Classic Poem

Child of the forest! oh! where did'st thou stray,
When cheerless and bleak was the winter day?
Where from the pitiless blast did'st thou hide?
In a cavern dark, by the mountain side?
Lone are the hills which thou lovedst to roam;
Child of the forest, where is thy home?

Where the winds blow most fiercely, there I dwell;
And they break on my soul like a funeral knell;
But I see the shade of my father there,
And he bids me be strong my lot to bear.
Though here are the hills where I love to roam,
Where the winds blow most fiercely, there is my home.

Deep are the wrongs which my race have borne,
From a land once theirs, by the white men torn;
See'st thou yon oak with its giant form?
It may bend its head to the coming storm;
It may bend—yet broken it cannot be;
Lady, kind lady, such are we.

They may bury the steel in the Indian's breast,
They may lay him low with his sires to rest,
His scattered race from their heritage push,
But his dauntless spirit they cannot crush;
For his course, like the eagle's, is bold and free,
And his heart is as firm as that old oak tree.

Lady, I sigh for that far off shore,
Where they tell me the red man shall weep no more;
I hear the great spirit whispering now
As I turn to look on thy sunny brow;
Lady, I leave thee, farewell! farewell!
Where the winds blow most fiercely, there I dwell.