Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres,And, like a blessing or a curse,They thunder down the formless years,And ring throughout the universe.
We build our futures, by the shapeOf our desires, and not by acts.There is no pathway of escape;No priest-made creeds can alter facts.
Salvation is not begged or bought;Too long this selfish hope sufficed;Too long man reeked with lawless thought,And leaned upon a tortured Christ.
Like shriveled leaves, these worn out creedsAre dropping from Religion's tree;The world begins to know its needs,And souls are crying to be free.
Free from the load of fear and grief,Man fashioned in an ignorant age;Free from the ache of unbeliefHe fled to in rebellious rage.
No church can bind him to the thingsThat fed the first crude souls, evolved;For, mounting up on daring wings,He questions mysteries all unsolved.
Above the chant of priests, aboveThe blatant voice of braying doubt,He hears the still, small voice of Love,Which sends its simple message out.
And clearer, sweeter, day by day,Its mandate echoes from the skies,"Go roll the stone of self away,And let the Christ within thee rise."
When Tom and I were married, we took a little flat;I had a taste for singing and playing and all that.And Tom, who loved to hear me, said he hoped I would not stopAll practice, like so many wives who let their music drop.So I resolved to set apart an hour or two each dayTo keeping vocal chords and hands in trim to sing and play.
The second morning I had been for half an hour or moreAt work on Haydn's masses, when a tap came at my door.A nurse who wore a dainty cap and apron, and a smile,Ran down to ask if I would cease my music for awhile.The lady in the flat above was very ill, she said,And the sound of my piano was distracting to her head.
A fortnight's exercises lost, ere I began them, when,The following morning at my door, there came that tap again;A woman with an anguished face implored me to foregoMy music for some days to come—a man was dead below.I shut down my piano till the corpse had left the house,And spoke to Tom in whispers and was quiet as a mouse.
A week of labor limbered up my stiffened hand and voice,I stole an extra hour from sleep, to practice and rejoice;When, ting-a-ling, the door-bell rang a discord in my trill—The baby in the flat across was very, very ill.For ten long days that infant's life was hanging by a thread,And all that time my instrument was silent as the dead.
So pain and death and sickness came in one perpetual row,When babies were not born above, then tenants died below.The funeral over underneath, some one fell ill on top,And begged me, for the love of God, to let my music drop.When trouble went not up or down, it stalked across the hall,And so in spite of my resolve, I do not play at all.
Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy,Is inspiration, eager to pursue,But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy,Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.
Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire,In passing by, but when she turns her face,Thou must persist and seek her with desire,If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace.
And if, like some winged bird she cleaves the air,And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth,Still must thou strive to follow even there,That she may know thy valor and thy worth.
Then shall she come unveiling all her charms,Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears;Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms,The while she murmurs music in thine ears.
But ere her kiss has faded from thy cheek,She shall flee from thee over hill and glade,So must thou seek and ever seek and seekFor each new conquest of this phantom maid.
Should some great angel say to me to-morrow,"Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start,But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow,Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart."
This were my wish! from my life's dim beginningLet be what has been!wisdom planned the whole;My want, my woe, my errors, and my sinning,All, all were needed lessons for my soul.
Of all the blessings which my life has known,I value most, and most praise God for three:Want, Loneliness and Pain, those comrades true,
Who, masqueraded in the garb of foesFor many a year, and filled my heart with dread.Yet fickle joys, like false, pretentious friends,Have proved less worthy than this trio. First,
Want taught me labor, led me up the steepAnd toilsome paths to hills of pure delight,Trod only by the feet that know fatigue,And yet press on until the heights appear.
Then loneliness and hunger of the heartSent me upreaching to the realms of space,Till all the silences grew eloquent,And all their loving forces hailed me friend.
Last, pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staffOf close communion with the over-soul,That I might lean upon it till the end,And find myself made strong for any strife.
And then these three who had pursued my stepsLike stern, relentless foes, year after year,Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me,And lo! they were divinely beautiful,For through them shone the lustrous eyes of Love.
You never can tell when you send a word,Like an arrow shot from a bowBy an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,Just where it may chance to go.It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend.Tipped with its poison or balm,To a stranger's heart in life's great mart,It may carry its pain or its calm.
You never can tell when you do an actJust what the result will be;But with every deed you are sowing a seed,Though the harvest you may not see.Each kindly act is an acorn droppedIn God's productive soilYou may not know, but the tree shall grow,With shelter for those who toil.
You never can tell what your thoughts will do,In bringing you hate or love;For thoughts are things, and their airy wingsAre swifter than carrier doves.They follow the law of the universe—Each thing must create its kind,And they speed o'er the track to bring you backWhatever went out from your mind.
Here, in the heart of the world,Here, in the noise and the din,Here, where our spirits were hurledTo battle with sorrow and sin,This is the place and the spotFor knowledge of infinite things;This is the kingdom where ThoughtCan conquer the prowess of kings.
Wait for no heavenly life,Seek for no temple alone;Here, in the midst of the strife,Know what the sages have known.See what the Perfect Ones saw—God in the depth of each soul,God as the light and the law,God as beginning and goal.
