our fears,
Fall only now on foeman's ears--
'Tis not enough, that with a wand
They sweep away our pleasant land,
And bid us, as some giant foe,
Or willing or unwilling go;
But they must ope our very graves,
To tell the dead they too are slaves!
And hang their bones upon the wall,
To please their gaze and gust of thrall;
As if a dead dog from below
Were made a jesting-stock and show!

See, from above! the restless dead
Peer out, with exudation dread--
That hangs in robes of clammy white,
Like clouds upon the inky night;
Their very ghosts are in this place,
I see them pass before my face;
With frowning brows they whirl around
Within this consecrated mound!
Away--away, vile caitiff race,
And give the dead their resting-place.

They point--they cry--they bid me smite
The Wa-bish-kiz-zee[118] in their sight!
Did Europe come to crush us dead,
Because on flying deer we fed,
And worshipped gods of airy forms,
Who ride in thunder-clouds, the storms?
Because we use not plough or loom,
Is ours a black and bitter doom
That has no light--no world of bliss?--
Then is our hell commenced in this.

[118] White men.

* * * *

Nay, it is well--but tell me not
The white race now possess the spot,
That fury marks my brow, and all
I see is but my fancy's pall
That glooms my eyes--ah, white man, no!
The woe we taste is solid woe.
Comes then the thought of better things,
When we were men, and we were kings.
Men are we now, and still there rolls
A monarch's blood in all our souls!
A warrior's fire is in our hearts,
Our hands are strong in feathery darts;
And let us die as they have died
Who are the Indian's boast and pride!
Nor creep to graves, in flying west,
Unplumed, dishonored, and unblest!

ON PRESENTING A WILD ROSE

PLUCKED ON THE SOURCES OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

Take thou the rose, though blighted,
Its sweetness is not gone,
And like the heart, though slighted,
In memory it blooms on.

Thy hand its leaves may nourish,
Thy smiles its bloom restore;
So warmed its buds may flourish,
And bloom to life once more.

Yet if they bloom not ever,
These thoughts may life impart
To hopes I ne'er could sever
One moment from my heart.

Oh, then, receive my token,
From far-off northern sky,
That speech, once kindly spoken,
Can never--never die.

THE RED MAN.

I stood upon an eminence, that wide
O'erlooked a length of land, where spread
The sounding shore