OSCAR.
Thanks were but light and all too weak, Hearts mantling o’er, like ours, to speak, But we shall hold and carry hence, Of thee and thine, so high a sense, Thy courtesy—thy life—thy lot, As but with life can be forgot. One only wish—one strong desire, Still draws us to thy cavern-fire, And stays th’ intent we felt the while, To quit this ocean-cinctured isle. ’Tis more to know—to hear—to see, Of one so noble, poor, and free, So proud—unfortunate as thee. Deign, then, oh chief!—for trust you may, If aught that man can feel or say Can give assurance of our faith, To hold thee quit of ill or scaith. Deign, then, thy latent woes to tell, The rush and struggle, rout and yell, The scenes of care, or deeds of strife, That mark thy onward course through life, And weighing down with double weight, Of age and care that ne’er abate, Have sear’d thy cheeks, and sear’d thy heart, And made thee, exile! what thou art. So when we reach our native vales, Dear land where home-bred bliss prevails! With joy—with pride we may relate A good man’s fame, a brave man’s fate.
ALHALLA.
Man of prayer—for I ween, By thy words, and dress, and mien, Such thou art,—words, words are vain To cure my woes, or soothe my pain. Little boots it thee, to know Whence I came or whence I go. Hard my lot—nor would I e’er Draw afresh the scalding tear, Tear the wound that has been heal’d, Or renew the bloody field; And if e’en my tongue were prone Thus to dwell on actions done, Could I? ’twere reliance base, E’er again to trust thy race.
OSCAR.
Deem not, stoic of the wood, Harshly thus of Christian blood; Warm, and pure, and kind it flows, For the suffering Indian’s woes, Proudly beats and nobly swells, Where bland pity’s voice impels, Honor points, or justice draws— Justice! guide of Christian laws! There are bosoms burning high, Souls of bland philanthropy! Hearts and hands and means and space That would joy to serve thy race, Joy to see thee happier here, Happier in another sphere, And e’en life itself would give, That the Indian’s soul should live. And were none to teach or pray, Point or lead the heavenly way, Soothe the lot so roughly cast, Or avert fate’s angry blast— Were there not in all the land, One kind heart with love so bland, Aim so noble, care divine, Trust, lone recluse, trust to mine! Mine the purpose, mine the will, Heaven’s kind message to reveal, Teach the ever-glorious Son, Mercies promised, doing, done! Aid the weak, persuade the wise, And lead to worlds beyond the skies.
ALHALLA.
Man of wisdom, on mine ear Dark thy holy truths appear, And I would not, old and weak, Novel rites or doctrines seek, Or a path unknown pursue, That my fathers never knew, Though thou put the thorns aside, And lead on, a zealous guide. Ponder well this furrow’d face, See in me a hunter race, Rude in manners, poor in skill, Wanting knowledge, wanting will, Means and purpose, care and force, To pursue the white man’s course, But not lacking means or power That may suit the hunter’s bower, Brave the ills a man may brave, And deserve an honored grave, I would scorn the labor base Of thy wonder-working race; As my fathers lived, would I Wish to live and wish to die, Hold the precepts they have given, Seek with them my final heaven; Proper are thy gifts to thee, Proper are my gifts to me; Go thy way—my fervent cry Is here undisturbed to die.
ETHWALD.
Yet when, beside the stormy wave, The tall grass whistles o’er thy grave, ’Twere sweet, perhaps, for thee to know Kind hearts remember thee below. Thy glorious feats in earthly wars, Thy name, thy honors, and thy scars.