TO THE RED MAN.
No pastoral ditty, withering with time, should consecrate your unremembered dust,
No sickly taper as a monolith should burn, and flicker out,
Had I the mystic power to chant a deathless rigadoon
With this elusive pan;
’Tis not for me.
But I would plant a live-oak by your wigwam door,
So safely closed,
Whose grandsire knew your clan;
I’d woo the goshawk come and build among its knotty boughs, and year by year,
And nevermore should pale-face desecrate your name, that evermore should rustle in the leaves;
By light of every harvest moon, the noble footed deer should follow up the trail to that sequestered spot,
And kneel in reverence;
The fires of happy hunting grounds should streak and flush the northern sky on every ice-hung night,
To soothe your dreams, and keep you warm;
Yea, more, above your bleaching bones, the revelry of nomad-winds along the gullying wave, you loved so well,
Should be an after-song of unsung yesterdays, more peaceful than the heart of river-reeds.