Its stately crest above its tall compeers: Beneath--a huge dark mass is seen to glide With stealthy motion o'er the heaving tide, Crowded with moving forms of human mould, But of an aspect well might daunt the bold, Gazing the first time on that pallid crew, So foreign and so ghastly in their hue! But hark!--the distant shout that wildly pours Its thousand echoes on the strand, assures-- Swift to the Chiefs he speeds--the wise--the bold In council meet--his tale is briefly told; Then far and near they gathered in their might And 'gainst the invader battled for their right, As valiant men should for the altars reared By their forefathers and the homes endeared By thousand ties and recollections past To which the heart clings warmly to the last. But not to lengthen out a thrice told tale-- The Red Man never yielded to the Pale, Though forced by foreign fire to wander far, Homeless and houseless, neath the evening star. Slowly and sad, the western hills they climb, Yet find no rest beyond for wearied limb And aching heart--no single spot of earth, Of all the wide spread land that gave them birth, Is theirs. They gaze upon the setting sun And feel their course like his must soon be run-- They hear their requiem in the deepening roar Of waves that dash upon the distant shore-- But they must wander on unceasingly So long as space remains for footing free, Til hemmed at last twixt ocean and the foe They turn to bay _once more_ and perish so. * * * * * Oh! little dreamed the tender hearted maid, By love and her own gentleness betrayed, That death and desolation's fellest wrath So surely followed--in the very path Of good intent--to whelm her race with woes She would have warded even from her foes. Where yonder temporary structure frail[1] Extends across the strait its slender rail, The shallow waves at flood scarce overflow The sandy bar the ebb reveals below-- 'Twas there the royal daughter crost to save The pilgrim strangers from an early grave. Who that had seen her on that fatal night, Swift gliding, like a startled water sprite, To that lone Island-Fort where calmly slept The dreaming foe, in fancied safety wrapt-- Who could have aimed at such a breast the shaft? Tho' well apprised no other means were left To baffle treason--not as such designed In the simplicity of her guileless mind. Had she been only destined to inherit A portion of that fierce determined spirit And deep prophetic hate--like vestal fire Nursed in the bosom of her royal sire, A nation's doom had not been rashly sealed By mercy thus so erringly revealed-- But it is done--and lo! the love which hurled An ancient race to ruin--GAINED A WORLD!!