« السابقةمتابعة »
Gladdening the first approach of day,
The hours pursue their ceaseless round,
Of what has given such joy;
And when the evening twilight falls,
And when tired feet no more could run,
Gone in his beauty —like the star
Although withdrawn from sight.
THE AMERICAN INDIANS.*
SHALL not one line lament that lion race,
Our fathers called them savage-them, whose bread,
In the dark hour, these famished fathers fed.
We call them savage- O be just!
A voice comes forth, 'tis from the dust ;-
Think ye he loved not? Who stood by,
Woman was there to bless his eye ;—
Think ye he prayed not? When on high
What bade him look beyond the sky?
Beneath the pillared dome,
We seek our God in prayer;
Through boundless woods he loved to roam,
He saw the cloud, ordained to grow,
Strange feet were trampling on his father's bones,
And listen to his children's dying groans.
Alas for them!—their day is o'er,
O doubly lost! oblivion's shadows close
With his frail breath his power has passed away,
Or give him with the past a rank;
Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and the helpless, the council-fire glared on the wise and the daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying death-song, all were here; and, when the tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of
peace. Here too they worshipped; and from many a dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but He had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the universe he acknowledged in every thing around. He beheld him in the star that sank in beauty behind his lowly dwelling, in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his mid-day throne;— in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze, in the lofty pine that had defied a thousand whirlwinds ;-in the timid warbler that never left its native grove, in the fearless eagle whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his foot, and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious Source he bent in humble, though blind adoration.
And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you, the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. As a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dy