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.
And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride,

As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side,
Tall like their sire, with the princely grace

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!
When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed,
And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid,
And clung to my sons with desperate strength,
Till the murderers loosed my hold at length,
And bore me breathless and faint aside,
In their iron arms, while my children died.
They died—and the mother that gave them birth
Is forbid to cover their bones with earth.

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.
I hear the howl of the wind that brings

The long drear storm on its heavy wings;

But the howling wind, and the driving rain
Will beat on my houseless head in vain :
I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare
The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

AN Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, slain in battle, slept;
Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er eyes that wept;
And wildly, in her woodland tongue,
This sad and simple lay she sung:

I've pulled away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head,
And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,

That shining from the sweet southwest
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

It was a weary, weary road

That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou, in his serene abode,
Hast met thy father's ghost;
Where everlasting autumn lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.

'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;

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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 wrapped thee in the bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleased thee best,
In plenty, by thy side,

And decked thee bravely, as became
A warrior of illustrious name.

Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed
The long dark journey of the grave,

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
That in a shining cluster lie,

On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky,

A bower for thee and me hast made

Beneath the many-coloured shade.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

And thou dost wait and watch to meet

My spirit sent to join the blessed,
And, wondering what detains my feet
From the bright land of rest,
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear

The rustling of my footsteps near.

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