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Indian melodies

Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1793-1864)

[epigraph]

TO FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

MISCELLANIES.

ADDRESS OF THE DYING WARRIOR.

INVOCATION AT AN INDIAN ALTAR.

THE LIGHT OF NATURE.

PRAYER.

THE SPECTRE SEER; OR THE WARRIOR'S DREAM.

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MISCELLANIES.

LOVE.

[Why heaves my breast with troubled sighs]

Why heaves my breast with troubled sighs,
Foreboding ills which may not rise?
Dark clouds may rise, but sink again,
And a much brighter sky remain.
Oh aid, ye spirits—ye clouds, depart!
Or Zhayba, give me back my heart.

Long had my sky been clear and blue,
As in my dreams I used to view.
Lightsome I rose with heart as free,
As they that flit from tree to tree.
Like you, sweet warblers, I could sing
When newly pair'd in early spring.
Oh aid, ye spirits—ye clouds, depart,
Or Zhayba, give me back my heart.

My path was deck'd with flowers sweet,
Refresh'd with dew to bear the heat—
The heat of yonder glorious ball,
That lights and warms and gladdens all.
Oh aid, ye spirits—ye clouds, depart,
Or Zhayba, give me back my heart.

Alas, my sunny days are past,
My sky is black and overcast,
My path is chok'd with thorns and reeds,
My pleasant flow'rs transform'd to weeds,

I'm cross'd by wile, or Moneto,
And all my dreams are dreams of woe.
Oh aid, ye spirits—ye clouds, depart,
Or Zhayba, give me back my heart.

No longer can my heart respond
To notes, of which 'twas once so fond,
No more its throbs a pleasure bring,
A joy I knew, but cannot sing.
Nor can I rove with step so light
Among the flow'rets with delight;
For love, alas, has chang'd the scene,
I only know such joys have been.
Oh aid, ye spirits—ye clouds, depart,
Or Zhayba, give me back my heart.

I seek the lone, sequestered spot,
The silver shore—the shady grot,
But ah, how vain my footsteps rove,
How vain to find a cure for love.
Oh aid, ye spirits ... ye clouds, depart,
Or Zhayba, give me back my heart.

These lines were sketched by a Lady, and retouched, with additional lines, by the author of this little collection.

[Sweetheart, dost thou think of me]

Sweetheart, dost thou think of me,
When beneath the forest tree?
Dost thou, in the passing wind,
Catch the sighs I've cast behind?
Ah, I fear ... I fear ... I fear,
Evil bird hath fill'd thine ear.

Sweetheart, in the clear blue sky,
Canst thou read my constancy,
Or, in whispering branches near,
Aught from thy true lover hear?
Ah, I fear ... I fear ... I fear,
Evil bird hath fill'd thine ear.

[Ah, when remembrance brings to mind]

Ah, when remembrance brings to mind
The youth as brave as he was kind,
Love, hope, and joy alternate start,
And wake a transport in my heart.
Oh, the bitterness of mind,
To be loved and left behind.

And when he bade the sad adieu,
He said, “My love, I'll go with you!”
“I'll go with you!” my heart replied,
But on my tongue the answer died.
Oh, the bitterness of, &c.

The kiss he gave ... the look so kind,
He cast when leaving me behind,
I'll ne'er forget ... oh grief may kill,
Brave youth! but I shall love thee still.
Oh, the bitterness, &c.

[My love is a hunter ... he hunts the fleet deer]

My love is a hunter ... he hunts the fleet deer,
With fusil or arrow, one half of the year;
He hunts the fleet deer, over mountain and lea,
But his heart is still panting for love and for me.
Oh, blest is the wood-nymph, reclin'd at her ease,
As she thinks on her love in her bower of trees.

My love is a warrior—when warriors go,
With fusil or arrow to strike the bold foe,
He treads the bright war-path with step bold and free,
But still his thoughts wander to love and to me.
Oh blest, &c.

But hunter or warrior—where'er he may go,
To track the fleet reindeer, or follow the foe;
His heart's warm desire, field and forest still flee,
To go hunting his love, and make captive of me.
Oh blest. &c.

THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.

[They tell me the men with a white-white face]

They tell me the men with a white-white face,
Belong to a purer, nobler race,
But why, if they do, and it may be so,
Do their tongues cry ‘yes’—and their actions ‘no?’

