THE FORESTERS. 49 



The path is lost ! we see the sun no more ; 

 A poor lone wanderer here unhappy raves, 

 Returned once more to see his father's gTaves ; 

 Where all he sees bereaves his heart of rest, 

 And sinks like poisoned arrows in his breast. 



44 Here stood the tree, beneath whose awful shade, 

 Our aged chiefs the nation's welfare weighed ; 

 In these sweet woods my early days I spent, 

 There through the hare, the quivering arrow sent ; 

 Or, stealing wary by that creek so clear, 

 Transfixed the struggling salmon with my spear. 

 Here rose our fires in many a towering flame, 

 When the young hunters found abundant game ; 

 The feast, the dance, whole days and nights employ, 

 These hills resounding with our screams of joy. 

 There, on that bank our painted warriors stood, 

 Their keen knives reddened with the white men's blood ; 

 Now all is lost! and sacrilege is spread ! 

 And ploughs profane the mansions of the dead ! 

 Our warriors wander on a distant shore, 

 And strangers triumph where they begged before." 

 Indignant sorrow rushes on his soul, 

 And in wild agony his eye-balls roll ; 

 Wrapt in his rug, the forest he regains, 

 A homeless exile on his native plains. 



Howe'er stern Prejudice these woes may view, 

 A tear to Nature's tawny sons is due ; 

 The same false virtue and ambitious fire, 

 Which nations idolize, and kings admire, 



D 



