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.     Full many a bounding deer or doe,      Lay victims of his hand and eye,     And many a shaggy buffalo,      In lifeless bulk did lowly lie.     The forest did his wants supply,      Content he was with nature's scheme;     For, fail'd the woods to satisfy,      There came response from lake or stream.     His simple shell of birchen rind,      Propell'd by skilful hands, and strong,     Down cataracts and rivers pass'd,      And over lakes, it went along.     With spears, from stone or iv'ry, wrought,      Or hooks, ingenious made of bone,     He stores from out the waters brought,      Nor look'd for forest gifts, alone.     Contentment dwelt within his heart,      And, from his dark and piercing eye     His freedom showed, unbred of art,      His honor look'd unconsciously.     Untaught by books, untrain'd by men,      Vers'd in the thoughts of bard or sage,     He yet had read from nature's hand,      A book unwrit, yet wise its page.     One would have thought a man so bless'd      And richly, too, with manly pow'rs,     Had surely some far higher quest,      Than living thus, in nature's bow'rs.     One would have thought, that when he knew      The laws of God, and cultur'd men,     His mind would take a nobler view,      And light pursue, with eager ken.     But such is not his happy state,      Since light of knowledge round him shone;     He still stands sadly at the gate,      And few still go, where few have gone.     And whose the fault, and whose the blame,      That thus his mind is still so dim,     That wisdom's lamp, with shining flame.      Still gives so pale a light, for him.     Oh, thinking white man, look around,     And, when you have discern'd the cause,     Express yourself with certain sound,     Concerning this poor forest child,     Who left his father's hunting ground.