and humane people; and knowing this, I felt safe, or nearly so, against
all misconstruction, in this my attempt to show that the late Indian
massacres were not instigated merely and solely by the passion of the
Indian for blood, but that they had deeper, broader, more tangible
causes than this, some of which I have briefly hinted at. Woe to them by
whom these butcheries came! Woe also to them who, knowing what must
inevitably result from their foul dealings, continued to deal foully
with the Indian--until the doomsday came!

I have not put in a single tithe of the evidence which I might adduce to
prove my case. It is of no use appealing to the higher powers for
redress. 'I am sick at heart,' says the good Bishop Whipple; 'I fear the
words of one of our statesmen to me were true: 'Bishop, every word you
say of this Indian system is true; the nation knows it. It is useless;
you will not be heard. Your faith is only like that of the man that
stood on the bank of the river, waiting for the water to run by, that he
might cross over dryshod!'' And then he continues, with solemn emphasis
and pity: 'All I have to say is this, that if a nation, trembling on the
brink of anarchy and ruin, is so dead that it will not hear a plea to
redress wrongs which the whole people admit call for reform, God in
mercy pity us and our children!'

BURIED ALIVE.

A Dirge.

"There may be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily."

"A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted."

Deep, deep in the tender heart
Make a grave for the joys of the Past!
Let never a tear fall hot on their bier,
But hurry them in as fast
As we bury the Beautiful out of our sight,
Ere corruption and horror have saddened our light.

Deep, deep in the sinking heart
Make a grave for the dreams of the Past!
Let the shrill cries of pain still assail thee in vain,
Though they follow so wild and so fast:
Through the fibres and sinews, and hot, bloody dew
Let the sharp strokes fall piercing, unceasing, and true.

Call, call on the feverish brain
To bring aid to the gasping heart!
To sustain its quick throbs, to suppress its fierce sobs,
As it must with its idols part:
While the ruthless spade in the grave it has made
Hurries forever the beautiful Dead!

Call, call on the tortured soul
To stand close by the sinking heart,
While the nervous mesh of the wr