See, in the forest’s thickest maze The dark-eyed Indian tribes assembling, Free as the pure fresh breeze that plays On leaves around them trembling. Wild Nature’s wilder sons,—each brow The radiant sun of western lands Hath kindled to a redder glow; In painted pride the savage stands, So differing in garb—in skin— In mien—he scarce might seem akin To Europe’s sons, did we not trace In the dark features of his face The same fierce passions, which declare The race of Adam here and there, And prove, alas! we share with all One common origin, and fall! But what white-bosomed victim here Stands bound, a cruel death awaiting, The dreadful preparations near Now firmly contemplating,— Now raising calm his thoughtful eye Where, through the boughs that intervene Of Nature’s verdant canopy, Bright glimpses are of heaven seen? Reflects he on the murderous doom Which destines him a bloody tomb, Sudden cut off, before his time, In honour’s course, in manhood’s prime,— On projects that with him must die, Hopes ripening to reality, But blasted ere their fruits afford To science its well-earned reward? Or thinks he on the distant land To which life’s earliest ties have bound him, Where last he grasped his father’s hand, And felt his mother’s arms around him? Above these savage yells of death Does memory hear the low deep prayer Her trembling lips could scarcely breathe, That God might shield him everywhere? ’Tis answered, yes, that prayer of love, Scarce heard on earth, has reached above! Though fixed his doom, though Death e’en now Stands prompt—he may not strike the blow! Twice did the trembling compass[2] give A respite,—wonder bade him live; But other succour now must save The hero from untimely grave. For lo! behold, with savage joy His foes their victim now surrounding, Eager to smite and to destroy, The woods with yells resounding! Calm and resigned he kneels in dust, Lays on the stone his manly head, And waits the crushing blows, that must Number him with the dead; When, like the bright celestial bow Which, when the angry tempests blow, And heaven’s bolts from high are hurled— Speaks peace and mercy to the world— Forward here springs an Indian maid, As light as fawn in forest glade, Her cheek with generous ardour glowing, O’er her slight form the dark hair flowing, While firm resolve, and feeling high, Sparkle in her soul-speaking eye.