Elizabeth Kirkham Mathews

Alone, unfriended, on a foreign shore, Behold an hapless, melancholy maid, Begging her scanty fare from door to door, With piteous voice, and humbly bended head. Alas! her native tongue is known to few: Her manners and her garb excite suprise; The vulgar stare to see her bid adieu; Her tattered garments fix their curious eyes. Cease, cease your laugh, ye thoughtless vain; Why sneer at yon poor Indian’s pain? ’Tis nature’s artless voice that speaks: Behold the tear bedew her cheeks! Imploring actions, bursting sighs, Reveal enough to British eyes.