POETRY

THE INDIAN'S LAMENT.

I go from all my heart loves best

On to the dark Pacific wave,

For the poor Indian can ne'er rest

But in his grave!

From every well known wood and wild,

Where every dearest hope was born,

From all that cheered me since a child,

I go forlorn.

My smiling fields, where harvest waves,

My peaceful cot, I love so well,

My father's bones ' moss grown graves,

A long farewell!

My outcast babes, that lingering stand

And weep to leave their mother's grave,

From the oppressors greedy hand,

What power can save?

Then Great Good Spirit, whom we feat,

Are thy red children all forgot,

Dost thou not mark the bitter tear,

Nor heed our lot?

We go from all our hearts love best,

On to the dark Pacific wave,

For the poor Indian ne'er can rest

But in his grave!

C.E.B.