Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Here you will find the Long Poem Custer of poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox




ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy.
Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy
To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave
As e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave.
Sing of that noble soldier, nobler man, 
Dear to the heart of each American.
Sound forth his praise from sea to listening sea-
Greece her Achilles claimed, immortal Custer, we.


Intrepid are earth's heroes now as when
The gods came down to measure strength with men.
Let danger threaten or let duty call, 
And self surrenders to the needs of all; 
Incurs vast perils, or, to save those dear, 
Embraces death without one sigh or tear.
Life's martyrs still the endless drama play
Though no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day.


And if he chanted, who would list his songs, 
So hurried now the world's gold-seeking throngs? 
And yet shall silence mantle mighty deeds? 
Awake, dear Muse, and sing though no ear heeds! 
Extol the triumphs, and bemoan the end
Of that true hero, lover, son and friend
Whose faithful heart in his last choice was shown-
Death with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone.


He who was born for battle and for strife
Like some caged eagle frets in peaceful life; 
So Custer fretted when detained afar
From scenes of stirring action and of war.
And as the captive eagle in delight, 
When freedom offers, plumes himself for flight
And soars away to thunder clouds on high, 
With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry, 


So lion-hearted Custer sprang to arms, 
And gloried in the conflict's loud alarms.
But one dark shadow marred his bounding joy; 
And then the soldier vanished, and the boy, 
The tender son, clung close, with sobbing breath, 
To her from whom each parting was new death; 
That mother who like goddesses of old, 
Gave to the mighty Mars, three warriors brave and bold, 


Yet who, unlike those martial dames of yore, 
Grew pale and shuddered at the sight of gore.
A fragile being, born to grace the hearth, 
Untroubled by the conflicts of the earth.
Some gentle dove who reared young eaglets, might, 
In watching those bold birdlings take their flight, 
Feel what that mother felt who saw her sons
Rush from her loving arms, to face death-dealing guns.


But ere thy lyre is strung to martial strains
Of wars which sent our hero o'er the plains, 
To add the cypress to his laureled brow, 
Be brave, my Muse, and darker truths avow.
Let Justice ask a preface to thy songs, 
Before the Indian's crimes declare his wrongs; 
Before effects, wherein all horrors blend, 
Declare the shameful cause, precursor of the end.


When first this soil the great Columbus trod, 
He was less like the image of his God
Than those ingenuous souls, unspoiled by art, 
Who lived so near to Mother Nature's heart; 
Those simple children of the wood and wave, 
As frank as trusting, and as true as brave; 
Savage they were, when on some hostile raid
(For where is he so high, whom war does not degrade?) .


But dark deceit and falsehood's shameless shame
They had not learned, until the white man came.
He taught them, too, the lurking devil's joy
In liquid lies, that lure but to destroy.
With wily words, as false as they were sweet, 
He spread his snares for unsuspecting feet; 
Paid truth with guile, and trampled in the dust
Their gentle childlike faith and unaffected trust.


And for the sport of idle kings and knaves
Of Nature's greater noblemen, made slaves.
Alas, the hour, when the wronged Indian knows
His seeming benefactors are but foes.
His kinsmen kidnapped and his lands possessed, 
The demon woke in that untutored breast.
Four hundred years have rolled upon their way-
The ruthless demon rules the red man to this day.


If, in the morning of success, that grand
Invincible discoverer of our land
Had made no lodge or wigwam desolate
To carry trophies to the proud and great; 
If on our history's page there were no blot
Left by the cruel rapine of Cabot, 
Of Verrazin, and Hudson, dare we claim
The Indian of the plains, to-day had been same? 


For in this brief existence, not alone
Do our lives gather what our hands have sown, 
But we reap, too, what others long ago
Sowed, careless of the harvests that might grow.
Thus hour by hour the humblest human souls
Inscribe in cipher on unending scrolls, 
The history of nations yet to be; 
Incite fierce bloody wars, to rage from sea to sea, 


Or pave the way to peace. There is no past, 
So deathless are events-results so vast.
And he who strives to make one act or hour
Stand separate and alone, needs first the power
To look upon t