By Charles Sangster



Through the depths of the forest a warrior came,
His look threat’ning death, and destruction, and flame;
Erect and majestic he stood in his pride,
By the graves of his people who fell by his side—
By the graves of the Red Men, for a Red Man was he,


Hunted down like a beast in the Land of the Free!
Pursued, but no longer that Chieftain will fly;
By the graves of his kindred he’ll conquer or die.

His eye flashed with rage—there was scorn in its light,
As he called to his band to prepare for the fight;


His tomahawk’s keenness he smilingly felt,
And looked to the red scalping-knife in his belt;
Shook the plumes that o’ershadowed his obdurate brow,
Again rallied his band, and repeated his vow.
Now the foe is in sight—hark! that terrible cry


Proves, that here the brave Red Man will conquer or die!

Thick fly the swift arrows, unerring they fly,
Like the bleak winds in Autumn the stricken ones sigh; [Page 136]
And that Warrior-Chief, with a demon possessed,
In the midst of the carnage lays bare his bold breast;


Each blow of his tomahawk, reeking and red,
Like the stroke of a Fate, adds one more to the dead,
And his resolute band, with their wild battle-cry,
Are thronging around him, in numbers, to die.

Yes, to die! but they fall without murmur or groan,


And their death-dealing Chieftain stands firmly—alone!
As the sea, lash’d to fury, rolls on in its might,
So he breasts his foes with a frantic delight;
There’s revenge in his look, there is death in his frown,
And he fights like a Chief who upholds his renown;


Overpowered by numbers he yields his last sigh
By the graves of his race, where he wandered to die. [Page 137]