And then we heard the Pow-wahs say,
That God hath sent his angel forth
To sweep our ancient tribes away,
And poison and unpeople earth.

And it was so from day to day

The spirit of the plague went on,
And those at morning blithe and gay,
Were dying at the set of sun.
They died —our free, bold hunters died;
The living might not give them graves,
Save when, along the water-side,

They cast them to the hurrying waves.

The carrion-crow, the ravenous beast,
Turned loathing from the ghastly dead;
Well might they shun the ghastly feast
By that destroying angel spread.
One after one the Red men fell:

Our gallant war-tribe passed away -
And I am left alone to tell

The story of its swift decay.

Alone-alone- -a withered leaf.

Yet clinging to the naked bough; The pale race scorn the aged chief, And I will join my fathers now. The spirits of my people bend

At midnight from the solemn west, To me their kindly arms extendThey call me to their home of rest.

WHITTIER.

XV

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

He saw his native land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain

Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand;

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids,

And fell upon the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode

Along the Niger's bank;

His bridal reins were golden chains,

And with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,

The bright flamingoes flew ;

From morn till night he followed their flight
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of the Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyæna scream,

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;

And the blast of the desert cried aloud
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;

For death had illumined the land of sleep,
And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away.

LONGFELLOW.

XVI

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb.

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;

And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hushed- and eve's last splendour shone,
With a rich sadness, on the attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke;

And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said,

"I listened for the words which, years ago, Passed o'er these waters; though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain's flow;

Yet when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

"Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride,

When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since then Many, but bringing nought like him again.

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars, like the cornstalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wings.

"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met

I and my brethren that from earth are gone — Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, And our hearts burned within us as he spoke.

"We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime: Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time, Therefore we hoped: but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes, and finds not him!