From the New York Daily Advertiser.
I saw the Red Man o'er the unconquered West
Reigning supreme. Through the deep forest shade,
Or up where the steep mountain meets the cloud,
Tireless and bold he roamed-his arrow dipped
In living crimson-while the dew drops hung,
Like pearls, amid the feathery coronet,
The White Man came. The Old World shook her skirts,
And cast him out. He seemed to have no sire-
And ocean in its wrath, protected him,
No mother-and the desert gave him bread;
But, nursed to sudden strength, his hand he laid
On hill and dale, and stream, and called them his.
His red-browed brother wandered-shrank away-
And perished. From his father land he fled,
Like a dim specter, which the Usurper's pride
Mocked to annihilation. But a tone,
In Mercy's tender cadence, his career
Down to the grave, arrested, wooing him
To taste the joys of social life, and raise
His eye, despairing, toward the rest of Heaven.
He listened and obeyed-and up there rose
The simple village, with its cultured fields;
While science to her peaceful threshold called
From cliff and stream, her infant worshippers.
The mill-wheel dashed, the shuttle winged its flight;
The uncouth tones of a wild language paused,
To stamp their semblance on the lettered page;
Firm Justice reared her balance, and the lip
Of glad Religion told the way to Heaven.
But who are ye, that bid him to the beasts
Return again? Why quench his household fire,
Choke the sweet fountain whence his children drank,
And drive him forth as with the brand of Cain
Upon his forehead, to such banishment
As death and famine grant-that o'er his land,
Eden mid his father's sepulchers, may float
The unhallowed banner of your revelry?
And ye are Christians!-Christians!
I have heard
Of deeds like these, from the fierce Musselman
Invoking Allah with his reeking blade-
But not from those whose hearts have drank the sigh
Of Calvary's martyr.
Have ye never read
Of that bad king whom Jezebel stirred up
To covet Naboth's vineyard? 'Hast thou slain
And taken possession?' cried a warning voice,
Startling that monarch's guilt encumbered soul;
And it may reach your conscience though ye hide
In beds of down, making drear midnight's pall
Denser than Nature made it.
Oh, take heed!
Earth hath a tale for the high Judge's ear
And better 'twere to tread her thorniest paths,
Crushed low 'neath persecution's heaviest load
Than stand before his bar, with the proud front
Of the Oppressor.