Classic Poem

The glory of the Indian is no more!
His star is set! Upon the mountain tops
No longer do the savage nations bow
To the Eternal Spirit, when the Sun
Hangs out his crimson banner in the East;
No more they follow in the autumn day
Their game along the vallies, with the spear,
And the lithe arrow; and no longer light
Their fire upon the cliff, when comes the Eve
To weep around Day's melancholy urn.

The innumerable tribes have passed away!
Even as the silver vapor that is hung
Like a bright crown on Morning's blushing brow,
Or faded leaves in bleak November's wood.
No more their step is heard along the vale,
Nor shout upon the mountains, nor the songs
Of their triumphant battles. Their large bow,
And the long, feathered-arrow, have been broken;
The eagle plume into the dust is cast;
The sharp canoe that rocked upon the stream
Is rotting at the river's lonely marge;
And the rude huts of their forefathers lie
A ruin in the valley; and the graves
Of their dead ancestors have been profaned;
For they were weeds cast forth on life's rough sea!

Oh! happy were thy people, Indian King!
When these dark woods that stand like giants round,
In their eternal grandeur, were thine own,
And the everlasting hills were thine,
Those wild, magnificent mountains, whose bright peaks,
And vapory cones, forever in the sky
Frown in majestic pomp. Thine were the lakes!
Those lonely worlds of waters! beautiful!
When the old trees that fringe their sedgy marge
Were imaged in the motionless abyss,
And the evening star smiled on the silver wave;
Yet grand as the blue ocean, when the Night
Hung o'er them with the Darkness and the Storm.

All still and solitary slept the lakes
In those primeval years, save when the wing
Of the far-flying eagle, poised above
The restless surge, or when the Indian bark
Flew like a painted shaft across the wave.
High was the savage spirit then, and free
As the gay breeze that runs along the trees
Sporting in mountain hoar, or valley dim,
Rejoicing in its freedom!
When the woods,
Put on their robe of blossoms, he would take
His bow and rattling quiver, and for food
Hunt the wild animal, or cast his line
Where the clear brook creeps thro' the meadow green,
Or sparkles from its rocky basin's brim
In many a bright cascade: and his garb
Was skin of shaggy bear, or howling wolf
Slain in the darkling forest. But when high
In his bright chariot regal Autumn rode,
And from his o'erflowing beaker showered down
With prodigal hand, his many-colored hues
Upon the mossy woods, crimson and gold;
Distaining the maple's leaf in scarlet dye,
And the oak's green coronal, like the dawn,
Then gathered he the ripe fruits of the earth,
From the maze-planted glade, or the ear
Of shining corn, full in its rustling husk,
Or the wild-nuts, thick scattered by the wind,
And the rich black grape, whose clusters bend
With their delicious weight, the drooping vine,
Over the lapsing current of the stream.

So pass'd their even days—from year to year,
Father and son possessed the land in peace,
And were content and happy. When the sire
Grew old; far-travelled down the vale of years,
And happy on that last bright journey to depart,
That leadeth to the Indian's paradise,
Then piously the son hearsed him in earth;
And in the wars and councils, filled his place.

Then was the Indian innocent! and his heart
Glowed with a pure devotion as the voice
Of Nature, eloquent, yet inaudible
Sank deep into his soul. E'en the invisible wind
That shook the forests; and the foamy sea
Whose curling waves sport on the yellow beach,
And the round, red moon, whose steady flame
Made bright the Indian's path upon the hills,
And the innumerable stars that shine,
Like jewels in the midnight firmament,
And the beneficent sun, in whose broad track
The seasons in harmonious order move;
Had each, and all, a lesson for his heart;
Teaching him the existence of a God;
The eternal framer of the Universe;
Who scooped the hollow vallies with his hand,
And to the heaven's raised the everlasting hills.

Most simple was the Indian's worship then;
Without the vain parade, and dazzling show,
With which man mocks his Maker; He knelt down
In the solitary wood, when the Day sent
His earliest flame along the dewy mist;
And again, when the Twilight's transient flame
Crimsoned the glassy pool. How could his heart
Partake not of the deep religion of the woods,
And in the gloomy wilderness worship not!
For like a great Cathedral, were their depths,
Awful and dim, and in the gloom of night
Peopled with spectres of their ancient kings
And chieftain's long-departed.


Dim were their aisles
And venerable, with the slow decay
Of ages:—There like pillars rose the trees,
Drooping in lifeless beauty, closely clasped
By the pale clambering ivy: like a bride
Clinging to her lover, and mantled thick
By mosses, glorious as the regal velvet,
High above those motionless columns, rose
The leafy roof, a noble canopy!
How solemn in such wilderness, the voice
Of human worship! There no empty pomp,
Nor blaze of jewelry, nor flash of plumes,
Nor glitter of gay equipage, nor sound
Of idle laughter, ever led away
The worshipper's affections from his God.

There only came the Savage, to build up
His rude and simple altar, and there place
His offerings, the simple fruits of earth,
And kneel to the great Spirit of his tribe.
There all was still, save bubbling of the brook
That gaily o'er its stony channel leaped;
Or when the mighty organ of the wind
Raised up that tuneful anthem, which has rung
Since the Creation day; or when the hoof
Of the unwieldy buffalo shook the earth;
Or the wild fawn tripp'd through the shadowy glade
Or pass'd from tree to tree, the lonely bird.

