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,