Earth is one chamber of Heaven,Death is no grander than birth.Joy in the life that was given,Strive for perfection on earth.Here, in the turmoil and roar,Show what it is to be calm;Show how the spirit can soarAnd bring back its healing and balm.
Stand not aloof nor apart,Plunge in the thick of the fight.There in the street and the mart,That is the place to do right.Not in some cloister or cave,Not in some kingdom above,Here, on this side of the grave,Here, should we labor and love.
However skilled and strong art thou, my foe,However fierce is thy relentless hateThough firm thy hand, and strong thy aim, and straightThy poisoned arrow leaves the bended bow,To pierce the target of my heart, ah! knowI am the master yet of my own fate.Thou canst not rob me of my best estate,Though fortune, fame and friends, yea love shall go.
Not to the dust shall my true self be hurled;Nor shall I meet thy worst assaults dismayed.When all things in the balance are well weighed,There is but one great danger in the world—Thou canst not force my soul to wish thee ill,That is the only evil that can kill.
"All that I ask," says Love, "is just to standAnd gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes;For in their depths lies largest Paradise.Yet, if perchance one pressure of thy handBe granted me, then joy I thought completeWere still more sweet."
"All that I ask," says Love, "all that I ask,Is just thy hand clasp. Could I brush thy cheekAs zephyrs brush a rose leaf, words are weakTo tell the bliss in which my soul would bask.There is no language but would desecrateA joy so great."
"All that I ask, is just one tender touchOf that soft cheek. Thy pulsing palm in mine,Thy dark eyes lifted in a trust divineAnd those curled lips that tempt me overmuchTurned where I may not seize the supreme blissOf one mad kiss.
"All that I ask," says Love, "of life, of death,Or of high heaven itself, is just to stand,Glance melting into glance, hand twined in hand,The while I drink the nectar of thy breath,In one sweet kiss, but one, of all thy store,I ask no more."
"All that I ask"—nay, self-deceiving Love,Reverse thy phrase, so thus the words may fall,In place of "all I ask," say, "I ask all,"All that pertains to earth or soars above,All that thou wert, art, will be, body, soul,Love asks the whole.
If one poor burdened toiler o'er life's road,Who meets us by the way,Goes on less conscious of his galling load,Then life indeed, does pay.
If we can show one troubled heart the gain,That lies alway in loss,Why then, we too, are paid for all the painOf bearing life's hard cross.
If some despondent soul to hope is stirred,Some sad lip made to smile,By any act of ours, or any word,Then, life has been worth while.
I wandered o'er the vast green plains of youth,And searched for Pleasure. On a distant heightFame's silhouette stood sharp against the skies.Beyond vast crowds that thronged a broad high-wayI caught the glimmer of a golden goal,While from a blooming bower smiled siren Love.
Straight gazing in her eyes, I laughed at Love,With all the haughty insolence of youth,As past her bower I strode to seek my goal."Now will I climb to glory's dizzy height,"I said, "for there above the common wayDoth pleasure dwell companioned by the skies."
But when I reached that summit near the skies,So far from man I seemed, so far from Love—"Not here," I cried, "doth Pleasure find her way,"Seen from the distant borderland of youth.Fame smiles upon us from her sun-kissed height,But frowns in shadows when we reach the goal.
Then were mine eyes fixed on that glittering goal,Dear to all sense—sunk souls beneath the skies.Gold tempts the artist from the lofty height,Gold lures the maiden from the arms of Love,Gold buys the fresh ingenuous heart of youth,"And gold," I said, "will show me Pleasure's way."
But ah! the soil and discord of that way,Where savage hordes rushed headlong to the goal,Dead to the best impulses of their youth,Blind to the azure beauty of the skies;Dulled to the voice of conscience and of love,They wandered far from Truth's eternal height.
Then Truth spoke to me from that noble height,Saying: "Thou didst pass Pleasure on the way,She with the yearning eyes so full of Love,Whom thou disdained to seek for glory's goal."Two blending paths beneath God's arching skiesLead straight to Pleasure. Ah, blind heart of youth,Not up fame's height, not toward the base god's goal,Doth Pleasure make her way, but 'neath calm skiesWhere Duty walks with Love in endless youth.
The fields were bleak and sodden. Not a wingOr note enlivened the depressing wood,A soiled and sullen, stubborn snowdrift stoodBeside the roadway. Winds came mutteringOf storms to be, and brought the chilly stingOf icebergs in their breath. Stalled cattle mooedForth plaintive pleadings for the earth's green food.No gleam, no hint of hope in anything.
The sky was blank and ashen, like the faceOf some poor wretch who drains life's cup too fast.Yet, swaying to and fro, as if to flingAbout chilled Nature its lithe arms of grace,Smiling with promise in the wintry blast,The optimistic Willow spoke of spring.
The pessimistic locust, last to leaf,Though all the world is glad, still talks of grief.
Who thinks how desolate and strangeTo me must seem the autumn's change,When housed in attic or in chest,A lonely and unwilling guest,I lie through nights of bleak December,And think in silence, and remember.
