O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung,
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by,
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head,
And leaning on his bow.
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep,
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in awe,
"Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old,
In sounds like those by plaintive waters rolled.
"Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side,
And the hunter's heath away;
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride,
Daughter, thou canst not stay.
"Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
Where the skies are ever clear;
The corn-month's golden hours shall come,
But they shall not find thee here."
The song ceased, the listeners caught no breath;
That lovely sleep had melted into death.