Chapter XI: Part 11

Stay not here--the men are base, I have found a happier place, Where no war, or want severe, Haunts the mind with thoughts of fear; Men are cruel--bloody--cold, Seeking like lynx the rabbit's wold, Not to guard from winds or drought, But to suck its life's blood out. Stay not here--oh, stay not here, 'Tis a world of want and fear.

I have found those happy plains, Where the blissful Spirit reigns, Such, as by our wise men old, All our fathers have foretold. Streams of sparkling waters flow, Pure and clear, with silver glow; Woods and shady groves abound, Long sweet lawns and painted ground; Lakes, in winding shores extend, Fruits, with flowers, inviting blend; While, throughout the green-wood groves, Gayest birds sing out their loves. Stay not here, my trustful maid, 'Tis a world for robbers made.

I will lead you, soul of love, To those flowery haunts above, Where no tears or pain are found-- Where no war-cry shakes the ground; Where no mother hangs her head, Crying: "Oh, my child is dead!" Where no human blood is spilt, Where there is no pain, or guilt; But the new-freed spirit roves Round and round, in paths of loves. Pauguk's[117] not admitted there, Blue the skies, and sweet the air; There are no diseases there; There no famished eyeball rolls, Sickness cannot harm the souls; Hunger is not there a guest, Souls are not with hunger press'd, All are happy, all are blest. Rife the joys our fathers sought, Sweet to eye and ear and thought, Stay not here, my weeping maid, 'Tis a world in glooms arrayed.

[117] Death.

Wishes there, all wants supply, Wants of hand, and heart, and eye; Labor is not known--that thorn Pricks not there, at night or morn, As it goads frail mortals here, With its pain, and toil, and fear; Shadows typical and fair, Fill the woods, the fields, the air, Stately deer, the forests fill, Just to have them is to will; Birds walk kindly from the lakes, And whoever wants them, takes; There no drop of blood is drawn, Darts are for an earthy lawn. Hunters, warriors, chiefs, are there, Plumed and radiant, bright and fair; But they are the ghosts of men, And ne'er mix in wars again; They no longer rove with ire, Wood or wold, or sit by fire; Council called--how best to tear, From the gray-head crown its hair, Dripping with its vital blood, Horror--echoed in the wood. Stay not here--where horrors dwell, Earth is but a name for hell.

Oh, the Indian paradise is sweet, Naught but smiles the gazers meet; All is fair--the sage's breast, Swells with joy to hail each guest-- Comes he, from these sounding shores, Or the North God's icy stores, Where the shivering children cry, In their snow-cots and bleak sky; Or the far receding south, Burned with heat, and palsied drought, All are welcome--all receive, Gifts great Chibiabos gives. Stay not, maiden--weep no more, I have found the happy shore.

Come with me, and we will rove, O'er the endless plains of love, Full of flowers, gems, and gold, Where there is no heart that's cold, Where there is no tear to dry In a single human eye. Stay not here; cold world like this, Death but opes the door to bliss.

ON THE STATE OF THE IROQUOIS, OR SIX NATIONS.

In 1845, the Legislature of New York directed a census of these cantons, which evinced an advanced state of industry.

The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep,
Gone are the plumes that decked his brow,
For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep--
He holds the plough.

The bow and quiver which his fathers made;
The gun, that filled the warrior's deadliest vow;
The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade--
Where are they now?

Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell--
Scared nations listen with affright no more;
He walks a farmer over field and dell
Once red with gore.

Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife,
Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox,
All now are gone!--transformed to peaceful life--
He drives the ox.

Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese,
No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe:
Peace spreads her reign wide o'er his inland seas--
He swings the scythe.

Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers;
To learn the white man's arts, and skill to rule,
For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours--
They go to school.

Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul,
And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm,
Where are your charms his bosom to control?--
He tills a farm.

His war-scar'd visage, paints no more deform--
His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,
Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm--
He wears a hat.

His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,
Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,
Is laid aside--to think, to plan, to read--
He keeps a store.

This is the law of progress--kindlier arts
Have shaped his native energies of mind,
And back he comes--from wandering, woods and darts
Back to mankind.

His drum and rattles, both are thrown away--
His native altars stand without a blaze,--
Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way--
And hark! he prays!

THE LOON'S FOOT.

