INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL. BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. A VOICE upon the prairies, That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low; It is a mother's wailing; Hath earth another tone Like that with which a mother mourns Her lost, her only one? Pale faces gather round her, They marked the storm swell high That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, But their cold, blue eyes are dry. Pale faces gaze upon her, As the wild winds caught her moan, But she was an Indian mother, So she wept her tears alone. 86 INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL. Long o'er that wasted idol, She watched and toiled, and prayed, And hoarse, and hollow grew her voice, An echo from the grave. She was a gentle creature, Of raven eye and tress, And dovelike were the tones that breathed Her bosom's tenderness, Save when some quick emotion, So richly eloquent. I said Consumption smote her, Whom judgment marks for doom. 87 INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL. Alas! that lowly cabin, That bed beside the wall, That seat beneath the mantling vine, They're lone and empty all. What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn That ripeneth on the plain? Since she for whom the board was spread Must ne'er return again. Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, Nor let thy murmuring shade. Grieve that those pale-browed ones with scorn Thy burial rite surveyed; Yea, rest thee, forest maiden! Beneath thy native tree! The proud may boast their little day, But there's many a one whose funeral Whom nature nor affection mourn, ODE BY JOHN PIERPONT. Written for the laying of the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, June 17th, 1825. O, is not this a holy spot! 'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth! God of our fathers! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth? Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side; But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, Since round its head the war-cloud curled, ODE. Here sleeps their dust; 'tis holy ground; Free as the winds around us blow, But on their deeds no shade shall fall, While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 89 |