 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
136
THE CHEROKEE AT WASHINGTON.
I come from an ancient race—
From the wilds where my father trod;
And, though I present the red man's face,
I believe in the Christian's God.
From the wilds where my father trod;
And, though I present the red man's face,
I believe in the Christian's God.
I come where your Chief is laid,
At rest in his own dear land;
And I now would ask, if his mighty shade
Presides o'er your council band.
At rest in his own dear land;
And I now would ask, if his mighty shade
Presides o'er your council band.
If so, he will know the type
Of peace and of purity;
The chain of gold, and the silver pipe,
Bestowed on the Cherokee.
Of peace and of purity;
The chain of gold, and the silver pipe,
Bestowed on the Cherokee.
And here must he turn aside
To weep, and to blush for shame,
Thus to hear our nation's rights denied,
And his debase her name.
To weep, and to blush for shame,
Thus to hear our nation's rights denied,
And his debase her name.
Oh! no—by the faith of man,
Our claims ye must yet allow!
By the Book ye read, ye never can
Thus your pledges disavow!
Our claims ye must yet allow!
By the Book ye read, ye never can
Thus your pledges disavow!
Ye say that He went about,
Whom ye follow, doing good.
Does he bid you hunt the red man out,
Like a wolf from his native wood?
Whom ye follow, doing good.
Does he bid you hunt the red man out,
Like a wolf from his native wood?
137
Ye teach us, too, that He
Is to judge the quick and the dead:
Before His throne, will the difference be
That the face was white or red?
Is to judge the quick and the dead:
Before His throne, will the difference be
That the face was white or red?
And ye tell us what He said,
When He pointed to the coin
Impressed with the sovereign's name and head,
And what his words enjoin.
When He pointed to the coin
Impressed with the sovereign's name and head,
And what his words enjoin.
Our image on our land,
As Cæsar's on the gold,
Has been impressed by our Maker's hand,
And it never must be sold!
As Cæsar's on the gold,
Has been impressed by our Maker's hand,
And it never must be sold!
For, dear as the spot of earth
Where first your breath ye drew,
Your father's sepulchres, your hearth
And altar are to you;
Where first your breath ye drew,
Your father's sepulchres, your hearth
And altar are to you;
The ties are far more strong,
Which we feel to our native soil,
Than yours—ye have not been so long,
As the nation ye would spoil!
Which we feel to our native soil,
Than yours—ye have not been so long,
As the nation ye would spoil!
By power ye may o'ercome;
But should ye thus succeed,
And drive the poor Indian from his home—
Great Spirit, forgive the deed!
But should ye thus succeed,
And drive the poor Indian from his home—
Great Spirit, forgive the deed!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |