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NOT A MAN,
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YET A MAN:
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YET A MAN::
Table of Contents
- Dedication.
[3]
- Preface.
[5]
- Prologue.
[11]
- The Movers.
[17]
- Saville.
19
- The Old Sac Village.
37
- Pashepaho's Speech to the Young Men.
45
- Nanawawa's Suitors.
49
- Nanawawa's Lakelet.
57
- Death of Pashepaho.
60
- Saville in Trouble.
63
- The Fair Captive.
85
- Fort Dearborn.
100
- In the House of the Aylors.
113
- Flight of Leeona.
152
- The Runaway.
170
- Sussex Vale, Canada.
188
- The Little Green Cottage.
190
- One Snowy Night.
197
- The End of the Whole Matter.
201
- Peace.
[216]
- Hymn to the Nation.
218
- The Lute of Afric's Tribe.
221
- To the Student.
223
- Custar's Last Ride.
225
- Sonnet.—the Montenegrin.
227
- Solon Stiles. Humorous.
228
- The Thunder Storm.
233
- To Baby's Canary, Accidentally Killed.
234
- The Deserted Road.
235
- Old Abe, the War Eagle of Wisconsin.
238
- Prosperity and Adversity.
239
- A Dream of Glory.
240
- Morton.
241
- Ye Bards of England.
250
- The Great Strike.
252
- The Tramp's Soliloquy.
254
- A Hint.
254
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
DEDICATION.
TO THOSE WHO LOVED THE NEGRO →
IN MANKIND,
AND PITIED HIM,
AND STOOPED TO HELP HIM IN HIS LOW ESTATE,
ASSAILED BY FIERCE OPINIONS,
AND TOLD HIS GRIEVANCES IN THE EAR OF GOD,
UNTIL HE HEARD THEM,
AND SHOOK PROUD SLAVERY ON HIS LAP OF STORM,
AND SHOOK THE FETTERS FROM THE BONDMAN'S HEART.
TO THOSE,
WHO SAFE NOW IN THE CITADEL OF RIGHT,
THEIR CONQUESTS HEARING ON THE TONGUE OF TIME,
THEIR TRIUMPHS READING IN YOUNG FREEDOM'S EYES,
AND LOOKING FORWARD,
THE FULL FRUITION OF THEIR BRIGHT HOPES SEE,
THE NATIONS OF ALL EARTH FOREVER FREE.
TO THOSE,
THE ABOLITION FATHERS—
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
BY THE
AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
I was born in the Green River Country, Hart County, Kentucky, May 30th, 1851. I was a slave until the Emancipation. My parents left me and went to the Good Land when I was yet a boy. My chances for an education have not been good. In that matter, however, I have done what I could. I have labored with my hands, taught school, and preached a RISEN, present Savior—not a bad lot after all. I am now an Elder in the African Methodist Episcopal Church, the stationed pastor at Springfield, Ohio, and General Financial Agent of Wilberforce University. With this brief account of myself, I pass to notice the Institution in whose interest I have written, and whose permanent endowment I hope to secure.
Wilberforce University is situated three and one-half miles North-East of Xenia, Greene County, Ohio; surrounded by beautiful farms, and from the West, looked down upon by a group of heavily wooded hills. It is one of the most desirable College sites in Ohio. The locality is eminently healthy. A
considerable creek, winding around the grounds to the Southward, drains the neighboring fields, and gives the whole surrounding an admirably neat aspect. A number of fine springs break out in the deep ravines around the College, bubbling and laughing, with lucid health sparkling in their faces. The campus is laid out on a beautiful plateau, lying South-East of the University, and covered by a splendid grove with here and there a neat cottage among the trees.THE BUILDING.
The University Building is of substantial brick and slate roofed. The rooms are large and airy. The accommodations good. Probable value of buildings and grounds, (52 acres), sixty-five thousand dollars [$65,000.00]. No incumbrances.
MISSION.
The school, though under the auspices of the A. M. E. Church, is STRICTLY NON-SECTARIAN in its pretensions, and has, as its general mission, the imparting of CHRISTIAN EDUCATION to the colored race. The special mission of the Normal and Scientific Departments is the preparation of Christian Teachers for Southern fields of labor. The Theological Department has, as its special work, the training of efficient
preachers, to carry an enlightened Gospel among the freedmen.The great and good founder of the institution, Bishop D. A. Payne, D. D., has lived to see much of the fruits of his labor in the last-named department. Bishop Payne came to the Presidency of the University when in its trembling infancy, and for fifteen years holding up the motto, "LIKE PRIEST, LIKE PEOPLE," he cried in the ears of the churches: "Give us educated preachers for the freedmen," until many big hearted and good young men rose up and followed him. His successor, the Rev. Benjamin F. Lee, B. D., one of his students, shows that he lacks nothing of his master's spirit, efficient in training, strong in intellect, replete in goodness and supported by a Faculty who share his rare qualities; he goes right to work with a VIM that means inspiration.
THE OBJECT OF THIS PUBLICATION.
My object in placing these verses before an intelligent people is, First, to carry to their minds the purpose of the founders of Wilberforce. That purpose, as stated in the last Catalogue of the Institution, is "An aim to inspire and increase in the pupil self-respect, self-control and self-development."
Now may I not hope that, however imperfect or faulty these lines may be, they will, in some measure,
show "self-development." And this is the very thing most needed among the poor colored young men of our country; and hence, an EMPHASIS of the claims of Wilberforce upon those who are interested in the welfare of the freedman. Very few of the colored students of our land, there are, who can depend upon their parents for efficient aid in going to school. Too many, alas, like the author, have NO parents, NO aid. How wise then the encouragement of an educational system of "self-development." With the motto, "ECONOMY, THRIFT, MANHOOD," the humble, poor young man, finds his way out of obscurity into usefulness.The founders of Wilberforce, knowing best the needs of the classes among which she was destined to operate, knew best how to supply them; and in this arrangement they have been happy. The poor young man, without preparatory training, coming to Wilberforce, soon learns to study out problems for himself, and hence, to THINK for himself. He learns that if he cannot excel, he CAN do something else—he can do WHAT he can—he can try—he can dare to fail. He soon learns the difference between a successful DO-NOTHING, and an honorable failure. If such a young man leaves Wilberforce between terms, to gather means for his support, MARK YOU, he will return,
and not only that, he will bring up his studies with him.The production of NOT A MAN, AND YET A MAN, whatever it is, is owing to that spirit of "self-development" which Wilberforce inspires.
Secondly, my object in publishing is, to introduce myself to the people. Those who read will feel acquainted with me. Some may think well of me, and even INVITE me to talk with them about our Wilberforce. There is nothing like being kindly thought of by a people before you go among them. Certainly none will despise the effort.
And now, dear public, NOT A MAN, AND YET A MAN, comes to your doors, let him in! As to his merits, let readers judge.
Our canvassers get ONLY such part of the sales as will help them honestly to live. Purchase, therefore, remembering that your mite goes to the aid of a noble cause, and, if any one, after having read, feel to give of his earthly goods more largely, let him send such donations to the author at Springfield, Ohio.
Letters of comment on the merits of this work, and also of encouragement for Wilberforce, are SINCERELY solicited of the reader, by
THE AUTHOR.
PROLOGUE.
The shepherd-king of Judah's olden days,
Waked his sweet harp to sing Jehovah's praise,
Then this his theme was in his happy hour:
"Captivity hath lost her horn of power.
The mighty Arm hath broke oppression's staff,
And drives the spoiler's hosts, as wind drives
chaff,
And moves his kingdoms as the thistle down,
By wanton whirlwinds here and there is
blown!"
How panting thousands of his faithful tribe,
Drank this sweet strain, no mortal can describe.
Young freedom then first raised his voice sublime,
And spoke his triumphs in the ear of Time.
The soldier sang it on his tented hill,
The maiden at her toilsome slow hand-mill;
The shepherd piped it where he sauntered 'mong
His bleating folds, and desert paths along;
And morn and eventide, the Temple's choir
Poured forth the strain, by matron joined and sire.
The wilderness and solitary waste,
With gladsome music woke, and joyous haste;
Engedi's palmy hills their voices gave,
And echo answered from the prophet's cave;—
"Ye seed of Jacob sound the jubilee,
The Lord hath triumphed and His hosts are free.
