George Jehoshaphat Mountain (1789–1863)

BRIGHT are the heavens, the narrow bay serene;

No sound is heard within the shelter’d place,

Save some sweet whisper of the pines—nor seen

Of restless man, nor of his works, a trace;

I stray, through bushes low, a little space;

Unlook’d-for sight their parted leaves disclose:

Restless no more, lo! one of Indian race,

His bones beneath that roof of bark repose.

Poor savage! in such bark through deepening snows

Once didst thou dwell; in this through rivers move.

Frail house, frail skiff, frail man! Of him who knows

His master’s will, not thine the doom shall prove.

What will be yours, ye powerful, wealthy, wise,

By whom the heathen unregarded dies?