I thought it was the loon's foot, I saw beneath the tide,
But no--it was my lover's shining paddle I espied;
It was my lover's paddle, as my glance I upward cast,
That dipped so light and gracefully as o'er the lake I passed.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
'Tis graceful on the sea;
But not so light and joyous as
That paddle blade to me.

My eyes were bent upon the wave, I cast them not aside,
And thought I saw the loon's foot beneath the silver tide.
But ah! my eyes deceived me--for as my glance I cast,
It was my lover's paddle blade that dipped so light and fast.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
'Tis sweet and fair to see,
But oh, my lover's paddle blade,
Is sweeter far to me.

The lake's wave--the long wave--the billow big and free,
It wafts me up and down, within my yellow light canoe;
But while I see beneath heaven pictured as I speed,
It is that beauteous paddle blade, that makes it heaven indeed.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
The bird upon the sea,
Ah! it is not so beauteous
As that paddle blade to me.

TULCO, PRINCE OF NOTTO.

Tulco, a Cherokee chief, is said to have visited, in 1838, the rotunda, or excavations, under the great mound of Grave Creek, while the Indian antiquities were collected there, and the skeleton found in the lower vault was suspended to the wall, and the exudations of animal matter depended from the roof.

'Tis not enough that hated race Should hunt us out from grove and place, And consecrated shores, where long Our fathers raised the lance and song-- 'Tis not enough that we must go Where unknown streams and fountains flow, Whose murmurs heard amid our fears, Fall only now on foeman's ears-- 'Tis not enough, that with a wand They sweep away our pleasant land, And bid us, as some giant foe, Or willing or unwilling go; But they must ope our very graves, To tell the dead they too are slaves! And hang their bones upon the wall, To please their gaze and gust of thrall; As if a dead dog from below Were made a jesting-stock and show!

See, from above! the restless dead Peer out, with exudation dread-- That hangs in robes of clammy white, Like clouds upon the inky night; Their very ghosts are in this place, I see them pass before my face; With frowning brows they whirl around Within this consecrated mound! Away--away, vile caitiff race, And give the dead their resting-place.

They point--they cry--they bid me smite The Wa-bish-kiz-zee[118] in their sight! Did Europe come to crush us dead, Because on flying deer we fed, And worshipped gods of airy forms, Who ride in thunder-clouds, the storms? Because we use not plough or loom, Is ours a black and bitter doom That has no light--no world of bliss?-- Then is our hell commenced in this.

[118] White men.

* * * *

Nay, it is well--but tell me not The white race now possess the spot, That fury marks my brow, and all I see is but my fancy's pall That glooms my eyes--ah, white man, no! The woe we taste is solid woe. Comes then the thought of better things, When we were men, and we were kings. Men are we now, and still there rolls A monarch's blood in all our souls! A warrior's fire is in our hearts, Our hands are strong in feathery darts; And let us die as they have died Who are the Indian's boast and pride! Nor creep to graves, in flying west, Unplumed, dishonored, and unblest!

ON PRESENTING A WILD ROSE

PLUCKED ON THE SOURCES OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

Take thou the rose, though blighted,
Its sweetness is not gone,
And like the heart, though slighted,
In memory it blooms on.

Thy hand its leaves may nourish,
Thy smiles its bloom restore;
So warmed its buds may flourish,
And bloom to life once more.

Yet if they bloom not ever,
These thoughts may life impart
To hopes I ne'er could sever
One moment from my heart.

Oh, then, receive my token,
From far-off northern sky,
That speech, once kindly spoken,
Can never--never die.

THE RED MAN.

I stood upon an eminence, that wide O'erlooked a length of land, where spread The sounding shores of Lake Superior; And at my side there lay a vale Replete with little glens, where oft The Indian wigwam rose, and little fields Of waving corn displayed their tasselled heads. A stream ran through the vale, and on its marge There grew wild rice, and bending alders dipped Into the tide, and on the rising heights The ever-verdant pine laughed in the breeze.

I turned around, to gaze upon the scenes More perfectly, and there beheld a man Tall and erect, with feathers on his head, And air and step majestic; in his hands Held he a bow and arrows, and he would have passed, Intent on other scene, but that I spake to him: "Pray, whither comest thou? and whither goest?" "My coming," he replied, "is from the Master of Life, The Lord of all things, and I go at his commands."

