Читать книгу Canadian Battlefields, and Other Poems - J. R. Wilkinson - Страница 15

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Ah! Nature with a lavish hand

Hath here her treasures strewn,

All undisturbed by ruthless man

That scathes and mars too soon.

Back o’er the silent phantom past,

Three hundred years ago,

Fair Point Pelee in rapture lay

Where laughing waters flow.

’Twas here the red man made his home,

Beneath the cedar shade;

The wigwams rose so quaint and queer

By quiet nook and glade.

This, the home of the Ojibways,

Fierce, untamed, and free;

They dwelt in peace and plenteousness

Beside this inland sea.

And Manitou had blest them so

With fish and luscious game;

The hunting grounds were so replete

Before the white man came!

Where now are termed the “Indian fields”

They grew the Indian corn,

And laugh and song with sweet content

Roused up the summer morn.

Far on the north the marshlands lay,

And pond, and wide lagoon;

The home of snipe and mallard ducks,

Geese, teal, and lonely loon.

Among the reeds, and rushes, too,

The muskrats built their homes;

They dotted o’er the wide expanse

With quaint, ingenious domes.

And Willow Island far away,

Stirred by the toying breeze

That makes the rice and grass fields wave

Like tossing emerald seas.

From east to west, from shore to shore,

The teeming marshlands lay;

The Narrows, by the western shore,

A picturesque causeway.

The pass that leads by Sturgeon Creek,

And circles Pigeon Bay,

By which are reached fair Seacliff Heights,

And regions far away;

And looking southward, where the sun

In golden splendor smiles

On Pelee Island, fitly crowned

The queen of Erie’s isles.

Aye, here it was, the red man’s home,

Three hundred years ago;

And peace and plenty blest his lot

By the bright water’s flow.

He had the teeming forest glades

For every kind of game;

And Erie’s fulness rendered up

Fine fish of every name.

He drew on all the wide marshlands

For furs both soft and warm;

The bear and wild wolf tribute gave;

And when the winter’s storm

Whitened upon the sleeping hills,

Prepared, and safe from harm,

The wigwams all with plenty stored,

He knew no fell alarm.

Ah! oft these shores resounded

To his children’s sport so gay,

And the songs of Indian maidens,

Graceful as fawns at play;

And the shout and free, wild laughter

Of youths at game by day;

Or as o’er the laughing waters

In canoes they bore away.

Sometimes to the distant islands,

Or over Pigeon Bay,

They went in bold adventure

By sun, or star’s pale ray.

But the chiefs and older huntsmen

Smoked in serene content;

Many moons had taught them wisdom,

Calmness they with pleasure blent.

Thus in the summer’s rapture

Life was a peaceful dream;

And when winter fell upon them

The wigwams were serene

With warmth, good cheer and comfort:

The red man loved his home;

From his kindred and his nation

His heart would never roam.

He believed in the Great Spirit;

His subtle soul would thrill

To the voices heard in nature,

That taught the Great Spirit’s will.

Strange, mysterious people!

Who can thy origin trace?

Are ye one of the lost ten tribes

Of Israel’s wandering race?