Glared wildly on encircling foes,
Like one just woke from horrid dream,
And, clear above the din, arose
His frantic daughter's frightful scream.
"Give way, incarnate fiends, give way!"
Shouted impetuous De Grai-
Wrath glittered in his proud dark eye,
His unsheathed dagger flashed on high,
And parted while he dashed along,
As keel divides rough waves, the throng.
On burning brand he fearless trode,
Through kindling fagots opened road,
And, though black clouds of heated smoke
Their blinding folds around him twined,
He cut, with quick, indignant stroke,
Bands that the fainting knight confined.
"Ho! Senecas !—and will ye see,
Unmoved, the foe yon captive free?
Down with the white intruder, down!
And scalp hack piece-meal from his crown!"
Aroused by taunt of wrinkled seer,
And grasping bow, war-axe and spear,
At once fierce forms begirt De Grai,
Bearing from stake Le Troye away;
As booming waters of the deep
Round some lone sea-rock darkly sweep
When evil powers the storm unchain,
And skill of mariner is vain.
Already leaving bloody trace,
Long, whistling shaft had grazed his face,
And flying hatchet from his head,
A glossy lock of brown had shred,
When cleared On-yit-ha, with a bound,
The living wall that hemmed him round,
And made, attention to command,
A haughty toss of lifted hand;
Then to full height his form updrew,
And thus rebuked the savage crew.
“Rash, shameless men! would ye o'erthrow
Laws honored by the great
Drop tomahawk, unstring the bow,
And to its sheath the knife restore!
My brother, whom ye fain would slay,
Though wearing still the pallid shade
By fathers caught from ocean's spray,
Is clansman by adoption made.
Long in our vale he hath encamped;
My totem on his breast is stamped,
And Can-ne-hoot on him conferred
A name that rings like battle-word!"
Allusion to their fallen chief,
From dusky throng called groan of grief,
And wond'ring orator inquired
Why thus they mourned?—then mischief fired
The wily Prophet's serpent eye,
And moved his lips in prompt reply.
"His face great Ou-we-nee-you veils
Behind a black and lowering cloud;
For Can-ne-hoot a nation wails-
The monarch-pine in dust is bowed:
Protecting roof his branches cast,
Above our heads, when roared the blast;
Through rolling years his aged form
Defied red bolt of growling storm;
Mad whirlwinds wrestled with his trunk,
And from the dread encounter shrunk ;
But never more to glad our eyes,
Above the forest-tops, will rise
His brow, undimmed by winter's blight,
His crown rejoicing in the light.”
Why tell On-yit-ha of the fame
That lustre gives paternal name?
No eulogist red warrior needs
From Erie to the Salt Lake known
The tale of whose heroic deeds
Swift courier-winds abroad have blown.
In battle with yon pale-face fell
The ruler that we loved so well:
He slumbers with his broken bow,
Rude covering of leaves below,
Pierced by the lightning of the foe.
By young and old he was revered,
Proud far-off tribes his anger feared;
Death in a hundred wars he faced,
His lodge a thousand trophies graced.
On the green prairies of the west,
And where, through wilderness remote,
Missouri rolls with turbid breast,
Pawnee and Omahaw he smote.
At their own hearths his arrow shot
The Chictaghic and Wyandot :-
He woke, on banks of southern stream,
Catawba from his midnight dream,
And victor paced the lonely shore
On which, in foam dissolving, breaks
Forever, with a solemn roar,
The dark blue SIRE of mighty Lakes."
Emotion of revenge and grief
A passing moment shook the chief,
And covered with a cloud his face,
Then gave to nobler feelings place.
"The task is difficult, old SEER,
Deep groans of anguish to repress
While rings announcement in mine ear
That I am fatherless-
That he, the mighty one, is slain,
On whom the Five Great Tribes in vain,
When boughs, wrenched off by whirlwinds, fall
From tree of peace, henceforth will call.
The proudest seat, at council fire,
Is vacant made by death of sire;
And loud will be the voice of wail
For Eagle of this river-vale
In the bright fulness of renown,
And fighting for our homes, struck down:
But in our sorrow feel we not
That his must be a happy lot;
For spirits of the just and brave
Pass, when the war of life is done,
To a green land, that knows no grave,
Outspread below the setting sun."
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