Hobart College - Echo of the Seneca Yearbook (Geneva, NY)

Page 5 text:

 Oh Sachems of the great Six Clans: I have heard the Spirit’s plans, And they foretell a harder blow Than crops which now are withered so. Full many moons have passed and gone, And still our tribes are living on. You, who Seneca are named. For peaceful prowess are you famed. For rolling hills and crystal lake And for the festivals you make. Yet have I seen, and do foretell. That all with you will not be well. The withering of your corn now Is but sad prophecy of how Your tribe, ere eighteen moons are passed, Will be beyond the sun at last. A horde of tyrants, white of skin. And cruel as hawks are coming in. With tomahawks of shiny stone, Harder far than bear’s jawbone: With hollow sticks that flash and roar And hurl small stones and kill far more In one short breath than your swift bows, That are the best the redskin knows. They’ 11 kill the braves and steal the squaws And deal destruction without pause. These men are of a bloody race Who come to bring this sad disgrace. Kan'dasaga's funeral drums Will mourn until the echo comes From Akendaia and Kashong. And rolling it will speed along Through vales deserted, teepees burned, O'er wooded hills, through gullies ferned. And never will this booming cease. The white men never will have peace From grim reminder of their sin. For oft the drums’ returning din Will come again to smite their ears. Even in long distant years: For mighty Seneca, that lake, Which is the redskin's home, will take And keep this sound for other men, Who will build homes beyond our ken. Will ne’er forget the death and fire They brought, and so her lasting ire Will vent itself, ere leaf-drop comes. In roaring of the funeral drums. So echoing down a million moons And through a hundred million noons. Until the sun sets in the north, The Seneca Drums will echo forth. And though in time we be forgot, The Echo of the Senecas will not. And so the prophet bowed his head In mourning for the coming dead. Turned westward toward the setting sun To 'wait the future and be done. So, as he spoke, the future passed. The Senecas were gone at last. But still today the great lake's boom Saddens some who know the doom, The history of that glorious clan. Their place was taken by white man, Whose cities tower by the lake, Whose hands defiled each field and brake. Lest we forget these noble men. Drums of the Seneca, echo again . . .

Page 7 text:

Seneca, Sc ho -@qain!