Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/216

Of utter desolation, broke a cry
"Oh father! father!" and around his neck
Two weeping children twined their trembling arms,
His elder-born, who in the thicket's depths
Scaped the destroyer's eye.
                                      When bitter grief
Withdrew its palzying power, the tireless zeal
Of that dismembered household, sought the child
Reft from their arms, and oft, with shuddering thought,
Revolved the hardships, that must mark her lot,
If life was hers. And when the father lay
In his last, mortal sickness, he enjoined
His children, never to remit their search
For his lost Lily. Faithful to the charge.
They strove, but still in vain.
                                            Years held their way,
The boy became a man, and o'er his brow
Stole the white, sprinkled hairs. Around his hearth
Were children's children, and one pensive friend,
His melancholy sister, night and day,
Mourning the lost. At length a rumor came.
Of a white woman, found in Indian tents,
Far, far away. A father's dying words
Came o'er the husbandman, and up he rose,
And took his sad-eyed sister by the hand,
Blessing his household, as he bade farewell
For their uncertain pilgrimage.
                                                They prest