Spread thro' the heathen's land the joyous news,
The Mighty God's the refuge of the Jews!
Our shield and strength, our everlasting Sun,
And who shall gainsay what His hand hath done?"
Their sister nations heard the swelling strain,
And ages answered ages back again,
Till yet along the march of centuries
The idea of God and Freedom flies.
Sweet strain! How rapture in it yet is heard
Wherever righteousness her horn hath reared!
Remoteness lends a sweetness to the sound
By changes undisturbed, by lore not bound.
It lives while empires sink and pass away,
Wisdoms go out, and languages decay.
High o'er the heights of tall ambitions gaze,
Beyond proud emulation's wildest maze,
And Freedom there hath set her glorious stars,
Eternal more than Jupiter or Mars.
Her Washington rides first upon our sky,
Lending his brilliance to the thousands nigh.
Next Lincoln, whom a grateful nation mourns,
Shoots blazing from the age which he adorns.
Sinks on the eve of dreadful war's alarms,
But sinks with a saved nation in his arms!
And Old John Brown of Harper's Ferry fame,
Peace to his shade, and honor to his name,
Looms on life's deep, a melancholy light;
The comet of his age, ominous, lone,
And saddest that on earth has ever shone.
But peerless champion of Equal Rights,
Great Sumner STANDS, like those majestic hights
That guard New England shores from Ocean's shocks,
With lifted arms of everlasting rocks;
And with the strength of ages in their locks.
'Twas he who, on his bosom, bore a race,
And met their proud oppressor face to face;
Rose like some Ajax, in his ponderous strength,
And drove his lance, with all its trenchant length,
Full on the brazen disk of slav'ry's shield,
Until the monster wrong, beneath it reeled.
And when the smoke of war had cleared away,
And in the nation's sky there broke new day;
'Twas he, who, mailed in all the might of lore,
The valiant friends of mankind went before,
To wipe the blots of caste from freedom's code,
And all its axioms of wrong explode;
Lift equal justice up, exalt her laws,
And in her temple plead the black man's
cause.
Let love lorn bards illuminate their lays,
With moonlight soft, and sing some Juno's praise;
Or whine with cadence sweet, and sickly sweet,
Their few torn hopes at some Diana's feet;
Let school-house heroes rave around the walls,
Where patriotism rises, treason falls,
Sing loud heroics of a glorious strand,
A freedom's eagle, and a white man's land;
Let fools pass by and wag their empty heads,
Deride the sons of Slavery's humble sheds,
And statesmen prate of law and precedence,
My pen appeals to right and common sense.
The black man has a cause, deny who dares,
And him to vindicate my muse prepares.
A part of this great nation's hist'ry, he
Has made in valor and fidelity.
His sweat has poured to swell our ample stores,
His blood run freely to defend our shores;
And prayers ascended to the Lord of all,
To save the nation from a direful fall.
Who has not felt in childhood's heart the thrill
Of bloody Georgetown and of Bunker's Hill?
Who has not heard the drums of freedom swell,
When Putnam triumphed and when Warren fell?
Proud were our sires, Ticonderoga's boast,
Fearless defenders of Atlantic's coast.
When from fair freedom's terraced hights, we turn
A backward gaze, our grateful bosoms burn,
To see those heroes with red battle clenched,
Till in brave blood their humble fields are
drenched.
With Valley Forge's snowy locks to see
The desp'rate fingers of young liberty,
Grappling, and see his valiant misery;
And then o'er Delaware's rough wint'ry stream,
To see a thousand loyal muskets gleam
In night's cold face; and hear the strong brave
oars
That meet the hurrying ice between the shores!
And can we then forget that patriots, black,
Marched with white brothers to the dread
attack?
And when in these late years, the war fiend came,
On tempest horsed, and waved a sword of flame,
When giant treason shook his locks of gore,
And from the East to West the Union tore;
When our free institutions shook and reeled,
Hope turned her eyes towards the battle-field;
And loyal hearts that ne'er before had quaked,
Then quaked, and all their hoarded riches staked.
A nation's hands were then imploring raised,
While freedom's arch with bolts of ruin blazed.
Where then the prowess of a century,
The loud boast of white-handed chivalry?
Where, when in triumph wild, the Southern hordes
Unbent their strength, and drew their fearless
swords?
Ah! well, we prayed, and God in his own time,
His sable answer sent on Dixie's clime.
And loud as thunder on the world's ear broke
His shouts of ONWARD! To the front he went,
And in the smoke and din of battle blent,
With brothers white, where color nothing meant.
And there, till our victorious banner swept
Once more the hights of freedom, and we wept
For joy, he stood beneath our starlit dome,
Until a grateful UNION called him home.
Now let the nation fling him from her arms,
Forget the part he bore, when war's alarms
Were rumbling hoarsely in her troubled ear,
And direful overthrow was plainly near;
Forget the hands that caught her falling stars,
And tore loud triumph from the flaunting bars
Of treason; yea, despise the sable race,
And music then will breathe the name with
praise!
NOT A MAN, AND YET A MAN.
THE MOVERS.
'Twas in the long ago,
'Twas in the age of woods
Of Young America,
That moving, rattling, slow
Towards the Western plain,
A single settler's train,
Drawn on by oxen teams,
Was seen, as when in dreams,
Strange sights and solitudes,
Upon our vision play.
The tall forests swim in a crimson sea,
Out of whose bright depths rising silently,
Great golden spires shoot into the skies,
Among the isles of cloud-land high, that rise,
Float, scatter, burst, drift off, and slowly fade,
Deep in the twilight, shade succeeding shade.
And by yon leaning rocks beneath the hill
Whose sloping base, a peaceful streamlet laves,
With fitful joyance bubbling in its waves,
The train guard pausing, winds his signal shrill.
Long roll the echoes, and the patient train,
In order halt along the silent plain.
From under wagon covers eight or nine,
Two anxious rows of female faces shine,
And whispers buzz from lips to lips around:
"That's Rodney's horn!" "Is this the camping
ground?"
Loud low the oxen, leaning in their gear,
Replying heifers low along the rear;
And ere the seated driver drops his threads,
Come leaping on and toss their hornless heads.
Mark how enjoyment this wild scene pervades,
How ruddy maidens vie with ruddy maids;
These gathering fagots from yon lofty wood;
They ranging vessels and preparing food;
While seated round, their lordly umpires rest
On upturned stones, and view them doubly
blest,
Such were the scenes the early travelers met,
When they towards the West their faces set.
Then, movers all their earthly ware would load,
And drive a whole great farm of stock upon the
road.
Moving was moving then. The house cat e'en,
High in her sleepy reign was onward seen,
Riding, among utensils old and rare,
And roost and all, the ancient cock was there;
And thro' the silent forest blew his horn,
By day occasional, but always night and
morn.
SAVILLE.
Fair Saville! earliest village of the wood,
To break the reign of ancient solitude,
Where erst the dusky tennants of the shade,
Along the Mississippi's waters strayed;
Thou once did flourish on the lap of fame,
When to thy rude abodes adventure's wand'ring footsteps
came.
I turn with reverential step and slow,
To trace the scenes my recollections know.
Where now thy cliffs bleak winter's wiles oppose,
When through the screeching air his blasts he
throws,
There warring totems once prolonged their stay,
And then e'en with reluctance went their way.
And where yon blossomed fields, and orchards
green,
Fresh meadows, and contented flocks are seen,
There erst the Indian reared his wigwam rude,
Deep in the wide forest's pathless
solitude.
Dear to me yet, and every day more dear,
Familiar sounds revive upon my ear;
Familiar scenes come to me o'er the past,
And I, recoiling from the Future vast,
Revisit in my dreams and solitude,
The pleasant places of thy borders rude.
Thus, when from tempest-brooding heav'ns I fly;
When life's meridian's in a pensive sky,
Back to the charms of other days I come,
And seem a traveler returning home.
Then cumbrous backwoods life wide o'er the vale,
Heard a responsive tongue in every gale.
Loud baying hounds pressed hard the fleety deer,
Replying horns pursued along the rear,
Wild song attuned the breezy throat of morn;
The plowman whistled to his growing corn,
And lads with hoes, garrulous as they went,
Close on his heels their nimble footsteps bent.
