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There was a stir in Pennsylvanian woods:
A gathering as the war-cry forth had gone;
And, like the sudden gush of Autumn floods,
Stream’d from all points the warrior-tribes to one.
Ev’n in the farthest forest solitudes,
The hunter stopped the battle-plume to don,
And turn’d with knife, with hatchet, and with bow,
Back, as to bear them on a sudden foe.
Swiftly, but silently, each dusky chief
Sped ’neath the shadow of continuous trees;
And files whose feet scarce stirr’d the trodden leaf;
And infant-laden mothers, scorning ease;
And childhood, whose small footsteps, light and brief,
Glanced through the forest, like a fluttering breeze,
Followed--a numerous, yet a silent band,--
As to some deed, high, fateful, and at hand.
But where the foe? By the broad Delaware,
Where flung a shadowy elm its branches wide,--
In peaceful garments, and with hands that bare
No sign of war,--a little band they spied.
Could _these_ be whom they sought? And did they fare
Forth from their deserts, in their martial pride,
Thus at _their_ call? They did. No trumpet’s tongue
Had pierced their wild-woods with a voice so strong.
Who were they? Simple pilgrims:--it may be,
Scarce less than outcasts from their native isles,--
From Britain,--birth-place of the great and free,
Where heavenly lore threw round its brightest smiles,
Then why depart? Oh seeming mockery!
Were they not here, on this far shore, exiles,
Simply because, unawed by power or ban,
They worshipped God but would not bow to man?
Oh! Truth! Immortal Truth! on what wild ground
Still hast thou trod through this unspiritual sphere!
The strong, the brutish, and the vile surround
Thy presence, lest thy streaming glory cheer
The poor, the many, without price or bound.
Drowning thy voice, they fill the popular ear,
In thy high name, with canons, creeds, and laws,
Feigning to serve, that they may mar thy cause.
And the great multitude doth crouch, and bear
The burden of the selfish. That emprize,
That lofty spirit of virtue which can dare
To rend the bands of Error from all eyes;
And from the freed soul pluck each sensual care,
To them is but a fable. Therefore lies
Darkness upon the mental desert still;
And wolves devour, and robbers walk at will.
Yet, ever and anon, from thy bright quiver,
The flaming arrows of thy might are strown;
And, rushing forth, thy dauntless children shiver
The strength of foes who press too near thy throne.
Then, like the sun, or thy Almighty Giver,
Thy light is through the startled nations shown:
And generous indignation tramples down
The sophist’s web, and the oppressor’s crown.
Oh might it burn for ever! But in vain--
For vengeance rallies the alarmed host,
Who from men’s souls draw their dishonest gain.
For thee they smite, audaciously they boast,
Even while thy sons are in thy bosom slain.
Yet this is thy sure solace,--that, not lost,
Each drop of blood, each tear,--Cadmean seed,
Shall send up armed champions in thy need.
And these were of that origin. Thy stamp
Was on their brows, calm, fearless, and sublime.
And they had held aloft thy heavenly lamp;
And borne its odium as a fearful crime,
And therefore, through their quiet homes the tramp
Of Rain passed,--laying waste all that Time
Gives us of good; and, where Guilt fitly dwells,
Had made them homes in execrable cells.
We dwell in peace;--_they_ purchased it with blood.
We dwell at large;--’twas _they_ who wore the chain,
And broke it. Like the living rocks they stood,
Till their invincible patience did restrain
The billows of men’s fury. Then the rude
Shock of the past diffused a mild disdain
Through their pure hearts, and an intense desire
For some calm land where freedom might respire.
Some land where they might render God his due,
Nor stir the gall of the blind zealot’s hate.
Some land where came Thought’s soul-refreshing dew
And Faith’s sublimer visions. Where elate,
Their simple-hearted children they might view,
Springing in joy,--heirs of a blest estate:
And where each worn and weary mind might come
From every realm, and find a tranquil home.
And they sought this. Yet, as they now descried
From the near forest, pouring, horde on horde,
Armed, painted, plumed in all their martial pride,
The dwellers of the woods--the men abhorred
As fierce, perfidious, and with blood bedyed,
Felt they no dread? No;--for their breasts were stored
With confidence which pure designs impart,
And faith in Him who framed the human heart.
And they--the children of the wild--why came
They at this summons? Swiftly it had flown
Far through their woods, like wind, or wind-sent flame,
Followed by rumours of a stirring tone,
Which told that, all unlike, except in name,
To those who yet had on their shores been known,
_These_ white men--wearers of the peaceful vest,--
Craved, in their vales, a brother’s home and rest.
On the red children of the desert, fell
The tidings, like spring’s first delicious breath;
For they had loved the strangers all too well;
And still--though reaping ruin, scorn, and death
For a frank welcome, and broad room to dwell,
Given to the faithless boasters of pure faith,--
Their wild, warm feelings kindled at the sight
Of Virtue arm’d but with her native might.
What term we savage? The untutored heart
Of Nature’s child is but a slumbering fire;
Prompt at each breath, or passing touch, to start
Into quick flame, as quickly to retire:
Ready alike, its pleasance to impart,
Or scorch the hand which rudely wakes its ire:
Demon or child, as impulse may impel;
Warm in its love, but in its vengeance fell.
