INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL. 163
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.
Yea, 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 here they mourn for thee.
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