Olivia Ward Bush-Banks, "On the Long Island Indian" (1916)
How relentless, how impartial,
Is the fleeting hand of time,
By its stroke, great empires vanish
Nations fall in swift decline.
Once resounding through these forests,
Rang the warwhoop shrill and clear,
Once here lived a race of Red Men,
Savage, crude, but knew no fear.
Here they fought their fiercest battles,
Here they caused their wars to cease,
Sitting round their blazing camp fires,
Here they smoked the Pipe of Peace.
Tall and haughty were the warriors,
Of this fierce and warlike race.
Strong and hardy were their women,
Full of beauteous, healthy grace.
Up and down these woods they hunted,
Shot their arrows far and near.
Then in triumph to their wigwams,
Bore the slain and wounded deer.
Thus they dwelt in perfect freedom,
Dearly loved their native shores,
Wisely chose their Chiefs or Sachems,
Made their own peculiar laws.
But there came a paler nation
Noted for their skill and might.
They aroused the Red Man's hatred,
Robbed him of his native right.
Now remains a scattered remnant
On these shores they find no home,
Here and there in weary exile,
They are forced through life to roam.
Just as Time with all its changes
Sinks beneath Oblivion's Wave,
So today a mighty people
Sleep within the silent grave.
"On the Long Island Indian" appeared in The Annual Report of the Montauk Tribe of Indians for the Year 1916 (31 Aug., 1916), and is reproduced in this volume by courtesy of the Library of Anthropology at the Nassau County Museum, Sands Point Preserve, Port Washington, NY.