Listen, white man! Moons have past
Since this earth was all a waste:
Rains had drenched it—thunders rent—
Winds demolished—waters spent—
And the ocean, black and still,
Slumbered deep o’er every hill,
And not one ling’ring beam of light
Illum’d the vast and sullen night.
’Twas then the spirit of the sky,
In mercy hung yon lamps on high—
Sun, moon and stars—and by their light
Expelled the dread chaotic night:
Then clothed he hills and vales with trees,
And stated bounds to lakes and seas;
Then sent he bird and beast in woods,
And fish in all our limpid floods,
And creatures small, of foot and wing,
And every living, breathing thing:—
Last sent he man—(a barb’rous race,
From whom my long descent I trace,)
As lord o’er all—and thus benign,
Addressed the parent of our line.
To thee I give these smiling woods,
These lofty hills, and peopled floods,
Filled with all needful game, and blest
For thy maintainance, peace and rest.
I give thee bow, I give thee spear,
To dart the fish, and fell the deer;
I give thee bark full light to sweep
O’er the broad stream and billowy deep;
I give thee skins for thy attire;
To shade thee, woods; to warm thee, fire;
More need’st thou not, nor covet more,
And peace her joys shall round thee pour.
But touch not gold; the tempter fly,
Or all thy kin shall droop and die;
For in that potent evil pent,
Lurk envy, pain, and discontent;
And luxury—of life the bane—
And woe, with all her haggard train.
Listen, white man! Dreamest thou
My soul could e’er descend so low,
To sell my country, life, and line,
For any frail reward of thine?
Or break the Sire-of-life’s command,
By treading yonder sacred strand?
My fare is scant; my roof is low;
My country cold, and deep my woe,
And every moon that gilds yon hill,
Sees growing want and growing ill!
But scantier still must be my meal,
And keener woes my bosom feel,
A sharper winter chill our sky,
And louder tempests rage on high,
Gaunt famine howl along the plain,
And every limb be rack’d with pain,
Ere I compromit heaven’s decree,
By touching gold, or guiding thee.
ETHWALD.
Man of the woods! thy fancies seem
Like some distemper’d midnight dream;
Wild and devoid of reason. Vain
Are all thy fears of gold or gain!
Not more vain the infant’s call
To the starry skies to fall;
Or the fear this ocean-lake
O’er yon cliffs its way shall take,
If a single pebble-trace
Circles in its glassy face.
MONGAZID.
Wealth is a curse, our old men said,
[Their wisdom speaks, though they be dead,]
Wealth is a curse, and all its trust
A breath of wind—a heap of dust:
’Tis here—’tis gone! told or untold—
And Mystery is my name for gold.
We have been pining, since we knew
The wonders ye could make it do—
But find with cavil, years, and time,
It is the white man’s curse and crime.
Of old, our fathers held it good
To deal in shells, and rove the wood;
And had no fear of scaith or storm,
With food, and skins to keep them warm.
But ye, with your unhallowed gain,
Have burned our forests from the plain,
Causing our hope—our game—to fly,
And making life itself a lie.
ETHWALD.
Know! thou man of suff’ring proud,
Ills that press, and woes that cloud!
Know, that gold doth hold a charm
Want to banish, care disarm—
To dispel the father’s fears,
And suppress kind woman’s tears.
Gold ensures the ready meal,
And the joys the lib’ral feel,
In the palace, or the cot,
Fam’d, applauded, or forgot.
Oft its peace-inspiring power
Gilds fair virtue’s evening hour—
Oft, at stern-eyed power’s command,
Renovates a drooping land—
Opening, by a blest employ,
Founts of noble, lasting joy:
From its toil-impelling springs,
Commerce spreads her daring wings;
Art uprears the public dome,
Agriculture treads her loom,
And a thousand pleasures stand
To obey its potent wand.
It is not wealth that ills produce—
So sages write—but its abuse.
MONGAZID.
Yet, is the sweet with bitter blent,
And all without that boon—content!
Else hadst thou not quit friend and home,
In these unmeasured wilds to roam;
Or boldly dared this forest-sea
For gains, that still thy grasp shall flee—
Or proffered me thy valued pelf
To sell my gods—my peace—myself!
ETHWALD.
Thou wouldst shun the white man’s joy,
Lest there should be slight alloy:
Know, to mortal is not given
Joy unmixed, by righteous heaven:
Death and sorrow, toil and woe,
All must dread, and all must know.
But me thinks thy purpose stern,
That would neither teach nor learn,
Give nor guide, remit or feel,
Doth some secret power reveal—
Power that doth thy being sway,
And thou must, perforce, obey!
Is it pride of hunter fame,
Azid’s art, or Azid’s name?
Is it dread of fate severe,
Is it hope, or is it fear?
MONGAZID.
Fear of mortal shaft or ill,
Foeman’s ire or foeman’s skill—
Dread of pain or dread of woe,
Azid’s heart can never know!
It hath breasted famine drear,
And the jagged flinty spear,
Warrior’s wrath, or wizard’s sign,
Nor doth dread the force of thine!
ETHWALD.
Wizard am I not, nor part,
Read or know of such foul art,
False and visionary. There,
Wrapt in his robes of holy care,
Behold yon pilgrim, early gray,
Companion of my toilsome way,
As now along the desert strand,
With sober tread, he marks the sand—
E’en now his lips the skies implore,
Thy long-lost people to restore;
To lead their steps where joys invite,
And love, and truth, and life, and light!
Disciple he, severe and high,
Of the great ruler of the sky,
To thee but known by thunders loud,
The rushing wind, the fire-lit cloud;
But to our fathers, sage and eld,
By holy word and book revealed.
If aught from fiend, or spirit’s wile
Thou fearest on the desert isle,
His simple, solemn, sacred pray’r
Shall guard and guide and bless thee there.
OSCAR.
The fear from which you fly, is this—
You would not make but find your bliss.
But so God ruleth not his people. He
Hath so hewn out our destiny,
And linked it with our own free will,
That means with ends must tally still.
The bliss for which you chase and roam,
You might more truly find at home,
If but one tittle of the time
You give to hunting, war, and crime,
Were turned, with simple, peaceful hand,
To stocks or grain upon the land.
Besides, in every good man’s view,
You worship now—ye know not who;
The very Power, which, dark of eye,
If seen, ye would most swiftly fly.
MONGAZID.
’Tis well! Thy god will list to thee,
And think’st thou mine shall turn from me?
More may be vain: thee and thy crew
Fair skies o’ershadow—friend, adieu!
DE LA JOIE.
Hunter, stay; I have a gift,
Of such potence it shall lift
From thy brain, and from thy mind,
Every care of grosser kind,
Every latent, earthly woe,
Such as weary mortals know,
And induce the lifted soul
In one round of joy to roll.
It shall banish selfish care,
Change the fouler fate to fair,
And inspire, with visions high,
Thy sedate, prophetic eye.
Take this little vase; the draught
May be oft and freely quaffed,
By those only who have felt
Oft its sovereign power to melt,
Raise and gladden; but with care
Let thy lips the liquid share!
When the sun, with splendor bright,
Wakes the drowsy world with light,
Come thou hither, straight, and tell
If my gift be ill or well:
If my words thou findest true—
If such raptures may ensue—
And, with new-found courage brave,
Thou wilt tempt with me the wave.
ETHWALD.
[An attendant here introduces the pipe of peace.]
Accept my pledge of purpose high,
That calls me to your northern sky.
Much have I heard, and longed to view
These spreading coasts, and waters blue,
These rosy skies, and beaming shores,
Replete with all their sylvan stores.
Nor less my interest in that race
Who poise the dart, and lead the chase;
And, with a pride of kin and sire,
Still light up here their council fire.
Tradition hath informed me well
Of deeds in which ye yet excel:
Your skill by water, rift and rock,
The war-path and the battle’s shock;
And all those arts, through which ye sing,
“I am the wild-wood’s subtle king.”
Take of my proffered pledge: we stand
Thus heart in heart, as hand in hand.
MONGAZID.
So be it, sire: the heavens turn black
On all who from this pledge draw back.