Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/219

And her lip blanched. But her two daughters gazed
All fixedly upon her, to their cheek
Rushing the proud Miami chieftain's blood,
In haughty silence. So, she wept no tears,
The moveless spirit of the race she loved
Had come upon her, and her features showed
Slight touch of sympathy.
                                      "Upon my head
Rest sixty winters. Scarcely eight were past
Among the pale-faced people. Hate they not
The red man in their heart? Smooth christian words
They speak, but from their touch, we fade away,
As from the poisonous snake.
                                          Have I not said
Here is my home? and yonder is the bed
Of the Miami Chief? Two sons who bore
His brow, rest on his pillow.
                                             Shall I turn
My back upon my dead, and bear the curse
Of the Great Spirit?"
                              Through their feathery plumes
Her dark-eyed daughters, mute approval gave
To these stern words.
                             Yet still, with faithful zeal,
The brother, and the sister waited long,
In patient hope. If on her brow they traced
Aught like relenting, fondly they implored
"Oh sister! go with us!" and every tale
That poured o'er childhood's days a flood of light,