VII. Unblest distinction! showered on me VIII. A Woman rules my prison's key IX. Farewell desire of human aid, My burthen to support. X. Hark! the death-note of the year XXI. 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 be 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 lati tudes, 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.] I. BEFORE I see another day, In sleep I heard the northern gleams; Oh let my body die away! II. My fire is dead: it knew no pain; III. Alas! ye might have dragged me on Too soon I' yielded to despair ; When ye were gone my limbs were stronger IV. My Child! they gave thee to another, VII. Another still! and still another! Till thirty were not left alive, VIII. To wicked deeds I was inclined, I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam. IX. Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, God cursed me in my sore distress; X. They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! And here it lies upon my arm, To-day I fetched it from the rock; XXIII. A PASTORAL BALLAD. THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold, Could we but have been as contented as they. When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,-we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land !'' There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers; Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours: And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. But now we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one overburthened with sin, With my hand on the latch of the half opened gate, I look at the fields, but I cannot go in! When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, "What ails you, that you must come creep ing to me!" With our pastures about us, we could not be sad; Our comfort was near if we ever were crost But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had, We slighted them all,-and our birth-right was lost. |