SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW.

'Twas the voice of my husband that came on the gale; His unappeased Spirit in anger complains ; Rest, rest Ollanahta, be still!

The day of revenge is at hand.

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die;
To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear,
To-morrow thy widow shall wield

The knife and the fire;.. be at rest!

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course,.-
The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow, ..
I will think, Ollanahta! of thee,

Will remember the days of our love.

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat,
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung;
I gazed on the bow of thy strength

As it waved on the stream of the wind.

The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there, And the musket that never was levell'd in vain,... What a leap has it given to my heart

To see thee suspend it in peace.

When the black and blood-banner was spread to the

gale,

When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard, I remember thy terrible eyes

How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy.

I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek
As thy hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud

Ere the thunder and lightning are born.

He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams,
Kindred Spirits of Him who is holy and great!
And where was thy warning, O Bird,
The timely announcer of ill?

Alas! when thy brethren in conquest return'd; When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads, And the pine-boughs of triumph before, Where the scalps of their victory swung,..

The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not there!

I call'd thee,.. alas, the white deer-skin was brought;
And thy grave was prepared in the tent
Which I had made ready for joy!

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit,..
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave!

To-morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge.

Westbury, 1799.

THE

OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON.

Now go to the battle, my Boy!
Dear child of my son,

There is strength in thine arm,
There is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labours of war.
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee
When he went to the first of his fields.

2.

He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd;
Before him his trophies were borne,

These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the Rain
Have rusted their raven locks.

Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived,
The day of the warrior's reward;
When the banners sun-beaming were spread,
And all hearts were dancing in joy

To the sound of the victory-drum.

The Heroes were met to receive their reward; But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day, The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen: The swan-feathers hung from his neck, His face like the rainbow was tinged,

And his eye,.. how it sparkled in pride!

The Elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow The crown that his valour had won,

And they gave him the old honour'd name. They reported the deeds he had done in the war, And the youth of the nation were told To respect him and tread in his steps.

3.

My Boy! I have seen, and with hope,
The courage that rose in thine eye
When I told thee the tale of his death
His war-pole now is grey with moss,
His tomahawk red with rust;
His bowstring whose twang was death
Now sings as it cuts the wind;
But his memory is fresh in the land
And his name with the names that we love.

4.

Go now and revenge him, my Boy!
That his Spirit no longer may hover by day
O'er the hut where his bones are at rest,
Nor trouble our dreams in the night.
My Boy, I shall watch for the warriors' return,
And my soul will be sad

Till the steps of thy coming I see.

Westbury, 1799.

216

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

I.

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL.

WHAT! and not one to heave the pious sigh?
Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye,
For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,
Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead?
Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,
And sorrow for forlorn humanity.

Yes, I will weep; but not that thou art come
To the cold sabbath of the silent tomb:
For pining want, and heart-consuming care,
Soul-withering evils, never enter there.
I sorrow for the ills thy life has known,
As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone,
Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,
Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on;
Thy youth in ignorance and labour past,
And thine old age all barrenness and blast!
Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe,
Denied thee wisdom to support the blow;

And robb'd of all its energy thy mind,

Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,