The Indian Chief

'Twelve tedious moons hast thou my captive been, 'I've taught thee how to build the swift canoe, 'To chace the boar, prepare the beaver's skin, 'To speed the shaft, and scalp the shrieking foe.

'Say, does thy father sleep within his grave!'— 'Oh Heav'n forbid, the feeling youth replied!— 'Then do his sorrows all my pity crave' The chief return'd!—'Tweve better he had died.

'I was a father once—oh valiant son! 'Thy loss each low'ring morn and eve recall. 'To shield my years, to danger's path he run; 'These eyes beheld the gallant warrior fall:

'And glory saw him fall with wounds o'erspread,' 'Bold on his bosom ev'ry wound he bore: 'I rent the forelock from his murderer's head 'And left him breathless on the crimson shore

'Since that sad day my hours no pleasure share'— The Indian chief now paus'd with sorrow fraught, Wrapt in the awful silence of despair; At length in words he cloath'd his mournful thought.

'Behold that sun! how bright it shines to you! 'Since that sad day to me it looks a cloud: 'How gay you blooming roses meet your view! 'To me grief drops o'er Nature's breast a shroud.

'Go virtuous stranger, to thy father go, 'Wipe from his furrow'd cheek Misfortune's tear: 'Go, bid the sun to him his splendor shew, 'And bid the flow'r in all her bloom appear.'