They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue,
And it may be so, but the sky is blue;
And the first of men—as our old men say,
Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.

But throughout my life, I've heard it said,
There's nothing surpasses a tint of red;

Oh, the white's man cheeks look pale and sad,
Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.

Then let them talk of their race divine
Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine;
Give me a lodge, like my fathers had,
And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.

[To rove with the wild bird, and go where we will]

To rove with the wild bird, and go where we will,
Oh this is the charm of the forest-life still,
With our houses of bark and our food on the plain,
We are off in an instant, and back there again.

No farms can detain us—no chattels prevent,
We live not by ploughing—we live not by rent;
Our herds rove the forest—our flocks swim the floods,
And we skim the broad waters, and trip through the woods.

With ships not of oak wood, nor pitchy, nor strong,
We sail along rivers, and sail with a song;
We care not for taxes—our laws are but few,
And the dart is our sickle—our home the canoe.

If enemies press us, or evil feet stray,
We seize on our lances and fight them away;
And when we have nothing more pressing on hand,
We shake the proud rattle, and dance on the land.

We read no big volumes, and clearly from this,
If truths we don't gather, the errors we miss;
Our seers and our chieftains, they tell us what's right,
And freely we sing and we dance and we fight.

[The lady I saw at the gain-loving town]

The lady I saw at the gain-loving town,
Looked proudly, I ween, on the Iowa down,
But I thought if 'twere not for the power of dress,
The odds in our looks would be greatly the less.

Though garish and flaunty and lively and bright
With ribands and tassels and scarlet and white,
My own simple maiden is more to my view,
With her beaming dark eyes and her mantle of blue.

Oh, damsels of beauty, that dazzle the sight,
May be good and be wise and be kind and polite;
But my own native lass, to my own humble mind,
Is far more engaging and modest and kind.

She looks on me proudly, whenever I go,
With my new garnish'd robe, and my feathers and bow,
And all my ambition, in dresses and styles,
Is to copy her neatness, and smile as she smiles.

[My love, she gave to me a belt, a belt of texture fine]

My love, she gave to me a belt, a belt of texture fine,
Of snowy hue, emboss'd with blue, and scarlet porcupine;
This tender braid sustain'd the blade, I drew against the foe,
And ever prest upon my breast, to mark its ardent glow.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely fighting stand,
I, in the din, a trophy win, that gains Nemoosha's hand.

My love, she is a handsome girl, she has a sparkling eye,
And a head of flowing raven hair, and a forehead arched and high,
Her teeth are white as cowry shells, brought from the distant sea,
And she is tall, and graceful all, and fair as fair can be.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
And with address my suit I press, I gain Nemoosha's hand.

Oh, I will search the silver brooks for skin of blackest dye,
And scale the highest mountain-tops, a warrior's gift to spy;
I'll place them where my love shall see, and know my present true,
Perhaps when she admires the gift, she'll love the giver too.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
I'll gain my love's unsullied heart, and then I'll gain her hand.

TO LEELINAU.

Let the winds, with dreary sound,
Sweep along the frozen ground,
While the foliage, sear'd and dry,
Flits amid the nether sky;
This from my heart no sigh shall ever draw,
While rosy health attends my Leelinau.

She—who in my bark-built tent,
Smiling sits with sweet content
Sweeps with boughs my mossy seat,
And prepares my mountain-meat.
Blow, ye winds! 'tis nature's changeless law,
But spare, oh spare my smiling Leelinau.

If my lodge, so rude and low,
Be envelop'd deep in snow,
If the deer, with hunger prest,
Fly to yonder distant west;
Ah, why should thought becloud, or envy gnaw.
While love is left me in my Leelinau?

Gloomy storms will cease to howl,
And fair skies succeed to foul;
Wants will cease, and snows will melt,
And reviving spring be felt;
But, ah! while here on earth our breath we draw,
What can restore to life my Leelinau?

AHMO AND OPEETA.

Two Indian maids on Huron's dewy shore,
The absence of their faithful swains deplore,
Each in her hand, to ward the solar rays,
A garnished fan of native quills displays.
Their long dark locks, with fragrant grass entwined,
Float odorous on the gentle western wind.
The deer-skin shoe, with painted quills replete,
From glowing sands protects their timid feet.
Each taper neck seven strings of wampum grace,
And each displays the beauteous wrought metass.
A flowing robe, of peace-denoting blue,
Enwraps each form and half conceals from view,
Yet half displays—as every breeze that flies
With envious force unfolds its ample size.

