104 Total Quotes

Ella Wilcox Quotes Page 4

Let me to-day do something that shall take A little sadness from the world's vast store, And may I be so favoured as to make Of joy's too scanty sum a little more. Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend; Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need, Or sin by silence when I should defend. However meagre be my worldly wealth, Let me give something that shall aid my kind - A word of courage, or a thought of health, Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find. Let me to-night look back across the span 'Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say - Because of some good act to beast or man - "The world is better that I lived today."
Ella Wilcox
#Prayer

She had looked for his coming as warriors come, With the clash of arms and the bugle's call; But he came instead with a stealthy tread, Which she did not hear at all. She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun, As he rode like a prince to claim his bride: In the sweet dim light of the falling night She found him at her side. She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye Would wake her heart to a sudden glow: She found in his face the familiar grace Of a friend she used to know. She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul, As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife: He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm, And a peace which crowned her life.
Ella Wilcox
#Love

How baseless is the mightiest earthly pride, The diamond is but charcoal purified, The lordliest pearl that decks a monarch's breast Is but an insect's sepulchre at best.
Ella Wilcox
#Short

BOOK FIRST. I. ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy. Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave As 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. II. Intrepid are earth's heroes now as when The 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 play Though no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day. III. 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 end Of that true hero, lover, son and friend Whose faithful heart in his last choice was shown- Death with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone. IV. He who was born for battle and for strife Like some caged eagle frets in peaceful life; So Custer fretted when detained afar From scenes of stirring action and of war. And as the captive eagle in delight, When freedom offers, plumes himself for flight And soars away to thunder clouds on high, With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry, V. 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, VI. 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 sons Rush from her loving arms, to face death-dealing guns. VII. But ere thy lyre is strung to martial strains Of 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. VIII. When first this soil the great Columbus trod, He was less like the image of his God Than 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?) . IX. But dark deceit and falsehood's shameless shame They had not learned, until the white man came. He taught them, too, the lurking devil's joy In 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 dust Their gentle childlike faith and unaffected trust. X. And for the sport of idle kings and knaves Of Nature's greater noblemen, made slaves. Alas, the hour, when the wronged Indian knows His 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. XI. If, in the morning of success, that grand Invincible discoverer of our land Had made no lodge or wigwam desolate To carry trophies to the proud and great; If on our history's page there were no blot Left by the cruel rapine of Cabot, Of Verrazin, and Hudson, dare we claim The Indian of the plains, to-day had been same? XII. For in this brief existence, not alone Do our lives gather what our hands have sown, But we reap, too, what others long ago Sowed, careless of the harvests that might grow. Thus hour by hour the humblest human souls Inscribe in cipher on unending scrolls, The history of nations yet to be; Incite fierce bloody wars, to rage from sea to sea, XIII. 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 hour Stand separate and alone, needs first the power To 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. BOOK SECOND. I. Oh, for the power to call to aid, of mine Own humble Muse, the famed and sacred nine. Then might she fitly sing, and only then, Of those intrepid and unflinching men Who knew no homes save ever moving tents, And who 'twixt fierce unfriendly elements And wild barbarians warred. Yet unfraid, Since love impels thy strains, sing, sing, my modest maid. II. Relate how Custer in midwinter sought Far Washita's cold shores; tell why he fought With savage nomads fortressed in deep snows. Woman, thou source of half the sad world's woes And all its joys, what sanguinary strife Has vexed the earth and made contention rife Because of thee! For, hidden in man's heart, Ay, in his very soul, of his true self a part, III. The natural impulse and the wish belongs To 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 worth If to obtain she sells her sweetest rights of birth? IV. 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 made To 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. V. And now brave Custer's valiant army pressed Across the dangerous desert of the West, To rescue fair white captives from the hands Of brutal Cheyenne and Comanche bands, On Washita's bleak banks. Nine hundred strong It moved its slow determined way along, Past frontier homes left dark and desolate By the wild Indians' fierce and unrelenting hate; VI. 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 wounds Spoke of the hellish hate of human hounds; Past bleaching skeleton and rifled grave, On pressed th' avenging host, to rescue and to save. VII. Uncertain Nature, like a fickle friend, (Worse than the foe on whom we may depend) Turned on these dauntless souls a brow of wrath And 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.' VIII. 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 ear The sound might fall. Through swift descending snow The stealthy guides crept, tracing out the foe; No fire was lighted, and no halt was made From haggard gray-lipped dawn till night lent friendly shade. IX. Then, by the shelt'ring river's bank at last, The weary warriors paused for their repast. A couch of ice and falling shows for spread Made many a suffering soldier's chilling bed. They slept to dream of glory and delight, While the pale fingers of the pitying night Wove ghostly winding sheets for that doomed score Who, ere another eve, should sleep to wake no more. X. But those who slept not, saw with startled eyes Far 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. XI. 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 part To fall upon the field, a bullet in my heart.' XII. At break of dawn the scouts crept in to say The foe was camped a rifle shot away. The baying of a dog, an infant's cry Pierced 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 life Pay the long standing debt of blood. War to the knife! XIII. So spake each heart in that unholy rage Which fires the brain, when war the thoughts engage. War, hideous war, appealing to the worst In complex man, and waking that wild thirst For human blood which blood alone can slake. Yet for their country's safety, and the sake Of tortured captives moaning in alarm The Indian must be made to fear the law's strong arm. XIV. A noble vengeance burned in Custer's breast, But, as he led his army to the crest, Above the wigwams, ready for the charge He felt the heart within him, swelling large With human pity, as an infant's wail Shrilled once again above the wintry gale. Then hosts of murdered children seemed to rise; And shame his halting thought with sad accusing eyes, XV. And urge him on to action. Stern of brow The just avenger, and the General now, He gives the silent signal to the band Which, all impatient, waits for his command. Cold lips to colder metal press; the air Echoes those merry strains which mean despair For sleeping chieftain and for toiling squaw, But joy to those stern hearts which glory in the law XVI. 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. XVII. A pallid captive and a white-browed boy Add 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 falls Dead by her victims' side, pierced by avenging balls. XVIII. 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 remains In 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, XIX. 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 fire The 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. XX. Again they charge! and now among the killed Lies Hamilton, his wish so soon fulfilled, Brave Elliott pursues across the field The flying foe, his own young life to yield. But like the leaves in some autumnal gale The red men fall in Washita's wild vale. Each painted face and black befeathered head Still more repulsive seems with death's grim pallor wed. XXI. New forces gather on surrounding knolls, And fierce and fiercer war's red river rolls. With bright-hued pennants flying from each lance The 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 ravine Flash arrows aimed by hands, unerring and unseen. XXIII. The hours advance; the storm clouds roll away; Still furious and more furious grows the fray. The yellow sun makes ghastlier still the sight Of 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 XXIII. Cold glittering eyes above cold glittering steel Their deadly purpose and their hate reveal. The click of pistols and the crack of guns Proclaim war's daughters dangerous as her sons. She who would wield the soldier's sword and lance Must be prepared to take the soldier's chance. She who would shoot must serve as target, too; The battle-frenzied men, infuriate now pursue. XXIV. 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. XXV. And those who are not numbered with the dead Before 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 spent Read 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. XXVI. Mahwissa, sister of the slaughtered chief Of all the Cheyennes, listens; and her grief Yields now to hope; and o'er her withered face There flits the stealthy cunning of her race. Then forth she steps, and thus begins to speak: 'To aid the fallen and support the weak Is man's true province; and to ease the pain Of those o'er whom it is his purpose now to reign. XXVII. '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 bride And all unwilling groom, who thus replies. 