But now the wheat is green and high,
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons of his rest;

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave Who bore their lifeless chieftain forthOr the young wife, that weeping gave

Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us-ay-like April snow

In the warm noon, we shrink away;

And fast they follow, as we go

Towards the setting day,—

Till they shall fill the land, and we

Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind,

Save ruins o'er the region spread,

And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed;

The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood;

And torrents dashed and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more,
The springs are silent in the sun;
The rivers, by the blackened shore,
With lessening current run;

The realm our tribes are crushed to get
May be a barren desert yet.

SONG.

Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons
Nymphs relent, when lovers near

Press the tenderest reasons? Ah, they give their faith too oft To the careless wooer;

Maidens' hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer.

Woo the fair one, when around Early birds are singing;

When, o'er all the fragrant ground,
Early herbs are springing :

When the brookside, bank, and grove,

All with blossoms laden,

Shine with beauty, breathe of love—

Woo the timid maiden.

Woo her when, with rosy blush,

Summer eve is sinking;

When, on rills that softly gush,

Stars are softly winking;

When, through boughs that knit the bower,

Moonlight gleams are stealing;

Woo her, till the gentle hour

Wake a gentler feeling.

Woo her, when autumnal dyes

Tinge the woody mountain; When the dropping foliage lies In the weedy fountain;

Let the scene, that tells how fast
Youth is passing over,

Warn her, ere her bloom is past,

To secure her lover.

Woo her, when the north winds call
At the lattice nightly;

When, within the cheerful hall,
Blaze the fagots brightly;

While the wintry tempest round
Sweeps the landscape hoary,
Sweeter in her ear shall sound

Love's delightful story.