THIS volume is entitled to a higher degree of attention than fortune seems to have yet awarded to it, at the hands of the public criticism of the country. Its publishers, we believe, have little reason to complain, the first edition having "gone off" at a very satisfactory rate, scattered from their shelves to take a welcome place on a thousand drawing-room tables. But for the poet-the young poet, an author for the first time-though that testimony to the merits of his production which is borne by the ledger of his bookseller, is by no means an immaterial point, yet to his ardent and aspiring soul, athirst for praise, for sympathy and love, there is but small satisfaction in such reward, if the higher meed toward which he has chiefly aimed, is withheld, or unkindly and ungraciously stinted. The appearance of an American poem in nine cantos, forming a volume of about three hundred pages, is not such an every-day phenomenon, as to be entitled to no more notice than the passing recognition of the fact, among the fifty others to which each hour gives birth, and of which the ephemeral thought does not outlive the day. And especially a work so peculiarly national in its character, and the evident product of so gallant an ambition and enthusiasm on the part of its author, deserves and demands at least a The history of the above production is interesting, and is related at length in the late London edition of Southey's Poetical Works. It appears the authorship was quite a matter of discussion-Porson, the famous Greek scholar, being named among other claimants. In point of fact, however, whatever merit the piece possesses is chiefly due to Southey, who contributed the longer and livelier portion. In the edition of Coleridge, from which we extracted it, the poem is no longer than we have given: but later editions present it tripled in length, though hardly in piquancy. * Tecumseh, or the West Thirty Years Since. A Poem. By George H. Colton. New York: Wiley and Putnam. 1842. more respectful attention, if not a more generous reward of praise and encouragement, than Mr. Colton's "Tecumseh" has yet received. We take some fault to ourselves, as well as imputing it to others, for what may have seemed a cold and chilling neglect of a meritorious contribution to our national literature; and, determined not to allow procrastination to cross the turning point of a new year and volume, shall proceed to impart to our readers some acquaintance with its contents and character. "Tecumseh" is a tale in verse, of forest life and adventure, at the period of the war of 1812, with a dramatis persone divided between Indians and whites. The main thread of narrative along which all the incidents arrange themselves, relates to the fortunes of two lovers, of the latter race, -the maiden being in the possession of her Indian captors, while her betrothed roams the wilds of the west, far and wide, in quest of her. Its action embraces two years, and besides the personal adventures of the characters of the poem, some of the most prominent public events of the period are described at great extent, such as the efforts made by the great aboriginal hero who gives name to the work, to effect a general Indian league of extermination against the whites, the battle of the Wabash, Perry's victory on Lake Erie, and the battle of the Thames. The scene opens thus, on an autum. nal day, on the banks of the Ohio: "A few years gone, the western star But one interminable shade, Or where, no tree or summit seen, Whooped for revenge and victory. The still strange scenery of a dream, Between the banks that face to face Gaze on each other's brows for ever, A lengthened reach of that broad river, The waters seemed like molten gold, Its dark form threw distinctly there; Or light, through frost-changed foliage streaming, As to the eyes of childhood dreaming, Upon a broad stone, which the flood, With ceaseless murmurings, softly laved, Gay knights with spear and shield, Glory on Death's own field. And though upon his face of stone An aged man's-the shrivelled skin Of ruined rock, chance-hurled from high, A child's fair curls in amber light Or swarthy Indian's battle cry, VOL. XI.NO. LIV. 80 Hung trembling to the breeze of night. The soft wind shakes their wreath Alas! 'tis not a mother's breath! A beam of light upon them liesIt is not from a mother's eyes!" dewy Though no cathedral towards the sky The Indian thus introduced, fresh from the murder of a settler's family, is an Ottawa, named Ken-hàt-ta-wa. He is accompanied by his younger brother, a young maiden, the daughter of the massacred prisoner, whom he is bearing off captive, -and an Eng lish white man, the great villain of the story, named De Vere, who had instigated the act, and whose motive had been a double one, hatred against the father of the maiden, and love of Mary herself. We learn from an episode introduced shortly after this tableau vivant of the solitary Indian figure, that she had formerly dwelt on the banks of the Connecticut, where she had bestowed her love upon a youth named Moray, and had spurned De Vere, who had there sought to possess himself dishonorably of her charms. The latter Vowing vengeance upon her and hers, had reduced her father by his arts to poverty, and had then sought to buy the daughter for his bride, with offers which were rejected with scorn. The ruined family had then migrated westward. "And in her home a thousand miles The wild-vine wreathed the windows o'er, On those rude dwellings calmly shone, As of a peopled land!” both by love and hate. De Vere posBut they are ere long pursued there the mode already mentioned; and sesses himself of the person of Mary in Moray, her lover, following their miMiami only in time to witness the degration, reaches their cottage by the solation just made there. "At last one autumn morn he stood, dread He saw the threshold stained and red-- With eyes from which the soul was Stilled pulse, and hearts that beat no more, Lay mother, sire, and gentle son, Whom few brief years had smiled upon. Death had been there-and in their blood The faithful dog beside them stood, Moaning to them most piteouslyIt was a fearful sight to see!" He plunges into the forest in pursuit of the murderers, and for the rescue of their captive. The narrative returns to the latter party dropping down the Ohio in the chieftain's canoe, under the cover of the night; when, as the young and gentler brother of Ken-hàtta-wa is chaunting a song of Indian tenderness over the exhausted and sleeping girl, the pale "lily-of-the-water," a shot rings from Moray's rifle, and its bullet is sped on a mistaken errand to the bosom of the youth,—who promised to become a very respectable character if he had lived. The chief is dissuaded by De Vere from his first impulse to add his prisoner's scalp to the three already at his belt; and the canoe passing beyond shot to the other bank of the river, pursues its rapid and silent way: "Through the dim stillness on they sped, The Second Canto thus introduces the great chieftain who is the hero of the poem, in conference with his brother, well known to history as "the Prophet:" "It was an Autumn morn: the sun name Their darkly mouldering dust can claim! And as the mists were rolled away, Before, outspread the eye beneath, A prairie's boundless prospect lay Like solemn Ocean, as the breath There only rose not Ocean's roar; "Upon that mound's most silent height, The one should be a chief of power, While in his eyes there lived the light There was in his countenance Some grief which would not pass away. "The other's lineaments and air Revealed him plainly brother born So sad, yet proudly, met the morn: And, with an eye that, sharp and fierce, Would seem the gazer's breast to pierce, And low'ring visage, aye the while, Inwrought of subtlety and guile, Whose every glance, that darkly stole, Bespoke the crafty, cruel soul, There was from all his presence shed A power, a chill, mysterious dread, Which made him of those beings seem, That shake us in the midnight dream. Yet were his features, too, o'ercast With mournfulness, as if the past Had been one vigil, painful, deep and long. Of hushed Revenge still brooding over wrong." In this conference, brooding fiercely over the wrongs of their race, Tecumseh announces to the Prophet his design of forming a general Indian league for the expulsion of the pale faces from the continent, and leaves it in charge with him to prevent any outbreak, or betrayal of this purpose, till his return from the mission on which he proposes immediately to depart. The scene is transferred to an Indian camp, distant from the mound of this meeting, where the Ottowa band is awaiting the return of their chief Kenhat-ta-wa-together with a band of the Shawnee tribe, to which Tecumseh and the Prophet belonged: "A motley scene the camp displayed. Their simple wigwams, loosely made Of skins and bark, and rudely graced With sylvan honors of the chase, At scattered intervals were placed Beneath majestic trees-the race Of other years; while, statelier reared, Alone and in their midst appeared The lodge of council, honored most, Yet unadorned with care or cost. Their beaded leggins closely bound, Their blankets wreathed their loins around, Whence rose each neck and brawny breast Like bust of bronze with tufted crest, High converse holding in the shade- The youth would act war's mimic game, tame Perchance their captives scarce a dayThemselves untamed and wild as they; While sat beneath the green leaves fading Young maids, their chequered baskets braiding, Whose merry laugh or silvery call And ever in th' invisible breeze And fleecy clouds, above the prairies flying, Led the light shadows, chasing, chased and dying." Mary, refusing her life on the condition of accepting the love of De Vere, is on the point of being put to death, when another prisoner is brought in, and Ken-hat-ta-wa exults to learn that the slayer of his brother, whose death an inferior victim was about to expiate, has fallen into his hands. Moray and Mary rush into each other's arms, with so much pleasure, that the reader cannot but regret the very unpleasant circumstances which attend their meeting. They are, of course, very soon brought back to "a sense of their situation;" and the maiden having fainted, the Indians speedily prepare an ordeal through which the youth would have found some difficulty to pass in safety: "Those words received th' excited crowd, With frantic gestures-shoutings loud; And seizing in their tawny hands Knives, hatchets, clubs, or smoking brands, They ranged in two long lines, to greet With death the captive's faltering feet, As tortured demons, grim and fell, Conduct a lost soul down to hell.” However, he has no idea of indulging their benevolent intentions; and, with a most unreasonable perverseness, as soon as he is released and posted to begin the sport, he snatches a tomahawk from a huge warrior at his side, cleaves his brain at a blow, and is off at right angles, amidst a shower of spears and arrows, the whole legion of red devils streaming after him across the plain. His practised powers of limb come here into good play. The chase is described with much vigor and spirit. He dashes into the high prairie grass,-where, after a toilsome mile of progress had been made, a still more formidable foe comes to face him in front, in the form of a prairie fire! This passage was quoted on a different occasion in our pages, in illustration of a corresponding one of Catlin's prose, (Dem. Review for July, 1842), to which the reader is referred. Moray escapes from the pursuit in his rearthe Indians being driven back by the still fiercer element, and the spear of their chief alone singing past him as he plunges into the advancing flame. |