Anxious they move, with timid steps and slow,
And frequent heave the sigh of tender woe,
Oft as they pass, they look with tearful eyes,
Where distant isles or towering cliffs arise.
They search the winding shore ... the breezy steep,
And the dark woods where hunted reindeer sleep,
But all in vain ... in vain they weep and pray,
Far o'er the hills their warlike lovers stray.
In vain they fast for two successive days,
Refuse the pearly rice and golden maize;
But not in vain invoke the muse's aid,
The muse till now unknown in Huron's shade.
The muse consents, and in untutor'd lays
Thus simple maids record their lovers' praise.

AHMO.
Oft, when the stars shine out and night is mute,
My graceful lover blows his sounding fute;
Its tender notes pervade my beating veins,
And happy thought and sober quiet reigns.

OPEETA.
At day's decline, Wayoond successful hies,
And at my feet he lays the forest's prize,
The smoking haunch is soft and kindly spread,
And fatty white relieves its warlike red.
He tells of rocks and waters he has past,
And all the frowning terrors of the waste.
I sigh while thus he speaks, for well I know
The dreary wood is fill'd with many a woe;
But while I sigh, I smile with rapture too,
For hunters ever are as brave as true.

AHMO.
Less skill'd my lover is, the game to take,
Along the grassy plain or sounding lake,
But when his bleeding country calls to arms,
He rushes heedless of its woes and harms;
He with the valiant takes his wary stand,
And well his eyes delight in dart or brand.
The fray dispatch'd, he brings his captive slave,
And walks a warrior free, and bold and brave.
And when discourse reverts to toils of war,
He tells intent of ghastly wound or scar,
The while on me his eyes with rapture turn,
And through my frame I feel love's passion burn.
He takes my fan, he lifts my fallen band,
And both seem dearer from his ready hand.
Where acts so kindly speak the lover's part,
What need of words his feelings to impart?

OPEETA.
My lover is as skilful as he's tall,
And in the sport or dance the pride of all.
Once, when the gathered youth, in sports embark,
He hurl'd a hatchet nearest to the mark,
Through all the crowd approving shouts were rais'd,
And I was blithe of heart, and he was prais'd.

AHMO.
Well do I mind, when single and alone,
My warlike lover heaved a giant stone;
His powers of strength drew forth the village cries,
And grateful shouts were sounded through the skies.

OPEETA.
The heavy bow my youthful lover drew,
And instant to the mark his arrow flew.

AHMO.
In speech Ontyah, at the council fire,
Poured from his soul the counsels of a sire;
The wide assembly all his words approv'd,
The man was honour'd and the speaker lov'd.

A leggon.

WAR CHANT.

The birds ... the birds, the warlike birds, are gathering in the sky,
I see their talons gleaming bright—I hear their deathful cry.
Their cry is e'er for human food, and woeful is their flight,
And ere another moon is past, they'll batten on the fight.
The bloody limb,
The warrior grim,
Shall greet the raven's flight;
And many a woe,
To friend and foe,
Spring from the fatal fight.

They cross the line ... they cross the line, the birds they cross the line,
Foreboding to our foes defeat, all by the prophet's sign;
And we will up and follow thence, and we will up and fight,
And die as erst our fathers died, combatting for our right.
Our fathers' might,
Ye bards recite,
Raise high the battle cry;
For we will go
To meet the foe,
And like our fathers die.

The shout ... the shout, the warlike shout, come let us now prolong,
And raise once more, o'er lake and shore, the tributary song.
Our noble bands were ever brave, and ever scorn'd to be
Where man to man, they could not stand, and greet each other free.
Come, let us beat,
With sounding feet,
The fatal battle ring;
And as of old,
Like warriors bold,
The battle chorus sing.

I sigh to go ... I sigh to go, where lives are nobly lost,
Where battle clubs are freely cast, and lances freely crost:
My body to the birds I give,—my name shall e'er remain,
To teach the foe I scorn'd his bow, and triumph'd over pain!
Let fainting hearts
Learn woman's arts,
Let cowards turn and flee!
But we will die,
Like warriors high,
Or live like warriors free.

