THE

Dying Indian’s

DREAM.

A POEM.

BY SILAS TERTIUS RAND,

Of Hantsport, Nova Scotia,

MISSIONARY TO THE MIC-MAC INDIANS.

(THIRD EDITION, REVISED.)

With some Additional Latin Poems.

WINDSOR, N. S.:

C. W. KNOWLES.

1881

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

The Wigwam Scene described in the following pages, occurred at Hantsport, Nova Scotia, in March, 1855. In the Sixth Annual Report of the Mic-Mac Mission, in a letter written immediately after the event, I find it thus described:

“An event of some interest has just occurred here. One of our sick Indians, named John Paul, has just died, and was buried to-day. I have taken from my first acquaintance with him, a great liking to him. I have spent many an hour with him in his wigwam. He always listened attentively to the Scriptures, and engaged readily in religious conversation, and I have not been without hope that the grace of God had taken possession of his heart. Efforts were made to deter him from allowing my visits; but they were unavailing. I never aimed so much to attack his Romish errors directly, as to dwell upon the free salvation of the Gospel—without money and without price. About last New Year’s Day, while I was in Halifax, I was informed that the Romish priest had sent orders to him to leave Hantsport, and had threatened him with all the curses of the Church if he remained. His statement to me when I returned, was: “I won’t leave this place till I choose. It is not in the power of any man to keep me out of Heaven. That is a matter between God and my own soul.” He said in Indian: “Neen alsoomse.” “I am my own master.” He remained. He continued to listen to the Bible with attention, and to receive my visits with kindness and respect till he died. I now recollect that when I came to read to him, he would send the small children away, so that we might not be disturbed. The last time I saw him was a precious season to my own soul. It seemed easy to speak of the Great Redeemer, and of the way of Salvation. I may say that special prayer was made for him in the Meeting House, where a number of christian friends were assembled on the day before he died, holding a special prayer meeting on our own account. More than one fervent prayer was offered up for the dying Indian. After the meeting I returned to my own house, where I met an Indian from John Paul’s wigwam, who informed me that the poor fellow was near his end. “But oh,” said he, “he is wonderfully happy! He says he is going right to heaven, and that he has already had a glimpse of that bright happy world. He has been exhorting us all, and telling us how easy it is to be saved. He dreamed last night that he was in heaven. Heaven seemed to him to be an immense great palace, as large as this world, all formed of gold. He saw there the glorious Redeemer, surrounded by an immense Host of Saints and Angels, all drest in white. As he entered he thought they gathered round him and shouted: John Paul has come! John Paul has come!” The poor fellow did not die until the following morning, and just before he died he looked up towards heaven, and declared that he saw the angels, and the Glory of God. He was astonished that the others could not see what he saw. He wanted them to hold up his children, that they might see the wonders that he himself saw. He then sank back on his pillow and quietly expired.

It will be thus seen that the following Poem is not a work of fiction. It aims to relate—with some license of imagination, of course, else it would not be poetry—a plain historical fact. The description of Paul’s skill and knowledge as a hunter, and in managing their frail little water-crafts in a sea, is literally true of many of the Indians, and was true of him. His peace of mind in committing his family into the hands of God, after he found himself disabled, having burst a blood vessel by carrying a large load, from which he never recovered—he related to me: and this is expressed in the prayer put into his mouth at the close, “which we did not fully hear or share.”

It may be added that after the Poem was written, I read it to the Indian who gave me the account of John Paul’s death, and as he spoke the English language well, he had no difficulty in understanding it. And he assured me that it described the scene correctly.

I may add that the measure—or rather the utter disregard of all regular measure—was suggested by an old poem I saw somewhere, describing a very different scene, and the “wildness” of it appealed to me to be just suited to a scene of the Wilderness and the wigwam.

It will not surely be deemed a very great stretch of “poetic license” to represent oneself as an eye- and ear-witness of a scene, with the surroundings of which he was so familiar, and which had been so vividly described by those who really were present.

