1820-30.] MICAH P. FLINT. 65 And o'er the spot where it was laid, The peace-tree threw a broad'ning shade, On whose green turf the warriors met, And smok'd the circling calumet. At length Discord, the Fury, came. Waving her murd'rous torch of flame, And kindled that intestine fire, In which the virtues all expire; Which, like the lightning-flame, burns on More fierce for being rained upon By showers of tears, which vainly drench A fire, that blood alone can quench. Two chieftain brothers met in pride. While brethren warr'd on either side. And kindred hands, that clasped before. Were deeply dyed in kindred gore. How many fought ; how many fell ; It boots not now to pause, and tell : Beside, that tale may be another's — I never lov'd the strife of Brothers. On a smooth plain, of living green, Their mingled monuments are seen, In turf-crown'd hillocks, circling round The fallen Chieftain's central mound ; And yearly on that fatal plain Their kindred meet, and mourn the slain, Wat'ring their humble graves anew With fond affection's hallow'd dew. When time and truce at length subdued The fierceness of that fatal feud, The Chieftain sent his council call. And every warrior sought the hall, To smoke the pipe, and chase away The memory of that fatal fray. But Justice claims another life — Another victim to that strife ; And her stern law may not be chang'd; One warrior slumbers unaveng'd. Some one must die ; for life alone Can for another life atone. It was at length decreed, to take A victim, for atonement's sake. By lot, from those against whom lay The fearful balance of that day. The solemn trial now had come, And, slowly to the raeasur'd drum, March, one by one, the victim band, To where two aged warriors stand Beside a vase, Avhose ample womb Contains the fatal lot of doom. That mystic rod, prepared with care, Lies with three hundred others there ; And each, in turn, his fate must try, AVith beating heart and blindfold eye. Woe to the hand that lifts it high ; The owner of that hand must die. Could I in words of power indite, I would in thrilling verse recite How many came, and tried, and pass'd, Ere the dread lot was drawn at last, By a lone widow, whose last son Follow'd her steps, and saw it done. I would, in magic strains, essay To paint the passions in their play, And all their deep-wrought movements trace, Upon that son's and mother's face. Yes, — I would picture, even now, The paleness of her care-worn brow, The tearless marble of her cheek. The tender voice that cried, though weak, In tones that seem'd almost of joy, — "At least it is not thine, my boy ! " I would describe liis frantic cry, When the dark symbol caught his eye ; The look of fixed and settled gloom With which he heard the fatal doom ; And the flush'd cheek, and kindUng glance, Which, from the high and holy trance Of filial inspiration, caught The brightness of his glorious thought, When through their circling ranks he press'd, And thus the wondering crowd address'd : " Hear me, ye warriors, I am young ; But feelings, such as prompt my tongue.
