A LULLABY.
BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.
Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.Sleep on, my warrior son!Ne'er to his childhood's home,Waiting our greeting smile,Will thy brave father come.Shouting the loud death-cryWith the grim warrior band,Singing the giant's songs,Dwells he in spirit land.Turning from brave to brave,See his keen eyeAs he glances around him,And smiles scornfully.I knew when he left me,(The strawberries grewOn the prairies green,And the wild pigeon flewSwift o'er the spirit lakes,)Then o'er my heartCame a dark shadowNe'er to depart.I watched, from the doorOf my tupee,18the bandAs they turned from their homeTo the Chippeways' land.I watched and I wept,As thy father, the lastOf the many tall braves,From my tearful gaze passed.Wake not, my young son,For thy father sleeps sound,And his stiffened corse liesOn his enemy's ground.Wake not, my brave child,Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,With the miseries of life,—'Tis the red man's dark doom.O'er the fate of the IndianThe Great Spirit has castThe spell of the white man—His glory is past.Like the day that is dyingAs fades the bright sun,Like the warrior expiringWhen the battle is done.Soon no more will our warriorsMeet side by side,To talk of their nation,Its power and pride.'Tis the white man who rules usAnd tramples us down;We are slaves, and must crouchWhen our enemies frown.Sleep on, my young son,I'd fain have thee knowAs the warrior departsDid thy brave father go.He feared not the white man,While the Chippeway knewHe could boast when he scalpedThe Dacota he slew.Sleep on, to our desolateTupee we go;Soon the winter winds come,And the cold and the snow.He is gone who would bringTo us covering warm,Would supply us with food,And would shield us from harm.I have listened full oft,As the white woman toldOf the city of life,Where the bright waters rolled;Where tears never come,Where the night turns to day,—I gladly would go there,But know not the way.Ah! ye who have takenFrom the red man his lands,Who have crushed his proud spirit,And bound his strong hands;If ye see our sad raceIn ignorance bowed down,And care not to see it,Ye have hearts made of stone.Sleep on, my young son,For soon will we knowIf to the heaven of the white manThe Dacota may go.We are children of earth,We must meekly toil on'Till the Great Spirit call us,My warrior son!
Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.Sleep on, my warrior son!Ne'er to his childhood's home,Waiting our greeting smile,Will thy brave father come.Shouting the loud death-cryWith the grim warrior band,Singing the giant's songs,Dwells he in spirit land.Turning from brave to brave,See his keen eyeAs he glances around him,And smiles scornfully.I knew when he left me,(The strawberries grewOn the prairies green,And the wild pigeon flewSwift o'er the spirit lakes,)Then o'er my heartCame a dark shadowNe'er to depart.I watched, from the doorOf my tupee,18the bandAs they turned from their homeTo the Chippeways' land.I watched and I wept,As thy father, the lastOf the many tall braves,From my tearful gaze passed.Wake not, my young son,For thy father sleeps sound,And his stiffened corse liesOn his enemy's ground.Wake not, my brave child,Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,With the miseries of life,—'Tis the red man's dark doom.O'er the fate of the IndianThe Great Spirit has castThe spell of the white man—His glory is past.Like the day that is dyingAs fades the bright sun,Like the warrior expiringWhen the battle is done.Soon no more will our warriorsMeet side by side,To talk of their nation,Its power and pride.'Tis the white man who rules usAnd tramples us down;We are slaves, and must crouchWhen our enemies frown.Sleep on, my young son,I'd fain have thee knowAs the warrior departsDid thy brave father go.He feared not the white man,While the Chippeway knewHe could boast when he scalpedThe Dacota he slew.Sleep on, to our desolateTupee we go;Soon the winter winds come,And the cold and the snow.He is gone who would bringTo us covering warm,Would supply us with food,And would shield us from harm.I have listened full oft,As the white woman toldOf the city of life,Where the bright waters rolled;Where tears never come,Where the night turns to day,—I gladly would go there,But know not the way.Ah! ye who have takenFrom the red man his lands,Who have crushed his proud spirit,And bound his strong hands;If ye see our sad raceIn ignorance bowed down,And care not to see it,Ye have hearts made of stone.Sleep on, my young son,For soon will we knowIf to the heaven of the white manThe Dacota may go.We are children of earth,We must meekly toil on'Till the Great Spirit call us,My warrior son!
Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.
Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,
Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,
While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,
Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.
Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?
Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?
Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,
Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.
Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,
Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.
Sleep on, my warrior son!Ne'er to his childhood's home,Waiting our greeting smile,Will thy brave father come.
Sleep on, my warrior son!
