PONTIAC’S APPEAL.
[After the taking of Quebec, in 1759, the North Western Indians adhered to their Gallic allies, and formed an extensive combination for retaking all the posts west of the Alleghanies. Pontiac was the leader and master-spirit of this confederacy, the seat of which was Detroit. In 1763 he besieged the garrison at that place, with a large confederated force of Indians, and defeated the besieged at the battle of Bloody Bridge, killing their commander. The next year Gen. Bradstreet advanced from Niagara to break up this confederacy, with an army of 3000 men. The appeal may be supposed to be uttered on this occasion.]
Now, the war-cloud gathers fast, See it rising on the blast— Soon our peace-fire shall be quench’d, Soon our blades in gore be drench’d. See the red-robed legions pour From Wyánock’s[9] gulfy shore, Threatening woe to me and mine, Means and power, name and line; None may ’scape whose souls are free, None—who doat on liberty, Who is true, or who is brave, Or who scorns to be a slave. Warriors, up, and hurl them back! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.
Hang the peace-pipe on the wall, Rouse the nations, one and all, Bid them for the fight prepare, War—red, raging, ruthless war. Now begin the sacred dance, Raise the club, and shake the lance; Now prepare the bow and dart, ’Tis our fathers’ ancient art. Other weapons need we none, All by Indian arms be won; Let each heart be strong and bold, As our fathers were of old; Valiant they, in wood or storm, Panthers’ doublets kept them warm; Warriors, rise, and drive them back! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.
Take the wampum, warrior, fly— Say, a foreign foe is nigh; On he comes, with furious breath Speaking peace, but dealing death; Spreading o’er our native plains Forts and banners, fire and chains. Death comes marching in his train— Death with never-ending pain— Not the pain that warriors fear; Not the faggot, ball, or spear; Not fierce danger—that is sweet; Not the red pine’s burning heat; But the bane from which we shrink, Fiery, fell, destroying drink. New found art to feed the grave, And sink a freeman to a slave. Warriors, hear: if deep below, Where evil dwells, there be a woe More deadly, bitter, foul, and black, Than aught that haunts the Red Man’s track, It is to sit, and tamely see A dog glut up our liberty, Our life, our soil—each dear-loved place, And bind our hands with shackles base. Up—up, and arm for the attack! It is the voice of Pontiac.
Is there sachem who is wise? Him, his country bids arise. Is there warrior who is brave? Let him rise, his land to save. Trust not time shall come again E’er to break the iron chain. Or if now ye waive the blow, Once again to strike the foe; Fate forbids it—now—’tis now! Honor calls to seal the vow. Let the legions clothed with red, Howl their pathway to the dead, Sink, or perish in the sea, But never trample on the free. Tribe that lags or lingers now Breaks the spirit-witnessed vow; Nor shall ever rise again, Lord or master of the plain. Thus, in types of cloud and breeze, Mighty Manito decrees. I have seen his shining throne; I have heard him—I alone. List—the paths of truth I track; ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.
Ye who skim the big lake floods, Ye who roam the western woods, Tribes and kindreds, large and small, Hear the mandatory call; All who feel with high control Throbbings of the Indian’s soul, Come, to save a threatened land From the rampart and the brand; From the arts and from the crimes Bred in transatlantic climes; From the thirst of pinching gains, That foredooms our sunny plains, And the cold unpitying rush, Name and rule that aims to crush, Till blow on blow, and stroke on stroke Bind on the hateful Saxon yoke. Firmness now is all that saves; To submit is to be slaves. Better die as warriors bold, Than be hunted, tracked and sold; Living days in misery rife, For the coward’s bounty—life! Warriors, rally to the field; Teach the lordly foe to yield; Spurn his counsels—spurn his laws; Strike alone for freedom’s cause; Let confusion cross his track; ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.
Let your sufferings—let your wrongs Swell your rising battle songs; Strike your drums a noble peal, Boding deeds of strife and steel. Let your piercing battle yells Shake the wildest woodland dells, Reaching nations far and nigh, While our scouts prolong the cry, Till it reaches every ear Who the Indian’s wrongs can hear; Gathering force as on it sweeps Over mountains, lakes and steeps; Louder—louder every hour, Till it wakes our utmost power, Rousing all our warlike bands, Waking all our pillaged lands; Till one deep, appalling cry, } Rings throughout the western sky, } Echoing vengeance—liberty!} Back! thou bold invader, back! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.
