The Death-Song
“The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe
Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe
But they fled to the Heaven of peace in the west,
The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed!
“From the dark rock's frowning brow
They flew to the deep below;
They feared not, for the Heaven of peace in the west
Was smiling them welcome, sweet welcome to rest!
“The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe
Now plunges him'mid the deep waters below!
I come, Great Spirit, take me to thy rest!
Lo! my freed soul is winged towards the west!”
'T is past! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep,
Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep!
'T is past!—the deed is done, the tribe has gone!
Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one!
The last of all that tribe of blood
Lies weltering in the sable flood!
Oh! where is yonder fair-haired maid?
Say, whither hath the lone one strayed?
'Mid the wild tumult of the strife,
Where fled she from the scalping-knife?
Angels around her spread their arm,
And shrouded her from fear and harm!
But oh! what shriek rang shrill and clear,
And echoed still in Rathmond's ear?
Why should he note that voice, that scream?
Was it his fancy, or a dream?
Or was it—hope illumed his eye,
And pointed to the prophecy!
“But no!—'t were madness to return
To those bright scenes of joy,” he cried,
“Her bones are whitening in the sun,
Her ashes scattered far and wide!”
But where is Montonoc? alone,
Rathmond is musing on the strand;
Say, whither has the prophet gone?
Why does young Rathmond heedless stand?
Oh! he is picturing to his vacant breast
Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed,
Which youthful hope had promised should be his,
When all was light, and love, and cloudless bliss!
Oh! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste,
Left in that bosom, which had loved so well!
Oh! he was wishing for some place of rest,
Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell!
But, ah! the voice of Montonoc is heard,
Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird
“Eagle!” he cried, “the fatal charm hath passed!
The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last!
And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power
The latest trophy of my life's last hour!
Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine!
But mark! 't was I who gave, for he was mine!
Adieu! I go!”—He closed his fiery eye,
And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high!
The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile
Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil,
Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark hood,
And, lo! Cordelia before Rathmond stood!
Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe
But they fled to the Heaven of peace in the west,
The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed!
“From the dark rock's frowning brow
They flew to the deep below;
They feared not, for the Heaven of peace in the west
Was smiling them welcome, sweet welcome to rest!
“The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe
Now plunges him'mid the deep waters below!
I come, Great Spirit, take me to thy rest!
Lo! my freed soul is winged towards the west!”
'T is past! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep,
Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep!
'T is past!—the deed is done, the tribe has gone!
Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one!
The last of all that tribe of blood
Lies weltering in the sable flood!
Oh! where is yonder fair-haired maid?
Say, whither hath the lone one strayed?
'Mid the wild tumult of the strife,
Where fled she from the scalping-knife?
Angels around her spread their arm,
And shrouded her from fear and harm!
But oh! what shriek rang shrill and clear,
And echoed still in Rathmond's ear?
Why should he note that voice, that scream?
Was it his fancy, or a dream?
Or was it—hope illumed his eye,
And pointed to the prophecy!
“But no!—'t were madness to return
To those bright scenes of joy,” he cried,
“Her bones are whitening in the sun,
Her ashes scattered far and wide!”
But where is Montonoc? alone,
Rathmond is musing on the strand;
Say, whither has the prophet gone?
Why does young Rathmond heedless stand?
Oh! he is picturing to his vacant breast
Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed,
Which youthful hope had promised should be his,
When all was light, and love, and cloudless bliss!
Oh! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste,
Left in that bosom, which had loved so well!
Oh! he was wishing for some place of rest,
Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell!
But, ah! the voice of Montonoc is heard,
Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird
“Eagle!” he cried, “the fatal charm hath passed!
The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last!
And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power
The latest trophy of my life's last hour!
Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine!
But mark! 't was I who gave, for he was mine!
Adieu! I go!”—He closed his fiery eye,
And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high!
The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile
Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil,
Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark hood,
And, lo! Cordelia before Rathmond stood!
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