CHANGE ON THE OTTAWA.
(A Fragment.)
I.
Onward the Saxon treads. Few years ago,
A chief of the Algonquins passed at dawn,
With knife, and tomahawk, and painted bow,
Down the wild Ottawa, and climbed upon
A rocky pinnacle, where in the glow
Of boyhood he had loved to chase the fawn;
Proudly he stood there, listening to the roar
Of rapids sounding, sounding evermore.
II.
All else was silence, save the muffled sound
Of partridge drumming on the fallen tree,
Or dry brush crackling from the sudden bound
Of startled deer, that snorts, and halts to see
Then onward o’er the leaf-encumbered ground,
Through his green world of beauty, ever free.
Such was the scene—no white man’s chimney nigh,
And joy sat, plumed, in the young warrior’s eye.
III.
No white man’s axe his hunting grounds had marred,
The primal grandeur of the solemn woods,
When Summer all her golden gates unbarred,
And hung voluptuous o’er the shouting floods,—
Or when stern Winter gave the rich reward,
All suited with his uncorrupted moods,
For all was built, voiced, roofed with sun and cloud,
By the Great Spirit unto whom he bowed.
IV.
The grey of morn was edging into white,
When down the rugged rock the Indian passed,
Like a thin shadow. Soon the rosy light
Lay on the maple leaf, the dew-drops cast
A lustrous charm on many a mossy height,
And squirrels broke out in chatter, as the blast
Swayed the tall pine-tops where they leaped, and made
Grand organ-music in the green-wood shade.
V.
Again the Indian comes—some years have rolled,—
Down the wild Ottawa, and stands upon
His boyhood haunt, and with an eye still bold
Looks round, and sighs for glories that are gone;
For all is changed, except the fall that told,
And tells its Maker still, and Bird-rock lone;
Sadly he leans against an evening sky,
Transfigured in its ebb of rosy dye.
VI.
He sees a city there:—the blazing forge,
The mason’s hammer on the shaping stone,
Great wheels along the stream revolving large,
And swift machinery’s whirr and clank, and groan,
And the fair bridge that spans the yawning gorge,
Which drinks the spray of Chaudière, leaping prone,—
And spires of silvery hue, and belfry’s toll,
All strike, like whetted knives, the red man’s soul.
VII.
Wide the area of the naked space
Where broods the city like a mighty bird,
And the grave Sachem from his rock can trace
Her flock of villages, where lately stirred
The bear and wolf, tenacious of their place,
And where the wild cat with her kittens purred;—
Now while the shades of eve invest the land,
What myriad lights flash out on every hand!
VIII.
The dead day’s crimson, interwove with brown,
Has wrapped the watcher upon Oiseau Rock,
And o’er him hangs bright Hesper, like a crown,
As if the hand of Destiny would mock
His soul’s eclipse and sorrow-sculptured frown;—
Thick as wild pigeons, dusky memories flock
O’er the wide wind-fall of his fated race,
And thus he murmurs to his native place:
IX.
“Here dwelt within the compass of my gaze,
All whom I ever loved, and none remain
To cheer the languor of my wintry days,
Or tread with me across the misty plain;
A solitary tree, the bleak wind strays
Among my boughs, which moaningly complain;
Familiar voices whisper round and say,
Seek not to find our graves! Away! Away!
X.
The sire who taught my hands to hold the bow,
The mother who was proud of my renown,
On them no more the surly tempests blow,
How little do they heed or smile or frown,
The summer’s blossoms or the winter’s snow!
With them, at last, I thought to lay me down,
Where birds should sing, and wild deer safely play,
And endless woods fence out the glare of day.
XI.
Friend of my youth, my “Wa-Wa[5]
Height,” adieu!
No more shall I revisit thee, no more
Gaze from thy summit on the upper blue,
And listen to the rapid’s pleasing roar;—
I go,—my elder brother!—to pursue
The Elk’s great shadow on a distant shore,
Where Nature, still unwounded, wears her charms,
And calls me, like a mother, to her arms.”
XII.
He ceased and strode away; no tear he shed,
A weakness which the Indian holds in scorn,
But sorrow’s moonless midnight bowed his head,
And once he looked around—Oh! so forlorn!
I hated for his sake the reckless tread
Of human progress,—on his race no morn,
No noon of happiness shall ever beam;
They fade as from our waking fades a dream.
[5] Wa-Wa, or i.e. lit.—the Wild Goose.