"Then why," I further parleyed, "since thou art So much the friend of Him, whom white men seek By prayer and rite so fervently to obey--why, tell, Art thou so oft in want of e'en a meal To satisfy the cravings of a man? Why cast abroad To live in wilds, where oft the scantiest shapes Of foot and wing must fill thy board, while pallid hunger strays With hideous shouts, by mountain, vale, and stream?"

"The Great Spirit," he replied, "hath not alike Made all men; or, if once alike, the force of climes, And wants and wanderings have estranged them quite. To me, and to my kind, forest, and lake, and wood, The rising mountain, and the drawn-out stream That sweeps, meandering, through wild ranges vast, Possess a charm no marble halls can give. We rove, as winds escaped the Master's fists-- Now, sweeping over beds of prairie flowers-- Now, dallying on the tops of leafy trees, Or murmuring in the corn-fields, and, when tired With roving, we lie down on beds where springs The simple wild flower, and some shreds of bark, Plucked from the white, white birch, defends our heads, And hides us from the blue ethereal skies, Where, in his sovereign majesty, this Spirit rules; Now, casting lightning from his glowing eyes-- Now, uttering thunder with his mighty voice.

"To you, engendered in another clime Of which our fathers knew not, he hath given Arts, arms, and skill we know not, or if ever knew, Have quite forgot. Your hands are thickened up With toils of field and shop, where whirring wheels resound, And hammers clink. The anvil and the plough Belong to you; the very ox construes your speech, And turns him to obey you. All this toil We deem a slavery too heavy to be borne, And which our tribes revolt at. Oft we stand To view the reeking smith, who pounds his iron With blow on blow, to fit it for the beast That drags your ploughshares through the rooty soil. The very streams--bright ribbons of the woods!--are yoked, And made to turn your mills, and grind your corn; And yet this progress stays not in its toils To alter nature and pervert her plans. Steam drags your vessels now, that once Leapt in their beauty by the winds of heaven. Some subtle principle ye find in fire, And with a cunning art fit rattling cars To run on strips of iron, with scream and clang That seem symbolic of an angry power Which dwells below, and is infernal called. The war-crowned lightning skips from pole to pole On strings of iron, to haste with quick intelligence.

"Once, nature could be hid, and fondly think She had some jewels in the earth, but now ye dig Into her very bowels, to recover morsels sweet She erst with deglutition had drawn in. The rocks Your toils dissolve, to find perchance some treasure Lying there. Is yonder land of gold alone Your care? Observe along these shores The wheezing engine clank--the stamper ring. Once, hawks and eagles here pursued their prey, But now the white man ravens more than they. No! give me but my water and God's meats, And take your cares, your riches, and your thrones. What the Great Spirit gives, I take with joy, And scorn those gains which nothing can content.

"Drudge ye, and grind ye, white man! make your pence, And store your purses with the shining poison. It was not Manito who made this trash To curse the human race, but Vatipa the black, Who rules below--he changed the blood of innocence And tears of pity into gold, and strewed it wide O'er lands where still the murderer digs And the deceptious delve, to find the cockle out And pick it up, but laughs the while to see What fools they are, and how himself has foiled The Spirit of Good, that made mankind Erst friends and brothers. Scanty is my food, But that sweet bird, chileelee, blue of wing, Sings songs of peace within the wild-wood dell And round the enchanted shores of these blue seas-- Not long, perhaps, our own--which tell me of a rest In far-off lands--the islands of the blest!"

THE SKELETON WRAPPED IN GOLD.

In digging, in 1854, a railroad in Chili, seventy feet below the surface, in a sandy plain, which had been an ancient graveyard, an Indian skeleton, wrapped in a sheet of solid gold, rolled into the excavation. Its appearance denoted an ancient Inca, of the Atacama period.

The Indian laid in his shroud of gold,
Where his friends had kindly bound him;
For, in their raid so strong and bold,
The Spaniards had never found him.

Kind guardian spirits had watched him there,
From ages long--long faded,
Embalmed with gems and spices rare,
And in folds of sweet grass braided.

And priestly rites were duly done,
And hymns upraised to bless him,
And that gold mantle of the sun,
Put on, as a monarch to dress him.

"Sleep on," they said, in whispers low,
"Nor fear the white man's coming,
For we have put no _glyph_ to show,
The spot of thy entombing.

"Inca, thy warfare here is done,
Each bitter scene or tender,
Go to thy sire, the shining Sun,
In kingly garb and splendor.

