Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/161

1830-40.] WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 145 The light and life of the forest shades With the E-ed Chief's child is gone. On Mahketewa's floweiy marge, Next morn, no strife was seen ; But a wail went up, where the young Fawn's blood And White Cloud's dyed the green ; And burial, in their own rude way, The Indians gave them there, While a low and sweet-ton'd requiem The brook sang and the air. Oh, the Spotted Fawn! Oh, the Spotted Fawn ! The light and life of the forest shades With the Red Chief's child is sone. THE ARTISAN. The day is past; — the quiet night Toward its midhour weareth on; His workshop has been closed for hours — A good day's labor done. The toil is hard that brings him bread; And sometimes he hath scant supply ; When droops awhile his manly head. And glistens his full eye. Yet from the trial shrinks he not ; For he has youth, and strength, and will ; And though his toil is ill repaid. Bends daily to it still. He sometimes murmurs, — but his pride Checks each expression at its birth, — That blessings to his class denied Surround the drones of earth. He passes, morn and noon and night, The homes of luxury and wealth ; And glances at their gilded ease. His eye will take by stealth. And shadows gather on his face. At times — but instantly depart — He feels such weakness a disgrace Both to his head and heart. His calling sometmies takes him where Wealth, worth, grace, beauty, all unite; And lovely tones arrest his ear, And lovely looks his sight ; And much he thinks — and half he sighs — Yet ere his welcome work is done. He longs for home, and Mary's eyes, And for his prattling son. His labor hath been light to-day ; And wife and child before him sleep ; And he has pass'd the half-spent night In study close and deep. The lamp burns dim — the fire is low — The book is closed wherein he read; But wildly swells the streams of thought Its fountam-pages fed. With eyes fixed cahuly on the floor, But varying and expressive face, He cons the lesson o'er and o'er — The history of his race. And much he finds of word and deed, Whose virtue is example now ; But more that makes his bosom bleed, And darkens o'er his brow The thirst for wealth — the strife for power — The ceaseless struggle for renown — The daring that hath seized a realm, Or caught a wavering crown — The manhood that hath tamely bent And fall'n beneath tyi'annic sway — The balk'd resistance, that hath lent Its darkness to the day. But chiefly this it is that fills The swelling volume of his mind : The countless wrongs and cruelties That have oppress'd his kind. And viewing them, upon his brain His own hard struggles darkly throng ; And as he feels their weight again, It presses like a wrong : 10