'Fair is the Indian maid, with bright bewildering eyes, XXVIII. '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 gave To share the hardships of my wandering life, Companion, comrade, friend, my loved and loyal wife. XXIX. 'The white chief weds but one. Take back thy maid.' He ceased, and o'er Mahwissa's face a shade Of mingled scorn and pity and surprise Sweeps 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.' XXX. But hark! The bugle echoes o'er the plains And sounds again those merry Celtic strains Which oft have called light feet to lilting dance, But now they mean the order to advance. Along the river's bank, beyond the hill Two thousand foemen lodge, unconquered still. Ere falls night's curtain on this bloody play, The army must proceed, with feint of further fray. XXXI. 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 sight The frightened red men yield the untried field by flight. XXXII. Yet when these conquering heroes sink to rest, Dissatisfaction gnaws the leader's breast, For far away across vast seas of snows Held prisoners still by hostile Arapahoes And Cheyennes unsubdued, two captives wait. On God and Custer hangs their future fate. May the Great Spirit nerve the mortal's arm To rescue suffering souls from worse than death's alarm. XXXIII. 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 corse All 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. XXXIV. Now, Muse, recount, how after long delays And 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. XXXV. To snatch two fragile victims from the foe Nine hundred men have traversed leagues of snow. Each woe they suffered in a hostile land The flame of vengeance in their bosoms fanned. They thirst for slaughter, and the signal wait To wrest the captives from their horrid fate. Each warrior's hand upon his rifle falls, Each savage soldier's heart for awful bloodshed calls. XXXVI. 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 beast Who scents anear the bloody carnal feast. He longs to leap down in that slumbering vale And leave no foe alive to tell the awful tale. XXXVII. Not so, calm Custer. Sick of gory strife, He hopes for rescue with no loss of life; And plans that bloodless battle of the plains Where 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 fray They look upon their Chief in undisguised dismay. XXXVIII. 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 nerve He 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. XXXIX. Inaction is not always what it seems, And Custer's mind with plan and project teems. Fixed in his peaceful purpose he abides With none takes counsel and in none confides; But slowly weaves about the foe a net Which leaves them wholly at his mercy, yet He strikes no fateful blow; he takes no life, And holds in check his men, who pant for bloody strife. XL. 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 brought To fear his vengeance and to know his power. As man's fixed gaze will make a wild beast cower, So these crude souls feel that unflinching will Which draws them by its force, yet does not deign to kill. XLI. And one by one the hostile Indians send Their chiefs to seek a peaceful treaty's end. Great councils follow; skill with cunning copes And conquers it; and Custer sees his hopes So long delayed, like stars storm hidden, rise To radiate with splendor all his skies. The stubborn Cheyennes, cowed at last by fear, Leading the captive pair, o'er spring-touched hills appear. XLII. With breath suspended, now the whole command Waits 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 space And that lost sister clasps, in sorrowing love's embrace. XLIII. And men who leaned o'er Hamilton's rude bier And saw his dead dear face without a tear, Strong souls who early learned the manly art Of 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. XLIV. About the captives welcoming warriors crowd, All eyes are wet, and Brewster sobs aloud. Alas, the ravage wrought by toil and woe On 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. XLV. A scanty garment rudely made of sacks Hangs from their loins; bright blankets drape their backs; About their necks are twisted tangled strings Of gaudy beads, while tinkling wire and rings Of yellow brass on wrists and fingers glow. Thus, to assuage the anger of the foe The cunning Indians decked the captive pair Who in one year have known a lifetime of despair. XLVI. But love can resurrect from sorrow's tomb The 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 release The hunted look of fear gives place to peace, And in their eyes at thought of home appears That rainbow light of joy which brightest shines through tears. XLVII. About the leader thick the warriors crowd; Late loud in censure, now in praises loud, They laud the tactics, and the skill extol Which gained a bloodless yet a glorious goal. Alone and lonely in the path of right Full many a brave soul walks. When gods requite And crown his actions as their worth demands, Among admiring throngs the hero always stands. A row of six asterisks is on the page at this point XLVIII. 