Weary and tired, unto his home, and hears Upon his children's meagre forms, and then, Uo. The Eagle of the Mohawks now is wroth; Ont. The Indian hath no other joy Than his dark thought of dread and stern revenge! - Uo. Our tribe are gathered round to hear the words Of our white father-him who speaks to us From the great book his God hath given him. Will not Ontaria listen with his tribe? Ont. He will not listen! Let the white man pour His wily words into our warriors' ears, And let the foolish listen, if they will, The Eagle of the Mohawks will not go To hear the words like poison to his heart! Uo. But our white father tells us of a God Of goodness and of mercy; one who hears The lowliest prayers we offer; one who loves The Indian as the white man. In his book He tells us we should love our enemies, And bless and pray for those who do us wrong. Ont. The white man saith it-ha! and does his God Command him thus? What if he disobeys? What if he take the land he never owned, And drive the helpless and oppressed from home, Say, doth he go unpunished for all this? He says the bad Uo. The white man's God is just. Ont. And yet the white man hath oppressed our tribe, Hath spoiled our hunting-grounds, and our dark woods Have fallen to the earth! Our stately oaks Have built his ships to waft his merchandise Across the mighty deep. Nor is this all. He brought a weapon deadlier than the bow, Worse than the gun, and sharper than the knife; 'Tis this has broke our warriors' strength - 't is this Has sunk the haughty Indian to the brute! Is not this sin a dark and deadly one? Uo. Ontaria, yes; the white man has thus sinned; The white man brother? for his God is ours. Ont. Sweet Uono, hear! Dost thou not see yon field of waving corn? Where I had laid my father's bones to rest! He will not call the hateful white man brother! Uo. My warrior knoweth well the white man's law; He knows that death will be the doom of him Who killeth even one of all their race. Ont. And dost thou think, Uono, gentle one! Unto the white man's laws? Did the dark chief Uo. The book Of wisdom, which our father brought, forbids Ont. If the white man's God Teaches his children thus, they do not well Uono, 't is the wily white man's plan, Uo. Not so; now let Ontaria come and hear Ont. No! let the young Fawn of the Mohawk Her warrior-chief, and dwell within the home Uo. No! she gave her heart Unto the mighty war-chief; she will go Ont. Uono's feet will tire Before she sees the spot her chieftain seeks. Uo. She loves him, - therefore will Uono go! True, she calls the white man's God her Father; But if Ontaria will not hear his words, Nor dwell among the white men, then no more Uo. Ontaria, wilt thou forgive the white man Ere thou goest? Say thou wilt not take revenge On him who wronged Ont. Speak not to me of him; For thou wilt rouse the war-whoop in my heart! My father's spirit seems to cry, "Revenge The whites unharmed, and go beyond their sight. With her Ontaria to the wilderness? Uo. An Indian's love is strong, and changes not; Who yet will know that good and mighty God, THE SISTERS. F. HEMANS. First Speaker. I go, sweet sister! yet my love would linger with thee fain, And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain; Take, then, the braid of eastern pearl, that once I loved to wear, And with it bind, for festal scenes, the dark waves of thy hair; Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well, And I shall need such pomp no more in the lone convent cell. Second Speaker. Oh! sister, sister! wherefore thus?— why part from kindred love? Through festal scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move. How could I bear a lonely heart amidst a reckless throng? First Speaker. Oh! wouldst thou seek a wounded bird from shelter to detain ? Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again? Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long, And bathed with many a burning tear, for secret woe and wrong! It could not still my beating heart - but may it be a sign Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly pressed to thine! Second Speaker. Take back, take back, the cross of gold, our mother's gift to thee: It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be! With funeral splendor to mine eyes it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasure lost, of joy no longer mine! Oh, sister! if thy heart be thus with voiceless grief oppressed, Where couldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast? First Speaker. Urge me no more! a blight hath fallen upon my altered years; I should but darken thy young life with sleepless pangs and fears! But take, at least, the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from the silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords, in starlight hours, our own sweet vesperhymn, And think that I, too, chant it then, far in my cloister dim! Second Speaker. Yes! I will take the silvery lute, and I will sing to thee knee ! Oh! listen, listen! are those notes amidst forgotten things? Song. Leave us not, leave us not! Say not, adieu ! Have we not been to thee Tender and true? Take not thy sunny smile Far from our hearth! With that sweet light will fade |