Page:Felicia Hemans in The Amulet 1827.pdf/6



and mournful sat an Indian chief, In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb; His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, And his arms folded in majestic gloom, And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound, Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale Cross above its greensward rose, Telling the cedars and the pines that there Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes, And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. Now all was hushed—and eve's last splendour shone With a rich sadness on the attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, And he too paused in reverence by that grave, Asking the tale of its memorial, piled Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak, On the deep dream of age his accents broke: