Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/306



are they, the forest-rangers,
 * Children of this western-land?

Who, to greet the pale-fac'd strangers,
 * Stretch'd the unsuspecting hand?

Where are they, whom passion goaded
 * Madly to the unequal fight,

Tossing wild the feathery arrow
 * 'Gainst the girded warrior's might?

Were not these their own bright waters?
 * Were not these their native skies?

Rear'd they not their red-brow'd daughters
 * Where our princely mansions rise?

From the vale their roofs have vanish'd,
 * From these streams their slight canoe;

Chieftains and their tribes have perish'd,
 * Like the thickets where they grew.

Though their blood, no longer gushing,
 * Wakeneth war's discordant cry,