Nor need we speculate about the cause of dreams or their significance. No one will deny that they may be a very exact index of the state of mind at the time, of the one who dreams. And the earnest prayer of the writer, is, that the reader of these verses, and himself, may be, at the time of our departure, so full of joy and peace in believing, that whether waking or dreaming, we may “rejoice with that joy which is unspeakable and full of glory, receiving the end of our faith, even the salvation of our souls.”

Silas T. Rand.

Hantsport, N. S.

The Dying Indian’s Dream.

“Jesus, the vision of thy face,

Hath overpowering charms;

Scarce shall I feel Death’s cold embrace,

If Christ be in my arms.

Then when you hear my heartstrings break,

How sweet my minutes roll;

A mortal paleness on my cheek,

And glory in my soul.”—Watts.

I.

Upon his bed of clay,

Wasting away,

Day after day,

A sick and suffering Indian lay:

No lordly Chieftain he,

Of boasted pedigree,

Or famed for bravery

In battle, or for cruelty;

He was of low degree,

The child of poverty,

And from his infancy,

Inured to hardship, toil and pains;

He was a Hunter, bold and free,

Of famed Acadia’s plains.

He’d roamed at will,

O’er rock and hill,

And every spot he knew,

Of forest wide,

Of mountain side,

Of bush and brake,

Of stream and lake,

Of sunny pool and alder shade,

Where the trout and the salmon played,

Where the weeping willow wept,

Where the whistling wood-cock kept,

Where the mink and the martin crept,

Where the wolf and the wild-cat stept,

Where the bear and the beaver slept,

Where the roaring torrent swept,

Where the wandering woodman strayed,

Where the hunter’s lodge was made,

Where his weary form was laid;

Where the fish and the game abound,

Where the various kinds are found,

Every month the Seasons round:

Where beetling bluffs o’er hang the deep,

Where laughing cascades foam and leap,

Dancing away from steep to steep:

Where the ash and the maple grew,

Where the hawk and the eagle flew,

Sailing in the azure blue.

With matchless skill,

He could hunt and kill,

The moose and the carriboo,

And smoothly ride

On the rolling tide,

In the light and frail canoe;

Though in angry gusts the tempest blew,

Though the thunders roared,

And the torrents poured,

And the vivid lightnings flew;

With a noble pride,

Which fear defied,

With steady hand and true,

The fragile skiff

By the frowning cliff,

He could steadily guide,

And safely glide,

In joyful glee,

Triumphantly,

The roaring surges through.

II.

And many a weary day,

He had toiled away,

In his own humble home,

At basket, bark, and broom,

To gain the scanty fare,

Doled out to him grudgingly, where

His ancient sires,

Kindled their fires,

And roamed without control,

Over those wide domains,

Rocks, rivers, hills, and plains,

In undisputed right, lords of the whole.

But ah! those days were gone,

And weeks and months had flown,

Since dire disease had laid him low;

Nor huntsman’s skill,

Nor workman’s will,

In want, in danger, or alarm,

Could nerve his powerless, palsied arm,

Or bend his useless bow.

But God was there,

And fervent prayer,

To Heaven ascended,

And sweetly blended

With angel’s song,

From Seraph’s tongue;

And Joy was there, and Hope, and Faith,

Triumphing over pain and death;

The Light of Truth around him shone,

Auspicious of the brighter dawn;

He trusted in the living God,

As washed in Jesus’ precious blood:

No dread of death or priestly power,

Could shake him in that fearful hour,

Nor tyrant’s rod.

The fluttering breath from his palsied lung,

No utterance gave to his quivering tongue;

But still his ear

Was bent to hear

The Words of Truth and Love;

His flashing eye

Glanced toward the sky,

And he whispered, “I shall die;

But God is Love; There’s rest above.”

III.

He slept! the dying Indian slept!

A balmy peace had o’er him crept,

And for the moment kept

His senses steeped

In calm and sweet repose,—

Such as the dying Christian only knows.