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. XLIX. The mighty plains, devoid of whispering trees, Guard well the secrets of departed seas. Where once great tides swept by with ebb and flow The scorching sun looks down in tearless woe. And fierce tornadoes in ungoverned pain Mourn still the loss of that mysterious main. Across this ocean bed the soldiers fly- Home is the gleaming goal that lures each eager eye. L. Like some elixir which the gods prepare, They drink the viewless tonic of the air, Sweet with the breath of startled antelopes Which 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 away To save a ground bird's nest which in the footpath lay. LI. Mile following mile, against the leaning skies Far off they see a dull dark cloud arise. The hunter's instinct in each heart is stirred, Beholding there in one stupendous herd A hundred thousand buffaloes. Oh great Unwieldy proof of Nature's cruder state, Rough remnant of a prehistoric day, Thou, with the red man, too, must shortly pass away. LII. Upon those spreading plains is there not room For man and bison, that he seals its doom? What pleasure lies and what seductive charm In 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. LIII. The flying hosts a straggling bull pursue; Unerring aim, the skillful Custer drew. The wounded beast turns madly in despair And 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 pain He springs, and halts, well knowing where must fall In that protected frame, the sure death dealing ball. LIV. 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 hair Are cut as trophies for some lady fair. To vultures then they leave the torn remains Of what an hour ago was monarch of the plains. LV. Far off, two bulls in jealous war engage, Their blood-shot eye balls roll in furious rage; With maddened hoofs they mutilate the ground And 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. LVI. At last she lifts her lazy head and heeds The clattering hoofs of swift advancing steeds. Off to the herd with cumb'rous gait she runs And 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. LVII. 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 upcurled, Mean more of joy to him than plaudits of the world. LVIII. The troops in columns of platoons appear Close to the leader following. Ah, here The poetry of war is fully seen, Its prose forgotten; as against the green Of 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. LIX. 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. LX. High o'er the scene vast music billows bound, And all the air is liquid with the sound Of those invisible compelling waves. Perchance they reach the low and lonely graves Where sleep brave Elliott and Hamilton, And whisper there the tale of victory won; Or do the souls of soldiers tried and true Come at the bugle call, and march in grand review? LXI. The pleased Commander watches in surprise This splendid pageant surge before his eyes. Not in those mighty battle days of old Did scenes like this upon his sight unfold. But now it passes. Drums and bugles cease To dash war billows on the shores of Peace. The victors smile on fair broad bosomed Sleep While in her soothing arms, the vanquished cease to weep. BOOK THIRD. There is an interval of eight years between Books Second and Third. I. As in the long dead days marauding hosts Of Indians came from far Siberian coasts, And drove the peaceful Aztecs from their grounds, Despoiled their homes (but left their tell-tale mounds) , So has the white man with the Indians done. Now with their backs against the setting sun The remnants of a dying nation stand And view the lost domain, once their beloved land. II. Upon the vast Atlantic's leagues of shore The happy red man's tent is seen no more; And from the deep blue lakes which mirror heaven His bounding bark canoe was long since driven. The mighty woods, those temples where his God Spoke to his soul, are leveled to the sod; And in their place tall church spires point above, While priests proclaim the law of Christ, the King of Love. III. The avaricious and encroaching rail Seized the wide fields which knew the Indians' trail. Back to the reservations in the West The native owners of the land were pressed, And selfish cities, harbingers of want, Shut from their vision each accustomed haunt. Yet hungry Progress, never satisfied, Gazed on the western plains, and gazing, longed and sighed. IV. As some strange bullock in a pasture field Compels the herds to fear him, and to yield The juicy grass plots and the cooling shade Until, despite their greater strength, afraid, They huddle in some corner spot and cower Before the monarch's all controlling power, So has the white man driven from its place By his aggressive greed, Columbia's native race. V. Yet when the bull pursues the herds at bay, Incensed they turn, and dare dispute his sway. And so the Indians turned, when men forgot Their sacred word, and trespassed on the spot. The lonely little spot of all their lands, The reservation of the peaceful bands. But lust for gold all conscience kills in man, 'Gold in the Black Hills, gold! ' the cry arose and ran VI. From lip to lip, as flames from tree to tree Leap till the forest is one fiery sea, And through the country surged that hot unrest Which thirst for riches wakens in the breast. In mighty throngs the fortune hunters came, Despoiled the red man's lands and slew his game, Broke solemn treaties and defied