"To-morrow's setting sun must find
Us resting far from here;
We can no more at eventide
Let fall the tribute tear
"Upon the mound where rests the dust
Of her who you me gave;
Ah! when we're gone, the white man's plough
Will tear your mother's grave!"
"My father, say not so," she cried;
"The white man may be moved;
To-morrow let us go to him—
My pow'r 's not yet been proved.
"Perchance he'll listen to my tale,
Perchance I'll move his heart,
Perchance he may call back the word
Which made us hence depart."
"My daughter, hope not thus; 'tis vain;
The white man's stern command
Cannot be changed; we must go hence,
And leave our fatherland!
"My arms are gone! I must obey;
No safety more is here;
Too long we've fought! the strife is vain
Where victory's so dear!"
"My father, talk no more of war;
I know the white man's pow'r;
Love moves all hearts, let love be then
Our refuge in this hour.