Vide Burns.

ADDRESS OF THE DYING WARRIOR.

Ah, cruel's the fate, and most bitter the woe,
That dooms me to fall in the land of the foe,
And leaves me all wounded and fainting to lie
In this dark dreary wood, where no kindred are nigh,
To mourn my departure, or light for the brave
The watch-fire of death on my desolate grave.

Soon—soon will my body be cast from the eye,
And laid in the earth, where I know it must lie;
While you, my companions, who watch round my head,
With secret sensations of pity and dread,
Will return to that land—fairest land of the earth!
That witness'd my manhood and gave me my birth;
Where in boyhood I roved by the sweet silver shore,
But which I am doomed to revisit no more.

Ye leave me—ye leave me—to moulder away,
Far away from my friends, and shut out from the day,
Where no youth of my nation my coffin shall spy,
With its war-tokens garnish'd, and scaffolded high;
But secret and stealthy, with voices supprest,
Deep, deep in the earth you will lay me to rest,
Where no friend shall re-visit—no foe shall espy
The leaf-cover'd sod where my ashes may lie;
No slow kindly foot shall return to the spot,
No sorrowful hand build the sepulchre-cot;
No voice my achievements or virtues repeat,
But evil-birds scream, and wild hurricanes beat.

But I go to rejoin in the fields of the blest,
My forefathers' shades, and be with them at rest;

With joy they shall mark my unfetter'd advance,
With battled-crown'd garland, and war-gleaming lance;
And with pride they shall hail their long-lingering son,
To the joys that his fame and his valour have won.

Day shuts on my sight—I no longer can see,
Those looks that are tenderly cast upon me.
Cease, cease your kind efforts—all cares are in vain,
Death, death can alone stanch my wounds or my pain.
Ah, remember Camudwa was trusty and brave,
And visit, my friends, ah, re-visit his grave.
Now sinks my low pulse ... the world fades from my view,
And my friends—oh my friends!—he but whisper'd adieu.

INVOCATION AT AN INDIAN ALTAR.

Awful Spirit of the sky,
Hearken ... hearken to my cry!
Thou, who oft by anger driven,
Flingst the streaming fire from heaven;
And with big and bellowing sound,
Layst the smoking pine a-ground.
Thou, whom oft my fancy's eye,
Hath remark'd in passing by,
Sailing on the nether sky:
Hearken ... hearken to my cry!

Me, a hunter poor and weak,
Forced the flying game to seek;
Me, a warrior inly blind,
Often warring with my kind;
Seeking glory with the dart,
Or the white man's deadlier art,

Oh, direct me and if still,
Thy dread purpose I fulfil,
Give me strength and courage clear,
Still to wield the dart and spear,
Still to seek the woodland foe,
Panther, wolf, or carcajou;
Still to wander—still to be,
Hunter bold, or warrior free.

But if erring, wrong, or lost,
Evil step my path hath crost;
Lend me thy supernal light,
Once again to seek the right.
Teach me to forget the ill,
And the wiser course to fill;
And if they, who read and pray
Have the better, happier way,
Teach me war and rage to shun,
Bow and arrow, lance and gun.
Teach me peace and fame to seek,
With a spirit bland and meek;
And with arts of milder hue,
Such as Christian men pursue;
Such as heavenly words declare,
Hope and faith and love and prayer.

Now accept my humble rite,
Offered thus by nature's light;
Not in temple, where benign
Tapers gleam or banners shine;
But along this wild-wood lone,
On the rude, unchissel'd stone.
If thou aught amiss espy,
From thy mansions in the sky,

Let my purpose most sincere,
Hallow offering held so dear;
And the incense rise above,
Meek memorial of my love.—
Of my hope—that thou alone
Rulest on the silver throne;
And my faith—in cot or road
That thou only art the God.

THE LIGHT OF NATURE.

For me, the duck on annual wing,
Returns to hail the genial spring,
For me, the birds with eager loves
Hie gladly to their singing groves;
For me the elk of stately make
Returns to browse along the lake;
And all the tribes of every hue
Delight in life and vigour new.
I look o'er all the earth and all the skies,
And see myself the lord of nature's paradise.

