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.