Weary and tired, unto his home, and hears
His children's cry for food. O let him curse
The white man for all this, and be the thought
Like hissing adder in his dreary way!
And when he sees his stately mansions rise,
And plenty round his home, then let him turn
Unto his own low cabin; let him gaze

Upon his children's meagre forms, and then,
Then, let him brood on vengeance, deep and stern,
Vengeance as deadly as his burning hate!

Uo. The Eagle of the Mohawks now is wroth;
But let him turn unto his home; his boy
Is sleeping now, but he will wake to hear
His father's voice, and his glad laugh will fall
Upon his ear, and call him back to joy.

Ont. The Indian hath no other joy

Than his dark thought of dread and stern revenge!

-

Uo. Our tribe are gathered round to hear the words Of our white father-him who speaks to us From the great book his God hath given him. Will not Ontaria listen with his tribe?

Ont. He will not listen! Let the white man pour His wily words into our warriors' ears, And let the foolish listen, if they will, The Eagle of the Mohawks will not go To hear the words like poison to his heart!

Uo. But our white father tells us of a God Of goodness and of mercy; one who hears The lowliest prayers we offer; one who loves The Indian as the white man. In his book He tells us we should love our enemies,

And bless and pray for those who do us wrong.

Ont. The white man saith it-ha! and does his God Command him thus? What if he disobeys?

What if he take the land he never owned,

And drive the helpless and oppressed from home,
Making him curse the day he saw the light?

Say, doth he go unpunished for all this?
Is there no fiery bolt in heaven, to fall
On the offender's head? or does he sin,
And yet his God not know it? The Indian
Dare not disobey!

He says

the bad

Uo. The white man's God is just.
Shall never go unpunished, and the way
Is hard and fearful where the sinner walks.

Ont. And yet the white man hath oppressed our tribe, Hath spoiled our hunting-grounds, and our dark woods Have fallen to the earth! Our stately oaks Have built his ships to waft his merchandise Across the mighty deep. Nor is this all. He brought a weapon deadlier than the bow, Worse than the gun, and sharper than the knife; 'Tis this has broke our warriors' strength - 't is this Has sunk the haughty Indian to the brute!

Is not this sin a dark and deadly one?

Uo. Ontaria, yes; the white man has thus sinned;
But can you not forgive? can you not call

The white man brother? for his God is ours.
We have one Father!

Ont. Sweet Uono, hear!

Dost thou not see yon field of waving corn?
My father's bones lie there: the stately oak
Once stood above his grave, but it has fallen;
The axe laid low our forest's pride; the plough
Left its deep traces on the very spot

Where I had laid my father's bones to rest!
Who had an arm so mighty in the battle
As the great war-chief of the Mohawk tribe?
Who carried terror to the white man's heart
Like Osceola ? Yet he fell! he fell,
As falls the tiger in the treacherous net!
Dost think the Indian hath forgotten this?
Thou knowest well the Indian ne'er forgets;
Nor will Ontaria forgive the pale face!

He will not call the hateful white man brother!

Uo. My warrior knoweth well the white man's law;

He knows that death will be the doom of him

Who killeth even one of all their race.

Ont. And dost thou think, Uono, gentle one!
The Eagle of the mighty Mohawk stoops

Unto the white man's laws? Did the dark chief
E'er seek revenge and find it not?

Uo. The book

Of wisdom, which our father brought, forbids
Such things; we should forgive, e'en as we hope
To be forgiven.

Ont. If the white man's God

Teaches his children thus, they do not well
Obey his laws; and why, then, should the Indian?
To him he gave no book to teach these things.

Uono, 't is the wily white man's plan,
That he may thus bow down the Indian's soul,
And bind the chain of slavery firmer still.

Uo. Not so; now let Ontaria come and hear
The words of our white father for himself.

