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Pike, Albert, 1809-1891 [1834], Prose sketches and poems, written in the western country (Light & Horton, Boston) [word count] [eaf318]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
[In one month I shall be in the prairie, and under the mountains in another.] Once more unto the desert! who Would live a slave, when he can free His heart from thraldom thus? O who? Slave let him be. Once more unto the desert! now The world's hard bonds have grown too hard. No more, oh heart! in dungeons bow, And caves unstarred. Heart! bid the world farewell: thy task Is done;—perhaps thy words may live;— Thou hast no favor now to ask, And few to give. Thou hast writ down thy thoughts of fire, And deep communion with thine own Sad spirit; now thy broken lyre Makes its last moan. Thou hast laid out thy secrecy Before the world, and traced each wave Of feeling, from thy troubled sea Unto its cave,
Within thy dim recesses, where The feelings most intense are hidden; Thou hast outborne thence to the air Thy thoughts, unbidden. And now unto the desert. Why! Am I to be a slave forever? To stay amid mankind, and die Like a scorched river, Wasting in burning sands away? Am I to toil, and watch my heart And spirit, hour by hour decay, Still not depart?— To pour the treasures of my soul Upon the world's parched wilderness, And feel no answering echo roll My ear to bless? Once more unto the desert! There I ask nor wealth, nor hope, nor praise, Nor gentle ease, nor want of care On my dark ways; Nor fame, nor friends, nor joy, nor leisure— Here I must have them all, or die, Or lead a life devoid of pleasure— Such now lead I. No life of pain and toil for me! Of home unhoped for—friends unkind! Better the desert's waveless sea, And stormy wind. Better a life amid the wild Storm-hearted children of the plain, Than this, with heart and soul defiled By sorrow's rain. Out to the desert! from this mart Of bloodless cheeks, and lightless eyes, And broken hopes, and shattered hearts, And miseries. Out to the desert! from the sway Of falsehood, crime, and heartlessness; Better a free life for a day Than years like this.
Once more unto the desert, where My gun and steed shall be my friends: And I shall ask no aidance there— As little lend. Farewell, my father-land! Afar I make my last and kind farewell. I did think to have seen thee—ah! How hopes will swell! Farewell forever! Take the last Sad gift, my father-land, of one Struck by misfortune's chilling blast, Yet still thy son. Farewell, my land! Farewell my pen! Farewell, hard world—thy harder life! Now to the desert once again! The gun and knife! Ark. Territory, May 25, 1833. |
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