POETRY

From the New York Daily Advertiser.

THE INDIANS.

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.