And there was heard from morn till evening late
The various accents of a happy state,
The waste echoing to the axe remote,
The anvil groaning as the blacksmith smote,
The plashy labors of the slumb'rous mill,
The brook reposing as the wheel stood still;
Loud shouts arising childhood's sports among,
And matrons scolding as their flax wheels
sung.
And often gathered when the joyous Spring,
Had livened Winter's latest lingering,
When all the voiceless wastes of recent gloom
Awoke to song and warbled into bloom;
Beneath the spreading shades that arch yon green
In happy groups the village train were seen.
Near where yon footpath climbs behind the town,
And straggles off into a hazel down,
Their wonted sports through shining hours would
stray,
Till time unnoticed brought the close of day;
And silent wheeling, scarce above the fence,
The crooked bat did aimless flights commence;
Slow-toned the cow-bell, and sad whippoorwill
Mourned in her darkling copse behind the hill.
Then when the tasks of ev'ning all were done,
Around the blazing hearth new sports begun;
When corn was pestled for the next day's meals,
The bands were slackened on their cumb'rous wheels,
The woodsman from his labor had come home
And plowmen from their furrows wearysome;
Loud glee pursued the "blind man" round and round,
Till roaring laughter tripped him to the ground.
The "old gray witch," slow-motioned, then would
stare,
While the gay rompers felt a secret scare,—
Went crouching from her, dodged from wall to wall,
Or in the corners scrambling, tumbled all.
Thus poured the murmuring tide of childish mirth,
While sober converse leaned around the hearth,
And weighty matters in each earnest breast,
Beguiling time, prolonged the way to rest.
Oh happy times of man's innocency!
When earth was as like Heaven as could be,
When simple relish made each sport more dear,
Delayed the seasons and prolonged the
year.
Within yon rude-built pile with gables gray,
With which the wanton blasts of Winter play,
When all disconsolate they moan and fret,
The simple council of the village met.
Where mutual interests called them to consult
Life's surest course, and probable result.
Hark! yon small rusty bell shakes from its throat
A few slow sounds, the assembling hour to note.
No paid men patriotic speeches
make,
No brazen instruments their music wake,
Nor pages pass their sparkling draughts around,
And yet the weight of policies profound,
Burdens each breast, and doctrines pure and sound,
Consult a future people's
liberties,
Without the pomp of courtly vanities.
Their theme the building of a colony,
Their views as various as their interests be,
The past is traversed with a sober gaze,
Truths gathered from experience's ways,
And probabilities dexterously thrown
In Reason's scales, to balance up or down.
Suggestions follow; till each one in turn,
His neighbor's leading views succeeds to learn.
Discussion then proceeds, orderly, clear,
Each member striving simplest to appear,
And each assuming rather to be taught,
Than teach the other, e'en if teach he ought.
If different grounds their judgments mild divide,
Each yields his own to take the other's side;
Or, if one holds a point at one's expense,
He argues only in his point's defense,
And not against the others,
shows how plain
His views are to discover his friend's gain.
Thus order o'er the council all prevails,
And harshness ne'er reflection's ear assails.
So when some peaceful stream pursues its course
Down moaning falls and rapids gurgling hoarse,
Each separate object finds a tongue distinct,
But all together blend, and each in one's
extinct.
These names were chief in council: 'Squire Grimes,
A stern Lycurgus of the backwoods times,
And pious parson Deems, of honored name,
And mild Sir Maxey of lineal fame.
A man of little more than medium size
Was he, with soft brown hair and hazel eyes,
A light gray even beard, an open face,
An easy carriage, and a happy trace
Of deep reflection in his general mien,
That e'en by dull observers might be seen.
Unlike the Cæsar of a forest shed,
To daring deeds, and frontier perils bred,
So sensitive his elevated mind,
For combat and disaster too refined,
At bloody sights a horror seized his breath,
And fears swum thro' his veins at thought of
death.
And such is man, to different fortunes born;
When different schools his early life adorn,
A hero dwindles to a merest lout
When nothing calls the latent hero out.
The name of Gabriel Grimes, whene'er one spoke,
The thought of law immediately awoke.
His mien meant law, his voice
and his attire,—
In truth the very man seemed born a 'Squire.
Not tall was he but round, and fat and tan,
And twice as thick as any other man.
Reserved, yet free, incautious, yet alert,
He suffered ne'er his character a hurt
By weightless talk. When others laughed he'd
frown,
When others frowned he'd laugh, and so renown,
E'en as the jackal hunts the lion down,
Ran after him all frothy mouthed; and praise
Sounded her horn at his peculiar ways.
'Twas granted all the depths of law he knew,
For what he did know, others
ne'er saw thro'.
His strength lay not in doing mighty things,
But giving mighty inferences wings,
And thus it is with many great of earth,
Not what they are, but what we think them
worth.
But David Deems, his opposite in all,
Was pleasant, candid, unassuming, tall.
A cloud of fleecy locks hung peacefully
About his neck, according happily
With his broad look of open charity,
And ever in his careful placid face
The sweet light shone of vital inward grace,
Like dawnings of a better world—no glare
Of hot ambitions e'er ascending there,
Nor earth's polluting fires. His was no mien
Of sanctity affected, while between
His precepts and his practice, regions lay
Untraversed in his life; but as the day,
The cloudless lustre of his zealous soul
Beamed solid forth, and held in mute control,
Or stirred with song-cheer all within his reach.
He practiced how to live as well as preach,
And when he prayed, "Our debtors be forgiven,"
His soul and mind and strength conversed with
Heaven,
Denouncing sin, the rebel, trembling heard,
And breathless hung upon his lightest word;
Describing bliss, wretchedness raised her eyes,
And with his lifted hand assayed to rise,
To spurn cold earth and dwell beyond the skies.
But when with pity streaming down his cheek,
The pierced bleeding Lamb of God, so meek
He pointed to, loud sobs responsive told
What sway o'er hearts a godly man may hold.
Ah, God! for more such in these turbid days,
Who preach to save souls, not to win mere praise,
Who walk with men to lead them
out of vice,
And cause them to secure the "pearl of
price."
'Twas then fair Saville that thy just renown
Was trumpeted in all the pride of town.
For all the hunting stations far and near,
Thou wast a depot to all hunters dear.
The tide of immigration drifting e'er,
Far on thy desert shores, some pioneer;
Soon far around, in distant wilds unknown,
Rude lodges from adventurer's hands were strewn,
And Husbandry went forth with sturdy hand,
To clear the waste and dress a prosperous land.
The voice of cleavers in yon valleys wide,
Were heard from breaking morn till eventide;
Loud rang their sudden axes blow on blow,
Deep thro' the waste re-echoed from below,
Great trees came crashing with a thundering sound,
Heaved from their stumps, and groaned along the
ground.
Lo! in the mountains where yon wild cascade
Leaps thro' the sun and trembles in the shade,
Or sings in the sad ear of loneliness;
Where noteless birds come in the drowsiness
Of pulseless Summer's unremitting heat,
Where o'er the stream the forest branches meet,
Where rocks oppose the climber's sterile way—
And gorges yawn beneath in rugged gray,
High in the seat of Ancient Solitude,
The border woodsman rears his cabin rude.
Equipped with rifle, axe, and faithful dogs,
Here dwells the sovereign of a hut of logs;
By one attended of the fearless fair,
A consort in the wilds well worth his
care.
By day the husband ventures forth for food,
Far from his lodge, within some friendly wood;
At eve returning to that constant one,
Who dared to bide his coming all alone.
Then when the twilight spreads her mantle pale
O'er wood and hill, and darkens in the vale,
His axe, and ready loaded gun near by,
His watchful mastiffs snugly napping nigh,
The window latched, and stoutly barred the door,
The day's adventures are recounted o'er.
The bear is now pursued over fallen logs,
Opposed by these, and pressed by eager dogs,
The herd's seen pouring thro' the startled dell,
The fleet stag's shot and hung up where he fell.
Thus on, the current of narration flows,
Deeper and deeper wearing as it goes,
Till heavy slumber settles on their eyes;
Converse moves sluggish, thoughts slower arise,
And faint and fainter flick'ring, sink the rays,
That wander from the fagot's dying blaze,
Till embers pale surviving—nothing more,
Light them to rest to dream their chattings
o'er.
