THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.
(WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.)
Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,
Where the red Indian lays his father's dust,
And, by the rushing of the torrent floods
To the Great Spirit, bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?
They are gone forth, the desert's warrior-race,
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair,
And where art thou?—thine arrows are not there.
They rest beside their streams—the spoil is won—
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough;
The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is done—
They hear the tales of old—but where art thou?
The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine,
And there a place is fill'd that once was thine.
For thou art mingling with the city's throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,
E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide.
But will this be? and canst thou here find rest?
Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast.
Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear,
From the savannah-land, the land of streams?
Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may here?
Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams?
They call—wild voices call thee o'er the main,
Back to thy free and boundless woods again.
Hear them not! hear them not!—thou canst not find
In the far wilderness what once was thine!
Thou hast quaff'd knowledge from the founts of mind,
And gather'd loftier aims and hopes divine.
Thou know'st the soaring thought, the immortal strain—
Seek not the deserts and the woods again!
