Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/152

Rh And thought that they heard the dying scream, And saw the blood of slaughter stream Afresh through the village glade.

Then they sat in council, those chieftains old, And a mighty pit was made, Where the lake with its silver waters rolled They buried that bell 'neath the verdant mould, And crossed themselves and prayed.

And there till a stately powow came It slept in its tomb forgot, With a mantle of fur, and a brow of flame He stood on that burial spot:

They wheeled the dance with its mystic round At the stormy midnight hour, And a dead man's hand on his breast he bound, And invoked, ere he broke that awful ground, The demons of pride and power.

Then he raised the bell, with a nameless rite, Which none but himself might tell, In blanket and bear-skin he bound it tight, And it journeyed in silence both day and night, So strong was that magic spell.

It spake no more, till St. Regis' tower In northern skies appeared, And their legends extol that powow's power Which lulled that knell like the poppy flower, As conscience now slumbereth a little hour In the cell of a heart that 's seared.