TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws; Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? How canst thou breathe in this, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains? Ah! 'tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-horn, Or, by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet! Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams! TO A CHILD. DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, With what a look of proud command Thousands of years in Indian seas Reposed of yore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells In some obscure and sunless place, And thus for thee, O little child, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The buried treasures of dead centuries. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar! Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise! Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, Through these once solitary halls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, Along the garden-walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace, And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head Here at the portal thou dost stand, Thou openest the mysterious gate As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, As upon subterranean streams, And watch its swift-receding beams, By what astrology of fear or hope L L The shadowy disk of future years; A luminous circle faint and dim, A pale and feeble adumbration, Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, With the hot tears and sweat of toil,- And if a more auspicious fate Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility; As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung The secret of the sounding wire, Enough! I will not play the Seer; |