Pale face is in need. Pale Face is troubled.
My ear is quick, long have I heard a cry
From hearts of men denied the right to live,
From children robbed of childhood’s happy days,
And from the land itself slain and plundered.
The cry has reached the Happy Hunting ground­—
So, Pale Face, I have come. I cannot rest.
Have you no shame? Has culture lost the word?
Not only would you drive me from my home,
Wipe from the face of earth those of my race,
Insult the land, but haunt me still in death.
I am the spirit of the Red Man’s race.
I am spirit, do not try to see me—
Too long your eyes have looked upon things seen,
The glint of gold and flash of sword make blind.
I am spirit, do not try to hold me—
Your selfish grasp already holds my land,
Be satisfied to hold the things of earth.
I am spirit, pray do not deny me.
To say I do not live, deceives your heart,
Long has it fed upon deception’s bread.
The Red Man did not bid you come to us.
But you had dreams and sought to make them true.
It mattered not that you should crush my race
To build one of your own of greater worth.
Your cities gleam in splendor on my blood,
Your buildings stand in arrogance and pride.
Why count how many stories high they rise
While in the street below a bread line waits
Unfed, in rags—a contradiction bold
To wisdom that can build a city strong
And cannot lift her fellow men from need?
Our fathers dwelt in wigwams and tepees,
They did not pride themselves on buildings tall,
But they had food to eat, and that for all.
Our fair prairie land has long been plowed,
Deep furrows have you torn upon my back,
And rich the yield of corn and golden wheat.
The Mother Earth has given of her wealth
That all her children might be clothed and fed.
And, thankless, you insult her and would tear
Her wounds afresh and burn her wheat and corn,
A wilful waste of food and wherewithal.
While ragged men by thousands starve for food.
What strange philosophy of life is this?
Our children played in happy childhood sports,
They fished the streams and knew the forest’s lore.
While young we trained them to be stalwart braves,
And taught them truth and honesty of heart.
So busy you have been in making things­—
Machines and implements of war to kill,
That you have made no men to carry on.
Men are of greater worth than many things.
By thousands do your children stand and wait
Before your schools all closed for lack of funds.
While millions are poured out in sacrifice
Before the god of war. A god we hate.
You call us savages uncivilized,
Because in self—defense we dared to fight
To save our land, our homes and very life.
Our children and our squaws are dear to us,
You forced us to a fight to save their lives.
The many years have passed, and in that time
Our land has given you its richest store
Of power, food, and blessings manifold.
It is not that you need more of its wealth;
Your eyes are blind; your foolish hearts are drunk;
Too deeply have you slaked your thirst for power.
The things that you could do and make and build
Have run ahead of what you should have been.
A schoolboy now you stand, all hedged about
With all the million things which you have made,
Your body overgrown and mind untrained.
You have not fed your heart on bread of truth.
Pale Face is troubled. Pale Face must be brave.
Brave, not to fight and kill his fellow men,
But brave to look within his needy heart.
He must be strong and learn to love the truth.
The best of plans and schemes but only fail
If honesty and truth are set aside.
Pale Face is blind. The splendor of his work
Has dimmed his eyes to beauty of the stars,
The changing lights upon the distant hills,
The mystery and glory of earth’s face
Where Red Men’s hearts could trace a thousand joys.
Pale Face is deaf. The noise of many wheels
Has dulled his ears to sounds the Red Man heard.
He could not hear the music of the streams,
He never knew the song of rain and wind,
He did not hear the cry of agony
The forests made when Pale Face struck them down,
He did not hear the prairie sigh and moan
When plowed and torn to yield her corn and wheat.
He did not hear the groans from ancient hills
When drilled and blasted to the heart for gold.
Pale Face must make him men who hear and see,
Who value truth and honesty above
All things his wisdom makes with skillful hands.
Pale Face must make him men to carry on.