A Tale Of The North, [1830.]

[In 1785, Mr. Alexander Kay, a fur-trader from Montreal, was stabbed by an Indian at Sandy Lake, on the source of the Mississippi. By the kindness and medical skill of a friendly chief, who accompanied him to Michilimackinac, the wound was healed, but suppurated soon after, on his arrival at the Lake of Two Mountains, where he died.]

I cannot tell of monarch wise, Or fame’s loud trumpet swell; But I can tell a simple tale, Which on a time befell.

For long ago, for money’s sake, As well as with us now, Bold men would venture wood and lake, To fill the golden vow.

And forth the voyager he went, With goods of richest dye; And bark that was a sight to see, Far through the northern sky.

And lakes he past, and snows he trod, Where wolves and panthers cry, And nature’s poor, forsaken sons, The Indians, live and die.

He trafficked for a few brief months, For skin of beaver black; And aye he thought with wealth supreme To hie him quickly back.

But still the red man liked him not, For he had wilful ways; And ever, when the night returned, Would burn with passion’s blaze.

The voyager was a drinking man, And a man of swelling pride, Whom fury stirr’d, and lust of rule, And high impatience tried.

And when he had their wealth amassed, He loathed the Indian boor; And as with noise they vex’d his peace, He spurned him from his door.

The Indian is a passive man, To all observant eyes; But he has pride, and entertains Revenge, that never dies.

He has a soul that scorns to live Where slave or coward be; And all his goods are free to share, And wish—is to be free.

Free was he born, and free will die, And time, however long, Can ne’er erase an injury While he has pipe or song.

He may be kicked like any dog, But ah, beware the day, When he awakes from brawl, or draws The insult to repay.

This found the lordly voyager, Upon that fatal day, When deep in northern woods remote Arose the bloody fray.

And first, in peaceful words began The deep dissembled plot, And “give me drink!” the hunter cried— “Off, villain! from my cot.”

He pointed to the door, with air And gesture of a lord; Then turned him back within his tent, With haughty look and word.

Instant the Indian drew his knife, And in that twinkling frame He dealt a blow upon his neck, But dealt with erring aim.

The voyager he had a friend Among the Indian band, Who lay and slept, while Christian blood Thus dyed the yellow sand.

He started up, and drew a knife, With vengeance in his eye, And seiz’d the murd’rer by his hair, And, “Dog!” he utter’d, “die!”

And with these words, he smote with might, And pierced the Indian dread, Who prayed for life, and gasped for breath, Then sank to earth and bled.

On, on they rushed, a furious throng, For wild disorder reigned; And drinking, yelling, noise, and song, The live-long day had stained.

Out furious in the wild melée, The voyager he ran, With streaming wound, and upraised knife, Averse to counsel’s plan.

At once a cry of death arose, “I’m killed,” he said, and fell: A deep, low wound, and gushing blood, Attest the truth I tell.

O ye who hear this living tale, Your hearts with care berate, Nor give the red man cause to feel The bitter pangs of hate.

Learn that strict justice is alike, Nor favors red, nor white; That kindness wins—that patience charms, E’en more than beauty bright;

That friendship’s glow, whate’er the name, Clime, country, shade or line, Is e’er the same, if touch’d with truth And constancy benign.

Last—saddest, truest of my song— Provoke nor sot, nor king; Shun passion’s sway, and liquor’s ire, Nor trust its poison sting.

SAULT STE. MARIE, 1832.

THERE IS A TIME TO DIE.

Bury me in the autumn time, when the leaves begin to fall, And nature o’er her forest grounds extends her leafy pall; It is a season which I loved when life was young and new, And often o’er the landscape then I cast a tranquil view.

’Tis then the winds, with airy whirl, begin their autumn play, And merrily over hill and dale, career their buoyant way; The whispering trees bend down their boughs, as soft they sweep along, And every leaf that joins the gale contributes to the song.

It is a time when ripened fruits their nut-brown stores display, And the squirrel nimbly trips it then, his winter’s stock to lay; The partridge, too, with feathers spread, steps on the hollow tree, And flaps his wings, with doubling sound, to tell his mate ’tis he.

The waters murmur softly then, and, as the trees grow bare, Display their channels through the woods, and glitter doubly fair. All nature is mature of mood, and woodland scenes unite, And man, and herds and flocks all join, to gratify the sight.

The harvest’s in, the fruit is ripe, the flowers are fall’n and sere, And joy and peace and plenty crown the labors of the year: Then put me in the ground while thus all nature’s in her fill, I loved the season when I lived, and, dead, shall love it still.

N. Y. 1843.

LINES,

ON THE DEATH OF CAPT. M. M. DOX, LATE OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY.

Friend of my youth! whom thoughts of other years, When life was young, and hope was new, endears— Thy solemn change, where all that live must go, Strikes on my heart a salutary woe. Oft have I known thee in the social hour, When mirth and conversation owned thy power, Or, with one heart, we lingered to explore Geneva’s woodlands, or Ontario’s shore; Oft books or men employed the leisure thought, Who wrote most happy, who most gallant fought, Or cogitating plans, left all undone, How fame is earned, or fortune may be won To read, to muse, to meditate, to sigh, We thought of all, but how with faith to die.

Long severed by the varied course of time By lands remote, by fortune, care, and clime, What once, in youth, no terrors could impart, Fate brings with sad sensations to my heart; Hope’s brittle thread is severed at a breath, And all that meets the gazing eye is death.

Arms drew thee forth, when late thy country saw Right raised on arrogance, power stampt as law; But me, erewhile, a wayward fortune drew, Long streams to traverse—boundless plains to view; While now on arts, and now on letters cast, Hope bore me lightsome on the western blast, I but return to honor, with the brave, A friend’s—a patriot’s—and a soldier’s grave.

MICHILIMACKINAC.

THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.

They tell me, the men with a white-white face Belong to a purer, nobler race; But why, if they do, and it may be so, Do their tongues cry, “yes”—and their actions, “no?”

They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue, And it may be so, but the sky is blue; And the first of men—as our old men say, Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.

But throughout my life, I’ve heard it said, There’s nothing surpasses a tint of red; Oh, the white man’s cheeks look pale and sad, Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.

Then let them talk of their race divine, Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine; Give me a lodge, like my fathers had, And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.

SHINGABAWOSSIN.

[A ruling chief of the Chippewa nation, of noble mien and respected character, who died and was buried on the banks of lake Superior in 1828, aged about 76.]

Blest be the spot that marks the chieftain’s tomb— There let the bright red flowers of summer bloom, And, as the winds sweep heavily along, Be they the warrior’s chant and funeral song; And yearly there, his native woods shall fling Their leafy honors o’er their sylvan king, While far around, the big and stormy wave Casts foamy incense o’er his rustic grave.

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Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.

Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.

Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of consecutive lines in stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity.