slavery too heavy to be borne,
And which our tribes revolt at. Oft we stand
To view the reeking smith, who pounds his iron
With blow on blow, to fit it for the beast
That drags your ploughshares through the rooty soil.
The very streams--bright ribbons of the woods!--are yoked,
And made to turn your mills, and grind your corn;
And yet this progress stays not in its toils
To alter nature and pervert her plans.
Steam drags your vessels now, that once
Leapt in their beauty by the winds of heaven.
Some subtle principle ye find in fire,
And with a cunning art fit rattling cars
To run on strips of iron, with scream and clang
That seem symbolic of an angry power
Which dwells below, and is infernal called.
The war-crowned lightning skips from pole to pole
On strings of iron, to haste with quick intelligence.

"Once, nature could be hid, and fondly think
She had some jewels in the earth, but now ye dig
Into her very bowels, to recover morsels sweet
She erst with deglutition had drawn in. The rocks
Your toils dissolve, to find perchance some treasure
Lying there. Is yonder land of gold alone
Your care? Observe along these shores
The wheezing engine clank--the stamper ring.
Once, hawks and eagles here pursued their prey,
But now the white man ravens more than they.
No! give me but my water and God's meats,
And take your cares, your riches, and your thrones.
What the Great Spirit gives, I take with joy,
And scorn those gains which nothing can content.

"Drudge ye, and grind ye, white man! make your pence,
And store your purses with the shining poison.
It was not Manito who made this trash
To curse the human race, but Vatipa the black,
Who rules below--he changed the blood of innocence
And tears of pity into gold, and strewed it wide
O'er lands where still the murderer digs
And the deceptious delve, to find the cockle out
And pick it up, but laughs the while to see
What fools they are, and how himself has foiled
The Spirit of Good, that made mankind
Erst friends and brothers. Scanty is my food,
But that sweet bird, chileelee, blue of wing,
Sings songs of peace within the wild-wood dell
And round the enchanted shores of these blue seas--
Not long, perhaps, our own--which tell me of a rest
In far-off lands--the islands of the blest!"

THE SKELETON WRAPPED IN GOLD.

In digging, in 1854, a railroad in Chili, seventy feet below the
surface, in a sandy plain, which had been an ancient graveyard, an
Indian skelet