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THE SIOUX BOY;
  
  
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321

THE SIOUX BOY;

AN INDIAN LEGEND.

Deep hidden in the forest wild,
Where yet the savage wander'd free,
A manly Sioux Boy beguiled
The hours beneath a tree;
And gayly, in his native tongue,
Mix'd lay of love and war he sung.
Yet, to himself, for none were near,
Nor chief, nor maid, to list the strain,
And, save mine own, no other ear
Might know his pride or pain.
Yet, subject to his secret thought,
This ditty for himself he wrought.
“O! soon upon the Pawnee's trail,
Sweet Manné, will thy Ontwa go;
And I shall hear his woman wail,
And meetly use the bended bow,
And hurl the spear, and bare the knife,
And win, or lose, the forfeit life.
“I glad me that the time is come
To win among the tribe a name,
And, in thy tent, no longer dumb,
To tell thee of my flame;
How much I'll love,—how bravely do,
To teach thee how to love me too.

322

“I'll make thy home of sheltering reeds,
And store it with each forest prize;
For thee, the red deer bounds and bleeds;
For thee, the spotted panther dies;
Soft furs shall frame thy couch by night,
And gentlest steeds shall bear thy flight.
“Oh, 'mongst our people thou shalt be
Made glorious by thy Ontwa's love;
I'll triumph in the fight for thee,
And win the spoils of field and grove;
And when they see how brave my hand,
They'll make me leader of the band.
“There shall be songs in other days,
Of what thy Ontwa's strength hath done,
And chiefs to come shall speak with praise,
Of scalp-locks from the Pawnee won;
And they shall tell of thee, as blest,
The young fawn at the warrior's breast.
“'Neath summer sky, o'er sunny plain,
Together, fearless, shall we speed:
I'll house thee from the winter rain,
In spring to pleasant pastures lead;
And thou shalt see me, with the bow,
Pursue, and slay the buffalo,
“And bring thee from the morning chase,
Unhurt, the meek and spotty fawn;
And proudly at thy feet I'll place,
The skin from panther drawn;
Torn from him with a warrior's art,
While yet the life is at his heart.

323

“ And thou shalt shape the moccasin,
And well repay thy warrior's deeds,
When thou shalt work the red deer's skin,
Gay with thy many color'd beads,
Meet for a chief, when at our home
An hundred braves his guests become.”
Thus mused the boy beneath his tree,
Of love's delights, and warrior's pride,
A long and gladsome reverie,
Where he the chief, and she the bride,
Swept through the sylvan future still,
A realm of love, and free from ill.
With very joy at last he slept,—
He dream'd of bliss, and had no fear
That nigh the hateful Pawnee crept,
Like serpent, close beside his ear;
He wakens only into life
To feel within his heart the knife!
One moment's consciousness he knew,
Before the fatal blow was sped;
The red blade flashes on his view,
He feels it circling round his head;
And dies;—his fancy not more sooth
Than that which cheats the white man's youth.