For why, she cries, sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?
Alas! I scarce can go or creep,
While Lubin is away.
'Tis sad to think the days are gone,
When those we love were near;
I sit upon this mossy stone,
And sigh when none can hear.
And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep, or dead,
Now Lubin is away.
In airy dreams.
[Mrs. John Hunter.]
In airy dreams fond fancy flies,
My absent love to see,
And with the early dawn I rise,
Dear youth, to think of thee.
How swiftly flew the rosy hours,
When hope and love were new;
Sweet was the time as op'ning flowers,
But ah! 'twas transient too.
The moments now move slowly on,
Until thy wish'd return;
I count them pensive and alone,
As in the shades I mourn.
Return, return, my love, and charm
Each anxious care to rest;
Thy voice shall every doubt disarm,
And soothe my troubled breast.
Remembrance.
[Mrs. John Hunter.]
While I behold the moon's pale beam,
Her light perhaps reflects on thee,
As wand'ring near the silver stream,
Thy sad remembrance turns to me.
Ah, to forget! the wish were vain!
Our souls were form'd thus fond to be;
No more I'll murmur and complain,
For thou, my love, wilt think on me.
Silent and sad, I take my way,
As fortune deigns my bark to steer;
Of hope a faint and distant ray
Our far divided days shall cheer.
Ah! to return, to meet again!
Dear blissful thought! with love and thee!
No more I murmur and complain,
For thou, my love, wilt think on me.
The Farewell.
[Mrs. John Hunter.]
Far from hope, and lost to pleasure,
Haste away to war's alarms!
Sad I leave my soul's dear treasure,
For the dismal din of arms.
But, ah! for thee I follow glory,
To gain thy love I dare to die;
And when my comrades tell my story,
Thou shalt lament me with a sigh.
All my griefs will then be over,
Sunk in death's eternal rest:
You may regret a faithful lover,
Though you refuse to make him bless'd.
Bestow a tear of kind compassion
To grace a hapless soldier's tomb;
And, ah! forgive a fatal passion,
Which reason could not overcome.
Indian Death Song.
[Mrs. John Hunter.]
The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.
