes, And the scenes they exposed to my view; My friends—and the wishes I formed for their sakes, And my bright yellow birchen canoe.

SAULT STE. MARIE, November 12th, 1825.

[10] Betula papyracæ.

[11] You only I love.

ON LEAVING THE VILLAGE OF GENEVA IN 1812.

When acts of affection have soften’d the heart, And taught two fond bosoms in union to glow, Oh! how sweet is the joy that their meetings impart, The pleasures how lively from converse that flow.

But oh! when the warm hand of friendship sincere, Is shook—and those pleasures are soon to be past, How painful the thought, and how galling the fear, That friends are assembled—perhaps for the last.

Yes! such were the pangs I was destined to know, When from thy dear circle I lately withdrew; And I said, as we parted, wherever I go, Oh! think of me often, and I’ll think of you.

’Tis thus we may still, although seas intervene, In fond recollection past pleasures recall, And forget in our dreams of the days that have been, The woes that await us—the ills that befall.

And oft, as ye rove o’er the frequented green, Or pause at high noon, to regale in the shade, Remember how oft with you there I have been, When summer with roses enamelled the glade.

The flowers of your fields, they were lovely and fair, And charmed with their fragrance the hours that are gone, Yet, it had been a desert if you’d not been there, Ye tender and beautiful nymphs of the lawn.

Adieu, smiling circle; wherever I go, In memory still shall I turn to this spot, And cherish thy noble and generous glow, Till virtue, and friendship, and love be forgot.

ON THOSE WHO FELL IN THE WAR OF 1812.

On Niagara’s banks they sleep, And in Erie’s stormy deep, Where the rapid Wabash glides, On Ontario’s warlike sides; By the deep, where Lawrence fell, Or in lone Moravian dell, On the field where Pike was slain, At Sandusky—at Champlain. There the bones of heroes rest; Honor’d, loved, lamented, blest.

KEENE, N. H. 1815.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. SAVAGE TO MISS WILD.

[1811.]

Long had a Savage roved the lonely bower, Braved the cold storm and trod the dangerous glen, Till touched by love’s all humanizing power, He sought that happiest state of peaceful men.

No more wan care, his tardy hours beguiled, But fixed in thought, in hymen’s fetters tied, Deep in the tempting bosom of a Wild, His every wish, hope, peace and joy abide.

LIKES AND DISLIKES.

Whate’er is false, impertinent or dull, A fop, a meddler, formalist or fool, O’erbearing consequence, o’ervaunting sense, The lounger’s visit, and the rake’s pretence, The idle man’s excuse, the babbler’s prate, These ask for censure, and all these I hate.

I hate the cit, whose tread diurnal brings, Wit’s cast-off robes, and learning’s worn-out things. At home, abroad, in place, or out of place, With fearful longitude of knowing face, Repeats the jest, half hitting and half hit, The vapid ribaldry, which is not _wit_; Or where misfortune bows a noble heart, Wounds the sear’d bosom with satiric dart.

I hate the sea-fop, whose obtrusive lore, Repeated oft, can please the ear no more, Whose vast credulity and only care, Is to raise wonder, and produce a _stare_; Yet if they pall, or if the jaded tales A doubt creates—he with his “_log-book_” nails.

I hate the tattler, whose bold thirst of fame Is based on publishing his neighbor’s shame, Whose task it is to catch the latent tale, The rumored doubt or inuendo stale, To fan the darling falsehoods as they rise, To pander scandal, and to retail lies.

I hate that ever-busy, bustling man, Whose wink or nod directs the village clan, Intent, not on the public weal or good, Or e’en his own—a point not understood— But urged by little talent, much pretence, Ten grains of impudence, and one of sense: A strange compound of villain, fop, and clown, He struts the busy-body of the town.

I hate the sly, insidious, smirking _friend_, Who, ever driving at some secret end, Bespeaks your interest for a vote or place, With smiling sweet sincerity of face, Yet, all the while with bitter malice fed, Is working to deprive you of your bread.

