[There is an interval of eight years between Books Second and Third.]
As in the long dead days marauding hostsOf Indians came from far Siberian coasts,And drove the peaceful Aztecs from their grounds,Despoiled their homes (but left their tell-tale mounds),So has the white man with the Indians done.Now with their backs against the setting sunThe remnants of a dying nation standAnd view the lost domain, once their beloved land.
Upon the vast Atlantic's leagues of shoreThe happy red man's tent is seen no more;And from the deep blue lakes which mirror heavenHis bounding bark canoe was long since driven.The mighty woods, those temples where his GodSpoke to his soul, are leveled to the sod;And in their place tall church spires point above,While priests proclaim the law of Christ, the King of Love.
The avaricious and encroaching railSeized the wide fields which knew the Indian's trail.Back to the reservations in the WestThe native owners of the land were pressed,And selfish cities, harbingers of want,Shut from their vision each accustomed haunt.Yet hungry Progress, never satisfied,Gazed on the western plains, and gazing, longed and sighed.
As some strange bullock in a pasture fieldCompels the herds to fear him, and to yieldThe juicy grass plots and the cooling shadeUntil, despite their greater strength, afraid,They huddle in some corner spot and cowerBefore the monarch's all controlling power,So has the white man driven from its placeBy his aggressive greed, Columbia's native race.
Yet when the bull pursues the herds at bay,Incensed they turn, and dare dispute his sway.And so the Indians turned, when men forgotTheir sacred word, and trespassed on the spot.The lonely little spot of all their lands,The reservation of the peaceful bands.But lust for gold all conscience kills in man,"Gold in the Black Hills, gold!" the cry arose and ran
From lip to lip, as flames from tree to treeLeap till the forest is one fiery sea,And through the country surged that hot unrestWhich thirst for riches wakens in the breast.In mighty throngs the fortune hunters came,Despoiled the red man's lands and slew his game,Broke solemn treaties and defied the law.And all these ruthless acts the Nation knew and saw.
Man is the only animal that killsJust for the wanton love of slaughter; spillsThe blood of lesser things to see it flow;Lures like a friend, to murder like a foeThe trusting bird and beast; and, coward like,Deals covert blows he dare not boldly strike.The brutes have finer souls, and only slayWhen torn by hunger's pangs, or when to fear a prey.
The pale-faced hunter, insolent and bold,Pursued the bison while he sought for gold.And on the hungry red man's own domainsHe left the rotting and unused remainsTo foul with sickening stench each passing windAnd rouse the demon in the savage mind,Save in the heart where virtues dominateInjustice always breeds its natural offspring—hate.
The chieftain of the Sioux, great Sitting Bull,Mused o'er their wrongs, and felt his heart swell fullOf bitter vengeance. Torn with hate's unrestHe called a council and his braves addressed."From fair Wisconsin's shimmering lakes of blueLong years ago the white man drove the Sioux.Made bold by conquest, and inflamed by greed,He still pursues our tribes, and still our ranks recede.
"Fair are the White Chief's promises and words,But dark his deeds who robs us of our herds.He talks of treaties, asks the right to buy,Then takes by force, not waiting our reply.He grants us lands for pastures and abodesTo devastate them by his iron roads.But now from happy Spirit Lands, a friendDraws near the hunted Sioux, to strengthen and defend.
"While walking in the fields I saw a star;Unconsciously I followed it afar—It led me on to valleys filled with light,Where danced our noble chieftains slain in fight.Black Kettle, first of all that host I knew,He whom the strong armed Custer foully slew.And then a spirit took me by the hand,The Great Messiah King who comes to free the land.
"Suns were his eyes, a speaking tear his voice,Whose rainbow sounds made listening hearts rejoiceAnd thus he spake: 'The red man's hour draws nearWhen all his lost domains shall reappear.The elk, the deer, the bounding antelope,Shall here return to grace each grassy slope.'He waved his hand above the fields, and lo!Down through the valleys came a herd of buffalo.
"The wondrous vision vanished, but I knewThat Sitting Bull must make the promise true.Great Spirits plan what mortal man achieves,The hand works magic when the heart believes.Arouse, ye braves! let not the foe advance.Arm for the battle and begin the dance—The sacred dance in honor of our slain,Who will return to earth, ere many moons shall wane."
Thus Sitting Bull, the chief of wily knaves,Worked on the superstitions of his braves.Mixed truth with lies; and stirred to mad unrestThe warlike instinct in each savage breast.A curious product of unhappy times,The natural offspring of unnumbered crimes,He used low cunning and dramatic artsTo startle and surprise those crude untutored hearts.
Out from the lodges pour a motley throng,Slow measures chanting of a dirge-like song.In one great circle dizzily they swing,A squaw and chief alternate in the ring.Coarse raven locks stream over robes of white,Their deep set orbs emit a lurid light,And as through pine trees moan the winds refrains,So swells and dies away, the ghostly graveyard strains.
Like worded wine is music to the ear,And long-indulged makes mad the hearts that hear.The dancers, drunken with the monotoneOf oft repeated notes, now shriek and groanAnd pierce their ruddy flesh with sharpened spears;Still more excited when the blood appears,With warlike yells, high in the air they bound,Then in a deathlike trance fall prostrate on the ground.
They wake to tell weird stories of the dead,While fresh performers to the ring are led.The sacred nature of the dance is lost,War is their cry, red war, at any cost.Insane for blood they wait for no command,But plunge marauding through the frightened land.Their demon hearts on devils' pleasures bent,For each new foe surprised, new torturing deaths invent.
Staked to the earth one helpless creature lies,Flames at his feet and splinters in his eyes.Another groans with coals upon his breast,While 'round the pyre the Indians dance and jest.A crying child is brained upon a tree,The swooning mother saved from death, to beThe slave and plaything of a filthy knave,Whose sins would startle hell, whose clay defile a grave.
Their cause was right, their methods all were wrong.Pity and censure both to them belong.Their woes were many, but their crimes were more.The soulless Satan holds not in his storeSuch awful tortures as the Indians' wrathKeeps for the hapless victim in his path.And if the last lone remnants of that raceWere by the white man swept from off the earth's fair face,
Were every red man slaughtered in a day,Still would that sacrifice but poorly payFor one insulted woman captive's woes.
Again great Custer in his strength arose,More daring, more intrepid than of old.The passing years had touched and turned to goldThe ever widening aureole of fameThat shone upon his brow, and glorified his name.
Wise men make laws, then turn their eyes away,While fools and knaves ignore them day by day;And unmolested, fools and knaves at lengthInduce long wars which sap a country's strength.The sloth of leaders, ruling but in name,Has dragged full many a nation down to shame.A word unspoken by the rightful lipsHas dyed the land with blood, and blocked the sea with ships.
The word withheld, when Indians asked for aid,Came when the red man started on his raid.What Justice with a gesture might have doneWas left for noisy war with bellowing gun.And who save Custer and his gallant menCould calm the tempest into peace again?What other hero in the land could hopeWith Sitting Bull, the fierce and lawless one to cope?
What other warrior skilled enough to dareSurprise that human tiger in his lair?Sure of his strength, unconscious of his fameOut from the quiet of the camp he came;And stately as Diana at his sideElizabeth, his wife and alway bride,And Margaret, his sister, rode apace;Love's clinging arms he left to meet death's cold embrace.
As the bright column wound along its course,The smiling leader turned upon his horseTo gaze with pride on that superb command.Twelve hundred men, the picked of all the land,Innured to hardship and made strong by strifeTheir lithe limbed bodies breathed of out-door life;While on their faces, resolute and brave,Hope stamped its shining seal, although their thoughts were grave.
The sad eyed women halted in the dawn,And waved farewell to dear ones riding on.The modest mist picked up her robes and ranBefore the Sun god's swift pursuing van.And suddenly there burst on startled eyes,The sight of soldiers, marching in the skies;That phantom host, a phantom Custer led;Mirage of dire portent, forecasting days ahead.
The soldier's children, flaunting mimic flags,Played by the roadside, striding sticks for nags.Their mothers wept, indifferent to the crowdWho saw their tears and heard them sob aloud.Old Indian men and squaws crooned forth a rhymeSung by their tribes from immemorial time;And over all the drums' incessant beatMixed with the scout's weird rune, and tramp of myriad feet.
So flawless was the union of each partThe mighty column (moved as by one heart)Pulsed through the air, like some sad song well sung,Which gives delight, although the soul is wrung.Farther and fainter to the sight and soundThe beautiful embodied poem wound;Till like a ribbon, stretched across the landSeemed the long narrow line of that receding band.
The lot of those who in the silence waitIs harder than the fighting soldiers' fate.Back to the lonely post two women passed,With unaccustomed sorrow overcast.Two sad for sighs, too desolate for tears,The dark forebodings of long widowed yearsIn preparation for the awful blowHung on the door of hope the sable badge of woe.
Unhappy Muse! for thee no song remains,Save the sad miséréré of the plains.Yet though defeat, not triumph, ends the tale,Great victors sometimes are the souls that fail.All glory lies not in the goals we reach,But in the lessons which our actions teach.And he who, conquered, to the end believesIn God and in himself, though vanquished, still achieves.
Ah, grand as rash was that last fatal raidThe little group of daring heroes made.Two hundred and two score intrepid menRode out to war; not one came back again.Like fiends incarnate from the depths of hellFive thousand foemen rose with deafening yell,And swept that vale as with a simoon's breath,But like the gods of old, each martyr met his death.
Like gods they battled and like gods they died.Hour following hour that little band defiedThe hordes of red men swarming o'er the plain,Till scarce a score stood upright 'mid the slain.Then in the lull of battle, creeping near,A scout breathed low in Custer's listening ear:"Death lies before, dear life remains behindMount thy sure-footed steed, and hasten with the wind."
A second's silence. Custer dropped his head,His lips slow moving as when prayers are said—Two words he breathed—"God and Elizabeth,"Then shook his long locks in the face of death,And with a final gesture turned awayTo join that fated few who stood at bay.Ah! deeds like that the Christ in man revealLet Fame descend her throne at Custer's shrine to kneel.
Too late to rescue, but in time to weep,His tardy comrades came. As if asleepHe lay, so fair, that even hellish hateWithheld its hand and dared not mutilate.By fiends who knew not honor, honored still,He smiled and slept on that far western hill.Cast down thy lyre, oh Muse! thy song is done!Let tears complete the tale of him who failed, yet won.