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LESSON LXVIII.

THE INDIAN HUNTER.

ELIZA COOK.

1. OH! why does the white man follow my path, Like the hound on the tiger's track?

Does the flush on my dark cheek waken his wrath,Does he covet the bow at my

back?

2. He has rivers and seas where the billows and breeze

Bear riches for him alone;

And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood, Which the white man calls his own.

3. Then why should he come to the streams where none But the red man dares to swim ?

Why, why should he wrong the hunter,—one
Who never did harm to him?

4. The Father above thought fit to give

The white man corn and wine; There are golden fields where he

But the forest shades are mine.

5. The Eagle hath its place of rest;

may live,

The wild horse,-where to dwell;

And the spirit that gave the bird its nest,
Made me a home as well.

6. Then back! go back from the red man's track;
For the hunter's eyes grow dim,
To find that the white man wrongs the one
Who never did harm to him.

LESSON LXIX.

THE DYING ARCHER.

R. C. WATERSTON.

1. THE day has near ended, the light quivers through The leaves of the forest, which bend with the dew; The flowers bow in beauty, the smooth-flowing stream Is gliding as softly as thoughts in a dream ;

The low room is darkened, there breathes not a sound,
While friends in their sadness are gathering round;

Now out speaks the Archer, his course well nigh done, (=) "Throw, throw back the lattice, and let in the sun.' 2. The lattice is opened; and now the blue sky

Brings joy to his bosom, and fire to his eye;

There stretches the greenwood, where, year after year, He "chased the wild roe-buck, and followed the deer." He gazed upon mountain, and forest, and dell, (p.) Then bowed he, in sorrow, a silent farewell!

"And when we are parted, and when thou art dead,
Oh! where shall we lay thee?" his followers said.
3. Then up rose the Archer, and gazed once again
On far-reaching mountain, and river, and plain;
(°) "Now bring me my quiver, and tighten my bow,
And let the winged arrow my sepulcher show!"
(=) Out, out through the lattice the arrow has passed,
And in the far forest has lighted at last;

"And there shall the hunter in slumber be laid,
Where wild deer are bounding beneath the green shade."

4. His last words are finished;-his spirit hath fled,
(pl.) And now lies in silence the form of the dead.
The lamps in the chamber are flickering dim,
And sadly the mourners are chanting their hymn;
And now to the greenwood, and now on the sod,
Where lighted the arrow, the mourners have trod;
And thus by the river, where dark forests wave,
That noble old Archer hath found him a grave.

5. "As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears
Some trembling insect's little world of cares,
Descends in silence,-while around waves on
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone!
Such is man's doom,-and ere an hour be flown,
Start not, then trifler!-such may be thine own!"

LESSON LXX.

NOTE. The following speech of BLACK THUNDER, generally styled the patriarch of the Fox Tribe, was delivered before the American Commissioners who had assembled many chiefs, at a place called the Portage. He arose and addressed himself to the Commissioner who had opened the gouncil.

SPEECH OF BLACK THUNDER.

1. My father, restrain your feelings, and hear calmly what I shall say. I shall say it plainly. I shall not speak with fear and trembling. I have never injured you, and innocence can feel no fear. I turn to you all, red men and white men,where is the man who will appear as my accuser? Father, I understand not clearly how things are working. I have just been set at liberty. Am I again to be plunged into bondage? But I am incapable of change. You may, perhaps, be ignorant of what I tell you; but it is a truth, which I call Heaven and earth to witness.

2. It is a fact which can easily be proved, that I have been assailed in almost every possible way that pride, fear, feeling, or interest, could touch me,-that I have been pushed to the last to raise the tomahawk against you,—but all in vain. I never could be made to feel that you were my enemy. If this be the conduct of an enemy, I shall never be your friend.

3. You are acquainted with my removal from Prairie Du Chien. I went and formed a settlement, and called my warriors around. We took counsel, and from that counsel we have never departed. We smoked and resolved to make common cause with the United States. I sent you the pipe,—it resembled this, and I sent it by the Missouri, that the Indians of the Mississippi might not know what we were doing. You received it. I then told you that your friends should be my friends,—that your enemies should be my enemies,—and that I only awaited your signal to make war. If this be the conduct of an enemy, I shall never be your friend.

4. Why do I tell you this? Because it is a truth, and a melancholy truth, that the good things which men do, are

often buried in the ground, while their evil deeds are stripped naked, and exposed to the world. When I came here, I came to you in friendship. I little thought I should have to defend myself. I have no defense to make. If I were guilty, I should have come prepared; but I have ever held you by the hand, and I am come without excuses.

5. If I had fought against you, I would have told you so; but I have nothing now to say here in your council, except to repeat what I said before to my Great Father, the President of your nation. You heard it, and no doubt remember it. It was simply this. My lands can never be surrendered; I was cheated, and basely cheated, in the contract; I will not surrender my country, but with my life.

6. Again, I call Heaven and earth to witness, and I smoke this pipe in evidence of my sincerity. If you are sincere, you will receive it from me. My only desire is, that we should smoke it together-that I should grasp your sacred hand; and I claim for myself and my tribe the protection of your country. When this pipe touches your lip, may it operate as a blessing upon all my tribe. May the smoke rise like a cloud, and carry away with it all the animosities which have arisen between us.

LESSON LXXI.

THE AGED INDIAN'S LAMENT.

1. WARRIORS! my noon of life is past,
The brightness of my spirit flown;
I crouch before the wintry blast,

Amidst my tribe I dwell alone;
The heroes of my youth are fled,
They rest among the warlike dead.

2. Ye slumberers of the narrow cave!

My kindred chiefs in days of yore!
Ye fill an unremembered grave,

MRS. HEMANS.

Your fame, your deeds, are known no more.

The record of your wars are gone,
Your names forgot by all but one.

3. Soon shall that one depart from earth,
To join the brethren of his prime;
Then will the memory of your birth,

Sleep with the hidden things of time.
With him, ye sons of former days!
Fades the last glimm'ring of your praise.

4. His eyes, that hailed your spirits' flame,
Still kindling in the combat's shock,

Have seen, since darkness vailed

your Sons of the desert and the rock,— Another, and another race,

Rise to the battle and the chase.

5. Descendants of the mighty dead!

Fearless of heart and firm of hand!
O! let me join their spirits fled,

O! send me to their shadowy land.
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart,
He shrinks not from the friendly dart.

6. These feet no more can chase the deer,
The glory of his arm is flown;—

Why should the feeble linger here,
When all the pride of life is gone ?
Warriors! why still the stroke deny ?
Think ye Ontara fears to dié?

7. He feared not in his flower of days,

fame,

When strong, to stem the torrent's force,
When through the forest's pathless maze,
His way was as an eagle's course!
When war was sunshine to his sight,
And the wild hurricane, delight!

8. Shall then the warrior tremble now?
Now when his envied strength is o'er?

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