CHAPTER XIII.

The Lamentation of the Overflowing Heart of the Red Man of the Forest.

Hark! What is that I hear,
So mournfully ringing in my ear,
Like a death song of warriors,
For those who fell by their brave sires?
Is this the wail now sounding
For my unhappy future?


O my destiny, my destiny! How sinks my heart, as I behold my
inheritance all in ruins and desolation. Yes, desolation; the land the
Great Spirit has given us in which to live, to roam, to hunt, and build
our council fires, is no more to behold. Where once so many brave
Algonquins and the daughters of the forest danced with joy, danced with
gratitude to the Great Spirit for their homes, they are no more seen.
Our forests are gone, and our game is destroyed. Hills, groves and
dales once clad in rich mantle of verdure are stripped. Where is this
promised land which the Great Spirit had given to his red children as
the perpetual inheritance of their posterity from generation to
generation? Ah, the pale-faces who have left their fathers' land, far
beyond the ocean, have now come and dispossessed us of our heritage
with cruel deceit and force of arms. Still are they rolling on, and
rolling on, like a mighty spray from the deep ocean, overwhelming the
habitations of nature's children. Is it for the deeds of Pocahontas, of
Massasoit, of Logan, and hosts of others who have met and welcomed the
white men in their frail cabin doors when they were few in numbers,