Poems (Carmichael)/Lachaon's Lament

by Sarah Elizabeth Carmichael

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?
They bared their bold hearts to the death-thunder's rattle—
 But the wild blossom lives, and she comes not again!

I had laid her bright head where the dark willows, leaning
 Above the still waters, a dim shadow throw;
And told them of grief—that I knew not its meaning,
 For the sun-spirits smile when the beautiful go.
I 'd know, when the snow-flakes were piled on her pillow,
 That the stilled heart beneath was as void of a stain;
There are shadows of life that could darken death's billow⤔
 And I mourn that she lives, and comes not again.