Ont. No! let the young Fawn of the Mohawk
Listen but once unto her warrior's words.
Ere many suns shall rise, the Mohawk chief
Will turn his footsteps towards the western sky.
He goes to where the deer will start to hear
His step, and where the forest oaks again
Will wave above his head. When he is gone,
The young Fawn of the pale-face, she may bow
Unto his God; forget, aye, if she will,

Her warrior-chief, and dwell within the home
Of her white brother.

Uo. No! she gave her heart

Unto the mighty war-chief; she will go
Where'er he goes; his wigwam is her home.
And through the dark and lonely forests paths
She follows him.

Ont. Uono's feet will tire

Before she sees the spot her chieftain seeks.
She will be welcome in the white man's home;
She owns his God; and why, then, should she wish
To follow the lone Indian's wandering steps?

Uo. She loves him, - therefore will Uono go! True, she calls the white man's God her Father; But if Ontaria will not hear his words,

Nor dwell among the white men, then no more
Uono's step will tinkle in their bowers;
For where the Eagle of the Mohawks goes,
There will the young Fawn of the forest follow.
Ont. Uono, thou may'st go, if thou canst tread
The path which leadeth toward the setting sun.

Uo. Ontaria, wilt thou forgive the white man Ere thou goest? Say thou wilt not take revenge On him who wronged

Ont. Speak not to me of him;

For thou wilt rouse the war-whoop in my heart!
Let not the white man's name be on thy lips,
And speak not now of aught his God has done!
I cannot hear of these, while all things round
Speak of the Indian's wrongs! For thee, I'll leave
The pale-face in his home secure, although

My father's spirit seems to cry, "Revenge
Upon the murderer of my child!" The Fawn
Hath calmed the warrior's mighty wrath; and though
He never can forget, yet will he leave

The whites unharmed, and go beyond their sight.
And when our home is in the ancient woods,
Then may'st thou speak of the great God who gave
The book of life; and then perhaps I'll hear.
Does the young Fawn still wish to go

With her Ontaria to the wilderness?

Uo. An Indian's love is strong, and changes not;
Uono travels with her warrior-chief,

Who yet will know that good and mighty God,
Who loves the Indian, as the pale-face!

THE SISTERS.

F. HEMANS.

First Speaker.

I go, sweet sister! yet my love would linger with thee fain, And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain; Take, then, the braid of eastern pearl, that once I loved to

wear,

And with it bind, for festal scenes, the dark waves of thy hair;

Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well, And I shall need such pomp no more in the lone convent cell.

Second Speaker.

Oh! sister, sister! wherefore thus?— why part from kindred love?

Through festal scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move.

How could I bear a lonely heart amidst a reckless throng?
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every tone of song!
Keep, keep the braid of eastern pearl! or let me proudly twine
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of
thine!

First Speaker.

Oh! wouldst thou seek a wounded bird from shelter to

detain ?

Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again?

Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long, And bathed with many a burning tear, for secret woe and

wrong!

It could not still my beating heart

- but

may

it be a sign Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly pressed to

thine!

Second Speaker.

Take back, take back, the cross of gold, our mother's gift to

thee:

It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be!

With funeral splendor to mine eyes it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasure lost, of joy no longer mine!

Oh, sister! if thy heart be thus with voiceless grief oppressed, Where couldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?

First Speaker.

Urge me no more! a blight hath fallen upon my altered years; I should but darken thy young life with sleepless pangs and

fears!

But take, at least, the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from the silvery strings one tone of memory

wake!

Sing to those chords, in starlight hours, our own sweet vesperhymn,

And think that I, too, chant it then, far in my cloister dim!

Second Speaker.

Yes! I will take the silvery lute, and I will sing to thee
A song we heard in childhood's days, e'en from our father's

knee !

Oh! listen, listen! are those notes amidst forgotten things?
Do they not linger, as in love, on the familiar strings ?
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in the strain?
Kind sister! gentlest Leonore! say, shall it plead in vain?

Song.

Leave us not, leave us not!

Say not, adieu !

Have we not been to thee

Tender and true?

Take not thy sunny smile

Far from our hearth!

With that sweet light will fade
Summer and mirth.