And these were of that origin. Thy stamp
Was on their brows, calm, fearless, and sublime.
And they had held aloft thy heavenly lamp;
And borne its odium as a fearful crime,
And therefore, through their quiet homes the tramp
Of Rain passed,—laying waste all that Time
Gives us of good; and, where Guilt fitly dwells,
Had made them homes in execrable cells.
We dwell in peace;—they purchased it with blood.
We dwell at large;—’twas they who wore the chain,
And broke it. Like the living rocks they stood,
Till their invincible patience did restrain
The billows of men’s fury. Then the rude
Shock of the past diffused a mild disdain
Through their pure hearts, and an intense desire
For some calm land where freedom might respire.
Some land where they might render God his due,
Nor stir the gall of the blind zealot’s hate.
Some land where came Thought’s soul-refreshing dew
And Faith’s sublimer visions. Where elate,
Their simple-hearted children they might view,
Springing in joy,—heirs of a blest estate:
And where each worn and weary mind might come
From every realm, and find a tranquil home.
And they sought this. Yet, as they now descried
From the near forest, pouring, horde on horde,
Armed, painted, plumed in all their martial pride,
The dwellers of the woods—the men abhorred
As fierce, perfidious, and with blood bedyed,
Felt they no dread? No;—for their breasts were stored
With confidence which pure designs impart,
And faith in Him who framed the human heart.
And they—the children of the wild—why came
They at this summons? Swiftly it had flown
Far through their woods, like wind, or wind-sent flame,
Followed by rumours of a stirring tone,
Which told that, all unlike, except in name,
To those who yet had on their shores been known,
These white men—wearers of the peaceful vest,—
Craved, in their vales, a brother’s home and rest.
On the red children of the desert, fell
The tidings, like spring’s first delicious breath;
For they had loved the strangers all too well;
And still—though reaping ruin, scorn, and death
For a frank welcome, and broad room to dwell,
Given to the faithless boasters of pure faith,—
Their wild, warm feelings kindled at the sight
Of Virtue arm’d but with her native might.
What term we savage? The untutored heart
Of Nature’s child is but a slumbering fire;
Prompt at each breath, or passing touch, to start
Into quick flame, as quickly to retire:
Ready alike, its pleasance to impart,
Or scorch the hand which rudely wakes its ire:
Demon or child, as impulse may impel;
Warm in its love, but in its vengeance fell.
And these Columbian warriors to their strand
Had welcomed Europe’s sons,—and rued it sore,
Men with smooth tongues, but rudely armed hand;
Fabling of peace when meditating gore;
Who, their foul deeds to veil, ceased not to brand
The Indian name on every Christian shore.
What wonder, on such heads, their fury’s flame
Burst, till its terrors gloomed their fairer fame.
For they were not a brutish race, unknowing
Evil from good; their fervent souls embraced
With virtue’s proudest homage to o’erflowing
The mind’s inviolate majesty. The past
To them was not a darkness; but was glowing
With splendour which all time had not o’ercast;
Streaming unbroken from creation’s birth,
When God communed and walked with men on earth.
Stupid idolatry had never dimmed
The Almighty image in their lucid thought.
To him alone their jealous praise was hymned;
And hoar Tradition, from her treasury, brought
Glimpses of far-off times, in which were limned
His awful glory: and their prophets taught
Precepts sublime,—a solemn ritual given,
In clouds and thunder, to their sires from heaven.