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Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned
Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart
God gave them at their birth, and blotted out
His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope,
Alas! I little thought that the stern power
And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill
To copy thy example, and to leave
A name of which the wretched shall not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive
Now thou art not-and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance—he who bears False witness he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow-he who spreads abroad Polluted hands of mockery of prayer,
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look
On what is written, yet I blot not out
The desultory numbers-let them stand,
THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.
WEEP not for Scio's children slain;
Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain
For vengeance on the murderer's head.
Though high the warm red torrent ran
And for each corpse, that in the sea Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, A hundred of the foe shall be
A banquet for the mountain birds.
Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain To keep that day, along her shore, Till the last link of slavery's chain
Is shivered, to be worn no more.
THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.
AN Indian girl was sitting where
Came down o'er eyes that wept; And wildly, in her woodland tongue, This sad and simple lay she sung:
"I've pulled away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head, And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,
That, shining from the sweet south-west,
"It was a weary, weary road
That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Hast met thy father's ghost;
"'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,
That shod thee for that distant land; 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid
Beside thy still cold hand; Thy bow in many a battle bent, Thy arrows never vainly sent.
"With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, And laid the food that pleased thee best,
In plenty, by thy side,"
And decked thee bravely, as became
"Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed The long dark journey of the grave, And in the land of light, at last,
Hast joined the good and brave; Amid the flushed and balmy air, The bravest and the loveliest there.
"Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid
Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,
To her who sits where thou wert laid,
And weeps the hours away,
Yet almost can her grief forget,