Look where yon hunters two or three or more,
The solitary wilds to westward now explore.
Thro' mountain paths, by lakes and streams they
roam,
The woods their dwelling-place, the world their
home!
In beast skins clad, dark jungles wind they thro',
With eager strides their desert way pursue,
And with wild pleasure gaze on every prospect new.
At times hopelessly lost these wandered long,
The hostile tribes of savages among.
By day their only show of safety
Their excellence in sylvan strategy.
The wild bird's song seemed as a mournful tale,
And e'en a twig's fall turned their faces pale;
And every little throat did omens bear,
That shocked their senses with a seige of fear,
Till restless hunger whetted valor keen,
And dared the perils of the dismal scene.
When thro' the darkling bosom of the dell
The footsteps of the cautious ranger fell
In measured silence on the Indian trail,
And fierce alarm was tongued by every gale;
When streamed the burning wigwam's lurid light
Against the forest walls of troubled night,
And quick-eyed dragoons threaded every pass,
O'er mountain rocks, and in the deep morass,
Then cougar-footed strategy slunk in
Before the lion tread of Discipline.
For these, fair Saville, these frontiersmen bold,
Whose praise in song or story ne'er was told,
For these, thou wast a haven where all turned,
And where for all a genial hearth e'er burned.
When fugitives to this free home of ours,
Sought liberty beneath thy Western bowers;
From shores whence bigotry, with flaming hand,
Expelled poor conscience naked from the land,
Pale wanderers flocked to thee in many a trembling
band.
From torpid Norway's habitations drear,
Where Summer smiles to soothe the frigid year
In vain, and boisterous, railing torrents moan
The bitter discord of their cheerless zone,
And wintry blasts o'er naked landscapes shriek,
While sparse fed herds migrate from peak to peak
In dismal groups, to browse the thawing slope,
Or huddle in the drowsy mountain cope;
From fair Italia's hills of evergreen,
O'er-canopied in stillest blue serene,
From fields where Summer plants her fragrant train
Beside the lucent streamlets of the plain;
From old determined Britain [ Britian ]; morose Wales—
Where life's as stately as a ship with sails—
From Scotia's genial bourne of soul and song,
Where poverty, though simple, spurns the wrong,
Where love and labor meet fraternally;
Fair land of Burns and wand'ring minstrelsy;
From Germany's wide realms of smoke and beer,
Where dreamy metaphysics sits austere;
From over-flowing, ever-bowing France,
The home of fashions, fopperies and dance;
From sacred Judah, and beyond the Nile,
And from priest-ridden Erin's suppliant isle,
Escaping bands from Famine, Tyranny
And Ignorance, fled here for liberty.
A home for empty indigence was here;
The broken spendthrift found a friendly sphere,
The hopeless suiter came in all his throes,
To sport away the burdens of his woes;
Here wealth and romance found a fit abode,
And hand-in-hand with fame and fancy strode;
Ambition, in his sanguinest career,
Found a theatre for his conquests here;
And grave philanthropy, advising stood,
Disposed to do the unborn future good;
And here apostles of the hidden life
Implored kind Heaven to hold the winds of strife,
Pronounced swift judgment on transgression's ways,
Encouraged virtue, recommended praise,
Enlivened hope, taught faith to patient be,
Cheered manly toil and lauded charity.
With strongest cords of mutual interest bound,
All hands together were employed found.
Engaged to arm against a common foe,
The strength of unity they learned to know;
And what convenience Art had them denied,
United, willing hands full
well supplied.
They reared their cabins, built their forest forts
Together, hunted, fished and held their sports.
The sick they joined to nurse with sleepless care,
To soothe the suffering, knew no pains to spare,
And when from earth the patient spirit fled,
They joined their mournful tributes to the dead.
Thus plenty flourished on the lap of ease,
And even danger's self was made to please.
Bold industry at hardships learned to smile,
Uproot vast wants and hew down woods of toil.
So when the forest matron crowned her board
With health and sustenance from her good hoard,
The unknown wanderer had a welcome there,
And indolence was e'en allowed a chair.
Lo! where yon woodsman skirts the neighboring
weald,
And nears his smoking cot behind the field.
His step aweary quickens at each pace,
And satisfaction lightens his tired face
As home he views; Home! isle in time's rough sea,
Where rests the voyager serene and free
From hollow, howling sorrows, that surround
His rock, and shake life's groaning depths
profound—
Where winds repose, in long unruffled peace,—
Dear isle! where love's bright shine doth never
cease—
And where no sooner doth the bloomy train,
Their sweetness drop, than blooms revive again.
Lo, now the evening star in grandeur still
Ascends yon upland wood and sheep cote hill,
Like some pale maiden at the trysting late,
Hard thro' the twilight peering o'er the gate;
The loud cur at the hollow nightfall bays,
And whispers flutter round the bright hearth's
blaze,
Then nearer draws the rustic to his seat,
His warming heart outstrips his hasting feet;
All day his manly arms to labor bared,
Have wrought the task, returning want prepared.
Blest be the man, who void of all pretense,
Repays in ample sweat kind Providence,
For all His goods, and great beneficence!
And blest the consort of his lusty cares,
Who seeks his pleasures and his labor shares.
Behold the pilgrim leaning at their door,
Water he begs and shelter—nothing more;
The frowning wealth of some far distant land,
Has driven him to leave with empty hand.
See how the wond'ring little ones apprise
Their busy mother with their sparkling eyes.
She to the stranger bows, extends a chair,
And chides her bright-eyed cherubs if they stare.
Hark! now the cotter's well-known steps draw near,
And patter faster as the stile they clear.
Soon in the door appears his open face,
A flock of kisses fly to his embrace;
The smaller, raised upon his manly breast,
Chirp out, and crow, and carrol at the rest.
And the kind housewife, hasty to obey
A tender conscience, happy seems as they.
Her eyes upon the hoary stranger bent,
Speak her desire, and ask her lord's consent.
All signs and looks unpleasant are repressed,
And ample supper set before their guest;
Who, having vanquished potent hunger quite,
Is kindly pressed upon to stay
all night!
Blest be the man! his hands arrest his wants,
His charity is great, but never vaunts.
He now to quiet night's embrace repairs,
And sleeps away his weariness and cares.
Sweet be the visions of his manly breast,
Nor by remorseful dreams of wealth, nor banished joys
opprest.
These were the mighty days of little things,
Ere soaring vanity had yet her wings.
Her patron wealth was then but poorly known,
For gain was satisfied with but his own.
Then aspirations of the noblest kind,
Dear humble comfort to her hights confined.
These were the good old times of simple worth,
When love and reverence met at every hearth;
When strong toil stretched beneath green plenty's
tree,
And worshipped home's best god dear Industry.
Then gaunt-armed indiscretion, pale and sore,
Groaning beneath disease's dreaded sting
Through sleepless hours, was never known. The king
Most terrible of all the hordes of bale,
Intemp'rance, did not then the peace assail
Of hopeful hearts, breathing out crime and hate,
And houseless want and hearths all desolate.
Then blushing beauty's cheek of tender hues,
Showed not excessive drink and what ensues.
Ah! fatal days of wantonness and wine,
In which now youthful wealth
assays to shine,
Deriding with the jeers of native glee,
The homespun customs of their ancestry!
Regarding lights which made our land sublime,
As smouldering embers on the hearth of time.
In wilds remote from fame's resounding horn,
Where courts were never dreamed of, kings were
born,
Or minds that might have worn star-gemmed renown,
And added lustre to a James' crown
With all the sovereign claims of Royalty,
Wisdom, valor, and sterling honesty.
The way from office then was hedged by fines,
The way to office now by party
lines.
Oh, God! for a return to simple ways,
Such as crowned Saville in her valiant days,
Ere yet the pluming warrior's barb'rous knife
Cut down the flower on the lap of life!
But, Saville, pause! for God's sake pause! I beg!
For thy fair bosom warms a viper's egg.
The hatching ruin will thy young life sting,
And pour a deadly poison thro' thy nature's spring.
Thou hold'st one slave! Of barbarisms old
An evil seed now in thy life takes hold.
Prosperity's big rain to cheer thee falls,
And plenty overhangs thy garden walls;
Soft blooming gladness in thy hedges peep,
And green delight doth at thy waysides creep,
Contentment murmurs in thy valleys low,
And health's rejoicing streams from fruitful hillsides
flow;
But Justice n'er can say, "peace be in thee,"
While one beneath thy grinding heel pants to be
free.
Ah! can'st thou hold the life of one in chains,
With eighty-five per cent. of Saxon in his veins?
Oh, Saville, look at what a crime thy nature
stains!
Thy Rodney, see, how noble he appears,
Just on the summit of his tender years!
His Summers number scarce a single score,
And yet his manly face seems marked by more.
When pity calls, his brawny arm assumes
A woman's softness, and as light becomes.
But when the right enlists him to oppose,
On whate'er grounds, whatever of her foes,
His face as gentle as a sleeping child's,
Would dare the fury of the roaring wilds;
His nerves put on their fearless strength, and
steeled
By valor stern, the knife or rifle wield.
Erect in air he stands full six-feet, three,
Broad shouldered, strong, a goodly man is he.
A lover of fair women, and as blind
To her weaknesses as Egyptian night,
A fondler with soft childhood, and as kind
To its mistakes, as if mistakes were right;
Skilled in the feats that backwoods life adorn,
Although a stranger to the backwoods born,
The shelly clamor of the Autumn trees,
Or howl of beasts, or savages alike can please.
And he a slave? Ah, Saville, can it be
That such a noble heart can not beat
free!
THE OLD SAC VILLAGE.
Ye who read in musty volumes
Pages worn of Backwoods Times,
Of the red man and the white man,
In the thrilling days of danger,
In the gall of border troubles,
In the wastes of deadly revenge,
And the ruffian hands of torture;
And of long and fierce death grapples,
With the bloody hands of combat,
On the yawning edge of famine;
Of adventure's rustling footsteps,
When the knees of stoutest valor
Smote together as they paused, where
Lynx-eyed strategy lay crouching,
On the bosom of still ambush,
Ready from his hands to let loose
A loud leash of swift cruelties;
Ye who read these musty volumes,
Till a strange sensation thrills you,
As of Indians skulking near you,
Lay aside your volume lightly,
Hear me sing of Nanawawa.
Ye who pore for weary hours,
In the deep wild nooks of legend,
In the forest-nooks of legend,
Gath'ring up these strange old relics,
For your idle thoughts to play with;
Such as wigwams rude, and war posts,
Belts of wampum, bows and arrows,
Scalping-knives, and rough stone hatchets,
Peace pipes and great council fires,
Forest senates, and wise treaties,
Forest seers and superstitions,
And inconstancy and cunning,
In the savage world of promise;
Ye who pore for weary hours
In these pathless nooks of legend,
Wake, and hear of Nanawawa.
Ye who wander long delighted,
In the distant realms of romance,
On the mountain hights of romance,
And in woody depths of romance,
Getting lost in shady windings,
Looking not to find your way out,
But a wood to wander off in,
And a nook to lose yourselves in;
With majestic trees around you,
Clasping in their arms of grandeur,
Densest depths of sleeping silence,
Clear, deep, still lakes, on whose margins
Peaceful herds feed, dreams the heron,
On whose bosoms swift and light glide
Birch canoes, arrowy darting,
Like soft shadows, smooth and soundless;
Floating thro' unbroken stillness,
Save the distant fret of oar-locks,
And the pebbly speech of bright waves;
Ye who seek these depths of romance,
Where the noon-beam parts the fore locks
Of the forest looking shyly,
Where a thousand wind-swung branches,
Wild songs pour in Solitude's ear,
And the heart of meditation
Slowly beats and warms in beating;
Pause, and hear of Nanawawa.
Ye who shut up in warm houses,
Late on sombre Winter evenings,
Lulled by pleasant roaring grate fires,
And the cozy flap of curtains,
And the chirp of vacant childhood,
And the cheery streams of gaslight
Meekly stealing, that pause, bashful,
On the plushy lap of softness;
Ye who thus shut up in houses,
Dream of early life and hardships,
Shut in humble frontier cabins,
Far out on the unknown borders;
Dream of weariness o'ercoming
The lost traveler on his journey
Overtaken by the snow-storm;
Lone at night and his path dimming,
Sinking down to sleep his death sleep;
Chilly leagues from any dwelling,
And while loneliness bewails him,
Through the drear woods shrieks the gray blast,
Shrieks the eager flying North blast,
As a hungry eagle shrieketh;
Ye who shut up thus in houses,
Dream of these fell border hardships;
Hear me sing of Nanawawa.
Ah! ye shall behold a beauty!
On the lap of an old forest,
In the wigwam of her fathers,
By the cascades of her childhood
Ye shall see a sylvan maiden,
Meek as April's first fresh rose is,
Sweet as blushing light e'er looked on,
Brilliant as a melting dewdrop,
But in love pensively youthful.
In the days that long ere these times,
Went their way with loud importance,
On the thrilling lips of warfare,
And the tongue of backwoods valor,
Told to many generations;
There was a rude Indian village,
Far within a glen sequestered,
In the basin of a clear brook,
Near the waters of the Wabash,
In the Mississippi valley.
In this ancient birch bark village,
With his daughter, Nanawawa,
Dwelt the chief of all the Sac tribes,
Old and austere Pashepaho,
Powerful and warlike Stabber.
On a hill, the Stabber's tent stood
High above the other lodges,
And the goodliest among them.
Once upon the moon of bright nights,
On a day in budding April,
At his tent door sat the Stabber,
With his chin leaned on his hands, sat
Knitting thoughts above his sage brow,
And pursuing speculations,
Through the sober depths of study.
"What a brilliant sun-set," said he,
As the world of quiet West woods
Slowly reddened into amber,
And the sunset-spangled clouds threw
Up their long arms tipped with fire,
And sank down in sleepy glory,
In a deep still sea of glory.
"Sing a camp song, Nanawawa,"
"I will help you sing it over."
Said he, turning to his daughter.
"On the morrow is the full moon,
And the great feast of the Sac tribes,
When the Chiefs of all the nations
Will come in to see the Stabber
And report upon the country.
They will tell me of their huntings,
And of fishings in their clear streams,
Of their pleasant sugar makings,
And of fields of green maize growing;
They will tell of wild adventures
With the bear and with the bison,
And will tell the great traditions
Of their tribes and of their totems.
Goodly presents they will bring me,
Venison to make the feast with,
Bear skins to adorn my tent with,
Paints to make my old age youthful,
Beads to brighten favor's dull eyes,
Wampum to revive old friendships,
And great words to move the heart with.
"Sing a camp song, Nanawawa,
Sing until the time of sleep comes,
I will join and help you sing it."
Nanawawa sang a camp song,
And the Stabber joined the singing,
Till asleep they sat and sang yet,
Till they went to sleep a singing.
Morning came, and as the hours
Went their way, they brought crowds with them,
Of the distant tribes and totems.
Noon approached, and saw the great feast,
In its highest wild demeanor,
In the savage hights of ardor.
Eating, drinking, gaming, dancing,
Mingled in a ceaseless whirling
To the sound of forest music.
Evening came, and as the feast sank
To repose, as sinks the warrior
On his shield, of fields aweary
And the long parade of armies,
To the tent door of the Stabber,
Chieftains came and stood in silence.
Pashepaho in his tent floor,
On his bear skins sat a smoking.
Not a word said he to any,
But a seat he motioned them to,
And went dryly on a smoking
As they settled close around him.
Young men, chiefs of the Ojibways,
The Miamis, and Dacotahs,
And the mighty Sacs and Foxes,
Laid their presents rare and costly,
At the Stabber's feet; and seated
On their armor, in great phrases
Of their forest tongues, made speeches.
On her tent floor, Nanawawa
Looking not upon the young men,
Heard their sounding words of valor.
Tho' the eyes of great chiefs sought her,
She would starve their eager glances,
Turning from them on the tent floor.
Pashepaho's Speech to the Young Men.
Pashepaho heard the young men
Till their lofty words had ended,
And in accents stern, thus answered:
"For your presents, I am thankful.
By your speeches I'm encouraged.
Peace now lighteth all the Nations
As a noon sun lights the prairies.
Time once was when peace was broken
Up in all our Western borders.
