POETRY

From the Cin. Mirror ' Ladies Partree.

DIRGE OF THE INDIAN WIDOW

I'll sit me down beside thy grave,

to watch thy last repose,

And listen to the rippling wave,

That near thy dwelling flows:

For thou upon its gentle tide,

In brighter days didst love to glide,

When day began to close;

And stars were glist'ning in their spheres,

And evening shed her balmy tears.

How often by our cabin door

Have we sat down at eve,

While thou wouldst tell thy war deeds o'er

And I a chaplet weave,

Of fairest flowers to deck thy brow,

For noble deeds, that none but thou

In battle couldst achieve;

And, as I twin'd the wreath, I sung

The songs of our dear native tongue.

But now I sing a sadder song-

There mockery to be gay!

For thou amid the happy throng!

Hast journeyed far away;

To meet in that bright, sunny land,

Thy father and his gallant band,

That fell in bloody fray,

With never dying laurels crown'd

Gather's from many a battle ground.

But moons have come ' moons have past

Since that ill fated hour;

And angry storms have pour'd their blast

Against my summer bower.-

Since thou, with spear, and bended bow,

Went forth against thy nation's foe,

To crush their rising power;

And met the bravest of their race,

Arm unto arm, and face to face.

Three times by winged arrows flew,

Like lightning, from thy bow;

Each to its deadly aim told true,

And laid its victim low;

But thrice as many, in despair,

Sprang forth, like tigers, from their lair,

And dealt the fatal blow,

That gave to thee a warrior's bed,-

To me, a gallant chieftain dead.

But all unconqur'd, as thou wert,

Until that moment came,

It could not grieve thy manly heart,

To fall so ripe in fame:

For thou had'st never liv'd to feel

The dread of death, the fear of steel,-

Or sacrificial flame.

No coward though could ever rest

One moment in thy fearless breast.

I dress'd thee for that distant land,

In all a chieftain's pride;

Placed the keen hatchet in thy hand,

Thy war club by thy side;

Thy bow and arrows, too, are there,

With all the trophies thou did'st wear

Through life's eventful tide;

And all things else thou loved'st but me

Are softly resting there by thee.

And soon thy spirit will I meet,

Upon that golden shore,

Where suns more bright, and flower more sweet,

Shine, bloom, forevermore.

There shall we rest in richer bower,

Till Time itself is o'er;

And nothing is a land so blest,

Shall ever dear disturb our rest.

Marion, Ohio H.L.D.