Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/219

Rh And her lip blanched. But her two daughters gazed All fixedly upon her, to their cheek Rushing the proud Miami chieftain's blood, In haughty silence. So, she wept no tears, The moveless spirit of the race she loved Had come upon her, and her features showed Slight touch of sympathy. "Upon my head Rest sixty winters. Scarcely eight were past Among the pale-faced people. Hate they not The red man in their heart? Smooth christian words They speak, but from their touch, we fade away, As from the poisonous snake.                                          Have I not said Here is my home? and yonder is the bed Of the Miami Chief? Two sons who bore His brow, rest on his pillow.                                              Shall I turn My back upon my dead, and bear the curse Of the Great Spirit?" Through their feathery plumes Her dark-eyed daughters, mute approval gave To these stern words. Yet still, with faithful zeal, The brother, and the sister waited long, In patient hope. If on her brow they traced Aught like relenting, fondly they implored "Oh sister! go with us!" and every tale That poured o'er childhood's days a flood of light,