I think of hempen fields, where IOnce played with insects floating by,And joyed alike in sun and rain,Unconscious of approaching pain.I dwell upon my later lot,Where, swung in some secluded spotBetween two tried and trusted trees,All summer long I wooed the breeze.With song of bee and call of birdAnd lover's secrets overheard,And sight and scent of blooming flowers,To fill the happy sunlight's hours.When verdant fields grow bare and brown,When forest leaves come raining down,When frost has mated with the weatherAnd all the birds go south together,When drying boats turn up their keels,Who wonders how the hammock feels?
Let no man pray that he know not sorrow,Let no soul ask to be free from pain,For the gall of to-day is the sweet of to-morrow,And the moment's loss is the lifetime's gain.
Through want of a thing does its worth redouble,Through hunger's pangs does the feast content,And only the heart that has harbored trouble,Can fully rejoice when joy is sent.
Let no man shrink from the bitter tonicsOf grief, and yearning, and need, and strife,For the rarest chords in the soul's harmonies,Are found in the minor strains of life.
It is easy to sit in the sunshineAnd talk to the man in the shade;It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat,And point out the places to wade.
But once we pass into the shadows,We murmur and fret and frown,And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank,Or throw up our hands and go down.
It is easy to sit in your carriage,And counsel the man on foot,But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk,As you feel the peg in your boot.
It is easy to tell the toilerHow best he can carry his pack,But no one can rate a burden's weightUntil it has been on his back.
The up-curled mouth of pleasure,Can prate of sorrow's worth,But give it a sip, and a wryer lip,Was never made on earth.
As when the old moon lighted by the tenderAnd radiant crescent of the new is seen,And for a moment's space suggests the splendorOf what in its full prime it once has been,So on my waning years you cast the gloryOf youth and pleasure, for a little hour;And life again seems like an unread story,And joy and hope both stir me with their power.
Can blooming June be fond of bleak December?I dare not wait to hear my heart reply.I will forget the question—and rememberAlone the priceless feast spread for mine eye,That radiant hair that flows across the pillows,Like shimmering sunbeams over drifts of snow;Those heaving breasts, like undulating billows,Whose dangers or delights but Love can know.
That crimson mouth from which sly Cupid borrowedThe pattern for his bow, nor asked consent;That smooth, unruffled brow which has not sorrowed—All these are mine; should I not be content?Yet are these treasures mine, or only lent me?And who shall claim them when I pass away?Oh, jealous Fate, to torture and torment meWith thoughts like these in my too fleeting day!
For while I gained the prize which all were seeking,And won you with the ardor of my quest,The bitter truth I know without your speaking—You only let me love you at the best.E'en while I lean and count my riches over,And view with gloating eyes your priceless charms,I know somewhere there dwells the unnamed loverWho yet shall clasp you, willing, in his arms.
And while my hands stray through your clustering tresses,And while my lips are pressed upon your own,This unseen lover waits for such caressesAs my poor hungering clay has never known,And when some day, between you and your dutyA green grave lies, his love shall make you glad,And you shall crown him with your splendid beauty—Ah, God! ah, God! 'tis this way men go mad!
I know not whence I came,I know not whither I go;But the fact stands clear that I am hereIn this world of pleasure and woe.And out of the mist and murk,Another truth shines plain.It is in my power each day and hourTo add to its joy or its pain.
I know that the earth exists,It is none of my business why.I cannot find out what it's all about,I would but waste time to try.My life is a brief, brief thing,I am here for a little space.And while I stay I would like, if I may,To brighten and better the place.
The trouble, I think, with us allIs the lack of a high conceit.If each man thought he was sent to this spotTo make it a bit more sweet,How soon we could gladden the world.How easily right all wrong.If nobody shirked, and each one workedTo help his fellows along.
Cease wondering why you came—Stop looking for faults and flaws.Rise up to-day in your pride and say,"I am part of the First Great Cause!However full the worldThere is room for an earnest man.It had need ofmeor I would not be,I am here to strengthen the plan."
One night was full of rapture and delight—Of reunited arms and swooning kisses,And all the unnamed and unnumbered blissesWhich fond souls find in love of love at night.
Heart beat with heart, and each clung into eachWith twining arms that did but loose their holdTo cling still closer; and fond glances toldThese truths for which there is no uttered speech.
There was sweet laughter and endearing words,Made broken by the kiss that could not wait,And cooing sounds as of dear little birdsThat in spring-time love and woo and mate.
And languid sighs that breathed of love's contentAnd all too soon this night of rapture went.
One night was full of anguish and of pain,Of nerveless arms and mockery of kisses;And those caresses where one sick heart missesThe quick response the other cannot feign.
Hands idly clasped and unclasped, and lost hold,And the averted eyes, that turned away,And in whose depths no love nor longing lay,The saddest of all truths too plainly told.
There was salt sorrow and the gall of tears,Some useless words that ended in a moan,And a dull dread of long unending yearsWhen one must walk forever more alone.Deep shuddering sighs told more than lips could say;And the long night of sorrow wore away.
