LACHAON'S LAMENT.
The white chieftain came when my warriors were sleeping—
The fume of the fire-water lulled them to rest;
The white chieftain went, but he bore in his keeping
The wild forest blossom I wore on my breast.
The voice of my people is weary with calling;
My braves trod the blossoms of forest and plain
But the last flower is pale, and the sear leaf is falling,
Yet the child of Lachaon, she comes not again.
The day-god will rise from his couch on the morrow,
The eagle will soar to his nest on the height;
But, when shall I rise from the pillow of sorrow—
And when will the Lodge of Lachaon be bright?
The sons that went forth with my people to battle—
My lip quivered not when I knew they were slain?
The eagle will soar to his nest on the height;
But, when shall I rise from the pillow of sorrow—
And when will the Lodge of Lachaon be bright?
The sons that went forth with my people to battle—
My lip quivered not when I knew they were slain?
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