Poems Sigourney 1827/Chilly M'Intosh
CHILLY M'INTOSH.
'Twas night.—The traitor chief reposed
Where shades involved his cabin deep,
Stretch'd on his couch, his eye was closed,
But say,—can Treachery sleep?—
Yes!—while forbearing Heaven extends
Her smile to all,
While morning's purple tinge she lends
And spreads mild evening's balmy pall,
And bids the dews of mercy fall
Alike on foes and friends,
Man sins and sleeps.—
While Nature like a pitying matron weeps,
And spares her erring son;
From his devoted head the lightning charms,
And gives him shelter in her sacred arms;
Still guilt dreams on,
And still his harden'd breast from conscience shields,
Till brief probation's hour to retribution yields.—
MacIntosh slept.—But near his home
Were the steps of a hostile train,
Like the rush of a mountain stream they come,
Who never strike in vain.
Springing from his broken dream
Darkly wild his elf-locks stream,
And his smooth tongue vow'd deceitfully,
But on his lip the falsehood dies,
The death-flash echoes to the skies,
And where is he?—
Gone to red Comyn's soul!—who sold
His native land for sordid gold,
On Falkirk's fatal fields;—
Gone to black Arnold's tortured ghost,
Who wandering o'er perdition's coast,
And beckoning to his spectre host,
A traitor welcome yields.
The warriors turn'd them from the dead,
In silence sternly back they sped,
No sign of vengeful joy they made;
They would not name his name
Who died that death of shame;
For in their hearts the trace was strong
When he to battle led their throng
And they his word obey'd;
Now shame and sorrow mark'd each manly face,
A chieftain's crime they mourn'd,—a nation's dire disgrace.
Morn rose upon their voiceless grief,
When to the front of their array,
Advanced a hoary-headed chief,
Sad was his heart that day.—
"Down, he said,—to the withering tomb,
The scorner of your law hath gone,
Our women shall record his doom,
Blanching with cold and fearful gloom
The brow of children yet unborn.
Oh, that his deeds might with his flesh decay!—
That when the hoarse raven hath dealt to her brood
The last foul drop of his false heart's blood,
His crime could be wash'd away.—
But look at the mounds where your fathers sleep,
At the forests and vales where your children play,
And the curse of your souls must be long and deep
On the wretch who hath barter'd all away.
The bird finds a nest in the thicket's green shade,
The beaver may lodge in the hut he hath made,
But where will ye hide when the summer hath fled?—
Say,—where is your home, save the house of the dead?—
When a few more suns at yon western goal,
In a flood of burning gold shall roll,
When a few more moons with their slender horn
In the curtain'd cells of the east are born,
With my mother earth I shall take my rest,
And my spirit speed on to the land of the blest.—
But ye, outcast race, your deep despair
Shall cling to my soul mid the fields of air,
It shall spread a cloud where the sky is fair,—
For tears of sorrow in heaven have been
O'er the guilt, and the wrongs, and the woes of men."—
He paused,—his white head tower'd more high,
As if communing with the sky,—
Then, as when thunders break
The warring cloud,—he spake.—
"Swear, that ye will not shed
The blood of white men!—for their hand hath traced
The gospel's glorious path amid life's dreary waste,
Hath given to cheer you, though you exiled roam,
A faith that hath power o'er the world to come.—
Swear, that ye will not tread
A foreign soil!—but 'neath the invader's frown,
Upon the earth ye till'd will stretch ye down,
And pine away beneath your own dear sky.—
Swear! on your children's lands to die,—
Swear! that your bones shall rest where your dead fathers lie."
Deep moan'd their oath upon the blast,
Red, straining eyes to Heaven were cast,
And when those iron foreheads press'd the sod,
It seem'd as if stern spirits breathed their last
Into the ear of God.—
Back to their lowly homes they turn'd,
A noble race! though crush'd and spurn'd;
Yet heard He not their voice that day
Who hates the oppressor's sway,—
Bids the lone valleys rise, and mountain-billows stay!—