Stolid he sits, the Siwash of the Sound, Hard by the corner of the city's street And heeds not any halt of hurrying feet Before his outspread mats and baskets browned And crude (yet curious patterned weaves abound That make his tribal art unique, complete); And if you turn to go no tones entreat. And if you buy, he sells in calm profound. The hustling white men look with fullest scorn Upon the unkempt wanderers, silent, grave; and few there are who pause to meditate or pity give the Indians who are born To learn their day is past. Why speak? Why Slave? The Siwash struggles not against his fate!