Consumption’s work was done;

Its racking course was run;

His flesh was wasted, gone;

He seemed but skin and bone,

A breathing skeleton—

Deep silence reigned—no sound,

Save the light fluttering round

Of scattered leaflets, found

Upon the frozen ground,

And the gently whispering breeze,

Soft sighing through the trees,

Was in the wigwam heard;

The voice of man, and beast, and bird,

Were hushed—save the deep drawn sigh,

And the feeble wail of the infant’s cry,

Soothed by the mother’s sobbing lullaby,

And bursts of grief from children seated nigh,

Waiting to see their father die.

Kindred and friends were there,

Gathered for prayer,

To soothe the suffering and the grief to share;

And Angel Bands were near,

Waiting with joy to bear

A ransomed spirit to that World on high,

That “Heaven of joy and love, beyond the Sky.”

IV.

He dreamed! the dying Indian dreamed!

Flashes of Glory round him gleamed!

A bright effulgence beamed

From on high, and streamed

Far upward and around; it seemed

That his work on earth was done,

That his mortal course was run,

Life’s battle fought and won;

That he stood alone,

Happy, light and free,

Listening to sweetest melody,

And softest harmony,

From the etherial plains,

In loud extatic strains,

Such as no mortal ear,

Could bear, or be allowed to hear.

When suddenly to his wondering eyes,

Upstarting to the skies,

A glorious Palace stood;

All formed of burnished gold,

Solid, of massive mould,

The bright Abode

Of the Creator God!

Ample, vast and high,

Like Earth, and Sea, and Sky,

The Palace of the King of kings,

Where the flaming Seraph sings,

Waving his golden wings;

Where the ransomed sinner brings,

Honour and glory to the Eternal Son,

Casting his dazzling crown,

In lowly adoration down,

Before the blazing Throne,

Of the Eternal Three in One.

But oh! what rapturous sounds!

A shout through Heaven resounds!

Myriads of happy spirits, robed in white,

More pure and bright

Than the noonday light,

Are standing round the Throne,

Of the Eternal One.

Every eye upon him turns,

Every breast with rapture burns,

And trembles the lofty Dome,

As they shout him welcome home—

“John Paul has come! John Paul has come!”

V.

He woke! the dying Indian woke

Opened his eyes and spoke:

A heavenly radiance broke

From his bright beaming eye,

And with a loud exultant cry,

And clear ringing voice,

In the soft accents of his native tongue,

And in glowing imagery,

Suited to the theme,

Like that of the Immortal Dreamer’s Dream,

In Bedford’s mystic “Den,” whose fame,

He’d never heard, nor knew the “Pilgrim’s” name,—

Or that Sublimer Song,

By John of old, in Patmos’ Prison sung,

To the Celestial Throng;—

Whose dazzling visions of the Throne,

He’d never read, or heard, or known;

He told the visions of his head,

While slumbering upon his bed;

And spoke of those unutterable joys

Prepared on high,

Beyond the sky,

For sinners saved in Jesus when they die.

VI.

With mute amaze,

And earnest gaze,

Seated round his cot

Entranced, and to the spot

Enchained, we listen to the story,

Catching glimpses of the glory;

As though the echoing roll

From the Eternal Hill,

In soft vibrations broke,

Upon our senses while he spoke,

Sending through every soul,

A deep unutterable thrill!

“Oh! I have been in Heaven!”

To me it has been given

To see the Throne of Light,

And Hosts of Angels bright,

And Ransomed Spirits robed in white;

They knew my name,

And who I am,

And whence I came;

I heard them loud through heaven proclaim:

“Make room! make room!

John Paul has come! John Paul has come!”

Bear the glad tidings far

As the remotest star!

Let every tongue

The shout prolong!

Sound the Redeemer’s praise,

In loudest, loftiest lays!

Your noblest Anthems raise

To everlasting days,

To Him who bought him

With His precious blood;

To Him who brought him

To this bright Abode

Of perfect blessedness,

And everlasting peace,

“The Bosom of his Father and his God.”

VII.

“Oh! I shall surely reach that place,

Through matchless grace!

One moment more below

I linger, then I go,

From this dark world of woe,

Where floods of sorrow overflow,

To those bright beauteous Plains,

Where Glory everlasting reigns:

That Land of heavenly Rest,