It was not by the war-fire’s light,
With bright flames upward wreathed
Into the cloudless sky of night,
My battle vow was breathed;
It was not while the warriors flew,
With scalp-locks flung on air,
The mazes of the war-dance through,
My spirit poured its prayer.
Nor while the battle’s stormy strife
Shook the deep forests wide,
And tomahawk and scalping-knife
Flashed in their gleaming pride.
Alone I stood, amidst the dead,
When the spirit of repose,
That long had clasped my heart, had fled
And vengeance waked her throes.
The dead were round me; yes, my own,
The beautiful, the young;
Their calm looks waked the anguished tone
From Logan’s spirit wrung.
Then, only then, the wild flame woke,
And waved its scorching wings,
That, curbless in its frenzy, broke
My spirit’s slumberings.
The silence of the midnight hour,
Unbroken by a sound,
Hung over all, with spell-fraught power
Beneath its stillness bound;
I stood, as stands the forest’s pride,
When all its leaves are strown,
Swept by the whirlwind wild and wide,
In desolation lone.
Changed in an hour, the white man’s friend
Gleamed in his war array;
The league forever at an end,
And lighted hatred’s ray:
Dark records traced by widow’s tears,
And wailings sad and low,
Have borne wild tales to other years
Of Logan’s vengeful vow.
* * * * *