THE LAST COUNCIL

(From the New York Evening Star, January 1838)

 

The council fire burns bright and high

   In you dark hammock’s shade,

Where round are gathered chiefs and men,

    With rifle, axe, and blade.

 

And there are men of noble mould,

   Moving with haughty tread-

And there are eyes that speak the soul

   Of vengeance for the dead.

 

There’s one amongst that daring band,

   His spirit yet untamed,*

With flashing eye and upraised hand,

   He speaks in loud declaim.

 

Brothers! The destined hour is come,

   The white-man seeks our lair;

In vain we plead our ”father’s graves,”

   In vain we breathe our prayer:-

 

The white man’s heart is seared, and cold-

   No mercy nestles there:

Insatiate thirst for lands and gold

   Forbids that he should spare.

 

Yes! Even here, where ever-glades

   Have been our long retreat,

They come (to drive us far away)

   With bold intruding feet.

 

They seek us in the deep recess,

   ‘Mid swamps and forests dense-

They sweep us, like the withered leaves,

   Driven by the tempest hence.

 

Brothers, I ask ye, one and all,

   If in a single breast

There throbs a heart of feeble pulse,

   Now is the time to test.

 

List not to child’s nor woman’s wail,

   Up! And prepared the lance!

For these, and home, one effort more-

   Up to the fierce war-dance.

 

They come! They come! Bare high each arm,

   Let not a spirit quail-

“Woman and home”—Great Spirit!

   Shall The Red Nam’s cause prevail?

                       *Oseola