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Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1833], The book of my lady: a melange (Key & Biddle, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf355]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
The Yemassees were a powerful nation of savages,
He fought his nation's foes 'til night Had cast her mantle round, Nor, in the stern, unequal fight, Where freemen battled for their right, Gave undisputed ground. His followers fell before his face— He stood—the last of all his race. His brother—him that pride had named The eagle of his land— In hunt, as well as battle, famed, Who once, the furious wolf had tamed, And with unweaponed hand— Himself the panther in the fight, Who sought it with a fierce delight— Before him fast expiring lay:— And he—whose name had been The signal, many a bloody day, For long and well contested fray— Known by his uncurb'd mien; Were then a trophy, worth the toil, Of young ambition, mad for spoil. Yet who shall tread the thicket's brake, And with undaunted heart, Arouse the coil'd and glittering snake With fearful fang, and eye awake, Nor backward shuddering start? There, coil'd as fate, the serpent lies, And he, who first approaches, dies. Thus, o'er his dying brother's brow, The brave Sanuté bends—
He wails his prostrate nation low, Lamenting for his kindred now— His people and his friends— But, with a fearful burst of grief, He mourns o'er all, that bleeding chief. “And thou,” he sung in earnest train, “Shalt seek the hunt no more— Nor whet the battle knife again, Nor strike the living, scalp the slain— Thy battle fields are o'er. Yet 'mong the western hills alone, Thou hast not, all-untended, gone. “Slain by thy self, full many a ghost Thy journey must partake— To waft thee to the happy coast, The spoilers of our land, a host, O'erspread the ocean lake— And many a maiden there, for thee, Shall make the sweet sagamité. “And I have seen thee bend the bow, And I have watch'd thee spring, With gleaming knife upon the foe, And far and fell the hatchet throw,— As swallow, swift on wing, Pursue the triumph with a flight, Unbroken by the long day's fight. “And, as becomes the Indian brave, When, in the battle's strife, O'erpower'd, he finds a bloody grave, Thou didst not vainly seek to save The last remains of life— Content, if fortune could not give Thy country freedom, not to live!
“The hunter, when the day is done— Must bark and dress the pine; And that the wolf his rest may shun, When the dark night comes stealing on, Must bid the fire light shine, But thou art happy now—I see, Thy slain foes do this work for thee. “Upon this bloody rock I stand, And gaze with ling'ring eye— Before me is my native land, Now blazing with the fatal brand— While round me, the last gallant band, My fellow warriors, lie. I may not stand and dwell alone, When all are perish'd thus, and gone. “The shaft is fitted to my bow,— One shade my soul demands, One gallant brave, one mighty foe, To cross with me the river's flow, And seek the happy lands.” He speaks no more—the shaft is gone, A plume is lost, a chief is down. The rose the cry of rage below, And up the dizzy height, Burning for vengeance came the foe, With meditated blast and blow, Though late all faint with fight.— With folded arms the warrior stands, And gazes on the coming bands! And will he tamely fall or fly, Survivor—last of all his race? Recreant, who does not dare to die, When country, honour, liberty, All bleed before his face—
Within his grasp, the foremost foe Goes with him o'er the mountain's brow. And still by old Salutah's wave, The boor, with certain hand, Will point the Indian warrior's grave, And still from old tradition save That story of his land— The fearful fight still known to fame, And how adown the steeps they came.
Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1833], The book of my lady: a melange (Key & Biddle, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf355]. |