Souls pass onward: some are ranging
Happy hunting-grounds, and some
Are as joyous, though in changing
Form be altered, language dumb.
Beauteous all, if fur or feather,
Strength or gift of song be theirs;
He who planted all together
Equally their fate prepares.
Like to Time, that dies not, living
Through the change the seasons bring,
So men, dying, are but giving
Life to some fleet foot or wing.
Bird and beast the Savage cherished,
But the Robins loved he best;
O'er the grave where he has perished
They shall thrive and build their nest.
Hunted by the white invader,
Vanish ancient races all;
Yet no ruthless foe or trader
Silences the songster's call.
For the white man too rejoices,
Welcoming Spring's herald bird,
When the ice breaks, and the voices
From the rushing streams are heard.
Where the Indian's head-dress fluttered,
Pale the settler would recoil,
And his deepest curse was uttered
On the Red Son of the soil.
Later knew he not, when often
Gladness with the Robin came,
How a spirit-change could soften
Hate to dear affection's flame:
Knew not, as he heard, delighted,
Mellow notes in woodlands die,
How his heart had leaped, affrighted
At that voice in battle-cry.
For a youthful Savage, keeping
Long his cruel fast, had prayed,
All his soul in yearning steeping,
Not for glory, chase, or maid;