Song Of The American Indian

Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb     The heights of yonder hills sublime;     For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,[1]     That oft the murmuring thunders swell,     Of power from the impending steep     To hurl thee headlong to the deep;     But secure with us abide,     By the winding river's side;     Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share,     And think not of a world of care.     The lonely cayman,[2] where he feeds     Among the green high-bending reeds,     Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart     Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart.     Home returning from our toils,     Thou shalt bear the tiger's spoils;     And we will sing our loudest strain     O'er the forest-tyrant slain!     Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear     The beauteous cardinal sing clear;     Where hoary oaks, by time decayed,     Nod in the deep wood's pathless glade;     And the sun, with bursting ray,     Quivers on the branches gray.     By the river's craggy banks,     O'erhung with stately cypress-ranks,     Where the bush-bee[3] hums his song,     Thy trim canoe shall glance along.     To-night at least, in this retreat,     Stranger! rest thy wandering feet;     To-morrow, with unerring bow,     To the deep thickets fearless we will go.