Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/23

22 No!—no!—in darkness rest the throng, Despair hath checked the tide of song, Dust dimmed their glory's ray, But can these staunch their bleeding wrong? Or quell remembrance, fierce and strong? Recording angel,—say! I marked where once a fortress frowned, High o'er the blood-cemented ground, And many a deed that savage tower Might tell to chill the midnight hour. But now, its ruins strongly bear Fruits that the gentlest hand might share; For there a hallowed dome imparts The lore of Heaven to listening hearts, And forms, like those which lingering staid, Latest 'neath Calvary's awful shade, And earliest pierced the gathered gloom To watch a Saviour's lowly tomb, Such forms have soothed the Indian's ire, And bade for him that dome aspire.

Now, where tradition, ghostly pale, With ancient horrors loads the vale, And shuddering weaves in crimson loom Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom, There shall the peaceful prayer arise, And tuneful hymns invoke the skies. —Crush'd race!—so long condemned to moan, Scorn'd—rifled—spiritless—and lone, From pagan rites, from sorrow's maze, Turn to these temple-gates with praise; Yes, turn and bless the usurping band That rent away your fathers' land; Forgive the wrong—suppress the blame, And view with Faith's fraternal claim, Your God—your hope—your heaven the same.