Monuments of other years, on ye I gaze
As yonder sun sheds forth its dying rays;
And as I read these marbles, reared to tell
Who lived beloved, and much lamented fell;
A feeling sad comes o'er my soul, and then
My fancy brings their tenants back again.
Not these alone, but those whose footsteps trod
The soil before, and worshipp'd nature's god
Free from scholastic trammel, and adored
Him thro' his works, without the zealot's sword
To force belief. Where are ye now? Bright star
That shed'st thy soft light thro' the skies afar,
Art thou the same that didst thy pale beams shed
O'er the last broken-hearted Indian's bed?
When death was glazing fast his eagle eye,
Say, didst thou gleam from yonder deep blue sky
O'er his dim vision, and point out the way
Thro' death's dark vestibule to endless day?—
How did he die? With curses loud and deep
(Startling the panther from his troubled sleep,)
All wildly bursting from his soul for those
Who came as friends, but—proved the worst of foes?
Say, did he breathe his untamed spirit out,
With the stern warrior's wild unearthly shout
Quiv'ring along his lip, all proudly curled,
Which seem'd to say, "defiance to the world?"
Or was the lion quiet in his heart?
And did a gush from feeling's fountain, start
Adown his swarthy cheek, when o'er his soul
Came tender feelings he could not control.
Thoughts of the past perhaps; his aged sire;
His mother bending o'er the wigwam's fire;
His brothers, sisters, and the joyous chase;
The stream he used to lave in oft, to brace
His manly sinews; and perchance the maid,
With whom in brighter days he oft had strayed
Mid the hoar forest's over spreading shade.
Came there a group past mem'ry's straining eye
To teach the brave how hard it was to die?
What boots it now to know? Yet fancy warms
With strange imaginings, and the gaunt forms
Of forest heroes pass her eye before,
As a strange feeling steals the spirit o'er.
Is that Apollo1 with his polish'd bow
And quiver—with rich locks that freely flow
Adown his neck of graceful form—whose eye
Seems like some bright orb beaming from the sky?
O! shade of Powhatan! I would not dare
To breathe one word upon this balmy air
To make thee sad—for as I look around,
I feel this mournful spot is sacred ground!
If thou dost mark my footsteps, where I tread
Unthinking, o'er those warrior's mounds, who bled
Contending bravely for their own green hills,
Their sunny fountains and their gushing rills,
Their fields, their woods, their partners and their sons,
This noble stream which to the ocean runs,—
Shade of the mighty Werowance2 forgive!
No trifling thoughts within this bosom live;
No throb unhallowed thrills my bosom here,
As o'er these mounds I drop a mournful tear.
But day declines; the hosts of heaven ride
All brightly—while the moon, pale as a bride
When at the altar her young vows are given,
Smiles sweetly from her altitude in heaven.
The red man and the white, together sleep
That dreamless slumber, and the waves' hoarse sweep
Awakes them not—and I a wandering boy,
Will not with my sad song their manes annoy.
I drop a parting tear, thou sacred pile,
To thy strewn columns and thy moss grown aisle;
Thy broken pavement, and thy ruined arch,—
How rapid Time, thy desolating march!
Farewell! farewell! thou sacred, solemn spot;
What I have felt shall not be soon forgot:
Rest, rest, ye slumberers! would that I could sleep;
Your's is all calm, but I must live to weep. |