Ne'er to his childhood's home,
Waiting our greeting smile,
Will thy brave father come.
Shouting the loud death-cryWith the grim warrior band,Singing the giant's songs,Dwells he in spirit land.Turning from brave to brave,See his keen eyeAs he glances around him,And smiles scornfully.
Shouting the loud death-cry
With the grim warrior band,
Singing the giant's songs,
Dwells he in spirit land.
Turning from brave to brave,
See his keen eye
As he glances around him,
And smiles scornfully.
I knew when he left me,(The strawberries grewOn the prairies green,And the wild pigeon flewSwift o'er the spirit lakes,)Then o'er my heartCame a dark shadowNe'er to depart.
I knew when he left me,
(The strawberries grew
On the prairies green,
And the wild pigeon flew
Swift o'er the spirit lakes,)
Then o'er my heart
Came a dark shadow
Ne'er to depart.
I watched, from the doorOf my tupee,18the bandAs they turned from their homeTo the Chippeways' land.I watched and I wept,As thy father, the lastOf the many tall braves,From my tearful gaze passed.
I watched, from the door
Of my tupee,18the band
As they turned from their home
To the Chippeways' land.
I watched and I wept,
As thy father, the last
Of the many tall braves,
From my tearful gaze passed.
Wake not, my young son,For thy father sleeps sound,And his stiffened corse liesOn his enemy's ground.Wake not, my brave child,Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,With the miseries of life,—'Tis the red man's dark doom.
Wake not, my young son,
For thy father sleeps sound,
And his stiffened corse lies
On his enemy's ground.
Wake not, my brave child,
Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,
With the miseries of life,—
'Tis the red man's dark doom.
O'er the fate of the IndianThe Great Spirit has castThe spell of the white man—His glory is past.Like the day that is dyingAs fades the bright sun,Like the warrior expiringWhen the battle is done.
O'er the fate of the Indian
The Great Spirit has cast
The spell of the white man—
His glory is past.
Like the day that is dying
As fades the bright sun,
Like the warrior expiring
When the battle is done.
Soon no more will our warriorsMeet side by side,To talk of their nation,Its power and pride.'Tis the white man who rules usAnd tramples us down;We are slaves, and must crouchWhen our enemies frown.
Soon no more will our warriors
Meet side by side,
To talk of their nation,
Its power and pride.
'Tis the white man who rules us
And tramples us down;
We are slaves, and must crouch
When our enemies frown.
Sleep on, my young son,I'd fain have thee knowAs the warrior departsDid thy brave father go.He feared not the white man,While the Chippeway knewHe could boast when he scalpedThe Dacota he slew.
Sleep on, my young son,
I'd fain have thee know
As the warrior departs
Did thy brave father go.
He feared not the white man,
While the Chippeway knew
He could boast when he scalped
The Dacota he slew.
Sleep on, to our desolateTupee we go;Soon the winter winds come,And the cold and the snow.He is gone who would bringTo us covering warm,Would supply us with food,And would shield us from harm.
Sleep on, to our desolate
Tupee we go;
Soon the winter winds come,
And the cold and the snow.
He is gone who would bring
To us covering warm,
Would supply us with food,
And would shield us from harm.
I have listened full oft,As the white woman toldOf the city of life,Where the bright waters rolled;Where tears never come,Where the night turns to day,—I gladly would go there,But know not the way.
I have listened full oft,
As the white woman told
Of the city of life,
Where the bright waters rolled;
Where tears never come,
Where the night turns to day,—
I gladly would go there,
But know not the way.
Ah! ye who have takenFrom the red man his lands,Who have crushed his proud spirit,And bound his strong hands;If ye see our sad raceIn ignorance bowed down,And care not to see it,Ye have hearts made of stone.
Ah! ye who have taken
From the red man his lands,
Who have crushed his proud spirit,
And bound his strong hands;
If ye see our sad race
In ignorance bowed down,
And care not to see it,
Ye have hearts made of stone.
Sleep on, my young son,For soon will we knowIf to the heaven of the white manThe Dacota may go.We are children of earth,We must meekly toil on'Till the Great Spirit call us,My warrior son!
Sleep on, my young son,
For soon will we know
If to the heaven of the white man
The Dacota may go.
We are children of earth,
We must meekly toil on
'Till the Great Spirit call us,
My warrior son!
18Tupee is the Dacota word for house or wigwam.
18Tupee is the Dacota word for house or wigwam.
ChippewaC. Schuessele del. Drawn by Capt.S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Pha.SOUNDING WIND.The Chippewa Brave.
C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Capt.S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Pha.SOUNDING WIND.The Chippewa Brave.