Fragment of an Indian Poem.

    *        *        *        *        *        *

They come!--Be firm--in silence rally!
The long-knives our retreat have found!
Hark!--their tramp is in the valley,
And they hem the forest round!
The burdened boughs with pale scouts quiver,
The echoing hills tumultuous ring,
While across the eddying river
Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring!
The blood-hounds darken land and water;
They come--like buffaloes for slaughter!

See their glittering ranks advancing,
See upon the free winds dancing
Pennon proud and gaudy plume.
The strangers come in evil hour,
In pomp, and panoply, and power!
But, while upon our tribes they lower,
Think they our manly hearts will cower
To meet a warrior's doom?

Right they forget while strength they feel;
Our veins they drain, our land they steal;
And should the vanquished Indian kneel,
They spurn him from their sight!
Be set for ever in disgrace
The glory of the red-man's race,
If from the foe we turn our face,
Or safety seek in flight!

They come--Up, and upon them braves!
Fight for your alters and your graves!
Drive back the stern, invading slaves,
In fight till now victorious!
Like lightning from storm-clouds on high,
The hurtling, death-winged arrows fly,
And wind-rows of pale warriors die!--
Oh! never was the sun's bright eye
Looked from his hill-tops in the sky
Upon a field so glorious!

        *        *        *        *        *        *

They're gone--again the red-men rally;
With dance and song the woods resound:
The hatchet's buried in the valley;
No foe profanes our hunting-ground!
The green leaves on the blithe boughs quiver,
The verdant hills with song-birds ring,
While our bark-canoes the river
Skim like swallows on the wing.
Mirth pervades the land and water,
Free from famine, sword, and slaughter.

        *        *        *        *        *        *

Let us, by this gentle river,
Blunt the axe and break the quiver,
While, as leaves upon the spray,
Peaceful flow our cares away.

        *        *        *        *        *        *

Yet, alas! the hour is brief
Left for either joy or grief!
All on earth that we inherit
From the hands of the Great Spirit--
Wigwam, hill, plain, lake, and field--
To the white-man must we yield;
For, like sun-down on the waves,
We are sinking to our graves!

From this wilderness of wo
Like the caravan we go,
Leaving all our groves and streams
For the far-off land of dreams.
There are prairies waving high,
Boundless as the sheeted sky,
Where our fathers' spirits roam,
And the red-man has a home.

Let tradition tell our story.
As we fade in cloudless glory,
As we seek the land of rest
Beyond the borders of the west,
No eye but ours may look upon--
WE ARE THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN.

        *        *        *        *        *        *

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Well-A-Day!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Walter Gay.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Silent Grief.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Millionaire.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Last Of The Red Men. - Indian Legends.

Travellers in Mexico have found the form of a serpent invariably pictured over the doorways of the Indian Temples, and on the interior walls, the impression of a red hand.

The superstitions attached to the phenomena of the thunderstorm and Aurora Borealis, alluded to in the poem, are well authenticated.


I saw him in vision,--the last of that race
Who were destined to vanish before the Pale-face,
As the dews of the evening from mountain and dale,
When the thirsty young Morning withdraws her dark veil;
Alone with the Past and the Future's chill breath,
Like a soul that has entered the valley of Death.

He stood where of old from the Fane of the Sun,
While cycles unnumbered their centuries run,
Never quenched, never fading, and mocking at Time,
Blazed the fire sace...

Mary Gardiner Horsford

To The Driving Cloud

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas;
Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken!
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints.
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints?

How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies!
How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains!
Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge
Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements,
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions
Starve in the gar...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Mississippi

Onward rolls the Royal River, proudly sweeping to the sea,
Dark and deep and grand, forever wrapt in myth and mystery.
Lo he laughs along the highlands, leaping o'er the granite walls;
Lo he sleeps among the islands, where the loon her lover calls.
Still like some huge monster winding downward through the prairied plains,
Seeking rest but never finding, till the tropic gulf he gains.
In his mighty arms he claspeth now an empire broad and grand;
In his left hand lo he graspeth leagues of fen and forest land;
In his right the mighty mountains, hoary with eternal snow,
Where a thousand foaming fountains singing seek the plains below.
Fields of corn and feet of cities lo the mighty river laves,
Where the Saxon sings his ditties o'er the swarthy warriors' graves.

Aye, before the...

Hanford Lennox Gordon

Tecumthe.

(From the "Globe.")


        October's leaf was sere;
        The day was dark and drear.
Wild war was loosed in rage o'er our quiet country then;
        When at Moravian town,
        Where the little Thames flows down,
In the net of battle caught was Proctor and his men.

        Caught in an evil plight,
        When he'd rather march than fight,
Every bit of British pluck and resolution gone.
        And sternly standing near,
        As a British brigadier,
Stood Tecumthe, our ally, the forests' bravest son.

        A prince, a leader born,
        His dark eye flashed with scorn,
He said: "My father, listen, there's rumours from afar,
        Of mishaps, and mistakes,
        Of disasters on the lakes,
My father need not ...

Nora Pembroke

The Iroquois Side Of The Story.

I, an Iroquois brave,
Speak from my forest grave,
Where by Utawa's wave
            I sleep in glory.
Listen, pale faces, then,
Let years roll back again,
While of Iroquois men
            I tell the story,

We were the foremost race,
That roamed the forest space;
None stood before our face,
            Rousing our fierce wrath;
By Stadacona's steep,
Where Santee's waters sleep,
Prairie broad, valley deep,
            Have been our war path.

Eries by inland seas,
Mountain bred Cherokees,
Of us, Hodenosaunees,
            With fear grew frantic;
Feared us who made their home,
Under the pinetrees lone,
Where the winds lash to foam,
            The wild Atlantic.

Tribute from east and west,
Of what we ...

Nora Pembroke

An Indian At The Burial-Place Of His Fathers.

It is the spot I came to seek,
My fathers' ancient burial-place
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot, I know it well,
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river-side;
I know the shaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide,
The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not, I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop t...

William Cullen Bryant