I hate the gourmand, whose eternal wish Is centred in a bottle or a dish: Law without justice, physic without skill, Priests without reason, laymen without will; Misguided charity, delusive zeal, Or for religion, or the common weal: Power without mercy, humor void of sense, Affected greatness, beggarly pretence: A splendor based upon a neighbor’s cash, Rogues escaped halter, prison, stocks or lash, All these, howe’er allied to fortune or to fate, Demand my censure, and all these I hate.

My hatreds into love now let me turn: I love the breast where truth and nature burn, The virtuous poor man, struggling to be free, The rich, not dazzled with his high degree; The sage’s wish, the patriot’s calm desire, The painter’s fancy, and the poet’s fire, The modest step, the frank, unvarnish’d air, The fame unsullied, and the virtue fair.

I love the faith, that, principled and clear, Trusts not alone to frail enjoyments here, But casting up the firm, imploring eye, Scans the bright mansions of the starry sky.

I love the hope, that, bound by honor’s ties, With modest diligence essays to rise; Trusts to no sudden shower, no falling star, No wit precocious, no chance-medley care; But, bent to use aright the talent given, Performs its part, and leaves the rest to heaven.

I love the charity, that for itself, And nought beside, conveys the silent pelf. I love the zeal, that honest, firm, and clear, Contemns the placeman’s frown, the skeptic’s jeer. I love the rays that winter nights beguile, I love compassion’s tear, and woman’s smile; I love the spirit noble in its aims, The sacred ardor love and friendship claims, Bland nature’s solitude, the lore of men; I love my home, my study, and my pen.

[1816.]

WASHINGTON.

[On a visit to the tomb of Washington at Mount Vernon, April 28th, 1822, the writer picked out and selected from the rude earthen mound which covers it, some plain mineralogical fragments, which he deposited in a neat paper box in his cabinet, with the following lines:]

These little relics, if they show No ruby’s tint, no diamond’s glow, Yet shall they shed upon my heart, A joy that gems can ne’er impart, And exercise upon my mind, A power of talismanic kind; A power to think, to act, to feel— In youth and manhood, wo and weal; Like him, the lov’d, the great, the blest, Whose hallowed tomb they lately prest— To emulate his noble fires, His measured aims, his chaste desires, His firmness in the trying hour, His mod’rate use of fame and power; In social round, his skill to please, His stately manners, mix’d with ease, And all those virtues great and bland, Which erst aroused an injur’d land, And raised its strength, and winged its ires, And fann’d its hopes, and curb’d its fires, And spoke by act, by sword and pen, Him first of heroes, first of men.

When prest by thought, or danger tried, By slander stung, or rage defied; These relics shall afford a clue, The bold to awe, the strong subdue. And if, in some propitious hour, One deed of fame, one ray of power, A wayward fortune should decree To one so poor and lone as me, Still should my thoughts to Vernon turn, To ponder on the hero’s urn, And, in whispering accents, breathe My reverence for the dust beneath— The sacred dust, which, living, won, And, dead—still! still! is Washington: And each proud hope, and each lone sigh, Shall be, like him to live, to die.

And when I see the scholar pore On deeds of glorious fame of yore; Trimming his lamp, at midnight hour, To trace the wrecks of bygone power; Or stealing through sequestered groves, To sip the tale of Grecian loves; Or pond’ring on the double doom, Where fame and valor fell with Rome; And when I hear th’ enthusiast tell How Fabius foil’d, Marcellus fell, With triumph shall I quick reply, At Vernon doth a greater lie; More firm in war, more just in peace, And loved with love that ne’er can cease; But time shall seal, and rolling years Augment his fame, and swell our tears. Go! shall I say, to yon scrutoire Of shells and fossils, gems and ore, Cull’d from each clime, and marshall’d there With home-bred skill and pleasing care; Amid the glitter, thou shalt find An humble group of plainest kind, But priz’d most truly, not for dyes, But for the scene it typifies: The airy banks, the cooling groves, That mark the spot Columbia loves— A spot, which few vain marbles may, Entombs a virtuous hero’s clay. Go! and peruse!—no chemic fame, No foreign, harsh, pedantic name, With slavish, trite, empiric air, Inscribes the group enchased there. With pious hand I cull’d these stones Upon the tomb that wraps his bones: He who, while living, ever shin’d, And, dying, left no peer behind; Let no rude hand, or unadvis’d, Molest the boon so lov’d, so priz’d.

