"The Sacrifice" by George Copway
ME-GI-SI and the WEN-DI-GO
Had left while all unconscious rest
Was reigning over every breast,
Awoke the encampment's busy hum,
And, at the sound of signal drum,
The warriors gathered round their chief,
Whose look was stern, whose words were brief.
He waved his hand, and quick as thought
A shaft of stoutest oak was brought
And planted firmly in the ground;—
To this with wending thongs were bound
the captives whose unhappy fate,
Must gratify their captor's hate.
And where is he who always bore
ThE foremost honors heretofore,
And where the noble captive he
Had led in their late victory?
Strange that he comes not, he, whose hand
Was ever first to light the brand,
And by whom were the victors tied;
None ever knew the knots to slide.
ME-GI-SI, favorite of all,
Why comes he not at comrades call?
And why lays he the rest behind,
While other hands the victories bind?—
These are the questions rapidly
From lip to lip are heard to fly.
By the Ojibway 'tis believed
That when a mortal hath received
A vigorous and fearful fast,
And day and night in watching passed,
And who hath long withdrawn his mind
From all communion with his kind,
And hath within the forest's shade
His home with evil spirits made,
Learning from them each magic art
Which their instruction can impart,
And hath his heart darkly imbued
With all of ill, and naught of good,—
These do a fearful power instil
Beyond all merely human skill,
Freedom, at will the form to change,
The water, earth, or air to range,—
And most of all they strangely give
Desire on human flesh to live.
Thus when an hour or more is sped,
And still no trace of either fled,
They doubt not that the haughty Sioux,
With whom ME-GI-SI had to do,
Was one of these, and deem full well
Their favorite by his magic fell.
The unhallowed rites no longer wait,
Their thirst for blood to satiate,
But with redoubled zeal are made,
Because unwillingly delayed.—
Nothing their vengeance could suggest
To daunt the heart or wring the breast,
But was prepared with savage art
In the dire scene to bear a part.—
The faggots at the victim's feet,
The scourge their naked flesh to beat,
The arrows of the pine well dried,
The bow to hurl them in their side,
And as the flames around them rise,
Burning to aid their agonies;—
Tortures like these they do not lack
The victim's outward sense to rack;—
But more tormenting far are those
Designed to wake his inward throes,—
The taunts, the gibe, the goading sneer,
The insulting charge of coward fear,
Imbecile strength the bow to bend,
And erring skill the shaft to send,
A soul which could not look on pain,
And hands which had no foeman slain,
Limbs bowed with grief and not with years,
And eyes which shone, but not with tears;—
Such were the taunts upon them hurled,
As o'er their forms the hot blaze curled.
What sounds are those that fill the air,
Above all others echoing there,
As doth the cataract's loud roar,
The brook which murmurs at its shore,
Or thunders bursting through the sky,
The owlets hoarse and startled cry?
It is the victim's death-song shout
Which burst from their firm bosoms out,
Casting defiance at their foes,
And mocking at the torturing throes
Their thirsty vengeance would bestow;—
The hissing flames which round them glow
To break their courage have no power,
But as exulting as in hour
When victory hath wreathed their brow,
Is the bold shout they put forth now.
The noble deeds they have performed,
The noble thoughts their hearts have warmed,
The sunset land, so bright and fair,
Which waits to bid them welcome there;—
These are the burden of their song
Which swells in such proud notes along.
Brave Sons of Nature! Ye need not,
To make you at this moment what
Hath been, will be, while time succeeds,
And hearts alive to noble deeds,—
The admiration of mankind,
Ye need not in the mazes wind
Of the philosophy of schools,
To, teach you the eternal rules
Of fortitude and self-control
And all, which doth exalt the soul.
Fainter and fainter,—yet still clear
That death-song falls upon the ear
Of those who dance around the fires,
Where bravery such as this expires.
At length each victim's voice is still
And vengeance now hath drank its fill.
—————————————
The fires are out, the warriors gone,
And, MO-NING-GUN-AH ere the sun
Sinks to his couch behind the west,
Their barks upon thy shores shall rest.