Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/213

Rh Did weep, like Rizpah, o'er the slaughtered brave, Unnamed, unhonored ere its pillared breast Arose to take the record of their names, And of their valor, teach a race unborn.

The memories of red war, how thick they spring Among these flowers. Here in fierce strife have stood Indian and white man, aye! and they whose faith Was in the same Redeemer, through whose breasts Flowed the same kindred blood-drop, casting off The name of brother, in their cradle learned, Have madly met, I may not tell you how. History hath stained her pencil and her page With these dark deeds, and ye may read them there.

Yet would I tell one tale of Wyoming, Before we part. There was a pleasant home, In times long past. A little, crystal brook. Where water-cresses grew, went singing by, While the ripe apples, gleaming thro' the boughs, And in its humble garden, many a bush Of scarlet berries, sprinkled here and there With fragrant herbs, sage and the bee-loved thyme, Betokened thrift and comfort. Once, as closed The autumn-day, the mother, by her side Held her young children, with her storied lore, Fast by her chair, a bold and bright-eyed boy, Stood, statue-like, while closer, at her feet,