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THE INDIAN CHIEF AND COCONAY.
'Twas Lightfoot, the generous, 'twas Lightfoot the young,
And he loved the sweet Conconay;
But his bosom to honor and virtue was strung,
And the chords of his heart should to breaking be wrung
Ere love should gain o'er him the sway.
And he loved the sweet Conconay;
But his bosom to honor and virtue was strung,
And the chords of his heart should to breaking be wrung
Ere love should gain o'er him the sway.
Far, far from her stern foes he bore her away,
And sought his own forest once more;
But sad was the heart of the young Conconay,
Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay,
And was even more drear than before.
And sought his own forest once more;
But sad was the heart of the young Conconay,
Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay,
And was even more drear than before.
'Tis evening, and weary, and faint, and weak
Is the beautiful Conconay;
She could wander no farther, she strove to speak,
But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck,
And seemed breathing her soul away.
Is the beautiful Conconay;
She could wander no farther, she strove to speak,
But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck,
And seemed breathing her soul away.
The young warrior raised his eyes to heaven,
He turned them towards the west;
For one moment a ray of light was given,
Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven,
But to strike at the fated breast.
He turned them towards the west;
For one moment a ray of light was given,
Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven,
But to strike at the fated breast.
For there was his brother returning from far,
O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung;
For he had been victor amid the war,
His plume had gleamed like the polar star,
And on him had the victory hung.
O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung;
For he had been victor amid the war,
His plume had gleamed like the polar star,
And on him had the victory hung.
