The league of the Iroquois and other legends : from the Indian muse

THE LAST OF THE HUNTER-RACE. 295
And when no more a fading West
These anxious eyes shall seek in vain,
Where shall my failing People rest ?
Their home-bright wigwams build again ?
Or who in the far years
shall tell
That this broad land, so fair unrolled,
Where now the Pale-face Strangers dwell
Was all your heritage of old ?
Yet on still on, unresting flee
Till bounded by the billowy waste ;
For oh !
a more remorseless sea
Bids your retreating footsteps haste ;
The hurrying, eager Hosts of Toil
On like a fiery billow sweep,
To spoil the wild with it to spoil
Your homes beside the rolling deep.
Low in the sunset's waning light,
Above the hungry, roaring waves,
I see, as with prophetic sight,
The last of all the Hunter Braves ;
With warrior arm uplifted high,
And crying to the Indian's God,
With one long, last, despairing cry
He sinks in the devouring flood.