TO THE RED MAN.

No pastoral ditty, withering with time, should consecrate your unremembered dust, No sickly taper as a monolith should burn, and flicker out, Had I the mystic power to chant a deathless rigadoon With this elusive pan; ’Tis not for me. But I would plant a live-oak by your wigwam door, So safely closed, Whose grandsire knew your clan; I’d woo the goshawk come and build among its knotty boughs, and year by year, And nevermore should pale-face desecrate your name, that evermore should rustle in the leaves; By light of every harvest moon, the noble footed deer should follow up the trail to that sequestered spot, And kneel in reverence; The fires of happy hunting grounds should streak and flush the northern sky on every ice-hung night, To soothe your dreams, and keep you warm; Yea, more, above your bleaching bones, the revelry of nomad-winds along the gullying wave, you loved so well, Should be an after-song of unsung yesterdays, more peaceful than the heart of river-reeds.