THE WHITE FISH.

Of ven’son let Goldsmith so wittily sing, A very fine haunch is a very fine thing; And Burns, in his tuneful and exquisite way, The charms of a smoking Scot’s haggis display, But ’tis often much harder to eat than descant, And a poet may praise what a poet may want; Less doubt there shall be ’twixt my muse and my dish, Whilst her power I invoke, in the praise of white fish. All friends to good living by tureen or dish, Concur in extolling this prince of a fish, So fine on a platter, so tempting a fry, So rich in a broil, and so sweet in a pie, That even before it the red trout must fail, And that mighty _bonne bouche_ of the land, beaver’s tail.

This fish is a subject, so dainty and white, To show in a lecture, to eat or to write, That equal ’s my joy, I declare on my life, To raise up my voice, or to raise up my knife; ’Tis a morsel alike for the gourmand or faster, White—white as a tablet of pure alabaster; Its beauty and flavor no person can doubt, If seen in the water, or tasted without; And all the dispute that opinion e’er makes, Of this king of lake fishes—this deer of the lakes,[12] Regards not its choiceness, to ponder or sup, But the best mode of dressing and serving it up.

[12] A literal translation of the Chippewa name for this fish—Ad dik Kum maig.

Now this is a point where good livers may differ, As tastes become fixed, or opinions are stiffer; Some men prefer roasted—some doat on a fry, Or extol the sweet savor of _poisson blanc_ pie; The nice _petit patè_, this palate excites, While that on a boiled dish and _bouillon_ delights; Some smoked and some salted, some fresh and some dried, Prefer to all fish in our waters beside; And ’tis thought the main question of epicures’ look, Respects not the method so much as the cook; For, like some moral dishes that furnish a zest, Whate’er is best served up, is still thought the best.

There are, in gastronomy, sages who think ’Tis not only the prime of good victuals, but drink, That all sauces spoil it, the richer the quicker, And make it insipid, except its own liquor; These move in a wild epigastric mirage, Preferring the dish _a la mode de sauvage_, By which it quells hunger and thirstiness both, First eating the fish, and then drinking the broth: We leave this unsettled for palates or pens Who glean out of hundreds their critical tens, While drawn to the board where full many a dish Is slighted to taste this American fish.

The planter, who whirls through the region by steam, The Creole, who sings as he lashes his team; The merchant, the lawyer, the cit, and the beau, The proud and gustative, the poor and the low; The gay _habitant_—the inquisitive tourist, The chemic physician, the dinner-crost jurist, And even the ladies, the pride of the grove, Unite to extol it, and eat to approve. Full oft the sweet morsel, while poised on the knife, Excites a bland smile in the blooming young wife, Nor deems she a sea-fish one moment compares, But is thinking the while not of fish, but of heirs.

To these it is often a casual sweet, To dine by appointment, or taste as a treat; Not so, or in mental or physical joy, Comes the sight of this fish to the _courier de bois_; That wild troubadour and his joy-loving crew, Who sings as he paddles his birchen canoe, And thinks all the hardships that falls to his lot, Are richly made up at the platter and pot. To him there’s a charm neither feeble nor vague In the mighty repast of the _grande Ticameg_;[13] And oft as he starves amid Canada snows, On dry leather lichens and _bouton de rose_, He cheers up his spirits to think he shall still Of _poisson blanc bouillon_ once more have his fill. “Oh, choice of all fishes,” he sings as he goes, “Thou art sweeter to me than the Normandy rose; And the ven’son that’s stol’n from the parks of the king, Is never, by half, so delicious a thing.”

