162 INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL.
Long o'er that wasted idol
She watch'd, and toil'd, and pray'd, Though every dreary dawn reveal'd
Some ravage Death had made ; Till the fleshless sinews started,
And Hope no opiate gave, And hoarse and hollow grew her voice,
An echo from the grave.
She was a gentle creature,
Of raven eye and tress ; And dove-like were the tones that breath'd
Her bosom's tenderness, Save, when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent To revel in her olive-cheek,
So richly eloquent.
I said, Consumption smote her,
And the healer's art was vain, But she was an Indian maiden,
So none deplor'd her pain ; None, save that widow'd mother,
Who now, by her open tomb, Is writhing, like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.
Alas ! that lowly cabin, That bed beside the wall,
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