But anxious thoughts opprest me now, I felt—what I could scarce avow— A sense of error deep and base, Both in myself and in my race, And that whate’er in former hour Had been my nation’s fame or power, Or whatsoe’er that power might be, In distant, dim futurity, We now were given o’er to feel The strong oppressor’s heavy steel, And weak and vain must be that fight, Maintain’d in fate’s and heaven’s spite.
I call’d the elders—they who prest Still on the leafy couch of rest, And leaning on my staff arose, To paint our bleeding country’s woes— I spoke of losses dread and sore, By shot or brand, in field and store, And that still sorer press and great, I saw within the womb of fate; And last—upon th’ awaken’d ear, With voice and gesture strong and clear, I poured my high prophetic dream, Part after part—such as still gleam Before my mind, its features dread, With all that boding spirit said. “And oh, my people,” thus I cried, “Snatch from your breast the serpent, pride; Forsake the war-path and the strife, Throw from your hands the murd’rous knife, And bury deep, and bury free, The purple war-club; and decree, That he who digs it up in ire, The same shall expiate in fire.” I ceas’d—approving plaudits loud, Rang heart-responsive through the crowd.
The sun had not ascended high, Along the blue, unclouded sky, When, bearing pipe and wampum gay, My counsellors were on their way, And ere the heath had lost its damp, They stood within the foeman’s camp, Prepared from further strife to cease, The firm ambassadors of peace, And urge their suit: the war-worn chief, Assents in words direct and brief, But calls on all the gathered band, Before his star-crown’d tent to stand, By chief or elder—there to treat, And judge of peace, and limits meet; Meantime with promise bids them speed, To consecrate such holy deed.
But ah! what mortal man can say, He counts upon one single day Of fortune, favor, health, or bliss, In such uncertain scene as this! For, ere another setting sun, All—all! was vanished, lost, undone! And while, from war-mark’d front and cheek My young men washed the vermil streak, And elders counsel and prepare To drop the war-club and the war— Upon a sudden—horse and men Come rushing on o’er hill and glen, And wide encircling field and cot, With fire and sword, and hissing shot, Assail my wonder-stricken bands, Who stand with peace-pipes in their hands!
Unarmed and unprepared, they spy The foe perfidious drawing nigh, Yet scarce can deem that deed so base Should stain the whites’ obdurate race; Nor deigned they—when they felt th’ attack, With all its missile horror black! To raise a lance—or draw a bow, Or supplicate th’ infuriate foe; Or break that honest pledge of faith Once given: but calmly meeting death, There brave as noble martyrs stood, Nor shed one drop of foeman’s blood, While three score warriors, honor-crown’d, In mortal silence pressed the ground, And twice six score the conq’ror saves, To grace his tarnish’d sword as slaves.
Perfidious! have I called—who slights Or peace or war’s time-honored rights! For then I knew not other head[4] That band of fierce assailants led, And not that chief surnamed The Hard,[5] Who erst received our warm regard. But ours the wrong, and ours the woe, We only saw one gen’ral foe, And knew not name or rank, or who Th’ extended hand of peace withdrew.
Me, wounds detained within my bower, Upon that fell, destroying hour, Nor deemed I rout, or battle roar, Should vex my suppliant nation more; Their hapless fate my bosom mourn’d, And all to peace my hopes I turn’d. Old as I was, and weak and scarr’d, Meet seemed the thought, to be prepared, At night or noon, in bed or field, The prisoned spark of life to yield, And leave to those with vigor rife, Its sweets and sorrows, joys and strife. One wish alone inspir’d my breast, It was to see my Ednee blest.
And now, around my cottage fire Due care the festive rites require, For oft had bold Clewalla sued Alliance with my ancient blood, And with meet gifts and parlance bland, Implored my Ednee’s timid hand; But ne’er before—that gentle claim Enforced in fame and valour’s name, For now in the same person blend, The swain, deliverer and friend. But still, a cruel fate in this, Pervades, and mars the cup of bliss! And while the gallant warrior stands Expectant—at my willing hands, A sudden tumult wild and high, Rings fearfully along the sky— “A foe—a foe!” the runners shout, And all is hurry, whoop, and rout!
Short space there is for look or word— The warriors, with one spirit stirr’d, Seize club and bow, and fusil light, And fly towards the gathering fight; Clewalla leads—along the wood Deep shouts resound, and cries of blood, And soon the distant crack and roar Proclaim another scene of gore. And rumor rife, along the plain, Repeats a tale of lost and slain. From out a wood two hosts advance, With glittering sword and pointed lance, Rank upon rank—our light clad men, Unbooted all, re-sought the glen, There, tree to tree, to ward the blow, And best their forest breeding show; But while they rally, shout and form, Behold athwart—another storm! Fierce, heavy horsemen, sword on high, Gleam through the woods and fill the sky. Environed thus, no hope remains But that a brave man’s hand sustains; Nor this availed, though plied with skill O’er mead and valley, wood and hill, And sixty brave hearts, slain that day, Attest the fury of the fray; Clewalla, known for daring cry, Where bayonets cross and bullets fly, With rampant arm is seen maintain The strife, till sinking with the slain; But whether wounded, or if low, The pulse of life still kept its flow, Spake rumor not; we searched in vain Along the wood, amid the slain; We traced each secret glen and shore, But never saw Clewalla more. Murmur there was of varying sound That he to distant fort was bound, A captive held; yet ever prone To swell and shift, and change her tone, We found it like an evening’s tale, And all our search was doomed to fail: Or if he e’er returned, his tread Was light as ghost of warrior dead.
Betrayed, encompassed, beaten, prest! Stem desperation fired each breast; They burn with wild revenge and ire, Re-light again the battle fire; Re-poise the lance—re-plume the dart, And rousing each bold warrior art, Poured on the reckless battle tide, Nor asked the boon which they denied.