But they are the ghosts of men,
And ne'er mix in wars again;
They no longer rove with ire,
Wood or wold, or sit by fire;
Council called--how best to tear,
From the gray-head crown its hair,
Dripping with its vital blood,
Horror--echoed in the wood.
Stay not here--where horrors dwell,
Earth is but a name for hell.

Oh, the Indian paradise is sweet,
Naught but smiles the gazers meet;
All is fair--the sage's breast,
Swells with joy to hail each guest--
Comes he, from these sounding shores,
Or the North God's icy stores,
Where the shivering children cry,
In their snow-cots and bleak sky;
Or the far receding south,
Burned with heat, and palsied drought,
All are welcome--all receive,
Gifts great Chibiabos gives.
Stay not, maiden--weep no more,
I have found the happy shore.

Come with me, and we will rove,
O'er the endless plains of love,
Full of flowers, gems, and gold,
Where there is no heart that's cold,
Where there is no tear to dry
In a single human eye.
Stay not here; cold world like this,
Death but opes the door to bliss.

ON THE STATE OF THE IROQUOIS, OR SIX NATIONS.

In 1845, the Legislature of New York directed a census of these
cantons, which evinced an advanced state of industry.

The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep,
Gone are the plumes that decked his brow,
For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep--
He holds the plough.

The bow and quiver which his fathers made;
The gun, that filled the warrior's deadliest vow;
The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade--
Where are they now?

Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell--
Scared nations listen with affright no more;
He walks a farmer over field and dell
Once red with gore.

Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife,
Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox,
All now are gone!--transformed to peaceful life--
He drives the ox.

Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese,
No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe:
Peace spreads her reign wide o'er his inland seas--
He swings the scythe.

Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers;
To learn the white man's arts, and skill to rule,
For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours--
They go to school.

Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul,
And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm,
Where are your charms his bosom to control?--
He tills a farm.

His war-scar'd visage, paints n