THE FOREST TRIBES.
Where are they, the forest-rangers,
Children of this western-land?
Who, to greet the pale-fac'd strangers,
Stretch'd the unsuspecting hand?
Where are they, whom passion goaded
Madly to the unequal fight,
Tossing wild the feathery arrow
'Gainst the girded warrior's might?
Were not these their own bright waters?
Were not these their native skies?
Rear'd they not their red-brow'd daughters
Where our princely mansions rise?
From the vale their roofs have vanish'd,
From these streams their slight canoe;
Chieftains and their tribes have perish'd,
Like the thickets where they grew.
Though their blood, no longer gushing,
Wakeneth war's discordant cry,