Happy those golden days, no more to be!
The years of Indian freedom. Then he walked,
A king, upon his native hills; unawed
Save by the God of thunders; then his heart
Was all untainted by the fellowship
Of civilized man. Then in quiet slept
His simple nature, undisturbed, unvexed
By wild and wicked passion, and mad rage,
And the tumultuous tempest of revenge!
War was no frenzied pastime to him then;
His hand bore not the fearful stain of blood;
And he rejoiced not then with savage joy
In the calamities of human-kind.
He sharpened then his arrow but to slay
The animal that howled around his hut,
Or drive back to the desert some wild Tribe
Of hostile savages, seeking to lay waste
His native valley and his pastures green.

He loved his children then; and when the God
Of the resplendent Morning reached his throne
Above the mountains, clad in robes of light,
Then would he lead his boy to the sea shore,
Where the smooth beach stretched far its shelly road,
And strengthen his young sinews, in the race,
Or in rude buffets with the ruffian wave.
And well he loved to teach him how to bend
His stripling bow, and aim his mimic shaft.
And when the curling smoke above his roof,
Glowed in the yellow twilight he would sit
Before his cabin door, to watch his sports,
And hear his innocent and merry laugh,
All the gay glee of childhood's mirthful day!

Happy the Indian then! His bark was cast
Upon the bright, unruffled stream of Life;
And down that noiseless river he was borne
Unvexed by misery's blast, or passion's wave!
Life's shore was bright with flowers; on its marge
The merry hours danced by, and Pleasure threw
Her flowery chaplet in his peaceful course,
And sang her siren song. Unto his eye
The end of Life's bright river, where its wave
Emptieth in Eternity, was all light,
And everlasting sunshine, and deep bliss.
It seemed a Country beautiful to see;
A garden where the rich, wild Indian flowers,
Lived in eternal bloom; and where dark woods,
Dim and interminable, ever shook
To the Great Spirit's voice, and to the tread
Of warriors and great kings, whose bones were laid
In their last earthly dwelling 'neath the sod
Of the weed-covered burial place, ages since.

Many a long Year hath passed away,
Since the last tribe of Indians were o'erthrown
And vanquished here in fight. They were a tribe
Once mighty in the land; but they fell at length;
And to the stranger left their ancient realm.
How sorrowful their hearts! when to their dead
The last, sad melancholy rite was paid.
They buried their old men and the young boy,
And the gigantic chieftain, in their last,
And narrow house! They placed his shattered spear
At the dead hunter's side, and the tough bow,
The unerring arrow, and the plaited shield,
Upon their scarred and battle-beaten breasts,
And lifted up their melancholy hymn,
And then departed!


For many a year
They journeyed through the wilderness, crossing
The torrent on the hills; and traversing plains
And difficult mountains, seeking still,
The country of the setting sun.—Often times
The waters of our dim and misty lakes
Were ploughed by their sharp shallops; oft the eye
Of the far herdsman, on his lonely hill,
Had caught the glitter of his birchen bark,
Traversing those mighty inland seas.
After the lapse of many moons, they paused,
Upon the mountains; there to build their camp,
And call those hills their own. The gloomy pines
On that wild spot, had never heard the voice
Of their white conquerers;—free, as was the deer,
Or the ferocious animal, could be
The Indian's footstep there.


It was a night
Of the Autumnal Season, and the Moon,
Traversing the broad, blue sea above,
Like their own curved canoe, filled all the hills
And vallies round about, with silver light.
They gazed abroad and smiled; deeming the moon,
Was a bright, peaceful image of the life
That they might lead hereafter. And they spoke
Of their lost battles and their wasted tribe,
And of those brethren who had gone to rest,
‘After life's fitful fever;’ and they mused,
On their long travel in the wilderness,
And on the coming seasons that would bring
Peace to their fallen race. But e'en then
The wing of Death o'erhung them, and their Chief,
The Patriarch of their people, and their king,
Grew faint and feeble, and as death drew near,
His dying hymn, thus trembled on his lip.

‘I know by this strange chillness, that my Sun
Of life is to its setting, drawing near;
I know that when this autumn night is done,
My fainting spirit shall not linger here,
Brethren! I hasten to that distant land,
To banquet with the mighty spirit-band.

‘Broad are the pleasant pastures there, and fleet
The bounding deer-herds in their prairie plains,
And swifter still, the Indian kings, that meet,
To hunt them there, and joyous the wild strains,
Poured by their bugles and their war horns clear,
When the Tribes muster with the bow and spear.

‘My race is buried in the Wilderness!
Gone from the earth!—and now my hour is near;
Thrice pleasant is the thought that I shall press,
The green turf-hillock, in my mountain land.
My fathers call me from their blissful place,
I join them soon—farewell my fallen race.’

Thus died the last great chief; and of his tribe
But few poor relics in the land are left.
A few unto the Setting Sun have gone,
And in the wild, their lonely wigwam built.

Yet sometimes in the gay and noisy street
Of the great City, which usurps the place
Of the small Indian village, one shall see
Some miserable relic of that race,
Whose sorely-tarnished fortunes we have sung.
Yet how debased and fallen! In his eye
The flame of noble daring is gone out,
And his brave face has lost its martial look.
His eye rests on the earth, as if the Grave
Were his sole hope, his last and only Home.
A poor, thin garb is wrapped about his frame,
Whose sorry plight but mocks his ancient state!
And in the bleak and pitiless storm he walks,
With melancholy brow, and shivers as he goes
His pride is dead; his courage is no more;
His name is but a bye-word; all the Tribes
Who called this mighty Continent their own,
Are homeless, friendless Wanderers on earth!