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167
THE INDIAN GONE!
By night I saw the Hunter's moon
Slow gliding in the placid sky;
Her lustre mocked the sun at noon—
I asked myself the reason why?
And straightway came the sad reply:
She shines as she was wont to do
To aid the Indian's aiming eye,
When by her light he strung his bow,
But where is he?
Slow gliding in the placid sky;
Her lustre mocked the sun at noon—
I asked myself the reason why?
And straightway came the sad reply:
She shines as she was wont to do
To aid the Indian's aiming eye,
When by her light he strung his bow,
But where is he?
Beside the ancient flood I strayed,
Where dark traditions mark the shore;
With wizzard vision I essayed
Into the misty past to pore.
I heard a mournful voice deplore
The perfidy that slew his race;
'T was in a dialect of yore,
And of a long-departed race.
It answered me!
Where dark traditions mark the shore;
With wizzard vision I essayed
Into the misty past to pore.
I heard a mournful voice deplore
The perfidy that slew his race;
'T was in a dialect of yore,
And of a long-departed race.
It answered me!
I wrought with ardor at the plough
One smoky Indian-summer day;
The dank locks swept my heated brow,
I bade the panting oxen stay.
Beneath me in the furrow lay
A relic of the chase, full low;
I brushed the crumbling soil away—
The Indian fashioned it, I know,
But where is he?
One smoky Indian-summer day;
The dank locks swept my heated brow,
I bade the panting oxen stay.
Beneath me in the furrow lay
A relic of the chase, full low;
I brushed the crumbling soil away—
The Indian fashioned it, I know,
But where is he?
When pheasants drumming in the wood
Allured me forth my aim to try,
Amid the forest lone I stood,
And the dead leaves went rustling by.
The breeze played in the branches high;
Slow music filled my listening ear;
It was a wailing funeral cry,
For Nature mourned her children dear.
It answered me!
Allured me forth my aim to try,
Amid the forest lone I stood,
And the dead leaves went rustling by.
The breeze played in the branches high;
Slow music filled my listening ear;
168
For Nature mourned her children dear.
It answered me!
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