Have shaped his native energies of mind,
And back he comes—from wandering, woods and darts
Back to mankind.
His drum and rattles, both are thrown away—
His native altars stand without a blaze,—
Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way—
And hark! he prays!
THE LOON'S FOOT.
I thought it was the loon's foot, I saw beneath the tide,