THE DYING INDIAN'S DREAM 59 By the frowning cliff, He could steadily guide, And safely glide, In joyful glee, Triumphantly, The roaring surges through. II. And many a weary day, He had toiled away, In his own humble home, At basket, bark, and broom, To gain the scanty fare, Doled out to him grudgingly, where His ancient sires, Kindled their fires, And roamed without control, Over those wide domains, Rocks, rivers, hills and plains, In undisputed right, lords of the whole. But ah! those days were gone, And weeks and months had flown, Since dire disease had laid him low; Nor huntsman's skill, Nor workman's will, In want, in danger, or alarm, Could nerve his powerless, palsied arm, Or bend his useless bow. But God was there, And fervent prayer, To Heaven ascended, And sweetly blended With angel's song, From Seraph's tongue; And Joy was there, and Hope, and Faith,