There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high
And manly beauty of the Roman mould,
And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye
Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold;
Of passions scathed not by the blight of time,
Ambition, that survives the battle route.
The man within thee scorns to play the mime
To gaping crowds that compass thee about.
Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side,
Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.
Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet--
Vanquished and captive--dost thou deem that here--
The glowing day star of thy glory set--
Dull night has closed upon thy bright career?
Old forest lion, caught and caged at last,
Dost pant to roam again thy native wild?
To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast
Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child,
To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers,
And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?
For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter
The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers,
To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter
Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers.
Though thine be old, hereditary hate,
Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until
It had become a madness, 'tis too late
To crush the hordes who have the power, and will,
To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains,
And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.
Spite of thy looks of cold indifference,
There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder,
Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense
The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder?
Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings,
That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;--
Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things
Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by?
Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean,
What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion?
Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies
That grin in darkness in their coffin cases;
What think'st thou of the art of making mummies,
So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?
Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage
Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour;
Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,
Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower.
Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down,
Pass in a moment from a king--to clown.
Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow?
Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters
Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow
By a sly cup or so of our fire waters?
They are thy people's deadliest poison. They
First make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves,
And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,
And lives of misery, and early graves.
For by their power, believe me, not a day goes,
But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.
Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away?
To the deep bosom of thy forest home,
The hill side, where thy young pappooses play,
And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come?
Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws,
For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear,
Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,
That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here?
The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt,
Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.
Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast
Of the caged bird against his prison bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the west,
The victor of a hundred forest wars,
Should'st in thy age, become a raree show
Led, like a walking bear, about the town,
A new caught monster, who is all the go,
And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown?
Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about,
The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?
Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,
Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one,
The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame
Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,
And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee,
Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile,
Of a bound warrior in his agony,
Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile.
Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's,
Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.
Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree
Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now.
I'll not insult its fallen majesty,
Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough
Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould,
Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air,
No second verdure quickens in our cold
New, barren earth; no life sustains it there.
But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing,
Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."
Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,
Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;
The best of blood glows in thy every feature,
And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy,
Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;
Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye,
He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow
All question of thy noble family;
For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety,
A leader in our city good society.