We must not force events, but rather makeThe heart soil ready for their coming, asThe earth spreads carpets for the feet of Spring,Or, with the strengthening tonic of the frost,Prepares for Winter. Should a July noonBurst suddenly upon a frozen worldSmall joy would follow, even tho' that worldWere longing for the Summer. Should the stingOf sharp December pierce the heart of June,What death and devastation would ensue!All things are planned. The most majestic sphereThat whirls through space is governed and controlledBy supreme law, as is the blade of grassWhich through the bursting bosom of the earthCreeps up to kiss the light. Poor puny manAlone doth strive and battle with the ForceWhich rules all lives and worlds, and he aloneDemands effect before producing cause.How vain the hope! We cannot harvest joyUntil we sow the seed, and God aloneKnows when that seed has ripened. Oft we standAnd watch the ground with anxious brooding eyesComplaining of the slow unfruitful yield,Not knowing that the shadow of ourselvesKeeps off the sunlight and delays result.Sometimes our fierce impatience of desireDoth like a sultry May force tender shootsOf half-formed pleasures and unshaped eventsTo ripen prematurely, and we reapBut disappointment; or we rot the germsWith briny tears ere they have time to grow.While stars are born and mighty planets dieAnd hissing comets scorch the brow of spaceThe Universe keeps its eternal calm.Through patient preparation, year on year,The earth endures the travail of the SpringAnd Winter's desolation. So our soulsIn grand submission to a higher lawShould move serene through all the ills of life,Believing them masked joys.
All valor died not on the plains of Troy.Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joyTo sing of deeds as dauntless and as braveAs e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave.Sing of that noble soldier, nobler man,Dear to the heart of each American.Sound forth his praise from sea to listening sea—Greece her Achilles claimed, immortal Custer, we.
Intrepid are earth's heroes now as whenThe gods came down to measure strength with men.Let danger threaten or let duty call,And self surrenders to the needs of all;Incurs vast perils, or, to save those dear,Embraces death without one sigh or tear.Life's martyrs still the endless drama playThough no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day.
And if he chanted, who would list his songs,So hurried now the world's gold-seeking throngs?And yet shall silence mantle mighty deeds?Awake, dear Muse, and sing though no ear heeds!Extol the triumphs, and bemoan the endOf that true hero, lover, son and friendWhose faithful heart in his last choice was shown—Death with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone.
He who was born for battle and for strifeLike some caged eagle frets in peaceful life;So Custer fretted when detained afarFrom scenes of stirring action and of war.And as the captive eagle in delight,When freedom offers, plumes himself for flightAnd soars away to thunder clouds on high,With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry.
So lion-hearted Custer sprang to arms,And gloried in the conflict's loud alarms.But one dark shadow marred his bounding joy;And then the soldier vanished, and the boy,The tender son, clung close, with sobbing breath,To her from whom each parting was new death;That mother who like goddesses of old,Gave to the mighty Mars, three warriors brave and bold,
Yet who, unlike those martial dames of yore,Grew pale and shuddered at the sight of gore.A fragile being, born to grace the hearth,Untroubled by the conflicts of the earth.Some gentle dove who reared young eaglets, might,In watching those bold birdlings take their flight,Feel what that mother felt who saw her sonsRush from her loving arms, to face death-dealing guns.
But ere thy lyre is strung to martial strainsOf wars which sent our hero o'er the plains,To add the cypress to his laureled brow,Be brave, my Muse, and darker truths avow.Let Justice ask a preface to thy songs,Before the Indian's crimes declare his wrongs;Before effects, wherein all horrors blend,Declare the shameful cause, precursor of the end.
When first this soil the great Columbus trod,He was less like the image of his GodThan those ingenuous souls, unspoiled by art,Who lived so near to Mother Nature's heart;Those simple children of the wood and wave,As frank as trusting, and as true as brave;Savage they were, when on some hostile raid(For where is he so high, whom war does not degrade?)
But dark deceit and falsehood's shameless shameThey had not learned, until the white man came.He taught them, too, the lurking devil's joyIn liquid lies, that lure but to destroy.With wily words, as false as they were sweet,He spread his snares for unsuspecting feet;Paid truth with guile, and trampled in the dustTheir gentle childlike faith and unaffected trust.
And for the sport of idle kings and knavesOf Nature's greater noblemen, made slaves.Alas, the hour, when the wronged Indian knowsHis seeming benefactors are but foes.His kinsmen kidnapped and his lands possessed,The demon woke in that untutored breast.Four hundred years have rolled upon their way—The ruthless demon rules the red man to this day.
If, in the morning of success, that grandInvincible discoverer of our landHad made no lodge or wigwam desolateTo carry trophies to the proud and great;If on our history's page there were no blotLeft by the cruel rapine of Cabot,Of Verrazin, and Hudson, dare we claimThe Indian of the plains, to-day had been the same?
For in this brief existence, not aloneDo our lives gather what our hands have sown,But we reap, too, what others long agoSowed, careless of the harvests that might grow.Thus hour by hour the humblest human soulsInscribe in cipher on unending scrolls,The history of nations yet to be;Incite fierce bloody wars, to rage from sea to sea,
Or pave the way to peace. There is no past,So deathless are events—results so vast.And he who strives to make one act or hourStand separate and alone, needs first the powerTo look upon the breaking wave and say,"These drops were bosomed by a cloud to-day,And those from far mid-ocean's crest were sent."So future, present, past, in one wide sea are blent.
