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, Will remember the days of our love. Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat, As it waved on the stream of the wind. The scalps that we numbered in triumph were there, 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 heads, 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 Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit; To-morrow the victims shall die, 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. 2. He returned, in the glory of conquest returned: These scalps that have hung till the sun and the rain Have rusted their raven locks. Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived, When the banners sunbeaming were spread, To the sound of the victory-drum. The Heroes were met to receive their reward; 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. 3. My Boy! I have seen, and with hope, When I told thee the tale of his death. His bowstring, whose twang was death, But his memory is fresh in the land, And his name with the names that we love. 4. 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. WESTBURY, 1799. OCCASIONAL PIECES. I. THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. WHAT! and not one to heave the pious sigh? Yes, I will weep, but not that thou art come |