the law. And all these ruthless acts the Nation knew and saw. VII. Man is the only animal that kills Just for the wanton love of slaughter; spills The blood of lesser things to see it flow; Lures like a friend, to murder like a foe The trusting bird and beast; and, coward like, Deals covert blows he dare not boldly strike. The brutes have finer souls, and only slay When torn by hunger's pangs, or when to fear a prey. VIII. The pale-faced hunter, insolent and bold, Pursued the bison while he sought for gold. And on the hungry red man's own domains He left the rotting and unused remains To foul with sickening stench each passing wind And rouse the demon in the savage mind, Save in the heart where virtues dominate Injustice always breeds its natural offspring- hate. IX. The chieftain of the Sioux, great Sitting Bull, Mused o'er their wrongs, and felt his heart swell full Of bitter vengeance. Torn with hate's unrest He called a council and his braves addressed. 'From fair Wisconsin's shimmering lakes of blue Long years ago the white man drove the Sioux. Made bold by conquest, and inflamed by greed, He still pursues our tribes, and still our ranks recede. X. 'Fair are the White Chief's promises and words, But dark his deeds who robs us of our herds. He talks of treaties, asks the right to buy, Then takes by force, not waiting our reply. He grants us lands for pastures and abodes To devastate them by his iron roads. But now from happy Spirit Lands, a friend Draws near the hunted Sioux, to strengthen and defend. XI. 'While walking in the fields I saw a star; Unconsciously I followed it afar- It led me on to valleys filled with light, Where danced our noble chieftains slain in fight. Black Kettle, first of all that host I knew, He whom the strong armed Custer foully slew. And then a spirit took me by the hand, The Great Messiah King who comes to free the land. XII. 'Suns were his eyes, a speaking tear his voice, .Whose rainbow sounds made listening hearts rejoice And thus he spake: 'The red man's hour draws near When all his lost domains shall reappear. The elk, the deer, the bounding antelope, Shall here return to grace each grassy slope.' He waved his hand above the fields, and lo! Down through the valleys came a herd of buffalo. XIII. 'The wondrous vision vanished, but I knew That Sitting Bull must make the promise true. Great Spirits plan what mortal man achieves, The hand works magic when the heart believes. Arouse, ye braves! let not the foe advance. Arm for the battle and begin the dance- The sacred dance in honor of our slain, Who will return to earth, ere many moons shall wane.' XIV. Thus Sitting Bull, the chief of wily knaves, Worked on the superstitions of his braves. Mixed truth with lies; and stirred to mad unrest The warlike instinct in each savage breast. A curious product of unhappy times, The natural offspring of unnumbered crimes, He used low cunning and dramatic arts To startle and surprise those crude untutored hearts. XV. Out from the lodges pour a motley throng, Slow measures chanting of a dirge-like song. In one great circle dizzily they swing, A squaw and chief alternate in the ring. Coarse raven locks stream over robes of white, Their deep set orbs emit a lurid light, And as through pine trees moan the winds refrains, So swells and dies away, the ghostly graveyard strains. XVI. Like worded wine is music to the ear, And long indulged makes mad the hearts that hear. The dancers, drunken with the monotone Of oft repeated notes, now shriek and groan And pierce their ruddy flesh with sharpened spears; Still more excited when the blood appears, With warlike yells, high in the air they bound, Then in a deathlike trance fall prostrate on the ground. XVII. They wake to tell weird stories of the dead, While fresh performers to the ring are led. The sacred nature of the dance is lost, War is their cry, red war, at any cost. Insane for blood they wait for no command, But plunge marauding through the frightened land. Their demon hearts on devils' pleasures bent, For each new foe surprised, new torturing deaths invent. XVIII. Staked to the earth one helpless creature lies, Flames at his feet and splinters in his eyes. Another groans with coals upon his breast, While 'round the pyre the Indians dance and jest. A crying child is brained upon a tree, The swooning mother saved from death, to be The slave and plaything of a filthy knave, Whose sins would startle hell, whose clay defile a grave. XIX. Their cause was right, their methods all were wrong. Pity and censure both to them belong. Their woes were many, but their crimes were more. The soulless Satan holds not in his store Such awful tortures as the Indians' wrath Keeps for the hapless victim in his path. And if the last lone remnants of that race Were by the white man swept from off the earth's fair face, XX. Were every red man slaughtered in a day, Still would that sacrifice but poorly pay For one insulted woman captive's woes. Again great Custer in his strength arose, More daring, more intrepid than of old. The passing years had touched and turned to gold The ever widening aureole of fame That shone upon his brow, and glorified his name. XXI. Wise men make laws, then turn their eyes away, While fools and knaves ignore them day by day; And unmolested, fools and