When I was a child, my grandmother used to sing me to sleep with this song. The last thing that she would say to me is: "Ann, this is not a sad song. It is a happy song. Because we are Cherokee and the Cherokee have learned to be where they are! You will always survive if you know that you are right where you are supposed to be." I guess today the same thing rings true with the words - "Bloom where you are planted". Thank you for teacing me that Grammaw, I'm sorry that it took me so long to learn.
The Lament of the Cherokee
O, soft falls the dew, on the twilight descending
And night over the distant forest is bending
And night over the distant forest is bending
Like the storm spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main.
But midnight enshrouded my lone heart in its dwelling,
A tumult of woe in my bosom is swelling
And a tear unbefitting the warrior is telling
That hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee.
Can a tree that is torn from it's root by the fountain
The pride of the valley; green spreading and fair,
Can it flourish, removed to the rock of the mountain,
Unwarmed by the sun and unwatered by care?
Though vesper be kind, her sweet dew in bestowing,
No life giving brook in it's shadows is flowing.
And when the chill wind of the desert is blowing,
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee.
Sacred graves of my sires, and I left you forever?
How melted my heart when I bade you adieu;
Shall joy light the face of the Indian? Ah, never!
While memory sad has the power to renew.
As flies the fleet deer when the blood hound is started,
So fled winged hope from the poor broken hearted;
Oh, could she have turned ere forever departing,
And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee.
Is it the low winds through the wet willows rushing,
That fills with wild numbers my listening ear?
Or is it some hermit rill in the solitude gushing,
The strange playing minstrel, whose music I hear?
'Tis the voice of my father, slow, solemnly, stealing,
I see his dim form by yon meteor, knelling,
To the God of the white man, the Christian, appealing,
He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee.
Great Spirit of Good, whose abode is in Heaven.,
Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky,
Wilt thou give to the wants of the clamorous ravens,
Yet turn a deaf ear to my pitious cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er my heart's desolation;
For deaths dark encounter, I make preperation;
He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee.
by: John Howard Payne
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This page was created by me, Ann Maloney. If you have questions or comments about my genealogy, please email me
luvcats@ionet.net
