Mid the fires of the wigwam or shadows of night,
He told them his prospects, but oh, what were these
To guide his frail bark o’er the transparent seas
Whose ripple waters no storm surge ere swells,
In the far distant land where the “Great Spirit” dwells.
Or fearless and free through the hunting grounds roam,
Where death as a visitor shall never more come?
Ah, no—but the fulness and greenness of grace,
The power of Jesus to save their lost race;
This, this was the theme—for to him had been given