 | The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry |  |
224
BURIAL OF THE INDIAN GIRL.
“The only daughter of an Indian woman, in Wisconsin territory, died of lingering consumption, at the age of eighteen. A few of her own race, and a few of the whites, were at the grave; but none wept, save the poor mother.”
Herald of the Upper Mississippi.
A wail upon the prairies,—
A cry of woman's wo,—
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?—
A cry of woman's wo,—
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 mark the storm swell high,
That rends and wrecks the tossing soul,
But their cold, blue eyes were dry.
Pale faces gazed upon her,
As the wild winds caught her moan,—
But she was an Indian mother,—
So, she wept those tears alone.
They mark the storm swell high,
That rends and wrecks the tossing soul,
But their cold, blue eyes were dry.
Pale faces gazed upon her,
As the wild winds caught her moan,—
But she was an Indian mother,—
So, she wept those tears alone.
Long, o'er that wasting idol,
She watch'd and toil'd and pray'd,
Though every dreary dawn reveal'd
Some ravage Death had made:
Till the fleshless sinews started,
And hope no opiate gave,
And hoarse and hollow grew her voice,
An echo from the grave.
She watch'd and toil'd and pray'd,
Though every dreary dawn reveal'd
Some ravage Death had made:
Till the fleshless sinews started,
And hope no opiate gave,
225
An echo from the grave.
She was a gentle creature,
Of raven eye and tress,
And dovelike were the tones that breath'd
Her bosom's tenderness;—
Save when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent
To revel in her olive cheek,
So richly eloquent.
Of raven eye and tress,
And dovelike were the tones that breath'd
Her bosom's tenderness;—
Save when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent
To revel in her olive cheek,
So richly eloquent.
I said Consumption smote her,
And the healer's art was vain;
But she was an Indian maiden,
So none deplor'd her pain;—
None, save that widow'd mother,
Who now, by her open tomb,
Is writhing like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.
And the healer's art was vain;
But she was an Indian maiden,
So none deplor'd her pain;—
None, save that widow'd mother,
Who now, by her open tomb,
Is writhing like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.
Alas! that lowly cabin,
That couch 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?
That couch 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-brow'd ones with scorn
Thy burial-rite survey'd;—
There's many a king, whose funeral
A black-rob'd realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed,
Like that which falls for thee.
Nor let thy murmuring shade
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Thy burial-rite survey'd;—
There's many a king, whose funeral
A black-rob'd realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed,
Like that which falls for thee.
Yes, rest thee, forest-maiden!
Beneath thy native tree;
The proud may boast their little day,
Then sink to dust like thee;
But there's many a one whose funeral
With nodding plumes may be,
Whom Nature nor affection mourn,
As now they mourn for thee.
Beneath thy native tree;
The proud may boast their little day,
Then sink to dust like thee;
But there's many a one whose funeral
With nodding plumes may be,
Whom Nature nor affection mourn,
As now they mourn for thee.
| The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry | |