Indian Names

Ye say they all have passed away—that noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave;
That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout,
But their name is on your waters—ye may not wash it out.
'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust.
Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour,
Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power;
Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal,
But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?
Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe.
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim?
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?
Lydia H. Sigourney.

More Cruel Than War

(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay sick in the hospital. He
confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee,
a Nashville girl, had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins
having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem is in reply to a
letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly broke the engagement.)
Your letter, lady, came too late,
For heaven had claimed its own;
Ah, sudden change—from prison bars
Unto the great white throne;
And yet I think he would have stayed,
To live for his disdain,
Could he have read the careless words
Which you have sent in vain.
So full of patience did he wait,
Through many a weary hour,
That o'er his simple soldier-faith
Not even death had power;
And you—did others whisper low
Their homage in your ear,
As though among their shallow throng
His spirit had a peer?
I would that you were by me now,
To draw the sheet aside
And see how pure the look he wore
The moment when he died.
The sorrow that you gave to him
Had left its weary trace,
As 'twere the shadow of the cross
Upon his pallid face.
"Her love," he said, "could change for me
The winter's cold to spring."
Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love,
Thou art a bitter thing!
For when these valleys, bright in May,
Once more with blossoms wave,
The northern violets shall blow
Above his humble grave.
Your dole of scanty words had been
But one more pang to bear
For him who kissed unto the last
Your tress of golden hair;
I did not put it where he said,
For when the angels come,
I would not have them find the sign
Of falsehood in the tomb.
I've read your letter, and I know
The wiles that you have wrought
To win that trusting heart of his,
And gained it—cruel thought!
What lavish wealth men sometimes give
For what is worthless all!
What manly bosoms beat for them
In folly's falsest thrall!
You shall not pity him, for now
His sorrow has an end;
Yet would that you could stand with me
Beside my fallen friend!
And I forgive you for his sake,
As he—if he be forgiven—
May e'en be pleading grace for you
Before the court of Heaven.
To-night the cold winds whistle by,
As I my vigil keep
Within the prison dead-house, where
Few mourners come to weep.
A rude plank coffin holds his form;
Yet death exalts his face,
And I would rather see him thus
Than clasped in your embrace.
To-night your home may shine with light
And ring with merry song,
And you be smiling as your soul
Had done no deadly wrong;
Your hand so fair that none would think
It penned these words of pain;
Your skin so white—would God your heart
Were half as free from stain.
I'd rather be my comrade dead
Than you in life supreme;
For yours the sinner's waking dread,
And his the martyr's dream!
Whom serve we in this life we serve
In that which is to come;
He chose his way, you—yours; let God
Pronounce the fitting doom.
W.S. Hawkins.

Columbus

A harbor in a sunny, southern city;
Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee;
A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy,
Who ever watched the waters lovingly.
A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded;
Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child:
Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people,
Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.
And ever in the boyish soul was ringing
The urging, surging challenge of the sea,
To dare,—as these men dared, its wrath and danger,
To learn,—as they, its charm and mystery.
Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor,
You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true;
Thank God for men—their deeds have crowned the ages—
Who once were little dreamy lads like you.
Helen L. Smith.