Bent upon him with such a steady gaze, That not more fixed was death's own horrid glaze! Then lifting his long swarthy finger high, To where the sun's bright beams just tinged the sky, And o'er the parting day its glories spread, Which was to close when their sad souls had fled,- "White man," he cried, in low mysterious tone, Caught but by Rathmond's listening ear alone, "Ere the bright eye of yon red orb shall sleep, This haughty chief his fallen tribe shall weep!" He said no more, for lo! the death-yells cease. 'Tis hushed! no sound is echoed through the place! The opening ring disclosed a female there, In a rich mantle shrouded, save her hair, Which long and dark, luxuriant round her hung, With many a clear, white pearl and dew-drop strung!
She threw back the mantle which shaded her face, She spoke not, but looked the pale spirit of woe! The angel of mercy! the herald of grace!
Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe! "My father! my father!" the maiden exclaims, "Oh doom not the white man to die midst the flames! 'Tis thy daughter who kneels! 't is Chicomico sues! Can my father, the friend of my childhood, refuse? This heart is the white man's! with him will I die! With him, to the Great Spirit's mansion I'll fly! The flames which to heaven will waft his pure soul, Round the form of thy daughter encircling shall roll! My life is his life-his fate shall be mine;
For his image around thy child's heart will entwine!"
Man's breast may be cruel, and savage, and stern; From the sufferings of others it heedless may turn; To the pleadings of want, to the wan face of woe, To the sorrow-wrung drops which around it may flow,
But 't will melt like the snow on the Apennine's breast, As the sunbeam falls light, on its fancy-crowned crest, When the voice of a child to its cold ear is given, Fill'd with sorrow's sad notes like the music of Heaven.
"Loose the white man," the king in an agony cried, "My child, what you plead for, can ne'er be denied! The pris'ner is yours! to enslave or to free! I yield him, Chicomico, wholly to thee;
But remember!" he cried, while pride conquered his
"Remember, thy father is Hillis-ad-joe!" He frowned, and his brow, like the curtains of night, Looked darker, when tinged by a moon-beam of light; Chicomico saw-she saw, and with dread, The storm, which returning, might burst o'er her head; And quickly to Rathmond she turned with a sigh, While a love-brightened tear veiled her heavenly eye.
"Go, white man, go! without a fear; Remember you to one are dear; Go! and may peace your steps attend; Chicomico will be your friend. To-morrow eve, with us may close Joyful, and free from cares or woes; To-morrow eve may also end, And find me here without a friend! Remember then the Indian maid, Whose voice the burning brand hath stayed! But should I be, as now I am,
And thou in prison and in woe, Think that this heart is still the same, And turn thee to Chicomico! Then, go! yes, go! while yet you may, Dread death awaits you, if you stay! May the Great Spirit guard and guide Your footsteps through the forest wide!"
She said, and wrapped the mantle near Her fragile form, with hasty hand, Just bowed her head, and shed one tear, Then sped him to his native land.
The wind is swift, and mountain hart, From huntsman's bow, the feathered dart; But swifter far the pris'ner's flight, When freed from dungeon-chains and night! So Rathmond felt, but wished to show How much he owed Chicomico; But she had fled; she did not hear! She did not mark the grateful tear Which quivered in the hero's eye; Nor did she catch the half-breathed sigh; And Heaven alone could hear the prayer, Which Rathmond's full heart proffered there.
WHILE Swift on his way young Rathmond sped, Death's horrors awaited those he fled. Already were the prisoners bound,
One word, and every torch would fly; No step was heard, nor feeblest sound, Save the death-raven's wing on high ! The sign was given, each blazing brand Like lightning, shot from every hand; The crackling, sparkling fagots blazed,- Then Montonoc his dark eye raised; He whistled shrill-an answering call Told that each foeman then should fall! Sudden a band of warriors flew From earth, as if from earth they grew.
The brake, the fern, and hazel-down, Blazed brightly in the sinking sun; Confusion, blood, and carnage then Spread their broad pinions o'er the glen; The blazing brands were quenched in blood, And Montonoc unshackled stood!
He paused one moment-dark he frowned, By dire revenge and slaughter crowned; Then bent his bow, let loose the dart, And pierced the foeman Chieftain's heart. Yes, Montonoc, thy arrow sped, For Hillis-ha-ad-joe is dead!
And now within their hidden tent, The conquered make their sad lament; Before them lay their slaughtered king, While slowly round they form the ring; Dread e'en in death, the Chieftain's form Seemed made to stride the whirlwind storm: Upon his brow a dreadful frown Still lingered as the warrior's crown; And yet it seemed as mortal ire Still sparkled in that eye of fire, And blazing, soon should light the face O'er which death's shadow held its place, And like the lightning 'neath a cloud, Shoot, flaming from its sable shroud. But, hark! low notes of sorrow break The solemn calm, and o'er the lake, Float on the bosom of the gale; Hark! 't is the Chieftain's funeral wail!
Fallen, fallen, fallen low Lies great Hillis-ha-ad-joe! To the land of the dead, By the white man sped!
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer!
Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe!
Chaunt his death-dirge sad and slow; In the battle he fell, in the fight he died,
And many a brave warrior sunk by his side. In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer.
The sun is sinking in the deep, Our "mighty fallen one" we weep; Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe!
The axe has laid our broad oak low!
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer.
The last sad note had sunk on the breeze, Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees, When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along, But joined not her voice to the funeral song. When the notes cease, she knelt, and in accents of woe, Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe. Her words were but few, and her manner was wild, For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan
She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red,
She looked, and that glance told that reason had fled!
Why does thy eye roll wild, Chicomico? Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough? Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair? Read! for the "wreck of reason's written there!" 'Tis true! the storm was high, the surges wild, And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child! Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea, Say! who is left to love, to comfort thee?
« ForrigeFortsæt » |