Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud In their green pupilage, their lore half learned- God gave them at their birth, and blotted out His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, As on the threshold of their vast designs Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down. Alas! I little thought that the stern power And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill To offer at thy grave-this-and the hope To copy thy example, and to leave A name of which the wretched shall not think As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. Now thou art not-and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance—he who bears False witness he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow-he who spreads abroad Polluted hands of mockery of prayer, Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. WEEP not for Scio's children slain; Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain For vengeance on the murderer's head. Though high the warm red torrent ran Yet, for each drop, an armed man Shall rise, to free the land, or die. And for each corpse, that in the sea Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, A hundred of the foe shall be A banquet for the mountain birds. Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain To keep that day, along her shore, Till the last link of slavery's chain Is shivered, to be worn no more. THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. AN Indian girl was sitting where "I've pulled away the shrubs that grew And broke the forest boughs that threw That, shining from the sweet south-west, "It was a weary, weary road That led thee to the pleasant coast, Where thou, in his serene abode, Hast met thy father's ghost; Where everlasting autumn lies On yellow woods and sunny skies. "Twas I the broidered mocsen made, That shod thee for that distant land; 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid Thy bow in many a battle bent, "With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, And decked thee bravely, as became "Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed The long dark journey of the grave, And in the land of light, at last, Hast joined the good and brave; Amid the flushed and balmy air, The bravest and the loveliest there. "Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,— To her who sits where thou wert laid, Yet almost can her grief forget, To think that thou dost love her yet. |