________________________________________________
Title: The Battle Of The Red Men
Author: John S. Adams [
More Titles by Adams]
'T WAS cold, bleak winter, on a rock-bound coast,
When bands of exiles trod its frozen shore.
Who then stood forth to greet the coming host
And shelter freely give when storms did pour?
Old Samoset-peace to his memory still!-
He bade them welcome, welcome, with good will.
Then was the red man's nation broad and strong-
O'er field and forest he held firm control;
Then power was his to stay the coming throng,
And back the wave of usurpation roll.
He might have crushed them on old Plymouth's rock,
And freedom to this day have felt the shock.
Not so he willed it; he would have them sit
In peace and amity around his door;
The pipe of peace in friendship would have lit,
And, as its white cloud up towards heaven did soar,
Learned that like it the spirits pure and white
Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light.
But what return did they profusely give
Who were dependent on the red man's corn?
Not even to them the privilege to live,
But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn!
Hunted like wild beasts through the forests' track;
For food and welcome such they gave him back.
Then roused to madness was the Indian's soul,
Then grasped with firmness every one his bow;
No mortal power his purpose could control,
Till he had seen the traitors lying low.
Revenge! revenge! was sounded far and wide,
O'er every field and every river's tide.
The little child that scarce could lisp a word
Was taught to hate the white man; maidens fair
Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard
Their brothers' wrongs, and madly tore their hair;
Old men urged on the young, and young men fled
Swift to increase the armies of the dead.
And thus the war began,--the fearful war
That swept o'er happy homesteads like a flood;
The white and red man knew no other law
Than that which wrote its every act in blood.
Daylight beheld the ball and arrow's flight,
And blazing homes made terrible the night.
The rifle's sharp report, the arrow's whiz,
The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death;
Despair in him who saw the last of his,
And heard "good-by" from children's dying breath;
The last sad look of prisoners borne away,
And groan of torture, marked the night and day.
With arms more skilful-not with hearts more true,
Or souls more brave to battle for the right-
The white the unjust warfare did pursue,
Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight
From homes he loved, from altars he revered,
And left, forever, scenes to him endeared.
O, what an hour for those brave people that!
Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be;
Young men and maidens who had often sat
In love and peace beneath the forest tree;
Parents who'd planted flowers; and with warm tears
Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years!
From every tree a voice did seem to start,
And every shrub that could a shadow cast
Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part,
So closely twined was each one with the past.
O, was it strange they fought with furious zeal?
Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel.
And thus they went,--a concourse of wronged men,--
Not with a speedy flight; each inch they gave,
Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken,
Was sold for blood, and for a patriot's grave;
And white men paid the price-and now they hold
This broad, broad land for cost more dear than gold.
And yet 't is not enough; the cry for more
Hath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic's wave
Now blends with it the thunder of its roar,
And soon shall sound the requiem o'er the grave
Of the last Indian,--last of that brave band
Who once held sway o'er all this fertile land.
Methinks to-day I see him stand alone,
Drawing his blanket close around his form;
He hath braved all, hath heard the dying moan
Rise from the fields of strife; and now the storm
That hath swept all before it, age on age,
On him, the last, seeks to pour forth its rage.
Raising his hand appealing to the sun,
He swears, by all he hath or now could crave,
That when his life is closed, his life-race run,
A white man ne'er shall stand above his grave.
Shall he, the last of a once noble race,
Consign himself to such a dire disgrace?
Never! let rock to rock the word resound;
Never! bear witness all ye gods to-day;
Never! ye streams and rivers, as ye bound,
Write "Never" on your waves, and bear away;
Tell to the world that, hunted, wronged, abused,
With such reproach he ne'er shall be accused,
The red man's brethren, tell him where are they;
The red man's homes and altars, what their fate?
Shall he who stands the last, the last to-day,
Forget with his last breath to whisper hate?
Hate, deep and fathomless, and boundless too,
Such as to fiendish cruelty is due.
He cannot bear the white man's presence now,
Or bear to hear his name or see his works;
He thinks that wrong is stamped upon his brow,
That in his good deeds selfish purpose lurks.
Has he a cause for this?-review the past,
And see those acts which prompt hate to the last.
Sons of the Pilgrims, who to-day do boast
Of Freedom's favors, ye whose wealth doth lie
From the Atlantic to the Pacific coast!
Let not the race you have supplanted die;
Perish like forest-leaves from off their lands,
Without a just requital at your hands.
O, give them homes which they can call their own,
Let Knowledge light its torch and lead the way;
And meek Religion, from the eternal throne,
Be there to usher in a better day;
Then shall the past be blotted from life's scroll,
And all the good ye may do crown the whole.
[The end]
John S. Adams's poem: Battle Of The Red Men
________________________________________________
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
