Poems (Cook)/Song of the Red Indian
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 mineThe 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.