"Earth hath no honors thou hast not,
Brave, wise, in every station,
Or battle, temple, council, cot,
Beloved of all thy nation.

"Take thou this wand of magic might,
With signet-jewels glowing,
As heralds to the God of Light,
Where, father, thou art going.

"A thousand years the charm shall last,
The charm of thy ensealment,
Till there shall come a spirit vast,
To trouble thy concealment."

And safe he slept in Tlalcol's[119] train,
With all his genii by him,
Through Atacama's pleasing reign,
Ere Manco came a-nigh him.

[119] Tlalcol, the keeper of the dead, corresponds to the
Chebiabo of the Algonquins.

_That_ golden reign spread arts anew,
O'er all his Andes mountains,
And temples that his sires ne'er knew,
Arose beside their fountains.

Pizarro's bloody day flew past,
Nor shook his place of sleeping,
Though, as with earthquakes, deep and vast,
The land with ruins heaping.

Nor had the cherished ruler more,
Broke the deep trance from under,
But that a stronger, sterner power,
Arose the charm to sunder.

No gentle genii more could wield,
The wand of his dominion;
No power of Indian guardian yield,
Or wave her golden pinion.

It was the spirit of _progress_ fell,
And trade, and gain united,
Who swore an oath, and kept it well,
That Tlalcol's blessing blighted.

Deep dug they down in Chili's hills,
Deep--deeper laid their levels,
To drive those cars, whose screaming fills
The ear, with sounds like devils.

And as they dug, they sang and dug,
As digging for a treasure,
That should, like dire Arabic drug,
Rise, with unmeasured measure.

Old Indian arts, and Indian spells,
And all their subtle seeming,
Passed quick away--as truth expels,
The palsied power in dreaming.

Down rolled the cherished Indian corse,
The sands no more could hold him,
Nor rite--nor genii--art or force,
Nor golden shroud enfold him.

WAUB OJEEG'S DEATH WHISPERINGS.

I go to the land where our heroes are gone, are gone, That land where our sages are gone; And I go with bright tone, to join hearts who are one, That drew the bold dart at my side, at my side, That drew the bold dart at my side.

Those lands in the bright beamy west, the west, Those lands in the bright beamy west, As our fathers foretold, are the plenty crowned fold, Where the world-weary warrior may rest, may rest, Where the war-honored hero may rest.

My life has been given to war, to war, My strength has been offered to war, And the foes of my land, ne'er before me could stand, But fled as base cowards in fear, in fear, They fled like base cowards in fear.

My warfare in life it is done, it is done, My warfare, my friends, it is done; I go to that Spirit, whose form in the sky, So oft we have seen in the cloud-garnished sun, So oft in dread lightning espy.

My friends, when my spirit is fled, is fled, My friends, when my spirit is fled, Ah, put me not bound, in the dark and cold ground, Where light shall no longer be shed, be shed, Where daylight no more shall be shed.

But lay me up scaffolded high, all high, Chiefs, lay me up scaffolded high, Where my tribe shall still say, as they point to my clay, He ne'er from the foe sought to fly, to fly, He ne'er from the foe sought to fly.

And children, who play on the shore, the shore, And children who play on the shore, As the war-dance they beat, my name shall repeat, And the fate of their chieftain deplore, deplore, And the fate of their chieftain deplore.

TO THE MISCODEED.[120]

Thy petals, tipped with red, declare The sanguinary rites of war; But when I view thy base of white, Thoughts of heaven's purity invite. Symbols at once that hearts like thee Contain _two_ powers, in which we see A passion strong to war inclined, And a soft, pure, and tender mind.

Earliest of buds when snows decay From these wild northern fields away, Thou comest as a herald dear, To tell us that the spring is near; And shall with sweets and flowers relume Our hearts, for all the winter's gloom. Soon the opeechee[121] comes to sing The pleasures of an early spring; Soon shall the swelling water's roar Tell us that winter is no more; The water-fowl set up their cry, Or hasten to more northern sky; And on the sandy shore shall stray, The plover, the _twee-tweesh-ke-way_. Soon shall the budding trees expand, And genial skies pervade the land; The little garden hoes shall peck, And female hands the moss beds deck; The apple-tree refresh our sight, With its fair blows of pink and white; The cherry bloom, the strawberry run, And joy fill all the new Seegwun.[122]

[120] Spring beauty, C. Virg.

[121] Robin.

[122] Spring.

THE STAR FAMILY.

