The Red Man of the West by Eliza R. Snow

The Great Spirit, Tis said to our forefathers gave all the lands

twixt of eastern and western big wave.

And the Indian was happy.

He'd nothing to fear

as he ranged over the mountains

and chase of the deer.

And he felt like a prince

as he steered the canoe

or explored the lone wild

with his hatchet in bow.

Quenched his thirst at the streamlet, or simply he fed, the heavens

were his curtains, the hillock his bed.

Say then, was he homeless?

No, no, his heart beat for the dear ones he loved in the wigwam retreat.

But a wreck of the white man came over the wave and the chains of the tyrant he'd learned

to enslave. Emerging with bondage and pale with distress, he fled from oppression. He came to oppress.

Yes, such was the white man invested with power. When almost devoured, he turned and devour. He seized our possessions and fattening

with pride. He thirsted for glory, but freedom, he cried. Our fathers were brave. They contented

a while. Then left the invader the coveted soil. The spoiler pursued them, our fathers went on, and their children

are now at the low-setting sun. The white man yet prouder would grasp all the shore. He smuggled

and purchased and coveted more. The pompard blue eagle is stretching its crest beside the

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