Horsed on fire, bloody battle
Rode throughout our ancient forests.
From his home within the sunrise,
From his land of bells and steeples,
From the regions of the East wind,
The hoar dwelling place of Wabun,
Then Spake the Great Father to us,
To his red tribes spake in loud tones
As of thunder in the forests.
"Now be peaceable, my children,
Dwell in friendship's tents together,
You, my red sons and my white sons."
Then he took his great war hatchet,
That could strike with blows of thunder,
And into the mountains wandered,
Went forth in the deepest valleys,
And at one blow hewed a pine down,
Fell a great pine of the valleys,
That looked upward into Heaven,
With the East winds in his left hand,
And the West winds in his right hand,
And the noon-beams in his forelocks;
Took this old pine of the valleys,
And to make a war-post, reared it.
Then he spake again, in this wise:
"Lo! the war-post now ascendeth!
See the war-post of the nations,
Now the Great Spirit beholds it;
See it pointing into Heaven
Like the finger of a giant!
Bury now your hatchets neath it,
And be peaceable my children,
Dwell in friendship's tents together."
Then the sky above the war-post,
Grew as clear as any crystal,
And the dreamy air was softened,
And the dazing blue seemed higher,
And the far off hills seemed farther,
And all sounds were low and solemn.
Then the red sons and the white sons,
Neath the war-post sat together.
When the red sons spake in this wise:
"Raise your eyes and look now, brothers,
See it now is Indian Summer.
Lo! the sky is all serene now,
And the hills are all a sleeping,
How the brown woods now are yawning?
Now the slow streams sing in whispers.
And the South wind passeth softly
In her moccasins of damp moss.
Lo! this now is Indian Summer,
And the time to go a hunting.
We will leave you now, and hasten
To the mountains for a bear hunt.
Our light canoes are waiting
By the waters. Brothers, farewell.
Then spake the Great Father to us,
As we stood beside the waters,
By the moorings of our canoes,
And shook-hands with all our brothers.
"Thus your hunting grounds, my red sons,
Shall extend; my white sons know them.
From Kaskaskia to Cahokia,
From St. Vincennes to St. Louis,
Up the Wabash, Illinois,
The Wisconsin, and Great Water,
To the regions of the North wind,
Where the bold St. Lawrence spreadeth
Out the fingers of his right hand;
Where the dun moose snuffs the lake fog,
Snuffs the cold breath of the North Lakes,
And the slow bear baffles Winter,
In his sullen reign of deep snows;
Where the son of Giant waters
Rocks the earth as in a cradle,
And sings lullabys of thunder
In the ear of old Forever,
Till the darkness sighs and shudders,
And the white hills quake and whisper,
"Lo, Niagara is waking!"
From this birth-place of the hoar blasts,
To the wigwam of the South wind,
In the myriad-voiced prairies,
Where the wild goose sounds her pibroch,
And the wild duck talks her nonsense,
And the heron shoots her slant flights,
From her dreamings in the long grass;
These shall be—then loud he uttered—
Hunting grounds for you forever."
Then said Pashepaho, turning
From his audience, and smoking,
"Peace now lighteth up our forests,
And our wigwams all are cheerful."
NANAWAWA'S SUITORS.
When the Stabber's speech had ended,
And his presents all were gathered,
And his pipe the chiefs had all smoked,
Four young chiefs of goodly mein, came
Round the princess of the forest,
And upon the tent floor kneeling,
Made obesience to her lowly.
Then they rose and gave her
presents,
Costly beads and many colored
One presented, one a necklace
Of rare stones, one silver brooches
For her hair, and one gold wristlets.
All then went and sat in silence,
Waiting for the maiden's answer.
Pausing, seemed the maid more pretty.
Youthful seemed in indecision.
At the presents looked and suitors,
Looked at one and then the others.
Ah! how lovely now her soft eyes
Shone as her young hands grew doubtful.
Fairest daughter of the wigwams,
Blithest warbler of the deep shades,
Sweetest flower that e'er shined there,
Having o'er her native sweetness
Rarest hues of loneliness shed.
Ah! she was a lovely doubter!
Beads about her perfect neck hung,
Like the clusters of a ripe vine.
Wristlets clasped her naked round arms,
With reluctance seemed to clasp them,
As a lover clasps a lover.
Undecided, ah, how youthful,
Ah, how rare was Nanawawa!
Pashepaho silent sitting,
With a true parental pride, watched
His fair daughter thro' the pipe smoke
That in clouds his head environed.
At the door-way of the wigwam,
Then a chief stood, a Dacotah,
Leading a young captive with him,
A fair child of some white settler.
In the captive's face, the light shone
Of intelligence and training.
He the hopes showed of proud parents.
Long his locks, and golden, floated
To his shoulders, blue his eyes were,
And as sunbeams penetrating.
But captivity's cold buffets
Pensive made him seem and forlorn.
Then the presents of the young chiefs,
Nanawawa threw back to them,
Rose and met the young Dacotah,
Took the captive by the right hand,
And the young chief by the left hand,
And into the wigwam led them.
"Here," said she, "This is my present,
As the captive's hand she held to,
Give me this lad for a present."
"I have brought him for your present,"
Sighed the hopeful young Dacotah.
Thus it was that Nanawawa
Found a lover in her wigwam,
Found a husband at her door-way.
For within her heart she whispered,
In her heart the thought she uttered,
"I have found a husband surely."
But a secret hid she kept it,
Though she to her own heart told it,
Pashepaho never knew it.
Many days in happiness dwelt
Nanawawa and the captive;
For the Stabber took the captive,
Smeared his face with many colors,
Hung his golden locks with brooches,
Armed him with a bow and arrows,
And his son, the White Loon, named him;
Nanawawa's brother called him.
Meanwhile all the village loved him,
Loved young Nanawawa's brother.
In their huntings and their fishings,
All the young men of the village
Sought companionship in White Loon.
For the deer hunt he was ready,
For the bison chase and bear hunt;
And when Spring had warmed the rivers,
And their flow from mountains quickened,
On the bosom of the full tide,
His canoe was seen with others.
He was called the lucky fisher.
Thus it was that in the Sac town,
White Loon grew to be admired.
And at every tent door pausing,
In the morning or the evening,
Groups of cheerful faces met him,
With their dusky smiles of welcome.
Old men talked of him with wise looks,
And the young with brightened faces.
Children spoke of him in whispers,
And with little looks of wonder,
Grouped behind him in the tent doors;
For to them he was a prophet.
He could tell of ghosts and genii,
In the woods and in the waters;
In the rolling Susquehanah,
And the broad and rapid Hudson,
And the blue and peaceful Huron,
He could tell of evil genii,
Clasping hands upon the waters,
And to elfin music dancing
On the clear and moonlit waters.
Thus it was he told the children
Of a proud and faithless lover,
And the genii of the waters,
On the dark shores of Lake Huron.
"In a land of lakes and great woods,
In a green and distant country,
On the high cliffs of Lake Huron,
High as two pine trees together,
In a wigwam of great oak trees,
Lived a mighty chief of white men.
Old the man, and long his beard was
As the bow string of a warrior.
Long his hair, and thick and white was,
Like the pine's locks in a snow storm.
This chief had a lovely daughter.
Light was she, and full of sunshine,
And her words were all as cheerful
As a stream that glideth onward.
And her songs were all as buoyant
As the loud songs of a cascade.
In her speech music of groves was,
In her hair the gold of sunset,
In her cheek the blush of sunrise,
On her brow the shade of twilight,
In her eyes the blue of soft skies;
And her teeth were rows of pearl beads.
This fair squaw a young chief once loved,
And her hand in marriage promised.
But her heart was light and wayward,
And smiled on him, but went from him,
Till his eyes were mooned in frenzy,
And he fell into Lake Huron.
From the high cliffs that looked downward
From behind the great oak wigwam,
Genii, dancing on the lake's breast,
Saw him fall, and seized him sinking,
And with shouts of music, bore him
To a land beneath the waters.
Night by night then came his lover
To the bluffs behind her wigwam,
And long hours in the moonlight
Gazed down on the sleepy waters.
Thus she thought once when she went there:
"Oh! I'm sorry! I am sorry!
Since he's gone; Oh, now I'm sorry!
