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The stake is made ready, the captives shall die;
To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear ;
To-morrow thy widow shall wield
The knife and the fire: be at rest!
The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course,
The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow;
I will think, Ollanahta ! of thee,
Will remember the days of our love.
Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat,
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung;
I gazed on the bow of thy strength
As it waved on the stream of the wind.
The scalps that we numbered in triumph were there,
And the musket that never was levelled in vain;
What a leap has it given my heart
To see thee suspend it in peace!
When the black and blood banner was spread to the gale,
[heard, When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was
I remember thy terrible eyes,
How they flashed the dark glance of thy joy.
I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek,
As thy hand from the pole reached its doers of death;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud,
Ere the thunder and lightning are born..
He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams,
Kindred Spirits of Him who is holy and great !
And where was thy warning, O Bird !
The timely announcer of ill ?
Alas! when thy brethren in conquest returned ;
When I saw the white plumes bending over their
And the pine-boughs of triumph before,
Where the scalps of their victory swung, -
The war-hymn they poured, and thy voice was not
there! I called thee; alas ! the white deerskin was brought;
And thy grave was prepared in the tent
Which I had made ready for joy!
Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit ;
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave!
To-morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge. WESTBURY, 1799.
THE OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON.
Now go to the battle, my Boy!
Dear child of my son,
There is strength in thine arm,
There is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labors of war.
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee,
When he went to the first of his fields.
He returned, in the glory of conquest returned :
Before him his trophies were borne, These scalps that have hung till the sun and the
Have rusted their raven locks.
Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived,
The day of the warrior's reward;
When the banners sunbeaming were spread,
And all hearts were dancing in joy
To the sound of the victory-drum.
The Heroes were met to receive their reward ;
But distinguishedamong the young Heroes that day,
The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen:
The swan-feathers hung from his neck,
His face like the rainbow was tinged,
And his eye, - how it sparkled in pride!
The elders approached, and they placed on his brow
The crown that his valor had won,
And they gave him the old honored name. They reported the deeds he had done in the war,
And the youth of the nation were told
To respect him, and tread in his steps.
My Boy! I have seen, and with hope,
The courage that rose in thine
When I told thee the tale of his death.
His war-pole now is gray with moss,
His tomahawk red with rust;
His bowstring, whose twang was death,
Now sings as it cuts the wind;
But his memory is fresh in the land,
And his name with the names that we love.
Go now and revenge him, my Boy ! That his Spirit no longer may hover by day
O’er the hut where his bones are at rest,
Nor trouble our dreams in the night.
My Boy, I shall watch for the warrior's return,
And my soul will be sad
Till the steps of thy coming I see.
What! and not one to heave the pious siglı ?
Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye,
For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,
Shall drop a tear, and dwell upon the dead ?
Poor, wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,
And sorrow for forlorn humanity.
Yes, I will weep, but not that thou art come
To the cold sabbath of the silent tomb;
For pining want and heart-consuming care,
Soul-withering evils, never enter there.
I sorrow for the ills thy life has known,
As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone,
Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,
Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on;
Thy youth in ignorance and labor passed,
And thine old age all barrenness and blast.
Hard was thy fate, which, while it doomed to woe,
Denied thee wisdom to support the blow,