"The Dance" by George Copway
Since at the close of summer's day
Upon a green and level side
Which overlooks St. Louis' tide
A noble band of warriors stood
Who roam at will this solitude.
The bow, the spear, the barbed dart,
Which errs not pointed at the heart,
The paint in earnest colors spread,
Not for maid's love, but foeman's dread,
The plumes which in their raven hair
Waved graceful at each breath of air,—
The trophies in their battles taken,
When foeman's prowess had been shaken,
Each warrior there, was decked with these,
Profuse as summer decks the trees.
The foremost of this hero band
A standard carried in his hand,
Which from its waving top displayed
A flag most curiously made
From feathers of the wild bird's wing,
Of every shade of coloring.
He was a youth, in whom combined
All that was bright, in form and mind;
The noble forehead, broad and high
The soul that shone within his eye,
The thoughts which o'er his features played
With quick and ever varying shade,
The limbs where strength was seen to dwell
In every full and graceful swell,
Distinguished him as one of those
Where nature's fairest gifts repose,
Me-gi-si*, such the name he bore,
The Eagle of the Lonely Shore,
And as he planted in the ground
That pinion's shaft amid the sound
* Name of the eagle.-Ojibway Language
Of drum, and song, and echoing shout,
He looked like Mars himself come out
To take, as in the days of yore,
The van upon the field of gore.
Around thls shaft with measured pace
Each warrior found a ready place,
And soon the circling folds advance
And mingling in tho wild war-dance,
While ever and anon a loud
And piercing whoop rose from tho crowd,
Sending its accents, shrill and clear,
In answering echoes far and near;
And when they died in air away,
Each warrior in that dread array
Stood like a statue planted deep,
So still and firm their track they keep;
While at each pause a brave advanced
Within the ring, then round him glanced,
And in rude eloquence portrayed
The havoc he in war had made,
The feats of bravery he had done,
The scalps from slaughtered victims won,
As well of fallen warrior bold,
As wife and child, of these he told,
And as he held them out to view
Some of them yet of fresh blood hue,
And raised the war whoop loud and high,
With swelling breast and flashing eye,
He seemed again amid the strife
With which his tale had been so rife—
That morn had pealed the rolling drum
Amid the cry "They come! They come!
The Sioux! The Sioux!" And at the sound,
Each warrior's foot was on the ground,
And knife to knife, and breast to breast,
The doubtful strife they long contest,—
They fought as though their blood were water,
Resumed again when ceased the slaughter,
They fought like men whose deadly hate
Nothing but death could satiate.
The Sioux at length were forced to yield
And leave to foe a hard-earned field—
Some fled and some were captive led,
Better to have been with the dead,—
Better by far, for though to-night
They have from death a brief respite,
They're not deceived, for well they know
To-morrow comes the fatal blow,
It comes with all the cruel art
Hate can invent to wring the heart,
When should it quail or yield to fear,
They die without a pitying tear,—
They die and meet the recreant's end,
Despised alike by foe and friend.