北美印第安人

Charles Sprague，1791—1875，was born in Boston，and received his education in the public schools of that city.For sixteen years he was engaged in mercantile pursuits，as clerk and partner.In 1820 he became teller in a bank；and，from 1825，he filled the office of cashier of the Globe Bank for about forty years.In 1829 be gave his most famous poem，“Curiosity，”before the Phi Beta Kappa society，in Cambridge.An active man of business all his days，he has written but little either in prose or poetry，but that little is excellent in quality，graceful，and pleasing.The address from which this extract is taken，was delivered before the citizens of Boston，July 4th，1825.

Not many generations ago，where you now sit，encircled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life，the rank thistle nodded in the wind and the wild fox dug his hole unscared.Here lived and loved another race of beings.Beneath the same sun that rolls over your head，the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer；gazing on the same moon that smiles for you，the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate.Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and helpless，and the council fire glared on the wise and daring.Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes，and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky shores.Here they warred；the echoing whoop，the bloody grapple，the defying death song，all were here；and when the tiger strife was over，here curled the smoke of peace.

Here，too，they worshiped；and from many a dark bosom went up a fervent prayer to the Great Spirit.He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone，but he had traced them on the tables of their hearts.The poor child of nature knew not the God of Revelation，but the God of the universe he acknowledged in everything around.He beheld him in the star that sank in beauty behind his lonely dwelling；in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his midday throne；in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze；in the lofty pine that defied a thousand whirlwinds；in the timid warbler that never left its native grove；in the fearless eagle，whose untired pinion was wet in clouds；in the worm that crawled at his feet；and in his own matchless form，glowing with a spark of that light，to whose mysterious source he bent in humble though blind adoration.

And all this has passed away.Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark，bearing the seeds of life and death.The former were sown for you；the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native.Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent，and blotted forever from its face a whole，peculiar people.Art has usurped the bowers of nature，and the anointed children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant.Here and there a stricken few remain；but how unlike their bold，untamable progenitors.The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing，the theme of the touching ballad，the hero of the pathetic tale is gone，and his degraded offspring crawls upon the soil where he walked in majesty，to remind us how miserable is man when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck.

As a race they have withered from the land.Their arrows are broken，their springs are dried up，their cabins are in the dust.Their council fire has long since gone out on the shore，and their war cry is fast fading to the untrodden west.Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains，and read their doom in the setting sun.They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away；they must soon hear the roar of the last wave which will settle over them forever.Ages hence，the inquisitive white man，as he stands by some growing city，will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains，and wonder to what manner of persons they belonged.They will live only in the songs and chronicles of their exterminators.Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men，and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people.

译文　TRANSLATION

查尔斯·斯普雷格（1791—1875）出生于波士顿，并在波士顿私立学校接受教育。从职员到合伙人，他在商界工作十六年。1820年，他成为一家银行的出纳。从1825开始，他担任环球银行的出纳近四十年。1829年，他在坎布里奇优等生荣誉学会朗诵他最著名的诗篇《好奇心》。斯普雷格终其一生一直活跃在商界，其散文、诗歌作品都很少，但其为数不多的作品却优雅、怡人，品质极高。

下文选自他1825年7月4日在波士顿的演讲。

一百多年前，就在你们所坐的地方，环绕着提升与装点文明生活的一切。乳蓟在风中摇曳，野狐无忧无虑地掘洞。另一个种族在这里生活、相爱。就在你们头顶流转的那轮太阳下，印第安猎手曾追逐那匹气喘吁吁的鹿；就在向你们微笑的那片月华下，印第安恋人曾向他的情侣吐露心声。棚屋里的炉火向柔弱、无助者微笑，氏族会议燃起的篝火炯炯地凝视着那些智慧、勇敢的人。他们曾将高贵的身体浸入你们长满莎草的湖泊，他们曾在你们乱石嶙峋的岸边荡起独木舟。他们也曾在这里战斗。带着回音的呐喊、鲜血淋漓的格斗、视死如归的战歌，一切都在这里发生；一番龙争虎斗后，这里又升起袅袅炊烟。

他们也在这里祭拜。他们黝黑的胸膛里涌出对巨灵热烈的颂赞。巨灵没有为他们在石板上写下律法，却将律法写在他们心底。可怜的上帝之子不懂上帝的启示，但他们却在身边的一切事物中认出宇宙的神祇。从那落向他孤独的茅屋后面的美丽星辰，从那正午时分照耀着他的神圣的天体，从那晨风中折断的花朵，从那傲视狂风的高洁的青松，从那胆怯的从不离开自己窝巢的林莺，从那无所畏惧的雄鹰，从它被雨云弄湿的不知疲倦的双翼，从脚下爬过的小虫，从自己无双的形体，从那形体上的柔光，从那神秘的为他谦卑而盲目的恋慕的光源，他认出神。

而这一切都已过去。从大洋那头驶来清教徒的舟船，载着生命与死亡的种子。生命的种子为你们播种，而死亡的种子则长满那淳朴的部族走过的小路。两百年的沧桑业已改变这个大陆的性格，业已将一个完整、独特的民族从这片大陆上抹去。人力可以巧夺天工，开化的上帝的选民对那蒙昧的部族来说真的太过强大。如今，这儿或那儿，印第安还有为数不多的饱受蹂躏的孑遗。但他们与其桀骜不驯的祖先何其不同！虎视鹰扬的印第安人，他们被动人的歌谣吟唱，他们是那荡人心魂的故事中的英雄，而今却都已不复存在。他堕落的子孙在他曾昂首阔步的大地上，提醒我们在征服者的脚下苟活是多么凄惨！

作为一个种族，他们已经在这片土地上凋落。他们的箭矢已折断，他们的泉源已干涸。氏族会议燃起的篝火早已熄灭，他们战争中的呼喝正在蛮荒的西部淡去。慢慢地、悲伤地，他们爬上远方的山，在夕阳中，阅读宿命。他们在迎面扑来的巨潮前瑟缩，不久，他们就将听到那吞没他们的最后的浪涛的嘶吼。多年以后，在某个正在兴起的城市旁边，一个喜欢寻根究底的白人会在他们留下的残破的遗迹前驻足沉思，好奇他们的生活方式。他们将仅仅活在对他们消殒的歌吟与记述中。就让那些谣曲和史籍忠实地记录下他们朴素的美德，真诚地凭吊他们民族悲惨的命运。