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-beehums 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.