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In the old woodland's council-hall of green,
Strong men and many a grave old sire are seen,
Ranged round, the white men's peaceful embassy,
With Indians, forest-children, brave and free.
The calumet goes round; its curling smoke
Wreathes o'er the words of peace and friendship spoke,
As, o'er the fairest rose-bed of the Spring,
A morning cloudlet hangs on fleecy wing.
To knit the bond of peace they here are met!
Enough of blood has flowed, for see, the wet
Green floor beneath their feet seems almost spread
With a rich damask carpet dyed in red!
A chieftain spake: First, bury out of sight,
With earth and leaves, the hatchet of the fight,
That smote so many a pale-faced brother brave!
There let it sleep in an eternal grave!
Another said: The wind sweeps leaves away,
The earth is soon dug up by beasts of prey!
Then let the battle's hatchet hidden be
Beneath the roots of yonder cedar tree!
Another said: The roots are gnawed by worms,
The very cedars fall before the storms!
Then, that the hatchet none henceforth may dread,
Yon mountain roll, as gravestone, on its head!
Another said: The mining white man's craft
E'en through the mountain's bowels drives the shaft!
Then, that the star of peace for aye may beam,
Bury the hateful hatchet in the stream!
Another said: From darkest river's night,
The fisher's net will bring it up to light!
Then, that it ne'er may rise, wild woe to spread,
Deep be it sunk in ocean's mighty bed!
An old man spake: This axe of wood and steel
Leave above ground! But search your hearts and feel!
There lies the tomahawk, perchance e'en now
Its edge is sharpening for a brother's brow!
More deep the heart than mountain's—ocean's night,
And yet e'en thence the axe will rise to light!
Till, once, a little dust its gleam shall hide
Better than mountain's mass or ocean's tide!—
And thus they spake, while all the forest-trees,
Whispering together in the summer breeze,
Held o'er their heads, to bid all discord cease,
In rough, brown arms, the twig of endless peace.
Strong men and many a grave old sire are seen,
Ranged round, the white men's peaceful embassy,
With Indians, forest-children, brave and free.
The calumet goes round; its curling smoke
Wreathes o'er the words of peace and friendship spoke,
As, o'er the fairest rose-bed of the Spring,
A morning cloudlet hangs on fleecy wing.
To knit the bond of peace they here are met!
Enough of blood has flowed, for see, the wet
Green floor beneath their feet seems almost spread
With a rich damask carpet dyed in red!
A chieftain spake: First, bury out of sight,
With earth and leaves, the hatchet of the fight,
That smote so many a pale-faced brother brave!
There let it sleep in an eternal grave!
Another said: The wind sweeps leaves away,
The earth is soon dug up by beasts of prey!
Then let the battle's hatchet hidden be
Beneath the roots of yonder cedar tree!
Another said: The roots are gnawed by worms,
The very cedars fall before the storms!
Then, that the hatchet none henceforth may dread,
Yon mountain roll, as gravestone, on its head!
Another said: The mining white man's craft
E'en through the mountain's bowels drives the shaft!
Then, that the star of peace for aye may beam,
Bury the hateful hatchet in the stream!
Another said: From darkest river's night,
The fisher's net will bring it up to light!
Then, that it ne'er may rise, wild woe to spread,
Deep be it sunk in ocean's mighty bed!
An old man spake: This axe of wood and steel
Leave above ground! But search your hearts and feel!
There lies the tomahawk, perchance e'en now
Its edge is sharpening for a brother's brow!
More deep the heart than mountain's—ocean's night,
And yet e'en thence the axe will rise to light!
Till, once, a little dust its gleam shall hide
Better than mountain's mass or ocean's tide!—
And thus they spake, while all the forest-trees,
Whispering together in the summer breeze,
Held o'er their heads, to bid all discord cease,
In rough, brown arms, the twig of endless peace.
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