Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/660

 644 BENJAMIN S. PARKER. [1850-60. Soon forgets the buried red men Such a soul of rarest beauty, For some more congenial theme. Oh ! sweet Isadore, was thine, As along the path of duty But although their race is ended Trode thy presence — half divine. And forever over here, Till from out the courts above, Let their virtues be remembered, As a messenger of love. While we fervently revere When the starry lamps were swin^ng All their ancient burial-places, In the vaulted blue of night, Hill and valley, plain and glen ; Came an angel downward winging, Honor every sacred relic On his pinions snowy white. Of that fading race of men. And thy spirit bore away To the realms of endless day. Gitche-Manito has called them From the chase and war-path here. To the mystic land of spirits, In some undiscovered sphere. In a land of light and glory. FREEDOM. That no sachem's eye hath seen, Where the streams are golden rivers. Freedom is the child of heaven, And the forests ever green ; Mortal's priceless boon, God-given, Deathless as the human soul. Where the winter-sun descending All the ministers of evil. Sets the south-west sky aflame, All the angels of the Devil, Shall the Indian race be gathered Despots that a space control, In the great Sowanna's name. Cannot blind this foe to evil. Cannot blast it from the soul. ! sing praise to God the giver Of this boon that lives forever. ISADORB. Nature, with thy heavenly voice ! Sun that shiueth in thy glory, Purest souls are sometimes given Shout aloud great freedom's story. Into forms of slightest mould, Till the distant spheres rejoice. Spirits that belong to heaven, Till the Earth, grown old and hoary, As the lambkin to the fold, Shall make freedom's God its choice. That no earthly love can stay From their native shore away. Hearken thou, ! fellow-mortal, Sitting in thy doom's sad portal, Spirits very meek and lowly. To the voices as they flow. Such as in the days to come, How the starry beams that quiver, Singing praises to the Holy, And the swiftly-flowing river, In the glad millennium, Shout for freedom as they go. Then shall tread the earth alone, Then arise, thank God the giver. Till a thousand years are gone. And for freedom strike the blow.