122 A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. And if, when wrapp'd asleep on Fancy's arm, Visions of bliss my riper years have cheer'd, Of home, and love's fireside, and greetings warm, For one by absence and long toil endear'd, The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been rear'd. Peace to thy smiling hearths, when I am gone; And mayest thou still thine ancient dowry keep, To be a mark to guide the nations on, Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep ;Still mayest thou bid the sorrower cease to weep, And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep Starting, remotest nations see the light, And earth be bless'd beneath the buckler of thy might. Strong in thy strength I go; and wheresoe'er My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget All that I owe to thee; and O may ne'er My frailties tempt me to abjure that debt! And what, if far from thee my star must set, Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet, And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's deserts drear. Yet I will not profane a charge like mine, A wreath of palms, entwined with many a sweet THE INDIAN HUNTER. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. WHEN the summer harvest was gather'd in, He was a stranger, and all that day Had been out on the hills, a perilous way, The winds of Autumn came over the woods The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, Then the hunter turned away from that scene, 124 THE INDIAN HUNTER. And burning thoughts flash'd o'er his mind The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, Where the beech o'ershadow'd the misty lake, When years had pass'd on, by that still lake-side And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. BY W. C. BRYANT. It is the spot I came to seek, My fathers' ancient burial-place, Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot,-I know it well Of which our old traditions tell. For here the upland bank sends out I know the shaggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide; The plains, that, toward the southern sky, BURYING-PLACE OF THE INDIANS. The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods array'd, And then to mark the lord of all, This bank, in which the dead were laid, Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, But now the wheat is green and high The weapons of his rest; And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 125 126 BURYING-PLACE OF THE INDIANS. Ah little thought the strong and brave, That the pale race, who waste us now, They waste us-aye-like April snow Towards the setting day, Till they shall fill the land, and we But I behold a fearful sign, To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind, Save ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead. Before these fields were shorn and till'd, The fresh and boundless wood; Those grateful sounds are heard no more, The realm our tribes are crush'd to get |