The teeming earth with secret powers,
Renews her fruits, and spreads her flowers;
The grove puts on her green attire,
Along the stream the plants aspire;
The waters too, from soils below,
Smile with the lily's fragrant blow,
And sprouting rice-blades peeping through,
Where lately pass'd the light canoe.
O'er all the scene, I see a bounteous hand,
And holy nature renovates the land.

The heavens put on their mildest hue,
The skies their brightest tints of blue,
Day glitters with exceeding light,
And beauty fills the throne of night;
The moon and stars a silver glow
Shed, tremblingly, on all below;
While thunder's voice and lightning's play,
Far to the south have winged their way.
And shall my heart not bow to him alone,
Supernal Lord of nature's glorious throne?

It shall—it shall!—the seasons turn,
The sun shines out ... the planets burn,
And spring and summer softly bring
Each varied, rapid, kindly thing;
Autumn with colours clothes our woods,
And winter comes to chill the floods;
All nature tells of changes here,
Shall mortal man unchang'd appear?
Ah, no! he sickens, like the dying year,
And God himself upholds the shining sphere.

Thunder is always personified in the discourse of the North American Indians.

PRAYER.

[Great Father, let piety be our life's measure]

Great Father, let piety be our life's measure,
Our purest of duties, and truest of pleasure;
Bad living—bad acting, the curse of our lands,
Oh, come let us leave, as the Spirit commands.

Then blest in our roving, wherever we go,
Success shall attend on our camp and our bow;
We will live without blame, and will pity our kind,
And when we depart, leave a good name behind.

The Great Spirit made us—the Great Spirit knows,
Our wants and our weakness, our virtues and woes;
But if we forget him, and pray not most true,
He will leave us in darkness all life's journey through.

Pray comrade ... pray warrior ... pray hunter ... pray chief,
'Tis the only sure mode of our getting relief;
He will hearken to bless his poor sons of the wood,
And give us a seat in the land of the good.

[In the frowning cliff, that high]

In the frowning cliff, that high
Glooms above the passing eye:
Casting spectral shadows tall,
Over lower rock and wall:
In its morn and sunset glow,
I behold a Manito.

By the lake, or river lone,
In the humble fretted stone,
Water-sculptured, and by chance,
Cast along the wave's expanse:
In its morn and sunset glow,
I behold a Manito.

In whatever's dark or new,
And my senses cannot view,
Complex work ... appearance strange,
Arts' advance, or nature's change:
Fearful e'er of hurt or woe,
I behold a Manito.

In the motions of the sky,
Where the angry lightnings fly,

And the thunder, dread and dire,
Lifts his mighty voice in fire:
Awed with fear of sudden woe,
I behold a Manito.

Here, my humble voice I lift,
Here, I lay my sacred gift;
And with heart that bowing prays,
Cries of hallelujah raise.
Spirit, Father, God, or Jove,
Thee I fear, and Thee I love;
And if joy betide, or woe,
Thou, thou art my Manito.

[Heaven may change, and earth may flee]

Heaven may change, and earth may flee,
But I shall an Indian be,
If, to be a convert pure,
Mean, my country to abjure;
Or those feelings of the heart,
Friends and home and peace impart;
Or those hopes of justice bright,
That no time can change or blight;
Or that faith, that actions here,
Shall in heaven above appear.

But if change may only mean,
Manners rude, or rites unclean;
Faith defective ... maxims blind,
Such as blear the native mind;—
If it mean not, to forego
Present good for present woe,
Banish every view estranged,
Change me, for my heart is changed,
And begin the sacred vow,
For I am a convert now.

THE SPECTRE SEER; OR THE WARRIOR'S DREAM.

The prophet rose at dead of night,
All on the burial hill,
And “up! my brethren, rise!” he cried,
In accent deep and shrill.

He shook his wand and magic bones,
He beat his dancing drum,
And “ho! my brethren, rise!” he cried,
“The hour we hoped has come.

“Ho! warriors up, and seize your arms,
“For they were laid with ye,
“And let us to the war again,
“And battle to be free.

“Ho! chieftains, lift your idle spears,
“And stand before your bands;
“'Tis yours once more, by lake and shore,
“To rise and take your lands.

“Up, up, and arm, the hour is come,
“Up, warriors, one and all;
“We'll sweep away the pale-faced race,
“Or give them thrall for thrall.

