On the State of the Iroquois, or Six Nations
In 1845, the Legislature of New York directed a census of these cantons, which evinced an advanced state of industry.
The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep,
Gone are the plumes that decked his brow,
For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep—
He holds the plough.
The bow and quiver which his fathers made;
The gun, that filled the warrior’s deadliest vow;
The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade—
Where are they now?
Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell—
Scared nations listen with affright no more;
He walks a farmer over field and dell
Once red with gore.
Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife,
Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox,
All now are gone!—transformed to peaceful life—
He drives the ox.
Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese,
No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe:
Peace spreads her reign wide o’er his inland seas—
He swings the scythe.
Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers;
To learn the white man’s arts, and skill to rule,
For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours—
They go to school.
Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul,
And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm,
Where are your charms his bosom to control?—
He tills a farm.
His war-scar’d visage, paints no more deform—
His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,
Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm—
He wears a hat.
His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,
Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,
Is laid aside—to think, to plan, to read—
He keeps a store.
This is the law of progress—kindlier arts
Have shaped his native energies of mind,
And back he comes—from wandering, woods and darts
Back to mankind.
His drum and rattles, both are thrown away—
His native altars stand without a blaze,—
Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way—
And hark! he prays!