1850-60.] D. CARLYLE MACCLOY. 507 There young love knows no abortion, THE MOQUIS. For no moneyed reason urges "Westward toward the setting sun, Slightest hint of stingy caution. Far beyond the Gila's sources, To suppress the warm heart's sui'ges. Lives a race of happy men, On their laughing river courses. All their realm the desert roundeth. And they seek no foreign shore ; In a basin 'tween the Juan All their lives contentment boundeth, And the Colorado stream, And they never sigh for more ! Where fair nature seems in ruin. 'Mid the desert sands that gleam, Well contented with sweet labors. In that garden paradisal, Rise some gentle, sloping mountains, Never do they harm their neighbors. Studded o'er with woodlets green. Nor for wrong make sore reprisal. Vocal with the hmpid fountains Leaping downward in their sheen. War's fell implements they know not. Stretcheth outward from the bases Save the simple bow and arrow, Of those mountains in the sand. And for conquest lust they show not, A sweet valley, and embraces Though their lands be very narrow. Many a rood of goodly land. And when cruel foemen rattle There the Moquis in the glory In full harness o'er the plain, Of sweet innocence abide ; They find naught but flocks of cattle, For 'tis better to grow hoary And the waving fields of grain : In simplicity than pride. For the Moquis, upward climbing, Rich their cornfields grow, and yellow. Fly the danger in its vastness, Plain their tables, though well laden, And above the war song's chiming, Ripe the luscious fruit, and mellow. Sit secure in mountain fastness. Gilds the basket of the maiden. And those simple natives, artless, And they deem it wrong to offer Have nor our boasted manners. Deep resistance unto blood ; Have nor our great and heartless. For they think it best to suffer, Nor our money-clutching planners. Trusting Providence for good. There they need no midnight warders. we have our learned sages, And no bolt confines the door, And the good of every clime. For no theft lurks in their borders, And we have the thought of ages. To molest unguarded store. All concent'ring in our time : There fresh nature is not rusted, we boast our homes so lighted There no consciences to let. By the torch in progress' hand ! There the heart is not all crusted But the men are clearer-sighted, Over with false etiquette. In the far-off Moquis land.
