Page:Poems Rice.djvu/70

As on I pass through copse or silver grove,
 I pause to see the merry children play;
With beaming looks of pleasure, hope, and love,
 They find no thorns to mar their flowery way.

I see, upon some rustic bench reclined,
 A city belle, with languid face and eye;
Around her brow a rosy wreath is twined,
 But still I hear the deep-drawn, heavy sigh.
Now I will wander where the Indians roam—
 At least, my spirit seems to guide me there—
Who pitch their tent beneath the leafy dome
 Planted by Him, and reared, too, by His care.

Was this their home before the pale-face came
 And drove their fathers to the spirit-land?
Are these primeval trees the very same
 Which sheltered them, where now our dwellings stand?
Look yonder, there the dark-browed Indian goes,
 And maiden, too, with sunshine in her hair—
She with her 'broidered baskets, he with bows;
 Alas! how few are here for them to care.

Their wigwams dot no more these glens or hills,
 The camp-fire's blaze will never more be seen;
Were ye their mourners, ye cascades and rills,
 Rippling along through gorge and dark ravine?
And will our dream, like theirs, so soon be o'er,
 Your paths, fair Sharon, be by others trod?
What matter, if we reach the heavenly shore,
 And rest upon the bosom of our God?