The Lamentation of the Overflowing Heart of the Red Man of the Forest.
Hark! What is that I hear,
So mournfully ringing in my ear,
Like a death song of warriors,
For those who fell by their brave sires?
Is this the wail now sounding
For my unhappy future?
O my destiny, my destiny! How sinks my heart, as I behold my
inheritance all in ruins and desolation. Yes, desolation; the land the
Great Spirit has given us in which to live, to roam, to hunt, and build
our council fires, is no more to behold. Where once so many brave
Algonquins and the daughters of the forest danced with joy, danced with
gratitude to the Great Spirit for their homes, they are no more seen.
Our forests are gone, and our game is destroyed. Hills, groves and
dales once clad in rich mantle of verdure are stripped. Where is this
promised land which the Great Spirit had given to his red children as
the perpetual inheritance of their posterity from generation to
generation? Ah, the pale-faces who have left their fathers' land, far
beyond the ocean, have now come and dispossessed us of our heritage
with cruel deceit and force of arms. Still are they rolling on, and
rolling on, like a mighty spray from the deep ocean, overwhelming the
habitations of nature's children. Is it for the deeds of Pocahontas, of
Massasoit, of Logan, and hosts of others who have met and welcomed the
white men in their frail cabin doors when they were few in numbers,
cold and hungry? Is it for this that we have been plundered, and
expelled at the point of the bayonet from the hallowed graves of our
brothers and sires? O, my father, thou hast taught me from my infancy
to love this land of my birth; thou hast even taught me to say that "it
is the gift of the Great Spirit," when yet my beloved mother clasped me
close to her peaceful breast while she sang of the warlike deeds of the
great Algonquins. O, my father, our happiest days are o'er, and never
again shall we enjoy our forest home. The eagle's eye could not even
discover where once stood thy wigwam and thy peaceful council fire. Ah,
once it was the happy land, and all the charms were there which made
every Indian heart swell with thanks to the Great Spirit for their
happy homes. Melodious music was heard in every grove, sung by the wild
birds of the forest, who mingled their notes sweetly with the wild
chant of my beloved sisters at eve. They sang the song of lullaby to
the pawpose of the red man whilst swinging in the cradle from the shady
trees, wafted gracefully to and fro by the restless wind. The beautiful
old basswood tree bending so gracefully stood there, and the brown
thrush sang with her musical voice. That tree was planted there by the
Great Spirit for me to sport under, when I could scarcely bend my
little bow. Ah, I watched that tree from childhood to manhood, and it
was the dearest spot to me in this wide world. Many happy youthful days
have I spent under this beautiful shady tree. But alas, alas, the white
man's ax has been there! The tree that my good spirit had planted for
me, where once the pretty brown thrush daily sat with her musical
voice, is cut down by the ruthless hands of the white man. 'Tis gone;
gone forever and mingled with the dust. Oh, my happy little bird, thy
warbling songs have ceased, and thy voice shall never again be heard on
that beautiful shady tree. My charming bird, how oft thou hast aroused
me from my slumber at early morn with thy melodious song. Ah, could we
but once more return to our forest glade and tread as formerly upon the
soil with proud and happy heart! On the hills with bended bow, while
nature's flowers bloomed all around the habitation of nature's child,
our brothers once abounded, free as the mountain air, and their glad
shouts resounded from vale to vale, as they chased o'er the hills the
mountain roe and followed in the otter's track. Oh return, return! Ah,
never again shall this time return. It is gone, and gone forever like a
spirit passed. The red man will never live happy nor die happy here any
more. 'Tis passed, 'tis done. The bow and quiver with which I have shot
many thousands of game is useless to me now, for the game is destroyed.
When the white man took every foot of my inheritance, he thought to him
I should be the slave. Ah, never, never! I would sooner plunge the
dagger into my beating heart, and follow the footsteps of my
forefathers, than be slave to the white man.
MACK-E-TE-BE-NESSY.