Could he hear me in his dark grave
Of the frightful rocking billows,
I would say to him, forgive me!
Speak, O waves, for now your hoarse words
Breaking on the rocks may tell me!
Can he hear my heart lamenting?"
Now the genii heard her sorrows,
Formed a circle of enchantment,
And upon the billows seated,
Filled the ravished air with sweet sounds;
Till the fair squaw, like her lover,
Fell among them, and they seized her,
And away with laughter bore her,
In the blue and silent Huron.
Now within the land of shadows,
Far beneath the sad still Huron,
In the deep home of the genii,
These two lovers are seen riding
E'er behind two harnessed moonbeams."
And of giants in the mountains,
White Loon also told the children.
Thus he told them of the giants:
"In a land of pines and great rocks,
In a far off land of mountains,
In the gateway of the sunrise,
Where the East wind shakes the door latch
On the wigwam of the sunrise.
There were giants in the old days;
Giants tall as mountain pine trees.
When it stormed upon the mountains,
And the woods were black with terror
And their speech was low and dismal,
Then, when thunders rolled and rumbled
On the stony streets of Heaven;
In the wigwams of the valleys.
Sat the stoutest warriors trembling,
And in whispers low and fearful
Muttered, 'Listen at the giants!
Ugh, the giants now are angery,
And will tear the very hills down!' "
Thus it was that White Loon's wisdom
Made him to his friends a prophet.
NANAWAWA'S LAKELET.
Where the dark ash upward towereth,
And the maple drops her brown shade,
And the rough oak spreads his broad arms,
And the wild vine weaves her festoons;
Where the noon breeze pants for sunlight,
And the sunbeams wandereth shyly,
And the night-winds wrestleth lightly,
With the lone leaf of the forest;
Where the moon-beams creepeth softly,
In a dim veil looking faintly;
In this ancient grand high forest,
In the right hand of Kaskaskia,
And the left hand of Cahokia,
And the regions of the Wabash;
Was the little rush bound lakelet,
Of the forest—Nanawawa's.
Tall trees in the solemn old woods,
On the western slopes and hilltops,
Threw their shadows in the bottoms.
Parting ferns and water-lilies,
And the rushes, that with wet lips
Sipped the lakelet's clear, cool waters;
Nanawawa's birch canoe flashed
Light and noiseless as the shadow
Of a cloud upon a meadow.
In this fleet canoe sat White Loon,
But the oars held Nanawawa,
And the boat plied with her bare arms,
And to White Loon talked in whispers.
Now a moon rose o'er the forest
Of the great Northwestern Country,
And looked down into the lakelet
As a maid looks in her mirror.
All the air was in a slumber,
And the forests, in a deep nap,
Breathed not as soft light stole o'er them,
Wrapt in fleecy garb of thin mists,
Night had gently closed her eyelids,
Clasping all the world in silence;
Save the creek that in the lake leapt,
Coming from the wooded hillside,
Saying strange things to the clear moon.
As the boat flashed thro' the moonlight,
White Loon near to Nanawawa
Drew his face, and spoke in this wise:
"White Loon loves you, Nanawawa!"
When these words fell, both her oars fell,
And she upward at the moon gazed,
With both hands dropped in the water.
As the forest maiden's soul swam
In her eyes, White Loon leaned o'er her,
Drew her naked bosom to him,
Drew her to him close and listened;
With his breathings half suspended,
Listened to her words of music
Dropping like a wasted shower
Thro' the leafy depths of Autumn;
"Nanawawa loves you, White Loon,
"White Loon you must build a wigwam."
White Loon raised his eyes and answered:
"By yon cascade in the mountains,
High above the village looking,
I will build my great birch wigwam,
Ere the wintry hours approacheth."
And his heart with aspen lightness
Turned toward a happy future.
Forest-love brings forethought with it.
Nuptial care dwells in the wildwood;
In the Indian's poor wigwam
Love's bright sunshine casteth shadows.
Thus it was that White Loon, wooing
On the lakelet of the forests,
In the clear and placid moonlight,
Saw a happy future rising
And its pleasant tasks revealing.
Thus it was he built a wigwam,
Dressed it carefully with bear skins,
And the door adorned with stag's horns,
To abide the bridal entrance.
Then it was he went a hunting,
Went far off into the mountains,
Seeking food to meet the winter.
Saying, as he clambered onward,
With the eager warrior's hunted;
"I will soon return, I'm hoping,
Let our hunting time be short now."
DEATH OF PASHEPAHO.
Lo! the old Sac village slumbered
In the basin of the Wabash,
And the doorway of the vallies,
Like some brown old matron napping
On the threshold of her cottage,
When her distaff lieth idle.
All the plaintive vale was cooing,
And the hazy hills were piping,
And the mournful gales were flapping
Thro' their somber realms of sere woods.
Sang the crane migrating southward,
Answered the itin'rant heron
In her dank and grassy rev'rie,
By the blue and pensive waters.
Then it was that sate the Stabber;
In the middle of his tent floor;
Sate with sober words and features,
Talking of the times he once knew,
Now with the departed past blent,
Now deep in the grave of years laid.
At his side sat Nanawawa,
And her voice like running waters
O'er a pebbly bed descanting,
Sank upon his ears with rapture;
With a wild and lonely rapture,
As she asked him of the old times.
"Nanawawa," said he, trembling,
"You had better take a husband.
From the great tribes of the west plains,
Take a strong and valiant young chief,
For I soon must go and leave you.
From the wigwam of your mother,
Sixteen years ago you followed;
From the lone spot where we left her,
Where the mournful vine entwines her,
Where the wild briar blooms above her,
Where the wild birds sing unto her;
From that spot I love to think of,
Sixteen years ago you followed
To this wide and unknown country.
Since that time you've e'er been with me,
E'er been sunlight in my tent door,
Ever been the joy of old age;
But my daughter, Oh! my daughter,
Oh! my hind, my Nanawawa!
I am now upon a journey,
And you now cannot go with
me!"
Nanawawa could not answer,
And for tears saw not the Stabber,
As he leaned upon the tent floor,
And went on to utter faintly:
"What is that I hear a coming?
Don't I hear the sound of footmen
Coming from a distant country?
Ah! I hear the tread of warriors,
They are coming in a hurry!
I behold great lands before me,
Now I see green mountains rising,
And I see the peaceful wigwams,
Just across the river yonder!
Nanawawa, I must leave you!
Come and see me in the morning.
Oh! my daughter, come and see me!"
Nanawawa caught her father,
Stooping o'er him, called and called him,
Pressed his face against her pale cheek,
Held his hands and watched his still lips.
Then a wail burst from the wigwam;
Pashepaho had ceased breathing!
SAVILLE IN TROUBLE.
Sing muse! of Saville and the direful day
When beauty fell, to ruthless hands a prey;
And life a sacrifice to savage hate,
Smoked on the alter of a peaceful State.
The pensive forest in his saddest wear,
Leaned on the threshold of the Autumn sere,
And mourned his ills in parting Summer's ear.
And waters leaving for the distant main
Sang their departure in a muffled strain.
The dove complaining at the barn was heard,
In wanton gales the naked orchards stirred.
And scarce within the dreamy vision's reach
The sheep cote elms flapped their rocky speech.
In Saville, then, the border village rude,
Full plenty's songs the ear of labor wooed,
And lulled him on the lap of solitude.
The sun had swum high on his blazoned way,
Exulting in the power of his sway.
And rural comfort's well-contented hum,
Rejoiced in each household cherrysome.
The milkmaid gossipped at her busy churn,
The groaning windlass coughed at each slow turn,
The distaff whirred and chattered in the door,
The swift brooch danced along the sounding floor;
The matron scolded, and her hands applied,
The loom reechoed and the wheel replied.
Sir Maxey then, with horns, and hunters proud,
For chase assembled in a roaring crowd.
The champing horses pawed the anxious ground,
And windy signals roused the kenneled hound.
And as the mingling bands their saddles strode,
The wayside trembled and deep groaned the road.
Three miles from Saville, in the branchy West,
The horsemen on their boist'rous way had pressed,
When on the wild marge of a pathless wood,
Whey reined their speed, and, list'ning, eager
stood.
The hounds had touched a trail upon the brink,
Where late an antlered stag had come to drink,
And cool, within the windings of a brook,
That mused away thro' many a forest nook.
