Like the hound on the tiger's track?
Does the blush on my dark cheek waken he wrath?
Doe 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?
The Father above thought fit to give
To the white man corn and wine;
There are golden fields, where they may live,
But the forest shades are mine.
The eagle hath its place of rest,
The wild horse where to dwell;
An the Spirit that gave the bird its nest,
Made me a home as well.
Then back, go back from the red man's track,
For the hunter's eyes grow dim,
To find that the white man wrongs the one
Who never did harm to him.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2014/7/16 - 15:18
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