But the Robins loved he best;
O'er the grave where he has perished
They shall thrive and build their nest.

Hunted by the white invader,
Vanish ancient races all;
Yet no ruthless foe or trader
Silences the songster's call.

For the white man too rejoices,
Welcoming Spring's herald bird,
When the ice breaks, and the voices
From the rushing streams are heard.

Where the Indian's head-dress fluttered,
Pale the settler would recoil,
And his deepest curse was uttered
On the Red Son of the soil.

Later knew he not, when often
Gladness with the Robin came,
How a spirit-change could soften
Hate to dear affection's flame:

Knew not, as he heard, delighted,
Mellow notes in woodlands die,
How his heart had leaped, affrighted
At that voice in battle-cry.

For a youthful Savage, keeping