An Indian Tale, Canto I

'Tis not the court, in dazzling splendor gay, Where soft luxuriance spreads her silken arms, Where gairish fancy leads the soul astray, And languid nature mourns her slighted charms:

'Tis not the golden hill, nor flow'ry dale, Which lends my simple muse her artless theme; But the black forest and uncultur'd vale, The savage warrior, and the lonely stream.

Where MISSISIPPI rolls his parent flood With slope impetuous to the surgy main, The desert's painted chiefs explore the wood, Or with the thund'ring war-whoop shake the plain.

There the fierce sachems raise the battle's din, Or in the stream their active bodies lave, Or midst the flames their fearless songs begin— PAIN HAS NO TERRORS TO THE TRULY BRAVE.

There young CELARIO, Europe's fairest boast, In hopeless exile mourn'd the tedious day; Now wand'ring slowly o'er the oozy coast, Now thro the wild woods urg'd his anxious way.

Where the low stooping branch excludes the light, A piercing shriek assail'd his wounded ear; Swift as the winged arrow speeds its flight, He seeks the piteous harbinger of fear.

There a tall Huron rais'd his threat'ning arm, While round his knees a beauteous captive clung, Striving to move him with her matchless form, Or charm him by the magic of her tongue.

Soon as Celario view'd the murd'rous scene, Quick from his vest the deathful tube he drew; Its leaden vengeance thunder'd o'er the green, While from the savage hand the ling'ring hatchet flew.

Low at his feet the breathless warrior lies; Still the soft captive sickens with alarms, Calls on OUÂBI's name with streaming eyes, While the young victor lives upon her charms.

Her limbs were straighter than the mountain pine, Her hair far blacker than the raven's wing; Beauty had lent her form the waving line, Her breath gave fragrance to the balmy spring.

Each bright perfection open'd on her face, Her flowing garment wanton'd in the breeze, Her slender feet the glitt'ring sandals grace, Her look was dignity, her movement ease.

With splendid beads her braided tresses shone, Her bending waist a modest girdle bound, Her pearly teeth outvi'd the cygnet's down— She spoke—and music follow'd in the sound.

Aw'd by her virtue, by her charms subdued, Celario follows o'er the wid'ning plains, Nor dares his hopeless passion to intrude, Where constant truth, and blest Ouâbi reigns.

Now distant flames assail his dazzled eyes, High as the clouds the curling spires ascend, While warlike youths in circling orders rise, And midst the green with graceful silence bend.

Far o'er the chieftains great Ouâbi moves, With step majestic thro the boundless plain; Thus tow'rs the cedar o'er the willow-groves, Thus shines bright Cynthia midst her starry train.

Swift to his arms the fond Azâkia flies, And oft repeats the fear-embellish'd tale; How pointed lightnings pierc'd her wond'ring eyes, While the near thunder broke the trembling gale!

Ouâbi! form'd by nature's hand divine, Whose naked limbs the sculptor's art defied, Where nervous strength and graceful charms combine, Where dignity with fleetness was allied.

High from his head the painted plumes arose, His sounding bow was o'er his shoulder flung, The hatchet, dreadful to insulting foes, On the low branch in peaceful caution hung.

Adown his ears the glist'ning rings descend, His manly arms the clasping bracelets bind, From his broad chest the vari'd beads depend, And all the hero tow'r'd within his mind.

His hand he yielded to the gentle youth, Inquir'd his sorrows with benignant air, And, kind as pity, unreserv'd as truth, Sooth'd ev'ry grief, and proffer'd ev'ry care.

When young Celario, breathing many a sigh, Disclos'd the warring tumults of his breast, Low on the ground reclin'd his pensive eye, While his persuasive voice the chief address'd.

Now for the war-feast all the chiefs prepare, The jetty draught exhausts the gen'rous bowl, And the fierce dance, fit emblem of the war, Swells the great mind, and fires the kindling soul.

Tho songs of vengeance ev'ry breast inspire, The peaceful calumet succeeds the feast, Till livid glimmerings mark the sinking fire, And the gem'd skies proclaim the hour of rest.

Ere the first blush of day illumes the morn, The chiefs, impatient for the battle, rise; With warlike arms their colour'd limbs adorn, While glowing valour sparkles in their eyes.

Onward they move, by great Ouâbi led, The young Celario with the painted train, Like white narcissus mid the tulip-bed, Or like a swan with peacocks on the plain.

The golden ringlets of his glossy hair, Intwin'd with beads, the tow'ring feathers grace, No longer floating to the am'rous air, Nor mingling with the beauties of his face.

Dress'd like a sachem—o'er his naked arm With careless ease reclin'd his gaudy bow, Not bright Apollo boasts so fair a form, Such ringlets never grac'd his iv'ry brow.

On the far field the adverse heroes join, No dread artill'ry guards the coward side; But dauntless strength, and courage half divine, Command the war, and form the conq'ror's pride.

Thus before Illion's heav'n-defended tow'rs, Her godlike Hector rais'd his crimson'd arm; Thus great Atrides led the Grecian pow'rs, And stern Achilles spread the loud alarm.

Where danger threats the European flies, Eager to follow when Ouâbi leads, His feather'd arrows glance along the skies, And many a hero, many a sachem bleeds.

Now the strong hatchet hews whole nations down, Now deathful show'rs of missive darts descend, The echoing war-whoop drowns the dying groan, And shouts of vict'ry ev'ry bosom rend.

When by some hand's unerring force applied, Flew a swift arrow where Celario stood, Its darting vengeance pierc'd his guardless side, And drank the living current of his blood.

While from the wound the barbed shaft is drawn, O'er his fair side the drops of crimson glow, And seem lost rubies on a wint'ry lawn, Adding new lustre to the silv'ry snow.

The Illinois their great Ouâbi hail, No more the foe his conq'ring arm defies; O'er the blue mountain, thro the thorny vale, The victor follows, as the vanquish'd flies.

Fatigu'd by slaughter, ev'ry chief retires To the lov'd solace of his native plain, There still regardful of the sacred fires, Till the loud war awakes his strength again.

By slaves supported thro the mazy wood, Celario gains the sachem's distant home, Where mourning warriors stop the purple flood, And for each healing plant the weedy desert roam.

Azâkia's hand the chymic juice applies, Her constant aid the strength'ning food prepares, Her plaintive voice beguiles his closing eyes, And sooths, his slumbers with unceasing prayers.

Now winds his ringlets round her dusky hand, And views the contrast with enamour'd boast, Now o'er his features bends with accents bland, 'Till ev'ry swimming sense in wonder's lost.

Thus the lorn wretch, by ignis fatuus led, Pursues the gleam which charms his lonely way, Nor, 'till destruction whelms his hapless head, Suspects the dangers of the treach'rous ray.

Celario gazes with renew'd desires, While kindling hopes his doting bosom move; Yet still Ouâbi's worth his soul inspires, And much his virtue struggles with his love.

Now each new day increasing strength bestows, And his brac'd limbs the limping staff resign, His humid lip with roseate lustre glows, His lucid eyes with wonted brightness shine.