Oh, for the power to call to aid, of mineOwn humble Muse, the famed and sacred nine.Then might she fitly sing, and only then,Of those intrepid and unflinching menWho knew no homes save ever moving tents,And who 'twixt fierce unfriendly elementsAnd wild barbarians warred. Yet unfraid,Since love impels thy strains, sing, sing, my modest maid.
Relate how Custer in midwinter soughtFar Washita's cold shores; tell why he foughtWith savage nomads fortressed in deep snows.Woman, thou source of half the sad world's woesAnd all its joys, what sanguinary strifeHas vexed the earth and made contention rifeBecause of thee! For, hidden in man's heart,Ay, in his very soul, of his true self a part,
The natural impulse and the wish belongsTo win thy favor and redress thy wrongs.Alas! for woman, and for man, alas!If that dread hour should ever come to pass,When, through her new-born passion for control,She drives that beauteous impulse from his soul.What were her vaunted independence worthIf to obtain she sells her sweetest rights of birth?
God formed fair woman for her true estate—Man's tender comrade, and his equal mate,Not his competitor in toil and trade.While coarser man, with greater strength was madeTo fight her battles and her rights protect.Ay! to protect the rights of earth's elect(The virgin maiden and the spotless wife)From immemorial time has man laid down his life.
And now brave Custer's valiant army pressedAcross the dangerous desert of the West,To rescue fair white captives from the handsOf brutal Cheyenne and Comanche bands,On Washita's bleak banks. Nine hundred strongIt moved its slow determined way along,Past frontier homes left dark and desolateBy the wild Indians' fierce and unrelenting hate;
Past forts where ranchmen, strong of heart and bold,Wept now like orphaned children as they told,With quivering muscles and with anguished breath,Of captured wives, whose fate was worse than death;Past naked bodies whose disfiguring woundsSpoke of the hellish hate of human hounds;Past bleaching skeleton and rifled grave,On pressed th' avenging host, to rescue and to save.
Uncertain Nature, like a fickle friend,(Worse than the foe on whom we may depend)Turned on these dauntless souls a brow of wrathAnd hurled her icy jav'lins in their path.With treacherous quicksands, and with storms that blight,Entrapped their footsteps and confused their sight."Yet on," urged Custer, "on at any cost,No hour is there to waste, no moment to be lost."
Determined, silent, on they rode, and on,Like fabled Centaurs, men and steeds seemed one.No bugle echoed and no voice spoke near,Lest on some lurking Indian's list'ning earThe sound might fall. Through swift descending snowThe stealthy guides crept, tracing out the foe;No fire was lighted, and no halt was madeFrom haggard gray-lipped dawn till night lent friendly shade.
Then, by the shelt'ring river's bank at last,The weary warriors paused for their repast.A couch of ice and falling snows for spreadMade many a suffering soldier's chilling bed.They slept to dream of glory and delight,While the pale fingers of the pitying nightWove ghostly winding sheets for that doomed scoreWho, ere another eve, should sleep to wake no more.
But those who slept not, saw with startled eyesFar off, athwart dim unprotecting skies,Ascending slowly with majestic grace,A lustrous rocket, rising out of space."Behold the signal of the foe," cried one,The field is lost before the strife's begun.Yet no! for see! yon rays spread near and far;It is the day's first smile, the radiant morning star.
The long hours counting till the daylight broke,In whispered words the restless warriors spoke.They talked of battles, but they thought of home(For hearts are faithful though the feet may roam).Brave Hamilton, all eager for the strife,Mused o'er that two-fold mystery—death and life;"And when I die," quoth he, "mine be the partTo fall upon the field, a bullet in my heart."
At break of dawn the scouts crept in to sayThe foe was camped a rifle shot away.The baying of a dog, an infant's cryPierced through the air; sleep fled from every eye.To horse! to arms! the dead demand the dead!Let the grand charge upon the lodge be led!Let the Mosaic law, life for a lifePay the long standing debt of blood. War to the knife!
So spake each heart in that unholy rageWhich fires the brain, when war the thoughts engage.War, hideous war, appealing to the worstIn complex man, and waking that wild thirstFor human blood which blood alone can slake.Yet for their country's safety, and the sakeOf tortured captives moaning in alarmThe Indian must be made to fear the law's strong arm.
A noble vengeance burned in Custer's breast,But, as he led his army to the crest,Above the wigwams, ready for the chargeHe felt the heart within him, swelling largeWith human pity, as an infant's wailShrilled once again above the wintry gale.Then hosts of murdered children seemed to rise;And shame his halting thought with sad accusing eyes,
And urge him on to action. Stern of browThe just avenger, and the General now,He gives the silent signal to the bandWhich, all impatient, waits for his command.Cold lips to colder metal press; the airEchoes those merry strains which mean despairFor sleeping chieftain and for toiling squaw,But joy to those stern hearts which glory in the law
Of murder paying murder's awful debt.And now four squadrons in one charge are met.From east and west, from north and south they come,At call of bugle and at roll of drum.Their rifles rain hot hail upon the foe,Who flee from danger in death's jaws to go.The Indians fight like maddened bulls at bay,And dying shriek and groan, wound the young ear of day.
