Tell me a story, father please, And then I sat upon his knees. Then answer'd he, -- "what speech make known, Or tell the words of native tone, Of how my Indian fathers dwelt, And, of sore oppression felt; And how they mourned a land serene, It was an ever mournful theme." Yes, I replied, -- I like to hear, And bring my father's spirit near; Of every pain they did forego, Oh, please to tell me all you know. In history often I do read, Of pain which none but they did heed. He thus began. "We were a happy race, When we no tongue but ours did trace, We were in ever peace, We sold, we did release -- Our brethren, far remote, and far unknown, And spake to them in silent, tender tone. We all were then as in one band, We join'd and took each others hand; Our dress was suited to the clime, Our food was such as roam'd that time, Our houses were of sticks compos'd; No matter, -- for they us enclos'd. But then discover'd was this land indeed By European men; who then had need Of this far country. Columbus came afar, And thus before we could say Ah! What meaneth this? -- we fell in cruel hands. Though some were kind, yet others then held bands Of cruel oppression. Then too, foretold our chief, -- Beggars you will become -- is my belief. We sold, then some bought lands, We altogether moved in foreign hands. Wars ensued. They knew the handling of firearms. Mothers spoke, -- no fear this breast alarms, They will not cruelly us oppress, Or thus our lands possess. Alas! it was a cruel day; we were crush'd: Into the dark, dark woods we rush'd To seek a refuge. My daughter, we are now diminish'd, unknown, Unfelt! Alas! No tender tone To cheer us when the hunt is done; Fathers sleep, -- we're silent every one. Oh! silent the horror, and fierce the fight, When my brothers were shrouded in night; Strangers did us invade -- strangers destroy'd The fields, which were by us enjoy'd. Our country is cultur'd, and looks all sublime, Our fathers are sleeping who lived in the time That I tell. Oh! could I tell them my grief In its flow, that in roaming, we find no relief. I love my country; and shall, until death Shall cease my breath. Now daughter dear I've done, Seal this upon thy memory; until the morrow's sun Shall sink, to rise no more; And if my years should score, Remember this, though I tell no more." |