Atala's Lament

[From the French of Chateaubriand]
The Indian maiden turned at eve,
In exiled loneliness to grieve,
And shed, by Mississippi’s side,
Her tears upon its turbid tide;
For she had left in passion’s hours,
Her Florida’s beloved bowers,
And thus, amid the stranger throng,
Poured forth an exile’s plaintive song:
“Oh, happy they who ne’er have seen
The smoke of alien fires!
Nor guests at other feasts have been,
Than their own sires’!
Ah! should the blue-jay of the West
Say to the Southern nonpareil,
‘Why not amid our branches rest?
Why only mourning numbers tell?
Have we not limpid waters here—
Delightful shades, abundant food,
And flowery fields, and orchards fair,
As you have in your native wood?’
Yet would the stray bird answer then,
‘My nest is in the jasmine grove!
Oh, give my golden skies agen,
And bright savannahs that I love!’
“Oh, happy they who ne’er have seen
The smoke of alien fires,
Nor guests at other feasts have been,
Than their own sires’!
When, after hours of toil and pain,
The weary traveler sinks at night,
And sees anear him, on the plain,
Fair cottages with many a light;
In vain he views their pleasant glow—
No hospitable fare they yield—
For, should he enter with his bow,
All welcome is at once concealed;
Again his sturdy bow he takes,
And, weak, insulted, turns away,
And totters on through tangled brakes,
And deserts wide till dawn of day.
“Oh, happy they who ne’er have seen
The smoke of alien fires,
Nor guests at other feasts have been,
Than their own sires’!
Dear stories round the social hearth!
Soft songs with tenderest feelings rife!
Pure deeds of love, and tones of mirth,
So needful in this weary life!—
Ye, ye have filled the days of those
Who ne’er their parent land have left,—
Who ne’er have been, ‘mid stranger foes,
Of all that’s best on earth bereft!
They live in bliss, and when life ends,
Their graves are in their mother’s breast;
By setting suns and tears of friends,
And fair religion sweetly blest!
Oh, happy they who ne’er have seen
The smoke of alien fires,
Nor guests at other feasts have been,
Than their own sires’!”

by Alexander Beaufort Meek

A Mother's Dirge for her Infant

In a small grove of dogwood trees,
Whose spring-time flowers perfumed the breeze,
By Pascagoula’s tawny wave,
There was a little new-made grave.
And there above the humble mound
A youthful mother oft was found,
Who thus, in sad and frantic strains,
Wept o’er her first-born babe’s remains:

“Now cradled in the damp cold ground,
My little warior lies;
Now he is bound with wampum round,
And shut his sparkling eyes:

Yet why, above his place of sleep—
Why should I weep?

“The little bird, when it is grown,
Must leave its native nest,
‘Mid snares and foes to soar alone,
By want and care distrest;
And oft the cruel hunter’s dart
Will pierce its heart.

“But thou, sweet one, hast shed no tears,
Nor felt the woes of life;
Thy spirit, undisturbed by fears,
By anguish and by strife,
To golden groves has soared above,
Bird of my love!

“Ah! hadst thou only staid below,
What grace and strength were thine,
To chase the dear, to bend the bow,
To draw the fisher’s line!
Or bravely in the battle-field
The club to wield!

“Yet why should I lament thy doom?
The bud, that in the Spring-time dies,
Bears all its bloom and sweet perfume
To spirits in the skies!
A heavenly blossom now thou art,
Bud of my heart!

“But oh thou wert too young to go,—
Thy little tender feet
No father’s guidance now can know,
No mother’s counsel meet.

Who now will nurse thy fragile form,
And keep thee warm?

“Ah! yes, I hear a spirit say
I will protect him here—
Who from their cradles pass away,
To us are ever dear.
Then why my babe above thy sleep—
Why should I weep?”

by Alexander Beaufort Meek