But I hoped that the cottage roof would be A safe retreat for my sons and me; And that while they ripened to manhood fast, They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past. As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side, Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face. Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart, When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart! The barley-harvest was nodding white, When my children died on the rocky height, And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. But now the season of rain is nigh, The sun is dim in the thickening sky, And the clouds in sullen darkness rest Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. The long drear storm on its heavy wings; But the howling wind, and the driving rain THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. AN Indian girl was sitting where I've pulled away the shrubs that grew That shining from the sweet southwest It was a weary, weary road That led thee to the pleasant coast, 'Twas I the broidered mocsen made, That shod thee for that distant land ; 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid Beside thy still cold hand; 90 THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. Thy bow in many a battle bent, Thy arrows never vainly sent. With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, And decked thee bravely, as became Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed And in the land of light, at last, Hast joined the good and brave; Amid the flushed and balmy air, The bravest and the loveliest there. Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray, To her who sits where thou wert laid, And weeps the hours away, Yet almost can her grief forget, To think that thou dost love her yet. And thou, by one of those still lakes On which the south wind scarcely breaks A bower for thee and me hast made Beneath the many-coloured shade. |