Their Impacts
Native Americans have inhabited North Carolina longer than any other group of people. They have made significant contributions to our state's history throughout their existence. The descendants of those first inhabitants of North Carolina have remained vital parts of our state history. North Carolina's rich Native American history provides us with fascinating stories, unique traditions, inspiring artworks, rich culture, and firm foundations. We have unique Native names for many of our rivers, lakes, highways, roads and lands. The story of Native Americans in North Carolina is a history that is complete in and of itself, but it is also important for understanding the history of our state as a whole. This history provides us with an opportunity to see the culture, values and attitudes of not only native people, but also our European ancestors. Through their initial contact and continuing encounters, the interactions between our state's first inhabitants and the European explorers show us the interesting cultural contrasts and allow us to better understand those explorers, colonists, political leaders and heroes who make up our rich history.
The Lament of the Cherokee
By John Howard Payne (June 9, 1791 – April 10, 1852)
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 its 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 dews in bestowing.
No life giving brook in its shadows is flowing.
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing.
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee.
Sacred graves of my sires; and 1 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 wind 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, kneeling
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 piteous cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er niv heart's desolation:
No more shalt thou hear my unblest lamentation;
For death's dark encounter, I make preparation;
He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee.
By John Howard Payne (June 9, 1791 – April 10, 1852)
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 its 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 dews in bestowing.
No life giving brook in its shadows is flowing.
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing.
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee.
Sacred graves of my sires; and 1 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 wind 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, kneeling
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 piteous cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er niv heart's desolation:
No more shalt thou hear my unblest lamentation;
For death's dark encounter, I make preparation;
He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee.