An Indian Tale, Canto III

Just as the sun awak'd the dewy morn, And rose resplendent from his wat'ry bed, When vari'd tints the heav'nly arch adorn, And o'er the meads enamell'd radiance spread,

At the far limits of the spangled lawn A ghastly figure issued from the wood, Writhing with anguish, like the wounded fawn, Cover'd with darts, and stain'd with clotted blood.

Azâkia's bosom swells with boding woes, Yet to his aid the sweet consoler flies, On his parch'd lips the cooling draught bestows, Binds his deep wounds, and sooths his labour'd sighs.

When his faint voice, and wasted strength returns, Oft he attempts, oft quits the fearful tale, 'Till the sad list'ner all her sorrow learns, Whelm'd in dumb grief, with chilling terrors pale.

Too soon, alas! his broken accents show, How the great chief approach'd the fatal plain, Tho' nations fell beneath his nervous blow, O'erpow'r'd by numbers sunk amidst the slain.

One equal fate the victor-foes impart, For the pure town in vain the vanquish'd bend, The vengeful tomahawk, and hurtling dart, Down to the shades the hapless heroes send.

While this alone, of all the routed train, From purple heaps, where dying sachems lay, To seek the lov'd Azâkia's peaceful plain, Had turn'd his sad, dark, solitary way.

On the far field while great Ouâbi lies, Breathless and low amid the glorious dead, No friendly hand to close the warrior's eyes, And shield the plumy honours of his head,

Ungovern'd rage the young Celario fires, He scorns his wounds, forgets the nymph he loves; Revenge is all his swelling breast desires, Revenge alone his furious soul approves.

In Zisma's arms, of wasting grief the prey, The widow'd mourner courts the murd'rous dream, Shuns the red splendor of the rising day, The moon's pale radiance, and the shaded stream.

Not deeper anguish rends the promis'd bride, If death relentless lifts his ebon dart, And tears her youthful lover from her side, Just when hope warm'd, and pleasure fir'd the heart.

Now brave Celarioseeks his scatter'd friends, Who raise new pow'rs, and neighb'ring tribes obtain, Along the darken'd green the host extends, Breathing revenge, and undismay'd by pain.

For the young champion all their voices rise, He can alone their glorious chief succeed, Who erst, beneath that matchless sachem's eyes, Could greatly conquer, and could nobly bleed.

Ere he departs Azâkia claims his care, The youthful Zisma at her side he found, While plung'd in grief, the victim of despair, The lovely suff'rer press'd the turfy ground.

In her cold hand the fatal draught was borne, Of deadly Cytron's pois'nous root compos'd, While many a tear, and many a lengthen'd groan, The purpose of her steady soul disclos'd.

Charm'd by her accents, from her sight he speeds, Swift as the falcon darting on the prey, With the red train in eager haste proceeds, And fires their courage, as he leads their way.

Soon as they gain the region of the foe, Some he directs the ambush'd path to guide, Some with strong force to heave the sudden blow, And some to bear the captur'd chiefs aside.

Return'd from conquest, and to ease resign'd, Th' invaded tribe their hasty arms regain, In ev'ry step an instant death to find, Or the sad prospect of a life of pain.

In vain Celario checks the savage hand, The helpless mother with her infant dies, Revenge inspires his unforgiving band, 'Till all one heap of desolation lies.

Now to the town they urge their rapid way, With equal speed the routed foe retires, There in the midst a tortur'd warrior lay, Daring the fury of the raging fires.

His mangled form the tort'rers pow'r defies, His changeless voice the song of death had sung, No tear of pain pollutes his steady eyes, No cry of mercy trembles on his tongue.

REAR'D midst the war-empurpled plain, What Illinois submits to PAIN! How can the glory-darting fire The coward chill of death inspire!

The sun a blazing heat bestows, The moon midst pensive ev'ning glows, The stars in sparkling beauty shine, And own their FLAMING SOURCE divine.

Then let me hail th' IMMORTAL FIRE, And in the sacred flames expire; Nor yet those Huron hands restrain; This bosom scorns the throbs of pain.

No griefs this warrior-soul can bow, No pangs contract this even brow; Not all your threats excite a fear, Not all your force can start a tear.

Think not with me my tribe decays, More glorious chiefs the hatchet raise; Not unreveng'd their sachem dies, Not unattended greets the skies.

Celario listens with the ear of care, His sinking limbs their wonted aid refuse, He calls his warriors with distracted air, Whose ready hands the suff'ring victim loose.

Around his feet the young deliv'rer clings; It is Ouâbi! greatest! first of men! The song of death the dauntless sachem sings, Yet clasps his lov'd Celario once agen.

Thro' the deep wood they seek the healing balm, Weep on his hand, or at his feet deplore; Ah! how unlike Ouâbi's glorious form! Now gash'd with wounds, and bath'd in streams of gore!

Snatch'd from the wish'd oblivion of the field, Subjected to the victor's hard decree, Struck by his form, their iron bosoms yield, They grant a life depriv'd of liberty.

Th' indignant chief the proffer'd boon disdains, Defies their rage, and scorns their threat'ning ire, Demands the tortures, and their rending pains, The ling'ring anguish of the tardy fire.

The Death Song echo'd thro' the hollow wood, Just when Celario led his warrior-train, Th' affrighted foe discard the work of blood, And fly impetuous o'er the arid plain.

Thus when a carcase clogs the op'ning vale, And birds of prey in prowling circles throng, If some sicrce hound approach the tainted gale, He drives the wild relentless brood along.

Pale horror stalks, and swift destruction reigns, Carnage and death pollute the ruin'd glade, 'Till nature's weari'd arm a respite gains, When night pacific spreads her sable shade.