Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/82

 66 MICAH P. FLINT. [1820-30. Might even to a child impart That living language of the heart, Which needs no rules of age nor art To recommend its warm appeal To every bosom that can feel. Oh ! let my grief- worn mother live, And, for her life, I'll freely give This life of mine, whose youthful prime Is yet unworn by toil or time. An offering, such as this, will please The ghost, whose manes ye would appease. More than the last few days of one Whose course on earth is almost run. " Her aged head is gray with years, Her cheeks are channel'd deep with tears ; While every lock is raven now. Upon my smooth, unfurrow'd brow, And, in my veins, the purple flood Of my brave father's varrior blood Is swelling, in the deep, full tide Of youthful strength, and youthful pride. Her trembling steps can scarce explore The paths she trod so light of yore ; While I can match the wild deer's flight, On level plain, or mountain height. And chase, untir'd, from day to day. The flying bison, on their way. " Oh ! ye are sons, and once were press'd In fondness to a mother's breast. Think of her soft voice, that caress'd ; Her arms, where ye were lull'd to rest; Her quivering kiss, that was impress'd So fondly on your sicken'd brow ; Oh ! think of these, and tell me now, If ye, as sons, can here deny A son the privilege to die For her, who thus wak'd, watch'd, and wept. While in her cradling arms he slept. Ye cannot. No, — there is not one That can refuse the victim son. Warriors, the young man's talk is done." Th' approving shout, that burst aloud From all that wild, untutor'd crowd, Wixs proof, that even they, the rude Free dwellers of the solitude, Had hearts that inly thrill'd to view The meed to filial virtue due. I will not waste my time, nor oil, Upon a scene that I should spoil ; Nor labor to describe that pair, Striving in fond affection there, — The darling son, the cherished mother, — Which should die, to save the other. Ere long there was a gather'd throng. Whence rose a wild and solemn song, — The death-song of that martyr son ; And thus his plaintive descant run : " I fear not the silence, nor gloom of the grave ; 'Tis a pathway of shade and gay flowers to the Brave, — For it leads him to plains, where the gleams of the sun Kindle spring in theii' path, that will never be done. " Groves, valleys and mountains, bright streamlet and dell. Sweet haunts of my youth, take my part- ing farewell ; Ye braves of my kindred, and thou, moth- er, adieu ; Great shades of my Fathers, I hasten to you!" He fell. The verdant mound, that press'd Upon his young, heroic breast. By warrior hands was rear'd and dress'd. The mother, too, ere the rude breeze Of winter's wind had stripp'd the trees. Had bow'd her head in grief, and died. And there she slumbers at his side. Hard by the village on the shore. Their mounds are seen, all studded o'er With various Avild flowers, by the care Of sons and mothers planted there ; And, to this day, they tell their tale, In Sewasscrna's dtxrk, green vale.