THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM,

“ Jesus, the vision of thy face,

Hath overpowering charms;

Scarce shall I feel Death’s cold embrace,

If Christ be in my arms.

Then when you hear my heartstrings break, How sweet my minutes roll;

A mortal paleness on my cheek,

And glory in my soul.”—— Watts.

Upon his bed of clay,

Wasting away,

Day after day,

A sick and suffering Indian lay; No lordly Chieftain he,

Of boasted pedigree,

Or famed tor bravery

In battle or for cruelty;

He was of low degree,

The child of poverty,

And from his infancy,

Inured to hardship, toil and pains; He was a hunter, bold and free, Of famed Acadia’s plains.

He’d roamed at will,

O’er rock and hill,

And every spot he knew,

0f forest Wide,

Of mountain side,