Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/407

 LUELLA J. B. CASE. LuELLA J. Bartlett Case is a native of Kingston, New Hampshire. Her grandfather, Josiah Bartlett, was one of the signers of the Declaration of Indepen- dence. In the year 1828 Miss Bartlett was married, at Lowell, Massachusetts, to Leverett Case. About the year 1845 Mr. Case emigj-ated to the West, and, soon after, became one of the editors and proprietors of the Oincinnaii Enquirer. Mrs. Case contributed to the columns of the Enquirer several poems on Western themes. About the year 1850 Mr. Case removed his family from Cincinnati to Patriot, In- diana, near which town he cultivates a farm. THE INDIAN RELIC. Yeaks ago was made thy grave, By the Ohio's languid wave. When primeval forests dim Echoed to the wild bird's hymn ; From that lone and quiet bed. Relic of the unknown dead, Why art thou, a mouldering thing. Here amongst the bloom of spring? Violets gem the fresh, young grass ; Softest breezes o'er thee pass ; Nature's voice, in tree and flower, Whispers of a waking hour; Village sounds below are ringing ; Birds around thee joyons singing — Thou, upon this height alone No reviving power hast known ! Yet wert thou of human form. Once with all life's instincts warm, — Quailing at the storm of grief, Like the frailest forest leaf, — With a bounding pulse — an eye Bi-ight'ning o'er its loved ones nigh, Till beneath this cairn of trust Dust was laid to blend with dust. When the red man ruled the wood, And his frail canoe yon flood. Hast thou held the unerring bow That the antlered head laid low ? And in battle's fearful strife Swung the keen, remorseless knife ? Or, with woman's loving arm. Shielded helplessness from harm ? Silent ! silent ! Naught below O'er thy past a gleam can throw. Or, in frame of sinewy chief. Woman, born for love and grief — Thankless toil, or haughty sway Sped life's brief and fittul day. Like the autumn's sapless bough Crumbling o'er thee, thou art now. Rest! A young, organic world, Into sudden ruin hurled, Casts its fragments o'er thy tomb, 'Midst the woodland's softened gloom ! Died those frail things long ago. But the soul no death can know — Rest ! Thy grave, with silent preaching, Humble hope and faith is teaching ! Rest ! Thy warrior tribes so bold Roam no more their forests old. ( 391)