AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. IT is the spot I came to seek, My fathers' ancient burial place Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, It is the spot-I know it well- For here the upland bank sends out A ridge toward the river side I know the shaggy hills about, ; The meadows smooth and wide, The plains, that, toward the southern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie. A white man gazing on the scene, I like it not—I would the plain The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light, And then to mark the lord of all, This bank, in which the dead were laid, Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the silent Indian maid Brought wreaths of beads and flowers And the gay chief and gifted seer Worshipped the God of thunders here. 6 But now the wheat is green and high, The weapons of his rest; And there, in the loose sand, is thrown Ah, little thought the strong and brave Who bore their lifeless chieftain forthOr the young wife, that weeping gave Her first-born to the earth, That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough. 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. But I behold a fearful sign, To which the white men's eyes are blind ; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind, Save ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead. Before these fields were shorn and tilled, The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dashed and rivulets played, Those grateful sounds are heard no more, The realm our tribes are crushed to get |