O'er the fate of the Indian The Great Spirit has cast The spell of the white man-- His glory is past. Like the day that is dying As fades the bright sun, Like the warrior expiring When the battle is done. Soon no more will our warriors Meet side by side, To talk of their nation, Its power and pride. 'Tis the white man who rules us And tramples us down; We are slaves, and must crouch When our enemies frown. Sleep on, my young son, I'd fain have thee know As the warrior departs Did thy brave father go. He feared not the white man, While the Chippeway knew He could boast when he scalped The Dacota he slew. Sleep on, to our desolate Tupee we go; Soon the winter winds come, And the cold and the snow. He is gone who would bring To us covering warm, Would supply us with food, And would shield us from harm. I have listened full oft, As the white woman told Of the city of life, Where the bright waters rolled; Where tears never come, Where the night turns to day,-- I gladly would go there, But know not the way. Ah! ye who have taken From the red man his lands, Who have crushed his proud spirit, And bound his strong hands; If ye see our sad race In ignorance bowed down, And care not to see it, Ye have hearts made of stone. Sleep on, my young son, For soon will we know If to the heaven of the white man The Dacota may go. We are children of earth, We must meekly toil on 'Till the Great Spirit call us, My warrior son! [Footnote 18: Tupee is the Dacota word for house or wigwam.] [Illustration: C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.} SOUNDING WIND. The Chippewa Brave.] SOUNDING WIND; OR, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE. BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN. Hast thou mourned! oh mourn no longer: Death is strong, but love is stronger.