Waupee found a deep-trod circle
In the boundless prairie wide;
In the grassy sea of prairies,
Without trace of path beside.

To or fro, there was no token
Man had ever trod the plain;
And he gazed upon the wonder,
Gazed the wonder to explain.

I will watch the place, quoth Waupee,
And conceal myself awhile;
This strange mystery to unravel,
This new thing to reconcile.

Tracks I know of deer and bison,
Tracks of panther, lynx, or hind,
Beasts and birds of every nature,
But this beaten ring is blind.

Do the spirits here assemble,
War-dance light to trip and sing?
Gather Medas of the prairie,
Here their magic charm to fling?

Waupee crept beneath the hushes,
Near the wondrous magic ring;
Close beneath the shrubs and grasses,
To behold so rare a thing.

Soon he heard, high in the heavens,
Issuing from the feathery clouds--
Sounds of music, quick descending,
As if angels came in crowds.

Louder, sweeter, was the music,
Every moment that he stayed;
Till a basket, with twelve sisters,
Was with all its charms displayed.

Down they came, in air suspended,
As if by thin silver cords;
And within the circle landed,
Gay and bright as beauteous birds.

Out they leaped with nimble gestures,
Dancing softly round and round;
Each a ball of silver chiming,
With the most enchanting sound.

Beauteous were they all--but one so
More than all the other eleven,
Youngest she, he sighed to clasp her
To his ardent, glowing breast.

Up he rose from his concealment,
From his flower-encircled bed;
But, as quick-eyed birds, they spied him,
Stepped into the car and fled.

Fled into the starry heavens,
While with open ear he stood,
Drinking the receding music,
As it left his solitude.

Now, indeed, was he a stranger,
And a fugitive alone;
For the peace that once he cherished,
With the heavenly car had flown.

Touched his heart was by love's fervors,
He no longer wished to rove;
Lost the charm of war and hunting,
Waupee was transfixed by love.

Ah! 'tis love that wins the savage
From his wanderings, and can teach,
Where the truth could never touch him,
Where the gospel could not reach.

Long he mourned--and lingering, waited
Round the charmed celestial ring;
Day by day he lingered, hoping
Once to hear those angels sing.

To deceive, the quick eyes glancing,
An opossum's form he tries;
And crouched low, beside the circle,
Stooped, that he might win the prize.

Soon the sounds he heard descending,
Soon they leaped within the ring;
Joining hand in hand in dancing,
Round and round--sweet revelling.

Up he rose, quick disenchanted,
Rose and clasped his female star,
While, as lightning, quick the eleven
Leaped, and rose within their car.

Home he took her to his wigwam,
Sought each varied way to please;
Gave her flowers and rarest presents,
All to yield her joy and ease.

And a beauteous son rewarded
Love so constant, true, and mild;
Who renewed in every feature,
Nature's lonely forest child.

But, as thoughts of youth will linger
Long within the heart's fond core;
So she nursed the pleasing passion,
Her star-home to see once more--

Made an ark of wicker branches,
All by secret arts and care;
Sought the circle with her earth-boy,
Fleeing to her Father star.

There, at length, the boy grew weary,
Weary e'en of heavenly spheres,
Longing for earth's cares and pleasures,
Hunting, feasting, joys, and tears.

"Call thy husband," quoth the star chief,
"Take the magic car and go;
But bring with thee some fit emblems,
Of the sounding chase below.

"Claw, or wing, or toe, or feathers,
Scalp of bird or beast to tell;
What he follows in the wood-chase,
Arts the hunter knows so well."

Waupee searched the deepest forests,
Prairies vast, or valleys low;
All to find out the rarest species,
That he might the star-world show.

Then he sought the ring of magic,
With his forest stores so rare;
And within the starry basket,
Rose with all his emblems fair.

Joys of greeting--joys of seeing--
Hand to hand, and eye to eye;
These o'ercrowned with smiles and laughing,
This lodge-meeting in the sky.

Then a glorious feast was ordered,
To receive the forest guest;
While the sweet reunion lighted,
Joy in every beating breast.

Broad the feasting board was covered,
The high starry group to bind;
When the star chief rose to utter
His congratulations kind.

"List, my guests--the Spirit wills it,
Earth to earth, and sky to sky;
Choose ye each a claw or pinion,
Such as ye may wish to try."