The muse might appeal to the science of books To picture its ichthyological looks, Show what is its family likeness or odds, Compared to its cousins, the salmons and cods; Tell where it approximates, point where it fails, By counting its fins, or dissecting its scales; Or prove by plain reasons—such proofs can be had— ’Tis not “toothless salmon,” but rather lake shad; Here, too, might a fancy, to descant inclined, Contemplate the lore that pertains to its kind, And bring up tradition in fanciful strains, To prove its creation from feminine brains;[14] Or point out its habits, migrations, and changes— The mode of its capture, its cycles and ranges. But let me forbear—’tis the fault of a song, A tale, or a book, if too learned or long.

Thus ends my discussion. More would you, I pray, Ask Mitchell, or Harlan, Lesieur, or De Kay.

[July 21, 1824.]

[13] French orthography for the Indian name of this fish.

[14] A tale of such transformation may be seen, by reference to ALGIC RESEARCHES.

A TALE OF THE NORTH, [1830.]

[In 1785, Mr. Alexander Kay, a fur-trader from Montreal, was stabbed by an Indian at Sandy Lake, on the source of the Mississippi. By the kindness and medical skill of a friendly chief, who accompanied him to Michilimackinac, the wound was healed, but suppurated soon after, on his arrival at the Lake of Two Mountains, where he died.]

I cannot tell of monarch wise, Or fame’s loud trumpet swell; But I can tell a simple tale, Which on a time befell.

For long ago, for money’s sake, As well as with us now, Bold men would venture wood and lake, To fill the golden vow.

And forth the voyager he went, With goods of richest dye; And bark that was a sight to see, Far through the northern sky.

And lakes he past, and snows he trod, Where wolves and panthers cry, And nature’s poor, forsaken sons, The Indians, live and die.

He trafficked for a few brief months, For skin of beaver black; And aye he thought with wealth supreme To hie him quickly back.

But still the red man liked him not, For he had wilful ways; And ever, when the night returned, Would burn with passion’s blaze.

The voyager was a drinking man, And a man of swelling pride, Whom fury stirr’d, and lust of rule, And high impatience tried.

And when he had their wealth amassed, He loathed the Indian boor; And as with noise they vex’d his peace, He spurned him from his door.

The Indian is a passive man, To all observant eyes; But he has pride, and entertains Revenge, that never dies.

He has a soul that scorns to live Where slave or coward be; And all his goods are free to share, And wish—is to be free.

Free was he born, and free will die, And time, however long, Can ne’er erase an injury While he has pipe or song.

He may be kicked like any dog, But ah, beware the day, When he awakes from brawl, or draws The insult to repay.

This found the lordly voyager, Upon that fatal day, When deep in northern woods remote Arose the bloody fray.

And first, in peaceful words began The deep dissembled plot, And “give me drink!” the hunter cried— “Off, villain! from my cot.”

He pointed to the door, with air And gesture of a lord; Then turned him back within his tent, With haughty look and word.

Instant the Indian drew his knife, And in that twinkling frame He dealt a blow upon his neck, But dealt with erring aim.

The voyager he had a friend Among the Indian band, Who lay and slept, while Christian blood Thus dyed the yellow sand.

He started up, and drew a knife, With vengeance in his eye, And seiz’d the murd’rer by his hair, And, “Dog!” he utter’d, “die!”

And with these words, he smote with might, And pierced the Indian dread, Who prayed for life, and gasped for breath, Then sank to earth and bled.

On, on they rushed, a furious throng, For wild disorder reigned; And drinking, yelling, noise, and song, The live-long day had stained.

Out furious in the wild melée, The voyager he ran, With streaming wound, and upraised knife, Averse to counsel’s plan.

At once a cry of death arose, “I’m killed,” he said, and fell: A deep, low wound, and gushing blood, Attest the truth I tell.

