Indian Names by Lydia H. Sigourney

Ye say they all have passed away—that noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave;
That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout,
But their name is on your waters—ye may not wash it out.
 
'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.
 
Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.
 
Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.
 
Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust.
 
Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour,
Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power;
Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal,
But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?
 
Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe.
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim?
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?