Can a tree that is torn from its root by the fountain,
The pride of the valley; green, spreading and fair,
Can it flourish, removed to the rock of the mountain,
Unwarmed by the sun and unwatered by care?

Though vesper be kind, her sweet dews in bestowing,
No life giving brook in its shadows is flowing,
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing,
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee.

Sacred graves of my sires, and I left you forever,
How melted my heart when I bade you adieu,
Shall joy light the face of the Indian? Ah, never,
While memory sad has the power to renew.

As flies the fleet deer when the blood hound is started,
So fled winged hope from the poor broken hearted,
Oh, could she have turned ere forever departing,
And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee.

Is it the low wind through the wet willows rushing,
That fills with wild numbers my listening ear?
Or is it some hermit rill in the solitude gushing,
The strange playing minstrel, whose music I hear?

'Tis the voice of my father, slow, solemnly stealing,
I see his dim form by yon meteor, kneeling,
To the God of the White Man, the Christian, appealing,
He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee.

Great Spirit of Good, whose abode is in Heaven,
Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky,
Wilt thou give to the wants of the clamorous ravens,
Yet turn a deaf ear to my piteous cry?