Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/38

22 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.

.

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.

.

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.