CHICOMICO.
27
The last sad note had sunk on the breeze,
Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees,
When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along,
But joined not her voice to the funeral song.
When the notes ceased, she knelt, and in accents of woe,
Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe.
Her words were but few, and her manner was wild,
For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan child!
She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red,
She looked, and that glance told that reason had fled!
Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees,
When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along,
But joined not her voice to the funeral song.
When the notes ceased, she knelt, and in accents of woe,
Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe.
Her words were but few, and her manner was wild,
For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan child!
She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red,
She looked, and that glance told that reason had fled!
Why does thy eye roll wild, Chicomico?
Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough?
Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair?
Read! for the "wreck of reason's written there!"
'Tis true! the storm was high, the surges wild,
And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child!
Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea,
Say! who is left to love, to comfort thee?
All, all are gone, and thou art left alone,
Like the last rose, by autumn rudely blown.
Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough?
Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair?
Read! for the "wreck of reason's written there!"
'Tis true! the storm was high, the surges wild,
And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child!
Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea,
Say! who is left to love, to comfort thee?
All, all are gone, and thou art left alone,
Like the last rose, by autumn rudely blown.
But she has fled, the wild and wingéd wind
Is by her left, long loitering far behind!
But whither has she fled? to wild-wood glen,
Far from the cares, the joys, the haunts of men!
Her bed the rock, her drink the rippling stream,
And murdered friends her ever constant dream!
Her wild death-song is wafted on the gale,
Which echoes round the Chieftain's funeral wail!
Is by her left, long loitering far behind!
But whither has she fled? to wild-wood glen,
Far from the cares, the joys, the haunts of men!
Her bed the rock, her drink the rippling stream,
And murdered friends her ever constant dream!
Her wild death-song is wafted on the gale,
Which echoes round the Chieftain's funeral wail!
