Classic Poem

Eclogue the 9th

Tachanoontia, Gachradidow,

Tachanoontia:

Hoa, Gachradidow, whither art thou going?

Gachradidow:

To Town, to pay some Skins I've long been owing.
— O Tachanoontia, see our Wayward Fate;
Strangers how Lord it, where we liv'd alate,
" Away, you Scoundrels, you've no Business here;"
Are Sounds which once we thought to hear.
Now driven far distant from our native Lands,
(So Heav'n ordains — that Heav'n, which all commands).
We live in Want, in Poverty, in Pain,
And part with all our Skins for little Gain.

Tachanoontia:

Surely I've heard — if what I've heard, is true —
That by our Indian Road a Line they drew,
Which Line by Treaty was the Barrier made,
For both, all future Wranglings to evade.

Gachradidow:

'Twas Truth; — But what will Treaties e'er avail
With Christian-Whites, whose Av'rice grasps at all?
As wisely might you hope, the plaintive Dove
The hungry Eagle's empty Maw might move.
Soon they encroach'd upon us, kill'd our Deer
And, did they not our wild Resentment fear,
Of all our Lands we'ad quickly been depriv'd,
And must without our Venison have liv'd:
Your Gachradidow wou'd have wanted Pone,
And what wou'd great Shuncallamie ha' done?

Tachanoontia:

Shuncallamie? Wou'd he to Ills submit,
Whose stubborn Soul ne'er knew a Master yet?
Who then should teach our brawny youth to sling
The hissing Stone, or missive Shaft to wing?
Who bid 'em, with loud chearful Cries, advance
Against the hostile Fort, in Warlike Dance?
Who sing our Warriours in melodious Strains,
How they with Villain Blood have died the Plains;
How with Katawby — Furies they've engag'd,
And War unequal, tho' successful wag'd?

Gachradidow:

Or rather, who our Liberty shall sing,
Of all the joys we yet retain, the Spring?
That we have yet — & oh! while that we have,
Distresses, e'er so great; we'll nobly brave.
Tho' Swarms of Ch[ri]stian-Scoundrels round us roam,
Afraid, at least, asham'd, to stay at Home,
In strains as sweet as Mocking-bird's we'll shew,
Our gen'rous Hearts with Love of Freedom glow.

Tachanoontia:

So 'gainst hoary Winter's nipping Cold,
Mayst thou ne'er Match Coat want, thy Limbs t'enfold
So from the Scorching Sun's impetuous Heat
Thy Feet conduct thee to some cool Retreat:
Begin — in Freedom's grateful Theme rejoice, —
I've my Song too — They say I have a Voice —
Tho' unharmonious to a skilful Ear,
Yet oft, when Red-Birds sing, the Raven's Croak you hear.

Gachradidow:

I will — nor shall my Song unworthy be
Of what we hold most dear, blest Liberty.
Here then, O Goddess, midst our Tribes remain;
With Us, thy faithful Race, for ever reign;
Poor as we are, our wide-extended Waste,
Our Christal Streams, which yield a cool Repast,
Our lofty Forests all shall witness be,
How much we love, how greatly honour thee.
Let vile Injustice & base Slav'ry sway
The Christian Plans — we neither will obey —
What Wonder that these Wretches seek our Shore,
Since Wealth, not Thee, O Freedom, they explore?
Nor wou'd they come, did not each fruitful Field
Large golden Crops of our Tobacco yield. —
— What will not Age — My Mem'ry once was strong,
And, when a Boy the live-long Day I sung;
Now I've my Lays forgot, my Voice I've lost;
— Surely my Eyes some Rattlesnake hath crost!

Tachanoontia:

Why do you rob me of Delight so soon?
You've Time enough — As yet tis scarcely Noon
The town's not far — Besides, the Winds are still,
Without a Murmur glides this gentle Rill;
Shrill sounds you Voice along this gloomy Shade —
— Or if you're of yon low'ring Cloud, afraid,
Sing as we walk — less tedious is the Road —
Sing as we walk — I'll help to bear your Load.

Gachradidow:

No more — we see Shuncallamie to Night;
His Voice will give you more sincere Delight.