INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG.
107
The hand that spread the hunter's board, and deck’d his couch of yore?—
He will not!—roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore!
Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow,
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this wo;
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day.
And thou, my babe! tho' born, like me, for woman’s weary lot,
Smile!—to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not;
