 | Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems |  |
BURIAL OF THE INDIAN CHILD.
I sate down where Lena was weeping,
Who mourned that her parents were wild;
I asked her whose infant was sleeping—
She told me 'twas Atala's child!—
The rock-born, dear ermine! to-morrow
The wood-nymphs shall pillow his head!
I asked her—she told me, in sorrow,
That Atala's baby was dead!
I would suckle him now,
But his cold winter brow
Is sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
Who mourned that her parents were wild;
I asked her whose infant was sleeping—
She told me 'twas Atala's child!—
The rock-born, dear ermine! to-morrow
The wood-nymphs shall pillow his head!
I asked her—she told me, in sorrow,
That Atala's baby was dead!
I would suckle him now,
But his cold winter brow
Is sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
Oh! pale face! thy dark locks are shading
The big tears that warmed them before!
Thy cold, livid lips too are fading—
The big light shall warm them no more!
I saw her baptize him with fountains
Of new milk that ran from her breast;
But now she is gone o'er the mountains,
And Onee must lay down to rest!
I would suckle him now,
But his cold winter brow
Is sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
The big tears that warmed them before!
Thy cold, livid lips too are fading—
The big light shall warm them no more!
82
Of new milk that ran from her breast;
But now she is gone o'er the mountains,
And Onee must lay down to rest!
I would suckle him now,
But his cold winter brow
Is sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
She rose while her fingers were wreathing
The roses that hung on his head,
And said, while her accents were breathing,
'Tis here we shall make down his bed!
The bright dews that morning were weeping
And balming each rose-bud that grew
So bright where her eagle was sleeping,
The place where she bade him adieu!
I would suckle him now,
But his cold winter brow
Is now sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
The roses that hung on his head,
And said, while her accents were breathing,
'Tis here we shall make down his bed!
The bright dews that morning were weeping
And balming each rose-bud that grew
So bright where her eagle was sleeping,
The place where she bade him adieu!
I would suckle him now,
But his cold winter brow
Is now sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
She knelt down—her tresses were flowing—
And buried him low in the rocks!
And while her young features were glowing,
She wiped down her tears with her locks!
The big light she worshipped was beaming
The roses that mantled his grave;
She left him—with tear drops as streaming—
With One that she trusted could save.
I would suckle him now,
But her cold winter brow
Is sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
And buried him low in the rocks!
And while her young features were glowing,
She wiped down her tears with her locks!
The big light she worshipped was beaming
The roses that mantled his grave;
She left him—with tear drops as streaming—
With One that she trusted could save.
83
But her cold winter brow
Is sleeping away from her eye—
I would suckle him now,
But her young dove must die!
Lullaby! lullaby!
| Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems | |