Poems (Cook)/Song of the Red Indian

by Eliza Cook

SONG OF THE RED INDIAN.

Oh! why does the white man hang on my path,
 Like the hound on the tiger's track?
Does the flush of my dark skin waken his wrath?
 Does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas where the billow and breeze
 Bear riches for him alone;
And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood
 That the white man calls his own.
Then why should he covet the streams where none
 But the red-skin dare to swim?
Oh why should he wrong the hunter one
 Who never did harm to him?

The Father above thought fit to give
 To the white man corn and wine;
There are golden fields where he may live,
 But the forest shades are mine
The eagle has its place of rest,
 The wild horse where to dwell;
And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest,
 Made me a home as well.
Then back, go back from the red-skin's track,
 For the hunter's eyes grow dim,
To find the white man wrongs the one
 Who never did harm to him.

Oh! why does the pale-face always call
 The red man "heathen brute?"
He does not bend where the dark knees fall,
 But the tawny lip is mute.
We east no blame on his creed or name,
 Or his temples, fine and high;
But he mocks at us with a laughing word
 When we worship a star-lit sky.
Yet, white man, what has thy good faith done,
 And where can its mercy be,
If it teach thee to hate the hunter one
 Who never did harm to thee?

We need no book to tell us how
 Our lives shall pass away;
For we see the onward torrent flow,
 And the mighty tree decay.
"Let thy tongue be true and thy heart be brave,"
 Is among the red-skins' lore;
We can bring down the swift wing and dive in the wave,
 And we seek to know no more.
Then back, go back, and let us run
 With strong, unfetter'd limb;
For why should the white man wrong the one
 Who never did harm to him?

We know there's a hand that has fix'd the hill
 And planted the prairie plain;
That can fling the lightnings when it will,
 And pour out the torrent rain.
Far away and alone, where the headlong tide
 Dashes on with our bold canoe,
We ask and trust that hand to guide
 And carry us safely through.
The Great Spirit dwells in the beautiful sun,
 And while we kneel in its light,
Who will not own that the hunter one
 Has an altar pure and bright?

The painted streak on a warrior's cheek
 Appears a wondrous thing;
The white man stares at a wampum belt,
 And a plume from the heron's wing.
But the red man wins the panther's skins
 To cover his dauntless form;
While the pale-face hides his breast in a garb
 That he takes from the crawling worm.
And your lady fair, with her gems so rare,
 Her ruby, gold, and pearl,
Would be as strange to other eyes
 As the bone-deck'd Indian girl.

Then why does the cruel white man come
 With the war-whoop's yelling sound?
Oh! why does he take our wigwam home,
 And the jungled hunting-ground?
The wolf-cub has its lair of rest,
 The wild horse where to dwell,
And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest
 Made me a place as well.
Then back, go back from the red-skin's track;
 For the hunter's eyes grow dim,
To find that the white man wrongs the one
 Who never did harm to him.