Former woes provoke your ire, Think, but hate; and feel, but fire; Every peaceful hue be fled; Every hue but warlike red. Strangers occupy our soil; Sons of dull mechanic toil; They pollute our ancient seats, Altars, groves and fond retreats. Ever claiming deeper grants, Nothing can allay their wants, Or evade their arts or will; But they drive, and drive us still; Pouring onward, as they go, Livid streams of liquid woe, That subdues the soul when quaffed— Bitter—bitter—bitter draught; Of all ills the last and worst, Spirit-brewed, and spirit-cursed. Fear not horseman’s heavy knife; We can give them life for life, Blow for blow, and dart for dart— Arrows are the woodman’s art; Sharp and true, as bow to string, Let your arrows swiftly sing. Warriors, on to the attack! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.
Now, my fav’ring dreams portend Their ill-gotten power shall end. Now the goal is reached and won; Fate decrees—it must be done! Crush the serpent, ere his length Tell superior skill or strength. Strike the panther, ere he springs, And the mortal fang he flings. Take the monster grizzle-bear, Young and feeble, in his lair. Mar his talons—blear his sight, Ere he waxes strong in might; Else the day shall hasten by, Else we quickly droop and die; Or shall linger on our lands, Frail, dependent, feeble bands; Weak in numbers, low in fame; Sad, impov’rished, sunk and tame, Asking alms from door to door, Where our chieftains ruled before, While the stranger lords it high ’Neath our once joy-kindled sky; And his children, as they turn From the furrow, blade or urn, Axe or pestle, pipe or bone, Once our fathers’ or our own, Shall with pride indignant spurn, Name and nation, bone and urn, And exclaim—contemptuous grave! Indian dog, or Indian slave.
Heavens! and can ye live and burn, And not on th’ insulter turn? Have ye hearts, and have ye ears, And not shake your vengeful spears? Are ye men by God’s decrees, And can suffer taunts like these? Rend, oh rend the big blue sky, With your thrilling battle cry: Vengeance—Valor—Liberty! On, bold hearts, to the attack! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac.
Sault Ste. Marie, November 7th, 1825.
GEEHALE.
AN INDIAN LAMENT.
The blackbird is singing on Michigan’s shore, As sweetly and gaily as ever before, For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o’er our mountains as beamy a light, As it ever reflected, or ever express’d, When my skies were the bluest—my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back, Each bird and each beast, it is blest in degree, All nature is cheerful—all happy but me.
I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair, I will paint me with black and will sever my hair:— I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes:— I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or ling’ring decay, The steel of the white man hath swept them away.
This snake skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss with disdain on the storm-beaten shore; Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. I will raise up my voice to the source of the light, I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night, I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves, And will take a new manito—such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream. Oh, then, I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes. I shall wash from my face every peace-color’d stain, Red, red! shall alone on my visage remain. I will dig up my hatchet and bend my oak bow, By night and by day, I will follow the foe; No lake shall repress me—no mountain oppose, His blood can alone give my spirit repose.
They came to my cabin when heaven was black, I heard not their coming—I knew not their track, But I saw by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engender’d beyond the big seas. My wife and my children—oh spare me the tale,— But who is there left, that is kin to Geehale?
Albany, 1820.
THE CHOICE.
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
A sweet, retiring, simple, modest mien, Not shunning, and not seeking to be seen; A taste in dress and each domestic care, Neat but not gaudy, pleasing without glare; Such have I often wished “heaven’s last best gift” should be, Such have I oft, with joy, remarked in thee.
An even temper, mild, endearing, kind, A sound, discreet, and regulated mind, Improved by reading, by reflection formed, By reason guided, by religion warmed. This have I often prayed “heaven’s last best gift” to be, This have I oft, with joy, remarked in thee.
Benevolent to all, to soothe or cure, But a firm friend to all the neighb’ring poor; The poor in worldly goods, or bon ton merit, The sunk in sickness, and the bow’d in spirit. This have I often hoped “heaven’s last best gift” to be, This have I oft, with joy, remarked in thee.
Possessing spirit, yet a gentle creature, Lover of quiet and the charms of nature, With no vain rage to simper, glare or roam, Pleased if abroad, but mostly pleased at home. This have I fondly hoped “heaven’s last best gift” to be, This have I oft admired, sweet maid, in thee.
In person comely, rather than renowned, In books conversant, rather than profound, With too much sense to slight domestic duty, Or sigh to shine a wit, or flaunt a beauty. This have I fondly wished “heaven’s last best gift” to be, Such have I seen thee oft, and often hope to see.
In virtue principled, in love sincere, In manners guarded, in expression clear, Kind to all others in a just decree, But fixed, devoted, loving only me. This have I ever hoped “heaven’s last best gift” would be, This have I sought, and heaven-blest, found in thee.
Thee, in whose gentle manners, polished mind, Grace, sweetness, taste, benevolence are joined, Sense to engage, a naivete to admire, Candor to please, and love itself to fire. Thee have I fondly hoped “heaven’s last best gift” to me, And all my hopes of bliss are hopes of thee.