Save those who to my sorrows lend IV. To-night the church-tower bells will ring Through these wide realms a festive peal; To the new year a welcoming; A tuneful offering for the weal Of happy millions lulled in sleep; By wounds that may not heal. V. Born all too high, by wedlock raised Than the sweet flowerets of the fields! It is my royal state that yields This bitterness of woe. Yet how? VI. for I, if there be truth That kill the bloom before its time; VII. Unblest distinction! showered on me VIII. A woman rules my prison's key; IX. Farewell desire of human aid, My burden to support. X. Hark! the death-note of the year From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear 1817. XXI. THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high northern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the northern lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following poem.] I. BEFORE I see another day, O let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; In rustling conflict through the skies, And yet they are upon my eyes, Before I see another day, O let my body die away! II. My fire is dead: it knew no pain ; And they are dead, and I will die. III. Alas! ye might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair; Why did ye listen to my prayer? When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; And oh how grievously I rue, IV. My Child! they gave thee to another, That he might pull the sledge for me: V. My little joy! my little pride! O wind, that o'er my head art flying VI. I'll follow you across the snow; - My fire is dead, and snowy white |