And then to the Great Spirit, dimly trac'd
Thro' cloud and tempest, and with fear embrac'd,
In doubt and mystery, thy breath resign;
And to thy scorn'd and perish'd people go,
From whose long-trampled dust our flowers and herbage grow.
liii.
Like the fallen leaves those forest-tribes have fled:
Deep 'neath the turf their rusted weapon lies;
No more their harvest lifts its golden head,
Nor from their shaft the stricken red-deer flies:
But from the far, far west, where holds, so hoarse,
The lonely Oregon, its rock-strewn course,
While old Pacific's sullen surge replies,
Are heard their exil'd murmurings, deep and low,
Like one whose smitten soul departeth, full of woe.
liv.
I would ye were not, from your fathers' soil,
Track'd like the dun wolf, ever in your breast
The coal of vengeance and the curse of toil;
I would we had not to your mad lip prest
The fiery poison-cup,—nor on ye turn'd
The blood-tooth'd ban-dog, foaming, as he burn'd
To tear your flesh; but thrown in kindness blest
The brother's arm around ye, as ye trod,
And led ye, sad of heart, to the blest Lamb of God.
