Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/178

 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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