O ye who hear this living tale, Your hearts with care berate, Nor give the red man cause to feel The bitter pangs of hate.

Learn that strict justice is alike, Nor favors red, nor white; That kindness wins—that patience charms, E’en more than beauty bright;

That friendship’s glow, whate’er the name, Clime, country, shade or line, Is e’er the same, if touch’d with truth And constancy benign.

Last—saddest, truest of my song— Provoke nor sot, nor king; Shun passion’s sway, and liquor’s ire, Nor trust its poison sting.

SAULT STE. MARIE, 1832.

THERE IS A TIME TO DIE.

Bury me in the autumn time, when the leaves begin to fall, And nature o’er her forest grounds extends her leafy pall; It is a season which I loved when life was young and new, And often o’er the landscape then I cast a tranquil view.

’Tis then the winds, with airy whirl, begin their autumn play, And merrily over hill and dale, career their buoyant way; The whispering trees bend down their boughs, as soft they sweep along, And every leaf that joins the gale contributes to the song.

It is a time when ripened fruits their nut-brown stores display, And the squirrel nimbly trips it then, his winter’s stock to lay; The partridge, too, with feathers spread, steps on the hollow tree, And flaps his wings, with doubling sound, to tell his mate ’tis he.

The waters murmur softly then, and, as the trees grow bare, Display their channels through the woods, and glitter doubly fair. All nature is mature of mood, and woodland scenes unite, And man, and herds and flocks all join, to gratify the sight.

The harvest’s in, the fruit is ripe, the flowers are fall’n and sere, And joy and peace and plenty crown the labors of the year: Then put me in the ground while thus all nature’s in her fill, I loved the season when I lived, and, dead, shall love it still.

N. Y. 1843.

LINES,

ON THE DEATH OF CAPT. M. M. DOX, LATE OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY.

Friend of my youth! whom thoughts of other years, When life was young, and hope was new, endears— Thy solemn change, where all that live must go, Strikes on my heart a salutary woe. Oft have I known thee in the social hour, When mirth and conversation owned thy power, Or, with one heart, we lingered to explore Geneva’s woodlands, or Ontario’s shore; Oft books or men employed the leisure thought, Who wrote most happy, who most gallant fought, Or cogitating plans, left all undone, How fame is earned, or fortune may be won To read, to muse, to meditate, to sigh, We thought of all, but how with faith to die.

Long severed by the varied course of time By lands remote, by fortune, care, and clime, What once, in youth, no terrors could impart, Fate brings with sad sensations to my heart; Hope’s brittle thread is severed at a breath, And all that meets the gazing eye is death.

Arms drew thee forth, when late thy country saw Right raised on arrogance, power stampt as law; But me, erewhile, a wayward fortune drew, Long streams to traverse—boundless plains to view; While now on arts, and now on letters cast, Hope bore me lightsome on the western blast, I but return to honor, with the brave, A friend’s—a patriot’s—and a soldier’s grave.

MICHILIMACKINAC.

THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.

They tell me, the men with a white-white face Belong to a purer, nobler race; But why, if they do, and it may be so, Do their tongues cry, “yes”—and their actions, “no?”

They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue, And it may be so, but the sky is blue; And the first of men—as our old men say, Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.

But throughout my life, I’ve heard it said, There’s nothing surpasses a tint of red; Oh, the white man’s cheeks look pale and sad, Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.

Then let them talk of their race divine, Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine; Give me a lodge, like my fathers had, And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.

SHINGABAWOSSIN.

[A ruling chief of the Chippewa nation, of noble mien and respected character, who died and was buried on the banks of lake Superior in 1828, aged about 76.]

Blest be the spot that marks the chieftain’s tomb— There let the bright red flowers of summer bloom, And, as the winds sweep heavily along, Be they the warrior’s chant and funeral song; And yearly there, his native woods shall fling Their leafy honors o’er their sylvan king, While far around, the big and stormy wave Casts foamy incense o’er his rustic grave.

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.

Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.

Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of consecutive lines in stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity.