Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 1 Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind on yonder woody ridge, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet, and silver waters break Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. Great Barrington, 1824. 47 "United States Literary Gazette," July 15, 1824. AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. I T is the spot I came to seek My father's ancient burial-place, Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot-I know it well Of which our old traditions tell. For here the upland bank sends out A ridge toward the river-side; I know the shaggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide, The plains, that, toward the southern sky, A white man, gazing on the scene, I like it not-I would the plain. The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade, And herds of deer that bounding go O'er hills and prostrate trees below. And then to mark the lord of all, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare This bank, in which the dead were laid, Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the silent Indian maid Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the gray chief and gifted seer Worshipped the god of thunders here. But now the wheat is green and high The weapons of his rest; And there, in the loose sand, is thrown Ah, little thought the strong and brave That the pale race, who waste us now, They waste us-ay-like April snow Till they shall fill the land, and we But I behold a fearful sign, To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind, Save ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead. Before these fields were shorn and tilled, The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dashed and rivulets played, Those grateful sounds are heard no more, The realm our tribes are crushed to get May be a barren desert yet. Stockbridge, 1824. "United States Literary Gazette," August 1, 1824. |