The bird which the mariners bless'd, when each lip Had a song for the omen which gladden'd each eye, The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the ship From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky. But the mariners heed not the bird any more, They are felling the masts--they are furling the sails, Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'er Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales. Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold; And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey; And who heeds the bird? "Save the silk and the gold!" And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away! Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once more Back again in the wake of the wind she is driven-- To be whelm'd in the storm, or above it to soar, And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven! And the ship rides the waters, and weathers the gales: From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard. All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, Save a child, sitting lonely, who misses--the Bird! TECUMSEH'S SPEECH TO THE CREEK WARRIORS--_Clairborn's Life of Gen. Dale._ In defiance of the white warriors of Ohio and Kentucky, I have traveled through their settlements, once our favorite hunting-grounds. No war-whoop was sounded, but there is blood on our knives. The pale faces felt the blow, but knew not whence it came. Accursed be the race that has seized on our country and made women of our warriors. Our fathers, from their tombs, reproach us as slaves and cowards. I hear them now in the wailing winds. The Muscogee was once a mighty people. The Georgians trembled at our war-whoop, and the maidens of my tribe, in the distant lakes, sung the prowess of your warriors, and sighed for their embraces. Now, your very blood is white, your tomahawks have no edge, your bows and arrows were buried with your fathers. O Muscogees! brethren of my mother, brush from your eyelids the sleep of slavery; once more strike for vengeance--once more for your country! The spirits of the mighty dead complain. The tears drop from the weeping skies. Let the white race perish! They seize your land; they corrupt your women; they trample on the ashes of your dead! Back whence they came, upon a trail of blood, they must be driven. Back! back, ay, into the great water whose accursed waves brought them to our shore! Burn their dwellings! Destroy their stock! Slay their wives and children! The red man owns the country, and the pale face must never enjoy it! War now! War forever! War upon the living! War upon the dead! Dig their very corpses from the grave. Our country must give no rest to a white man's bones. All the tribes of the North are dancing the war dance. Two mighty warriors across the seas will send us arms.