YONNONDIO.

CANTO THIRD.

THE WAR DANCE.

Wake, children of Genundewah! the cry
Of fierce Invasion floats the gale;

upon

The spirits of the dead are rushing by,

And white-haired seers are prophesying bale: The Dove of Peace hath left our lovely valeGreat Yonnondio leads the host of France, And in the coming battle will prevail,

If we neglect to sharpen knife and lance,

And round the red post wheel, in war's terrific dance.

Swear that the foe's insulting foot shall not
On one green grave in triumph be impressed;
For ever dear to brave men is the spot

Where the white bones of their forefathers rest. The Land of Shadows, in the clear south-west, Hath hunting grounds known only to the just,

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And the red warrior of the dauntless breast:

Snatch, then, the buried tomahawk from dust, And clothe its blade, once more, in battle's gory crust.

I.

De Grai, in Christian Court, had seen
Anointed Louis on his throne,

Clad in appareling whose sheen
The lustre of the stars outshone,
While the bold Barons of the land,
Below him stood, a knightly band,
With churchmen proud the crosier bearing,
And dark, monastic vesture wearing,
And less of awe, while liegemen knelt
In presence of their monarch, felt,
Than by old Can-ne-hoot, attired
In shaggy toga, was inspired,
While, proudly as became a king,
Presiding in monarchal state,
His glance surveyed the tawny ring
Of counsellors that round him sate.

II.

Stern Time, in robbing form and face
Of youthful symmetry and grace,
Could not subdue his pride, or dim
The hawk-like fierceness of his gaze;
And brawny chest and iron limb

Unwasted were by length of days:
His lofty forehead was a page

Rough with the wrinkling lines of age;
His port majestical and proud,

His form commanding and unbowed,
Like some old oak, in ancient moss,
And rough, indented rind encased,
From whose gray trunk the vernal gloss
Had many a lustrum been effaced;
Still lifting loftily his head,

Without one bough decayed or dead,
Though many a howling storm had tried

In dust to hurl his honors down

Asunder rend his arms of pride,

And scatter to the winds his crown.

III.

"The bear-skin for Od-deen-yo* spread," With courteous mien the sachem said

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Though scion of a race I scorn,

And far beyond the Salt-Lake born;

Though pale his face, like dogwood-flowers, And garb and language unlike ours,

Fill with ke-nic-kee-nic the bowl!

He is a Seneca in soul,

For sundering the filial band

That bound him to his native land,

* White Chief.

Here, where the herding red-deer roam,
With one fair flower he makes his home.
De Grai the seat assigned him took,
With hesitating step and look;

For murmurs ran the circle round,

And many a warrior gaunt and grim, His teeth, in half-hushed anger, ground,

And scowled with fiendish hate on him.
Some, from long pipes of purple stain
Significant of battle, smoked;

And plumes that decked each stem of cane
Torn from the wild swan, owl and crane,
In slaughter had been soaked;
And others from their girdles drew
Pipe-tomahawks of sanguine hue,

Adorned with shell and wampum-bead;

And fragrant clouds rose blue and wreathed, While through the hollow haft they breathed The vapors of the weed.

IV.

On bosoms bare the figures rude
Of wolf and eagle were tattoo'd;
And never knight of high descent
At joust or glittering tournament,
Or on the trampled battle-field,

While blood was emptied out like wine

Bore, on bright bannaret and shield,

The badge and motto of his line,

More proudly than each savage man
The wild escutcheon of his clan.

V.

Linked with armorial signs that blaze
On knightly armor of old days,

Are tales of high achievement done,
Great cities stormed, and conflicts won:
Hence scion of a line renowned

Feels eye dilate and pulses bound,
When he beholds, with burning glance,
His father's ancient cognizance :
The red man boasts no herald-roll,
But views, with equal pride of soul,
The painted symbol on his skin
Allied to memory of sires,

Famed for their prowess, while within
His bosom wakes heroic fires.

Like them he pants for stirring deeds;
In the swift chase the moose outspeeds;
Directs with skill his birchen bark,

Though wave be loud and heaven be dark;
And scorns to fly, though round him rise
A myriad of enemies :

He swears, like them, no fear to know
When stake-bound by exulting foe,

And though around his tortured frame

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