knaves at length Induce long wars which sap a country's strength. The sloth of leaders, ruling but in name, Has dragged full many a nation down to shame. A word unspoken by the rightful lips Has dyed the land with blood, and blocked the sea with ships. XXII. The word withheld, when Indians asked for aid, Came when the red man started on his raid. What Justice with a gesture might have done Was left for noisy war with bellowing gun. And who save Custer and his gallant men Could calm the tempest into peace again? What other hero in the land could hope With Sitting Bull, the fierce and lawless one to cope? XXIII. What other warrior skilled enough to dare Surprise that human tiger in his lair? Sure of his strength, unconscious of his fame Out from the quiet of the camp he came; And stately as Diana at his side Elizabeth, his wife and alway bride, And Margaret, his sister, rode apace; Love's clinging arms he left to meet death's cold embrace. XXIV. As the bright column wound along its course, The smiling leader turned upon his horse To gaze with pride on that superb command. Twelve hundred men, the picked of all the land, Innured to hardship and made strong by strife Their lithe limbed bodies breathed of out-door life; While on their faces, resolute and brave, Hope stamped its shining seal, although their thoughts were grave. XXV. The sad eyed women halted in the dawn, And waved farewell to dear ones riding on. The modest mist picked up her robes and ran Before the Sun god's swift pursuing van. And suddenly there burst on startled eyes, The sight of soldiers, marching in the skies; <b
Ella Wilcox
#God #Hate #Life #Poems about Life

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 tonics Of grief, and yearning, and need, and strife, For the rarest chords in the soul's harmonies, Are found in the minor strains of life.
Ella Wilcox
#Famous #Poems about Life

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 stop All practice, like so many wives who let their music drop. So I resolved to set apart an hour or two each day To keeping vocal chords and hands in trim to sing and play. The second morning I had been for half and hour or more At 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 forego My 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 labour 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.
Ella Wilcox
#Music

When the soft sweet wind o' the south went by, I dwelt in the light of a dark brown eye; And out where the robin sang his song, We lived and loved, while the days were long. In the sweet, sweet eves, when the moon swung high, We wandered under the starry sky; Or sat in the porch, and the moon looked through The latticed wall where the roses grew. My lips, that hd no lover's kiss, You taught the art, till they trilled in bliss; And the moon, and the stars, and the roses knew That the heart you won was pure and true. But true hearts weary men, maybe, For you grew weary of love, and me. Over the porch the dead vines hang, And a mourning dove sobs where the robin sang. In a warmer clime does another sigh Under the light of your dark brown eye? Did you follow the soft sweet wing o' the south, And are you kissing a redder mouth? Lips may be redder, and eyes more bright; The face may be fairer you see to-night; But never, love, while the stars shall shine, Will you find a heart that is truer than mine. Sometime, perhaps, when south winds blow, You will think of a love you used to know; Sometime, perhaps, when a robin sings, Your heart will go back to olden things. Sometime you will weary of this world's arts, Of deceit and change and hollow hearts, And, wearying, sigh for the 'used to be, ' And your feet will turn to the porch, and me. I shall watch for you here when days grow long; I shall list for your step through the robin's song; I shall sit in the porch where the moon looks through, And a vacant chair will wait - for you. You may stray, and forget, and rove afar, But my changeless love, like the polar star, Will draw you at length o'er land and sea - And I know you will yet come back to me. The years may come, and the years may go, But sometime again, when south winds blow, When roses bloom, and the moon swings high, I shall live in he light of your dark brown eye.
Ella Wilcox
#Faith

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote, mad with melody, rhythm--rife From the very first to the final note, Give me his "Artist's Life!" It stirs my blood to my finger ends, Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest, And all that is sweetest and saddest blends Together within my breast. It brings back that night in the dim arcade, In love's sweet morning and life's best prime, When the great brass orchestra played and played, And set our thoughts to rhyme. It brings back that Winter of mad delights, Of leaping pulses and tripping feet, And those languid moon-washed Summer nights When we heard the band in the street. It brings back rapture and glee and glow, It brings back passion and pain and strife, And so of all the waltzes I know, Give me the "Artist's Life." For it is so full of the dear old time-- So full of the dear friends I knew. And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme, I am always finding--you.
Ella Wilcox
#Arts And Artists #Famous #Poems about Life