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Hark! What is that I hear, So
mournfully ringing in my ear, Like a death song of warriors, For those
who fell by their brave sires? Is this the wail now sounding For my
unhappy future?
O my destiny, my destiny! How sinks my heart, as I
behold my inheritance all in ruins and desolation. Yes, desolation; the
land the Great Spirit has given us in which to live, to roam, to hunt,
and build our council fires, is no more to behold. Where once so many
brave Algonquin and the daughters of the forest danced with joy, danced
with gratitude to the Great Spirit for their homes, they are no more
seen. Our forests are gone, and our game is destroyed. Hills, groves and
dales once clad in rich mantle of verdure are stripped. Where is this
promised land which the Great Spirit had given to his red children as
the perpetual inheritance of their posterity from generation to
generation? Ah, the pale-faces who have left their fathers' land, far
beyond the ocean, have now come and dispossessed us of our heritage with
cruel deceit and force of arms. Still are they rolling on, and rolling
on, like a mighty spray from the deep ocean, overwhelming the
habitations of nature's children. Is it for the deeds of Pocahontas, of
Massasoit, of Logan, and hosts of others who have met and welcomed the
white men in their frail cabin doors when they were few in numbers, cold
and hungry? Is it for this that we have been plundered, and expelled at
the point of the bayonet from the hallowed graves of our brothers and
sires? O, my father, thou hast taught me from my infancy to love this
land of my birth; thou hast even taught me to say that "it is the gift
of the Great Spirit," when yet my beloved mother clasped me close to her
peaceful breast while she sang of the warlike deeds of the great
Algonquin. O, my father, our happiest days are o'er, and never again
shall we enjoy our forest home. The eagle's eye could not even discover
where once stood thy wigwam and thy peaceful council fire. Ah, once it
was the happy land, and all the charms were there which made every
Indian heart swell with thanks to the Great Spirit for their happy
homes. Melodious music was heard in every grove, sung by the wild birds
of the forest, who mingled their notes sweetly with the wild chant of my
beloved sisters at eve. They sang the song of lullaby to the pawpose of
the red man whilst swinging in the cradle from the shady trees, wafted
gracefully to and fro by the restless wind. The beautiful old basswood
tree bending so gracefully stood there, and the brown thrush sang with
her musical voice. That tree was planted there by the Great Spirit for
me to sport under, when I could scarcely bend my little bow. Ah, I
watched that tree from childhood to manhood, and it was the dearest spot
to me in this wide world. Many happy youthful days have I spent under
this beautiful shady tree. But alas, alas, the white man's ax has been
there! The tree that my good spirit had planted for me, where once the
pretty brown thrush daily sat with her musical voice, is cut down by the
ruthless hands of the white man. 'Tis gone; gone forever and mingled
with the dust. Oh, my happy little bird, thy warbling songs have ceased,
and thy voice shall never again be heard on that beautiful shady tree.
My charming bird, how oft thou hast aroused me from my slumber at early
morn with thy melodious song. Ah, could we but once more return to our
forest glade and tread as formerly upon the soil with proud and happy
heart! On the hills with bended bow, while nature's flowers bloomed all
around the habitation of nature's child, our brothers once abounded,
free as the mountain air, and their glad shouts resounded from vale to
vale, as they chased o'er the hills the mountain roe and followed in the
otter's track. Oh return, return! Ah, never again shall this time
return. It is gone, and gone forever like a spirit passed. The red man
will never live happy nor die happy here any more. 'Tis passed, 'tis
done. The bow and quiver with which I have shot many thousands of game
is useless to me now, for the game is destroyed. When the white man took
every foot of my inheritance, he thought to him I should be the slave.
Ah, never, never! I would sooner plunge the dagger into my beating
heart, and follow the footsteps of my forefathers, than be slave to the
white man.
MACK-E-TE-BE-NESSY.
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