INDIAN NAMES.
Ye say they all have passed away—That noble race and brave;That their light canoes have vanishedFrom off the crested wave;That, ’mid the forests where they roamed,There rings no hunter’s shout;But their name is on your waters—Ye may not wash it out.’Tis where Ontario’s billow,Like ocean’s surge is curled;Where strong Niagara’s thunders wakeThe echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringethRich tribute from the west,And Rappahannock sweetly sleepsOn green Virginia’s breast.Ye say their cone-like cabins,That clustered o’er the vale,Have fled away like withered leavesBefore the Autumn’s gale;But their memory liveth on your hills.Their baptism on your shore:Your everlasting rivers speakTheir dialect of yore.Old Massachusetts wears itUpon her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears itAmid his young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed itWhere her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarseThrough all her ancient caves.Wachusett hides its lingering voiceWithin his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its toneThroughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoarDoth seal the sacred trust;Your mountains build their monument,Though ye destroy their dust.Ye call these red-browed brethrenThe insects of an hour:Crushed like the noteless worm amidThe regions of their power,Ye drive them from their fathers’ lands,Ye break of faith the seal;But can ye from the Court of HeavenExclude their last appeal?Ye see their unresisting tribes,With toilsome steps and slow,On through the trackless desert pass,A caravan of woe:Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf?His sleepless vision dim?Think ye the soul’s blood may not cryFrom that far land to him?L. H. Sigourney.
Ye say they all have passed away—That noble race and brave;That their light canoes have vanishedFrom off the crested wave;That, ’mid the forests where they roamed,There rings no hunter’s shout;But their name is on your waters—Ye may not wash it out.’Tis where Ontario’s billow,Like ocean’s surge is curled;Where strong Niagara’s thunders wakeThe echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringethRich tribute from the west,And Rappahannock sweetly sleepsOn green Virginia’s breast.Ye say their cone-like cabins,That clustered o’er the vale,Have fled away like withered leavesBefore the Autumn’s gale;But their memory liveth on your hills.Their baptism on your shore:Your everlasting rivers speakTheir dialect of yore.Old Massachusetts wears itUpon her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears itAmid his young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed itWhere her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarseThrough all her ancient caves.Wachusett hides its lingering voiceWithin his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its toneThroughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoarDoth seal the sacred trust;Your mountains build their monument,Though ye destroy their dust.Ye call these red-browed brethrenThe insects of an hour:Crushed like the noteless worm amidThe regions of their power,Ye drive them from their fathers’ lands,Ye break of faith the seal;But can ye from the Court of HeavenExclude their last appeal?Ye see their unresisting tribes,With toilsome steps and slow,On through the trackless desert pass,A caravan of woe:Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf?His sleepless vision dim?Think ye the soul’s blood may not cryFrom that far land to him?L. H. Sigourney.
Ye say they all have passed away—That noble race and brave;That their light canoes have vanishedFrom off the crested wave;That, ’mid the forests where they roamed,There rings no hunter’s shout;But their name is on your waters—Ye may not wash it out.
’Tis where Ontario’s billow,Like ocean’s surge is curled;Where strong Niagara’s thunders wakeThe echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringethRich tribute from the west,And Rappahannock sweetly sleepsOn green Virginia’s breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,That clustered o’er the vale,Have fled away like withered leavesBefore the Autumn’s gale;But their memory liveth on your hills.Their baptism on your shore:Your everlasting rivers speakTheir dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears itUpon her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears itAmid his young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed itWhere her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarseThrough all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voiceWithin his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its toneThroughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoarDoth seal the sacred trust;Your mountains build their monument,Though ye destroy their dust.
Ye call these red-browed brethrenThe insects of an hour:Crushed like the noteless worm amidThe regions of their power,Ye drive them from their fathers’ lands,Ye break of faith the seal;But can ye from the Court of HeavenExclude their last appeal?
Ye see their unresisting tribes,With toilsome steps and slow,On through the trackless desert pass,A caravan of woe:Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf?His sleepless vision dim?Think ye the soul’s blood may not cryFrom that far land to him?L. H. Sigourney.