I loved him long and well.
And he to me
Was the soft sun, which makes the young trees bud.
In gentle spring,
And bids the glad birds sing,
From out the boughs, their song of love and joy.
And he would sit beside me on the grass,
And plait my hair with beads,
And tell the trees, and flowers, and birds,
That Dark-Day was more beautiful than they.
I lov'd him long and well.
And he to me
Was as the tree which props the tender vine,
Or clustering ivy, letting them embrace
His strength and pride.
When he withdraws from them,
They fall, and I must die.
He lov'd me once,
And lov'd his little babes;
And he would go with morning to the hills,
And chase the buffalo.
But he would come
And press me in his arms, when darkness hid
Both beast and bird from the clear hunter's eye.
Then he would creep to where our children slept,
And smile--but sweeter smile upon their mother.
He loves another now.
A younger bird is in his nest,
And sings sweet songs from Dark-Days once fair bower,
And I am lov'd no more.
He will be no more to me as the sun,
Which gives the young trees life in gentle spring.
Nor as the tree which props the tender vine.
He loves another better than Dark-Day--
He cares not for her,
Nor for his children:
No, he cares not for them.
I will die;
I will go to the happy lands,
Beyond the mighty river.
There I shall see again my tender mother,
There I shall meet the warriors of my tribe,
And they shall make my sons good men.
There I shall meet, ere many moons be past,
My husband reconcil'd to me, and he
Again shall sit beside me on the grass,
And plait my hair with beads,
And tell the trees, and birds, and flowers,
That Dark-Day is more beautiful than they.
As she paddled her canoe down the stream, her friends perceived her
intent, but too late; their persuasions and attempts to prevent her
from proceeding were of no avail. She continued to sing, in a mournful
voice, the past pleasures which she had enjoyed while she was the
undivided object of her husband's affections: at length, her voice was
drowned in the sound of the cataract; the current carried down her
frail bark with inconceivable rapidity; it came to the edge of the
precipice, was seen for a moment enveloped with spray, but never after
was a trace of the canoe or its passengers discovered. Yet the Indians
imagine that often in the morning a voice is heard singing a mournful
song along the edge of the fall, and that it dwells on the inconstancy
of a husband. They assert that sometimes a white dove is seen hovering
over the neighbouring sprays; at other times, Ampato Sapa wanders in
her proper person near the spot, with her children wrapped in skins,
and pressed to her bosom.