Song Of The American Indian

Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb
  The heights of yonder hills sublime;
  For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,
  That oft the murmuring thunders swell,
  Of power from the impending steep
  To hurl thee headlong to the deep;
  But secure with us abide,
  By the winding river's side;
  Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share,
  And think not of a world of care. 
  The lonely cayman, where he feeds
  Among the green high-bending reeds,
  Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart
  Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart.
  Home returning from our toils,
  Thou shalt bear the tiger's spoils;
  And we will sing our loudest strain
  O'er the forest-tyrant slain!
  Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear
  The beauteous cardinal sing clear; 
  Where hoary oaks, by time decayed,
  Nod in the deep wood's pathless glade;
  And the sun, with bursting ray,
  Quivers on the branches gray.
  By the river's craggy banks,
  O'erhung with stately cypress-ranks,
  Where the bush-bee hums his song,
  Thy trim canoe shall glance along.
  To-night at least, in this retreat,
  Stranger! rest thy wandering feet; 
  To-morrow, with unerring bow,
  To the deep thickets fearless we will go.