Читать книгу Anecdotes of the American Indians - John Lauris Blake - Страница 8

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(See Frontispiece.)

“I come, my Wilwullah!

Guide hither our boy!

I bring from the forest

Its spirit and joy:

Why lingereth my soft-eyed?”

And dark grew his brow;

“Thy hunter returneth—

Where, truant, art thou?”

He enters his wigwam—

What meaneth that cry?

His bold form what freezeth?

What filmeth his eye?

The work of the white men!

His mate of the wood,

And their fawns, the light-footed,

All couched in their blood!

Before a cold foeman

The Indian is cold;

But his heart in his wild-wood

Is like molten gold.

The warrior has clasped them—

He’s red in their gore!

Has raved and wept o’er them—

But ne’er will weep more!

“Ye snow-brow destroyers!

Ye false and ye foul!

For this, by Manito!

For this shall ye howl!

I swear that pale thousands

Shall weep for this blow;

For each drop here wasted,

Red rivers shall flow!

“When smoke dims the distance,

And shrieks fill the air,

Then white lips will whisper,

‘Fly! Weatherford’s there!’

Your warriors shall perish;

We’ll laugh at their shame;

And the blood of your loved ones

Shall hiss in the flame!”

How was that vow answered?

Ask Mimms: it will tell!

Where the battle was hottest

There his hatchet fell;

Where the shriek was the loudest,

Where freest ran blood,

Be sure, mid his victims,

There Weatherford stood!

But feeble the red men,

Though fierce in the fray;

Like mists in the morning,

They melted away.

“Give us peace!” prayed the vanquished;

“The white chieftain gives

No peace”—was the answer—

“While Weatherford lives.”

That lion-souled chieftain’s1

Alone in his tent:

’Tis midnight; still over

His toil he is bent.

The drapery is rustled—

He turns not his ear:

“Ho! Look up, proud warrior,

Thy foeman is here!”

A dark form stood o’er him,

His red arm on high;

But quailed not the chieftain

Beneath his dark eye.

“What art thou, bold savage?

Sooth, light the foot fell

That stole through the watch

Of my tried sentinel.”

“Where Weatherford willeth,

Even there will he go;

He heeds not thy sentry

When seeking his foe.”

“I fear thee not, boaster!”

“Thou needest not fear;

For peace for my people,

For peace came I here.

“Thou’d’st have me sent to thee,

And sent to thee bound;

But Weatherford dies not

The death of a hound:

No recreant, no trembler,

No captive am I—

I’ve fetterless lived, and

Will fetterless die.

“To save my crushed people

I die, but die free—

A sacrifice worthy

Of them and of thee!”

“No—back to thy forest—

Bold warrior go!

I strike not the head

That is bent to the blow

“Aye, go! but remember

When meet we again,

Thy lot is the gibbet,

The cord and the chain.

Be strong for the battle!

No quarter we yield:

No fear and no mercy!

Now, back to the field!”

“I long have fought with thee,

And still would fight on—

But my true Seminoles—

My warriors are gone!

My brave ones I’d rally,

And fight at their head;

But where is the warrior

Can rally the dead!

“At red Talledegha,

Emuckfaw they stood—

Thou knowest that our valleys

Are black with their blood.

By the wailing Savannah

Unburied they lie;

Spare, warrior, the remnant,

Let Weatherford die!”

No longer the soldier

The bold plea could hear,

But quick from his bronzed cheek

He hurried a tear.

“Devoted and brave! As

Thou will’st shall it be;

Here’s peace to thy people,

And friendship for thee!”