It is proposed by some to colonize them on the island of Isle Royale, in Lake Superior; by others, to purchase some small West India island, and transport them there, where tropical nature will feed them without expense to the Government. Perhaps the more practical measure would be to gather all that remains of the red race within the United States into one Territory, to establish a more thorough guardianship over them, and to subject them to a stricter and more absolute government, which should compel them to assume gradually the duties and customs of civilized life.
'DEAD!'
With chilling breath it comes:
Again—and yet again! on every gale,
America! from thy great battle field!
Our hearts are hushed, and desolate our homes—
Our lids are heavy, and our cheeks are pale—
While thus we yield
Our loved ones up to thee!
Dead! dying at their posts!
The young, the noble, and the loving ones!
The widow's all! the gray-haired father's hope—
All thine, my country! take the treasured hosts:
Hold in thy faithful keeping all thy sons!
We give them up—
To thee and liberty!
Oh, keep our honored dead
Within the folds of thy great-pulsing heart!
Entwine their memory with thy polished lore:
Cherish the sacred dust above their bed
Who sprang to shield thee from the traitor's dart!
Bless evermore
The dead who died for thee!
Silent the teardrops fall
Down the pale mother's cheek at close of day;
For sorrow sitteth at the widow's gate:
Dark are the shadows gathered on the wall,
And where the mourner bendeth low to pray—
No more to wait
The coming of her free!
For thee—'dear native land!'
What precious hopes are severed one by one!
What hearts lie crushed and sick by 'hope deferred!'
How many dear ones, stretched along the sand,
Bleed out their lives beneath a blighting sun—
With but a word—
'Mother!' for plaint or prayer!
Shall they be vainly shed—
The blood and tears that wash our stricken soil?
Bringing no healing with their torrent streams?
Vain the long requiem for the noble dead—
Vain all the agony and all the toil—
The soldier's dreams—
The patriot's thought and care?
No! float upon the winds!
Flag of my country! let thy stars give light
To nations of the earth! proclaim afar
The end of tyrant rule that madly binds
Our millions down beneath a fearful blight!
Float—every star!
We have not one to spare!
A MERCHANT'S STORY.
'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'
CHAPTER IX.
After dinner, we rode over my friend's plantation. It contained about twelve hundred acres, mainly covered with forest trees, but with here and there an isolated patch of cleared land devoted to corn and cotton. A small tributary of the Trent formed its northern boundary, and bordering the little stream was a tract of three hundred acres of low, swampy ground, heavily timbered with cypress and juniper. Tall old pines, denuded of bark for one third of their height, and their white faces bearded with long, shining flakes of 'scrape turpentine,' crowned the uplands; and scattered among them, about a hundred well-clad, 'well-kept' negro men and women were shouting pleasantly to one another, or singing merrily some simple song of 'Ole Car'lina,' as with the long scrapers they peeled the glistening scales from the scarified trees, or, gathering them in their aprons, 'dumped' them into the rude barrels prepared for their reception. Preston had a kind word for each one that we passed—a pleasant inquiry about an infirm mother or a sick child, or some encouraging comment on their cheerful work; and many were the hearty blessings they showered upon 'good massa,' and many their good-natured exclamations over 'de strange gemman dat sells massa's truck.'
'He'm de kine, 'ou gals,' shouted an old darky, bent nearly double with age, who, leaning against one of the barrels, was 'packing down' the flakes as they were emptied from the aprons of the women: 'He'm de kine, I tell by him eye; de rocks doan't grow fass ter dat gemman's pocket!'