SONG OF THE RED INDIAN.
The aged, who laid their thin hands on my head,
To smooth my dark, shining curls, rest with the dead;
The young, who partook of my sports and my glee,
Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me.
To smooth my dark, shining curls, rest with the dead;
The young, who partook of my sports and my glee,
Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me.
Beautiful streamlet! I sought thee again,
But the changes that mark'd thee awaken'd deep pain;
Desolation had reign'd, thou wert not as of yore—
Home of my Childhood, I'll see thee no more!
But the changes that mark'd thee awaken'd deep pain;
Desolation had reign'd, thou wert not as of yore—
Home of my Childhood, I'll see thee no more!
SONG OF THE RED INDIAN.
Oh! why does the white man hang on my path,
Like the hound on the tiger's track?
Does the flush of my dark skin waken his wrath?
Does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas where the billow and breeze
Bear riches for him alone;
And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood
That the white man calls his own.
Then why should he covet the streams where none
But the red-skin dare to swim?
Oh why should he wrong the hunter one
Who never did harm to him?
Like the hound on the tiger's track?
Does the flush of my dark skin waken his wrath?
Does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas where the billow and breeze
Bear riches for him alone;
And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood
That the white man calls his own.
Then why should he covet the streams where none
But the red-skin dare to swim?
Oh why should he wrong the hunter one
Who never did harm to him?
The Father above thought fit to give
To the white man corn and wine;
There are golden fields where he may live,
But the forest shades are mine
The eagle has its place of rest,
The wild horse where to dwell;
To the white man corn and wine;
There are golden fields where he may live,
But the forest shades are mine
The eagle has its place of rest,
The wild horse where to dwell;
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