Ohio History Journal

The Black Hand.                   457

 

thyself be beaten by the cunning right hand of a boy! Disgraced

thou art, and no longer shalt thou be numbered among the

members of my frame." And the hand clung to the rock and

turned black, and spread and grew until it was as the hand of

a giant; and while the chief, Ahyomah and the tribe stood silently

watching the wonder, the defeated warrior wrapped his robe

about him, spoke no word of farewell, and striding swiftly into

the dark depths of the forest, was seen no more by man.

 

THE BLACK HAND.

 

HON. ALFRED KELLEY.

Have you ever seen the place where the murderer's hand

Had instamped on the rock its indelible brand,

A stain which nor water nor time could efface?

'Tis a deep lonely glen, 'tis a wild gloomy place,

Where the waters of Licking so silently lave,

Where the huge frowning rock high impends o'er the wave,

On whose pine-covered summit we hear the deep sigh

When the zephyrs of evening so gently pass by.

Here a generous savage was once doomed to bleed,

'Twas the treacherous white man committed the deed.

The hand of the murderer fixed the imprint,

'Twas the blood of the victim that gave the black tint.

A captive in battle the white man was made,

And deep in the wilds is the victim conveyed,

Here far from his kindred the youth must be slain,

His prayers, his entreaties, his struggles are vain.

The war dance is treading, his death song is singing,

And the wild savage yell in his ears is a-ringing.

The fire for the torture is blazing on high,

His death doom is sealed, here the white man must die,

The hatchet is raised, the weapon descends,

But quick an old chief o'er the victim now bends.

The hatchet he seizes and hurls to the ground.

He raises the youth and his limbs are unbound.

"My son fell in battle," exclaims the old chief,

"But ye saw not my sorrow, tho' deep was my grief,

458      Ohio Arch. and Hist. Society Publications.

 

And now shall the white man to me be a son,

'Tis your chief that has said it - his will shall be done.

A friend and a father to him will I prove,

And me as a father and friend shall he love."

Long years had passed by, and peace had again

Spread her soft balmy wings over mountain and plain,

The red man and white man in friendship now meet,

For the hatchet is buried deep under their feet.

Long years had rolled on, while the chief and his son

Rich spoils from the forest together had won.

Now loaded with furs from the far distant lake,

The path to the traders together they take.

Through the Narrows of Licink their pathway extends,

Around the huge rock on its margin it bends,

Where the shelf on its face scarce admits them to creep

Along the dark front that impends o'er the deep.

The chief, with fatigue and with age now oppressed,

In the shade of the rock seeks a moment of rest;

Here, lulled by the waters, he closes his eyes,

While his spirit communes with his friends in the skies.

By his side the false white man now silently knelt,

And carefully drawing his knife from the belt,

With one deadly plunge of the murderous steel

Reached the heart full of kindness -a heart that could feel.

Then quick in the river the Indian was thrown

Lest the tale should be told, lest the deed should be known.

Oh! the shriek that he gave as he sank in the flood,

As the waves eddied round him, deep-stained with his blood.

0h! the glare of his eye as they closed o'er his head,

While with hoarse sullen murmur they welcomed the dead.

Rock told it to rock, oft repeating the sound,

While shore answering shore still prolonged it around.

That look and that sound touched the murderer's heart,

With phrenzy he reeled, and with shuddering start,

His hand, while still reeking, with madness he placed

On the rock, and the blood-stain could ne'er be effaced.