Indian Pipes

THE pipes of peace! Erect and white In this dark, piney place where light May enter seldom,—thus they grow Up from the mold and mosses low, Like ghostly shadows of the night.

This was the spot,—I know it well. Here died the chief, so legends tell: From out the shade a traitor dart Sped to its mark in that brave heart; I found an arrow where he fell.

And deep below the moss and mold They say his bones lie stark and cold; Yet never dared men seek him here,— It is so still, so dark, so drear, The pines so lone, his grave so old.

O pipes of peace, why do ye spring From this red soil, from that dread Thing? Could peace for his fierce ashes wait? A life of war, a death of hate,— What did that fateful arrow bring?

In Happy Hunting Grounds is he Atone with every enemy? There doth he puff the peace-pipe slow?— Methinks pale smoke-wreaths curl to me.