They're gone- again the red-men rally, With dance and song the woods resound: The hatchet's buried in the valley; No foe profanes our hunting-ground! The green leaves on the blithe boughs quiver, The verdant hills with song-birds ring, While our bark-canoes, the river Skim like swallows on the wing. Mirth pervades the land and water, Free from famine, sword and slaughter! Let us by this gentle river, Blunt the axe and break the quiver, While, as leaves upon the spray, Peaceful flow our cares away! *** Yet, alas! the hour is brief, Left for either joy or grief, All on earth that we inherit From the hands of the Great Spirit. Wigwam, hill, plain, lake and field, To the white-man must we yield; For, like sunbeams in the waves, We are sinking to our graves! From this wilderness of wo Like a caravan we go, Leaving all our groves and streams For the far-off land of dreams. There are prairies, waving high, Where our fathers' spirits roam, And the red-man has a home. Let tradition tell our story As we fade in cloudless glory, As we seek the land of rest Beyond the borders of the west, No eye but ours may look upon WE ARE THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN! SHE heard the fight was over, And won the wreath of fame! When tidings from her lover, With his good war-steed came. To guard her safely to his tent, The red-men of the woods were sent. They led her where sweet waters gush Under the pine-tree bough! The tomahawk is raised to crush,— "Tis buried in her brow! She sleeps beneath that pine-tree now ! Her broken-hearted lover In hopeless conflict died! The forest leaves now cover That soldier and his bride! The frown of the Great Spirit fell Upon the red-men like a spell! No more those waters slake their thirst, Shadeless to them that tree! O'er land and lake they roam accurst, And in the clouds they see Thy spirit unavenged, McRea! |