Free was he born, and free will die, And time, however long, Can ne’er erase an injury While he has pipe or song. He may be kicked like any dog, But ah, beware the day, When he awakes from brawl, or draws The insult to repay. This found the lordly voyager, Upon that fatal day, When deep in northern woods remote Arose the bloody fray. And first, in peaceful words began The deep dissembled plot, And “give me drink!” the hunter cried— “Off, villain! from my cot.” He pointed to the door, with air And gesture of a lord; Then turned him back within his tent, With haughty look and word. Instant the Indian drew his knife, And in that twinkling frame He dealt a blow upon his neck, But dealt with erring aim. The voyager he had a friend Among the Indian band, Who lay and slept, while Christian blood Thus dyed the yellow sand. He started up, and drew a knife, With vengeance in his eye, And seiz’d the murd’rer by his hair, And, “Dog!” he utter’d, “die!” And with these words, he smote with might, And pierced the Indian dread, Who prayed for life, and gasped for breath, Then sank to earth and bled. On, on they rushed, a furious throng, For wild disorder reigned; And drinking, yelling, noise, and song, The live-long day had stained. Out furious in the wild melée, The voyager he ran, With streaming wound, and upraised knife, Averse to counsel’s plan. At once a cry of death arose, “I’m killed,” he said, and fell: A deep, low wound, and gushing blood, Attest the truth I tell. O ye who hear this living tale, Your hearts with care berate, Nor give the red man cause to feel The bitter pangs of hate. Learn that strict justice is alike, Nor favors red, nor white; That kindness wins—that patience charms, E’en more than beauty bright; That friendship’s glow, whate’er the name, Clime, country, shade or line, Is e’er the same, if touch’d with truth And constancy benign. Last—saddest, truest of my song— Provoke nor sot, nor king; Shun passion’s sway, and liquor’s ire, Nor trust its poison sting. SAULT STE. MARIE, 1832. THERE IS A TIME TO DIE. Bury me in the autumn time, when the leaves begin to fall, And nature o’er her forest grounds extends her leafy pall; It is a season which I loved when life was young and new, And often o’er the landscape then I cast a tranquil view. ’Tis then the winds, with airy whirl, begin their autumn play, And merrily over hill and dale, career their buoyant way; The whispering trees bend down their boughs, as soft they sweep along, And every leaf that joins the gale contributes to the song.