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TO THE DRIVING CLOUD.

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty

Omawhaws; Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose

name thou hast taken ! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk

through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the mar

gin of rivers

Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us

only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy

race but the footprints ?

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast

trod the green turf of the prairies ? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast

breathed the sweet air of the mountains Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain

thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these

walls and these pavements,

Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while

down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its

caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west

its division !

of the Wabash!

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn

the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and

in summer

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous

breath of their branches.

There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer

of horses ! There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks

of the Elk-horn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where

the Omawhaw Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like

a brave of the Blackfeet!

Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the

mountainous deserts ?

mighty Behemoth, Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the

bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man

? Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the

Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread

of Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts

the Missouri's

Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prair

ies, the camp-fires Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust

in the gray of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's

dexterous horse-race ;

It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts,

the Camanches !

like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of

thy wigwams!

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