Three hundred years have rolled by since the hour 
When the proud white folk came from far away 
Across the seas, where their great cities tower. 
The islands soon became the strong men’s prey; 
I lifted up my clenched fist from the ocean 
To see how far their arrogant feet might stray. 
Woods clothed the land and flowers grew in profusion; 
Through the deep valleys wandered by the score 
My faithful tribesmen of the brown-skinned nation. 
The Eternal Father mild saw fit to pour 
Abundant blessings down. The White Men came; 
Their ship, its course erratic, neared the shore. 
The land seemed fair to them. They made their claim, 
And seized it, like the islands, in their greed, 
Sowing among my people serfdom’s shame. 

The borders marked by furrows they denied, 
And with their quadrants measured out my Hand, 
Drawing strange lines across from side to side. 

Ere long had passed, they swarmed across the land; 
Only one finger did they fear to try. 

Who ventured there was doomed to meet his end. 

Upon this one remaining finger, I 
Have placed a ring my brown-skinned folk compose. 
They stand with spears poised, ready to let fly. 

And if their shields in compact, serried rows 
Fail me, if White Man’s arrogance breaks the ring, 
This Hand, with White and Brown, I then propose 
To plunge into the waters weltering. 

sw 
The Seminole speaks: 

Peace to my brethren I shall not proclaim; 
War be my first word, battle be my last. 
And when your eyes blaze up in sudden flame, 
As forest fire is fanned by hurricane’s blast, 
Then shall I say that you were truly right 
To call me Word’s Sun, that Night flees fast. 
F’en as your hunter’s lust flamed at the plight 
Of innocent creatures that you forced to flee 
From arrow following arrow in swift flight, 
So would the White Men hunt you ruthlessly. 
But let your speeding arrows make it clear 
That they’re the quarry, and the hunters—we. 
They envy us our red skins; and in fear 
That their revolting white may be discerned, 
They swathe themselves in many-coloured gear. 
Our country they have named the floral strand, 
For flowers here in great profusion grow. 
But blue, or white, or yellow, through the land 
Into red raiment soon they all must go, 
Bespattered with the White Man’s own red blood. 
Flamingo bird shall not more crimson glow. 
As slaves, we proved to be of little good. 
They brought the cowardly Blacks across the sea: 
They'll learn the strength and courage of our brood! 

To Friedrich Graeber, January 20, 1839 

Come then, White Man, if your desire it be, 
And you shall get the homage that’s your due. 
From every bed of reeds, from every tree, 
Seminole arrows wait to ambush you! 

Ul 

The White Man speaks: 

Well, then! And so for the last time I will 
Offer my brow to cruel Destiny 
And freely turn to face the murderous steel! 

O vengeful Fate, you are well known to me! 
Always you’ve turned my joy in life to gall. 
You think I ever knew Love’s ecstasy? 

Mocking, she broke my heart, whom I did fall 
In love with. Thenceforth, seeking consolation, 
I fought for Freedom. Kings themselves have all 

Trembled before our League. In trepidation, 
Princes have seen how German youth can stand 
As one. In seven years of expiation 

I’ve fully paid my debt in iron bonds. 
In a swift ship they bring me o’er the sea 
To Liberty—but on an alien strand. 

The coastline beckons! But at a cliff’s foot, see! — 
The ship is wrecked. The folk on board all spring 
Into the foaming waves. A plank bears me 

Safely to shore, though bruised and shivering. 
For the first time, my luck goes favourably. 
In sand-choked seas the rest lie weltering. 

But can I not escape my destiny? 
The savages surround me, bind my limbs. 
They seek to gain revenge by killing me. 

For me, new Freedom, so I hoped, begins. 
But Freedom fighters seek my murder here. 
So must I expiate my brothers’ sins. 

But what comes floating to the beach down there? 
A crucifix! In my Redeemer’s eye 
Such tenderness! I miss His Word so dear. 

As I lie here upon the hot sands dying, 
He comes to me with bounteous clemency. 
While I complain, God, with Hell’s fury vying, 
Has now Himself become a corpse for me! 

409 

Here is my contribution to the next little party. I saw that there 
had been one at our place again and I was very sorry that I didn’t 
send anything in for it. Now in reply to your letter— Aha! Why 
don’t you read the newspaper? If you did you would have seen 
what was and what was not printed about the business. It’s not my 
fault if you make a fool of yourself. The paper only contained 
official reports issued by the Senate and they were really what was 
to be expected. Plimacher’s comedy must be very good. I have 
written asking for it twice, but he has not uttered a word about it. 
As far as Jonghaus and his love are concerned, I have something 
to settle with him about that. You fellows always let yourselves be 
put off writing by “this and that”. Tell me, can’t you write to me 
for half an hour each day after you get a letter from me? Then 
you'd be finished in three days. I have all these letters to 
write — five of them—and I write much closer than you do and 
still I have them finished in four or five days. Yes, it’s terrible.