And white men paid the price-and now they hold

       This broad, broad land for cost more dear than gold. 
    And yet ’t is not enough; the cry for more
        Hath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic’s wave
    Now blends with it the thunder of its roar,
        And soon shall sound the requiem o’er the grave

       Of the last Indian,—­last of that brave band

       Who once held sway o’er all this fertile land. 
    Methinks to-day I see him stand alone,
        Drawing his blanket close around his form;
    He hath braved all, hath heard the dying moan
        Rise from the fields of strife; and now the storm

       That hath swept all before it, age on age,

       On him, the last, seeks to pour forth its rage. 
    Raising his hand appealing to the sun,
        He swears, by all he hath or now could crave,
    That when his life is closed, his life-race run,
        A white man ne’er shall stand above his grave.

       Shall he, the last of a once noble race,

       Consign himself to such a dire disgrace? 
    Never! let rock to rock the word resound;
        Never! bear witness all ye gods to-day;
    Never! ye streams and rivers, as ye bound,
        Write “Never” on your waves, and bear away;

       Tell to the world that, hunted, wronged, abused,

       With such reproach he ne’er shall be accused,
    The red man’s brethren, tell him where are they;
        The red man’s homes and altars, what their fate? 
    Shall he who stands the last, the last to-day,
        Forget with his last breath to whisper hate?

       Hate, deep and fathomless, and boundless too,

       Such as to fiendish cruelty is due. 
    He cannot bear the white man’s presence now,
        Or bear to hear his name or see his works;
    He thinks that wrong is stamped upon his brow,
        That in his good deeds selfish purpose lurks.

       Has he a cause for this?-review the past,

       And see those acts which prompt hate to the last. 
    Sons of the Pilgrims, who to-day do boast
        Of Freedom’s favors, ye whose wealth doth lie
    From the Atlantic to the Pacific coast! 
        Let not the race you have supplanted die;

       Perish like forest-leaves from off their lands,

       Without a just requital at your hands. 
    O, give them homes which they can call their own,
        Let Knowledge light its torch and lead the way;
    And meek Religion, from the eternal throne,
        Be there to usher in a better day;

       Then shall the past be blotted from life’s scroll,

       And all the good ye may do crown the whole.

SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL.