Our Fathers' Friends
[In Stockbridge, Massachusetts, may be seen a memorial monument, set on a tree-shaded knoll overlooking a beautiful reach of meadow. It bears the inscription: " The ancient burial place of the Stockbridge Indians, the friends of our Fathers.”]
HERE, in this pleasant meadow-place,
By trees o’erhung and with the breath
Of summer fragrant, for a space
I linger, to recall the death
By trees o’erhung and with the breath
Of summer fragrant, for a space
I linger, to recall the death
Of the red men of yore, whose worth
Is here recorded; they were friends
Unto our fathers, and their earth
Is honored thus; their memory blends
Is here recorded; they were friends
Unto our fathers, and their earth
Is honored thus; their memory blends
Benignant with the tales of years
When red and white lived brotherly;
From tokenings of blood and tears
These cool, gray stones seem strangely free.
When red and white lived brotherly;
From tokenings of blood and tears
These cool, gray stones seem strangely free.
What word, what deed, made peace prevail ?
Why did they share the ancient good
Of wood and sky and river-dale,
Sealing a pact of brotherhood ?
Why did they share the ancient good
Of wood and sky and river-dale,
Sealing a pact of brotherhood ?
We have not learned the lesson yet;
The generations still arise
And smite and plunder, and forget
The other teaching of the skies.
The generations still arise
And smite and plunder, and forget
The other teaching of the skies.
The elms, o’erarching, answer naught,
But still the scene compels the gaze:
Beneath this shaft, in kindness wrought,
Rest the red friends of older days.
But still the scene compels the gaze:
Beneath this shaft, in kindness wrought,
Rest the red friends of older days.