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hers. They shed no tears; they utter no cries;

no groans.

something in their hearts, which passes speech. mething in their looks, not of vengeance or submisf hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes ce; which has no aim nor method. It is courage I despair. They linger but for a moment. Their ward. They have passed the fatal stream. It

r be repassed by them,-no, never. Yet there etween us and them an impassable gulf. They feel, that there is for them still one remove farther, nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground

ce.

as we may, it is impossible not to read, in such a that we know not how to interpret; much of to cruel deeds and deep resentments; much of wrong and perfidy; much of pity mingling with a; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; ainful recollections; much of dark foreboding.

hy may tell us, that conquest in other cases has e conquered into its own bosom; and thus, at no riod, given them the common privileges of subjects; he red men are incapable of such an assimilation. wery nature and character, they can neither unite s with civil institutions, nor with safety be allowed as distinct communities.

may suggest, that their ferocious passions, their nt spirit, and their wandering life, disdain the of society; that they will submit to superior force it chains them to the earth by its pressure. A is essential to their habits and pursuits. They er be tamed nor overawed. They subsist by war or and the game of the forest is relinquished only for - game of man. The question, therefore, is necesuced to the consideration, whether the country itself bandoned by civilized man, or maintained by his the right of the strongest.

be so; perhaps, in the wisdom of Providence, it so. I pretend not to comprehend, or solve, such difficulties. But neither philosophy nor policy can

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shut out the feelings of nature. Humanity must continue to sigh at the constant sacrifices of this bold, but wasting race. And Religion, if she may not blush at the deed, must, as she sees the successive victims depart, cling to the altar with a drooping heart, and mourn over a destiny without hope and without example.

LESSON LVI.

Melancholy Fate of the Indians.-C. SPRAGUE.

I VENERATE the pilgrim's cause,
Yet for the red man dare to plead:
We bow to Heaven's recorded laws,
He turned to nature for a creed;
Beneath the pillared dome,

We seek our God in prayer;

Through boundless woods he loved to roam,
And the Great Spirit worshipped there;
But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt;
To one divinity with us he knelt—
Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore,
Bade him defend his violated shore.

He saw the cloud, ordained to grow,
And burst upon his hills in wo;
He saw his people withering by,
Beneath the invader's evil eye;

Strange feet were trampling on his fathers' bones;
At midnight hour, he woke to gaze

Upon his happy cabin's blaze,

And listen to his children's dying groans.
He saw, and, maddening at the sight,
Gave his bold bosom to the fight;
To tiger rage his soul was driven;
Mercy was not-nor sought nor given ;
The pale man from his lands must fly;
He would be free-or he would die.

And was this savage? Say,

Ye ancient few,

Who struggled through Young freedom's trial-day,

at first your sleeping wrath awoke?
your own shores war's larum broke:
at turned to gall even kindred blood?
und your own homes the oppressor stood:
is every warm affection chilled,

is every heart with vengeance thrilled,
And strengthened every hand;
From mound to mound,
The word went round-
Death for our native land!"

mothers, too, breathe ye no sigh,

them who thus could dare to die?
e all your own dark hours forgot,
Of soul-sick suffering here,—

ir pangs, as from yon mountain spot,*
■th spoke in every booming shot,
That knelled upon your ear?

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that gloomy, glorious tale ye tell,

your knees your children's children hang, ■, the gallant ones, ye loved so well,

the conflict for their country sprang! pride, in all the pride of wo,

tell of them, the brave, laid low, Vho for their birthplace bled; pride, the pride of triumph then, tell of them, the matchless men, "rom whom the invaders fled.

ye, this holy place who throng,

The annual theme to hear,

And bid the exulting song

and their great names from year to year; invoke the chisel's breathing grace,

le majesty their forms to trace;

* Bunker Hill.

1

Ye, who the sleeping rocks would raise,
To guard their dust and speak their praise;
Ye, who, should some other band
With hostile foot defile the land,

Feel that ye, like them, would wake,
Like them the yoke of bondage break,
Nor leave a battle-blade undrawn,
Though every hill a sepulchre should yawn-
Say, have not ye one line for those,
One brother-line to spare,
Who rose but as your fathers rose,
And dared as ye would dare?

Alas! for them, their day is o'er,
Their fires are out from 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 oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west,
Their children go-to die.

O doubly lost! Oblivion's shadows close

Around their triumphs and their woes.
On other realms, whose suns have set,
Reflected radiance lingers yet;
There, sage and bard have shed a light
That never shall go down in night;
There, time-crowned columns stand on high,
To tell of them who cannot die;

Even we, who then were nothing, kneel
In homage there, and join earth's general peal.
But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace,
To save his own, or serve another race:

With his frail breath his power has passed away; His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay. Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page,

Shall link him to a future age,

Or give him with the past a rank: sheraldry is but a broken bow,

history but a tale of wrong and wo, His very name must be a blank.

Id, with the beast he slew, he sleeps;
er him no filial spirit weeps;

vds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend,
s his coming and embalm his end;
at he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue,-
alone his death-song must be sung;
o chronicles but theirs shall tell
His mournful doom to future times;
ay these upon his virtues dwell,
And in his fate forget his crimes.

LESSON LVII.

ng Lines of the "Fall of the Indian.”—McLEILAN,

ET sometimes, in the gay and noisy street
the great city, which usurps the place
che small Indian village, one shall see
e miserable relic of that race,

ose sorely-tarnished fortunes we have sung;-
how debased and fallen! In his eye

e flame of noble daring is gone out,
1 his brave face has lost its martial look.
eye rests on the earth, as if the grave
re his sole hope, his last and only home.
poor, thin garb is wrapped about his frame,
ose sorry plight but mocks his ancient state,
d in the bleak and pitiless storm he walks
th melancholy brow, and shivers as he goes.
= pride is dead; his courage is no more;
name is but a by-word. All the tribes,
no called this mighty continent their own,
e homeless, friendless wanderers on earth!

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