Indians
Alas! for them, their day is o’er,
Their fires are out on hill and shore;
No more for them the wild deer bounds,
The plough is on their hunting grounds;
The pale man’s axe rings through their woods,
The pale man’s sail skims o’er their floods;
Their pleasant springs are dry;
Their children,—look, by power opprest,
Beyond the mountains of the west,
Their children go to die.
Charles Sprague.