Page:Records of Woman.pdf/139

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A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, Woman!—a power to suffer and to love, Therefore thou so canst pity.

and mournfully the Indian drum On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke;— "Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come,"— So the red warriors to their captive spoke. Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood, Like a king's son; tho' from his cheek had flown The mantling crimson of the island-blood, And his press'd lips look'd marble.—Fiercely bright, And high around him, blaz'd the fires of night,