Song Of The American Indian

Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb The heights of yonder hills sublime; For there strange shapes and spirits dwell, That oft the murmuring thunders swell, Of power from the impending steep To hurl thee headlong to the deep; But secure with us abide, By the winding river's side; Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share, And think not of a world of care. The lonely cayman, where he feeds Among the green high-bending reeds, Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart. Home returning from our toils, Thou shalt bear the tiger's spoils; And we will sing our loudest strain O'er the forest-tyrant slain! Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear The beauteous cardinal sing clear; Where hoary oaks, by time decayed, Nod in the deep wood's pathless glade; And the sun, with bursting ray, Quivers on the branches gray. By the river's craggy banks, O'erhung with stately cypress-ranks, Where the bush-bee hums his song, Thy trim canoe shall glance along. To-night at least, in this retreat, Stranger! rest thy wandering feet; To-morrow, with unerring bow, To the deep thickets fearless we will go.