SUMMER WIND. Ir is a sultry day; the sun has drunk That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind. Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. It is the spot I came to seek, My fathers' ancient burial-place Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 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,- A white man, gazing on the scene, I like it not-I would the plain The sheep are on the slopes around, The cattle in the meadows feed, And labourers turn the crumbling ground, Or drop the yellow seed, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, And then to mark the lord of all, The forest hero, trained to wars, Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, And seamed with glorious scars, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare The wolf, and grapple with the bear. This bank, in which the dead were laid, Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the artless Indian maid Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the gray chief and gifted seer Worshipped the god of thunders here. But now the wheat is green and high The weapons of his rest; And there, in the loose sand, is thrown Ah, little thought the strong and brave Or the young wife, that weeping gave That the pale race, who waste us now, They waste us-ay—like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go 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. |