The man who o’er unfathom’d brink Hangs trembling, and in dread to sink, By friendly arm quick rescued thence, Feels not more deep or joyful sense Of peril past—than to my heart That morning’s opening scenes impart. But as that fear the trembler knew, My joy was all as transient too. I could not chase away the gleam, And semblance of that mystic dream; And still before my waking eyes, I saw that bloody monster rise, And heard the furious dash and roar, Of waves loud beating on the shore— I felt the truths that spirit said, I felt that we had err’d and stray’d, And left the bright and shining road, That leads through nature up to God: And yet, I ill could comprehend, That vision’s proper type and end, Or tell what time my warlike band, Had worship’d him in other land, Or followed other rites, or why Thus doomed to quit that kindlier sky; Or how I might direct my race, Their ’wildered track again to trace. Hard, dark and cruel seem’d my lot, Part knew I, and part knew I not— And as, on either hand I weighed Thought and belief—the more I stray’d: This told me, it were sure design’d, One God should rule all human kind; That, that the white and red man’s road Led upward to a separate god; That spirits obdurate or kind, Of lesser rank o’erruled the mind, And that, of powers who o’er us stood, The good, unasked, were ever good, While some fit rite and off’ring had Been deem’d a duty tow’rd the bad.
An erring creed! one God alone, Rules and supports the starry throne, And earthly spheres—and all the host, Of various men, from coast to coast; Nor could that power be good or just, To sanction discord, crime, or lust.
Thou speakest of thy knowledge. Mine, Ill should I speak, to call divine. In forests nurtured, raised, and taught, Of simple nature is my thought— That nature which, if e’er it felt The power of love divine to melt, And purify and raise the heart, And tread the darkling maze of art, Or ever learned to think or feel, With holy, pure, ethereal zeal, Long since hath fall’n and wander’d thence, To deeds of plain, material sense; And what we touch, and know, and see, With form or life to move or be, And all that is not such, or seems, Makes up the Indian’s world of dreams. Nor, till that well remembered hour, E’er felt I aught of _other_ power, Or task’d my mind to think my fate Hung on supernal love or hate; Or when, from this frail tenement To other worlds the spirit went, Had questioned my confiding breast, The brave man’s spirit should be blest.