And now all silent in the lodge,
The chiefs are both at rest;
But, oh! what wild and harrowing thoughts
Fair Metoka oppress’d.
She loved her sire, she loved his land:
She loved them as her life--
What feeling in her heart is now
With that pure love at strife?
’
Tis pity, pleading for the lives
Of those who soon must fall--
It pleadeth with an angel’s voice,
And loud as a trumpet-call.
Mayhap another feeling too
Its secret influence wrought
In her pure heart; but if ’
twere so,
She understood it not--
But true it was, that since Sir John
First pass’d before her sight,
_Something_ was twining round her heart;
She felt it day and night.
Her heart is sad, her bosom bleeds
For the cruel fate of those,
In whom she knows no crime or fault,
Nor can she deem them foes.
Alone and restless she looks out
Upon the fearful night;
The warring elements are there,
The lightning fires gleam bright;
She hears the muttering thunders growl
Along the distant hills,
And many a pause the thunders make
The wolves’ wild howling fills.
The awful clouds roll high and dark,
The winds have a roaring, sound,
The branches from stout trees are torn
And hurl’d upon the ground;
And now the rain in torrents falls--
How her feeble limbs do shake!
Such gloom without, such grief within,
Her young heart sure must break.