And these Columbian warriors to their strand
Had welcomed Europe’s sons,--and rued it sore,
Men with smooth tongues, but rudely armed hand;
Fabling of peace when meditating gore;
Who, their foul deeds to veil, ceased not to brand
The Indian name on every Christian shore.
What wonder, on such heads, their fury’s flame
Burst, till its terrors gloomed their fairer fame.
For they were not a brutish race, unknowing
Evil from good; their fervent souls embraced
With virtue’s proudest homage to o’erflowing
The mind’s inviolate majesty. The past
To them was not a darkness; but was glowing
With splendour which all time had not o’ercast;
Streaming unbroken from creation’s birth,
When God communed and walked with men on earth.
Stupid idolatry had never dimmed
The Almighty image in their lucid thought.
To him alone their jealous praise was hymned;
And hoar Tradition, from her treasury, brought
Glimpses of far-off times, in which were limned
His awful glory: and their prophets taught
Precepts sublime,--a solemn ritual given,
In clouds and thunder, to their sires from heaven.
And, in the boundless solitude which fills,
Even as a mighty heart, their wild domains;
In caves and glens of the unpeopled hills;
And the deep shadow that for ever reigns
Spirit-like in their woods; where, roaring, spills
The giant cataract to the astounded plains,
Nature, in her sublimest moods, had given,
Not man’s weak lore,--but a quick flash from heaven.
Roaming, in their free lives, by lake and stream;
Beneath the splendour of their gorgeous sky;
Encamping, while shot down night’s starry gleam,
In piny glades, where their forefathers lie;
Voices would come, and breathing whispers seem
To rouse within the life which may not die;
Begetting valorous deeds, and thoughts intense,
And a wild gush of burning eloquence.
Such were the men who round the pilgrims came.
Oh! righteous heaven! and thou, heaven-dwelling sun!
How from my heart spring tears of grief and shame,
To think how runs--and quickly shall have run
O’er earth, for twice a thousand years, your flame,
Since, for man’s weal, Christ’s victories were won;
Since dying, to his sons, love’s gift divine
He gave, the bond of brotherhood and the sign.--
Where shines the symbol? Europe’s mighty states,
The brethren of the cross--from age to age,
Have striven to quench in blood their quenchless hates;
Or--cease their armed hosts awhile their rage,
’Tis but that Peace may half unclose her gates
In mockery; that each diplomatic sage
May treat and sign, while War recruits his power
And grinds the sword fresh millions to devour.
Yet thus could, in a savage-styled land,
A few,--reviled, scorn’d, hated of the whole,
Stretch forth for peace the unceremonious hand,
And stamp Truth, even upon a sealed scroll.
They called not God, or men, in proof to stand:
They prayed no vengeance on the perjured soul:
But heaven look’d down, and moved with wonder saw
A compact framed, where time might bring no flaw.
Yet, through the land no clamorous triumph spread.
Some bursts of natural eloquence were there:
Somewhat of his past wrongs the Indian said;
Of deeds design’d which now were given to air.
Some tears the mother o’er her infant shed,
As through her soul pass’d Hope’s depictions fair;
And they were gone--the guileless scene was o’er;
And the wild woods absorb’d their tribes once more.
Ay, years have rolled on years, and long has Penn
Pass’d, with his justice, from the soil he bought;
And the world’s spirit, and the world’s true men
Its native sons with different views have sought.
Crushing them down till they have risen again
With bloodiest retribution; yet have taught,
Even while their hot revenge spread fire and scath,
Their ancient, firm, inviolable faith.
When burst the war-whoop at the dead of night,
And the blood curdled at the dreadful sound;
And morning brought not its accustomed light
To thousands slumbering in their gore around;
Then, like oases in the desert’s blight,
The homes of Penn’s peculiar tribe were found:
And still the scroll he gave, in love and pride,
Their hands preserve,--earth has not such beside.
Yes; prize it, waning race, for never more
Shall your wild glades another Penn behold:
Pure, dauntless legislator, who did soar
Higher than dared sublimest thought of old.
That antique lie which bent the great of yore,
And ruleth still--Expedience stern and cold,
He pluck’d with scorn from its usurped car
And showed Truth strong, and glorious as a star.
The vast, the ebbless, the engulphing tide
Of the white population still rolls on!
And quail’d has your romantic heart of pride,--
The kingly spirit of the woods is gone.
Farther, and farther do ye wend to hide
Your wasting strength; to mourn your glory flown,
And sigh to think how soon shall crowds pursue
Down the lone stream where glides the still canoe.
And ye, a beautiful nonentity, ere long,
Shall live but with past marvels, to adorn
Some fabling theme, some unavailing song.
But ye have piled a monument of scorn
For trite oppression’s sophistry of wrong.
Proving, by all your tameless hearts have borne,
What now ye _might_ have been, had ye but met
With love like yours, and faith unwavering yet.
The authors of “Penn and the Indians” justly observe in the last note
upon their exalted poem, that “it is William Penn’s peculiar honour to
stand alone as a statesman, in opposing principle to expedience, in
public as well as in private life. Even Aristides, the very beau-ideal
of virtuous integrity, failed in this point. The success of the
experiment has been as splendid as the most philosophic worshipper of
abstract morals could have hoped for or imagined.” These sentences
exemplify an expression elsewhere--“Politics are Morals.”
*
[365] This sash is now in the possession of Thomas Kett, Esq. of
Seething-hall, near Norwich.
[366] Mr. Clarkson’s Life of W. Penn.
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