And now, where spacious mansions stand,
Where grace and culture now reside,
There clasp'd the Indian brave the hand
Of his own war-won forest bride.
Where once the painted warrior wrote
His thoughts in rudely pictur'd signs,
A cultur'd language now we quote,
And write and print, in graceful lines.
Where once the hieroglyphic bark
Told when the warlike bow should twang,
The torch of light with glowing spark,
Is held aloft by faithful Strang.
But there is yet another flame,
With pure and holy light to shed;
And all revere that honor'd name,
And all respect that rev'rend head.
That hoary head, which, from the place
Where mild religion's beams doth play,
Hath warn'd, implor'd our fallen race,
And pray'd, while years have pass'd away.
Beneficent and kind old man,
Accept our humble tributes now,
And when is run thine earthly span,
May fadeless wreathes entwine thy brow.
* * * * *
VERSES WRITTEN IN AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS.
TO MISS ——
Youth is the time when all is bright;
The mind is free from care;
No thoughts of aught, save present joys,
Can find an entrance there.