“They tread upon our father's bones,
“And mix in ditch and wall,
“The dust of warriors once renown'd,
“And chiefs the pride of all.

“Repose no more, for vengeance calls,
“Fame, duty, honour, love:
“Whate'er can fire the soul below,
“Or bless in heaven above.”

And from their graves the dreamless dead,
Arose upon the strand;
Each with war-signal on his head,
And weapon in his hand.

Like gathering clouds the warriors stood,
A hundred thousand men;
A horrid front to look upon,
For blood was in no vein.

But banners waved, and lances shook,
And frontlets seam'd with red;
And giant chiefs moved to and fro,
An army of the dead.

And ever and anon was heard,
The drum and rattle strong;
And then arose with hollow sound,
The fearful battle song.

And slowly now began to move,
The rattling foot and lance,
Till all that ghastly multitude
United in the dance.

And “ho! my friends,” the prophet cried,
“Now let us onward go;
“With shout and song—I give the cry,
“I lead you to the foe!”

And at that word, a hollow yell,
Broke out from every band;
That peal'd across the distant vale
And shook the solid land.

A moment more, and not one soul
Of all that fearful throng,
Was seen beneath the moon's pale beam,
Where late they rais'd the song.

Each to his own lone sepulchre,
Slid back with viewless trace;
And nought but rustling leaf disturb'd
The silence of the place.

But when the hour of twelve came round,
At midnight damp and chill;
That seer arose, and all his bands
Stood on the burial hill.

Old Metacom forsook his rest,
And reverend Skenandoah;
And Sassacus and Tamenund,
And Myontonimoh.

And Pontiac the brave was there,
And dread Kway Sind the strong,
And Logan famed for eloquence,
And Wahb Ojeeg for song.

And grim Tecumtha—he was there,
Who fought with erring frown;
To build one race of white men up,
And pull another down.

And from the south Capolicon
Came flying fast in hate,
And Gautimozin—he stood there,
In all his former state.

But ever, at the prophet's cry,
As that dread shout they gave,
Each sunk away invisible,
Within his narrow grave.

And thus for six lone nights I saw
That ghastly wild array;
And still at midnight's solemn hour
They fled in shouts away.

But on the seventh night, the sound
That o'er my senses broke,
Pealed out so long ... so deep ... so loud,
That from my trance I woke.

I lay beneath my humble shed,
My wife and children round;
The wind moaned loudly through the trees,
And thunders shook the ground.

And still within my ears there rang
The sound of shout and drum,
And those shrill words the prophet spoke,
“Awake, the hour is come!”

And I arose—I could not sleep,
For thoughts perplex'd my soul,
And sought the village priest's abode
My vision to unroll.

“My son,” he said, “thy dream to read,
“I've sought the Spirit's view;
“Who ne'er doth err by word or sign,
“To those who seek him true.

“And much it grieves my aged heart,
“To open now to thee,
“The painful scroll of Indian fate
“And miseries yet to be.

“Thy dream is power ... that Indian power
“Which once our sons possest,
“O'er all the hills and lakes and streams
“That spot the gilded west.

“That power, not Metacom could save,
“Not Pontiac restore;
“But year by year, grew less and less,
“Instead of more and more.

“And now 'tis nearly gone, but still
“One woe is left behind;
“To sweep from every eastern hill
“The erring Indian kind.

“They go beyond the endless stream,
“That, sprung from northern skies,
“Spreads out its mighty arms supreme,
“Where stormy Mexic lies.

“They go beyond that barrier proud,
“To enter life anew;
“But if in pride or woe, their end
“My ken is not to view.

“Hope well—for hope is still a friend,
“As dear to our poor kind,
As those who claim superior wealth,
“And nobleness of mind.

“But if there is, in race refin'd,
“The nobleness they claim,
“They will respect our free-born kind,
“And keep our valiant name.

“'Tis fame our sages ever sought,
“Amid life-thorns and flowers;
“And though dominion flies our grasp,
“Still glory shall be ours.

“The Indian name—the Indian name,
“The Indian name shall live,
“And they who prest us sorest, still.
“Our warmest plaudit give.

“Return, my son! thy wife—thy child,
“Thy own dear native sod,
“Still love:—exert thy earnest force,
“And leave the rest to God.”