Classic Poem

The devil came up from hell
In a uniform of blue;
For he said, — They are doing well
The work that I love to do.
The Bashi Bazouk and Thug
Are worthy my friends to be;
But I long to clasp the hand
Of a captain of cavalry! —
Out from the land of sorrow
The Indian exiles fled,
And their trail through the wide frontier
Was strewn with their graveless dead:
Some where the threescore warriors
Turned at desperate bay;
Some where the feeble stragglers
Had fallen the borderer's prey.
Babes to their freezing mothers
Clung in the bitter wind;
But still they staggered onward,
For the war-wolves coursed behind.
Hail to the blasts of winter!
Cheers for the ice and snow!
The trooper's worthy allies
Are Famine and Want and Woe.

The curtain falls: and rises
On prisoners gaunt and wild,
On furious outraged manhood,
On starving mother and child.
For the voice of their heartless captor
Answers their urgent plea,
— I feed but the mild and docile,
And such ye have ceased to be. —

They heard in sullen silence,
Till the fatal midnight came,
And the voice of taunted nature
Burst forth like leaping flame.
Through bar and sash and paling
They dashed with a frantic rush,
And the helpless guards reeled backward
Like twigs in a torrent's gush.

The hapless fathers, bearing
Their children, led the way,
Or turned to drive the demons
Back from their feeble prey.
For soldiers and men and Christians, —
God, that such things should be! —
Pouring volley on volley,
Slaughtered remorselessly.
The voice of our highest culture
Swelled the devilish cry;
And the lessons of lordly Hudson
Aided the babes to die.
And as oft as the writhing wounded
Reared his wretched head,
Some ball-room gallant was ready
With his ounce of pistol-lead.

O men of honor and glory,
Men of trappings and pride,
You have changed for the worse since the darkness
Brooded while Jesus died!
In the light of his holy teaching,
Bearing His holier name,
You have done what the soldiers of Pilate
Would have shrunk from in burning shame.

But not in vain has arisen
The murdered Indian's cry.
Alike o'er hireling and nation
A judgment is hovering nigh.
Not long the master demon
Of that frightful border den
Shall shame the blessed sunshine
And the cheeks of honest men.
May Want and black Dishonor
Stand by his dying bed,
And the curse of the starved and murdered
Weigh on his soul like lead!