Part 36

White men.

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Nay, it is well--but tell me not The white race now possess the spot, That fury marks my brow, and all I see is but my fancy's pall That glooms my eyes--ah, white man, no! The woe we taste is solid woe. Comes then the thought of better things, When we were men, and we were kings. Men are we now, and still there rolls A monarch's blood in all our souls! A warrior's fire is in our hearts, Our hands are strong in feathery darts; And let us die as they have died Who are the Indian's boast and pride! Nor creep to graves, in flying west, Unplumed, dishonored, and unblest!

ON PRESENTING A WILD ROSE

PLUCKED ON THE SOURCES OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

Take thou the rose, though blighted, Its sweetness is not gone, And like the heart, though slighted, In memory it blooms on.

Thy hand its leaves may nourish, Thy smiles its bloom restore; So warmed its buds may flourish, And bloom to life once more.

Yet if they bloom not ever, These thoughts may life impart To hopes I ne'er could sever One moment from my heart.

Oh, then, receive my token, From far-off northern sky, That speech, once kindly spoken, Can never--never die.

THE RED MAN.

I stood upon an eminence, that wide O'erlooked a length of land, where spread The sounding shores of Lake Superior; And at my side there lay a vale Replete with little glens, where oft The Indian wigwam rose, and little fields Of waving corn displayed their tasselled heads. A stream ran through the vale, and on its marge There grew wild rice, and bending alders dipped Into the tide, and on the rising heights The ever-verdant pine laughed in the breeze.

I turned around, to gaze upon the scenes More perfectly, and there beheld a man Tall and erect, with feathers on his head, And air and step majestic; in his hands Held he a bow and arrows, and he would have passed, Intent on other scene, but that I spake to him: "Pray, whither comest thou? and whither goest?" "My coming," he replied, "is from the Master of Life, The Lord of all things, and I go at his commands."

"Then why," I further parleyed, "since thou art So much the friend of Him, whom white men seek By prayer and rite so fervently to obey--why, tell, Art thou so oft in want of e'en a meal To satisfy the cravings of a man? Why cast abroad To live in wilds, where oft the scantiest shapes Of foot and wing must fill thy board, while pallid hunger strays With hideous shouts, by mountain, vale, and stream?"

"The Great Spirit," he replied, "hath not alike Made all men; or, if once alike, the force of climes, And wants and wanderings have estranged them quite. To me, and to my kind, forest, and lake, and wood, The rising mountain, and the drawn-out stream That sweeps, meandering, through wild ranges vast, Possess a charm no marble halls can give. We rove, as winds escaped the Master's fists-- Now, sweeping over beds of prairie flowers-- Now, dallying on the tops of leafy trees, Or murmuring in the corn-fields, and, when tired With roving, we lie down on beds where springs The simple wild flower, and some shreds of bark, Plucked from the white, white birch, defends our heads, And hides us from the blue ethereal skies, Where, in his sovereign majesty, this Spirit rules; Now, casting lightning from his glowing eyes-- Now, uttering thunder with his mighty voice.

"To you, engendered in another clime Of which our fathers knew not, he hath given Arts, arms, and skill we know not, or if ever knew, Have quite forgot. Your hands are thickened up With toils of field and shop, where whirring wheels resound, And hammers clink. The anvil and the plough Belong to you; the very ox construes your speech, And turns him to obey you. All this toil We deem a slavery too heavy to be borne, And which our tribes revolt at. Oft we stand To view the reeking smith, who pounds his iron With blow on blow, to fit it for the beast That drags your ploughshares through the rooty soil. The very streams--bright ribbons of the woods!--are yoked, And made to turn your mills, and grind your corn; And yet this progress stays not in its toils To alter nature and pervert her plans. Steam drags your vessels now, that once Leapt in their beauty by the winds of heaven. Some subtle principle ye find in fire, And with a cunning art fit rattling cars To run on strips of iron, with scream and clang That seem symbolic of an angry power Which dwells below, and is infernal called. The war-crowned lightning skips from pole to pole On strings of iron, to haste with quick intelligence.

"Once, nature could be hid, and fondly think She had some jewels in the earth, but now ye dig Into her very bowels, to recover morsels sweet She erst with deglutition had drawn in. The rocks Your toils dissolve, to find perchance some treasure Lying there. Is yonder land of gold alone Your care? Observe along these shores The wheezing engine clank--the stamper ring. Once, hawks and eagles here pursued their prey, But now the white man ravens more than they. No! give me but my water and God's meats, And take your cares, your riches, and your thrones. What the Great Spirit gives, I take with joy, And scorn those gains which nothing can content.

"Drudge ye, and grind ye, white man! make your pence, And store your purses with the shining poison. It was not Manito who made this trash To curse the human race, but Vatipa the black, Who rules below--he changed the blood of innocence And tears of pity into gold, and strewed it wide O'er lands where still the murderer digs And the deceptious delve, to find the cockle out And pick it up, but laughs the while to see What fools they are, and how himself has foiled The Spirit of Good, that made mankind Erst friends and brothers. Scanty is my food, But that sweet bird, chileelee, blue of wing, Sings songs of peace within the wild-wood dell And round the enchanted shores of these blue seas-- Not long, perhaps, our own--which tell me of a rest In far-off lands--the islands of the blest!"

THE SKELETON WRAPPED IN GOLD.

In digging, in 1854, a railroad in Chili, seventy feet below the surface, in a sandy plain, which had been an ancient graveyard, an Indian skeleton, wrapped in a sheet of solid gold, rolled into the excavation. Its appearance denoted an ancient Inca, of the Atacama period.

The Indian laid in his shroud of gold, Where his friends had kindly bound him; For, in their raid so strong and bold, The Spaniards had never found him.

Kind guardian spirits had watched him there, From ages long--long faded, Embalmed with gems and spices rare, And in folds of sweet grass braided.

And priestly rites were duly done, And hymns upraised to bless him, And that gold mantle of the sun, Put on, as a monarch to dress him.

"Sleep on," they said, in whispers low, "Nor fear the white man's coming, For we have put no glyph to show, The spot of thy entombing.

"Inca, thy warfare here is done, Each bitter scene or tender, Go to thy sire, the shining Sun, In kingly garb and splendor.

"Earth hath no honors thou hast not, Brave, wise, in every station, Or battle, temple, council, cot, Beloved of all thy nation.

"Take thou this wand of magic might, With signet-jewels glowing, As heralds to the God of Light, Where, father, thou art going.

"A thousand years the charm shall last, The charm of thy ensealment, Till there shall come a spirit vast, To trouble thy concealment."

And safe he slept in Tlalcol's train, With all his genii by him, Through Atacama's pleasing reign, Ere Manco came a-nigh him.