Wondrous change! by arts' transformance,
At the typic heavenly feast;
Each who chose a wing a bird was,
Each who chose a claw, a beast.

Off they ran on plains of silver,
Squirrel, rabbit, elk, or deer;
White Hawk chose a wing, descending
Down again to forests here,

Where the Waupees are still noted
For their high essays of wing;
And their noble deeds of bravery,
In the forest, mount, and ring.

SONG OP THE WOLF-BROTHER.

Nësia, my elder brother,
Bones have been my forest meal,
Shared with wolves the long, long winter,
And their nature now I feel.

Nësia, my elder brother,
Now my fate is near its close;
Soon my state shall cease to press me,
Soon shall cease my day of woes.

Left by friends I loved the dearest,
All who knew and loved me most;
Woes the darkest and severest,
Bide me on this barren coast.

Pity! ah, that manly feeling,
Fled from hearts where once it grew,
Now in wolfish forms revealing,
Glows more warmly than in you.

Stony hearts! that saw me languish,
Deaf to all a father said,
Deaf to all a mother's anguish,
All a brother's feelings fled.

Ah, ye wolves, in all your ranging,
I have found you kind and true;
More than man--and now I'm changing,
And will soon be one of you.

Lodge of kindred once respected,
Now my heart abhors your plan;
Hated, shunned, disowned, neglected,
Wolves are truer far than man.

And like them, I'll be a rover,
With an honesty of bite
That feigns not to be a lover,
When the heart o'erflows with spite.

Go, ye traitors, to my lodge-fire;
Go, ye serpents, swift to flee,
War with kinds that have your natures,
I am disenthrall'd and free.

ABBINOCHI.

A MOTHER'S CHANT TO HER SICK INFANT.

Abbinochi,[123] baby dear, Leave me not--ah, leave me not; I have nursed with love sincere, Nursed thee in my forest cot-- Tied thee in thy cradle trim Kind adjusting every limb; With the fairest beads and bands Deck'd thy cradle with my hands, And with sweetest corn panäd From my little kettle fed, Oft with miscodeed[124] roots shred, Fed thee in thy baby bed.

Abbinochi, droop not so, Leave me not--away to go To strange lands--thy little feet Are not grown the path to greet Or find out, with none to show Where the flowers of grave-land grow. Stay, my dear one, stay till grown, I will lead thee to that zone Where the stars like silver shine, And the scenes are all divine, And the happy, happy stray, And, like Abbinochi, play.

[123] A child.

[124] Claytonia Virginica.

TO PAUGUK.

(This is the impersonation of death in Indian mythology. He is represented with a bow and arrows.)

Pauguk! 'tis a scene of woe, This world of troubles; let me go Arm'd to show forth the Master's will, Strike on thy purpose to fulfil. I fear not death--my only fear Is ills and woes that press me here. Want stares me in the face, or woe, Where'er I dwell--where'er I go; Fishing and hunting only give The pinching means to let me live; And if, at night, I lay me down, In dreams and sleep my rest to crown, Ere day awakes its slumbering eyes, I start to hear the foe's mad cries, Louder and louder, as I clutch My club, or lance, or bow and dart, And, springing with a panther's touch, Display the red man's bloody art.

Nay, I am sick of life and blood, That drowns my country like a flood, Pouring o'er hill, and vale, and lea, Lodge, ville, and council, like a sea, Where one must gasp and gasp for breath To live--and stay the power of death. Ah! life's good things are all too poor, Its daily hardships to endure. My fathers told me, there's a land Where peace and joy abound in hand, And plenty smiles, and sweetest scenes Expand in lakes, and groves, and greens. No pain or hunger there is known, And pleasure reigns throughout alone-- I would go there, and taste and see A life so beauteous, bless'd and free, Where man has no more power to kill, And the Great Spirit all things fills. Blanch not, Pauguk, I have no fear, And would not longer linger here; But bend thy bow and aim thy dart, Behold an honest hunter's heart: Thereby a dart, a boon may give, A happy life on high to live.

'Tis all the same, in countries here, Or where Pacific billows roar, We roved in want, and woe and fear Along the Mississippi shore. And where Missouri's waters rush, To tell to man that God is strong, We shrank as from a tiger's touch, To hear the white man's shout or song. O not for us is peace and joy Arising from the race that spread, Their purpose only's to destroy-- Our only peace is with the dead. Think not my heart is pale with fear, But strike, Pauguk--strike boldly here.