Indian melodies :: :: University of Virginia Library

St. Mary's falls run swift and strong, and ever as on they go,
The waves from shore to shore prolong, a hollow sound of woe,
That sound upon mine ear doth write, the note of my tribe's decay,
That, like a running stream by night, is rapidly passing away.

The storm that o'er it hangs is black, and gathering still apace,
And in its cold, unpitying track, shall sweep away my race.
They sink ... they pass ... they fly ... they go, like a vapour at morning dawn,
Or a flash of light, whose sudden glow, is seen ... admir'd ... and gone!
But who their martial dirge shall sing, or wake the funeral song,
Or dancing round the burning ring, each choral shout prolong?

There were ... there were! but they lie low, and never more shall spring,
To wield the lance, or bend the bow ... to revel, fight, or sing!
They died ... but if a red man bleeds, or fills the dreamless grave,
Shall none repeat his name ... his deeds, or tell that he was brave?

Though polish'd not, my falling line, in quiet temperance grew,
And glory, pity, love divine, and many a virtue knew;

And they were free, and they were bold and they had hearts could feel,
And laugh'd at hunger, pain and cold, nor fear'd the foeman's steel.

But farewell all! my native woods, repeat this simple verse,
Waft far the strain, ye ample floods ... ye woody shores, rehearse.
Dear native groves and hills and streams!—my father's land and mine,
Though sunk our sun, there still are gleams, that on my bosom shine.
Cold as ye are, with boreal chills, where plenty never smiles,
More sweet to me thy fir-clad hills, than India's sunny isles.
'Tis peace that gives a nation rest ... 'tis virtue keeps it free,
These still were ours, had heaven blest, or Colon sunk at sea.
Oh, I could tell, but 'tis in vain ... and weep, but there's a vow
My tribe scorn'd ever to complain, and I disdain it now.