212 ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New-Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, Then we will laugh at winter when we hear The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year," Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin. AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. It is the spot I came to seek,- Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, It is the spot, I know it well- For here the upland bank sends out The meadows smooth and wide, A white man, gazing on the scene, I like it not-I would the plain 214 AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their trunks in grateful shade, And then to mark the lord of all, This bank, in which the dead were laid, Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, But now the wheat is green and high OF HIS FATHERS. And scattered in the furrows lie And there, in the loose sand, is thrown Ah, little thought the strong and brave, That the pale race, who waste us now, They waste us-ay-like April snow Till they shall fill the land, and we But I behold a fearful sign, To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind, Save ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead. Before these fields were shorn and tilled, The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood; 215 216 AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE, ETC. And torrents dashed and rivulets played, Those grateful sounds are heard no more, The realm our tribes are crushed to get |