﻿316 PICTORIAL MISCELLANY. 



tall, thick grass of the prairies. In despite of the magnificence of the 

 scenery, or of my better judgment, a feeling of loneliness came over 

 me, such as I have never felt before or since. I have travelled over 

 many foreign lands in my life, far, far away from my happy home. 

 I have stood upon the summits of the pyramids of the Nile those 

 imperishable monuments of ages long since past and gone ; I have 

 witnessed the idolatrous worship of the poor Hindoo upon the banks 

 of the Ganges ; I have wandered over the ruins of the great city 

 which saw the miracles and sufferings of our Saviour while upon 

 the earth ; and I have stood alone, and at night, and contemplated 

 the thundering crater of Mount Vesuvius ; yet never do I remember 

 such a sad feeling weighing down my spirits as I now felt creeping 

 over me. Perhaps it was the first attack of home-sickness which I 

 had ever experienced, or perhaps it was fear of the savages, by 

 which I was surrounded on every side, or, what is more probable, 

 the solemn feeling that these screaming sons of the forest were, like 

 the setting sun, surely passing away from the face of the earth ; that 

 the advancing tide of civilization would soon utterly extinguish their 

 whole race; and that the sword and the " fire water" of the white 

 man would ere long blot them out from among the nations. I have 

 lately seen some very pretty verses, written by Eliza Cook, the poet- 

 ess, which truthfully express the thoughts of the poor Indian, as he 

 contemplates the encroachments of the white man upon his hunting 

 grounds. I will recite them : 



THE LAMENT OF THE INDIAN HUNTER. 



Oh ! why does the white man follow my path, 



Like the hound on the tiger's track ? 

 Does the blush on my dark cheek waken his wrath 1 



Does he covet the bow on my back ? 

 He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze 



Bear riches for him alone ; 

 And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood 



Which the white man calls his own. 



Why then should he come to the streams where none 



But the red-skin dare to swim? 

 Why, why should he wrong the hunter-one, 



Who never did harm to him * 