Soon lively baying o'er the distance broke,
The hills re-echoed and the forest spoke.
The flying pack their goodly prey had sprung,
St. Vincennes' pulseless woodlands deep among.
Like eagles flashing from the vaulted blue,
The firey steeds in level flight pursue.
In winding glens their hoofy thunders break,
And cliffs responsive all their voices wake.
Sir Maxey, putting spurs, directs the course,
And sweeps away upon his coal black horse.
His comrades follow close in lengthy file,
Wind their glad horns and prime their guns the
while.
The woods before them part upon the eye,
And pass in dizzy currents as they fly;
And crouching thickets scamper as they near,
And flee together as they disappear.
Beyond the vision's bounds they thus have gone,
Up hill and down, o'er streams and on and on.
Meanwhile, alone on foot young Rodney hastes
Along a passage that divides the wastes.
Forbid to rank he cannot take his place
With mounted hunters in the merry chase.
The day wore on, and yet no tidings gave,
Of horse or hunter to the anxious slave,
Till he, despairing, turned to watch a trail,
That saunteringly wound along the vale.
The chase now hushed; the stag beyond his range,
Had lost his loud pursuers in a forest strange;
Till worn and hungry, these leisurely drew
To where small fenceless fields adorned their
view.
Beyond, bark lodges here and there were seen,
Where lofty woods climbed o'er a long ravine.
And slowly nearing, on their wond'ring eyes,
Soft circling smoke-wreathes from a village rise,
And float in dreamy banks against the peaceful
skies.
They pause, look onward, know not what to say,
When thus, Sir Maxey, spurring, leads the way:
"Come on, we'll venture down and ask for food
And friendship in this city of the wood."
The hunters follow at a timid pace,
And apprehension kindles in each face.
They reach the village, slowly thro' it ride,
And every part explore from side to side.
They find it is deserted by all save
Small groups of children and the aged brave.
These sit in converse at their wigwam doors,
While memory the valiant past explores.
They on the neighb'ring slopes in peaceful plays,
Their numbers gather and their voices raise.
The squaws are lab'ring in their scanty fields,
Content with what their wild industry yields;
To bide their warriors' much desired return
From distant hunting grounds and long
sojourn.
The Autumn hills appear in brown repose,
And, clothed in lofty forests, seem to dose.
And solitude asserts her reign, remote
From civilization's rest-disturbing throat.
But, hoofy 'larm the woody silence breaks,
The lone boughs flutter and the scene awakes.
Around the hunters, childhood flocks to gaze,
And age arising, looks in mute amaze
Upon the daring strangers, who proceed
To rifle tents, and load each ready steed
With what few skins their wintry hunt can hoard,
And swallow what poor food their empty stores
afford.
The helpless fathers of the forest race
Glance fearful each into the other's face,
Pursue the pillagers with heated eyes,
And empty out their souls in frequent sighs;
While in their gath'ring frowns and gestures
rude,
Wild valor overleaps decrepitude,
And such a flourish of contempt displays,
As shows that stern resentment is ablaze.
Ah! could they but recall the fleeting years,
Or backwards journey to where disappears
The dim seen past, and reach that stalwart time
When nimble life exulted in its prime;
Three-fold the numbers that their tents defile,
Would meet destruction in their conduct vile.
The hunters mount menacing as they go,
And thro' the village disappearing slow,
Betake them to the woods and brisker ride
Along the neighb'ring forest's eastern
side.
There where a peaceful streamlet ambles by
Thro' dabbling ferns and gossips cheerfully
With shaggy roots that reach into the flood,
They spy a maid just bord'ring womanhood.
Now ranging feathers in her head-gear fair,
And with her fingers combing out her hair,
She on the prone bank stands, where smoothly
flows
The liquid mirror, and her beauty shows.
Now grand old sylvans raise their solemn heads,
And make obesience as she lightly treads
Beneath their outstretched arms, and looks around
To gather nuts upon the leaf-spread ground.
The hunters see her, wayward, wild and sweet;
She sees them not, nor hears their horses' feet.
"Hold!" cries Sir Maxey, "What a lovely maid!
Ah! what a princess of this ancient shade!
Let me behold her! Quiet! Don't move!
Did admiration e'er see such a dove?
Young love no sweeter image ever drew
Upon imagination's tender view.
Her perfect form in idle movements seems
The fleeting creature of our youthful dreams."
A rougher comrade at his elbow growls,
"A purty good 'un o' the dusky fowls,
She's hard o' hearin', le'me try my gun;
Give her a skere, and see the red wench run."
His deadly eye directs, his rifle speaks,
The maiden throws her arms and runs and shrieks;
Towards the hunters pitiously flies,
The mournful wastes lamenting with her cries,
Till at their feet she sinks, and all is o'er,
Poor bleeding Nanawawa is no more.
Kind Heaven reports the shameful news around,
Far as her sorrowing winds can waft the sound;
Soft echo in her grot hears with a sigh,
And saddened hills refuse to make reply.
"I struck her," grunts the ruffian, looking down,
"Let's leave," Sir Maxey mutters with a frown;
And on they ride, and covenant to keep
The crime a secret in their bosoms hidden
deep.
But hark! what mean those distant shouts that
rise
And seem to flap and clamor in the skies?
Flying this way, the pulseless air they wing,
And nearer, clearer, shriller, faster ring.
The forest rages, groan the loud hills sore,
The hoarse earth murmurs and the heavens roar.
Returning warriors flash the trees between;
The fatal gun has called them to the scene.
Blazing resentment fires their warlike blood,
They've passed their dwellings and enraged
pursued.
And mark the hunter whom their wrath o'ertakes,
For on his head a storm of ruin breaks.
Sir Maxey's band their loud pursuers hear,
And spurring onward leave them on the rear;
For Saville wheeling quick each headlong steed,
And dash between the forests with defiant speed.
The raging warriors reach the bloody scene,
See Nanawawa lifeless on the green,
A moment pause and scan the mournful place,
Still, crafty vengeance darkening in each face,
The way the band went, narrowly then view,
And all another route at once pursue.
But one tall form his further flight restrains;
Lo! over Nanawawa's sad remains
The White Loon bends, and kisses her pale cheek,
And trembling lips that can no longer speak;
While from his eyes the streams of loud grief
start,
And downwards pour the anguish of a manly
heart.
As some wild wand'ring brook that surges hoarse,
And chafes and struggles in its winding course
Through tangled roots, and under mossy stones,
And over foamy cat'racts makes its moans,
Till headlong down the mountain's steepy sides,
The smoother current unobstructed glides;
Flows ev'ner as it meets the level main,
And murmurs leisurely along the plain;
So now the pluming bands their numbers drew,
In fretful streams the pathless forests thro'.
This way and that, low crouched, they galloped
on,
Stood list'ning, here and there, a hight upon;
Moved down in level flight beyond the glade,
And glided into silent ambuscade;
And in the branchy covert pond'ring lay
Beside the coming hunter's thoughtless way.
As hungry cougars in the deep morass,
To seize on unsuspecting herds that pass,
Lie close and closer as their prey draws nigh,
Glance at each other with impatient eye,
And press the eager moments as they fly;
So watch these cougars of the wilderness,
And so the moment of assault they press.
With envious haste their barb'rous knives they
clasp,
And poise their hatchets in a deadly grasp,
And leaning forward on their ponies wait,
Like eagles on their pinions. Coming straight
Along the gorge the hunter's chatting trot
All unsuspecting; till the fatal spot
They reach, when forth from stilly ambush nigh,
The yelling furies on their pathway fly.
Once from the tangling branches fairly freed,
Wild retribution fledges savage speed,
Straight on the hunter's right and left they
wheel,
And thro' their vitals plunge the reeky steel
Swift as their iron strength the blows can
deal.
All, save Sir Maxey, perish; he again
Rides through the storm like lightning to the
plain,
Drives up his speed and shaves the lev'ler main.
So when fierce eagle shoots along the skies,
Breaks thro' the ambient clouds and downward
flies,
Above the landscape swings his open sail,
And hangs in stately triumph o'er the vale.
Forward he leans at each successive bound,
As on and on he reaches o'er the ground.
Hard bears his courser on th' unyielding reins,
Close-scented danger sw