"I work, you say, on minds, and hearts, and souls,
Alas, 'tis true, but what can e'er atone
For dry, mechanic thought, and lifeless coals,
Which light not up, but turn the intellect to stone?
"Work on! ye faithful, grinding and hair-splitting band,
Work on, in slavish fear, and penitential pain,
But daily pray, that thro' this young and prosp'rous
land,
A system, higher, purer, freer, yet shall reign.
"Yours shall not be the blame, the people must it bear,
For, while they look for quick results, for hot-bed
flow'rs,
Amongst them, they the various ills must surely share,
Of hasty fev'rish work, compell'd by outside pow'rs."
Thus spoke the man, and closed his lips became,
The fire forsook his lately flashing eye,
His nerves relax'd, and o'er his brow, the same
Dark cloud of bitter woe, could I descry.
* * * * *
THE INDIAN.
When wooded hill, and grassy plain,
With nature's beauties, gaily dress'd,
Lay calm beneath the red man's reign,
And smiling, in unconscious rest,
Then roam'd the forest's dusky son,
In nature's wildness, proudly free,
From where Missouri's waters run,
Far north, to Hudson's icy sea.
From Labrador, bleak, lonely, wild,
Where seal, 'mid icebergs, sportive play,
Far westward wander'd nature's child,
And wigwam built, near Georgia's Bay.
With bow of elm, or hick'ry strong,
And arrow arm'd with flinty head,
He drew with practis'd hand the thong,
And quick and straight, the shaft it sped.