THE INDIAN HUNTER
Oh, why does the white man follow my path,
Like the
hound on the tiger's track?
Does the flush of my
dark cheek waken his wrath-
Does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas where billows
and breeze
Bear riches to 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 man dares to swim?
Why, why should he wrong the hunter-one
Who never did harm to him?
The Father above
thought fit to give
The white man corn and wine;
There are golden fields where he may live,
But the
forest shades are mine.
The eagle has its place
of rest;
The wild horse-where to dwell;
And 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.
-Eliza Cook
B-A-C-K