The Natives of America

Tell me a story, father please,

And then I sat upon his knees.

Then answer’d he,—“what speech make known,

Or tell the words of native tone,

Of how my Indian fathers dwelt,

And, of sore oppression felt;

And how they mourned a land serene,

It was an ever mournful theme.”

Yes, I replied,—I like to hear,

And bring my father’s spirit near;

Of every pain they did forego,

Oh, please to tell me all you know.

In history often I do read,

Of pain which none but they did heed.

He thus began. “We were a happy race,

When we no tongue but ours did trace,

We were in ever peace,

We sold, we did release—

Our brethren, far remote, and far unknown,

And spake to them in silent, tender tone.

We all were then as in one band,

We join’d and took each others hand;

Our dress was suited to the clime,

Our food was such as roam’d that time,

Our houses were of sticks compos’d;

No matter,—for they us enclos’d.

But then discover’d was this land indeed

By European men; who then had need

Of this far country. Columbus came afar,

And thus before we could say Ah!

What meaneth this?—we fell in cruel hands.

Though some were kind, yet others then held bands

Of cruel oppression. Then too, foretold our chief,—

Beggars you will become—is my belief.

We sold, then some bought lands,

We altogether moved in foreign hands.

Wars ensued. They knew the handling of firearms.

Mothers spoke,—no fear this breast alarms,

They will not cruelly us oppress,

Or thus our lands possess.

Alas! it was a cruel day; we were crush’d:

Into the dark, dark woods we rush’d

To seek a refuge.

My daughter, we are now diminish’d, unknown,

Unfelt! Alas! No tender tone

To cheer us when the hunt is done;

Fathers sleep,—we’re silent every one.

Oh! silent the horror, and fierce the fight,

When my brothers were shrouded in night;

Strangers did us invade—strangers destroy’d

The fields, which were by us enjoy’d.

Our country is cultur’d, and looks all sublime,

Our fathers are sleeping who lived in the time

That I tell. Oh! could I tell them my grief

In its flow, that in roaming, we find no relief.

I love my country, and shall, until death

Shall cease my breath.

Now daughter dear I’ve done,

Seal this upon thy memory; until the morrow’s sun

Shall sink, to rise no more;

And if my years should score,

Remember this, though I tell no more.”

Copyright Credit: "The Natives of America" by Ann Plato from African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century, edited by Joan R. Sherman (University of Illinois Press, 1992).

Source: African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century (University of Illinois Press, 1992)