A pallid captive and a white-browed boyAdd to the tumult piercing cries of joy,As forth they fly, with high hope animate.A hideous squaw pursues them with her hate;Her knife descends with sickening force and sound;Their bloody entrails stain the snow-clad ground.She shouts with glee, then yells with rage and fallsDead by her victims' side, pierced by avenging balls.
Now war runs riot, carnage reigns supreme.All thoughts of mercy fade from Custer's scheme.Inhuman methods for inhuman foes,Who feed on horrors and exult in woes.To conquer and subdue alone remainsIn dealing with the red man on the plains.The breast that knows no conscience yields to fear,Strike! let the Indian meet his master now and here.
With thoughts like these was Custer's mind engaged.The gentlest are the sternest when enraged.All felt the swift contagion of his ire,For he was one who could arouse and fireThe coldest heart, so ardent was his own.His fearless eye, his calm intrepid tone,Bespoke the leader, strong with conscious power,Whom following friends will bless, while foes will curse and cower.
Again they charge! and now among the killedLies Hamilton, his wish so soon fulfilled,Brave Elliott pursues across the fieldThe flying foe, his own young life to yield.But like the leaves in some autumnal galeThe red men fall in Washita's wild vale.Each painted face and black befeathered headStill more repulsive seems with death's grim pallor wed.
New forces gather on surrounding knolls,And fierce and fiercer war's red river rolls.With bright-hued pennants flying from each lanceThe gayly costumed Kiowas advance.And bold Comanches (Bedouins of the land)Infuse fresh spirit in the Cheyenne band.While from the ambush of some dark ravineFlash arrows aimed by hands, unerring and unseen.
The hours advance; the storm clouds roll away;Still furious and more furious grows the fray.The yellow sun makes ghastlier still the sightOf painted corpses, staring in its light.No longer slaves, but comrades of their griefs,The squaws augment the forces of their chiefs.They chant weird dirges in a minor key,While from the narrow door of wigwam and tepee
[Transcriber's Note: originally the remaining stanzas of Book II were numbered incorrectly from here onwards. This has been changed to avoid confusion]
Cold glittering eyes above cold glittering steelTheir deadly purpose and their hate reveal.The click of pistols and the crack of gunsProclaim war's daughters dangerous as her sons.She who would wield the soldier's sword and lanceMust be prepared to take the soldier's chance.She who would shoot must serve as target, too;The battle-frenzied men, infuriate now pursue.
And blood of warrior, woman and papoose,Flow free as waters when some dam breaks loose;Consuming fire, the wanton friend of war(Whom allies worship and whom foes abhor)Now trails her crimson garments through the street,And ruin marks the passing of her feet.Full three-score lodges smoke upon the plain,And all the vale is strewn with bodies of the slain.
And those who are not numbered with the deadBefore all-conquering Custer now are led.To soothe their woes, and calm their fears he seeks;An Osage guide interprets while he speaks.The vanquished captives, humbled, cowed and spentRead in the victor's eye his kind intent.The modern victor is as kind as brave;His captive is his guest, not his insulted slave.
Mahwissa, sister of the slaughtered chiefOf all the Cheyennes, listens; and her griefYields now to hope; and o'er her withered faceThere flits the stealthy cunning of her race.Then forth she steps, and thus begins to speak:"To aid the fallen and support the weakIs man's true province; and to ease the painOf those o'er whom it is his purpose now to reign.
"Let the strong chief unite with theirs his life,And take this black-eyed maiden for a wife."Then, moving with an air of proud command,She leads a dusky damsel by the hand,And places her at wondering Custer's side,Invoking choicest blessings on the brideAnd all unwilling groom, who thus replies."Fair is the Indian maid, with bright bewildering eyes,
"But fairer still is one who, year on year,Has borne man's burdens, conquered woman's fear;And at my side rode mile on weary mile,And faced all deaths, all dangers, with a smile,Wise as Minerva, as Diana brave,Is she whom generous gods in kindness gaveTo share the hardships of my wandering life,Companion, comrade, friend, my loved and loyal wife.
"The white chief weds but one. Take back thy maid."He ceased, and o'er Mahwissa's face a shadeOf mingled scorn and pity and surpriseSweeps as she slow retreats, and thus replies:"Rich is the pale-faced chief in battle fame,But poor is he who but one wife may claim.Wives are the red-skinned heroes' rightful spoil;In war they prove his strength, in times of peace they toil."
But hark! The bugle echoes o'er the plainsAnd sounds again those merry Celtic strainsWhich oft have called light feet to lilting dance,But now they mean the order to advance.Along the river's bank, beyond the hillTwo thousand foemen lodge, unconquered still.Ere falls night's curtain on this bloody play,The army must proceed, with feint of further fray.
The weary warriors mount their foam-flecked steeds,With flags unfurled the dauntless host proceeds.What though the foe outnumbers two to one?Boldness achieves what strength oft leaves undone;A daring mein will cause brute force to cower,And courage is the secret source of power.As Custer's column wheels upon their sightThe frightened red men yield the untried field by flight.
Yet when these conquering heroes sink to rest,Dissatisfaction gnaws the leader's breast,For far away across vast seas of snowsHeld prisoners still by hostile ArapahoesAnd Cheyennes unsubdued, two captives wait.On God and Custer hangs their future fate.May the Great Spirit nerve the mortal's armTo rescue suffering souls from worse than death's alarm.
But ere they seek to rescue the oppressed,The valiant dead, in state, are laid to rest.Mourned Hamilton, the faithful and the brave,Nine hundred comrades follow to the grave;And close behind the banner-hidden corseAll draped in black, walks mournfully his horse;While tears of sound drip through the sunlit day.A soldier may not weep, but drums and bugles may.
Now, Muse, recount, how after long delaysAnd dangerous marches through untrodden ways,Where cold and hunger on each hour attend,At last the army gains the journey's end.An Indian village bursts upon the eye;Two hundred lodges, sleep-encompassed lie,There captives moan their anguished prayers through tears,While in the silent dawn the armied answer nears.
To snatch two fragile victims from the foeNine hundred men have traversed leagues of snow.Each woe they suffered in a hostile landThe flame of vengeance in their bosoms fanned.They thirst for slaughter, and the signal waitTo wrest the captives from their horrid fate.Each warrior's hand upon his rifle falls,Each savage soldier's heart for awful bloodshed calls.
And one, in years a youth, in woe a man,Sad Brewster, scarred by sorrow's blighting ban,Looks, panting, where his captive sister sleeps,And o'er his face the shade of murder creeps.His nostrils quiver like a hungry beastWho scents anear the bloody carnal feast.He longs to leap down in that slumbering valeAnd leave no foe alive to tell the awful tale.
Not so, calm Custer. Sick of gory strife,He hopes for rescue with no loss of life;And plans that bloodless battle of the plainsWhere reasoning mind outwits mere savage brains.The sullen soldiers follow where he leads;No gun is emptied, and no foeman bleeds.Fierce for the fight and eager for the frayThey look upon their Chief in undisguised dismay.
He hears the murmur of their discontent,But sneers can never change a strong mind's bent.He knows his purpose and he does not swerve,And with a quiet mien and steady nerveHe meets dark looks where'er his steps may go,And silence that is bruising as a blow,Where late were smiles and words of ardent praise.So pass the lagging weeks of wearying delays.
Inaction is not always what it seems,And Custer's mind with plan and project teems.Fixed in his peaceful purpose he abidesWith none takes counsel and in none confides;But slowly weaves about the foe a netWhich leaves them wholly at his mercy, yetHe strikes no fateful blow; he takes no life,And holds in check his men, who pant for bloody strife.
Intrepid warrior and skilled diplomate,In his strong hands he holds the red man's fate.The craftiest plot he checks with counterplot,Till tribe by tribe the tricky foe is broughtTo fear his vengeance and to know his powerAs man's fixed gaze will make a wild beast cower,So these crude souls feel that unflinching willWhich draws them by its force, yet does not deign to kill.
And one by one the hostile Indians sendTheir chiefs to seek a peaceful treaty's end.Great councils follow; skill with cunning copesAnd conquers it; and Custer sees his hopesSo long delayed, like stars storm hidden, riseTo radiate with splendor all his skies.The stubborn Cheyennes, cowed at last by fear,Leading the captive pair, o'er spring-touched hills appear.
With breath suspended, now the whole commandWaits the approach of that equestrian band.Nearer it comes, still nearer, then a cry,Half sob, half shriek, goes piercing God's blue sky,And Brewster, like a nimble-footed doe,Or like an arrow hurrying from a bow,Shoots swiftly through the intervening spaceAnd that lost sister clasps, in sorrowing love's embrace.
And men who leaned o'er Hamilton's rude bierAnd saw his dead dear face without a tear,Strong souls who early learned the manly artOf keeping from the eye what's in the heart,Soldiers who look unmoved on death's pale brow,Avert their eyes, to hide their moisture now.The briny flood forced back from shores of woe,Needs but to touch the strands of joy to overflow.
About the captives welcoming warriors crowd,All eyes are wet, and Brewster sobs aloud.Alas, the ravage wrought by toil and woeOn faces that were fair twelve moons ago.Bronzed by exposure to the heat and cold,Still young in years, yet prematurely old,By insults humbled and by labor worn,They stand in youth's bright hour, of all youth's graces shorn.
A scanty garment rudely made of sacksHangs from their loins; bright blankets drape their backs;About their necks are twisted tangled stringsOf gaudy beads, while tinkling wire and ringsOf yellow brass on wrists and fingers glow.Thus, to assuage the anger of the foeThe cunning Indians decked the captive pairWho in one year have known a lifetime of despair.
But love can resurrect from sorrow's tombThe vanished beauty and the faded bloom,As sunlight lifts the bruised flower from the sod,Can lift crushed hearts to hope, for love is God.Already now in freedom's glad releaseThe hunted look of fear gives place to peace,And in their eyes at thought of home appearsThat rainbow light of joy which brightest shines through tears.
About the leader thick the warriors crowd;Late loud in censure, now in praises loud,They laud the tactics, and the skill extolWhich gained a bloodless yet a glorious goal.Alone and lonely in the path of rightFull many a brave soul walks. When gods requiteAnd crown his actions as their worth demands,Among admiring throngs the hero always stands.
Back to the East the valorous squadrons sweep;The earth, arousing from her long, cold sleep,Throws from her breast the coverlet of snow,Revealing Spring's soft charms which lie below.Suppressed emotions in each heart arise,The wooer wakens and the warrior dies.The bird of prey is vanquished by the dove,And thoughts of bloody strife give place to thoughts of love.
The mighty plains, devoid of whispering trees,Guard well the secrets of departed seas.Where once great tides swept by with ebb and flowThe scorching sun looks down in tearless woe.And fierce tornadoes in ungoverned painMourn still the loss of that mysterious main.Across this ocean bed the soldiers fly—Home is the gleaming goal that lures each eager eye.
Like some elixir which the gods prepare,They drink the viewless tonic of the air,Sweet with the breath of startled antelopesWhich speed before them over swelling slopes.Now like a serpent writhing o'er the moor,The column curves and makes a slight detour,As Custer leads a thousand men awayTo save a ground bird's nest which in the footpath lay.
Mile following mile, against the leaning skiesFar off they see a dull dark cloud arise.The hunter's instinct in each heart is stirred,Beholding there in one stupendous herdA hundred thousand buffaloes. Oh greatUnwieldy proof of Nature's cruder state,Rough remnant of a prehistoric day,Thou, with the red man, too, must shortly pass away.
Upon those spreading plains is there not roomFor man and bison, that he seals its doom?What pleasure lies and what seductive charmIn slaying with no purpose but to harm?Alas, that man, unable to create,Should thirst forever to exterminate,And in destruction find his fiercest joy.The gods alone create, gods only should destroy.
The flying hosts a straggling bull pursue;Unerring aim, the skillful Custer drew.The wounded beast turns madly in despairAnd man and horse are lifted high in air.The conscious steed needs not the guiding rein;Back with a bound and one quick cry of painHe springs, and halts, well knowing where must fallIn that protected frame, the sure death dealing ball.
With minds intent upon the morrow's feast,The men surround the carcass of the beast.Rolled on his back, he lies with lolling tongue,Soon to the saddle savory steaks are hung.And from his mighty head, great tufts of hairAre cut as trophies for some lady fair.To vultures then they leave the torn remainsOf what an hour ago was monarch of the plains.
Far off, two bulls in jealous war engage,Their blood-shot eye balls roll in furious rage;With maddened hoofs they mutilate the groundAnd loud their angry bellowings resound;With shaggy heads bent low they plunge and roar,Till both broad bellies drip with purple gore.Meanwhile, the heifer, whom the twain desire,Stands browsing near the pair, indifferent to their ire.
At last she lifts her lazy head and heedsThe clattering hoofs of swift advancing steeds.Off to the herd with cumb'rous gait she runsAnd leaves the bulls to face the threatening guns.No more for them the free life of the plains,Its mating pleasures and its warring pains.Their quivering flesh shall feed unnumbered foes,Their tufted tails adorn the soldiers' saddle bows.
Now into camp the conquering hosts advance;On burnished arms the brilliant sunbeams glance.Brave Custer leads, blonde as the gods of old;Back from his brow blow clustering locks of gold,And, like a jewel in a brook, there lies,Far in the depths of his blue guarded eyes,The thought of one whose smiling lips up-curled,Mean more of joy to him than plaudits of the world.
The troops in columns of platoons appearClose to the leader following. Ah, hereThe poetry of war is fully seen,Its prose forgotten; as against the greenOf Mother Nature, uniformed in blue,The soldiers pass for Sheridan's review.The motion-music of the moving throng,Is like a silent tune, set to a wordless song.
The guides and trailers, weird in war's array,Precede the troops along the grassy way.They chant wild songs, and with loud noise and stress,In savage manner savage joy express.The Indian captives, blanketed in red,On ponies mounted, by the scouts are led.Like sumach bushes, etched on evening skies,Against the blue-clad troops, this patch of color lies.
High o'er the scene vast music billows bound,And all the air is liquid with the soundOf those invisible compelling waves.Perchance they reach the low and lonely gravesWhere sleep brave Elliott and Hamilton,And whisper there the tale of victory won;Or do the souls of soldiers tried and trueCome at the bugle call, and march in grand review?
The pleased Commander watches in surpriseThis splendid pageant surge before his eyes.Not in those mighty battle days of oldDid scenes like this upon his sight unfold.But now it passes. Drums and bugles ceaseTo dash war billows on the shores of Peace.The victors smile on fair broad bosomed SleepWhile in her soothing arms, the vanquished cease to weep.