The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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Hymn of the Cherokee Indian.—I. McLellan, Jun.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Hymn of the Cherokee Indian.—I. McLellan, Jun.
They waste us; ay, like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go,
Towards the setting day,
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.
Bryant.
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go,
Towards the setting day,
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.
Bryant.
Like the shadows in the stream,
Like the evanescent gleam
Of the twilight's failing blaze,
Like the fleeting years and days,
Like all things that soon decay,
Pass the Indian tribes away.
Like the evanescent gleam
Of the twilight's failing blaze,
Like the fleeting years and days,
Like all things that soon decay,
Pass the Indian tribes away.
Indian son, and Indian sire!
Lo! the embers of your fire,
On the wigwam hearth, burn low,
Never to revive its glow;
And the Indian's heart is ailing,
And the Indian's blood is failing.
Lo! the embers of your fire,
On the wigwam hearth, burn low,
Never to revive its glow;
And the Indian's heart is ailing,
And the Indian's blood is failing.
Now the hunter's bow's unbent,
And his arrows all are spent!
Like a very little child
Is the red man of the wild;
To his day there'll dawn no morrow;
Therefore is he full of sorrow.
And his arrows all are spent!
Like a very little child
Is the red man of the wild;
To his day there'll dawn no morrow;
Therefore is he full of sorrow.
398
From his hills the stag is fled,
And the fallow-deer are dead,
And the wild beasts of the chase
Are a lost and perished race,
And the birds have left the mountain,
And the fishes, the clear fountain.
And the fallow-deer are dead,
And the wild beasts of the chase
Are a lost and perished race,
And the birds have left the mountain,
And the fishes, the clear fountain.
Indian woman, to thy breast
Closer let thy babe be pressed,
For thy garb is thin and old,
And the winter wind is cold;
On thy homeless head it dashes;
Round thee the grim lightning flashes.
Closer let thy babe be pressed,
For thy garb is thin and old,
And the winter wind is cold;
On thy homeless head it dashes;
Round thee the grim lightning flashes.
We, the rightful lords of yore,
Are the rightful lords no more;
Like the silver mist we fail,
Like the red leaves in the gale,—
Fail like shadows, when the dawning
Waves the bright flag of the morning.
Are the rightful lords no more;
Like the silver mist we fail,
Like the red leaves in the gale,—
Fail like shadows, when the dawning
Waves the bright flag of the morning.
By the river's lonely marge,
Rotting is the Indian's barge;
And his hut is ruined now,
On the rocky mountain brow;
The fathers' bones are all neglected,
And the children's hearts dejected.
Rotting is the Indian's barge;
And his hut is ruined now,
On the rocky mountain brow;
The fathers' bones are all neglected,
And the children's hearts dejected.
Therefore, Indian people, flee
To the farthest western sea;
Let us yield our pleasant land
To the stranger's stronger hand;
Red men and their realms must sever;
They forsake them, and forever!
To the farthest western sea;
Let us yield our pleasant land
To the stranger's stronger hand;
Red men and their realms must sever;
They forsake them, and forever!
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