The Indian's Grave

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, or 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 did'st 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 ?