"Yet how?- for I, if there be truth In the world's voice, was passing fair; And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the Owner's crime, The most resplendent hair. "Unblest distinction! showered on me "A Woman rules my prison's key; A sister Queen, against the bent Of law and holiest sympathy, Detains me doubtful of th' event; Great God, who feel'st for my distress, "Farewell desire of human aid, Which abject mortals vainly court, "Hark! the death-note of the year From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear XIX. THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desert; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high Northern Latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following poem.] BEFORE I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars were mingled with my dreams; In rustling conflict through the skies, I heard, I saw the flashes drive, And And yet they are upon my eyes, yet I am alive; Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! My fire is dead: it knew no pain; All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give, Then here contented will I lie! Alone I cannot fear to die. Alas! ye might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair; Why did ye listen to my prayer? When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; And oh how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My Child! they gave thee to another, That he might pull the sledge for me. And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a helpless child. My little joy! my little pride! O wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my Friends their course Could I with thee a message send; did bend, Too soon, my Friends, ye went away; |