Now, my fav’ring dreams portend Their ill-gotten power shall end. Now the goal is reached and won; Fate decrees—_it must be done_! Crush the serpent, ere his length Tell superior skill or strength. Strike the panther, ere he springs, And the mortal fang he flings. Take the monster grizzle-bear, Young and feeble, in his lair. Mar his talons—blear his sight, Ere he waxes strong in might; Else the day shall hasten by, Else we quickly droop and die; Or shall linger on our lands, Frail, dependent, feeble bands; Weak in numbers, low in fame; Sad, impov’rished, sunk and tame, Asking alms from door to door, Where our chieftains _ruled_ before, While the stranger lords it high ’Neath our once joy-kindled sky; And his children, as they turn From the furrow, blade or urn, Axe or pestle, pipe or bone, Once our fathers’ or our own, Shall with pride indignant spurn, Name and nation, bone and urn, And exclaim—_contemptuous grave!_ Indian dog, or Indian slave. Heavens! and can ye live and burn, And not on th’ insulter turn? Have ye hearts, and have ye ears, And not shake your vengeful spears? Are ye men by God’s decrees, And can suffer taunts like these? Rend, oh rend the big blue sky, With your thrilling battle cry: _Vengeance—Valor—Liberty!_ On, bold hearts, to the attack! ’Tis the voice of Pontiac. SAULT STE. MARIE, November 7th, 1825. GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT. The blackbird is singing on Michigan’s shore, As sweetly and gaily as ever before, For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o’er our mountains as beamy a light, As it ever reflected, or ever express’d, When my skies were the bluest—my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back, Each bird and each beast, it is blest in degree, All nature is cheerful—all happy but me. I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair, I will paint me with black and will sever my hair:— I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes:— I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or ling’ring decay, The steel of the white man hath swept them away.