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Alone, amidst their hearth-fires,
I watch'd my child's decay;
Uncheer'd I saw the spirit-light
From his young eyes fade away.
When his head sank on my bosom,
When the death-sleep o'er him fell,
Was there one to say—"A friend is near?"
There was none!—Pale race, farewell!
To the forests, to the cedars,
To the warrior and his bow,
Back, back! I bore thee laughing thence,
—I bear thee slumbering now!
I bear him unto burial
With the mighty hunters gone;—
I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze,—
Thou wilt speak of joy, my son!
In the silence of the midnight
I journey with the dead;
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet,
My father's path I tread.
F. H.
