Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/48

48 Oh, that his deeds might with his flesh decay!— That when the hoarse raven hath dealt to her brood The last foul drop of his false heart's blood, His crime could be wash'd away.— But look at the mounds where your fathers sleep, At the forests and vales where your children play, And the curse of your souls must be long and deep On the wretch who hath barter'd all away.

The bird finds a nest in the thicket's green shade, The beaver may lodge in the hut he hath made, But where will ye hide when the summer hath fled?— Say,—where is your home, save the house of the dead?— When a few more suns at yon western goal, In a flood of burning gold shall roll, When a few more moons with their slender horn In the curtain'd cells of the east are born, With my mother earth I shall take my rest, And my spirit speed on to the land of the blest.— But ye, outcast race, your deep despair Shall cling to my soul mid the fields of air, It shall spread a cloud where the sky is fair,— For tears of sorrow in heaven have been O'er the guilt, and the wrongs, and the woes of men."—

He paused,—his white head tower'd more high, As if communing with the sky,— Then, as when thunders break The warring cloud,—he spake.— "Swear, that ye will not shed      The blood of white men!—for their hand hath traced The gospel's glorious path amid life's dreary waste,       Hath given to cheer you, though you exiled roam,          A faith that hath power o'er the world to come.—